SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  Graves bawled, “Sounds easy, once we get one working.”

  “Not that easy,” Madden rubbed at his face. “We’ll do a manual load. Rigging on automatic is too risky.”

  “And when she is fired?” Newby inquired anxiously.

  “If you hear two short bells, clear out of the way,” Harper replied, “all hell’s about to break loose. And brace yourself for the ship heeling and lifting.”

  Harper stood transformed, no longer surly, but tolerant and self-assured. The men stood dumbfounded at the remarkable conversion. With animated hands, he spoke, his eyes steeled in determination. His skill as a gunner was his plea for vindication. For eight years, he had wandered, lost in a void. Guns - all he understood was guns. Guns meant security; proof of his worth, his chance to redeem himself. “Maxie, I’ll need more light in here.” Harper took charge, “the generators will do ‘til we can hook up dockside. I’ll need light down on the shell deck, too, and powder magazine.”

  “Gimme a break. I just got in here,” Maxie said.

  Trent fell away, dropped out of the turret and let the men absorb history.

  16-Inch Turret

  Getty Images©

  * * *

  Harper set the table and shut down the stove. He busied himself wiping his hands on a dirty white towel tied about his waist. Pushing Newby aside, Harper claimed a space at the table. Newby slid over. Madden had just finished telling a tale: “…in his bunk and was blown over the side. A torpedo from a Jap sub hit the North Carolina. She just sped up and sailed away. They cleared away the wreckage. My buddy told me the sailor was never found.”

  Harper said, “I like lot of metal around me. I’ll take a turret anytime. Take a hit, and don’t give a damn.”

  “Pass the salt,” Graves leered at Newby.

  “Salt ain’t good for your health,” Newby offered.

  “You guys ain’t good for my health, neither, but I’m still here. Now gimme the damn salt,” Graves spat out. “You guys and your fucking war stories.” Grabbing the shaker, he liberally doused his plate. “Hey! Newby. I hear this is your first time on water. How long have you been in the Navy?” Graves dug his fork into the platter of beef and slopped a choice cut to his plate. Newby ignored him. “Yeah! Hear you got shore duty ‘cause you get seasick; got no stomach, eh!” Graves laughed.

  “Knock it off,” Madden growled.

  “Stick it, Graves!” Newby fired back. “I got twenty-five years in. I bet most of you turkeys got your asses tossed out.”

  “Who you talkin’ about, Newby?” Harper interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” Newby answered in mock apology. “I’m talking to whoever’s listening.”

  “Cool it, Harper,” Madden urged, “he don’t know you got tossed out.”

  Graves jumped on it, “So. Harper baby got his ass tossed out. That’s news. What for, stealing paper clips?” Graves guffawed as he grabbed for a slice of bread. Harper shot off the bench. It was a looping, wild swing and Graves didn’t see it coming. It struck him across the chest but did little more than push him back. He reached out and grabbed Harper’s leg. Mugs and dish-ware were swept to the floor as Harper pounced on top of him. Entangled, they crashed to the deck. Graves, twice Harper’s size, had the strength of an ox as he heaved Harper up off his chest. Grabbing nearby bunks, they hauled themselves up. Graves was puffing and red in the face.

  “You black bastard! You Goddamn nigger!” Graves roared. With fingers outstretched, he lunged at Harper’s throat. Harper nimbly ducked under the big man’s furious assault while planting quick jabs to Graves’ belly. Graves, with outthrust jaw and tree-trunk arms, towered over Harper. He wheezed, and then swung around only to have Harper appear somewhere else. Harper deftly moved in close and leveled a kick into Graves’ groin. Graves howled, and then doubled over. Spotting an opening, Madden jumped in between the two men with quick, animal-like speed. Graves drove right through Madden, bowling him over while lashing a terrible right hook into Harpers’ chest. Cornered, Harper buckled. Graves caught him and battered him with ponderous, crippling blows; his fist had the kick of a Clydesdale. Harper curled up, grasped his stomach, and collapsed in a heap. Graves’ ugly face soured in a scowl as he stood over him and spat.

  “You stupid, black sonofabitch,” Graves shouted.

  “I’ll kill you for that,” Harper said, sucking air. Graves roared his enjoyment. Harper lay there, his back against the bulkhead, his eyes blazing, still spoiling.

