by Bob Neir
“Just neutralize the shooters, nothing more,” Conover continued sharply. “Make no attempt to board. We will not risk another frontal assault. As you said, it would be unwise.” Conover’s tone held steady. Hartwell growled his eyes flared up. Conover’s mental exercises gave him a headache. CPO Wilson said uneasily, signs of strain around his mouth. “I can’t wait to get my hands around Newby Hatcher’s neck. He made a fool of me. I had the whole bunch right in the palm of my hand. Never suspected. That damn dog…and the Lieutenant calling us off to round up that stray. Shoot! I still wake up in cold sweats.”
“Don’t take it so hard. I passed them through the restricted area, even helped them. Can’t trust anybody now-a-days,” CPO Martinez said, dourly, straightening his back.
“Trent won’t take this lying down,” Conover said, looking around the table speculatively and waiting.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Hartwell injected. “Any 40-mm or 5-inch shells aboard?” Rankin asked.
“They’re cocooned. Doubt they had enough time to get one operational. So far, they’ve only shown two machine guns and a couple of rifles,” Major Hartwell volunteered dryly.
“Lt. Rankin, you will take point in NPB#41, the rest of you take your signals from him. The tugs and Patrol Boats will rendezvous at 0200 at the Patrol Boat Dock. Be there on time: timing is critical. Put a Navy man on each civilian tug and get the Marines on board. Ensign Mako, you take up the rear in NPB#22. Both Patrol Boats will cover the Missouri’s port side with 50cal machine guns.” Conover continued. “Major Hartwell, station sharpshooters on the Oriskany. Keep the starboard side clear and those renegades below decks. Watch your line of fire, though.” He paused to recall if he left anything out.
“Any particular sequence for moving her out?
“Push her stern away from the pier first. Then, the two tugs move up the starboard side and force her bow out. With four tugs aft and two on the bow, she should swing. Her bow ends up pointing right here,” Conover jabbed a mark on the charts.
“What about the Hammann?”
“Once away from the Oriskany, she’ll give us height. And if Trent comes up and wants to fight…”
“Trent still might try something,” someone spoke.
“What can he do?” Conover searched for the face.
“Maybe blow a hole in the bottom,” Charlie Wingate said, offhandedly. The men laughed. “Better men have tried, whole countries.” Charlie had sat patiently in the corner, listening. He had been reluctant to speak: Conover had made it clear he was an unwelcome guest as he exclaimed, “This is the Navy’s show.”
Lt. Rankin stared at the chart, “It would take too long to flood out and hit bottom: but, if we kept the bow headed due west, we’d still be O.K. The Inlet shoals quickly.”
“Any other questions?” Conover radiated self-assurance. “Let’s catch them off guard. Let’s hop too it, men.” No more failures. The Admiral’s voice reverberated in his head. His outward behavior remained calm. Two previous, ill-fated attacks diagrammed on brown butcher paper still hung on the wall. Conover ripped them down.
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 22
The wind fell calm. A cold glow bathed the main deck of the Missouri under a brilliant quarter-moon. The sharp edges of the ship’s superstructure, eerily displayed, aided both friend and foe. The night was perfect for what Trent knew was coming. But there was nothing to do except wait. Waiting in the darkness, he mostly stared at the water and the lights dotting the hillsides. Imagined shadowy figures stole silently about the main deck. The tension held him, but mostly he feared for his men. Fatigue, fogging their minds, was shielding them from danger, he thought, as he pulled himself up into the turret.
After two days of no rest, the men were beaten groggy. Harper lay straddling the breech, his arms dangling over the sides of the center gun. Madden curled up in a fetal position on the loading tray pan. Graves stirred restlessly under a single blanket, his lips shaking, belching as sour acid moved to his throat. Maxie, his body pressed up against the aft turret bulkhead, sat fitfully awake on the cold steel deck, his legs pulled up at the knees. Trent paused and looked down at his pale face. He feared if he said anything, his voice would weaken.
Trent moved quietly to his cot. He laid down, his hands clasped behind his head, his ear perked up to a walkie-talkie propped up nearby. High above on a shelf a green light blazed brightly. The circuit was open: he nodded off as it hummed. His order to Newby deeply disturbed him. Newby. Post to the foretop. I expect the Navy to try again in the early hours. Keep a sharp lookout.
