Wahoo

by Richard O'Kane

  I was a bit early, for Krause was always punctual, and the captain was there on the cigarette deck. I was about to give my usual greeting, “Good afternoon, Captain,” but he spoke first.

  “O’Kane,” he said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  Except for substituting my name for his rank, he had spoken the exact words that were on my mind. And what had prompted this statement? I had not long to wait, for after pausing, the captain continued.

  “I have just been checking the ship and aircraft contacts that you tabulated for the patrol report, and you have failed to include the plane that buzzed us and the one with running lights!”

  “I had believed that neither was a bona fide contact, Sir, but if you think otherwise, I’ll include them as soon as I’ve taken this sun sight.”

  “Please do,” said the captain, and then, relenting a bit, commented more to the wind and sea than to me, “You’d probably make a good submarine captain.”

  For me, taking star sights is always accompanied by a bit of wonder, and on Christmas Eve with reverence too. This would be my second on war patrol, and like others, my thoughts were far away. Rowls, showing foresight, had eased the situation by having turkeys thawing. Usually, the senior cook or chief commissary steward is informally referred to as belly robber, but for good reason I had not heard this in Wahoo. In our Christmas dinner, he “done himself proud.”

  Cape Moreton light sits atop a bluff and is visible at sea level for 26 miles. From our bridge, we could add another 15 miles, and from the raised search periscope, its loom could be seen from at least 50. Our evening stars were followed by another round at midnight. The loom showed dead ahead on schedule. The captain came to the bridge and ordered stationing the special sea detail. Believing he might still be half-asleep, I pointed out that Cape Moreton was still 5 hours away. He repeated the order. The time was 0300.

  The pilot boat, waiting in the open sea off the cape, put her bow to ours, and the pilot, wearing a black suit with bowler, and with a black folded umbrella in hand, hopped nimbly aboard. Intentionally, I believe, he had met us about a half-hour’s run from the sea buoy, for after directing the course, the pilot went below with the captain for coffee, and maybe breakfast too.

  Pappy had been quietly rotating the watch so the special sea detail could get their breakfast, and now Krause took care of ours by returning with two special turkey sandwiches that had been put together by Rowls. Normally, this would not have been my first choice, but having been up all night, the sandwiches and a mug of crew’s coffee were perfect.

  Returning to the bridge just in time, the pilot conned Wahoo into and then across Moreton Bay. Having this open water gave us an opportunity to adjust to the pilot’s orders of “Right a spoke” or “Left two spokes,” which would have given us increasing rudder angle. Quickly, we interpreted this as 5 degrees right or 10 degrees left rudder, and the pilot readily agreed.

  The total run to Brisbane would be 90 miles, and the fun began on entering the 60-mile, truly serpentine river. Here, the pilot faced aft, giving “spoke” orders when buoys or other markers that only he knew came in range (lined up). Chan, Krause, and I tried to keep Wahoo’s actual track plotted on the chart—good only for the court-martial that would follow a grounding! That necessitated my spending most of the time on the bridge identifying objects and the occasional buoy number. Our progress was slowed by the current created by the summer rains, but we finally reached civilization, marked by a cement works on our starboard hand, where people could be seen working in the river. A few more turns and the river opened into a large basin, almost a bay, and there ahead to starboard lay Sperry alongside the quay.

  Part Four

  THIRD PATROL

  Brisbane to Palau and Pearl

  1

  As is customary, the pilot had turned the conn back to our captain. Taking full advantage of the current, he used just enough speed and rudder to move Wahoo sideways into her berth alongside Sperry at New Farm Wharf in Brisbane.

  It was 1215, Saturday, December 26, 1942, and the special sea detail had finished a 9-hour watch. I had expected them to head for their bunks, but the same relief crew Wahoo had first enjoyed at Pearl Harbor was coming aboard. Our troops knew the way to the showers and the disbursing office, so in relays, with hamburgers in hand, and packing their gear, they were off to the awaiting busses. Their rest camp would be a reserved floor of the downtown Hotel Canberra; hardly a camp, but I dare say no one would object.

