Wahoo

by Richard O'Kane

  Returning to the wardroom, I talked with Commander MacMillan, who had been my second executive officer in Argonaut. Though 8 years my senior, with slow peacetime promotions he was only one rank above me. Now with two ranks, it seemed best to address him as commander, and I would set the pace in this. Though we were aware that he had been slated to be Wahoo’s first captain, I thought it best not to mention this, and after a pleasant updating of our respective families, I excused myself for a full night’s sleep, perhaps the last for a month or two.

  2

  The lines were singled up for Wahoo’s scheduled 1300 departure. She would thus reach Midway Island at dawn of the fourth day. Well-wishers who had come to see us off stepped aside for Vice Admiral Lockwood as he came aboard. He had assumed command of Submarine Force Pacific Fleet while we were at the Royal, and since then had talked with our captain. I had known him when he wore three stripes and commanded the Bass, Bonita, Barracuda Division, and rode Pruitt when she had served as target for their torpedoes. His contemporary, William H. P. Blandy, had been our division commander and rose to be Commander Atlantic Fleet. The two of them could keep any OOD hopping, and I had found it a challenge to be one jump ahead. He greeted both the captain and me by our first names. In a short conversation, he asked only one question: at what running depth had we set our torpedoes, and nodded when Morton said, “As shallow as the situation permits.” I believed that we had a force commander who was going to get to the bottom of the dud torpedoes all boats were experiencing.

  Rumbling dieseis served as an “All ashore who are going ashore.” Topside, their exhausts were spitting steam and cooling water from the mufflers, as if impatient to get on with their task. The admiral wished us Godspeed, and then stood at attention with the line handlers, but with all of them covering their ears during the prolonged blast as our submarine backed clear.

  Morton conned her through the harbor, with Commander MacMillan on the bridge. Most of the hulks were still present, if anything a bit rustier, and I knew what this first sight was doing to our PCO. Missing, however, were the battleships Tennessee and Nevada, which I had previously thought to have been sunk upright and resting on the bottom. They had been only damaged and were now being modernized at Bremerton Naval Shipyard. In continuing respect for the men who had died in all ships, we had a full section, which included our six new hands, at quarters in clean dungarees and facing each hulk. As before, there would be many misty eyes.

  Passing the sea buoy, we turned west to clear Barbers Point light, which marked the end of the long point of land and reef extending southwest from Oahu. Roger and George Misch, whom we could now call just plain George, took the watch. The special sea detail was relieved by the first section; below our submarine had been rigged for dive; and Wahoo was on her fourth patrol. Our escort till dark, a PC, took position ahead and turned with us to course 290, the heading for Midway Island, 1,300 nautical miles away. Head seas required a third engine to maintain the speed of advance for the dawn landfall, and our escort found it heavy going, as did some of our new hands. Pappy solved that by sending them up, two at a time, to relieve our leeward lookouts, and the captain took care of the PC by suggesting that she take position astern or on our quarter. Following there served just as well, for her main purpose was to identify Wahoo as a friendly submarine.

  Unfriendly were the seas to Rowls, who came forward to request a change in the menu. This would be our Washington’s Birthday dinner, and it would be impossible to keep the filling in the cherry pies. Now, once signed, the menu for the week is sacrosanct; only the captain can change it, which he would do with great reluctance since hands look forward to a specific meal (and in port, bachelors may regulate their liberty accordingly). So Morton simply suggested thickening the filling with cornstarch or such. After an “Aye Aye, Sir,” Rowls went aft, slowly shaking his head.

  The overcast sky would probably continue and preclude evening stars, so the final visual bearing and radar range on Barbers Point light would be Wahoo’s point of departure. Below, I met our new hands, all of them having specifically requested Wahoo. This had been an unexpected spin-off from our last patrol. Eager volunteers, they remained only to be trained. But already schooled in Wahoo by their Chief Redford and Petty Officer, Second Class Holman, this would hardly be necessary. With such replacements, the captain’s leave plan would indeed work, and the lingering doubts that we might put to sea shorthanded were pushed aside. Continuing with a quick turn aft, I found our ship well secured for sea, for if such had not been so, gear would already have been adrift. Proper securing had become routine, but would never be taken for granted. Not routine was the enticing aroma from the galley, where turkeys for the first sittings had just been removed from the ovens. The pleasant thought that without stars, Krause and I would enjoy a piping hot instead of a warmed-over holiday meal sent me forward.

