Clear the Bridge! Read online

  At 1930, the battle stations tracking party took over. Another hour or so would be required before Tang would be in all respects ready to move in, for the convoy’s zigs were of the wildest sort, sometimes even backtracking, making determination of the base course difficult. Against this thoroughly alerted enemy, with the destroyer now patrolling at high speed on a large arc across the bow of the tanker, attacks like those of last night would be nearly impossible. We had three things going for us, however: the dark night, the very wildness of the zigzagging, and a peculiarity of all but highly trained lookouts.

  When a person walks down a street or rides on a bus, he habitually looks where he is going. This habit is so ingrained that an after lookout tends to look where his ship is going. Only when the vital importance of his particular responsibility is thoroughly explained can you count on his complete concentration aft. Tang would take advantage of this, the dark night, and the wild zigzagging. She would attack from astern. Though this would mean taking on the much less valuable freighter first, we would not be subjected to the slicing bow of the destroyer. During the whole remainder of the night, and if need be till dawn, we could work on the tanker.

  The duty chief had received the report of the lookouts. They had agreed, though I suspect with some dissenters, that the freighter was a Tatutaki Maru class ship. Perhaps not unsurprisingly, this agreed with the regular identification party’s second choice. I was inclined to go along with the lookouts on this occasion, for they had made their determination by what they had seen, not by what they had been told. During the day we had been too busy to send many details down to our party, and no ship comparable to the tanker had been found by either group, but the information on the freighter was encouraging. She was long enough to hit easily and had boilers amidships to help her blow up.

  It was 2030 and we went to battle stations in all respects ready. Our tactics would be to move up astern. When the freighter zigged, Tang would cross her stern and move up on the opposite quarter. The next zig back would put us near her beam, and we would shoot on a large track with the torpedoes angling in from her quarter.

  Things never seem to work out quite as nicely in practice as they appear on paper, and this was no exception. On our first approach, the Tatutaki Maru zigged twice to the right, leaving Tang off in left field. On the next approach, her zig was less than hoped for, leaving us with too large a track for our torpedoes; they would be almost paralleling her course. The third approach was to our liking. Tang had worked well up on her port quarter about 1,000 yards off; her zig left would quickly bring her across our bow, and the torpedoes would hit on an average track of 130 degrees. Fraz ordered the outer doors opened. I was marking bearings and calling the angles on the bow, and then we were blinded and choking topside in the freighter’s smoke.

  These three approaches set a pattern. Sometimes we didn’t reach an attack position; once she zigged away three times, spoiling our setup; and smoke from that coal-burning freighter, which had caused the original sighting, saved her again. True, we could have fired on the generated bearing of the TDC and she would probably have sunk with one or more hits, but we expected to hit with all torpedoes and see her go. An unexpected super right zig headed the Tatutaki Maru across our bow. The forward room raced to open the doors. I marked a single bearing and angle on the bow, then called, “Constant bearing—mark!” Her stern was crossing the wire, but there was no “Set!” She was nearly to our bow. Another “Constant bearing—mark!” and then came Frank’s “Set!”

  “Fire!” sent the first torpedo on its way. The next three followed in an eight-second cadence to hit along her starboard side. The freighter came to pieces under three hits. The tanker opened up with big guns from forward and aft almost immediately, while the destroyer closed in firing a barrage, seemingly in all directions. During the initial flurry some tracer shells seemed to land a thousand yards or so away from us, but this was just by chance. Tang was leaving the scene well astern when the destroyer crisscrossed through the area where the freighter had been, laying down 12 depth charges. We were quite happy to have the enemy think we were submerged back there as we headed for a position 10,000 yards, five miles, on the tanker’s beam.

  The firing time had been 2230, still on February 23, though I felt that days must have gone by. The position from the dead reckoning indicator (DRI) was 15° 16′ north and 143° 12′ east. The navigator would have to take a position from the DRI, too, for running up a position with our antics of the night would be impossible. Strangely, however, Tang’s firing setup had turned out nearly ideal—a range of 1,400 yards and a 105-degree average track, the torpedoes coming in from 15 degrees abaft her starboard beam.

