As the range closed, the primary ship looked like a smaller warship with RO class submarines nested, resembling those with canvas hatch hoods and awnings that Lindhe had found in ONI-14 (Identification of Japanese Warships). Positive identification was not possible with our water-lapping observations, and neither was it necessary. We would sink them whatever they turned out to be.
The captain had selected a firing position 3,000 yards from the enemy. It would allow us to remain in deep water, which would help in clearing the area. Just prior to the next observation, Roger called the TDC’s generated range of 3,750. That agreed closely with Chan’s plot.
I called, “Destroyer underway, angle ten port.” Hunter called the bearing and then the periscope stadimeter range, 3,000 using 90-foot masthead height, just as he had on Patterson. Could we possibly have been sighted? I thought not, but the captain had no option; he had to attack this destroyer lest his submarine be put in a deadly position. We commenced turning left when Buckley caught a probable zig by the temporarily muffled sound of the destroyer’s screws. A water-lapping look: he was correct, and I called, “Starboard fifteen;” Morton ordered, “Shift the rudder;” and Simonetti reversed our swing, settling on the ordered course for a 110 track. The torpedoes would strike from 20 degrees abaft her starboard beam. From the second sound position, Carter’s turn count on the destroyer’s props (the rapid swish-swish-swish) converted to 13 knots on our tables, and this ratio should be comparable. Any correction would quickly be noted by the bearings of the destroyer’s foremast that I was supplying.
All torpedo tube outer doors had been opened and 6-foot depth set. I wished only that there could have been more time for tracking.
“Any time, Dick.” The captain’s voice was firm and confident.
“Stand by for constant bearings,” and Hunter raised the scope.
“Constant bearing-Mark!” Hunter read the bearing, 345.
“Set,” came from Roger as he held that bearing constant on the TDC. The Mark had been on the after gun mount. My hands were removed from the steady scope. The impact point, her stern, was about to touch the wire.
“Fire,” and Morton hit the firing plunger, instantly sending the torpedo on its way with a shudder, zing, and momentary poppet pressure.
Two more fish were on their way to hit amidships and under her bow, all in an elapsed time of 15 seconds. Buckley reported, “All hot, straight and normal,” but I could see the faint, blue smoke of our last torpedo heading towards, not leading the enemy. They would all miss astern. We fired another torpedo with the destroyer’s speed on the TDC increased to 18 knots, but now alerted, she turned away just in time to avoid it.
The destroyer continued her turn, completing three-quarters of a circle, and then headed down the still-visible fan that had been left by our torpedo wakes. Their apex marked our firing position, and the enemy would know that a submarine could not have traveled far.
“That’s all right,” said the captain. “Keep your scope up and we’ll shoot that SOB down the throat.”
For a fleeting moment, I thought of the prewar orders covering like situations. At this range, if the angle were 20° or less, we went deep and fired on sound information. But only a week ago, I had gone through this with the Patterson, except for the final shot. The requirements were quite simple: If the firing range were greater than 1,200 yards, the destroyer, on seeing the torpedo’s wake, would have time to maneuver off its track. If the firing range were less than 700 yards, the destroyer would meet the torpedo before it had run far enough to arm. Presuming that the destroyer would be at 30 knots, she would traverse the 500-yard hitting space in 30 seconds. That is the total time we would have for our firing, but that should not be difficult; we had only two torpedoes.
I watched her come, already showing a white “V” bow wake, and marked bearings. Converting them to true, Morton instantly gave the new courses to Simonetti. In a minute, the destroyer was dead ahead and they kept her there. Now calling the scope’s telemeter divisions from waterline to masthead, Chan converted them to ranges continuously. The “V” of her bow wake had now reached the anchors, while her image filled my lens. Shifting to low power to continue had an additional advantage: the smaller image of the destroyer was much less disturbing. I had to call no angles; they were all zero, and only an occasional bearing when the wire wandered off.
