SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “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.

  * * *

  The collision should never have happened, theoretically, no collision should. A tragedy. A collection of small, unnoticed errors, insignificant cumulating events unmistakably added up to disaster. And, those involved lied to cover up their own misfeasance.

  The cedar roof shakes clattered to a rising wind as a storm broke over the cove. The gale warning flag was hurriedly sent aloft. Small boats obeyed and quickly turned for Harry’s Cove.

  “I apologize if I bore you as I recount, but I could never get the officers involved in my demise out of my mind.” Trent poked the stove’s ashes and aimlessly, tossing in a log.

  “You still haven’t explained what triggered you? You were in a collision, so what?”

  “Admiral Farr played square with me,” he added, tapping the stove door closed. “The Board of inquiry treated me fairly, but at my court-martial, things happened that made my blood boil.”

  “I think I understand. Admiral Farr described a meeting in Denton’s office that might shed some light, you know, on one of those jigsaw pieces,” Simons mused.

  “Go ahead, I’m all ears.”

  * * *

  Cmdr. James M. Denton, USN, Judge Advocate, Atlantic Fleet sat uneasily in his nattily, varnished wooden chair. His cheek marked by an angry looking, red fencing scar exaggerated sharp facial features and piercing eyes. His broad shoulders and large frame carried an air of authority beneath an immaculately tailored uniform. His demeanor left the impression of a coiled snake. Denton served as a Navy criminal trial lawyer; he had not kn
own civilian life. His father and grandfather had served as line officers. A Navy career followed as naturally as combing his hair. He quickly progressed up the ladder. He confided in Farr that he could not recall a case that disturbed him more. To make matters worse, Admiral Harley T. Kindler, in a foul mood, sat across from him.

  The Board of inquiry’s report lay on Denton’s desk. A thick, tan folder with the word Duluth scrawled across it in wide, black felt pen strokes in a hurried effort to label its contents. Admiral Kindler sat comfortably in an easy chair ordered in for the occasion. Tall and spare with movie-star perfectly formed white teeth, Kindler sported a ruddy complexion and a full head of hair. He was picture-perfect for a stint on the tennis court or cover of a Navy magazine. He looked considerably younger than his fifty-eight years. Kindler rose to carry his coffee cup to the coffee maker. Sensing Denton’s eyes across his back, he turned quickly to catch him off guard.

  “Well, Jim. What do you think?”

  Denton flinched. He dreaded the meeting, but could not avoid it. Kindler had the final say. Before Kindler could render his decision to convene a court-martial, the Judge Advocate’s endorsement was required. The Admiral smirked at Denton’s discomfort. Slowly, he ambled to his chair and eased down his bulk.

  “I’ve gone over the Board’s report with a fine tooth comb, Admiral. It seems no one is to blame, but everyone is to blame,” Denton reported as he riffled the folder, obviously hoping to impress the Admiral with his thoroughness. “Unfortunately, the further the Board probed, the more confused matters became. The Board concluded the accident was the result of an unusual and unfortunate chain of circumstances.” Denton let his body sag as he settled back off the edge of his chair. “Sir, these same facts will come out again in a court- martial, only in greater detail. In my opinion, the conclusion will be the same – no clear cut cause, poor communication, a series of mis-events.”

  Kindler’s face flared for a moment, but he turned away.

  Pressing his position, Denton concluded with, “And, in keeping with Navy tradition, Captain Proust will be held responsible for his ship and subject to severe disciplinary action. The formula has worked well for the Navy for over two-hundred years. It serves as a purgative and reaffirmation. The media will have their goat to flog, the guilty found out and duly punished, the public will be assuaged and life in the Navy will go on…except for Captain Proust. Sir, you do want closure, don’t you?” Denton added.

  “Don’t tell me what I want,” Kindler’s face turned beet red, then quieted in thought.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Admiral Farr is here, sir,”

  Farr entered.

  “Sorry I’m late, Admiral. It’s the goddamn media, they just won’t let up. They’re just a pack of wild animals and we’re raw meat.”

  Kindler glowered. “Jim tells me the findings are muddled.”

  Denton recounted his conversation with Kindler.

  “About Captain Rogers’ actions?” Farr asked.

  “No chance,” Denton fired back. “He knew the Missouri was outbound and he desperately tried to avoid the collision. The Board quickly exonerated the Duluth. Rogers was turning towards shore. An act of desperation, I suspect, but better in the mud than on the bottom.”

  “And, Proust?” Kindler’s eyes shifted in a narrow side glance.

  “Well, Captain Proust was in command,” Denton parried, staring down at his nails.

  “Was Proust on the bridge?” Farr asked.

  “No, just the XO. Trent had the conn on level four. Proust and Burns, the navigator, were on level eight. All witnesses agreed on that point. Troust told the Board he turned the ship over to Trent because he was new to the Missouri and the XO knew her better.” Kindler’s countenance remained impassive. “Well, that lets Proust off the hook, doesn’t it?” Kindler half inquired, half ordered.

  “Technically, no, Admiral,” Denton cautioned.

  “Technicalities be damned. Are you recommending charges be brought against Captain Proust?” Kindler demanded, acidly.

