At first he could see nothing but driving rain and spray, but as a gust cleared all that away he gasped in horror at the sight of a crewman clinging desperately to one of the railings by the edge of the deck, water gushing around and over him as he came roaring down from the bow like a great, unstoppable force. Although he appeared to be holding for the time being, one arm wrapped tightly about the railing’s steel upright as the other arm locked it into place, there was no doubt the force of that water would surely wash him overboard soon enough, assuming he weren’t drowned beforehand by that same deluge pouring over his head.
“Man overboard… man overboard…!” He shouted desperately, not really sure of the correct terminology and not particularly caring in that moment.
Without even thinking, he unhooked his own arm and lurched from his bed, slamming hard against the bulkhead of his own cabin and winding himself badly as the ship crashed down on the far side of the wave. Wheezing and staggering out into the corridor, he turned a sharp left and headed directly for the hatch that lead out onto the open deck, not twenty feet from his own doorway and directly adjacent to that of the nearest bathroom.
An alarm began to sound as the word spread that an incident had occurred, but with the storm being what it was there was little the captain could do. Any attempt to slow or come to a halt would almost certainly doom every single one of them, and as terrible as the loss of a man at sea might be, it was preferable to the loss of the entire ship and its crew.
Making use of that relatively calm period through the next trough, Ortega reached the hatchway and burst out into the open, immediately struck with such force by the howling wind and rain that he was almost bowled over the side himself. It was only fortunate that the mounting bracket for a bright red life preserver was fixed to the wall right beside the hatch, and he was able to hang onto the steel framework for dear life as he struggled to retain his feet.
Casting his eyes about through the hammering rain, he was able to spy two other crew men some distance away along the deck toward the bow, both of them also clinging to various fixtures with the desperation of survival and both also completely unable to get anywhere near the struggling man. A small loading crane had collapsed on its mounting in the terrible gale and had crashed down across the deck and railing between them, making it far too dangerous to climb over in that current weather and effectively cutting them off from the aft of the ship.
With no one else visible in either direction, Ortega was suddenly overcome with a strange feeling of cold calm, and without another thought he waited for the latest crashing wave to sweep past before reaching up to the life preserve still seated next to him on the wall. Lifting it from its mounting bracket, he slipped one arm through and snugged it to his shoulder before quickly uncoiling the thick rope that came with it. A moment’s pause just to check his surroundings once more as the ship dived down into another trough, and Ortega threw himself forward, skittering across the deck toward the struggling man.
A freak gust of wind caught him as he drew within a yard or so, and combined with the force of water still rushing down the deck, it was sufficient to knock him from his feet and slam him into the railing with enough force to crack three ribs and wind him severely. He collapsed to the deck, wheezing and fighting to keep himself from sliding over the edge too, but he nevertheless still managed to use his free hand to grasp the railing’s uprights and drag himself forcibly up to the struggling sailor.
The two men braced together as the ship swept upward into the next swell, locking arms and both clutching at the railings as the Liberty Glo crested the top of the wave and crashed down the other side once more, sending a raging wall of seawater once more cascading along the decks. The salty torrent burst over both of them, their combined strength barely able to hold on, and as it subsided again, Ortega was finally able to open his eyes and found that he was staring straight at one of his own employers – the short, stocky one introduced to him as Kūkae.
With a grim and simple nod of recognition between the pair over their dire situation, Ortega slid the life preserver off his shoulder and pushed it across to the other man, crying out in pain as his cracked ribs burned in agony over the movement. Well aware that there was little time before they were into the next swell, Abukara Katsuo worked feverishly to hook the preserver over the nearest railing and draw the rope tight, using it to pull himself away from the edge and across the deck on his stomach, toward safety.
Ortega, although he’d accomplished his initial mission of saving someone in danger, was now left with the unpleasant fact that he too was in serious trouble. He found that with damaged ribs and wheezing lungs, he had no energy to pull himself back from the railing, and that it took every ounce of strength he possessed simply to hold himself in position. He thought for a moment of his wife, Sonia, back in Tijuana and smiled grimly as he realised that if he managed to survive the day and she found out about it, she’d almost certainly kill him anyway for so stupidly throwing himself into such a dangerous situation.
Another swell smashed over him, the lurch of the ship in the water enough to lift him monetarily and slam him back down against the steel deck, winding him again and causing further injury to his abused sternum. He could feel his fingers slipping… feel his grip on both the rope and the railing faltering… and he closed his eyes as he prepared to let go and accept his fate. Strong hands clamped around both his wrists in the seconds before he released his grip, holding him firm and fast as he opened his eyes once more and found himself face to face with Sakamoto – the man he knew as Ka’aihue.
Bellowing something unintelligible at him in a language he couldn’t understand, Sakamoto used all the strength he had to drag Ortega back from the side of the deck, against the flow of roaring water still pouring past them aft. A rope had been tied about the man’s waist, and as his head was finally clear, Ortega was able to see Perry, Isaki and a bruised and battered Abukara standing just inside the nearby hatchway, working together to pull both he and Sakamoto back to safety.
