The most outstanding record of enemy subs sunk was the one hung up by Batfish, beginning that fateful February 9.
“Secure the radar!” Jake Fyfe turned to a shocked conning tower crew, and ordered crisply, “Battle stations torpedo!”
The helmsman instinctively had already extended his hand in the direction of the general alarm. Now he grasped it, pulled it out, and then down. The low-pitched chime of the alarm resounded through the ship, penetrating every corner, waking men who had turned in dead tired, vowing to sleep for a year—meaning only until their next watch—bringing them upright, fully alert, instinctively racing to their battle stations, all in the space of an instant.
What is it? What is it?
Don’t know. Something on the radar.
Skipper says a Jap sub out there.
How does he know that?
The process of deduction by which Fyfe arrived at the conclusion that the source of the radar peculiarities was an enemy submarine was not at all illogical. The wavering of his radar scope was probably due to the presence of another radar. It was known that the Japs had radar, though of an inferior type to ours, If this radar came from a vessel as large as a destroyer, he should have been detected on Batfish’s radar before the emanations from his low-powered radar had been noticed. This, of course, was the usual case. Since the radar waves had been the first to be picked up, it followed that the ship producing them must be small and low on the water. Yet it must be a valuable ship, sufficiently important to rate one of the relatively few radar sets the Nips possessed. Hence, a submarine.
The reason why Fyfe ordered his own radar temporarily secured was simply to deny the Jap the same information which he himself had just received, while he and his Executive Officer, Lieutenant C. K. Sprinkle, USNR, broke out the charts and did some very rapid figuring.
The enemy radar emanations have been from 220, approximately southwest. Babuyan Channel runs more or less north and south. Therefore the target must be on a northerly course, approaching from the south.
To check this deduction Batfish’s radar is cautiously turned on for only a moment. Sure enough, the bearing of the other radar has changed slightly. It is now 225.
“All ahead full! Right full rudder!” Batfish leaps ahead and steadies on a course calculated to get to the north of the approaching enemy vessel. She runs for a short time, every now and then checking the situation with her radar. All clear—no other ships around. Just the Jap, and his signals are becoming stronger, while his bearing is now drawing to the southward. This is as it should be.
But Fyfe does not, of course, propose to make his approach and attack on bearings alone. He wants to close the range, but on his own terms, with his bow on the enemy, his torpedoes ready—in short, with the drop on him.
Finally, Jake Fyfe and Sprinkle figure their position is about right. Batfish turns toward the enemy and ghosts in, keeping the darkest section of the midnight horizon behind her, and sweeping frequently, but at odd intervals, with her radar.
“Radar contact!” The word from Radar this time startles nobody—they have all been expecting it for several minutes. The tracking party now goes to work in earnest, with some concrete information instead of the rather sporadic and un-precise dope they have had up to now.
Target is on course 310, speed 12. The dials whirl on the TDC in the conning tower, where Sprinkle is in charge.
The range continues to decrease, the radar operator and the TDC operator tirelessly feeding in the essential information on the fire-control instruments. The plotting party also has its part in this, for all solutions must check before torpedoes may be fired.
On the bridge, the captain strains his eyes, and so do the lookouts up there with him. Suppose the Jap has somehow learned of the presence of the American submarine! It is possible. In this case, if he deduces what is going on, he might very logically turn the situation to his own advantage by firing his torpedoes first. After all, when you make an approach on another ship, there is a period during which you are in a much better position for him to shoot torpedoes at you than you at him—at a somewhat longer range, of course. Or, more probably, he might simply dive, thus spoiling the shot Batfish has worked for so long, not to mention making it immediately imperative for her to get the hell out of there!
Closer and closer comes the unsuspecting enemy sub. It is so dark that as yet he cannot be seen by the tense bridge party. As the situation develops, it is apparent that he will pass through the firing position at just under 2000 yards’ range. This is a little long for optimum torpedo fire, but Fyfe wants to take no chances of being detected. On he comes—only a little more now—then from the conning tower, “On the firing bearing, Captain!” This from the exec.
“Let them go when ready, Sprink. Shoot on radar bearings. I still can’t see him from up here.” From the skipper.
Silently, four torpedoes are loosed into the water. Four new wakeless electric fish start their run toward the target. They have 1,800 yards to go; it will take awhile. The watch hands crawl slowly and maddeningly around their faces. The wait grows longer, more anxious. Something should have happened by now! Those fish should surely have arrived! We could not have been so far off that our spread missed also!
But miss they do, all four torpedoes. Finally there is no escaping that conclusion. The whole careful and well-executed approach—wasted! All hands are bitterly disappointed. What can have gone wrong?
The question is answered by Plot, dramatically. “Target has speeded up! Speed now fourteen knots!” Too bad this was not detected a minute or two earlier. At least it explains the trouble, and allays the suspicious doubts which had already inevitably crept into the minds of both skipper and exec.
But the target continues serenely on his way, giving no sign of being aware of having been fired upon. Maybe Batfish will be able to try again.
