by Paddy Kelly
Focused on the sheaf of papers clutched tightly in his fist, the Site Foreman was far too angry to notice the new man as they crossed paths. Making his way to the Site Overseer who stood behind a partially sheltered podium, the irritated foreman stared at the man hunched over his work and was greeted with forced cordiality.
“Morning, boss. How’s… Holy shit! What now?”
What now?’ As if you‘re the only schmuck in the yard that doesn’t know! Where are they?”
“You talkin’about the riggin’the fire hose, fake leak in the hull thing?”
“I’m in no mood, Eddie!” thundered the Foreman. “Do you know what this is? It’s a report! And guess what’s in it? Where are they?”
Eddie inadvertently glanced over his boss’s shoulder and turning, the Foreman spotted his two victims. “Never mind!” He anaesthetised the Overseer’s agony and re-directed his fury. “YOU TWO, BUD AND LOU! HERE, NOW!” The two workers were taken completely off guard and hesitated before slinking over to the gallows.
“I just spent twenty minutes explaining to ten people that we really don’t have a leak in the forward hold!” By way of response, the shorter of the two was seized with a sudden urge to scratch his head.
“See this? This is our quarterly safety review which happened to occur exactly the same day you two morons GAVE UP GOOD JUDGEMENT FOR LENT!”
“But Boss, Lent ain’t til’…”
“STOW IT!”
“Stowing it, boss.”
“Boss, we have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” the tall worker responded with near sincerity.
“I told you it was a bad idea,” prompted the co-accused.
“The Personnel Department says I’m to sack you two jerk-offs! Friday. But I, in my infinite generosity and benevolence, I told them there are no more fitters down the hall. DON’T MAKE ME CALL ’EM BACK!”
“Boss, we’re sorry. It’s just… the freakin’ boredom!”
“It’s not really so much the boredom as it is the tedium!”
“Just get your shit together, will ya?” he pleaded. “This big grey taxi has ta be ferryin’ dog-faces by mid-March and my Damage Control crew runnin’ around playin’ sophomoric pranks, disruptin’ operations don’t exactly help matters. Besides…”
“It’s all fun ‘n’ games till somebody gets an eye poked out,” Tall Man interjected.
“Then it’s a sport.” Shorty nodded in affirmation.
“Get the hell outta here! Assholes!”
The work on the vessel proceeded until the lunch break, when the loud cacophony normally present gave way to a relaxing silence. To avoid the long journey back down through the labyrinth of the vessel’s passageways and onto the pier, everyone more or less sat and began eating where they had been working. The topics of conversation ranged from the usual war news, to the tragic death of Carol Lombard in a plane crash in Las Vegas. Then, shortly after work had resumed, the routine on the 49th Street Pier, as well as the American war effort, was irreversibly altered.
Insidiously, a narrow but widening plume of thick, black smoke slowly crept its way down the port-side passageway leading from the promenade deck. Ominously, the treacherous dark cloud rolled along the deck contained only by the freshly painted bulkheads as small red-orange flames crackled behind it, fighting to gather momentum. A minute later, the plume was a blanket covering the 50 or 60 square feet of the deck.
Awelder’s helper shuttling tools back and forth for the workers rounded the corner and came out onto the promenade, and a wall of flames exploded out into the open air and over the rail 100 feet over the dock.
To the crew members working on the pier, the trouble was not immediately apparent. However, as the yelling and the chaotic activity on the upper weather decks grew louder, an electrical sensation crackled through the air and was instantly recognised as something drastically out of sync. With animal-like instinct, each man of each crew throughout each successive deck level stopped what he was doing, raised his head and listened. Then, either smelling smoke or sensing the steadily mounting pandemonium, they ran for the exits. In less than ten minutes, the port-side promenade deck was completely engulfed.
The mild breeze which blew that afternoon fed the flames enough oxygen so that by half past two, all the weather decks were involved. To add to the rapidly mounting problems, the freshly applied coat of paint allowed the entire main deck to be consumed only minutes later. The resulting 1,000 degree temperatures were in stark contrast to the 33 degree levels of the ambient air of the harbour. To appalled observers, the involvement of the lower weather decks meant that anyone working above those levels, if they had not yet escaped, was suffering the most horrible death imaginable.
