Reviewing these facts, while looking over the detailed chart of the Solomons, helped me put the past aside, and for the first time, to feel enthusiastic about this patrol. A glance at the clock above the chart table showed just enough time for a turn through the boat before our first sun line. The majority of our crew were now old salts and had done a commendable job in securing for sea, and this included at least one crate of oranges in most compartments, a trick we had used in Argonaut where we had chill room for them too. For sure, there’d be no scurvy in Wahoo, and what better way to enjoy fruit than when the mood strikes.
Our noon latitude sun line, crossing our track on the chart, showed Wahoo making good the prescribed 12 knots. On presenting the position slip, I told the captain about the oranges, including the additional advantage of freeing space in our very small chill room. He nodded, thanked me for the position report, and then advised that now, with sufficient officers, it would not be necessary for me to stand the four-to-eights. We were making progress, but I gathered that we would still have an officer lookout on the cigarette deck.
Battle stations after lunch, with George Misch on the standby Mark-8 angle solver and Jack gaining first experience on the dive with George Grider, was followed by a complete round of emergency drills. Surrounded by men who were qualified in submarines, or nearly so, our new hands performed admirably, and by the time we reached Bougainville, they’d need no coaching. An afternoon sun sight was worked out immediately and plotted. Surely the captain could see the advantage; if it hadn’t checked, we could have done it over again.
At sunset, P 28 turned back, sending the customary, but no less heartfelt “Godspeed.” The captain thanked her with a “Well-done” and ordered our zigzag to commence. It was a modest plan, with legs of 5-to 15-minute duration to either side of our base course, still 238. Chief Pruett added turns to our screws to make up for the 5% loss along the base course, but this would be necessary only until dark, when Wahoo would steer a steady course again.
Our evening star sights were worked out in the ship’s office, with its white light as usual, but there was a change—the crew’s mess and the wardroom now sported white lights, like other boats. Somehow, white mashed potatoes and green beans just taste better! This innovation for Wahoo had been made possible by the issue to all boats of sufficient pairs of dark red goggles. They were designed as a mask with sponge rubber border and a single, dark ruby-red celluloid insert. An elastic head strap held them firmly against the face so other light could not enter. Members of the oncoming watch who would be going topside donned the masks a half hour ahead of time, and would have their eyes night-adapted as quickly as before.
Wahoo had another innovation that would eliminate the requirement for one of the hands on all-night watch sections. An ordinary General Electric washing machine motor was now rotating our SJ. When any pip showed on the grassy horizontal line, the operator merely pushed a lever that opened a clutch, and then, using the same old hand wheel, he could examine the bearing of the pip. Apparently, many other boats had experienced troubles similar to ours, so we now had an installation designed and built by submariners at the Base. Surely they must have raided every junkyard around Honolulu to get the motors, for now, nearly a year into the war, they would not have been obtainable commercially.
Our patrol planes from Pearl had given our lookouts some practice during the first 2 days, but since then the skies and horizon had remained clear. Planes from any sector were now a near impossibility, so our lookouts concentrated on the seas for an ever-possible enemy periscope. Far from a casual view, it was a demanding task, and our new hands welcomed the watch rotation after 2 hours. They would now take a trick at the wheel or another station not requiring such strain on the eyes.
We skipped November 12 as we crossed the 180th meridian, and suddenly it was Friday the thirteenth, which turned out to be a fine day. I had not pinpointed it before, but it was the presence of Dudley at mealtime that had lifted our faces out of our plates. He was best described as a big, overgrown Kentucky boy who had never been told that adults weren’t supposed to smile. His large, square jaw and prominent mouth resembled that of Mushmouth, a character in the “Moon Mullens” comic strip. The upperclassmen at the Naval Academy had dubbed him Mushmouth, but that was quickly shortened to Mush, a nickname used by seniors and contemporaries; but only Dudley, never Mush, was heard in Wahoo.
