We had spent an hour and a half putting this last ship down, and would have to do better on the freighter or we would be attacking in partial moonlight. It would give enough light for her to spot us, but not sufficient for our scopes. The time was 2036, just 11 minutes after firing on the tanker, and we commenced an approach on the last ship of the convoy. Our plan was simple—present only our sharpest silhouette when within her sighting range—and that meant an abbreviated end-around. Her zigs were frantic, but far from bothersome, for they slowed her progress along the base course. Her gunfire, however, was something to behold. A dim, reddish flash, no more than from a flashlight, would be followed by thunder and the thump of a shell splash. It was the same flashless powder that we had observed in Argonaut off Midway on the night of December 7, 1942. But here, we, not the island, were the potential target.
The gunfire was obviously at random, but became a bit disconcerting when a nearby splash was the first indication that we had been spotted. They weren’t supposed to be able to see us at this range. The “convincer” was a shell splashing dead ahead that ricocheted over our shears. The gun had our range and the captain pulled our plug.
In the security at 90 feet, we thought this one over as the wumps of shell splashes resounded through our hull. It was dangerous up there, and a dawn attack at periscope depth seemed the answer. We were, after all, a submarine. But the captain decided to size up the situation on the surface before making his decision. The intensity of the wumps had now diminished, and three blasts sent us up.
The surfacing procedure was normal; lookouts manned their stations, the engines were firing, and the turbos would screech for about 5 minutes. Above it all was Seaman Wach, our port forward lookout, pointing and shouting, “Searchlight broad on our port bow!”
Richie hopped up with Wach; the beam was just coming over the horizon, and with full power, Wahoo would be able to intercept the freighter should she close it. Morton had already presumed that she would, and that this was a destroyer sent to rescue this remaining ship. Chan had plotted the freighter’s position with a radar range and my bearing from the forward TBT, and now we did the same with the destroyer. The captain directed plotting the destroyer at 20 knots to go with the known 10-knot freighter’s speed, so Chan solved graphically the algebraic problem of their meeting point. Morton picked a point on the freighter’s track 5 miles before the junction, and then a firing position 3,000 yards off the track. Chiefs Lenox, Keeter, and Pruett got us there with minutes to spare, and after reversing course with full rudder, we slowed to steerageway.
I commenced almost continuous bearings on the freighter’s stack from the after TBT, not calling angles, for on a known course TDC’s would be better than mine. The captain kept our stern pointed directly at the freighter, which was now steering a steady course. A reassuring, “Checks with TDC,” or “Checks with plot,” followed my bearings and the one angle I had just called, “Port ninety!”
Perhaps grasping my impatience, “Any time, Dick” came immediately.
“Constant bearing-Mark!”
“Set,” came over the speaker. Her stack was coming on the wire. “Fire!”
The second and last torpedo followed 15 seconds later to hit in exactly the same spot, for the captain wanted no cripples. The shudder and zing, followed by Buckley’s report, were normal for each torpedo, and I reported their phosphorescent wakes on course. The range was longer than had been our custom, but everything else looked good, and after all, our torpedoes could hold a course within one-half of a degree. All of this gave me confidence as Hunter called the seconds over the 1MC for the troops. There was more than a freighter involved, for if these torpedoes hit, a return to Pearl and a ticket to the Royal would be assured. Morton came to the bridge and then aft to watch the freighter from beside the TBT. Two minutes had passed and there was less than a minute to go. In the speaker’s background, we could hear George exclaiming over the torpedo run. He must have moved over to the chart desk, next to the 1MC, and seen Chan’s plot, for in his measured, southern voice, the following words came over loud and clear: “Paine,” he said. “If those torpedoes hit, I’ll kiss your butt.”
About 15 seconds later came the first of two detonations that shook Wahoo a mile and a half away. A quarter hour after the detonations, the destroyer was sweeping a clear sea with her searchlight. The freighter, long since identified as of the Arizona Maru class, had sunk. The time was 2128, still Tuesday, January 26, and we set course 358 for Fais Island with its phosphorite works, and just off the route to Pearl.
