by Bob Neir
Trent joined them. Conversation ceased.
“The Helga’s ready,” Madden hinted.
“Any sign of Schiller?”
“None. The sooner we ship out the better.”
“Could he be up to something?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, he’s trouble.”
Graves dug into a bowl of stew, “You want we should snatch the creep and wrap him up in iron. We could toss him over the side on the way over...sounds like nobody’d miss him.”
“Is Captain Larsen aboard?” Hirsch asked.
“No. Later tonight,” Trent replied, grabbing a mug.
“Think he’ll catch on?” Hirsch asked.
“He shouldn’t. Everything is hid good,” Graves said, chomping on a thick slice of hard, black bread. “The guns are wrapped water-tight in plastic and we stashed’em under the powder with the ammo cans and bandoliers.”
“Where’s Harper?”
“In the galley,” Madden said, pointing with his fork.
“More likely he’s off slurpin’ a bottle somewhere,” Graves growled. “I swear he’s got stuff hid aboard. I say, we find it and dump it over the side. Maybe dump him over, too.”
Madden lurched to his feet. “Harper.” Harper stuck his head out of the serving hole. “Satisfied?” he looked angrily at Graves.
“Let’s go over the details, again,” Trent said.
The men groaned.
Hirsch stood up in mock seriousness, “It is obvious to me that we are growing into a remote semblance of a fighting team.”
They jeered at him.
“You sound like a dumb officer,” Harper jabbed. “You guys can laugh, but I don’t see anything funny, You’re crazy to think we can pull this off and not get killed.”
“It could be worse,” Hirsch said. “We could end up in jail.” They all laughed.
“Do tell us more,” Graves added.
“Jail’s O.K.” Harper added, “I’ve been there. You get three square meals and clean sheets.” They groaned.
“Well, I’m jittery,” said Hirsch.
“Don’t be,” Trent stated calmly, after the laughter quieted down. “Get it into your thick skulls precisely what is to come off, and when, and your assignment, and then things will go smoothly. But, whatever happens, don’t panic. The element of surprise is on our side; but I want no slip-ups. And, no careless talk in front of the Captain.” There was a long pause. “We go tomorrow at 0500. Now, let’s go over the details, again.” The men groaned. When he had finished, there was dead silence. The blue wreaths of smoke curled up lazily and hung against the overhead. A serious mien had settled in.
Harper held up a little white slip. “Forty-bucks I may never get a chance to blow.”
* * *
“Let go bow line!” bawled Captain Larsen, his hands cupped in the general direction of the bow. Splashes were heard. “Let go aft!” The big loop end flopped through the chock to slap loosely on the afterdeck. “Hold on to that spring!”
“Rudder amidships! Ahead slow!”
“Aye!” Madden repeated the command.
As dawn broke, a throbbing under the deck settled down into a barely perceptible murmur. Maxie adjusted the throttles as the bows fell off slightly. Underway, the Helga headed cautiously into the Canal, drawing heavy, yet responsive as Madden shifted the wheel over. Visibility dropped to one-eighth of a mile under heavy, low-lying cover. Shadows highlighted shoreline features until the Helga locked into the Government Locks. Crowded in by outbound fishing boats, the Helga gave no cause to suspect her deadly mission. Clearing the Locks, she steamed steadily west, cutting across the north-south Puget Sound shipping lanes. The whump! whump! whump! of her propeller sent dull, rhythmic vibrations along her hull as she surged forward. Foghorns, blaring mournfully, reverberated across Puget Sound as the Helga probed the thickening mist.
“Traffic is getting bad,” Captain Larsen took the wheel. “Madden, take the radar. Graves, you get forward on lookout.”
Madden moved to the radar unit. His face took on a pallid, gloomy cast in the emerald glow. The green flicker of the rotating wand swept across dark glass. Solid pips, then fading ones, turning bright again as the wand swept by. “Traffic is heavy to the north.”