No sooner thought than tried. The four murmuring diesels of the hunter lift their voices, and the submarine slips away through the water, seeking another position from which to launch her deadly missiles. But by this time, of course, the target has passed beyond Batfish, and in order to regain firing position it will be necessary to execute an end around.
Jake Fyfe has elected to remain on the surface for the whole attack, crediting to his superior radar the fact that he had been alerted before the Jap; and trusting to his belief that he could keep the enemy from detecting him. His plan is to get up ahead of the other submarine, and to head in toward him while the unsuspecting Nip is pounding along in nearly the opposite direction. Thus the range would close rapidly, and the amount of warning the other submarine could expect before torpedo junction would be very little. It was surprising that the Jap sub gave no indication of being aware he had been shot at. Whereas Fyfe had expected only one chance at him, he now finds another. “Obviously the fellow isn’t as good as I gave him credit for!” And concurrent with this came the resolution to get in closer the next time, play his luck a little harder. If he could only sight the enemy, and fire on optical bearings instead of radar bearings, he would have a much neater solution to his fire-control problem—and thus greater certainty of hitting.
And besides, although Jake was morally certain the ship he was stalking was another submarine—and therefore Japanese, for he knew positively there were no friendly submarines in that area—he naturally wanted very badly to see him, just by way of confirming things. He had thought that visibility was good enough to see 2000 yards—a mile—and therefore had settled on about eighteen hundred yards for firing range. Events had proved him too optimistic, and he had not been able to see him at that range. This time he would get a look!
All the while, Batfish is racing through the black night at full speed. She has pulled off abeam of her quarry, just within maximum radar range in order to be outside range of the less-efficient radar carried by the enemy, and she is rapidly overhauling him. Jake is still very careful with his own radar, searching all around and getting a radar range and bearing on the e
nemy as frequently as he dares, but he is not going to take a chance on being detected. All this time, of course, the radar emanations from the Jap have been coming in regularly, and their unchanged characteristics add proof that he is still sound asleep.
The skipper stands on the bridge of his ship during the whole of the new approach, for the situation could change so radically and so quickly that he must remain where he can take immediate action. So he must trust the coordination of everything below decks to Sprinkle.
Batfish has worked up somewhat ahead of the enemy’s beam. Fyfe is trying to visualize the chart of the channel, for if he remembers rightly, some kind of a change is going to have to be made at the rate they are covering ground. The sea is fairly smooth, as it so often is in these southern waters, and hardly any solid water comes over Batfish’s main deck, although considerable spray is whipped across it by the wind of her passing. It is an absolutely pitch-black night. No distinction can be seen between sky and water—the horizon simply doesn’t exist. All about is warm, dank, murky grayness, broken only by the white water boiling along your side. It is as though Batfish were standing still, dipping and rising slightly, and occasionally shaking herself free from the angry sea which froths and splashes beneath her.
In a moment Clark Sprinkle’s voice is heard on the interior communication system: “Plot says target is changing course. They’ll let us know for sure in a minute.”
The skipper presses a large heavy button on the bulkhead beside him and leans forward to speak into the bridge speaker: “Fine! As soon as you’re sure, we’ll change too.”
About a minute later a speaker mounted to the overhead of the conning tower squawks: “This is Plot. Target has changed course to the right. New course, zero one five.”
“I’ve got the same, Sprink,” says the TDC operator. “New course about zero two zero, though.”
Sprinkle pulls a portable microphone toward him, presses the button. “Bridge, Plot and TDC have the target on new course between zero one five and zero two zero. Suggest we come to zero two zero.”
“Right full rudder! Come right to new course zero two zero!” The order to the helm is sufficient acknowledgment.
“Rudder is right full, sir! Coming to zero two zero!” the helmsman shouts up the hatch.
Batfish heels to port as she whips around. Her white wake astern shows nearly a sharp right-angle turn as her stern slides across the seas.
Several more minutes pass. Fyfe is on the point of asking for more information, when again the bridge speaker blares its muffled version of Sprinkle’s voice: “Captain, we’ve got him on zero two zero, making fourteen knots. Range is seven oh double oh, and distance to the track is two five double oh. This looks pretty good to me. Recommend we come left and let him have it!”
“Okay, Sprink. Give me a course to come to.” The captain’s voice has assumed a grim finality, a flat quality of emotionless decision. This is always a big hurdle; until now you really have the option of fighting or not fighting—of risking your neck or not—that is, if you can remain undetected. But when you start in, you are committed. You go in with the bow of your ship pointed directly at the enemy; you get well inside his visibility range, and radar range, too, for that matter; and you depend upon the quickness with which the attack develops to give you the opportunity to get it off. Keeping your bow on him gives him less to look at, a very important factor in the night surface attack; but if you change your mind and try to pull out of there you’ve got to change course, give him your broadside—and set yourself up for a beautiful counterattack on his part. Destroyers are supposed to be able to get a half-salvo in the air within seconds after having been alerted; submarines always carry one or two torpedoes at the ready, which can be fired instantly from the bridge. Small wonder that starting in is a crucial decision!
