“Bearing-Mark.” Hunter read 175; the leading ship was crossing our stern broadside to us. “Any time,” said the captain.
“Constant bearing-Mark.” Hunter read 179.
“Set,” came from Roger. Her mainmast was about to touch the wire.
“Fire!”
The second torpedo was marked and fired to hit under her foremast. We shifted immediately to the trailing ship, and with identical procedure sent torpedoes to hit under her masts. The time was 1040.
A reassuring report from Buckley—”All hot, straight and normal”—was punctuated twice by torpedo hits in the leading ship, but only once in the trailer. A glance at the quartermaster’s log showed why: Only 17 seconds had separated the two firings, and the gyro setting mechanism hadn’t had time to catch up for the third torpedo.
The captain commenced swinging Wahoo to bring our bow tubes on, and I made a periscope sweep to check on our targets. The first freighter was listing and sinking. In the confusion of both submarine and periscope’s swings, I was going the long way around for the second freighter, but she came in view, big and fat.
“You’re on the wrong bearing,” advised Morton.
“That may be, but I’ve got a big one coming at us with a zero angle!”
“That’s all right, we’ll shoot the SOB down the throat,” he said.
I had hoped never to hear those words again, much less in just 3 days. Now on the firing line in rifle practice, you never say shoot or fire unless you mean it. Krause and I had practiced my sharp bark when I said, “Fire,” and his hitting the firing plunger; soon it had become instantaneous. It was instantaneous on the captain’s, “Shoot,” too, and Krause had his own $6,000 torpedo charging out into the South Pacific.
I watched the torpedo’s wake leading straight away from our bow’s position at the instant of Krause’s firing. It was missing the ship so far that her skipper would be laughing if he even saw the wake. But wait—the ship apparently had seen it, but it was so far out they couldn’t tell if it was coming or going. She was doing the safe thing, turning right to get the hell out of there, and would pass nicely within torpedo range. Buckley and Carter were reporting propellers ahead and to port, so after a single setup for Roger and Chan on Krause’s ship, I continued the sweep around. The first freighter was about to sink, but the second ship was heading toward us, though not dangerously close.
Back to the ship at hand, now presenting a broad angle, I could see that she was worth the other two put together, for we had a large passenger freighter or transport in our grasp. I called her angle port 70, and Hunter read 1,800 yards. Plotted on her true bearing, she was still making the convoy’s speed of 10 knots. The captain was satisfied and at 1047, we fired Krause’s two companion torpedoes, one to hit under her foremast and the other under her main.
Buckley was keeping us posted on the torpedoes, both running hot, straight and normal, for our attention had now shifted to the second freighter. Though showing no bow wake, she was menacingly close, and had probably spotted my scope on the last firing. Buckley had our torpedoes’ props blending with those of the transport, and the captain called for two torpedoes down the throat of the menacing freighter. The firing was momentarily delayed by the welcome “whack and thunder” of our two fish as they hit the transport, but then proceeding with the down-the-throaters seemed almost routine. It was probably the contrast, for the freighter was closing at no more than 6 knots and her beam was a good four times that of the destroyer. We went through the procedure precisely, and at 1053, Wahoo had two torpedoes on their way. Carter reported the thud of the first torpedo’s hitting, but there was no detonation. The second fish announced herself with a tremendous explosion, but the freighter just shuddered a bit and kept on coming.
For the first time since Wewak, Wahoo was on the defensive, and the captain ordered 100 feet. George took us down, while our skipper maneuvered at full speed to get out from under the freighter’s possible positions, lest she carried defensive depth charges. That was Morton— be on the offensive or defensive, never in between. But that didn’t include standing easy at battle stations till the situation above became clear. It took Buckley 8 minutes to sort the ships out, and that gave enough time for hands from battle stations to bring back coffee and the sandwiches Rowls and Phillips had prepared. Without request, Jayson and Manalesay took care of us, and Wahoo headed up ready to shoot.
