Sterling had come back a day early to get ahead on the paperwork, but inherited a short job from his new captain first—an armful of placards to be placed in the spare 8½-by-ll-inch card holders in each compartment. Printed in the largest size block letters the cards would accommodate, and in bright red, they said:
SHOOT THE
SONS OF
BITCHES
And in case anyone didn’t know what the spare card holders were for, the one in the crew’s mess already had an autographed favorite pinup.
During the forenoon of January 13, our crew returned, some singly, others in groups, and many with pretty dolls to dockside. Avoiding the usual, and unnecessary mad rush to quarters was my contribution. Grouper, on leaving her area, had reported attacks but no sinkings, so most of the young ladies with tears would be smiling in about a week when Grouper’s crew relieved the watch.
An asset for Wahoo was the reporting of Ens. John S. Campbell, who had fleeted up from chief machinist’s mate. Of medium size, with dark-brown hair, and still feeling his way, he would be our assistant engineer.
Serving at lunch were Manalesay and Jayson (pronounced Hisen), both MA1c (mess attendants first class). The change in our wardroom was heartening, perhaps best described as a combination of pleasant, proper etiquette, with an overriding camaraderie. Morton was the president of the mess and set an example by recognizing the junior officers, so they were no longer hesitant about entering into any of the conversations. Topped off with correct and polite service, Wahoo now had a wardroom mess to be proud of.
Loading for patrol continued, and so did my efforts at calling angles, with Jack assisting in the wardroom and Krause in the conning tower. This worked well, giving each time for their other tasks in communications and charts. Everyone was busy.
In the morning, the captain spoke briefly to all hands, stating simply that Wahoo was going to investigate every surface contact, and if it developed into a legitimate target, we would stay with her till she was on the way to the bottom. He said if there were any who didn’t want to patrol that way they could report to Sterling, who would take care of their transfer without any aspersions whatsoever appearing in their record. This was what the crew wanted and Sterling had no takers.
Loading proceeded with such enthusiasm that the duty section could handily keep the schedule. So early liberty, helped by belated mail from home, eased the transition from friendly Australia. After the Sperry’s movies on January 15, I reported to the captain, “All hands are aboard and Wahoo ready for patrol, Sir.”
Commencing my presailing turn through the boat, I found everything in order, with the Westinghouse washing machine quietly sloshing away, and waiting laundry bags stenciled by compartment. The detail seemed to be enjoying their task, and I could see that this would be a popular assignment on a stormy night. Completely satisfied, I turned in with a good feeling towards Wahoo and confident about the coming patrol.
2
The nest of submarines had breasted out from the tender to give Wahoo extra space for backing clear. Even then, our maneuver would have to be fast for the current would push the nest in quickly when the bulge of our hull ceased to act as a fulcrum. Any damage would be to the starboard propeller of the inboard boat, but it would be a rather inglorious departure for Wahoo. The lines were singled up, ready to be taken in by Sperry’s deckhands when the captain returned with the pilot. In his business suit, bowler, and with umbrella in hand, he looked more like an English businessman than a seafarer, but we were already aware of these pilots’ skill. The dieseis were rumbling quietly but impatiently when I reported our ship in all respects ready for getting underway. The brow had been snaked aboard the tender, and now most eyes topside were on Morton, who ordered, “Cast off all lines,” for this would be his first actual maneuver before this crew. The captain was accustomed to maneuvering at New London, however, where the combined current of the Thames and the tide would exceed this and where the piers were perpendicular to the flow. I anticipated his action, but believe most others were taken by surprise when they heard a loud, “All back full.”
Wahoo hesitated a moment, still held by the force of the submarines and the tender against the fenders like giant pliers. The wash from the screws boiled alongside our hull till it literally spread the jaws, and our ship shot out of the “V” as if from a catapult. “Port ahead two-thirds,” and “Left twenty degrees rudder,” started our turn out into the river; the current caught our bow, accelerating the turn. “Rudder amidships, Starboard ahead two-thirds, Steady as you go” pointed our bow between the channel markers, and the pilot, with a nod of approval, took over. If there were any in Wahoo who had thought their new captain’s friendly manner was indicative of a carefree approach to seamanship, the last few minutes had squared that away. To me, it meant that he would not hesitate to use the 5 million watts at his disposal to close the enemy.
