SILENT GUNS (2 page)

“
Yes,” added Trent. “But, Newby
craved action, he had to be in the middle of things. I can’t recall
how many times he put in for sea duty. He begged. He did have one
brief tour at sea, thanks to a young Lt. Anthony Trent but then the
Navy beached him. The next twenty-five years he sat behind a Navy
desk. Newby kept his disappointments to himself.”

“
So he ended up at the Bremerton
Yard?” Simons stated.

“
For ten years, The Navy made the
Puget Sound Naval Inactive Ship Maintenance Facility his billet. It
wasn’t much: custodianship of over eighty ships in the inactive
reserve fleet, everything from tugboats to aircraft carriers. In
time, Newby developed a bad kidney. He was very bitter about
retiring; he was just months short. His life was the
Navy.”

“
So, you recruited Newby as the
inside man.”

“
All Newby had to do was sign a
piece of paper and it would happen. ‘Leave the details to Chief
Yeoman Newby’ higher ups would say. ‘Newby will take care of it,’”
Trent said. “Newby got us hired, me and my civilian crew, to
re-seal a turret. I knew the
Missouri
down to her keel. We
were in, conditioned on a little blackmail: a promise to let Newby
in on the action.”

“
How did this caper get triggered
in the first place?”

There was a long pause, his eyes clouded over, then
Trent said, as if the words were difficult to form, “It goes back a
long way. I’d like to forget the whole thing. I tried, but the
nightmare wouldn’t let go.” He rose, picked up an armful of logs,
stuffed them into the stove and kicked the door shut, “It’s getting
late. It’s been a long day. There are blankets underneath the
sofa.” Trent pointed. “You sleep there.” As he strode to the side
room and shut the door.

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 3

The aroma of frying bacon teased Trent awake.
“Bacon! Where the hell did you get bacon?” he asked.

“
I hiked down to
Harry’s.”

“
Harry doesn’t carry
bacon.”

“
My buddies dropped off my gear
and share of the grub. Harry’s store doesn’t leave much of an
impression, does it?” Simons continued. “Have a slice; maybe, a
couple of eggs?”

“
Eggs! We don’t have any chickens
here, either.”

“
Good. Then, the coffee must be
made out of ground nuts.”

“
We don’t have nuts, either,”
Trent added.

“
Don’t fuss, the supplies are
thin,” Simons added. “You started to tell me about how you got into
this caper.”

“
It’s a long and tortuous story,”
Trent demurred.

“
So, torture me,” Simons added,
flipping the eggs.

“
I had the bridge when the
Missouri
collided with the Cruiser
Duluth
. We came
out of a heavy fog and knifed into the Cruiser’s port side, the
forward part of the engine room. We sliced her in two; the forward
section sank like a stone.”

“
I remember. The incident made
graphic headlines.”

“
Captain Proust was in command: I
was his Executive Officer (XO). Proust was a cruiser Captain. I
learned later Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Atlantic Fleet Admiral
Harley T. Kindler was his mentor. Against the advice of my
immediate boss, Vice-Admiral Farr, Commander Cruisers, Atlantic,
Kindler promoted Proust up to the
Missouri
. Admiral Farr
later confided he’d told Kindler that Proust had no place in a
battleship as he had no battleship experience. Farr said he
reminded Kindler the
Missouri
was the only active battleship
left in the whole damn Navy.”

“
Tell me about the collision.”
Simons sat down.

“
As we prepared to get underway, a
heavy, pervasive fog moved in to blanket Norfolk Harbor and Pier
#5. The warning moan of channel foghorns sent shivers up my spine.
I recommended we delay departure until the fog lifted. Captain
Proust informed me a hurricane was moving to intercept our course.
Admiral Kindler had insisted the
Missouri
cross ahead of the
storm and meet a fleet scheduled rendezvous off Guantanamo (GITMO).
I ordered water tanks topped off, fuel tanks filled, and ammunition
stores fully loaded by 0200. At 57,000 tons we had the ship riding
deep drawing over thirty-five feet of water. The
Missouri
was ready, but a foreboding kept nagging my gut, a
premonition.

