by Bob Neir
An auxiliary engine sputtered into life. A winch clattered and whined as a shell-dolly spun up out of the hold to be set down on the barge and immediately unhooked. Madden waved off the Helga. The barge loading doors were slid open, the dolly shipped inside and the doors slammed shut. Newby was right: they were left unlocked. The engine kicked-in, jarring the Helga as her propeller bit the water and drove her 200 yards beyond the barge. The engine stopped. Way slowly petered out until she lay cradled in the drift of the outgoing tide. She was a dead ship, belied in the brilliance of her glow; like a cut rose, beautiful to see, but quite dead.
“What the hell…?” Captain Larsen spun to face Trent. “Steady, Captain, keep both hands on the wheel.”
“I am not to be played with!” Captain Larsen exploded.
“Newby is armed.” The Captain’s body arched, then stiffened as a cold, hard object nuzzled the small of his back.
“Don’t get any funny ideas, the whistle and radio are out,” Trent warned. His watch alarm sounded. He dashed out, his lips pressed into a hard line as he lifted the night glasses. NPB#22 bore down on them…a moth attracted to a flame. “Come to me, my pretty,” Trent whispered under his breath.
“Ahoy, Helga. Any trouble?”
“Yeah! Engine quit,” Trent shouted back.
“Need any help?”
“We’ll be O.K. It’ll take about an hour and we’ll be on our way,” He answered, casually.
“Right! If you change your mind, signal. We’re heading in.” The patrol boat backed off and hurried away. Trent checked them off: It was Friday night and NPB#22 was headed in for a midnight crew change. And, weekend passes to Seattle for the off-duty crew, he mused. Now that the Navy knows about us, he thought, they won’t come snooping around – the ruse bought an hour. Trent was elated as he ambled back to the wheelhouse. “It’s the little things, Newby,” he chuckled. “Just those few extra minutes—it was all we needed.”
“Guess we were just lucky, Eh!” Newby said.
“Yes! Just luck!” Trent felt no need to say more. He crossed to the other bridge wing.
Pinpricks of light dotted the shore and set off the gray ghosts and the ominous ammo barge. Trent fixed on the barge doors; he waited anxiously, no sign yet. Tension ran rampant throughout his body, the part of his makeup that rarely left him. As youth growing up, he could barely remember feeling free, relaxing, enjoying the trivial. Trivia never interested him, details did. He checked and caught NPB#22 as she reached her berth. Once tied-up, her crew would depart ship and then make a dash for the Seattle ferry. He checked his watch: fifteen minutes had elapsed since NPB#22 had departed. He raised his glasses again and looked at the ferry dock. But it was already hidden by the mist and shielded by the glowing glare of Bremerton on the water. Trent sensed a slight shift in the tide. The outbound drift had stopped. The Helga was slowly turning, the current sending her back up the inlet. Trent felt on edge with the drift. The drift was wrong: she would close with the ammo barge, but on the wrong side.
He watched Maxie inch up the ladder to upper deck. His clothes smelled, the stale aroma of sweat from nervous exhaustion mixed with oil. He gasped for breath, and then slumped to the deck. He lay in the shadow of wheelhouse. The pain in his side made him tremble, feel faint. “Maxie, get up forward. Take lookout.” Trent was unsympathetic. “Watch for the signal.”
“No signal yet, Commander! We’re getting a bad drift,” Newby reported.
Trent stepped into the wheelhouse.
“Commander, is it?” Captain Larsen sneered. Trent ignored the distraction. Pulling up his sleeve, the watch read 2210, NPB#22 would be taking on a new crew.
“Anything from the barge?” Trent snapped.
“Nothing!” Maxie replied.
“It’s been twenty-five minutes, what’s taking them so damn long?” Trent lurched through the door. The Helga had drifted to within 100 feet of the ammo barge, her stern shifting awkwardly off to starboard. The barge’s brooding presence threatened to overwhelm the smaller Helga. The close sour smell of mixed powder and paint and the strong taint of rust taunted the nostrils.
“There - three quick red flashes. That’s it!”
“Cut the lights!”
Maxie dropped below and yanked the circuit breakers. White turned black as if painted over in a single stroke.