The captain had gone ahead standard, after a nod from the pilot, and turned the conn over to George. Morton would still remain responsible, intervening if necessary, but George would receive conning instructions directly from the pilot. Taking a lesson from our trip up the river, I would be advising the captain from a folded chart in hand on the bridge. Our position on this chart might not be quite as accurate as one plotted below, but it would be timely and of practical use. Again, we had to explain our action to the orders of “Right a spoke,” or “Left a spoke,” and I wondered if all wouldn’t have gone just as well anyway, and if the pilots weren’t just holding to salty sailing terms.
Now entering a wider part of the river, we could relax a little, and the pilot lighted a cigarette, though still keeping an eye aft at points lined up or in range. On the port hand were the cement works that I had noted 3 weeks ago, but now through 7 × 50s, I could see people wading, some of them seemingly chest deep. Curiosity got me; it was a quiet moment, so I asked the pilot what was going on over there. “Oh,” he replied with some pride, “that’s the city’s sewage disposal plant, and they’re gathering our fine oysters. Did you try them?” I may have gulped a bit, but answered that yes indeed I had, and that I had been brought up on the Oyster River in New Hampshire. It rather cemented a relationship, for he had been raised on an Oyster River in England. But hovering over all of this was the happy thought that my typhoid shots were up to date.
With the following current, Wahoo raced along the great, sweeping curves of the channel, while the pilot, already using his umbrella to ward off the summer sun, conned with “spokes” and an occasional, “Steady as she goes.” From my plotting, he could not have done better had there been a white line. Thus at 1030, only 90 minutes after getting underway, we entered the upper reaches of Moreton Bay, now pronounced “Morton” Bay in Wahoo. The way ahead was clear, except for two shoal areas which the pilot indicated on my chart as he went below to enjoy some Navy coffee, perhaps more than I would now like his oysters.
Off in the distance lay the destroyer USS Patterson, with whom we would work this day in conducting underwater sound tests. These required the quiet waters of the bay, clear of the surf, and would be of mutual value in peaking our similar equipments. We would make the first run, and after laying down a track that would leave her 4,000 yards abeam, and observing Richie and the third section take over the watch, I took a quick turn below.
Lads were still gathered around reading the brief details of our operation order, though they must have been aware of its probable main features as soon as Krause had drawn the pertinent charts from the pool in Sperry. Perhaps it was the confirmation, or more likely the fact that they were allowed to read this confidential order; I liked Morton’s approach to this—”All in the same boat, why not.” It read in brief:
When in all respects ready for sea on or about 16 January proceed to Moreton Bay for sound tests and such other maneuvers as time permits during daylight.
When both ships are satisfied, proceed to sea in company and set course for the Palaus Islands via Vitiaz Straits.
Co
nduct DD-SS exercises along route as conditions permit until 1800 January 17, when PATTERSON will return.
Adjust speed, if possible, to permit daylight reconnaissance vicinity Wewak Harbor, New Guinea Lat 4°S-Long 144°E.
On crossing the equator, commence guarding Fox schedule and pass to control of ComSubPac without dispatch. Enter Palau Area 10E on January 30th or as soon thereafter as practicable.
There were amplifying instructions, but the meat of the whole order lay in the assigned area, for Palau was in reality the western terminus of the Carolines and, next to Truk, Japan’s second bastion of the Pacific. But for the present my primary task was navigating, so after checking and initialling the menus that Sterling had typed for the captain’s signature, I rejoined Krause in the conning tower. A bearing and range confirmed our position; Patterson would be abeam in another 15 minutes, and Richie called the captain as directed.
