Run Silent, Run Deep

by Edward L. Beach

  "Good God!" The outburst came without conscious volition.

  A violent cone of flame, white-hot with fringes of yellow and orange, screamed into the heavens! It towered over the convoy, towered over us too, cast everything into pitiless relief, turned the night into broad daylight!

  In the insane light of the explosion the leading tanker was visible, broken in half, bow and stern floating idiotically with nothing between them. The second tanker seemed all right; so did the third ship in that column. The one which had blown up must have been one of those in the middle column. As I watched, fascinated, the masts of the freighter, last in the near column of ships, grew shorter, his stack disappeared, and I was looking at his bottom.

  Then the noise of it reached us, a horrible, sudden, all-gone crash, a detonation of a million pounds of TNT, a complete, unutterable holocaust It could only have been an ammunition ship. No wonder the ships of the convoy had been trying to get away!

  "Captain! What is it!" Jim's voice on the bridge speaker.

  "I'm OK, come on up here!" Jim arrived in time to see the second tanker burst into flames. His comment was identical to mine: "Good God! Did we do that?"

  "Yes, Jim." I silently pointed out the tincan on our tail.

  "He can't miss seeing us now, unless he's too interested in what's going on over there to tend to his business."

  "We'll have to watch for our chance, now, old man." I said.

  "Most of those ships have escaped the blast, though we can probably scratch four of them. Get back on the radar and give me a picture of how it looks."

  Jim ran down the hatch. His voice came in a couple of seconds: "Convoy has scattered. We have only nine pips on the scope left. One seems to have fallen behind" that would be the capsized freighter, "they're really in a mess there, all right."

  "What's the range to the tincan?"

  "Near destroyer, one-seven-double-oh!"

  He was closing to look us over. There was no doubt about it: we were in trouble. Normally we should dive. Only one other thing to do.

  "Range to convoy?"

  "Convoy-nearest ship one-five-double-oh. The rest on up to three-oh-double-oh!"

  That settled it. The convoy had at least one fleeing ship nearer to us than the destroyer, coming in more or less on our beam. Presumably he would be jittery, scared, not, at all events, a ship-of-war.

  "Right full rudder!" I ran back to the fore part of the bridge.

  "All right, boys! Man those guns!" They jumped to them with alacrity. "When we go by this ship, put everything you have into his bridge! Never mind anything else, just his bridge!"

  I took a bearing, gave Oregon a course so as to pass starboard to starboard at about a quarter of a-mile. This would put the Jap ship between us and the escort. As the rudder went over, Jim informed me that our torpedo reload had been completed.

  We were ready for business again, with four fish forward and one aft.

  The range closed swiftly at our combined speeds. Larger and larger loomed the blunt, black bow of the ship. I don't think they even saw us. At point-blank range-it was more like four hundred than five hundred yards when we got abeam- we opened up with everything we had, swept his bridge. It was grim work holding the 20'S on, especially for the two men forward who were half under water a good part of the time, but they kept to it. I could see the tracer bullets arching into the enemy's bridge area, disappearing into the square-windowed pilot-house, as we swept on.

  I shot a quick glance across his stern. The pursuing destroyer had not changed course yet, was still heading more or less for the bow of the ship behind which we had disappeared. It was dark again, the flare of the explosion having gone, but the lights of two big fires in two of the convoy reflected from the hulls of both ships behind us. We, by contrast, must be in the shadow, unless unlucky enough to become silhouetted. The freighter we had raked wavered in his course. Perhaps we had gotten the steersman-he swung off to the left, toward the on- rushing tincan, his swing increasing rapidly. The destroyer saw it too, put his rudder hard over, barely avoided colliding.

  This gave us an opening: "Range to destroyers I yelled into the mike. "Stand by aft!

  Angle on the bow, starboard ninety!" It was greater, but he: would surely turn again. "Shift to after TBT!" I ran aft, plugged in the mike.

  "Range eight hundred!" said the speaker.

  "Give him twenty knots!" I waited an age, it seemed to me. It could not have been more than ten seconds.

  "Set!"