On crossing the latitude line of 7°50’ north after midnight, Wahoo automatically passed to the command of Commander South Pacific, Adm. William F. Halsey. There were no dispatches, but should such become necessary, they would come from Commander Task Force 42, the submarine command located at Brisbane, Australia. Towards noon on November 14, we came within aerial search of Mili Atoll and submerged for the rest of the day. Again on the fifteenth we dived for the day, but the lost miles were put to good use in sharpening our planesmen and new officers prior to reaching the patrol area. Only seabirds came in view, so on the sixteenth Wahoo continued on the surface, with Mili, Jaluit, and Makin Atolls about 120 miles distant. The seabird warning was correct, and a plane at 6 miles on the SD sent us down for another day.
Small, passing squalls increased in number and intensity each day. This was to be expected in November at our latitudes, as was the storm that greeted Wahoo as she entered Patrol Area Dog, whose boundaries had been contained in Commander Task Force 42’s encoded dispatch. Behind us lay 2,987 sea miles; all of our gear had worked flawlessly, even our formerly troublesome bow-buoyancy vent, so the success of this mission rested with us personally. Adding emphasis was news on the Fox schedule concerning the continuing Japanese raids against Guadalcanal. Their supplies would pass through our area.
4
Our submarines had been developed to operate with the fleet as scouts, but lost that role to aircraft. The only operations with the fleet were as a part of opposing forces or to provide target services to our antisubmarine forces. In these, we withdrew at night and turned on our running lights. This was deemed necessary because a surfaced submarine is hard to see at night, and any collision would probably result in the loss of the boat. In spite of these minor roles, we were still called fleet submarines.
Our actual role, in accordance with the Geneva Convention, was to sink enemy warships. It was presumed that they would be escorted by surface and air antisubmarine forces just as were our own warships, so great emphasis was placed on slender periscopes that are difficult to see. The top portion of our search scope, above the taper, was thus about the size of a baseball bat; that of the attack scope would compare with a softball bat. An enemy’s sighting either one of these, when used judiciously during an attack, was extremely unlikely, and virtually impossible when the submarine is just patrolling in an open sea area.
But you can’t have it both ways: our small-tipped scope was good into twilight, and the larger into brighter nights. The British had been smarter, not fully trusting the post-WW I Geneva Convention’s warfare and arms limitations, and had two scopes, one for day and one for night. Ours was a defect that could not be rectified overnight, but barring that, the fleet boat was the best submarine in the world, with surface speed, endurance, payload, and accommodations that no others could approach.
During the Limited Emergency, training in night torpedo attacks using the azimuth ring of the bridge-mounted gyro repeater had commenced, and we had used our TBT at San Diego. But to date, determining a satisfactory submerged firing bearing, after surface tracking, had not been solved. I had participated in the transition from TBT to sound bearing on the night of Pearl Harbor; it could work, but on that attempt it led to confusion.
So this was now our problem as we continued slowly through our area towards the great island. Heavy seas and near gale winds impeded our progress at night, while passing rainsqualls kept our lookouts in foul-weather gear. Submerged during daylight, we could see little through the scopes, while the intermittent heavy rain completely blanked out JK sound when passing overhead. On the third day, wit
h moderating weather, the peaks of Bougainville came in sight, and so did another periscope—somewhat modifying my beliefs on periscope sighting. Chan knew what he had seen, however, and correctly took Wahoo deep while putting our stern to the bearing of the other scope. The other submarine might have been tracking us, but for sure, we had not been tracking her. And there was the possibility that we had been spotted and the submarine had been vectored to our track and was waiting for us to surface. The time of 1711 was well into evening twilight, so indicated just that. We waited until it was completely dark, according to Krause’s figures, before surfacing.
At dawn, both Bougainville and Buka Islands were in sight. The latter extends to the north and is separated from the big island by Bougainville Strait, a navigable passage. The captain picked an area that could cover shipping rounding Buka or using the strait, and we headed for it. Though passage across this area offered the shortest protected route from the Empire to the Solomons, a week of intensive search disclosed no ships, not even a fisherman.
