Final Patrol

by Don Keith

  A day later, they torpedoed a Japanese merchant ship and a seven-thousand-ton tanker, sending both ships and their cargo to the bottom in a fury of fire and smoke, where they would be of no use to Emperor Hirohito’s war effort, unable to deliver petroleum, rubber, or other natural resources to Japan.

  But then, without warning, the entire crew came down with a nasty case of food poisoning. They were hardly able to function, even when they received a message that an important tanker convoy was about to swim right in front of their periscope sights. With their heads in buckets up and down the length of the ship, they simply were not able to do much of anything about such a wonderful queue of targets obligingly passing by.

  Dempsey wrote in his patrol report, “The commanding officer accepts full responsibility for this fiasco. The officers and crew, nearly all of whom are still suffering from the effects of the poisoning, did the best they could. Nothing seemed to click. . . .”

  Now, from his high roost on the bridge, the captain scanned the eastern horizon, where the sun would soon appear. He rubbed his scratchy growth of beard on his chin and pondered the fact that, with the impending dawn, they were quickly running out of time.

  They had been trailing this massive convoy for most of the night now, drawing closer bit by bit, but their best cover, the darkness of night, was about to dessert them, replaced by all-revealing sunlight.

  “We better see if we can line up in a hurry if we want to try for a shot before sunrise,” Dempsey said to his officer of the deck, standing at his right elbow. Then he gave the command that old submariners still hear in their sleep: “Battle stations!”

  That sent a shiver up and down the boat as word came that it was time at last to get serious about those tankers and transports out there. Wallowing tankers and massive transport vessels that they could not even see with their eyes yet, just in the relentless metronome sweep of the radar screen.

  Every man raced to his post and quickly got ready to begin firing torpedoes at the enemy vessels they had been chasing all night.

  Dempsey’s staccato order set in motion the complicated maneuvering all submarines had to do to get into a position to fire their torpedoes at a moving target. Much of that intricate alignment could take place while the submarine remained on the surface, able to travel at just better than twenty knots and to see much clearer what the enemy was doing. Human eyes, radar, and sonar could all be used topside. It was always the aim to avoid diving until absolutely necessary. Once they had to submerge to mount an attack, much of that capability, along with the advantage of surface speed and maneuverability, would be lost, and the ships they were chasing would have a better chance to avoid them.

  But as the hint of daylight turned more and more toward full-blown dawn, Dempsey finally ordered the boat to dive, out of sight of anyone who might be on the decks of the vessels they were stalking. Out of view of any radar equipment they or their well-armed escorts may have aboard as well.

  “Prepare to dive!” the skipper shouted. Then, punching the button for the klaxon, he yelled, “Dive! Dive! Dive!”

  The lookouts were out of the shears and down the hatch to the control room in a blur, even before the first “Dive!” was out of the skipper’s lips. The OOD followed instantly behind them, using a strong grip on the side handrails to slow his descent, his feet not even touching the rungs of the ladder that led down into the conning tower.

  Then, as the last sound of the dive klaxon echoed up and down the length of his boat, and as the downward angle of the bow confirmed that his order was being obeyed, Captain James Dempsey headed down the hatch himself, the last man off the bridge before it was swallowed up by the sea, just ahead of the first splashes of seawater that rapidly covered the decks. One of the crew pulled the cover closed above him and twisted the lock until the hatch was watertight. Still, a rain of cold water pelted most of the men working in the cramped room. They did not seem to notice the dousing.

  “Level and steady, come to periscope depth, maintain heading zero-seven-zero,” Dempsey ordered. The men manning the dive planes steadied the Cod, keeping her level and just deep enough so the periscope could protrude above the surface of the sea by a scant few feet. High enough to see but low enough to lessen the chance of being seen. The skipper grabbed the handles of the attack periscope and pulled it down from its housing, ignoring the face full of water it brought with it. He wiped his face with his sleeve, snapped down the handles and put his eyes to the eyepieces, circling to look directly toward where the radar said the nearest whalelike tanker should be.