“Reverse engine!” Trent shouted, shoving Larsen aside to signal below. The engine coughed twice, kicked over and grabbed solidly. The Helga heeled to the instant bite of the propeller. Trent spun the wheel, the stern swung wide to port. The Helga backed smartly, ramming the side of the ammo barge with a solid thump. Eager hands grasped the lines that sailed through the air and in seconds, the Helga was snug down and lined up with the loading doors. Maxie cut the engine and all fell still.
“Captain Larsen, keep both hands on the wheel. Newby! Take charge!” Trent bounded out the wheelhouse.
The loading doors slid open hitting the doorstops with a bang. In the darkness, three figures rolled a 16-inch shell out on a dolly. The auxiliaries belched an excruciatingly loud raspy, rumble, but Maxie’s huge, ingenious mufflers gobbled up the sound. The boom swung into action. The pace was furious. In one graceful motion, each shell rose, swung over the side to plunge down into the maw of the forward hold.
Satisfied he would not be needed, Trent dashed back to the wheelhouse where he tripped over a fallen, soft object. Newby lay sprawled face down on the deck out cold. Larsen had gone, the wheel spun idly. He whirled and dove back down the ladder to the Captain’s cabin. Peering in, he spotted a flashlight beam casting about. Captain Larson was frantically rifling his desk. He angrily dumped the contents onto the deck. In frustration, he viciously kicked at the empty draws.
“It’s no use Captain, I have your gun. Unlock the door.”
“You bastard.”
“I’m not your enemy, Schiller is!”
“You’re worse than Schiller.”
“What about that fifty-five grand you owe him? You want to pay him off, don’t you?”
Trent jumped back, startled. “Newby.”
“Shit! Sorry, Commander.”
“Later,” he waved him off. “Hand me your gun.”
“I heaved it over the side. He’s like a cat. Is he in there?”
“Yeah.”
“He had a .32 in his desk.” Newby held it up: “I took it.”
“Jam the other door,” Trent whispered. Newby stole off.
“Captain. Let’s talk,” Trent said loudly.
“Criminals, all of you! Shells! Powder bags!” The voice that filled the cabin was furious. “I should have known better.”
“Damn!” Trent muttered under his breath.
“Captain, unlock this door” he pounded with his fist.
“Go screw yourself!!”
Trent faced a desperate crisis: a darkened ship, a well-patrolled Navy Base, an ammo barge, shells coming aboard, powder bags in the hold, and a dangerous, bellicose prisoner ready to upset his well-laid plans…Good God! No one heard him for he was talking to himself. A wave of dread flooded over him, his stomach turned into an ice-cold lump. Newby sneaked back sweating with exertion and trembling.
“Guard the Captain…no make mistakes, this time!”
Newby shriveled, Trent’s voice lashed him like the hot flame of a welding torch. Trent dashed off for the upper deck. Flashes of those fateful moments on the bridge of the Missouri came storming back. The inevitable collision…the loss of lives… the similarity shattered his ingrained discipline, overwhelmed his protective barriers.
“Commander! Patrol Boat approaching astern.”
Graves stood on the fantail. The shrillness in his voice cleaved the air like a passing bullet from a high-powered rifle. An animal-like instinct triggered Trent as he spun to face the threat. He heard metal doors run and slam shut. He watched shadows leap to the Helga. Snake-like objects slithered away as outstretched arms desperately shoved away a gray, rust stained wall. A watery gap widened in
agonizing slowness. Shapes darted about appearing as blurred dancing silhouettes. They danced with a flat, box-like object, and concluded their whirling dervish by casting the object into the depths. A sizzle marked the surface as if of magic. Then, everything fell quiet. Dark shapes hugged the deck and crawled like insects seeking the coolness of the earth, he mused. Then, the shapes rose, dashed and vanished. A pounding and smashing sound was heard from below. Sharp words: a dog’s bark: a thud. Finally, there was only the comforting sound of sloshing water.
Madden and Harper had jumped the Captain and bound him hand and foot. Newby jammed a gag in his mouth, nearly choking him, but he lay subdued, menaced by a .45-cal. gun barrel. The look he fixed upon his assailants radiated anger, not fear. Newby had excitedly explained the danger and the men understood instantly. They acted with frightening quickness. Hauser whimpered in confusion.