  “The media will never be satisfied, otherwise,” added Farr, sensing the drift of the discussion and hoping to reassure Denton that he saw events his way. Kindler cast an angry look at Farr, but was ignored. He rose and started pacing, only to stand and stare out the window. Denton sweated profusely under a dry uniform. He nervously lit a cigarette.

  “Why the hell didn’t Proust take the con?” Kindler exclaimed out loud. “Why the hell did he think I gave him command? He needed just one or two cruises to get the rust out.”

  “Then, what?” Farr said, musing under his breath as he drained his coffee cup with a loud slurp. “Good thing Proust didn’t have the con or both ships would have sunk,” he whispered and smiled inwardly at his private joke. Denton caught his expression, bit his lip, and then turned back to Kindler who demanded, “Then, what do you recommend?”

  “That you order a court-martial to flush out the facts and let the blame fall where it may.” Denton stamped out his cigarette, reflecting on the bent and broken remnant.

  Kindler waited and then ordered, “a court-martial would be best,” then paused and added, “formal charges will be filed against the XO Commander Anthony Trent.”

  Farr bolted out of his chair. Denton stared at Kindler with the empty puzzlement of a man shaken out of a deep sleep. The Fleet Admiral, unfazed, remained gazing out the window and said, “Proust turned over operational command to Trent. Trent is to be held fully responsible from the time of departure until the collision.” He turned to face Denton, “Furthermore, Jim I want you to handle this trial personally. I’m sure some member of your staff can serve adequately as defense counsel.”

  “I want formal charges drawn and on my desk first thing in the morning for my signature.” Admiral Kindler left before either man could rise. Denton exclaimed, “I don’t get it! Why does he insist on sticking it to Trent?” Farr shook his head and said, almost under his breath, “It goes back a long way, Jim.” Farr felt his face turn blank, his mind distant, as if caught up in a replay of an old movie.

  * * *

  Trent sat quietly, distinctly recalling the cobalt-blue skies, the white clouds swirling in the soft east wind. Hyacinths and sweet alyssum scented the air as the fishing boats cut white lines across the waters off Norfolk. Inside the courtroom, he sat looking idly at the rostrum, the leather–backed chairs, the American flag draped overhead on the wall. The courtroom clerk took a phone call, nodded his head and then hung up.

  “Two minutes, please take your seats.”

  As the judges filed in, Trent pretended he was a stranger who didn’t belong there but was invited to witness justice administered.

  ‘What does the defense plead?’

  “Not guilty, your honor.” Lt. Lankford Johnson, appointed as defense attorney, announced as the trial got underway.

  Trent stared out the window trying to appear calm, philosophical about the trial. Yet, he fidgeted, a nervousness that attacked deep in the viscera. His reputation, his future was on the line; the court, a jury of peers sitting in judgment. The trial droned on for three days, but to him it rated a lifetime of agony. The rows of the courtroom were packed with the media with the catastrophe rating national headlines. They were there to grab quotes from opening statements. To fellow Navy officers, Trent was an anathema. The feeling of aloneness, of abandonment enveloped him, one man standing before the maw of Naval history and an underdog.

  “Don’t worry, Tony, you’ll get off,” was the only signal of encouragement he heard. The scent of danger hung in the air, but he was unable to account for its source.

  “Cmdr. Denton, please call your first witness.”

  Lt. Johnson leaned forward and flipped the cover of his legal pad to take notes.

  “Captain Proust to the stand.” Proust rose to his mid-height, moved to the witness box and was sworn in. Broad-shouldered and sallow complexion, his gray hair bore odd streaks of color. His smile was impish, his voice s
o soft-spoken, the court president repeatedly asked him to speak up. His fatherly demeanor hid a cruel streak. He did not disguise the little respect he held for officers under his command and his extreme intolerance for the foibles of the crew. They considered him a martinet. Denton led Proust through the briefings in the Captain’s wardroom just before sailing. As his testimony unfolded, Proust became confused and uncertain; but instead of drawing the court’s ire, he gained its sympathy. He could not recall conversations in his own wardroom. He did acknowledge turning command over to Trent, about which he was most emphatic.

  “He’s not saying anything,” Trent whispered to Johnson.

  “Denton coached him good, he’s deliberately play-acting,” Johnson replied under his breath. “It’s early yet, we’ll let him go by. It’s obvious Denton doesn’t want him saying too much. Proust is distancing himself from everything. He should be on trial, not you.”

  “Lt. Johnson?”

  “No questions, your honor. If you please, I reserve the right to recall Captain Proust.”

  “Lt. Cmdr. Brian Burns to the stand, please.”

  Burns looked like a man anxious for the opportunity to testify. A smug smile creased his face as he raised his hand and took the oath. Trent caught his glance, but remained expressionless. Burns was short, bandy-legged, his arms dangled over his body. Dark hair, slicked down combed forward to conceal a spreading bald spot. An aquiline nose protruded beneath eyebrows dark and bushy. The combination created a comic expression often mimicked by the crew; particularly, his rolling swagger as he walked the deck. His surly and condescending disposition matched a short, vicious temper that caused him to be disliked and avoided by officers and crew alike. All knew him to be a liar and untrustworthy.