by Paddy Kelly
The mayor dispatched an aide to seek out the fire chief, and fifteen minutes later Chief Walsh, his face smeared in soot, was briefing LaGuardia as to the current situation. The chief spoke in a controlled, professional tone, but was compelled to raise his voice above the clamber of the rescue efforts.
“Your Honor, at this point we have every fire tug on the West Side involved, as well as all of the shore-based apparatus we can effectively manoeuvre on this narrow pier.”
“Chief, why is she leaning so far to the side?”
“From all the water we’ve pumped into her, sir. There’s no way for it to drain out,” he explained above the din.
“What happens if she flips over?”
“In that event, Mayor, we have a crew standing by to cut the mooring lines. But we’ve secured permission from Admiral Andrews to cut holes in her hull to drain the water and try and balance her out.”
“Why not just stop pumping all that water into her? Or at least slow it down a little?” The mayor’s inexperience in disaster management was obvious.
“Mayor, we have reports of over two hundred men still trapped below decks. If those men were able to secure themselves in the various compartments and we stop pumping water onto the flames… sir, they’re as good as dead.” LaGuardia folded his arms and looked down. If two hundred lives were lost in this tragedy, and the decision for the action causing those deaths could be traced to him in any way…
“I understand, Chief. How long before it’s under control?”
“Your Honor, we may not be able to get her under control.”
As the Chief excused himself, the mayor realised he had no choice but to accept the senior fire-fighter’s expert opinion.
As night fell, the ever darkening backdrop highlighted the spectacular display of top-side flames and dancing shadows. Glancing up at the burning hulk, the mayor’s thoughts turned to the potential affects on his political career now that German saboteurs had brought the war to America.
Suddenly, a small swarm of reporters appeared around him, and began the traditional feeding frenzy of questions. Nearly surrounded, LaGuardia held his hand up, messiah-like, and began to speak. The press listened.
“Gentlemen! I’ve just finished speaking with Fire Chief Walsh. He assures me the blaze is under control and that the Normandie can be salvaged. There’ll be a press conference in the morning. No more questions. Thank you.”
Swiftly walking away from the mob, amidst a barrage of questions, LaGuardia nodded to his junior aide. The well-groomed young man stepped between the press sharks and their intended chum and, paying particular attention to detail, began to speak at length about nothing, and then pretended to answer questions as the politician vanished through the gate and into his limo.
Now, with the fire nearly extinguished, and very little available light remaining, not much else could be done for Normandie that day. Walsh’s men had cut the mooring lines as well as making several holes in her hull, but it didn’t help. Sometime during the night, the eloquent lady nearly twice the size of Titanic who had twice held the trans-Atlantic record, gently rolled over and came to rest in her berth at 90 degrees port.
The battleship grey and pumpkin orange, ice-encrusted hull glimmered in the morning sunlight, and it was impossible to resist the visual images it projected. Only a couple of hundred yards across the river, on the Jersey shore, some high school kids had gathered on the rail road tracks which ran parallel to the river. They stood and watched a lone fireboat continue to coat the sleeping beauty with sea water.
“Jeez-o-Pete-o-man! Look how big them propellers are!” It was the younger of the three boys who spoke first.
“They ain’t propellers, dummy! They’re called screws!”
“Says who, know-it-all?”
“Says my brother!”
“Aw, lay off, Jerry! Just ’cause your brother’s in the Navy, that don’t make you in the Navy!”
“Yeah? Well, it will next year! Whatta you civilians know, anyways?” He waved a hand in disgust and, the lesson in marine engineering concluded, the three boys moved on to more mundane things such as class work and teachers.
The noise and confusion of the previous day on the 49th Street pier had subsided during the night. However, early next morning it was resurrected into an organised rhythm of work. The long, tedious task of clean-up had commenced.
A small wooden building sat on the north-east end of the dock. Originally built in the 1920s as a ticket office, it had only last month been transformed into a supervisor’s office for management of the Normandie refit project. This Tuesday morning, however, the tiny structure was once again transformed into something it had not been intended for, a press room.
