Submarine! (41 page)

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 Q
UELPART
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.

April 14

0000 Approaching
QUELPART
ISLAND
northwestern side.

0029 Radar contact. Patrol Boat. Went to tracking stations and worked around him. Sighted him at 4500 yards. No evidence of radar until we were nearly around. The patrol was suspicious for a short time; then went back to sleep. Continued working up to the anchorage.

It was something more than thirty miles up the channel between the coast of Quelpart and the mine field, and we had to make full speed all the way to carry out our schedule. Our radar continually swept to seaward to forewarn of the
approach of enemy craft—in case the Japs had left a passage through the field for just this purpose—but concentrated ahead and astern. Most of the time I spent on the bridge, trying to compare our charts with what I could actually see, hoping to be able to spot hidden danger in time to avoid it. Chub stood at the TDC, assisting my navigation. George was ceaselessly climbing through the ship, talking to men in every compartment, explaining what we were up to, seeing for himself that every detail was in readiness.

For two hours we sped northeastward along the coast. The roar of our diesels came back to us from the dark hills. The night was pitch black. No moon. A thick overcast hung high over the silent land, stretching like a huge tent ahead, to port and astern, and the air had a musty tang with a suspicion of burning driftwood. There was a slight chop to the sea, but only an occasional wave broke high enough to dampen
Tirante's
wood-slotted decks.

0223 Radar contact. Another patrol boat. Avoided by going close inshore. He was patrolling back and forth in front of the anchorage, had radar and was echo-ranging in the bargain. He also became suspicious, but our tactics of running inshore confused him, and he continued routine patrolling.

During the whole of the ensuing action, except when actually firing torpedoes, this patrol boat was kept on the TDC and both plots. He was always a mental hazard, and potentially a real one. The only chart of any use was the Jap “Zoomie” chart labelled “Japan Aviation Chart, SouthernMost Portion of
CHOSEN
(
KOREA
) No. V3-36.” No soundings inside the ten fathom curve in the harbor and approaches were shown. Hoped the place wasn't mined and that none of the five shore-based radars reported on
QUELPART
were guarding the harbor.

George Street came to the bridge. “How about it, Ned? We think we have the harbor on the radar now. Too far to spot any ships, though. How well do you think you can see?”

I could see the shore line off to starboard, lighter in color than the hills which rose behind it, or the sky and water in other directions. Beyond that I could see nothing.

“About six miles to go. We're all set below. How's the time?” the skipper asked.

“We're a bit ahead of schedule, but that's all to the good, Captain. What's this patrol boat doing?” I couldn't help wondering about him, although in our planned division of responsibilities this was entirely the skipper's worry, not mine.

“He's patrolling to seaward of us, fairly well out. I don't think he suspects anything. Chub has been following him ever since we picked him up.”

“That makes two tin cans patrolling off this harbor,” I mused. “Maybe there's somebody in this one.”

“I'm beginning to think so too. These chaps don't look like ocean-going escorts. If they patrol offshore, there ought to be something there.”

George leaned over the conning tower hatch and ordered the general alarm to be sounded.

0240 Battle Stations. Approached anchorage from the south along the ten fathom curve within 1200 yards of the shore line. Took fathometer soundings every 3 to 5 minutes. The smell of cattle from the beach was strong. Bridge could not see well enough to distinguish ships from the shore line in the harbor, though a couple of darker spots in the early morning mist looked promising—as did the presence of two patrolling escort vessels.

It was like poking your head into a cave on a dark night. Up ahead, where the harbor was, it seemed a little darker than elsewhere. The misty gray atmosphere of early morning seemed just a shade lighter than it had been. On our port bow I could see the bulky outline of the rocky island off the coast of Quelpart which formed the left side of the anchorage. Twice, dim on the port beam, I thought I could see a low-lying black shape. Dead ahead, where ships should be, if there were any, nothing could be seen. Radar could not be sure of ships, although there were certain outstanding possibilities among the confused jumble of the shore return. I could feel, rather than see, the presence of two or more dark spots in the atmosphere, with the suggestion of masts and stacks above them.

We pressed in more closely. The fathometer gave seven fathoms. Forty-two feet; not enough to cover the ship. Radar
range to the islet was just over half a mile. Still no ships could be distinguished.

Doubts began to assail us. Maybe this whole thing was a wild-goose chase. Maybe this anchorage, like all the rest, was also empty. But if so, how explain two harbor patrols?

0310 Completed investigation this side of the anchorage from 1200 yards away. There may be ships here, but cannot see well enough to shoot. Started around the small island off the anchorage, staying as close as possible. The patrol vessel by this time was paralleling us 7000 yards offshore, still not overly suspicious, but annoying. Executive Officer on the bridge could see him now and then.

It was a relief to get into deeper water again. Non-divable water is murder, for it robs the submarine of her armor, her invisibility, and her haven all at once. We kept outside the ten-fathom curve going around the islet. We ran until we were due north of the harbor, then headed south.

0330 Having completed circuit of the small island, started in from northern side, cutting across ten fathom curve. At about

0340 Bridge made out the shapes of ships in the anchorage. Sound picked up a second “pinger”—this time in the harbor. Still too far—4500 yards and not sure of what we saw. Patrol heading this way. Sounding 11 fathoms. Current setting us on the beach. Decided to get in closer and have this over with. All ahead two thirds. Lieutenant Ted M
ARCUSE
, radar officer, confirmed sharp pips of ships in the anchorage.

This is the first confirmation, other than my imagination, that there really are ships there. A load lightens. Whatever we manage to do about it, at least this has not been a wild-goose chase.
Tirante
glides into the harbor. Now we have the tall hills of Quelpart to port and the little island outside the anchorage to starboard. It is a bit lighter than before; the moon is now up. First light is still about an hour away.

Then, coming suddenly into view, I can see ships at last.