Wahoo
Page 22
As a wartime expedient to save paper, the Gulf of Pohai had been included on our chart and separated only by a faint, blue line. And unless the smaller second legend was noted, there was no reason to suspect that the soundings in the Gulf of Pohai were in feet, not fathoms.
‘Oh no!” said Morton on discovering the applicable legend, and then laughed at himself for not having read it first. This also applied to our present position, but for the moment I didn’t bring that up.
Four depth charges over a half-hour period was the sum total of the antisubmarine effort. They were all out in the channel, probably because no submarine would seek shallow water for evasion. Factually, it was all so shallow that the little loss of depth would not have made much difference.
There was, however, the problem of our long periscopes, which had to extend too high above the surface, unless we continued to run uncomfortably close to the bottom. But Wahoo had a still-untried experimental installation to use in this situation. The section of our attack periscope well extending through the control room had upper and lower flanges. Fitted with nuts above and cap screws below, they could be removed, allowing the section to telescope into the pump-room extension below. Our sanctuary was just the place for a trial, and Captain Morton directed that the well be rigged. Lowering the sleeve required only a few minutes, and observations from the control room continued. Raising the sleeve, however, required three hands, leaving no room for another to twist on the nuts. “Moose” Hunter took over, wrapping his arms about the sleeve as the others ducked clear; in a single motion he raised the sleeve, fitting the flange over the studs. McGill twirled on the first few nuts, and the reinstallation from there on was quite routine. Welding two pads on the overhead and eyebolts on the tube to receive lowering and hoisting lines would take care of any future rigging. But the loss of watertight integrity between the conning tower and the control room remained an overriding fault, and I would doubt that our captain would use the arrangement again.
In late afternoon, we ventured from our sanctuary, and keeping well clear of the promontory, surfaced at dark. Again, we had to run the gauntlet of sampan alley to put Wahoo on course 065 for Round Island light, which served as a beacon for shipping to Port Arthur and Dairen. The light had been extinguished, confirming an afternoon conclusion that the enemy would reroute the shipping. Our next task was to find out where.
Captain Morton selected a position east of the light for our submerged patrol this Wednesday, March 24, and we dived at 0505 before there could be a chance of our being sighted. It was well we did, for just over an hour later George sighted a floatplane, searching. We moved cautiously, using just one scope, and with time-honored fast sweeps in low power to initiate any search after the periscope’s lowering. It might seem a step backwards from our rather bold tactics, but we did not expect to attack this day, just to establish a route and remain undetected.
Our submerged course was again 065 and should cross the probable routes from the east. It came close at lunchtime with smoke ahead, which provided a drill for our tracking party. At our best sustained speed on a normal approach course, we maintained a nearly constant bearing, but on Chan’s plot, the firing position would clearly be inside the harbor of Dairen. Nonetheless, Morton continued to close the ship until we had plotted her track on our chart, the whole giving us one shipping route.
Our surfacing was normal for a close-to-shore patrol, giving Krause and me barely enough time for stars on a fading horizon. Our plotted position was soon confirmed by SJ ranges on the Gaichosan Retto, also shown as the Blonde Islands on our chart. The seas were calm, so Richie as OOD gave permission to dump the weighted sacks of trash and garbage through the mess-room hatch. Morton would not attend the movies, so perhaps he would break his abstinence and seek revenge on the cribbage board. But if so, an immediate resumption was preempted by the phone buzzing in its recessed box to his left: Seaman Ater had a ship leaving the Gaichosan Retto.
By the time we reached the conning tower, the pip on the screen was just breaking clear of the group; we had a ship heading our way, and the bells sounded for the seventh attack of this patrol. The troops would gladly exchange the excitement of an attack for a rerun movie, and had apparently raced to their battle stations with us.
