Almost immediately she upends. The air pressure increases unbearably. Everything loose or not tightly secured cascades down to the bottom, against what used to be a vertical bulkhead. Some men have hung on where they were, but most are struggling around in indescribable confusion at the bottom of the compartment. Instinctively all eyes turn to the depth gauges and watch as the needles begin their crazy spin. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, they race around the dials. The shallow depth gauges soon travel past their limits; finally jam against their stops on the second go around. The deep-depth gauges and sea-pressure gauges soon afterward reach the limits of their travel. Nothing can be heard except the rush of water, the groaning and creaking of Trigger’s dying body, and the trapped, pounding pulses of the men.
Down, down, down she goes, to who knows what depth, until finally the brave ribs give way, the steel shell collapses, and Trigger’s gallant spirit ascends to the Valhalla of ships, bearing with her the souls of eighty-nine loyal sailors.
I could almost feel it happening, as the morning drew closer. We had decided to dive off Bono Misaki this morning, and finally I had to leave the radio room to plot our position. My heart felt like lead as I stalked out of the tiny hot compartment; a backward glance showed me Secard’s head drooping into shaking hands.
That morning we sank a lugger by gunfire. It had refused to surrender when we fired a shot across his bow. We tried to pick up the survivors, but they dived into the water, and paddled away, clinging to bits of wreckage. It was only about six miles to the mainland of Kyushu, so we let them be and unceremoniously departed.
On the morning of April 6, Tirante dived off Shori To, on the south coast of Korea, and what followed is perhaps best told in the words of the patrol report itself:
April 6
0540 Dived off SHORI TO. Saw numerous fishing schooners dragging nets astern. Kept busy staying clear all during the day. Decided to try to capture one and take the personnel back to base, since they ought to have information about the suspected anchorage at REISUE KAIWAN.
1918 Surfaced, going after one of the larger schooners.
1930 Having trouble coming alongside, and he isn’t cooperating. Fired a 40mm shell through his mainsail. The shell exploded, making a big hole in the sail; a 30 cal. machine gun cut his mainsail halyard so he lowered his sails in short order.
1940 Boat alongside. We look huge by comparison. Lt. Endicott PEABODY n (All American, Harvard 1942) and SPENCE, H.W. GMlc jumped aboard, both armed to the teeth in terrifying fashion. The dignity of the landing party was considerably shaken when Lt. PEABODY landed in a pile of fish and skidded across the deck in a tremendous “Prat” fall, but their efficiency was unimpaired. With many hoarse shouts and bursts of tommy gun fire, three thoroughly scared and whimpering fishermen were taken aboard. One KOREAN successfully hid by jumping over the side. Found out later he thought we were Japs, thus putting his days as a draft-dodger to an end.
SPENCE, having routed the last KOREAN out of a locker in the cabin where he had hidden, and having picked up a clock and pipe as souvenirs, reported to the Gunnery Officer that the search of the schooner below decks had been completed. The Gunnery Officer, not to be outdone, hurriedly looked about for a souvenir for himself before ordering “cast off.” In the darkness he picked up something and sent it below. Nothing much was noticed topside but many curses immediately came from below decks and a burly seaman rushed to the bridge, holding his nose, and hurled “MR. PEABODY’S souvenir”—to wit, one very dead squid — over the side. One KOREAN was slightly wounded in the left arm when he had to be persuaded by a burst of tommy gun fire in the water to climb back aboard and join the party.
1958 Cast off schooner. Set course through the passages of the KOREAN ARCHIPELAGO at full speed, navigating by radar. Passed through fishing fleet of about 50 schooners. Hoped to rout out some of the shipping our planes have reported hugging the coast here.
The next night we received a message ordering us to proceed to a point off Tsingtao where ships running between China and Japan were reported to pass occasionally. It would take us a full-speed dash to reach the desired spot, but if we went more leisurely we might be out of action for a full extra day. And besides, orders were orders, to be carried out with dispatch. All night long we sped across the Yellow Sea.
The system we had evolved in Tirante was that I stayed up all night, more or less with the ready duty in case of a sudden emergency, and also to navigate. Just before diving, we called the skipper, and shortly afterward I would turn in until time for lunch. This day, however, I felt like a good breakfast, and left a call for 0800.
I ate leisurely and drank two cups of coffee before I began to sense that something was stirring. Then came a subdued clink of the annunciators, a faint whisper of hydraulic oil flow as the rudder went over. The gyro repeater in the wardroom overhead began to spin slowly. After a bit I heard someone in the control room tell someone else that there was pinging on the sound gear. One by one members of the ship’s company began to drift by the wardroom — some one way, some another — but all, I noticed, in the direction of their battle stations. Tirante was girding her loins for battle, and it was time to go.
I gulp down the remains of the coffee, start for the conning tower. Pausing, I tell Roscoe Brown, one of our colored stewards, to call all the officers and tell them well be at battle stations soon.
Ed Campbell, I see, is already on the dive. As I swing onto the ladder leading to the conning tower, I hear the TDC start up. That means that Chub, or Gene Richey, is already there. George is looking through the periscope, and back by the TDC, Chub flashes me a huge, gap-toothed grin. The false tooth is out, which is Chub’s way of getting ready for a fight.
Street is looking intently ahead. “That’s them,” he says, a bit ungrammatically. “Take a look.”
There is a bad mirage effect on the horizon, but I can make out something which must be the mast of a ship, a shimmering something else which could be the tops of another.
“Better put it down again,” says the skipper after a moment. “This mirage effect is tricky. It might look like a telephone pole to them.”
That was something I hadn’t thought of. He continued, “These are the most perfect sound conditions I’ve ever run into. We’ve heard them for nearly an hour before sighting them, and they shouldn’t have any trouble bouncing an echo off us long before we’re ready to shoot. We’re going to have a tough approach and a rough time afterward.”
“Shall I sound battle stations?” I ask him. It is obviously going to be quite a while before we fire torpedoes, but from what I’ve seen below it won’t make much difference whether we sound the general alarm or not. George agrees with me, and the musical notes peal out. As we had expected, there is not a move below decks, but the “manned and ready” reports come through within seconds.
It isn’t long before we can make out enough of the convoy to identify it. Two big ships and three escorts. The biggest looks like a passenger liner, with a long, square superstructure. The other is a freighter type. The three escorts are Mikura class frigates — something like our destroyer escorts. All are zigzagging radically.
The approach is routine, except that we have to give unusual attention to the periscope to avoid being sighted. As the ships draw nearer we can see that both targets are crowded with soldiers, and that the three escorts have lookouts all over their decks. We identify the two big ships as Nikko Maru, an old passenger liner, and Ramb II, a brand-new, foreign-built freighter.