By now several things were occurring simultaneously. A number of men working at pier level began to realise what was happening, and three of them ran for the guard shack, which housed the only land line. As they burst through the door, they discovered that the alert young Marine had already notified the NYPD, the fire department, and was currently in the process of dialling the Harbor Master on his emergency line.
“Did you call for the docs?” one of the men asked in a frantic voice. The big guard held out his index finger while he finished dialling.
“Yeah! The police are going to notify the hospital to prepare a triage team.”
Talking into the telephone the Marine continued. “Harbor Master, this is Lance Corporal Deuth, Pier 88, Luxury Row. We‘ve got a code two emergency. Yes sir, yes sir. Already done both of those! Thank you, sir!” As he hung up the phone, the Marine instructed two of the men to return to the ship to help, and one of the men to stand by the main gate to prevent anyone from blocking access by parking in front of it. As they ran back to the ship, one of the men turned the other,
“Hey, Harry!”
“What?”
“What the hell’s a triage?”
“I don’t know, but they better get a shit load of them out here!” With Normandie longer than the width of Central Park, the 2,000 foot long dock, plus the additional two to three hundred feet to the main gate, was a distance few of the men had given any thought to until that day. Running from the guard shack towards the ship was not only complicated by the bitter cold, but wading through the crowds of workers moving in the opposite direction while wearing heavy work boots and heavy winter coats made it a triple effort. Tools and gear and canvas fire hoses littered the dock, half of them covered in ice and men tripped and stumbled regularly.
Several workers, noticing that all four gang planks were clogged with fleeing workers, immediately set about erecting ladders against the hull at appropriate hatchways.
Through the unending stream of panic-stricken workers, the Foreman fought his way back up the starboard-side forward gangplank. Halfway to the Quarterdeck he recognised the exhausted face of his chief engineer. Taking the awestruck man by the shoulders, the Foreman looked straight into his eyes.
“Mac, what’s our status?”
Gasping between phrases, the out of breath engineer stared through the Foreman as he responded. “Bilge to ‘C’ level is clear. But if it reaches the POL stores, everything from Jersey City over to Broadway’s gonna be a fuckin’ airfield!”
“You’re sure there’s no one else below?”
“Only those two lunatics.”
“Which two lunatics?”
“How many lunatics you got working Damage Control?”
As the Foreman continued to struggle his way through the Zfleeing workers deeper into the ship, it occurred to him how easily a man could vanish into one of the thousands of human-sized pigeon holes the partially stripped down ship had become. Fighting through the passageways below decks, he spotted an OBA case on the port bulkhead. The Oxygen Breathing Apparatus would buy him at least fifteen minutes of breathable air while he searched for his two derelict ship fitters. Grasping at the latch handle, he stared in dismay as the case opened and in lieu of the life-saving device a large, pink inventory tag appeared.<
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“Fucking bean counters!”
After an eternity of choking through the ever thickening grey smoke, he reached the Paints, Oils and Lubricants cages and his attention was immediately diverted as he detected singing in the far corner of the large storage area.
Through a shroud of grey, he saw the two men he had chewed out earlier that morning, both with sledge hammers, alternately beating a four inch water spigot in unison to the Anvil Chorus. Over the roar of the encroaching flames, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “What the hell are you two assholes doin’ here?!”
“Tryin’ to rig a leak!” Both continued to pound away at the thick brass spigot. As if on cue, the fixture burst and the resulting torrent of water dowsed the flames just as they were about to reach the main POL stores. Breaking into a celebratory dance, both men dowsed themselves in the water.
“Never mind that shit! Get the hell outta here!” Smiling angrily and following the men out of the compartment, the Foreman muttered to himself. “Assholes!”
Back on the dock area, a few of the men who had initially fled were now returning to lend a hand and began to set up an area away from the ship to gather the casualties for the docs to assess.