No week of patrol is a complete loss, for Chief McGill had again chalked the outline of Wahoo’s variable tanks, including safety and negative, on the pump room deck. The auxiliaryman with the watch held school daily, whenever new hands were designated by the duty chief. If we had carried paint, I would have suggested that this marking be permanent, for on every patrol, we could expect the task of qualifying new hands. For our part, Dudley and I stood parts of Jack’s and Misch’s conning tower watches so they could obtain experience with the dive. Otherwise, with Wahoo’s present system, they’d never learn.
Since I couldn’t discuss our first patrol with Morton and avoid criticism of my captain, I did not bring up the subject and changed the conversation when Dudley did. He quickly understood my position and went elsewhere for the answers he needed to know. You might find him in the engine room with a bucket, scrubbing his clothes, or elsewhere in most any informal attire, even skivvies. So he was not only receiving answers, but becoming personally acquainted with our crew. This night, after a final check topside, I came quietly down to the control room to hear Dudley ask, “What’s wrong with your Kleinschmidt stills, Chief?” Chief Lenox came right back, “There’s nothing wrong, except they use juice and that means fuel, so they’re reserved for drinkin’, cookin’, and the batt’ries.” Morton paused a moment and then continued, “Well, the captain’s asleep and I’m going to steal a shower; please send your messenger forward on the double if he gets up.” Turning, and with a half wave and smile, knowing all the time that I was there, Dudley ducked through the control room’s forward door just as the Bells of St. Mary’s bonged for the first time in earnest on this patrol.
The conning tower clock read 2230, and the track on the chart showed Wahoo’s position 15 miles east of the northern tip of Buka. In the lightning flashes of the passing squalls, our lookouts had spotted a column of smoke. George had taken true (compass) bearings, and Wahoo was already swinging to that direction, 150 degrees, when the captain reached the bridge. Out into the stormy night, I could see indistinguishable shapes (blurps) when chain lightning illuminated the sector on our port bow. I believed we had a convoy. At 2240, 10 minutes after the lookouts’ report, another violent lightning display revealed the source of the smoke, a large ship with considerable freeboard presenting a sharp starboard angle. Ahead, on her port bow, was a destroyer-type escort. The range to these ships was perfect, about 6,000 yards; we could track them while here on the surface and then move in submerged for the attack, but two blasts took us down. It was the same mistake my captain had made just south of Midway nearly a year ago.
Periscope observations during lightning flashes seldom seemed to be on the same ship twice in a row and made meaningful tracking on plot and the TDC nearly impossible. Sound tracking did little better, for different screws faded in and out, so we could not coach Buckley or Carter onto the correct bearing. Finally, at 2256, Hunter, with hands on the barrel of the scope and watching the azimuth scale, aligned it with the first consistent sound bearings. Lightning cooperated, and the captain had a destroyer presenting a 90-degree starboard angle. The torpedo gyro angles already showed 50 degrees, so without the reasonably accurate range required for a large-angle shot, the captain withheld fire and swung Wahoo to reduce the angle. Our swing was not fast enough, and a few minutes later all enemy sounds ceased.
5
Wahoo resumed her nighttime patrol, with the captain again in his emergency bunk. Having a whole convoy get by had pumped too much adrenalin into my system. Sleep was impossible, and I moved across the passageway to the wardroom. Rather quickly, Dudley joined me and we proceeded to take it out on the cribbage board. Shortly, having finished his watch, George joined us for a triple hand, but cribbage was not foremost on any of our minds. We pushed the board aside and got down to the details of the potential attack we had just muffed. Again, I did not feel we were being disloyal to the captain; he would have been more than welcome. The three of us agreed that Wahoo could have stayed on the surface without fear of detection, while gaining a position ahead of the convoy. From there she could have dived at dawn for an accurate periscope attack. This would, of course, require abandoning the prewar concept of a submarine as a submerged vessel of opportunity. Some boats had done this, but as far as I know, it had come about with a change in command.