  No Thanksgiving, Christmas, or other holiday meal could have been better. A part of this was the quick, polite serving by Jayson and Manalesay. All dishes were hot until the pies, which had been removed from their tins and served on two round dinner plates. Morton struggled with the pie knife and then called for a carving knife. With the two, he removed a precise, generous wedge. After passing the plate, he tried for the first bite, but the edge of the fork wouldn’t penetrate his slice; even the tines had trouble. Picking up the wedge, the captain shook it in front of Jayson, saying, “What do you call this?” as the slice continued to vibrate like a piece of resilient rubber. “Captain, sir,” Jayson replied, “I just serve it, I don’t cook it.” Morton burst out laughing and said, “Well, I asked for it.”

  As far as I could learn, the crew had taken the dessert in stride, though some had cut a part of their pie into chunks for pogy bait on the midwatch and such. Frankly, I believe that they would eat, in one form or another, whatever their captain, now privately called Deadly Dudley, had ordered.

  En route to Pearl and in keeping with his nickname (though I doubt he had yet heard it), the captain had nominated George Misch to lead Wahoo’s Commandos. The largest and strongest aboard, he was to pick five others—six being the largest number our rubber boat would accommodate. While at the Submarine Base, the prestige that accompanied this designation had made it easy to outfit them all. Serious and methodical about this, George had consulted the Marines for recommended equipment. The Base sailmaker had sewn individual belts, with loops and pockets to hold what each man would carry. I did not see the complete inventory, but it ranged from wrecking bars through small compound bolt or wire cutters to machetes, while at least half of the belts had deep, narrow pockets that could hold submarine sandwiches or sticks of dynamite. I believe that the whole was somewhat more than Morton had in mind, but so as not to quell such enthusiasm, he suggested only that each member keep his belt loaded and ready. They did him one better, lashing them to their bunks. Like it or not, Wahoo had an elite corps.

  A complete round of emergency drills allowed us to put them on the shelf for this patrol; from now on the alarm would signal the real thing. Daily dives and battle stations took up any slack, and at dawn of the fourth day a Navy utility plane met Wahoo on the 30-mile circle from Midway. This was a twist, at least for me, since threatening planes from the island had kept us down when on patrol just a year ago. Only the 10-degree course change to the right, as shown on our track, was necessary to reach the point 5 miles due south of the channel. Ours had been the cautious approach, since it takes only a speed error in a direct approach to an atoll to put your ship on the reef. And there was another advantage; Wahoo would be heading straight for the slot through the reef, already on the range markers.

  We could observe the seas breaking, except for a narrow space. That would be the dredged, or probably blasted, channel into the lagoon. With seas from astern, Wahoo was yawing to either side of the directed course. Under these circumstances, the steersman cannot keep the lubber’s line steady on the directed compass-card course, but must dampen the yaw with just the correct rudde
r. This was not the time for Simonetti to learn; he could do that in any good following sea, and Hunter took the wheel. The seas were smashing over the reefs to port and starboard when the captain and Hunter threaded the slot into the quiet lagoon. Now we knew the reason for an air escort; it was too dangerous for a small surface escort. The fuel pier lay to port, off the main channel, and in minutes we were moored alongside the USS Tarpon.

  It was 0830, Saturday, February 27, 1943. The fuel lines came over from the new dock immediately, while Duncan and the captain left with Submarine Division Commander (ComSubDiv) 44, the submarine command here. We had left Pearl with one job still outstanding—the replacement of the scope with the pitted tube. Half in jest, Morton had said, “We ought to have the dentists fill the damn things.” It hadn’t sounded like a bad idea to me, but at dental quarters, no one believed such a solution was practical. Here at Midway, 1,300 miles closer to the enemy, they might think differently. They did—the dentists shaking rocks and scissors to see who would get the job. Simonetti cleaned the pits, appropriately with old toothbrushes; a corpsman mixed the amalgam; the dentist filled; and Krause polished, as soon as it had set, using double-aught emery paper. Joined by the second dentist, who had apparently closed the clinic, the whole job was completed before noon, with the scope as smooth and shiny as the other one. A sumptuous submarine meal was their unexpected reward, and they would have a story for their grandchildren.

