Run Silent, Run Deep

10

Our stay in Midway was no different from the previous one, but the island itself had undergone considerable change since the last time any of us had seen it. There was a big new pier constructed in the lagoon, and one of our great seagoing submarine tenders, the Sperry, was moored there to increase the refit capacity of the island base. Instead of one submarine, there were four in various stages of refit between patrols at the atoll, Walrus becoming the fifth.

There seemed, to be at least twice as many men on the island as before, twice as many planes, and four times as much work being done. Midway did its best for us, receiving us with a brass band when we warped alongside the Sperry, dumping a load of mail on our decks, plus ice cream and a crate of fruit and we were carted off almost immediately to the old Pan-American Hotel, now known as the Gooneyville Lodge, to begin our two weeks' rest and recuperation. During the ensuing time we did our best to avoid boredom. We threw a ship's party, complete with huge steaks and all the trimmings, and we organized fishing parties, baseball games, and other diversions.

Naturally it was not enough, and no one pretended it was.

More and more our crew spent their free time down in the ship, watching her get ready for our next run, and more and more we speculated where it would be. The only thing which could be counted to keep most of us away from the ship, for a time at least, was the receipt of mail, which arrived on the average of three times a week from Pearl. I never ceased to wonder at the efficiency of the San Francisco post office, which somehow always knew where to send mail so that it would be waiting for us when we arrived, and kept it coming until we had left. Then, apparently, the mail would be allowed to accumulate somewhere, probably in Pearl Harbor, until our next port of call.

Jim, as usual, received the lion's share of mail in our group, and somehow also seemed to be able to view it with greater detachment. For the rest of Walrus' crew, and for an of Midway, for that matter, arrival of the mail plane and the unavoidable, aggravating wait while the Midway mail clerks swiftly parceled out the. different bags, had assumed the, proportion of a ritual. The reception committee at the airfield, for instance, merely to see the mail plane arrive, grew so unwieldy that a notice over the signature of the Island Commander was issued, requesting the practice be terminated and promising utmost, dispatch in sorting and handling.

And, with little else to occupy their spare time, our crew. became prolific letter writers. This added a burden to Hugh Dave, and Jerry, who were required to censor every piece of outgoing mail. After giving them a hand once or twice, which all the officers did when the pile grew excessively large, I could readily understand their often-repeated reassurance, to the crew that they did not remember what they had read.

But I did carry away the impression that some of our letter writers were certainly unabashed, if not adept, at putting their thoughts and yearnings down on paper.

ComSubPac's endorsement to our patrol report, when at last it came in, was of course of consuming interest to Jim, Keith, and me. We were credited with two ships sunk and two probables, which was what we had expected, but the comment of most importance was the one which simply stated, "The reports of torpedo failure during this patrol are important additions to the growing body of evidence in this regard, and to the remedy of which active steps are in hand."

Two days later a bulky package labeled "Secret' arrived in the mail, addressed to "The Commanding Officer, USS Walrus." It was from ComSubPac and contained our Operation Order. We were to return to AREA SEVEN, the scene of our first patrol.

And three days after that, a newly painted Walrus, now gray instead of black, refitted, repaired, and cleaned up, and her bridge even more cut down than before-pointed her lean prow once again to the western sky. She was no longer the brand-new submarine we had brought out from New London the previous year. The miles she had steamed and the battles she had fought had taken their toll on her appearance.

Over a hundred depth charges had left their marks, both internally and externally, as well as the chance Mt by a Japanese shell. The changes brought about by time and use, the modifications required by ComSubPac, and our own realization of our needs to do the job, more plotting equipment, more bunks, more food stowage, a bigger crew, were equally marked.

Walrus' bridge was now a low, streamlined structure, with a bare steel skeleton bracing the periscope supports. It looked a little strange compared with the sleek, rounded bridges and elongated conicalperiscope shears of the newer subs beginning to arrive from the States, but it was roomier, and did the job as efficiently. Around the bridge were welded several foundations for 50-caliber machine guns, and on its forward and after parts we now carried two double 20-millimeter gun mounts, with watertight stowage alongside for the four guns when not needed.

On our main deck the torpedo reload equipment had been removed entirely. The large steel mast and boom originally stepped in the main deck forward had been demounted and left in Pearl. Our old three-inch antiaircraft gun which had been mounted aft of the bridge was gone. In its place, but mounted forward in the area of the torpedo loading mast, was a broadside-firing four-incher, exactly like the gun the old S-16 had carried and very likely lifted from one of her sisters.

Down below, the interior of the ship looked somewhat different too. Much new equipment had been added, welded to the steel skin of the ship or bolted to the deck. The smooth cork lining the interior of the pressure hull was now pocked with spots where it had to be removed for welding and had been less attractively patched. New instruments had been installed: An automatic plotter, which required two men to keep pointers matched with our course and speed, and forced us to move Jerry Cohen's plotting position down into the control room; a gadget which measured the temperature of the sea at different depths; an improved SJ radar, using much more power, and producing longer detection ranges; and more air-conditioning, required not only for the increased heat out- put of our new gear but also for the increased crew we carried as a partial consequence.

And as we got under way for the coast of Kyushu once more, changes again had been made in our crew. Fifteen men had to be left behind to fill the insatiable demands of new construction, and to provide continuity for the rotation program.

Eighteen new hands all graduates of the submarine school but otherwise entirely new to submarine duty, took their places. The loss which affected the wardroom most was good old steady Tom Schultz, whose orders detaching him and ordering him to the submarine school as instructor had arrived in our first mail. Hugh Adams had moved into his shoes as Engineer, not without. some trepidation, and two new Ensigns had reported aboard.

We held a special wake for Tom in Gooneyville Lodge, and he promised to look up our mothers, wives and relatives back; in the States. Not that any of the rest of us was married except Jim, who shook his head when Tom offered to carry any special trinket or message to Laura for him.