A periscope sweep showed the freighter on our port quarter, heading away, and the transport about 2 miles ahead, apparently dead in the water. Our first freighter had now gone, and her turbulent sinking had caused some of the noises so confusing to Buckley and Carter. There was nothing confusing about our next target, and the captain increased speed to close the transport. A series of true bearings on her stack did not change; she was a sitting duck, and we maneuvered for a precise shot at her vitals. She was putting up a fight by shooting at my periscope, and I found myself ducking when the small-caliber shell splashed close ahead, since mentally my eye was at sea level. At 1133, after the captain’s “Any time,” I called, “Fire.” This time, it was the captain who hit the plunger.
The torpedo’s wake streaked towards the point of aim, amidships. It hit in 45 seconds, but there was no explosion. A second torpedo, with an identical depth setting of 8 feet, followed. Its track jogged a bit to the left and then settled down towards a point halfway between her stack and bridge. The fire control party was cheering it on, as if it were a horse with their money on its nose. It was more than that: American lives could be riding on the result. This torpedo did not fail. Pappy on the search scope and I on the attack both watched a tremendous explosion blow the structures aft of her bridge higher than a kite. Momentarily we saw a gigantic hole in her side bigger than a Mack truck, until she listed towards us.
Immediately, Morton headed for the crippled freighter, the second ship attacked with a single hit, and as soon as we had steadied, the camera bugs took over the search scope. The transport was launching boats, and troops were jumping over the side as she settled forward. We would not need Lindhe’s identification, a Seiwa Maru class transport, but it would be good for the patrol report.
In a surface chase, with about a 3-knot differential, a stern chase is a long chase, for you are closing at the speed of a walk. Submerged, with little more than a knot’s advantage, our prospects did not look good. We were taking cautious observations so as not to have our scope sighted, but frankly, it would not have made any difference. Having seen her two companion ships head for Davy Jones’s locker, she would know that her turn was next. Her engineers were undoubtedly doing their damndest to get more turns on her screws. The stadimeter range remained steady and then started opening slowly. To add to that, Chief Pruett came waist-high into the conning tower to report that both batteries’ pilot cells were down to 1,060. Though with that specific gravity we could cruise at 3 knots, Wahoo was no longer capable of the high speed that could be required in an approach and the following evasion.
It was time to charge Wahoo’s batteries and our own, for after all, we had been making approaches and attacks since breakfast, and it was now past noon. The freighter called a break for us by managing to put another boiler on the line, and slowly increased speed to her original 10 knots. George Misch manned the search scope in tracking her, and Hunter passed the bearings to Chan. We would plot this ship’s track for later pursuit. To our surprise, George reported another ship coming over the far horizon and closing the freighter. The new ship’s thick masts, almost in line, made her look like a warship. She could be coming to the rescue of the Japanese troops, and if so we were already in an intercepting position. But the ship turned right, joining the freighter, and displaying a large stack aft. She was a tanker, and we still had torpedoes for both of them. As they headed north, I was able to provide Lindhe with the final details he needed to identify the freighter’s class. He had already recorded her plumb bow, the old-fashioned counter stern with structure above the poop deck, and exceptionally
tall midships stack. I was able to add a forward king post, another in her forward and after well decks, and a small mast between her bridge and stack. Within minutes, the party had settled on the Arizona Maru of 9,684 tons, a larger ship, but not as important as the transport with her troops.
Rowls’s noon meal was served as usual, with those not at a sitting remaining at their battle stations. With enemy ships in view, the crew would not have wanted it otherwise. But now, with only mastheads in sight, the captain ordered, “Secure from battle stations and prepare to surface.” Five minutes later, at 1310, three blasts sent Wahoo up to a quiet, empty sea. Our three good engines all went on charge while the turbos were bringing our submarine up to cruising trim; then one main engine went on propulsion to take us back to the scene of the transport’s sinking. It would be over a 6-mile run and, at our present speed of 9 knots, would require more than 40 minutes. That was too much time, and Morton ordered another engine on propulsion at about 15 minutes into the run.
