Working out the same morning stars used for several days speeded the work, and our correct position was plotted on the conning tower chart in minutes. Without other demands for awhile, I took the conn, sending Jack to control to take the dive with Chan, and then made the next periscope search. The sky and the horizon were clear, so I opened the copy of Navy Regulations that I had first brought to the conning tower following the Ryujo incident, inquiring into my obligations as executive officer and navigator: concerning assumption of command, it would have to have been in time to sink the ship, but since both of my offices required advice and action to keep our ship off the rocks, or be equally culpable with the captain, should not the same hold for an attack? So I had vowed to speak out in the future. This day, I had laid the book open atop the SJ radar, and between periscope searches, I examined the Quartermaster’s Notebook and the regulations, assuring myself that no opportunity had been missed as far as the tanker was concerned.
The tube of our attack periscope was faulty with numerous sharp-edged pits. These tore the flax packing, so droplets of saltwater ran down the tube and frequently over the optics. For some reason, the captain broke his established routine; he was supposed to be asleep, but suddenly appeared through the conning tower’s lower hatch. Mistaking the book atop the SJ radar for the Construction and Repair Manual, he commented, “Well, I see you’ve finally broken out the manual to find out how to properly pack that periscope,” and stepping over to the SJ, picked up the regulations, which were still open to the flagged pages, and commenced reading.
It was one of life’s touchy moments: no words were exchanged, but now each knew exactly where he stood with the other.
6
It was now Wednesday, December 8, still the seventh in Hawaii. All had not gone too well in the Pacific during the first year of the war. Midway had been a victory, stopping the Japanese advance and inflicting heavy major ship losses, though many of the Japanese warships had been able to withdraw to fight again. We looked upon the Battle of the Coral Sea as a victory because the enemy had again been thwarted, and we already knew of the battles for Guadalcanal, with our marines dug in but still threatened. To a belated report that the Japanese carrier Ryujo had been sunk by our carrier air, we had taken exception. She would probably be nearing another readiness-for-sea from Tokyo.
To any soldier or sailor, a war is where he fights, but commanding a close second place in our interest was the antisubmarine battle of the Atlantic, and then the African campaign. Casablanca, on the African coast, had been secured, and success in the assault on Algiers, in the Mediterranean, had come in on the Fox. A landing on the continent would still be far away, but the knowledge that at least we were moving towards Europe was surely spurring our efforts in the Pacific.
George had taken the dive and his namesake, George Misch, the conn. Bearings of the taller mountains showed that we were probably approaching the Kieta Peninsula at 1100. If the mountain shown as having a volcano would smoke, we’d be sure, but here in the open sea our DR position, run ahead from the morning twilight star fix, should satisfy any skipper. Dudley took the conn, so Misch could keep pace with Jack in acquiring diving experience. Now alone, except for Krause who had temporarily taken the wheel and the soundman wearing earphones, Dudley commented, “Of all boats, why did I draw Wahoo for my PCO run!” I couldn’t disguise a slight smile; guessing the truth, he poked a finger against my chest, broke into his friendly grin, and mouthed, “Why you SOB!”
During the night we passed Cape L’Averdy and moved into the gulf formed by the broad northern end of Bougainville and Buka, and which opened to the northeast. Patrolling there would cover the areas of our first weeks, but being deeper in the gulf, Wahoo might intercept east-west shipping using Buka Passage. I had put off taking a turn through the boat, frankly because I was still embarrassed by the tanker incident, but this was a new area, with new prospects, and it was time to look ahead. I found all to my liking, especially the resilience of our crew, which continued to amaze me. Apparently, as a group, they could talk things out and get on with the future. I kicked myself for being broody, but with whom could I have discussed Wahoo’s predicament and have maintained the military loyalty that my position required?
