Submarine!

by Edward L. Beach

  “Set.”

  “Fire.” Harder shudders for the third time as a torpedo is ejected.

  There is no time to waste looking around. Not even time to try to identify the source of the extra set of screws on the starboard beam.

  “Take her down! All ahead full! Right full rudder.” If the torpedoes miss, Harder will have two minutes to gain depth before the destroyer is on top of her.

  Lynch has a stop watch in his hand. Logan is intently watching the face of his TDC, where a timer dial is whirling around.

  The suspense is unbearable. Harder has already tilted her nose down and is heading for the protection of the depths at full speed, but she has not, of course moved very far yet.

  “How long?”

  “Forty-five seconds, Captain! Should be hitting any second now!”

  “Fifty seconds!” You’d think Logan was timing a track meet.

  “Fifty-five seconds!” And precisely as the words are uttered there is a terrific detonation. One torpedo has struck home.

  “Sixty seconds!” Logan is still unperturbed. At that instant another terrific explosion rocks the submarine.

  Two hits for three fish. Dealey smiles a tight smile of exultation. That’s one son of heaven who won’t be bothering anyone for a while.

  But there is no time to indulge in backslapping. Harder has reached only eighty feet in her plunge downward and is passing right beneath the destroyer. This is an excellent move, for it will confuse and interfere with the author of that other set of propellers. However, Dealey has not reckoned with the tremendous effect of his torpedoes. Just as the submarine arrives beneath the enemy ship there is the most deafening, prolonged series of rumblings and explosions anyone on board has ever heard. Either the enemy’s boilers or his magazines have exploded. In fact, the noise and shock are so terrific that quite possibly both boilers and magazines have gone off together.

  But this merry afternoon is just starting, for the other set of propeller beats now joins in the game and proceeds to hand out a goodly barrage of depth charges as Harder still seeks the shelter of deep depths. He has evidently radioed for help also, and it isn’t long before Sam Dealey is able to distinguish a different sort of explosion amid the rain of depth charges. Aircraft! And soon after, two more ships also join the fray. For a couple of hours numerous depth charges and bombs were heard and felt, but, in the words of Harder’s skipper, “no one was interested in numerical accuracy at that time.”

  Some hours later, after darkness had set in, the submarine surfaced. In the distance astern a single lighted buoy burned, marking the location where the fifth Japanese destroyer in four days had been sunk by this one sharpshooting submarine.

  Of the beating he had taken, Sam Dealey, characteristically, said very little. One paragraph in his patrol report merely stated: “It is amazing that the ship could have gone through such a terrific pounding and jolting around with such minor damage. Our fervent thanks go out to the Electric Boat Company for building such a fine ship.”

  However laconic and matter-of-fact Sam Dealey may have been about the patrol just completed, our own Submarine Force Commander and indeed the Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in the area recognized an outstanding job when they saw one. They had one advantage over Dealey, in addition to the latter’s natural unassuming modesty. They had been sitting on the side lines, reading the dispatches and noting the Japanese reaction. Reports had come from all sides, wondering what the Americans had turned loose off Tawi Tawi. The Jap radio had blared unceasingly that a submarine task force of unprecedented magnitude had been operating off that fleet base, that several submarines had been sunk, but that they had, of course, themselves sustained some losses. Each time a submarine sinking had been claimed, Admiral Christy and his staff had mentally crossed their fingers; each time events proved that Harder was still very much alive, they had sighed with relief. And finally, when Sam Dealey had reported “mission accomplished” and started for home, their jubilation knew no bounds.

  A huge delegation met Harder on the dock when she arrived: Admiral Christy, the submarine force commander in that area, himself coming to Darwin to do honor to this ship, and embark for the trip back to Fremantle. The ship was met in Australia by another delegation, including General Douglas MacArthur, who awarded Captain Dealey the Army Distinguished Service Cross on the spot.

  The officers and crew were also subsequently recognized by suitable decorations, and when the news arrived in the United States, accompanied by the unanimous recommendations of all responsible officers, President Roosevelt awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor to Sam Dealey and the Presidential Unit Citation to Harder herself. Frank Lynch was promoted to command of his own boat, and Sam Logan moved up to the post of executive officer.

