9
The two lines of our wake stretched back to the scene of the last action, which was still marked by a fading column of smoke. The commander, manning the attack scope, had seen the tanker sink there at 0625, and he was now scanning the horizon for an expected patrol. Topside, our lookouts were concentrating on the skies for an almost sure plane. Our track on the chart led to O To, our original destination. That vicinity would still offer good hunting if the ships Wahoo had just sunk were unable to report our presence. A tall, dancing pip on the SD radar answered that question at 0640, and two blasts took us down for the day. The jig was up for the northern area and we changed course to south. This would throw off any search based on our having been sighted heading for O To; and not to be overlooked, Wahoo’s bow was heading for the barn.
Now, for the first time, Kohl was able to present the findings of his party and the crew. There could be no dispute; the ships were of the Sinsei and Hadachi Maru classes with gross tonnage of 2,556 and 1,000, respectively. And for any later verification, our camera bugs had had a field day throughout the surface actions.
Simonetti had also come forward bringing the Quartermaster’s Notebook showing tallies of ninety and then eighty rounds of 4-inch. For the 20-millimeters, the entry simply read, “lots of pans.” These could be counted later. Obviously pleased, and proud of his crew, our captain went aft to congratulate them. For sure, this had been their day.
Seabirds provided our only contacts during the morning, which suited most of us who welcomed a few hours of normal cruising, but at noontime a call for the tracking party came over the IMC. George, on the search scope, had a large passenger freighter at about 16,000 yards, according to our height of eye tables. She was presenting a broad, but not impossible, angle and Wahoo was off at high speed to intercept. No further observations were made until the generated range on the TDC read 8,000, since they would have slowed our approach. Morton killed our speed quickly by backing for a minute. Krause raised the scope and I called starboard 40 as my assistant read 7,500. We could reach a firing position, and again the steersman rang up full speed.
“If she keeps coming, we’ll go to battle stations,” advised Morton, for after all, getting two tubes ready could be done in a minute. At an expected range of 5,000, we looked again, and I sadly reported that the ship had reversed course and was making smoke in her departure. We could surmise that she had just received a submarine warning and would never know that she had missed being torpedoed by less than 30 minutes.
An hour after the freighter had reversed course, our volunteer on the search scope reported a plane and pushed the button to starboard, lowering the scope. Jack swung the slim search scope to the bearing and reported the plane on various courses, searching. We kept her in sight until she departed, probably low on fuel, but she was replaced by a new-looking echo-ranging destroyer with a 15-degree port angle on the bow. With two torpedoes of dubious value and a sick battery, Wahoo went on the defensive for the first time on this patrol.
Fortunately, perhaps, we were in one of the deeper parts of the Yellow Sea, 30 fathoms, so we eased down to 150 feet, 30 feet off the bottom, and slithered away from the echo-ranging destroyer. During the following 3 hours the intensity of the echo ranging became gradually weaker, and was punctuated by a single depth charge before fading out altogether. We were in no rush, so waited until dark before surfacing, and then cleared the area at three-engine speed.
A day of cruising in murky weather, without drills or contacts, provided rest for all of us, and also brought us to the East China Sea, at least according to our chart. Without stars, Krause and I were relying on dead-reckoning and estimated positions modified by soundings, and also a working SJ to warn us of land. With the captain’s agreement, our tracks were laid down on the safe side, well clear of land. So on March 27, when the fog cleared disclosing our SJ contact as a trawler, we believed that our position was 40 miles west of Saishu To.
The time was 1022, and the trawler had an antenna array far in excess of the need of any fisherman. She was probably sending out a contact report on Wahoo, or would as soon as she spotted us. The captain meant to prevent this, and the Bells of St. Mary’s chimed again for battle-stations-gun. Our 4-inch, with its remaining eleven rounds, would immobilize the trawler, and then the three 20-millimeters would wreck her upper works. Finally, George and his Wahoo Commandos, waiting in the wings, would complete the destruction by setting her afire, and incidentally dispose of those Molotov cocktails once and for all.