When Chan called 1,400 yards, the captain passed the conn to me. It consisted of coaching Simonetti with “Right a hair,” or “Left a hair,” to keep the periscope’s steady wire bisecting the destroyer’s bow. Only seconds later, when the range was 1,250, the captain said confidently, “Any time, Dick.”
I coached Simonetti with a “Left a hair,” and then another. My wire steadied, dead center on her bow. “Fire!” and one-half my job was over. Continuing on the scope, I was barely aware of the pressure and shudder, nor heard the zing. Timewise, this torpedo could not hit before our last torpedo had been fired. The quiet seconds were still tense, but may have offered many the opportunity for a prayer.
Our last torpedo would not be fired until closing the minimum range, when the narrow destroyer would offer the widest target. The enemy was charging our scope; Chan called the ranges and I coached Simonetti. It was up to the three of us; no one else could help, except the captain with his confidence. Instantly, on the call of 850, came Morton’s welcome “Any time, Dick.”
I coached Simonetti twice, and then a third time. The captain became impatient, for after all, his was the total command responsibility. Mine was purely mechanical, to make this torpedo hit. I coached Simonetti again and the wire was steady-on. “Fire!” and we headed for the bottom, rigging for depth charge.
The range on firing had been 750, which was the best, especially since the time for our first torpedo to hit had now gone by. The props of our last torpedo had been blanked out by those of the destroyer, which were now roaring through our hull. There was no other noise, only her screws now menacingly close. We were passing 80 feet, and men commenced bracing themselves for the coming depth charges; though still confident, I chose the spot between the scope and the TDC.
The first depth charge was severe, but only to our nerves, and we braced ourselves in earnest for the pattern that would follow. A mighty roar and cracking, as if we were in the very middle of a lightning storm, shook Wahoo. The great cracking became crackling, and every old salt aboard knew the sound—that of steam heating a bucket of water, but here amplified a million times. The destroyer’s boilers were belching steam into the sea.
“We hit the son of a bitch!” rang out in unison from the whole fire control party, and doubtless throughout the boat. Never could apprehension and despair have changed to elation more abruptly. Already, George had an up angle on the boat in anticipation of the captain’s order, and with speed to help, had Wahoo back at periscope depth.
There was our destroyer, broken just forward of the stack, with the bow section canted down into the sea. Her crew, in whites, were climbing the masts and onto the top of the gun mounts in anticipation of another torpedo. Our captain gave higher priority to Wahoo’s camera bugs, and for every official picture with the Kodak Medalist through our scope, our troops took at least ten snapshots, and this included George with his Graflex.
The destroyer’s bow was now deeper under water, and it appeared that she would sink, at least half of her anyway. The rest wasn’t going anywhere in this war. Six torpedoes were enough; we could use the seventh for another ship, and besides, we faced the problem of getting to sea, all below periscope depth, and 9 miles away.
6
Using the notations he had made on the chart and my bearings, Chan fixed Wahoo’s position and Hunter lowered the scope for what we hoped would be the last time in Wewak. A single sounding showed a surprising depth of 150 feet, so the captain ordered 100 feet for our exit. At that keel depth, Wahoo would have maneuvering room, and touching bottom down there would not push our bow above the surface. Chan remained on plot; he knew his
own markings, the ones from my periscope as differentiated from Buckley’s, and the scratchings that noted varying intensity of beach noises.
We moved with careful dead reckoning at a steady 3 knots, and though I was responsible, primarily my part was only to advise a little more clearance when beach noises seemed too loud. Chan was able to advise Buckley where to search next, and sometimes Buckley would have the sounds first. They did a masterful job, and I was always able to inform the captain with confidence. It was 1900 when all beach and surf noises were abaft our beam, but the captain decided on another half-hour run to seaward as insurance.
Carter had taken over sound and made a careful sweep around before we returned to periscope depth. It was too dark for all but our search scope, and even with that I could see only indistinguishable lights astern. But that is what Morton wanted, and three blasts sent us to the surface into God’s clean air. It has a fragrance, but it takes a day submerged in a submarine before that can be appreciated. Four engines were rumbling and in minutes would take over the load from our battery, which was driving Wahoo to the north. Back on our port quarter were huge fires about the harbor, probably lighted to silhouette that submarine, should she try to escape.
