Submarine!

by Edward L. Beach

  For the second time I sensed a quick, live spirit in the Trigger. It seemed as though she responded just a little more when the chips were down.

  It wasn’t until several days later that we learned the Japs had been thoroughly beaten the day before, and what was left of their fleet had been in headlong flight.

  Although we knew Trigger had a gaping hole in number one ballast tank, we remained on patrol for a few days, in case some Jap ships might still be around. Finally we returned to Pearl for repairs, and after dry-docking we started the training period we should have had when we first arrived.

  The Grunion had just arrived from New London, and she and Trigger went through their training together. My classmate and close friend, Willy Kornahrens, whose wedding I had attended in New London a few months before, was aboard Grunion. And when Trigger set forth on her first patrol, bound for Attu, Grunion followed a few days later. When she reached Attu, we were shifted to Kiska, and then after about a week Grunion and Trigger exchanged areas.

  As we were heading back to Attu, we sighted a submarine and instantly submerged. The other submarine must have dived also; Captain Lewis couldn’t see her through our periscope.

  We could not be sure whether it was a Jap submarine or Grunion, and I made a mental note to ask Willy next time I saw him. It’s one of the things I shall never find out. A week later we intercepted a message from Grunion, which I decoded out of curiosity:

  FROM GRUNION X ATTACKED TWO DESTROYERS OFF KISKA HARBOR X NIGHT PERISCOPE SUBMERGED X RESULTS INDEFINITE BELIEVE ONE SANK ONE DAMAGED X MINOR DAMAGE FROM COUNTERATTACK TWO HOURS LATER X ALL TORPEDOES EXPENDED AFT . . . and then the message, which until that moment had decoded perfectly, turned into an unintelligible jumble.

  Grunion was never heard from again. For several days we intercepted messages addressed to her, but she never acknowledged any of them.

  Years later I read an account of an interview with a Japanese submarine skipper, now master of an American-owned merchant ship operating out of Yokohama. As skipper of the 1-25 he had made three patrols from Japan to California. On one return trip, when passing the Aleutians, he had torpedoed a surfaced submarine. The date he gave was July 30, 1942, which tallied exactly with our interception of Grunion’s last transmission.

  We sank no ships on this first patrol, and returned to Pearl Harbor for reassignment. Upon our arrival Captain Lewis was hospitalized with pneumonia, and Lieutenant Commander Roy Benson, irreverently known as “Pigboat Benny” during his days on the Naval Academy faculty, took command of Trigger.

  It took Trigger a long time to develop her personality. I felt the impact of her rowdy, brawling, fierce spirit a third and fourth time, and after that it was as if we had always been together. In a way, I suppose, I became a sort of slave to her rather terrifying presence, but she gave me far more than she received.

  That third time was when I watched her first ship sink, and heard her snarl. It was on her second patrol.

  A day or so after arriving off the eastern coast of Kyushu, the southernmost island of Japan, shortly after 0100, we sighted a large black shadow, blacker than the night. A few true bearings indicated that the shadow moved, and we knew it for what it was—a cloud of smoke from the funnel of a ship. So we commenced to close this unwary fellow, went to battle stations, and soon made out the silhouette of a moderate-sized freighter. Although he was darkened, Captain Benson and I could see him plainly from the bridge at about four thousand yards’ range. He was steaming along steadily, puffing out a fair-sized cloud of dense black smoke, with not so much as a hint of a zigzag, or of having sighted us.

  Here was one of the reasons for American supremacy over the Jap whenever they met. Undeniably, our low black hull was harder to see than the lofty-sided merchantman, but nevertheless he was so plainly visible that his inability to see us was then, and continued to be, astounding. We turned Triggers bow toward him, and ghosted in, presenting at all times the minimum possible silhouette.

  He sees nothing, steams blindly and confidently along. Closer and closer we draw. Make ready the bow tubes! Estimated range, 1,500 yards. Track, ninety starboard. Gyro angle, five left. Standby! He’s coming on—coming on—Fire One! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Fire Two!

  Two white streaks leave the bow and, diverging slightly, arrow for the point ahead of the freighter where our calculations say he will be at the instant the torpedoes get there. This is the longest minute in the world. Depending on the range, of course, the torpedoes must travel about a minute before they reach a target, and during that minute a target making 15 knots goes 500 yards, or a quarter of a nautical mile. Few ships are as long as 150 yards.

