by Don Keith
There was no choice. They had to find a way to get it done inside a cramped, smoke-filled compartment, knowing all the time that the fiery torpedo could explode.
The men closed the watertight door that led into the crew’s quarters next door, sealing themselves inside. That done, they went to work unloading a good torpedo from its tube while they decided how best to get the bad one on a skid and into the empty tube.
There was no debate or hesitation. If the fire grew further out of control or if the torpedo exploded, all men in the isolated compartment would die. But the damage might hopefully be limited to that compartment only for a while. If the boat did not go down immediately, some of the others might have an opportunity to evacuate.
During the fire, two other men bravely went out onto the sub’s deck, despite the rolling, pitching sea, and made their way back to open the torpedo room’s deck hatch. That would allow some of the smoke to vent to the outside and maybe make the firefighting in the compartment a bit easier. But as they made their way along the slick, teetering deck, the two were hit by a wave and knocked overboard.
One of the sailors, Quartermaster Lawrence Foley, wore a life vest. The other man had volunteered and climbed up the ladder without putting one on.
Meanwhile, below, the crew members in the torpedo room managed to wrestle the good torpedo from its tube and load the burning one in its place. As soon as the tube was flooded, the flames were snuffed out. There was minimal damage. The torpedo could even be repaired and used.
With the crisis in the torpedo room under control, Captain Adkins launched a search for the lost sailors. It took eight hours but they were finally miraculously located, bobbing helplessly in the frothy sea. For the entire time they were overboard, Foley had kept his shipmate’s head above water as they fought the towering waves and prayed that their boat would come to rescue them.
SS-224 would have another footnote in the history pages of World War II. She would be a key part of the only international submarine-to-submarine rescue ever conducted. On her seventh and final war patrol, on July 8, 1945, the Cod came to the aid of the Dutch submarine O-19. She found herself grounded on a shelf of coral near Ladd Reef in the South China Sea. Without a doubt she was a sitting duck for any enemy plane or ship that might pass by, but it appeared there was no way for them to pull her off the reef so she could get back underwater.
Despite the danger of being spotted themselves, the Cod and her crew helped the fifty-six Dutch submariners to safety in a discouragingly slow operation. Crew members manned the deck guns, watching for enemy ships or planes.
Then, with every sailor off the doomed Dutch vessel, they used scuttling charges, torpedoes, and their five-inch deck gun to destroy O-19 so that she wouldn’t fall into the hands of the Japanese.
Of course, that meant that the American submarine would be the cramped home to over 150 men for the three days it took to make the run to Subic Bay in the recently liberated Philippines. Still, since the rescue was successful, it was a good trip.
There was one more close call for some members of the Cod’s crew. When she resumed her seventh patrol after the O-19 rescue, she was working off the coast of Vietnam, inspecting junks, sampans, and barges. Those little boats were notorious for pretending to be fishing boats while they were actually carrying supplies to the enemy. During one of the operations, a five-man boarding party left the submarine to inspect one of the tiny vessels.
Without warning, a Japanese aircraft suddenly appeared and began strafing the Cod. Their skipper at the time, Lieutenant Commander Edwin M. Westbrook, reluctantly but quickly ordered the submarine to dive. Unfortunately, there was no time to recover the crew members who had boarded the junk. They were left behind in order to try to save the submarine and the rest of the crew.
It would be several hours before the coast was clear for the Cod to surface again, and when she did, the sea was filled with junks and sampans, an armada stretching from horizon to horizon. Several other U.S. submarines joined the search, but it did not look hopeful.
But two days later, the USS Blenny (SS-324) found and rescued the missing crewmen. It was an especially happy reunion.
One of the men aboard the Cod for her seventh patrol was Norman Jensen, a U.S. Navy photographer. He shot color movie footage of both the O-19 rescue and the return of the lost boarding party. That film was discovered in the National Archives in Washington, D.C., in 1992. The images have been used in several documentary television programs since.