At the end of the first run, the captain took the conn and put his new ship through her paces as she opened the range: first working up to full power and then running the turbos to see if their constant stream of bubbles would lessen Wahoo’s skin resistance and give her extra speed. It did, a bit over a knot, and since the speed was checked by ranges on Patterson, who was subjected to the same current as Wahoo, the reading of 21 knots from plot and the Bendix log should be correct. As a double check, like the race drivers, we repeated the procedure on the return run with the same result. One knot wasn’t much but it could count, and the troops knew it and loved it.
Patterson made her runs during lunchtime, and then we each conducted static listening tests of the other to see if any single piece of machinery could be heard outside of the pressure hull. It would be important for Patterson to know if an evading submarine might thus hear and track her when the destroyer was proceeding at dead slow speed, and for us when rigging for silent running on evasion. As expected, our dual-piston drain pump was our only real culprit, but other machinery, which we could hear within the boat, would also be secured, but more for reasons of saving juice and improving our listening capability than in any apprehension the enemy might hear it. By midafternoon all tests were completed, and since we had been working down the bay towards Cape Moreton, a 2-hour run brought Wahoo to the pilot boat. Our gentlemanly pilot walked across as if he were just stepping off a curb, and in company with Patterson we proceeded to sea.
The captain had taken a step in support of his exec by passing all appropriate instructions by me. The first administrative report that had bypassed me was firmly redirected, and he was otherwise helping to establish the authority and prestige that normally accrue to my office. By my unique assignment in Wahoo’s torpedo fire control, he had done even more. In this, I already had the confidence of my two assistants, Jack and Krause, but the proof would await the first ship.
Morton was not one to waste time. We had barely settled on my recommended course of 010 to pass well clear of Fraser Island when two blasts took us down. It was just the customary trim dive, but we also manned our battle stations as a warm-up for our night surface operations following the evening meal.
From dark to 2300, I manned the TBT, calling bearings on Patterson, first just a blurb out in the night, and then including angles as the range closed, giving her a distinct shape. Morton conned to the best firing position, and then I fired each simulated torpedo to hit a specific point on her side. It was his system, combining the best of the old and the new: the extra accuracy of instantaneous firing when the point of aim touches the steady vertical wire was maintained, and was combined with the accurate lead angle from the TDC’s angle solver section. The mechanics of carrying this out were very simple. For the firings, I would announce, “Stand by for constant bearings,” swing the vertical wire ahead of the desired impact point, and give a “Mark,” leaving the wire absolutely steady. The TDC operator would set and hold that bearing constant in the computer, calling, “Set.” When the impact point touched the wire, I barked, “Fire,” and Krause hit the plunger on the firing panel. We had practiced and were able to get the succeeding Mark, Set, and Fire for additional torpedoes completed handily in the normal 5-second firing interval. This may have been the first time that Morton had seen his system actually work; he didn’t say so, but expressed his approval with the thumb and index finger OK sign when I joined him in the wardroom after setting the course for the night. Cape Moreton light had dipped below the horizon just before I came below, giving a fair position, but stars would still be needed in the morning and I excused myself after a single game of cribbage.
The morning star fix, run ahead to our 0800 position, showed Wahoo already 200 miles along the line, and as is customary when cruising in company, we sent the latitude and longitude over to Patterson. During this second day of DD-SS training, the target ship would race ahead before the start of each run so the group could continue a good speed of advance. The more accurate angles one can call in daylight, combined with the captain’s conning, brought our submarine to a favorable attack position on each approach. After a short break for lunch, Morton removed all restrictions; Patterson would now charge our periscope if she spotted it. She didn’t until the last run, when the captain had me keep the scope raised. We then went through the down-the-throat procedure we had rehearsed orally in the wardroom, in which each would attack the other head-on. Patterson roared in; we simulated firing four torpedoes, then she swerved right and headed for the barn. We surfaced to receive her “Godspeed,” put her astern, and headed for the Vitiaz Straits, the narrow passage between New Guinea and New Britain. Hunter pointed the Aldis lamp at Patterson, now little more than a blurb, and relayed our captain’s oral message, “Thank-you and well-done.” Out of the night came her receipt and instructions, all contained in the single, five-letter group, R S K U M. Patterson had been a whirlwind—no wonder she had been cited for her actions in the battles for Guadalcanal. We wondered if she might not think the same of Wahoo, for our DRI showed us already over 400 miles on the way to our patrol area, an unprecedented position for the close of training.