Seldom do such plans proceed as directed, but this one did, up to a point. Carr’s professionals laid their shells into her hull, stopping her after the fifth or sixth round, and then, using the “meatball” of the Japanese flag painted on her deckhouse as their point of aim, fired a 4-inch shell right through its middle. “Show-offs,” said Morton, obviously tickled with their proficiency. We watched the remaining shells strike at or just below, her waterline, the latter sending small geysers up her side. The trawler was a rugged ship and seemed to absorb all of the hits with little more than a shake, and not even that for the deckhouse shot. Further, she showed no signs of fire, sinking, or of even settling, so perhaps the majority of our shells had plowed into her holds filled with fish.
The roar of the 20-millimeter gun was more impressive, and so was the wreckage, but that was because it was topside and plainly visible. The gun experienced jams, but the crew was able to dunk the barrel into the cooling tubes that filled with saltwater when we were submerged, so there were no explosions. By the second barrel exchange, the water had boiled away; the crews had completed their task, and to prevent a possible explosion and injury, the captain called, “Cease fire!”
The commandos formed a cocktail train manned by Kirk, Berg, Muller, Seal, and Carter, with Chief Lane in charge. It led to O’Brien and Ens. George Misch, who would heave the Molotovs from our bow. If we had had another half hour at Midway, they could have practiced heaving quart whiskey bottles filled with water; for there had been lots of empties near the workmen’s barracks. So today they found that you cannot throw a 2-pound bottle like a football. Captain Morton took care of that by putting our bow so close that the job would be easier than pitching horseshoes. The following bottles smashed against her deckhouse, each bursting into a roaring sheet of flame, but dying out as soon as the fuel had been consumed. The cocktail train moved forward so that each commando could pitch his bottle and then fall in at the start of the line with another in hand. Regardless of the number of bottles or where they landed, the soggy trawler would not catch fire. The flame and smoke did give our cameras another field day, and more important, all of the Molotov cocktails had been expended.
The captain backed Wahoo clear, and to our surprise, a half dozen or so crewmen came up from the far side of the trawler where they had weathered the attack by hanging onto her port rail or ducking into the trawler’s small boats. In unison, they thumbed their noses at us as Wahoo withdrew. With such pluckiness, they would probably get their ship back to port, and I would not be surprised if they had shut down their engine so that, believing it wrecked, we would shift our fire.
10
Our course was 120, a route that would take Wahoo to the south of Danjo Gunto. If the overcast continued and thus permitted surface running, we should make a radar landfall on the island by late in the afternoon, still Saturday, March 27. From there, we would patrol the shipping lanes between Shimonoseki to the north and Formosa about 500 miles to the south.
On March 28, two motor sampans absorbed all but our emergency 20mm ammunition as we patrolled from Danjo Gunto to the southeast. Our track was exactly 145, and not entirely by chance would pass close to Kusakaki Shima and from there through the Colonet Strait. By Monday, the twenty-ninth, still without a suitable target, Morton was becoming impatient, and even more so as he examined the chart that Krause had brought to the wardroom that evening. Circling a shoal at the entrance to Kagoshima Wan, the large bay at the southern tip of Kyushu, he pointed o
ut that shipping had only two routes to the large city of the same name that lay at the bay’s upper reaches. Further, a submarine would have but a short run to reach the 100-fathom curve after an attack.
In almost every venture, I had been wholeheartedly in support, but with only two torpedoes, a sick battery, and the currents that I had pointed out upon our entrance to the East China Sea, I had to recommend saving that spot for another patrol. Morton thanked me for my frank opinion, saying, “We’ll put that on the shelf, at least for a day or so,” and we had the first rubber of cribbage in very nearly 2 weeks. By winning, the captain seemed to regain his usual patience, and we searched ahead, having left Kusakaki Shima astern. Deteriorating weather could preclude dawn stars, so I requested an 0230 call for a night star fix, and flopped on my bunk. In a twinkling, or so it seemed, I felt the customary shake of my shoulder, and Krause saying, “Lieutenant Commander, you’re needed on the bridge. We have a ship and your promotion just came in on the Fox.” I believe there is a saying that good things come in pairs, and for sure I could not have wished for more, especially the chance to get these last two torpedoes on their way.
