Submarine!

17 Tirante

There was a lot more to my orders, including the fact that the Secretary of the Navy had determined this employment on shore duty was “required by the public interests,” and in early June, 1944, wearing brand-new lieutenant commander’s stripes, and accompanied by my bride of one month, I arrived in Portsmouth.

Memories of the Trigger were strong. Only a few weeks earlier, as I was packing shortly before midnight to catch an early-morning plane for San Francisco, one by one members of her crew had come forward to say good-by. And as I had walked alone down the dock, I looked back at her, lying low and gray in the dim moonlight, splotched with rust and peeled-off paint, and knew she was no longer mine.

Now I had a new ship, as yet uncompleted, and a new skipper, and there was everything to do all over again. Tirante was to have the latest devices, the strongest hull American engineering skill could devise, the most powerful engines, and an enlarged torpedo-carrying capacity. She would be an improved instrument for the art of underwater warfare, and should be able to outdo anything old Trigger had done. Yet I wondered whether she would possess that same flair, that same capacity for finding action and bringing it to a successful conclusion.

There was only one answer to this, and many were the discussions with the new skipper — himself in his first command — as to how to imbue our new ship with the fighting spirit and derring-do we wanted. I came to admire George Street more and more as time went on, for he seemed to combine the qualities of thorough preparation with a certain amount of respect for the ideas of others, and, when convinced, an intelligently directed follow-through.

It took about eight months from the time Tirante’s keel was laid until we broke her commission pennant on November 6, 1944—about three months from the time her crew arrived — and nearly another month passed before we had her at sea.

Our first step was to practice with the equipment and learn its uses, starting with the easiest operations and building up to the more intricate ones — all in the safe confines of the navy yard. Drill after drill we forced ourselves to perform alongside the dock, and before we took Tirante out for her first dive we were confident that every piece of gear operated as designed, and that every man knew his job.

Late in November the new ship stood out to sea. Her engines ran throatily, her stem breasted the waves daintily, her sleek length droned effortlessly on the cold, restless sea. Only the less-than-perfectly-ordered bustle of her crew below decks betrayed her newness as time drew near for her first dive.

“Standby to dive.” The uncustomary order pealed through the ship’s announcing system. The crew stood to their stations, fingering the controls with which, in a moment, they would send her below. I was glad to see they were a little keyed up.

Ed Campbell, engineer and diving officer, looked inquiringly at me. As I nodded to him, he held up his hand, motioning as though opening a valve. High-pressure air whistled into the control room. A moment — he clenched his fist. The whistle cut off abruptly, as the auxilaryman behind us whirled shut the stop valve. Ed and I inspected the barometer; it held steady, showing about half an inch more atmospheric pressure than before.

I climbed a few rungs of the ladder to the conning tower, far enough to speak to George Street at the periscope. He was already using it, though the ship was still on the surface. The conning tower hatch was shut tightly, I knew, because the ship had held air, and its “Christmas Tree” light was green. “Pressure in the boat. Green aboard. All set below, Captain.”

George took his eyes from the ’scope and grinned at me. “Take her down, then,” he said. “We can’t learn any younger.”

I reached over my head, grasped the conning tower diving alarm, and swung the arm twice through its short arc. Stiff with newness, it did not return to the off position of its own accord, and I had to push it back each time. As the familiar reverberations died away — they, at least, sounded exactly as they had in Trigger—I seized the general announcing microphone. “Dive, dive,” I called.

The vents popped as D. W. Remley, Chief Torpedoman and Chief of the Boat, pulled their hydraulic control handles toward him one after another. We could hear the rush of air escaping from the ballast tanks. The helmsman clicked his two annunciators over to Ahead Standard, and centered his rudder amidships. Tirante’s gently heaving deck seemed to change its motion; tilt ever so slightly down by the bow. Beneath me in the control room I could hear Ed quietly coaching his planesmen as they leaned into their big nickel-steel wheels. I could feel Tirante start to break surface and her down inclination become greater as I steadied myself against the side of the conning tower and made a note to have the diving alarm worked over.

George was going around and around with his periscope, alternately watching bow and stern. After a moment he spoke. “Bow’s under.” Then, in a few seconds, “Stern’s gone.” The sloshing sound of the water in the superstructure was replaced by the noise of the sea climbing swiftly around the bridge coaming and up the periscope supports. I thought I could feel the angle of inclination decrease imperceptibly.

“All ahead two thirds.” That was Ed’s gentle voice calling up from the control room. The helmsman clicked the annunciators, got an answering click as the electricians in the maneuvering room responded. Tirante’s bow began to lift.

“Flood forward trim from sea.” Ed again. She was coming up a bit too fast to suit him. “Secure flooding.” The faintly heard rumbling of water flowing stopped. The deck continued to return to normal. “All ahead one third.” It is submarine custom for the diving officer to control the speed until he is satisfied with the submerged trim.

Ed was calling up the hatchway again: “Final trim, sir. Depth, six-oh feet, one third speed.” There was a barely perceptible tone in his voice. To hit the final compensation so closely on the very first dive of a new ship smacked of the miraculous. On Triggers first dive it had taken us an hour and a half of pumping and flooding before we were satisfied.

My new skipper was not one to pass by the moment, either; that was one of the first things I had begun to like about him. In a few well-chosen words shouted down the hatch, he let Ed know that he was without doubt the world’s finest diving officer, and that we were extraordinarily fortunate to have him aboard.

Tirante’s character developed rapidly, even before the training period was complete. Her radar was the most powerful I had ever encountered; her engines ran best when loaded to more than full rated power; she made 21 knots with ease whereas other subs of the same design struggled to reach 19. She carried four more fish than Trigger, and her torpedoes had been modified to eliminate the frustrations of the earlier war years. Many of Tirante’s crew were already veterans of the Pacific, some of them from Trigger herself. We built upon the virtues and mistakes of those from whom we had learned the business.

The prologue of Tirante’s first war patrol states laconically: “Ship completed on November 23, 1944, and commenced training in fog, storms, and freezing weather off Portsmouth. Tirante’s builders did a wonderful job.” Somehow, starting with that first dive, everything seemed to work right the first time for us. After two and a half years fighting a ship which had gradually had more and more things wrong with her — whether the result of enemy action or just plain misadventure-despite which she had performed magnificently, it was an unprecedented delight to me to have everything go right.

