Final Patrol

by Don Keith

  Without undergoing a similar experience, it is nearly impossible for us to put ourselves in the place of the World War II sailors, to identify with the submariners who did the work. What manner of man would volunteer to dive beneath the waves to such an uninviting place, knowing full well that the odds were stacked against him? What would compel someone to willingly choose to serve in a force that automatically gets hazardous-duty pay all the time, not just when the nation is at war, because of the unique danger inherent in the job?

  The conditions are much better today, but in the 1940s, submarining was a rough life. Only the best were selected to go. Their training was rigorous. They didn’t just need to know how to perform a particular task—they were required to qualify at all duty stations on the vessel, just in case they were needed to step in should a man fall. Each sailor was expected to be ready to keep the boat righted, to pull her out of a potentially deadly dive, or to bring her to the surface for a breath of sweet, fresh air. And that was true of every man aboard, whether he was the captain of the boat or the mess cook.

  The living conditions on the World War II boats were not much better than in a foxhole or trench. Imagine six to seven dozen men living in cramped spaces, sharing for weeks on end two bathrooms and a dining room not much bigger than a typical suburban house’s walk-in closet. Picture having to sleep on a narrow cot, often hung from the wall among explosive torpedoes, and sharing that same cot in shifts with other crew members.

  It shouldn’t surprise us, then, that the men who rode the plunging boats constitute one of the strongest brotherhoods going, that even those who served in World War II, over sixty years ago, continue to meet at reunions, to stay in touch with each other. This should also help you understand why they are so determined that the story of what they did does not die with them. Not their own stories, mind you—submariners tend to be very humble types and reluctant to talk of their war experiences—but the stories of their shipmates, and especially those who did not come back.

  And that’s also why they and others have worked so hard to preserve some of their submarines, to restore and authentically reequip them, and to fix them up so that they, you, and I are all able to visit them. They wanted to help us to see what life was like for them and their brothers—to learn a little bit about their shipmates and their boats as we stand on the bridge, as we walk her decks and climb up and down her ladders, as we peer through the periscope at rush-hour traffic across the harbor.

  These submarine sailors are adamant that we breathe in the lingering perfume of diesel fuel, still fragrant in the various compartments throughout their vessels, even sixty years after they swam in the warm Pacific waters. They even want us to know what it smelled like aboard them.

  In 1941, the American submarines being built were the most advanced military machines yet developed. And crewing each one of those boats were some of the bravest young men in the history of warfare. Amazingly enough, many of them were still in their teens. The average age of most of the boats’ crew members was less than twenty-five years old. The “old man,” the skipper, was rarely much over thirty.

  Their stories, if we take the time to listen to them, are dramatic, moving, and as fascinating today as they were over half a century ago. They are full of human drama and colorful characters. Many of these adventures have yet to be shared with the general public, however, and we are quickly losing the veterans who lived them, the ones who can tell them the best. That’s why it is so important that the boats be saved from the scrap heap or demolition, salvaged and preserved—and opened so we can visit them and learn more about them.

  And it is also why the memories recounted by their crew members must be preserved and passed on, so that these men and what they did and how they did it can be properly appreciated.

  Among the vessels so preserved is the USS Bowfin, dubbed “the Pearl Harbor Avenger.” She was put under construction only eight days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, which took place on December 7, 1941. She went on to a brilliant patrol record, including a stint delivering medicine, radio transmitters, ammunition, and money to Philippine guerrillas in a daring, near-suicidal mission. Later, she was depth-charged to the point that the enemy was certain she was dead. They raked a grappling hook down her deck trying to snag her and drag her to the surface but could not grab her.

  It was the Bowfin’s crew who had to recover from the guilt brought about by one of the war’s greatest tragedies. She sank what her crew believed was an enemy troop ship—only to discover later that the vessel carried nine hundred Japanese children who were being evacuated from an island that was about to come under attack from the Allies.

  Crew members of the USS Drum worked feverishly in water up to their knees after a vicious depth-charge attack. Even with their sub damaged, they loaded and launched torpedoes and finally sank the enemy aircraft carrier they had their sights on. With cold seawater pouring in around them, they cheered as their skipper reported what he was seeing as he watched their damaged target, listing so badly that her decks were clearly visible through his periscope.

  Some of the boats carried odd names. There was the Croaker, the Clamagore, the Requin, the Razorback. And there was the USS Becuna, affectionately called Becky by her crew.

  It was aboard the USS Silversides, nicknamed “the Lucky Boat” because of her many close scrapes with the enemy, that Pharmacist’s Mate Tom Moore successfully removed a shipmate’s gangrenous appendix—even though he had never performed any kind of surgery before and had to resort to using knives and dinner forks from the galley for surgical instruments.

  Then there was the USS Cod, whose skipper, Commander James Dempsey, had sunk the first Japanese destroyer of the war when he was captain of a tiny 1920s-era submarine. And it was the Cod that endured a vicious barrage of seventy Japanese depth charges in only fifteen minutes. Twelve hours later, the air inside the boat was so dank that the men couldn’t even get a match to strike so they could light their cigarettes; there simply wasn’t enough oxygen left. They finally surfaced—into the middle of a tropical thunderstorm. The boat’s sound operator was still so deafened from counting the explosions of the depth charges that he couldn’t hear the thunder, but he could certainly appreciate the sweet, fresh air that spilled down the open hatch once they were on the surface.

