But a few minutes after one, the situation changed. A ship was sighted, about five miles farther into the harbor, apparently at anchor. She was too far away to be clearly made out, because of the mirage-like effect of the glassy bay waters, which also forced Wahoo to expose only an inch or two of her periscope per observation for fear of being sighted.
Wahoo alters course, heads for the unknown ship. Two or three quick observations are taken, and the target is identified as a destroyer at anchor, with some smaller vessels alongside—apparently the tug and barge first sighted at dawn.
One of Mush Morton’s unorthodox ideas, later adopted to some degree in the submarine force, was to have his executive officer make the periscope observations, while he, the skipper, ran the approach and coordinated the information from sound, periscope, plotting parties, and torpedo director. Thus, so ran his argument, the skipper is not apt to be distracted by watching the target’s maneuvers, and can make better decisions. But you really have to have the courage of your convictions to carry out this stunt! And you also have to have an exec in whom you have complete confidence, and who can so work with his skipper that the two think and act together as one. Fortunately Morton has such a man in Dick O’Kane. They have thoroughly discussed and planned how everything should be done in case a chance comes their way—and here it is!
Battle stations submerged! The word is quietly passed through the ship. O’Kane and Morton have both been up in the conning tower of Wahoo for hours, looking over their quarry. Now O’Kane keeps the periscope, while Mush handles the rest of the attack details. The plan is to sneak up on the destroyer while he is still swinging around his hook, and to blast him right then and there. Wahoo will start shooting from about three thousand yards’ range. All is in readiness as the submarine creeps into position. Fully aware of the unprecedented risks they are taking, Wahoo’s crew tensely stand to their stations. The temperature inside the ship wavers around 100 degrees, for the air-conditioning plants have been shut down for some time to avoid unneccessary noise. As a concession to morale, however, and in the interests of having at least a bearable atmosphere inside the boat, the ventilation blowers and fans have been kept running—but now even these are stopped. A ship with all auxiliaries stopped can be eerily quiet indeed, and it is with this unnatural, deadly silence that Wahoo works into position for her attack.
“Up persicope! One more observation before we let him have it!” The voice is the skipper’s.
Rising slowly from his haunches as he follows the ’scope up, his face pressed against the rubber eyepiece, O’Kane sees only greenish-yellow muddy water for a moment until the tip of the instrument breaks clear of the surface. Then bright sunlight strikes the objective lens of the periscope and reflects in multicolored hues as the tiny rivulets of water drain swiftly off the glass. O’Kane’s voice rasps out:
“He’s underway! Coming this way! Angle on the bow, ten port!”
“Right full rudder! Port ahead full!” The skipper is almost instantaneous in the command. “Standby aft!” You have to be quick in this business, if you expect to be good, or if you simply hope to survive. Morton’s intentions are immediately obvious to everyone: swing around to the right, and let him have a salvo from the stem tubes as he goes by. Still no thought of avoiding action.
“Dick! What speed do you give him?” Mush has to have this information. “Sound! Get a turn count on the target’s screws as soon as you can!”
The sound man, intently watching his bearing dials as though by divination they could give him the information sought, shakes his head even while, with one hand gently pounding his knee, he is attempting to count. O’Kane runs the ’scope down without comment, then speaks over his shoulder.
“He’s just got his anchor up, and he’s speeding up. Not a chance in hell of getting his speed!”
“Well, try again! We’ve got to have some idea of it!”
The ’scope starts up again. O’Kane’s voice: “He’s zigged! To his left! Crossing our bow! Bearing—mark!”
“Three oh three!”—this from the sailor intently watching the scribe marks on the periphery of the azimuth ring overhead, as the etched hairline on the periscope barrel matches that relative bearing.
“Down ’scope! Give him fifteen knots, Captain. That’s just a guess, though!”
