The Titans of the Pacific

by Robert Gammon

  His heart pounded in his chest and he struggled to breathe. He looked up at the guard, begging for mercy in silence. An icy cold grin was all he got in return.

  He turned towards the doorway: another guard smirked and gently patted his truncheon – a wolf circling its prey. As the guard patted his truncheon harder and faster, John read the look on his face: I’ll be in charge when the paperwork is over, and then I’ll have some fun, you little worm.

  John screamed as he was wrenched to his feet – did the damn guard want to rip his ear out of his head? A truncheon slamming into his back was the reward for his swearing. He fell and smashed his head. The officer at the table looked up and just shook his head. John’s lips felt moist and salty, as blood trickled from his forehead into his mouth.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, kid? No swearing. The sooner you learn our rules, the better for you,” said the guard, pressing his face against John’s. The sickly warmth of the guard’s breath filled his ear.

  “Now, get your ass down that hall!” shouted the guard, pointing left outside the office. With his arms and legs in shackles, John struggled to move forward as the guard shoved him. Moving down the dark hallway, the light in the office became dimmer and dimmer behind him. He tripped and fell again. Struggling back to his feet, he pleaded: sweet Jesus, help me, help me.

  It was some time since he’d last been to Mass, and even longer since last confession. Did God hold this against him? He’d been taught the Lord never abandoned his flock, but John’s face creased up and his eyes swelled with tears.

  Blood continued to trickle from his forehead as he wrestled on into the darkness; his shackles clinking on the floor. The image of Jesus came before him, struggling to carry the cross on his way to be crucified on Calvary and wearing a crown of thorns on his bloodied forehead. Would he end up like Jesus?

  “Dear God, please forgive me,” wailed John. The guard laughed and struck him again with his truncheon.

  “Shut up – God can’t hear you here. Charles Street jail is hell on earth, boy, and God doesn’t listen to anyone condemned to hell,” said the guard, chuckling at the ingenuity of his own remark. The job of a good jail guard was to crush new inmates into submission; enjoying their horror as they descended into hopelessness.

  In the dark, he heard voices, crying with fear or pain. A small iron door creaked open into a tenebrous cavern. Click, click – his shackles were unlocked. Your new home, sniggered the guard as he pushed him inside, slammed the cell door and double locked it.

  John’s face hit the floor – it felt rough, damp and slimy. Urine, vomit, maybe blood too – the stench of a dark alley outside a speakeasy, where drunkards relieve themselves before staggering home. In a corner he heard rustling little paws – rats. He struggled to his feet. He’d seen rats gnaw the face of a baby, as its mother begged in the street. His hand felt a bench, bed or whatever the creaking wooden surface he found to sit on in the dark was supposed to be. The little bastards wouldn’t bite him there.

  With the guard gone, fear dissipated. He wiped the slime trickling down his face – whatever scum on the floor had smeared him. He rubbed his sore wrists and ankles, relieved to be freed from the irons. He felt heavy between his legs – he needed to relieve himself. In the dark, he found his way to a corner and heard his urine trickling over the floor. He staggered back to the bench. His body ached but his head soon hit the bench and he closed his eyes. He heard the little feet rustling over the floor again and lifted his legs on to the bench for safety.

  Suddenly, he opened his eyes. Mick – what the hell had happened to Mick? As inebriation subsided, he recalled that Mick had been there in the speakeasy with him. Too much drinking; men tottering and shouting; the barman threatening to kick them out; glass smashing on the floor; swearing and pushing; punches flying; men falling over; Mick grabbing him by the arm and shouting in his ear; John not hearing much; only feeling a gush of warm breath of stale whiskey on his face. Next, he was sitting on the floor, engulfed in a cloud of drunken stupor.

  Two big men in uniforms pulled him to his feet. Yes, now he remembered – then, click, click, and his arms were fastened behind his back. Outside, the damp, cold air helped to lift the haze from his brain. Moments later he was looking up at those grey walls of Charles Street jail but, wait a minute, what was he doing there?

