SILENT GUNS

by Bob Neir

  “Lt. Cmdr. Burns. The bearing you provided Lt. Peavey, subsequently ordered by Commander Trent…” Denton asked.

  Burns responded,” the bearing was correct, sir. There can be no other explanation except Commander Trent’s poor seamanship for the needed course correction.”

  “As navigator, explain the presence of the cruiser Duluth?” Captain Jeffrey Carter, president of the court inquired.

  “I informed Captain Proust, Commander Trent and Lt. Cmdr. Ryder at the pre-departure briefing of the cruiser’s expected presence.”

  Trent tugged Johnson’s sleeve,” He’s lying.”

  “Proust and Ryder said they didn’t recall the conversation,” Johnson replied. “They must have heard something,” Trent said, a sickening feeling wrenched the pit of his stomach. “They won’t swear to anything. Ryder claims he was at the coffee urn. Proust brushed me off,” Johnson turned his attention back to the trial.

  “Quartermaster Ward Hopper to the stand.”

  “I’ve been the Missouri’s helmsman for two years. I know her every trick,” Hopper professed. “The ship was too close to shoal water. I advised Lt. Peavey of that fact,” he said indignantly. Trent winced: he had not been so informed.

  “Did Lt. Peavey advise Commander Trent?”

  “Not that I heard, sir.”

  “Lt. Peavey, did you advise Commander Trent?” Captain Robinson, a Board member, asked pointedly.

  “No one on watch reported we were off course, sir”

  “Lt. Peavey, did you at any time call for a bearing check?”

  “Yes, Sir, as a normal precaution, but visibility was down to less than an eighth of a mile. I could not verify sightings. Further, no warning came from CIC.”

  “Was CIC called to report?

  “I don’t know, sir,” Peavey replied.

  “Were you surprised when you encountered the destroyer inbound in the channel?” a Military Judge intervened.

  “Terrified, sir, would be a better term,” Peavey said. “She wasn’t expected to be there until after we cleared the channel.”

  “On whose counsel?”

  “The Commander’s, sir.”

  The clock had slowly turned to 1500. President Carter announced, “The media have deadlines to meet. The court is recessed until Monday morning at 0900.” He rapped his gavel: the crowd quickly filed out.

  Johnson leaned over, “Commander, right or wrong, Denton will be unmerciful.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m still pissed off. He didn’t tell me he was going to prosecute,”

  “He didn’t scare you off?”

  “No. But, my irritation may not be in your best interest.”

  “Then, we have something in common. I’m being railroaded and I don’t know why. I’m not a lawyer, but deliberate lies were told in this courtroom today.” He turned to Johnson, “Don’t forget, I’m the one with the most to lose.”

  Trent eased back and reflected on past events. Proust had chewed out Burns just two days before the collision for missing the Missouri’s approach to Norfolk by a mile. Proust was furious at the mistake. He said Burns’ error would have put the ship on the beach in a fog. But, the morning of the collision, Proust had to have approved Burn’s bearing change. And, he followed Burn’s bearings to a degree – but they were incorrect and Burns denied culpability. Proust knew this, yet he said nothing. Denton told him to stay silent, he was certain. True, Burns did brief him that two destroyers would be inbound from ASW training and would enter the channel at 0500. He said nothing about the cruiser. Proust must have known this too. This new knowledge did nothing to comfort him, but instead left him vaguely angry. Trent twisted uneasily in his chair. Proust was contrived evasiveness. Denton elicited falsehoods and twisted the truth. Burns deliberately lied—but why? Burns has no reason to hate me.” Trent pondered again and again. Slowly, but surely, with Denton’s skillful handling of his witnesses, he realized his demise was foretold. The prosecutor, with malice, was working his destruction. He had the distinct impression that everything had been carefully planned beforehand.

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 4

  At precisely 0900 Monday the court reconvened. The trial droned on, one day rolled over into the next, each day a monotonous repetition of the last. Trent heard voices, but he left them in the bluster. A heavy rain and blustery winds that dashed the courthouse offered a respite. Johnson was looking stiff and uneasy; he was calming himself by rehearsing. He rose to address the court. In a formal tone, he began his concluding remarks.