During our two-week training period at New London prior to departure for the Pacific we worked out our fire control, our damage control, and all the other phases of submarine technique. Tirelessly, Ensign Bill Ledford, onetime chief torpedoman of Trigger, now assistant torpedo officer of Tirante, tinkered with his fish, and every torpedo we fired in practice hit the target. By the time we were ready to leave, Tirante had become a perfectionist, and we had no doubt of being able to pass any readiness inspection Admiral Lockwood cared to toss at us.

Then the day before setting out for Balboa and the Pacific our preparations were interrupted by an unexpected summons for the skipper. When he returned, he motioned Lieutenant Endicott (Chub) Peabody II and me into his stateroom.

“It was the Force Gunnery Officer,” he said without preamble. “He’s got a hot potato on his hands and wants us to take it over.”

“What is it, Captain?”

George chuckled. “It seems that the employees of the Westinghouse Corporation plant at Sharon, Pennsylvania, which makes electric torpedoes, got together and donated one special torpedo for the war effort. It’s up in the torpedo shop now, tested and ready to go, and they want somebody to take it out with them.”

“We’ve already loaded all our fish, sir,” said Chub. “We’d have to take one back out…”

The skipper’s grin widened. “Wait till I tell you the rest. This torpedo is painted up like a highway billboard sign so nobody can possibly mistake it. It’s been photographed at least a dozen times, at least once at every stage of its construction and trials. Two admirals have publicly told Sharon that the fish will be delivered to the enemy with their compliments, and now — somebody has got to make good on all the bragging.”

“You mean,” I interjected, “they want us to take this particular fish out and plant it in the bottom of some Jap battleship? Don’t they know battleships don’t grow on trees and that even with a perfectly aimed salvo some of the fish are bound to miss?”

“Oh, they’re not unreasonable. They’ll settle for any decent-sized maru.”

Chub said, “We’d sure look foolish if we took it out and then had to report we hadn’t hit anything with it, wouldn’t we?”

This didn’t faze George. “You’re right,” he said, “and that’s why taking it along is purely voluntary. A couple of ships have already declined the honor for that very reason. So the Force Gunnery Officer is getting right anxious to get rid of it, and I told him we’d see that it reached the desired destination.”

We might have known our skipper would never pass up this kind of challenge. There was a gleam in Chub’s eyes, and I, too, felt a little pleased with the Old Man.

“It’s on its way down right now,” George added.

By the time it had arrived in a specially built torpedo carrier, accompanied by a bevy of high-ranking officers and half-a-dozen photographers, and we had tucked it aboard, we realized we had carried out the most thoroughly documented torpedo loading in history. And, as Ed Campbell commented after watching the performance, if we came back from patrol without having made good with it, we had better throw our hats in ahead of us wherever we entered.

On January 8, 1945, Tirante set forth from New London for Pearl Harbor. The passage took us thirty-three days, including eight days of exercises at Balboa, Canal Zone, and we drilled every day and part of every night. We had been out of the war zone for so long that there was a lot of catching up to do, and Street and I pored over our file of war patrol reports as we sped into warmer seas and through the canal.

We were in a hurry, too, for it was already obvious that the war had not much longer to last. Our boats were crisscrossing the waters off the coast of Japan haunting the harbor entrances, or staying on the surface with impunity just offshore during daylight. One of our submarines had even entered Tokyo Bay on the surface during daylight to rescue an aviator who had ditched there during a carrier strike.

The Japanese merchant marine — what was left of it — lived in terror of the American submarines. In 1944 approximately half of the ships departing from the empire found their final destination at the bottom. Our executions at night had been the most horrendous of all. Once Admiral Lock wood had straightened out the torpedo fiasco, the heartbreaking failures and unexplained “misses” had been greatly reduced, and convoy after convoy had been wiped out in the hours between sunset and sunrise. The Japanese were now holing up at night, and running ships across the open sea only during daylight, when they figured our submarines would have to attack submerged, thus sacrificing mobility and giving them a better chance of getting their ships through.

So we worked our way through the training program at Balboa and Pearl Harbor with a vengeance and a will, finishing both of them in the minimum possible time, and then there remained only one thing before we could be on our way — the selection of our patrol area.

To us this meant a lot, for ComSubPac never gave a sign of how well or how poorly trained he considered any particular submarine. If she passed the stiff requirements he had set down, he sent her on patrol; if she did not, he held her up for more training; in extreme cases, he had been known to relieve the skipper and others of her crew. You could tell what Uncle Charlie thought of you only by where he sent you: the hottest ships went to the hottest spots, for obvious reasons. Finally our assignment came: the East China and Yellow seas — just about as hot an area as he could hand out.

Once more the luck of the Tirante had proved good. We carefully loaded our “Sharon Special” into number-six torpedo tube. Since we always fired in inverse order, with the first torpedo aimed at the MOT (Middle Of Target), this location would give it the maximum chance of hitting with our first salvo from the bow tubes. And after that particular salvo had been fired, we would all feel much better.

Exchanging the play-acting of training for the reality of bombs, depth charges, warheads, and sinking ships is probably the most massive change which comes to an individual or a ship. At the same time, it is one of those things which cannot be approached by degrees. No matter how realistic the training, there is still the comforting knowledge that all participants will eventually find their way back to harbor. It is a common phenomenon to discover that the most expert, aggressive, farseeing person during training exercises somehow never quite finds the same opportunities open to him in battle. And an individual who never made much of an impression before might rise to astonishing heights of effectiveness under the stimulus of extreme danger. So is it with ships — especially submarines.

A psychologist could probably explain why it is that the first action on any patrol so often sets the tone for the whole cruise, and why the manner in which a new submarine handles her first contact with the enemy sets the character of the entire ship from then on. George Street and I did not know why, though we used to argue the reasons, but we knew it was so.

On the southern tip of Kyushu lies a huge bay, Kagoshima Kaiwan, protected by several small islands offshore. Our information indicated that many coastal freighters used the harbor. The chart of previous patrols off Kyushu showed few submarine tracks here, no doubt because of the restricted waters, but the water was deep all the way up to the shore line. Not at all bad, if you didn’t mind fairly close quarters.