The enemy ship, still an indistinct, black shape, lay well back on our starboard quarter. Radar and our after starboard lookout had reported her at the same time, which might pose a problem for Chief Lane in dividing the crew’s pool. We had forgotten all about taking stars, as I was marking TBT bearings for Krause below. This was just another advantage of our system, for my manning the scope would be the only fire control change upon diving. At the moment, the fire control party had manned their stations and the captain was with me on the cigarette deck.
Any change of bearing was unnoticeable to us on the bridge, but not so to plot and TDC, who also had accurate SJ ranges. She was overtaking on a course of approximately 080 that would cross our track, and had probably been sent on a southern route from Shanghai to avoid the submarines to the north. So our captain had been right in attacking the trawler and snuffing out her radio transmissions. He now conned Wahoo to the enemy ship’s track and ordered the same course.
We were not hurried, as we had been with the tanker off Dairen, because morning twilight, which Krause had entered in the captain’s Night Orders Book, did not commence until 0345. Stopping and killing our way temporarily, we checked her speed with the decreasing radar ranges only. There was no change; she was making 8½ knots, and since first tracked, had not zigged. In ample time before twilight, the captain conned Wahoo off the enemy’s track, and the Bells of St. Mary’s bonged surely for the last time on our fourth patrol.
There was still only the faintest sign of light in the east when two blasts sent us under the sea a thousand yards off the target’s track. From there, Morton conned our submarine to a normal course, putting the bow perpendicular to the target’s track, which we closed at 4 knots. The sky was now gray and I could call her general shape with stack amidships. She was another freighter of medium size, and as the angle opened, disclosing a longer-than-usual superstructure, I changed her classification to a passenger freighter. The periscope bearings and TDCs checked.
The initial angle at 30 degrees received a “Close,” from Richie, but then as the angle broadened, I took another quick look. I had seen this ship before, or one constructed along the same lines, and I had to inquire whether or not our submarine tender Holland had escaped from the Philippines, for this ship even had her clipper bow. The answer would make no difference; if in Japanese hands we would sink her anyway, so the mixed reply did not affect our approach. The word, however, did provide Kohl with all of the information his party would need.
The ship came on, apparently feeling secure in her southern routing, and at 0415 Captain Morton gave his, “Any time, Dick.” In no more than a minute, the constant bearing had been marked and set. Her mainmast was about to touch the wire in my stationary periscope.
“Fire,” and Morton hit the plunger. The shudder, the zing, and then the momentary pressure on our ears were all normal. Our very last torpedo headed for her foremast, and Buckley announced a welcome, “Both hot, straight and normal.” Chan commenced counting the seconds to go for the 900-yard torpedo run, and I was able to report that both torpedo wakes were leading the freighter properly when they had faded in the still-dim light.
One at a time, each torpedo had been pulled from its tube; the after bodies had been checked for dryness, and every other test, short of those that have to be done in the shop, had been performed. And one more—before reloading, fresh, sharp eyes had been painted on the warheads. I also had noted Deaton, now a TM1c and in charge of the after room, and his gang helping forward. Surely such a cooperative effort for our ship and their captain would pay off, and only duds or prematures could prevent it.
A violent crack of detonation hit our sub as the total explosion literally tore the after half of the freighter asunder and stopped the forward part in its tracks with a sharp up angle. Everyone in the conning tower was congratulating one another with a well-meant handshake, and this included Morton and me.
Sometimes a sinking ship makes tremendous breaking-up noises, perhaps when compartments or bulkheads collapse; the total sound could be like a bridge or other steel structure being slowly scrunched by a monstrous bulldozer. Such was the case with this ship, the noises becoming frighteningly loud. In plenty of time, we noted that in our exuberance, neither the captain nor I had changed our course from directly at the sinking ship. After ordering right full rudder, to allay any fears, especially amongst our new hands, Morton said to Jack, who was next to the IMC, “Tell the crew that the noise you hear is the enemy ship breaking up.” Somewhat excited, as all of us were, Jack complied by announcing throughout our submarine, “The noise you hear is the ship breaking up,” and by leaving out the word “enemy,” he scared at least some of our new shipmates half to death.
