Clear the Bridge! Read online

  After the navigator had obtained a morning sun line, he joined Frank and me in the wardroom to discuss our simulated attack. Over a cup of coffee, we compared our solution of enemy course and speed at the moment of firing with those that had been recorded for the problem. We had the ship going too fast and on a more divergent course. These were cumulative errors, and the TDC’s angle solver had directed the torpedoes to intercept at a point ahead of the enemy.

  “But we fired a spread of four,” commented Fraz. He started figuring out loud, “Nine knots equals three hundred yards a minute…. The torpedo you fired under her stern would have blown her whole bow off!”

  “Well, you don’t sink ships with hits in the bow,” was my response. But I conceded that the crew might feel better about their efforts if they knew we wouldn’t have missed completely. So word of a ghost ship with a missing bow was passed along by the chief of the boat.

  Though wartime cruising was a full-time task in itself, we continued our efforts to perfect those drills and evolutions that would likely be required during the training period still ahead of us at Pearl. One after another we were able to put these scheduled drills on the shelf and move steadily into the routine we would follow when en route to a patrol area. If we now heard the words “Fire in the after engine room!” it would be no drill.

  Each night, shortly after the evening meal, a movie would start in the forward torpedo room, though it had to vie with a good library and acey-deucey. Toward midnight, the unmistakable aroma of fresh-baked bread would permeate the boat, and the on-going watch section would pass through the messroom, where a pile of hot rolls awaited.

  Walker, the steward on watch, brought a dozen or so to the wardroom. They were worth rolling out of my bunk for, and I joined Fraz, who couldn’t resist them either. I’m sure the navy’s doctors knew what constituted a balanced diet, but they had misjudged what a submariner would eat by a mile. On patrol it had turned out to be about twice the quantity of baked goods, in part because baking had to be done at night when the galley was available, so enough extra had to be baked for the watch sections.

  Our progress had been good even though we had to take one of the main engines off propulsion for a short time when charging batteries. During these periods, the auxiliary diesel made up some of the difference, and our overall speed suffered little. Thus, on the fourth night out of San Francisco, we crossed the 500-mile circle from Pearl Harbor; we reported as required to Commander Submarine Force, Pacific (ComSubPac) and requested a rendezvous point and escort for early morning two days from then.

  Molokai was in sight at dawn on January 8, and before 0800 we had our escort in sight a point on our port bow. Our passage through the Kaiwi Channel, between Molokai and Oahu, was fast and uneventful. Diamond Head was abeam to starboard when the chop of the channel suddenly stopped, and our ship steadied, as if entering a lake.

  “Rig ship for surface” and “Make all preparations for entering port” came over the 1MC just minutes apart. In the channel, the deck detail came topside and fell in at quarters on the forecastle. For many of our ship’s company, this was their first view of Pearl Harbor. They could see only the remnants of the December 7 disaster, for the seemingly impossible salvage was nearing completion. A right turn around ten-ten dock and a wide left turn around Sparrow Point brought Tang to her berth at the submarine base. While the troops were busy with the dozens of tasks incident to arrival in port and making preparations for sailing the next day, I left the ship to make various courtesy calls.

  Courtesy calls are more than just the exercise of naval protocol, for they renew acquaintances and offer the senior, and sometimes the junior, the opportunity to speak what is on his mind in private. After a brief but cordial conversation with Vice Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, ComSubPac, I proceeded to the training command. The command had apparently been upgraded, for to my surprise, Captain John H. Brown, a practical, senior submariner greeted me.

  “Now what would the Tang like to do, and does she need anything?” were his first questions after we’d gotten around to business. Things were looking up for our ship and the training command, too, since formerly boats were just told what to do. Fortunately, I had brought with me a proposed eight-day schedule, which also included a brief of our shakedown. It omitted any reference to our deep-deep dive and other maneuvers that were Tang’s concern, but did show our many day and night approaches and the firing of over 40 exercise torpedoes.

  Captain Brown looked over the proposed operations, which were basic; our approaches were designed to cover the situations a boat would be most likely to encounter on patrol.

  “That looks good to me. Will you have Frazee work it up with operations?” said the captain. I was surprised that he knew the name of Tang’s executive officer, but I shouldn’t have been. Knowing men was one of Captain Brown’s long suits and had undoubtedly played a part in his pending promotion to rear admiral.

  Sad news, especially for me, was confirmation of a rumor we had heard stateside. My beloved Wahoo was indeed “overdue and presumed lost.” This would add an extra note of seriousness and determination to our final training.

  The training period off Pearl Harbor provided good exercise in the mechanics of approach and attack. The target ship, a destroyer escort (DE), would come over the horizon zigzagging on a base course laid down so as to pass in Tang’s general area. If our submerged approach was aggressive, we would be able to close to an attack position. That is, if we were not sighted or picked up by the DE’s echo-ranging, for she would then avoid. Some realism was lacking since enemy ships would not be so conveniently routed, and if they made contact, the escorts would attack us.

  After nearly a week of day and night operations, we had a breather in port. About midmorning, I left the ship for the training command.