Mush Morton has not been idle during this periscope observation period. He has shifted preparations for firing torpedoes from the after room to the forward torpedo room. He has also made a swift approximation of enemy speed, from the meager information available. Quickly he supervises the insertion of the new situation into the TDC. In a matter of seconds Wahoo is ready to fire with a third completely new setup.
“Sound bearings!” The command starts the chant of numbers from the sweating sound man.
“Three two oh!—Three two five!—Three three oh!—Three four oh!—Three five three!—” It’s difficult to stay on a target going by at such close range and such relatively high speed, and the sound man has his troubles, but he does the best he can.
“Standby forward. Standby one!”
All is in readiness. All is quiet. The skipper nods to his exec. “Give us the bearings, Dick!”
Up goes the periscope again. Firing torpedoes on sound bearings is not for Wahoo. To make your shots good, you must get the target’s exact bearing as shortly before shooting as possible. You take a chance on his sighting your periscope! If you really make them good, you won’t have to worry whether he sees it or not!
“Bearing—mark!”
“Three five eight!”
“Set!” The TDC operator reports that he is, at that precise instant, on the target.
The clipped commands, the staccato syllables, are a natural result of the tension generated in the confines of the conning tower. About twelve feet long by eight in diameter, the conning tower is like a cylinder lying on its side, where, during general quarters, ten men must work.
“Fire!”
“Fire one!” repeats the firing key operator into his sound power telephones, as he presses the firing key.
In the forward torpedo room, the torpedomen are standing anxiously by the tubes. The tube captain wears the telephones and stands between the two banks of torpedo tubes, his eyes glued to his gauge board, his hand poised to fire the torpedo by hand if the solenoid firing mechanism fails to function electrically. But everything operates as it should. The click of the solenoid and the rush of air into the firing valve sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. The whine of the torpedo engine starting is heard momentarily as it leaves the tube, and the ship lurches. The pressure gauge for number one tube impulse air flask dies rapidly down to zero, and just before it reaches the peg at the end of the dial there is a sudden rush of air into the bilges under the tube nest, followed immediately by a heavy stream of water.
The Chief Torpedoman waits an agonizingly long time, then reaches up to a manifold of valves and levers and pulls one toward him. The roar of the water stops with a tremendous shuddering water hammer, and immediately a sailor, stripped to the waist, vigorously turns a large chromium-plated crank attached to number one tube, thus closing the outer torpedo tube door.
Up in the conning tower, the firing key operator has been counting to himself as he holds down the firing key, but suddenly he is interrupted by a report in his earphones and sings out, “Number one tube fired electrically!” He then releases his firing key—actually a large brass knob fixed to the bulkhead beneath the ready-light and selector switch panel—reaches to the selector switch for number one tube, turns it to “Off,” and then, very precisely, turns the selector switch under the number “2” to “On.”
Meanwhile the TDC operator, who is the ship’s Gunnery and Torpedo Officer, has been watching a stop watch and at the same time turning a crank set low in the face of the director before him. This introduces “spread,” causing successive torpedoes to follow slightly diverging tracks. When his stop watch indicates ten seconds after the first fish has be
en fired, the TDC operator snaps, “Fire!”
“Fire two!” repeats the firing key operator into his phones, pressing his brass knob.
“Number two fired electrically!” reports the firing key man.
Roger Paine, operating the TDC, waits until his stop watch again indicates ten seconds, and then repeats, “Fire!” Three torpedoes churn their way toward the unsuspecting destroyer.
Cautiously Dick O’Kane runs up the periscope. Suddenly he curses. “They’re going aft! The bastard has speeded up!”
At the same moment a report from the sound man: “Two hundred turns, sir!”
“That’s eighteen knots,” says Morton. Then to Roger Paine, “Let’s lead him a bit. Set speed twenty knots!”
“Bearing—mark!” from O’Kane.
“Zero one zero!”
“Set!”
“FIRE!”
A fourth torpedo heads for the enemy.
A cry from O’Kane-“Cease firing! He’s seen the fish! He’s turning away! Down ’scope!” The periscope starts down.
