Wahoo

by Richard O'Kane

  We had lost eight submarines since Pearl Harbor—four S-boats and four fleet type—and by the size of Wahoo’s reception, all hands were relieved and happy to see us return. There was a catch, however, for band, dignitaries, and well-wishers filled Pier 1, which required a starboard side mooring.

  “Didn’t you include my words in the arrival message?” barked the captain.

  In anticipation, Krause had already manned the signal searchlight, and on the captain’s “Well, send it again,” started the shutter clicking. I could read the message he was sending by watching his hand, and obviously he couldn’t resist improving and embellishing my words. It read simply:

  HAVE POSSIBLY ARMED TORPEDO

  PROTRUDING TO STARBOARD

  STILL RECOMMEND PORT SIDE MOORING

  The signalman, or his recorder, grabbed the message and ran round and round down the great steel staircase that circled the 100-foot-tall escape training tank and took a beeline to the admirals on the dock. There followed a great exodus with only the band reforming after reaching the relative safety of the escape training tank. Wahoo was quickly assigned a berth at a vacant pier, where the captain promptly put her alongside, port side to. There, the Base line handlers and braver seniors greeted us as the band struck up “Aloha-Oe” from its sanctuary beyond the tower.

  U.S.S. Wahoo (SS-238) departing Mare Island.

  After torpedo room.

  Maneuvering room: operating levers, field rheostats, meters, and tachometers.

  After engine room. Door leads to forward engine room.

  After battery living space.

  Crew’s mess.

  Galley.

  Radio room, forward of galley.

  Control room: diving controls.

  Control room: High pressure air manifold.

  Flood and vent manifold.

  Conning tower, looking forward, with steerman’s wheel in center. Torpedo tube ready-light panels to port, with firing plunger below. Sound gear is aft to starboard.

  Conning tower, looking aft to port. TDC visible beyond the radar.

  Wardroom, aft of torpedo room, viewed from forward doorway.

  Forward torpedo room. Four-inch shell on display in center.

  Part Three

  SECOND PATROL

  In the Solomons

  1

  Always the first business had been the crew’s payday, traditionally held in the wardroom, where its two entryways made a convenient passage. This also moved the visitors along: Comdr. Frank Watkins, our division commander, to walk through the ship with our captain, and the others topside through the escape trunk in the torpedo room. I saw them ashore for the captain.

  The crew’s records had remained at the Submarine Base, so all pay chits had been prepared in advance and arranged alphabetically. Our officers witnessed the men’s signatures, and the line moved rapidly. With moneys and necessary gear in hand, all except the senior petty officers were off to the waiting busses and to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, the submariners’ rest camp.

  The department heads and leading petty officers held a quick arrival conference with the submarine tender USS Sperry’s repair officer. Three of our departments had at least one major work request: George with two cracked cylinder liners in one engine to be replaced, Roger with his torpedo tube, and Chan with his SJ radar units. Only Richie, our battleship sailor, needed no help, but he and the other three would stand a day’s duty in rotation. The duty officer would oversee jobs and call the responsible officer back from the Royal when necessary.

  The captain had prepared the narrative of the patrol report and the paragraph concerning health and habitability. I had done the tabulation sheets on enemy ship and air contacts, and the required paragraphs about weather, navigational aids, currents, and tidal information. The others had written concise reports concerning their materiel failures, while Roger, in addition to a required sheet on torpedoes, had prepared the formal casualty report concerning the accident to our torpedo tube. The whole patrol report had 18 precise pages, and with comments by immediate reporting seniors, it would enjoy widest confidential distribution, ranging from individual submarines to the chief of naval operations. All in order, the report was delivered to the division commander’s (Div-Com) office by our typist, Lindhe, who might get us a yeoman.

  After the leading petty officers turned over individual assignments to their counterparts in the relief crew, we would have been on our way too, but a final word from the captain left us stranded. A new directive permitted answering correspondence in ink and returning it when copies were not required in the ship’s files. I interpreted this rather liberally, and by the end of an hour we had whittled the 2-months’ accumulation down to a pile that George, with the first duty, could handle.

