It is getting time to shoot. I check for the third time that all is ready, that the torpedoes need only pressure on the firing key to send them on their way. I watch George narrowly, to anticipate his every need, relay his orders, and receive reports for him. I also ceaselessly look over Chub’s shoulder, and keep current on the tactical situation to have the latest dope for the skipper.
Standby forward, two fish!” suddenly says Street. This is unexpected, and can only mean one thing. We’ve been detected, and one of the escorts is after us.
“Down ’scope. Escort, passing close aboard,” George explains briefly. “I don’t think he’s spotted us. He’s passing now. No signs of having got us on sound?” The last is a question directed at me.
Sonar is on him, and the pings are coming in awfully loud. “How close?” I whisper to the skipper.
“Two hundred yards,” he whispers back. Too close to shoot now. The steady rhythm of his propellers comes strongly through the hull, grows steadily louder for several agonizing moments, then begins to recede. I heave a sigh of relief.
The escort is gone now, and from the setup on the TDC we can see it is time to shoot. George gets back on the periscope. I send to the forward torpedo room — we have no torpedoes left aft — to standby with all six fish.
We wait two minutes. “Up ’scope! Final bearing and shoot!”
“Standby forward,” I order.
“Nikko—bearing — mark!” The ’scope slides down. George nods at me.
“Zero three two!” from Karlesses. Chub turns the target-bearing dial a fraction of a degree. The correct solution light seems to flicker momentarily, then burns bright and steady.
“FIRE!” I shout. Tirante lurches three times.
The periscope is up again. “Ramb,” calls George. “Bearing — mark!”
“Three five seven-a-half.” Chub’s hand is a blur as he spins his bearing crank.
“Range — mark!”
“One six double oh.” Chub doesn’t have the bearing matched yet, so I grab the range crank and set the new range in myself.
“Angle on the bow, starboard 15,” George calls out suddenly. This can’t be right — it should be about forty. “Zig toward,” the skipper adds — which explains that.
Feverishly we set in the new angle on the bow. It seems ages before the TDC catches up.
“Final bearing and shoot! Bearing — mark!”
“Zero zero two!”
“Fire!” Number four torpedo goes out with a jolt.
“Angle on the bow zero!” He hasn’t finished zigzagging. I hold up my hand to stop the next fish. Chub frantically grinds his crank.
“FIRE!” as soon as it is matched.
“Angle on the bow port fifteen!” George is giving us all the dope he can. Furiously Chub spins the little crank.
“FIRE!” Our last torpedo tube is emptied. Street spins the periscope.
“They’ve seen us,” he growls. “Flag hoist on both ships. Probably means ‘sub sighted.’ Ramb has reversed course. Not a chance of hitting him.”
WHRANNG! A tremendous explosion shakes the conning tower. George spins the periscope again.
“Nikko!” he shouts. “Hit aft! Blew his stern off!”
WHRANGG! “Another one! Amidships!”
WHRRANGG! “Three hits! He’s done for! Going down on an even keel! The first hit was in the after well and blew his stern off. The second hit under the stack. The third hit under the forward well and blew his bow off!”
“How about Ramb?” I ask.
“No luck there at all. She’s got clean away.”
“Escorts?”
“Here — they — come! Take her down. Take her down fast!”
Ed Campbell has been waiting for that one. The diving planes go immediately to full dive. Then the sudden increase in pressure telling us that he has flooded negative and vented the tank. We ring up more speed to help him out, and Tirante claws for depth, hoping to get there before the ash cans arrive.
George crosses to the hatch, squats on the deck to speak more easily. “Keep her off the bottom, Ed. We’ve only got two hundred feet. Watch your angle carefully after we’re down — it wouldn’t take much of one to send one end of the ship into the mud.”
At that moment the first depth charge goes off, and it’s a good one. WHAM! our sturdy hull shudders and the piping twangs. WHAM! WHAM! A couple of men lose their footing. WHAM! Still closer. A cloud of cork dust rises into the air. WHAM WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! I have been holding more tightly than I realized to a piece of periscope drainage line in the conning tower overhead. Now I wish I hadn’t — as I massage a tingling hand. George, standing with arms folded and feet spread apart, manages a grin. “That’ll teach you,” he says.
I’m not the only one who has relearned one of the tricks of the trade. The sonar operator is doubled up in agony: he had forgotten to take off his headphones, or at least to tone down his amplifier when the explosions came.
We have a slight respite, then another barrage bangs around us. After this one the skipper sends me through the ship to take stock of the situation and cheer up the lads. The latter part is a hard assignment. This is by no means the first time I’ve heard close depth charges, and Tirante, besides being brand-new, is a whole lot more rugged in design than Trigger was. But after all, it takes only one bull’s-eye — and Triggers disappearance is fresh in my mind.
Throughout the ship, however, all hands are taking the beating stoically and with confidence. Despite the nerve-racking pounding, the tremendous noises of the separate explosions, the trip-hammer blows of the concussions themselves, they go quietly about their business. The experienced submarine sailors, by their example, leaven the reactions of those youngsters on their first patrol. In chief petty officers’ quarters I come upon the ultimate in calmness. Remley, Chief of the Boat, on watch for many hours, had been sent by Ed Campbell to get some rest. He is carrying out orders, sound asleep on his bunk. The effect on the rest of the sailors is terrific.
As I look at him, another saintly series of close explosions shakes the ship, adding more dust and debris to that already strewn about the decks. Remley’s eyelids flicker, then relax once more, and I walk gently away.
But it is in the forward torpedo room that I find the most remarkable reaction to a depth charging. Everyone is going about with a broad smile which somehow belies the strained look around the eyes. It seems that our Korean prisoners had been helping mule-haul the big torpedoes in and out of the tubes. Our men had told them, by sign language, that the torpedoes were meant for the Nips and this seemed to please them mightily, especially a few hours ago, when six fish had been hauled part way out, checked, and pushed back into their tubes. There had been many ribald gestures depicting what they hoped these fish would do to the Japs, and the Koreans had cheered for each one when it was fired.
When the hits came in, there had been more cheers which, so far as the Koreans were concerned, continued indiscriminately well into the first barrage of depth charges. The amusement was over the antics of the prisoners when they realized that there had been only six torpedoes but that there were many more than six explosions.
This much of the story I get between attacks, but the Koreans are nowhere to be seen, until a quivering canvas cot, rigged under an empty torpedo rack, is pointed out. Moans come softly from a blanket draped over it. I lift up one end, and there is one of our Korean friends, hands clasped over his head, eyeballs rolling, moaning away.