Operation Underworld

by Paddy Kelly

  Legend Press Ltd, 3rd Floor, Unicorn House,

  221-222 Shoreditch High Street, London E1 6PJ

  info@legend-paperbooks.co.uk

  www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Paddy Kelly 2007

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of

  this work has be asserted in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978-1-907461-08-8

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and

  place names, other than those well-established such as towns and

  cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  Set in Times

  Printed by JF Print Ltd., Sparkford.

  Cover designed by Gudrun Jobst

  www.yotedesign.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or

  transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission

  of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in

  relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution

  and civil claims for damages.

  For

  Mary who tried to know me, but never could.

  Kate, who I pray knows me

  and

  Erin, who will never know me but through the words of others.

  Introduction

  In the spring of 1972, there was little doubt in my mind that there was an organised, well-planned conspiracy between the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the Pentagon and my mother. I wanted to be a frogman, so in the last week of basic training in San Diego I filled out all six requests for billets, (duty stations), and all six were to go and join the little party LBJ was babysitting over in Southeast Asia, after a short stop over at the Underwater Demolition School in Coronado, California. When I opened my orders, they said I was going to the Naval Air Station in Lakehurst, New Jersey to learn how to be a weatherman. Couldn’t get much further away from ‘The Nam’ than Lakehurst, New Jersey, or so I thought until I told the Navy I wasn’t going to be a weatherman, I wanted to be a frogman. My next set of orders were to Reykjavik, Iceland.

  My suspicions of a conspiracy were confirmed.

  There wasn’t a hell of a lot to do during the day in Lakehurst, New Jersey, much less in your off-duty time, so after hours I started asking around about the Hindenburg disaster and I was eventually steered towards a guy who was on the airfield the day the famous zeppelin burned. Human nature dictates that most people like to talk about their larger-than-life experiences (which is probably why some of us write books), and over a period of weeks he put me on to several other members of this exclusive club, which is no doubt a hell of a lot more exclusive today, and they were all very congenial about discussing their experiences that day in May of 1937.

  The vividness of their descriptions was riveting. Although witnessed thirty-five years prior to our interview, the emotional fervour of their stories was infectious. In particular, the attention to detail, the variation of perspectives and the way they seemed to regress to that exact day and time, was enthralling.

  The ability to pass on to another person, not just a story but the emotional intensity and mood of a given event, is fascinating and, although my emotional barometer is sometimes as reliable as a politician giving sworn testimony, I was hooked. Thereafter, anywhere I’d travel, world-wide, for the next thirty-seven years, the immediate priority became seeking out individuals who had witnessed or participated in some significant historical event. What happened around here and who saw it?

  It’s a strange feeling now that all you have to do is go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDU2MWJwJDc, and you can actually watch it happen.

  One of the more interesting of these stories was first told to me as a child by my mother and reiterated to me years later on Mott Street, in Little Italy.

  It was the story of how, in February of 1942, a German U-Boat crept into New York Harbor and sank the world famous French luxury liner, Normandie. Later, I would find there was no U-Boat. There was, however, a great story about a ship that sank and, after extensive investigation, it appears to be a history-changing story that has never been told. The action takes place over a six-week period in early 1942 and should you wish to first appreciate this chain of events and the unique atmosphere of the time, I have offered a brief historical background in the Notes at the end.

  I hope you enjoy this story.

  ‘When we are dealing with the Caucasian race, we have

  methods that will determine loyalty. But when we deal with the

  Japanese, we are in an entirely different field.’

  California State Attorney General, Earl Warren in 1942,

  commenting on the imprisonment of 150,000 Japanese-

  American citizens.

  ‘Now they have created a Frank-in-steen monster and the

  chickens have come home to roost all over the country!’

  Presidential candidate Governor George Wallace, 1968,

  commenting on the opposition.

  ‘Doodle Doodle Dee, Wubba Wubba Wubba.’

  MTV’s Downtown Julie Brown, commenting on the current state

  of politics in America.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Epilogue

  Historical Background

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  The New York City waterfront is an interesting place. Anything can happen at almost any time and in late January of 1942, despite its two and a half centuries of violent history, relative peace and calm prevailed, while half a world away free China was lost, the Battle of Britain had been fought, and Hitler was dining in Paris.

  The majority of men have always, and will always, allow themselves to be caught up in world events larger than themselves, and hopelessly swim against the tide while praying to their respective gods for a favourable outcome. However, a select few have the wherewithal and foresight to keep their heads and turn such events to their advantage.

  One such man was in his sixth year of a fifty year sentence, without parole, convicted on contrived evidence and told he would eventually be deported to a nation whose leader had already issued a death warrant against him.