  It was the new skipper of the Batfish who drew curious stares from his crew when they learned his prior war history. Captain Wayne Merrill had already served as an officer aboard two previous boats in the Pacific. Only a few days after he shipped off each of them, the submarine and its crew were lost. The men assigned to his newly constructed sub wondered if their captain was bulletproof . . . or if maybe his luck was about to run out on this new boat. But the Batfish went on to accomplish one of the most amazing feats of the war—sinking three enemy submarines in three days.

  The USS Cavalla was almost out of fuel and a long way from home, but she stayed on station as ordered to report the location of a massive enemy armada that was forming. Then, when she finally left and headed for port, she coincidentally ran across one of the war’s true prizes, the enemy aircraft carrier Shokaku. The Japanese carrier was one of the ships that had launched the planes that attacked Pearl Harbor. She was also a veteran of the Battle of the Coral Sea. Later, the Cavalla’s skipper, Commander Herman Kossler, happily radioed back to Pearl, “Hit Shokaku-class carrier with three out of six torpedoes . . . believe that baby sank!”

  One of the other American submarines now open to visitors once steamed right into an enemy-held harbor and torpedoed a cargo ship tied up at the wharf. Then, for good measure, she blasted a busload of enemy soldiers that happened to be sitting nearby.

  Another skipper torpedoed a train as it sat on the tracks near a pier. Then he had to risk running aground or being bombed from the air as he backed his submarine out of the tight, shallow confines of the harbor.

  The USS Torsk was named after a Norwegian fish because, by that time, all the more common fish names had be
en claimed by other vessels. She and her crew were credited with firing the last torpedo and sinking the last ship of World War II, only hours before the cease-fire was ordered.

  Today each of these historic vessels has been preserved and is open to visitors at various memorial sites and museums around the United States. They serve as monuments to all submariners, and especially to those who gave their lives in defense of their country. In all, there are currently sixteen U.S. Navy World War II submarines that can be visited and toured by the public. They are in places like Honolulu and Philadelphia, at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, Cleveland, Galveston, Pittsburgh, the Inner Harbor at Baltimore, and in Hackensack, New Jersey. A couple more are resting on the shores of Lake Michigan. You will even find one in Muskogee, Oklahoma, in the middle of the Cherokee Indian nation, and one in Little Rock, Arkansas, over five hundred miles from the nearest salt water.

  Most have been lovingly restored and authentically equipped and are usually maintained in part by volunteers. Each allows visitors to see for themselves the claustrophobic conditions under which these men lived and fought and, in many cases, died. Some of the submarines are listed as National Historic Landmarks. Most are in excellent shape, properly equipped with either original or period fixtures and gear.

  Others struggle to keep from rusting away.

  All of them are bona fide treasures.

  In addition to those sixteen boats, there is one more World War II submarine in this country that has been restored and opened to the public. It is the U-505, one of the legendary German U-boats, on display at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago. Millions of people have visited the exhibit over the past fifty years.

  The story of the U-505’s capture, of the bravery of the American boarding party who risked their lives to disarm charges set to scuttle her, and of the fifty-eight German crew members who were taken into custody and held as POWs reads like the treatment for a Hollywood movie. But it is all true, and visitors can relive it for themselves at the beautiful exhibit in Chicago.

  Some of the boats in this book had distinguished Cold War service as well; their lives extended several decades, simply because they had a job to do. And in several cases, the story of how the submarines came to the end of their “final patrol,” how they came to be where they are today, is just as absorbing as the rest of their biographies.

  I will describe how the Batfish made her way up the Arkansas River to a mooring spot in a bean field in the middle of the former Dust Bowl, where her final patrol ended.

  How the U-505 came down the St. Lawrence Seaway and through four of the Great Lakes to her berth amidst the skyscrapers of Chicago before her final patrol was complete. And how she eventually was lowered four floors below street level in an amazing feat of engineering.

  How the most recent addition to the ranks of preserved boats, the Razorback, had the longest final patrol of them all. She was towed from the Mediterranean Sea, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, and then retraced a part of the Batfish’s route to end up in Little Rock, Arkansas, in the shadow of the Bill Clinton Presidential Library.

  Several came down the St. Lawrence Seaway. Others took a long river route. At least one ended up being towed only a few miles on her final patrol.

  Maybe, after reading about the boats and their crews, you will take the opportunity to visit one or more of them. If you do, perhaps you will better be able to appreciate the experiences those young men had and the sacrifices they made on our behalf.

  Maybe, too, when you visit, you will allow your imagination to be freed. Then you can almost hear the raucous sound of the dive klaxon signaling everyone to man battle stations, to get down the hatches in a hurry as the sea quickly swallows up the boat.

  Or gaze through the periscope sight and try to picture an enemy battleship out there on the water, sitting right where your forward torpedo tubes are aimed.

  Or feel the not so subtle kick of a torpedo as it is launched and spins away toward its unsuspecting target.

