Clear the Bridge! Page 10

  After a welcome cup of coffee in the wardroom, I went back to the conning tower, stopping off for a minute in the control room. By tradition a commanding officer is expected to instill confidence in his men, but after a few words with Chief Ballinger I realized that this could be a two-way proposition. I went up to the conning tower perfectly confident that we’d close in and sink the next ship just like the last.

  Fraz took his turn below, Hank reported his reload complete, and Tang set off to seek out the next ship. I glanced at the Quartermaster’s Notebook; a half hour had passed since our torpedoes had detonated. We changed course 30 degrees to starboard and went ahead standard to move from our position on the port beam of this group to a position sharp on its bow. At range 4,000 we went back to battle stations, but with a new set of lookouts. Chief Ballinger would regulate this so that more men could share this vantage point.

  The ship we were seeking was now singled out and we stopped to let her come on. Sound reported an encouraging 120 propeller count, reasonable for a merchantman at the determined speed, but at 3,500 yards the dark shape developed into a destroyer with Tang 1,200 yards from her track. We had practiced running backward submerged, and I figured we could dive going astern, too, if need be. In any case, backing down offered the only way to pull clear without giving her a beam silhouette. Back we did, our propeller wash rolling down our sides, and she passed at 2,900 yards.

  There was more than one reason for not shooting. With the increasing seas, I had ordered the torpedoes set to run at ten feet for the last attack. This was four feet deeper than we had set them at Truk and was necessary lest they broach and run erratic in our present seas. At this depth they would likely run under the destroyer. Further, with her lookouts close to the sea, like ours, she might very well spot us before we could shoot if we closed to a proper range on the surface. But since there was not enough light for any periscope use whatsover, diving would mean a shot by sound bearings alone, not sufficiently accurate, especially against a destroyer. If these reasons had not been enough to convince me, the fact that we already had another ship picked out would have.

  Tang went ahead. There was a boil of water around the screws until we gained headway, then the propellers bit in and our ship picked up speed. As we passed the next contact abeam, we found her with our 7 × 50s. Her low, tapered silhouette was unmistakable; she was a submarine, probably enemy, but we could not be sure. The decision was not ours to make, for except in certain Empire areas we could not fire upon another submarine unless it was positively identified as enemy. Our experience with Guardfish in broad daylight showed the impossibility of any identification here.

  Tang’s divergent course to get clear of the submarine put additional pips abeam. One of these promised to be a suitable ship with two escorts, one well ahead and one astern. We converged to find a fine freighter’s silhouette at 5,000 yards, and shortly afterward the low shape of an astern escort. The bow escort remained just a pip, for some reason scouting nearly 8,000 yards ahead.

  The visibility in our vicinity was improving. This permitted calling down details of the ship’s profile, her raked bow, composite superstructure, and gun mounts on her bow and stern. From the control room, where there was time to use the identification books, came the first estimate of this ship’s type. She was classified as an Arimasan Maru, and with gun mounts, very likely a naval auxiliary. The tonnage of this class was 8,663.

  Her angle on the bow was now sharpening as we moved ahead into position for attack, and the details became less discernible. We had the immediate problems of attack facing us and were momentarily startled by a flicker of light at the ship’s forward gun mount. It was not repeated, however, and the bearings with angles on the bow were called down for each visible change.

  “We’ve got her on course two seven zero, speed eight, Captain.” It was Fraz’s voice. “Range twenty-eight hundred, we’re twelve hundred yards from her track. It looks good from here.” It looked good from the bridge, too, but a bit scarier perhaps, for at this stage her angle on the bow looked very sharp, and a slight change of enemy course would put us underfoot. That was always the case if you were really right in there, and there were invariably anxious moments until the rate of change of her angle became pronounced with the decreasing range. Perhaps it was well that I was busy twisting our boat for a minimal silhouette, marking bearings, and then settling her on the heading for near zero gyro shots. A black squall in back of us gave us further security from detection, but I more than welcomed Fraz’s call, “Ten degrees to go, Captain.”

