Wahoo

by Richard O'Kane

  Refreshed, we returned to the coast, diving close in to Kone Saki at the first gray of morning twilight on May 12. Starting our own musical chairs, John Campbell would relieve Roger as engineering officer and had taken her down this day. He had dived Wahoo many times, so there was nothing unusual, except that in the quiet after leveling off, fairly loud explosions resounded through our hull. Numerous sampans and a glassy sea made periscope searches difficult. We maneuvered clear as best we could without using extra watts, more mindful of wrecking a scope than of being detected. Whether or not we had been sighted, a light bomber commenced searching our general vicinity at 0630, and several fairly loud explosions rumbled through our hull during breakfast. They set the theme of our conversation: searching for us, or just clearing the area for daylight shipping well inshore? The wardroom was about evenly divided, with my heading the latter group.

  At 0730 the phone in the recess to the captain’s left buzzed; we could hear George Misch’s voice and feel Wahoo taking a down angle. “That’s good, George, rig for depth charge,” was the captain’s reply, and rising, he cut us in, “We have a bomber heading for our scope!” Nothing dropped, or if so, the bomb or depth charge was a dud. More likely, our scope had lain on the bomber’s circling path, but George’s action was right in any case.

  We remained at deep submergence heading east. It appeared that the Japanese were bringing in their first team, so why attack under those conditions with a partially crippled submarine when we could attack at night and then hightail it on the surface? This was the captain’s decision, but I was sure all of us agreed. Numerous bombs or depth charges continued to rumble, like distant thunderstorms, but faded in the early afternoon, leaving us wondering what had caused such an assault on the sea.

  We now searched with both scopes, coming up to expose 17 feet periodically. As before, the hands for the second scope were all volunteers, including some engineers breaking their vow not to see daylight until our return from patrol. Their motive was probably twofold—a pool for the sighting, and like all of us, the desire for two more targets.

  The first sighting came at 1725, that is, if far-distant smoke to the northeast could be developed into a ship. Another bearing showed that the ship below the smoke was heading southward, and Wahoo commenced an approach at standard speed to close the enemy before sunset. Within the hour, the masts and then the upper works of two freighters came over the horizon. Steaming in column, they offered an early opportunity for identification, and perhaps the last, so the captain called MacAlman with his book to the conning tower to see for himself. It took only two looks and using the coded system to settle on the Myoken Maru and Anyo Maru classes of 4,021 and 9,257 tons, respectively. Tracking had manned their stations automatically and had the enemy’s speed at 10 knots, zigging on a base course south. They had already passed any submerged attack position, but we had all the information we needed for a night surface and submerged action in partial moonlight.

  Almost routinely, we had our evening meal submerged, and were on the surface for only a half hour before we again had the smoke in sight. Three engines drove Wahoo along an arc past the enemy, where we dived. The Bells of St. Mary’s sounded to make battle stations official, and we waited for the ships to come into the moon streak that always comes to the eye or scope. Constant bearings sent torpedoes to the mainmast and stack of the Anyo Maru, the trailing ship, and then two more, aimed similarly, raced for the Myoken Maru. The time of firing was 2245.

  We heard the zing, felt the shudder and the poppet pressure for all four torpedoes. Buckley called, “All hot, straight and normal,” and Chan counted the seconds for the 1,200-yard torpedo run, but only the first torpedo to the Anyo’s mainmast detonated.

  I reported the Anyo Maru still going. Morton waited until the range had opened to about 5,000 yards and then three blasts sent Wahoo up for an end-around and a night surface attack. The screeching turbos raised our hull; the weighted sacks of trash went over the side; and all engines, including the auxiliary, went on propulsion or charge. Our best lookouts sighted the smoke within the quarter hour, and Wahoo raced through a now black night towards an attack position on the Anyo’s starboard beam. Fortunately, the Myoken Maru was far ahead and could not interfere. At 0107, in position just forward of Anyo’s beam, the captain twisted left for a straight bow shot, and gave his, “Any time, Dick.” Her stack touched the wire, and “Fire!” Johnny Moore, below in the conning tower, hit the plunger. The sounds of firing were normal, but no phosphorescent wake was visible.

