To gain time in getting clear of the approaching ships, Wahoo had been conned to put them on our port quarter. Now I could feel and hear our bow bashing into the seas, some of them racing down our deck past the conning tower. And great rollers from aft were obviously testing our steersman as we yawed in the following seas. But our submarine could ride out any sea, and if our new course did not pull us clear, we could always dive.
We very nearly did just that, for a great roller came up into my 7 × 50’s field; I jerked them clear of the TBT to see a monster rising above our stern. Turning forward, I shouted, “Close the hatch! Climb the shears!” I just had time to wrap my arms and legs around the TBT before the sea rolled over my head. It could have been only seconds, but it seemed as though we had dived, before the sea receded from the bridge. Racing forward, I found that George, our OOD, had made it to the lookout’s platform, and the conning tower hatch was being warily opened with lanyard in hand. The only light was from the emergency lanterns, whose batteries are always on charge, for the captain had ordered the great battery-disconnect switches thrown to stop the electrical fires in the maneuvering room.
The captain had gone aft, leaving word for me to take over. There was not much to take, for Wahoo was wallowing in the trough of the sea without any power whatsoever, except our sound-powered telephones. I called for Krause to bring the battery-operated Aldis lamp to the bridge. If a ship of the convoy was going to ram us, we would give the vertical flare-up signal of a fisherman. With that ready, we received the word phoned to the conning tower, though much of it had already been surmised: Orders to close the main induction had not been given to control in time, so a water slug of a few tons had gotten by the great mushroom valve. The forward and after engine rooms had swung the readily accessible lever, closing their hull valve; so the full force had hit the smaller maneuvering room valve, with its shorter handle. The force had been so great that the electricians could not close it and the room was half flooded. Deaton had opened his after torpedo room door, thus taking the sea above the door’s lower coaming into the torpedo room. Then, with the after engine room watch, they had dragged the electricians clear of the smoke-filled room. It was probably in the nick of time, and both electricians were revived.
Krause had kept his binoculars on the convoy, and happily reported a zig to their right. Even a zigging back would still take it clear of our position. We thanked the Lord for this favor; there were troubles enough for any submarine over 3,000 miles from her nearest base, with the possible prospect of becoming a sitting target for enemy planes in the morning.
With the captain present and Chief Pruett in charge, jumpers were quickly rigged from one battery to the trim pump controller, and pumping the maneuvering room commenced. While this was going on, Morton had Chief Keeter and his hands start one engine to take a suction and clear the smoke. Within a quarter hour, the maneuvering room bilge was dry and the electricians began clearing up the grounds in the control cubicle and replacing burned parts with our available spares. The main induction had by now been cleared of water and the torpedo room pumped. By 2040 we went ahead with turns for standard speed on port shaft with No. 2 main engine on propulsion. It was truly a remarkable performance by dedicated petty officers who knew their job.
The electricians continued to work throughout the night, and before dawn Wahoo had No. 1 engine driving the starboard shaft as well. Hopefully, the two engines would take us clear of Japan’s north-south fly way, but that was asking too much. The electricians were checking the watch’s ability to shift to battery propulsion, when a low-flying plane came out of the deep overcast and summarily drove us down. Everything worked and in less than an hour Wahoo was up and on her way. In another 2 hours, repairs for No. 4 main engine were completed. It took its share of the load and stayed on the line as Wahoo rolled for the barn.
Captain Morton had been prudent about sending our departure report, waiting till clear of the Empire. When he asked Jayson for a pad of lined paper, we wondered what he would include in this one. He wrote straight ahead, with little crossing out or change, and then passed the pad to me and the others in the wardroom. I read:
ONE SURFACE RUNNER ONE DUD FOUR PREMATURES ONE TANKER SUNK ONE FREIGHTER HOLED AND BELIEVED SUNK FIVE FREIGHTERS SUNK BY TORPEDOES TWO FREIGHTERS TWO SAMPANS SUNK BY GUNFIRE AND LARGE TRAWLER WRECKED WILL REQUIRE FOLLOWING CONTROL CUBICLE PARTS BEFORE NEXT PATROL
Usually, a boat doesn’t air its laundry in a departure message, but ours was not a usual skipper and certainly he had the prestige to put our torpedo performance on the line for all to read. I believed that Admiral Lockwood would thank him for doing so, since it provided immediate ammunition to support the admiral’s efforts to deactivate the magnetic feature of the exploder. Also, in specifying our needed parts, the captain was not only putting our failures on the line, but also giving the Base time to procure them, perhaps from Mare Island.
