The captain’s reaction rather surprised me, but I guess it should not have. In the presence of George Misch and within full earshot of the forward lookouts and Krause, he replied in an angry, disdainful tone, “Don’t be stupid; you can’t attack a ship from here!”
He must have known what I had in mind; I had sketched it out for the Ryujo. We simply were not on the same wavelength, and tactically, in different wars. For a long moment, I considered pressing the point, but realized that in this agitated situation, he would undoubtedly send me to my stateroom. That would do neither me nor Wahoo any good, but at least the troops would have a conversation piece for the next day or so.
9
When last seen, the freighter had a large starboard angle, and the captain surmised that she might be following a circuitous route to the Shortlands, within Bougainville Strait. I provided the course from our plot, which was modified to 190 after we had worked out the stars. That would take us there also, and presumably would cross the freighter’s track. Three engines moved Wahoo smartly along the route, but with a brilliant dawn there were no masts to eastward, and we pulled the plug for the day.
Our submerged daylight run on December 13, and then two engines throughout the night, brought Wahoo to a position 20 miles north of the irregular 100-fathom line across the strait. From there, we would continue to close the small islands that dot the wide entrance, while the two narrow passages lay still another 12 miles beyond. It was an intriguing area, shaped like a funnel split lengthwise, and it was now easy to see that we should have been here early in the patrol.
But we still had 4 days before running the length of the island in making our departure. Breakfast time brought our first contact, with stocky masts of a large ship coming over the horizon. They appeared not much out of line, indicating a sharp port angle. We should be able to reach her handily, and the Bells of St. Mary’s bonged again.
Wahoo was off to intercept, and I do believe the captain was trying to make amends for his lack of action and outburst on December 12. Her upper works came over the horizon, and as her angle opened, the captain identified her as a large transport, not the freighter that we had guessed. She had not zigged; there was no escort, and we now had misgivings, but continued the approach, closing the range with a 10-minute run at standard speed. Wahoo was now in a beautiful position for a broadside attack. All was in readiness except for opening the forward tubes’ outer doors, but on the next observation, now with better light, the captain saw that her side was painted white, with the unmistakable horizontal green band and red cross amidships. Lindhe had the privilege of taking a look and agreed with the captain that this hospital ship was similar to the Manila Maru shown in ONI-208J. From without, she appeared to be complying with international law in all respects, and may well have had casualties from Guadalcanal aboard. We watched her go, a bit disappointed, but thankful for a realistic drill.
On securing from battle stations, we came to course 210 to put Oema Atoll and Oema Island on our port bow. Ships coming from the strait could leave them on either side. We could not cover both broad passages, and the captain had chosen the one nearer Bougainville. The rest of the morning was uneventful, except in the freezer room, where Phillips had volunteers sorting the meats and fresh-frozen fruits. He would serve only the best during the remaining days, and turn in the rest, some of which seemed to have acquired an odd taste.
The noon meal passed, and I returned to the ship’s office to work on the information that would be my part of the patrol report. A commotion beyond the door caused me to step into control to see what was going on, just as the Bells of St. Mary’s bonged throughout our ship. Sterling, on sound, had picked up propeller noises. Jack, with the OOD watch, had swung his scope to the same bearing, and there was a big surfaced submarine heading our way. Calling George to the conning tower, they had already swung Wahoo for a 90 track. The range was close, an estimated 1,200 yards.
The captain reached the conning tower wearing a towel Suma style, and still soapy from the shower (a no-no). On his first sweep-around with the scope, the towel came loose and fell down the periscope well. Until the mess attendant arrived with pants and shirt, the captain, quite unperturbed, made the periscope observations while naked as a jaybird. They were among his best, giving Roger an almost immediate TDC solution. Now clothed, he further identified the submarine as an I-boat, Japan’s largest attack submarine.
Chan and Roger agreed; her speed was 12 knots and course 015. From the ISWAS, I reported that we were 800 yards from her track. The tubes were ready, outer doors open, and the torpedoes set to run at 10 feet.