  That was our last bow torpedo, and Morton was now twisting Wahoo with starboard ahead full and port back emergency for a stern shot. The Anyo continued on, apparently unaware that she had been fired on.

  At 0111, our last torpedo, with all the normal signs, raced towards her midships. It hit between stack and bridge with an explosion audible on our bridge, but lacking the “whack” of a true detonation. Sparks were seen about the deck above the hit as Anyo Maru turned away, seemingly under control. At this time, Myoken Maru laid down accurate gunfire and forced us to dive.

  Six minutes had passed when three blasts took Wahoo up again. Anyo was lagging a mile behind the Myoken, having slowed to 6 knots. Feeling that she would drop back farther, we switched to battle stations gun. In minutes we were ready with ammunition on deck and Carr awaiting the captain’s, “Commence fire!” But the Myoken opened up first, and Morton ordered the gun crew below, commenting, “That whole lousy Maru’s not worth one of my crew.” Helpless to stop the cripple, at 0225 Wahoo cleared the area to the east.

  6

  The initial course of east ordered by the captain was by chance within 3 degrees of the first leg of the great circle course specified in our operation order. I changed the course to 87 and then informed my captain before sitting down to a three-handed game with him and Johnny. Then turning in, I was asleep when Carter reported a receipt for our departure message at 0336. By habit I was about to get up when I remembered that Roger and Kemp would take over navigation starting with morning stars. I was still the exec and just as responsible for our ship’s safety as before, but this extra time would permit working on the patrol report. There was another reason for the change: the captain was behind in sewing, and this included a project behind a drawn curtain.

  Our operation order had directed best speed commensurate with remaining fuel for our return, not anticipating a short Morton patrol. The batteries were charged—the auxiliary could keep them topped off—and a fourth engine went on propulsion. There would be no reason for stopping at Midway, so our next report would be from the 1,000-mile circle from Pearl.

  Again, without specific instructions, hands were holding field day in their compartments, except for a half dozen or so who were taking turns in rearranging the cold room. For this, they had appropriated the gun crew’s hot-shell-man’s gloves, and though a bit clumsy, they would prevent any frosted fingers. Missing, as far as I could tell, was the odor our freezer space had acquired on the last patrol. Many boats had mentioned this in their patrol reports, some having installed charcoal filters and fans, and one having replaced the insulation. The senior doctor and supply officer at Midway, lured by a cup or so of submarine coffee, had found our problem: it had come from several boxes of semiputrefied meats, which apparently had been partially thawed a few times before coming to Wahoo, and which they had found amongst the boxes we had turned in on arrival. Perhaps we should have found them, but after a month or so of submarine odors, we probably would not have noticed anything unusual about these boxes. The relief crew had used a concoction similar to Lysol when cleaning the spaces, and now Wahoo must have had the best-smelling freezer room in the force.

  On the evening of May 16, our Quartermaster Kemp brought the chart to the wardroom, as had become customary. The track showed the rhumb line, a straight course, that had been specified for this portion of our return voyage. It ran several miles to the north of Kure Reef and a little north of Midway. Roger apparently did not consider thi
s too close, and not wanting to butt in, I took other action, first stepping off the distance from the reef to our track, 10 miles, and noting that Wahoo could reach the reef right after daylight. I then put in a call for myself and Krause for 0345. It was no imposition, since by habit we were still waking up about that time anyway.

  Roger and Kemp had taken their stars and were below, working them out. Krause manned the lookout platform while I remained on the bridge. The twilight sky changed to emerald, a sign of shoals below. Krause waved his arm from our port bow to our starboard beam; I looked down to see coral heads and shouted, “All back emergency!” After slowing, we backed along our still-visible track to deep seas, and from there ran to the north for about 5 miles before resuming our original course. When traveling 3,000 miles, clearing a reef or island by 25 miles instead of 10 might add 5 minutes to the voyage. And a star fix must consider all the lines that are plotted, even though a majority pass through a point. I had not known this to be the error in the last fix, but taken altogether, it would be a lesson that Roger would never forget. It was also a lesson for me to speak up when a possible danger to our ship was involved.