  “Members of the Court. Commander Trent is himself a victim. A victim of miss-statement, inaccurate information, poor communications and, it appears from conflicting testimony offered to this court, of falsification and outright lies. His record is unblemished. Commander Trent emerges as a dedicated, hard-working, conscientious naval officer. His ship-handling, considering the circumstances and the information provided to him by the witnesses, was not only sensible and sound, but exemplary under the circumstances. I trust the Court will not find it in its heart to crucify this officer to satisfy the cravings of the media, the public, and certainly not, the United States Navy.”

  The court recessed.

  The audience grew restless in the stifling hot, stuffy Virginia courtroom. Not a breath of air stirred. The media people waited, eyed each other and glanced at their watches. Press deadlines approached and passed. No one left. At precisely 2000, two doors opened and members of the Court filed in. Conversation died to a murmur, then silence.

  “Please rise,” the master-at-arms ordered.

  The audience rose and the court members were seated. Lt. Johnson shook Trent’s elbow. The courtroom noise rose again to a low hum. Captain Carter rose; he appeared cool and relaxed, his tall figure markedly straight, marred by a definite paunch. He spoke quietly of the seriousness of the offense…of lives lost…destruction of public property…inattention to duty…the Executive officer in command…fairness and justice in bringing the trial to a quick conclusion…the recitation was endless and in the end…

  …”We find Commander Anthony A. Trent culpably inefficient in the performance of his duties. Guilty of the charge of hazarding a vessel of the United States Navy.”

  * * *

  “A long, winded story, heh! Simons. And my penance! I was reduced a grade, dropped 200 positions on the seniority list, and banned forever from sea command. To add insult to injury, re-assigned to a non-essential desk job at a reserve district in Louisiana.”

  “It helps explain your empathy for Newby,” Simons commented. “Peas in a pod.”

  He glanced coolly at Simons, “A court martial puts a man in the limelight, grabs headlines. To a fortunate few, a less tedious means to advancement, provided one is found innocent. There is something to be said for notoriety, good or bad. Unfortunately, for the guilty, the stigma sticks, follows you everywhere, like a bad smell, for the rest of your life.” He added with swelling bitterness, “Guilty dashes your hopes and dreams, it devastates everything in its path.”

  “Your world didn’t end,” Simons chided. “You are alive: you are a free man.”

  “Not in my own mind. I could accept my guilt. But, not being made the ‘fall guy.’ For those truly guilty who aided and abetted in my demise, to escape without consequences, they cannot be forgiven.” Trent looked away, feeling that rising helplessness again, yet unable to control it. He drifted back in time and said no more.

  Simons broke his reverie, “So after two years, a hateful, bitter, and broken man resigned from the Navy and swore revenge. Just like that.”

  “Just like that,” Trent parroted.

  “So, what does an ex-Navy officer do when he is depressed, down on himself and out of a job?”

  “And shunned. I was rescued by an old friend, Admiral Farr.”

  “A Navy job?”

  “Not a chance. Farr’s eldest son was CEO of International Traders, Inc. out of Seattle. The Admiral gave
him a sales talk and he took me on. The job got me out of Norfolk and out of the country to places where I was unknown. After seven years, Anthony A. Trent, Senior-vice-president, Sales and Contracts, was gold-embossed on a solid walnut door.”

  “And Peter Madden?” Simons asked.

  Trent sat quietly for a long time. “Madden was the first to come aboard,” he said. “Peter lived in Seattle. We go back to the Korean War. I had charge of a 5-inch gun crew on board the cruiser Juneau. We took a direct hit. Ready service ammunition exploded; flying fragments cut the cartridge cases of the star shells in the fuse pots causing them to burn ‘like Roman candles.’ Madden dragged away two badly burned gunners. I saw to it he received the Navy Cross for bravery. He has the burn scars as proof. When I was assigned to the Missouri as XO, I ordered his transfer.”

  “Peter Madden was as easygoing and as even-tempered as they come. His temper belied his flaming red hair with only a faint daubing of gray. His broken and craggy features were a mirror-cast of a New Hampshire shattered rock formation. His limbs were as thick as tree trunks with oversized, calloused hands in proportion to his medium-height and stocky build. He worked at the Todd Shipyard, as had his grandfather and father. A jack-of-all-trades, I knew I needed Madden. A master around iron and steel, retired from the Navy as a master chief bosun’s mate. The bond between us had long been sealed. Madden was loyal to a fault.”

  * * *

  Madden picked Trent up at arrivals at Sea-Tac airport. “How was Saudi Arabia?”

