Wahoo

by Richard O'Kane

  After two practice runs on the range, with Krause at hand to advise me, Simonetti as steersman followed precisely my directed rudder angles and a sequence of “rudder amidships” between them. This try looked good; the seas were crashing on the jagged reefs to port and starboard, but our bow was not yawing much beyond the channel. We were a bit to the right of the range and in seconds there would be no turning back. I glanced towards Krause, who had been looking down at the coral heads to starboard. He nodded, and about 10 seconds later the yaw disappeared and Wahoo slid through the slot into the lagoon. I truly believe that all, from lookouts to the OOD, breathed out in unison with me.

  A week later our gyro was returned. Captain Morton had returned as well, with an advance copy of our next operation order and our new PCO, Lt. Comdr. John Moore. He was a year junior to the captain, and by reputation would be a grand shipmate. Also Ens. Eugene Fiedler, with a background in radar repair, reported for duty—to Chan’s delight. Eugene would go on the watch list immediately to replace Jack Griggs, who had been transferred to replace a sick officer in Seal. Presumably, Jack would return to Wahoo in another month or so. The other changes affecting our boat were sixteen new hands; the designation of Chief Carr as chief of the boat to replace Pappy, who had orders to the Submarine School; MacAlman relieving Kohl; the captain’s leave program for CPOs; and Hunter relieved by Kemp.

  As we had planned, all of the repairs had been completed before Captain Morton had returned; all of the changes to our Watch Quarter and Station Bill had been made; and except for final fresh produce, Wahoo was loaded for patrol, including charts. This had left time for 2 days underway training and finally, a personnel inspection.

  With seasoned hands to instruct, the training went well, and even the seas cooperated upon our return through the reef. For the first time since Pearl, hands broke out their whites, and having been properly rolled, they came out ready for inspection. We were assembled on the dock, as sharp a ship’s company as could be found anywhere, when Captain Morton returned with the senior officer on the island, the commander of the Naval Air Station. Instead of receiving the Navy Cross, for his actions in command of Wahoo on her third patrol, from Admiral Nimitz back at Pearl, he had elected receiving it with his crew assembled, and did the same for me by bringing my Silver Star Medal. No ship’s company could have been more proud than were we of our skipper.

  With the ceremony over, the troops had until midafternoon to write letters, and for quite a few, to buy money orders with their winnings from the big games to enclose in them. At 1430, I was able to report, “All hands are aboard and Wahoo is ready for patrol, Captain.”

  2

  It was 1500, Sunday, April 25, 1943, and only our bow and stern lines held Wahoo to the pier when our acting division commander went ashore. Hands from our friendly Base snaked the brow to the dock and took in the remaining lines as they were let go. Then, with the DivCom, they stood at attention as the rumbling dieseis moved our submarine clear and then on out to the range line. To the well-wishers on the pier, the whole maneuver must have seemed quite simple, and it was, but only because the outboard submarine had taken her bow line to the pier and had then taken a strain with her capstan to give us a generous “V” for clearing the dock and the boats.

  Our bow sliced through the slot in the reef; the coral heads, a moment ago menacing, faded into the deep, and Wahoo was on her fifth patrol. Below, our new hands under closest supervision were participating in rigging for dive. Above, a plane from the air station was escorting us, but only until we were over the horizon. Our course was due west, but when the escort had disappeared, we would come to the course for latitude 49°30’ north and longitude 155° east. This position was specified in our secret operation order, which also directed a speed of 13 knots. Both the position and speed were a most unusual specification in a submarine operation order.

  But Wahoo was part of a submarine task force including Steelhead, Pickerel on patrol, and Scorpion, which had been waylaid while on her way back to her base. The four boats would apparently form a moving scouting line, with tactics directed from Pearl. The object of the search was a reported possible small enemy force headed for the Aleutians. Should our search prove this to be true, we presumed that necessary forces would be dispatched to intercept them. The loading of extra foul-weather gear at night and our ruse of an initial course west was probably not necessary as it pertained to this operation, but a workman who was about to return to the States could have noted the loading in daylight and a submarine departing to the northwest. These small items, perhaps added to others, could tip off our breaking of a Japanese code. No extra effort was involved on our part, and this covered a remaining possibility.