  Unlike most skippers, the captain chose to stay with friends in Honolulu instead of joining us at the Royal. That was too bad, for over a few beers the ice might have cracked a bit and led to a better understanding. I had respected his confidence concerning another assignment, but shortly after reaching the Royal, I overheard a conjecture concerning Wahoo’s next skipper. But there were more important things at the moment, the first being a long, hot, fresh-water shower with lots of soap and rinses. Chan followed, not because of seniority—we’d knock off rates and ranks at the hotel—I just beat him to it.

  Next came mail from home, delivered as soon as the mail orderly had Wahoo’s room numbers. With feet propped up, we just plain relaxed—reading our mail, enjoying a $75 room, and watching the occasional patrol planes departing and returning from their respective sectors. All was well at home, across from Hamilton Field, probably the best place possible in wartime. Chan’s letters were mainly from Iona, the pretty Wave he had met at Mare Island.

  We both had light complexions, further bleached by 2 months with negligible sunlight, so waited until an hour before sunset for our first swim. Having lived only three short blocks from Waikiki Beach, I showed Chan the second reef where it’s deep enough to enjoy the therapy of the surf, but still touch bottom between the rollers. Shipmates had found it too, but soon swam ashore for dinner. An hour later, a bit exhausted but completely relaxed, we headed for the Royal, too, where dinner was served continuously over a 2-hour period.

  Wahoo’s officers would gladly have spent all of the hours of every day at the Royal, but other than their duty days and a change from Sperry to the Sub Base 5 days into the refit, each one had departmental responsibilities. Mine were overall and would involve presenting a ship ready for patrol to our new commanding officer. Thus, I had been back aboard on the second day when the torpedo was removed from the tube. It had apparently worked loose during a month of pounding into the sea, and slid back onto the skids before the chain fall was taut. The outer door and gear quadrant was another matter. This was a Sub Base job from the start. Finally cast loose, the mangled mess was swung onto a waiting truck by a portable crane. A replacement from Mare Island would surely be required.

  Another such trip was a pleasure, however, for Ens. John B. Griggs III and George Misch reported on board for duty. John, or Jack, as he preferred, had been in the class of ‘43 at the Naval Academy that had graduated a year early. He would take over commissary, freeing Richie to become gunnery officer. George, an NROTC graduate, from the University of California, would replace Ira Dye, who had orders as a division engineer. George was tall and hefty, wearing a smile, and he would get along anywhere. Jack, slight by comparison, was a Navy-junior, so knew the ways of the Navy thoroughly. Both were submarine school graduates and would be a big asset to Wahoo.

  Back at the Royal, we learned from an older copy of Time that the Ryujo had been reported sunk by our carrier aircraft on August 24 in the Battle of the Eastern Solomons. There was no mistaking Ryujo, since she had four masts alongside her flight deck that could be lowered during flight operations. We had seen them in their raised position. It had been a long haul getting her as far as Truk, and by now she had undoubtedly reached Tokyo. To us, this should serve as
an example of the enemy’s tenacity. Also of interest, especially to me, was the brief report of the very successful Makin Atoll attack by Colonel Carlson’s Marine Raiders. My old Argonaut and the Nautilus had transported them and lent their tremendous firepower, that of a light cruiser.

  The Royal was supposed to get us away from the war, but almost invariably the conversations turned to patrols. Mostly by listening, we learned of others’ missed opportunities, and that Wahoo’s was about average for a first patrol. Encouraged, we salted away techniques that should be a true asset for any new skipper. The crew had been doing better in relaxing and unwinding. Curfew came at dark, when the island was blacked out and cars moved only with dim, blue lights. It would seem that if a young man could keep his date engaged until close to curfew, he had a very good chance of staying all night. Actually, the shore patrol was very lenient with submariners, normally just depositing them at the Royal’s gate after dark, but this was surely given little publicity.

