SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “Get your butt up, Graves. It’s pushing 0500 and we got to unload this bucket. No time for goofing off.”

  “Screw you,” Graves mumbled. “This here babe is stark naked, she is, and she’s rubbing my back. She got me all excited.”

  “Must be something you ate.”

  Madden pulled off his covers and yanked Graves from his bunk. Graves slid heavily to the deck. “Damn you, Madden.”

  “It’s about time he got up,” Maxie mumbled as he poured a cup of coffee. “A guy can’t get a good night’s sleep with all the noise he makes.” The serving hole door flipped open and Harper called out, “Come and get it. Today’s special.” The aroma of bacon, sausage, eggs and flapjacks wafted out.

  Graves dashed cold water on his face, dabbed himself dry, and eased his hulk down at the table. Dishes clattered and utensils rattled as the men dug in. Food disappeared, wolfed down in silence. Graves with his arm, slammed down his coffee mug and wiped his mouth off with his sleeve, and exclaimed, “Harper. You’re an asshole, but you sure can cook.” Using his arm, Maxie shielded his plate as Graves spewed wet morsels of food.

  “All right, let’s hop to!” Madden said, pushing back from the table. “We got a long day ahead, let’s get cracking.”

  “Cool it, Madden. This ain’t the Navy.” Graves said, gulping down more food. “I ain’t finished, yet.”

  Madden slipped on his heavy work gloves, “How about five-million reasons to move your ass?”

  “Crap! I ain’t seen a bloody cent,” Graves bellowed.

  “Sit on your butt and you never will,” Maxie said as he stabbed his fork into a lonely sausage. Carefully wrapping half in a napkin, he stuffed it into his pocket. He got up, scraped off his dish and slid his gear to Harper.

  “This whole caper is crazier’n-hell.” Harper ventured, leaning out the serving hole. “Six guys to takeover and hold a battleship, Christ! Then, we set like ducks lined up at a shooting gallery, holed up in a steel tomb and wait for a payoff. Unless they’re stupid, the Navy will let us sit here and rot. Yech!”

  The men fell silent at Harper’s dose of reality.

  “Quit harping, Harper,” Maxie giggled at his pun.

  “Well, you volunteered,” Madden added.

  “We’ll be lucky to see a penny,” Harper countered.

  “You’ll get your share,” Madden shouted.

  “Horsepuckey!” The veins on Harper’s forehead throbbed. “You didn’t sign on for the dough, Madden. You’re here because Trent is here. He’s an officer and you’re his freakin’ enlisted man lackey. He tells you what to do and you do it. You suck up to that stuff. I hate his guts.”

  “O.K. Hot stuff. What did you sign on for?”

  “Maybe, some of us have something to prove.” Madden glared at Harper. “Like what?” Harper pulled in his head.

  “That’s terrific,” Maxie chimed in. “If you guys are just here to prove something, I’ll take dibs on your share of the money.” Madden swatted Maxie with his cap. Graves threw back his head and let out a roar as they ambled out to the forward the cargo hatch. Two quick series of pop...pop...pop and Maxie had the auxiliary engines up and running. Seagulls scattered wildly at the unfamiliar sound. Maxie tested the winches, fingering the gear levers with the fine touch of a surgeon. He cajoled and tinkered until the running gear answered precisely. Pulling his cap over his eyes, he nodded to Madden. Madden cracked open the hatch. Graves shoved it aside until the opening was clear and raised his bulky paw into the air. Maxie caught the signal and eased the hook down into the Helga’s darkened belly.

  The men respected Captain Larsen’s claim to the upper deck, where he regularly paced, Hauser at his side. Outside of the wheelhouse, he kept to himself and made no effort to build a rapport with the men. Leaning on the rail, he puffed his pipe as he watched. Maxie was a pro, he judged, and pictured him as his Chief Engineer. He turned to see Madden scramble up the Jacob’s ladder and hit the Missouri’s deck as the first load touched down.

  “Harper. Get up here and give me a hand,” Madden shouted as he unhooked the bulky cargo net. Making an indecipherably rude comment, Harper wiped his hands and popped out of the galley to manhandle the load across the teak deck to the handling hatch.

  “Clear away,” Graves bellowed up from the Helga’s belly. A second load swung up and cleared the hold. Maxie pulled and pushed levers swinging the vanging boom sideways while the topping winch lifted the load. He set it down gingerly on the Missouri’s deck.