  But although Harder and her skipper survived the deeds for which this recognition was accorded, the awards themselves were made posthumously. Sam Dealey’s widow received the Medal of Honor in his name, and the United States Submarine Force reverently accepted the Presidential Unit Citation in trust for the day when another ship shall be built bearing the name Harder.

  For neither survived the next patrol.

  Usually when a submarine fails to return from patrol, there are surmises, rumors, wild theories, sometimes a Japanese claim of a sinking, but rarely anything concrete to explain what happened. Sometimes survivors returned from the unspeakable brutalities of Jap prison camps after the war to tell what caused the losses of their ships, but these cases were very few in number. Harder was an exception, for she operated in a wolfpack during her sixth and last patrol, and another vessel actually witnessed and reported the circumstances of her loss.

  On the morning of August 24, 1944, Harder dived off the west coast of Luzon, in company with USS Hake. Being the senior skipper, Dealey had decided to make a reconnaissance in this area in hopes that it might yield results comparable to those he had achieved only three days before when, as commander of a five-boat pack, he had engaged two convoys in a fierce, close-range battle, sinking in all ten ships, and driving the rest into harbor where they huddled for protection from the subs ranging back and forth before the entrance.

  Shortly after daybreak on the fateful August 24, echo ranging was heard, and two escort-type vessels of about one thousand tons each were sighted. Both submarines immediately commenced approaching for an attack. However, the larger of the two ships suddenly zigged away and entered Dasel Bay. The other stayed outside, and at this time Hake broke off the attack, feeling the remaining target was hardly worth the torpedoes it would take to sink him. Harder, however, held on, and Hake sighted her periscope crossing in front, passing between Hake and the enemy vessel. Hake by this time had commenced evasive maneuvers, for the Jap was echo ranging loudly and steadily in her direction. Exactly what was in Sam Dealey’s mind is, of course, not known; his previous record indicated that he would have had no hesitancy in tangling with this chap if he thought it worth while. Furthermore, he had more or less got Hake into this spot, and may have felt that he owed it to the other submarine to get her out again. But, whatever his motives, he maneuvered Harder between the other two vessels with the result that the Jap, naturally enough, took off after him instead of after Hake. According to the latter’s report, the enemy vessel showed some confusion, probably because of the two targets where he had suspected no more than one.

  Sam Dealey was perfectly capable of an act of self-abnegation such as his maneuver appears to have been. It must be pointed out, however, that the enemy vessel was a small anti-submarine type, and that Dealey had several times previously come off victorious in encounters with much more formidable ships. Of the two submarines, Harder was doubtless the better trained and equipped to come to grips with this particular enemy. It was simply the fortunes of war that, in this case, Fate dealt two pat hands—and Sam’s wasn’t good enough.

  With Hake a fascinated spectator, the Jap made his run. Possibly Harder fired at him, though Hake heard no torpedo on her sound gear. The en
emy came on over Sam Dealey, and suddenly dropped fifteen depth charges. Harder’s periscope was never seen after that, nor were her screws heard again.

  According to the Japanese report of the incident, the periscope of a submarine was sighted at about two thousand yards, and a depth charge attack was immediately delivered. After this single attack, a huge fountain of oil bubbled to the surface, and considerable quantities of bits of wood, cork, and other debris came up and floated in the slick.

  So perished a gallant ship, a gallant captain, and a gallant crew. All of Sam Dealey’s skill and daring could avail him not one iota against the monstrous fact that the enemy’s first depth charge attack, by some unhappy stroke of fate, was a bull’s-eye.

  Trigger made her name with a rush. She began her career as a night fighter, and it was on the surface at night, retaining the initiative with speed and mobility, that her rapier-like thrusts wrought the greatest damage upon the enemy. In her ensuing four patrols she sank a total of nineteen ships and damaged four. Six times, single-handed, she engaged enemy convoys far outmatching her in escort vessels. By this time I was the only officer left of the original commissioning gang, and Trigger and I understood each other pretty well, although frequently she surprised me.