  Exhausted, he just couldn’t keep his eyes open.

  John only had vague memories of his mother, like random photographs stuffed in an envelope – yellowing pictures of a smiling Irish mother with her baby in arms. What would she have been like? She’d died of pneumonia when he was just a baby.

  Mrs O’Reilly, in the apartment opposite, had told John how his father hadn’t moved from his wife’s bedside as she shivered with fever, struggled to breathe and lapsed into stillness. Her frail fingers clenched her rosary beads and refused to let go, of the beads and of life. But, finally, the angel of death took her away, leaving Desmond murmuring thanks to God for having given her to him for those years, and entrusting her into the Lord’s care from then onwards.

  His father couldn’t afford the medicine his wife needed to stay alive and a decent Catholic funeral was only possible thanks to the generosity of fellow Irishmen in West End.

  During childhood, John often sighed, seeing other children hand-in-hand with their mothers. Mothers who washed, dried and combed them; shouted at them when they were naughty, for sure, but also tucked them away in bed at night with a kiss. Perhaps with a bedtime story to help them sleep, on those long winter nights when many poor immigrant children went to bed cold and hungry.

  He’d heard his mother had had a big heart. A heart that stopped beating one day, after weeks of coughing blood and pus, until she stopped spluttering and John began to feel that deep solitude that was to stay with him throughout his childhood.

  At least he was lucky to have a good father. Before coming to America with his wife, Desmond Fitzgerald had been a good student in his native Ireland. The village priest had made sure the bright boy got through school and even helped him into a Catholic university, where he’d graduated in literature.

  In West End – Boston, kids gathered on the street steps of the decrepit building where the Fitzgeralds lived with other poor immigrants, to hear Desmond’s stories of Irish fairies and leprechauns. Even the most fidgety of kids listened in mesmerised silence. The adults listened with pride to his stories of how the Irish had fought their way to independence from the British Empire.

  One day, one of his regular listeners introduced Desmond to his boss, a Mr Randall, to whom he was chauffeur. Randall was apparently an important businessman and some sort of philanthropist – his Foundation for the Freedom of the Americas, or FFA, was involved in Latin American, a part of the world that John and his father came to love.

  Mr Randall took a liking to Desmond and got him an office job at Harvard University in nearby Cambridge, across the Charles River from West End. Once inside, he worked hard to earn his doctorate, funded by Mr Randall’s foundation, and became an academic. His salary afforded a home for himself and his son, and they no longer shared an apartment with other immigrant families, kept awake at night by children crying endlessly. Yes, the Fitzgeralds were grateful to Mr Randall.

  Desmond didn’t beat John like other fathers did, venting out on their children their frustrations from poverty and despair, belting the first child that crossed them on their way back from the speakeasy, half drunk, half aware of what they were doing.

  The 1920s West End streets were unsafe and John’s father was relieved he had two good friends, fellow Irish schoolmates, living in the same building. Mick Faughnan lived at the top of the building, just above the Fitzgeralds. Mick was a quiet boy, the son of a heavy drinker unable to hold down a job for long. West End buildings had no elevator, and Mick’s father could be heard most nights, struggling up the stairs after leaving the speakeasy nearby.

&n
bsp; Tired of her abusive husband, Mick’s mother left home when Mick was young. An aunt came now and again to clean the apartment, kick Mick’s father out of bed and give them a hot meal. When needing to escape from his drunken father’s aimless punches, Mick sought refuge in the Fitzgeralds’ apartment, and John helped him with his homework.

  Mick had long black hair, bright dark eyes, and usually looked scruffy, unless his aunt had time to iron his shirts and give him a haircut. Time to shave – you could look like a nice young man, if you wanted, she’d say. He was skinny and pale but, behind his sickly appearance, there was a steely determination to survive and not yield to his brutal father. It was Mick who enticed John and Gerry to join the local boxing club, where he strove to become robust and gain respect on the street.