  So we watched our two white streaks of bubbles. “Torpedoes running all right, looks good!” Suddenly we are galvanized into action. If those torpedoes stop the target, on our present course we will run right into him! If they miss, he’ll be sure to see us passing so close under his stern and make a follow-up shot immeasurably more difficult by radical maneuvers, to say the least. Besides, he might happen to have a well-trained armed guard aboard.

  Left full rudder! All ahead full! Trigger’s bow commences to swing left as she gathers speed. The ship is just crossing in front of the torpedo wakes now. Will they get there or will he skin by? All hands on the Triggers bridge watch tensely. Let’s go—what’s wrong with those torpedoes?

  Wham! . . . Wham! Two perfect geysers of water rise alongside the freighter’s bow. Almost immediately he slows down, his bow sinks deep, his stern rises. Lights flash on and off about the decks. A cloud of smoke and escaping steam envelops his bridge and center section. Some hardy soul finally unlimbers a gun on the stern and shoots about wildly.

  Trigger slid past the now-stopped and crazily canted stem, at a distance of about two hundred yards, and that’s when I heard her snarl. All right, it was just the rumble of the hydraulic plant, or the echo of the diesel exhaust returning from the hull alongside—so say you land lovers. I know better. She snarled a message of hatred for all things Japanese, and a warning that this was but the beginning.

  We circled slowly about half a mile away, waiting for our victim to sink, debating the advisability of hitting him again. Morning twilight began to seep in from the east, softening the darkness into a musty, unhealthy greenishness, tinged with the dampness of the unhappy sea. Two lifeboats were in the water, long oars sticking out in every direction, the round black heads of their crews bobbing jerkily back and forth as they frantically plied their oars—and caught innumerable crabs.

  They were ludicrous and pathetic, but we felt no pity. Only twenty miles from land, these fellows would probably cause trouble for us when they got ashore. Besides, well we knew what had happened to certain of our people who had fallen into the clutches of the Jap. Why shouldn’t we sink the two boats and make sure there was no one to tell the tale? But of course, we couldn’t.

  So we circled, and our target, still barely under way, also circled, bow now at the water’s edge. Suddenly a cry, “He’s going!” Slowly at first, irresistibly, then more quickly, his bow plunged down and his stern swooped into the air, until he was straight up and down in the water, his long, dusty stack flat on the greedy, splashing sea. The old-fashioned counter stern, crude square rudder, and massive propeller, still slowly revolving, hung high above us, dripping and gleaming. Loud rumblings and crashing noises—his cargo tearing loose from its stowage and falling through the forward bulkheads—came loudly to us as we stared from the bridge of the Trigger. He dipped a little lower, the stack disappeared, and the great steel fabric began to swing back and forth, about ten degrees from the vertical. Then, as though in the grip of some playful Gargantuan monster, the hull commenced to lurch, and twice spun completely around, accompanied by squeaks and groans of tortured steel and a bewildered cacophony of internal crashings and hangings. Still lower he sank, till only his propeller and after deckhouse were out of water. At this juncture some shred of lost dignity returned, the lurches
ceased, the stern remained momentarily poised about fifty feet in the air, and then quietly, without fuss, slipped swiftly beneath the sea.

  Just as the stern disappeared we heard a loud explosion and felt a heavy shock through the water. Evidently his boilers had finally exploded. The water boiled a bit as the tip of the wreck went down, and then, as if to eradicate all signs of the tragedy, hurled itself from all directions upon the cavity suddenly formed in its midst. It met itself in the middle of the whirlpool and, having overdone its enthusiasm, unavoidably bunched up, forming an idiotic topknot surmounted by a little plume of smoke, to mark the grave.

  Dawn was approaching so we dived.

  The next night we surfaced even closer to the shore near the Bungo Suido, the southern entrance to the Inland Sea, hoping for another contact. We got one almost immediately.

  “Object bearing zero eight zero!” from a lookout. We look, and there against the gloomy hills flanking the Bungo Suido we see a peculiar white V. No radar in these early days.

