Wahoo

by Richard O'Kane

  The offender simply suffered from narcolepsy, but was such a good shipmate and ball player that the crew had covered for him and stood his watches when Argonaut was underway while he mess-cooked. For the remainder of the patrol, we’d have an extra mess cook. Then, of course, he would have to be disqualified for duty in submarines, but we’d see if there was a spot for him on the Base.

  The captain knew, of course, that we could only recommend a general court-martial, and for some reason did not seem pleased or amused with my report.

  Chan’s dive was slow the following morning, due to a sluggish bow buoyancy vent. Chief McGill and his auxiliary men had been greasing the fittings nightly, so the trouble probably lay in a bent shaft. Bow buoyancy serves well in giving an extra lift when surfacing in a heavy sea, or in an emergency in correcting an excessive down angle. We could live without these features, but not should it stick closed and prevent diving. After surfacing, and when it was quite dark, McGill took care of the situation by removing the adjacent manhole cover and bringing it below. It would now vent and flood by itself, and in heavy seas would act like the blowholes found along some rocky coasts.

  Except for a patrol heading west at night, we had sighted nothing. There had to be shipping, and it could be just beyond the horizon of our 3-foot periscope exposures. The seas were glassy, so between exposures we were running at 90 feet. George quietly checked; the captain had dozed off, so on coming up for the next look, George had his understudy, Ira, come up on a gradual arc through 54 feet, then easing back to 64, our customary keel depth. If the captain noticed the maneuver, Ira’s training was a logical answer. I had the scope already raised; George and Ira went through their maneuver smoothly, but only the speck of an apparent fisherman on the new horizon showed in my scope. We would try again after a ship would have had time to come over the horizon. But by then the captain was awake.

  Now, patrolling in an area the size of Rhode Island, common sense told that we could take a sweep-around, and if clear, use all the scope, 17 feet to the shears, and even surface to cover the horizon and then dive. We were being held back by the peacetime training against warships that had surface and plane escorts. The planes were from the utility squadron, SNJs, and did this screening on a regular basis. The pilots could observe both the target group and the diving submarine at the start of the run, and through experience knew the firing position within a mile or so, and the firing time within a couple of minutes. When the sea was without whitecaps, they would dip a wing and point out the submarine to us—the junior officers from other boats who were observers. So having periscopes sighted by planes became a bugaboo for some, while in truth, the scopes would never be sighted in the open seas. How many ships had passed within the reasonable search area of our periscopes with impunity?

  On the second forenoon watch, all necessary conditions held again. Quietly, Ira started Wahoo up with a small bubble; the planesmen were doing their part, and Hunter followed my hands with the scope. A sweep-around, and then another when the depth gauge read 55 feet.

  “Bearing-Mark!” Hunter read 278, and we had a medium-sized mast-funnel-mast freighter with superstructure amidships. She was partially hull-down, beyond our new horizon, but her angle on the bow of no more than 45 degrees starboard meant that we could reach her. I nodded to Simonetti, who had the brass handle of the round, green box in hand; he swung it to the right and the Bells of St. Mary’s sounded throughout our submarine.

  Wahoo had steadied on the normal approach course at 7 knots by the time the captain reached the conning tower. He ordered one-third speed and waited until the Bendix log read 3 knots before making his first observation. Of course he saw nothing with 3 feet of scope. I suggested a higher search, but he chose to wait for the enemy to close. A second 3-foot search brought his comment, “If you saw a ship before and she’s not in view now, then she’s going away,” and then, “Secure from battle stations,” as he went down the ladder. I believe that we had covered all of the angles, except the obvious one—you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink.

  We would have to think of another ploy or perhaps a gambit that would put Wahoo in front of an enemy ship. But we may have already done just that, for the captain changed our course to north, towards the track of the ship that went free beyond our 3-foot periscope’s horizon. If we continued in that direction, we would approach our area boundary, but also the shortest unprotected route to Truk’s North Passage.

  Hunter sighted three planes shortly after diving on Wednesday, September 30. They were in formation, a few miles to the south of us, and were headed west. Any plane could signal activity, a formation of three almost assured it, and our just-plotted position, 45 miles northwest of Truk, couldn’t have been better.

  With whitecaps for protection, we manned both scopes for the first time, but with Wahoo’s standard 3 feet. At 0545, the Bells of Saint Mary’s held reveille; we had the tops and sharp bow of a warship coming over the horizon. She bore 322 degrees true, and the captain’s angle on the bow put her on course 170 degrees, as if she were heading for Piaanu Pass, but according to other patrol reports, deep-draft ships used the North or South Passes. We moved towards an attack position, only to have the warship zig away about 45 degrees, and then our 7 knots were meaningless unless she zigged back. In another 3 minutes, she zigged again another 30 degrees away, giving us a good view of her starboard quarter as her 20 knots took her over the hill.

  Lindhe and company had quickly identified the warship, which looked like our heavy cruisers forward, but aft of the stack had a flat deck and cranes. She was a seaplane tender of the Chiyoda class, and as consolation, the party was allowed to watch her go.