  I wrote in my brief night orders: Cruising on base course 090° true, maintaining position between 8,000 and 12,000 yards on the port beam of the enemy. He is shooting every few minutes and dropping depth charges occasionally. The range will vary with his zigzagging, but be alert to note any continued change indicating a change in base course. If you lose contact, head down the last true bearing at full power and call the navigator. At 0300 go to three-engine speed and follow courses the navigator will recommend to place Tang on the enemy’s base course, 10,000 yards dead ahead of him by one hour before morning twilight. We will dive before dawn and attack submerged.

  I left the usual space for the OOD’s initials, a line for Jones to insert the time of morning twilight, and my call for one half hour ahead of that time, and then handed the orders to the executive officer.

  “It’s all in here, Fraz. Forget any stars and have Jones fill in on the four-to-eight. One of us has to be bright-eyed at dawn, and that means me.”

  Fraz glanced through the night orders and gave a cheery “Aye, aye, Captain,” more than welcoming the opportunity to carry the ball. It was past midnight when I hit my sack.

  The ship actually sunk on February 23, as shown in IJN report.

  9

  The dawn attack we were anticipating held many advantages. The hours of tracking would let us make an accurate determination of the enemy’s speed and zigzag plan. Having gone some hours unmolested, the enemy would probably have calmed down and, with the assurance that comes with daylight, might relax his vigilance. We would be able to dive in the most advantageous position and press home the attack with the accuracy and surprise of a true, submerged, submarine.

  These thoughts, my confidence in Fraz and the whole ship’s company, and even the occasional rumble of a depth charge confirming that the enemy was in our grasp, one or all of these kicked me off to sleep. Except for three reports of an extra ship, each diagnosed as simultaneous gunfire from the destroyer and both ends of the long tanker, my first consciousness was of holding a piping hot mug of coffee. It was not a wardroom cup, with a sissy handle, which one could contemplate or set aside. This was a GI cup, so hot I had to pass it from hand to hand. It was the sure way of getting the individual called onto his feet.

  “It is one-half hour before morning twilight, Captain.” I thanked the messenger, who undoubtedly went aft to tell of my balancing the mug while rolling out of my bunk. After a few years, I’m sure most submariners become quite good at this. After another cup in the wardroom, from the steward’s freshly brewed pot, it was time to go topside. The few words I exchanged with the troops on the way revealed our mutual confidence. The hopes and expectations were evident, and I had never felt more sure of having the enemy in my fist than at this moment.

  “Where are they, Fraz?” was my first question after taking a sweep with the 7 × 50s.

  “Right back there ten thousand yards, where they’re supposed to be,” was his reply and the one I expected. It was not a curt answer, just a concise report reflecting some pride, for several times during the night, full power down the last true bearing had regained contact on a wildly maneuvering enemy.

  No matter how careful we were to night-adapt our eyes with red masks and dim ruby-red lighting below, a few minutes in the existing darkness were still required for goo
d vision. Even then it helped to know what to look for. Shortly a slight, fuzzy bump on the horizon was visible. Then it took the more defined shape of a “blurp,” right over our stern. Tang was on course 090 and so was the enemy, though now zigging mildly.

  “All stop.” We would let the convoy, or what was left of it, come in to about 7,000 yards, and by remaining on our original course, we would be able to maneuver with it if necessary without presenting a broadside silhouette. The enemy closed, and Venus, now a morning star, came up dead ahead, nearly as bright as a quarter moon. You are always in the light path of the moon or a planet when you view it from your ship, but in this case Tang was also on the same light streak being viewed by the enemy. He was now taking on a distinct shape as he neared. I had to grit my teeth and tell myself, almost audibly, that he could not see us. The slight gray of morning twilight did not help, but we were putting together the best elements of a night approach and a daylight attack. This was no time for wavering.