Nothing, other than the occasional seabirds, came in sight during the first day, and after surfacing we moved north. The captain had selected the 30-mile-wide passage between Cape Hanpan, on Buka’s northern tip, and the Kilinailau Islands lying to the northeast for the next day’s patrol. What could we expect to find out there? Diving immediately after morning stars, the day progressed as might have been expected: reveille, my position slip, breakfast, trice up bunks and then clamp down, a fire control drill, another position slip, and the noon meal filled half of our day. Nothing moved.
To improve our chances of a sighting, we had been trying another experiment that was quite simple. When the OOD was about to lower his scope, still knowing that all was clear, the quartermaster with the watch would raise the other scope and continue the search. When Dudley or I was in the conning tower, one of us would take over. This would at least insure the earliest possible sighting.
7
Roger had the dive and Richie the conn on a likewise uneventful afternoon. Another hour would bring Chan and Misch to relieve the watch. That meant four more periscope searches to go in Wahoo’s standard procedure, but each search was now lengthened, so nearly half the time one scope was up. Why not a continuous search so we’d always know what was going on above us, and would not have to search for planes during the first few minutes? But again, that would be a too radical departure from our worn-out peacetime doctrine; best that we stick with our ploy and try to make it last.
I had just come to the conning tower to see Sterling on sound. I was interested, for in my experience, motivation was the key ingredient in a good soundman. Sterling didn’t have to stand that watch, so motivation must have been a factor. Richie was just completing an observation, and as his scope came down, Hunter was just grasping the handles of the search periscope; it was like passing the baton, but from there on it was careful scrutiny of the whole horizon. I watched with approval, and then turned to go on below when Hunter calmly announced, “Heavy smoke on the horizon,” and then stepping back, he called the relative bearing from the azimuth ring below the packing gland, 315. He had blasted my strategic theory in favor of the captain’s guess, which bothered me not at all. We quickly converted the relative bearing to true, 293, just 23 degrees to the north of due west. Having just appeared, the ship or convoy would be coming our way, and since there were no other major ports, heading for the Shortland area. I drew the enemy’s base course lightly on the chart; asked Duty Chief Ware to call the captain; and after giving him a minute to get ahead of the stampede, nodded to Hunter, who had his hand poised on the handle of the general alarm’s switch box. The Bells of St. Mary’s sounded in earnest for the third time on this patrol.
Another observation showed the smoke drawing slightly to the right. The captain confirmed this, and then sighted two topmasts. Conning Wahoo to the north took our submarine to a position almost ahead of the enemy. Within minutes the tops of two more ships came over the horizon, and then the thin stick of the escort. Chan and Roger were having trouble with too many reports on the various ships as their hulls came into view, as during the lightning flashes. I asked the captain to please give angles and ranges on just one ship; he did, and then provided us with the overall composition of the convoy between his periscope observations: we had three ships in column, escorted by a large antisubmarine vessel. The ships were zigging in unison while the escort patrolled across the van. Our talkers were now experts, who could likely get jobs as barkers after the war. So the details went to each compartment, undoubtedly including the reports and actions of the fire control party as well as those of the captain.
Barring a change of base course, which certainly was not expected, Wahoo was already nearing an attack position on the convoy’s starboard flank. Th
e angles, now opening, permitted further identification. We had three freighters, all loaded, and with the largest, our prospective target, in the middle. All of this was good, but not their escort. Lindhe had passed the warship identification section up through the hatch, and the captain put his finger on the flagged picture. She was an Asashio class destroyer, patrolling a good mile to each side of the convoy and about a mile ahead of the leading ship.
The captain’s problem was to time our movement in to the firing point to coincide with the destroyer’s passage to the convoy’s opposite side. Her echo ranging seemed menacing, and the captain considered torpedoing the destroyer first. The range on that pass to our side was too short for our torpedoes to arm, so the captain switched back to the large, second freighter in the column and came right to lengthen the torpedo run. I provided the course for a 120 track that would make the torpedoes come in from 30 abaft her starboard beam. Both Chan’s plot and Roger’s TDC had speed at 11 knots. Two torpedoes were still set to run at 6 feet below the surface as for the destroyer, the other two at 16 feet; the outer doors were open, and the captain steadied Wahoo on the final course.