Hunter brought the scope up till the handles cleared the well; the captain flipped them down, and then Hunter brought the scope on up to the height of the captain’s hands. It would be a water-lapping look. It took no more than 3 seconds, and we heard, “Final bearing and shoot!” Hunter called the bearing; Roger replied, “Set;” Richie directed three torpedoes: the first amidships, the second under her bow, and the third under her stern, while Krause had the privilege of sending each on its way. The shudder, zing, and momentary pressures were all normal.
Then came the report from Buckley that we all awaited: “All hot, straight and normal!” She was a dead duck, for one or two of the three torpedoes would hit, and any sort of hit will sink a submarine.
The torpedo run for the 800 yards would take 38 seconds. The captain raised his scope 10 seconds ahead of the expected hit, and the WHACK! of the detonation blanked out the first words of his description. The first torpedo hit about 20 feet forward of the conning tower, throwing a column of spume high in the air. She commenced sinking instantly with her bridge still manned and then the bridge watch jumped into the sea as she went to Davy Jones’s locker.
A look, and I thought of taking a prisoner, but decided to leave well enough alone. It was well, for the captain ordered 200 feet. At this moment, Wahoo was shaken by a great muffled WHOMP with an intensity far greater than the detonation of the warhead, but lacking its WHACK. In the Quartermaster’s Notebook, it was recorded at 2½ minutes after the torpedo hit, and had to be the collapse of the submarine’s hull. Now we knew what it sounded like, if that was any comfort.
After George had leveled Wahoo at 200 feet, undoubtedly glad that the captain had not ordered negative flooded, we came left to 340. This would clear the coast of Bougainville and its many promontories, which we would pass after dark. We heard no further explosions or other man-made noises as we moved quietly beneath a sharp temperature gradient. Had there been any, a major part of its sound wave would have been reflected back to the surface, always giving a secure feeling.
In spite of what had transpired, sinking two enemy ships, one of them a warship, had made this patrol. Understandably, the same elation that the crew had displayed after the freighter’s sinking was lacking. In part, there was no combat pin or additional star involved, but the greater reason was the knowledge that the tables could have been turned. Perhaps not likely for us in daylight, but we thought back to Chan’s first sighting of a periscope and the later screw noises that had speeded up and then faded as from a diving submarine. This I-boat, which the captain had identified as the I-15, could have been hunting us.
10
Wahoo returned to periscope depth an hour before sunset, and then surfaced routinely deep into evening twilight. For sure, our lookouts had needed no encouragement before coming to the conning tower, but knowing Pappy, they had been warned again of the gravity of their coming watch. On a fading but still distinct horizon, I brought down our stars. (To be exact, I preferred inverting the sextant first, and then, keeping the star in sight, bringing the horizon up to it. For the altitude reading, the sextant is turned right side up, and there’s your star waiting for the final adjustment. It sounds like the hard way, but the moving star is easily lost when brought down directly, while the horizon is never lost.)
A course change of 20 degrees to 320 and one-engine speed would take us to the point that the capta
in had selected and marked on the chart for tomorrow’s patrol. It lay 10 miles off Kieta, a settlement with a harbor protected by numerous islands. From there, we could close the islands to spot any ship, and wait a couple of days for her to exit. Morning twilight of December 15 found us in position. Tall, white radio towers, extending up from abrupt hills, caught the first morning sunlight, but were the only sight to shoreward of interest here, now about two-fifths of the way along Bougainville’s north coast.
Back on course 340, a sweep-around showed two masts on our quarter. They were well separated, indicating a course parallel to ours and the island’s coast. Had we stayed on 340 she would be overtaking us; we would have needed only to pull off to port or starboard and shoot. But all was not lost, for the masts of any escorts should now show; there were none, and now below the masts, great goal-posts signified the size and importance of this ship. She was surely heading for Buka Passage, and there was nothing to prevent Wahoo from making a surface dash to get ahead of the enemy and moving onto her track. I stepped off the freighter’s positions on the chart, giving her 12 knots. One hour at full power would reach a position for a submerged approach. With only 4 days left in our area, this could be the last opportunity to turn this from a so-so into a good patrol. It seemed so sound and logical that I presented it with some confidence to my captain.
