Several observations later George turned to me. “Make ready three fish, Ned, and spread them one to hit, one ahead, one astern.”
We had already talked this over. Doctrine called for a spread of torpedoes equal to more than the length of the target, but this had been developed in the days of faulty torpedoes. Our first attack had proved that our torpedoes were all right. I ordered the spread, but aimed them so that all three ought to hit — one at the bow, one under the stack, and one at the stern. The VIT would go at the stack.
We had been twisting and turning, following the target’s zigzag plan, maintaining ourselves in position while he approached. George, veteran of many patrols in the old Gar out of Australia, certainly knew how to handle a submarine. We never made a waste motion, and his periscope technique was perfection. Now he put down the ’scope, gave several quiet orders. Tirante ceased maneuvering and slowed down.
“Standby forward.” George pointed to the telephone talker, who was already relaying the word.
“Range.” He pointed to the sound operator.
“One two double oh,” from the latter. Chub tapped his range dial and grinned tightly at the firing panel. Number six fish showed “ready,” and the switch was turned to On. The fire controlman stood with his hand on the firing key. I turned to Chub’s setup. The TDC showed the enemy just coming into the optimum firing position. It was humming softly, and the Correct Solution lights were glowing for the forward tube nest. The Gyro Angle Order switch was in the right position.
“Gyros matched and ready!” announced Gene Richey, assistant TDC operator.
“Set!” I told the skipper. He rose with the periscope halfway—“Mark!”—and signaled for it to go down.
“Zero four three-a-half,” sang out Karlesses, the periscope jockey. I saw that it checked exactly with the angle on the TDC.
“Fire!” I shouted. The fire controlman pushed the firing key, and we felt the recoil as a sudden jolt of air squirted out the first fish. Two more jolts followed.
“All torpedoes running normally,” reported the sound man. Ensconced in a corner out of the way, a seaman was counting time. It seemed to take hours before he got to thirty seconds.
The periscope started up again. If all went well, the first torpedo would be hitting about the time it got up. Time stood frozen. I could feel the palms of my hands sweating, and wiped them along my trouser legs. They still felt damp.
WHRRRANG-G-G-! A tremendous explosion shook the heavy steel of Tirante’s frame. The periscope quivered in George’s grasp, and he seemed to press his forehead even deeper into the rubber buffer. I was standing beside him, waiting for my chance, and in a moment he turned the ’scope over to me.
I could not see the center of our target, for it was obliterated in a column of water which had risen high above the tops of his masts. The bow and stern, as I watched, rose out of water and came toward each other. Then the water fell back, but the middle of the ship had disappeared.
As the skipper jostled me out of the way, I had a split-second picture of the hapless vessel cocked up, twisted away from us, and sliding under.
“Camera,” suddenly called out George. Quickly I handed it to him; helped him fit it in the periscope. Just as he snapped the shutter, another, lesser, explosion in the target vibrated through our ship. Evidently a boiler.
When my next turn to look came a second or two later, there was just time to see the tip of the stern slide out of sight. Thirty seconds from the moment of the initial explosion, the ship had ceased to exist. The two extra torpedoes, running a few seconds after the first one, were robbed of their target and, neatly bracketing the stricken hulk, sped on beyond into the empty sea.
The date was March 28, and we made a special note in our log for that day that the torpedo which had wrought such devastating effect was torpedo number 58009, donated to the Navy as a contribution to the war effort by the employees of the Westinghouse torpedo factory at Sharon, Pennsylvania. It still bore its special paint job as it streaked through the water on its final errand. Sharon received pictorial proof of its special contribution about four months after the Navy had accepted it.
That night, well offshore, I spread out the charts for the Captain as we debated where next to carry our hunt. However, a message on the submarine Fox radio intercept schedule brought a change to our plans. Trigger, which had completed two unproductive patrols since I left her, and was currently on her third, had been ordered to join Tirante in coordinated patrol in the East China Sea. On her present patrol — on which she had sunk two ships — she had a new skipper, David Connole, whom I had known slightly when he was a junior officer in the old Pompano before she was lost.
Trigger was due to rendezvous with us that very night. We should raise her by radio in a few hours. I became rather excited at the prospect of seeing my old home again. Since there would be some coordination to accomplish, someone would have to go aboard for a conference. This was too good a chance to miss, and there were plenty of volunteers from men who had once served in Trigger to help man our tiny rubber boat.
Several times that night we called Trigger by radio, but there was no answer. Silence. As morning drew near we dashed for the coast, submerged in a likely-looking spot, and waited impatiently for darkness again. Then we moved offshore once more to call my old ship. Trigger from Tirante. Trigger from Tirante… S 237 from S 420… S 237 from S 420…
All night long the call went out. Carefully we peaked our transmitter to the exact frequency; gently we turned our receivers up and down the band to pick up the answer in case Trigger were a bit off key. All during that long and sleepless night we heard nothing.
The third night was a repetition of the second, except that I spent nearly the whole time in the radio room. At irregular intervals Ed Secard tapped out the unrequited call. His face was inscrutable, his manner natural and precise. But Secard had made many patrols in Trigger, and when the time came for him to be relieved, he waved the man away. Fine beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and a spot of color burned on his youthful cheekbones, but his right hand steadily and precisely pounded the coded call letters over and over again: S 237 V S 420… K… S 237 V S 420… K… S 237 V S 420… K… Trigger from Tirante… I have a message for you… Trigger from Tirante I have a message for you… Trigger from Tirante… Come in please…
A spare set of earphones on my head, I watched the silent instruments as if by sheer concentration I might drag a response from them. Every time I glanced up to the open door of the radio room, there were intent faces staring at me — worried faces, belonging to men I knew well, who said nothing, and did not need to. Once someone handed in two cups of coffee.
There never was any answer, and deep in our hearts, after three nights, that was answer enough. With your surface ships there are always survivors, messages, maybe a bit of wreckage. They always operate together, so there is always someone who can later tell what happened. With submarines there is just the deep, unfathomable silence.
We could visualize the sudden, unexpected catastrophe. Maybe a Kamikaze plane. Maybe a depth charge-a bull’s-eye, after more than four hundred misses. Maybe a torpedo, or a mine, or even — inconceivably — an operational casualty.
In some compartment they may have had a split second to realize that Trigger’s stout size has been breached. The siren screech of the collision alarm. Instantly the angry water takes possession. The shock has startled everyone in other compartments, and the worst is instantly obvious.