  We didn’t have long to wait before Dusty Dornin took Trigger into action. On September 8, 1943, we left Pearl Harbor bound for Formosa, and maintained full speed all the way, not even submerging when passing Wake Island. Dusty’s philosophy was to carry the battle to the enemy at all times; make him show how good he was before we pulled the plug. And on September 23, having just arrived in our area, we sighted a fat target.

  We are submerged off Formosa, patrolling what our calculations indicate should be a Jap shipping lane. For two days we have been here, and nary a sign of ships have we seen. Maybe we’ve guessed wrong. But not this time, for at about 1600 of the second day smoke is sighted. A convoy, running for Japan.

  Battle stations submerged! We start the approach. This time, however, we are not lucky, for we are so far off the base course of the ships that we are forced to watch helplessly while they steam by well out of range. But we take a good look; six ships in two columns; in the near column three big fat tankers, the leader a new modern 10,000 tonner; in the far column three average-size freighters. What a plum! Never mind the plane we see buzzing above the convoy. These birds are our meat! We secure from battle stations, but follow at maximum sustained submerged speed, keeping our quarry in sight as long as possible, waiting for dark.

  With the last rays of the setting sun we are on the surface, all ahead full on four engines, running down the track after the vanished convoy. No engines to spare for a battery charge. Give them all to the screws. Put the auxiliaries on the battery. You can’t get anywhere by halves in this business.

  The chase is tense and thrilling. We have an estimate of target course and speed, but if he’s smart he’ll change radically at dark. Our game is to dash up and regain contact quickly, before he gets very far from his original track. If we miss him, we suspect he’ll have turned to his left, but that’s just a guess, and cuts down our chances 50 per cent. Best bet is to go like hell, which we do.

  It pays off, too, for this particular son of heaven didn’t even bother to change course. We pick him up dead ahead, right on his old track—and he’s stopped zigzagging. This is murder.

  And so it proves. We draw up on the starboard bow of the convoy, out of sight, then stealthily creep in. Slowly the biggest tanker lumbers into our sights. Angle on the bow, starboard seventy-five. Range, 1,500 yards. Bearing, 335. Target speed checks perfectly, at 7 knots. Surely this big Nippon Maru class tanker can do better than 7 knots. The Japs have tied him down with a bunch of slow boys—too bad for him! On he comes, filling our binoculars with his huge, heavily laden bulk. Looks good—looks perfect! We plan to fire three fish at the first tanker, three at the second, then spin on our tail and shoot four at the third one. They won’t know what hit them.

  Standby forward! He’s coming on. Bearing—mark! We’re keeping the sights on him now—a few more degrees. Come on—come on—Fire ONE! . . . Fire TWO! . . . Fire THREE! . . . Check fire! Shifting targets—second ship. Bearing—mark—set—Fire FOUR! . . . Fire FIVE! . . . Fire SIX! . . .

  Left full rudder! All ahead full! Standby aft!

  Trigger leaps ahead, swings steadily left. She has nearly one hundred eighty degrees to swing, and it takes a long time. She is only halfway around, broadside to broadside with the leading tanker, range about one thousand yards heading in opposite directions, when suddenly, cataclysmically, the darkness of the night is thunderously shattered with light. A sheet of brilliant white flame shoots 1000 feet into the air! The leading tanker must have had a load of aviation gasoline, for he has burst into incandescence.

  Momentarily blinded by the terrific fire, we recover to see the whole scene as bright as day. On the deck of the doomed tanker scores of little white-clad figures rush helplessly across his decks to the bow, where the fire has not yet reached. It must be awfully hot over there. We shift our eyes to the second tanker and see a torpedo hit with a flash of flame right amidships. A fire starts, but he steers around the brilliantly blazing pyre of his leader and continues on his course. The second ship in the far column is hit with a soundless catastrophe. He folds in the middle into a big V and starts down. Evidently he caught a torpedo which missed the first or second tanker. We had figured on that, hoped it would happen. Three ships hit, two down for sure, in the first salvo!