Our object was twofold: to blood the ship as quickly as possible; and to get rid (honorably) of our VIT (Very Important Torpedo). So we resolved to venture into the precarious place, right off the harbor entrance, and patrol between the offshore islands and the mainland. I stayed up all night navigating, and shortly before dawn — on the morning of March 25—dived in the spot the Captain had selected, five miles off the entrance. But this did not satisfy George; during the morning, while I caught up on my sleep, he closed the coast within less than two miles, and shortly after noon a ship was sighted coming out of the bay.

Our approach did not work out quite the way he had intended. We had stationed ourselves close to the beach, so that we would be on the shoreward side of any target coming out of the bay and heading up the coast. Thus we would be heading out to deeper water during the attack, and would be sure of firing our VIT from her bow tube. But the target, a small freighter, came by on our land side, apparently within inches of the rock-strewn shore line. Submerged, our draft was so great that we could not turn toward him for a bow shot for fear of striking the bottom. So we fired a salvo from the stern tubes. The first torpedo blew the guts out of him less than one minute after we had let her go, and the other two exploded upon striking the shore. It took about a minute for our victim to sink.

The VIT still languished in the lower port forward torpedo tube, however, so we picked out a new spot well up the coast from Kagoshima Kaiwan — a precipitous cliff called Oniki Saki — and dived within a mile of it next morning. Three days we haunted the place, and right after lunch the third day our next victim came along.

The general alarm was still sounding as I reached the control room. I jumped up the ladder and crowded into the conning tower behind Chub Peabody where I could navigate if necessary, coordinate the fire control solution, and assist the skipper as might be required. Street was already at the periscope.

“Looks like a torpedo target,” he said. “Take a look.”

I could see an object resembling a small square building with a large black chimney slightly to the right of its middle. A cloud of smoke belched from the chimney and was carried flat to the right. Shimmering haze made the lines difficult to distinguish.

“Mark the bearing,” I said, and snapped the handles as signal for the periscope to start down again. “Small, old-type freighter,” I said to George. “Angle on the bow port ten. Seems to be making all the speed he can, probably ten knots.”

George nodded. “That’s my guess, too, Ned. We’re using ten knots, and I put his angle on the bow as port fifteen.” He glanced over Chub’s shoulder to where the dials of the TDC reproduced a picture of the relative positions of the enemy ship and ourselves.

“Here’s our chance to get rid of the VIT,” I observed. Everybody in the conning tower nodded, and I checked the camera.

Several observations later George turned to me. “Make ready three fish, Ned, and spread them one to hit, one ahead, one astern.”

We had already talked this over. Doctrine called for a spread of torpedoes equal to more than the length of the target, but this had been developed in the days of faulty torpedoes. Our first attack had proved that our torpedoes were all right. I ordered the spread, but aimed them so that all three ought to hit — one at the bow, one under the stack, and one at the stern. The VIT would go at the stack.

We had been twisting and turning, following the target’s zigzag plan, maintaining ourselves in position while he approached. George, veteran of many patrols in the old Gar out of Australia, certainly knew how to handle a submarine. We never made a waste motion, and his periscope technique was perfection. Now he put down the ’scope, gave several quiet orders. Tirante ceased maneuvering and slowed down.

“Standby forward.” George pointed to the telephone talker, who was already relaying the word.

“Range.” He pointed to the sound operator.

“One two double oh,” from the latter. Chub tapped his range dial and grinned tightly at the firing panel. Number six fish showed “ready,” and the switch was turned to On. The fire controlman stood with his hand on the firing key. I turned to Chub’s setup. The TDC showed the enemy just coming into the optimum firing position. It was humming softly, and the Correct Solution lights were glowing for the forward tube nest. The Gyro Angle Order switch was in the right position.

“Gyros matched and ready!” announced Gene Richey, assistant TDC operator.

“Set!” I told the skipper. He rose with the periscope halfway—“Mark!”—and signaled for it to go down.

“Zero four three-a-half,” sang out Karlesses, the periscope jockey. I saw that it checked exactly with the angle on the TDC.

“Fire!” I shouted. The fire controlman pushed the firing key, and we felt the recoil as a sudden jolt of air squirted out the first fish. Two more jolts followed.

“All torpedoes running normally,” reported the sound man. Ensconced in a corner out of the way, a seaman was counting time. It seemed to take hours before he got to thirty seconds.

The periscope started up again. If all went well, the first torpedo would be hitting about the time it got up. Time stood frozen. I could feel the palms of my hands sweating, and wiped them along my trouser legs. They still felt damp.

WHRRRANG-G-G-! A tremendous explosion shook the heavy steel of Tirante’s frame. The periscope quivered in George’s grasp, and he seemed to press his forehead even deeper into the rubber buffer. I was standing beside him, waiting for my chance, and in a moment he turned the ’scope over to me.

I could not see the center of our target, for it was obliterated in a column of water which had risen high above the tops of his masts. The bow and stern, as I watched, rose out of water and came toward each other. Then the water fell back, but the middle of the ship had disappeared.

As the skipper jostled me out of the way, I had a split-second picture of the hapless vessel cocked up, twisted away from us, and sliding under.

“Camera,” suddenly called out George. Quickly I handed it to him; helped him fit it in the periscope. Just as he snapped the shutter, another, lesser, explosion in the target vibrated through our ship. Evidently a boiler.

When my next turn to look came a second or two later, there was just time to see the tip of the stern slide out of sight. Thirty seconds from the moment of the initial explosion, the ship had ceased to exist. The two extra torpedoes, running a few seconds after the first one, were robbed of their target and, neatly bracketing the stricken hulk, sped on beyond into the empty sea.

The date was March 28, and we made a special note in our log for that day that the torpedo which had wrought such devastating effect was torpedo number 58009, donated to the Navy as a contribution to the war effort by the employees of the Westinghouse torpedo factory at Sharon, Pennsylvania. It still bore its special paint job as it streaked through the water on its final errand. Sharon received pictorial proof of its special contribution about four months after the Navy had accepted it.

