by Ward Wagher
“How are we looking, Jolly?” he asked.
Lieutenant Greg Rogers quickly glanced at the morning report on his clipboard. “We are ready to dive in all respects, Skipper. Only routine traffic from the other boats.”
The watch stander slid down the ladder and landed with a pronounced smack on the deck plates. “Secure topside, Skipper.”
Carper turned back to the Exec. “Very well, Exec, take us down to fifty feet.”
Rogers turned to the dive controller. “Chief, take us down to fifty feet.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
The chief hit the dive klaxon, which awakened anyone aboard who was still asleep.
“Dive! Dive!” He called. “Three degree down bubble, flood forward.”
“Flooding forward, Aye,” the seaman said.
“Flood aft.”
“Flooding aft, Aye.”
Everyone felt their ears pop as high-pressure air was briefly vented into the boat, followed by the slight downward tilt as the submarine submerged. Carper watched carefully as the crew went about its duties. They had been together since they accepted the transfer of the boats from the Germans in La Spezia, Italy. They had survived the explosion that destroyed their victualing ship; they had worked together on the initial voyage to Norfolk, and then the long trip around Cape Horn to San Diego. What they had not experienced, so far, was combat.
Carper was confident his crew would acquit itself well, and he hoped he would measure up to their trust. He pointed to the executive officer and motioned back to his cabin. Rogers turned the watch over to Lieutenant Moran and followed the Skipper aft to his cabin.
This had become their habit over the past months on the boat. Following the morning dive, the Skipper and the Exec would meet to review the status of the boat.
“Firstly,” Rogers began, “we are at sixty percent on our diesel level.”
Carper frowned. “We’re using more than I expected. “Is that going to be enough for us to stay on station for fifteen days?”
“If we can avoid any extended high-speed runs on the surface, Skipper. The tanker is a long way away.”
“That has been my biggest concerns with these U-Boats,” he commented. “They are just too short legged.”
“Reliable, though.”
“Yeah, Jolly, the boat has performed well. How do the batteries look?”
“We are still north of ninety percent of capacity at full charge.”
Rogers continued down through the list.
“Seaman Braggs does have a broken arm.”
“Did you discover if he had tripped over anything besides his own feet?” Carper asked.
“I think he just got his shoelaces tied together. As cramped as these boats are, Skipper, it’s a wonder we don’t have more people getting hurt.”
“I understand. Just keep on the crew to be careful. If everybody is on the binnacle list, we won’t be able to fight the boat.”
Rogers considered that for a while. “How well do you suppose this wolf pack tactic will work for us, Skipper?”
“It played merry hell with the Brits when the Krauts used it in the Atlantic.”
“Yeah, Skipper, but the Krauts concentrated their boats in the Atlantic. We’re spread out in penny packets.”
Carper chuckled softly. “We’ve got to play the hand CincPac has given us, Jolly. Was there anything on the list?”
“Not today, Skipper. The boat’s in good shape.”
“Fine. I think you were up last might more than I was. Why don’t you get some sleep? I can hang on another four hours.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Carper and Rogers had slipped into an easy-going relationship. There was no question who the boat’s commanding officer was, but each read the other well enough that they could focus on running the boat. So, it was about three hours later when the Chief of the Boat awakened the Exec.
“Skipper needs you in the control room, Sir.”
“Thanks, Chief. I’ll be right along.”
“What do we have, Skipper?” Rogers asked sixty seconds later when he slipped into the control room.
Carper pointed to the hydrophone operator. “We may have something upstairs.”
Rogers quickly looked at the ship’s indicators. They were at one-hundred feet of depth and were moving at bare steerage speed. He looked at the greased pencil marks board next to the hydrophone station. There was a dotted track and a question mark with the characters B1.
“If I was guessing, Sir, I’d say we got somebody doing a sprint and listen,” the operator said. “I picked him up just as he was spooling down his screws. It’s really quiet right now.”
“Any idea of the distance?” Rogers asked.
Carper shrugged. “What do you think? Five to ten-thousand yards?
“I would take that number with a big grain of salt, Sir.”
“Quiet on the boat,” the skipper said conversationally. “Let’s go ahead and go to quarters. I need to take a peek, and we may need a snap shot.”
“If somebody is doing sprint and listen, we’re probably looking at a Jap destroyer,” Rogers commented quietly.
“My thoughts exactly,” Carper replied. “We don’t have a lot of experience dealing with them. I’d like to be able to go home to tell people about it.”
“There’s a comforting thought.”
“Let’s come to periscope depth, Exec. Let’s take it dead slow. I don’t want a periscope feather.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Rogers turned to the control room crew. “Give me three degrees up on the planes.”
“Three degrees on the planes, aye, Sir.”
Rogers watched as the sailor manning the diving planes carefully rotated the wheel so that the gauge indicated three degrees.
“Chief, how’s the trim?” he asked.
“Close to neutral, Sir.”
“Very well. The skipper will be unhappy if we broach the boat.”