  “Hot and dusty.”

  “How’s Ingrid?”

  “Fine.” They lived together. She cared for his mother and he had a place to sleep. She never asked where he disappeared to for days. He paid the bills and each tacitly accepted the partnership.

  “How are things at Todd?”

  “Busy. I’ll be working there forever, just like my old man until he keeled over,” Madden chuckled. “I’m satisfied. A guy’s gotta keep busy; a rocking chair is not for me.” The car swerved wildly. “Crazy drivers, these kids,” Madden exclaimed, as he centered the wheel and carried on the conversation. “You haven’t heard a damn word I’ve said in the last ten minutes, have you? Something bugging you?”

  “No. Nothing, just a wild idea,” Trent turned and stared out the side window. Madden cleared his throat impatiently, “Guess where I was last week?”

  “No idea.”

  “Some shipmates off the Chicago held a reunion. I got this invite about a month ago. They said they really dug back to find my name. There ain’t too many of us left, you know.”

  “Have a good turnout?”

  “Forty guys showed up. Newby arranged the whole thing. He got us into the Yard and aboard the Chicago, mothballed for years. We climbed all over her like a bunch of kid sailors playing war-games. I hadn’t seen Newby since last summer. Sez he’s gonna retire soon; but, he’s not keen on the idea. I guess he’s being pushed out,” Madden recounted. “The guys missed the times together, the action - it was unanimous. The best years of their lives, they said. Maybe it was the excitement, I don’t know, maybe the danger, risking their lives for a cause. No one remembered fearing death, only sorrow in the death of a buddy. Imagine, guys living off old memories all these years.” Madden coughed, something had caught in his throat. “We drank to the war and toasted the dead.”

  “Do you miss the action, Peter?” Trent asked.

  “Life ain’t never been the same since I got out. Eat. Work. Screw. Sleep. And, then do it again: but, I guess that’s life.” Somewhat puzzled at his own words, Madden floored the gas pedal and the car accelerated onto I-5.

  “If you could go back to those times, would you?”

  “Jesus! What a question,” Madden replied. “That’s a joke. An old fart like me! All the Navy wants now a days are young kids for them new-fangled computers. Just push buttons. That’s all they are good for. Never do a man’s work anymore,” his voice trailed off.

  “So, would you?” Trent asked again, calmly.

  “Would I what?”

  “If you could get back into action, would you?”

  “Slow up there, old shipmate,” Madden implored. He raised his hand, as would a cop stopping traffic. “You’re moving too fast for my feeble brain and getting me all twisted up. There ain’t no war on, you know.”

  Madden exited the freeway, slowed, then inched forward to the second side street, made a sharp right turn. Office buildings gave way to storefronts, which in turn gave way to high-rise apartment complexes. Jamming on the brakes, he skidded and honked. The black limo sped off.

  “Damn rich people. They don’t care how they drive.”

  “If you had their money, you’d do the same thing.”

  “Flaunt it! Ha! Not me,” Madden cursed as he pulled up to the curb. “You’re home.”

  “Welcome home, Mr. Trent.” Ed, the doorman, grabbed his bags and carried them to the apartment elevator.

  Trent said, “Peter, you need some cheering up. Take tomorrow off and go over to the Navy Yard with me?”

  Madden tossed Trent a quizzical look, “You haven’t been aboard a ship – not even a rowboat – since you know - resigned. Is this some sort of a gag? You have to take a ferryboat to get there, you know,” Madden guffawed softly. “What’s the deal?”

  “Getting soft,” Trent replied.

  “That’s new. One mention of the Navy and you screw up tight,” Madden said, eyeing Trent suspiciously.

  “Newby has arranged to get us aboard the Missouri.”

  “And, that’s going to make everything better?”

  “It can’t get any worse.”

  “The pain is still there down deep, ain’t it?”

  “It burns and tears and won’t go away.”

  “Maybe, going aboard will only make it worse,” Madden said.

  “Can you make it?”

  “You got a booking,” Madden replied as he sped off.