“Leave it up, by God!” Mush’s voice has taken on a new quality, one not heard before by Wahoo’s crew. A raging, fighting, furious voice—the voice of a man who will always dominate the fight, who will lead and conquer, or most assuredly die in the attempt.
As the periscope starts up again, all eyes in the conning tower instinctively turn toward their skipper. This is something entirely new and unorthodox. “Why, that will make sure he sees us, and will surely bring him right down on top of us! What can the Captain be thinking of?”
As if in answer to the unspoken thought, Morton speaks again, in the same reckless, furious tone as before. “We’ll give that son of a bitch a point of aim all right. Let him come after us! Wait till he gets close, and we’ll blast that goddam tin-can clean into kingdom come!”
At the full import of these words, the atmosphere in the tiny conning tower is electric. Striving to keep his voice calm, the telephone talker relays the plan of action to the rest of the ship, so that every man is apprised of it, and, of course, aware of the most extreme danger in which it places Wahoo. But not one of them falters, not one quails; although some may be mentally saying their prayers, they loyally go through with their skipper all the way.
Morton’s plan is indeed unprecedented in submarine warfare, although obviously it has not been thought up on the spur of the moment. Wahoo is going to remain at periscope depth, instead of going deep and trying to evade the working over with depth charges she has invited. She will leave the periscope up in plain view—it being broad daylight, remember—to make sure that the enemy destroyer knows exactly where the submarine is. Seeing the periscope, of course, the Jap will also know the exact depth to set on his charges. But as he rushes in to make this apparently easy kill, Wahoo’s bow will be kept pointed toward him, and at the last possible minute, so that he will not have a chance to avoid it, a torpedo will be fired right down his throat!
This, rather obviously, is a pretty risky way to operate. Four torpedoes already have been fired, and there are only two more ready forward. All four after tubes are ready, of course, but there is no time to turn the submarine around. So Morton is shooting the works with only two fish, and one of them had better hit!
Grimly, O’Kane hangs on to the periscope, watching the Jap ship complete his evasive maneuver—turning away and paralleling the last torpedo, and then, after it has safely passed, turning around once more and heading for the source of the sudden attack. Smoke belches from his stacks as his firerooms are called upon for full power. Around he comes, a full 180 degrees, until all that O’Kane can see is the destroyer’s sharp, evil-looking bow, curiously now rather fat in appearance. Men are racing around the decks, and at least a hundred of them take stations in various spots of the topside, on top of turrets and gun shields, in the rigging, and along the rails on both sides of the bow.
Sweat pours off the face of the Executive Officer as he stares at what looks like certain destruction. But he does not forget his primary mission. “I’m keeping right on his bowl” he growls. “Angle on the bow is zero! You can get a bearing any time!” Occasionally he twirls the periscope range knob, and a new range is fed into the TDC. All is silent—except for the muttered bearings and ranges of the quartermaster, and the Captain’s terse commands, and the hoarse breathing of the ten men in the conning tower, and the creak of the hull and the murmur of water slowly passing through the superstructure. O’Kane becomes conscious of a drumming sound and realizes that it is only the racing beat of his own heart.
“One five double oh yards”—from the quartermaster. Paine looks inquiringly at his skipper. Surely he must fire now!
Morton’s jaw muscles bulge, and his face assumes even more vividly that prize-fighter expression which was to become well known—and even feared—by his crew. But his mouth remains clamped shut.
The dials of the TDC whirl around: 1,400 yards’ range!—1,350 yards!—1,300!—1,250!
As the range reaches 1,200 yards, the Captain’s lips part at last, and a roar bursts from him, as if pent up within him until there is no containing it.
“FIRE!”
Wahoo’s fifth torpedo starts its trip toward the rapidly approaching enemy. The men in their cylindrical steel prison feel a tightening of the suspense; the tension under which they are all laboring rises to a nearly unbearable pitch. But O’Kane is still giving bearings, and the TDC dials are still racing. Torpedo run for that fifth fish should be about thirty-two seconds. Morton waits a full ten seconds.
