Submarine!

Edward L. Beach Submarine!

To the two Triggers — the old and the new

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Aside from the thousands of officers and enlisted men of the United States Navy and the United States Submarine Forces, I am indebted to:

Captain Edward L. Beach, USN, my father, who many years ago also wrote about the Navy;

Donald Kennicott, forty years with Blue Book, who first put me in print and kept me there — as he has so many others;

Helen Grey, editor and adviser, who helped make this book a reality;

Henry Sell, of Town & Country, who provided the spark;

Jonathan Leff, editor at Henry Holt & Company; and

Ingrid, my wife, who would still like a ride in a submarine.

FOREWORD

Commander Edward L. Beach, in SUBMARINE! tells a story which not many men survived to tell. All too often the careers of our most daring submarines and submariners were terminated, after weeks of prayerful watching and waiting back at ComSubPac’s operating base, by the issuance of that fateful message, “Overdue, presumed lost.” Thus were written the epitaphs of Trigger, Wahoo, Seawolf, Harder, Albacore, Tang, and some twoscore more of those silent gray ships which carried the war to the enemy and held the line while the Fleet licked its wounds, and shipyards beat pruning hooks and plowshares into replacements for Pearl Harbor losses. Three hundred seventy-four officers and three thousand one hundred thirty-one enlisted men gave their lives in a submarine offensive that finally swept enemy shipping from the Pacific, yet Ned Beach, veteran of twelve war patrols, providentially was spared to recapture for us the moments of triumph, desperation, quiet humor, and numbing fear which were the daily portion of those devoted warriors.

Serving the apprenticeship of his deadly trade in Trigger and Tirante under such daredevils as Roy Benson, Dusty Dornin, Fritz Harlfinger, and George Street, he early experienced the wild elation of hearing torpedoes explode against enemy hulls, the stomach-fluttering thrills of night surface battles, the spine-chilling sound of enemy depth charges, and the frustrated fury caused by “dud” and “premature” torpedoes. He felt the sorrow which every true seaman feels in his heart as he watches fine, sturdy ships — even though enemy ships — take the last, despairing plunge to their graves.

Finally, in recognition of excellent service and outstanding ability, Ned was given command of the brand-new Piper. He had achieved the ambition of every submariner — command of his own boat in a hot war area. Deep below the surface, guided by equipment as fabulous as any ever dreamed by Jules Verne, Ned snaked his way through row upon row of mines into that last enemy stronghold, the Sea of Japan.

There the war ended and mothballs took over.

Now Ned has a new command, the brand-new Trigger, named for that gallant ship whose story he has so ably told. It is most fitting that this honor should be accorded him. I know that I speak for his shipmates, living and dead, when I wish Ned Beach and Trigger “Good luck and good hunting.”

Charles A. Lockwood

VICE-ADMIRAL, USN (BET.)

I’M THE GALLOPING GHOST OF THE JAPANESE COAST

by Constantine Guiness, MoMM1/c, United States Navy, 1943

I’m the Galloping Ghost of the Japanese coast,
You don’t hear of me or my crew—
But just ask any man off the coast of Japan
If he knows of the Trigger Maru.

I look sleek and slender alongside my tender,
With others like me at my side,
But we’ll tell you a story of battle and glory,
As enemy waters we ride.

I’ve been stuck on a rock, felt the depth charges’ shock,
Been north to a place called Attu,
And I’ve sunk me two freighters atop the equator—
Hot work, but the sea was cold blue.

I’ve cruised close inshore and carried the war
To the Empire island Honshu;
While they wired Yokohama I could see Fujiyama,
So I stayed — to admire the view.

When we rigged to run silently, deeply I dived,
And within me the heat was terrific—
My men pouring with sweat, silent and yet
Cursed me and the whole damned Pacific.

Then destroyers came sounding and depth charges pounding;
My submarine crew took the test.
For in that far-off land there are no friends on hand
To answer a call of distress.

I was blasted and shaken — some damage I’ve taken;
My hull bleeds and pipe lines do, too;
I’ve come in from out there for machinery repair,
And a rest for me and my crew.

I got by on cool nerve and in silence I served,
Though I took some hard knocks in return—
One propeller shaft sprung and my battery’s done—
But the enemy ships I saw burn!

I’m the Galloping Ghost of the Japanese coast,
You don’t hear of me or my crew—
But just ask any man off the coast of Japan
If he knows of the Trigger Maru.

1 Trigger

My story begins on January 1, 1942. Two and a half years out of the Naval Academy, and fresh out of Submarine School, I reported to Mare Island Navy Yard for “duty in connection with fitting out USS Trigger (SS237), and on board when commissioned.” Before presenting myself at the office of the Commandant I drove down to the submarine outfitting docks looking for my future home. There she was, a great black conning tower sticking up over the edge of the dock, with a huge white 237 painted on her side. A swarm of dusty nondescript men were buzzing around her, and wood scaffolding, welding lines, hoses, temporary ventilation lines, and other miscellaneous gear hung haphazardly about.

“There’s my new home,” I thought, “wonder if I’m looking at my coffin.” To me, she certainly wasn’t impressive, beautiful, or anything at all but an ugly chunk of steel. “No life, no spirit, no character,” I thought.

I remembered my old “four piper” destroyer, which I had left three months before after two years of steaming up and down and across the Atlantic on Neutrality Patrol. She was old — launched within a week of the day I was born — and ungainly, but she was a lovely thing to me. I knew and loved every part of her. I’d cussed at, slaved over, and stolen for her, and when orders arrived for me to report to Submarine School I’d sent back a dispatch saying I wished to remain where I was. But the Bureau of Navigation had insufficient applications for Submarine School and had decided to draft a few. One of the draftees was Ensign Beach, and here I was.

As I turned my back on number 237, I did not know that two and a half of the most crowded and thrilling years of my life were to be spent with her. She was to become the ruler of my life, and the most beautiful and responsive creature I had ever known; a hard, exacting mistress, but loyal, generous, and courageous. All ships have souls, and all sailors know it, but it takes a while to learn to commune with one. It took me a long time, for Trigger had to find her own soul, too, but in the end she was my ship, and nobody else’s. I never became her skipper, but I spent nearly a year as her exec, and when finally I left her I was the last “plank owner” left — except for Wilson, the colored mess attendant. Having three times failed to cajole Wilson into taking a transfer and a rest, I finally booted him off ahead of me, with the remark that nobody was going to be able to say he’d been aboard longer than I. Five hours after I left, good old competent Wilson was back aboard. He is the only man alive who can say he served with Trigger from her birth to just before her death.