After the evening meal, our two mess attendants cleared the table quickly and spread the green poker cloth in seconds, as if they had grown up together. Actually, Manalesay was a Chamorro or Guamanian, while Jayson was a Filipino from the island of Cebu. They had a common bond, however, for they knew only that their homes had been overrun by the Japanese. Each of them had welcomed our captain’s overture to come and fight the Japanese in Wahoo. Quiet, pleasant, and efficient, they were more than welcome.
We had finished a three-handed cribbage game and coffee when Krause appeared with the conning tower chart and instruments. We pushed the cards aside and gave attention to Morton’s remarks. He looked over our situation, now clear of Fraser Island, and approved of the course change to 350 at midnight, as shown on the chart, and with Wahoo continuing at two-engine speed. Formally, he penned the instructions in his Night Orders book, a 5-by-8-inch hardbound, green cloth-covered notebook. In addition to the tactical instructions, he had written a caution to all hands, noting that we were on patrol, on our own, just as much as if we were in Empire waters, and for every watch to conduct itself accordingly.
3
Now on her own, Wahoo was on patrol. Chan and Jack, wearing red goggles, initialled the captain’s Night Orders and proceeded to the bridge and conning tower. Whoever had the bridge would be the OOD; the assistant or AOOD in the conning tower would be the operations officer to interpret sound or radar, serve as assistant navigator, and take care of anything that would distract the OOD from his primary duties. Both men being thoroughly familiar with the status would permit the exchange of positions at any time—for putting on rain clothes, or getting a cup of hot coffee—without the distraction of a formal turnover.
There was now no such thing as an officer not qualified to stand a watch in Wahoo, and this, with the flexibility of our new OOD arrangement, was paying dividends this night: Upon surfacing in midafternoon, the exhaust valve on No. 2 main engine had
been opened prematurely, before sufficient exhaust pressure had built up, so the seas had flooded some combustion chambers. Nothing can be built that’s totally “sailor-proof,” though Fairbanks Morse engines came close, but not close enough. Water doesn’t compress; something had to give, so the shear plate in the vertical shaft that connects the upper and lower crankshafts had carried away, just as it was supposed to do. George and his engineers were replacing the shear plate, but the shaft might be bent as well as their pride.
Our new captain had his submarine over a day’s run ahead of schedule, the time he planned for the reconnaissance. It’s the dream of any submarine skipper to have a ship down before reaching the patrol area, but the lack of one engine could spoil this chance for Wahoo, since we did have a deadline for reaching Palau. When I went back to the after room, the port engine was practically crawling with motor machinist’s mates and machinist’s mates. Chiefs Lenox, McGill, and Keeter had all attended school at Fairbanks Morse, and if it could be fixed at sea, they and their assistants could do it. I could add nothing to their efforts, and went forward with the knowledge that no single engine would ever receive greater attention. More than a matter of pride, it was for their new captain, with whom they enjoyed a unique relationship.
The evening Fox carried a message for Wahoo and Grouper, and now our coding board, composed of officers not on watch, ran it through the machine. Our submarines would pass tomorrow night, but considering our advanced position, that could mean tonight. We would not break radio silence to correct the situation, but in his Night Orders, Morton penned a caution to sight the Grouper first and take evasive action if our tracks were close. It was near dawn when her black shape and then thin silhouette came in view, giving our lookouts a realistic drill. Radar or not, they must sight another submarine before it reaches torpedo range, and this they did. Having an operations officer in the conning tower had made this possible, for George Misch had plotted her position by radar on our chart, and quietly informed the OOD, the captain, and me that Grouper would pass well clear. We exchanged recognition signals by Aldis lamp, and I wondered if she had intercepted the Smoky Maru that we had tracked towards her area. Of one thing there was no doubt; she would surely believe that the staff was sloppy in plotting positions.
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