"I want that barge sunk. Can you do it?"
"A crawling target like that? Yes, sir!"
Valentine listened to him talk into the field phone to Kessey, acting as fire direction controller, and the far-off squawk of the alarm at the gun pits. Kessey had decided that, because of the lack of experienced crews, she could only put two guns into effective action at once. The other two would be used once some of the raw hands gained experience. Within three minutes the first ranging shot was fired as the barge negotiated the wide channel around the swampy turd shape of Gates Island.
"Thirty meters short," the observer called, looking through the antennae-like ranging binoculars. Kessey tried again. Valentine heard her faint "splash" through his headset, letting him know another shell was on the way. Through his own spotting scope, Valentine saw the white bloom of the shell-fall well behind the barge. He took a closer look at the tug. Thankfully, it didn't belong to Mantilla. The observer passed the bad news about the miss.
"Sir, it's the damn Quisling ordinance. Their quality control sucks sewage."
"The target's worth it. Keep trying."
The Quislings on Pulaski Heights tried to inhibit the crews by raining shells down on the battery. Valentine heard the crack of shells bursting in the air.
The observer was happy with the next shell, and he called, "Howizer battery, fire for effect."
The shells traveling overhead whirred as they tore through the air. Valentine stepped aside so Post could watch.
"Keep your heads down, boys. Nothing to watch worth a bullet in the head," he called to a pair of men resting concealed behind rocks and earth along the crestline to his left.
"I think there were two hits to the cargo, sir."
"Secondary explosion?"
"No, sir."
"Probably just a cargo of rice then. Worth sinking anyway. Corporal, keep it coming."
The sun was already down beneath the trees behind them. Three more times the guns fired, with the forward observer relaying results.
"Another hit!" Post said.
"Sir, the barge is turning," the observer said.
"They cut loose from the cargo," Post said. "There's a fire on board. Black smoke; could be gasoline."
Even Valentine could see the smear of smoke, obscuring the white tug beyond. "Forget the cargo, sink that tub."
It was getting darker. Tiny flecks of fire on the sinking barge could be made out, spreading onto the surface of the water. There had been some gasoline on board.
The observer cursed as shells continued to go wide. Valentine could not make out anything other than the guttering fire.
"Illuminate!" the observer called.
A minute later a star shell burst over the river.
"Hell, yes," Post chirped.
Under the harsh white glare, Valentine squinted and saw the tug frozen on the swampland shallows of the northern side of Gates Island. The pilot had misjudged the turn in the darkness.
"Fuze delay, fuze delay ..." the observer called into his mike.
Shells rained down on the barge. Its bulkheads could keep out small arms fire, but not shells. The star shell plunged into the river, but an explosion from the tug lit up the river. Another illumination shell showed the hull torn in two.
"We got her," the forward observer shouted. "Cease fire. Cease fire."
"Pass me that headset, Corporal."
Valentine put on the headset. "Nice work, Kessey."