“All ahead full. Blow main ballast.” The 3,000-pound air roared, and the planesmen fought Tang’s tendency to rise. It was a losing battle. We were at 64 feet, then 63.
“Battle surface!”
Three blasts howled, the planesmen shifted their planes, and Tang bounced to the surface like a cork. Frank called the initial range, 6,800 yards. “Set!” came from the gun, and I ordered, “Commence firing!”
The first five rounds had point-detonating fuses and were seen bursting in the trees. Then Frank used a rocking ladder of first 200-and then 100-yard increments to insure crossing the target, and applied deflection spots to include the other plotted structures. Though any damage could not be ascertained, the detonations of most projectiles showed as flashes, or momentary looms of light for those landing across the island. With 33 rounds expended, I ordered, “Cease fire!” The remaining 160 rounds we would save for Truk. The empty shell cases were kicked over the side, and we came to the navigator’s recommended course for the atoll.
At my request Fraz dropped below and extended my congratulations to all hands, since more was involved in the shoot than could be seen topside. The ammunition train had worked to perfection, for not once was the firing delayed. With the simplest of gun fire control now well tried and proven, I would not hesitate to use the gun if it could further our mission.
It had been a good shoot, primarily a project of Tang’s troops with an assist from Frank. Quietly and without any fanfare, his capabilities were becoming evident. It was easy to see why he had been commissioned number one in the prewar emergency officer procurement program.
The subject of conversation in the wardroom that night was the shoot, and from remarks we overheard, it was no different in the crew’s mess. It was good to hear something other than gripes about the dearth of Japanese shipping, and this seemed to see us through the following two days of straightaway cruising. We were far enough from enemy bases to permit a daylight grease job on the gun and late afternoon pointer drill. The troops showed such enthusiasm about the gun that I became a little apprehensive of their letdown should we not have occasion to use it. On April 27 Tang would again be within range of enemy patrols. They came with an abrupt “Clear the bridge! Clear the bridge!” all jumbled in with two quick blasts. It was Hank’s “other” voice, which seemed to blow the lookouts down the hatch and in effect said, “This is no drill.”
Ed leveled off at the ordered 100 feet, the first time he’d been called on to take her right on down, and with the added difficulty of right full rudder. Our new course was 225, the bearing of a distant patch of smoke, but closing at six miles as we went under was an enemy plane. Fraz had plotted the probable position of the ship, near Hitchfield Bank. We could waste no time, and Tang had climbed to periscope depth just eight minutes after diving.
“Up scope.” Jones brought it up smartly; there was not time for the usual caution.
“Bearing—mark!” Jones read 230.
“That’s the smoke. The plane is to the right, going away.”
From 50-foot keel depth we had two blobs of smoke, now tracked on a tentative course of west and at 10 knots. Three blasts and we were on the surface working up to full power for an end-around, far and away the most thrilling maneuver in submarines. Only in this way could we hope to catch the enemy before he reached Gray Feather Bank and the security of a vast area of shoal water. Tang was rolling, but so was the plane, sighted coming in high. Again we made it below, though this time the enemy, a Zeke, got in a little closer. It was probably from Ulul, and those planes were fast enough to give us trouble. Our next two surface dashes gained bearing, but then the Zeke sat on top of us, apparently until it had to return for fuel. Another surface dash got us back in the running before the relief Zeke arrived. Again the sky was clear and again we surfaced. The diesels fired and then came the SD report, “Two miles … one mile … he’s coming in!”
There was a swish below, perhaps of a dud bomb, and the rattle of machine gun bullets above, but we were buttoned up and on our way down.
It was noon; we’d been at this since 0859, but now the enemy was on Gray Feather Bank and immune from attack. He need not enter deep water again for a hundred miles, and then where? Without other orders we would have tried anyway, but our mission was at Truk, not to the west. Our submarine, especially the lookouts, had performed tremendously. The best time to tell them so was right now. I called the lookouts to the conning tower.
Quickly the quartermaster took over the wheel and glanced aft with a look of some disbelief. The lookouts came up immediately but with a “Has he gone nuts?” expression plainly discernible. Then it dawned on me. I had not said, “Prepare to surface,” but since “Lookouts to the conning tower” is a part of the order, another surfacing was just assumed. I squared them away and have never seen such relief. The four of them seemed to breathe out in unison and drop their shoulders about six inches. The quartermaster, who I now presumed had taken the wheel so as not to be in line to go topside, resumed his duties. After the lookouts, all hands received my thanks. Though the enemy had gotten away this time, with a crew like Tang’s he wouldn’t next.