The crew also tried hard to show Tom how well he was liked, presenting him with a gold wrist watch they purchased at the Ship's Service, and Tom, in his turn, insisted upon personally handling all our lines from the dock when we got under way.

The changes left Keith, now a seasoned submariner and a full Lieutenant, the third officer in rank aboard, next after Jim."

Hugh was fourth, and Dave Freeman, his junior by only a few numbers, fifth, now serving as Keith's understudy as well as Communications Officer. Jerry Cohen, keeping his job as Plotting Officer during battle stations, became Hugh's assistant in the engineering department. Our two new Ensigns, who were named Patrick Donnelly and Cecil Throop, would, like Jerry during the previous patrol, be given general assignments under instruction.

One disadvantage of this new setup, so far as I was concerned, was that I now had to share my room with someone, since Walrus was not fitted with the extra accommodations in the wardroom 'country" that some of the later submarines carried. Throop, who drew the unpopular assignment of sleeping in the bunk newly installed above mine, proved to be a very sound sleeper, and a very loud one. As we made our way west, I began to wonder how long I would be able to stand it when the irregular hours on, station began to take their toll. One thing which it was unnecessary to burden the others with, at the moment at any rate, was the following special entry in the Operation Order pamphlet, which I pulled out before handing the pamphlet over to Jim to read: Particular caution is enjoined with regard to an old destroyer of the Akikaze class operating out of the Bungo Suido. This vessel had been unusually successful in antisubmarine work, and prefers the astern position when escorting. You will under no circumstances seek combat with it except under conditions of special advantage.

I read and reread the words. There must be some important reason behind them-and add to this the remembered conversation with Captain Blunt months before. Of specific information as to Bungo's activities I had heard very little, though there had been stories circulating about Bungo Pete and his abilities as a depth-charge launcher for some time. "He even seems to know the names of his victims," I remembered Captain Blunt saying.

The fact that we had been warned against him was under- standable; the restriction not to attack him except under conditions of "special advantage" could only mean that we were to stay clear of him unless fate practically delivered him into our hands. But what were we to do if a convoy turned up with Bungo Pete as one of the escorts? For that matter, there was more than one Akikaze-class destroyer in the Jap Navy. How, then, to tell them apart? I studied her in the book of recognition photos until I could have recognized her, or one of her many sisters, through the periscope, from the bridge on a dark night, or anywhere else we might be likely to run into her. But if we ran into an Akikaze, it could be any one of fully thirty- four nearly identical tincans.

My final evaluation was the only one possible. Bungo had an Akikaze, he liked to escort from astern, and he operated in AREA SEVEN. Therefore we would avoid tangling with any destroyer of this type occupying such a position while convoying, at least of our own volition. But if he knew of our presence and general position, he would carry the fight to us anyhow, and in this case we might as well do as well as we could for ourselves if we got the chance.

Another portion of the Operation Order dealt with the possibility of encountering Japanese submarines, and this Jim, Keith, and I discussed at length. There were indications (un- specified) that Jap submersibles were being used for antisubmarine work, perhaps ordered out to wait for U. S. boats going or coming on patrol. We might therefore be apt to encounter one of them almost anywhere.

Daily drills en route to our operation areas had seemed a simple matter of keeping at the peak of training, and they had been an accepted part of our daily routine. Now, with the two special problems Walrus might run into, one of which only I knew about, I directed that the drills be doubled in frequency.

We concentrated on two things: on detection and avoidance of an enemy submarine torpedo, calculating the quickest ways of dodging it in the various possible situations; and on swiftly changing fire-control problems, with emphasis on flexibility in setting the new data into the TDC and the angle solver and getting off an answering shot.

Most important from the self-protection angle, of course were measures to avoid enemy torpedoes. First came the absolute imperativeness of seeing the torpedo as it came at us, or of spotting the enemy sub's periscope. To confound his approach, Jim and Rubinoffski cooked up a special zigzag plan of our own which consisted of steering either-side of the base course line-never on it, and following an indefinite zigzag while so doing. Once taught to our helmsmen, the plan took care of itself. It sent us all over the ocean and we hoped it would force the enemy boat to use his periscope more often, and thus increase our chances for spotting it. The need for alert look-outs we dinned into the ears of our new men, and our old ones too, with never-ceasing emphasis; it was up to them to see the telltale wake or periscope so-on enough to enable something to be done about it. On that simple, requirement our salvation depended., Once sighted, we could turn forward or away, or even line up for a torpedo shot in return. Given enough time, we knew we could get clear.

All the way out to Kyushu we drilled on the possibilities, and when we got there we were as ready for them as we could be. Keith, already an expert on the TDC, became adept at switching his inputs virtually instantaneously at my snapped command. Jim, hovering as backer-up for both of us, found it possible to speed things up by making certain of the settings for him when he had both hands otherwise engaged. And I realized that in Jim one of the sub forces best TDC operators had never been developed, for it seemed to be nearly second nature to him.

We varied the procedure and the personnel too, so that our abilities did not depend on who happened to be on watch when the emergency came. About the time we passed through the Nanpo Shoto our crew was so tuned to the problem that from a standing start, with only the cruising watch at their stations, we could get our torpedoes on their way within thirty seconds. Our battle-stations personnel could shoot a salvo at a destroyer going by at high speed, thirty knots, shift target to a submerged submarine at three knots on a different bearing, make the necessary changes in torpedo gyro angle, depth, setting, firing bearing, and get a second salvo of torpedoes on its way, all within ten seconds by stop watch.

Perhaps our great emphasis on preparation also led me to expect something out of the ordinary as soon as we entered AREA SEVEN, just as we had on our first patrol, so long ago. Sub." consciously I had nerved myself to having a Jap sub fire at us somewhere during the trip across the Pacific, and to finding Bungo Pete waiting for us at the other end. Neither eventuality came to pass. The patrol began with the most prosaic of beginnings, a week on station, within close sight of land, without any sign whatsoever of enemy activity except for an occasional air- plane, and numbers of small fishing smacks with groups of straw-hatted Japanese out for a day's fishing.