  Our course was 314, and just to be sure of maintaining the required overall speed, another diesel engine went on the line. Wahoo crossed the international date line, skipping Monday, so it was Tuesday, April 27, when we made our first dive of the patrol. Roger was an old hand at accurately figuring the required compensation for our loading, and immediately requested one-third speed. In another minute, he had reported, “Satisfied with the trim,” and three blasts had us back on the surface. There would be ample time for training our new planesmen, but weather might not cooperate with a different pending test: to try out our new powder.

  I presume that the Bureau of Ordnance had heard from all quarters about the enemy’s flashless powder, for they had gotten off their horse and produced some. In our magazine was a half load, and we would first try it out on the crests of the swells. This would give the gun pointer (elevation) just as much training as would a real target, and the gun trainer can always stay on a target anyway. With some anticipation, we awaited the first blast. I would have to admit that, in daylight anyway, there was little visible flash; however, the new powder’s smoke had us coughing on the bridge. The smoke had blown clear of the gun crew, but with a following wind, I could visualize all of them standing around half doubled up and hacking away to clear their throats while wiping their eyes. When using this, we would have the wind as well as the conning tower to contend with. If ships have enclosed gun mounts and director fire from high above the bridge, this powder could be a night asset indeed, but we were glad that half of our shells were loaded as before. We had heard that the British and Nazis had flashless powder comparable to that of the Japanese, so maybe when the war in Europe was over, there would be some for our boats.

  Increasing lazy swells and a dropping barometer on April 28 foretold a storm ahead. We fortified our dawn star fix with sun lines, the last at midafternoon before Wahoo entered the fog bank that had been visible ahead for an hour. Just as anyone could have predicted from the information in Knight’s Seamanship, Wahoo entered a stormy area on the following afternoon. The winds somewhat dispersed the fog, so our lookouts could provide us with adequate security, but the task of spotting the enemy rested solely on Eugene and his SJ watch.

  With the seas moderating and Wahoo a few miles ahead, at least according to our DR position, we made a belated trim dive. She went down beautifully in less than 40 seconds—again Roger’s compensation was right on—and we surfaced normally to the point of rigging in our bow planes. The shear pin in the rigging gear had carried away, just as it is supposed to do before the great gear teeth are damaged. Some were overly concerned by the bashing of our planes into the sea, but having made the greater part of a long patrol in Argonaut with her bow plane rigging motor burned up and her great planes pounding the seas without harm, I was able to allay any fears. After all, we could still dive, even in less time, and use the planes submerged. As it turned out, this was not necessary, for Chief McGill and company, with safety lines snapped to our single center lifeline, went into the superstructure and replaced the pin. Again, our auxiliary men could fix most anything.

  The delay of lying to in the swells had put Wahoo back on schedule, and the evening Fox carried a message with the call signs of all four boats. Eugene already knew how to run the electric coding machine, so h
e installed the correct wheels, and the decoded tape came out of the machine as if the radio shack were a telegraph office. The message only advised that we were astride the most likely position for intercepting the enemy. We had expected more instructions, such as conducting a retiring search (a broad zigzag ahead of the enemy to increase the frontage as he overtakes), but none was forthcoming. Neither were there any contact reports from the other boats, who would now be carrying out the remaining provisions of their operation orders: Scorpion returning to base, while the others proceeded to areas off Hokkaido and Honshu for their patrolling. Sailing on to patrol the Kuril island chain, we would next patrol Honshu.