  “Well, how’s it going?” asked Captain Brown, as if he’d received no reports on our boat.

  “Just fine, as far as the mechanics of approach and attack are concerned, sir. What we really need are some end-arounds and uncanned situations,” I replied. Captain Brown started to speak of the space limitation of the submarine sanctuary and the time such exercises would take. Then he stopped.

  “What you’re really saying is that you’re ready to go on patrol,” he said. I answered with a simple “Yes, that’s correct, sir.”

  “I’ve had some interesting reports on Tang,” he said. “Also, I’ve been checking, and no submarine has left here on her first patrol with less than three weeks of training.”

  Captain Brown had obviously been anticipating my statement or he wouldn’t have been checking on past policy. I didn’t want to push him into a position of having to say no; with a time precedent established, though by a former commander, my insistence might do just that. The next move was obvious: I invited the captain to sail with us the following afternoon for our late day and night operations.

  Our ship performed splendidly while Captain Brown was aboard. I knew it and he knew it, though at first he did seem a little taken aback when I continued with my cup of coffee after the OOD reported the target in sight.

  “This is the time I’ll be spending getting my shoes and jacket on,” I volunteered. “And besides, trying to get to the conning tower now might be a bit treacherous.”

  Two blasts and the thump of lookouts’ feet hitting the control room deck punctuated my statement. The OOD had obtained the original true bearing prior to diving; on my first periscope observation, with a generous amount of scope, we had a second true bearing. With a single order, Tang was off to intercept.

  After the night exercises were completed and while we were en route to port, Captain Brown stepped into my cabin and sat down on the bunk. I buzzed for a couple of cups of coffee.

  “Well, I’m going to let you go,” he said. But then he added, “I would caution that you are way ahead of much of your crew, and you’ll do well to temper some of your tactics for a time.”

  This was undoubtedly good advice—my actions and de
cisions did sometimes leave the troops a step behind—and I would keep it in mind. On the other hand, Tang’s deep-deep dive was one thing our crew had already done that no other U.S. submarine crew had even considered.

  Our pending patrol operations took Fraz and me to headquarters the next day. While awaiting the admiral and from his vantage point, we had time to observe our boat and the others down on the waterfront. Except for the revamped bridge fairwater and periscope shears, Tang’s superstructure followed the traditional design adopted during the year of Limited Emergency preceding the war. This gave all of our boats their excellent seakeeping ability. Like the tip of an iceberg, what we could see belied the ship below: A 312-foot hull with 28-foot beam and a surfaced keel depth of 16 feet displaced over 1,500 tons. Four diesels, most conservatively rated at 1,600 horsepower each, could drive the submarine on the surface at well over 20 knots. When she was submerged, 252 battery cells, totaling more than 300 tons, could move her in for attack at over 10 knots when necessary, or at dead slow speed for three days. But Tang’s most significant feature was one she shared with all submarines—the ability to reach the enemy’s most remote supply lines and to patrol there.

  Like other boats at the finger piers, in fact all U.S. submarines since the lettered boats of World War I design, our submarine bore the name of a fish. The Tang is an elongated flat species from the Indies that carries spines protruding aft on each side of its tail: So in the tradition of her christened name and in surface ability our submarine matched any of the others; submerged she had depth capabilities beyond any of them. Within weeks, possibly days, we would be putting all of this and ourselves to test and would perhaps justify the spines that our troops had added to a sketch of Tang’s namesake to represent the forward torpedo tubes, giving the fish a most ferocious appearance.

  Our four-day readiness for sea period remained busy but not hectic. Reloading torpedoes, fueling, taking aboard stores, attending briefings, and squaring away dozens of smaller items kept two sections busy, but one section got ashore each day. With this schedule, all departments were ready for sea by late afternoon of the fourth day.

  In the quiet of my cabin on the last evening at Pearl, I thought of some of the factors that had brought Tang to this moment. Of her completion and underway trials, right on schedule and without a hitch. They were a tribute to the men of Mare Island and gave us our initial confidence. So a bit of each workman remained with our ship and crew. Of Commodore McCandless, whose assistance had made our deep dive successful. Of the dive and our realistic shakedown, which had demonstrated our capability. Of the friends and loved ones who had gathered at the Golden Gate Bridge to see us off and whose prayers we knew were with us. And of Tang herself, a vibrant ship, performing without flaw under the most critical eye. She surely would not be found lacking during our coming endeavors against the enemy.

  The sound of men moving along the passageway on returning from the movies at the base was followed shortly by a quiet knock. Fraz entered and reported, “All hands are aboard and Tang’s ready for patrol, Captain.”

  Part II

  First Patrol

  IN THE CAROLINES AND MARIANAS

  1

  January 22, 1944, had come quickly. At noon Tang sounded a prolonged blast and backed smartly out of her slip. The port screw went ahead two-thirds, and she commenced a rapid twist in an almost stationary position; then all ahead two-thirds, and she was on her way. As we cleared the harbor, our friend the destroyer escort took station ahead. We proceeded down the prescribed lane, then headed west.