Newby brightened, although he relished the danger, he didn’t completely comprehend how deadly the game was turning. He was vulnerable, alone, high up the mast; his route to safety easily cut. Worse, Newby knew it and realized he was expendable. Almost calmly, he bragged to Trent, “They’ll get more than they bargained for.” He waved his fist as he took station. Trent accepted the fact that he had convicted an innocent man. And the sentence could be his death. And that man knew it and went willingly.
“Commander,” Newby’s voice shattered the blackness. Trent jerked up in alarm.
“I’m here,” he cradled the device.
“Funny things are going on up here,” Newby reported.
“What kind of things?” Trent felt his heart pound against his ribs. A cough sliced the darkness. A yawn. Bodies stirred.
“Ships are moving about. I can see running lights; at least 5 or 6 ships. One is pretty big, I’d guess a freighter, no maybe a destroyer or destroyer-escort.”
“Where are they?” Trent asked.
“They’re milling around the Navy Patrol Boat Dock,” Newby replied. “The Navy must have something in mind.”
The luminous, bulkhead clock read 0210.
A light clicked on, “O.K. guys, up.”
Madden rolled off the loading tray and massaged his knees. Graves grumbled, threw off his blanket and patted his stomach. Harper slid down off the breech and vigorously pounded his chest to drive away the chill imparted by cold steel. They all shared that same look—tiredness, fear.
“They’re rallying. A patrol boat is in the lead. They’re heading this way,” Newby shouted. The men drew around Newby’s voice, their expressions mixed and cautious.
Trent demanded flatly.
“What else? What kind of ships?”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Tug boats. Yeah! Tug boats. Six of them.” Trent bounded up. “They got quite a flotilla coming our way.”
“What could they be up to?” Trent spoke to the men at large. “Well! Tugs move things,” Harper responded. His words made an impression on the faces around him.
“Shit,” Madden exclaimed. “They’re going to move us.”
“What the hell for?” Graves exclaimed.
“So we can’t fire the turret, dummy,” Harper said.
“How can they do that?”
“We can’t fire behind ourselves, stupid!” Harper replied. There was a long pause; Graves still looked puzzled. Trent grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Newby.” a hissing roar of static then a chatter of hail on a tin roof. “Newby!!!” Trent shouted.
Then, Newby’s voice, clear as a bell, “Keep your shirt on. It’s like a shooting gallery up here…and I’m the sitting duck. I gotta keep my head down. The Oriskany is awash in fireflies, it’s pretty, if you’re a firefly freak. They’re on me with infrared. I’m getting my ass out of here.” Newby broke off before Trent could say a word. Newby’s voice came back, “This is Newby eagle-eye reporting, Commander. The Marines are setting up three, no maybe, four machine gun nests on the Oriskany’s flight deck. Yeah! Sandbags and all.”
“The ships? Newby, what about the ships?”
“One’s a Destroyer, for sure. She’s swinging wide, lying off the port side about two miles out. The tugs are making for our stern. You guys better stay in the turret. The patrol boat’s Cal. 50’s are manned. Looks like we’re gonna get raked down the port side.”
/> “How about boarding parties?”
“None that I can see. The gyrenes musta lost interest. Twice was enough, eh! Tony.” Newby was solemn. “These guys are organized, not like that last bunch. They’re taking us seriously this time.”
“What are they doing now?”
“Four Navy gangs just ran out from the shadows of the Oriskany. They’re crossing the pier, tossing the mooring lines over and letting them drop. We’re adrift. We’re at sea again. Whoopee!”
“Newby. Knock it off!”
“I can’t do much else, can I?” Newby was chagrined.
“Except get seasick…” a voice said.
“What else?”
“Four tugs are nuzzling the port side astern.”