  "Shoot!" I shouted. There was only one torpedo left aft, but it might do some good, if we had luck. I reached for the mike, tugged at it to unplug it, when the whole side of the destroyer blossomed in red and orange. Heedless, I ran forward as the tearing crack of several shells passed close overhead. There was a screaming of machine-gun bullets and several dull thuds, followed by the characteristic wavering whines of a ricochet or two. In the midst of this came the twin chatter of the after mount; Pat Donnelly and the two men detailed to the after 20- millimeter were holding it steady into the black hull of the destroyer.

  And then, cataclysmically, a mushroom of white water burst in the middle of the other ship, hoisted him up amidships, his back broken, bow and stern sagging deep into the water. His guns stopped, except for one small one on the bridge which kept going for several seconds longer until the black ocean closed over it.

  Up ahead, chaos. Two ships on fire, one black hull still not under, but bottom up, showing red in the flame. Other ships one minus a stack, probably as a result of the explosion of the ammunition ship close aboard, cutting madly in all directions.

  Too close, now, to change course again. Keep going. Have to keep going. We aimed our course to go between the two burning ships. just beyond we found another, all alone, making off to the west. We drew up alongside, less than a mile away, keeping out of the light of the fires. We turned toward.

  Angle on the bow, port eighty, range fifteen hundred-Fire!

  Two fish. Two left. We put our rudder right, ran past him on the opposite course, saw both torpedoes hit, saw the splash as the air flasks of both blew up. I raved with impotent fury at the sight, forgetting that we should instead be thankful that the single torpedo we had fired aft, less than three minutes before, had functioned properly.

  Nothing to do but come around again. We left the rudder full right, turned madly in a full circle, lined him up again-Fire!

  That did it. One torpedo hit and exploded and he sagged down by the bow. Maybe he'd sink, maybe not, but we had no more fish to make sure.

  Another tearing, ripping noise overhead. Then another, and a third and fourth. Two ships shooting: Bungo, racing up from his position astern to join the fight, and someone else, either the starboard flanker or the lead escort. We were trapped-we'd have to dive. They were too far away for effective reply with our automatic small-caliber weapons, and there was no question of our trying our own four-inch gun in reply, even if we could stand on deck to use it.

  "All hands below!" I yelled. Hugh wavered as the lookouts and Pat dashed past us. I motioned impatiently to the hatch.

  He dropped below.

  "Rudder amidships-all ahead emergency!" I yelled to Oregon.

  I aimed for the narrow space between the two flaming ships again. If we could get between them once more, I knew there was no escort vessel on that side, that would force the two destroyers to slow down and maneuver to avoid their own ships. That might be our chance.

  I pushed the bridge speaker button for the general announcing system: "Maneuvering, give it everything you've got!"

  They did, too. Clouds of blue-white smoke poured out of our exhaust. Our speed picked up perceptibly. Walrus arrowed for the hole, slipped through it, headed eastward at full speed leaving the wrecked ships behind and a cloud of diesel smoke to obscure our passage. The two destroyers, shadowy figures at fairly long range, were cut off, had to shoot over them. Both were firing continuously, the one from the convoy's rear particularly well. From his position th
at must be Bungo, and he was using salvo fire with methodical precision. The shells were still tearing overhead, closer, if anything, than before, despite the obstruction in the range. One or two dropped close alongside, kicked up great spouts of water. No question about it. Old Bungo was a good naval officer and ran a taut, tough ship. His destroyer-Akikaze class, all right-was shooting at least two to the other's one, and accurately, despite the weather.

  I picked up the mike. "They're going to have to slow down because what's left of their convoy is in the way," I said. "Take a sweep around with the radar Another salvo from Bungo. I could see all four flashes from his guns. He would have to hold back on the next salvo or two, now, because of the ships in the way.

  There was a blinding flash. The whole world turned kaleido- scopic. Stars and pinwheels and fireballs whirled about me, all emanating from a round, sunlike face emitting rays of white-hot fire-the face of Bungo Pete. He looked benign, friendly, despite the fireballs… surprisingly like Sammy Sams.

  11

  The wheels were still spinning when I opened my eyes.