All remained clear on the SJ, especially astern, so after a half-hour dash we slowed to our usual two-engine cruising speed. Not much out of our way to Palau lay the pass between Aua and Wuvulu Islands. Convoys had been sighted there, so the captain ordered a base course through the pass, with searches to port and starboard. Starting with a half-hour run 30 degrees to the left, and then hourly legs crossing the base course, would reduce our advance by only 10%, and with the SJ searching would intercept any shipping on at least a 30-mile front. I was heading to the conning tower to lay down the track when Morton interceded, saying, “George, you take over navigation for a day, and Dick, you hit your bunk.”
It was an order, but I offered two modifications: a game of cribbage first, and that Krause be relieved of duties too. In the excitement we had not particularly noticed it, but we had not turned in for 35 hours.
George and Hunter had quick verification of their morning star fix, for the duty chief’s messenger reported islands in sight to port and starboard. Louder sea noises, beyond the hull and ballast tanks, told that Wahoo had increased speed in accordance with the captain’s Night Orders. That would include a change in the base course too. Properly, a report of the change was made to me as well as to the captain across the passageway—my days of being the last to know were over.
The next report, a sighting, called me to the bridge. It was 0800, and our zigzag course had brought Wahoo to a sampan. Becalmed, the crew tried to row away, but a burst from Carr’s tommy gun across her bow brought the sampan alongside. The crew of six looked half-starved, and one of them appeared to be blind. Jayson and Manalesay tried to converse with them, but did little better than had Roger. However, the three of them, mostly by sign language, learned that originally there had been nine, all of them fleeing from the Japanese. Three had died; another was sick; and a third, we could all see, had apparent scurvy sores. Our crew pitched up oranges, fresh and canned food, part of our day’s supply of bread, and filled their water breakers. Just in time came Krause’s penciled chart to go with a can opener, and we sent them on their way with a wave and a prayer.
Wahoo went on her way too, searching continuously with normal lookouts, and raised periscopes to extend our coverage. Those on the scopes were volunteers, many of them engineers and just as capable as those with experience. It was a matter of motivation, and they had shown that by their presence.
A turn through Wahoo in late afternoon showed a changed ship’s company. Men were scrubbing up and shaving prior to the evening meal. Others were using the showers—wet down, soap up, rinse off—and those already heading for the mess room wore clean dungarees and freshly laundered skivvy shirts. Morton had been brought up to believe, as had I, that cleanliness is next to godliness. It had taken only a word to Pappy Rau, for after the experience on two patrols, this was a privilege, rather than a requirement.
Continuing aft I received many thumb-to-finger OK signs, though understandably some might be wondering just what was coming next. They were not alone. In the after torpedo room, the senior torpedoman’s mate, Johnson, with McSpadden, had withdrawn one of the fish from its tube. This would be done one at a time, and checked by them and Roger. Especially after yesterday, they would not take the chance of a torpedo failure due to a flooded after-body. I liked what I had seen coming aft, including the traditional eyes painted on the torpedo’s warhead. On leaving, I gave my assurance that, if possible, their torpedoes would be fired next. There is always great competition between torpedo rooms, and that adds its bit to torpedo performance. While proceeding to the bridge for evening stars, I experienced for the first time a truly warm, confident feeling for our submarine and her future.
The authorities had been concerned about maintaining our physical fitness while on patrol, so they provided us with sunlamps and rowing machines. These probably caused more harm than good, however, since without stowage space they were prone to trip anyone moving in the semidarkness. Empty torpedo skids had provided a stowage space, but at the expense of a crewman and his bunk. The crewmen won, with some of the machines slipped over the side, though many of the devices made it to the tender or base.