  The captain did not hold “postmortems;” having a ship get by was painful enough. Amongst the watch officers, however, each ship, and the attack if it followed, became a natural conversation piece. And so, in discussing the Chiyoda, we came to some realistic conclusions. These were not intended as criticizing our captain—any layman armed with all of the postwar facts can make the general look foolish—but for our own education. After all, both George and I would be coming up for command in a year or so, and though each of us had been designated as qualified for command, that was during peacetime. Now, in war, we had further obligations to learn as much as we could from the successes and the mistakes of others. This was not all pure dedication; our very lives could depend upon it.

  With the Chiyoda the lessons were simple: More periscope would have led to earlier detection. Best submerged speed on the normal approach course would have reached an attack position, and if the enemy had continued towards Piaanu Pass, then Wahoo, on the other side of the track, could fire stern tubes. That was the same lesson repeated so often: Base your tactics on enemy capabilities, not on his intentions.

  Two planes to the north, flying east in the afternoon, and another one at breakfast time gave the hope that more ships would follow, but only distant smoke to the southwest came in view, our plot showing that it lay above a fast ship on an easterly course some 18 miles away. The day was not a total loss, however, for Krause, on the bridge early, retrieved two flying fish that had fallen on deck. Only New Englanders who eat alewives would tackle the bone-infested flying fish, so Krause and I each enjoyed one with breakfast on this Thursday, October 1.

  8

  The northern limits of our area sliced across the logical shipping lane between Namonuito and Truk’s North Pass. Trying to patrol it would likely take Wahoo over the line into the area of Flying Fish, commanded by Lt. Comdr. Glynn R. Donoho, a taut, successful submarine skipper. To avoid this, our captain decided to patrol just to the west of our area boundary, between Ulul Island, of the Namonuito Atoll, and Mogami Bank. In fact, it was a western extension of the Truk-Namonuito route and should have been included in Wahoo’s area, since it also formed a north-south passage. The only disadvantage would be air patrols from Ulul.

  Moving to an untried area was like trying a new riffle on a trout stream. Just the wo
rd, which had passed quickly through the boat, raised our spirits. A quick turn showed hands busy, with an unusual number working on their course books. They had been figuring too, for, not counting today, October 1, Wahoo had just 6 more days to patrol. A new rate to go with the submarine combat pin would set them apart indeed.

  We searched along the track followed by the Chiyoda, with Richie spotting Ulul Island after lunch on October 3. Bearing 035 degrees and 9 miles distant according to our height versus distance tables, this was only the second landfall since leaving Pearl Harbor. Two fishing boats later in the day were followed on the evening of October 4 by a combination of two horizontal white lights with a red flare-up between them. It could be a beacon for incoming aircraft or ships, so Wahoo lay to, waiting.

  The Fox schedule received at 0400 on October 5 contained a message with Wahoo’s call sign, and Chan went below to decode it. We were assigned the sector south of Truk Atoll in addition to our present area. ComSubPac or his staff could not, of course, know our present location, but might have guessed that any boat would be near the northern boundary when the patrol had only 2 days to go. There must have been some reason, and amplifying instructions could be following, so the captain felt obliged to leave the sight of the beacon and head southeast.

  We had moved only 15 miles when dawn sent us down. There would now follow the period of blindness until there was sufficient light for our scopes, fortunately short here closer to the equator. It passed quickly and we commenced our routine periscope searches. At 0654, I sighted a large ship, still slightly hull-down and presenting a 40-degree starboard angle on the bow (presenting a little more than half a ship’s length). That put her at 12,000 yards and on course north. Her deck was flat; we had an aircraft carrier in our grasp, and the Bells of St. Mary’s bonged as they never had before.

  Simonetti, with the quartermaster watch, took the wheel, bringing Wahoo to 310 degrees, the normal approach course, and rang up standard speed—my first actions on sighting. Wahoo was steady and on her way by the time battle stations were manned. The captain approved of the action with a nod; it would reach any desired firing range, but he could not quite bring himself to the point of trusting me. Wahoo was passing 8 knots, going to 9, when he ordered, “All ahead one-third.” I expected that this was just to slow our screws for a moment so that Buckley and Carter would be able to get a bearing on the carrier, and then we’d go ahead again at standard or full. But we continued to coast down slowly to 3 knots for a periscope observation. The sound bearings on the carrier confirmed Roger’s 12 knots on the TDC; we’d still be all right if we went ahead immediately at standard or full, but any further observations would have to be shortened by backing to kill our headway. As Simonetti called 3 knots, Buckley reported the escorting destroyers’ screws. Hunter raised the scope, and after a sweep-around, the captain steadied on the carrier, calling the angle starboard 50. It checked with the TDC.

  During a careful approach, the carrier was positively identified as the Ryujo, which had probably been damaged in early actions of the Battle for Guadalcanal. But on each observation the enemy had drawn further ahead, and a zig towards would now be necessary. The Ryujo did not oblige—her base course had shown this was not likely—and she went over the hill leaving Wahoo back on her starboard quarter. Dejected, the captain went to his cabin, leaving Wahoo at battle stations.