One of the men was the man who earlier had asked what a triage was.
Staring through the oversized binoculars, the young boy felt more like a man then he had ever done sitting in a classroom. Jimmy had quit school two months ago when the war broke out and, through some friends who were connected, got a job in the Harbor Master’s shack. Next year, when he turned seventeen, he would sign up.
Although the building which housed the Harbor Master and his team was still referred to by its eighteenth century name, it was anything but a shack.
The red-enamelled, two storey, clapboard structure, which sat on what was essentially two sets of steel stilts, overlooked most of the harbour from its strategic position on the tip of Pier 62 just off West 23rd Street, and was equipped with the latest in modern advances. High definition FM radio, lamp-lit map boards and a dedicated direct telephone line to the fire tug outposts along Manhattan Island.
Due to the immensity of the New York Harbor, it was impossible to view the entire area at one time from any land or sea position, so Jimmy was unsure exactly where the smoke plume he now observed originated. In this instance, protocol dictated an emergency procedure be enacted whereby the area of the potential trouble was approximated, and a grid mapped out. Then all hands would man the radio and phone lines to pinpoint the location of the problem and notify the nearest tug team.
“Hey, Mr. Rorro. Mr. Rorro, sir. I think I see something way out there,” Jimmy said, squinting through the ship’s binoculars.
“You’re supposed to see something way out there, Jimmy. That’s what binos are for.” The old HM was annoyed but tolerated his work being interrupted by the young boy’s enthusiasm.
“Sir, can you have a look at this, please?”
“Son, I have got to get these tug escort reports done today! So stop buggin’ me!” The old man remained at the desk and continued to write.
“Sir, it looks like something. A fire maybe.” The old man’s head came up from the paperwork. “Out near the tunnels.”
The HM walked over and took the glasses from the boy. Even before he raised them, he knew. “That’s a fire alright! Get on the grid! I’ll notify the tugs!”
Just as he reached for the emergency line, it rang.
“Hello! HM shack, who is this?” It was Lance Corporal Deuth. “Yes, corporal! Have you notified the fire and police departments? Alright then, keep the main gate clear of traffic and continue to man your station. Report to the fire chief when he arrives. The tugs are on their way. Corporal Deuth, good job!”
“John! I got Harbor Side on the line. How many units?” The Assistant HM spoke hurriedly but remained cognisant of his professionalism.
“Dispatch unit 52 Able and tell him to report as soon as he’s in sight of the fire, then tell South Park Baker to standby and get South Park Able up there for back-up. Tell ’em to step on it. Those creosote-soaked piers get involved, there’s gonna be one helluva lot of freight landin’ in Jersey!”
“Why not dispatch 52 Baker with them?” Rorro didn’t miss a beat.
“If the wind shifts north, we’ll need somebody up there to intercept. Ronnie, get on Channel Nine, notify all vessels as of… 14:21 hours, unless associated with the fire, we are on radio blackout until further notice. Frank, get busy! Divert all traffic south of the G.W.”
“I’m on it!” Frank shot back.
The HM notified the harbour-side fire brigade, and then proceeded to broadcast on the emergency band, Channel Nine, to divert all traffic away from the area. For a full twenty minutes the old HM showed why he was in charge, running back and forth across the shack directing personnel and issuing orders.
Through all the activity, Jimmy dutifully sat at the small corner table, struggling to plot the grid as he’d been trained. As the situation in the shack gradually came under control, the HM noticed the youngster still tucked away at the desk. Walking over to him, the man placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Jimmy continued to plot.
“Hey, Jimmy,” he said quietly.
Without looking up, Jimmy responded. “I’ve almost got it, sir. Just one more minute!”
“You can stop now. We’re there. It‘s eighty-eight.” Masked in a look of despair, the youngster turned towards the leathery-faced man. Rorro turned to walk away, then hesitated.
“Hey Jimmy, nice job. You done good. You’ll get credit in my official report for spotting the fire.” Adejected Jimmy slumped in his chair. Rorro crossed the room and without turning back added, “You may have saved a few lives today.”