Trent beckoned to the men and they quickly gathered around. Madden held a lamp aloft as Trent slapped down a sheet of paper on the flat of the breech. He sketched out a plan. “I’ll tell you when,” Trent was issuing orders fast and sharply. “Right. No time to lose. Get with it.” Feet jumped to the ladder, then bodies quickly disappeared as the men passed to the second deck and ran forward. Trent felt stirrings of life under his feet. His body swayed gently as he felt the stern gracefully swing away from the pier. The sensation was all too familiar. He knew her every move, her every trick. “Maxie?” Trent called out. No one answered. Trent felt the energy draining from his body as he stepped unsteadily towards a crumpled body. He was leaning against the far wall sitting on the deck, propped up on one arm. His breathing was shallow, his ashen face turning blue. His red shirt and jeans were saturated with wetness. Maxie needed help; but the sands in his own hourglass were running out and Maxie had to wait. Trent was conscious-stricken, but his mind had set priorities.
Newby reported, “Two tugs are working up the starboard side.”
“Newby. How far are we out from the pier?”
“The stern, maybe 200 feet. The bow is just coming free.”
“Keep giving me distances.” Trent eased his shoulders as he pulled a chart out from a folder.
“What for?” Newby inquired, the walkie-talkie crackled.
“Questions later. Just do as you are told.”
Newby shrugged. He was used to taking orders. Everybody takes orders from somebody, he thought, even the higher-up’s take orders from higher up’s…I bet even God has a boss, he laughed out loud. His laughter ceased when he realized the scene unfolding before his eyes was a once in a lifetime drama. A drama in which he never imagined he would be a player. “They are breaking into small groups,” he reported. His was a ringside seat: the price of the ticket - a claim on his life! His heart thumped with excitement.
A sudden stammer of machine gun fire came from below, followed by shouts. More fireflies flickered. Newby felt paint flakes and shattered lead falling over his shoulders. He laughed, like knowing he was going to be killed made it pleasurable.
“What the hell’s going on out there? We’ve stopped moving.” Trent’s voice shattered Newby’s private world.
“We’re parallel to the pier - about 300 feet out. They’re loading up the bow with tugs. Seems they plan to pivot us about the stern.”
Trent illuminated a chart with a pocket flashlight. He noted the depths, tidal flows, where the Inlet was shallow and where it was deep. The protruding thrust of land on the mainland’s southeast tip caught his attention. The tidal rip. How’s it going to be done? He thought, and, then, where? Quickly, he measured distances and directions. If he knew answers to both questions, he would know what to do.
“It has to work; It must work,” Trent told himself.
“We’re swinging,” Newby said.
“Sorry, Newby, I didn’t mean to cut you short.”
“Aye! Sir.” Trent sensed Newby was placated. Minutes passed.
“Keep giving me distances,” Trent barked.
“The bow is swinging faster than the stern; in five minutes she’ll be north-north-west. She’s also about a quarter-mile off the tip of the pier. Looks like they’re lining her up to head due west.” A smile creased Trent’s face. He glanced quickly at the chart and plotted her position. He checked and re-checked the depths carefully under her hull. “Two tugs are shifting from starboard to the port side.”
“Ready in the chain locker,” Trent ordered.
“Aye! Ready, here.”
“Latest distances, Newby.”
Newby gave them.
“Now! Madden, let go,” Trent shouted.
A thunderous rumble swept across the Inlet. Then a second rumble followed. Echoes reverberated between the surrounding hills.
“Sounds like Rip Van Winkle just bowled two strikes,” Newby said as he heard the second anchor chain rattle through the chock, splash and hurtle to the bottom. The chains played out and came up taut. The burrowing flukes set deeper into the gravelly bottom as the ship’s forward movement slowed. The Missouri came to a dead stop. Trent felt relief coursing through his arteries like hot wine. He grinned widely. He twisted around and dropped quickly to the shell deck. He re-emerged holding two, small khaki sacks. He waited. Madden emerged followed by Graves and Harper.
“Sea detail secure, Commander,” Madden said, saluting in jest, as he hauled up into the turret.
“What’s the matter with Maxie?” Harper stepped to the slumped, inert figure, ghastly pale in the flickering, yellow light of the lamp. Maxie lungs were gasping for air, but getting none.
“Sick,” Trent replied.
Harper’s mouth dropped open.
“Later…” Trent said, “time enough later.”