“Why, they’d have planes over us in minutes!” he scoffed, while indicating the direction of the radio towers, now well back on our quarter.
If the radio station, presumably near the towers that were actually located atop the 460-meter peak of Bakawaki Island, had lookouts, they would still have to spot and identify Wahoo as a submarine. Then, according to the Japanese monograph at Pearl, planes would have to be summoned from the enemy’s base at Rabaul, about 200 miles distant. Giving the enemy an equal capability, its planes could not reach us in time to return before dark. Even if a plane could be dispatched from Shortland, we could dive before it could attack. This we had proved in Argonaut the morning after Pearl Harbor. We had been trying to charge near-flat batteries when a Marine bent on scoring his first kill of the war dived from high astern. At submarine school, we had been informed that there was no such thing as a “crash dive”—that was strictly Hollywood. We had found it quite descriptive. Wahoo could dive a good 10 seconds faster, so the captain’s rebuttal was just another way of affirming his belief that in daylight, submarines belong beneath the sea. In conversations at the Royal, I had found that Wahoo was not alone with this problem, but in those few boats, none had our other restrictions.
11
After tracking exercises during the predawn hours of December 17 and 18 on a patrol and a fisherman, Wahoo dived for the day. Our crew suddenly remembered the course books for their next rate. December 19 arrived without further contacts, and undoubtedly, all hands gave silent cheers as Wahoo left her area to round Buka and then head for Brisbane, Australia. A third engine went on the line; the midwatch had taken over, and 30 minutes later, two blasts took us down.
Seaman Appel, our port forward lookout, heard a buzz like that of a plane close overhead. George confirmed it, pulling the plug. This was the first indication of aircraft activity in or near the area, so such a contact at night did not seem likely. But when there is doubt, sounding two blasts is a good policy. Wahoo stayed down an hour, checked the area with the SD, and then came on up to proceed on her way. The buzz was still there, caused by the lookout’s rail that had broken loose from the periscope shears. In another place, it could simply have been welded at dawn, but in this area we were subject to attack by our own planes, and had to run submerged until we had reached 10 degrees south. Pruett, with the duty chief’s watch, took care of this by sending up an old shoe heel. The rail was forced out and then allowed to spring back onto Pruett’s heel placed between it and the shears. No longer could the pipe vibrate in resonance with our dieseis.
Though Dudley had brightened the atmosphere in the wardroom for some time, he too had lost some of his joviality. But being on our way to Brisbane had lifted our spirits a bit. So when George appeared, having slept in after his midwatch and a bit late for breakfast, we called him Buzz. Always a good shipmate, George entered into the spirit of the ribbing, but the captain frowned a bit, and as the day wore on we knocked it off and went about the serious business of getting Jack and George Misch qualified. So Dudley and I took the afternoon watches, while Roger and Hank stood by the junior officers with the dive.
Though our course of 170 was leading to Australia, it was also crossing the tracks of possible shipping between Rabaul and the Short-lands, which would pass along the southwest coast of Bougainville. Just after 1600, our searches paid off—not with a ship, but with the next best thing, puffs of smoke coming up from over the northern horizon. They were drawing to the right; the enemy’s course had to parallel Bougainville’s coastline, and we changed course to intercept. Instead of drawing to the right, the true bearings of the new puffs of smoke drew left. At our cruising speed of 5 knots, Wahoo would pass ahead of the enemy. No change of base course could save that ship; a change away would run her into the island, and one towards would hasten the attack. To do just that, we went to standard speed to insure reaching a firing position before dark.