  The elevator doors slid open. Trent stepped in, the doors closed, and the elevator rose, stopping with a start at the twelfth floor. Unlocking the door to his apartment, he stepped in. The aroma of mustiness, stale cigarette smoke and a leftover TV dinner bowled him over. He chided himself for neglecting to have the cleaning lady stop by, but was too tired to really care. He tossed his bags on his bed and bee-lined it for the shower. After toweling and a change of clothes, he slipped into the large easy chair by the window. Frustrated and fatigued, his thoughts quickly turned to Myrna. Myrna divorced him after the court-martial. Their friends avoided them. Trent understood, her coming from a Navy family. Ostracized. Banished. It was all too much for her to handle.

  He grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam, swallowed a mouthful and allowed the smooth fluid to send a shiver coursing through his body. The liquid was the prelude to a comforting, warm glow that would radiate from deep down. He had hardly eaten anything on the flight and that booze on an empty stomach was a straight road to a hangover. But he could care less. He settled back, and more than made up for the lack of calories on the flight by re-filling his glass until he didn’t remember dropping off. Morning guaranteed a splitting headache, a thick dry tongue and a mouth full of cotton. And, an ornery disposition, but he slept a deep sleep.

  * * *

  Sam Simons stood up and tossed another log into the stove then said, “You had a new career in Seattle, a good job. All your transgressions were forgotten. Why not accept your new life and move on? You had been given a second chance,” Simons interjected. Trent sat thoughtfully. “As hard as I tried, I couldn’t resolve my deep-seated hatred of the Navy.”

  “I don’t buy that one damn bit, hatred is personal,” Simons observed. “The Navy is inanimate. It didn’t do anything to you. You make everything sound personal. You made it personal.”

  “You’re wrong. Kindler, Denton, Burns, and Proust made it personal. I wanted them to admit their culpability and clear my name. The Navy hid their crime. The Navy is just as guilty.”

  “Tit for tat,” Simons muse
d.

  “I had lost everything that meant anything to me. I reached a point where I was prepared to risk everything. I had nothing to lose. Time was my enemy. I needed money. The city of Seattle would pay to be spared.”

  ~ * * * ~

  CHAPTER 5

  The Puget Sound Naval Shipyard reeked of overnight abandonment. When the War ended, the active Navy simply packed up and left. No longer a beehive of activity, but an expanse of abandoned gray Navy sheds, barracks, warehouses, cranes and deep water dry-docks. All lay stilled. Graving docks stood empty save floating debris. Overhead cranes, giant Praying Mantises frozen in time, cast spindly shadows about the Yard.

  The surrounding City of Bremerton and the Yard shared Naval history. The Yard still poked a finger into the downtown. The city was no longer secure in the awesome firepower once concentrated on this small, sheltered peninsula off Puget Sound. Today, the Yard is a graveyard for unneeded ships. On its westerly edge, a Reserve Fleet laid in tiers moored side-by-side, silent sentinels lazily swinging at anchor. The larger vessels: aircraft carriers, cruisers, and battleships, all deactivated, stood moored at piers, bows pointed shoreward. Gray ghosts, tough, overworked, overdriven, their masts reaching for the sky, rested peacefully, patiently waiting recall. The larger, more notable ships hosted visitors as reminders of times past. A small cadre of sailors and officers, most young, some right out of high school, serviced the Fleet. Their activity offered stark contrast to the stillness that pervaded the silent ships. These were peaceful times. A similarity to Pearl Harbor did not escape notice. They do say history repeats itself, Trent mused to himself.

  Newby Hatcher met Trent and Madden at the gate.

  “Let’s go below here,” Newby tugged at a hatch. “Not much to see.” He tossed over flashlights as he stepped over the coaming and headed down a dark passageway. “She’s a dead ship, been mothballed here since ‘53. Vitals: bridge, engine room and guns, everything, sealed-up tighter than a drum. They keep her under dehydration, just in case. Thirty days and the old girl can be ready for sea again, Commander.” Newby’s face glowed. Trent ignored his enthusiasm. Deflated, Newby turned away down a ladder to the first deck. They gathered and stood gazing the full length of the crew galley and mess hall. Imagined voices were everywhere, echoing the ghost-like shouts of sailors. In reality, the Missouri lay cold and lifeless. All living accommodations had been ripped out at decommissioning: bunks, tables, and cabinets. Bolted down tables stood firm in the warrant officers’ dining area waiting expectantly. Gray Navy desks had been shoved and piled up against bulkheads. Exposed cables and wiring hung willy-nilly over gray-tiled decking. Water in puddles stood in deck cavities; green mold prospered in sinks and heads.