When the Cod returned to Perth, Australia, at the end of that patrol, the crew was invited to a “thank you” party by crew members from the O-19. And, like submariners everywhere, they couldn’t turn down an invitation to a party. It was at the height of the celebration of the Dutch crew’s remarkable rescue when a very interesting message arrived. It, too, was something that was well worth celebrating.
The Japanese had agreed to surrender.
That news, of course, kicked the party into another gear.
To this day, the Cod’s conning tower fairwater and the official battle flag carry the image of a cocktail glass and the designation “O-19” in commemoration of the rescue and the party that celebrated that event—as well as the end of the war.
In all, she sailed almost ninety thousand miles while on patrol and consumed over a million gallons of diesel fuel. She fired 122 torpedoes and recorded thirty-nine hits. The boat earned seven battle stars and was officially credited with almost thirty thousand tons of enemy shipping destroyed.
The Cod and her crew were prime examples of the silent service’s contribution to the hard-won victory in World War II.
Like many of her sisters, the Cod would have a productive if more sedate life after World War II. She was reactivated in 1951 and took part in Cold War NATO exercises. She later was converted for dockside use as a training vessel. That meant her screws were removed, the bunks were taken out of the after battery to make room for classrooms, and the ballast tanks were sealed to make sure she did not accidentally submerge with a boatload of trainees aboard. Of course, the storage battery cells came out, too.
In 1959, the sub was towed from the Philadelphia Navy Yard, where she then rested and was prepared for her next job. She journeyed up the Atlantic Coast and down the St. Lawrence Seaway to Cleveland, Ohio. There she served as a training boat for the Naval Reserve Center until 1971. By that time, the navy had virtually eliminated all nonnuclear vessels from its fleet.
The Cod had outlived her usefulness and was stricken from the register of navy ships. She was likely headed for the junk heap like so many of her sister World War II diesel boats.
A group in Cleveland, however, had another thought. They noted that since coming to town the submarine had always been popular with local schoolchildren. Even as she was being used as a training boat, the kids frequently visited her on school field trips. They also noted that the sub’s big diesel engines were built by General Motors’ Cleveland diesel plant, a facility located on the city’s west side.
The old girl had practically been born a Clevelander! It made perfect sense that she was destined to remain there.
The group formed a corporation called the Cleveland Coordinating Committee to Save Cod with the intent of preserving her as a memorial. The plan was to leave her parked on the city’s lakefront, accessible to anyone who wanted to see what a real hero of World War II looked like. Veterans’ groups agreed and were instrumental in getting her adopted by Clevelanders.
The navy agreed to give the group guardianship of the submarine in January of 1976 under the usual conditions: she must be maintained, made safe for visitors and shipping, and used only to allow the public to appreciate the historic role of the submarine in naval history. The CCC readily agreed.
The Cod was officially opened to the public in May 1976 and quickly became a star, major tourist attraction. In 1986 she was designated a National Historic Landmark by the U.S. Department of the Interior.
Today, the Cod is considered by m
any submarine purists to be one of the finest restored submarines on display around the country. Not only does she carry the lowest hull number of any surviving World War II submarine, but she is probably the least-modified. For that reason, visitors must use the same actual vertical hatches and ladders that the crew used during World War II and after. There are no stairways or doors to make it easier for people who come calling, nor has her hull been cut away to give better access, as has been the case with other museum boats. Recently, when the cutaway version of a real torpedo was located and placed in one of the torpedo rooms, it had to be loaded just the way they were taken aboard during the war—through a loading hatch in the deck and down a chute to the torpedo room.
The committee is not content to allow the boat to simply sit there, either. They continue to add to what they have there already. For example, two General Motors diesel engines have recently been obtained, and they will be used for parts to rebuild the Cod ’s original engines to running condition. Another recent project has also restored the boat’s torpedo data computer to its wartime condition.
