Wahoo

by Richard O'Kane

  Chan relieved Roger, assuming the four-to-eight watch. The Kilty was released at 1800, with our “Well-done” and her “Godspeed.” Seen broadside, as she raced by, the fine seagoing design of our destroyer escorts was evident: in her I saw the simplicity of Pruitt and the essentials from our full-fledged destroyers. I sincerely hoped the enemy did not have comparable escorts. When she was clear, Chan took us down, keeping the lanyard to the hatch in hand to insure that it could not open before our eager Quartermaster Striker Simonetti had spun the wheel setting the dogs. Chan dropped on down to control and leveled us off at the ordered 64 feet, reporting satisfied with the trim. After we had briefly manned battle stations, the captain surfaced our ship in the customary cautious manner and quickly had Wahoo at her 17-knot cruising speed. The whole operation had seemed particularly smooth, which is always the way when everyone handles his job properly; this should give our skipper confidence, especially in Chan, who stood an excellent watch and set the pace for his assistants.

  The sun line, our escort’s departure, the messages, and the dive seemed to make the afternoon go quickly. Then came sunset followed by evening twilight and the first stars. After the noon meal, Krause and I had calculated the approximate bearing and altitude of the stars we might use. Now as the brighter ones became visible, their identification was no task at all. We took a careful series of sextant altitude readings of the six most prominent, with five readings on each one. If the changes in altitude were consistent, we would use the third or middle sight in our calculations; otherwise, we would average them for use with the mid-time. Later, perhaps, when we were more sure of ourselves, we might drop to three readings or even a single one.

  We rather raced with the calculations and plotting, which surely wasn’t consistent with accuracy, but the captain seemed anxious. The stars were kind, however, and their lines crossed nicely in forming a large dot. The afternoon sun line, run ahead at our speed, just like a ship along a course line, crossed through our point, all plotted to 2000, or twenty-hundred. The completed formal position slip brought a “Thank-you” from the captain, but with just the touch of a frown, for we were a few minutes late. However, Krause and I had used extreme care and knew Wahoo’s current position, and to navigators, that is what really counts.

  A warmed-over soggy supper, notes for the captain’s Night Orders, and the morrow’s Plan of the Day finished my day shortly before midnight. In 4½ hours, I’d be called for a round of morning stars and another day.

  Though my schedule left little personal time, that of the crew and officers was exhausting. Reveille, breakfast, trice up bunks and clamp down (with a damp swab), emergency drills, and battle stations filled the daytime hours between watches. Only during mealtime was there assurance against interruption. At this pace, we’d be the best-trained ship’s company to arrive at the U.S. Submarine Base, Pearl Harbor (if we were still on our feet).

  Points Yoke and Zed were now behind us, as we continued to enjoy cruising weather. Lack of sea legs didn’t affect the instruction accompanying most watches below decks. Of necessity, many non-rated men had already been designated as strikers and were filling billets of third-class petty officers. Their instructors were our qualified submariners, officers, and petty officers alike. This required no urging, for in the coming weeks their very lives could depend on the effectiveness of teaching. A wavering wake that slowly straightened told of a new hand on the wheel receiving instruction from Hunter or the steersman he had relieved. Keeping the lubber line, representing the ship’s bow, on the designated compass-card course requires anticipation and the minimum rudder to correct. It was evident that this new hand had a natural feel of the ship.

  Wahoo was now headed for Point Able as she continued following the alphabet. Thus far, any small errors in our navigation would affect only our personal pride, but the coming report to Commander Submarine Force Pacific Fleet, ComSubPac, on crossing the 1,000-mile circle from Pearl must be accurate, for operational control of Wahoo would pass to ComSubPac at that time. Of even more importance to us would be an exact position to effect a rendezvous with the ship designated to escort Wahoo on approaching Pearl.

  My confidence in being able to handle the multiple assignments increased when, for the first time since leaving San Francisco, I was able to turn in before 2300, over 5 hours until morning star-call. Deep in the first minutes of sleep, I became aware of a rocking motion; then of a firm hand on my shoulder, and a far-off voice repeating, “We’ve got troubles, Lieutenant!”