That night, well offshore, I spread out the charts for the Captain as we debated where next to carry our hunt. However, a message on the submarine Fox radio intercept schedule brought a change to our plans. Trigger, which had completed two unproductive patrols since I left her, and was currently on her third, had been ordered to join Tirante in coordinated patrol in the East China Sea. On her present patrol — on which she had sunk two ships — she had a new skipper, David Connole, whom I had known slightly when he was a junior officer in the old Pompano before she was lost.

Trigger was due to rendezvous with us that very night. We should raise her by radio in a few hours. I became rather excited at the prospect of seeing my old home again. Since there would be some coordination to accomplish, someone would have to go aboard for a conference. This was too good a chance to miss, and there were plenty of volunteers from men who had once served in Trigger to help man our tiny rubber boat.

Several times that night we called Trigger by radio, but there was no answer. Silence. As morning drew near we dashed for the coast, submerged in a likely-looking spot, and waited impatiently for darkness again. Then we moved offshore once more to call my old ship. Trigger from Tirante. Trigger from Tirante… S 237 from S 420… S 237 from S 420…

All night long the call went out. Carefully we peaked our transmitter to the exact frequency; gently we turned our receivers up and down the band to pick up the answer in case Trigger were a bit off key. All during that long and sleepless night we heard nothing.

The third night was a repetition of the second, except that I spent nearly the whole time in the radio room. At irregular intervals Ed Secard tapped out the unrequited call. His face was inscrutable, his manner natural and precise. But Secard had made many patrols in Trigger, and when the time came for him to be relieved, he waved the man away. Fine beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and a spot of color burned on his youthful cheekbones, but his right hand steadily and precisely pounded the coded call letters over and over again: S 237 V S 420… K… S 237 V S 420… K… S 237 V S 420… K… Trigger from Tirante… I have a message for you… Trigger from Tirante I have a message for you… Trigger from Tirante… Come in please…

A spare set of earphones on my head, I watched the silent instruments as if by sheer concentration I might drag a response from them. Every time I glanced up to the open door of the radio room, there were intent faces staring at me — worried faces, belonging to men I knew well, who said nothing, and did not need to. Once someone handed in two cups of coffee.

There never was any answer, and deep in our hearts, after three nights, that was answer enough. With your surface ships there are always survivors, messages, maybe a bit of wreckage. They always operate together, so there is always someone who can later tell what happened. With submarines there is just the deep, unfathomable silence.

We could visualize the sudden, unexpected catastrophe. Maybe a Kamikaze plane. Maybe a depth charge-a bull’s-eye, after more than four hundred misses. Maybe a torpedo, or a mine, or even — inconceivably — an operational casualty.

In some compartment they may have had a split second to realize that Trigger’s stout size has been breached. The siren screech of the collision alarm. Instantly the angry water takes possession. The shock has startled everyone in other compartments, and the worst is instantly obvious.

Almost immediately she upends. The air pressure increases unbearably. Everything loose or not tightly secured cascades down to the bottom, against what used to be a vertical bulkhead. Some men have hung on where they were, but most are struggling around in indescribable confusion at the bottom of the compartment. Instinctively all eyes turn to the depth gauges and watch as the needles begin their crazy spin. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, they race around the dials. The shallow depth gauges soon travel past their limits; finally jam against their stops on the second go around. The deep-depth gauges and sea-pressure gauges soon afterward reach the limits of their travel. Nothing can be heard except the rush of water, the groaning and creaking of Trigger’s dying body, and the trapped, pounding pulses of the men.

Down, down, down she goes, to who knows what depth, until finally the brave ribs give way, the steel shell collapses, and Trigger’s gallant spirit ascends to the Valhalla of ships, bearing with her the souls of eighty-nine loyal sailors.

I could almost feel it happening, as the morning drew closer. We had decided to dive off Bono Misaki this morning, and finally I had to leave the radio room to plot our position. My heart felt like lead as I stalked out of the tiny hot compartment; a backward glance showed me Secard’s head drooping into shaking hands.

That morning we sank a lugger by gunfire. It had refused to surrender when we fired a shot across his bow. We tried to pick up the survivors, but they dived into the water, and paddled away, clinging to bits of wreckage. It was only about six miles to the mainland of Kyushu, so we let them be and unceremoniously departed.

On the morning of April 6, Tirante dived off Shori To, on the south coast of Korea, and what followed is perhaps best told in the words of the patrol report itself:

The next night we received a message ordering us to proceed to a point off Tsingtao where ships running between China and Japan were reported to pass occasionally. It would take us a full-speed dash to reach the desired spot, but if we went more leisurely we might be out of action for a full extra day. And besides, orders were orders, to be carried out with dispatch. All night long we sped across the Yellow Sea.

The system we had evolved in Tirante was that I stayed up all night, more or less with the ready duty in case of a sudden emergency, and also to navigate. Just before diving, we called the skipper, and shortly afterward I would turn in until time for lunch. This day, however, I felt like a good breakfast, and left a call for 0800.

I ate leisurely and drank two cups of coffee before I began to sense that something was stirring. Then came a subdued clink of the annunciators, a faint whisper of hydraulic oil flow as the rudder went over. The gyro repeater in the wardroom overhead began to spin slowly. After a bit I heard someone in the control room tell someone else that there was pinging on the sound gear. One by one members of the ship’s company began to drift by the wardroom — some one way, some another — but all, I noticed, in the direction of their battle stations. Tirante was girding her loins for battle, and it was time to go.

I gulp down the remains of the coffee, start for the conning tower. Pausing, I tell Roscoe Brown, one of our colored stewards, to call all the officers and tell them well be at battle stations soon.

Ed Campbell, I see, is already on the dive. As I swing onto the ladder leading to the conning tower, I hear the TDC start up. That means that Chub, or Gene Richey, is already there. George is looking through the periscope, and back by the TDC, Chub flashes me a huge, gap-toothed grin. The false tooth is out, which is Chub’s way of getting ready for a fight.

Street is looking intently ahead. “That’s them,” he says, a bit ungrammatically. “Take a look.”

There is a bad mirage effect on the horizon, but I can make out something which must be the mast of a ship, a shimmering something else which could be the tops of another.

“Better put it down again,” says the skipper after a moment. “This mirage effect is tricky. It might look like a telephone pole to them.”

