Clear the Bridge! Read online

  After supper, over a game of cribbage, Fraz and I worked out the general plan for the coming week. There were no southern boundaries shown for our 50-mile-wide operating area. We did not ask for clarification, but rather would take advantage of this for a patrol down Mexico’s coast. Everything except firing torpedoes would be done exactly as if we were on patrol off Japan—reconnaissance, approaches, the works. There should be just enough spice to keep it interesting, and so that the experience of the older hands would rub off on others, we would shuffle the officers’ watch list.

  Fraz took the con when we got under way, and Frank brought us alongside a week later. There was not much that a submarine does that we hadn’t tried out during that short period, though Mexican fishing boats had substituted for Japanese marus. I had a last cup of coffee with the commodore, and he nodded approval of our patrol, though of course he was not responsible for our operations. We had done well not to inquire about the missing area boundary beforehand, for Commander Swinburne was quite aghast when I told him what we’d been doing.

  “Why, you could have caused an international incident if you’d been sighted!”

  “Sir, if Tang can’t avoid the Mexican fishing fleet she doesn’t have any business going on patrol,” I replied. He seemed to come around to my way of thinking, or perhaps he’d just remembered that tomorrow Tang would start back for San Francisco, and we’d be out of his hair.

  There was no escort and we were given an outside route back up the coast. This permitted extending our patrol a bit, though it soon became evident that the troops were thinking of the city and Christmas. We settled down to a routine that would approximate that of a submarine returning from patrol. In two days, Tang moored at Mare Island shined up so that leave and liberty could commence immediately.

  The yuletide days were full, though business proceeded at a modest pace. Among other things, this included the required reading to the ship’s company from Articles for the Government of the Navy. These regulations left little in doubt, especially the first 70 articles. Informally known as “Rocks and Shoals,” they spelled out the conduct required of all members of the naval service in peace and war, stating the penalty that would be imposed for any breach. By way of emphasis, the severity of the punishment preceded the listed offenses.

  I stepped into the crew’s mess as Frank was reading to the duty section and found myself standing as stiffly at attention as I had when I first heard the articles under John Paul Jones’s flag. The first three articles covered conduct and morals, divine services, and irreverent behavior, but with Article 4 came the blood and thunder: “The punishment of death, or such other punishment as a court-martial may adjudge, may be inflicted on any person in the naval service found guilty of….” The offenses included mutiny, disobedience, intercourse with an enemy, desertion in time of war, sleeping on watch, striking the flag or attending to an enemy or rebel, or when engaged in battle treacherously yielding or pusillanimously crying for quarter.

  In submarines, most of these offenses were extremely unlikely if not physically impossible once the hatch was closed. But fully applicable was Article 19, pertaining specifically to the duties and obligations of a commanding officer: “Or does not do his utmost to overtake and capture or destroy any vessel which it is his duty to encounter.”

  If there were any doubt about the proper action to be taken, this article would point the way in Tang. No other words were necessary; we all knew our mutual responsibilities. But just in case someone needed reminding, all 70 articles were posted, as the Articles themselves required.

  The reading of the Articles seemed a bit incongruous with the spirit of Christmas, but our fellow submariners were firing torpedoes that very day, and being in every way prepared was a part of my charge. Adding to Tang’s preparedness, Fraz had somehow stolen the senior instructor from the radar school. Lieutenant Edward Beaumont, from Paxton, Massachusetts, reported on board with bona fide orders and would fill two important niches. He would be our radar and assistant engineering officer and he would round out the watch list, making it possible for Tang to have an OOD and assistant OOD on watch at all times when under way.

  Another development, not too unexpected, was nonetheless disturbing: We had several reluctant sailors. Our deep-deep dive, the knowledge that I was dead serious concerning the Articles, Tang’s pending departure from stateside—any or all of these might have led several of our hands to request transfers. I did not ask who the specific individuals were, though I did suspect a few. Fraz and Ballinger would handle this under my instructions: First, in fairness to men at Pearl who deserved some time stateside, there would be no exchanges or transfers before we reached the Islands. Any hands who still wanted to leave Tang at that time would be transferred without aspersion when a replacement volunteered. More and more were the outstanding qualities of both Fraz and Ballinger becoming evident, for I heard nothing more about the matter.