  Our search continued in the fog, for a ship was always possible, and Eugene’s SJ was hot. On the first of May, fleeting pips showed above its grass. They would be the reflection from shorebirds, almost a sure sign that land lay ahead. We tried fathometer sounding again, hoping for the submerged mountain ridge shown on our chart, but nothing yet. Sunday, May 2, greeted us with hail and snow, just as a reminder that Wahoo was invading the Arctic. I thought of the post-WW I S-boats patrolling from Dutch Harbor to Paramushiru, the northernmost island of the Kurils. Lacking adequate heat, with bridges that swamped, and crews smashing off the ice that coated their upper works, it’s a wonder that the S-boat crews didn’t all get pneumonia. In contrast, Wahoo was as snug as ever, and even the damp foul-weather clothing was drying in a special, heated locker for those relieving the watch. None of us had reason to feel other than good about our lot.

  We had not had a star or sun line since entering the first fog bank, so Krause and I experienced a touch of what the Norsemen must have felt when making a landfall on Greenland or our continent. A shout from topside brought us to the bridge, Krause pausing to enter 1423 in the Quartermaster’s Notebook. Almost dead ahead, way up in the foggy sky and barely visible, was a snow-capped mountain peak. “I hope it’s Onekotan,” whispered Krause. I gave him my assurance, but was glad to see the shoulders of the mountain, as we closed, appearing the same as the sketch at the top of our chart. For sure, Midway had done a perfect job in repairing our gyro.

  Captain Morton closed the island until we had good radar contact that would show intervening ships, and then commenced a slow surface patrol along the islands to the southwest. Wahoo would thus start any approach with a full can, or at least as much juice as ours would hold. Astern, just to the north of Onekotan, lay Paramushiru with its naval and air base. That was S-boat territory, but naval and supply shipping to and from the Empire should pass close to our track. Johnny Moore was in the conning tower, and as operations officer was keeping Wahoo’s position cut in along the track laid down on the chart.

  Feeling like relaxing on completion of the transit, I dropped down to control to find Chief Andy Lenox holding forth: Andy had experienced no trouble in getting a flight from the States to Hickam Field, but from there had ridden in one of three B-24s on a training mission. According to the chief, they had needed more training in navigating, for they had missed Midway altogether and had not found it until they were nearly out of gas. Always with animated accounts, Chief Lenox finished by patting the duty chief’s desk.

  3

  In the wardroom, the captain was waiting with the cribbage board. Over a leisurely game he outlined his plans for the Kurils. Complying with an oral request from Intelligence, we would reconnoiter Matsuwa, an island about 100 miles ahead that had suspected facilities. This would take care of May 3, leaving 3 more days before Wahoo could enter her true area off the east coast of Honshu. That was not much time for the 600-mile-long Kurils, and precluded patrolling on their western side, or even picking a likely spot between two islands where we might intercept enemy shipping moving to the west or east of the chain. It was an example of the trouble that can accompany detailed staff operational planning instead of leaving maximum flexibility to the submarine captain. We discussed this, and it led to the captain’s decision to move on to Honshu at the earliest hour allowed by the operation order; but first we would dive off Matsuwa.

  Like all of the Kurils, Matsuwa was a mountain peak, really two peaks we would judge, with the southern one forming a shoulder sloping up from sea level. I gasped a bit when the upper works and bow of a ship came into the scope as we cleared the offshore island of Banj To, but they were canted and she was a wreck, perhaps from a storm or quite possibly beached following a torpedo hit. This ship provided an exercise for our new pharmacist’s mate, MacAlman, with his party, and possibly an identification for an attack by one of our submarines. (Lindhe had made chief and had received orders instead of returning from leave.)

  Of more immediate interest was the air facility on Matsuwa. Built on the low tableland, it appeared well developed with four fairly large hangars; dispersal stowages in back; and a large landing field apparently equipped with floodlights, administration buildings, radio station, and barracks. Altogether, the installation appeared comparable to Midway’s Eastern Island. After taking several pictures and plotting the positions on our chart, we cleared the immediate area. The sky and sea remained clear during the following hour, so we surfaced to continue our patrol southwest.

  Though U.S. knowledge of the Kurils was probably meager, we had missed the opportunity to study the Japanese monograph at Pearl. Perhaps someone from the staff had made a study and concluded that it was not worth forwarding with our operation order, but even negative information can be valuable to a submarine. So at 0420 on May 4 we dived to conduct a reconnaissance of Moyoro Wan on the northeast tip of Etorofu Island. According to the Sailing Directions, the bay held a sulphur works. If it also held a ship, Wahoo could torpedo it, and if there were no activity, Carr and company might do considerable damage to the works.