That was something I hadn’t thought of. He continued, “These are the most perfect sound conditions I’ve ever run into. We’ve heard them for nearly an hour before sighting them, and they shouldn’t have any trouble bouncing an echo off us long before we’re ready to shoot. We’re going to have a tough approach and a rough time afterward.”

“Shall I sound battle stations?” I ask him. It is obviously going to be quite a while before we fire torpedoes, but from what I’ve seen below it won’t make much difference whether we sound the general alarm or not. George agrees with me, and the musical notes peal out. As we had expected, there is not a move below decks, but the “manned and ready” reports come through within seconds.

It isn’t long before we can make out enough of the convoy to identify it. Two big ships and three escorts. The biggest looks like a passenger liner, with a long, square superstructure. The other is a freighter type. The three escorts are Mikura class frigates — something like our destroyer escorts. All are zigzagging radically.

The approach is routine, except that we have to give unusual attention to the periscope to avoid being sighted. As the ships draw nearer we can see that both targets are crowded with soldiers, and that the three escorts have lookouts all over their decks. We identify the two big ships as Nikko Maru, an old passenger liner, and Ramb II, a brand-new, foreign-built freighter.

It is getting time to shoot. I check for the third time that all is ready, that the torpedoes need only pressure on the firing key to send them on their way. I watch George narrowly, to anticipate his every need, relay his orders, and receive reports for him. I also ceaselessly look over Chub’s shoulder, and keep current on the tactical situation to have the latest dope for the skipper.

Standby forward, two fish!” suddenly says Street. This is unexpected, and can only mean one thing. We’ve been detected, and one of the escorts is after us.

“Down ’scope. Escort, passing close aboard,” George explains briefly. “I don’t think he’s spotted us. He’s passing now. No signs of having got us on sound?” The last is a question directed at me.

Sonar is on him, and the pings are coming in awfully loud. “How close?” I whisper to the skipper.

“Two hundred yards,” he whispers back. Too close to shoot now. The steady rhythm of his propellers comes strongly through the hull, grows steadily louder for several agonizing moments, then begins to recede. I heave a sigh of relief.

The escort is gone now, and from the setup on the TDC we can see it is time to shoot. George gets back on the periscope. I send to the forward torpedo room — we have no torpedoes left aft — to standby with all six fish.

We wait two minutes. “Up ’scope! Final bearing and shoot!”

“Standby forward,” I order.

“Nikko—bearing — mark!” The ’scope slides down. George nods at me.

“Zero three two!” from Karlesses. Chub turns the target-bearing dial a fraction of a degree. The correct solution light seems to flicker momentarily, then burns bright and steady.

“FIRE!” I shout. Tirante lurches three times.

The periscope is up again. “Ramb,” calls George. “Bearing — mark!”

“Three five seven-a-half.” Chub’s hand is a blur as he spins his bearing crank.

“Range — mark!”

“One six double oh.” Chub doesn’t have the bearing matched yet, so I grab the range crank and set the new range in myself.

“Angle on the bow, starboard 15,” George calls out suddenly. This can’t be right — it should be about forty. “Zig toward,” the skipper adds — which explains that.

Feverishly we set in the new angle on the bow. It seems ages before the TDC catches up.

“Final bearing and shoot! Bearing — mark!”

“Zero zero two!”

“Fire!” Number four torpedo goes out with a jolt.

“Angle on the bow zero!” He hasn’t finished zigzagging. I hold up my hand to stop the next fish. Chub frantically grinds his crank.

“FIRE!” as soon as it is matched.

“Angle on the bow port fifteen!” George is giving us all the dope he can. Furiously Chub spins the little crank.

“FIRE!” Our last torpedo tube is emptied. Street spins the periscope.

“They’ve seen us,” he growls. “Flag hoist on both ships. Probably means ‘sub sighted.’ Ramb has reversed course. Not a chance of hitting him.”

WHRANNG! A tremendous explosion shakes the conning tower. George spins the periscope again.

“Nikko!” he shouts. “Hit aft! Blew his stern off!”

WHRANGG! “Another one! Amidships!”

WHRRANGG! “Three hits! He’s done for! Going down on an even keel! The first hit was in the after well and blew his stern off. The second hit under the stack. The third hit under the forward well and blew his bow off!”

“How about Ramb?” I ask.

“No luck there at all. She’s got clean away.”

“Escorts?”

“Here — they — come! Take her down. Take her down fast!”

Ed Campbell has been waiting for that one. The diving planes go immediately to full dive. Then the sudden increase in pressure telling us that he has flooded negative and vented the tank. We ring up more speed to help him out, and Tirante claws for depth, hoping to get there before the ash cans arrive.

George crosses to the hatch, squats on the deck to speak more easily. “Keep her off the bottom, Ed. We’ve only got two hundred feet. Watch your angle carefully after we’re down — it wouldn’t take much of one to send one end of the ship into the mud.”

At that moment the first depth charge goes off, and it’s a good one. WHAM! our sturdy hull shudders and the piping twangs. WHAM! WHAM! A couple of men lose their footing. WHAM! Still closer. A cloud of cork dust rises into the air. WHAM WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! I have been holding more tightly than I realized to a piece of periscope drainage line in the conning tower overhead. Now I wish I hadn’t — as I massage a tingling hand. George, standing with arms folded and feet spread apart, manages a grin. “That’ll teach you,” he says.

I’m not the only one who has relearned one of the tricks of the trade. The sonar operator is doubled up in agony: he had forgotten to take off his headphones, or at least to tone down his amplifier when the explosions came.

We have a slight respite, then another barrage bangs around us. After this one the skipper sends me through the ship to take stock of the situation and cheer up the lads. The latter part is a hard assignment. This is by no means the first time I’ve heard close depth charges, and Tirante, besides being brand-new, is a whole lot more rugged in design than Trigger was. But after all, it takes only one bull’s-eye — and Triggers disappearance is fresh in my mind.

Throughout the ship, however, all hands are taking the beating stoically and with confidence. Despite the nerve-racking pounding, the tremendous noises of the separate explosions, the trip-hammer blows of the concussions themselves, they go quietly about their business. The experienced submarine sailors, by their example, leaven the reactions of those youngsters on their first patrol. In chief petty officers’ quarters I come upon the ultimate in calmness. Remley, Chief of the Boat, on watch for many hours, had been sent by Ed Campbell to get some rest. He is carrying out orders, sound asleep on his bunk. The effect on the rest of the sailors is terrific.