  Gerry Murray was not as clever as John, but was bullied into doing his homework by his father, who worked all hours of the day at the grocery store down the street. He’d come to America to find a future and was determined his children would never face the poverty he’d known back in Ireland. He admired Dr Desmond Fitzgerald for working his way into Harvard University. John was a good friend for Gerry to have.

  Gerry was confident, affable and always willing to please his father. From a young age he was popular with the girls, who fell for the tall, handsome and silky-tongued lad who resembled Gary Cooper.

  Mick and Gerry saw less of John when he went to Harvard. He was eternally in the university library. He’d always been a bookworm, but now there was something else – that stupid smile on his face, not listening to their jokes when they were having a drink in the speakeasy and rarely turning up for boxing practice with them. And that whiff about him – cologne, it was.

  “Hey, Johnny, you smell like a damn pansy,” said Gerry.

  “Guys, she’s not like you – she’s got class; she appreciates me taking care of myself,” said John.

  Gerry smiled as he nudged Mick, “You see, Mick: there’s nothing wrong with him – Johnny’s in love,” and they both broke out laughing as they grabbed John by the neck.

  To get to the History section in the university library, John had to walk past Law – how boring he thought but, then, he saw her. She looked up from her desk and smiled as he walked by. Their eyes locked. He continued down the aisle, turning his head to keep eye contact with her. Then… damn it, sorry, as he bumped into Jones, the librarian, and books flew out of his arms. She was giggling when he looked up at her as he knelt, helping an irritated Jones to pick up the books. He shrugged and smiled back at her.

  “Man, you should have been there the first time I saw Lisa. I swear those grey winter clouds disappeared and sunshine lit up her auburn hair. And those deep blue eyes and her skin – the softest pink you’ve ever seen. She beats Greta Garbo any day,” said John, daydreaming. Gerry and Mick had never heard their friend so soppy and resorted to horseplay to wake him up as they walked into the boxing gym.

  Lisa Barrett was determined to succeed in the male-dominated Harvard Law School. Her father was a lesser-known but ambitious lawyer in New York who expected his daughter to follow him into his firm. She didn’t want to disappoint him – perhaps out of respect or fear; probably not love. He’d been a concerned but distant father; always away at important meetings and business trips. She felt closer to her warmer but submissive mother – with her husband it had always been: Yes, dear; of course; you’re right. She nudged Lisa to do likewise: Don’t make your father angry; just do what he says and let’s have some peace.

  Studying law was okay but Lisa was bored of all those preppies, showing off their wealthy backgrounds and connections. She was surprised when John stopped by her desk in the library one day.

  “Hi… umm, you look tired digesting that thick book – maybe you could do with a break. How about joining me for a coffee?” said John. She was open-mouthed at first, but then nodded.

  As they chatted, she found it refreshing speaking to a relaxed and friendly young man, who didn’t talk about money and being a winner. She told her girlfriends his suit wasn’t, well, from the best tailor in New York or Boston, but he looked smart enough and was definitely handsome. He loved studying history; wanting to know why the world had come to be as it was and anticipating future events. She was spellbound when he talked about the rights of mankind or centuries of oppression in distant lands. He spoke fluent Spanish, loved Latin America, and his dream was to explore that mysterious part of the world.

  “So, do you like studying law?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I think so… but it’s really what my father wants me to study,” she replied.

  Eyes widening into a frown, John looked at this intelligent and attractive girl and couldn’t help asking,

  “But, with all your life ahead of you – why on earth don’t you study something you’re passionate about?”

  “Well… what I really love is painting.”

  “Great, I’d love to see your paintings.”

  She giggled, “My paintings are nothing special. Anyway, they’re all at my home in New York.”

  “I’ve never been to New York, but I’d go just to see your paintings,” he said.

  She laughed, “Are you kidding? Never been to New York… and you’d go just to see my paintings?” As John nodded, she couldn’t tell him there was no way he could go to see her in New York. She imagined her father’s frosty reaction. He expected her to attract someone, let’s say, with better pedigree.

