Submarine! The Classic Account of Undersea Combat in World War II
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The classic nonfiction World War II submarine combat thriller, written by a man who actually fought the battles.
The war beneath the waves.
For the World War II submariner, every day was a life-or-death trial: going to sea for months at a time; existing in dank, claustrophobic conditions; enduring long stretches of monotonous silence punctuated by adrenaline-spiked episodes of paralyzing fear and victorious elation. It was a duty few men could handle—and even fewer would survive.
This is the true story of those brave men who served and too often died under the ocean surface, written by a man who was there. Edward L. Beach masterfully weaves his gripping experiences aboard the USS Trigger with those of other boats fighting the war in the Pacific. Part action-packed combat chronicle, part testament to the courageous sacrifices made by those who never came back, this is a compelling eyewitness account of the war as few have seen it.
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
first one just after he has passed astern of Wahoo, and immediately get the second just before he crosses her stern. Thus there will be the minimum interval between all fish, and it will be more like a single salvo. “Make ready the stem tubes! Set depth ten feet!” “Tubes ready aft! Depth set, ten feet!” The telephone talker repeats the report from the after torpedo room. “Match gyros aft!” The TDC operator cuts in the gyro regulator for the after torpedo room, and a quick telephone check is
in the Cradle of the Deep!” Plagued with more bad fish, we sank one other ship, a large tanker, and damaged still another before running out of torpedoes and having to return to Pearl Harbor. There we found to our dismay that since we had not seen our tanker sink, we could not get credit for him. We vowed that we would not make this mistake again! From December 7, 1941, until the end of the war, our undersea fleet operated in strictest secrecy, which resulted in the well-deserved
avoid detection. Nevertheless, Cavalla moves along after the convoy, hoping somehow to sight it again, until 2000 when finally the welcome cry, “Radar contact!” electrifies all hands. A few moments’ observations suffice to prove that this is not the same bunch at all. On the contrary, it is a much bigger, much faster outfit. Cavalla maneuvers into position. It doesn’t take long this time: the contact has been made with the submarine nearly dead ahead of the enemy ships. It isn’t long, either,
evening that the enemy has actually been sighted. He wallows heavily in the slight chop of the sea—low, dark, and ungainly. At 1000 yards the Jap is broadside to Batfish: Fyfe’s plan has borne fruit, for his own bow is exactly toward the enemy, and he has all the advantage of sighting. Furthermore, the darkest portion of the overcast is behind him. Sprinkle is beside himself with eagerness. For about thirty seconds he has been imploring his skipper to shoot. He has a perfect solution and