Submarine! (32 page)

But as was so frequently the case during the war, the Japs finally either got tired, lost contact and could not regain it, ran out of depth charges, or simply gave up—maybe because they had something else to think about.

For with three torpedoes evenly spaced throughout her length, the Japanese carrier
Shokaku
, member of the Pearl Harbor attacking force on December 7, 1941, and veteran of many engagements in the Central and South Pacific, sank with all her planes on board just three hours after having been hit.

Cavalla
showed up at Saipan a few days later while the attack on that hapless island was still going on full blast. The Japanese Navy had just been decisively defeated in the First Battle of the Philippine Sea—the Marianas Turkey Shoot—which to a large extent showed the pattern for the remainder of the battles of the war.

But on the day of the battle, despite the fact that our carrier-based planes shot practically every Jap plane out of the sky, only one Japanese carrier was sunk—the ill-fated
Hitaka
on her maiden voyage. Incidentally, this was the same carrier which had stopped two torpedoes from USS
Trigger
a year earlier at the mouth of Tokyo Bay. Try as they
might, however, the American airmen could find but three Jap carriers the day of the battle, although it was known that five had left the Philippines. At first the supposition was that somehow the enemy had outguessed our people, for the number of planes they put into the air was obviously more than the complement of three carriers.

The explanation was simple, when the pieces were finally put together. Five carriers had started out originally with intentions of making a surprise attack on our fleet, which at the moment was engaged in giving Saipan and Guam the works. Our high strategic command had placed a cordon of submarines across the route which it seemed most logical the enemy would use.

A submarine reconnaissance had reported the passage of the task force through San Bernadino Strait on the 15th, but Herman Kossler's contact on a convoy of fast tankers on the early morning of June 17 was the first proof of the direction of the Jap move. The location of the convoy gave a good indication of the prospective course of the enemy task force, since these could only be fleet tankers (because of their speed and position) en route to a refueling rendezvous. A redisposition in submarine patrol positions was thereupon ordered. While this repositioning was still under way, however, Kossler reported his second contact, on a carrier force this time, and our whole Pacific Fleet command went into immediate action. Although Herman had some idea of the import of his contact, he could have had no conception of the tremendous difference made by the fact that he chose to report the contact instead of attacking it. Had he done so, he might have sunk the carrier; but there would not have been the timely warning to alert our own people, and there was always the chance, of course, that
Cavalla
might have been sunk during or after the attack, and thus not able to make a contact report at all.
Albacore's
position would then not have been changed, and
Taiho
might well have escaped detection.

Shokaku's
planes went down with her, since they had just been taken back on board when
Cavalla's
torpedoes struck
home.
Taiho's
, however, were in the air when she sank, and having nowhere else to go, they landed on the already-loaded decks of the remaining carriers, seriously overloading them. Loss of the battle, and of many of the engaged units including three of the few remaining carrier-trained air groups, was a foregone conclusion.

Brought home once more to our own people, and presumably to the Jap admirals also, was this tenet: you cannot operate on the sea during war unless you have command of the sea, the air above it, and the depths beneath it.

Trigger
had shattered five convoys with Dusty Dornin at the conn, before he was relieved by order of Admiral King. Dick Garvey, now Lieutenant, USNR—next to me and Wilson, the senior man in point of service aboard—was detached at the same time. Fritz Harlfinger became her fourth master. We decided that because of my good fortune in having excellent night vision, I should function for him exactly as I had for Dusty—that is, on the bridge during night surface attacks, on the periscope when submerged. This was
Wahoo's
system, which
Trigger
had adopted.

On Fritz's first patrol, off the Haha Jima Retto in the
Marianas, the worst beating of
Trigger's
career—and one of the most severe experienced by any sub in our Navy—took place. About four hours before dawn we picked up a convoy, tracked it a bit, and prepared to “pull the
Trigger
” on it.

Radar indicated many ships. While we were still 20,000 yards ahead of the main body, we detected two radar-equipped escorts patrolling 10,000 to 15,000 yards ahead of the convoy. “What a stupid place to patrol,” we thought. “This will be a cinch.” So we dived under the escorts and passed safely (we thought) through the outer screen of the convoy. We later realized we had been detected by radar and the whole convoy alerted.

Returning to periscope depth, we are preparing to surface when more escorts are detected. Down we go again, passing under a second feverishly pinging screen. Five destroyers or more in that one, and they're not merely carrying on a routine search. They're
hunting
, and finally one of them gets a “probable contact.” He and one of his friends turn around and follow us, still a little doubtful, but—oh—so—right!

It is only a moderately bright night, so we leave the periscope up for lengthy intervals, confident it cannot be seen. For long periods we stare at those two chaps astern, zigzagging back and forth in their cautious search plan, slowly but surely tracking us down. We feel like the hare in a game of hare and hounds and it's not funny. Inexorably the finger has been put upon us. We're going to catch it no matter what happens—and so far we haven't even seen the enemy convoy.

Gone are ideas of making a night surface attack. We'll be lucky even to get in a submerged shot before the beating lying in wait for us catches up to us. Resignedly we stand by to take it—when, finally, the main body heaves into sight.

My God!
We see through the periscope four columns of ships, five or more ships in each column. Tankers, freighters, transports, and auxiliaries, all steaming toward Saipan. And closely spaced around the mass of merchant vessels is yet a third ring of at least ten, probably more, escorts.