  Our destination was Wake Island, which had been in Japanese hands since mid-December, 1941. Staging planes through this atoll would be one way the enemy might counter Operation Flintlock, the pending U.S. assault on Kwajalein, the Japanese stronghold in the Marshalls, 600 miles to the south. In a low-level attack on Wake, our flying boats could very likely destroy any fuel dumps and prevent an enemy counterattack from this quarter. Thus two such strikes, coming about six days apart, were planned for Commander Thomas P. Connally’s squadron of Coronado seaplane bombers, then based at Kaneohe, Oahu.

  Originally, Tang’s small part was to provide lifeguard service should any bomber come down. During the readiness for sea period, Fraz and I had driven over to Kaneohe, on the windward side of Oahu, to work out details with the squadron commander. Tom Connally was as lean and wiry as he had been when I knew him at the Naval Academy, where he was an Olympic gymnast. As we discussed plans for the strikes, his enthusiasm and confidence were contagious, and Tang was soon a participant. In addition to lifeguard during the strikes, we would conduct a pre-strike reconnoiter of Wake aircraft activity and possible resupply. If our findings warranted it, Tang would withdraw to report to the commander, whose squadron would be in readiness at Midway. For the strikes themselves, Tang would serve as a beacon for the Coronados, stationing herself on the selected path for the bombing runs and ten miles from the center of Wake’s facilities.

  Following her lifeguard duty, Tang was to proceed to an area in the northern Carolines and from there to Truk. This prospect of several patrol areas meant at least an extra thousand miles in transit and called for two things. One was the conservative use of diesel oil whenever it was compatible with the patrol. The other was extra fuel. We had already prepared for this latter requirement while our boat was still on the ways. Meat was dear and rationed, so for the consideration of one smoked ham, the shipyard’s night shift had seen to the installation of oilproof neoprene gaskets in negative and safety tank floods and vents. Wahoo hadn’t minded donating the ham, since the whole ship’s company, except for the few of us who were going to new boats, was on leave while she received new batteries.

  For this patrol, we had filled safety with fuel, enough to take us nearly to Wake Island at an economical speed. We would be light on diving, for safety would normally flood with salt water, about 20 percent heavier than oil. Bill would compensate for that by blowing negative only part way dry when we dived. The situation of being light would last only until we had used enough fuel from our normal system. Then the oil in safety would be transferred to the regular fuel tanks, and safety would resume its normal function. If this worked well, the increased cruising range might let us find an extra ship sometime, and all for the price of a ham.

  This then was Tang’s situation as our escort turned back for Pearl Harbor and we proceeded west at one-engine speed. Our objective was to reach Wake Island and, if possible, to do so undetected. Since there would be no possibility of enemy planes for some days, we would concentrate our search on submarines. To this end, each lookout, with 7 × 50 binoculars, was searching the water to the horizon in two careful sweeps, one with the top of his binocular field just above the horizon, and the next three-quarters of a field lower. Between sweeps, he would lower his glasses in order to give his sector a rapid search with the unaided eye. Though contact with an enemy submarine was very unlikely, the lookouts were aware that at this speed we were vulnerable. I watched their concentration. The Japanese skipper whose periscope went unsighted would be good indeed. With pride and confidence, I went below.

  Yeoman McNally was right on, perhaps prompted by the executive officer, and had laid the stack of new patrol reports on my desk. I started to pick one up, but a quick turn through the boat took precedence. I had encouraged the oncoming OOD to do this. The firsthand information he gained and a quick glance at any orders would then permit him to assume the watch with a simple “I relieve you, sir.” The momentary inattention possible were this information to be conveyed orally would thus be avoided. If I believed it good for them, then it was good for me, too. These were not inspections, just informal turns, and nothing more than the normal courtesies shipmates would show to one another was expected.

  In the galley, just aft of the control room, Wixon was supervising the preparation of the evening meal, but the tables in the crew’s mess were still occupied by men playing acey-deucey or reading books that had been supplied by the Red Cross.
Already, trash and garbage had accumulated and would have to be put in weighted sacks for disposal after dark. In the living spaces, aft of the messroom, some men were reading, but all was quiet. The crew’s washroom was crowded as hands scrubbed up for supper. The pinging rumble of No. 1 main engine greeted me as I went through the door to the forward engine room. Chief MacDonald, our leading motor machinist’s mate, was overseeing the watch. His brown hair, ruddy complexion, and pleasant smile bespoke his name, but gave no hint of the engineering skills he brought to Tang from patrols in Halibut. A standby watch was conducting general maintenance in the after engine room. First Class Electrician’s Mate Kivlen, from eight patrols in Thresher, was overseeing two strikers on the control levers in the maneuvering room. There the electrical output from the diesel generators or the batteries was directed to the four main motors, or from the generators to the batteries when on charge. On occasion, the frightening figure of 5 million watts would pass through this control cubicle. Someone else might have been surprised to see crates of oranges lashed in out-of-the-way places. But this was a trick I had brought from Wahoo; our crew was sure to snitch them, and that was the reason for stashing them equally throughout the boat. Satisfied, I went forward. Walker had just brought me a cup of freshly brewed coffee when a messenger came forward from the control room.