Back in the conning tower I report everything normal, and receive the welcome news that we now have three ships working on us.
Street and I hold a small council of war. The time seems propitious to spring our surprise on the enemy. In the after torpedo room, covered with a tarpaulin, we have a little half-pint torpedo which, for want of a better name, goes by that of “Cutie.” Cutie is an affectionate little fellow, always wanting to nuzzle up to fellows bigger than he is. His attentions are not very popular, however, as they are apt to terminate violently. Cutie is a homing torpedo.
“I’ve already told the after room to load it,” says George. “Go on back with Chub and be sure they don’t make any noise.” I hurry away, for it’s important to carry out this job quietly. Running silent as we are, the sound of chain hoists must not be permitted to get out into the water. Enemy tactics for a single ship attacking a submarine are usually to ping. With two ships they will alternately listen and echo-range, but with three there is always one listening.
Back in the conning tower once more, “We’ve got to wait till one of them makes another run on us,” says the skipper. “Cutie hasn’t much range and we’ve got to give the little fellow a chance to reach his target.”
We do more than that. We take two runs in succession before there comes one to George’s liking. Then, speaking softly over the phones, we give the order to let Cutie go.
Minutes pass. We had fired the little fish in the middle of a depth-charge run. Could it work its way through the roaring explosions? Would not its mechanism be damaged by the concussions which managed so to shake Tirante’s tough hide? We listen with growing impatience.
BANG! One tin can’s screws stop abruptly. A subdued cheer rings out in Tirante’s conning tower — subdued, because there are still two others up there. And then, over the sound gear, comes the most eerie sound either George Street or I have ever heard. Distinctly audible in the receiver is the sound of voices in distress. We cannot make out what they are crying: they do not sound American, but they are obviously screaming in terror. The only explanation is that the Jap was nearly overhead when hit, and that the cries of his personnel were carried through the water. In sound tests conducted in training I had heard the human voice transmitted in this way, but this is the first time, so far as we know, of such an instance in combat.
In a few moments the other two escorts are back at us. Trembling and shuddering under the successive concussions, Tirante works her way toward deeper water, wishing that she had two more Cuties, that there were some way of striking back at her tormentors.
“Ned,” says the skipper suddenly, “it looks as though this will be a busy night for you, keeping out of the way of these fellows. No doubt they’ll expect us to surface after nightfall, and have some kind of search plan to find us. I can handle things right now. You go below and get some rest.” So saying, he gives me a winning smile and a shove toward the hatch.
“I’m not tired, sir,” I start to say, realizing all at once that I am.
“Goddamit, Ned, that’s an order! I want you fresh tonight!”
While undergoing depth-charge attack it is customary to secure unnecessary personnel, partly to make it easier on those who still must stay on duty, and partly to conserve oxygen by reducing the activity of the others. Besides, I had been up all night and most of the previous day, and as George said, would have a full night again. So rationalizing to myself, I climbed down from the conning tower and headed forward. When I reached the wardroom, an idea came to mind.
Seated there were all the officers who had already been secured — by coincidence the group included several who were on their first patrol. It was a tense bunch. There was not a thing any of them could do to help matters, which made things just that much worse. The game had degenerated into a contest between our skipper and the two tin can skippers, with an undetermined factor — how well the Portsmouth Navy Yard could build a submarine hull — in the balance.
Just as I arrived the screws of one of the enemy vessels became suddenly very audible, right through the thick steel hull. Someone said, “Here we come again.”
Another voice, “We can’t keep this up forever. Wonder how long our battery can hold out?”
I waited to hear no more. Stepping in, I announced that I had been up all night, and meant to get some sleep, and suggested that some of them do the same. The statement caught them by surprise — evidently they had not seen Remley.
The first of four close ones caught us as I climbed into my bunk, but resolutely I got in and lay there. With my head alongside the skin of the ship I could clearly hear the propeller beats, and knew when to expect the charges. I turned my face to the bulkhead so that no one would see my eyelids quiver, and forced myself to lie still.
I felt cold, The heat of my body was going right out into the Yellow Sea. It was warm within the ship, too warm, but the cold sea was sapping the heat right out of us. I realized that I was shivering, and then I realized it was mainly because I was afraid.
In the distance the swish-swish-swish-swish-swish of the propellers belonging to the chap who had dropped the last load took on a new note. At first it seemed that he was turning for a new run; but then another set increased in intensity, while those of the first remained steady.
Swish-swish-swish-swish-swish-swish-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISH-SWISHSWISHSWISHSWISH—He must be right over us now — listen to that son of a bitch come—SWISHSWISHSWISHSWISH. Drop, you bastard! Drop your… sonsabitching charges! Drop and be God damned to hell! SWISHSWISHSWISHSWISHSWISHSWISHSWISH SWISHSWISHclickclickclick Here they come here they come here they come here they come! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
My pillow is wet beneath my face, and I can feel my mind reach deep into slumber with the relaxation of tension. But it is wide awake again for the next run, and the next, and the next.
And then, somehow, the explosions seemed to lose some of their authority, seemed to draw away from us, and I slept.
April 13
0612 Returning from SHANGHAI sweep at high speed. Sighted dawn plane and dived for the day.
Intend to make investigation of a reported anchorage on the north shore of QUELPART during darkness. Our six steam torpedoes left forward will be ideal for this work.
The dearth of night traffic across the Yellow Sea was almost sure proof that the enemy was anchoring somewhere. We had investigated all such anchorages within reach. This one, though rather difficult to approach because of the necessity first to negotiate a long, narrow channel, looked as though it might be interesting for the same reason.
We decided that going into the anchorage at night, when the enemy, if present, would presumably have his guard most relaxed and be least ready to retaliate, presented the most alluring proposition. There was a large mine field off the general vicinity of the anchorage, but we knew its approximate dimensions and location — shaped roughly like the state of Nevada — between Quelpart and the Korean coast. We planned to slip between it and the shore of Quelpart, staying as close as possible to the land so that Nip radars would find it difficult to distinguish our pip from those of the beach.
Shortly after dusk on the night of April 13 the lean gray form of Tirante swam to the surface and silently headed toward the western tip of Quelpart. The plan of action had been explained to the crew, and a special dinner prepared for the occasion, with sandwiches laid on for later.
As soon as we had surfaced, of course, the crew’s entertainment radio was connected to an antenna, and several of us were listening to it when mention was made of “President Truman.” An electric tremor ran through the entire ship’s company, and this was how we learned of our country’s loss. All during our long approach to battle we gleaned bits of information from broadcasters who assumed that the whole world already possessed all the facts. Even when the skipper said a few words about it on the ship’s general announcing system, we listened avidly, as though from some occult source he had additional information to impart.