No one liked crossing the area of our morning submarine contact even though common sense told us we could just as easily encounter her or another most anywhere. The three black-winged night fighters that joined us at sunset were doubly welcome. With one searching ahead and one on each bow, we approached the reported position. Our periscope shears bristled with lookouts to replace the scopes that we could no longer use in the fading light. Tang slowed and we commenced a combing search downwind, the fighters now looking like black albatross as they flew their search patterns ahead and on our beams. Our chances of locating the raft seemed slim, especially when we thought of our recent experience with aircraft reporting a downed plane miles out of position. Suddenly, one of our fighters dived, firing red stars or possibly tracers. The result was a shower of red Very stars coming up from the sea, well ahead on our starboard bow. The fighters guided us in and were dismissed with thanks and Godspeed. Aboard came Lieutenant D. Kirkpatrick and his crewman, Second Class Aviation Ordnanceman R. L. Bently, who had already set sail for the Solomons, 1,200 miles away, so as to be clear of the Japanese by dawn. With this kind of determination, they probably would have made it. It was 1900, and Tang commenced a slow-speed search west of the atoll.
9
Frank had the deck with Mel as the assistant; a better combination would be hard to find. Fraz and I went below, rather expecting to see airmen standing around in the passageways, or at least I did. We found only four, three in the wardroom and one in my bunk. Then I recalled my suggestion to just put ’em on the watch list. Fraz had passed it on to Frank, our senior watch officer. He and Ballinger had assigned the junior aviators who, except for the three in the wardroom and probably a few in the crew’s mess, were now either in their bunks or standing watches as understudies. This did not solve my predicament, for though I had offered my cabin to Commander Matter, I had not intended that it be permanent.
With 22 extra men aboard, making a total of 102, some hot bunking was obviously necessary; as soon as a man assumed the watch, his bunk was available. This would not quite do for the commander, but it led to a diplomatic solution. I do believe Fraz and Ballinger let me stew in my cabin for a while before the chief of the boat knocked. There was not room for three of us in the cabin, so he just stuck his head and shoulders in and addressed the commander: “Your bunk is ready, sir.” There are some situations the chief of the boat can handle politely and diplomatically that the skipper and exec can’t. He has rare authority. The commander’s was the top bunk in CPO quarters and, in fact, a privileged one, for men climbing in and out of the other bunks would not be stepping in his face. Actually, the arrangement was quite proper and even covered in navy regulations, which state that the captain of a ship shall not vacate his cabin for an embarked senior. There is good reason, for if the captain is pushed around, his status, prestige, and authority suffer in the eyes of his crew.
Though Task Force 58 was well over 200 miles away, we continued to guard 4475, partly because there were so many radiomen aboard and this kept them busy, like pounding the anchor chain. One message was both heartening and distressing. Admiral Mitscher congratulated all units on their splendid performance. Sixty enemy planes had been shot down, another 30 destroyed on the ground, small shipping sunk, and Truk’s remaining above-ground facilities devastated. We had suffered nine operational losses, and 26 more planes went down in combat. The message closed with a conciliatory statement: Eight airmen had been rescued and “some others” were in Tang.
We had assumed that the task force staff was monitoring 4475 with a setup something like ours and keeping a running account of the airmen in Tang. We had forgotten the tremendous control problems of the strike and that doubtless everyone was therein involved. They were probably more than happy to have our AIC carry the ball, and our lifeguard results certainly spoke well for this innovation. Should we now open up and tell them? I decided not. It could be hot enough out here in the morning without giving enemy direction finders a chance to locate us. Rarely would a submarine use her transmitter when on patrol in her operating area. There had to be an emergency or urgent contact report, and the voices and laughter coming from the forward torpedo room would tell anyone that all was well this night.
Tang was a happy ship. After the evening meal, the crew’s mess and the wardroom became club lounges, enlivened by the stories of those awaiting bunks or coming watches. One thing at once became apparent: Hollywood notwithstanding, airmen could talk without using their hands. What we all learned should have been recorded, condensed to a pamphlet, and promulgated to dispel myths and give facts. We would include some of this in our patrol report, especially their doubts concerning emergency identification signals.