  A change in schedule was greeted by cheers from the bachelors and jeers from the family men, for Tang would proceed to San Francisco, or more specifically to Hunter’s Point Naval Shipyard, right after Christmas. With gas rationing, commuting would be difficult if not impossible for many of the family men, but the reason for the change was most urgent. Tang would dock to receive newly designed low-cavitating propellers. We already knew we would be able to dive deep enough to find a temperature gradient should one exist in the seas we patrolled. An abrupt change in the water’s temperature, a temperature gradient meant a change in the water’s density as well and would bend the wave front of the enemy’s echo range back toward the surface, clear of any submarine below the gradient. With the new, quieter propellers and reasonable ocean depth to dive in, we would likewise be able to avoid detection by passive means—listening—and still run at most any speed.

  Our high-speed run to Hunter’s Point—only two hours from under way till our bow crossed the sill—left the signalmen on Treasure Island still challenging as we disappeared down the bay. Early liberty and late quarters took care of the family men, and San Francisco showed our bachelors how to truly ring in a New Year.

  The U.S.S. Tang (SS306) slides down the building ways at Mare Island Navy Yard, August 17, 1943. U.S. NAVY PHOTOGRAPH (MARE ISLAND)

  Tang’s officers at the time of her commissioning, October 15, 1943. Left to right: Lieutenant Bruce (Scotty) Anderson, Ensign Henry Flanagan, Lieutenant Commander Richard O’Kane, Lieutenant Murray Frazee, Lieutenant Frank Springer, Lieutenant William Walsh, Ensign Fred (Mel) Enos. U.S. NAVY PHOTOGRAPH (MARE ISLAND)

  Tang’s “front porch,” the forward 20-millimeter gun platform; the open hatch leads to the gun access trunk. In the background, the 4-inch, 53-caliber deck gun. U.S. NAVY PHOTOGRAPH (MARE ISLAND)

  Final layout of Tang’s bridge instruments, viewed from the lookout platform (left to right): target bearing transmitter, speaker-microphone, gyrocompass repeater, rudder angle indicator, diving alarm. The whistle pull is below the diving alarm, and below the gyro repeater is the open hatch to the conning tower. U.S. NAVY PHOTOGRAPH (MARE ISLAND)

  Tang viewed bow on. U.S. NAVY PHOTOGRAPH (MARE ISLAND)

  Tang viewed from 45 degrees off port bow. Her 312-foot hull with 28-foot beam and a surfaced keel depth of 16 feet displaced over 1,500 tons. She carried 24 torpedoes, each 21 feet long and weighing more than 2,000 pounds, and had ten tubes—six forward and four aft—from which to launch them. U.S. NAVY PHOTOGRAPH (MARE ISLAND)

  Photo Insert

  3

  Her bow sliced through the crests of the winter seas and then eased down through the troughs. As the diesels drove her steadily on, there was none of the hesitancy or shudder that would be felt in a surface ship of her tonnage. Down the dual lines of her wake, the Golden Gate was fading in the mist; but ahead lay the whole Pacific and the seas beyond, where Tang would seek out the enemy.

  The navigator took his departure with a range and bearing on the Farallon Islands and recommended the course to our assigned corridor. This
was a moving rectangle that would follow us on to the Hawaiian Islands. If we maintained the speed prescribed, there would be no ships within 100 miles ahead or astern of us, nor inside 50 miles on either beam.

  Our escort, a blimp from Sunnyvale, came up from the south and took station ahead. It would remain with us until late afternoon, primarily to help in identifying Tang as friendly so that we would not be driven down by our own planes. The responsibility for our safety, as always, was our own, and with two blasts on the diving alarm, we would be out of sight before a plane could reach our position.