  I was lying in my own bunk, and there was the smell of medicine all around. Cecil Throop's bunk springs and mattress, which had been slung above mine, were gone. Jim and Keith were standing beside my bunk, smiling at me, bracing themselves, against the gentle heave of the ship.

  "What happened?" I managed to say. "What about Bungo…?"

  I gripped the sides of the bunk, tried to raise myself.

  My whole right side shot excruciating pain through my body.

  "Take it easy, skipper, everything's fine. We're through the Nanpo Shoto, and we're on our way back to Pearl Harbor. Right now it's broad daylight and we're riding on the surface on three engines, making excellent time. Now that you're feeling better, everything's Jake." Jim's face was wreathed in a happy grin.

  "What happened?" I asked again.

  "Nothing much. You just stopped a Jap four-inch shell all by yourself and have been out for three days, that's all. And your right leg's broken, so don't try to get up." I fumbled for it.

  The cast felt as if it occupied half the bunk.

  "How did I get down here?"

  "We heard the shell hit, you were talking on the mike, remember? And you were still holding the button down after you were knocked out. Rubinoffski and I found you lying there, out cold. We hauled you down below and dived, and we've been running ever since. We had to lay you out on the wardroom table to set your leg and sew you up."

  "How badly hurt am I?" I knew part of the answer without asking. The strain of what little talking I had already done was telling, and it was an effort to keep my voice from dropping to a whisper. Jim and Keith began to edge for the door.

  "The Pharmacist's Mate says you'll be fine, skipper," said Keith. "You had a bad concussion and a couple of bad cuts besides the break, but nothing that won't mend in time."

  A wave of pain hit me as the two lifted the green curtain and passed out into the passageway. I tried to call out, but couldn't. The bulkheads receded, wobbled, blended into a dull ivory from their original white and gray. Someone came through the curtain-I hardly noticed the jab of the needle.

  Despite Jim's and Keith's assurances, and the number of smiling well-wishers who came to see me during the latter stages of our trip, I was far from being in good shape when we put in to Pearl. I don't remember much of the first part of the trip, or whether anything out of the ordinary happened during it. Once in a while, it seemed to me, we dived-whether for drill or for real I could not tell, and cared less. Later on there was a discussion of having a plane meet us near Midway to take me off.

  I remember becoming violently upset at the idea, as well as the following suggestion, in a few days, that Walrus put in there to leave me. I became more lucid rapidly then and was able to think of some of the things lying ahead for all of us. One thing was obvious, though everyone avoided the subject until I brought it up. I was through as skipper of Walrus.

  Two nice things happened before we got in to Pearl: A dispatch from ComSubPac, which Jim brought in with a smile shortly after I had regained my senses for the first time, and an AlNav a few days before our arrival.

  The dispatch said: FOR WALRUS, X, PASS TO YOUR FINE SKIPPER OUR HEARTFELT WISHES FOR HIS SPEEDY RECOVERY AND CONGRATULATIONS ON AN OUTSTANDING PATROL, X, COMSUBPAC SENDS, X.

  The AlNav was a promotion announcement. Jim was made Lieutenant Commander. Hugh and Dave became Lieutenants, and Jerry Cohen a Lieutenant, junior Grade.

  There was another AlNav, which Jim showed me also. This one gave commanding officers of certain types of vessels, of which submarines were one, authority to promote deserving members of their crews. As a consequence, Jim prepared and I signed promotions for Quin, Oregon, Rubinoffski, Russo, and O'Brien. Kohler, Larto, and one or two others, already Chief Petty Officers, were at the top of the ladder and could not be promoted higher; so we did the next-best thing and sent papers recommending them for promotion to Warrant rank to the Bureau of Naval Personnel.

  Once I was safely ensconced in the hospital at the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard, the events of the past few months seemed almost like a dream, and it took an effort to bring myself back to reality. To begin with, it was my shinbone or tibia, as the doctors called it, which had been broken, and it was decided that it was not healing properly. So the doctors broke it again and set some silver pegs into it, a most painful and inconvenient arrangement. It was hot in the hospital, and the Navy Yard noises were neither close enough to make out anything of interest from them, nor far enough away to be unbothersome.