“Left full rudder!” Fyfe’s command whips down the conning tower hatch to the helmsman.
“Rudder is left full, sir!”
“All ahead two thirds!” Fyfe has waited a moment before slowing, in order to make the turn faster.
“Answered all ahead two thirds!” Maneuvering room has matched annunciators with the conning tower, thus indicating that they have the word.
Sprinkle has been following things closely from the conning tower—checking bearings, ranges, courses, and speeds. He performs a rapid mathematical computation, drawing arrows this way and that, and measuring angles. Then he speaks into his little mike: “Captain, if we steady up on two four oh we’ll have him ten degrees on our port bow, going across. His angle on the bow is now starboard forty.”
“Steady on new course two four oh!” The ship has about thirty degrees more to swing, and the helmsman eases the rudder upon receipt of the command from the bridge.
“Steady on two four oh, sir!”
The exec speaks again. “Captain, he is on course zero two oh, making fourteen knots. Angle on the bow is starboard forty-five, and he now bears five degrees on our port bow. The distance to the track is two three double oh. Range, five oh double oh.”
No answer from the bridge, but that doesn’t bother Sprinkle. He knows he will hear quickly if the skipper isn’t satisfied with the way things are going or the reports he is getting.
A few more tense moments pass. Again the speaker near the skipper’s left elbow reproduces Sprinkle’s familiar voice. “He’s crossing our bow now. Range, four oh double oh.”
“Come right to two five oh.” Fyfe, who is working the same problem in his head that Sprinkle is solving mechanically in the conning tower, has the situation firmly fixed in his mind. He wants to keep coming around to head for the enemy, and has anticipated by seconds only the latter’s recommendation.
“What is the distance to the track?”
“Two oh double oh, Captain.”
“All ahead one third.” Batfish is closing the target’s projected track too quickly, and the firing range will be too short, or the target might detect her before firing. Fyfe’s brain is now in high gear, and he can feel every part of the problem falling into place. In fact, it is almost as if he could reach out and control the movements of the Japanese skipper also, and his mind wills the enemy to keep on coming, to keep on the course and speed as set up; to come unerringly and steadily on to his doom.
And on and on he comes, totally unaware of the trap set for him, totally unaware that he is springing the trap on himself, that any change whatsoever which he might make would be to his advantage, that the most serious mistake you can make, when it’s submarine against submarine, is to relax—ever. Of course, to give him his due, the Jap doesn’t know he is being shadowed. But he knows very well that he is proceeding through a submarine-infested area—and in this little game no excuses are accepted.
At 1,500 yards the keen eyes on Batfish’s bridge distinguish a blur in the gray murk, and at 1000 yards the sinister outline of a Japanese I class submarine is made out—the first time during the whole evening that the enemy has actually been sighted. He wallows heavily in the slight chop of the sea—low, dark, and ungainly.
At 1000 yards the Jap is broadside to Batfish: Fyfe’s plan has borne fruit, for his own bow is exactly toward the enemy, and he has all the advantage of sighting. Furthermore, the darkest portion of the overcast is behind him.
Sprinkle is beside himself with eagerness. For about thirty seconds he has been imploring his skipper to shoot. He has a perfect solution and doesn’t want to let it get away from him. “We’ve got them cold! Ready to shoot any time, Captain!” He repeats the same formula over and over, a veteran of too many patrols to say what he really means, which would be more on the order of, “Let’s go, Captain! What are we waiting for?”
But Fyfe refuses to be hurried. He’s worked too long for this moment, and he has already missed once, possibly because of a little haste in firing. Carefully he takes a bridge bearing and has it matched into the TDC, swings the TBT and takes another, to make sure there is no transmission lag which might cause an error. Then, for
the first time using the word, he says, in a curious flat voice, “Fire torpedoes!”
“Fire one!” Sprinkle’s voice is a split second behind that of his skipper’s.
Almost immediately the telephone talker standing under the conning tower hatch shouts loudly, so that his message is heard in the conning tower as well as on the bridge:
“Number one did not eject! Running hot in the tube!”
Something has gone wrong. The torpedo should have been pushed out of the torpedo tube by the high-pressure air ejection system. Instead, it has stuck in the tube, and the torpedomen forward can hear it running in the tube. This is critical, for it will be armed within a matter of seconds, and then almost anything could set it off. Besides, the motor is overspeeding in the tube, and it could conceivably break up under the strain and vibration—which might itself produce sufficient shock to cause an explosion.
But there isn’t time to think much about possibilities. The skipper’s reaction is instant. “Tubes forward, try again, by hand. Use full ejection pressure!” Full pressure is used only when firing at deep submergence, but this is an emergency.
The next command is for Clark Sprinkle in the conning tower. “Check fire!” Fyfe is not going to let the Jap get away while he waits for the casualty to be straightened out, but neither does he want the faulty torpedo to be ejected at the same time as a good one, and possibly interfere with it. If it does not eject on the second try, he will shoot the remaining tubes, and then return to the balky one.
Submarine! Page 24