  We enjoyed two Mondays, each May 17, on crossing the international date line, and made our last sighting, a friendly convoy heading for Midway, on the eighteenth. Sterling was already typing the stencils for duplicating the patrol report by the division staff. Krause was completing the track chart tracing, and all that remained was the rendezvous with our friendly Litchfield at dawn of May 21.

  Roger had gone all out with sun lines and star fixes, and our four-piper lay on the horizon dead ahead at dawn. To our passing view, Pearl Harbor had changed only by the row of great cables and supports that were righting the battleship Oklahoma. Rounding ten-ten dock brought Wahoo’s reception party into view, complete with dignitaries and the band.

  Our patrol, with three ships down and two damaged, had not been auspicious, but compared to the other boats’ departure reports, had been the best. Apparently, they had experienced similar troubles. In any case, the crowd had turned out for Wahoo as she came alongside Pier 1, and I wondered if members of the band were thinking of the time they had found sanctuary beyond the escape training tank.

  The flurry and initial greetings over, Admiral Lockwood and the division commander accompanied our skipper below. They soon emerged from the after torpedo room hatch and, greeting members of the crew on deck, proceeded on to headquarters. Neither paymaster nor busses for the Royal were waiting, which told that the final decision concerning Wahoo was still pending or we would have been informed already. Not affected were the patrol report and track chart, and delivering it gave Krause and Sterling a quick excuse to leave for the Base. Others could have left, but seemed to prefer staying on board or about the pier with fingers crossed. We did not have long to wait before the captain came hustling back, and those topside knew the answer by his generous smile. We would start unloading extra ammunition and stores immediately, but would not be loading any torpedoes. On the next day there would be an awards ceremony, followed by payday, with scheduled departure for the States on the following morning.

  From the Dark Ages through the privateers of ‘76 and into the First World War, plunder and then ships as war prizes had served as incentive to the participants. The capable leaders or ship captains received the lion’s share of the booty or the prize court’s final monetary awards, for they were the ones who had brought back the loot or captured the ships. Now war prizes were forbidden in our Navy, and medals had replaced other incentives. The submarine force command had adopted a very conservative awards policy that had been approved by the Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet. It required so much time in recommendations and reviews that too often the prospective recipient’s submarine had by then been lost, and posthumous awards hardly serve as an incentive to anyone. So a new policy had been approved in 1943 that seemed somewhat mechanical but in practice was quite just, for our personnel losses were already the highest.

  While reviewing the patrol report, the division commander could call witnesses if necessary, and if a captain had sunk one ship, the DivCom could recommend the Secretary of the Navy’s Letter of Commendation with medal (the Commendation medal). For two ships, the recommendation could be a Silver Star medal, and for three or more ships, the Navy Cross. The captain so cited could then recommend lesser awards for his officers and crew.

  As at Midway, the whites had unrolled, ready for a seagoing crew’s inspection, and each rating badge, chevron, and watch mark was neatly sewn in place. Fleet Admiral Nimitz arrived promptly at 1000 to present awards for the fourth patrol. He may have greeted a crew in “starchier” whites, but never one more proud or with more stars in their submarine combat pins, worn above the ribbon of their Presidential Unit Citation. After walking the length of the formation and back while acknowledging every man with a nod, the admiral presented the second Navy Cross to our captain, a gold star to be affixed to the ribbon of the Navy Cross that Morton was wearing. The congratulatory handshake was accompanied by a spontaneous, muted, heartfelt cheer. It was their tribute to the captain, just as the admiral’s acknowledgment had been to them. Without fanfare, I proudly received a second Silver Star medal.

  Oil King Lemert and John Campbell were busy taking on diesel fuel for our continuing voyage. John was already in the process of taking over as engineering officer from Roger and heeded the latter’s advice to allow a good safety factor. The final item in our preparations was a packet of eight new movie films, and lest we might be letting down our guard, Captain Morton penned taut instructions that applied to everyone, but especially to the OODs and duty chiefs. Though our operation order specified 1230 the following day as Wahoo’s departure time, all hands were aboard and departments ready for sea the night before.