Also on display near the submarine are a Mark 14 torpedo, like the ones used at the beginning of World War II; a five-bladed, one-ton submarine propeller; and a type 8A submarine search periscope. Visitors are able to get a sub skipper’s view of Lake Erie through the scope.
As with several of the other museum boats, the caretakers of the USS Cod do not receive any government money. They rely on admissions, donations, gift shop sales, and volunteers to keep the boat in shape and open to the public. And they also appreciate volunteers, including submarine veteran groups, who help maintain the vessel so others can see her the way she was when she was in her finest fighting form, more than sixty years ago.
USS DRUM (SS-228)
Courtesy of the U.S. Navy
USS DRUM (SS-228)
Class: Gato
Launched: May 12, 1941
Named for: a species of fish known for making a distinct drumming noise, primarily the North Atlantic sea bass
Where: Portsmouth Navy Yard, New Hampshire
Sponsor: Mrs. Thomas Holcomb, wife of the commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps
Commissioned: November 1, 1941, just over a month before the attack on Pearl Harbor
Where is she today?
USS Alabama Battleship Memorial Park
2703 Battleship Parkway
Mobile, Alabama 36601-0065
(800) GANGWAY/(800-426-4929)
www.ussalabama.com
Claim to fame: The first Gato-class submarine built prior to World War II, she completed thirteen war patrols, more than the average for her sister submarines.
She was a mighty warrior, a new breed of warship, fast, strong, well armed, and perfectly suited for the long-range war patrols she would be called upon to perform in the Pacific. She and the first members of her crew to show up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, did not necessarily know there would be a war, even though there were already strong suspicions that the United States’ entry into the conflict with the Axis powers—Germany, Italy, and Japan—was inevitable. The Drum was officially commissioned in November 1941, a mere thirty-seven days before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The USS Drum (SS-228) was the first of the Gato-class submarines to slide down the skids at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, but she and her sisters, along with the next-generation Balao subs that were already on the drawing boards at that time, would prove to make a major difference in the defeat of the Japanese in World War II.
The Drum also had something of an all-star commissioning crew. Her new skipper was Robert H. Rice, the son-in-law of Russell Wilson, who was at that time the chief of staff for the Chief of Naval Operations—the big boss. Another one of her officers was Maurice Rindskopf, a young lieutenant just out of Annapolis on the accelerated program. He would go on to serve on eleven war patrols aboard the vessel and become the Drum’s commanding officer on her tenth and eleventh war patrols, for which he would receive the Navy Cross and the Silver and Bronze Stars. Rindskopf eventually made rear admiral and became Director of Naval Intelligence.
There was also a young officer named Manning Kimmel aboard the Drum during her sea trials and first three war patrols. He would eventually become one of her more tragic figures. Kimmel was born in 1913 to Lieutenant and Mrs. Husband Kimmel. His father was a hard-charging young naval officer, the son of an army major, with an obviously bright military future before him. Even as the senior Kimmel moved up through naval ranks, young Manning decided to follow in his father’s footsteps and opted to attend the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, graduating in June 1935. After a stint aboard the battleship Mississippi (BB-41), he entered submarine school in Groton, Connecticut, and became an officer aboard the USS S-38 (SS-143) before heading to Portsmouth to help put the Drum into commission.
Manning Kimmel was living his dream, following in his dad’s wake, just as he planned. He had two brothers who also chose naval careers. Tom Kimmel commanded four submarines during the war and later skippered a heavy cruiser before retiring from the navy in 1965. The other brother, Ned Kimmel, entered the navy as a reserve ensign and was a lieutenant commander when the war came to a close.