  A change of pace came on the second Sunday, when we called on Mr. and Mrs. Roy Craw, who lived beyond the Kapiolani Park, quite close to Diamond Head. They had been our landlords for 3 years before Pearl Harbor, and back then it had been customary to pay the rent in person and stay for a meal. So I had been invited to Sunday dinner, but using their tightly rationed meat points would not have been fair, and I suggested Sunday afternoon, adding that I hoped there would be a piece of cake for my friend and me. That was not brazen, but a compliment, for her cake was famous.

  Mr. Craw had been a seafarer, but was now retired from the Tidewater Oil Company. Mrs. Craw was an Hawaiian, a cousin of Olympic swimming champion Kanakanui. When we arrived, she had a large bowl of cake batter on her lap, mixing it with her hand and trying the texture between her thumb and fingers. “How else can you tell when it’s properly mixed?” she had replied to my query some years ago, and when I had tried the cake, there were no further questions.

  Roy Craw liked scorpions made with okolehau—cane whisky—and mint, much like a julep, but bottled in gallon jugs, which were stacked in his basement like wine bottles in a rack. It was his supply for the duration, and on seeing it, I just hoped the war would not last that long.

  When my family had moved to our landlord’s spare Waikiki apartment, Mrs. Craw had insisted on their dining with them. It was a gracious gesture, with the added advantage of not having to lay in supplies. Ernestine accepted only after they had agreed to receive compensation, and one of my reasons for calling was to ask Mrs. Craw to cash or deposit three checks. After two rounds of scorpions and butter cake, which seemed to please both of them, I made the request concerning the checks.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t cash those; I tore them up long ago,” she replied, and with a generous smile, inquired further about my family.

  We left before sunset with a warm feeling, far beyond that imparted by the scorpions, and spoke of the future and whether or not such hospitality could survive such a vicious war.

  Our mail came daily, and was delivered as soon as a batch had accumulated. On the table was a brown, slightly squashy package from home. A peek confirmed my guess—2 months or thereabout of Sunday comics. If we broke them out here, they would be lost, while on board there would be funnies for a whole patrol.

  2

  A part of each day now required shipboard presence of our officers and leading petty officers: George to try out his refurbished engine; Roger and Richie to approve the torpedo tube’s outer door and our long-awaited, 4-inch deck gun; and Chan to draw new, confidential publications. Pappy had to rework the Watch Quarter and Station Bill for fourteen new hands, and other leading petty officers were similarly involved. My own tasks revolved about two things: to clear up any correspondence so our new skipper would not come aboard to a basketful of paperwork (his job would be to sink ships), and to check the necessary charts that Krause was drawing for our next patrol. The first of these tasks was greatly simplified by Yeoman Forest Sterling, who had reported early enough to get things in hand, with the incentive of being able to join his new shipmates for the last week at the Royal. Back on board, I signed and he mailed.

  The day before our 3-day readiness period, the troops returned. I was in the crew’s mess, checking the final charts as Krause laid them out on the after mess table, when word came back from the control room: “Guess who’s come on board as our new skipper?” No one ventured a name, and then we were filled in, “It’s Lieutenant Commander Kennedy!”

  Properly, I should have gone forward to greet him. Improperly, I bounded up the mess room ladder and made a beeline for headquarters. Comdr. Elton W. Grenfell, popularly called Joe by his contemporaries, had commanded Gudgeon, sinking an enemy submarine shortly after Pearl Harbor, and was now chief of staff. He hadn’t read Wahoo’s patrol report, which was truthful, as the captain saw it, taking the blame for failing to close the Ryujo, and stating that this was his usual manner of making approaches, and if faced with comparable situations he would act similarly. Indirectly, he did put some blame on his officers by stating: “Had I but required a more rigorous and alert watch, we might have picked her up sooner.” He was apparently not even aware of curtailing action already taken that might have brought success. Of course, Commander Grenfell was unaware of this, and of the captain’s oral statement concerning getting a new skipper for Wahoo who could sink ships. The patrol report was asking just that; it was there for seniors to read and I gave a brief, including the captain’s routine.

  “Commander,” I stated, “Wahoo and our captain need your help.”