Sitting on his bed a while later, a shirtless Miguel Ortega coughed and sputtered and winced in pain as the ship’s medic bandaged his broken ribs, doing as good a job as was possible under the circumstances as the ship continued to lurch up and down as it crashed through the raging swells.
“You’re gonna need to rest up for at least four or five weeks,” ‘Doc’ Meehan advised seriously, the old man possessed of little formal training and a wealth of knowledge and experience collected over the course of forty years at sea, looking after his fellow sailors. “Prob’ly gonna hurt like hell for most o’ that time, too,” he added, not helping much as he smiled and patted Ortega on the leg in reassurance.
“Thank you, Doc,” he managed to croak, flinching on every word as slivers of pain lanced through his right side. “I’ll do my best.”
“Come and see me if you need some help with the pain,” Meehan added, pausing at the door for a moment with his medical bag in hand. “Ain’t got much morphine to go ‘round, but we can try aspirin if you like.” He stepped through the hatch and out into the corridor beyond, pausing again for a moment to add rather unhelpfully: “Probably as useless as tits on a bull, but was can give it a try…”
Ortega leaned carefully back against the wall, drawing sharp gasps of breath as each movement continued to tear through him. He could close his eyes, but he knew there’d be no chance of sleep for a while yet; between the pain and the adrenalin still coursing through his system, he felt wired and wide awake.
“Mister Ortega…”
He glanced up to find Sakamoto standing in the hatchway. With a nod from Ortega, he stepped into the cabin and moved across to stand beside the bunk, Isaki and Abukara following close behind.
“Miguel…” he began again, consciously fighting an urge to bow that had been inculcated into his psyche almost from birth. “We have come to offer our greatest thanks and to tell you that we are in your debt for saving Abe today…”
“On the con
trary, sir…” Ortega replied with a thin smile, shaking his head in disagreement. “You saved my life in return: at the very least, we are even…”
“Your life was only placed in danger because of your bravery in saving Abe’s,” Sakamoto countered, not about to accept any argument. “Your modesty is admirable, but it is misplaced.” He turned his head and barked a soft but nevertheless forceful order at Abukara, forgetting his own directive in the aftermath of the stress they’d all just been under. “Anata no yōsha o tangan shi te kudasai…!”
Abe Katsuo lurched forward as if he’d been shocked with a cattle prod, immediately sinking to one knee before the bed and lowering his head in deep respect.
“I… thank you… for my life…” he declared haltingly, his English clearly not as strong as his superior’s. “You have… great bravery… and honour. I remain… in your debt…” As he spoke those words, the other two men came to attention and tilted their heads forward in a clear representation of a formal bow, the significance of the action not lost on Ortega.
“De nada,” he stammered, shaken and taken back by such an intense and genuine display of gratitude. “It’s okay, really… Anyone would have done the same.”
“I do not believe this to be true, Miguel,” Sakamoto disagreed with a faint smile. “What you have done has made it possible for us to continue our… business… something that would have been… difficult if one of us had been lost today. You cannot understand the importance of that right now, but I will personally make sure you are rewarded when the time comes…”
“It’s really not necessary, sir,” Ortega tried to argue, making an effort to do the right thing and be humble while all the while secretly excited that perhaps a substantial bonus might be coming his way.
“It is a matter of honour…” Sakamoto insisted, firmer now. “Let us not talk of it now. You need rest. We will leave you in peace and discuss your reward at a more suitable time.”
They left him then, a thousand thoughts whirling around in his brain as he considered what had been said… what had been said both in English and another language; a language he was willing to bet his life had been Japanese.
St Mary's Training College
Falls Road, Belfast
December 3, 1942
Thursday
As always, a ripple of fear swept through the cells as the lights flickers overhead, each man again holding his breath as he silently prayed that he wouldn’t be chosen and tried to ignore the guilt that inevitably came with hoping it would be someone else. Not one of them would’ve considered themselves relieved that the guards again stopped outside Kelly’s cell at the far end, but neither were they ready to admit they were sorry it hadn’t been their turn to be dragged away.
“Aren’t you bastards sick of wastin’ yer time on me?” Kelly croaked hoarsely, struggling to focus on them with his one good eye and fighting against giving them the satisfaction of seeing him in pain over the livid, seeping wound that had once been his right. “There’s nothin’ left of me now to even fight back… surely there’s no challenge left?”
“It’s not a matter of challenge, Kelly,” Stahl explained pleasantly, hands on hips standing between four rifle-armed guards this time. “I’ve already told you: this isn’t work… it’s entertainment... and revenge…!” He added quickly, the smile faltering momentarily as darker memories filled his thoughts and he recalled the morning of Franz Bauer’s death. “The escape you orchestrated resulted in the death of my partner: a fine man and a dedicated officer of The Reich. It is only fitting you suffer punishment for your hand in it, and who better to administer that punishment than someone who learned so much from the officer you murdered.”