No time to surface and send a message—even if we could,
with those hounds on our tail. No time even to prepare a message. No time to do anything except shoot.

On its present course the convoy will pass about two thousand yards ahead of us. The port flank group of escort vessels will pass almost exactly over us, one after another. We may get a shot, if conditions don't change.

We'll get some fish in the water, anyhow.
Make ready all tubes! A
big tanker moves up into position, will soon line himself up broadside for a shot from our bow tubes. Behind him is a solid phalanx of ships. If the torpedoes run straight, or run at all, we can't miss. We plan to fire all six bow tubes, swing and fire all four stern tubes, and then take her down fast. Too bad, but we won't be able to sit around to verify sinkings. We'll be fortunate if we distinguish our torpedo hits from the unholy barrage of depth charges sure to follow.

Stealthily, silently,
Trigger
creeps into firing position. One minute to go, just about. Fritz takes the periscope for a moment, swings it aft for a quick look. Dismay on his sweat-studded face.

“He's signaling to the convoy,” he mutters. “They must have us pretty well spotted by now. He's sending ‘Baker,' the letter ‘Baker' over and over—That's International Code for ‘I am about to discharge explosives.'”

Someone who recently read
Horatio Hornblower
murmurs, “For what we are about to receive, oh, Lord, we give thanks.” But it's not funny.

Our tanker should be about in the spot now.
Standby forward!
I turn
Trigger's
periscope back to give the firing bearings. We're going to catch it, but we're going to dish it out too.

But the periscope can see nothing. Helplessly I turn it back and forth in high power. “Something peculiar here. Can't see anything. Mighty funny-shaped cloud there—looks like a ship . . .” I flip the periscope into low power, which gives greater field with less magnification.

“Wow! It's a destroyer! He's trying to ram! He's just barely missed us—within twenty-five yards! He's firing a machine
gun through his bridge windows! They're dropping depth charges!”

Thought: How long does it take a depth charge to sink to fifty feet?

“He's by, now. There's the tanker! Bearing—mark!”

“All ahead full! Take her down!”

“Fire ONE!”

“Rig for depth charge and silent running!”

“Fire TWO!”

“Fire THREE!”

“Fire FOUR! Secure the tubes!”

The air pressure inside
Trigger
suddenly increases as negative tank is vented, and down she goes. Four torpedoes are all we fire, for we don't want depth charges going off and possibly exploding a torpedo warhead lying unprotected in a tube with the outer door open.

But no depth charges go off, despite the whole gang of Japs seen frantically working at the destroyer's depth charge racks. We suspect he was caught a little by surprise, too, and either his release gear jammed, or he still had his depth charges secured for sea. At any rate, the first explosions we hear are the beautiful, painful, wonderful sounds of four solid torpedo hits: two, according to the time interval, probably in our tanker, and two in one or two ships in the next column over.

Then, for a moment we hear only the thrashing of many screws, in particular the set belonging to the little man who sent “Baker” by light. We are at 300 feet, but he comes in as if he could practically see us, and drops twenty-five absolute beauties on us. How
Trigger
manages to hold together we'll never know. Her heavy steel sides buckle in and out, her cork insulation breaks off in great chunks and flies about. Lockers are shaken open and the contents spewed all over everything. Ventilation lines and other piping familiarly start to vibrate themselves almost out of sight. Light sheet-metal seams and fastenings pop loose. With each succeeding shock, gauges all over the ship jiggle violently across their dials, and several needles knock themselves off against their
pegs. In spite of careful and thoughtful shock mounting, instruments are shattered and electric circuits thrown out of order.

During the height of the depth charge barrage the forward auxiliary distribution board circuit breaker emits a shower of sparks and a sudden crackling “phf-f-f-ft.” The electrician's mate standing by hastily opens the “depth-charge ‘look-in' switch”—and throws the circuit breaker out. All lights in the forward part of the ship go out, but the emergency lights, turned on at “Rig for depth charge,” and various hand lanterns strategically located, furnish sufficient illumination for essential operations. Electrician's mates in the forward repair party quickly and silently turn to, working to locate and eliminate the trouble in the near-darkness amid the shattering noises of the depth charges, the convulsive whipping of
Trigger's
hull, and the bouncing of the machinery. In a matter of minutes it is spotted, the offending water-soaked gear disconnected, and the forward board thrown back in. The lights come on again, and we feel a little better.

Finally the barrage is over and we listen while five more escorts detach themselves from the convoy and come back to look for us, signaled, no doubt, by the chap who had so vigorously counterattacked us. No more depth charges for a while, and we think that perhaps we're going to get away with just a little beating. Hopes begin to rise, but no such luck!

The six Japs form a ring around us, and keep contact, moving with us so as always to keep us in the center. No matter which way we go, which way we turn, they keep up with us. Every half hour or so one breaks off and makes a run, dropping only a few charges each time—thum, thum, thum,
THUM
,
THUM
,
THUM
—WHAM, WHAM! WHAM! Now and then they vary their routine, and make a “dry run,” as if to say, “We know you're there, old boy. Might as well surface and get it over with.” But
Trigger
sticks it out, long past dawn, past noon, until late afternoon.