All the time he was learning the ropes as a submarine officer, Manning Kimmel watched with pride—and absorbed the usual ribbing from his shipmates—as his father moved ever higher in the military echelon. In 1937, his dad became a rear admiral and served as head of the Cruiser Division and then as commander of Cruisers Pacific Fleet. Then, in February 1941, just months before his son would help to launch one of the world’s most sophisticated new fighting vessels, Admiral Husband Kimmel became the senior admiral in the U.S. Navy as commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet. His headquarters were located in the strategically placed Pearl Harbor Naval Base on Oahu in the Hawaiian Islands. President Roosevelt, in announcing the appointment, praised the new four-star admiral as “one of the greatest naval strategists of our time.”
In the early morning hours of Sunday, December 7, 1941, 105 high-level Japanese bombers, 135 dive-bombers, and 81 fighter aircraft attacked the U.S. Fleet as it rested peacefully at Pearl Harbor. The attacking planes came in out of the rising sun, changing the course of world history as they did. Within two hours 18 warships, 188 aircraft, and 2,403 servicemen were lost in the vicious sneak attack.
Back in the States, Manning Kimmel was as shocked at the news as any of his shipmates, but he was happy to learn that his father was unscathed. There was no doubt about war now. The haggling was over. The Japanese had settled it once and for all. His country was about to enter the world war, and there was every indication that he, his crew, and their new submarine would head to the Pacific. He couldn’t wait to shake his father’s hand when he finally arrived in Pearl Harbor, to let him know that the first of a long line of new warships had arrived to help avenge the losses of that infamous Sunday morning.
But ten days after the attack, Admiral Chester Nimitz was made Commander, Pacific Fleet. Husband Kimmel was relieved of command and was reverted back to a two-star admiral. It was clear that Kimmel, along with his army counterpart, Major General Walter C. Short, were to be made the scapegoats for what happened at Pearl Harbor. The investigations that followed the attack found Kimmel guilty of errors of judgment, and of not coordinating army-navy efforts to defend Hawaii.
In May 1942, Admiral Husband Kimmel, his brilliant naval career most likely done, elected to take early retirement.
Young Lieutenant Manning Kimmel could not believe what he was hearing. He had no idea how the navy he loved so much could be doing this to someone who had served his country so well. Of course, he had no idea of the inner wrangling that was going on in the military in the wake of the surprise attack. Somebody had to take the blame, and it was clearly the two officers closest to the scene. Even today, it is not clear who was actually at fault, but it has become obvious that Kimmel and Short were not totally to blame for what happened. Records have confirmed that there was information available
warning of this attack. That information, however, was never provided to either of the two officers, who were subsequently blamed for ignoring it. The United States had decoded Japanese radio message traffic describing the impending attack, yet intelligence at the time still placed the Japanese Fleet, with their aircraft carrier decks covered with aircraft, steaming south from the homeland, not eastward toward Hawaii.
Primarily in response to mountains of research and continual urging from Admiral Kimmel’s family (including the grandson of the Drum’s Manning Kimmel), Congress passed a resolution in 2000 declaring that Kimmel and Short were not guilty of dereliction of duty at all, that the two officers had performed their duties “competently and professionally.” As of this writing, the Defense Department still has not restored the officers’ ranks or issued any statement in response to the congressional resolution.
Admiral Husband Kimmel retired from the navy in 1942. He passed away in May 1958. Until he died, Admiral Kimmel maintained that the secret message had deliberately not been delivered to him and Major General Short. Someone in the government was afraid the two might have done something to deflect the attack. And, the speculation continues, if the Pearl Harbor attack had not happened, that might have delayed the entrance of the United States into the world war even longer. There was a strong feeling among many Americans that the United States should have begun the fight against Hitler and Mussolini much earlier. And a declaration of war against Japan—a member of the Tripartite Pact with Germany and Italy—amounted to entry into the war on all fronts. Article Three of that pact reads, “[The three countries] further undertake to assist one another with all political, economic and military means when one of the three contracting powers is attacked by a power at present not involved in the European war or in the Chinese-Japanese conflict.” Many still believe those who wanted America involved in the war needed the attack on Pearl Harbor to bring that end about.