“Ahh, fook off…!” Kelly spat angrily, too tired and in too much pain to be bothered joining in with the banter any more. “If I had the chance to do that day over again, I’d gladly put one in that bastard’s head every day o’ the week and twice on fookin’ Sunday. I know about you, Stahl…” he added, sick and tired of playing the game now and angry enough to be unafraid of escalating the situation. “You’re well known for bastardry all over Occupied Europe, and so was that great gobshite, Bauer. I also know you used to be Barkmann’s favourite little bumboy before some clever bugger fooked your face up and left you with that lovely fookin’ scar.”
Despite recovering his composure within seconds, the momentary flash of rage that flared in Stahl’s eyes at that remark was more than enough to tell Kelly he’d struck home perfectly. That tiny victory was enough to spur him on with renewed energy, some part of his subconscious mind deciding that perhaps ‘suicide by insult’ was a preferable death to the drawn out torture he’d been suffering through over these last few weeks.
“That was it, wasn’t it?” He sneered, managing a reasonable expression of disgust despite his damaged face. “Dropped you quick as a flash like the damaged goods you are, and no doubt took up with some other shirt-lifting pretty-boy, yeah?” Ernst Barkmann’s preference for young and attractive blond men – usually junior officers – was well known in both Irish and Allied intelligence circles, as was the brief involvement Stahl had experienced with the man prior to the British Invasion of 1940.
“You can torture me all you fookin’ like, Pieter Stahl,” Kelly continued, all control deserting him now as his own pent-up rage found its outlet and burst forth in a mindless torrent. “You’ll probably enjoy it too, bein’ the sick bastard y’are, but I’ll bet you anything y’like that none of it feels as good as bein’ fooked in the arse by that psychotic queer…!”
There was a long, pregnant silence as every man in that cellar – prisoner and guard – held their collective breath following the end of that glorious, suicidal tirade. Every man locked up there at that moment knew that Eoin Kelly had just signed his own death warrant, and every man there at the same time recognised the level of fearless courage it must have taken to deliver that insult, knowing full well that its utterance would be inviting one’s own long and tortuous death.
All four guards were suddenly very glad they were standing behind Stahl, and that he was therefore unable to see their faces as they glanced nervously at the back of his head, torn between fear of his reaction and the strange desire to laugh over such a powerful jibe – one made even more damaging by the widely-known ‘rumour’ of the man’s homosexual tendencies.
“I know you think that you are amusing,” Stahl replied coldly, stepping up to the bars alone with a pistol in one hand. “You make insults at my expense – possibly with the mistaken belief that it will give you the courage you desire and inspire your fellow degenerates to deeds of greater strength and determination. That is untrue, of course… and you know that as well as I. You are terrified. Terrified of the pain… terrified by me… yes…” he paused for effect, “…even terrified by the death that you seem so eager to bring about... ” He smiled then… a smile so wild and insane that it could unhinge the sanest of men to look upon it. “The truth is, Kelly; we’ve already got out of you everything we were ever going to get. I’ve held on to you for as long as I’ve been able simply – as you say – for the enjoyment of it, but the fact remains that there have been some changes made with the return of the Reichsprotektor, and the latest of those is that all prisoners being held here are to be transferred to Crumlin Gaol: that interrogations will no longer be handled solely by the Germanische-SS.” He cocked his head to once side, the smile waning. “Well… there was no way I was going to allow them to move you to an established Irish prison where the chance of escape would be so much greater. You’re the only prisoner I have from the incident at Lifford, and there’s no way you will be allowed to live.
“The truck is here now, waiting for us to bring the prisoners out,” he continued, chuckling to himself. “You’ll see them when we drag you out into the courtyard, and I’ll make sure I hold the order to fire until they’re all able to watch you die. Take him…” he ordered, stepping back from the bars as two of the guards moved forward. “Beat him first
though, and make sure he can’t stand… I want them to see him die on his knees!”
The billy club was a fearsome weapon in the right hands, and the guards that entered Kelly’s cell were as experienced in its use as any British soldier or RUC officer he’d ever encountered. He knew better than to raise his hands against a serious assault – that would only result in broken arms on top of whatever injuries he was already destined to receive – and he instead curled himself into a foetal ball and covered his head in the hope that it would in some way ameliorate the damage.
He was bloody and mostly senseless by the time they’d finished, his fellow prisoners decrying their anger and outrage the whole time as the guards had gone at it with a professional, almost clinical intensity. Moaning in pain and weeping with fear now, all pretence of courage beaten from him by that final, humiliating onslaught, Kelly was taken by his wrists and forcibly dragged him out into the central walkway.
“Bring them up as soon as we’re done here,” Stahl advised the two guards not involved with holding Kelly, receiving a crisp ‘Heil Hitler’ in return. “Shouldn’t take more than five minutes or so before we’re ready to shoot this rebel scum…” With that, Stahl stormed out, leaving all of them behind, instantly forgotten.
The other two dragged Kelly slowly between them, oblivious to his moans and pleas as he struggled with weak futility against his captors. It was at that moment however that the entire room went silent, although it took a few seconds before any of the Germans present even noticed. As the two remaining guards looked around at the hard, seething faces in the cells and glanced nervously at each other, that silence was broken by the sound of one man’s voice, soft and lilting as it raised up in song.
In Mountjoy jail one Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree,
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 46