Tang caught her breath by running submerged. About midafternoon, the Zekes seemed to have given up their search, apparently satisfied that they had accomplished their major objective, as indeed they had. Our submerged speed was only 3 knots shy of one engine cruising, however, so our siesta had cost us only six miles. Somewhat refreshed, and a little less jumpy, we bounced to the surface and rolled on our way. The seas were friendly, and the night passed without interference.
Blaat! Blaat! and down we went. It was 0719, and the dawn patrol from Truk, a Betty, was on the horizon. It practically confirmed the navigator’s morning star fix; we were on the border of our area. Another two hours’ surface run would have put us astride the probable shipping lanes from the northwest to Truk. Were any ships moving, that would be the likeliest area, for no sane ship would come from the west off Gray Feather. I decided to leave well enough alone; we now had a full can and could reach the area submerged an hour late. We commenced our all-day submerged patrol, slowing to a quiet 3 knots at midmorning.
A distant plane at 1500 and two floatplanes at 1700 seemed to confirm the intelligence report of Truk’s steady buildup since the first air strike, in February. That meant ships, too, and we were eager. Well into evening twilight, we surfaced with the usual cautions but waited a few minutes before starting the noisy turbo blowers. They didn’t get started, for the SD that had shown all clear suddenly had a pip at six miles, closing steadily. Fraz, with his sextant, was practically mowed down by the lookouts, who knew of the contact and were on their starting blocks for the dash to the hatch. With decks already awash on “Clear the bridge!” I could not blame them, and made a soft landing myself on the last lookout’s shoulders. After going to 60 feet for ten minutes, we returned to radar depth. The enemy was still there. No plane could fly that slowly; for such a constant range it must be circling. We eased on down to 200 feet to have the evening meal in comfort while sound did our searching. The plane finally became discouraged, or low on fuel, because at 2000 all was clear, and this time we stayed on the surface for the night.
This patrol area, across the northern reefs and islands of Truk Atoll, had been one of our submarines’ favorites earlier in the war. The North Pass still offered the best possibility of finding a target, for it could handle any draft ship. We had time to give it a few more daylight hours and dived ten miles off the pass before the start of morning twilight. Sound had to be our ears and eyes until it was light enough to see through the search scope, so we rigged for silent running to give the operator every break possible. Shortly after we could distinguish the islands on the reef, a floatplane came by fairly close. It must have been just by chance, for Tang had made no electrical emissions that the enemy might detect, and we doubted that his radar on Dublon could reach us or separate us from the northern islands. Tang stayed as long as her orders would permit, b
ut here we needed days, even weeks, not hours. At 1100, the last possible moment, we set course for our lifeguard station, 30 miles bearing 110 from Dublon, and commenced the long submerged run to the position east of Truk.
7
It was nearly 1900 when we surfaced. Fraz and Jones hurried with their stars on a fading horizon and confirmed our position. At 1928, SD had our attacking Liberators, coming from the Marshalls, and shortly their blops appeared on the SJ. They provided a good fast exercise for our tracking party. The formation advancing across the scope on each sweep of the cursor was a heartening sight. On schedule, they passed seven miles to the north of Tang, and ten minutes later the explosions commenced. They were probably hitting Dublon, which was 30 miles distant, and Ballinger began sending a few hands at a time up to see the fireworks. The Liberators would probably return to Eniwetok or other Marshall bases by a devious route unless one or more were in trouble, when they would ditch at our known position.