Roger had the parts listed and gave the sheet to Jack. It included:
3 Generator rheostat clutch switches
1 Generator trip switch
2 Generator rheostat field contactors
100 feet of wiring
Without these parts, just as now, we would not be able to use the fourth engine or to run any of them above an 80/90 combination because the required parts of the field rheostats had burned up.
NPM, the high-power naval radio station on Oahu, did not come in this night, so attempts to transmit our departure report were put off. On Thursday, April Fool’s Day, Carter received a “Roger” after the first transmission. A long, low sailboat, possibly from Marcus Island, proved to be our last contact as we headed across the expanse of the Pacific. The captain decided to have me navigate back to port again; this was no imposition, for the patrol report had been kept current during most of the patrol and navigating without pressure had become a pleasure.
Considering our torpedo failures and the patrol results, in which half again the number of ships were sunk when compared to any other patrol of the war, we rather expected another upkeep at Pearl. This was fortified by the necessary discussions concerning our failing batteries. So many of the crew were making plans accordingly, especially the young lads who had met pretty dolls after our first and third patrols.
ComSubPac’s congratulatory message, composed for reading by all boats, contained the meat of our captain’s dispatch, and noted that this was Lieutenant Commander Morton’s second consecutive outstanding patrol. Sadly for our younger hands, the message closed by assigning Wahoo to Midway Island for refit and rehabilitation, and I wondered who on the staff had inserted that last word.
We enjoyed two Mondays, April 5, on crossing the international date line, and at 1000 on the sixth, Wahoo turned north towards the slot through the reef. The seas seemed angry to port and starboard as they broke on the reef, but Hunter kept our yaw within its natural bounds, and threaded the slot like a needle. Inside, the lagoon was like a lake, and Morton conned his submarine to the pier, which was manned by hands, the band, and well-wishers. Not to be outdone, Wahoo put on a show of her own: flying from our raised periscope was a Morton-sewn Indian headdress battle flag carrying a train of sixteen red-centered white feathers, one for each ship Wahoo had sunk; and the two great Nitu Maru house flags streamed to port and starboard from a two-swab-handle yardarm that the troops had affixed atop the SD mast. On deck, a full section, in machine-washed dungarees, again stood proud of Wahoo, of her captain, and rightfully, of themselves. We had been met with more gold and photographers at Pearl, but that was surpassed by the warmth of our welcome here.
Part Six
FIFTH PATROL
The Kurils and Honshu
1
Midway had mustered its best from the Marine Corps and the Base, including a band that quickly switched to Dixieland as soon as the senior officers had gone below. It was obvious that Wahoo’s fame and catchy name had preceded her, and those great house flags streaming straight out told everyone that she had been at it again
. Just wait until they learned the results of our last patrol!
The typed tabulations from our patrol report were on the wardroom table. These seven pages told the story at a glance and helped move the senior officers along so that the wardroom could be cleared for payday. We had been advised that here on Midway, contractors’ civilian workmen gambled as a pastime, and attempts to stop it had proved futile. They would be waiting like leeches for our crew to come ashore, so we would adopt the procedure of other boats. Each hand drew all of his monies as he entered the wardroom, but surrendered all but a ten spot to Jack and Pappy, who put it in an envelope bearing the individual’s name for storage in the communications’ safe. The lads could learn the easy way by losing only ten dollars, and if they wanted to try again, Jack and Pappy would disburse daily.