“Exec, I want both front and aft tubes ready to go.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Carper smiled to himself as he watched the crew work. He had served under a barely competent skipper five years previously and was gratified at how much better this boat functioned. He watched the depth gauge and saw the boat ease up to where they were at periscope depth. They didn’t overshoot at all. He was proud of them. He walked over to the periscope.
He nodded to the sailor at the periscope control. “The way we’re going to do this is carefully. I don’t want fifteen feet of mast sticking up out of the water in front of God and everybody.”
He had worked with Seaman Klepper extensively, and the young man seemed to be able to read his mind. The twinkle in his eye indicated he understood the captain. He moved the lever to raise the periscope mast. As soon as the base came out of the well, Carper flipped the handles down and duck-walked in a circle, peering through the lenses. Klepper held the periscope at that level until Carper was satisfied.
“Okay, Klepper, bring it up another three feet.”
The sailor carefully controlled the hoist and stopped it precisely.
“Okay,” Carper commented, “I am just above the surface of the water. Nothing in sight.”
He liked to keep a running commentary so that the crew had a good feel for the immediate context.
“Give me another couple feet on the hoist,” he ordered.
“Two feet, aye, Sir.”
Carper spun the periscope around again and stopped. “Bearing mark,” he called.
“Bearing mark,” Klepper repeated.
Carper spun around again, and then called, “Down scope.”
“Down scope, aye,” Klepper said.
“We have something hull down on the horizon. I see smoke, superstructure, and masts. Pull out the recognition charts.”
Rogers pulled the recognition book out and opened it on the chart table. Carper paged through the book and studied several of the drawings.
“I think what we hav
e, Exec, is a Minekazi class destroyer. About 1,500 tons and 39 knots. It’s old, but it’s also as fast as a thief.”
“What do you want to do, Skipper?”
“I want to sneak in closer. I’m going to assume his course is close to 180 true, so let’s come to, say, 240 and turns for five knots.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
As Rogers gave the orders, Carper wandered over to the acoustics operator. He then looked at Rogers.
“I think what we want to do is listen to see if he does another sprint. We’ll use that as an opportunity to move in closer.”
“If it’s all right with you, Skipper,” Rogers said, “I think I’ll take a turn around the torpedo rooms.”
“Good idea, Jolly. Captain has the conn.”
“Captain has the conn, aye,” Rogers repeated as he moved forward.
The Hessian quietly moved along for the next half hour and Carper watched as the crew went about their duties. Then the hydrophone operator raised his hand. Rogers was immediately at his side.
“Bogie One just kicked up his speed,” the operator said.
“Do we have a blade count?” Rogers responded.
The operator held the headphones closely on his head. “He’s doing turns for maybe twenty-five knots, Sir.”
Rogers looked at the captain.
“Let’s go to ten knots for five minutes,” Carper said.
He was taking a calculated risk that he would slow down before the destroyer did. If the destroyer slowed down first and let the flow noise subside, he would probably hear the submarine. Probably. The whine of the electric motors carried through the boat as it accelerated.
At the five-minute mark, Carper called, “All stop.”
“All stop, aye.”
They waited as the submarine coasted down. The hydrophone operator listened carefully and then spoke.
“Okay, Bogie One just cut power.”
“Bearing and distance?” Carper asked.
“About fifteen degrees off the starboard bow. Maybe five-thousand yards.”
“What do you want to do?” Rogers asked the captain.
“I think I’m going to take the shot.”
“When those fish come out of the tubes, everybody from ten miles around will hear us.”
“You know what they say?” Carper responded.
“What’s that, Skipper?”
“That’s why they pay us the big bucks.”
Rogers followed with the Is-Was, which was a type of circular slide rule used to calculate torpedo runs. Once again, Klepper raised the periscope until it was just below the surface of the water. Carper swung it around, looking for shadows.
“I think we’re clear,” he said. “Give me another three feet.”
“Bearing mark!” he called.
“Bearing mark,” Klepper repeated.
“Down scope.”
Carper stepped off the island as the periscope came down, and faced Rogers. “What he is going to do is he will kick it to flank speed when he hears the torps, and then turn up the path towards us. So, I want a narrow spread. Then we will turn a one-eighty and get ready to fire the stern tubes, in case we miss him with the first two.”
“If we have to fire again, then what, Skipper?”
Carper grinned. “Then I want to be a small, quiet insignificant part of the ocean. So, let’s get this setup.”
“Tubes one and two are ready in all respects, Skipper,” Rogers reported. “Three and four are ready as well.”
“Very well,” he commanded. “Fire tubes one and two.”
“Firing tubes one and two, aye,” Rogers said.
The boat shuddered as a slug of compressed air pushed the torpedoes out of the tubes.
“Hard to port,” Carper ordered. “Flank speed.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
August 1, 1942; 6 AM
Japanese Destroyer Hokaze
The southern Philippine Sea
Lieutenant Genzo Abe walked on to the bridge of the destroyer Hokaze and slid on to his command chair. His aid handed him a cup of tea as he lit his first cigarette of the day. His executive officer stood next to him.