As I look at him, another saintly series of close explosions shakes the ship, adding more dust and debris to that already strewn about the decks. Remley’s eyelids flicker, then relax once more, and I walk gently away.

But it is in the forward torpedo room that I find the most remarkable reaction to a depth charging. Everyone is going about with a broad smile which somehow belies the strained look around the eyes. It seems that our Korean prisoners had been helping mule-haul the big torpedoes in and out of the tubes. Our men had told them, by sign language, that the torpedoes were meant for the Nips and this seemed to please them mightily, especially a few hours ago, when six fish had been hauled part way out, checked, and pushed back into their tubes. There had been many ribald gestures depicting what they hoped these fish would do to the Japs, and the Koreans had cheered for each one when it was fired.

When the hits came in, there had been more cheers which, so far as the Koreans were concerned, continued indiscriminately well into the first barrage of depth charges. The amusement was over the antics of the prisoners when they realized that there had been only six torpedoes but that there were many more than six explosions.

This much of the story I get between attacks, but the Koreans are nowhere to be seen, until a quivering canvas cot, rigged under an empty torpedo rack, is pointed out. Moans come softly from a blanket draped over it. I lift up one end, and there is one of our Korean friends, hands clasped over his head, eyeballs rolling, moaning away.

Back in the conning tower I report everything normal, and receive the welcome news that we now have three ships working on us.

Street and I hold a small council of war. The time seems propitious to spring our surprise on the enemy. In the after torpedo room, covered with a tarpaulin, we have a little half-pint torpedo which, for want of a better name, goes by that of “Cutie.” Cutie is an affectionate little fellow, always wanting to nuzzle up to fellows bigger than he is. His attentions are not very popular, however, as they are apt to terminate violently. Cutie is a homing torpedo.

“I’ve already told the after room to load it,” says George. “Go on back with Chub and be sure they don’t make any noise.” I hurry away, for it’s important to carry out this job quietly. Running silent as we are, the sound of chain hoists must not be permitted to get out into the water. Enemy tactics for a single ship attacking a submarine are usually to ping. With two ships they will alternately listen and echo-range, but with three there is always one listening.

Back in the conning tower once more, “We’ve got to wait till one of them makes another run on us,” says the skipper. “Cutie hasn’t much range and we’ve got to give the little fellow a chance to reach his target.”

We do more than that. We take two runs in succession before there comes one to George’s liking. Then, speaking softly over the phones, we give the order to let Cutie go.

Minutes pass. We had fired the little fish in the middle of a depth-charge run. Could it work its way through the roaring explosions? Would not its mechanism be damaged by the concussions which managed so to shake Tirante’s tough hide? We listen with growing impatience.

BANG! One tin can’s screws stop abruptly. A subdued cheer rings out in Tirante’s conning tower — subdued, because there are still two others up there. And then, over the sound gear, comes the most eerie sound either George Street or I have ever heard. Distinctly audible in the receiver is the sound of voices in distress. We cannot make out what they are crying: they do not sound American, but they are obviously screaming in terror. The only explanation is that the Jap was nearly overhead when hit, and that the cries of his personnel were carried through the water. In sound tests conducted in training I had heard the human voice transmitted in this way, but this is the first time, so far as we know, of such an instance in combat.

In a few moments the other two escorts are back at us. Trembling and shuddering under the successive concussions, Tirante works her way toward deeper water, wishing that she had two more Cuties, that there were some way of striking back at her tormentors.

“Ned,” says the skipper suddenly, “it looks as though this will be a busy night for you, keeping out of the way of these fellows. No doubt they’ll expect us to surface after nightfall, and have some kind of search plan to find us. I can handle things right now. You go below and get some rest.” So saying, he gives me a winning smile and a shove toward the hatch.

“I’m not tired, sir,” I start to say, realizing all at once that I am.

“Goddamit, Ned, that’s an order! I want you fresh tonight!”

While undergoing depth-charge attack it is customary to secure unnecessary personnel, partly to make it easier on those who still must stay on duty, and partly to conserve oxygen by reducing the activity of the others. Besides, I had been up all night and most of the previous day, and as George said, would have a full night again. So rationalizing to myself, I climbed down from the conning tower and headed forward. When I reached the wardroom, an idea came to mind.

Seated there were all the officers who had already been secured — by coincidence the group included several who were on their first patrol. It was a tense bunch. There was not a thing any of them could do to help matters, which made things just that much worse. The game had degenerated into a contest between our skipper and the two tin can skippers, with an undetermined factor — how well the Portsmouth Navy Yard could build a submarine hull — in the balance.

Just as I arrived the screws of one of the enemy vessels became suddenly very audible, right through the thick steel hull. Someone said, “Here we come again.”

Another voice, “We can’t keep this up forever. Wonder how long our battery can hold out?”

I waited to hear no more. Stepping in, I announced that I had been up all night, and meant to get some sleep, and suggested that some of them do the same. The statement caught them by surprise — evidently they had not seen Remley.

The first of four close ones caught us as I climbed into my bunk, but resolutely I got in and lay there. With my head alongside the skin of the ship I could clearly hear the propeller beats, and knew when to expect the charges. I turned my face to the bulkhead so that no one would see my eyelids quiver, and forced myself to lie still.

I felt cold, The heat of my body was going right out into the Yellow Sea. It was warm within the ship, too warm, but the cold sea was sapping the heat right out of us. I realized that I was shivering, and then I realized it was mainly because I was afraid.

In the distance the swish-swish-swish-swish-swish of the propellers belonging to the chap who had dropped the last load took on a new note. At first it seemed that he was turning for a new run; but then another set increased in intensity, while those of the first remained steady.

Swish-swish-swish-swish-swish-swish-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISHSWISHSWISHSWISH—He must be right over us now — listen to that son of a bitch come—SWISHSWISHSWISHSWISH. Drop, you bastard! Drop your… sonsabitching charges! Drop and be God damned to hell! SWISHSWISHSWISHSWISHSWISHSWISHSWISH SWISHSWISHclickclickclick Here they come here they come here they come here they come! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

My pillow is wet beneath my face, and I can feel my mind reach deep into slumber with the relaxation of tension. But it is wide awake again for the next run, and the next, and the next.