  “Bring her to two-seven-zero,” he said, loud enough so everyone in the conning tower and in the control room below could hear him. He was swinging their nose farther to the west, to where he now saw the dim outline of a big cargo ship in the predawn mist. But there was another vessel out there, too. It was a smaller blip on the radarscope but one that was far more ominous than the others. An escort vessel. A destroyer. And they were about to steer their submarine to a position somewhere right in between them. “We’ll line up for a stern shot at the escort craft and a bow shot at the convoy. Stand by for a bearing, but Lord knows, if we shoot in that direction, we’ll have to hit something that floats.”

  They were going to try to get several of the enemy vessels at the same time, including the nearest destroyer that rode along as protection for the convoy—try, and pray they could pull it off.

  Quickly, before the ships could drive out of range, the Cod worked her way closer, to within a distance where a spray of torpedoes would be most likely to find targets among the herd of ships. Tension mounted in the conning tower as the captain moved the periscope in an arc, “dancing with the fat lady,” intently watching. The boat’s executive officer stood opposite him, on the other side of the periscope, calling out bearings he read from the marker on the scope’s base. Those numbers were entered into the torpedo data computer, a mechanical device that calculated the information the torpedomen at the rear of the boat needed to set the run parameters for their weapons. They were taking aim, getting ready to fire.

  “XO, make a note. That’s Karukaya nearest us. Think the boss would buy us a beer if we took her down?”

  The Japanese destroyer would indeed be a nice target. Besides, that would be one less vessel that would be dropping depth charges on their heads once the attack was over and they were fleeing the scene.

  The instant they were lined up to his satisfaction, Dempsey did not hesitate to give the command, even if it would reveal their position to everyone within miles. They would all know that the submarine was there and precisely where.

  “After torpedo room, fire one! Fire two! Fire four!”

  Everyone aboard the Cod felt the pronounced nudges as each of the three big torpedoes whooshed from its tube and began its run toward the enemy destroyer. The call of “Torpedoes away, running true!” confirmed it.

  But even as those fish swam quickly away from their tubes and began the run toward their targets, the skipper swung the scope back around to peer the other way, toward the bow of his vessel.

  “Forward torpedo room, fire one when ready!”

  There was another noticeable kick. Then, one after the other, Dempsey quickly proceeded to order all six torpedoes sent on their way from the nose of the boat. As soon as he had felt each of them being launched, heard the confirmation from the torpedomen, and saw the trails of the weapons pointing away from them on the surface of the sea, he quickly swung back around to look at the Karukaya, the destroyer. She was still steaming along, flanking the convoy she was supposed to be protecting, still oblivious to the Cod’s presence at their party.

  The skipper could hear the man designated as the timer as he counted out loud the seconds that had elapsed since the launch of the first torpedoes, those headed toward the warship. It seemed a long, long time since the kick of their departure.

  But then, as Dempsey watched through the crosshatched periscope, there was a sudden and awful explosion along the ship’s s
ide, at water level, directly below the destroyer’s bridge. The Cod’s aim had been perfect. They had hit a moving target from over a mile away exactly where they intended to. And it was clear that she was mortally wounded.

  Almost immediately, both smokestacks on the IJN warship collapsed like they were cut off at the knees. Human beings could clearly be seen tumbling and flying, tossed high into the pinkish morning sky by the detonation and the sudden lurch of the ship beneath them. The vessel seemed to sag in the middle, her bow and stern rising, forming a smoking, fiery V, as if some giant hand had delivered a killer karate chop to her midsection.

  Then, only seconds later, a second torpedo struck near the main mast, disintegrating most of the rear half of the Karukaya. If she was not a goner before, she certainly was now.

  That was all Dempsey needed to see. The enemy destroyer was done for.

