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.
15
Trigger
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.