  Or hear the awful, ominous click of a depth charge as it arms itself just outside the hull of your submerged vessel, ready to explode and take you, your submarine, and your shipmates to the dark, muddy bottom of the sea forever.

  In these pages, I will tell true stories about each of these seventeen submarines: how they came to be built and launched, how they worked, how they helped win the war, how they came to the end of their final patrols near enough to dry land that you can cross their brows, go aboard, and take a look around at living history.

  But you will see that these are not simply stories of steel cylinders and complicated machinery. They are the stories of flesh-and-blood men. Much of the drama will center around the captains or other officers who commanded these submarines. They were, after all, the most visible. They were often the most colorful characters in each boat’s story, too. But be assured, there were six or seven dozen other men on each vessel who helped the skippers accomplish what they did. Those men were just as much responsible as the wardroom guys were for what they accomplished. And for making us care enough about their boats to go take a look at them.

  That’s all they ask: that we care enough to listen to their stories, to go to see their boats where their final patrols took them.

  Then maybe we will finally and fully appreciate what they did.

  INSIDE A WORLD WAR II “DIESEL BOAT”

  Courtesy of the U.S. Navy

  Many people tend to think of submarines as being a twentieth-century invention, but that assumption is incorrect.

  There are reports that the ancient warrior Alexander the Great commissioned the building of a submersible vessel, and that he even took a dive in one over three hundred years before the birth of Christ. The famous artist Leonardo da Vinci drew plans for a one-man, double-hulled submersible in the early 1500s. He described it as a “ship to sink other ships.” The first record of a diving boat, one that was designed to be navigated underwater, is from1580 in England. By the early 1700s, designs for more than a dozen submarines had been patented in England.

  The first use of a submersible vessel in warfare came during the American Revolutionary War. The Turtle was a one-man boat, hand-operated using a screw propeller to push it along beneath the surface. Its pilot, David Bushnell, cranked his vessel up close to the HMS Eagle and attempted to attach a cache of gunpowder to the British ship’s bottom. It didn’t work. The screws Bushnell used couldn’t pierce the tough copper sheathing on the Eagle’s bottom. Still, the concept was proved.

  Robert Fulton, whose name is more closely associated with the steamboat, built a workable submarine (named the Nautilus, a moniker that would crop up later in the development of submersibles) in about 1800. That was a good ten years before he developed the steam-powered surface vessel for which he is most famous. Fulton’s invention actually resembled the modern-day submarine in many ways. Still, he was unable to convince any government, including his own United States’, that the boat had any value when it came to waging war on the seas.

  By the time of the Civil War, however, a number of experimental submarines had been developed, their gestation often coming with tragic loss of life. The first recorded successful use of a sub to sink another vessel occurred in 1864 when the Hunley, a Confederate boat built from an old steam boiler and carrying an eight-man crew, rammed a spar into the side of the Union ship Housatonic in Charleston Harbor. The Hunley then backed away, leaving the live charge attached to the ship. Once the submarine was a safe distance away, the explosives were detonated. The Housatonic sank on the spot.

  While making her getaway, though, the Hunley encountered some kind of problem, the exact nature of which remains a mystery. She went down too, drowning all of her crew members. Thus, they became the first submariners to die in battle.

  Up to that point in history, submarines were powered by hand or foot cranks—pure manpower—which clearly limited the size and range of the boats. In the late 1800s, several inventors came up with steam-powered ve
ssels. But there was the obvious question of what to do with the smoke and heat from the boilers, which were typically coal-fired. The boats had to stay on the surface so long as they needed to maneuver, then dive and remain in one spot or rely on built-up steam or the old-fashioned crank method if they wanted or needed to move.

  One clever solution was to poke a stack above the water long enough to build up steam power, then close the stack in order to dive deeper. A version of that method would actually be used in the twentieth century, after World War II, with the diesel-powered boats of that time.

  The electric motor was being used for many other applications by then, so it was inevitable that it would find its way into submarines. The first electric-powered sub was demonstrated in England in 1886. It used two fifty-horsepower motors powered by a hundred-cell storage battery. Because the battery had to be charged so regularly, and because the charge could only be accomplished while the submersible was sitting on the surface, the vessel’s range was never more than about eighty miles.

  An inventor named J. P. Holland sold the first submarine to the U.S. government and delivered it in 1900. His Plunger was a dual-propelled vessel, using steam while on the surface and storage batteries while submerged. He also developed buoyancy tanks and diving planes—devices similar to wings that helped determine the angle of attack as a sub went up and down—so the boats could dive and surface smoothly, quickly, and somewhat reliably. Many of Holland’s innovations are still in use today in some form or another, even on modern nuclear submarines.

  President Theodore Roosevelt took a ride on the Plunger one blustery day on Long Island Sound. He was impressed with the crewmen and in awe of the bravery needed to operate one of these warships. When he was back on dry land, he promptly declared that those who manned submarines would receive hazardous-duty pay from that point forward, whether at war or not. Sub sailors were elated. In fact, prior to Mr. Roosevelt’s voyage, submariners received less pay than sailors on surface ships.