Jack joined us in a good laugh. The freighter had sunk, and the captain asked the course for the barn. That was easy, “One four five, Sir,” I replied.
“Why, that’s what we’ve been steering!”
“Yes, but I had not extended the line as far as the Colonet Strait,” I advised, and received his customary nod and smile of approval, for we had been thinking alike—the shortest route to our base. Still at battle stations, he ordered, “Take her up, Dick.” After another healthy blow by McGill, Wahoo hit the surface running. The screeching turbos raised us to a cruising trim; four main engines took over the load from our batteries, and our submarine was streaking for the strait just 13 minutes after firing her last torpedoes.
Now secured from battle stations, Rowls put down an early breakfast. It was not a change in the menu, just any quickly prepared items that the troops tossed up from the freezer. In anticipation, a box of fry cuts had been thawed, and the odor of their frying brought the freezer-searching to a halt. Perhaps with some priority, Krause wangled two steak sandwiches. They took precedence over piloting, for already the mountains marking the strait were in sight, and we had only to bisect them for the next hour.
The Colonet Strait proved to be more than just a passage through the Ryukyus; it was a north-south thoroughfare as well. During the passage, there were small craft in all sectors and a small freighter as well. They seemed to pay no attention to us, and Wahoo returned the favor, passing out of the operating area at 0740 and slowing a knot to 300 turns. On the wardroom table was ONI-208J opened to the Kimishima Maru. Though the drawing didn’t show the clipper bow of the accompanying photograph, we would accept her just the same.
11
Our course was 092 heading for Sofu Gan, the pinnacle that had served as a radar and TDC target for us 3 weeks ago. Now it would serve as a final departure point on leaving the Empire, and it lay sufficiently far south to keep us clear of air search. Of course that advantage would not come until another day, and within the hour an SD contact at 12 miles drove us down. Wahoo now had one priority, to get to our base safely and quickly, so we searched with both scopes for the better part of an h
our before getting up and on our way.
Three engines were now on propulsion, since the fourth would add little in the increasing seas and could better be used in charging our weak battery for an unforeseen emergency. Wahoo still retained her affinity for ships, and SJ had a tall, dancing pip just before the movies, still Monday, March 29. There were no friendly submarines to whom we could pass the contact, and with obvious reluctance, the captain directed Richie to continue on course.
With uninterrupted cruising, the captain was able to get on with his project of sewing on new rating badges, watch marks, and chevrons for his troops. He had performed minor mending to skivvies and such, but few had expected that those great hands could sew with the speed and dexterity of an accomplished seamstress. A few of us were not surprised, for he had shown us his intricate needlework, which I believe would have taken ribbons at any state fair.
With two daytimes and a full night of high-speed running, we had left the pinnacle of Sofu Gan behind, but not our affinity for ships. Running in the trough of increasing seas, Wahoo was rolling a bit, but not slowed appreciably, when dancing pips showed above the considerable sea return that made the normal grassy line of the scope look more like a hayfield. Spotting the momentary pips was good performance by Torpedoman’s Mate Tyler, and he was congratulated by Morton, who had found them difficult to discern in the high grass. The sighting was timely too, for their bearing, from our port beam to 5 degrees forward, had drawn aft only a degree or so. The original range of 9,000 now read 7,000 on the lighted scale operated by the small-range crank. We could be on a collision course with a convoy. Reluctant to turn back, a fourth engine went on the line and tracking manned their stations.
The great black shapes of the individual ships were soon visible through my binoculars, now set into the “V” of the after TBT. The convoy was spread out, not in the usual column, perhaps to ease the problem of station keeping in such seas. Or were they warships? Sparking at our antenna insulators told me that a contact report was being transmitted, and the arcing light due to the salt spray did not make me feel more comfortable at this lonely billet.
Wahoo Page 23