Submarine!

by Edward L. Beach

  0513 Radar and sight contact with the other patrol, which we avoided in the beginning. This time he was alert, as we got definite radar interference from him. Too light to evade surfaced, so dived and evaded submerged. He came over to the spot where we had dived and dropped a pattern. Many distant depth charges or bombs were heard and planes were sighted all day. This area will be hot tonight.

  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:

  THREE FOR FRANKLIN XX SANK AMMUNITION SHIP TWO ESCORTS IN ANCHORAGE NORTHERN SHORE QUELPART ISLAND MORNING FOURTEENTH X NO COUNTERMEASURES X TIRANTE SENDS X ONE TORPEDO REMAINING . . .

  April 16

  0537 Dived for a plane.

  0854 Sighted dead Jap soldier. (Very dead.) Wearing kapok life jacket, helmet and leggings. Flooded down and hauled him alongside to examine pockets for notebooks, papers, etc. for our Intelligence Service, but corpse was decomposing, so secured.

  1017 Sighted 2 PBM’s headed for us. Fired one mortar recognition signal followed by another. PBM’s still coming in. Suddenly heard one plane say, “Look at that ship down there! Wonder if it’s friendly?” Promptly opened up on VHF and set him straight. Situation eased.

  1043 Another dead Jap soldier similar to first. (Deader.)

  1647 Sighted three Jap flyers roosting on the float of their overturned plane. Maneuvered to pick them up. Put our bow (well flooded down) against the float, but they defiantly straight-armed it and showed no desire to come aboard. Kept our boarding party on the cigarette deck behind armor plate. The pilot, identified by goggles and a flight cap, had something hidden in his right hand and suddenly threw a lighted aircraft flare aboard, in return for which Lt. Commander BEACH parted his hair with an accurately placed rifle shot. Our bridge .30 and .50 cal. machine gunners had to be firmly told not to shoot. At first it was thought that the flare might be some kind of a bomb or hand grenade. But this was obviously not so, and the flare was kicked over the side by the Gunnery Officer. The pilot kept haranguing his two crewmen. Things at an impasse. Brought one of our KOREANS topside to persuade them to come aboard.

  The three flyers suddenly jumped overboard and swam away from their wrecked plane; so Lt. Commander BEACH, with a few rifle shots, gained the distinction of sinking a Jap plane single-handed. That left the three Japs with no refuge. The pilot went one way and the two enlisted men another. Brought one of the enlisted men alongside. At first he seemed willing to be rescued when yelled at by the KOREAN. Then evidently thought better of it, screamed “KILL, KILL, KILL” at us, ducked out of his life jacket, and swam away. He was observed to duck his head under water several times and swallow salt water, until finally he failed to reappear. One suicide for the Emperor.

  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!”

  Brought the second enlisted man alongside. This was a nice looking lad, about nineteen. He was willing to be rescued after more cajoling by our KOREAN through a megaphone. Undressed him completely on deck searching for hidden knives and hand grenades. No lethal weapons found.

  Brought the pilot alongside. He had shed his life-jacket, evidently thinking of suicide. He seemed conscious and in good control until close aboard, when he appeared to lose consciousness and became helpless. Lt. PEABODY and SPENCE, GMlc dived over the side with sheath knives and heaving lines tied around them, grabbed the inert Jap, and boosted him over the bow. He was still inert when undressed, and when examined below decks by the Chief Pharmacist’s Mate, whose verdict was that the man was shamming. This was substantiated by the fact that, when startled by the general announcing equipment, he jerked upright, then relaxed into insensibility again. Evidently, having been brought aboard while unable to help it, his honor, or something, had been saved. He apparently had not the nerve to carry out his own suicide order.

  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 pr
esumed 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.

  Piper was a strong and well-found ship, and I was happy to get her. She had preceded Tirante out of Portsmouth by only a few months, and was of almost identical design. The only flaw in her, so far as I was concerned, was that she had just begun her second patrol, and I had a long wait ahead of me.