The single sheet of paper taped to the front door, the only door, was hardly discernable through the winter dark and read, Press Conference 0700 hours. The interior had been made into a makeshift facility by shifting the chairs around, classroom style, on either side of the room. At the front stood a small podium, behind which was a large blackboard. The board bore an outline, in chalk, of the Normandie in profile. In one corner of the board, someone had scribbled a laundry list of statistics down the right-hand side; 83,000 tons, 1,029 ft long, etc.
The throng of reporters, far outnumbering the amount of available seats, were dressed in heavy winter clothing, sipping coffee from blue and white paper cups and trying to keep warm in the unheated shack. As they spoke, their breath formed puffs of steam in the air, adding to the atmosphere of drama which hung in the room.
They were verbally bombarding a junior Naval officer trapped between the podium and the blackboard. With his greatcoat open and his tie undone, the beleaguered Lieutenant, Junior Grade heroically fought off the questions, but was hampered by his inability to control the crowd.
He was sent in from the Public Relations office to buy time for the Admiral who was now twenty minutes late. Their press deadline approaching, the reporters wanted a statement, and they wanted it now. Particularly about certain rumours no one would comment on.
“Come on, Lieutenant! Give us a break! What’s the dope on this sabotage thing? Who actually spotted the submarine?”
“Hey, L.T.! We heard two hundred guys were burned alive below decks! When can we get pictures of the bodies?” It was the representative of the Enquirer.
“Now that she’s sunk, do we got a Pearl Harbor East?” In exasperation, the officer held up a hand, but to no avail.
“Sir, could this be a co-ordinated plan by the Germans to sink ships up and down the Eastern Seaboard?”
From behind the mob, the sound of the door closing was heard and a voice rang out. “Where do you aspiring Walter Winchells get these questions?”
Everyone quietened down and turned to see who had entered. A visible expression of relief came over the Junior Grade’s face. The Admiral, flanked by two officers, strode up the aisle while removing his overcoat.
As he was replaced from behind the podium by the Admiral, the JG sat down, and became aware of the state of his uniform. The other two officers stood off to one side, the JG began to collect himself and the Admiral waited until all of the pressmen were completely silent. He didn’t have to wait long. Like a fourth grade class about to be given crucial answers to their next exam, they poised, pens and pads in hands.
“Now why the hell couldn’t I do that?” the young Lieutenant whispered to one of the officers on his flank.
“Because you’re not a god-damned admiral.”
“Gentlemen, I am Rear Admiral Adolphos Andrews, Commandant of the Third Naval District. Apologies for being late. Let me start by asking you to hold your questions until I finish my statement.
“First, in response to the rumour that two hundred men were trapped below decks, everyone got out. Sorry, Dave.” The Admiral looked at the reporter from the Enquirer and the rest of the room broke into a ripple of laughter which quickly subsided.
“There is a casualty list which will be released to you pending notificat
ion of next of kin. I can tell you, however, that at this time we have seventy-two hospitalised, ninety-three treated on the scene and one known dead.” The Admiral knew what they wanted to hear. He made the decision to skip the rest of the details of the prepared briefing, and get to the point.
“About the sabotage rumour. It was a fire. An accidental fire. Nothing more. There was no U-Boat. There were no spies in the yard. Just an accidental fire.”
“Sir?” One of the pressmen ignored the request to hold questions. “How can you definitely rule out sabotage when there’s been no investigation?”
“Because we know where and how the fire started,” the Admiral replied, careful not to reveal his annoyance.
“But sir… ” the reporter pushed, knowing he had the support of the entire press corps present. “It’s not even been eighteen hours! She’s still smouldering out there, fer cryin’ out loud!”
Andrews realised he had to be more assertive.