  Frank relieved me of the con and I went below. He could handle anything that was likely to take place. If the situation was changing or in doubt he would inform me or call me to the bridge, but if it seemed prudent, he would dive without hesitation. Tall and serious, Frank had my complete confidence.

  Fraz had completed his immediate duties as navigator, so he joined me in the wardroom. Over a cup of coffee, we planned the coming hours, deciding to keep them simple. A trim dive after the blimp was released and regular underway routine would complete our day. This did not mean that we would be idle, for everyone would have four or more hours of watch or the equivalent before midnight, and routine school of the boat, conducted by a petty officer who was qualified in submarines, would continue for the men in the duty section during the short periods when they were not on watch. In a patrol or so, this training and individual study would lead to their qualification and the right to wear silver twin dolphins.

  My own school started immediately, for waiting in my desk was a stack of recent submarine patrol reports. Though the reports were brief, the method of operation of each boat and the data contained in each report could provide the key to remaining one jump ahead of the enemy. My immediate task was to know more about him than anyone in Pearl’s training command, our next hurdle before going on patrol.

  We still had a low overcast at midafternoon, and at the latitude of San Francisco dusk would come at about 1630. That would give the blimp just time enough for a daylight mooring. It had carried out its escort mission well, for though we had planes on the SD (our air-search radar), none had approached us. We released the blimp with thanks for a good job and received the pilot’s Godspeed.

  Scotty sounded two blasts as soon as the escort had disappeared, and we slid under the waves for our scheduled trim dive. I assumed the con and Bill took the dive, for these were our battle stations and the trim must be satisfactory to both of us.

  “Level off at sixty-four feet, Bill,” was my order, and I received prompt acknowledgment. Bill blew negative to the mark previously established on the gauge as we passed 48 feet, leveled us off at 60, and eased Tang down to the ordered depth. He had calculated and compensated accurately for the weight and placement of the fuel, stores, and torpedoes that had come aboard, and was able to request speed reductions promptly as the final pumping of trim and auxiliary tanks was completed.

  “Satisfied with the trim,” came over the intercom in Bill’s usual calm voice. We were at 64 feet with a one-degree down-angle, and the Bendix log showed 3 knots. That down-angle was exactly the aspect I wanted, for now just a touch of speed would swim Tang down against a tendency to broach in heavy seas. In minutes we were back on the surface and again at three-engine speed.

  Dusk came on and there were no evening stars. Secretly, I suspected that the navigator was just as happy in using dead reckoning instead of working up a star fix. During the second dog watch we entered our corridor and steadied on the new course of 225.

  It had been a long day, though the relaxation that comes with good meals and accompanying conversation had made the time slip by quickly. I picked up my Night Order Book from the holder just inside my cabin door. Fraz had thoughtfully inserted a slip of paper with essential figures I might need. I wrote briefly.

  Under way on course 225° true, en route Submarine Base, Pearl Harbor. Three main engines are on the line, speed 17 knots.

  There should be no shipping sighted, but do not let this in any way relax your vigilance. I expect the entire watch to be as intent and serious as if we were in a patrol area.

  Report any changes in weather or other circumstances.

  If in doubt, call me to the bridge. If in doubt about being in doubt, call me immediately or dive.

  Remember, no officer will ever be reprimanded for diving, even though it prove unnecessary.

  In the control room and along the forward and after passageways, the nighttime red lights to hasten our eyes’ adaptation to night vision seemed to impose a general quiet throughout the living spaces, though no such instruction was given. Men going on watch moved quietly, speaking softly. I put my ear close to the pressure hull; the seas beyond the void ballast tanks were just audible. This was as near as one could come to a peaceful moment in a wartime submarine.

  During the midwatch, the OOD reported the wind backing to starboard, and later, the stars breaking through overhead. We were pulling clear of the stormy low pressure area, also confirmed by a rising barometer. If a star fix showed us to be in the leading half of our moving rectangle, as we expected, we could delay our advance while conducting a simulated submerged approach and firing.

