Submarine! (22 page)

Trigger
was a roaring, brawling, rollicking ship, and she loved the sound of her torpedoes going off. There was the night she and two sister subs took on a seventeen-ship convoy, with the result that there were but nine ships next morning. This was quite a story, for none of the other submarines knew of the presence of
Trigger
, and
Trigger
actually and unwittingly stole two fat targets right out from under the nose of one of her sisters.

It was a night in November. We had penetrated the Nanpo Shoto the night before, and had been hurrying along on the surface all day long, diving twice for inquisitive Jap planes, hoping to get across to the Nansei Shoto and through that
chain of islands in short order, en route to our area. We were about one hundred and thirty miles south of the Bungo Suido of unpleasant memories as dusk fell, and with it a pleasant surprise.

Radar contact! The clarion call from Yeoman First Class Ralph Korn on the radar brings us all to the alert. “Big convoy, sir! Five or ten ships, maybe more. Radar interference, too, sir.”

That last complicates matters. We've been expecting to run into Jap radar-equipped escorts for quite a while, and apparently we've got one this time. This is going to take some doing, all right, and we ought to have an interesting time of it. In the first place, we figure our radar is probably better than his. In the second place, our small silhouette is harder for a radar to detect than that of a freighter or destroyer. So our tactics are to keep just barely within our radar's range of detection, and we hope that by so doing we'll be outside of his radar range.

Once again we begin tracking and plotting. Our scheme works pretty well, and soon we have his course and speed down cold. We would like to start in from the port flank of the convoy now, but cannot, because that triple-damned radar escort is in our way. Laboriously we work our way across the bow of the zigzagging convoy—we have counted by this time seventeen ships on our radar screen, though we cannot see them at all in the dark—and prepare to start in from their starboard flank. No soap! The five times sincerely damned radar escort has crossed to the starboard side too!

Cussing heartily, we work around to the port side again, hoping the escort's movements were more coincidental than premeditated, and that he is as yet not aware of
Trigger's
presence. Once on that side the mystery seems explained, because we now find two radar-equipped vessels, one on each side of the convoy. However, this chap on the port side evidently doesn't know his job, and has allowed himself to get way out of position, well out on the port bow of the convoy.

O.K., chum. You slipped up that time. Here we go!
Trigger's
four murmuring diesels lift their voices in a devouring roar. She swings sharply right and races for the leading ship of the convoy. “Make ready all tubes! Angle on the bow forty-five port. Range, three eight double oh.” The port escort is still unsuspiciously maintaining his station well outside of us.

“All tubes ready, sir! Range, three oh double oh. Angle on the bow sixty port.” We can see them clearly from the bridge now. Formless, cloudy masses, a little darker than the dark sky. As we watch them narrowly, they suddenly seem to lengthen a trifle; a zig away! We must shoot right now! “All ahead one third!” The roar of the diesels drops to a mutter. “Standby forward! Range, two four double oh. Angle on the bow ninety port. Fire ONE! ...... Fire TWO! . . . THREE! . . . FOUR! . . .”

Four white streaks bubble out toward the convoy, and a large dark shape moves unknowingly and inexorably to meet them. Though we've seen it time and again, this moment is always the most thrillingly portentous one of all. It is the climax of training, of study, of material preparation, and of tremendous, sustained, perilous effort. The lure of the jumping trout, the thrill of the hunt, stalking the wild deer, or even hunting down the mighty king of beasts—none could hold new and unknown thrills for those of us who have watched our torpedoes as they and their huge target approach each other and finally merge together.

The seconds are hours, the minutes days. Target and torpedo wakes are together now. The first torpedo must have missed. Count ten for the second . . . . WHAM! . . . WHAM! Two flashes of yellow light stun the secret darkness. Two clouds of smoke and spume rise from alongside our target. Swiftly he rolls over, men appearing magically all about, climbing down his sides, crawling over his bottom, instinctively postponing their inevitable doom.

In the meantime, all is confusion in the rest of the convoy. Our other two torpedoes, missing the ship they were aimed at, have struck home in some unfortunate vessels beyond him. We hear the explosions and see the flashes—rather to be
expected, too, because of the tightly packed crowd of ships—but other than a high cloud of smoke we have no positive proof of damage in more than one other.

Just at this moment, with
Trigger
wheeling madly about under right full rudder and all ahead flank, three shapes detach themselves from the milling mass of freighters and tankers and head for us, bows on. We knew it was too good to last. Destroyers!

A quick decision, regretfully made, for it leaves the rest of the convey free to scatter unhindered.
Take her down!

Down we go, and just in time, for we pass 100 feet when the first depth charges go off. There are propellers churning all about us, depth charges close aboard shaking
Triggers
solid ribs and pounding her tough hide, while we grit our teeth at 300 feet and take our licking. Damn them! Damn them! Damn them!

Suddenly the depth charges cease, and we hear three sets of screws leave us rapidly. Well! A break! Maybe we'll get some more of those bastards!
Fifty-five feet!
Let's go, Control—let's get up there!

Up we come to fifty-five feet, take a good look around through the periscope. All clear.
Surface! Ready on four engines! All ahead flank!
Course one six oh.

High-pressure air whistles into
Trigger's
tanks. Maneuvering room answers the flank speed bell by giving the motors all the battery has to offer. The screws bite into the water. Engine rooms get standby on all engines.
Trigger
is making 10 knots when she hits the surface. As soon as the conning tower hatch pops out of water we are on the bridge.

Open the main induction!
We are answered by the clank of the induction valve and instantly the starting song of the engines. Four clouds of blue-white smoke pour from
Trigger's
exhaust pipes and are whipped away by the wind. We are up to 13 knots by this time, and mingled with the whistle of the wind, the splashing rush of the waves, and the deep bass of the diesels, we hear the screaming of the low-pressure blower down in the pump room, completing the job of emptying the main ballast tanks.