Except for George and Jack with their customary watch, and the captain, we were gathered in the wardroom. After a word and friendly smile through the doorway, Morton started forward to seek out every hand and personally thank and congratulate them. As far as he was concerned, this was their day, but I believe they felt just the opposite. For sure, our captain had lived up to his statement to all hands after taking command, and he had the wholehearted respect of every one of us. Naturally, there was only one subject in our discussion: none of us had heard of any other submarine sinking her first ship before reaching her patrol area, to say nothing of a convoy of four more ships. These were the things submariners daydreamed about but never expected to happen. Like some other boats, we had long possessed the capability, but it had taken Morton to cast aside unproven prewar concepts and bugaboos. Dead serious during battle, he still commanded with a flair that captured the support of all hands.
The fighting was over, but not the flair. Returning to the wardroom, the captain called for a pad of lined paper and started composing a message for ComSubPac. Crossing out words and adding others, the final version read:
SANK DESTROYER IN WEWAK SUNDAY AND IN FOURTEEN HOUR RUNNING GUN AND TORPEDO BATTLE TODAY SANK CONVOY OF ONE TANKER TWO FREIGHTERS AND ONE TRANSPORT DESTROYING HER BOATS TORPEDOES EXPENDED PROCEEDING PEARL HARBOR VIA FAIS ISLAND
Handing it to Chan for encoding by the board and transmission, he reached for the cribbage board. While I was dealing, Morton raised his forearm diagonally in front of his chest, and with his finger pointed for emphasis, like a preacher, he said with a smile of satisfaction, “Tenacity, Dick. Stay with ‘em till they’re on the bottom!”
The success of this patrol, of any patrol, was in that statement. The captain had made his own luck by starting already 400 miles en route, and with some well-planned daring. His luck didn’t hold for cribbage, however, and after the rubber game, I joined Krause for midnight stars. While on the cigarette deck, he related the captain’s having assured him that taking over the firing panel had nothing to do with Krause’s lucky torpedo; he had just realized when in that position he could hold up a firing at the last second should it be advisable. Then the captain had added, “It’s fun too!”
Our midnight stars had shown us in the ball park, and dawn stars on the money. Wahoo would make a dawn landfall on Fais Island, 24 hours hence, and have the day for a submerged reconnaissance. All was going well, so I changed the Plan of the Day, making it a rope-yarn Sunday. No action would be required; the duty chief would simply run the schedule accordingly. But the call, “Smoke over the horizon!” took precedence.
9
The time was 0720, January 27, and John Campbell had made, perhaps, his first wartime sighting in submarines. He had called an initial TBT bearing, the required first action. Standing watch with Chan, they had already brought Wahoo to an intercepting course. This would provide a good drill for our tracking party; they were called, and I told the captain what we were doing. At 0801, the topmasts of three ships poked over the horizon. Plot had a mean course for the enemy of 146, and we pulled the plug for a truly realistic drill.
A half hour into the approach, upon reporting the masts of three more ships, the captain could stand it no longer and took the conn. With 10 feet of scope exposed, I gave him the picture: Four large freighters in column, followed by a large tanker, and then trailing by about two ship lengths, a small freighter. For one of the few times, the capta
in took a look for himself, sweeping past the major ships and then concentrating on the small freighter before lowering the scope.
“Dick,” he said. “We’re the only ones who know we don’t have any torpedoes; the enemy doesn’t know that. Supposing we were to battle surface and make a run at them. Wouldn’t they likely run off leaving the small freighter behind for our deck gun?”
Having seen big guns on the leading ships and none on the trailer, I was all for it, but with one slight modification—that while the gun crew got ready, we move out to about 9,000 yards from our present 7,000, to put us outside their guns’ expected range.
Chief Carr had jumped the gun and had his crew ready before we were. The battle surface went smoothly, but this time, only Carr with his pointer and trainer went out to cast the gun loose, and then returned through the conning tower’s after door. The captain headed Wahoo diagonally towards the convoy to see what would happen, and all engines went on the line. It had taken the enemy a couple of minutes to assess the situation, but now black smoke belched from their stacks, and flag hoists were being run up to their yardarms, and the signals executed (hauled down). Zigs and column maneuvers ensued, giving the impression of general confusion. Perhaps they had been warned of a mad-dog submarine on the loose. Quite suddenly, however, a column reformed and laid down quite respectable gunfire.