And then, somehow, the explosions seemed to lose some of their authority, seemed to draw away from us, and I slept.

The dearth of night traffic across the Yellow Sea was almost sure proof that the enemy was anchoring somewhere. We had investigated all such anchorages within reach. This one, though rather difficult to approach because of the necessity first to negotiate a long, narrow channel, looked as though it might be interesting for the same reason.

We decided that going into the anchorage at night, when the enemy, if present, would presumably have his guard most relaxed and be least ready to retaliate, presented the most alluring proposition. There was a large mine field off the general vicinity of the anchorage, but we knew its approximate dimensions and location — shaped roughly like the state of Nevada — between Quelpart and the Korean coast. We planned to slip between it and the shore of Quelpart, staying as close as possible to the land so that Nip radars would find it difficult to distinguish our pip from those of the beach.

Shortly after dusk on the night of April 13 the lean gray form of Tirante swam to the surface and silently headed toward the western tip of Quelpart. The plan of action had been explained to the crew, and a special dinner prepared for the occasion, with sandwiches laid on for later.

As soon as we had surfaced, of course, the crew’s entertainment radio was connected to an antenna, and several of us were listening to it when mention was made of “President Truman.” An electric tremor ran through the entire ship’s company, and this was how we learned of our country’s loss. All during our long approach to battle we gleaned bits of information from broadcasters who assumed that the whole world already possessed all the facts. Even when the skipper said a few words about it on the ship’s general announcing system, we listened avidly, as though from some occult source he had additional information to impart.

It was something more than thirty miles up the channel between the coast of Quelpart and the mine field, and we had to make full speed all the way to carry out our schedule. Our radar continually swept to seaward to forewarn of the approach of enemy craft — in case the Japs had left a passage through the field for just this purpose — but concentrated ahead and astern. Most of the time I spent on the bridge, trying to compare our charts with what I could actually see, hoping to be able to spot hidden danger in time to avoid it. Chub stood at the TDC, assisting my navigation. George was ceaselessly climbing through the ship, talking to men in every compartment, explaining what we were up to, seeing for himself that every detail was in readiness.

For two hours we sped northeastward along the coast. The roar of our diesels came back to us from the dark hills. The night was pitch black. No moon. A thick overcast hung high over the silent land, stretching like a huge tent ahead, to port and astern, and the air had a musty tang with a suspicion of burning driftwood. There was a slight chop to the sea, but only an occasional wave broke high enough to dampen Tirante’s wood-slotted decks.

George Street came to the bridge. “How about it, Ned? We think we have the harbor on the radar now. Too far to spot any ships, though. How well do you think you can see?”

I could see the shore line off to starboard, lighter in color than the hills which rose behind it, or the sky and water in other directions. Beyond that I could see nothing.

“About six miles to go. We’re all set below. How’s the time?” the skipper asked.

“We’re a bit ahead of schedule, but that’s all to the good, Captain. What’s this patrol boat doing?” I couldn’t help wondering about him, although in our planned division of responsibilities this was entirely the skipper’s worry, not mine.

“He’s patrolling to seaward of us, fairly well out. I don’t think he suspects anything. Chub has been following him ever since we picked him up.”

“That makes two tin cans patrolling off this harbor,” I mused. “Maybe there’s somebody in this one.”

“I’m beginning to think so too. These chaps don’t look like ocean-going escorts. If they patrol offshore, there ought to be something there.”

George leaned over the conning tower hatch and ordered the general alarm to be sounded.

It was like poking your head into a cave on a dark night. Up ahead, where the harbor was, it seemed a little darker than elsewhere. The misty gray atmosphere of early morning seemed just a shade lighter than it had been. On our port bow I could see the bulky outline of the rocky island off the coast of Quelpart which formed the left side of the anchorage. Twice, dim on the port beam, I thought I could see a low-lying black shape. Dead ahead, where ships should be, if there were any, nothing could be seen. Radar could not be sure of ships, although there were certain outstanding possibilities among the confused jumble of the shore return. I could feel, rather than see, the presence of two or more dark spots in the atmosphere, with the suggestion of masts and stacks above them.

We pressed in more closely. The fathometer gave seven fathoms. Forty-two feet; not enough to cover the ship. Radar range to the islet was just over half a mile. Still no ships could be distinguished.

Doubts began to assail us. Maybe this whole thing was a wild-goose chase. Maybe this anchorage, like all the rest, was also empty. But if so, how explain two harbor patrols?

It was a relief to get into deeper water again. Non-divable water is murder, for it robs the submarine of her armor, her invisibility, and her haven all at once. We kept outside the ten-fathom curve going around the islet. We ran until we were due north of the harbor, then headed south.

This is the first confirmation, other than my imagination, that there really are ships there. A load lightens. Whatever we manage to do about it, at least this has not been a wild-goose chase. Tirante glides into the harbor. Now we have the tall hills of Quelpart to port and the little island outside the anchorage to starboard. It is a bit lighter than before; the moon is now up. First light is still about an hour away.

Then, coming suddenly into view, I can see ships at last.

“Targets!” I bawl into the ship’s announcing system. I can feel Tirante draw herself up. Dead quiet from below decks. I can sense the rumble of the hydraulic plant accumulator, the hiss of high-pressure air as the torpedomen check their impulse bottles. Water laps gently alongside, and the ship rocks slightly in the onshore current. Back aft, the four diesels purr softly, idling, and a small stream of water spatters out of their four muffler exhaust pipes.

I clean off the TBT binoculars with a piece of lens paper. “Standby for a TBT bearing,” I shout into the announcing speaker.

“All back two thirds!” I hear George order from the conning tower. “All stop!” a moment later. This, by prearrangement, is to be done just before firing. Having got this far, we want to get off our fish with the utmost deliberation.

Tirante lies dead in the water, every nerve keyed, every sense at its highest pitch. Six thumps in quick succession from up forward tell me that the outer doors of the torpedo tubes have been opened; that six deadly bronze warheads need only the word from George to be on their way.