Before departure, Proust ordered me to take the con
at level four. ‘You know the ship better than I.’ he said, ‘advise
me of any speed or course changes.’ He then took his station at the
eighth level auxiliary flying bridge and wheelhouse. Lt. Cmdr.
Brian Burns, the ship’s navigator, accompanied him. At 0400, Proust
gave clearance to cast off.

Almost immediately, we were enveloped in great thick
tufts of vapor, cold and wet. I was appalled; we sailed inside a
colorless, white sack. The fog whistle sounded only to echo back
from all points of the compass. I ordered the ship slowed to drop
off the civilian pilot at Elizabeth River Channel Buoy #3. We
crossed Hampton Roads, past Old Point Comfort and into Thimble
Shoal Channel. That’s when everything went to hell.”

* * *

“
Captain. Ahead 2/3,” I
requested.

“
Approved,” Captain Proust
replied. The
Missouri
gradually picked up speed towards the
entrance buoys into the channel and on into Chesapeake
Bay.

“
Coffee, Commander?”

I folded my hands around the hot brew as I stared at
the radar and gyro. “Commander, I have a new heading relayed from
Cmdr. Burns,” reported Lt. Ed Peavey. Peavey had just “fleeted up”
from his old job as personnel officer. He hunched over his charts
as he plotted and checked base course.

I ordered the change.

“
Aye! Aye! Sir,” was heard
repeatedly.

Quartermaster Ward Hopper swung the
Missouri
’s wheel over. The ship steadied up.

“
Steaming Ahead 2/3, course 053.”
Ensign Boris Kowalski reported, making entry into the ship’s
log.

“
Fog closing in again, sir,”
reported the starboard lookout. “I’ve lost sight of the
shoreline.”

There was little to be seen, barely the tips of the
gun barrels of the forward turret. We probed for the channel, but
the fog blanket blotted out everything. Above the ship, a solid,
white blanket shattered against the steel mast that rose high into
nothingness.

“
Bridge. Radar report.”

“
We’re too close to land, sir.
We’re getting nothing but grass,” replied Lt. Wilbur Denby,
communications officer. The green flicker of the radar repeater
radiated off the face of the seaman sitting before the
screen.

“
Visibility off the bow dropping
to one-eight mile,” another voice sang out. I moved to the
starboard wing.

“
Signal Captain Proust I intend to
reduce speed to Ahead 1/3.”

“
Speed change denied, sir,”
replied Lt. Denby as he bit his lip.

“
Damn it! What the hell is it with
Proust?”

“
Bridge. This is Combat
Information Center (CIC). You guys are drifting out of the channel,
come to starboard five degrees. Water is shoaling to port.
Recommend slow speed.” I grabbed the phone from the “talker” to the
eighth level. “Captain, we must reduce speed and change course
immediately.”

Eleven levels below, in the armor-encased CIC, duty
officer Lt. Cmdr. Ed Ryder’s crew maintained a running plot of all
radar contacts and operational data. Ryder had little to do while
the ship cleared harbor. Standard procedure called for all
navigation to be handled from the bridge in clear weather; however,
in inclement weather, CIC provided readings, if requested from the
bridge. Ryder had settled down for an uneventful departure; now
alerted, he became wary of a rapidly deteriorating sequence of
events.

“
Destroyer inbound passing to
port,” boomed a voice. A siren blast shattered the air filling the
bridge in every corner. A stunned silence befell the wheelhouse; a
cold sweat trickled down my sides. Horror-stricken, his face ashen,
Lt. Peavey spun from the plotting table and dashed to the port
wing. Lt. Denby’s swung around, his face frozen in place. A gray
bulk hurtled by with barely fifty feet of open water separating the
two vessels.

“
Lookouts doubly alert.” I fought
off a moment of panic. I simply had to remain calm, keep a clear
picture of what was happening. It was not the time for a ship to
lose its nerve trying to avoid a predicament in a hurry. My gut
said sheer away, but my brain resisted. “Ring CIC and ask them what
the hell is going on. Don’t they have their radar on? What else is
out there?” A buzz of activity filled the wheelhouse.

“
Commander, CIC reports the bridge
has radar. They will activate repeater and report,” the bridge
talker reported.