“Ahoy. Helga.” NPB#41 hovered like a hound-dog astern. The muzzle of the .50-cal. gun drooped, pointed downward. A searchlight beam snapped on deftly sliced the night. The beam explored the ammo barge, then shifted to the Helga and caught Trent standing alone on the wing. The Patrol Boat drifted closer.
“Ahoy, Helga. We heard you reported engine trouble.”
A deep voice carried through the dark.
“We had to shut down,” it was Maxie who spoke.
The searchlight swung in search of the voice. Its brilliance pinned Maxie to the engine room door. He was toweling his face wiping off grease smudged with perspiration. Wiping his hands, he raised his arm to shield his eyes from the burning light. Maxie played it cool. The patrol boat drew nearer until her bow graced the Helga.
“How’s it coming, Maxie?” Trent spoke up.
“Got’er now!”
“Ready to kick’er in?”
“Aye!” Maxie turned back into the engine room. The auxiliary engine gave two coughs and kicked-in. A flood of light instantaneously bathed the Helga. It made a mockery of their searchlight. The helmsman whispered to his Chief who stepped out on the foredeck. Muffled orders were passed. NPB#41 came about sharply and hovered inches off the stern. The hound was stalking, leaving little room to maneuver.
“Prepare for boarding,” the Chief ordered.
A line flew over the Helga’s fantail; Maxie grabbed it and hauled it in. Two seamen boarded followed closely by the Chief. Trent moved quickly down to the working deck to intercept them. Little drops of sweat trickled down his brow.
“Where’s your crew?” The Chief asked.
“Bunked down. It’s been a tough day, and, now engine trouble,” Trent shouted, speaking so loudly the Chief flinched.
“We’ll look around.” Chief Petty Officer Waldo Wilson was tall and thin with a disdainful manner. Trent trailed him forward. Maxie blocked his way, temporarily, by stepping out from the engine room. “Nothing works aboard this fuckin’ tub,” Maxie whined, tossing his towel. “That’s the third time this week the freakin’ engine quit, and the damned auxiliaries go on strike whenever they take a mind too. You’d think they got Union cards.” Chief Wilson brushed him aside as he mounted the short steps to the forward deck. The door to the crews’ quarters was latched open. He stepped inside. A body lay stony still, humped up in its bunk, covers pulled over. Newby sat at the table hunched over a cup of coffee.
“Newby. What the hell are you doing here?” The Chief gave him an incredulous look.
Newby turned to the voice. “Shoot! Wilson, my retirement papers came through last week, didn’t you get the word? Newby’s eyebrows cocked upward, his mood jocular. “Now, that I’m unemployed…well, Trent, here, asked me to help out. Get Mighty Mo ready.” Somewhat confused, Trent nodded in agreement. “These guys are all old Navy men. Salt Lake City, Chicago, Missouri. Fought WWII, they did, and Korea, too. They just couldn’t stay away. Hey! Wait ‘til you hang it up, Wilson, seawater gets in your veins.”
“You guys go find someplace else to bullshit!” a body raised its head, grumbled and rolled back over.
Chief Wilson cracked a smile. “Well. Good luck in retirement, Newby.” He cleared his throat with a series of small coughs. “Let’s see the rest of the ship.” His severe demeanor returned as he stepped out.
“What’s in here?” The Chief stopped.
“Captain’s cabin.”
“Where is he?”
“Sacked out, I guess. He’s a pretty old geezer.”
“Is it locked?” the Chief reached for the doorknob, a growl came from within.
“What’s that?” he pulled back.
“The Captains’ got a German Shepard. He lives aboard. The dog ran me off first time I came aboard,” Newby answered, managing to cover a grin. “Ornery bastard. Watched him chase another guy ‘til he ran him over the side headfirst. Really watches out for the old man.”
The Chief scowled, then pulled his hand back.
“Let’s see the holds.” He walked aft.
On the other side of the door, Graves lay hunched over, holding Hauser by the collar and pressing him up against the door. Harper sat square on the Captain’s back. The Captain struggled to throw off the lighter man and tip over a chair. Chief Wilson moved to the forward hatch where Maxie waited.
