Submarine! Read Free Page B

and our target, still barely under way, also circled, bow now at the water’s edge. Suddenly a cry, “He’s going!” Slowly at first, irresistibly, then more quickly, his bow plunged down and his stern swooped into the air, until he was straight up and down in the water, his long, dusty stack flat on the greedy, splashing sea. The old-fashioned counter stern, crude square rudder, and massive propeller, still slowly revolving, hung high above us, dripping and gleaming. Loud rumblings and crashing noises—his cargo tearing loose from its stowage and falling through the forward bulkheads—came loudly to us as we stared from the bridge of the Trigger . He dipped a little lower, the stack disappeared, and the great steel fabric began to swing back and forth, about ten degrees from the vertical. Then, as though in the grip of some playful Gargantuan monster, the hull commenced to lurch, and twice spun completely around, accompanied by squeaks and groans of tortured steel and a bewildered cacophony of internal crashings and hangings. Still lower he sank, till only his propeller and after deckhouse were out of water. At this juncture some shred of lost dignity returned, the lurches ceased, the stern remained momentarily poised about fifty feet in the air, and then quietly, without fuss, slipped swiftly beneath the sea.
    Just as the stern disappeared we heard a loud explosion and felt a heavy shock through the water. Evidently his boilers had finally exploded. The water boiled a bit as the tip of the wreck went down, and then, as if to eradicate all signs of the tragedy, hurled itself from all directions upon the cavity suddenly formed in its midst. It met itself in the middle of the whirlpool and, having overdone its enthusiasm, unavoidably bunched up, forming an idiotic topknot surmounted by a little plume of smoke, to mark the grave.
    Dawn was approaching so we dived.
    The next night we surfaced even closer to the shore near the Bungo Suido, the southern entrance to the Inland Sea, hoping for another contact. We got one almost immediately.
    â€œObject bearing zero eight zero!” from a lookout. We look, and there against the gloomy hills flanking the Bungo Suido we see a peculiar white V. No radar in these early days.
    â€œWhat is it? Can you make it out?”
    â€œNo, sir. It looks mighty funny, though!” The V gets bigger.
    â€œWhat in the Sam Hill——?”
    The explanation, when it hits, is blinding. “My God! A destroyer—coming right at us!”
    â€œClear the bridge!” “Dive! Dive!” The diving alarm sounds. “All ahead emergency! Two hundred feet! Rig for depth charge! Rig for silent running!” Down we go, but with maddening slowness. Trigger , in common with her sisters, always “hangs” on a dive at about thirty-five feet. Full dive on every thing, making emergency speed, we can do no more.
    We can hear it now. A throb, throb, throbbing noise coming from outside the hull, steadily and rapidly increasing in volume—thum, thum, thum, THUM , THUM , THUM , THUM, THUM! Only one thing it can be! Pray we can get under! Shut all watertight doors and bulkhead flappers, secure all unessential machinery. “What’s the depth now?” “Thirty-six feet.” Will she ever break through? All hands are out of their bunks, all officers in the control room, startled by this unexpected dive.
    â€œWhat is it? What is it?” Then they hear this horrible drumming noise, THUM, THUM, THUM, THUM, look at the depth gauges, and fall silent.
    Forty feet. She’s going through at last. Fifty feet. We’re under! And not a split second too soon, for the drumming at that moment increases to an unbearable pitch, resounding through Triggers thick hull until all other noise is drowned out, and thinking is frozen in the hypnotic rhythm which rises to an incredible, screaming, maddening horror of sound that stops the heartbeat, then