Captain Larsen cut the engine to the Helga’s minimum headway speed of three knots. “The tide is on the ebb, a few points south won’t hurt,” he mumbled, shifting the wheel over. Madden stared intently at the green scope. “Don’t put too much faith in them electronic gadgets,” Captain Larsen remarked, leaning on the wheel. “We were putting into Eagle Harbor up in Alaska once in a fog, when heavy rains hit so hard we couldn’t see, so we figured we’d better head back out. Well, sir, the Captain switched on the heading marker and we plum ran straightaway right up on the beach. The marker hadn’t locked so the radar was reading opposite to where we wanted to go. The rain confused the screen and what we read for open water was a creek. You might say we were up a creek,” the Captain chuckled, “because that’s where we put the Willard Preston.”
“Freighter bearing directly abeam one mile, port side.” A bright pip to port brought a report from Madden. The Captain adjusted the throttle to clear ahead of the freighter.
“Ship passing astern,” Graves warned from the forepeak.
“The scope is clear,” Madden reported.
“The fog’s lifting,” Graves yelled.
“Get on with your other duties, then,” the Captain ordered. Feet rattled the ladder as Trent entered the wheelhouse. Harper was close on his heels with coffee and sandwiches.
“My Helga lives to be at sea, underway. And, it’s good to have a crew aboard, again,” Captain Larsen nodded, reaching for a steaming mug. “Have you heard tell of the Willard Preston?”
Trent glanced over at Madden. Madden shook his head and said, “Another hair-raising sea story, Captain?” The Captain ignored him and grabbed a sandwich. Harper winced then pulled up a stool. Trent leaned against the bulkhead, folded his arms and let his mind drift.
The Captain started, “I was second mate. The Preston was working the Aleutians and Alaska; less’ee, that was in ‘42. She was a primitive thing; we navigated with a compass and a Canadian Marconi. Most times, we got around by the smell of the air and the feel of the bottom,” he said. “We were haulin’ a Navy barge to Amchatka. The crew sold off their sleeping bags and parkas for booze; the stuff was called “Stewart Hill.” It was a cut above poison, but the Aleuts loved it and the stuff was worth its weight in gold. Well, sir,” the Captain continued, the uneaten sandwich held in hand. “The Captain and Chief Engineer broke open a case, just to celebrate, one bottle, you understand. Well, pretty soon they were dead drunk. The Captain went out like a light. I had to shove him into his bunk. He said watch for Seal Rocks and let him know when we got there. Well, it was dark when the navigation gear said we were there, so I woke him to tell him. He said I had it wrong because the boat wasn’t actin’ the way it should and the air didn’t smell right. I’m scared stiff we was gonna founder on the rocks. Well, he rolls over and goes back to sleep. I’ll be damned if he weren’t right.”
The Captain, realizing he held an uneaten sandwich, finished it off. “The shore is dead ahead a quarter-mile,” he said as he spun the wheel swinging the Helga due south. With the throttle jammed forward, the increase in engine rpms was noticeable.
Madden checked the radar. “Darned if he ain’t right.”
“You don’t need to look at that thing,” The Captain observed, dryly, with a twinkle in his eye, “Can’t yer just smell it!”
Harper shook his head.
The Helga ran on due south then steadied up due west into Rich Passage. By then, the early morning fog was lifting. Shoreline, high banks of sand and overhanging greenery appeared as if out of nowhere. Cottages peeked out through forested glens fronted by steep, rickety wooden stairs leading down to beachfronts. Small boats lay pulled above the high water mark. Heavy drift logs scattered along the beaches; stray
s from log rafts torn apart by a violent winter storm. Huge Douglas fir logs, the past wealth of the Pacific Northwest forests, lay half-buried in the sand.
“I’m goin’ below. Madden take the wheel,” said the Captain, sticking his unlit pipe back in his mouth. “Watch out for them Bremerton ferryboats, they come a roaring ‘round that point with their eyes closed.” The Captain pointed with his pipe stem, then left. Hauser lay curled up asleep under the wheel.
Madden stretched his arms over his head. “If we can pull this caper off…Hallelujah!” He paused, inhaled deeply, and grasped the wheel again.
“Watch for Navy patrol boats. They should be nosing around soon,” Trent warned. Footfalls were heard as Captain Larsen reappeared.