During the early part of our second week a big old-fashioned freighter, heavily laden, crawled up the coast pouring smoke from a large stack nearly as tall as his masts. He wasn't making much speed and disdained to zigzag, probably figuring he wasn't fast enough for it to do any good. There was plenty of time for both Jim and Keith to get a look at him before we sank him; he went down belching smoke and dirt. A great expanse of filthy water, studded with floating junk and debris of all kinds plus a number of round black objects which slowly clustered together, marked his grave.

Two days later we trapped another single ship not far from where we had sunk the first, this time shortly after we had surfaced for the night. The approach was entirely by radar, for it was so dark that we did not see the target until just before firing. He never knew what hit him, either. We fired three torpedoes at short range, and all three exploded with thunderous detonations, one forward, one amidships, one at the stern.

The ship went down like a rock, still on an even keel, leaving at least three boatloads of survivors. They must have been living in the lifeboats This was when Jim had an idea and, acting upon it, we ran south at full speed the rest of the night, moved close in to the coast in a totally new spot by next morning. Two ships sunk in the same vicinity would be sure to bring trouble instead of more targets, as he put it, and if we could move closer to where our victims came from-they had both been heading north-we might nab one before he was diverted.

He was right, too, for the very next day a small tanker happened by. I told Jim that this was entirely his own ship, that he had found it, and that therefore he had the right to do it the necessary honors while I took over his job as backer-upper and general understudy.

Jim needed no urging or second suggestion. He grabbed the, periscope eagerly, took over command as though born to it, and,, the conduct of the approach was beyond criticism. He even swung at the last minute to use the stern tubes instead of bow tubes, thus equalizing our torpedo expenditure; and there was that same unholy exhilaration in his face as he gave the final command, "Shoot!" I wished old Blunt could have seen it, in any event I would see that he heard about it.

The only criticism I might have made was that instead of lowering the periscope after firing and getting it back up in time to see his torpedoes hit, Jim left it up the whole time the torpedoes ran toward the target, and watched the doomed ship's hopeless last-minute efforts to evade with positive glee..

It took it twenty minutes to sink, with one torpedo amid. ships which blew part of his side off. Jim gave everyone in the conning tower and several from the control room a chance to get a look at the death agonies.

Three ships in four days, and not a depth charge in return!

We felt pretty cocky as we stood out into the center Of AREA SEVEN to let our "hot spots" cool off a little. We had not even experienced much trouble with our torpedoes, though one of the odd "pawhyunng" noises had been reported during each of the first and last attacks. After a day we moved into one of our old positions on an enemy probable course line drawn from the mouth of the Bungo Suido.

Another week went by. We changed our position several times, went close into the coast once more, then back out to the original position again, all to no avail. The Japanese were simply refusing to cooperate, we decided.

And then one night, after the surfaced routine for the night had become well established, Kohler rushed to the bridge hatch, called up to me: "Captain! They're calling us on the radio!"

There was something strange about this, I felt, as I hastily put on a pair of red goggles and climbed below. Kohler preceded me down the ladder, but he went right by the radio room, led me into the crew's mess compartment immediately aft of it. A crowd of our men were gathered around the entertainment radio mounted above one of the mess tables. Several were hastily clothed, some merely in their underwear, one man, I saw, half-shaven with lather drying on his face. Dave was there, looking grave, and so was Pat Donnelly. A woman's voice was coming over the loud-speaker.

American submarine sailors," she was saying, "we regret to have to do this to you, but you have brought it upon yourselves. Japan did not make war upon you; you brought killing and wanton destruction to us. You have violated our waters, killed our toilers on the sea whose only crime is that they sought to travel our own home waters, which you have unjustly invaded. For this you have merited death, and death you shall have." Her voice lilting, she kept on: "While you are awaiting your last moments, perhaps this recording from home may make the thought of the future easier to face with equanimity." The melodious voice stopped and the strains of a popular dance tune filled the crowded compartment.

"Who the hell is that?" I interjected angrily.

Dave turned, seeing me for the first time. "Haven't you heard her before, Captain? The men call her 'Tokyo Rose.'"

Kohler nodded. "Yes sir, we've had her on a couple of times before this. Usually she just plays music and hands out a load of baloney. Tonight, though, she was different."

"Dammit, Kohler!" I blazed, "I don't want anyone to listen to her again! I'll have the radio disconnected until we leave the area if you do!" Her words had been disturbing enough to me; who knew what their effect could be on some of our less experienced sailors?

"But she called us by name, Captain!"

"What!"

"That's what I tried to you tell you, sir! She was telling that to us-to the Walrus!"

Dave nodded. "I heard it too, sir. She said she had a special message for the crew of the U. S. submarine Walrus. She said she knew we were here, not far from the Bungo Suido, and that we had sunk some ships, but those were the last ones we'd ever sink." Several solemn faces nodded in corroboration.

The music stopped. "Men of the Walrus," the limpid voice said sweetly, "enjoy yourselves while you can, for eternity is a long, long time. Think of your loved ones, but don't bother to write because you'll never be able to mail the letters. just think of all the thoughts they will be wasting on you, and the un- answered letters your wives and sweethearts will write-those who do think of you, and who do write!" She ended in a loud titter, almost a giggle. I had never heard anything quite so evil in my life.

"Turn that Goddamned radio off! Kohler, remember what I told you!" I stamped furiously away and climbed back on the bridge, more upset in mind than I could admit anyone to see.

I needed to think.

No one on Midway, for that matter no one in the ship, either, except Jim, had known of our destination until after we had left the island out of sight. But somehow the Japanese propaganda ministry had full knowledge that Walrus was the sub- marine currently off Kyushu. Captain Blunt already had hinted that he was worried about some of the uncannily accurate information Bungo Pete seemed to possess; now I could see why.