“Gentlemen! From the best information I have available at this time, the fire started on the port-side promenade deck. A spark from an acetylene torch ignited a life jacket. Exactly like this one.” Holding up an orange, thick-collared Mae West, he produced a knife from his hip pocket and sliced deeply into the vest.
“This material…” he explained to his audience, reaching into the hole and producing a handful of dark, straw-like substance, “… is Kapok. Very good flotation properties, but highly flammable. One of the welders got careless. A spark from his torch set off a pile of Mae Wests, and it got out of control.” Andrews hoped that by using a more familiar lexicon, he might get through to them more effectively.
“Sir, we understand there’s gonna be a DA’s investigation. If it’s a clear-cut accident, why are the cops in on it?”
“Just covering all the bases, Phil. We don’t want anything coming back on us later. Know what I mean?”
“CIA, hey sir?” There was another bout of sporadic laughter, but Andrews wasn’t off the hook yet.
“Sir, can you honestly tell us that with thousands of people milling in and out of here all day long, a saboteur couldn’t sneak in and start a fire?”
“I’m not telling you that couldn’t happen. However, under the circumstances I’m telling you that it would have been impossible due to our unbreachable security.”
Maintaining his professional attitude was becoming more difficult; however, he sought to get the briefing back on track and asked if there were any other topics they would like to discuss.
“Sir, can she be salvaged?”
“We are confident that the AP-53 can be salvaged. However, that’s an engineering question, and I’m a ship driver.” Nodding to one of the other officers, he continued as the officer stood up. “Lieutenant Commander Scott is Chief of Naval Repairs for the Third Naval District. He’ll field all of your questions concerning the salvage operation. And then wow you with his technical knowledge,” Andrews explained. “I have to leave. However, when the engineer is finished, he’ll give you back to our PR man. Be gentle with him, fellas, it‘s his first time. Thank you.” The Admiral stepped down and took his coat, while the Lieutenant Commander stepped up and prepared to speak.
The JG, still in his seat, buried his face in his hands and shook his head.
Outside in the street the Admiral’s Adjutant did his job. In the Admiral’s interest, he asked the unthinkable.
“Sir, what if a subsequent investigation reveals the possibility of enemy agents? Are we prepared for that?”
Andrews donned his gloves as he gazed out at the hazy sunrise colourfully tinting the vast harbour.
“Gene, do you remember all the anti-war sentiment before Pearl?” Andrews spoke in a low, but firm tone.
“Yes, sir.”
“A good part of that argument was because a helluva lot of people in this country were sick of war, but thought we were invulnerable. Nobody could touch us, nobody would touch us! Nobody would touch America! So let the Europeans fight their own war, we’re safe way over here. And then came Pearl. All of a sudden, the US of Ais not only in the war, we’re in it without a Pacific fleet. Now, how do you suppose the general population of this country would react if they knew that we were losing upwards of fifty ships a month in the Atlantic, let alone that there might be enemy agents in New York City?”
Disarmed, the Adjutant stared out across the harbor.
“With our delusions of invulnerability gone, Gene, all we got left right now to hold the people together… is patriotism.”
Chapter Three
Pan Am flight No. 47 from Tampa was about twenty minutes outside New York. The trip had taken nearly seven hours and the suits in the corporate office would be very pleased. There were no empty seats on the maiden flight of the new wider body DC-3 and the 257% desired profit margin would be achieved.
With two seats on either side of the aisle, it was the first sleeper transport, and boasted an in-flight bar service as well as in-flight meals, which was something no other airline offered. No more lugging picnic baskets on the flight with you.
Mrs Kaminski was grateful for the new state of the art, double-paned, safety glass windows Pan Am had installed specifically for the enhancement of her travel pleasure, and as the slender, dark-haired beauty sat gazing out her window, mesmerised by the heavenly scenery, her excitement mounted when the New York skyline came into view. In her excitement, she did exactly what the man sitting next to her hoped she wouldn‘t do. She struck up a conversation. As she spoke, she continued to marvel at how a single, dark, low cloud which seemed to emanate from the waterfront, hovered over lower Manhattan.