  In the meantime, Tirante completed refit at Midway and set forth on her second nm. Ed Campbell had succeeded me as exec, and Jim Donnelly had been promoted into Ed’s job. The rest of the crew was left essentially as before. When George took her out, I personally lifted her number-one line off the bollard, walked down the dock with the bitter end as Chub superintended hauling it in, and pitched it over so that the whole line landed on deck clean and dry. Then I stood on the end of the pier and watched the ship out of sight.

  As she drew into the distance a light began to flash from the afterpart of the bridge. I made the Go Ahead sign with my arms. Slowly, so that I would not miss any of the letters, Karlesses—it must have been he—spelled out the message: GOOD LUCK NED K. I stood there a full minute with my arms outstretched in the R sign.

  Piper it seemed to me, was an unconscionably long time in getting back from patrol. She had drawn an unproductive area, and though she beat the bushes pretty thoroughly she remained at sea the full scheduled sixty days and brought back almost a complete load of torpedoes. All the while I stayed in Midway, assisting with the refits of other submarines as they came and went, and chewing my nails in exasperation. We could sense the war drawing to an end, and felt pride that the United States Navy had brought Japan to her knees almost singlehanded. We argued whether Russia would enter the war in the Pacific. It was obvious that the war would shortly be over. I had to get to sea in Piper soon.

  The messages I read daily were not calculated to make the wait any easier. Tirante, seemingly the only submarine able to find anything worth shooting these days, had entered another harbor—submerged this time—and had torpedoed a collier alongside a dock. To cap it, George had come out of the place with full motion-picture coverage! When I read his ensuing message, I would gladly have given up Piper to have been along.

  Finally the long-awaited notice came, and I flew to Pearl Harbor to take command of my ship. But then came more delays. Piper was being fitted with special equipment to penetrate the Straits of Tsushima, between Japan and Korea.

  Ever since Wahoo had failed to return from the Sea of Japan, back in October, 1943, that area had not seen an American submarine. Mush Morton had entered via La Perouse Straits and had intended to exit through the same. We didn’t know how the Japs had caught him, but suspected they had drawn a noose around Wahoo from which she could not escape. Tsushima was mined—that we knew. Tartary was too shallow to pass through submerged, and was denied to us by the Russians; Tsugaru was shallow, and had swift currents, besides being heavily patrolled; La Perouse was deep, not too long, although also heavily patrolled. All in all, La Perouse seemed to be the best place for a submarine to make passage into the Sea of Japan, but once the enemy knew there was a submarine in it, trapping her there seemed a distinct possibility.

  Then in June, 1945, in Operation Barney, nine American submarines passed through the mined Straits of Tsushima into Morton’s old patrol area in the Sea of Japan. They lay doggo for a few days, and then suddenly exploded into action. Twenty-eight ships they sank in twelve days, and Japan knew that her last lines of physical contact with the rest of the world were doomed.

  Operation Barney was named after Commander W. B. (Barney) Sieglaff, who had been skipper of Tautog and Tench before going to Admiral Lockwood’s staff. He did much of the work of readying and checking out the first nine boats. But the whole deal could have been just as appropriately called Operation Charlie, after the Admiral himself, for the Boss had gone after that project with the same drive he had used in fixing up the torpedoes for us—and with equally effective results.

  Worming our way through the mine fields would be tricky business, but nine boats had shown it could be done, and Piper was eager to be off about it. It was a big honor to have been selected, but we were the last of the second wave of seven boats scheduled to go through singly—and there was a strong possibility that we would be too late. When we were ready to leave Pearl, Admiral Lockwood came aboard to give us a final once-over. The special equipment which had just been installed didn’t work well enough to suit him, so we had to lie over two days while the electronic experts adjusted it. Finally Piper got underway for Guam.