  “She’s turned back, but she’ll never make it.” It was Jones, just in back of me, keeping track of the bow escort. I knew exactly what he saw: The escort ahead was coming toward us. It was like having another pair of eyes and the judgment to go with them.

  “Constant bearing—mark!”

  “Set!” from the conning tower.

  “Fire!”

  The next three torpedoes, each fired to hit a specific point, zinged out at eight-second intervals. From the instant of firing it was impossible for the enemy to maneuver his 600-foot ship to clear the divergent torpedo tracks. The whacks of the first two detonations resounded from below instantly, a second before we felt the explosions topside. The third torpedo hit forward of her bridge, causing a tremendous explosion. The marine life, suddenly phosphorescent, made the seas go white. Tang was hit from all sides by a monstrous shock wave, which seemed like the instantaneous detonation of a hundred torpedoes, but there was just that one heart-stopping crack. The naval auxiliary twisted, raised from the sea as you would flip a spoon on end, then plunged by the stern, engulfed in a mass of flames.

  “Are you all right below?” I called. There was no answer.

  “All ahead full, right full rudder.” I gave the order automatically, still not knowing the situation below. When I saw the luminous pointer of the rudder angle indicator swing right, I took a half breath. Then Fraz’s reassuring voice came from the conning tower.

  “We’re OK—checking the compartments.” He paused and then, “What the hell was it?”

  Tang was gathering way, so not too much was wrong. It had seemed minutes before I had heard from below, but it was really only seconds; just time enough for the crew to feel themselves to be sure they were still there and to get their jaws off their chests. We were in the clear; the ship was gone, and again there could have been no survivors.

  We cruised along abeam of the three pips remaining on our SJ while four more torpedoes were pulled from their skids into the empty tubes. The only possible damage from the explosion was found at this time, for the outer door of No. 5 torpedo tube was leaking slightly. It would undoubtedly seat tightly with sea pressure on diving. With the reload complete, and after time for those who wanted coffee to finish a cup or two, we turned our attention to business.

  The visibility had further improved, and we were able to investigate the three remaining ships with but one approach. They were all patrol types, so we set off to find the northerly group of ships that had shown up intermittently back at 2230. The navigator laid down an overtaking search plan that would cover their likely positions. With our regular sections now on watch, Tang followed the wide zigzag track to the northwest, cruising at three-engine speed to insure a rate of advance that would catch up with the enemy.

  I checked the Quartermaster’s Notebook prior to writing up my brief orders for the rest of the night. On the first ship this night we had fired at 2349; the latitude was 14° 47′ north, and the longitude was 144° 50′ east. On this last attack we had fired at 0120. The latitude was 14° 45′ north, and the longitude 144° 32′ east. I wrote them carefully in the back of my Night Order Book so this would remain a part of my personal record.

  It was now a quarter of three on the morning of February 23, and I was ready for some shut-eye; but some of the men still wondered about the mighty shock. To me the answer was now plain: When a torpedo explodes, the initial detonation wave of its warhead—the whack—is fe
lt instantaneously, for the sea acts as a solid and transmits this just as if it were a rigid iron rod. The explosion of our third torpedo had caused the detonation of the whole naval auxiliary’s cargo, the equivalent of hundreds of warheads, with a shock wave of stupefying proportion.

  I went to my cabin to try out my bunk.

  Photo Insert

  8

  Sleeping or even resting during the predawn hours proved impossible. Low voices from the wardroom indicated that others were having the same problem. I started across the passageway.

  “But we could have sunk each of them with three torpedoes,” Mel was saying as I entered the wardroom. Fraz and Frank were there, too. The exec’s eyes were as wide and bright as one would expect at noonday, but I could not tell about the other two, for they were wearing red masks to start night-adapting their eyes prior to going on watch. It would take some hours, perhaps even a day to completely calm down from the excitement of this night.