“
Orange and white range marker
fifty yards passing aft port beam,” a voice called down.

“
Outbound channel exit buoy two
point on port bow,” another voice reported.

“
We’re on the wrong side of the
channel, sir,” Lt. Peavey shouted as he dashed in from the wing. My
jaw fell slack.

“
Bridge, CIC radar reports. Two
objects three miles distance, bearing...” I couldn’t remember…I
didn’t have to. It was in the log. How many times had that entry in
the log been used in the cross examination? How many witnesses
swore to its truthfulness? I lost count.

“
Bridge. This is Burns. Turn right
forty-five degrees after you clear exit buoys.”

“
Commander. Bridge radar screen is
out, I’m getting nothing.”

“
Exit buoy passing astern, sir.” A
sailor wearing a sound-powered headset clamped to his ears stood
motionless as he reported.

“
Steer course 103,” I ordered from
the plot inside my head. Goddamn Burns and Peavey, I swore under my
breath.

“
Aye! Sir!” commands
passed.

“
Got that radar working?” I
demanded.

“
No, sir. Radar is dead.”
Blankness lay where a blurry green smear had once been.

“
We’re blind. Plug in CIC,” I
ordered.

“
CIC reports, sir. Two targets two
miles distance and closing.” Lt. Cmdr. Ryder’s voice filled the
wheelhouse speakers…”targets now separating…Larger one changing
course…bearing now…distance one mile…And closing…larger target
changing course again…collision course…CIC recommends reverse
engines…recommend, do not change course – repeat, do not change
course.”

“
Large ship dead ahead, sir,
one-eighth mile, sir,” a cry came down from the forward masthead
lookout. At once, four ear-shattering blasts splintered the air,
reverberating across the water. Instinctively, I moved to the
bridge rail and gripped tight as the
Missouri
bore down on a
desperate, pleading sound. I searched frantically in the dim light
for its source.

Instinctively, I ordered, “All engines back full.”
Quartermaster 3rd class Klaus Vader, manning the bridge order
telegraph, slammed the solid brass handles as he swung them back
and forward, then back again to “Back emergency.” Deep below, in
the bowls of the ship, hands on the throttles slammed the valves
over. In those fleeting seconds, as the
Missouri
staggered
under the reverse surge, white foam thrashed up beneath her counter
as a monstrous, shadowy shape loomed up out of the fog.

“
Sound collision alarm,” I
ordered, calmly accepting the hopelessness of the situation. “Left
full rudder.” The wheel blurred under the helmsman’s spinning
hands. Four short blasts rang in my ears. The disaster unfolded
before my eyes, a sight I can never forget. The
Missouri
’s
bow rode up over a gray shape amidships slicing her keel, breaking
her back. The shriek of collapsing metal and grinding steel plates
was terrifying as the
Missouri
’s ponderous weight
overwhelmed the smaller ship. Tons of water surged into the gray
ship’s engine room, the fear her engineers must have felt as they
stood at their stations. Under the press of the
Missouri
’s
weight, the smaller ship heeled over. A funnel, wrenched loose, was
violently tossed adrift. Men, desperate men, plunged into the
water. Sickened, I watched as the two halves separated and rolled
over. The roar of escaping steam blotted out the sound of cries for
help. The stern then slowly drifted off aft, out of sight; her
upturned hull covered with clinging, ant-like figures fading into a
gray blur, dimly outlined in the drifting haze.

I stood frozen, gripping the rail, forcing my voice
to remain under control, I ordered, “Stop Engines.” I felt the
muffled cessation from the depths of the ship. The
Missouri
’s intercom chattered. Under disciplined silence,
damage control parties swung into action. Floats splashed overboard
as the ship now lay at a dead stop. Explosions tore metal apart
from the forward half of the gray ship as it slipped beneath
oil-fouled waters. Then, a convulsion, and then another as until
the surface was gripped in an awesome display of boiling water. A
dazed horror paralyzed me. A sailor cried, “She’s going.” A hand
jostled my shoulder. A thin sailor, whose grip was of iron, his
face was stricken with fear. I could do nothing: he sensed my
helplessness. I will never forget that moment.