While this was going on, Tang was establishing a reputation of her own. The new members of her ship’s company were not accustomed to drop-in movies or hot, home-baked bread at midnight served with Taylor-made ice cream, and could hardly believe there would be no reveille for them. Should these men be grounded, we had candidates. Before morning twilight, we took a long suction through each end of the boat and doused the smoking lamp. Our new lookouts had each practiced clearing the bridge in the dark with only the red glow of the conning tower lights to guide them. Their earnestness was so evident that Fraz and I were sure they had been filled with stories of the seas rolling up through the superstructure, but a foot from the hatch as the last man dived below. Of course sometimes, but rarely, this had happened. Besides, maybe this was something akin to bailing out of a cockpit. In any event, with the benefit of dawn’s first light and Frank’s calm “Clear the bridge,” the airmen dived below like pros.
Admiral Mitscher’s summation of the devastation on Truk was confirmed on May 2, for during the whole morning watch Scotty reported only one flying boat over the lagoon and a single land plane near Tol Island. That nothing was missed we were sure, for the novelty of manning the scopes intrigued every pilot assistant OOD. Tang was in the best position to intercept shipping from the Gray Feather-Mogami Bank area, and our hopes were raised at lunch by a patrol plane searching on a northerly and then an easterly course. A convoy or a single ship might have been ordered back onto the banks during the strike and now be about to make a run for it. On this chance, we moved to the general area of the patrol’s search, but one more unidentified plane to the northwest, sighted by Lieutenant Barbor, was our only reward.
It was after 1600, and those men just getting acquainted with submarines might be changing their minds about the luxury of submerged cruising. As a practical demonstration the smoking lamp was lighted at 1830, a half hour before our intended surfacing. Our regular ship’s company watched, for the word that was just passed was an invitation to smoke whether one really wanted to or not. Twenty-two men tried in vain, for there was not enough oxygen to keep a match burning or even get a cigarette smoldering.
Three blasts, and a few minutes later a suction, brought all hands back to the beauties of earth with its air well scrubbed by the seas, celebrated shortly by distant fireworks over Truk. It could be antiaircraft fire and bombs from Liberators, or perhaps the Japanese were just understandably jumpy and one shot had led to the rest. This ended the activity around Truk for the next three days as the Japanese were probably licking their wounds. One floatplane in 72 hours was a good indication of the damage they had received. We continued our search, however, with the SD secured and the SJ never trained anywhere near the atoll. Since one place seemed as poor as another, we worked slowly around to Otta Pass. The only item of note was a serious error by one of our new assistant OODs, who were all qualified OODs in surface ships. Instead of heads that discharged with compressed air, Tang’s forward drain lines went to sanitary tanks. A nightly ritual was to blow their content overboard. With 22 extra men and warm tropical waters, the tanks had time to become particularly ripe. This would not have mattered had the assistant OOD headed the ship into the wind before giving the order to blow the largest tank aft. The following breeze carried the stench forward, where
our hull ventilation efficiently sucked it in and piped it throughout the boat, setting off cries of anguish. Four diesels on the line and a suction fore and aft put things back in order, though in some nooks and crannies it seemed to linger on, and I wondered if Tang’s OODs had connived at all of this.
During the evening of May 5, Tang moved out to the designated 40-mile spot to lifeguard for a midnight Liberator strike. The planes were 56 minutes late as their pips closed on the SD and then showed up on the SJ 12 miles to the north of us. Of equal interest to the ship’s company was radar interference also to the north. It would be Permit, entering the area as our relief. The bombs were away at 0110, down onto poor Dublon Island. Good explosions were visible, though most were over the horizon and showed up only as momentary looms of light. The last of our own plane contacts disappeared by 0200, and then enemy planes took over to give us a proper send-off. Their search was persistent, for the Japanese were tenacious fighters. Again, it was that damned SD that we had to use this night. There were no flares; they didn’t need them in the moonlight. A passing squall helped us avoid one plane that closed to three miles; for another, we headed up the moon streak so as to present a minimal silhouette. Tang moved away slowly, as her luminous wake at higher speeds would aid the enemy. Finally at 0300, with all planes departed and our relief on station, we cranked on a second engine and came to the navigator’s recommended course for Pearl.
