Submarine! (42 page)

“Targets!” I bawl into the ship's announcing system. I can feel
Tirante
draw herself up. Dead quiet from below decks. I can sense the rumble of the hydraulic plant accumulator
, the hiss of high-pressure air as the torpedomen check their impulse bottles. Water laps gently alongside, and the ship rocks slightly in the onshore current. Back aft, the four diesels purr softly, idling, and a small stream of water spatters out of their four muffler exhaust pipes.

0350 Bridge could definitely see ships. For the first time put targets on TDC, with zero speed and TBT bearings. Radar commenced ranging on largest ship—very difficult to distinguish from the mass of shore pips, and gave range of 2500 yards. Sounding 9 fathoms. Still getting set on. Land loomed close aboard and on both sides. Patrol still not overly alerted, passing outboard of us about 6000 yards away, pinging loudly. The land background is our saving grace. Secured the fathometer. If those ships can get in there, so can we. Both 40 MM guns are all loaded and ready with gun crews. Since it is too shallow to dive, we will have to shoot our way out if boxed in.

I clean off the TBT binoculars with a piece of lens paper. “Standby for a TBT bearing,” I shout into the announcing speaker.

“All back two thirds!” I hear George order from the conning tower. “All stop!” a moment later. This, by prearrangement, is to be done just before firing. Having got this far, we want to get off our fish with the utmost deliberation.

Tirante
lies dead in the water, every nerve keyed, every sense at its highest pitch. Six thumps in quick succession from up forward tell me that the outer doors of the torpedo tubes have been opened; that six deadly bronze warheads need only the word from George to be on their way.

“Bearing!” from the bridge speaker. My cross hair is bisecting the middle of the biggest target. I squeeze the right handle of the TBT, thus giving the “mark” to Chub on the TDC.

“Fire!” from the conning tower. A few seconds later a streak of white bubbles comes to the surface, heading straight for the enemy ship.

Someone has joined me alongside the TBT. George. Both of us stare along the rapidly extending wake. Ed Campbell and the quartermaster add their binoculars to the watch. The streak of bubbles appears to curve slightly to the right.
Current! The reverse of what we are experiencing from where we lie!

“Torpedo should be hitting now,” says George.

But nothing happens. We wait longer. Can this have been a defective fish also? My God, I thought we were through with them! Admiral Lockwood personally assured the Force that they were now as perfect as they could be made.

Suddenly there is a flash of red-orange flame far up ahead. The location of the explosion proves that the torpedo functioned perfectly, and exploded when it hit the beach after missing to the right.

0359 Fired one torpedo aimed at the left edge of the largest target, to correct for current effect. Wake headed straight for the target.

0359-22 Fired another torpedo aimed same as the previous one—straight as a die. Exec's keen shooting eye looked right on tonight.

(It was nice of George to put that in the patrol report. Just like him, too.)

0401-05 A tremendous beautiful explosion. A great mushroom of white blinding flame shot 2000 feet into the air. Not a sound was heard for a moment, but then a tremendous roar flattened our ears against our heads. The jackpot, and no mistake! In this shattering convulsion we had no idea how many hits we had made, but sincerely believe it was two. In the glare of the fire,
TIRANTE
stood out in her light camouflage, like a snowman in a coal pit. But, more important, silhouetted against the flame were two escort vessels, both instantly obvious as fine new frigates of the
MIKURA
class. Steadied up to pick off the two frigates.

0402 Fired one torpedo at the left hand frigate, using TBT bearings and radar range.

0402-16 Fired another torpedo at the same target.

0403 Fired last torpedo at the right hand frigate.

0404 Now let's
really
get out of here!

0404-20 One beautiful hit in the left hand frigate. The ship literally exploded, her bow and stern rising out of water and the center disappearing in a sheet of flame. Must have hit her magazines. Very satisfying to watch, though not the equal of the previous explosion, of course. Possibly two hits in him.

0404-40 A hit on the other PF also—right amidships! No flame this time, other than the explosion, but a great cloud of smoke immediately enveloped her and she disappeared. We jubilantly credit ourselves with three ships sunk with at least four, probably five hits for six fish. Not the slightest doubt about any of the three ships. Now only one torpedo left aboard. Immediately reloaded it . . .

On the bridge, the only persons who could not look at the fires we had left astern were Spence and the other three battle lookouts. Four of the most experienced sailors in the crew, selected for their steadiness, night vision, and marksmanship with the forty-millimeter guns, they made up a special lookout watch section who came on watch when action appeared imminent. As the harbor patrol increased speed and headed into the anchorage to see what had happened, and we raced away into the night, he was under the cold surveillance of Spence and his gang the whole time.

Once more we slipped along the shore, watching the patrol craft narrowly. A third frigate could be seen, but he did not come out after us. So we just ran down the coast of Quelpart, headed for the open sea, and transmitted results of attack to submarines in the area so they could avoid the antisubmarine measures certain to come.

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 K
OREANS
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 K
OREAN
. 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.