There could be only one explanation: espionage at Pearl Harbor!

For that matter, only Captain Blunt, ComSubPac himself, and one or two others on his staff knew where we had been sent, and even if others had guessed, how could they have predicted our movements so accurately? It had to be more specific than guesswork. No, unless some rational explanation presented itself, there must be a security leak back in Pearl. It was a horrid conclusion, yet inescapable. Then another thought presented itself: We had not yet gotten to the bottom of the torpedo troubles. Could there, somehow, be some connection?

Could those, also, be the result of sabotage or espionage? I paced back and forth on the cigarette deck, puzzling over the few facts at my disposal, feeling the cool breeze of the night on my forehead, feeling anything but cool inside.

Despite premonitions I could not put down, nothing of note occurred the rest of the night, nor during the next day, but I had done some heavy thinking. When next we surfaced there was one significant change in our routine. Our garbage contained several carefully prepared scraps of paper bearing the name USS Octopus, some official in appearance, some apparently from personal mail. Quin, entering into the spirit of it, had even made, by hand, a very creditable reproduction of a large rubber stamp of the name. And all vestiges of the name Walrus had been carefully removed.

The garbage sacks were thrown overboard as usual, and as usual they floated aft into our wake, slowly becoming water- logged. As I had suspected, and found to be so upon investigation, some of them were not so well weighted as others.

There was, a good possibility that some of them might remain afloat for an appreciable time.

There was no longer a submarine in our navy named the Octopus. Choice of that name for our stratagem had been made for that reason, and out of pure sentiment. It was a good joke through the ship that the skipper had decided to change the name of Walrus to that of his first boat, the old Octopus.

And I told no one that my regular nightly visits to- the radio room, which became a habit at about this time, were for the sole purpose of plugging a pair of earphones into the extra receiver and surreptitiously listening to Tokyo Rose's program.

She several times made me speechless with rage, but she never mentioned the Octopus, nor, for that matter, did she refer to the Walrus again. The whole thing began to look like a great waste of time and effort, for our men had to go over everything they put into the garbage very carefully, and every day Quin had to prepare more natural-looking paper with Octopus on it.

But we kept it up during the rest of our time in the area.

There wasn't much time left, as a matter of fact. A few days more than a week, and our "bag" of three ships was beginning to look like the total for that patrol. The week passed. We sighted nothing but aircraft and a number of fishing boats.

Then, only two nights before we were due to leave the area, the radar got a contact. It was a rough night, dark, overcast, raining intermittently, with a high, uneasy sea running. It was warm, too, unseasonably so, and the ship was bouncing uncomfortably with "no regular pattern as we slowly cruised along, two engines droning electricity back into our battery.

"Radar contact!" O'Brien happened to have the radar watch, and it was his high-pitched voice which sounded the call to action. "Looks like a convoy!" he added.

"Man tracking stations!" responded Keith, muffled in oilskins on the forward part of the bridge. Pat Donnelly, standing watch with Keith as Assistant OOD, was aft on the cigarette deck, as was I. I was beside Keith in a second.

"What's the bearing?"

"I've got the rudder over. We'll have it dead astern in a minute!" A main engine belched and sputtered; then another, and we had four half-submerged exhaust ports blowing engine vapor, water, and a thin film of smoke alternately above and under the waves.

"True bearing is nearly due north, Captain!" Keith was doing my thinking for me. "We're steadying up on course south right now, still making one-third speed."

I went aft again, searching the ocean astern. Nothing could be seen through the binoculars, not even the faint lightening of the murk which would indicate where water and sky met to form the far-distant and unseen horizon. Walrus pitched erratically, and a sudden gust of warm wet wind whipped my sodden clothes around my body. I spread my feet apart and leaned into it with my knees slightly bent, adjusting to the jerky motion of the ship. Holding my binoculars to my eyes, I made a deliberate search all around the horizon, or where I imagined the horizon to be. Nearly completed, I was startled by, a small black object which abruptly intruded into my field of view, relaxed as quickly. It was only the stern light fixture, mounted on top of our stern chock where, for over a year, it had been a useless appendage.

"Keith, have the radar search all around!" I called. It wouldn't do for us to become so interested in our contact that something else, an escort vessel perhaps, or some as-yet- undetected section of the convoy, could happen unexpectedly upon us.

"Nothing on the radar, sir! just the original contact!" Keith had anticipated that, too. I moved back to the forward part of the bridge, almost collided with Hugh Adams, who chose that instant to come jumping out of the hatch. He was rubbing his eyes.

"Take me a few minutes to relieve you, Keith," he gasped.

"I'm not night-adapted-I was sound asleep when you called tracking stations."

"I've been up here. I can see fine," I broke in. "Keith, I'll take over that part of it. You go below and take over the TDC so that Jim can organize the approach."

Both of them nodded gratefully, and delaying only long enough to make the turnover of essential details to Hugh, Keith swung himself below.

Jim's voice came over the announcing system: "Captain, it's a good-sized convoy. Looks like a dozen ships, maybe more.

At least two of them are escorts-maybe more of them, too.

Course one-six-zero, speed about ten!"

"Steer one-six-zero!" I told the helmsman. Not Oregon-he would not come on until battle stations was sounded. "All ahead two thirds." Then raising my voice, "Maneuvering, make turns for ten knots!" The conning-tower messenger would relay the word to the maneuvering room via telephone. In a moment I could feel our speed pick up, a slightly more determine manner with which Walrus thrust her snout into the seas. Some of them began to come aboard over the bow, running aft on the deck, partially washing down through it, smothering our new four-inch gun and breaking in a shower of spray on the forward part of the bridge beneath the 20-millimeter gun platform.

We ran on thus for several more minutes. Jim's voice again: "Recommend course one-six-five, speed twelve."

I gave the necessary orders without comment. No doubt that was the convoy course and speed according to more extensive plotting data.