  The navigator and Chief Quartermaster Jones were already taking sights when I started for the bridge. I let them come below to work out their position lines before I went on up. A half hour later Fraz’s voice came up the hatch. “It looks good, Captain.” I dropped to the conning tower to see the chart. Things looked good indeed, for we were 15 miles ahead of the midpoint of the rectangle and could now spend an hour or more submerged. If we dived during the forenoon watch, another section would take her down; then we could go to battle stations.

  At first thought, a simulated approach and attack might seem too nebulous to have real training value. However, the same section of the TDC used to determine enemy course and speed could also generate a complete, realistic problem. To have all the elements for a sonar approach required only the recording of the enemy ship’s speed as well as its range and bearing for each minute of the exercise. To introduce the sound bearings realistically, we developed our own device, consisting of my shaving brush and a dynamic microphone. The microphone was plugged into the receptacle in the forward torpedo room that normally received the output from one of our sound heads so that the noises created with our device could be heard on the conning tower receivers.

  Two men, armed with the recorded problem, a stopwatch, and Tang’s “super sound device,” conducted the enemy’s maneuvers. An experienced soundman, wearing an earphone so that he could hear what he was doing, could generate any type of propeller noise by repeatedly pushing the bristles of the brush against the microphone—the thump-thump-thump of a freighter or, with a faster circular motion, the swish-swish-swish of a destroyer. Further, he could control the volume by the pressure he applied and so indicate the range, and could make the sounds in the cadence of a propeller’s revolutions per minute to give an indication of speed.

  The operator’s assistant, with the problem data and the stopwatch, would indicate the correct bearing for each minute on the azimuth scale atop the sound head’s housing. In the conning tower, the sonarman would train the sound head in searching; when he came close to the correct bearing he would be given faint screw noises, which would peak as he crossed the bearing. With a series of these bearings, the propeller revolutions per minute, and estimated ranges, the TDC operator could solve for enemy course and speed, arriving at a fairly close solution as the apparent ship passed by. With experience, we could also introduce our own maneuvers and those of enemy escorts into the problem. However, since I would never base my firing on sonar information alone, all simulated firings would follow periscope observations as a drill in my procedure, though of course in these exercises I would make my periscope data agree with the information provided by the sonarman and the TDC operator.

  Mel Enos took Tang down, and as he leveled the boat off handsomely, I reflected that a short two years
before, an officer with his time in service would likely be just observing, not diving. Since that time, the necessity for filling new-construction crews and qualifying replacements had shaken a little realism into even the most conservative naval officers. After all, Mel was surrounded by experienced men who would prevent any serious errors. Right now, our trust in Mel seemed reflected by his self-confidence. He made no mistakes.

  The bonging of the general alarm and the order “Battle stations torpedo” came over the 1MC, Tang’s announcing system. All stations reported manned over their battle telephones, and the practice approach proceeded right up to the firing point. Then came my firing command, “Constant bearing—mark! … Fire!” a separate command on a new periscope bearing for each torpedo. On each “Fire!” the plunger that would send the torpedo on its way was pushed smartly home. Had the torpedo tubes themselves been readied for firing, four Mark 14 torpedoes, each with a 500-pound warhead, would have been speeding at 46 knots into the Pacific.

  It was a good exercise, even though it did not seem that our firing data, when compared with the recorded problem, would substantiate a hit. Of more importance was the participation by all hands, who had carried out their tasks splendidly. We could discuss the apparent miss later in the wardroom while on our way again.

  “Prepare to surface. Lookouts to the conning tower,” I called. I made a careful sweep around with the periscope, then ordered, “Sound three blasts. All ahead two-thirds.” A minute later, now standing on the dripping bridge, I ordered the turbo blowers started and the lookouts topside. The bow was riding well with the seas nearly abeam to port so I ordered, “All ahead standard, three main engines.” The exhausts sputtered as the diesels fired, while the turbo blowers forced the remaining water from the ballast tanks, slowly raising us from an awash to a fully surfaced condition. By the time the ballast tanks were dry, as evidenced by huge bubbles rising along our sides, we had regained our cruising speed.