  “That’s enough!” Madden drove Graves off.

  Newby sat, his mouth agape.

  Graves guffawed. “Hey, Newby. Maybe you should try doin’ the dishes, if the water ain’t too deep.” Holding his stomach and groin, he staggered out the door. Harper rose to follow. Madden implanted his foot in his chest and pinned him down. “Enough! We’ve work to do tonight.”

  It was a good fight, all three minutes of it. Harper was surprisingly adept with his hands and agile; but, he was no match for the rampaging, bull-like Graves. The pressure relief valve had blown off. Madden dreaded the inevitable, but knew the showdown was yet to come. He had to keep the peace. Harper, in a miss-match, even in defeat, had something to prove—and he proved it.

  * * *

  The door to his sea cabin stood ajar. Trent was hunched over a chart when he noticed Maxie leaning against the doorjamb. He looked better, but seemed ill at ease. “For Christ’s sake, come on in and close the door,” he commanded. “Is this a social visit, Maxie?” He didn’t look up, but continued measuring.

  “I don’t know, Tony. I get these tight pains in my chest and a tingling in my left arm,” he moaned, patting his chest with his right hand. His face was lined with worry and apprehension. “I just need rest; but I’ll be O.K., in a bit.”

  “This has happened before, hasn’t it?” Trent waved him to a chair, “down in the hold.”

  “Nothing serious, just a touch of heart trouble from way back. The doc gave me pills. I guess I’m pressing too hard. Probably just nerves.” He let his head fall back and his breath out in a long-drawn sigh.

  Trent laid down his dividers, clasped his hands and eyed him thoughtfully, unable to decide. He wondered: Did Maxie know about Lisa? Why did she accuse him of hiding him? Did he know NARDO wanted him? Why did Maxie jump at the chance to sign on? Or, was there something else he was not aware of? Madden suspected Maxie’s difficulties were more than physical. Trent gauged a man he had known as capable and courageous, was now on the verge of collapse. Sharp mentally, yet deteriorating physically. Trent was torn: he could order him shore-side; yet, he needed him.

  Trent was blunt. “Do you want to quit?”

  Maxie stared at him without speaking, then dropped his head dejectedly, “It’s Flora. I worry about her all the time. I lose sleep. You must promise me, if something happens to me...” Maxie grabbed a cigarette from a loose pack. “If anything happens to me, promise you’ll see she gets my share.”

  “Sure thing, Maxie, but, if you want out, no one will call you a coward.” Maxie lit a cigarette with methodical care. He looked at Trent blankly and sat in deep thought. Trent broke his reverie.

  “Tell me about NARDO.”

  Maxie reacted like a shell hit him. “How do you know about NARDO?”

  “They know you’re here and figure I’m hiding you,” Trent volunteered, “and they want you or their money back.” He laid out his encounter with Lisa. Maxie’s hand shook as he listened intently. “Lisa knows we’re due in tonight. I bought you time. I guaranteed you’d not run off. She wants to talk to you,” Trent continued until he heard footsteps. Madden pushed open the door, his face torn in disgust.

  “Harper and Graves just had it out. I had to break it up,” he reported, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “Graves asked for it. He just wouldn’t get off Harper’s back. It was only a matter of time. They’re both still hot. Nobody’s badly hurt, mostly egos—Graves’ ego. I don’t think he expected Harper to fight back. We don’t need this; it better bl
ow over.”

  “Let’s get ready to shove off,” Trent ordered. “It’ll be twilight soon and our timing has to be perfect. Get the men together, I want no slip-ups.” Madden left hurriedly. “Well, Maxie, this is it! The ammunition barge. If the Navy catches us there the jigs’ up. No options right now, you have a job to do.”

  “Tony, remember the time you got caught liftin’ candy bars? Old man Tedowski had you dead to rights. You ‘fessed up right on the spot! He didn’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll tell you what he did do. He told my old man. I got a licking I never forgot. This time, I suspect the licking will be more severe.”

  They laughed at the shared moment.

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 12

  Sam Simons eased back and planted his foot on the tabletop. Trent had arrived at that crucial moment where he could still back out unscathed. Simons let his foot slip to the floor with a thud.