“FIRE!”
The sixth and last torpedo leaves its tube.
Dick O’Kane continues to watch at the periscope. A curious feeling of relief, of actual detachment from the whole situation, wells up within him. He now has the role of spectator, and there is nothing he or anyone else can do to change the outcome of events. He makes a mental reservation to pull the ’scope down if the torpedoes miss, so that the destroyer will not break it off passing overhead.
Two white streaks almost merged into one in the murky water, swiftly draw themselves toward the onrushing Jap. Twenty seconds since the first one was fired. Dick notices much activity on the bridge of the destroyer. He starts to heel to port, as his rudder is evidently put hard a-starboard. The first white streak is almost there now—is there, and goes on beyond, evidently a miss by a hairbreadth. But the second white chalkline is a little to the left of the first—it is almost there now—it is there. My God, we’ve missed! What?—WHAM! A geyser of dirty water rises right in the middle of the destroyer, breaks him exactly in half, holds him suspended there like a huge inverted V, his bow slanted down to the right. The white-clad figures crowded all over his top-sides are tumbling ridiculously into the water, arms and legs helplessly flailing the air. A cloud of mingled smoke and steam billows out of the broken portion of the stricken hull, rises hundreds of feet into the air, a continuation of the original geyser. Then, swiftly, the halves separate, and each slides drunkenly beneath the once-smooth surface of Wewak Harbor, now roiled up by the force of the explosion and the splashes from hundreds of particles of metal and other pieces of gear from the doomed vessel.
Within Wahoo’s thick steel hull the force of the explosion is terrific, something like a very close depth charge, as heavy a blow as if the destroyer had actually succeeded in completing his run upon her. Some of the crew, in fact, do believe they have received the first of a series of such depth charges. But in the conning tower there is wild exultation. Always kept ready for an opportunity such as this, the cam era is broken out, and several pictures are made of the bow of the enemy vessel which, for a moment, remains to be photographed.
Then, and not until then, Wahoo goes to deep submergence—obviously not very deep in an anchorage—and starts for the entrance of the harbor more than nine miles away. The trip out is punctuated by numerous shell splashes on the surface of the water, sporadic bombing, and the patter of several distant machine guns. No doubt the Japs in the shore batte
ries would like to cause the undersea raider to lie “doggo” on the bottom until some anti-submarine forces, perhaps the two patrol ships sighted in the early morning, can get to the area. But Wahoo doesn’t scare worth a damn, and late that evening she surfaces well clear of the harbor.
When asked later how he had managed to keep his nerve in the face of the attacking destroyer, Morton is reputed to have answered: “Why do you think I made O’Kane look at him? He’s the bravest man I know!”
So it was that Wahoo gave the submarine force her first lesson on one way to dispose of enemy destroyers. Needless to say, that method was seldom sought deliberately, even by the more successful sub skippers, but it is worthy of note that Sam Dealey in Harder, Roy Benson in Trigger, and Gene Fluckey in Barb at one time or another attempted similar shots.
Three days after Wewak, Wahoo’s lookouts sighted smoke on the horizon. This was to be a red-letter day.
The minute smoke is sighted, or radar contact made at night, it is necessary to determine the approximate direction of movement of the contact. Otherwise, the submarine might track in the wrong direction, lose contact, and never regain it. So Wahoo’s bow is swung toward the smoke, and several successive bearings are taken. This takes time, for it is not easy to determine the direction of motion of a wind-blown cloud of smoke when the ship making it is not visible. You don’t want it to be visible, either, for that might enable an alert lookout to sight you.
The smoke resolves itself into two freighters on a steady course, no zigzag—which makes the problem easier. Shortly before 0900 Wahoo dives with the two vessels “coming over the hill,” masts in line. Then she lies in ambush, her crew at battle stations, torpedoes ready except for the final operations, always delayed until the last possible moment before firing.
Submarine! Page 5