  One day, John did get to New York – a Saturday, when Lisa’s parents were out for the day. She pulled out the paintings of which she was proudest. John studied them in silence. Bright colours, sunshine, lush green nature, happy families strolling in New York’s Central Park, mothers with children in arms, and smiling faces. John could almost hear the people laughing in Lisa’s paintings. Was this it? What Lisa dreamed of… was she painting scenes missing in her own life?

  “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” she said, after never ending minutes without a word from him.

  He looked at her – she really cared, and worried, about what he thought – and his serious expression broke into a smile, “Lisa, they’re great. In fact, they’re fantastic – you’ve got real talent.”

  “Oh… you’re only saying that to keep me happy,” she said.

  “No, seriously – I think they’re great. They say so much about you…” he said; immediately regretting his words – would she think he was being patronising or intruding into her life… seeing through her?

  John was relieved when she smiled and said, “Come on, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk in Central Park and I’ll show you my favourite spots – the ones I’ve painted.”

  The Barretts lived just opposite Central Park, on the grand Fifth Avenue – but a bit too close to Harlem, away from the wealthier end of the city. Their apartment was large but furnished frugally, in one of those new, nondescript blocks replacing the old mansions. John didn’t care if the Barretts were trying to climb the social ladder.

  She took him on a whirlwind tour of New York and, by the evening, exhausted, they rested in a cafeteria beside an art museum. They smiled – how similar their tastes in art were, and John was surprised how much Lisa knew about history through her love of art.

  “Lisa, why don’t you switch from law to art? I’m sure you’d be happier,” said John.

  “Are you crazy? No way could I face my father if I dropped law for art at Harvard,” she said scowling.

  He laughed, took her hand, stroked it softly and then leaned over and kissed her cheek. She blushed, but then her scowl melted into a smile.

  Time went by and John and Lisa saw more and more of each other. One day, John looked at her, open-mouthed, when she told him about a confrontation with her father, after telling her parents about him.

  “I told them I didn’t want to hurt them but my life was my own to live. You’re not like all those Harvar
d law preppies. I told them I love you and, if we want to, we’ll get married,” she said, grinning before she continued, “huh… I’ve never seen a graver expression on my father’s face.”

  John smiled, but they hadn’t talked about marriage before.

  Lisa continued, “I know it’s tough finding a job, everyone’s worried about the economic crisis, but I’m sure you could find a job in a library or somewhere. I could do legal or secretarial work, and we could rent a little apartment.” Yes, anything to break away from your father’s grasp, thought John. He loved Lisa, but maybe things were going too fast.

  And, so, John took refuge in his dreams as he festered away in his dark hole inside Charles Street jail.

  Meanwhile, Dr Fitzgerald swallowed his pride and sought help from old Martin Lomasney, a fellow Irishman who’d become the powerful boss of West End ward. Lomasney enjoyed helping fellow citizens – he’d been doing so for fifty years – but sighed when he heard that now even Dr Fitzgerald’s son had ended up at Charles Street jail.

  Visits to new jail inmates weren’t allowed, but Lomasney made a telephone call and arranged to go with Dr Fitzgerald.

  Dr Fitzgerald put on his best coat, rushed downstairs and joined the bustle in the street, jostling his way towards the jail nearby. John had already spent two days in Charles Street jail and his father worried in what state he’d find him.

  “Nobody can visit a new inmate without an order,” was the curt official line they got from the officer in charge.

  Lomasney produced a letter. The officer stared at the text and his expression changed from bureaucratic indifference to annoyance – he didn’t like being challenged. Then, he looked up at Lomasney, pursed his lips and finally nodded in the face of the letter from Mayor James Crowley, stating that Mr John Fitzgerald was to be released on bail under court order.

  Crowley, another fellow Irishman, wouldn’t have been re-elected Mayor of Boston without Lomasney’s support. Crowley owed him a favour, just like Lomasney owed Dr Fitzgerald a favour for getting his godson into Harvard University. The link was completed by the judge, who granted John bail, owing Crowley some favour. That’s how things worked.