  George had not been idle, and after visiting the Marine detachment, had a story to tell his captain. The Marines had shown him and other commandos the latest technique in making surefire Molotov cocktails. A small, sealed tube of nitric acid is cemented to the inside wall of a quart whisky bottle, which is then filled with about a half cup of sodium—under diesel fuel so it won’t contact the air and spontaneously ignite. Half the diesel fuel is then poured off and replaced with gasoline before sealing the bottle. Since manufacture would be difficult on board, the Marines had given George and his men two cases all sealed and ready for action. The flames are started on the bottles’ cracking from the nitric acid, and then maintained by the sodium.

  They were dandy weapons for a raiding party, but just imagine one of them in a submerged submarine during a depth-charge attack, or at any time for that matter. But there was a possible solution. Somewhere back in Wahoo’s design, it had been decided to install two torpedo storage tubes in the conning tower fairwater. These torpedoes could supposedly have been struck below on a quiet night. Perhaps so, but this would have required the rigging of the torpedo handling mast and boom and other skids from the superstructure. No skipper would have his submarine unable to dive for a period of 2 or 3 hours. So the few boats with these tubes had long since converted them to other uses ranging from ready ammunition to spud lockers. Ours were the former, with racks to hold the deck gun’s ammunition cans, and one deck storage tube for this would be enough. So George had the problem, the answer, and a smile broader than usual when he met with the captain. Molotov cocktails properly stored in the deck tube should ride all right, and at worst would do no more than blow the door off; besides, they might just be of real use. With the stipulation that each bottle must be wrapped in rags so as to fit snugly in one of the ammunition storage racks, Morton went along with George’s project, and Wahoo’s Commandos left the ship on a rag hunt that had a deadline on Wahoo’s sailing in 1 hour.

  When Morton returned from thanking those who had helped his ship, two dieseis fired. A quick glance showed Duncan on the cigarette deck, Tarpon snaking in the brow, and then the remaining two lines as Wahoo backed into the dredged turning basin. Proceeding onto the range, a high rear and lower front marker, I looked aft like the Brisbane pilot, and kept the skipper informed as he conned our submarine through the slot in the reef and into the open sea. The angry coral heads, menacing a minute before, disappeared in the clear depths and we came right to course 293 true.

  Four thousand miles ahead lay our operating areas, the whole of the East China and Yellow Seas. To help with the voyage and give us a fresh start, Midway had topped us off with 16,000 gallons of diesel and 2,500 of fresh water. It was like having SubBasePearl 1,300 miles closer to the enemy; more than that, for our attack periscope would no longer tear up the flax packing, and those Molotov cocktails were duly stored. In the crew’s mess, Sterling’s typed copy of the pertinent page of our Operation Order now occupied a spare card holder. Other boats that had excelled were frequently rewarded with Empire patrols in one of the four Pacific areas about her main islands. Our route by Midway had indicated this, but few of us besides Krause, Hunter, and Simonetti, who had drawn and corrected the charts, had even dreamed of patrolling as far as the China Station. The secrecy until after leaving Midway was necessary since someone returning to the States might talk, and that could give the enemy time to shift some of their antisubmarine forces before our arrival. It was our intention to remain one jump ahead of them.

  We were now passing through the northern portion of Argonaut’s area, where we had patrolled for 2 months commencing 10 days prior to Pearl Harbor. Had we been to the north, sighting of the Japanese Task Force might have been possible. As it was, we were perhaps the last to know of the attack. At first, we didn’t believe our CPO’s, who got the word from the States on the shortwave band of their receiver at about 2000 our time.