Several more minutes. "Captain, we've got eleven big ships, three or four smaller ones. Possibly one other astern, also small, They're zigzagging around base course one-six-five, speed four- teen knots, making good about twelve down the course line.

We're almost dead ahead of them. Range to nearest ship, the leading escort, is ten thousand yards."

"What's the range to the stern escort?" These fellows had come out of the Bungo, all right, and that stern escort must be nobody else but Bungo Pete himself. At least he was keeping to Bungo's old favorite position, astern, the clean-up spot. Bungo would have figured that after an attack the submarine was most apt to wind up astern of the convoy, and out of torpedoes, too until a reload could be effected. It was not a bad analysis. It would almost unquestionably be true for a submerged attack very likely so for a surfaced one as well. Captain Blunt had wondered whether any German liaison officers might have been helping him-here I caught my breath as an idea rose, full blown, in my brain: Bungo might most likely be a Japanese submariner himself! He would be one of their old-timers, no doubt, working on the problem for all he was worth and making, thereby, his own contribution to the war effort of his country! Just as Captain Sammy Sams was doing in the role relegated to him!

As such he was doubly dangerous, though I couldn't hate him quite so much as before. And if this, indeed, was Bungo himself, cruising along in his Akikaze-class tincan behind the convoy, we were in for an interesting night of it.

"Range to stern escort-we can hardly make him out-he's fading in and out of the radar scope-about fifteen thousand yards." Jim fell silent for a minute. "Zig! The convoy has zigged to his left. Now on course one-three-zero!"

We followed suit. "Keep plotting and checking his zigs, Jim,"

I said. "When we get them down pat we'll start in." I began to weigh the various factors of the problem. Bungo was astern, and he was by far the most dangerous of the many destroyers and antisubmarine escorts. Instead of turning toward the rear of the convoy, which would be the natural thing to do after shooting our torpedoes, maybe we should turn back toward the head.

This would keep us clear of Bungo for a while. If we could count on a bit of confusion on the part of the Japs, perhaps over dependence on Bungo's sweeping-up operation, we might get away with it. One thing we would have to be careful to avoid, however, was the temptation to dive. If we dived, we became virtually stationary, and that was what Bungo Pete wanted us to do. Plodding along astern of the convoy, having had ample time to be fully alerted to our presence, he would be upon us immediately and subject us to another one of those silent, thorough, unhurried, and practically lethal creeping at- tacks, or perhaps something else, even better, which he might have thought of since. That, above everything, we had to keep away from.

"Another zig, right, this time! Course now one-six-five!

Recommend increase speed to fourteen knots!"

"All ahead standards I ordered. "Sound the general alarm.

Jim, will you come up to the bridge for a moment?"

"We're already practically at battle stations, skipper," said Jim a second later. The musical chimes were still sounding.

"Just a couple of men haven't taken over their regular battle stations yet." He looked at me questioningly.

"Jim," I told him, "I want to avoid tangling with that last ship. It's no doubt a tincan, and it might even be the one that nearly sank us on our first run here."

"How do you know that?"

"I'll tell you all about it later. Should have before this.

Besides that, we mustn't dive unless it's absolutely an emergency.

I want to try to stay on the surface, and if we have to we'll take our chances with any of the other escorts. But if they make us dive, that fellow astern will come on up and take over, and we can figure on having a hell of a time!"

My voice was clipped and short. Jim didn't bother to question further. "I've got it," he breathed.

"Just as soon as they zig once more and give us an angle on either bow, we'll swing with them and go on in. We'll need full power, so as to have plenty of speed for maneuvering if we get into a tight spot."

"Aye, aye, sir!" Jim disappeared.

"Hugh," I said, "did you get all that?"

"Yessir! " in a taut voice.

"We might be getting gunfire on the bridge. If I order every- one below, you go too. You can be the last one down, but if we have to dive, you're our last hope. We can't take a chance on your being knocked out."

"Yessir! " again.

"All right. Now, have all the bridge guns mounted. Get all the twenty millimeters up, with two extra men to man each mount, and all four of the bridge fifties. Get plenty of ammunition, too."

Hugh leaned- to the hatch to give the orders. "Bring up both BAR's also. You and I might as well have something to shoot too."

In a few moments a veritable arsenal was handed up the bridge hatch and the lookouts busied themselves setting the guns in place. The 20's, stowed in pressure-proof containers, had to be lifted out and placed in their mounts. The 50's came up from below, were set in their sockets, and the BAR's we leaned in an out-of-the-way corner. Near each gun we made a neat pile of extra ammunition, belts for the 50's, bandoliers of clips for the BAR'S, and a half-dozen round magazines for each of the 20-millimeters. If we should have to dive it would all be lost, but that didn't matter.

Two of the extra men were detailed forward of the OOD's platform for the forward mount, the other two aft on the cigarette deck. The 50's could be handled by the lookouts, one to each, with Hugh and me helping with the ammunition belts and firing our own BAR's in between. Preparations were completed just about the time the enemy convoy zigged again.

"Zig, to his right! Angle on the bow, port thirty-five!" Jim's voice in the bridge speaker. It was time to make our move.

Right full rudder! All ahead flank!" The diesels groaned with the suddenly increased load. Their exhaust spewed forth with doubled vigor. The ship leaned to port, the two port mufflers choking and splashing, and our stern skidded across the sea, half under and half over the water. Big waves leaped high on to our decks, spraying great patterns of shredded white clouds to half-conceal our stern. A semitransparent mist rose over the deck, whipped by the wind into the cloud pouring out of the starboard muffler pipes, trailed off to starboard and aft, lying low in the tossing, dirty sea.

It was dark, lampblack dark. Only the faintest hint of gray above the water and in the sky. No telling where the horizon was-it all combined into the same dullness, the sea rising right up into the sky. It had stopped raining and the atmosphere felt oppressive, warm, humid. I could smell the odor of sweat mixed with salt spray.