  Adm. James Fife, Jr., ComSubSePac, and Captain Styer, about to make admiral, came aboard and congratulated our captain on the two sinkings, the required number for the recommendation of a Silver Star medal. With one of them a warship, the decoration was practically certain, and for sure, no skipper could have been under greater strain. Surprisingly, this had been the best patrol in that area for some time.

  There was a house, complete with cook and steward, reserved for skippers, and I saw my captain, so exhausted that a consecutive patrol seemed unlikely, off to his awaiting transportation. Jack was waiting too, with a car and driver to take us to an apartment house without mess attendants, which was more than all right with us. Of the two suites, ours on the second floor was the more spacious. There was another advantage, we were quick to learn: none of the windows were screened, and the flies and mosquitoes preferred the first floor.

  We had stopped for a dozen cold, tall bottles of Australian ale, and now, with our feet propped up and with glass in hand, since the bottles were too big to hold, we were truly relaxing for the first time in nearly 2 months. I had not and would not be discussing my visit with Commander Grenfell, and neither had any of Wahoo’s officers considered that Dudley’s orders were anything but routine. So we were again talking of the separation of the captains and how it could affect our patrol, when Dudley suddenly appeared in the doorway and called, “Do you mind if I shack up here?”

  We had a quorum, but after another round of ale, all conversation turned to food, since none of us had eaten more than a few sandwiches during the last 24 hours. All of our officers had now rallied around, so Dudley phoned for a lorry. The dispatcher must have been tempted to send a delivery wagon, but probably judging from the background noise, had a taxi with jump seats at the apartment in minutes.

  It was too dark for a sight-seeing tour, so the driver took us directly to what he said was the best restaurant, adding, “You might as well go to the best; they’re all the same price.” That seemed to be a strange statement, but it was forgotten as we entered an old-world restaurant with its deep mahogany paneling, generous tablecloths, and the aroma of a dozen entrees being carried to guests already seated. This took some of us back to our midshipman cruises, and just as then, we were ready to try two or three entrees. At our table, however, was a card, plainly printed so there could be no mistake; each person could spend a total of three shillings six pence for food. So that’s what our cabby had been telling us—it did seem a simple and just means of rationing.

  While others were stewing, a waiter passed close by with a generous platter of fried oysters. It was one of the modestly priced entrees, and permitted the selection of a salad, one vegetable, and dessert, all within the allowance that was equal to about ninety cents. Then too beer or ale was not rationed; I guess the Aussies wouldn’t have stood for that. So this part of our rest and recuperation looked good, at least for me and the oyster eaters.

  Few of us had had any sleep during the last 24 hours, and now pleasantly filled, we commenced nodding. When two went to sleep, we were surely creating the impression of Yanks passing out on ale. I’m not sure who did the urging, but we all tumbled into one cab and were delivered back at the apartment house door. Two flights up, turn left, and then straight ahead took me to my bunk. The others’ navigation must have been successful too, for they were there when I started frying ham and eggs that had been kindly left in the refrigerator by our immediate predecessors; at least they had smelled fresh. The breakfast got us
off to a good day of walking and relaxing, our first in about 2 months without scheduled demands, giving an exhilarating sense of freedom. Our four duty commanders—George, Roger, Chan, and Richie—had experienced the same, and taking a practical step, had rented a beach cottage, and all but Chan, with the duty, were off with their gear to catch the last narrow-gauge train. As a water polo player, that would suit George to a T, but the very thought of moving again, even going out to a restaurant, made me feel weak.