With an approach in progress that could not fail, I had the captain awakened, and Seaman Dooley on the wheel had the privilege of swinging down the handle of the general alarm. The captain came before the bonging ceased, perhaps being aware of the change of course, which would have shown on the gyro repeater in his cabin. I explained the situation orally, while pointing out the relative positions and the tracks on the chart. Then, as expected, he slowed to one-third to see for himself. This time there was not the great urgency, but he seemed to be taking undue time. Perhaps it was just me; after all, I was not holding a stopwatch on him.
The captain surprised me by taking only one bearing, lowering the scope and resuming our previous speed. He then pored over the chart. Time passed without comment, but during this period, Wahoo was drawing ahead of the enemy. It was coming up 20 minutes since his periscope observation when he picked up the dividers and commenced stepping off distances on the chart. More minutes passed, and then he straightened up, ordering, “Secure from battle stations,” and then explained that Wahoo would be within Grouper’s area before the attack.
I had known that, but surely our charge to do our utmost to sink any ship took precedence over any boundary line. I could not disguise my fury, and Dudley, facing me behind the captain, could see a crisis brewing. He shook his head slightly and then looked down. Following his gaze, I saw his right hand at his side with fingers extended and palm facing the deck, all being quickly rotated at the wrist. It was the universal “cool-it” sign, but to me it said more: On approaching a tanker, yes, but for the puffs of a smoking maru, no.
And we resumed the first leg of our route to Brisbane.
12
Regardless of the final destination, returning from patrol is like “Sailing Down to Rio,” and in this case Australia would be new to the whole ship’s company. The events of the day seemed to have been put behind by the troops, but I was finding such to be increasingly difficult; for me, they had been accumulating, with some of them degrading the position I held and insulting to me. However, the sight of Richie checking over Jack and George Misch’s Qualification Notebooks brought me up to the present and all that had to be done in the four remaining days. But nothing was so urgent that I could not accept a challenge from Dudley, who already had the pegs in place on the cribbage board.
It was the second night since George’s plunge, and now on the midwatch, two blasts sent us down again. This time it was Seaman Ater (probably a boot camp buddy of Appel’s) who had first seen a flash and then a plane’s running light, and George had confirmed it. The bearing and altitude checked with that of Jupiter, still close to the horizon. I would doubt that there is any wartime submarine that hasn’t dived for this planet, which can show white, red, or green, s
ometimes changing or in combination, and what plane would display running lights?
At breakfast, George was greeted by his new nickname, Flash. All seemed to enjoy this, including Flash, but excepting the captain who frowned a bit more than on the previous occasion. Fortunately, perhaps, George had business with his engines, so the new nickname was not given the acid test.
Wahoo had now left Rossel Island 50 miles on her starboard beam (Krause would swear to this) and was steady on course 185, crossing the Coral Sea, where the great carrier-air battle had been fought early last May, before the Battle of Midway. From here on, we should be immune from attack, but late in the morning of December 23, a British Albemarle bomber showed up that hadn’t been told about that. It may have been our new mortar-type launchers that called her in (it had happened to Argonaut, our flares bursting so high that the pilot had really thought his plane was being attacked). We dived.
Entering this plane contact completed my needed sheets for the patrol report. The others concerning weather, tidal information, and navigational aids had already been completed, but with one exception. Krause and I had found that Buka was tilted about 10 degrees too far to the east on our chart. We could now concentrate on bisecting Cape Moreton light, our first landfall in Australia, on December 26.
Having more time let me consider Wahoo’s dilemma, and to be completely truthful, my own, since from my point of view, they were inseparable. Though holding lesser positions, I had been through this before, but then senior conflicts, not operations, were involved. In both cases, I had remained aboard while my captains and execs were detached. Now in that top echelon, I was not going to let this happen to me. I loved this ship and the challenge of her full potential, but could not go to sea again with my present captain when a blowup would be inevitable. I had been mulling this over during the day, when a glance at the clock showed it was time for an afternoon sun line.
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