A sea mounted our bow, came straight aft, smothered the gun, and broke in a tall shower at the base of the bridge. Hugh and I ducked, got only a bucketful or two on our backs. The two men standing by the forward 20 were drenched, water streaming down from their hair and off their faces.

"Come on back here!" I yelled. Gratefully they climbed over the bulwark separating us. "Stay here until you're needed," I told them.

"Bridge! Recommend course three-one-zero!" That was Jim.

I cupped my hands over the bridge gyro repeater, took a careful look, had to wipe out the accumulation of water before I could read it. We were already nearing due west, two-seven-oh.

"Steady on three-one-zero!" I shouted down the hatch. The rudder began to come off, and Walrus straightened up.

Now her speed increased even more, and she pitched and bucked like a wild thing. The wind whistled in my hair, the salt droplets battered my face. No longer rising to the sea, she simply disregarded it, smashed through it. Great clouds of spray were thrown to either side, rising to bridge height as we raced by. Sea after sea rolled over her bullnose, pounded against our bridge front beneath the 20-millimeter gun with a repetitious drumming hollowness, cast more spume and water into the air.

It started to rain again. The fresh water felt good, washing some of the salt from my face and out of my eyes. It and the spray were bad for the binoculars, though, for the droplets would mar our vision. "Hugh!" I said urgently, "Lens paper!

Lots of it!"

Hugh handed me a wadded-up hunk, leaned to the hatch to call for more.

"Range!" I shouted into the mike.

"Five thousand, leading ship!"

"Where's the nearest tincan!"

"Four thousand, thirty degrees on our port bow!" answered Jim.

"How about the other one on this side?"

"Sixty-five hundred yards, sixty relative!"

Jim had gotten us into the best position possible. We were going in astern of the leading escort, which was maintaining station more or less dead ahead of the convoy, and were well clear and ahead of the port-flanking tincan.

"How much farther to go?"

"I figure to start shooting at two thousand. They're all pretty well bunched. We'll shoot a spread of six fish forward, then swing for the stern tubes, shoot them, and in the meantime reload the four torpedoes left forward. Then if we get a chance we can let go with those four. That will leave us only one fish, in the after torpedo room."

"Good," I said into the mike. "What's the range now?"

"Four thousand! We're all ready, except for opening the outer doors. We'll start opening them at three thousand yards!"

I felt curiously detached and emotionless. The die had been cast the moment I directed the rudder be put right. Now it was merely the matter of riding it on out to a finish. The reload would be a problem, because of the motion on the ship, and I was glad that back in New London Keith had insisted on the installation of special pad-eyes for extra securing tackle. We had also carried out special reload drill while on the surface, against just such an eventuality as was now before us.

The ship, of course, carried only twenty-four torpedoes in all, sixteen in the forward torpedo room and eight in the after room. Having attacked with three fish twice out of the forward tube nest and once out of the after nest, we had fifteen fish left: ten forward and five aft. It would be worthwhile to reload the four left after the first salvo forward and try to get them off, but hardly so for the single left aft.

"What's the range now?" I had been searching for the targets, was still unable to see them. We were racing to destroy some men and some ships I had never seen. Perhaps I never would see them, I could tell their approximate bearing by looking up at the angle swept by the parabolic radar reflector whenever, from the motion of the mast behind me, I knew it was taking a bearing. They had been slightly on the starboard bow; now the leading ship bore several degrees on the port bow.

"Three-three-double-oh! Recommend change course to two- nine-oh! We're starting to open outer doors now, with this speed it may take us a little time!"

The newer boats had hydraulically operated outer torpedo tube doors, but not Walrus, already outdated. Ours had to be cranked open by hand, one by one, against the water pressure built up by our speed.

"Left to two-nine-zero!"

The rudder indicator went left a little, came back to center, Oregon's voice: "Steady on two-nine-oh!"

Out of nothing they popped into view. "Targets!" I bawled.

I flung my binoculars into the TBT bracket, twisted it violently both ways, taking it all in. A solid mass of ships, dead ahead and to starboard. Well to port, a single smaller vessel, the leading escort. No need to worry about him. To starboard, far to star- board, a single tiny shape-the port flanker. He would be a problem soon.

But the ships ahead, we couldn't miss! There must be columns at least, solid black against a lowering grayness.

Eleven ships in all, Jim had said.

"Range, Jim!" I said into the mike. "I've got the TBT on the leading ship, looks like a tanker!"

"Two-five-double-oh! Do you see the escorts, Captain?"

"I see theme We're all right! Keep the ranges coming!"

"Range, two-four-double-oh! Outer doors are open, sir! TWO- three-double-oh! Two-two-double-oh! Taking a radar sweep. clear all around-Range two-one-double-oh!"

"TBT is on the leading ship, Jim," I said into the mike.

"Angle on the bow is large, around port ninety."

Hanging on to Walrus' careening bridge, I kept my binoculars rigidly fixed on the leading ship. Walrus rolled spasmodically from side to side, pitched her bows under, her bows, where six bronze warheads needed only the word from me to send them on their deadly mission. A sea roared up to the bridge; instinctively I ducked. Walrus heaved and pounded.

It had stopped raining. Somehow the sky looked just a bit less dark, the gray less pronounced. Our targets were outlined distinctly for me now. Two tankers in the near column. Maybe more beyond. A large freighter bringing up the rear of the nearest column. All big ships, big and fast.

"Two thousand yards!" Jim's voice carried a finality, a defiance to it.

I risked a quick glance to starboard, the port-flanking tin- can was still clear, much nearer. We had a couple of minutes to go, to be deliberate with. Now that we had got there, as Captain Blunt used to say, TAKE YOUR TIME AND MAKE EVERY FISH COUNT!

"Stand by forward!" Into the mike. "I'm on the leading ship, Jim! Let me know as each one goes out! Shoot!"

"Fire!" Jim had been holding the announcing system button down as he gave the command. I felt nothing. No jolt, no jerk as three thousand pounds, a ton and a half, was expelled.