  “Run a double winch on this one, Maxie,” Graves shouted over the din of the machinery. “It’s a heavy one.” As the last load cleared the forward hold, Graves stripped to the waist, dragged up his sweat soaked body from below and, gorilla-like, climbed up to the Missouri. Maxie shut down the auxiliaries, wiped his brow, and disappeared below decks into the cleared hold.

  Captain Larsen watched Trent come aboard. Pre-occupied, Trent neither smiled nor broke stride. The Captain coughed. Trent turned. With his pipe stem, the Captain jabbed down into the forward hold. Perplexed, yet tipping his fingers to his forehead, Trent dropped into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he searched and realized the Captain’s concern. Maxie sat, collapsed, hunched up against the forward bulkhead, his chest slumped and legs bunched up tightly.

  “Having trouble, Maxie?”

  “I need to sit here for a few minutes. I’ll be okay.” Trent recoiled at the terrible strain he saw in Maxie’s face. A drawn look, ashen-white; his body shivered with chills, his khaki shirt soaked through, with hardly a dry spot on it.

  “Maxie, you are ill.”

  “No, Tony. I’m just scared,” his voice quivered. “I don’t want the guys to see me like this.” Maxie sensed empathy in Trent’s voice. “I can’t handle it! I just can’t! God knows, how I tried, we may all be killed. And Flora…” Trent let the tears flow, deep wrenching sobs. “We’ll never make it, Tony.” Maxie gripped Trent’s arm, his still strong fingers bit deep.

  “We’ll make it, Maxie. We’re half way there now.”

  Maxie spoke in small breaths. He formed his words carefully. “My whole life’s been a washout. I ain’t been no hero to nobody. Even my kids pegged me a bum, a loser. No matter what I did I couldn’t prove I was somebody. I’m a failure.” The words spilled out. “I know I sound corny, self-pitying, but it’s a fucking cruel world.”

  A shadow appeared over the hold. “Everything O.K. down there?” The Captain’s voice betrayed his puzzlement. After a moment of silence, Trent called up, “We’re coming up.” The shadow faded. Trent felt sad, helpless.

  The sky blackened, a rain cloud swiftly blew over and drenched the Helga. As her scuppers overfilled and gurgled, the men scrambled to cover and secure the hatches. Day had turned into night. Old bodies had performed young men’s work. Too tired to eat, they sprawled in their bunks, exhausted. Snores resonated. Graves moved restlessly, shivering in the cold, under a single blanket too small for his huge body. The Helga was unheated save for heat spilled from the galley. Graves belched, acid that had soured his stomach moved to his throat. Trent noticed Maxie’s bunk was empty. Overcome by a series of yawns, his own body rebelled, but he could not sleep. He dressed and stepped out into a biting wind. The downpour instantly wetted him down.

  “Ahoy! Helga.” The Helga turned bright as day as a searchlight beam came flooding on. Trent turned, his arm shielding his eyes against the dazzle of the light. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood erect. Sucking in his breath, he circled the deckhouse to the port side to face the threat. He gripped the rail with a bad feeling. A voice rose from behind the light, sharp and clear as NPB#41 bumped against the Helga. Chief Petty Officer Martinez jumped aboard.

  “How’s the old girl? Gotten inside yet?” Trent recognized his voice. “Tomorrow, maybe,” Trent shouted back fearful he had slipped up, been discovered. He concealed his trembling by slouching across the rail. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He held the pack out to the grinning Chief.
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  “Thanks, you’ll get company tomorrow; a couple of work crews should show up about noon.”

  “Is that right?” Trent’s heart rate quieted down.

  “The Missouri’s going get a lady friend.”

  “That’s good news.” Trent lied.

  “The Oriskany. They’re moving her to the other side of the pier. She’s a good ship. That’s her over there at anchor. She needs maintenance real bad.” The Chief pointed. Trent did not turn, but his mind did the quick arithmetic. The Oriskany’s flight deck stood 40 feet higher than the Missouri. The threat of snipers ringing her flight deck, taking pot shots chilled him. He exhaled blowing smoke rings in the chilly air while he stole a quick glance at the 200 foot high bluffs overlooking the bow shore-side. 1000 yards was not tough shot for a sniper. The Oriskany would lie within 200 feet of the Missouri, as good as alongside. He looked away, pained beyond words. With his hand-full of overage warriors, each man had to count. His forehead puckered into little furrows of irritation. Defensive adjustments must to be made.