After payday, the Base repair officer and his assistant sat down with us in the wardroom. The repair requests were minimal, except for the cubicle, and for that, most of the spare parts and wire listed in the captain’s message had already come in by air. The remainder would probably come from Mare Island in plenty of time, but if not, the Base would provide substitutes or build them. Their confidence was convincing, and we adjourned after finishing our coffee, with the understanding that this refit would be conducted in conjunction with ship’s force and the relief crew as Captain Morton desired.
Our crew had evaporated; the relief crew was aboard, but accommodations ashore for officers would have to wait until another boat had departed. This was no great hardship, for what we wanted was the feel of land beneath our feet and the chance to really stretch our legs. Chan joined me for a hike around the island on sand that proved firm close to the shore. The hundreds of seabirds, most species quite unfamiliar to us, took our minds from patrol. The exercise in absolutely clean air, scrubbed by rainstorms across the Pacific, soon made us hungry and we headed for the Gooneyville.
Originally, it had been the Pan American Hotel and had served as a stopover for passengers in the China Clipper days. The Gooneyville was no Royal Hawaiian, where seating for meals was immediate, but we were not rushed and rather enjoyed lounging in the lobby and greeting friends. The meal was good, but lacked the dishes we craved: fresh salads, lightly cooked green vegetables, and yellow ones boiled only until tender. It was too early to make a judgment, but for the moment I doubted that an advance base only 3 day’s run towards the enemy was justified, especially since there were always rooms at the Royal.
After a more satisfying supper and relaxing on board—without stars to shoot or watches to stand—we headed again for the Gooneyville, this time to locate a corner room that had been set aside as an informal meeting place or wardroom. A background noise of simultaneous conversations served as a beacon that led directly to the outside entrance. Inside were a half dozen or more tables, most of them with poker cloths, and all with ample chairs. Against the far wall were two refrigerators, filled with bottled beer. The wardroom of each departing boat would settle the outstanding bill, which seemed to be a convenient and impartial way to pay.
We split up to seek friends, and I spotted Fritz Harlfinger. He had participated in the terrible Aleutian campaign as exec of S-35, and then as exec of Whale in the Marianas, followed by an inshore patrol off Honshu. We were swapping stories and patrol information when he stopped, and with his thumb over his left shoulder, called my attention to a conversation at an adjacent table where our PCO was belittling most everything that Wahoo had accomplished on patrol and including some disparaging remarks about me.
What a series of circumstances and coincidences had followed the commander: losing the original command of Wahoo to an officer 3 years his junior, through the intervention of an admiral; being ordered to the same submarine for his PCO run, now commanded by an officer 4 years his junior; and finally, seeing an officer who had been 8 years his junior in Argonaut when he himself had been her executive officer, now manning the scope or TBT and firing Wahoo’s torpedoes. Though aware of the foregoing, I had seen no resentment, and the commander had seemed to be doing well.
Now, turning my head, I saw Captain Morton, also within earshot, flipping the pages of Life about one each second, and just short of tearing them out. He beckoned and I joined him near the door. “Let’s get out of here before we get into a fight,” he advised, and we headed for the dock in silence. On sighting Wahoo, we stopped, and I could read the captain’s thoughts, “Say what you want to about me, but don’t lambaste my ship and crew!”
“Let’s go back and square this away,” he said, and we did an about-face to head for the Gooneyville. Probably in anticipation, someone had cleared the corner room; the lights were out and nobody was about. Having been up a good part of the night before our landfall, I headed for Wahoo and my bunk aboard. Seeming still a bit riled, Morton headed for the nearest game to take out his anger on a pair of dice.
The Base had all of the shops of a submarine tender, excepting optical and a foundry. The one affecting me was the gyro facility, for ours had been transmitting its heading to the repeaters erratically during the last few days of our return voyage. This had kept Krause and me up most of the night, punching out more stars to insure an accurate landfall. I found our gyro set up in gimbals that could be electrically oriented as if on a moving ship. The trouble lay in the rollers, which transmit the gyro’s orientation and which have gold plating to insure the electrical contact. This plating had worn through in places. The shop would replate and polish them, and then give the gyro a complete test before installing it aboard.