The conning tower clock read 1927 (the year of Lindbergh’s flight) when I went to the bridge to man the TBT. The blurb of her shape was already in sight, and I called down the always-accurate visual bearings, commenting on the visibility. Wahoo lay nearly on the enemy’s track, so turned immediately for a stern shot—to do so later would present our broadside silhouette at a range where we might be sighted. I shifted to the after TBT, and the captain kept our stern pointed at the enemy, now identified as a large tanker, and advised me of the expected firing range of 1,700 yards. She was coming on fast as I called 80 starboard, and received the welcome words, “Any time, Dick.”
Like clockwork the “Mark,” “Set,” and “Fire” sent torpedoes to hit under her stack, amidships, and forward. Also like clockwork (magnetic-vacuum tube clockwork), the first torpedo detonated 18 seconds after firing—in our face instead of in the enemy’s. The second torpedo followed suit, blowing up 18 seconds after it had been fired, the two of them raising a wall of water that looked like Niagara Falls rising from the sea. Our third torpedo undoubtedly turned a somersault in passing through the cavern in the sea. The captain fired a fourth torpedo directed by the TDC. It should have been nearly as accurate, but by the time it reached the enemy’s track she had undoubtedly zigged.
Ours was not a profane ship, but if Admiral Farragut could say, “Damn the torpedoes” (really mines), so could we, and I would not be surprised if all hands did not orally or at least mentally say, “Damn the magnetic exploders.” These premature detonations could truly be dangerous, and just how dangerous we found out as soon as the spume had cleared: There was the tanker beyond torpedo range, and quite suddenly the whacks of shells hitting the sea in our vicinity, and their swish-swish-swish as they ricocheted through the air, became more than disturbing. The enemy was using their truly flashless powder, and to have a shell’s detonation as the first indication one is even on its way is a bit unnerving. When one burst just forward of our bow, throwing hunks over our shears, Captain Morton found it so too, and his two blasts took us down to think this one over.
Below, the whacks seemed louder, but these we could take. At the chart, the captain was stepping off the time it would take the tanker to reach Dairen at her speed of 12 knots. We could be there, waiting, but not if we dallied here submerged. The whacks of the shells were diminishing as the tanker proceeded on her way, and the captain ordered all preparations for surfacing. It was the commander’s turn as OOD to go topside first. The three blasts sounded. As directed, McGill gave safety and the ballast tanks an extra long blow, almost like a battle surface. The commander whirled the handle opening the hatch, but kept the lanyard in hand, holding the hatch only part way open, and called, “They’re still shooting at us!” Hunter, who was close behind the commander, looked to the captain for instructions, and in the dim, red light saw his skipper raise his fist with his thumb up. Either a long pent-up urge or immediate action in carrying out commands in the Navy took charge, perhaps both, for his quick goose sent our PCO flying to the bridge. The time was 2014.
The commander kept the conn, four engines fired, and by the time our turbos had raised her to cruising trim, Wahoo was racing at flank speed on a circuitous route to gain a position ahead of the enemy. With an extra knot from Chiefs Pruett and Keeter, our overload experts, we reached a position ahead of the enemy and still 4 miles from Dairen.
The captain pulled the plug at 2054, for we had the tanker silhouetted in the late-rising moon, and then maneuvered off the tanker’s track. She was heading directly for the harbor, undoubtedly feeling safe. Our lads had not left their battle stations, so the Bells of St. Mary’s for the eighth time on this patrol were just a formality. The tanker came on nicely, her angle opening as i
t should, and now angles as well as bearings flowed to TDC and plot. When Richie called 1200 to go with my 90 starboard, the captain gave his “Any time” at 2122.
Our constant bearings sent torpedoes amidships, aft, and forward. Chan was counting, and my heart sank when time ran out for the first torpedo, lower for the second, but the last clipped her under the stack. It is the only spot that will always sink a tanker, and she went down by the stern, sinking in 4½ minutes. Twelve minutes later, Wahoo was on the surface clearing the area, and the movies had started in the forward torpedo room. Pharmacist Kohl had brought the merchant marine book to the wardroom, already flagged to the tanker section. It took only a few minutes to identify the class of our tanker as the Syoyo Maru of 7,499 tons.