  “Chief. Message from Base,” a seaman reported.

  “Better get going,” the Chief re-boarded and NPB#41 backed away.

  * * *

  The morning of the second day was pure hell. “Everybody up, shake the lead out,” Madden yelled, “Get to work.” Madden groaned as his own legs buckled casting him ungracefully to the cold, steel deck. The men managed a weak laugh. Graves’ upper arm tattoos seemed frozen in place as he tried to flex his bulging muscles. Maxie worked hard, salving hands rendered chaffed and raw from manipulating levers. The foul words that pealed from the men’s lips did not ease their discomfort. Harper lay in his bunk soundly snoring. Trent looked in, said nothing, but noted a crumpled, sorry looking lot.

  A cold blast of air blew the door open. Captain Larsen’s bulk filled the doorway. The temperature dropped ten degrees before he banged the door closed. “I didn’t see anybody up this morning,” he mumbled. “I thought maybe you…”

  “We had a tough day yesterday, Captain.” Madden replied, curtly, as he reached for his boot.

  “Well! I made hot coffee,” the Captain said quietly, the corner of his lip creased upward in a begrudging smile.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Graves exclaimed.

  “Harper, get up and get that stove turned on and some heat in this icebox. You got thirty-minutes to cook us a hot breakfast or else you’re going over the side.” They dragged Harper out of his bunk by his feet, dumped him unceremoniously on the cold deck, and pummeled him with his boots and mattress. They helped themselves at the coffee urn; cold, stiff hands on hot mugs. Maxie eased up to the edge of his bunk, his face white and grim. Madden and Graves dressed, glanced at Maxie, and moved out. Maxie heard the hum of the machinery, slowly rousing himself, he turned out to operate the winches. Maxie was no shirker. He was struggling, and although nothing was said, no heavy work came his way that day.

  * * *

  The Oriskany starred in the center ring of a three-ring circus. Pale and gray under dark skies, her flight deck overhung her escorts like a threatening cliff. Two puffing Navy tugs sluggishly nudged and jostled the carrier, easing her into her new berth. The flat oily surface of the water surged and boiled up about the tug’s propellers. Patrol boats, ordered to stand by, affected more sightseeing than useful duty. A contract crew bypassed the confusion to tie up aft the Helga. Aboard the battleship, Navy Yard work teams lay down their tools to watch the goings on. Making the most of the distraction, Madden kept Harper and Graves furiously unloading and stowing. The Navy ignored their efforts except for one sauntering Navy seaman. He caught Trent’s eye as he rounded the forward turret. Trent didn’t believe his eyes; he squinted to be sure. Orville Newby Hatcher was headed straight for the Helga. Trent’s mouth went dry.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Retirement papers came through. I’m celebrating, taking time off,” Newby replied. “I’m reporting for duty, sir.”

  Trent did not disguise his irritation. “Not here, you’re supposed to be in Seattle tomorrow night.”

  “I couldn’t wait,” Newby confessed, throwing his sea bag to the deck. Trent glowered; his mouth formed a rigid, tight line, “Hell. Everybody at the Base knows you. You’ll attract attention. What if Conover shows up?” Newby ducked his concern. He thought about how much he’d wanted to fight, to go to sea, to see combat, and then he thought about all those old war movies and great battles.

  “I kept thinking you guys could use an extra hand.” Newby eyed Trent sternly from out of a red, cherubic face through thick-lensed glasses. Trent faced him, infuriated, cursing at full throttle under his breath. Newby had triggered a neat trap. Trent had been explicit when he said, “Newby, I can’t take any chances with you, I need you shore-side.” Newby had reminded him, he conditioned his help on being part of events (assumedly, even if his ship-board abilities proved to be of little use). Newby’s child-like exuberance hinted he would be more hindrance than help. He had not waited for events to overtake him. Trent had been punched in the solar plexus…Newby did not figure into his plans.