  Rummaging around the kitchen, I found the makings of a good supper right at hand, thanks again to the former occupants, and an important ingredient from Wahoo. Immediately, I had takers in Dudley, Jack, and George Misch, maybe because they were too tired to eat out. The entree would be tuna delight, which is tuna on toast, smothered by cream sauce, but with a twist. I made the cream sauce with lots of fresh creamery butter, flour, and milk, while Jack drained and heated the tuna and prepared the hot, buttered toast. The tuna went on the toast, but just before passing the cream sauce, came the twist: Four small bottles of depth-charge medicine (still LeJon brandy) were stirred in at the last moment so as not to lose the alcohol to the atmosphere. It even added to the sauce’s golden color. String beans on the side, and canned peaches for dessert seemed to satisfy everyone, and it fulfilled the color code requirements from the Steward’s Manual. Perhaps mindful of the moose story, there were no complaints.

  After another breakfast and time for reading the latest letters from home, Dudley and I again started a long walk towards the countryside. We had established a good rapport on patrol, in part because Dudley was able to view the somewhat taut situations more objectively. Now, we spoke more fully and found that we were of a mind in all submarine fundamentals. Out from under a command echelon, at least for the following days, our conversations were uninhibited.

  Dudley talked at length of his first patrol while commanding the R-5, which he fondly called the “Nickel Boat.” (She had been one of my school boats at New London, so mechanical explanations were unnecessary.) Late one afternoon, off the Virginia capes, the periscope watch had sighted a surfaced Nazi submarine at long range and presenting a large angle on the bow. R-5 had approached till her can was flat, reaching a range of 4,000 yards before it started to open. At the last moment, in the increasing dusk, he had fired a spread of four torpedoes that missed. In the endorsement to the patrol report, Dudley had been criticized for not searching for the enemy after dark, when any hunter would recognize that in so doing, R-5, moving on the surface, would have become the target. In return, I told of Argonaut’s first patrol.

  Late in the morning of the last day of 1942, without ceremony, Dudley W. Morton took command of Wahoo. Back at the apartment, my new captain told of the PCO school he had attended just before coming to Pearl.

  “Commanders Patterson and Hensel were our underway instructors, and while I was on the scope calling angles on the bow, reading the telemeter scale for the range, giving orders to the steersman for rudder and speed, whirling the ISWAS, and checking plot for the new course, the instructors would be making entries in their notebooks. After the approach, they’d compare my actions that were recorded in the Quartermaster’s Notebook with their recommendations. Because they could concentrate solely on conning, they almost always arrived at better submarine maneuvers and more quickly.”

  Captain Morton paused, but only long enough to bring over a bottle of ale, and then continued.

  “Now you’re going to be my co-approach officer, not my assistant. You’ll make all of the approach and attack periscope observations, or on the TBT if we’re on the surface. I’ll conn Wahoo to the best attack position, and then you’ll fire the torpedoes.”

  He paused again, and his serious countenance changed to the usual engaging smile as he added, “This way I’ll never get scared.”

  This opportunity and sharing of responsibility was new within our submarine forces. I answered with a simple, “I appreciate your confidence, Captain,” and told him that I was off to the Sperry to make a lazy Susan for our ship models. I would need them to sharpen the ability to call angles on the bow quickly and accurately.

  There’d be no fried oysters or tuna delight this evening, for we had all been invited to a New Year’s Eve party. In anticipation, I had taken my shower on board after providing Sperry’s carpenter’s mate with the azimuth circle from a mooring board plotting sheet. He would saw a wood circle to fit, with dowels to take our models, and pivot its center on a square fitted with a brass pointer. Back at the apartment, the captain had rated first call on the tub, and any others could look forward to a cold plunge. A leisurely bottle of ale got us on the road, and our hosts, in full Australian tradition, took on from there. Away from home and excited about my singular opportunities in Wahoo, my thoughts remained elsewhere. If I verged on being a wet blanket, however, the junior officers more than made up for it, since apparently the party had continued most of the night, maybe longer.