When about 3 miles off, we could see a minimum of twenty boats loaded with Japanese troops, the craft ranging in size from scows to a small cabin cruiser. In a serious, considered tone, the captain ordered, “Battle stations. Man both guns.” Morton must have seen my questioning expression, for “Dick,” he said, “the army bombards strategic areas, and the air corps uses area-bombing so the ground forces can advance. Both bring civilian casualties. Now without other casualties, I will prevent these soldiers from getting ashore, for every one who does can mean an American life.”
He was, of course, correct and had no option. To do otherwise, with islands and the coast of New Guinea within reach to the southwest, would be aiding and abetting the enemy, a court-martial offense.
With Roger, Richie, Jack, and the gun captains assembled, Morton gave explicit instructions. “I’ll order a single four-inch round at the largest craft, and we’ll continue in to see if we draw any return fire. Keep your crews in any protected area until I order commence firing. Machine guns, it’ll be your job to chase the troops out of their boats, and Chief Carr [speaking directly to the four-inch deck gun captain] you smash up the boats. There’s only time for a single pass, so use maximum rate of fire.” Besides the deck gun, we had one 20mm machine gun and two Browning automatic rifles; all were manned and ready.
The single four-inch deck gun round splashed just short of the largest craft, probably ricocheting through it. All of the troops seemed to have dived into the sea, but about 2 minutes later, the craft returned a long burst from a machine gun. Immediately Captain Morton ordered, “Commence fire!” The time calculated from surfacing (at 1310) was 1342.
Wahoo’s fire, all to starboard, was methodical, the small guns sweeping from abeam forward like fire hoses cleaning a street. The Japanese troops, in khaki with shorts and all wearing life jackets, sought safety in the sea as the deck gun demolished their boats, pausing only once when Carr fired his 45 toward a nearby Japanese soldier who was about to lob an apparent hand grenade toward the gun crew; both missed. Not seeing the reason, Captain Morton gave a sharp, “Knock it off, Carr!” Some Japanese troops were undoubtedly hit during this action, but no individual was deliberately shot in the boats or in the sea. The boats were nothing more than flotsam by the time our submarine had completed a broad half circle and Morton ordered, “Cease fire!” before 1400 as seen on the chart.
8
Our course was 025 to regain contact with the enemy, even though we had seen the two ships heading due north. If we had headed farther northward to intercept them, and they had resumed an easterly course, we could miss them altogether. On 025, our flank speed would reach a position where their tops would still be in sight no matter what course they had steered. It was another example of basing your strategy or tactics on enemy capabilities, not intentions.
Below, Lindhe and George were taking care of our two casualties, which had only momentarily affected Wahoo’s gunfire. The piping hot, 20mm gun barrel had jammed and was quickly replaced by a spare. About a minute later, the projectile exploded, blowing the cartridge out the breach, and igniting the powder. Fireman Glinski, who was making his first patrol, suffered two mangled toes from fragments of the cartridge case, and Torpedoman’s Mate Tyler received a piece embedded in his shoulder. Both of them and Doc Lindhe, who had been standing by, had some powder burns.
The doctors had succeeded in keeping any operating instruments off our allowance lists, though our grand senior pharmacists, I believe, were on a par with many hometown doctors of a generation ago, and right up to date in medical reading. The lack of one instrument was solved by Motor Machinist’s Mate Chisholm, Wahoo’s new auxiliary-man, who produced a brand-new pair of wire side cutters from his toolbox in the pump room. Rowls boiled them along with a suitable knife. After a numbing shot, Lindhe removed the remnants of the dangling second toe, but decided that the third toe might be saved. Sutured, splinted, and well doused with sulfa powder, Glinski’s foot gave the impression that a major operation had been performed. Tyler, looking on, had not been forgotten. The dark outline of the fragment, or at least the blood, could be seen, but lacking instruments, its removal would await Pearl, especially since we had targets for our remaining torpedoes just over the horizon, and Wahoo could almost certainly check Palau off her list. A padding to prevent bumping the wound and a sling to reduce mobility were Tyler’s badge of combat.