  Dawn came almost immediately, disclosing a not-too-distant fog bank in the Sea of Okhotsk but clear of the small bay’s mouth. On approaching closer, I found any structures in the bay obscured by fog—white fog; no, it was jammed with ice. Swinging back to the original fog bank, it also was too white, and the current had brought the floes much closer, in a somewhat menacing arc. Johnny Moore, in anticipation, had a line to the southeast already drawn on our chart, and the captain ordered course 145 to take his submarine clear. Leaving Johnny in the conning tower to get experience in command, we went to the wardroom for coffee. The phone buzzed, and Johnny had a small ship or patrol.

  Back in the conning tower, I took the scope, and with difficulty found a patrol intermittently visible in the surface mist. Her angle was about 30 starboard as Johnny had advised on our reaching the conning tower. The captain took a look, agreeing, and together we estimated her range to be about 6,000 yards, or 3 sea miles. She already lay on our quarter and would pass about 3,000 yards astern, so no evasive maneuvers were required. But just to be on the safe side, the Bells of St. Mary’s chimed through our ship. Watching continuously, we caught the following zig. It was just 5 minutes into the evasion and we had her course exactly, for she now presented a zero angle on the bow.

  This aspect on any patrol never failed to raise the heartbeat a bit, at least with me, but the captain was already conning Wahoo off the track. The enemy’s bow, now becoming distinct, could be that of a small freighter. I asked Captain Morton to take a look, and he too could not decide. I was familiar with inversion layers that bring a ship’s image above the horizon, but could this be the opposite in holding the image down?

  Richie’s TDC showed the generated range at 3,200 yards, and with the ship coming out of the mist, I was able to call a 15 starboard, and more—she was a ship worthy of our torpedoes. Orders went to both torpedo rooms, ready lights came on, and the captain ordered, “Outer doors open aft.”

  On the next observation, my heart jumped and I called, “She’s got planes on deck!” and then gave the angle 30 starboard. This time I did not have to invite Morton to take a look; I just stepped aside so as not to be mowed down.

  The enemy ship had changed from a small patrol to an unmistakable auxiliary plane tender or trans
port, an XAV in Pharmacist MacAlman’s book. The details of how we happened to be in this position, including the floe that she was avoiding by coming from the west side of the islands, were unimportant, but our location was. The ship should pass within 1,500 yards, and the captain would be able to choose his favorite track where maximum target maneuvers would avail her nothing.

  I called the angle at 45, broad on her bow, and again at 90 when Wahoo was abeam. QM1c Wendell Kemp, Hunter’s competent relief, had called the bearings and read the stadimeter. We heard Richie’s, “It all checks, 1250 from the track, speed 11 knots.” The seconds seemed to drag and then came Morton’s firm, “Any time, Dick.”

  Kemp followed my hands in raising the scope and then twisted the tube to the bearings that Richie was calling. I brought the wire to the ship’s great goal-post mast forward.

  “Constant bearing-Mark.” Kemp read the bearing. “Set,” came from Richie. Her big stack amidships was about to touch the wire.

  “Fire!” and Morton whacked the plunger.

  The second and third torpedoes were fired to hit under her after and forward goal-posts. We heard the zing, felt the shudder, and then the poppet valve pressure for all three; now Buckley called, “All hot, straight and normal.” Chan commenced calling the seconds to go for the 1,350-yard torpedo run.

  No two attacks are the same, but our fire control system could accommodate any of them. At 10 seconds to go, Kemp followed my hands up with the scope. The crack of the detonation reached us instantly, beating the visual result by a fraction of a second. A great explosion between her stack and bridge rolled the ship to port, but she kept on going. Our next torpedo, which should hit in her engine spaces, would take care of that. The firing interval was 11 seconds, and we waited, and waited—the torpedo was a dud and our third torpedo missed forward.