  Clinton State Penitentiary, Dannemora, New York. Groundhog Day, 1942

  The weathered, olive complexion of the visitor’s face made him look older than his mid-forties. Other than the guard, who now stood sentry against the wall in front of him, he was alone in the under-lit, painted brick room.

  Sitting patiently at the far end of the long wooden table, hands on top in full view
as the large, baked-enamel sign on the wall dictated, he was kitted out in a dark blue, handmade suit complete with silk tie. He glanced at the stone-faced guard, who stared back with his best tough guy face. After a fifteen minute wait, the rattling of locks on the dark green, steel doors progressively echoed louder and louder throughout the adjoining chambers, until the door leading into the visitors room creaked open, and two more men entered.

  The pock-marked-faced prisoner with dark hair and drooping right eyelid was the first to enter and was escorted to a seat on the opposite side of the table by a second, older guard. The visitor reached over the twelve inch high partition which bisected the thick oak top to shake hands with the dungaree-clad man on the opposite side.

  “Keep your hands away from the prisoner!” Tough Guy guard yelled. The visitor was unfazed and proceeded with his inquiry in a tone of genuine concern.

  “How ya doin’, Charlie?”

  “Ah…” Charlie shrugged. “It’s Dannemora, you know. Fuckin’ Siberia.”

  “Ya need anything?” Both men were visibly relaxed.

  “Yeah. Get me down state!”

  “We’re workin’ on it, Charlie. Anything else?”

  “How’s it goin’ downtown?” He changed to a near whisper, and immediately both guards drifted closer to the table. The men looked up from their seated positions, and then at each other. With feigned disregard they resumed their conversation, only now in Italian. The guards didn’t back away.

  “Things ain’t lookin’ so good. Especially with these two assholes standin’ here.”

  “Ya think maybe they’re queer for each other?” Neither of the men laughed at the comment, but the younger of the two guards became visibly annoyed, and started towards Lucky. The elder guard raised an arm to stop him and the men once again resumed their conversation, however this time in an obscure dialect of Sicilian.

  “Why? What’s goin’ on?” The guards drifted back towards the wall as Tough Guy grew increasingly irritated.

  “The Camardos are gettin’ more independent, we’re losin’ more of Jersey. Siegel says if they don’t let him send somebody over there to put a hit on Goering and Goebbels, he’s gonna do it himself.”

  “That crazy Jew bastard! Always with the gun! What’s the story on working with the Navy people?” A downward glance introduced his reply.

  “They nixed it!”

  “What? Why? What’s our guys in DC say?” Charlie was surprised.

  “Too politically risky. They don’t want no part of it.”

  “Shit! Did you remind them…?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was countin’ on that deal ta solidify our operations fer after the war.”

  “Maybe get you down state while we’re at it.”

  “Maybe.” Luciano looked down at the table top. “Maybe they can be persuaded,” Charlie suggested. The young guard could stand it no longer. The senior sentry nodded at his younger colleague and both started towards the men.

  “Times up! Let’s go!” Halfway through the door, Lucky called back over his shoulder.

  “Send Albert A. up here next week.”

  Chapter Two

  Free China might have been lost, the Battle of Britain may have been fought, and perhaps Hitler was dining in Paris, but on the Manhattan side of the Big Pond, relative peace and calm prevailed. The February sunrise peacefully crept over Hudson Bay, illuminating the pristine, bluish-green water of New York Harbor. The golden sunlight sent moonbeam-like reflections dancing playfully across the serene river and helped chase the morning chill from the docks.

  For the last forty-five minutes, methods of transport of every shape and description arrived, depositing denim clad workers onto the planks of Pier 88 along Luxury Liner Row, just off 49th Street. Few arrived by automobile as parking spaces were all but non-existent and the limited few were reserved for the most senior executives and high ranking naval officers. Besides, cars were for the rich. Instead bicycles, buses, subways, and most often the ‘shoe leather express’, were the tradesman’s common modes of transport. The second Monday of the month saw the slow, but purposeful activity of nearly 5,000 workers about to ease into their daily routine of organised chaos. As 6:30 a.m. approached, the change of shift whistle was about to sound and 2,500 weary bodies would be replaced by 2,500 fresh workers ready to expend their energy into the project at hand.

  Despite the fact they all seemed to have the same look about them, this army of welders, fitters and carpenters were not dressed in a cohesive uniform. As the sporadic conversation and occasional joking of the scattered clusters of men became progressively louder, the serenity which signalled the prelude to the daily routine was suddenly shattered by an unscheduled outburst.