  In minutes, I joined my assistant in the ship’s office to find out what was wrong in private. Now the Air Almanac, an annual publication, lists the hour angle (the angular distance from Greenwich, England) and the declination (the angular distance from the equator) of the sun, moon, planets, and major stars for each 5 minutes of the day. It is bound with a wire spring, in a semi-loose-leaf manner, so that out-of-date pages can be torn out and discarded. Krause had torn out too many pages and they had already been given the “deep-six” in the weighted sacks of trash and garbage. The detailed data on them was absolutely necessary in calculating the true altitude at the recorded moment of sextant or observed altitude; without it, only latitude lines at high noon are practical.

  There was only one solution, lacking the more extensive Nautical Almanac. I retrieved my slide rule, and after calculating the rate of change of hour angle and declination in the undisturbed pages, we proceeded to make new tables to replace those that had gone to Davy Jones’s locker. It was a monstrous task, but new tables for the missing 3 days were complete, with time for a cup of coffee before going topside. My final word before climbing the ladder was, “Krause, if these work, mum’s the word, but if they don’t, you’re going to stand up with me when I tell the captain!”

  Waiting brought apprehension, but morning twilight’s first horizon took precedence. Krause had been on the bridge for some minutes spotting the stars we had used on the previous morning. With some doubts, we recorded five sextant altitudes of each one. The rate of change for all seemed reasonably consistent, always an indication of good sights, so we went below to double check the times and then make the calculations.

  Every now and then, there seems to be a helping hand, and this time it could truly have been called a guiding star. The star fix was fine, and privately we were off the hook. In 3 days the last of our manufactured tables would follow the others, and we’d be back on the printed pages with no one the wiser.

  The required reports on crossing the 1,000-and 500-mile circles from Pearl had been received by ComSubPac; Points Cast, Baker, and Able lay astern; and Steersman Dooley held Wahoo on the zigzag legs of her final routing of the voyage. Having kept our temporary navigational troubles strictly private had helped in establishing a mutually respectful rapport, a relationship that I hoped to enjoy with the captain. Our position slips were now delivered on time, or nearly so, and I was thankful for the circumstance that had made Krause my assistant.

  It was from Krause that I learned more about our last night in San Francisco. One hand surmised that if he returned to Wahoo thoroughly inebriated, sick drunk, the duty officer would have to send him to the hospital. He could then sail on the next submarine instead. But he had underestimated George, an athlete, and Pappy Rau, who had experienced such things before. Though a quarter again the size of either of them, George and Pappy quickly handcuffed and leg-ironed the culprit to the radio direction finder mast aft of the conning tower fairwater. As the chilling San Francisco fog rolled in, they uncuffed one hand at a time, fitting him with a foul-weather jacket. But still immobile, his teeth were chattering and complexion somewhat blue at dawn when he gladly went below.

  I was probably the last to learn of this, and hopefully the captain never would. That his submarine could be the first ship in this century to use leg irons, still in the equipage from sailing days, might not sit well. Krause did not mention a name, but from the brief details I surmised that he might have been my assistant navigator.

  T
he evening Fox, a radio schedule from ComSubPac, contained a message with Wahoo’s call sign. Chan raced aft to decode it and returned in minutes with the tape in hand. As expected, the message gave the coordinates where we were to meet the USS Litchfield at 0400 tomorrow, August 18. A copy of our operation order had been sent to ComSubPac by Clipper Mail; he had our various positions, and the rendezvous plotted nicely 128 miles ahead.

  The captain came to the bridge shortly after 0300, unaware, unless he had glanced at the chart, that a midnight star triangle lay astride our track. It was still with some satisfaction, however, that we heard the radar operator announce, “SJ contact, range 14,000 yards, bearing near dead ahead.” The time was 0330.

  “It really works,” whispered Krause.

  “The radar?” I queried.

  “No, this navigation stuff,” he replied.