A jumble of discordant noises—but to us they are
Trigger's
eager battlecry.

Without slackening our speed, the diesels are connected to the motors and the battery taken off.
Trigger
continues to accelerate, and two minutes after surfacing she is making 18 knots. As her tanks go dry she increases speed to 20 knots, angrily burying her snout in the waves as she hurries heedlessly through them or over them.

We pick course 160 because this was the base course of the convoy. Before we dived our impression was that the Japs had scattered, but common sense indicates that they'll probably try to continue in the same general direction.

Sure enough, one hour later we find a lone merchantman. In a hurry now, we bore in and fire immediately. One hit, but he's a tough customer, and that's not enough for him. He opens up with two deck guns, tries futilely to stay on
Trigger's
low, dark form.

Furious now,
Trigger
rushes past him, turns on her heel, and comes charging back. She really bores in this time. To hell with his guns—he's all over the ocean with them! In we go, till his side looms as big and broad as a barn. WHAM! . . . WHAM! That finishes him, and he goes down like a rock.

Course 160 once more, and we run for another hour, pick up another ship, a tanker this time. Once again we hardly alter course. He steams across our bow at 1000 yards, and is greeted with three crashing torpedo hits, sinking so fast that as we, without changing a thing, pass across where his stem used to be, all we see is his tall stack sticking out of the water, slightly canted forward, smoke still pouring out of the top of it for all the world as though nothing had happened.

We looked around for more ships, but dawn broke, and none were in sight. The sequel to the story was not told till later, when patrol reports were submitted. The second radar-equipped escort, which we had so neatly avoided in our initial attack, was our good friend the USS
Seahorse
, herself the nemesis of many Japs, who was even then in the process of drawing a bead on the same chap we'd sunk.

That
Seahorse
was somewhat disturbed at our intrusion on a convoy she had tracked for nearly twenty-four hours is putting it mildly. But she kindly verified the sinking of two ships plus the probable sinking of a third from our attack, then went on to sink three more herself. In the meantime another United States sub, having trailed the convoy for two days, finally caught up and knocked off one for herself. Total: eight sunk, nine left, probably all escorts.

Wonder what that escort commander told Tojo?

On July 20, 1943, USS
Wahoo
completed her overhaul in Mare Island Navy Yard, and departed for Pearl Harbor, carrying her skipper, Mush Morton, into his last action with the enemy and to his final resting place somewhere in the Sea of Japan. But before
Wahoo
left, her Executive Officer, whom Morton had once characterized as “the bravest man I know,” was detached and given command of the uncompleted
Tang
, then building at Mare Island. The two men separated with visions of meeting in the not-too-distant future—perhaps to carry out combined operations together. Less than three months later Mush Morton and his
Wahoo
were dead.

Now, O'Kane was not an oversentimental man, and he was as ready as the next to accept the trials of war and the losses that inevitably must come with them. But only one who has experienced the extinction of a whole unit of comrades without trace can fully appreciate the icy fingers which must have clutched around his heart when he received the grim news back in the temporary safety of Mare Island. The effect, perhaps, was not fully evident, since he simply went on with his preparations to ready
Tang
for war. Only O'Kane himself—and perhaps even he did not fully realize how deeply the iron had entered into his soul—could have given a hint of his dedication. For Tang and Dick O'Kane had a mission of vengeance to carry out.

They finally headed for Pearl Harbor, impatient to complete their training, and on January 22, 1944, six months after O'Kane had bid farewell to
Wahoo
, three months since that ship had become overdue,
Tang
set her prow westward to seek revenge.

Tang
had only one skipper and her whole life was encompassed within the short span of one year—1944. During this period
Tang
and O'Kane reached the top of the Submarine Force Roll of Honor, and the most outstanding record of damage and destruction to enemy shipping ever credited to one submarine was established. The Joint Army-Navy Assessment Committee has the officially documented and incontestable proof of twenty-four vessels sunk. It is well known that
Tang's
total score was much higher than even that imposing figure, and that a round sum total of thirty would be nearer the truth, for the Japanese tendency to save face resulted in concealing or minimizing many losses, and the confusion into which their merchant marine was thrown by the continuous depredations of United States submarines upset their whole accounting system, until they themselves had not the slightest idea which of their ships remained afloat.

It is early morning, February 17, and
Tang
draws her first blood.
Radar contact!
Man tracking stations!
Tang
stops zigzagging
, steadies on course at constant speed while the well-trained though as yet unseasoned plotting parties go to work.

The problem has been gone over many times in drill after drill, and O'Kane's insistence for perfection now bears its first fruit. Within a matter of minutes, Plot has the answer: enemy course, 100, speed 8, zigzagging about forty degrees every ten minutes. This is all that is needed for the moment. All ahead full! Obediently the electrician's mates on watch in Maneuvering signal to the engine rooms to start the two idle diesels and at the same time increase the loading of the two diesel-generator sets already in operation.
Tang's
easily turning propellers increase their beat as the rheostats are turned up, and soon she is making full speed for the two engines. When the ready signal for the other two engines is received, the electrician's mates bend over their main control board and pull and push the control levers back and forth in rapid succession—seemingly haphazardly but actually in strict accordance with certain rules of procedure—for what they are doing is simply bringing two more generators up to voltage, paralleling them with those already on the line, and then increasing the loading on all four to the maximum rated power output. Sounds simple, but an error might result in burning out one or more motors, or arcing sufficient to cause a bad fire—and there goes your submarine! The nonchalance of these young men—most just boys in their early twenties, some still in their teens—as they unconcernedly race through the motions they have learned, belies the significance of the whole thing.