Ballinger had taken his own turn topside with us when the first plane closed, ten minutes after the first bombs. It seemed a little early for one of the Liberators unless it was badly hit and was trying to reach us, but how could we identify it? Just in case, the extra hands went below. Suddenly the single pip separated into three. Mel’s “Clear the bridge!” left no doubt, but not until after the two blasts and the noises of diving had ceased did we learn that the enemy was dropping flares, obviously trying to pinpoint us. We needed to be back on the surface for two reasons: A Liberator might still be in trouble, and after our long submerged run a battery charge was urgent. The enemy planes cooperated, departing as suddenly as they had appeared, and we surfaced under the quarter moon. A couple of electrical grounds due to the humidity of our all-day dive delayed starting the battery charge, and then the Japanese took over. Their searches were determined, and they dropped increasing numbers of flares as they approached, now using up to four planes. The closest flares were about four miles away, but the planes continued in, disappearing from the radar, probably as they skimmed the seas hoping to catch our silhouette. Dead in the water, Tang was undoubtedly invisible from above. There is a time to be chicken; at this stage the battery charge was secured and we dived. After three more dives and short runs to seaward, we were on the 40-mile circle from Dublon, 20 miles from the reef. Perhaps this was beyond the range at which Japanese direction finders could detect our SD radar, maybe moonset was a factor, but I suspect the enemy was tired, just like our whole ship’s company, and both sides secured the drill for the night.
Here we were on a mission of mercy, and the Japanese seemed more determined to get our scalps than when we’d sunk their ships, with the one exception of our all-day tussle with the destroyer west of Saipan. At best we had served as a decoy for the Liberators, but when your dives and surfaces come out even, no day is a total loss. Finally the anticipated report came in on the Fox; all planes had made it back. Tang was off at three-engine speed, with barely enough time to reach her assigned position for the carrier air strike on Truk.
“Radar interference bearing two four zero, Captain. The executive officer is in the conning tower.” There was an air of excitement in the messenger’s voice, which I shared equally as I became fully awake. With Fraz on the ball there was no rush. We had both planned on three or four hours of shut-eye, but it didn’t look like he’d even turned in. It was 0400, and we’d been on station 40 miles due south of Moen Island for one hour. Thirty-five minutes later the action started with a plane or a flight of planes at 4,600 yards on the SJ. Our section tracking party paid off with an almost instant course determination, toward our task force. There was no time for a coded contact report, so we told the task force commander by voice on 4475, our assigned frequency for this strike. There was no acknowledgment, so we tried twice again blind. After that it would be too late anyway.
It was another 40 minutes before planes showed up on the SD. As usual, when planes were high enough for the SD to catch them, the SJ wouldn’t. We had no bearings, only ranges, and no way to determine their course. They could be ours or the enemy’s. The next flight in the spotty overcast closed rapidly to two miles. We dived. Thirteen minutes later all doubt was gone, as Tang surfaced under flights of up to 50 planes shuttling between Truk and the southwest. With the possible exception of a sinking maru, this was the grandest sight any one of us had witnessed.
The tops and then the superstructures of our task force came over the horizon. It was 0815, and here we sat 23 miles from the reef, when in our opinion we belonged up front, as close as we could get. Common sense told us that our planes could not all be lucky, but perhaps none had yet made it beyond the reef. All communications had been checked out; we were guarding the VHF tactical frequency and our specially assigned 4475, and all units and planes of the task force were guarding them, too. Patience is certainly a requisite for a submarine commander, but at this moment I believe I first understood Captain J. W. Wilcox, Jr. I had signals in the cruiser Chester. We were receiving an important tactical message sent by 36-inch searchlight from beyond the horizon. My skipper was screaming, “Get it faster!”
Finally the call came, and Tang lit out, her screws digging holes with full battery power while the diesels fired. Our destination was a raft two miles off Fourup Island, on the southern reef. There was no emergency speed ahead on the maneuvering room telegraph, probably a holdover from peacetime, when the only conceived emergency was in backing down to avoid a collision. Our telegraphs had just one-third, two-thirds, standard, and full. Ring up full twice and you got flank, also considered before the war to be as fast as a ship could go. When the wartime job to be done became more important than one of the engines, we arrived at a new speed, and why not call it emergency? Instead of ringing up full three times, most of us got this speed by telephone and left it up to the electricians and motormacs (motor machinist’s mates) to give the rock-crushers the works. At this moment, Culp and MacDonald were again in charge aft, and Tang was rolling. We were out of that static trap, spelled T-R-A-P, of our operational dispatch and meant to stay loose and flexible from here on.