"One's away," blared the bridge speaker. A pregnant pause.

"Two's away!" More time. I took my glasses off the TBT, swung around to inspect the nearing destroyer. "Three's away!" Jim was shooting a spread, would need no further TBT bearings from me. "Four's away!" I looked forward, reaching out to see the white wakes, impossible in the heaving black water. "Five's away!" The oncoming tin-can was looming larger all the time.

Wonder if he's seen anything yet? "Number six away! All torpedoes expended forward! Range to target, one-three-double- oh!"

"Left full rudder!" I yelled the order. Walrus scudded around, the starboard mufflers roaring their choked protest.

"Recommend course zero-nine-zero!"

"No!" I shouted, then recollecting myself, grabbed the mike: "No good, Jim. Too close to the port-flanking tincan!" I tried to speak calmly. "How about one-seven-zero with a left ninety gyro for the stern tubes?"

"Roger!"

"Oregon, steady on one-seven-zero!" He had heard the colloquy with Jim, and the rudder had already eased a few degrees in anticipation. But, disciplined helmsman that he was, he had to have the order.

"Steady on one-seven-zero! No question about Oregon's steering ability. He gently eased the rudder off and the ship lunged ahead, the lubber's line right on the marker.

I picked up the mike, ran to the after TBT, plugged it in.

"Stand by aft! After TBT!" I said into the mike. I had to push Pat Donnelly aside to give me a clear shot for sighting.

The after bridge speaker: "Standing by aft! We're all set below, Captain! Range one-two-five-oh!"

"Shoot!" I had the TBT aimed right between the first and second ships of the near column, at another ship in the second column whose black silhouette completely filled the space between them.

"Seven's away! Eight's away!" Another look at the destroyer.

We were running nearly right away from him, gaining, with our. temporary speed advantage. "Nine away! Ten away! All torpedoes expended, Captain! We're reloading forward."

Ten torpedoes, we were lighter by better than thirty thousand pounds, and about seventy thousand dollars' worth of complicated mechanism was out there running in the ocean.

And we were in something of a box, too. Any change in course would increase the approaching destroyer's chances of catching us, make it easier for him to see us.

"Range to the near escort, dead astern!" I called the inquiry into the mike, leaning against the periscope supports with my feet braced in front of me. In this location I could not feel the radar mast rotate, but I could sense it going around, sweeping aft. Walrus' motion was no different on the new course. Seas were still sweeping her with regularity, leaping higher than her radio antenna stanchions-higher than a man's height, splattering all over the deck aft, sometimes virtually submerging it.

Steam, from our hot mufflers under the deck, boiled up through the wooden slats, drifted faintly away. It would be suicide to walk aft there.

"Range to escort, one-nine-double-oh!" He WAS close!

Something had happened in the direction of the convoy. I turned, a flash as though of light, but bigger than any light, and yellower. It lasted only a fraction of a second. Then an- other, and another! No sound-there couldn't be any sound, with all the natural noises of wind and sea going on. I looked harder. Could that be the suspicion of yet another flash in the second column? These were all torpedo hits, of that there could be no doubt, and probably from our bow salvo at that. Our stern shots would be a minute or so later getting there.

Back to the escort: "What's the range now?" He didn't look any different, but in the dim visibility it would be hard to tell anyhow. Still bows on, still coming, no indication of having seen anything out of the ordinary.

"Range to escort, one-nine-five-oh!" That was not good. We should be making twenty knots to his fourteen, should be pulling ahead faster than that.

Flash! Another hit! And then, flash-flash-two, almost together.

Some notice at last from the convoy. Now it was evident that it was breaking up. Ships were turning every which way.

Suddenly I was no longer an entity, a constant you could think of as a single thing; it had disintegrated, almost in an instant, into eleven different ships. It was as though they were being driven by some inner compulsion. Dark form' s outlined against the slightly less dark sky seemed to be motivated by only one emotion, one heedless, reckless, awful necessity: to get away from the convoy center.

"Good God!" The outburst came without conscious volition.

A violent cone of flame, white-hot with fringes of yellow and orange, screamed into the heavens! It towered over the convoy, towered over us too, cast everything into pitiless relief, turned the night into broad daylight!

In the insane light of the explosion the leading tanker was visible, broken in half, bow and stern floating idiotically with nothing between them. The second tanker seemed all right; so did the third ship in that column. The one which had blown up must have been one of those in the middle column. As I watched, fascinated, the masts of the freighter, last in the near column of ships, grew shorter, his stack disappeared, and I was looking at his bottom.

Then the noise of it reached us, a horrible, sudden, all-gone crash, a detonation of a million pounds of TNT, a complete, unutterable holocaust It could only have been an ammunition ship. No wonder the ships of the convoy had been trying to get away!

"Captain! What is it!" Jim's voice on the bridge speaker.

"I'm OK, come on up here!" Jim arrived in time to see the second tanker burst into flames. His comment was identical to mine: "Good God! Did we do that?"

"Yes, Jim." I silently pointed out the tincan on our tail.

"He can't miss seeing us now, unless he's too interested in what's going on over there to tend to his business."

"We'll have to watch for our chance, now, old man." I said.

"Most of those ships have escaped the blast, though we can probably scratch four of them. Get back on the radar and give me a picture of how it looks."

Jim ran down the hatch. His voice came in a couple of seconds: "Convoy has scattered. We have only nine pips on the scope left. One seems to have fallen behind" that would be the capsized freighter, "they're really in a mess there, all right."

"What's the range to the tincan?"

"Near destroyer, one-seven-double-oh!"

He was closing to look us over. There was no doubt about it: we were in trouble. Normally we should dive. Only one other thing to do.

"Range to convoy?"

"Convoy-nearest ship one-five-double-oh. The rest on up to three-oh-double-oh!"

That settled it. The convoy had at least one fleeing ship nearer to us than the destroyer, coming in more or less on our beam. Presumably he would be jittery, scared, not, at all events, a ship-of-war.