  “What is it? Can you make it out?”

  “No, sir. It looks mighty funny, though!” The V gets bigger.

  “What in the Sam Hill——?”

  The explanation, when it hits, is blinding. “My God! A destroyer—coming right at us!”

  “Clear the bridge!” “Dive! Dive!” The diving alarm sounds. “All ahead emergency! Two hundred feet! Rig for depth charge! Rig for silent running!” Down we go, but with maddening slowness. Trigger, in common with her sisters, always “hangs” on a dive at about thirty-five feet. Full dive on every thing, making emergency speed, we can do no more.

  We can hear it now. A throb, throb, throbbing noise coming from outside the hull, steadily and rapidly increasing in volume—thum, thum, thum, THUM, THUM, THUM, THUM, THUM! Only one thing it can be! Pray we can get under! Shut all watertight doors and bulkhead flappers, secure all unessential machinery. “What’s the depth now?” “Thirty-six feet.” Will she ever break through? All hands are out of their bunks, all officers in the control room, startled by this unexpected dive.

  “What is it? What is it?” Then they hear this horrible drumming noise, THUM, THUM, THUM, THUM, look at the depth gauges, and fall silent.

  Forty feet. She’s going through at last. Fifty feet. We’re under! And not a split second too soon, for the drumming at that moment increases to an unbearable pitch, resounding through Triggers thick hull until all other noise is drowned out, and thinking is frozen in the hypnotic rhythm which rises to an incredible, screaming, maddening horror of sound that stops the heartbeat, then abruptly drops in tone, continues loud, but evidently dimishing now.

  We look at each other and smile weakly. Click . . . WHAM! swish! click, WHAM! swish! click—WHAM-WHAM—WHAM! swish swish swish. We knew that was coming. This little evening is just starting. These are the first Japanese depth charges we’ve heard, but we knew what they’d sound like. First the click, as the first concussion wave hits you. Then the noise of the explosion, and afterward a prolonged swishing of water through your superstructure. The length of time between the “click” and the “wham” is a rough measure of the distance of the depth charge. If the click and explosion come close together, he’s getting warm. If they come almost simultaneously, he’s hot.

  Trigger was strong and ruggedly built, but the shock of the exploding depth charges shook her sturdy hull as though it were made of light sheet metal. The noise was as if a giant were swinging a thousand-pound sledge hammer time after time against her side. We inside were flung about by each succeeding shock, until we hit upon the idea of not leaning heavily upon any piece of gear secured to the ship. With each charge the whole hull whipped, the great steel frames bent, and piping, ventilation lines, and other internal gear set up a strong sympathetic vibration, until we thought they would fall off the bulkheads and overhead. We had something new—light bulbs separated from the overhead light fixtures by two-inch pieces of insulated wire—hence few bulbs were broken although they danced around crazily. Broken bits of cork and dust flew through the air and carpeted the deck. With ventilation and air conditioning secured, the temperature shot up to 120 degrees, and all hands began to shed clothes; our uniform became sandals and skivvy-shorts with towels or rags flung around our necks.

  Leveling off at sixty feet, finding we had successfully withstood the initial salvo of depth charges, “He can’t get away with this!” Benson said. “We have tubes full of fish. We can play rough too!” So began one of the war’s strange battles. Since he had only moonlight, the enemy destroyer could probably not see our periscope, but it was light enough to see him through it.

  Battle stations! We’ll fix this bastard! He has contact on us by sound. We’ll have to wait him out, wait till he lines himself up for a shot. Up periscope. Bearing 045. Angle on the bow five starboard. Oh, oh! He’s starting a run. Pass astern this time, but close. No chance to shoot. Here he comes! Hang on! click—WHAM swish-swish-swish, click—WHAM swish, WHAM, WHAM, WHAM, WHAM! swish, swish, swish, swish, swish! Trigger shivers and reels from the pounding, but all still seems well. Check through the boat. Report all damage. Now is the time to find out if, indeed, she is “well and truly built.” One area in the after end of the forward engine room seems to be the center of shock effect. When you stand there on the deck plates each explosion throws you a foot into the air. A weak spot? Hope not, but we’ll soon find out.