“I yust love to fly! Don jew?” The young women spoke with a heavy Cuban accent, but was very proud of her command of the English language.
“Excuse me?” came the terse response. Her soft, perfectly tanned facial skin beamed with a broad smile. This time the young woman spoke slowly and distinctly.
“I say, I-yust-love-to-fly! Don-jew?”
“Ah, yeah. Can’t think of nuthin’else I’d rather be doin’, lady,” the man dressed in the brown leather bomber jacket and baseball cap answered, facing straight forward, hardly acknowledging her presence.
“Dew-jew-no-speak-inglesh?”
“Yeah, yeah lady, I speak English. Don jew?” he replied sarcastically. The aircraft jolted for a second time with turbulence as it entered the warm airspace over the city. The stranger clung more tightly to his seat, and tried not to look scared.
“Oh, I see! Jew have afraid! Dat’s okay, jew have afraid!” The young woman sat casually, seatbelt undone and legs crossed over. She made no attempt to ignore his white knuckles, welded to the armrests of his seat.
“I’m not afraid!” The man became conscious of his loud speech and lowered his tone. “I just don’t like the air bumps!” he exclaimed as he slowly released his death grip on the seat handles.
“Air bimps?”
“Jess! De air bimps!” he replied with increased sarcasm, no longer making any attempt to conceal his irritation at the women’s intrusion on his misery.
“Oh! Jew meen disturbulance!”
“What?”
“Disturbulance!” The women turned her body to face him and began to demonstrate with broad, sweeping gesticulations. “Iz when atmoosferic disturbulance comes from cold air mass and warm air mass crash together and make unstable, dense air mass. So jew have disturbulance! No air bimp!”
He stared, open-mouthed. “Who the hell are you lady, Charles A. Lindbergh?”
“No! Jew silly boy! Lindbergh, he a man! I Martina, Martina Kaminski. Are jew in dee Army?”
After a brief hesitation, the man relented. “Doc. Doc McKeowen.” He gave a cursory nod. “No. 4-F, perforated ear drum. Not supposed to fly.”
“Oh! Jew are a Doktor? How nice?” Her sweet, coy voice dripped through her broad smile and all over the seats and she slowly snuggled up to him. Doc moved over in his seat to maintain the distance.
“No lady, I’m not a Doct
or. I’m a private investigator.”
She pulled back from him with a noticeable change in attitude. “Jew a cop! Jew dun look like no cop!” she said suspiciously.
“I’m not a cop. I’m a PI.” She looked at him quizzically. “Private Investigator.” He caught sight of her oversized handbag on the floor. “You know, like when a guy thinks maybe his wife is cheating on him, say with a younger guy or something.” He slid a little closer and propped himself up on the arm rest. “Like maybe she came back from a vacation, in Havana, say, and she’s very pretty, and her husband is a little older, and they haven’t been married that long.” He leaned into her. “And he’s worried that she might go puttin’ the make on every guy she meets because maybe, just maybe she married this guy to get her citizenship. You know, stuff like that.”
The young girl was now sitting with both legs pulled up to her chest, feet on the seat, a look of extreme worry on her face. Doc noticed her concern had turned to fear, and felt a short tinge of remorse. He smiled and sat back to allay her fears.
“Look, lady, I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t mean anything by it.” She didn’t respond, but continued to glare at Doc.
“Honest! Lady, I’m sorry.”
“How jew know dees dings?! My husband, he send jew?”
“Look, Mrs Kaminski… Martina. Your first name is Hispanic, I can see your passport in your handbag, it’s American.” Doc pointed to the small black carry-on, poking out from under the seat in front of Martina. She allowed her eyes to dart briefly to her bag and then back again. “If you were coming from Florida, you wouldn’t need your passport. And your wedding ring is brand new. Plus, I doubt I would find too many Kaminskis in the Havana phone book.”