Hunter raised the attack scope for the final bearing. (It didn’t leak; Chief McGill’s new packing was holding.)
The captain swung the scope, bringing the wire to the middle of the freighter, and announced, “Final bearing and shoot!”
Glory be. Nothing could stop us.
Richie, on the spread knob, directed four torpedoes to hit along the freighter’s length, and Krause, on the firing panel, sent each one on its way.
Four times we felt Wahoo shudder, followed by a healthy zing of the torpedo props, and then the slight pressure of the residual impulse air being vented into the boat. Finally came Buckley’s report, “All hot, straight and normal.”
Hunter was counting the seconds till our torpedoes should hit on their 700-yard run—46—and had picked up the count at 30: “Twenty, ten, five, three, whack!” The first detonation, louder than the depth charges off Pearl, was followed by two more. The destroyer was on the far side of the convoy, allowing our skipper ample time to describe the scene of the freighter listing, and to let me take a squint before his orders, “George take her deep. Rig for depth charge and silent running.”
The Asashio destroyer would probably have the remnants of four torpedo wakes emanating from one point, our position on firing, as a target for her first salvo of depth charges. She would at least know that we had fired from on the freighter’s starboard hand, probably near abeam. She seemed to know both, for the first pattern detonated fairly close to our stern as Wahoo passed 120 feet. They were close enough to raise our great main induction valve, over 40 inches in diameter, for a healthy slug of sea into the piping. The antenna trunk flooded; some lights broke; a small circulating waterline in the pump room carried away; and some odd nuts, bolts, and paint chips flew around. Altogether, it was enough to raise the pulse a bit.
Twenty separate attacks followed during the next hour and a half, but the only hair-raiser was of our own making. When George blew negative to level off at 250 feet, the vent’s rubber gasket blew out; the flood valve that closes with sea pressure hadn’t yet seated, and the pump room bilges filled before the vent’s stop valve was closed. Wahoo’s depth was now 350 feet, but who knows, maybe this had taken us to safety below the enemy’s deepest depth charges! Negative was designed to give an initial down angle and negative buoyancy on diving. Its use to gain depth is fraught with troubles, since the sea flooded in has to be expelled with excessively noisy, high-pressure air.
The bilges and negative were pumped to sea; George had us back to 250 feet, and at 1726 up to periscope depth. The ship was still afloat, so we crept towards her to see about ten boats standing by. Her well decks were under water, but not until dark did she sink on this Thursday, December 10, 1942.
Our surfacing demonstrated one more argument against flooding negative to gain extra depth quickly. After a normal all-day dive, an increase in internal air pressure of about an inch is not unusual. This comes from the normal use of compressed air, which is vented into the boat, including that from venting negative. On surfacing, this is bled off by cracking the hatch, still held by the dogs, and then opening the hatch after the boat’s pressure has equalized with the atmosphere. This night, with all of our blowing, we had nearly 3 inches to vent, and the noise, at least internally, was that of a monstrous foghorn announcing our presence as the seconds dragged by. To open the hatch prematurely would blow those close below topside. Under normal circumstances, a submarine would have brought the pressure down with her air compressors in a half hour; too slow for us.
But Wahoo was on the surface heading east, with a happy crew below. New hands would now rate wearing the prestigious submarine combat pin, and others would affix a bronze star to theirs. The captain had ordered a shot of depth-charge medicine (LeJon brandy) for everyone, which was welcomed more by the way of celebration than for soothing jangled nerves. The camaraderie carried even into the wardroom, where our blowing fiasco was not even mentioned by the captain. We did discuss the approach and attack, and certainly found it more rewarding to review the details that had led to a successful day, so we could salt away the positive for a change.