  Monday’s dawn would have been the best time to depart, but the morning did provide the crew an opportunity to purchase last-minute gifts from the Base ship’s service store, whose stock had little to do with ships and carried much that would not be found easily in the States. And for the few who had neglected to do so, it gave a last chance to get their seabags or a replacement from the chief master at arms, for all personal gear would have to be removed from the ship within an hour or so after reaching Mare Island.

  Just as if we were departing on patrol, Admiral Lock wood and our DivCom came to see us off. Only our bow and stern lines still held our submarine to the pier when the rumble of the dieseis called attention to the wardroom clock. Morton saw the admiral ashore; the brow was snaked to the pier by hands from the Base; and at the captain’s nod, I ordered the lines cast off, a prolonged blast, and then backed Wahoo from the slip. Twisting, and then ahead two-thirds, I conned her out of the harbor and to the waiting PC escort. It was a gesture from the captain, who had become my closest friend, to let me handle his ship this last time.

  Wahoo was already exceeding by a knot the speed of 14 knots specified in our operation order, but only until we were well out of sight. After that, the speed that our PC could maintain in the moderately heavy seas would be the limit. All of this was due to the details of our op-order, which seemed to have been written more for a train keeping an exact schedule than for a ship that could run into slowing storms at sea. Exact points, Charlie, Dog, Easy, Fox, and George, would keep us clear of other shipping, except Spearfish and Searaven, whom we might meet; and at the 1,000-mile circle from San Francisco we were required to report our daily position, the last such report to be the rendezvous point with an escort. The crimp came in a commitment that the captain had somehow made to Mare Island to be there at high noon on Saturday, May 29, just 5 days hence. There was only one solution—to establish a dawn rendezvous point that would insure our arrival in San Francisco Bay by 0900. From there, the 2-hour run to Mare Island would leave an hour for dressing ship and contingencies. So as soon as the PC turned back, we could bend on the turns for point Charlie to get and improve our position as we passed each point.

  Krause brought down th
e chart, which showed our complete track on to the rendezvous 30 miles from the Golden Gate Bridge. Captain Morton seemed much relieved after seeing that Wahoo really could make the appointment. He first suggested a point 20 miles instead of 30 for our rendezvous, but decided to leave the positions as they were and arrive at the point an hour early. Taking action, he picked up the phone and directed that the PC be dismissed with a “Well-done” and that all four engines go on propulsion.

  On my usual turn through the ship to see that we were secured for sea, I heard the main motor reduction gears, beyond the maneuvering room bulkhead, whining at close to high C. Passing through the door, I noted the propeller shaft tachometers indicating 315 turns, 15 below full power. We continued on, dropping to three engines when the seas were knocking down our speed anyway. As we left each alphabet point behind, Wahoo gained more and more time.

  We had passed to the operational control of Commander Western Sea Frontier, reporting our successive points as required. The command had a copy of our operation order, and we awaited the reply with more than ordinary interest. It came the following evening and simply stated that USS Lawrence would meet Wahoo at the designated rendezvous.

  The crew loved this homeward-bound passage as if the speed was all for them, and in truth it was. Our hot SJ had Lawrence before morning twilight, she too allowing an extra hour. Instead of a challenge, her first searchlight message read:

  FROM COMWESSEAFRON CONGRATULATIONS AND WELCOME TO THE STATES

  A front had blown the customary summer fog away, and we followed Lawrence into a sunrise beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. I thought again that this had to be man’s most beautiful steel structure.

  Leaving sparkling San Francisco astern, we proceeded to the bight north of Tiburon to be free of any shipping and clear of the stronger tides. There, the OOD would maintain our approximate position during breakfast and while the crew dressed ship in submarine style. Our special yardarm atop the SD mast carried the Nitu Maru’s great house flags to port and starboard. The halyard below each flag carried one small Japanese rising-sun ensign and then nine civilian flags that represented the two warships and the eighteen other ships that Wahoo had sunk. Above them all went the captain’s latest project, to which he had sewn a sleeve to fit snugly over the top of the attack periscope.