Completely satisfied, and with an improved opinion of Midway, I set out for a turn through the small island with Jack. On my first visit in 1935, a residence and the lonely cable station were the only structures. I was then serving in the cruiser Chester, with Commander Air Force Pacific (ComAirPac) embarked, which had anchored off the reef. The cable on across the Pacific had now been closed, of course, but new buildings ranging from shops and warehouses to Quonset hut residences were spread out over the island. The lagoon had now been dredged, the coral forming another island where only a sand spit had lain. Called Eastern Island, it had become a U.S. Naval Air Station and a part of Midway. Nowhere did we see any remaining evidence of the damage sustained during the Battle of Midway.
Wahoo’s crew already had a spontaneous softball game underway, while others watched or perhaps participated when the mood struck. Over the bank, where the sand and grassy soil led down to the beach and provided a lee from the ever-present wind, other groups lolled in the sun, some reading, others content in doing nothing.
Early April offered only borderline swimming. Fishing was another matter, and though the present seas confined it to the lagoon, a motor sailer with about twenty hands was anchored with lines over the side and a few boat rods in sight. In the bilges were two cases of beer obtained by Pappy for this organized party. It would not be counted against the individual’s daily ration of beer chits, like movie stubs. And I could see a lot more organized recreation in the days to come!
On the third day our officers moved to the hotel. It was not that the accommodations were better, it was the change that really counted. There was something to be said for space to move around in without taking turns, and a window that gave a pleasant view by day and admitted a cool breeze by night instead of shipboard forced ventilation. I modified my first thoughts about Gooneyville.
The captain had enjoyed his corner room for only one night when dispatch orders called him back to Pearl. It was obvious that Admiral Lockwood wanted Morton’s first-hand accounts for other boats, so he would get to the Royal after all. Because of his absence, I was in command, and this included the repairs. It became our goal to have all of this completed before the captain returned.
The late afternoons and evenings at the corner room had indeed developed into a patrol school. Like an informal seminar, we exchanged ideas derived from actual patrol, sometimes by relating a whole experience—even Krause’s torpedo, and I contributed my well-considered views concerni
ng harbor penetration and down-the-throat shots; and I learned much, especially from Fritz.
I was feeling pretty good about all of this while lying awake in bed listening to the mating calls of the boatswain birds when suddenly someone shouted in the corridor, “Emergency, all boats get underway!”
No one would pull a prank such as this, and by the second call I had my khaki on and was racing out the entrance. It was after midnight, and hands were running for the dock. Some had further word: an enemy task force had been reported some 300 miles from Midway, and that meant bombers could be here by dawn. Surprise emergency drills were not held west of Pearl Harbor, so this was an emergency in fact.
I know it sounds impossible, but our crew literally picked up a welding machine and set it on the dock. Wahoo was ready first and backed clear. The range lights came in view, and with rudder angles to Simonetti, I conned Wahoo until the lights lined up and on that line through the slot in the reef into the angry seas. Buckley guarded the usual 4155 KCS, Carter the SJ. The other boats joined us, and then came the first message:
THE DRILL HAS BEEN SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED
Our Pearl Harbor Commission, which had been meeting off and on since the attack, had forgotten the rules that they themselves had established.
On a normal coastline, even in mild storms, breaking rollers lose their momentum on the slowly shelving beaches. Quite the opposite is the case at Midway, where they increase in size on the steep coral incline and frequently carry over the reef into the lagoon. So Wahoo would have heavy seas astern during the last hundred yards or so before threading the slot through the reef, and could expect a yaw of 10 to 15 degrees on either side of the range line. Normally, the steersman uses only enough rudder to keep the yaw equal on each side of the compass course; then during the last minute the ship steadies and passes through the slot. We would have to do this without a compass!
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