Vickers was held in the stockade inside the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Officially he was “off the books” and only a handful of officers and sailors sworn to secrecy knew that he even existed. Complete solitary confinement meant that he was chained to his bed and to the wall of a windowless cell. He could move only to reach the toilet bowl. Interrogations began hours after Vickers arrived, blindfolded and emaciated after battling the elements in the Amazonian jungles and received minimal medical treatment for exhaustion during the twenty two hour plane trip to New York. His strong body bounced back with amazing speed even though his face was marked by the heavy dark lines of deep fatigue and multiple insect bites. During the plane trip he was ordered to shave and given a crew cut so that he could be photographed as soon as they arrived.
From the windowless cell he could only guess from the occasional sounds that filtered through the door that he was in a large city. Then one night someone must have left a larger window or a door open by mistake and the familiar whistles and foghorns led him to think that he could be in New York but he wasn’t sure. He knew he was in the Navy’s custody and not the FBI because somehow the procedures used were not as stringent as they would have been under strict police regulations. The smell of ocean air also seeped through the corridor from time to time. There were a few informal interrogations where he had to recite his life story interrupted by medical examinations. He understood what this was leading up to and things got serious two days later when he was unshackled, blindfolded and marched up a few flights of stairs to a very humid and cold room. Still blindfolded he was forced to lie down on a low table. The questioning began when a polite but firm voice began asking a series of questions,
“Answer yes or no. Is your name Frederick S. Vickers?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly there was a blow by truncheon on his thighs,
“That’s not true. What’s your real name?”
“Vickers…”
Then came another series of blows in the same aching parts “Tell us your real Italian name. Right now!”
“Federico Spada”
“Spell it…”
“S..P..A..D..A..”
“Good. Did you become a United States’ citizen in San Francisco in 1932?”
“Yes.”
The interrogation went on with Vickers answering most of the obvious questions truthfully. He knew what the best scenario would be: he would be executed as a traitor to the country he had chosen ten years before, a summary execution for treason. No legal recourse would be possible. He refused to answer any military questions, even the most obvious ones. The interrogators warned that the blows of the truncheon were nothing compared to what was to follow. They said they’d use every possible means, legal or not, to extract the information they wanted. No one knew where he was and his life was now completely in their hands. Finally he was given ten minutes to think it over.
“Americans proclaim that they don’t do this type of thing!”
The voice replied without any hesitation;
“Mr.Vickers, we are authorized to do whatever is necessary to get the information we need from you and it won’t take us very long, believe me!”
Fred was anticipating how to delay torture long enough to find a way out of this situation. In any civilian court he’d be found guilty of murder on at least three counts. If they followed secret Italian or German interrogation procedures for spies and saboteurs, he would probably be dead within one or two hours or as soon as they figured out that he wouldn’t talk anyway. The regulation number of blows that the Gestapo would inflict, for example, was enough to break the strongest man. He decided to put up strong resistance at first to see how far they would go then selectively surrender some information to get them to stop.
The next phase came quickly enough. As if to demonstrate that things were now moving to a new level of brutality, he was marched out of the room through a long corridor and several doors. Suddenly the outside air was streaming in along with the familiar harbor sounds of a large port city. Finally the wheels opening a steel door were turned and a welcome rush of freezing air swept away the foul human smells of what had to be the inner cell block. Handcuffs were removed and he was forced to stand for about twenty minutes, then he was taken to a much colder and damp area and stripped down to his underwear. His clothes were simply thrown on the floor. The voice then said:
“Vickers, please take a minute to think things through and save us all a lot of exertion. You can avoid all this by simply giving us the information we asked you. It will avoid us some unpleasant work. The pain will be yours to endure. So, what have you decided?”
“I can’t tell you anything, you offer nothing…”
Three sets of powerful hands grabbed Vickers making him kneel over an icy tub of foul water. His head was forced on wooden plank and then dipped into the water and kept under for two full minutes. He knew all about the drowning sensation and had experienced in training exercises at Bocca del Serchio many times. The freezing cold was intended to have the prisoner abandon any form of resistance letting himself drown. He knew the theory and the practice of such sessions and kept on repeating the words to himself. Just then the hands pulled him out. It was a lot like training but the water was much colder. Suddenly he was again being held him firmly underwater. This time he counted two and a half minutes. It was becoming much more difficult to resist. Three minutes was the limit beyond which he would certainly pass out. The voice said,
“You’re not looking so good. You’re as blue as a dead chicken, Vickers! –the man laughed – All right let’s see if you’ll cooperate this time. We don’t intend to do this all day you know. Where is the rest of your equipment? The mines, the torpedoes, the other bombs that you didn’t use? We know they are stashed away somewhere here in New York City and we will find them. Where were you operating from? Do you want to survive or must we continue breaking you down a little at a time? Nobody will give a damn if one more Axis saboteur died accidentally in his cell, believe me. Actually people will applaud and dance in the streets when they’re told. You’ve got no friends out there, Vickers… None at all…Well, how about it? Or are you setting the world’s record in freezing water?”
The men around him were wearing heavy sweaters and woolen caps, he’d felt the wool as they were grabbing him before. The room was like a butcher’s icebox and he was being forced into dirty water with some salt water mixed in. There was also a strong smell of fish… a basin ordinarily used to hold live fish …Then it was suddenly clear, he was across from Manhattan on the Brooklyn side. The Navy Yard… of course!