  On this night, Wahoo would cross the 180th meridian, skipping Sunday, but not on Rowls’s calendar, for the menu had already been signed. Unchangeable, however, was the area we would traverse, the scenes of the famous Battle of Midway in June 1942. Japanese had decimated our torpedo bombers; the only survivor, Ens. George H. Gay, was rescued by a Catalina patrol bomber the next day. But the action of these brave men had pulled down the enemy’s Zekes, making possible our successful dive bomber attacks. Including the Soryu, sunk by our submarine Nautilus and witnessed by Ensign Gay, the enemy had lost four of her major carriers and two cruisers. Our only ship loss was the damaged smaller carrier Yorktown sunk by Japanese submarine torpedoes, but such personnel losses could not be long sustained. Now, almost three-quarters of a year later, it appeared that this battle might mark the furthest incursion by the enemy.

  Continuing head seas impeded our progress, but fuel was of more importance than our arrival date. So the captain interpreted the phrase “on or about” March 10 rather liberally, and we slowed to one engine when the seas increased, rather than spending useless oil in fighting them. This kept our new Oil King, Machinist’s Mate Lemert, more than busy, for his fuel consumption recordings would determine our speed.

  Roger’s transition to engineering officer had been smooth, for he had lived with and knew the job thoroughly; but at battle stations, we would retain his skill on the TDC. And so it was on the next fire control drill that he and Richie detected errors in the machine’s gyro angle solving section. We could still get the gyro angles from the Mark-8 solver, and by relaying the information by telephone, the torpedomen could set them by hand; but most of the great flexibility provided by the TDC would be lost. With books at hand, Richie spent his off-watch hours of the following days checking the insides of this electromechanical computer. It was a task second only to the uncounted hours that Chan had spent on our SJ.

  From March 4 to 6, enemy planes from Marcus Island to the south were possible, and I listened to Chief Redford’s instructions to the oncoming lookouts with approval. No planes, only birds were sighted, and so it remained for the following week. In another 3 days, however, Wahoo would pass through the Nampo Shoto. This is the eastern island chain extending south from the Empire and which provides a somewhat protected shipping route to and from Tokyo. Ships would be possible, and word from Richie that the angle solver was again operating properly could not have been more timely. The trouble had lain in several insufficiently tightened electrical connections and maladjusted microswitches. There was an offshoot from this trouble: we now had a knowledgeable repairman who wouldn’t hesitate in tackling the TDC’s analyzer section should it dare g
ive us trouble.

  Our route, as laid down on the chart, would take Wahoo through one of the wider passes between Sofu Gan to the north and an unnamed small island to the south. The former was also shown in relief as an almost vertical pinnacle some 400 feet tall. We would use it for the final tuning of Chan and Buckley’s SJ, and then for checking our TDC by making an approach as if it were a stopped target.

  The original radar contact on the island was at 13,000 yards; then leaving it astern, the SJ held it to 16,000. A part of this increase was probably the tuning, but once acquired, a contact can usually be held to a greater range. But we knew that our SJ was performing at its best, and similarly the TDC, which even detected the current to the northeast, shown by small blue arrows and figures on the navigational chart. Satisfied, Captain Morton ordered the course for the Colonet Strait, the major passage through the Nansei Shoto, and we came to course 274 true for the 600-mile final run to our first area.

  Maneuvering answered the telegraph; the speed called for a third engine, and Chief Keeter’s after engine room watch went through the procedure efficiently. Not the date, but the hour of our landfall was paramount, for it must permit a long afternoon submerged approach to within a few miles of the Nansei Shoto. From there, Wahoo would run the strait on the surface at night. Much of this plan depended upon the continued cooperation of the enemy air patrols, for to date there had been none. At first, this seemed unbelievable, with the south coast of Honshu, the Empire’s major island, only 150 miles to the north. But their north-south shipping would be following one of the two island chains, while east-west shipping would run close to Honshu’s south shore. We were in a no-man’s-sea, so why patrol it? That was a theory, but the duty chief, in cautioning the lookouts, spoke only of the enemy’s shoreline to the north; nothing more was needed.