  “Ultra from SubPac!” came over the bridge speaker. It was Mel’s voice, a bit excited. He read the message:

  THE CONVOY YOU ARE APPARENTLY

  ATTACKING HAS BEEN ORDERED TO CHANGE

  BASE COURSE TO NORTH AT DAWN

  “Christ!” It was more of a supplication than a profanity. The broken Japanese dispatch could well have been a ruse to get us off their back. I rejected the information in the Ultra. This was not a difficult decision, for we could not reach a position north of the convoy anyway. Tang went ahead on the battery to avoid a chance puff of smoke on restarting the diesels and then slid down to radar depth. The time was 0548 on February 24; we went to battle stations.

  Bill held her neatly at 40 feet as we turned left to close the enemy. In a few minutes it would be light enough to see through the periscope. In the meantime radar ranges and bearings flowed to plot and the TDC.

  “He’s zigged left, Captain.”

  “Shift the rudder. Steady on north. All ahead standard.”

  If the enemy was coming to north, as the Ultra said, this would parallel him for a later attack should he head back for Saipan. If this was just a normal zig, we would be closing the track and gaining position for attack. The seconds dragged.

  “Enemy course zero six zero,” called Fraz, with a note of relief that we both felt equally. The enemy had zigged just 30 degrees, and Tang could reach him handily with a good high-speed run. We dropped to 100 feet and went ahead full. Till the scope went under, I watched the blurp, now almost a shape, but the vibration precluded a valid estimate of the angle on the bow. A course normal, or perpendicular, to the enemy’s track would hasten the attack; we came left to 330.

  The high-speed run would require 20 minutes. It would be interrupted only as we stopped the screws temporarily so our soundmen could obtain bearings on the tanker. This was the time to make all tubes ready for firing. There was no need to specify which ones—we had only eight torpedoes left, four forward and four aft. We would fire the last torpedoes from one end or the other, maybe both, since the loss of this tanker could hurt the enemy more than the loss of the other four ships put together.

  Fifteen minutes into the run, plot showed we were getting close to the enemy’s track. Bill brought Tang up to 64 feet as we slowed to 3 knots. A quick sound check, a quicker periscope sweep in low power, and I breathed normally.

  “We’re right on,” I reported by way of assurance to all hands, as well as to myself. “Now stand by for a setup.” The sea was like glass; the scope would barely break the surface and be down again. I glanced at our keel depth; Bill was right on. My hands indicated the desired height. Jones brought the scope up smartly.

  “Bearing—mark! Range—mark!” I flipped the handles up and the scope was down. Jones called the bearing and then read the stadimeter range from the dial, now just above the periscope well. I had called the angle 25 starboard; the range was 2,600 yards. Tang was 1,200 yards from the enemy’s track. Our 3 knots would take us too close by firing time, so we came right to parallel the tanker. It was 0609.

  Subsequent periscope observations were short and frequent, each now for just one piece of information. A water-lapping look at the tanker’s tops for a bearing, the next on the destroyer’s mast, a range using deck level to tanker’s tops as the stadimeter height, and an angle on the bow using the separation of the masts. The lens of the attack scope was never exposed for more than three or four seconds, nor more than inches above the surface, then back to the destroyer again.

  “Down scope!” It was an unnecessary order, for Jones had it lowered as I flipped the handles. It served just to punctuate.

  “Open all outer doors.” The destroyer had crossed the tankers bow and was heading directly at us, about 800 yards away. This was my problem; I would not disrupt our setup on the tanker until the last instant, and that was approximately one minute away. I had faced this situation before, in Wahoo, a much more taut one with the destroyer coming at nearly 30 knots at my raised periscope and with but one torpedo left that we could fire. By comparison this was nothing, except that this time I was in command. I counted to ten in a one-second cadence. Jones kept the scope at my eye as I raised my body from a crouching position.

  “Bearing—mark!” The scope was down. “That’s on the tanker. The destroyer has turned right and she’s going down the tanker’s side.” The destroyer was absolutely dwarfed by the length of the loaded oiler.