The sight ahead as we closed the atoll would have brought a lump of pride to anyone’s throat. Our bombers were peeling off through a hole in the clouds above Tol Island, a hole filled with flak, and diving straight through. For the moment it seemed that the fourth plane of each wing was hit. If they had that courage, we could at least get this survivor, two miles off the beach. Tang was not alone as we skimmed Ollan and Falasit islands, for two of our retiring bombers came over to strafe the islands on the reef and fighters arrived to guide us.
“Thar she blows!” It was Jones’s Down East twang from our crow’s nest. I didn’t even know he’d gone aloft. The raft was about four miles west of the reported position, but from an aviator’s viewpoint that was close enough. At something over 22 knots, Tang was there in ten minutes, conducting an old-fashioned man-overboard drill: a wide turn to place the raft upwind and a needle-threading, slow, straight final approach. The years of conducting this maneuver as a drill paid off in this one moment, as Hank and his rescue party snaked Lieutenant (jg) S. Scammell, Second Class Aviation Machinist’s Mate J. D. Gendron, and Second Class Aviation Radioman H. B. Gemmell aboard in three shakes.
While the planes kept any opposition from the beach at bay, we skedaddled six miles to the south. Scammell and his crew were shaken up a little, but nothing that a shot of depth-charge medicine, Lejon Brandy, wouldn’t take care of in a hurry. It had to, for we needed the three of them in our new AIC—our aviation information center—set up for this operation. Although we hadn’t known it at the time, this project had started at Mare Island, with the customary donations by General Electric and Fairbanks Morse of communication receivers to the two messes. These happened to be the best Hallicrafters, and that suited everyone, as their audio performance was excellent; with them we would get broadcasts from the States and even worldwide. To make them work properly, we needed coaxial cables run from radio fore and aft
through the watertight bulkheads. To justify this, another microphone cable was necessary, thus making either mess a potential combat information center. What luck prompted this, we’ll never know, but now with a pilot and a radioman aboard who knew all the calls, and lots of the pilots by name, our wardroom AIC, with a large chart of Truk Atoll, was ready to go to work in earnest.
It was 1559 when the next raft outside the reef was reported through our AIC. Again at emergency speed, we set out to round Kuop Atoll, which sticks down south from Truk. A quarter of an hour into the run came another call, a raft close to the area where we’d picked up Scammell and crew. This one we could reach during daylight, a sure rescue, so back we went to a position two miles west of Ollan and one mile off the continuing reef. Again the position was approximate, for our lookouts, the raised scope, and our crow’s nest could spot nothing. The bomber and two fighters close by seemed perplexed that we wouldn’t follow one of them over the reef to the actual position, which was five miles distant. At least that was the distance on the SD to one of the planes. Fraz plotted the actual position of the raft; it was in the clear and should be able to paddle outside the reef during the night. Right now there was a raft we could reach, even though it would be dark. We set off to round Kuop Atoll and start a night search, feeling confident that Tang’s unique ability to monitor distress calls and thus take immediate action augured well for the morning.
All planes had now been recalled, leaving us on our own, as a submarine is supposed to be. We could either dive before the Japanese crawled out of their holes or shoot first and see if we could keep them down. I chose the latter since we could then be proceeding at full power toward the downed aviator east of Truk. White had his gun crew standing by, and my “Commence firing!” was followed almost instantly with the first salvo. The point of aim was the nearest gun emplacement on the southwest end of Ollan Island. Our ballistics of the previous week again proved correct. Frank’s curve had plotted so close to a straight line that he settled on a sight bar range of 300 yards less than the radar range. The very first projectile, with its point-detonating fuse, burst nicely low in the trees. The gun crew worked smoothly and unhurriedly as corrected ranges were called every salvo or so to the sightsetter. Frank injected his spots to see an occasional short. The real effectiveness was in the bursts, which must have been showering the area with fragments and preventing the enemy from manning his guns. With Ollan now 8,500 yards back on our quarter and Tang pulling away, I gave “Cease fire!” The gun crew dived below through the gun access trunk, and we put the island dead astern. The order was a bit premature, however, for one enemy gun crew crawled out and let fly at us, sending a huge smoke ring rolling out from the beach. The first splash was a big one, 1,000 yards astern on our SJ. The second one we did not spot, but we heard it whump somewhere overhead. It could have been close, for the enemy excelled in his gunnery. Though this added a touch of excitement, there was something to be said for the protection that combat air patrol had provided till its recall.
Clear the Bridge! Page 18