  “Looked like an opportune moment to back out.” Simons cadged. “With Maxie sick, the men disgruntled. Hit that ammo barge and the Navy’s on you. So far, you had done nothing illegal, committed no crimes. Did you ever seriously consider calling it off? No one would have been the wiser.”

  “No, never.”

  “After Maxie. Even after Newby showed up. Danger signs, red flags everywhere,” Simons chortled. “And you hit that ammo barge, your luck runs out, there is no hope of turning away. The cat is out of the bag. Successful or not, the odds against you turn grimmer than grim. Did you…”

  “Yes. I did,” Trent cut him short, he felt the power and thrust of the Helga coursing beneath his feet. The stirring of memories, of the wrongs, the promise he swore to himself, the need to press on against a clear weighing of the consequences. “Not to me; but, to the men—their past lives, their future prospects, their commitment to the adventure. For better or worse, I was committed; the men were committed. All doubt vanished: relieved, I promised myself to never again pander to doubt.”

  “Have you ever killed a man, Trent?”

  “That’s a strange question.”

  “Why should it be, you were leading five men to their deaths. Do you know what it is like? You live with it.”

  “And you, Simons. Have you ever killed a man?”

  Simons’ face clouded, “Two.”

  “There you go.”

  “A grocery store robbery. They killed my partner. I killed them. My partner did his duty, he knew the risks, the exposure to being a policeman.”

  “Why did the two men rob a grocery store?”

  “For money, of course.”

  “Where is the difference?”

  “Your way innocents may get hurt, even killed.”

  “Don’t sell us short. The difference is my men were reliving a past they never fully lived, picking up their lives from where they dropped them. They knew we could fail: they understood the price. I bartered money in a fair trade for a dangerous adventure. How is that different from your two robbers?”

  Trent stopped short. From the cove came uproar of shouts and wild hallooing. They both ran to the cliff edge. Two fishermen were lustily climbing the upturned hull of a small boat. Overloaded, it had tipped over. A small boat set out from shore to render assistance.

  * * *

  As dusk drenched the hills surrounding Sinclair Inlet, the land bled subtle green and blue colors. Falling darkness changed all to deep purple shadows that slowly cascaded down the hillsides. The land fell under the spell of an eerie blackness that extended it, fingers over the surface of the water. The shadows that embraced the Helga turned to a deep red-blue. Lines were heard to splash, quickly coiled and quietly put down.

  “Engine Slow Astern,” rang down. The engine room answered. A propeller thrashed and the Helga slowly backed away from the lifeless Missouri. “Engine Slow Ahead,” Captain Larsen rang down as he spun the wheel to right full rudder. The keel divided the phosphorescent water into a white foaming wake that curled away. The white puffs of engine exhaust that rose lazily above her stack traced her progress. The Helga moved stealthily, a fox on an unsuspecting hare, her bow cleanly parting gurgling waters as they tumbled aft. Astern, a steady wake twirled and burbled in whorls of phosphorescence. Her working lights basked her upper works in dazzling brilliance, an inkblot on white paper.

  Maxie patted the diesel as it thumped and grumbled steadily driving the Helga into the night. He pampered the auxiliaries, pumps, generators and hoisting gear, never doubting his ability to coax the most out of machinery. Outside, he held his private thoughts. Flora no doubt wondering where he was and what he was doing. Was he taking his heart pills? Just a few months, he said, but not to worry. He wondered if confiding in his best friend had been wise. Yet, he had learned that NARDO was hot on his trail, much too close for comfort, he ruminated.

  Satisfied, Trent double-checked the working lights, turned on his heel and headed topside. Taking station on the starboard wing, he scanned the far western reaches of the anchorage. He sensed Newby ease up the ladder, making almost no sound to stand by his side. For this moment, they had drilled until each man could carry out his part in his sleep. “No screw-ups,” Trent had forewarned.

  Trent pointed, “There, Newby, watch NPB#41 sweep around those hulls, then back and forth like a farmer plowing furrows, never varying her pattern. I’ve timed her a dozen times.” Newby steadied himself on the handrail to stare through night glasses shifting his feet as the Helga lifted to a swell. “There’s her sister,” Trent pointed off. Newby swung his glasses over, stirred by the impending danger. He gloried in everything about the caper; he accepted its purpose, this dangerous passage, and, particularly, the tough men aboard, their comradeship. He knew only his own particular part of the job, Trent’s overall plan and the way it was shaping up. And, that up until this moment, the score was running steadily in their favor. Facing danger, he now knew all his dreams were coming true.