The captain had been exhausted at the completion of the attack, as if he had just finished a grueling race. He still seemed fatigued and went to his cabin for a Western before going to the conning tower. I went to the bridge, hoping that he would spend this night below so as to get some real rest. The sea was calm; trash and garbage had been given the deep-six. Though the night was bright, the phosphorescence of the disturbed sea shone along our waterline. I tried to analyze the day. Had the captain made this excellent attack because we had only 9 more days in our area, and it was now or never? Certainly for him it had required a great effort; his face was flushed after each observation. Or had our silent confrontation had its effect? Perhaps he had said to himself, “I’ll show that whipper snapper!” Whatever it was, Wahoo needed more of it.
The answer might come sooner than expected, since before midnight we received two encoded messages. The first concerned the convoy that we had already attacked (they didn’t know that), and the second extended our patrol to the east and gave the routing of a large freighter heading for the extra area. We had, at the outside, 24 hours to get in position, but 12 of them would be submerged, so we had best be on our way. The captain got up and looked at the chart; we could get there at our present one-engine speed, and he elected to continue as we were to give the crew a rest after the forty-odd depth charges.
No drills were in the Plan of the Day for December 11; it would be a rope-yarn Sunday for hands to catch up on laundry and such, or to continue with one of the paperbacks always supplied by the Red Cross. When I presented the position slip, I found the captain reading ONI-208J instead of a Western. He had underlined the Syoei Maru of 5,684 tons as closest to the class of ship he had sunk. In the 1942 edition of the same manual, which Lindhe and the crew were using, the same type of ship appeared as an 8,748 tonner, probably dead-weight tonnage.
Feeling that I could now take a turn through the boat with my head a bit higher, I found different conversations in most compartments, but all were about the same two subjects—the sinking and the depth charging. In the mess room, undoubtedly for the second time but now for my benefit, Deaton and McSpadden (now TM2c’s) patted the pressure hull. That told it all. We spoke of Argonaut and whether her riveted hull could have taken that drubbing without leaking oil. On through the ship, no one brought up the question, though I am sure it had been in their conversations: Had Wahoo finally turned the corner? In a few hours we might know. One other item was lacking; no mention was made of any tactical mistakes. That was the key to sending any ship to Davy Jones’s locker, and this time Wahoo, including the fire control party and the captain, had made none.
8
The captain had requested a call at 0200, 2 hours after his submarine would pass into her ex
tended area. I had placed mine with the duty chief for an hour earlier. It was a longer safety interval than normal, but when your captain has instant access, on the scene, he leaves his second little option. But in this I had no complaint, for on the last patrol with its 8 hours of watch, I would have been stumbling around trying to wake up. As it was, I’d finished my coffee and was rather enjoying a bright, calm night and the ever-scrubbed fresh air of these tropics. I would have preferred being deeper into our area. We weren’t just meeting a train; it was more like going to the station without a timetable—you get there early.
Krause had brought my sextant to the bridge. We took a round of stars, just in case we didn’t have a chance later, but we wouldn’t work them out now. It was well, for within a half hour, sound reported either echo ranging or a fathometer ahead. The time was 0130, Sunday, December 12, and shortly we had a large freighter in sight. Her broad port angle gave her heading as northerly. She was now showing on radar too; we called the members of the fire control party involved in tracking, but did not go to battle stations.
The initial SJ range was 10,000 yards, 5 nautical miles, and her large angle offered nothing that we couldn’t overcome during the 4 hours till dawn. The freighter was zigging frantically, obviously having been informed that there was an enemy submarine in the area. Her angle on the bow seemed never the same, but this was not all bad, for it slowed her progress along the base course to the northward. Tracking finally had a mean solution of 020, but we were doing nothing to pass her up. At the moment, her great stern showed ahead, but she would zig left. We were actually still on her quarter, while we should have been off her port bow by now. I could not let this simple tactical situation deteriorate to the impossible when three more engines would put all aright. I do not talk with a raised voice unless it is necessary. This was one of those occasions and I said rather strongly, “Captain, we have to go after her!”
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