  “You’re right, Mel, about firing a spread of three,” I injected at the first appropriate moment, “but they’re on the bottom, and that’s what counts!” I would see what we could do about a better rotation of the OODs when we were attacking on the surface, for they would have to see it to believe it. That would be far better than any explanation. Actually I had now been tempted on three occasions to withhold that last torpedo and was sure that in the conning tower, with everything checking, it seemed the logical thing to do. But an exact plot, the visual presentation on the TDC, and the blops on the radar screen could not compete with but a single glance of the eyes and the judgment the good Lord had given us, even though we saw only shapes on a dark night. In each case, the fourth torpedo had insured destruction of the enemy, thus permitting me to concentrate on evasion immediately after firing. I regretted not one of them.

  Frank and Mel had gone topside. Our system, which I had brought from Wahoo, with an OOD on the bridge and an assistant OOD in the conning tower, was paying extra dividends, especially when we were expecting contact with the enemy. The assistant OOD, acting as assistant navigator, interpreting radar contacts, supervising the conning tower watch, and always ready to initiate tracking, allowed the OOD to concentrate fully from the bridge. There were additional advantages; armed with all of the essential information, the assistant could relieve the OOD on a moment’s notice for the latter to don rain clothes or get a cup of coffee, or they could change positions at any time, such as halfway through the four-hour watch. It was, of course, the addition of Ed to our complement that made this possible.

  There was time for a game of cribbage before the navigator went topside for his morning stars. Fraz counted first and pegged out. We sat back for a moment, a little more relaxed.

  “Tenacity, Fraz. Stay with ’em till they’re on the bottom!” Fraz answered with a smile and a nod. We felt good about the way this patrol was progressing. Ships weren’t falling in our lap, but we were finding them and the torpedoes were hitting.

  By Fraz’s star fix we were 150 miles west of Saipan, beyond the reach of our carrier planes should they even search in this direction. The Japanese would probably not send their ships farther west. We changed course to north. An Ultra from Pearl raised our hope by reporting the coming noon position of an enemy convoy, and we went to three-engine speed with only a 20-degree course change necessary. Nothing materialized, but having come this far a further search of this vast area seemed our best bet before returning toward Saipan. Perhaps it was our plan, maybe the Ultra was a factor, or just plain luck was staying with us, for a single faint puff of smoke rose off to the north and then blended into the clouds. It was distant, far beyond the horizon, spotted by Scotty on the tall search periscope. The enemy had made one mistake, for one bearing was all we needed. Tang was on course 015, heading for the enemy by the time I reached the bridge. It was 1109 on the morning of February 23.

  Two pips on the SJ a little to the left of the original periscope contact gave the first course indication. We came left to parallel the enemy on a tentative westerly heading. The range to the two ships of 23,000 and 24,000 yards was close enough until we could find out more about them and how we might best attack. Our searching had been with normal lookouts, the raised search periscope, and when the horizon was fuzzy, the SJ radar. Now we had Jones atop the shears with one arm hooked through the last rung to keep him from falling and at the same time helping support his 7 × 50s. There was good reason for this. The binoculars had nearly half again the power and a much wider field than the periscope, and they could be kept much steadier on the horizon.

  “I’ve got ’em,” he called. “A big tanker, a freighter, and a destroyer. They’re gone now.” I motioned Jones down and he did not hesitate, for it was a lonely place a long way from the hatch. With Chief Jones at hand where we could talk without shouting, our tactics became obvious. His estimate of a 90-degree port angle on the bow checked with our tracking, and we came left to 225 degrees and went to three-engine speed.