  I had found, during the past few weeks, that being a skipper was far different from being an exec, no matter how much responsibility the Old Man had left you. Now I had all the responsibility, no matter to whom I delegated a specific problem. Now I had to be able to dispose of widely differing problems out of hand, sometimes without much consideration. Where before I had made suggestions and then loyally carried out the skipper’s wishes, now it was up to me to make the decisions. Frequently they were hard to make, and harder to stick to. In all of them I held the sack if anything went wrong.

  One decision I made, and clung to tenaciously: we were going to get Piper into action or break our necks trying.

  At Guam two doses of bad news awaited us. Admiral Lockwood, who had preceded us by plane, decided that our new secret frequency modulated sonar was still not up to snuff, and held us over for more tinkering by a different crew of experts. Then, when number three main engine developed leaks in the fresh-water cooling system, inspection disclosed that seven of the ten cylinder liners were cracked and would have to be renewed. More delay.

  There wasn’t much time left, for it was already August. As soon as Admiral Lockwood was satisfied our equipment simply couldn’t or wouldn’t perform better, and that it was reasonably satisfactory as it was, I threw normal caution over the side and ordered Piper underway without the fourth engine. We would finish repairs at sea, and in the meantime could be gaining distance toward Jap-land. At 1700 on August 5, 1945, we backed away from our berth in Apra Harbor and set out for Japan at last, with all the speed our three good engines could give us.

  We had not been long underway when a rather peculiar message came in describing some kind of bomb which had been dropped on Hiroshima and had done a lot of damage. I hardly gave it a second thought. Jerry Reeves, my exec, and I were busily planning the quickest way to get to Tsushima, and were considering the idea of running all the way on the surface. It could be done, we decided, even within sight of land during daylight—something no submariner would have considered a few months ago—but it seemed safe enough now until we got close to the Straits.

  Repairs completed, number three engine was also put on the line, and Piper raced on four big diesels for the war zone. Somehow I felt it was slipping away from us—receding faster than we approached it. My emotions at this period I’ve never completely analyzed: rather than joy at the approaching end of the war, I felt an overwhelming impatience to be back in it before it ended. It was something like the feeling of the hunter who has been held out of the woods as the season draws to a close and finally is given a few fleeting hours to go out a
nd find himself some big game. Certainly thoughts of pity for the Japs whose names were written on the twenty-six warheads we carried, and what would happen to them if I had my way, never entered my head. I think Piper and her skipper were as near to a remorseless engine of destruction as you could find. Now that the enemy was down, I wanted to stomp on him, kick him in the groin, destroy him completely if I could, just as he had Trigger, Wahoo, Harder, Gudgeon, and so many others.

  At this juncture the blower lobes on number one main engine started to strike each other, and the engine had to be shut down. Once more our speed had to be reduced while it was dismantled and repairs effected. Furious, I put down the suggestion that we reduce speed further and take some of the load off the engines. We stayed on the surface and continued running, sighting neither planes nor ships belonging to the enemy, although we did see several of our submarines. After two days number-one engine was back in service, and our speed increased again.

  Our plan was to transit Tsushima and enter the Sea of Japan on August 12. On the 11th a message from ComSubPac told us to patrol the Yellow Sea awaiting further orders. That night we vented our disappointment by destroying two fishing boats which had the misfortune to be caught in water deep enough for Piper to float. The surface fire-power of a fleet submarine with everything shooting is frightening to watch. But we felt no pity for them, for they were the enemy. Sometimes these inoffensive-looking boats carried concealed radio transmitters and warned of the presence of submarines—this was our excuse for cutting up these two with our concentrated fire. I’ve since been somewhat ashamed of the episode, for obviously these particular fishermen were interested only in fish.

  We disobeyed orders slightly, in that we did not enter the Yellow Sea, but instead remained in the vicinity of the Straits of Tsushima, in faint hope that Admiral Lockwood would relent. And he did, for during the night of the 12th orders arrived for us to go on through.