  Till now, Krause’s total experience in celestial navigation had produced only positions on a chart. I recalled my first landfall, comparable to this rendezvous; it was the proof of the pudding and I knew just how he felt.

  Chan had supplied the correct challenge and reply, while Krause readied the Aldis lamp, a hand-held signal light. Litchfield’s silhouette, first as a blur or “blurp” and then tall and sharp, came out of the night. We were ready to challenge or be challenged.

  “No, not that,” ordered the captain, referring to the Aldis lamp. “Use the blinker gun and go to battle stations!”

  These precautions made identification more difficult and downright dangerous when the torpedo tubes were readied and the doors opened. If Litchfield had known that six torpedoes were pointed down her throat, she’d have spun on a dime and left us behind. Fortunately, perhaps, she made the correct reply to our challenge and then sent two short messages with her easily read Aldis lamp.

  “What did she say?” asked the captain.

  Krause stepped across the bridge to deliver them orally, saying, “They’re addressed to you, Sir. The first read, ‘Welcome to the Islands,’ and the second said, ‘Congratulations on precise navigation.’ “There was no comment, and upon returning Krause uttered a soft, “Jeez.”

  Piloting, with radar ranges on Molokai and Oahu, and then made more precise with visual bearings at dawn, was a welcome change from stars. Wahoo entered the wide Kaiwi Channel between them and set course for Pearl Harbor, an hour’s run ahead. Following early breakfast, the welcome orders, “Make all preparations for entering port; station the special sea detail; and rig ship for surface,” were announced on the IMC. Litchfield was released with our “Well done,” and a section of hands who had not seen Pearl Harbor since the attack were at quarters as we entered the channel. Facing each ship, or her remains, as we passed by would make their blood boil, and I doubted there would be a dry eye. The very sight would exhort them to do their level best in our coming endeavors. The captain conned our submarine through Pearl Harbor, around ten-ten dock, and with a one-bell maneuver to alongside Pier 2 at the U.S. Naval Submarine Base in time for most of a working day.

  Part Two

  FIRST PATROL

  In the Carolines

  1

  On the pier to greet us at the U.S. Naval Submarine Base were Rear Adm. Robert E. English and Comdr. Frank Watkins, our new submarine force and division commanders. The admiral’s submarine service had started before World War I, and his previous billet had been Commander Submarine Squadron Four (ComSubRon 4), which included command of the Submarine Base, the second senior command in Submarine Force Pacific (SubPac). The commander had just returned from a successful patrol in Flying Fish and was the only division commander to have made a war patrol in command. Our captain had served with the admiral, so with his support and first-hand advice from the commander, all augured well for Wahoo.

  Smith, our steward, had carried out Chan’s instructions to have just-brewed coffee ready, which was one of the reasons for the admiral and commander’s coming on below. A bit of nostalgia—the surroundings played their part, but the coffee was superb. After a cup, I excused myself for there was much to be done. A quick turn aft showed each compartment now sporting at least one white light, so it was no longer blinding when I went topside. Beyond the head of the dock, a medium-sized bus with driver was parked. Pappy Rau assured me that the pending work could be handled by two sections, so one section left to stay with the bus, which would return before curfew at dark, and with the knowledge that tomorrow’s section could ride on their return.

  Our torpedoes were being winched topside, and by boom onto the waiting conveyor on the dock. Each the weight of an automobile, it was exacting work, but necessary, for they would be replaced by torpedoes precisely prepared at the Base torpedo shop. Roger and Pappy Rau would witness the preliminary and the final adjustments at the shop, and be responsible for the reloading. Though but one of the tasks preparatory to going on patrol, it could determine our readiness date.

  The captain had seen the admiral ashore, and after a turn through the boat with the commander, had gone to the Base with him. George left with Machinist’s Mate, Second Class Frash, his ‘Oil King,” to record fuel oil soundings at the Base tank farm preparatory to Wahoo’s fueling. Chan was off to Base communications to exchange registered publications, and rather by default, I had now assumed the duty. The first evidence of the captain’s efforts ashore came at midafternoon when Lt. (jg) Richie N. Henderson reported on board for duty. Tall, lean, sandy haired, and with a slightly wry smile, he immediately gave every promise of being a fine shipmate. From Pennsylvania, and a 1940 USNA graduate, he had survived his battleship at Pearl Harbor. To us, he was a gold mine, submarine school or not, and immediately relieved Chan of commissary.