  * * *

  Dawn came early on Friday and with the coming of daylight the men’s spirits rose noticeably. Light provides a powerful, positive psychological effect. However, fatigue still laid claim to the men and tiredness coincided with the beginning of a most dangerous day. Madden had cut the men a rigid, demanding work schedule. Trent tolerated no slacking off. The men paid him back by grumbling. After dark, Trent disappeared into his sea cabin; his light burned until early morning. He felt a letdown, but dared not show it. In the crew’s quarters, the coffee urn was kept percolating. It was thick, black coffee, so scalding hot that Madden dipped it with a spoon and blew heavily before sipping. He dunked a donut while he eyed Maxie bleakly.

  “You O.K., Maxie?”

  “Sure! What makes you think I’m not?” Maxie abruptly got up from the table. His clothes hung loose, held up by thin shoulders and a snuggled up belt. Madden saw an old, desiccated, panhandling derelict. Madden caught Graves’ eye.

  “Today’s special, you know, Maxie,” Graves remarked, and waited for several seconds. “Going to crack the hatch to the number two turret.”

  “The coffee is fresh, for once.” Maxie cleared his throat, sipping from the steaming mug. Madden glanced swiftly at Graves, returning his eyes to Maxie who muttered a brief obscenity and went out. They stared at him, then rose and followed.

  Graves wrenched at the clips, sweating profusely, yet the turret hatch didn’t give way. He flexed his muscles several times; sweat glistened on his bare arms. Grabbing the seven-pound sledgehammer, he spit on his hands and struck each clip viciously. The sledge, a mere toy in his hands, reverberated as metallic clangs. The hatch gave way. Madden reached up and yanked it down. They were inside. They stood on holy ground, sealed tomb-like since 1953. An aroma of powder and oil permeated the air, suspended in time and place. They felt part of something larger than themselves. The silence inside was ethereal.

  Newby was eloquent as he held up an oil lamp. It cast an eerie glow. “It must have felt like this when they opened that Egyptian’s tomb.”

  “Big mothers,” Graves said, patting a 16-inch breech. “Never seen anything bigger’n 8-inchers.”

  Newby’s tone of sober deference was unmistakable. “This is where it all pays off, eh!”

  “When do we get to fire?”

  “It won’t be long,” Trent replied.

  Harper pointed out, “Over there is the shell hoist, and here, the sighting hatches. See, they hinge open. We came in the primary aft entry hatch. Over there is where the powder bags come up from below.”

  “How do you load it?” Newby interrupted.

  Harper pointed, “A shell comes up through those flash proof shutters in the turret floor that snap open and the shell passes into the gun chamber. Over here, the ramming bar comes forward and rams the shell into the breech, after that, three bags of powder come up. The b
ags roll off onto the carriage. The ram pushes all three bags into the breech behind the shell. If you need more powder, roll off more bags. Six bags gets you max range of about 25 miles.” Harper was effusive.

  “Just like that? All automatic?” Newby cocked his head at the black man with renewed interest. Harper was on familiar ground. “Not so. It takes five men to make up a gun crew: a gun captain, rammer, cradle man, powder man and a primer.” Harper stepped up on a platform. “See here,” he pointed. “The primer-man stands here and reaches down to grab the breech handle. Activating the hydraulic/air system, he swings the breech-block open. Here is where the 300-pound breech is counterbalanced, but you really have to lean on it. The cradle man lowers the loading tray down and lines it up with the open breech; the rammer then rams the shell home. The powder man comes right behind and tumbles the powder bags out of the powder car onto the loading tray. With a good rammer man, the bags would slide in clean; if he were a klutz, he’d smash them up against the gun or, if he didn’t ram far enough, the bags wouldn’t clear the breech. A quarter turn locks the breech. When the gun fires, all the pressure is taken up on the threaded segments of the breech block.”

  “And you fire it?”

  “When everything is seated, I’d kick the lock loose; the primer man shoves a 30-30 cartridge into the firing lock and we close up. I’d lock the breech and jump off the platform. Then, I’d reach for the button, hold-ready-load, hit the ready button; it tells the gun captain it’s ready to fire and he relays that up to the bridge. The book says you can do the whole thing in thirty seconds; we did it once in fifteen,” Harper exclaimed. “The real back-breaking work is transferring the shells around down on the shell deck. A hundred guys trundle 2700-pound armor-piercing shells on trolleys to the shell hoists. Below three decks is the shell deck and the two decks below that the powder magazines.”