  “Dick,” he replied. “The Admiral just had his arm around your captain’s shoulder, saying, ‘Now you sank one ship, and I want you to go out there and show what Wahoo can really do.’ They’ve served together and are friends, you know.”

  “All the more so,” I replied. “Five years our senior, he cannot bring himself to delegate, and I doubt that he can last another patrol without someone closer to his seniority to lean on for advice.”

  “We have Lt. Comdr. Dudley W. Morton, who commanded R-5 on patrol, has attended the PCO School, and has command of the Dolphin undergoing extended upkeep and repairs. He can be relieved of this temporary assignment to make his PCO run in Wahoo. With his support, she should enjoy a less trying patrol.”

  If it worked, this should be far and away the best solution, since my assignment as executive officer would not be affected, and we agreed to keep this matter private.

  Late in the afternoon of November 7, I reported all aboard and Wahoo ready for patrol. Captain Kennedy thanked me, saying that he would be spending the night with friends ashore.

  At supper, I told the officers that we might be receiving a PCO this evening or early in the morning, and suggested that we keep our conversations clear of the problems on our first patrol. An hour or so later, almost as if it had been staged, Lt. Comdr. Dudley W. Morton came aboard with his gear, and orders in hand for his PCO patrol in Wahoo. Misch tossed the gear onto the vacant upper bunk in the captain’s cabin and then joined our get-acquainted session in the wardroom. Tall, broad shouldered and with facial features to match, Dudley greeted each of us with a friendly smile and a hand twice the size of ours, except Misch’s. His genial personality seemed contagious, perhaps emphasized by the vacuum it had filled. In varied conversations, we learned that, though born in Kentucky, he had been raised in Miami, Florida, playing high school football before Annapolis. Hope had replaced apprehensions concerning our coming patrol before I hit my bunk.

  3

  Two dieseis commenced rumbling impatiently, always a signal to the seniors aboard to finish their coffee. The captain went directly to the bridge, while I saw Admiral English and the others ashore. The brow was snaked to the pier, the two remaining lines let go, and our prolonged blast announced that a submarine was backing from her slip. Admiral English, at attention, set the pace when he saluted our colors, now broken at the main. Except for a scheduled dive, they’d fly till sunset.

  Off Fort Weaver, 5 miles
to the west of the channel, the ? 28 was waiting. Pappy’s voice announcing, “Ship rigged for dive,” came over the bridge and conning tower speakers, and Roger’s two blasts took us down. As prearranged, the ? 28 steamed by about 100 yards from our raised scope, indoctrinating our new hands with eight shaking depth charges. After surfacing, Wahoo countered with ten rounds from her new deck gun and a pan of 20mm rounds from the dual-purpose AA gun. Still on schedule, we set course 238 true for our patrol area to the north of Bougainville Island in the Solomons 3,000 miles away. The time was 1000, Sunday, November 8, 1942, and Wahoo was on her second patrol.

  For 2 months, Argonaut had patrolled off Midway when attack on the island was believed imminent, only to miss the Battle of Midway while getting new engines. At Truk, Wahoo had come closer with the opportunity to sink Ryujo. Now we would have another opportunity, since the battles for Guadalcanal were raging to the southeast of Bougainville, and Japanese forces would pass to the north or south of this mountainous island. About 100 miles long, it was joined, beyond a narrow passage, by the smaller island, Buka, to the northwest. Within Bougainville Strait, to the southeast, lay Fauro and Shortland Islands, followed beyond the strait by major long islands and passages extending about 400 miles. All of this as far as Guadalcanal, 300 miles distant, was controlled by Japanese land and sea forces. But on the large island of Guadalcanal and the small island, Tulagi, 20 miles to its north, our Marines were still ensconced. In great sea battles, we had lost more ships than the Japanese, but the enemy had failed to reach our transports and support ships. Had our orders to patrol to the south of Truk come earlier, we might have sunk supporting ships, leaving that bastion for the Solomons; at least I was convinced that no major ships used Piaanu Pass. The struggle was not over, and in our new area, Wahoo would get a second chance. It would be a better one, for she would be astride Japanese shipping from the west, and at a likely terminus for support ships from Truk as well.