We were not quite in the clear, for a floatplane, probably from Hall Island, had us down again less than an hour after our dawn trim dive. It obligingly continued on its way. Two SD contacts remained outside of 30 miles but served to keep us on our toes. This was probably well, for the relaxation that unavoidably crept in on the way home could make that passage the most dangerous.
During the day Fraz and I toyed with the message that would be sent to ComSubPac after dark. In an attempt to keep it brief, we punched the big dictionary and a thesaurus, but then we settled on the plainest of English. It read, FOLLOWING AIRMEN ABOARD ALL HEALTHY, and then it listed them alphabetically.
We were not alone in cooking up a message. Somewhat dumbfounded, I read one prepared by Commander Matter, properly handed to me for release. Likewise concise, this one read:
REQUEST RENDEZVOUS EARLIEST FOR TRANSFER AIRMEN
AND EFFECT THEIR RETURN TO PARENT AIR GROUPS
We knew that Task Force 58, after a couple of bombardments, would go to Majuro for some rest and repairs. They had been under way nearly as long as we had, having retired to the Marshalls for replenishment after the strike at Palau. We also knew without asking that these 22 men, with the possible exception of one, neither wanted nor deserved rest on the sandspit of a flat atoll. They wanted to go to our rest camp, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel at Waikiki, and I meant to get them there. I silently questioned the authority behind the dispatch, and thought it over quickly; it wasn’t the best approach. If this dispatch went out, however, there might well be some damned fool at Pearl or on Task Force 58’s staff who would carry the commander’s request into effect. Fortunately, among the duties filled by the aviators were those in radio and on the coding board. I sent for the coding officer with the duty; it was Lieutenant Dowdle. He had seemed sort of a rounder, and since he’d had the guts to set his plane down in that crosschop right in front of the enemy, this should be small potatoes to him.
“Will you take care of these,” I said, handing him both dispatches. Then I added, “Will you read them now.”
He read the long one, at least as far as the listing of names, sort of nodded, then read the other, originated by the group commander. He raised his eyes and looked at me with hard lines of fury drawn on his face. His lips were moving, and I didn’t have to be a lip-reader to catch most of the “Why that son of a bitch!” Then he understood my nod. Dowdle was my man, and this was right back in the hands of the aviators. After supper both dispatches were keyed through the transmitter, but I strongly suspect that the lead to Tang’s antenna trunk had inadvertently fallen out for the second transmission.
It was May 7, and we were entering the area where planes could be friendly or enemy. The simple little SD could not yet be picked up by airborne direction finders, and out here it did add some security as well as some possibly unnecessary dives. The first pip was tracked on by at breakfast time, but an hour later we pulled the plug to avoid a large, low-flying plane. At noon Mel reported a PBM (U.S. Martin patrol bomber) and received the unnecessary instruction to watch it. He’d know what to do.
Blaat! Blaat! Down Tang went, with those at lunch tilting their soup bowls to compensate for the rather steep angle. Our PBM might just be coming in to say hello, but with a zero angle at five miles, any plane was menacing.
“Level off at four hundred.” We hadn’t been deep for a while, and now was a good time to see that all was tight. Besides, our new hands might like to talk sometime about lunch in the deep. All was well, so we dipped down to 500 feet and started the long climb to the surface. It took longer than expected, a good reminder to us for an attack in the future.
It was midafternoon when our SJ kicked the bucket for the last time. The oil had leaked from the modulator unit and it had shorted, but this unit from Trigger had seen us through. This delayed a bit a demonstration we had planned, to show the airmen our repertoire of identification flares, but they showed up better after sunset anyway. It turned out that none of the airmen had ever seen them before, so we felt that at least we had accomplished something. But then it was the consensus that they would not be able to see any one of them from the air except the Mark I comet from our Buck Rogers gun, and not even that if they were already attacking. With this kind of assurance, we tucked away the pyrotechnics and decided to rely on our good old two blasts of the diving alarm.