“Report, Exec,” Abe commanded.
“All quiet, Sir. We followed your instructions during the night and had no contacts.”
“And we have just come off of a sprint?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“What is our fuel state?” the captain asked.
“We are at 52 percent, Sir.”
The ship’s commander grimaced. The Minekaze class destroyers were old and not particularly fuel-efficient. Except for the onset of the war, they probably would have been retired from service. The navy had replaced Hokaze’s mines with depth charges and given her an uprated hydrophone suite. Between that and her speed, Abe expected to be a nasty surprise to an American submarine.
“Tomorrow, we will turn towards Guam,” Abe told the executive officer. “We can refuel there. The naval command wants us patrolling. They expect the Americans to sortie their U-Boats at any time.”
The exec immediately acknowledged the directive and left the bridge. Abe seemed to thrive on about three hours of sleep in 24. The exec needed rather more. Fortunately, he could lay down and be asleep in about thirty seconds.
Abe took care of the routine paperwork that awaited him as he worked his way through his tea and tobacco. It was another clear day and would be hot. He hoped he would be cycled off the patrol before the typhoon season began. While he loved his ship, it was uncomfortable in heavy weather.
Rather than calling the watch officer in the radio room where the hydrophone operator worked, Abe liked to talk directly to the operator. He picked up the intra-ship phone and punched the button.
“Yes, Captain?”
“How are conditions?”
“It is very quiet. It appears there is not a layer here. The only sounds have been biologicals.”
“We will leave the fish alone for today, Riichi,” Abe said.
“Yes, Captain.”
Abe hung up the phone and faced forward. “Helm, bring us up to twenty-five knots, same course.”
“At once, Sir.”
The crew was performing well this morning, he thought. Between the constant training, and Abe’s attention to detail, he felt like they were competitive with any other destroyer in the fleet. He was proud of the way they responded during the drills. It was an honor to have a crack crew.
The destroyer picked up the bone in its teeth as loped across the broad, even swells of the western Pacific. Abe resisted the temptation to really open up his speed. First of all, there was no need, and the ship really gulped fuel when he did so. Besides, it was good to keep the power plant in top shape for those times he really needed the speed.
He watched the helmsman make minute corrections to the wheel as the ship shouldered through the swells. It was a beautiful morning, and he had little to complain about. He lit his second cigarette of the day and leaned back to blow smoke towards the deckhead.
“Very well, all stop” he commanded.
“All stop, Sir.”
He studied the ocean as the destroyer coasted down to a stop. While he thought this was a great way to go sub hunting, the crew did not like sitting still. The ship tended to drift a bit sideways into the swell, which made for some uncomfortable movements. Abe had eaten a full breakfast and had never had any issues with seasickness. Unfortunately, the same was not true with every crewmember.
The phone beside him buzzed, and he immediately picked it up.
“Speak.”
“It’s Riichi, Captain. Possible flow noise off the port bow.”
“Range?”
“Unknown. The bearing is about 320 degrees off our heading. If there is something there, he was timing our sprint.”
“Have the lookouts pay attention,” he ordered. He thought for a moment. “Call the crew to stations.”
The buzzer began its raucous blast. After a few moments, Abe yelled. “S
ecure the buzzer.”
“At once, Sir.”
The crew on the bridge grinned surreptitiously. They all knew he hated the buzzer. Abe glanced around the bridge and noted their reactions. He decided it was good if they thought he was human, after all. The executive officer came on to the bridge.
“We may have a submarine out there, Exec. Let me update you.”
“Of course, Sir,” the executive officer replied.
“Tell the engineer I may need flank speed.”
“Yes, Sir.”
If there was an American submarine out there, it meant that they were getting ready to come after Japan. Although Abe was not of high enough rank to sit in on the Admirals’ councils, he was fully aware of the debate between Yamamoto and the war faction. After hammering the Americans back to their West Coast, and the surrender of Australia, the war faction believed Japan was invincible. Yamamoto called it the Victory Disease.
Abe thought Yamamoto might be a bit pessimistic, but the man had a point. The Americans had to be busy knocking together a new fleet, and when they came across the Pacific again, the emperor’s navy would have a fight on its hands. Until Abe was able to gain a feel for the Americans’ ship handling, he would approach things cautiously.
He held the phone to his ear as he studied the plot on the map table.
“Transient,” Riichi said suddenly. “I’m not sure, Sir, but it may have been torpedo doors opening.”
“Give me turns for five knots,” Abe ordered. He did not want to mess up the hydrophone operator’s aural environment, but sitting dead in the water was just asking for unpleasant things to happen.
“I have a torpedo launch,” Riichi called. “Two torpedoes in the water, Sir. Bearing 320, distance 4,000 yards.”
“Flank speed,” Abe ordered. “Come port to course 180. Have the spotters look sharp! I want to drive between those two eels.”
He picked up the phone again. “Talk to me Riichi.”
“Definitely getting screw noises, Sir. I think he reversed course and is headed directly away from us.”
“And the torpedoes?”
“Running straight. They are on a direct bearing.”