  We had a leisurely breakfast aboard Wahoo; the phone would have buzzed to relay the word from Sperry’s bridge of any ship movements. All seemed to be quiet in the harbor, so willing hands from the relief crew manipulated the lazy Susan perched on the sideboard at the after end of the wardroom. Through one barrel of a pair of 7 × 35 binoculars inverted, I called angles from the pantry scuttle on a realistic target. In part to keep interest, but also to rest my eyes, we’d exchange places. It thus became a game of trying to beat me, and gave my assistants an appreciation of the task. They were at a disadvantage, for to the inexperienced, a half ship’s length looks like a 60 to 70 degree angle, but it is only 30 degrees (the sine of 30 degrees is one-half).

  The captain had not been idle, for the dehumidifier holding tanks had been replaced by personal lockers, and the ship close-ups were gone. Should a ship be that near, either she or Wahoo would already be on her way to Davy Jones’s locker. In their place, one to each compartment, hands were placing page-size cards containing the statement by General McNair that had been met with violent objection by the clergy. The printing on the cards was similar to that on an ophthalmologist’s chart to be read from across the compartment. None of our troops, who would return in a few days, could avoid these words:

  WE MUST FIGHT

  WE MUST SHOOT TO KILL

  FOR OUR ENEMIES

  HAVE POINTED THE WAY

  TO SWIFTER SURER

  CRUELER KILLING

  There were still two vacant card holders in each compartment, three in the crew’s mess, and I wondered what the skipper had in mind for them. I would preempt the one in the crew’s mess that had the central location, for a photograph of Olivia de Havilland, autographed to the crew of USS Wahoo, with love, had come from home. Perhaps the skipper was saving the best for the last, but for sure, Wahoo was off on a broad reach.

  At lunchtime on January 11, 1943, I was called to headquarters and shown a relayed message. On the previous day, a returning Australian bomber had observed a submarine attack on a small Japanese convoy and the following counterattack. After repeated depth charging, the submarine’s bow had emerged at a sharp angle and was shelled until it disappeared. One destroyer-type ship had exploded; two other ships appeared to have been hit. It was sad news, especially for me, since the submarine had to be my dear Argonaut, and was made more difficult by her recent history.

  Admiral Withers, ComSubPac, had been the only force commander to have all of his ships (not in upkeep) at sea or on war patrol at the time of Pearl Harbor. He had definite ideas concerning the use of the V-boats Argonaut, Narwhal, and Nautilus to raid the Japanese coastal installations: Argonaut to lay mine fields and then join the other two for bombardment with a combined firepower of a light cruiser and from a greater range. Argonaut could have done so, departing from Midway; it was the humidity from 50 days of all-day dives that caused her fires, and this wouldn’t have happened in cruising to and from the Empire. The admiral insisted on this immediate use, but lost the argument and his job.

  With new engines
and air conditioning, Argonaut was even more capable to carry out her original missions as a minelayer and raider. But after the successful Makin raid, Admiral English visited her and agreed that her mine gear was much too noisy for use close to enemy shores, and authorized its removal to convert Argonaut to a Marine transport.

  All of the years of work, the three consecutive 100% mine plants prior to Pearl Harbor, the official sound testing including one off Pearl Harbor in which her mine gear could not be heard by the listening barge with its sophisticated equipment just 200 yards away, had all been ignored or was unknown in making this snap judgment.

  As it turned out, there was then no further use for Argonaut, and ending up in the South Pacific at Brisbane, she was finally allowed to go on antishipping patrol into the hot area south of Rabaul. If a fleet boat were stripped of one battery, two engines, six torpedo tubes, and could use no more than 15 degrees rudder, she would still have greater torpedo attack and evasion ability than Argonaut.

  It was well that a ship was coming up the river to demand my attention, though the initial angles were difficult to see. But what better way could I add meaning to this loss than by sharpening any expertise brought from Argonaut. From the thought came dedication, and from the calendar, urgency, for in 6 days, Wahoo would be getting underway.