The evening Fox brought congratulations from across and up the line. We were not publicity minded, and our delay in transmitting the list of rescued airmen was just submarine common sense. During this period, doubt, anxiety, and suspense had obviously been building up, and the timing probably brought a maximum impact. There had been sub-air rescues before, but never one like this.
At breakfast Commander Matter thumbed through the dispatches on the board. “I can’t understand why they haven’t set up the rendezvous,” he commented, “or at least answered my message.”
“Well, it looks like they want you all back at Pearl for a little publicity, Commander. It isn’t every group commander that gets out and carries the mail!” My comment seemed to smooth his feathers, though I had made it to fill a sudden gap in the wardroom conversation. Perhaps because it was true, the conversation returned to normal as nicely as can be. May 9 came and Tang was grinding away the degrees. Wake Island lay 120 miles to the northwest, and seven miles away was an SD contact closing rapidly. We did not question its intent, for a friendly plane would hardly be here at dawn. The dive was twofold, our usual trim and again frustrating the enemy. Another plane near noon closed to 12 miles, apparently just in passing, but now we had another problem, our fuel. At 1300 we slowed to one engine. If the weather held and Tang encountered no head seas, we’d make it. Of course there was one ace in the hole, cutting our speed in half and cruising on the auxiliary.
Affecting the new crew members who had joined us at Midway was our failure to put an enemy on the bottom. Rightly or wrongly, the sinking of an enemy ship was the determining factor in classifying a patrol successful. Sometimes on the most trying and difficult patrols, no torpedoes were fired. I had experienced this and was sorry for the six new hands, for they would not be eligible for the submarine combat pin. They found an unencumbered champion in Lieutenant Burns, however. As a theological student, he had a way with young men, but I could offer him no solution.
That evening, two of the aviators were speaking of their roles at Palau. We perked up our ears when they commented about the mining. Toagel Mlungui and the other shallow western passes had received about 80 mines, most of them planted on the first day of Operation Desecrate. Frank looked at
me and understood the slight shake of my head. This was something within the submarine force; our useless weeks spent there were our business. It would not be spread around in the patrol report, but I would most certainly talk with Admiral Lockwood in private. There were no stone walls in front of his door.
The seas continued calm, and Tang crossed the 1,000-mile circle on the 11th. Our luck continued; with 2,000 gallons of diesel remaining of our original 110,000, and with 11,200 miles behind us, Tang entered the safety lane. We passed between the buoys, then by the Arizona and around ten-ten dock, and moored starboard side to pier 1 at the submarine base.
The reception was not the ordinary one. Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, Admiral Lockwood, and others were there. As they were greeting each of the aviators, Lieutenant Burns unexpectedly stepped forward.
“Admiral Lockwood,” he addressed our force commander, “there are some new members of Tang’s crew who joined her at Midway. Is this patrol going to be designated as successful for combat insignia?”
The admiral was a little taken aback, and then he answered, “Why, uh—Why, yes, indeed.” Burns thanked him and stepped back, and I’m told that our six new crew members were grinning from ear to ear.
We had in no way expected that Tang and the aviators would make headlines and the front pages, with a full page in Life, but after all it’s the unusual that makes the news. The same crew that had struggled somewhere below 600 feet and spent a day crippled and hounded by a destroyer received no notice other than to have the estimated tonnage of that great tanker arbitrarily cut nearly in half by the staff, but that’s the way the ball bounces.
Again working on priorities, payday for the ship’s company and buses to the Royal Hawaiian took precedence. The troops’ spit and polish had served double this May 15, first for the admirals and next for the officer in charge of the relief crew. Tang’s watch officers were gone before noon, and by midafternoon Fraz had wangled wheels. Before leaving the ship, I signed a recommendation that Lieutenant Burns be awarded the Navy Cross for deliberately placing himself in grave jeopardy to save others. Then I joined Fraz.
Clear the Bridge! Page 20