  Leaning on the scope housing for support, he swung it back around 180 degrees, toward the main body of the convoy. He knew his men were already loading more torpedoes into their tubes, fore and aft, but the only weapon he had left for the moment was the one fish that still remained in the stern tube, the one he had deliberately not fired. That was common practice. Don’t empty your revolver of bullets in the middle of a gunfight. You never knew what varmint might still be lurking out there and you might not have time to reload.

  The counter had picked up the tally on the second spray of torpedoes. Dempsey was praying under his breath that some of the six fish he had sent on their way from the front of the boat would find something hard enough in their path to make them explode on impact, just as the others had done.

  But before he had time to worry, he saw and heard and counted off out loud half a dozen vicious explosions, each of them lined up neatly all along the row of oil tankers. Every one of their torpedoes had found a target!

  “Take her to three hundred feet! Bearing two-four-zero. Let’s run as fast as we can before they figure out where we went!”

  Dempsey knew he had stirred up a hornet’s nest. He had seen other escorts out there with depth charges on their decks and torpedoes of their own, and now they had even more incentive to use them.

  His firing position would be clearly visible to the Japanese on the surface. They could easily pinpoint the trails of the nine torpedoes and trace them right back to the spot where they were set loose. The Cod didn’t need to still be there when that inevitability occurred.

  So now Jim Dempsey was going to take his boat as deep as he dared and, at the same time, he was going to skedaddle. Or at least he was going to skedaddle at his top submerged speed of eight or nine knots, about a third as fast as the enemy escorts could go.

  And he could only do that for about another ten minutes or so without using up all of what remained of his battery power. Then, with dead batteries, they would have very few options.

  Who knew how long they might have to stay down? They would need to keep some juice in reserve for maneuvering and keep the boat’s systems functioning until they could come up and recharge.

  As they raced away, their nose pointing downward and going deeper, there were explosions behind them. Bombs and depth charges shook the boat violently, even though she was by then over a mile away from most of the commotion. A few valves and hydraulic lines up and down the length of the boat sprang minor leaks and a couple of lightbulbs shattered from the rattling concussion of the blasts. Damage-control parties were already assessing.

  But even with the thunder of the ordnance, the sonar operators could detect the ominous sounds of vessels breaking up, of hulls crumbling, of water rushing into damaged compartments with a distinctive roar, like some giant beast in its death throes. There was also the snapping and popping of ammunition exploding, likely in the cargo hold of one of the damaged transports. Ammunition meant to cut Allied soldiers to pieces on some far-flung Pacific island.

  Some aboard the Cod allowed themselves a quick cheer. Even James Dempsey grinned. He knew it would be difficult to claim credit for much more than the destroyer he had actually witnessed going down (they would eventually only be credited with sinking two vessels for a total of eight thousand tons), but he also knew they had struck a significant blow. It would be good to get the pats on the back when they got home.

  If they ever got home.

  The infuriated blasts of the depth charges had grown closer now as the Japanese anticipated the direction they had likely headed. God help them if the Japanese continued to guess correctly.

  The crew members of the submarine had to hold on tight to keep from being thrown to the deck by the nearby explosions. Water trickled down from overhead leaks. Dust sifted from the overhead at every tooth-rattling blast.

  Each man listened for the click as the charge armed itself, and then silently counted the seconds until it exploded. Like lightning and thunder preceding a thunderstorm, the time between the click and the blast told how far away the detonation would be. They knew if they couldn’t count to one before hell was set loose, it would not be a good thing.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, the sonarmen counted more than seventy depth charges dropped on their heads. Only then did the hailstorm finally ease up. But then, every time Captain Dempsey was about to order them to surface, they heard the engines of a patrol boat or a destroyer approaching, hovering, passing overhead, likely listening for any sound that would tip them off to where their attacker hid.

  It was maddening. Battery power was flagging. All unnecessary lights had been doused long ago. The air inside the boat had long since grown fetid and thin. It was difficult to breathe and smoking was impossible. The air was so thin a match would not strike and burn long enough to light a cigarette.