  In the meantime, the Japs obviously can see Trigger’s black hull, too, and their ready guns begin to bark. A few shells scream overhead, but not very close. They are probably too excited to settle down, and we ignore them, intent on getting our stem tube salvo off. But the third tanker pulls a joker and sheers out of line directly toward us. By this time we are running directly away from him, and he is coming, bows on, 700 yards away. We are still increasing speed, but so is he, and he’s gaining on us with his initial advantage of speed. A gun on his forecastle opens up, and this time the shells whistle fairly close. One or two drop alongside, not too close yet, but no doubt he’ll improve.

  Maybe he thinks he has the drop on us; he cannot know that we have the drop on him too. We could dive, but Trigger is stubborn. Standby aft! Continuous aim. Angle on the bow, zero. Range, 700 yards. We’re starting to hold our own now, as we pick up speed. Fire SEVEN! . . . Nothing happens. Fire EIGHT! . . . Nothing. We must hit him! Check everything carefully. It must be the tumultuous wash of our straining screws throwing the torpedoes off. Fire NINE! . . . Still nothing. Now we are in the soup. One torpedo left aft. It has to be good. He is coming much too close with his shells now. Give him one more, then dive! Fire TEN! “Clear the bridge!” “Honk, honk!” goes the diving alarm. “Dive! Dive! Take her down!”

  Down we plunge, listening for that fateful crack which tells us he’s found our pressure hull with a five-inch shell before we could get her under. We pass forty feet and breathe easier. Startlingly a voice squeaks over the welcome gurgle of water and the drumming of Trigger’s superstructure: “Where’s the Captain?”

  No answer. We look about. “Did anybody see him get off the bridge when we dived?”

  No answer. Fear lays an icy hand over us. Just then a stream of furious curses shocks our ears and warms our hearts. There is Dusty, inside the periscope well, supporting himself on the edges by his elbows, struggling to climb back out, cussing a blue streak. He has reason to cuss, too, for the quartermaster has his big feet firmly planted on the skipper’s hands and is calmly and nonchalantly lowering the periscope! End of tableau.

  About this time, as we pass seventy-five feet, a good loud WHANG reverberates through the water. We had almost forgotten the target in this novel emergency, but get back to business quickly. “Target’s screws have stopped!” This from the sound man. “Breaking-up noises.”

  “Control! Sixty feet!” The order snaps out, and feverishly we get Trigger back to periscope depth,
put up the ’scope and take a look. Wonder of wonders! There floats the stern of the tanker, straight up and down! So we surface, hoping to catch one of the two remaining ships with our last few torpedoes.

  We find one. We track him. As usual he doesn’t see us—or so we think, until he opens fire with both his deck guns. While we think over this development, another ship—the only other ship—opens fire behind us. Then, as shells from both parties scream overhead, we realize the truth. They are shooting at each other. We are still undetected; so we make four separate attacks on this bird up forward, use up all six of our remaining torpedoes, and get only two hits. Finally we are forced to leave him, sinking slowly by the bow.

  We find the last ship, too, but we can’t hurt him. So we turn Trigger’s bow east and shove off. As we go, we pass close by our first tanker, by this time nearly consumed, his steel hulk red-hot from end to end. In the distance another fire flares up and bursts into brilliant flame. We take a look there, and find to our delight the second tanker stopped, abandoned, and ablaze from bow to stern. We verify his complete destruction, and depart at last after one of the shortest patrols on record.

  Score for the night’s work: three big tankers sunk, one freighter sunk, one freighter probably sunk. Total, five out of six, and a very unhappy good evening to you, Tojo!

  Less than a month after leaving Pearl Harbor, Trigger was back at Midway, with a cockscomb of five miniature Jap flags flying from her extended periscope. The usual crates of fresh fruit, leafy green vegetables—lettuce and celery especially—ice cream, letters from home, and assorted bigwigs, were on the dock awaiting us.

  This business of welcoming a submarine back from war patrol had been started as a sort of morale booster, and to say that it hit the mark is putting it mildly. After having been deprived of these things for about two months we were almost as avid for fresh fruit and leafy vegetables as we were for the mail—and it was not at all uncommon to see a bearded sailor, pockets stuffed with apples and oranges, reading letter after letter in quick succession, and munching on a celery stalk at the same time.