8
Our course was 150 heading for another likely spot to the east of Round Island that had been selected by the tic-tac-toe method. I had expected that Captain Morton would discuss the premature detonations, the four extra torpedoes that had been required (totaling one-sixth of our load), and the unnecessary exposure to shelling. But the ship had been sunk; all of that was past, and his words concerned the coming days and how we might best use our remaining torpedoes. First came the speed error that had caused a near miss on the tanker. Since Chan and Richie, on plot and TDC, had agreed on 10 knots, there had to be a speed error in our Pit log or in its transmission to the TDC and conning tower indicator. But we should have recognized that a tanker, having been fired on while making 12 knots, would hardly slow down. The captain took the responsibility, but it truly lay with all of us. The solution, after the mechanical error was corrected, lay in having TDC and plot announce their speed and course determinations during the approach, followed by a “Check with TDC,” or plot. Then at least one of us would note such an error.
The arrival of the duty chief’s messenger changed the subject as he reported that the SJ training gear had jammed and that the auxiliarymen were working on it. That would mean Chief McGill and Lemert or Chisholm. The captain liked the report (not the breakdown), for it was complete and showed action already taken. “They’re upstaging us,” he commented, and taking the hint, Richie and Chan went after the Pit log troubles. SJ jamming was not unexpected, since lubrication had failed to relieve its erratic rotation. The training gear was, after all, just a bit more than a jury rig, whose most dependable part was the never-failing General Electric washing machine motor.
To fully use all of the talent embarked in Wahoo, and perhaps to make amends for Hunter’s impulsive action, Captain Morton had asked the commander to share the nighttime command responsibilities. And so, when Krause called me for a round of stars on the rising moon’s horizon, I found the commander on the bridge with his first wartime contact. He was in complete charge of the situation, and surely this would be true in whatever submarine he would soon command. The initial contact was a faint light that had drawn to the left, giving every appearance of a port running light. The commander had ordered the normal approach course, and now the faint outline of a ship could be seen by the lookouts, who were above a light surface haze.
Quietly, the fire control party was called. With the commander’s agreement, I informed the captain of the ship that the commander was conning Wahoo to a position ahead for a dawn submerged attack. He thanked me, and I assured him that he would be called in ample time before we dived. He seemed to welcome the chance for more shut-eye, which was certainly understandable after our successive attacks.
We missed the SJ, but everything else was in our favor: sufficient moon for nighttime tracking, time to gain the best possible position, and a target that was zigging only mildly—all of these promised success for a submerged, crack-of-dawn attack. Calling accurate angles in partial moonlight is difficult and has to be based primarily on the length of the ship seen rather than on details. Nonetheless, tracking was soon able to establish her base course of 345 heading for Port Arthur at 9 knots. Except for mild variations—some of them zigs and others probably poor steering—she maintained course and speed. It was now 0330, with Wahoo maintaining a position 10,000 yards ahead of the enemy and 1,000 yards to the east of her projected track. I called the captain personally, but left it up to the commander to provide him with the details. About 10 minutes later, he took the conn, thanking the commander, and two blasts took us under the sea at 0355.
Roger had leveled her off nicely, reporting, “Satisfied with the trim,” and the Bells of St. Mary’s held reveille again. Now in the first gray of dawn, with her angle opening, I could call respectable angles with details as well. She was a smaller plumb-bow, mast-funnel-mast freighter with a short superstructure amidships; Kohl at the lower hatch made notes. If she continued on, the firing range would be about 1,300 yards, which was fine, but if she zigged towards, the range could be halved. Then the captain might fire a single torpedo to really make them count. So I was not surprised when he had only two tubes readied.
But that was the captain’s business, and I now concentrated on mine, calling, “Port 30,” when I could see a half ship’s length, then “45,” and finally, “Port 90,” when the square face of her bridge came in line. Hunter read the accompanying 1,300 and 85 degrees; the angles had to be good. “Shoot when you’re ready, Gridley” came from Morton by way of variation, but there was no change in the firing procedure. “Constant bearing-Mark!” “Set,” from Richie. Her mainmast was about to touch the wire. “Fire!” and the captain hit the plunger.
