Here and there the figures of several men who had not leaped into the sea with the others stood upon the steel plates, silhouetted against sea and sky. Evidently they had climbed around the side and the turn of the bilge as the ship rolled over. Whatever their reasons for not abandoning the ship, they were now doomed, for none of the four destroyers still holding the wake dared approach closely enough to take them off. And the suction of the sinking vessel was certain to take them down with it.
Slowly the massive rudders and propellers started to dip under the seas splashing up toward them. A trembling and a groaning communicated itself to the whole giant fabric, and it began to sway noticeably, swinging the afterparts and the foreparts under alternately. Each time an end dipped, the sea gained a little, and the trembling and groaning increased.
Finally, during one swoop, the stern failed to reappear. Startlingly and suddenly, the bow rose partly out of water, displaying a single eye formed by one gigantic hawsepipe, as if Shinano desired a final look at the world she was about to leave. Swiftly then she slid under, stern first, and the last thing seen was the broad bulbous bow, like the forehead of some huge prehistoric Moby Dick, accompanied by the blowing, bubbling, and whistling of air escaping under water.
For several minutes there was considerable turbulence and bubbling to mark her grave, but Shinano was gone from the ken of men.
She had known the open sea for less than twenty hours.
11
Trigger
Trigger was a roaring, brawling, rollicking ship, and she loved the sound of her torpedoes going off. There was the night she and two sister subs took on a seventeen-ship convoy, with the result that there were but nine ships next morning. This was quite a story, for none of the other submarines knew of the presence of Trigger, and Trigger actually and unwittingly stole two fat targets right out from under the nose of one of her sisters.
It was a night in November. We had penetrated the Nanpo Shoto the night before, and had been hurrying along on the surface all day long, diving twice for inquisitive Jap planes, hoping to get across to the Nansei Shoto and through that chain of islands in short order, en route to our area. We were about one hundred and thirty miles south of the Bungo Suido of unpleasant memories as dusk fell, and with it a pleasant surprise.
Radar contact! The clarion call from Yeoman First Class Ralph Korn on the radar brings us all to the alert. “Big convoy, sir! Five or ten ships, maybe more. Radar interference, too, sir.”
That last complicates matters. We’ve been expecting to run into Jap radar-equipped escorts for quite a while, and apparently we’ve got one this time. This is going to take some doing, all right, and we ought to have an interesting time of it. In the first place, we figure our radar is probably better than his. In the second place, our small silhouette is harder for a radar to detect than that of a freighter or destroyer. So our tactics are to keep just barely within our radar’s range of detection, and we hope that by so doing we’ll be outside of his radar range.
Once again we begin tracking and plotting. Our scheme works pretty well, and soon we have his course and speed down cold. We would like to start in from the port flank of the convoy now, but cannot, because that triple-damned radar escort is in our way. Laboriously we work our way across the bow of the zigzagging convoy — we have counted by this time seventeen ships on our radar screen, though we cannot see them at all in the dark — and prepare to start in from their starboard flank. No soap! The five times sincerely damned radar escort has crossed to the starboard side too!
Cussing heartily, we work around to the port side again, hoping the escort’s movements were more coincidental than premeditated, and that he is as yet not aware of Trigger’s presence. Once on that side the mystery seems explained, because we now find two radar-equipped vessels, one on each side of the convoy. However, this chap on the port side evidently doesn’t know his job, and has allowed himself to get way out of position, well out on the port bow of the convoy.
O.K., chum. You slipped up that time. Here we go! Trigger’s four murmuring diesels lift their voices in a devouring roar. She swings sharply right and races for the leading ship of the convoy. “Make ready all tubes! Angle on the bow forty-five port. Range, three eight double oh.” The port escort is still unsuspiciously maintaining his station well outside of us.
“All tubes ready, sir! Range, three oh double oh. Angle on the bow sixty port.” We can see them clearly from the bridge now. Formless, cloudy masses, a little darker than the dark sky. As we watch them narrowly, they suddenly seem to lengthen a trifle; a zig away! We must shoot right now! “All ahead one third!” The roar of the diesels drops to a mutter. “Standby forward! Range, two four double oh. Angle on the bow ninety port. Fire ONE!…… Fire TWO!.. THREE!.. FOUR!..”
Four white streaks bubble out toward the convoy, and a large dark shape moves unknowingly and inexorably to meet them. Though we’ve seen it time and again, this moment is always the most thrillingly portentous one of all. It is the climax of training, of study, of material preparation, and of tremendous, sustained, perilous effort. The lure of the jumping trout, the thrill of the hunt, stalking the wild deer, or even hunting down the mighty king of beasts — none could hold new and unknown thrills for those of us who have watched our torpedoes as they and their huge target approach each other and finally merge together.
The seconds are hours, the minutes days. Target and torpedo wakes are together now. The first torpedo must have missed. Count ten for the second…. WHAM!.. WHAM! Two flashes of yellow light stun the secret darkness. Two clouds of smoke and spume rise from alongside our target. Swiftly he rolls over, men appearing magically all about, climbing down his sides, crawling over his bottom, instinctively postponing their inevitable doom.
In the meantime, all is confusion in the rest of the convoy. Our other two torpedoes, missing the ship they were aimed at, have struck home in some unfortunate vessels beyond him. We hear the explosions and see the flashes — rather to be expected, too, because of the tightly packed crowd of ships — but other than a high cloud of smoke we have no positive proof of damage in more than one other.
Just at this moment, with Trigger wheeling madly about under right full rudder and all ahead flank, three shapes detach themselves from the milling mass of freighters and tankers and head for us, bows on. We knew it was too good to last. Destroyers!
A quick decision, regretfully made, for it leaves the rest of the convey free to scatter unhindered. Take her down!
Down we go, and just in time, for we pass 100 feet when the first depth charges go off. There are propellers churning all about us, depth charges close aboard shaking Triggers solid ribs and pounding her tough hide, while we grit our teeth at 300 feet and take our licking. Damn them! Damn them! Damn them!
Suddenly the depth charges cease, and we hear three sets of screws leave us rapidly. Well! A break! Maybe we’ll get some more of those bastards! Fifty-five feet! Let’s go, Control — let’s get up there!
Up we come to fifty-five feet, take a good look around through the periscope. All clear. Surface! Ready on four engines! All ahead flank! Course one six oh.
High-pressure air whistles into Trigger’s tanks. Maneuvering room answers the flank speed bell by giving the motors all the battery has to offer. The screws bite into the water. Engine rooms get standby on all engines. Trigger is making 10 knots when she hits the surface. As soon as the conning tower hatch pops out of water we are on the bridge.