  Those men not on watch or working on stopping the pesky leaks remained on their bunks. Others only moved when they had to. And when they did, breathing was so difficult they quickly rested again.

  What if the sea above them was never clear of enemy craft? Eventually there would be no choice. They would have to surface in the middle of them and take their chances. Gun crews were assembled. They would man the deck guns and try to repel attackers as long as they could. But they would be no match for the destroyers and patrol boats and, likely by now, airplanes.

  Maybe they could take some of the enemy with them, though. Maybe.

  Finally, after over twelve hours at three hundred feet or better, the skipper ordered them to surface slowly, to make as small a wake as they could. It would be night by now, thankfully, but they would hardly be invisible, especially from radar.

  They paused an agonizing few minutes at periscope depth. If the sea was full of enemy warships, they might still stay down a while longer.

  Dempsey made a quick 360-degree sweep. A grin slowly spread across his face.

  “Bring her on up. It’s raining cats and dogs up there.”

  Sure enough, they were surfacing in the middle of a tropical thunderstorm. Even so, Dempsey signaled for the hatch from the conning tower up to the bridge to be opened. A little rain never hurt anybody.

  The crew members ignored the drenching they got as cool, sweet air spilled down the hatch with the rainwater. Everyone cheered.

  Then there was a flash, a sudden explosion, followed quickly by another even louder one. Eyes widened. Faces went white.

  All except for that of one of the sonarmen, the one who stood closest to the skipper. He didn’t seem to have heard a thing.

  Then the skipper grinned again. Thunder. Lightning and thunder.

  “Scared the fool out of me,” Dempsey said to the sonarman.

  “Sir?” the youngster asked, his hand cupped to his ear.

  “The thunder,” Dempsey repeated, louder. “Thought it was our friends again.”

  “Thunder?” The sonarman shook his head and wiggled a finger inside each of his ears. “I ain’t heard nothing since we took that depth charging.”

  Dempsey smiled and clapped the young sailor on the back.

  The Cod would not lack for more action dur
ing World War II. On April 26, 1945, she was in the midst of her sixth war patrol, now under the command of Captain Dempsey’s successor, Commander James A. “Caddy” Adkins. Dempsey, after commanding three different boats on a record ten war patrols, went ashore to be a staff operations officer. Adkins was another old submariner, a 1927 Naval Academy grad. Partly because of his age and partly because of a lackluster patrol in the Atlantic aboard S-21 (SS-126), he had been taken off submarine duty for a while, but he proved to be an aggressive skipper when he was put in command of the Cod for three of her war patrols.

  Though he and his submarine were primarily on lifeguard duty, plucking downed fighter and bomber pilots out of the sea, they still managed to claim a target. The day before, they had sunk a minesweeper, W-41, and the Cod had endured what the captain called in his patrol report “the most severe depth charging of her career.” But they came through it fine and would have a wonderful story to tell their fellow submariners when they returned to port.

  The crew was in high spirits. Survival was a good thing. Something to be celebrated once they were in port and on shore leave.

  Then there came menacing word from the after torpedo room, a report that sent a shiver through the entire length of the Cod. One of the electric torpedoes that were stored in a rack and ready to load into a tube was ablaze, the result of a short circuit in its firing mechanism. The compartment was immediately filled with thick, black smoke.

  There was every chance the thing could detonate. Nobody wanted to imagine what that might do to the boat’s superstructure. What the Japanese had failed to do might happen anyway.

  The irony of being destroyed by one of their own torpedoes was not lost on any of the crew members who were aware of the emergency. There was only one thing to do.

  The compartment was evacuated. A team of volunteers donned breathing masks and went back inside the room. One of the torpedoes that was already loaded inside a tube would have to be removed. The smoking, blazing torpedo would somehow have to be loaded and jettisoned out to sea before it blew them all up.