  During the declared Limited Emergency prior to the war, Pearl Harbor boats had been required to submit warm-and cold-weather menus for possible southern or northern patrols, and the estimated provisions. These were approved with some modifications by the force medical officer, though by Navy Regulations this was the responsibility of a ship’s captain. The commissary provisioning for patrols during the Emergency satisfied the menus but not the crews. They wanted twice as much bread and baked goods. Skippers took charge for subsequent patrols, but the doctors and staff were slow in revising the recommended commissary stores for new boats. So, like the torpedoes, all of our stores would be unloaded and the ship reprovisioned.

  We had surmounted a few problems in Wahoo, including that flooded magazine, and believed that such things were behind us. But Richie shook our confidence in his first hour on the job. A battery fresh-water line passed through the commissary storeroom and had an obscurely located shut-off-valve. The bonnet of this valve had been leaking, with the water running down the curved contour of Wahoo’s pressure hull. We were somewhat abashed to have a surface sailor find what none of us had observed, even on inspections. The cleanup went on into the night, when soggy stores could be dumped, unobserved, in the “Dempster Dumpsters” at the head of the dock.

  On our third day in port, the captain hit pay dirt again: Lt. (jg) Ira Dye, an NROTC graduate from the University of Washington, reported for duty. Of medium height, with straight blond hair combed back to an indeterminate part, and displaying an engaging smile, he too would be a pleasant addition to the wardroom. Of more importance, as George saw it, was his engineering degree. So Wahoo had an assistant engineer and electrical officer wrapped in one. Like Richie, he would get his submarine school training aboard, but living truly within a ship day and night makes the knowledge come quickly.

  Later in the day, still on a need-to-know basis, was the designation of our patrol area. Krause broke out the master chart of the Pacific, which showed the outline and numbers of the detailed charts. At the Base chart pool we drew the charts we would need en route and while patrolling, spreading them out to be sure. Back aboard, we stowed them in the drawers provided below the wardroom’s sideboard. Prompted by our earlier experience, both the Air and Nautical Almanacs were sighted in place and our department was ready for patrol.

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nbsp; Briefings and reading patrol reports and pertinent parts of the Japanese monograph at headquarters had occupied my spare time, but also had provided opportunities to drop by personnel. In proportion, our new hands equaled the captain’s efforts, so Wahoo would put to sea with a complement of seven officers and sixty-five enlisted men, but still missing and particularly affecting me was a yeoman. Departments were reporting their readiness, and this was well, for the captain announced that we would depart on patrol Monday, August 23, 3 days hence. On Sunday evening, a few minutes after the Base movie, I reported, “All hands are aboard and Departments ready for patrol, Captain,” and received his, “Very good.”

  In the quiet of my stateroom, I considered Wahoo’s prospects for the coming patrol, and not without some doubts. How could our captain, who could make good practice torpedo attacks, apparently be so uninformed in modern submarine matters? The probable answer was quite simple: Our new-construction captains had gone to shore duty after qualifying in submarines, the Navy encouraging nonsubmarine duties to broaden their careers. Their executive officers, while starting 5 years later, had served continuously in the boats in most billets and, for many, a war patrol. And so we had the incongruous situation in which some skippers had far less submarine time and experience than their execs. Our peacetime training against warships with air and surface escorts created a bugaboo of periscope sighting. The West Coast Sound School demonstration for PCOs created another bugaboo, for without temperature gradients—always found in the deep Pacific and which reflect echo-ranging sound waves back towards the surface—the S-boat targets could not escape. Attending the new PCO tactical-updating course at New London followed by a PCO patrol in a seasoned submarine was designed for our very situation. Lacking this would demand the sharing of submarine knowledge and expertise, but would this be possible in Wahoo?