Jimmy hoped his parents would understand when he told them he wouldn’t be joining the Navy. He was going to sign on to become a Harbor Master.
Back at the Normandie, events were mushrooming out of control as the number of men streaming out of the flaming vessel and onto the narrow pier steadily swelled. Realising that the entire dock may be engulfed, they began moving back towards the gate area carrying as many of the injured as possible with them, where they were met head-on by fire-fighters, dragging hoses, hard-pressed to reach the entire length of the berth.
As one of the men rushed back to the blazing vessel, for what was his third time in half an hour, he was forced to avert his eyes in horror. A body, its arms and legs flailing, fell through the hot air, over 100 feet from the main deck of the ship, and violently slammed into the hard wooden timbers of the pier.
Forty-five minutes into the blaze, the burning had progressed far enough that the fire was declared out of control. Smoke and flames were visible across the Hudson River in New Jersey, and several fire units from that state had been mistakenly alerted.
Ripping spectacular wakes through the river as they sped northward, a dozen fire tugs were under full throttle, their sirens heard all across the West Side.
They arrived only seconds behind the smaller, swifter police boats, and immediately entered into their life-saving ballet from the outboard side of the vessel. In an effort to coax the flames back into the ship, the small boats furiously pumped icy sea water onto Normandie. The resulting black plumes of smoke floated into the grey of the afternoon Manhattan sky and were carried by the winter breeze out over the island, meandering through the tall buildings. The upper levels of most of the garment district skyscrapers were obscured and traffic was at a standstill as the smoke filtered down and settled at street level.
The cloud had not quite reached the office of the city’s highest official as of yet, however City Hall parking lot was full and the mayor’s office was crammed with reporters.
Fiorello LaGuardia sat at his desk, his large form nearly invisible from the neck down for the forest of microphones fanned out in front of him, his flabby chin wagging. The big man spoke to his constituency in one of his regular radio broadcasts. Just as he was building up steam, telling
everyone how well he and his party had done so far this political season, not to mention how many of his campaign promises he had fulfilled, an aide entered from the sidelines and handed him a message. LaGuardia read it and asked if it had been confirmed. When the aide nodded, the politician stood and, with an alarmed look on his face, apologised to the press and excused himself.
Ten minutes later, with a police escort screaming around them LaGuardia and two men selected from his army of aides were in their official limo plotting strategy.
“I want an update on traffic problems ASAP. And prep for additional manpower in police, fire and road works,” The Mayor ordered to the senior of the two aides.
“It’s taken care of, sir.” There was a brief pause and the two aides exchanged glances.
“Your Honor, there’s something more important we need to consider.”
LaGuardia looked back from the window.
“Depending on how this thing happened – sabotage, accident – we could get hurt.”
“How bad?”
“Depends on the death toll. With an event this size, a few bodies would be acceptable… ” the junior aide chimed in.
“Depending on who they are.”
“Of course. But dozens, god forbid, hundreds … “ “Do we know who the scene commander is?” LaGuardia inquired.
“Chief Patrick J. Walsh”
“Democrat or republican?” The junior man began flipping through a notepad.
“Irish. Hell’s Kitchen.”
Arriving at the scene, LaGuardia had to struggle through the crowd. He was escorted past the medical triage center on the south side of the pier which had been established by medical support personnel, and it was at that moment that the gravity of the situation hit home.
Over the encroaching dusk, a 1,000 foot wide fog of smoke rose over the ship, painting half the grey sky black, then leaned south and floated towards the Atlantic. In gut-wrenching contrast to the misleading serenity above Luxury Liner Row, over a dozen fire tugs danced around the vacant adjoining slip, deciding how to keep the largest ship in the world from listing any further and becoming swamped. Suddenly, the chaotic cacophony of the casualties flooding in at an unmanageable rate, snapped him back to reality as he watched the woefully outnumbered doctors and nurses, hard-pressed in their heroic efforts to keep up.
