They shook hands. “We’ll get you ready as soon as we can,” said Lockwood. Morton stood up gravely, thanked him shortly, and departed. As he watched that straight, tall figure stride out of his office, the thought flashed across the Admiral’s mind: “I shouldn’t let him go. I ought to take him off his ship and let him cool off a bit. But I just can’t do it!”
So Wahoo was given another load of torpedoes, which were most painstakingly checked for perfect condition, and immediately departed for the Japan Sea to redeem her previous fiasco. She stopped at Midway en route, but nothing more was ever heard or seen of her, and what information we have been able to gather, consisting of reports of losses which could only have been due to depredations made by Wahoo on her last patrol, has come from Japanese sources. According to these sources, four ships were sunk by Wahoo in the Japan Sea between September 29 and October 9, 1943. Knowing the Jap tendency to deflate records of losses, it is probable that the actual number of ships sunk was eight or more, instead of four.
Wahoo never returned. Surprisingly, however, among the 468 United States submarines which the Japs claimed to have sunk, there was not one record, or any other information anywhere discovered which, by any stretch of circumstances, could explain what had happened to her. The enemy never got her. They never even knew she had been lost, and we carefully concealed it for a long time, knowing how badly they wanted to “get” Wahoo.
Like so many of our lost submarines, she simply disappeared into the limbo of lost ships, sealing her mystery with her forever. This has always been a comforting thought, for it is a sailor’s death, and an honorable grave. I like to think of Wahoo carrying the fight to the enemy, as she always did, gloriously, successfully, and furiously, up to the last catastrophic instant when, by some mischance, and in some manner unknown to living man, the world came to an end for her.
5
Trigger
Time passed, and Trigger was a veteran. Her lean snout had explored the waters of the Pacific from the Aleutians to the Equator, and she had sunk ships wherever she went. We had also accumulated our share of depth charges, although none — for chills and thrills — the equal of our first working over.
On the 10th day of June, 1943, at about five o’clock in the afternoon, we were once again off Tokyo. We had been there for thirty days, and were due to start for Pearl Harbor at midnight. “Captain to the conning tower!” Benson dashed past me in the control room, leaped up the ladder to the conning tower where Lieutenant (j.g.) Willy Long had the periscope watch. “Smoke inside the harbor!” I heard Willy tell the skipper. “Looks like it’s coming this way!”
You could feel Trigger draw a deep, hushed breath, Captain Benson ordered me to plane upward two feet, to allow him to raise the periscope that much higher out of the water and thus see a little farther. Then the ’scope came slithering down and the musical chimes of the general alarm, vibrant with danger, reverberated through the ship, and started our hearts beating faster and our blood racing as we ran to our battle stations.
A few swift observations, and the voice of the skipper: “Men, this is the jackpot We’ve got the biggest aircraft carrier I’ve ever seen up here, plus two destroyers. We’re going to shoot our whole wad at the carrier.”
Men’s jaws slackened. This was big-league stuff. Silence answered the Captain’s announcement.
The carrier’s escorts were two of the biggest and most powerful Japanese destroyers. And they were certainly doing a bang-up job of patrolling for submarines. The carrier was coming out of Tokyo Bay at high speed, zigzagging radically, but the tin cans were working on a complex patrol plan of their own, and they were all over the lot. Long before we reached firing position we rigged Trigger for depth charging and silent running. We knew we were going to catch it — there was simply no way to avoid it if we did our job properly.
There was even a good chance, the way the escorts were covering the area, that we’d be detected before shooting. For after firing, when a long, thin fan of bubbles suddenly appeared in the unruffled water — well, at the apex of the fan you were pretty sure of finding the submarine responsible.
I can remember how the palms of my hands sweated, and how the flesh crawled around my knees, as we bored steadily into firing position. This way and that zigzagged the carrier, and that way and then the other went our rudder as we maneuvered to keep ourselves in position ahead of the task group.
“Make ready all tubes!” Captain Benson is taking no chances, plans to have all ten tubes ready to shoot from either end of the ship. “Standby forward.”
We maneuver for a shot. This boy is coming like hell, and no fooling! Twenty-one knots, we clock him. One destroyer on either bow, the whole trio zigzagging radically.
We twist first one way, then the other, as the carrier presents alternately starboard and port angles on the bow. Evidently we lie on his base course. What a break!
“Up periscope. Bearing — mark! Three five zero. Range, mark! Down periscope. Range, six one double oh. Angle on the bow five starboard. How long till he gets here? What’s the distance to the track? Control, sixty-three feet. Right full rudder. New course, zero six zero.”
I can hear snatches of the clipped conversation between Steve Mann and the skipper.
“He’ll be here in eight and one-half minutes. Zigged three minutes ago, at thirteen minutes. Another zig due about three minutes from now, at nineteen minutes, probably to his right. Distance to the track, five double oh. Depth and speed, Captain?”
“Set all torpedoes depth twenty feet, speed high. Spread them two degrees. What’s the time now?”
“Seventeen and one-half minutes.”
“We’ll wait a minute. Sound, what does he bear?”
“Three five one — Sound.”
“That checks, Captain. Better take a look around. The starboard screen is coming right for us.”
“Up periscope. There he is — mark! Three five three. Range — mark! Four seven double oh. Looking around — bearing — mark! Three three seven — screen, down periscope! Angle on the bow seven and one-half starboard. Near screen angle on the bow zero. He will pass overhead. Sound, keep bearings coming on light high-speed screws bearing three three seven!”
“High-speed screws, three three seven, sir. Three three seven — three three seven — three three six-a-half — three three six-a-half — three three six — three three six — three three five — three three oh — three two oh — I’ve lost him, sir. He’s all around the dial!”
The familiar thum — thum — thum sweeps unknowingly overhead. We heave a big sigh of relief. He’s out of the way for a minute.
“Never mind him now! Sound, pick up heavy screws bearing about three five eight.”
“Heavy screws zero zero one sir, zero zero two-zero zero three.”
“It’s a zig to his left! Up periscope. Bearing — mark! Zero zero five. Range mark! Down periscope. Two two double oh. Angle on the bow thirty starboard. The son of a gun has zigged the wrong way, but it’s better for us at that. Right full rudder. Port ahead full! Give me a course for a straight bow shot! Make ready bow tubes! Match gyros forward!”
“One two five, Captain, but we can’t make it. Better shoot him on zero nine zero with a right twenty gyro.”
“Steady on zero nine zero! All ahead one third. How much time have I got?”
“Not any, sir. Torpedo run one one double oh yards. Range about one eight double oh, gyros fifteen right, increasing. Shoot any time.” Good old Steve is right on top of the problem.