Fifteen seconds later the second torpedo went to her foremast. The run would take 52 seconds and Chan’s count had already passed 15 when we heard Buckley’s, “Both hot, straight and normal.” Hot and straight they may have been, but not normal, for the first torpedo detonated 48 seconds into the run, throwing a monstrous geyser into the sky. The second torpedo continued unperturbed and so did the enemy ship. I watched the torpedo’s wake leading the freighter properly. On time, the second crack of detonation hit our hull and a cheer filled the conning tower.
“She’s still going, Captain,” I had to report, and received his, “She can’t be.” I stepped aside and for a moment he took the scope. He asked if I had seen any guns on her, and when I replied, “Not a one,” Morton ordered, “Make all preparations for battle surface!”
We had just had a trial run in shifting from battle-stations-torpedo to battle-stations-gun and today it paid off with all preparations completed in under 10 minutes. With gun captain Carr, pointer Smith, and trainer Wach in the conning tower, and the ammunition train with canned rounds at the mess-room hatch, Wahoo made a fast battle surface. Four times the normal high-pressure air brought her decks well clear of the sea; the gun was cast loose and loaded and the first round was fired at 0448, just 12 minutes after the last torpedo had been fired.
The very first round hit in the after deck house of the fleeing ship, a good shot from about 2 miles, and Richie, who would have spotted the splashes to a hit, was able to call, “No change.” Shortly, a shell exploding in the freighter’s stern knocked out her steering, and her bow fell off to port. Morton quickly closed the ship, as Carr concentrated the fire on her waterline abreast the engine spaces. An incessant fire, now from a point-blank range of 100 yards or so, poured round after round into her vitals, until her lower side looked like a colander.
“What’s that, an escort?” said Morton, after swinging his 7 × 50s to the thin mast our lookouts had reported. I thought of the “antiquated coal-burning corvette” and knew that the captain had the same apprehension. Here, we’d have no secure depth; our freighter had been stopped, holed, was listing, on fire, and sinking. Prudence called for distance, but based in part on hope, my answer came out, “I don’t think so.” Then I added, “If you’ll order check-fire, I’ll be able to tell for sure through the scope.” Captain Morton did one better, ordering, “Cease fire,” and the commander, who had dropped below during our speculation, beat me to the scope, reporting that she was a small, engine-aft tanker or freighter. Apparently, she had been closing to find the reason for the
smoke, and Wahoo made that easy by heading to intercept.
The following minutes gave the gun crews a chance to rest, to kick the empty ammunition cans over the side, and for the 20-millimeters to cool down. The large, 4-inch brass cases were valuable as a critical material (as well as for the manufacture of souvenirs, no doubt) and were quickly struck below—none too soon, for the deck gun action resumed immediately.
The captain had turned Wahoo, putting the tanker on our quarter. Keeping her there, Carr would still be able to reach her with the 4-inch; and with speed, as necessary, we could keep the enemy from closing to machine gun range. We underestimated her a bit, for her machine guns were about 40 millimeters and ranged uncomfortably close until we put her dead astern to open the range. Obviously, we had not given sufficient thought to her possible speed, which we now plotted at 14 knots. That was sufficient to overtake us whenever we turned enough for our deck gun (forward) to bear. She was tough and kept on boring in while Wahoo went through successive maneuvers in opening the range and turns to shoot. Carr and company were able to fire about fifteen rounds on each maneuver, concentrating on her engine spaces aft; Richie, with battleship gunnery experience, spotted successive shell splashes to hit. After our fourth or fifth maneuver, 4-inch shells finally disabled the tanker’s engines. Morton conned Wahoo to a safe position on the enemy’s beam, and from there our deck gun silenced her machine guns and set her afire. At no time during the action had Commander Morton endangered a single member of his crew. The freighter sank at 0614, and the captain followed through by ordering full power to clear the area before the first enemy plane could arrive.