  We’ll soon find out how good we are, eh, Newby.”

  The air turned briskly cold, lashing their faces, their fingers stiffened. Suddenly, something caught Trent’s searching eye and he straightened up. “There, Newby, that dark object off to the left, that is our target for tonight.” A black, shadowy bulk drew closer, its corners daubed in dull red light. Trent quickly glanced at Captain Larsen’s outline in the darkened wheelhouse. He stood unmoving at the wheel.

  “Look.” Newby turned back and caught NPB#22, still a mile distant, a white wave breaking before her stem, her lights bearing straight for the Helga. “My God! They must know.” Newby trembled.

  “It’s her routine, Newby, Relax.”

  “What’s that?” Feet clattered on the deck grates.

  “Harper and Graves: you missed the rehearsals.”

  Two shadowy figures unshipped the forward hatch cover and laid it on the deck. An engine chugged to life: Maxie positioned the boom over the uncovered hold. One figure stepped to the hook and was lowered into a yawning blackness. Newby turned away and looked at Trent. His mouth hung open.

  “Practice makes perfect, Newby.” Anticipating his next question, “For combat, you are trained to react: thinking is both dangerous and a luxury. In the moment of crises, routine still ruled all. And, this is combat.”

  Gray and sinister, her engine roaring wildly, NPB#22 cut deftly across the Helga’s bow. She passed so close Newby cringed, envisioning .50 cal. shells tearing at his skin. He felt weak and miserably ashamed. Trent said calmly, in an almost matter-of-fact tone, “She’ll run out, complete her loop, then inbound the ammo barge in exactly twenty-five minutes.” Trent twisted his wrist and set his watch stop-clock alarm. “This is not a time for guess work,” he remarked, his tone deadly serious. Newby craned his neck, not sure where next to press his attention.

  Trent rasped at Newby, “Now watch, act one, scene two.” He nodded over at Captain Larsen’s back then signaled. Harper came bounding up the ladder, his face a charged, focused look. Grabbing a handhold, he nimbly climbed the mast. Just as nimbly, he shi
fted the ship’s working lights to port and slid back down. To Newby, Harper seemed one continuous stroke of a paintbrush. A solid, impenetrable cone of darkness had been created to starboard, blinding anyone curious enough to approach.

  “Newby, stand clear.”

  Newby moved to the handrail. Maxie darted about like a squirrel storing nuts. He slapped gobs of grease on blocks and pulleys, daubing any running gear that moved. At the aft hatch, Madden readied heaving lines. Graves bent over stuffing noisy air leaks and adjusting the mufflers Maxie had installed on the auxiliaries. Newby’s body tingled.

  Trent lifted his binoculars and made a quick last minute sweep catching NPB#22 reaching the extreme limit of her patrol. Her stern angle changed and her silhouette lengthened, then she disappeared behind the most distant row of silent ships. Checking his watch, he broke off abruptly. “Newby, get with it. You know what to do. Now, be off,” Trent ordered. Newby, in his haste, nearly stumbled down the ladder. Trent ignored him, swearing softly. He turned as the ammo barge loomed larger, its high, box-like shape and massive, sliding doors emerged out of the night. With the close proximity, his sense of danger heightened. Beneath his feet, the Helga pounded on course to safely pass the unmarked, gray barge.

  Footfalls charged up the ladder. Newby gave him “thumbs-up” and together they rushed into the wheelhouse.

  “Lay alongside the barge, Captain,” Trent ordered.

  Captain Larsen looked startled. “Shift the wheel over,” Trent commanded. Captain Larsen hesitated, not comprehending, and then eased the wheel over. The Helga was set on a collision course with the ammo barge. With the tide changing, they barely made headway. When Trent ordered more throttle, the distance closed rapidly. The Captain shifted uneasily. The engine stopped and way fell off. “Now, bring her up,” Trent ordered, curtly. The Helga thudded against the barge, then scraped down its steel side. “Now, hold her there.” Three dark, shadowy figures sprang across the watery gap onto the barge.