“Unship the hatch,” the Chief ordered. Two seamen bent over and unloosened the hatch, lifted it and set it to one side. “Hancock, check below.” The sailor snapped on his flashlight and dropped into the hold. Chief Wilson turned to the sound of a sharp snarl and anxious scratches on a wooden door. The door was heard to hinge open and slam shut. Hauser came hurtling down and off the foredeck, growling and snapping his jaws. The second seaman reached for his .45, but fell away. Hauser stopped short at the open hold and snarled.
“Nothing down here, chief,” Hancock reported, playing a light, “except some wooden boxes. They look like coffins.” Trent closed his eyes.
“What’s in them?”
“I don’t know. They’re shut and covered with dunnage.”
“Well, then open ‘em up and look!”
A foot lurched out and planted itself square under Hauser’s rear end. The dog yelped and flew over the coaming. Spinning in mid-air, Hauser, and with a quick, twist of his body, the huge beast managed to land on all fours. Fangs were bared. And he was mad. “Jesus!” Seaman Hancock rocketed up the ladder and jumped to the deck. Vicious growls and snapping commotions echoed around the almost empty hold. Maxie lifted his eyes to his forehead.
“That’s dandy, Hancock,” the Chief groused. “You’re a freaking, real hero.” Putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head, he ordered, “Check the aft hold.” Maxie and Newby looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders: they had emptied their bag of tricks. No one moved. Trent knew only God could help them now…a light tarpaulin covered the powder and weapons in the aft hold. Lift the corner and it was all over. Trent deflated, perilously close to ‘fessing up’ when the helmsman jumped aboard the Helga.
“Chief,” he said. “There’s a message from base.”
“What is it, this time?” His tone was miffed.
“A ship broke loose and is drifting towards shore.”
“Tell’em we’re not done here.”
“Lieutenant’s orders. He says pronto. He don’t want no screw-ups. I hear he’s in for a boot up.” The Chief’s cold look burned like dry ice on skin. The Helga was Chief Wilson’s rare opportunity to assert his authority.
“Let’s go, men.” Chief Wilson strode to the fantail, re-boarded the Patrol Boat and backed off.
Maxie and Newby collapsed, exhausted in startled disbelief. Madden and Harper shot out of the cabin. No one recalled who started laughing first, but it was contagious. They laughed at pure silliness, a look, a movement, and a word…anything. Tensions blew away like dry dust after two long days of enough activity to last a lifetime. Hauser licked Graves’ face. “A steak for you, Hauser,” Hauser barked. The stars twinkled down, and tonight they were lucky stars. Trent looked to the heavens.
~ * * * ~
CHAP
TER 13
It was early morning, and not surprising, a definite turn in the weather had settled in over Puget Sound. Banks of ponderous, heavy laden dark clouds menaced boat traffic as far as the eye could see. The Helga’s funnel exhaust quieted to a muted whisper as she glided out from the sheltered waters of Rich Passage.
Trent remarked, glancing skyward, “We should be across before the storm breaks.” The Helga steamed steadily on out into the unprotected waters of Puget Sound. Gentle swells rolled up from the southwest as the winds tore free of the Olympics to whip up waves. Lifted from beneath, the Helga seemed to enjoy cavorting with each passing swell. Newby braced himself, hands behind his back, outside Captain Larsen’s door. Maxie spelled Graves’ at the wheel. Graves, Madden, Harper and Trent went below and gathered around the mess table. Bruises and sore muscles were nursed while replaying the day’s events. Trent dragged out a long-over-due bottle of whiskey and set on the table. “Real hard stuff,” Trent declared as he cracked the bottle. Graves sat back and rubbed his hands together. Sighs sprouted as glasses rattled on the tabletop. Lips smacked. Harper abstained.
Madden downed a quick one, “We damn near lost the ball game. Didn’t anybody see that Patrol Boat coming?”
Trent stiffened and glared stonily. “My fault. No way did I figure #41 would cover for #22.”
“When the Chief ordered the hatch cover pulled, I about shit,” Graves said. “Maxie saved our bacon. Three cheers for Maxie.” They raised their glasses.
“That idiot Hancock thought they were coffins.” They laughed. “Did he think we were going to put bodies in them?” Graves spilled his drink. “Easy Graves, that stuff doesn’t grow on trees,” Madden decried. “Sneaky Maxie slipped down into the hold and placed the box covers over the shells. He just couldn’t nail them down for the noise.”