The splashes of the shells remained short, and we headed for the trailing ship as planned. When the smoke, pouring down the length of the convoy, cleared, we found that our small freighter had been replaced by a tanker. That did not change the captain’s plan; she might be carrying gasoline, and our deck gun could blow her up, or at least set her on fire. All looked good as we raced towards an initial firing range of 6,000 yards. Buckley on the SJ called 7,500, then 7,000.
“What’s that?” said Morton. “Right beyond the middle ship!”
In seconds, two thin masts slightly canted to the right came into the clear between ships. Their relative movement, opposite that of the convoy, gave the impression of high speed. They had to belong to the convoy’s escort, which had been off on a morning search somewhere on the convoy’s port bow. As her hull came in view on rounding the tanker’s stern, our captain reluctantly put her astern using full rudder. Already at four-engine speed, we handily left her behind as she shoveled on more coal, leaving a black cloud of trailing smoke.
“Why, that antiquated coal-burning corvette!” chided Morton. “What a hell of a thing to have escorting a six-ship convoy. Why, the Emperor deserves to lose every ship he’s got.”
Within 20 minutes, Wahoo had opened the range to 14,000 yards. The “antiquated coal-burning corvette” by now had stopped her profuse smoking; all of that smoke could have come from lighting off more boilers. Exhorting our engineers, we continued to gain another 3,000 yards. Motormacs can always find an extra knot or so at a time like this. But now, looking aft with our 7 × 50s, we tried to convince ourselves that the escort was not gaining. The SJ had taken this delightful time to act up, but it doesn’t take much of a seaman’s eye to recognize the tips of a bow wake’s “V.” They appeared to be even with her deck, and very slowly the “V” filled in as her bow came over the horizon. She would know that coming much closer would put her within torpedo range, and it was with some relief that I observed her turning slowly to the right.
The captain had different thoughts, saying, “Hot dog, she’s giving up. Why, we’ve dragged her a good thirty miles from her convoy, counting its run. She can’t afford to leave it unprotected.”
We were both wrong. As the escort continued to turn, her appearance changed to that of a full-fledged destroyer, at least the equivalent of the Asashio or Fubuki in Wewak. When broadside, she seemed to lay over to starboard as she let fly with a salvo that gave the impression of a battleship shooting at us.
“Watch for the splashes,” said Morton, still undaunted and keeping his binoculars towards the destroyer.
Now I had spotted shellfire in gunnery practices—from the firing ship, not from the target. But if the captain thought this was the only salvo or that it was going to fall way short, then I would spot the splashes with him. About 3 seconds later a mighty clap of thunder to port and starboard sent me towards the hatch with ringing ears. I saw the shell splashes a half ship’s length ahead; she had straddled our shears horizontally. In the excitement, the captain sounded five blasts instead of two, and I had to drag him down the hatch when he stopped to check on his lookouts. Hell, they had dived for the hatch on the flash of gunfire. It was Wahoo’s fastest dive, and well so; the next salvo whacked overhead as our shears went under.
The speed log still showed 15 knots, with Wahoo at a 15-degree down angle as she passed 250 feet.
“What depth, captain?” called George, who had already blown negative.
“Just keep her going down,” was the reply. It was obvious that Wahoo was going to exceed test depth, so George used his best judgment and caught her somewhere below the last numeral on the depth gauge.
“Rig for depth charge” was apparently an unnecessary order, for Pappy reported back immediately, the troops having taken that for granted. Morton conned our boat through a fishtail to get us off our original track, but that was the only maneuver possible, for the destroyer’s screws were already resounding through our hull. In a minute or less, they would roar menacingly overhead, and then would come the tense wait as the depth charges sank to the preset depth for detonation.
There were two theories concerning minimizing damage from depth charges. One was that a boat under strain from excessive depth needed only a moderately close charge to cave her in. The other, probably believed by fewer of us, was that at greater depth the increase in total force on the hull is minimal (100 pounds per square inch when going from 200 to 400 feet), while the chance of even receiving a lethal charge when at twice the depth has been reduced to one-eighth, for depth charging is three-dimensional bombing.