  Most of the time I lay in a foggy stupor, hardly aware of what was going on around me. The only times I felt at all normal were when one of my shipmates of the Walrus or some other old friend dropped in-a courtesy difficult to find the time for in their busy lives.

  There were, of course, a few items of urgent business to clear up. The most important was brought up by Captain Blunt within a few days. "Rich," he said, "you know we've got to find; a new skipper for the Walrus." I had been expecting this one.

  "Yes, sir." I had my own idea ready to spring when he gave me the opening.

  "We've got two or three in mind. Since she's your ship I thought you might like to have something to say about it, unofficially, of course."

  "Have you thought of giving her to Jim Bledsoe?"

  "Why, no-he's pretty junior-um-" He sucked on the pipe. "Isn't Bledsoe the chap you weren't willing to turn the S-16 over to?"

  "He sure is, Captain, and you know why I couldn't do it. But listen to this." I told Captain Blunt how Jim had made an approach all by himself, swinging to shoot the stern tubes on his own initiative so as to equalize our expenditure of torpedoes and I told him what a great fighting heart he had. I made quite a little speech out of it, winding up with the clincher that he, already was skipper of Walrus in fact, having assumed command upon my incapacity, and that the morale of the ship would inevitably suffer if someone were put over him who did not have equal or greater experience in submarine combat.

  Old Joe Blunt was impressed, I could see that. He pulled the pipe out of his mouth, palmed the bowl lovingly, slid it into pocket. "We'll see what can be done about it, Rich," he said as he rose to go, and I knew I had won. At the door he paused.

  "We'll have to give Bledsoe a new Exec," he said. "Leone is good, but he's pretty junior too. Besides, the next patrol will be his fifth, and he ought to be coming off pretty soon for rotation."

  One victory was all I could legitimately hope for, and I had to let that one drop. Keith was not at all disappointed, however, when I told him about it. He'd be tickled pink to be Jim's Number Three, he told me. Knowing him, I knew he would.

  I had several long conversations with Jim before he took the Walrus to sea, and told him, among other things, everything I knew or guessed about Bungo Pete. In the process I described my fears that there might be some kind of security leak in our submarine command headquarters here in Pearl Harbor.

  Desp
ite my good relations with Captain Blunt, I had not yet quite felt up to bringing that matter up with him, I told Jim, but would do so at the first opportunity.

  Jim and Keith were the most faithful about coming to see me, though the rest of the crew and officers made honest efforts to come also. Shortly after they had returned from the Royal Hawaiian rest period, Kohler, Larto, and a group of others touched me deeply by bringing in a small metal model of Walrus which they had all had a hand in making. "She's made out of a CRS bolt," explained Kohler, CRS being the Navy equivalent of stainless steel and valuable for ships because of its noncorrosive properties. "Yah," grinned Larto, his magnificent teeth flashing, "they still wonder what happened to that main induction gag bolt."

  "You guys ought to be in jail," I growled in an attempt to register anger I did not feel. "You'd steal your own grand- mother blind!"

  Russo had the answer for that one. "This ain't stealing, Captain. You're still in the Navy, ain't ya?"

  Quin, more thoughtful, said, "We thought you'd like some- thing to remember the Walrus by, Captain, and this seemed to be the best idea-it came off the ship, and we made it on a shaper in the sub base machine shop."

  When they had trooped noisily out, a few minutes later, they had left not only the model of the Walrus but also a gaudy commercial "get well soon" card and a round-robin testimonial signed by every member of the crew to the same effect. And Russo, with considerable smirking and bashful hemming and hawing, hauled out his own personal offering which had been temporarily left in the hall: a huge cake covered with thick varicolored frosting and surmounted by a frosted submarine.

  The day before their departure for patrol, all the wardroom came to see me, and I bade them good-by with a lump in my throat. As they filed out, Jim hung back. "Skipper," he began.

  "Call me 'Rich,'" I said.

  "OK, Rich then. I thought you'd be interested to know-we won't be coming back here for a while. We're going to Australia on this trip. Our patrol area is off Truk, the big Jap base down in the Carolines, and after we're relieved we'll head for Brisbane.