Now, some old salts who had never had to cope with the necessity of taking star sights without a twilight horizon presumed that it could not be done. Probably because of her catchy name, Wahoo was selected to try out the latest developments in aircraft bubble sextants. In them, a tiny, illuminated bubble will ride in the center of concentric circles when the sextant is absolutely level. The aircraft navigator asks the pilot to hold her steady and he gets his sights, which will give a triangle about 15 miles on a side. But the only moment of steadiness on a ship at sea comes at the end of each roll, and that doesn’t include pitch. Taking the sight at that exact moment, and having the bubble centered too, took some doing. After our normal stars, Krause and I struggled with the bubble sextant, and finally had five more sights to work out and plot. We had plotted the fix from our own stars, and put off the Navy Department’s until after breakfast. But George’s voice bellowed from the control room speaker, “Smoke on the horizon, broad on the port bow!”
7
The time was 0757, this Tuesday, January 26, and the Bells of St. Mary’s rang out in earnest for the second time on this startling patrol. The next puff of smoke was farther to the right, and the captain had Wahoo boiling through the seas to reach a position well ahead of the enemy. Topmasts poked over the horizon, their separation indicating a fairly broad angle on the bow, not over 50 degrees. In minutes, Hunter, hanging from the rungs halfway up the shears, reported two more masts similarly separated and confirming the angle. I went to the conning tower to search with the scope. It disclosed nothing more than Hunter had reported, which was good, for missing were the expected thin masts of an escort. Wahoo continued racing for a position ahead, and closer to the enemy’s track, which Chan had plotted on the conning tower chart. At 0845, nearly an hour after the sighting, our skipper was satisfied, and two blasts sent Wahoo under the seas. Only a change in the convoy’s base course could save it, and I was glad that Jack and Krause had continued working on angles with me.
Submerged, we went through the sighting of smoke and masts all over again, but once sighted, the ships came on quickly. First, angles on the bow and then estimated ranges flowed to plot and TDC, all on the leading ship to avoid confusion. Roger and Chan had the convoy’s base course as 095 steaming at 10 knots. This was a bit puzzling since it led to no known port. However, this fact and the continued absence of any escort could mean that the destroyer we had sunk had been on her way to meet these ships, and that they had been rerouted on a circuitous course bypassing Wewak. If so, it was the captain’s ordered search to each side of our base course to Palau that had found them.
The analysis had taken only a
minute or so, and gave us confidence that the convoy would continue zigging along Chan’s projected track that he had run ahead on the chart. All tubes had been made ready before we slowed for the next observation. Our submerged speed of 5 knots had nearly kept pace with the convoy, for Wahoo’s run to the point where our respective tracks would intercept was only half that of the enemy’s. Considering that the last half mile or less would be accomplished by our torpedoes at nearly 47 knots, this coming attack seemed to be in the bag.
The leading ship’s superstructure was now in sight, so stadimeter ranges followed angles on the bow. After the scope was lowered, I described to Lindhe, at hatch level, the details of the ship: mast; tall bridge structure; tall, straight stack with superstructure behind; another mast; and poopdeck structure. That should narrow the ship to a class, and next time I would supply more.
The captain was now conning his boat to a position 1,300 yards on the leading ship’s beam at our previous approach speed. Buckley had reported a 60 turn count while we were at 3 knots, and could now hear the beat through our own screws. There was no change, and we slowed again for what could be the next-to-final look. Simonetti called 3 knots; Hunter raised the scope; and I reported a zig towards, with the angle sharpened to 40 starboard. The range was 1,200, and the captain had already called for full speed and right full rudder. Wahoo would have been too close, resulting in excessive gyro angles and poor tracks. To Lindhe, I reported her plumb bow. We had a Dakar Maru class freighter.
Wahoo was turning in the direction of the convoy’s advance to gain time and would continue diagonally away at convoy speed to the originally planned position. Almost prophetically, the after torpedo room was now opening their torpedo tube’s outer doors. Morton was watching the tactical development with Roger on the TDC, and ordered one-third speed as we approached the firing position. Simonetti called our speed at each knot, now five, then four. Hunter brought the scope to my crouched eye level and followed me up about another foot.
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