  Just outside the gate a young couple, the woman cuddling a small wailing bundle, were heard exchanging insults. After a brief stare-off, the man turned his head and noticed the cluster of workers propped against the chain-linked fence observing he and his wife’s public displays of affection. Knowing better than to attempt the last word, he terminated the argument and stormed away in the direction of the workforce. Not far behind, a metal lunch pail sailed through the air after him and although these tin alloy containers were never designed as missiles, in the right hands their aerodynamics were appreciable.

  Landing on the ground just behind the disillusioned young husband, the pail burst open and spilled its contents onto the asphalt. As he stooped to rescue the only food he would have for the next twelve hours, his co-workers seized the opportunity to offer their support.

  “Ain’t love grand?” one of them called out in a mock romantic voice and the floodgates opened.

  “Hey Doll! Yankee try-outs next week!”

  “You must be so proud being married to one of those new, modern women.” As if to rescue him from further humiliation, the change of shift whistle blew and the horde of labourers and tradesmen slowly migrated towards the small gate leading to the dock. The narrowness of the gate was not an oversight on the part of the Third Naval District engineers. It was an intentional design to control pedestrian traffic in order to increase security on the strategically critical pier.

  As the night shift filed out through an adjoining gate, spilling out onto the sidewalk under the West Side Highway, a glaringly evident look of fatigue on their faces, it was obvious that these men had begun to reach the point where it was no longer the hours or the physical output required of them which caused them to grow older than their years. It was instead the relentlessness of the work. Day after day, night after night, with nothing to break the tedium of the routine. All knew, without being told, that the shipbuilding would go on and on and on until, at some unknown point in time, in the distant future, the war was over. One way or the other.

  Shuffling through the gate with an orderly sense of urgency, the off-going shift migrated out onto the streets and beyond. The on-going crew, which had now swelled to over 2,300 members, displayed a diversity not normally seen in times of peace.

  Aside from civilians representing all walks of life, there were over 1,100 men in active duty Navy, Coast Guard and Reservist’s uniforms.

  As a means of proving who they were and foiling potential saboteurs, everyone was required to have some form of ID. The military men carried standard issue armed forces cards with photos and serial numbers. The civilian workers and tradesmen, however, had each been issued a small brass medallion, about the size of a silver dollar, as their means of ID. Stamped into each coin were a series of five numbers as well as the name of the shipping line each worked for. Some held their medallion in their hand and flashed it to the guard as they passed through the gate. Some pinned it to jacket lapels and still others had them attached to baseball caps bearing the logo of their favorite ball club, each member of the labour army attempting to express a measure of individuality in an ocean of sameness.

  After about ten minutes, when a couple of hundred men had already passed through the checkpoint, the line suddenly stopped moving. Hea
ds peeked right and left of the line to observe the short, slight man standing in the threshold of the gate, frantically frisking himself in an attempt to locate his medallion. Arms folded across his chest, the stocky Marine corporal stood glaring at the man.

  “Hey Fitzy, take your time! Nobody’s got nuthin’ ta do here!” someone called out from down the line.

  “Yeah, no rush. Hitler’ll wait.” Sporadic laughter added to Fitzy‘s consternation until, finally, he was able to locate the all-important item and was waved through. With the line once again flowing freely, the seemingly endless stream of work boots paraded past the guard and fanned out across the pier, making their way towards the behemoth-like luxury liner looming in the berth before them.

  A large, rectangular wooden sign hung on a pair of thick, square timbers, adjacent to the main gangplank amidships. As an afterthought, a dirty grey tarpaulin had been lashed over the sign, but one end flapped loosely in the breeze revealing the words, New Troopship, and Lafayette. As if to reinforce the contradictory pattern which had thus far characterised the US war effort, high above the sign, prominently embossed across the bow of the ship, was the name, NORMANDIE.

  By way of protesting her forced makeover and imposed new identity, the magnificent vessel had stubbornly sulked in harbour for nearly three years while argument after argument ping-ponged off commanders’ desks as to what to do with her.

  The Generals wanted a new troopship to ferry troops into the European Theatre, while the Admirals reasoned that, after Pearl Harbor, a new carrier fitted the bill.

  Her official designation up until now was AP-53 and, despite the fact that politicians of the highest level were involved, no one could possibly guess that the events of the next few hours would result in her remaining in harbour for the rest of her life, after which she would emerge as a symbol of poor judgement and wasted effort.

  As each of the men gravitated towards their respective work stations, no one seemed to notice the lone figure who carried no lunch pail, his unscuffed boots, peeking out from long-hemmed, crisp Levi denims, shuffling across the creosote-soaked timbers. He carried a small, grease-stained brown paper bag at his side. The lanky individual walked directly towards the gang plank amidships.