“Madden. Get Graves and check the gear,” Trent ordered. Madden hesitated, a confused look crossed his face as he strode out the wheelhouse. The Helga heeled to follow the channel. Trent placed binoculars to his eyes and searched ahead. Maxie’s entrance startled him: his face pale, his shirt soaked through. His shoulders slouched. His feet barely carried his weight as he slumped into a chair.
“You O.K., Maxie?” Trent asked, solicitously.
“Guess I am tired; I’m not a young kid anymore.”
“None of us are,” the Captain volunteered.
“Guess that means it’s O.K. if I sit down for awhile. Eh!”
Harper poured him a cup of hot coffee. “Try this.” Maxie was as close a friend as Harper had on board. Trent prayed it was only tiredness, but feared it might run deeper, more physical in nature. Maxie needed rest, but within the hour he would need him. He dared not order him to crew’s quarters.
The Helga swerved. Trent observed the Captain’s latent power, the way he leaped for the wheel. A man so large and alert would not be easily subdued. The outbound ferryboat Issaquah completed a sharp turn into the narrow channel. The two ships passed red-to-red with barely a hundred feet of separation. As the Helga rounded the channel marker, Bremerton appeared off in the distance, and just beyond, the Navy Yard. Trent motioned to Harper and Maxie to follow him, leaving the Captain alone. They dropped to the working deck as Madden and Graves appeared from below.
“Meet in the galley, now!” The men drifted forward.
“If we’re stopped, who does the talking?” asked Maxie.
“The Captain is primed,” Trent answered. “I’m back up. You all know your assignments?” Heads nodded. “And, stay out of sight. Madden, only you on deck. Now split up,” Trent sprinted back up the ladder to the wheelhouse.
Torrents of white water ceased streaming down the Helga’s white hull. The propeller slowed, the rhythm of the engine subsided. Where the stem cut the water of Sinclair inlet, there appeared only a faint, white trace of foam. They drew closer to the Navy Yard and restricted waters. Trent crossed over to the starboard wing and picked up his binoculars. The radio in the wheelhouse began to sputter; they had attracted the attention of a Navy patrol boat. Trent patted the packet of official Navy orders inside his coat pocket, their passport to the Missouri.
“Patrol boat. Coming abeam. Starboard side,” called Madden from aft the working deck. He busied himself coiling line warily observing the approaching boat. A wave-like white spray formed on both sides of the Patrol Boat as it grew larger; two seamen stood aside a small caliber gun mounted on the foredeck. NPB41 was emboldened on the bows. Captain Larsen slowed.
“More alert than I thought,” Trent observed, he felt his nerve ends grate together like the jagged edges of a torn tin can,
“Not much for them to do, you know, with no war on, except patrol a graveyard,” the Captain answered. “We’re a welcome relief.”
“They don’t seem too concerned,” Trent added.
“Why should they be?” the Captain challenged him. Trent mentally pinched himself.
“Ahoy!” The Helga stopped. Two seamen jumped the narrowing gap and boarded.
“These are restricted waters,” the first seaman warned. “Where are you heading? Are you the Captain?” The second seaman stood off to one side, a .45 draped to his hip.
Captain Larsen, stepping to the working deck, replied, “I am Captain Larsen. This is my boat. We have work aboard the Missouri.” He held out papers for the seaman. The seaman took them, opened, then read them glancing at the signatures. He looked up at the Captain. Trent interceded.
“I chartered the Helga. My name is Anthony Trent.” The seaman held his distance. He was business-like and alert.
“You’re the first work crew out here.”
“Expecting many more?” Trent asked.
“About six. What’s your duty?”
“We have the number two turret.”
“PUGET SOUND SHIP MAINTENANCE CO. eh! Guess you’re in the right place.” He smiled, folded the papers, re-inserted them, and returned the envelope to the Captain.
“Are you laying aside till you’re done?”
“No. We’ll be here three days. Friday night we’ll head back to Seattle. Give the boys a weekend in town, if you know what I mean.” They laughed. “We’ll be back here late Sunday night. Will you be on duty?”
“Until midnight Friday, then we get three days leave.”
“Are you the only Patrol boat on watch?” Trent inquired, verifying what he already knew.
