SILENT GUNS (16 page)

“
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 bags 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.”

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.