We had the officers’ opinion of the convoy’s composition, but not that of the lookouts. They had seen more than we had, and I set Pappy to work with interviews. As expected, their sightings differed. The variations were wide enough, however, to convince me that Wahoo had indeed had a convoy within her grasp. And there was one more note of interest: it was Seaman Hall who made the first sighting for their pool.
The following week produced only a propeller-sounding fish noise and then at night strong screws that speeded up for a few minutes before fading from sound. It didn’t take much imagination to picture an enemy submarine pulling away and then diving, but our SJ was hot and had revealed nothing with a sweep in that sector.
Not imaginary, however, was a message with our call sign on the first evening Fox after surfacing. Within, it carried the Ultra designation, signifying that the message contained intelligence of the enemy and had highest operational priority. This was a first for Wahoo and only the second I had seen. Chan put the special wheels, with their hundreds of contacts, into the coding machine, and the tape came out as he typed the five-letter groups. Enclosed by the padding (words to increase the length and security) the message read:
EIGHTEEN THOUSAND TON LOADED TANKER PROCEEDING TRUK TO SHORTLANDS SCHEDULED ARRIVE MIDMORNING DECEMBER EIGHT OVERALL SPEED PLOTS AT EIGHTEEN KNOTS
There it was: no submarine could have a greater challenge, for sinking this tanker could arrest the Tokyo Express, the almost weekly raids down the New Georgia Sound, called the Slot, that continued to threaten our forces supporting the Marines on Guadalcanal. Krause and I, checking each other, stepped back the hourly positions from the Shortlands and laid down the intercepting track that the captain had desired. It was just past midnight, and in 2 hours Wahoo would be on station, waiting.
Though the content of the message was, and would remain, secret, an air of excitement swept through our ship. Frankly, there is no such thing as a secret in the confines of a submarine, further shown by the serious manner of the watch. The battery charge was now complete, and a second engine went on propulsion. I would have preferred three engines on the line as a safety measure, but two would get us there.
Wahoo closed the track laid down on our chart, slowed, and commenced searching into the black night with sound, radar, and lookouts equipped with 7 × 50 binoculars. The SJ with its power train had been performing well in hand train as well as power, so Seaman Gerlacher, with Hunter supervising, was searching to the north with wheel in hand. There had been little time, but obviously enough for first-contact pools. I had been expecting SJ to win, but “Weak echo ranging on a broad front to the north!” came over the bridge speaker.
Due to its varying intensity as the enemy escort trained his echo-ranging sound head, such distant bearings are not sharp, but as an early warning are extremely valuable. This spurred radar in efforts to pinpoint the enemy. We were still peering into the night when Hunter reported SJ range 18,000 yards bearing 062. The range matched the speed and the tonnage. We came to the normal approach course, diving when the range had closed to 10,000 yards. An expected course change towards, showing that the tanker was indeed going to enter the Bougainville Strait, put Wahoo in fine position. The range was 5,000 yards; at two-thirds speed we would close to 2,500 for firing.
“Echo ranging on our starboard quarter!” came from sound.
“Reciprocal! Reciprocal!” called Dudley, but this advice that the soundman had read the wrong bearing didn’t register in time. The captain ordered, “Flood negative and take her deep,” apparently with the thought that an escort was closing our quarter to attack.
Recovery in time to pursue the attack was impossible. It would take many minutes to regain periscope depth, and while blowing negative our sound would be blanked out.
To avoid a confrontation, Dudley went on below, while the rest of us listened to the tanker’s great screws pounding through our hull and then growing fainter as she proceeded on her way. I took the conn, and the captain, more shaken than by the Ryujo, went down the ladder to the control room and to his cabin.
Unlike Ryujo, there had been no possibility of overtaking the tanker, so we secured from battle stations as the regular section took the watch. All was clear, and Wahoo surfaced on a calm though unfriendly sea. As the captain had instructed, I set course for the top of Buka, that plotted as 310 on the conning tower chart and would keep us well off the jagged coast. Routinely, we took our stars on morning twilight, and then Chan took us down for the day.
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