“NPB22 covers the west half of the Yard. We go down to the ships at anchor and the ammunition barges; they get the dry side and all the ships tied up,” the first seaman replied. “Your papers look in order. Good luck.” They saluted, turned and re-boarded NPB41 and pushed off. They watched them go and breathed easier. It could have all ended right there without a shot being fired. Trent had no fallback plan except surrender.
The Missouri stood berthed at the westernmost pier at the edge of the Navy Base. Two miles of open water stood to her west. Bow-in to the northern shore, her starboard side nestled against a barge to buffer her bulk from the pier. A single gangway controlled access, spanning the barge directly from the pier to the main deck.
Hard a-starboard, the Helga moved slowly towards the Missouri’s port side. Harper and Graves worked the deck and stood ready with lines. Madden had the wheel, his hand gripped the engine start lever ready to shift into reverse. Captain Larsen shouted orders from the starboard wing.
“Slow to three knots.”
Madden spun the wheel and brought her up smartly.
“Reverse.”
Madden pulled the start lever…it clicked…nothing happened. The Helga plunged ahead towards the shore breakwater as if bent on her own destruction. “God damn!” Madden shouted, he violently jostled the start lever back and forth. It refused to engage. The Helga, careened off the side of the Missouri, her course erratic. A rough hand gripped Madden’s shoulder and shoved him aside.
“Get out of the way!” Captain Larsen shouted gruffly. Grabbing the lever with both hands, he yanked it back in two quick, vicious movements. The Helga shuddered. Gears engaged, the engine reversed causing the propeller to bite furiously, frothing the water in a mad effort to reverse her shoreward plunge. She stopped, then slowly backed away, barely avoiding rocks ready to tear out her vitals. Captain Larsen removed his cap and wiped the sweat off his brow. His face was ashen; Madden rubbed his shoulder.
“What the hell was that all about?” Madden demanded angrily, rubbing the pain out of his shoulder.
“I forgot to tell you,” the Captain replied, as he sat down, shaking. “The Helga has her quirks. She doesn’t have a clutch. The engine is direct reversing. When the engine is running, the prop is always turning…” Madden kept rubbing as he listened. “…The engine forward and reverse sequences work off offset cams, so the engine reverses itself and actually runs backwards. Nothing but trouble with the damn thing.” Trent glared and wondered if the Captain would ever learn how close he came to blowing up the Helga.
Two light lines flew down to the deck as Captain Larsen laid the Helga alongside the Missouri and tied up fore and aft. Fenders were thrown. A Jacob’s ladder casc
aded over the side of the battleship, as if appearing from nowhere. A sailor’s head followed to see where it landed.
“O.K. below?” he asked.
Harper lifted one hand in acknowledgment.
“We’ll lay over ‘til morning.” An officer peered over the Missouri’s railing. “Be our guest. Today is the last day for visitors. Tomorrow she’s all yours,” he responded.
“Then you guys get to watch us, heh!” It was a half question, and the officer took the bait.
“Not on your life. We ship out to San Diego tomorrow. Sea duty. Can hardly wait.” The officer waved off. Trent was pleased; they were on station, no one else had arrived and it appeared they would have time unobserved. Newby deserved a medal, he mused.
“Tomorrow we start unloading at 0500.”
The men slapped each other on the back. Trent sagged in relief at the course of the day’s events. But, he was not misled by the ease in their progress, the lack of detection nor how long they might conceal their intentions. But, the men were ready and he had done all he could. Morale was sky high. He never dared dream that executing his plan would be easy, risk-free and that nothing would go wrong. Overconfidence, he realized, was his deadliest enemy. He tried to envision failures and wondered how they would show themselves. But, those were gloomy thoughts, and, for the moment, he banished them to join in the merriment. Tomorrow was another day.
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 11
Daybreak broke early over Sinclair Inlet. Seagulls clashing over a meal shattered the early morning calm. The mastheads of the Reserve fleet bathed in clipped sunlight cast long shadows over the water’s surface. A languid trail of vertical smoke rose from the Helga’s galley stove. Madden cinched up his jacket against the cool morning air. He tightened the Helga’s lines then checked for Graves. Not finding him on deck, he paused at the foot of the bridge ladder and called. With no response, he entered the crew’s quarters and found him in his bunk snoring. Angrily, he poked his ribs. Graves grumbled and rolled over.