  The whole fire control party and, through the talkers, the whole ship knew what had just transpired. I believe they all breathed more easily with me, for everyone wanted that tanker.

  We were not quite out of the woods. Between the second and third subsequent looks, the oiler had zigged 20 degrees toward us. This put us too close to the track, for the steam torpedoes in our forward tubes required a run of over 400 yards to arm their warheads. We could have fired angle shots to use up the extra yards in their turn, but fortunately Tang was already turning away for a stern shot. Continuing would just squeak us out for the straight shots we desired.

  The angle on the bow was opening fast as she came on, giving the impression that we were on her beam until I lined up details known to be athwartship. She was looking for us, all right: From bow to stern, her rail was manned by white-uniformed sailors, an estimated 150 men on our side alone. Others were atop the bridge and after superstructure. She was a naval tanker, shown nowhere in ONI-208J nor in the book of enemy naval ships, but was comparable to our Cimarron and with estimated 6-inch guns. But why so many men? Had she taken them to sea on fleeing Saipan?

  “Ten degrees to go, generated range five hundred.” It was Fraz’s report for near zero torpedo gyros and the range from the TDC.

  “Stand by for constant bearings. Up scope.” This time there was no special effort to conceal the periscope. What we needed were quick, accurate bearings, for at this range the angular change would be high. If we were sighted, the tanker could not possibly do anything about it; her last hope, the destroyer, was just passing under her stern heading away.

  “Constant bearing—mark!”

  “Set!” Frank was holding the bearing constant on the TDC. The big, squat stack was coming on the stationary periscope reticle.

  “Fire!” Fraz hit the plunger, and the first torpedo zinged on its way. The next three followed, each to hit a specific point along her starboard side.

  On the tanker, the lookouts saw the torpedo wakes and were pointing and waving right up to the explosions. I saw not one of them leave his post. It was quick; the torpedo run was only 23 seconds. Debris went into the air, and the entire ship was enveloped in a mass of billowing flame and grayish-brown smoke. She started down immediately. Fraz took the scope and watched her go in just four minutes. The time was 0643.

  Tang went deep, too, and the depth charges started one minute later, but they were not close.

  10

  Tang was swimming down with a generous angle. There was no rush, for the destroyer had been on the other side of the holocaust and had no tor
pedo wakes to disclose our firing position. Her present depth charges were several hundred yards away, maybe even a thousand. As long as she was dropping depth charges she could not conduct a sound search for us without blasting her own soundmen’s ears. Each moment counted, however, for we were moving farther away just by continuing on our firing course as we went deeper toward that hoped-for gradient. We needed to get there before she settled down to an orderly search.

  Bill pumped from auxiliary to sea for brief periods to keep the boat’s neutral buoyancy as her hull was squeezed by the increasing sea pressure. We passed 450 feet, and then the needle of the bathythermograph moved sharply, tracing a 5-degree water temperature change on the lamp-blacked card. It was exactly the gradient we wanted, at 475 feet. We would cruise below it.

  “Level off at five hundred, Bill.” Bill’s acknowledgment was interrupted by an unexcited though disturbing report from Lieutenant Flanagan.

  “We’re taking some water in the forward torpedo room but can hold it for a while,” were Hank’s matter-of-fact words. It was the type of report I expected. More than one ship, including the Graf Spee, had become an ineffective fighting unit because too many damage reports, not the damage itself, had convinced her commander to withdraw. We had discussed this early in our shakedown. But situations can change quickly, especially in submarines.

  Instead of leveling off, Tang passed 500 feet as if she were going on down to 600. I dropped down to the control room. Bill was doing what he could with planes and pumps and had called for speed. But speed alone, with our down-angle, would only drive us deeper. I ordered him to blow safety, but with Bill’s calm order, De Lapp on the manifold gave only a shot of high-pressure air, as he would on surfacing, and Tang continued to drop. Twenty times that amount would be needed down here.