Volunteers were in line for a turn at the scopes, and Fireman Whipp reported smoke from the fleeing ships at 1530. The single puff was on our port bow, and we changed course to intercept. In minutes we had mastheads indicating their course of north. We had intercepted the enemy the long but sure way and had ample daylight hours to gain an attack position.
Morton conned his submarine parallel to the enemy’s track on courses I provided from the mooring board plotting sheet. My information came from Chan on the search scope and we would alter positions. Backing us up was George Misch, perched like King Kong atop the shears. The courses would keep us just beyond the enemy’s horizon—unless George should stand up—giving Wahoo a tremendous advantage. Roger and the fire control party were not idle, and had the enemy zigging along a base course of 350 and still at 10 knots. George Grider, with Lenox and Keeter, had all mains carrying their maximum load, even the one with the twisted vertical shaft, and at 1721, Wahoo was dead ahead of the fleeing ships. After my final look, confirming that the masts were in line, the captain pulled the plug for our submerged approach and attack.
Wild zigs by the enemy ships, sometimes in unison (which is usual), but at other times in column movements (ships turning in the same water), taxed our fire control party and our battery. At times, our log showed speeds up to 10 knots, but by 1830, the captain had Wahoo in a good position on the tanker’s, or engine aft freighter’s, port beam. We would attack this undamaged ship first.
“Constant bearing-Mark.” Hunter read 016.
“Set,” came from Roger; her stern was coming on.
“Fire!” Morton hit the plunger; the shudder, zing, and momentary pressure told that all was well. The second and third torpedoes went to her midships and bow, but our own screws drowned out the torpedoes’ propeller noise. The captain was swinging Wahoo with full speed and rudder to bring our stern tubes to bear on the freighter. I was passing bearings to him when a great flash enveloped the tanker, followed almost instantly by the whack of one torpedo’s detonation. The freighter turned away before reaching our firing bearing. But we still had those torpedoes. Three blasts sent Wahoo up and after her. To our surprise, the tanker was still going, now close on the freighter’s port quarter. Instead of four torpedoes aft for the freighter, they must now sink both ships.
Staying with the tanker, our first approach to another good firing position went well. Turning to bring our stern tubes to bear put us broadside to the enemy for a moment. That was all the tanker needed in order to spot us, and she was turning away before we could bring our stern tubes to bear. We tried from various positions, but now alerted, t
he tanker was even faster in her evasion. Perhaps she had all extra hands on lookout, or had better binoculars than ours. But our captain was not at a loss: He simply turned Wahoo around, and ordering all back full, we chased the tanker down going backwards. All did not go exactly as planned, for as we neared full speed late in the approach, the force of the sea against our rudder was greater than that of the hydraulic steering rams. The rudder swung right, looking aft, taking us into a sharp turn. That served to confuse the enemy more than it did us. We barged ahead at full speed on the convoy’s next zig and were in fair position when the ships zigged back.
Accepting a range of 1,850 yards, the captain’s, “Any time, Dick,” came over the TBT’s speaker. I checked my binoculars again to be sure that the hinge pin was firmly wedged in the “V”-shaped receptacle, and then called, “Constant bearing-Mark.” The wire was amidships, and now her engine spaces aft were coming on.
“Fire!” The second torpedo was marked on her bow and fired to hit under her bridge structure forward. The tanker was apparently waiting for us to make our move, but two curving phosphorescent wakes were doing that for us. Morton came to the bridge in time to see the wakes disappearing into the night, but with lead angles that appeared correct. We had not long to wait, for the torpedo run would take only 72 seconds according to the word over the speaker. A flash aft of amidships and the instantaneous whack below our feet made the time academic, and the captain called, “All ahead full,” as we went after the remaining freighter. The course took us by the sinking tanker, but only in time to see her after section canted at about 30 degrees. The details in silhouette checked with Lindhe’s party, the Manzyu Maru of 6,515 tons.
Wahoo Page 15