  If you are capable of half again the speed of an enemy, even more if required, he is not in the clear. I drew up a simple plan, to approximate scale, on a pad of lined paper. It showed Wahoo’s track in overtaking and passing up the Ryujo while remaining hull-down on her port hand. We would be able to keep track of her by observations with one of our periscopes, which she would not be able to see.

  In his cabin, I found the captain depressed, but he immediately nodded approval, saying, “Yes, we have to do that.” An hour passed before we surfaced, and as usual, I found myself guarding the after sector. All engines were on the line, however, so we should spot the Ryujo in about 2 hours dead ahead. With contact regained, I would plot our courses on a maneuvering board, a special plotting sheet designed for relative movement situations.

  We had surfaced under an overcast that was now developing into passing squalls. About an hour had passed when the sun, momentarily, broke through. It was not where I had expected to see it. Abandoning my lookout station, I went forward and checked the gyro repeater. Wahoo was on a course parallel to the Ryujo’s last observed zigzag leg. It lay 30 degrees to the right of the enemy’s base course that Chan had laid down on the chart. Our 18 knots would have gained little in the general direction of the carrier, and we would be a little further away, approximately broad on her starboard quarter. I reported this to the captain, recommending a course change 60 degrees to the left. In all the patrol reports I had read, no boat had surfaced during daylight as close as we were to an airfield to pass up any ship, so I should not have been surprised when the captain replied, “It won’t make any difference, we can’t stay up here any longer.” Two blasts took us down.

  9

  Chan had encoded a contact report on the Ryujo, containing the standard information of what, where, how many, and what doing. The transmitter was warmed up and tuned to the second harmonic of SubPac’s frequency. Only plugging the output lead into the antenna trunk remained before transmitting. The captain made a final sweep-around, and three blasts sent Wahoo to the surface. The bridge was manned, but the turbos were not started. After allowing a minute for the saltwater to drain from the antenna insulators, Buckley keyed the five-letter groups through the transmitter, paused for a possible receipt, and then repeated the procedure for 5 minutes. NPM, the high-power naval radio station at Pearl, did not answer, and we submerged again at 1315, presumably to try again after dark.

  Our course was southwest, essentially the reverse of Ryujo’s track. In the whole patrol, this was the route most likely to produce a ship, for the Chiyoda had undoubtedly passed this way too. But now we had only one night and daylight tomorrow to find the enemy. We had another bright moon coming up, and the submerged attack under moonlight had produced our only success of the patrol. Especially with an assistant approach officer, we could do it again, but this one night would be asking too much.

  In Argonaut, I had been the fourth officer. However, the exec had been completely involved in navigation and the engineer with his dieseis and electrical fires, while I enjoyed a complete rapport with the captain. Since it was possible there, it should be here; I would make one more attempt. After taking my round of stars, in the privacy of the cigarette deck, I reviewed the coming tactical advantages with the captain, and recommended that with the contact report, we request a week’s extension of the patrol so we could sink another ship.

  The captain was quick with his answer, indicating, I believe, that he had reviewed our situation similarly, but it was not the reply that I expected.

  “No, Dick,” he said. “We’re going to take Wahoo back to get someone in command who can sink ships; we’re never going to win the war this way.”

  It must have been a very difficult statement for a captain to make, and I respected his honesty.

  Another attempt to raise NPM on the night of October 6 also failed, and at noon on Wednesday, October 7, Wahoo left the patrol area. Our return route to Pearl was easy to plot; it lay 30 miles to the west of our previous track, which was still faintly visible on the chart. We would proceed at two-engine speed. The 80% speed and 90% load (80/90) should make good 14 knots, but dawn dives, other submerged time, and prevailing head seas could reduce that.

  Radioman Carter, hearing a clear signal from NPM, on his own initiative keyed the Ryujo contact report and obtained the receipt. Just 1 week en route, it may still have been of use, and he was commended.

  In addition to the watch, the captain usually remained on the bridge during daylight. When Krause and I were getting a noon sun line, that made three extras; three more to clear in an unexpected dive. I was in the process of delivering the
position slip to the captain as usual when a Mitsubishi two-engine bomber came out of the overcast at about 2 miles. Urged by the heels of lookouts on our shoulders, we made it below, and for some reason no bombs fell.

  On the following day, October 13, I prepared the message that was required on crossing the 1,000-mile circle from Pearl Harbor. The captain added the words, “a portside mooring is requested,” and after Ira finished the encoding, Radioman Beatty sent the message to ComSubPac.

  Winds and increasing seas made a third engine necessary in order to maintain the required speed of advance, but the extra fuel was no problem, for Wahoo would return with enough diesel oil to take her on to the States. The rendezvous with our PC escort was specified in ComSubPac’s reply to our report. Like shorebirds prior to a landfall, our PBY patrol planes were viewed on October 15 and 16; then at 0630 on Saturday, October 17, we found our escort dead ahead, just where she was supposed to be.

  Rigged for surface, and with a section in hand-scrubbed dungarees on deck, Wahoo put up a good front as she entered Pearl Harbor. The captain conned his ship past the drydocks and damaged warships to starboard and port, and then around the end of ten-ten dock—the final turn to the Submarine Base. There, he ordered, “All stop,” and then backed to kill our headway.