  Back in the conning tower. Bearing 285, range 1,500, angle on the bow zero. Here he comes! Still no shot. Down periscope! Coming right overhead this time. The fast Thum—Thum thum of his screws is the same as before. Here it is! WHAM—WHAM—WHAM—WHAM—WHAM! Really close that time! Locker doors burst open to strew their contents on the decks running with human perspiration. One man gets sick and vomits into a slop bucket, but the bucket overturns and the slop gets all over its sides and on the deck. Someone throws a rag on the mess on deck, leaves it. A valve wheel flies off a gauge in the conning tower, bounces twice on the deck plates, ringing fantastically loud in the silence between charges, then drops into the periscope well, ringing as it caroms off the steel sides of the well until it splashes into the bilge water at the bottom. A hoarse whisper more like a cry from below, “Pump room’s flooding!” We stare at one another, aghast. “How bad?” Penrod Schneider, our Executive Officer, dives down the pump room hatch. It must not be too bad—water hasn’t welled out of that hatch yet. It never does. “Grease fitting in negative tank flood valve operating gear carried away, sir. We put a plug in it. Not much water come in.” The speaker is covered with grease, sweat, and salt water. He glares indignantly. Somebody got excited down below, panicked. Evidently not this guy. “Very well,” says the skipper.

  “Screws slowing down bearing zero seven zero,” says the sound man.

  “Up periscope! Yes, he’s turning. Bearing—mark!—zero six five. Angle on the bow ninety port. Range, two oh double oh. As soon as he swings toward us, we’ll swing toward him, let him have a whole salvo, set shallow, down the throat! Bearing—mark!—zero two five. Angle on the bow thirty port. He’s swinging toward. Right full rudder, port ahead full. Steady on one six five. . . . All ahead one third. Where is he, Sound? Keep the sound bearing coming!”

  “Zero one zero, screws speeding up. Shifting to short scale!”

  “Standby forward! I see him! Bearing, zero zero seven-a-half, range, one two double oh, angle on the bow five port. Here he comes again. Bearing, zero zero seven. Bearing, zero zero six-a-half. Gyro angles, one right. Standby—zero zero six—five-a-half—Fire ONE! Fire TWO! Fire THREE! Fire FOUR!”

  “Forward room reports all torpedoes fired electrically, sir.”

  “Torpedoes running on zero zero zero, sir. Merging with target’s screws.”

  WHAM! WHAM! We look around unbelievingly. Can those have been hits? Impossible. Prematures!

  What about the other two? Thirty seconds. Any time now. Thirty-five seconds. Forty seconds. Forty-five seconds. Oh, God! We’ve missed!

  “He’s see
n the fish! He’s turning away! That explosion dead ahead must have worried him, anyway. We’ve spoiled this run for him. Here’s a sixty-starboard angle on the bow. Chance for another shot! Bearing zero zero five. Standby forward! Bearing zero one zero. Gyro forty right. Standby . . . fire FIVE! Fire SIX!”

  But we hear no explosions even though we see one torpedo pass directly beneath him.

  “Take her deep, boys. We’re dry forward now, and there’s nothing else to do.”

  Down we go and prepare for a bearing.

  We got it, too, but after a while the Jap went away, and a little later so did we. No doubt he enthusiastically reported destruction of one United States submarine—for a night or two later Tokyo Rose said she regretted to inform all American submarines that off the Bungo Suido one of their number had recently fallen victim to a destroyer of the Imperial Japanese Navy. And then she played a recording of “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep!”

  Plagued with more bad fish, we sank one other ship, a large tanker, and damaged still another before running out of torpedoes and having to return to Pearl Harbor. There we found to our dismay that since we had not seen our tanker sink, we could not get credit for him. We vowed that we would not make this mistake again!

  From December 7, 1941, until the end of the war, our undersea fleet operated in strictest secrecy, which resulted in the well-deserved sobriquet—the “Silent Service.” Concealment of results of submarine operations was intended to keep from the enemy knowledge of what we were doing, how it was accomplished, and who was responsible. Consequently, it was not until the end of the war that the full extent of our submarine campaign became known to the people of the United States. Only recently has it been appreciated that although we never had as many submarines as the Germans, ship for ship and man for man the United States Submarine Force was the more effective.