“Bearing!” from the bridge speaker. My cross hair is bisecting the middle of the biggest target. I squeeze the right handle of the TBT, thus giving the “mark” to Chub on the TDC.

“Fire!” from the conning tower. A few seconds later a streak of white bubbles comes to the surface, heading straight for the enemy ship.

Someone has joined me alongside the TBT. George. Both of us stare along the rapidly extending wake. Ed Campbell and the quartermaster add their binoculars to the watch. The streak of bubbles appears to curve slightly to the right. Current! The reverse of what we are experiencing from where we lie!

“Torpedo should be hitting now,” says George.

But nothing happens. We wait longer. Can this have been a defective fish also? My God, I thought we were through with them! Admiral Lockwood personally assured the Force that they were now as perfect as they could be made.

Suddenly there is a flash of red-orange flame far up ahead. The location of the explosion proves that the torpedo functioned perfectly, and exploded when it hit the beach after missing to the right.

(It was nice of George to put that in the patrol report. Just like him, too.)

On the bridge, the only persons who could not look at the fires we had left astern were Spence and the other three battle lookouts. Four of the most experienced sailors in the crew, selected for their steadiness, night vision, and marksmanship with the forty-millimeter guns, they made up a special lookout watch section who came on watch when action appeared imminent. As the harbor patrol increased speed and headed into the anchorage to see what had happened, and we raced away into the night, he was under the cold surveillance of Spence and his gang the whole time.

Once more we slipped along the shore, watching the patrol craft narrowly. A third frigate could be seen, but he did not come out after us. So we just ran down the coast of Quelpart, headed for the open sea, and transmitted results of attack to submarines in the area so they could avoid the antisubmarine measures certain to come.

For several hours that day we labored over the message which we were to send to ComSubPac that night. There was much that had to be told, in addition to the results of the night’s work. And besides, we now for the first time had the leisure to evaluate the passing of the man who had guided our country’s destinies for twelve years. The message, when we finally sent it, read:

We had actually gotten a boathook twisted inside this fellow’s life jacket and were hauling him aboard when he broke free. Maneuvering a three-hundred-foot ship sideways is rather a difficult operation, so we had to watch him drown before our eyes. Ensign Buck Dietzen’s comment was perhaps the most appropriate epitaph: “The poor, stupid bastard!”

We found nothing much of value in the pockets of either of the men we rescued except, perhaps, the notebooks which all Japs apparently carried. These were impounded for delivery upon arrival in port.

It took us nine days to reach Midway. During that time we let our Koreans repay a few old scores by making it obvious that they rated higher than the Japanese. The Korean with the wounded arm was placed in charge of the head-cleaning detail, a chore which our crew naturally hated, and the Jap pilot was placed under him. Since he had no rank insignia or identifying marks, and made no attempt to identify himself as an officer, we had no worries about the Geneva Convention as far as this fellow was concerned. Once the Korean realized what we wanted of him, the crew’s head was kept nearly spotless. The Korean inspected it at least half-a-dozen-times a day. Whenever it showed the least need of cleaning, his broad leathery face would light up, and he would hie himself off in search of his Jap working party.

Shortly before we reached Midway I presented each Korean with ten new one-dollar bills, which we hoped would alleviate to some extent their prison-camp existence. The Japs, of course, received nothing.

A huge crowd, including several movie cameramen, awaited Tirante when she moored alongside the dock at Midway. Several crates of fresh fruit were waiting on the dock for us, along with ten gallons of ice cream — which we didn’t need because Tirante too had her own ice-cream making equipment — and that most desired thing of all, mail from home. A band broke into “Anchors Aweigh” as the first line hit the dock — singularly inappropriately, I thought — and played the tune lustily as we warped our ship alongside. Then it let us have “There’s a Long, Long Trail A-Winding,” which seemed to suit the occasion better.

I dived into a packet of letters, immediately oblivious to everything else. Those from my wife I hurriedly shuffled until I found the latest one, which I immediately opened and read. All was well at home; I stuffed them into a pocket for more private and leisurely perusal. An official-looking missive next drew my attention: I was detached from Tirante, and from such other duties as might have been assigned to me, to report to Submarine Division 322 awaiting the arrival of USS Piper. Upon return of the Piper from patrol I was to report to her commanding officer as his relief.

The band was on “Dixie” as I realized that although my ambitions to have a command of my own were at last to come true, I would have to leave the magnificent fighting machine on whose decks I stood and the wonderful crew of submariners which I had had a hand in shaping.

“Swannie River” was playing as a natty marine captain saluted, then touched my arm to break the spell. I hastily returned the salute, the movement rusty from long disuse. “I’ve come for your prisoners,” he stated. I pointed to the nearest hatch, just opening for the fifth time in as many minutes. Movie cameras perched all about it ground away solemnly as the Jap pilot, blindfolded, wearily climbed up for the fifth time and stood, swaying slightly, on its edge. Another salute, and the marine marched forward to claim his charge. Little did he know what he was in for, I thought, as the cameramen turned their machines on him with delight.

Ralph Pleatman, shocking black hair, smooth rosy complexion, hard as nails, approached with his hand held out. “Congratulations on your patrol,” he said. “You and George have called out the biggest celebration I’ve seen yet on this damned island. Have you heard about your old ship?”

Hope flooded through me. “No. What is it?” Maybe, after all, there was some other explanation for her non-appearance a month ago — maybe she was all right after all…

“Awfully sorry, Ned. She’s three weeks overdue. We’ve turned her in as overdue and presumed lost!” Ralph’s sorrow was genuine, and I knew why he felt he had to bring Trigger up at this moment. He himself had survived Pompano in exactly the same circumstances, and Dave Connole, one of his shipmates then, had also.

“Oh,” was all I could think of saying.

All this time George Street had been surrounded by a group of the biggest brass of Midway Island — not that anybody higher than a Captain in the Navy ever managed to get shunted away in this spot — and now he broke away, beckoned to me.

“Ned,” he said, “The Commodore has invited me to his quarters for dinner tonight. He’s got a big party on for us, and wants you to come too.”

I knew where the Commodore had got the idea of including me, but that didn’t alter the anticipation of a big party with all the trimmings. “Swell,” I said.

The band was playing, “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” which — even for Midway — could be true.