Submarine!

by Edward L. Beach

  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:

  April 6

  0540 Dived off SHORI TO. Saw numerous fishing schooners dragging nets astern. Kept busy staying clear all during the day. Decided to try to capture one and take the personnel back to base, since they ought to have information about the suspected anchorage at REISUE KAIWAN.

  1918 Surfaced, going after one of the larger schooners.

  1930 Having trouble coming alongside, and he isn’t cooperating. Fired a 40mm shell through his mainsail. The shell exploded, making a big hole in the sail; a 30 cal. machine gun cut his mainsail halyard so he lowered his sails in short order.

  1940 Boat alongside. We look huge by comparison. Lt. Endicott PEABODY n (All American, Harvard 1942) and SPENCE, H.W. GMlc jumped aboard, both armed to the teeth in terrifying fashion. The dignity of the landing party was considerably shaken when Lt. PEABODY landed in a pile of fish and skidded across the deck in a tremendous “Prat” fall, but their efficiency was unimpaired. With many hoarse shouts and bursts of tommy gun fire, three thoroughly scared and whimpering fishermen were taken aboard. One KOREAN successfully hid by jumping over the side. Found out later he thought we were Japs, thus putting his days as a draft-dodger to an end.

  SPENCE, having routed the last KOREAN out of a locker in the cabin where he had hidden, and having picked up a clock and pipe as souvenirs, reported to the Gunnery Officer that the search of the schooner below decks had been completed. The Gunnery Officer, not to be outdone, hurriedly looked about for a souvenir for himself before ordering “cast off.” In the darkness he picked up something and sent it below. Nothing much was noticed topside but many curses immediately came from below decks and a burly seaman rushed to the bridge, holding his nose, and hurled “MR. PEABODY’S souvenir”—to wit, one very dead squid—over the side. One KOREAN was slightly wounded in the left arm when he had to be persuaded by a burst of tommy gun fire in the water to climb back aboard and join the party.

  1958 Cast off schooner. Set course through the passages of the KOREAN ARCHIPELAGO at full speed, navigating by radar. Passed through fishing fleet of about 50 schooners. Hoped to rout out some of the shipping our planes have reported hugging the coast here.

  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.
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br />   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.