Trent tossed Madden and Graves khaki sacks. Harper knelt towards Maxie; Trent reached out and placed his arm across his chest and held him back. Harper was puzzled, strange, and then angry. Harper swallowed hard, then clenched his fist. “He’s your friend…and mine too!” Harper looked imploringly.
“I know.”
The walkie-talkie blared. Newby said, “I don’t like this. We’re being surrounded. The patrol boats are moving alongside. I can’t see them; the ship’s side hides them. I’d bet they try to board. They must think we’re all dead.” Madden and Grave’s grabbed rifles and scrambled back down the hatch. Trent picked up the walkie-talkie. “Newby,” he waited, “Madden and Graves are heading for the gun tubs. Can you cover them?”
“Aye! But, from what? We must be a mile off the pier.”
“Where are the tugs?”
“Four are crowding in aft like piglets sucking a sow…the patrol boats are…” A pop was heard, and what sounded like an exploding skyrocket followed; then, an ear splitting sound filtered through the open speaker. “Rifle grenades!” Newby exclaimed. “Jesus! Graves. Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Graves laughed, “From my third grade teacher.” Graves answered. “We taught each other things.”
“Don’t let him kid you, Newby,” Madden broke in, “he was eighteen and she booted him out.”
Clustered explosions followed in rapid order.
“Newby, I can’t see a damn thing. Where the hell are the grenades falling?” Madden yelled frantically.
“Right over the tugs, about fifty feet up,” Newby came back loud and clear, “they’re getting sprayed good. The Marines and deck crews have ducked inside. The civie tugs are scrambling outta here. They must figure it’s not their war. Oh! Oh! Here comes bad news. The destroyer is moving in. Looks like she’s gonna cover them by raking us. Watch out, Graves.”
A long, low shape came charging up, its outline becoming crisper as Newby watched. The stark square turret with its slim 5-inch guns barrels sitting on a narrow hull. Aft, she seemed all depth charges, amidships, small weaponry and a superstructure that could sit on the Missouri’s foredeck with room to spare. A fusillade of small caliber fire drenched the Missouri’s superstructure, spun off, spent and misshapen, scattering the deck like rice at a wedding. Graves hugged the gun tub as the destroyer steamed by, conscious of the nearness of the peppering sounds.
“Hey! It’s the Hammann. I’ve been on th
at tub,” Madden said. “Cool it! She’s turning, gonna try a second run, port side, this time,” Newby warned. “What the…? She’s high-tailing it outta here, she turned up the wick and cutting out like a cat with her tail between her legs.” A perplexed look crossed Newby’s face. He looked down and knew instantly. He would never forget that moment.
“Jesus!” Newby exclaimed, as he grinned wide. Harper and Trent were rotating the turret, tracking the Hammann as she sped away. The three 16-inch guns barrels were leveled ominously at the sprinting destroyer. She ducked behind the walls of Dry Dock No. 6, the closest refuge. Newby found himself cheering, pressing forward, and waving his cap at the scattering boats. “All of a sudden, I feel like a leper,” Newby shouted. “Doesn’t anybody want us?” He called down to Madden and Graves, shrieking like a maniac. It was as if every doubt and fear left his mind at once. Tears ran down his cheeks. That nagging feeling of the closeness of death had left him. Light-headed happiness engulfed him, the relief enormous, flooding every part of his chubby body as a calm settled over the ship.
* * *
The turret hatch lazily swung back and forth until its weight centered and gravity held it in perfect harmony. The sky was clear, but of an unearthly blue-black color. The fresh, cool, early morning air flooded in. Along the edge of the Inlet, a narrow, winding road, sparsely settled with shacks, traced the Inlet’s contour. Light from the shacks broke through glass windowpanes and dotted the lightening blue with yellow squares. Bremerton twinkled in the distance, like pinpricks of light against a black curtain. The Navy had gone. The bulkhead clock read 0326. Harper relieved Newby.
“I can’t move, Tony. My chest feels like lead.” Maxie shivered uncontrollably, his breathing heavily labored. Trent held his blue hands; they were clammy, almost death-like. He rubbed them to give them warmth. Beads of sweat spotted Maxie’s forehead. Trent propped him up and then drew a blanket tight over his shoulders. Graves and Madden shook their heads, looked at him vaguely, without expression or comment.