Fog horns in the distance and the acrid smell gave it away. He had to be in New York Harbor. The East River was only less than a few hundred feet away! The thought provided a renewed burst of energy that was almost as powerful as a shock driving him to a desperate attempt to break loose. He calculated that perhaps after the next bout of water torture there would be a small window of opportunity. He was convinced that these operatives wouldn’t have the time or even the imagination to vary the “treatment” at that point. They would stick to a single routine. Had he been running the interrogation he would have already switched to electric shocks but he was convinced these fellows wouldn’t be so daring and they’d want to keep him alive. If they went back to the near drowning technique he knew what to do but it could only work for a few seconds …
“Well I guess the answer is you’re going for the world record, Vickers!”
In a single movement his entire body was plunged into the fish tank where he could feel chunks of ice floating on the surface. The effect was intense shock, and his heartbeat suddenly rising to an uncontrollable pitch. He felt he was on the verge of a massive heart attack but his exceptionally strong body had recuperated just enough from the rigors of the jungle to adjust quickly. Suddenly he lost any feeling at the extremities of his hands, and feet. One, two, two and a half minutes…he knew he was drowning, with oxygen barely reaching his brain, a few seconds more and he’d lose consciousness. Cardiac arrest and death would follow within four or five more seconds.
They pulled his head up and he gasped. Then almost immediately they plunged him back in.
They were following the “near death” technique he had learned and practiced in training. The prisoner isn’t expected to die they want him to turn and give up, so they must be very careful about the limits of brutality. Naturally each subject is different and accidents happen very often. Death was very close this time, he could almost touch it. Suddenly just as he’d planned he relaxed his body completely and played dead for one or two seconds. No movement, no resistance, he made sure he went completely limp. They immediately pulled him out of the tub and removed the black hood; then they turned him on his back on the drenched wooden floor. Two strong hands pushed on his chest rhythmically and he let himself breathe slowly gaining as much time as he could as he pretended to throw up some dirty water. The voice then said,
“Take off his cuffs and let him be for a few minutes then we’ll go back to it. I think he’s near breaking now.”
They unlocked his handcuffs and spread eagle on the planks. Another voice said,
“He doesn’t look so good. Maybe we should stop and spruce him up a bit, Captain?”
“You could be right…better get the doctor.”
Fred’s body was shaking from hypothermia and exhaustion. He needed time, a few more seconds. He cautiously opened his eyes a little and saw them talking behind him so he rolled up on the wet floor into the fetal position. He noticed how the floor was made of rough wooden planks where he could see the brown water of the East River. It was right there, just a few feet below and he felt completely mesmerized.
“All right, are we going to have to start all over again Mr. Vickers? Or have you decided to be sensible at last?”
The voice was that of the captain and Fred couldn’t make out his features but he was large and unfriendly, the dotted outline of an executioner, no different from most military interrogators. He wouldn’t have expected anything else. From the floorboards he saw three sets of black rubber boots belonging to the captain and the two sailors who were handling him. He knew he wouldn’t survive another session in the fish tank and they didn’t expect him to offer much resistance since they had unlocked his handcuffs and removed his mask. He knew he had just enough strength left,
Fred relaxed his body on the floorboards and said;
“I can’t go on, I need a doctor…”
“Good, so you’re being sensible at last. I agree that you do need a doctor and a nurse too, one with big tits to warm you up and give you some motherly love. But first you gotta talk to me my friend…”
The big guy who did all the talking was now standing over him, with both hands on his hips; through the corner of his eye the second sailor was handling some chains on the opposite side of the tank, far enough removed. The third interrogator was opening the door to go outside, presumably to get the doctor. The door opened and shut. It was the moment, either it happened now or he’d have to die.
In a single whipping move of both his legs and feet he kicked the captain in the shins and the crotch at the same time, like a scissor kick in a soccer game. The pants the man was wearing were thick cotton fatigues and Fred felt the testicles crush under his frozen toes. The big man doubled over immediately, howling in pain until it overwhelmed him and he dropped to his knees. Fred knew that one blow of that intensity could rupture the testicles permanently if they were unprotected, which was probably what had happened. The victim would feel intense pain for months, shooting mercilessly through his entire body unless he received massive doses of morphine.
Fred jumped on the withering body as the other man yelled out gathering the chain around his fist preparing to attack. With his left hand he grabbed a gun from the side holster and drew a .45 Browning automatic, the standard officer’s side arm. As if on the firing range he unlocked the safety lever and shot the sailor twice in the chest just as he was lunging at him from behind the fish tank. The man was yanked violently backwards and moaned a few times before falling silent. Grabbing a set of keys, Fred locked the door from the inside and rushed to the far end of the basin. They were already pounding on the steel door and he only had seconds to decide. He grabbed the black pajamas clothing they’d stripped off him, wrapped the gun in it and shoved open the trap door at the far end leading to the river where the fish tank was emptied after a selection had been completed. He rolled his clothing into a bundle, and eased himself into the East River. When they finally busted the door open five minutes later, Fred Vickers had successfully escaped. ONI personnel rushed around excitedly but he was able to swim clear of the area and couldn’t be found.