"Right full rudder!" I ran back to the fore part of the bridge.

"All right, boys! Man those guns!" They jumped to them with alacrity. "When we go by this ship, put everything you have into his bridge! Never mind anything else, just his bridge!"

I took a bearing, gave Oregon a course so as to pass starboard to starboard at about a quarter of a-mile. This would put the Jap ship between us and the escort. As the rudder went over, Jim informed me that our torpedo reload had been completed.

We were ready for business again, with four fish forward and one aft.

The range closed swiftly at our combined speeds. Larger and larger loomed the blunt, black bow of the ship. I don't think they even saw us. At point-blank range-it was more like four hundred than five hundred yards when we got abeam- we opened up with everything we had, swept his bridge. It was grim work holding the 20'S on, especially for the two men forward who were half under water a good part of the time, but they kept to it. I could see the tracer bullets arching into the enemy's bridge area, disappearing into the square-windowed pilot-house, as we swept on.

I shot a quick glance across his stern. The pursuing destroyer had not changed course yet, was still heading more or less for the bow of the ship behind which we had disappeared. It was dark again, the flare of the explosion having gone, but the lights of two big fires in two of the convoy reflected from the hulls of both ships behind us. We, by contrast, must be in the shadow, unless unlucky enough to become silhouetted. The freighter we had raked wavered in his course. Perhaps we had gotten the steersman-he swung off to the left, toward the on- rushing tincan, his swing increasing rapidly. The destroyer saw it too, put his rudder hard over, barely avoided colliding.

This gave us an opening: "Range to destroyers I yelled into the mike. "Stand by aft!

Angle on the bow, starboard ninety!" It was greater, but he: would surely turn again. "Shift to after TBT!" I ran aft, plugged in the mike.

"Range eight hundred!" said the speaker.

"Give him twenty knots!" I waited an age, it seemed to me. It could not have been more than ten seconds.

"Set!"

"Shoot!" I shouted. There was only one torpedo left aft, but it might do some good, if we had luck. I reached for the mike, tugged at it to unplug it, when the whole side of the destroyer blossomed in red and orange. Heedless, I ran forward as the tearing crack of several shells passed close overhead. There was a screaming of machine-gun bullets and several dull thuds, followed by the characteristic wavering whines of a ricochet or two. In the midst of this came the twin chatter of the after mount; Pat Donnelly and the two men detailed to the after 20- millimeter were holding it steady into the black hull of the destroyer.

And then, cataclysmically, a mushroom of white water burst in the middle of the other ship, hoisted him up amidships, his back broken, bow and stern sagging deep into the water. His guns stopped, except for one small one on the bridge which kept going for several seconds longer until the black ocean closed over it.

Up ahead, chaos. Two ships on fire, one black hull still not under, but bottom up, showing red in the flame. Other ships one minus a stack, probably as a result of the explosion of the ammunition ship close aboard, cutting madly in all directions.

Too close, now, to change course again. Keep going. Have to keep going. We aimed our course to go between the two burning ships. just beyond we found another, all alone, making off to the west. We drew up alongside, less than a mile away, keeping out of the light of the fires. We turned toward.

Angle on the bow, port eighty, range fifteen hundred-Fire!

Two fish. Two left. We put our rudder right, ran past him on the opposite course, saw both torpedoes hit, saw the splash as the air flasks of both blew up. I raved with impotent fury at the sight, forgetting that we should instead be thankful that the single torpedo we had fired aft, less than three minutes before, had functioned properly.

Nothing to do but come around again. We left the rudder full right, turned madly in a full circle, lined him up again-Fire!

That did it. One torpedo hit and exploded and he sagged down by the bow. Maybe he'd sink, maybe not, but we had no more fish to make sure.

Another tearing, ripping noise overhead. Then another, and a third and fourth. Two ships shooting: Bungo, racing up from his position astern to join the fight, and someone else, either the starboard flanker or the lead escort. We were trapped-we'd have to dive. They were too far away for effective reply with our automatic small-caliber weapons, and there was no question of our trying our own four-inch gun in reply, even if we could stand on deck to use it.

"All hands below!" I yelled. Hugh wavered as the lookouts and Pat dashed past us. I motioned impatiently to the hatch.

He dropped below.

"Rudder amidships-all ahead emergency!" I yelled to Oregon.

I aimed for the narrow space between the two flaming ships again. If we could get between them once more, I knew there was no escort vessel on that side, that would force the two destroyers to slow down and maneuver to avoid their own ships. That might be our chance.

I pushed the bridge speaker button for the general announcing system: "Maneuvering, give it everything you've got!"

They did, too. Clouds of blue-white smoke poured out of our exhaust. Our speed picked up perceptibly. Walrus arrowed for the hole, slipped through it, headed eastward at full speed leaving the wrecked ships behind and a cloud of diesel smoke to obscure our passage. The two destroyers, shadowy figures at fairly long range, were cut off, had to shoot over them. Both were firing continuously, the one from the convoy's rear particularly well. From his position that must be Bungo, and he was using salvo fire with methodical precision. The shells were still tearing overhead, closer, if anything, than before, despite the obstruction in the range. One or two dropped close alongside, kicked up great spouts of water. No question about it. Old Bungo was a good naval officer and ran a taut, tough ship. His destroyer-Akikaze class, all right-was shooting at least two to the other's one, and accurately, despite the weather.

I picked up the mike. "They're going to have to slow down because what's left of their convoy is in the way," I said. "Take a sweep around with the radar Another salvo from Bungo. I could see all four flashes from his guns. He would have to hold back on the next salvo or two, now, because of the ships in the way.

There was a blinding flash. The whole world turned kaleido- scopic. Stars and pinwheels and fireballs whirled about me, all emanating from a round, sunlike face emitting rays of white-hot fire-the face of Bungo Pete. He looked benign, friendly, despite the fireballs… surprisingly like Sammy Sams.