On January 30, 1942, Lieutenant Commander J. H. Lewis read his orders, and put submarine number 237 in commission. From that moment Trigger was a member of the United States Fleet. In no other type of ship is it so vital that all hands know their jobs and be constantly alert. A submarine operates in three dimensions, and her very ability to float, submerge, or surface is an expression of the will and effort of her personnel. Neptune is her medium, her friend, her protector, and she embraces the sea eagerly at every opportunity — carefully, with wholesome respect. You never hear a submariner speak of the sea as his enemy, for subconsciously he recognizes this peculiar relationship. He uses the sea and knows its properties. The effect of bright warm sunlight on it, for example, interests him greatly. The type of bottom, far down though it may be, affects him and what he does. The temperature of the water, the depth, and the amount of marine life — all are of consuming importance. All sailors — submarine or surface — know one great experience in common. They have a certain feeling of identity with their ships, and in extreme cases may even be said to be possessed by them. In analyzing the submariner you are invariably struck by these two traits: the sense of loyalty to his ship, and an indefinable oneness with, and deep understanding of, the sea.
Naturally, this temperament is rare. The men who have it are hard-working, thorough, and idealistic. The submariner is always aware that an error during underwater operations jeopardizes everyone’s life. Always present, too, is the realization that any slip, any mistake, is unworthy.
Because a ship, no matter how modern and fine, is only as good as her crew, the United States Navy concentrates on its men as the most important factor affecting over-all efficiency. If they lack judgment and initiative, so does the ship. If they lack the indomitable spirit, the absolute determination to succeed, so will the inanimate steel. But if they possess these attributes, they and their ship are unbeatable.
The embodiment and personification of this perspective is the Captain. His men and his ship reflect his will, and a properly organized crew operates with the unity of purpose of an ant colony. Whatever the state of the individual and of internal affairs, the composite exterior is smooth, unruffled; it acts under a single directive force — a single brain — the Captain’s. It is in tacit recognition of this basic understanding that a sailor, in speaking of a ship other than his own, frequently will use the pronoun “he” instead of “she.”
Weeks and months of strenuous training and organization go into a new submarine before she is considered ready to venture against the enemy. All our crews are organized into three sections, each able to dive and surface the ship, fire torpedoes, and ran all machinery — in fact, operate the entire mechanism of the vessel. On patrol each section customarily stands watch for a period of four hours in rotation. While off watch the members of a section eat, sleep, make necessary repairs, and, if there is nothing else to do, read magazines, play cards, or write letters.
The progress of Trigger from building yard to Pearl Harbor is slow. First come the builders’ trials, including the testing of all machinery to be sure that it operates as designed; then the first few dives, slowly and carefully; then more dives, gradually increasing the tempo of the operations. Finally, when the crew becomes quite expert in diving against time, try to catch them by surprise! Eleven seconds for all bridge personnel to get below and shut the hatch! By this time the vents are opened, and water is pouring into the tanks. Also by this time the engines are shut off; inboard and outboard exhaust valves are closed; motors are disconnected from the engines and connected to the batteries; the bow planes are rigged out; and the ship is half under water. In twenty seconds water pours around the bridge plating and covers the hatch, now tightly shut, through which, just a moment before, eight men had scrambled. Fifty seconds, and all that may be seen of the submarine is the top of the tall towerlike periscope support structure. Sixty seconds, and the ship is completely out of sight, cruising under water with possibly a little foam to mark the place where she disappeared. If you look hard enough you might notice a thin rod the size of a broom handle project vertically out of a wave for a moment and then disappear. Sixty seconds, and a ship displacing 1,800 tons, more than 300 feet long, rushing across the waves at a speed of 20 knots, has completely submerged. No time for error, no time to wait for the flash of genius to tell you what to do. Only by constant repetition of each tiny operation leading to accomplishment of the great operation is it possible to perform this tremendous feat.
Trigger’s first test dive was in San Francisco Bay. After the first few weeks of tests in the shallow waters of the Bay, she left for San Diego, where she remained for a month completing her training. Then back to Mare Island for final loading for war.
Fill her up with torpedoes, diesel oil, food, and spare parts. Make any necessary repairs and take care of the many last-minute items which always come up. Then, one May afternoon about two o’clock, good-by — this is it! The Admiral comes down to the dock, shakes hands with the skipper, wishes him good luck and good hunting. The ship backs into the Mare Island Slough, twists gracefully, and is gone, through Carquinez Straits, past Alcatraz, and under the Golden Gate Bridge. Trigger probably had a soul already, but we were too new to each other, too much taken up with the details of operating her complicated mechanism, to appreciate it.
No one who saw it will ever forget the awful vista of Pearl Harbor. Although we had been prepared for it, the sight of four of our great battleships lying crushed into the mud staggered us. That day I first sensed a more purposeful note in the gentle throb of the Trigger’s diesels, but she was only a neophyte, just joining up, and almost apologetically nosed her way into her berth at the Submarine Base.
We expected to get additional training and indoctrination at Pearl Harbor — such, we understood, was the normal routine for a new arrival. But all we received was an additional officer — another ensign, Dick Garvey — and next day Trigger was at sea again, bound for Midway to join a group of boats on station off that island. Things were tense in Pearl Harbor, and “strategic planning” was in an uproar — although it seemed to know fairly well what it was doing. The Jap fleet was coming, that we knew, and maybe—maybe—we’d get a shot at it!
Our chance came suddenly. A dispatch addressed for action Trigger said: MAIN JAP LANDING EFFORT EXPECTED JUNE SIXTH X CLOSE MIDWAY AND PATROL SUBMERGED TWO MILES OFF SHORE BEARING ZERO SIX ZERO. All night long we raced through the darkness, and shortly before dawn sighted the lights of Midway, dead ahead. With just an hour to go before daylight would force us to submerge, we had to cut the eastern reef much too close for comfort, and suddenly, catastrophically, with a horrible, shattering smash, Trigger ran head on into a submerged coral wall! Her bow shot sky-ward. Her sturdy hull screamed with pain as she crashed and pounded to a stop.