  Our first move was to preclude their sighting us by opening the range to where our radar could just maintain contact. This could be considerably farther out than the range at which we first had the pip, for once the contact was made the operator knew exactly where to search. Tang’s speed of nearly 18 knots would keep us abeam of the enemy, and then we would gain position ahead for a submerged approach and attack. This would be the last half of an end-around in which Tang would follow the arc of a quarter of a circle, but a circle whose center was moving at about 8 knots. The navigator worked out the details, probably more accurately than the enemy ships would maintain their course, if indeed they did not change the base course before our maneuver was completed. Fraz then plotted our track. It would take nearly three hours, with Tang moving along short segments of the arc, but that would leave plenty of time for a submerged attack during daylight.

  The end-around proceeded quite exactly. We gained position well out on the enemy’s bow and were moving toward the spot where we could submerge and run in for the attack. The problem as being run on the TDC and the navigator’s plot looked good. This could be the exact type of submerged approach we had been hoping for, possibly firing a split salvo, or torpedoes from both ends, one salvo at the tanker, the other at the freighter, maybe even including the destroyer.

  “Lost radar contact!” called Caverly. When information from sound was not required, Caverly was our battle stations radar operator. He was our radar repairman as well, so when he said lost, it was just that, not a faulty radar; the enemy had gone over the hill.

  A serious mistake in any military operation is to base your tactics on your enemy’s intentions unless you possess the capability of countering. This Tang possessed in speed, and we lit out at full power right down the last true bearing line. We would reach the enemy’s last known position before he could move beyond radar range from it. Any other course might add to this range, letting the enemy spring our trap. It was a hairy run, with Jones, Fraz, or me hanging onto the shears as we moved into gathering squalls, but then came the welcome call from the OOD, “Radar contact, bearing one three five degrees true.”

  “Head for it,” I called.

  “We are, Captain,” answered Fraz, who had just dropped down to the bridge.

  It soon became more than apparent that we would do well to maintain contact with the enemy for a night attack. Even this became an increasing problem as the convoy entered squall after squall. Sometimes the ships would emerge on the same course, sometimes on another, but more and more frequently it became necessary to go in after them and then to retire when they showed up suddenly closer than expected. It was no longer a question of remaining undetected; the enemy obviously knew we were there. The forays into reduced and sometimes zero visibility were a bit unnerving, for with our radar nearly blanked out there was always the chance of coming face to face with the destroyer. Delaying behind the convoy would have been a good destroyer tactic, but the enemy did not know the squalls were interfering with our radar; only we knew
that. Finally the hour of sunset came and then welcome dusk, and at the same time we emerged from the squally area. Tang stopped.

  If there was any doubt in anyone’s mind that we had been detected, it was dispelled at this moment. The convoy was in a clear area, with the last twilight beyond to silhouette the ships. Several searchlight signals were sent from the destroyer to the other ships. They then lined up heading west with the tanker astern, and the destroyer took position ahead. While we could still see them, they steamed off to the west. With the dark clouds for a background, we watched from atop the shears with 7 × 50s until they had disappeared. Bill Walsh’s men poured on the oil and cut down on the main motor fields so maximum current would flow. Tang was off on another full-power run down the last true bearing.

  Instead of to the southwest, where the convoy’s course at dark would have taken it, the ships turned up on our port bow to the southeast. Had the convoy commander not left his most valuable ship out naked astern and so betrayed his probable intention to circle and lead his ships east, we might not have followed the last true bearing. But that was neither here nor there. We had them—destroyer, tanker, and freighter, in column and heading for Saipan—and it was just a matter of how and when to shoot.

  Much of the day’s excitement had been experienced by the individuals topside in the watch sections, but in a submarine it was impossible not to be involved. All hands were keyed up, perhaps too excited. To unwind a bit, at least physically, we resumed our regular underway routine, leaving tracking and similar activities to the watch section. Fraz and I took turns when there was doubt but for the most part were able to relax, too. The evening meal was served, and then the ship identification books were sent to the messroom, where all the lookouts could hash them over. If their conclusions concerning the ships we were chasing should coincide with those of the regular identification party, the information could be of use this night.