I was not rehearsing these figures as the destroyer roared overhead, but as long as Wahoo’s hull didn’t mind, George’s depth suited me fine.
“Now we’re going to catch it,” said the skipper, softly, as the screws roared above. The tense waiting was longer than expected; the destroyer had set the charges’ firing hydrostats deep. Six tooth shakers cracked and whacked, dumping seeming tons of bolts into our superstructure. Our stout ship suffered no damage, but I doubt that anyone could ever become used to these taut moments.
The destroyer’s screws did not slow, probably wanting nothing more to do with a submarine that would attack on the surface in daylight, wondering what she might do submerged. It was a mutually agreeable withdrawal. In the wardroom Morton reached for the cribbage board and sent for Lindhe. It was a legitimate time to dispense some depth-charge medicine, and our pharmacist, in charge of the medicinal grain alcohol, would likely supplement the small, individual bottles of brandy.
After losing the first game, the captain pushed back his chair, saying, “Dick, I think we’ve been stretching things a bit. Let’s stay down here and relax for about 30 minutes or so.” Down here was now 200 feet, where a minimum watch was required, and 30 minutes was about the time that would be required for him to win the next two games. Chan’s arrival with a message that had come on the Fox before dawn changed our plans. It was ComSubPac’s answer and read:
ADMIRAL HALSEY LIKES YOU FOR GETTING DESTROYER SUNDAY X WE ALL LIKE YOU FOR GETTING ALL FOUR SHIPS OF CONVOY YESTERDAY X YOUR PICTURE IS ON THE PIANO XX
The message seemed a bit mild to me, but the arrival of Jayson and Manalesay bearing bowls of fresh-frozen strawberries to go under our depth-charge medicine changed our conversation, and shortly thereafter, we changed our depth. We did, after all, have a contact report to send and a rendezvous tomorrow with Fais Island.
All was clear on scope and sound, so three blasts sent us up and on our way. Again, three engines were on the line, for the destroyer had driven Wahoo in the wrong direction. As plotted from the DRI, the setback could be
made up handily. We would know for sure in another hour, when a sun line in the west would give a better longitude line. Until then our bow was slicing modest seas towards the island.
The time was 1415. Chan had encoded our contact message, and was having his radiomen go up and down the scale in harmonics of our basic frequency of 4,155 (8,310-16,620 and so on); they could not raise NPM at Pearl, so they transmitted the message blind several times. We’d try again at night.
The evening Fox brought the following messages:
COMMANDER IN CHIEF PACIFIC FLEET SENDS WELL DONE TO WAHOO THE SHIPS YOU HAVE SUNK WILL DECREASE THE ENEMYS CAPACITY TO CARRY ON THE WAR XXX
FOR WAHOO FROM COMTASKFOR 42 QUOTE ADMIRAL HALSEY SENDS CONGRATULATIONS FOR WEWAK JOB ALSO FROM TASK FORCE 42 FOR NEW EPIC OF SUBMARINE WARFARE COMPLETE DESTRUCTION OF LOADED CONVOY UNQUOTE X INFO ALL HANDS X WAHOO LT COMDR MORTON COMMANDING TWO DAYS AFTER SINKING DESTROYER AT WEWAK ENCOUNTERED UNESCORTED CONVOY WHILE ENROUTE PALAU X WAHOO SANK ENTIRE CONVOY TWO FREIGHTERS TANKER AND TRANSPORT DESTROYING HER BOATS AND EXPENDING ALL TORPEDOES DURING FOURTEEN HOUR BATTLE X TWO MEN WOUNDED X
These dispatches were more to the captain’s liking, and one jump ahead, Sterling had typed a copy for the crew’s mess, with carbons for spare card holders. For sure, they would remain a part of Wahoo’s history, but there was now more to the story. The captain called for the plain-language copy of our contact report and the pad of lined paper from his desk. Omitting the padding words that are placed before and after a message to increase its length and security, he copied the facts of what, how many, where, and what doing. On the line above and below, he toyed with his own padding, though using those words to convey a message was frowned upon. When satisfied, he pushed the pad out to the center of the table for the rest of us to see. On decoding, the total message would now read:
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