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Submarine! The Classic Account of Undersea Combat in World War II
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About Submarine! The Classic Account Of Undersea Combat
Product Description 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. Review The Philadelphia Inquirer A genuine World War II thriller....A firsthand account of a lot of guys with a lot of nerve who shortened the war by taking tremendous gambles. Time The dramatic underside of the Pacific War, as told by a veteran submariner. About the Author Edward L. Beach, Captain, USN (Ret.), was the bestselling author of Run Silent, Run Deep and a dozen other books about the navy, including Around the World Submerged -- a chronicle of his record-breaking 1960 circumnavigation of the globe in the USS Triton. He died in 2002. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One: Trigger My story begins on January 1, 1942. Two and a half years out of the Naval Academy, and fresh out of Submarine School, I reported to Mare Island Navy Yard for "duty in connection with fitting out USS Trigger (SS237), and on board when commissioned." Before presenting myself at the office of the commandant I drove down to the submarine outfitting docks looking for my future home. There she was, a great black conning tower sticking up over the edge of the dock, with a huge white 237 painted on her side. A swarm of dusty nondescript men were buzzing around her, and wood scaffolding, welding lines, hoses, temporary ventilation lines, and other miscellaneous gear hung haphazardly about. "There's my new home," I thought, "wonder if I'm looking at my coffin." To me, she certainly wasn't impressive, beautiful, or anything at all but an ugly chunk of steel. "No life, no spirit, no character," I thought. I remembered my old "four piper" destroyer, which I had left three months before after two years of steaming up and down and across the Atlantic on Neutrality Patrol. She was old -- launched within a week of the day I was born -- and ungainly, but she was a lovely thing to me. I knew and loved every part of her. I'd cussed at, slaved over, and stolen for her, and when orders arrived for me to report to Submarine School I'd sent back a dispatch saying I wished to remain where I was. But the Bureau of Navigation had insufficient applications for Submarine School and had decided to draft a few. One of the draftees was Ensign Beach, and here I was. As I turned my back on number 237, I did not know that two and a half of the most crowded and thrilling years of my life were to be spent with her. She was to become the ruler of my life, and the most beautiful and responsive creature I had ever known; a hard, exacting mistress, but loyal, generous, and courageous. All ships have souls, and all sailors know it, but it takes a while to learn to commune with one. It took me a long time, for Trigger had to find her own soul, too, but in the end she was my ship, and nobody else's. I never became her skipper, but I spent nearly a year as her exec, and when finally I left her I was the last "plank owner" left -- except for Wilson, the colored mess attendant. Having three times failed to cajole Wilson into taking a transfer and a rest, I finally booted him off ahead of m
