Clear the Bridge!

by Richard O'Kane

  “What are your instructions if Captain Weiss doesn’t agree, sir?” The possibility was certainly remote, but I was glad that Fraz had brought it up. Now was the time to be sure we were thinking alike.

  “Just tell him that Tang will take any one of the three positions.” Now that should mollify anybody. Fraz did not seem completely satisfied, but this was his ball to carry for Tang.

  Danjo Gunto was still an hour away when the report of radar interference was relayed from the control room. It served as a beacon, and at 0115 on this dark night, Fraz and Gunners Mate Rector paddled toward the indistinct shape of Tinosa. With them were ten movie programs, but more pertinent to the problem at hand were the infrared signaling apparatus and the code for coordinated attack that we had brought along for her.

  Time always seemed to pass slowly whenever our rubber boat was out of sight at night. This night it was dragging; over an hour had passed and the conference was still going on. Surely someone would glance at the wardroom clock and realize that morning twilight would come in a couple of hours; reaching the Koshiki Islands undetected and in time to do any good would soon be impossible. What about the problem at hand was so complicated as to require this amount of time? My heart sank at the thought, and I found myself gritting my teeth only to see our yellow boat coming out of the darkness. Fraz, Rector, ten movie programs, and the boat were all pulled aboard in what seemed to be a single effort.

  “Where to, Fraz?”

  “The Koshiki Islands!” came out of the jumble on the forecastle, and Tang was off with a bone in her teeth, the maneuvering room telegraphs calling for flank speed. Not until Fraz had changed to dry clothes and joined us in the wardroom did I ask him about the details. It was enough that we were rolling in the right direction. Looking a little weary, he sat down to a cup of coffee, obviously waiting for my question.

  “OK, Fraz, what’s our spot?”

  “Any one we want, Captain; we’ve got the islands and the straits all to ourselves,” Fraz replied with the usual twinkle in his eye. “Tinosa and Sealion will be patrolling two lanes, thirty miles wide, to the west. Captain Weiss got pretty mad at my insistence, but finally told us to go to our ‘goddamned islands.’”

  I wondered if Fraz was just being kind and if Don Weiss’s wrath had not really been directed at me. This had been a bit rough on him, but he had come back with what we wanted. It was just too bad the others weren’t coming along, but they obviously had different ideas.

  Morning twilight came early, and we continued east along the 32d parallel. Our course soon looked like a sine wave as we maneuvered to avoid sampans, which went about their business unaffected by the war. They were not really troublesome, but a small patrol coming south was. We pulled the plug to avoid detection. The hour was 0808, and now we would have difficulty in reaching the strait on time with any battery for a subsequent approach. The choice was not difficult; we could run all day at our present 6 knots and then take our chances on having an opportunity to charge.

  Fraz had finished putting our dead reckoning positions on the chart up until evening twilight, when we could surface, and then had carried us on at 16 knots. That would put us off the northern end of the strait at 2200, too late to carry out our plan to catch the enemy still in the strait. However, by heading farther north, and with the SJ to search ahead, we could reach a position to attack any ship leaving the strait at dusk. We came left 20 degrees to 070. All hands tried to catch up on course books or qualification notebooks, and I pulled out a folder of officers’ fitness reports. It was no use; our minds were on one thing, and that was as it should be. The informal plan of the day was changed to include a drill for our torpedo fire control party before lunch and then battle stations during the afternoon watch. This fitted in well with our submerged run, for the periodic slowing for periscope sweeps and then charging on again all added realism. There was one other innovation: Behind each of certain key men stood an understudy.

  The run toward the coast was uninterrupted. Only a few variations from our course, to give sampans a little more berth, kept our track from being as straight as an arrow. Beam and quarter bearings on distant Fukue Shima to the north had confirmed our earlier position, and now we surfaced in evening twilight for a star fix and the race toward our selected position, 12 miles north of the strait. Two mains went on charge; the other two and auxiliary boosted Tang up to 17 knots. She was rolling with a purpose. Soon our track looked like a sidewinder’s as we dodged lighted sampans clustered inshore of the 200-fathom curve. The lighted ones were easy; the hazard lay in those few that had not hung out lanterns. None appeared to notice us. A third main went on propulsion as we passed the 100-fathom curve, verified by an echo-sounding. The 50-fathom curve would come next, but we could still dive in ten. Tang slowed to 5 knots. The time was 2145 on June 24; the three-day-old moon had set, and we eased ahead into the black night, waiting.

  4

  “Radar contact, bearing one five zero, range twenty thousand yards!” It was Dick’s excited voice coming over the bridge speaker, but probably no more excited than would be anyone else’s. I had never been more certain of joining the enemy than during these last 24 hours. The Japanese had to run ships up this coast to Nagasaki or call it quits, and they had given no indication of doing that. I was not counting on a first contact within minutes of reaching station. With crossed fingers, we waited for the range on the next quick SJ sweep. The enemy would either be emerging from the strait, heading our way, or entering it, heading south. The former seemed likely, for even with Sailing Directions, entering the strait could be tricky at night. Still, an enemy convoy could anchor in the strait and make the safer daytime passage to the south. If necessary, we could race around the outside of the islands and greet the enemy at the wide southern mouth.

  Considering these possibilities had taken but a minute or two as we looked over the chart in the conning tower. Then came Bergman’s direct report: “A mess of ships, range still twenty thousand!”

  We pushed him aside momentarily for a firsthand look. Bergman’s description was as good as any for that jumble of blops. No single pip stood out as would that of a battleship, but never mind, there were ships and we’d take them as they came. We were now stopped and had killed any headway so that Tang’s motion would not enter into the tracking problem. Still the pips seemed to mill around aimlessly.

  A contact report is supposed to tell what, how many, where, and what doing. Our coded report included only the five-letter group for the word “convoy” and groups giving the position. At least Sealion and Tinosa could head in at full speed while the situation developed. Sealion acknowledged at 2158, just 13 minutes after our SJ contact, but not a dot or dash came from Tinosa.

  Tracking was now having some success, with courses varying from 270 to 315 and speeds between 10 and 16 knots. A part of the variation was probably due to enemy zigs, confused as the major ships and escorts gained station. It now seemed clear that our first contact had been on the ships as they emerged from the strait and were forming up. Had we kept the pips on the screen, the solution would have been simplified, for then Bergman would have been able to give ranges on the same ship. Then, however, our SJ might have given us away. Using the SJ only intermittently was a compromise we had gladly made. The tentative course and speed were better than none, so radio fired them off to both boats, answering a query from Tinosa at the same time. The hour was 2220.

  The convoy now seemed to be settling down on course 280 at 12 knots. Though perhaps this was just a long leg of its zigzag plan, we relayed the information again. The time was 2227, and Tang had done what she could to bring the other boats in. The task at hand now required our every thought and effort. The Bells of St. Mary’s chimed in earnest for the first time since our aborted attack on the RO class submarine at Truk. This was pure business, and our business was sinking ships; we meant to do just that.

  The composition of the convoy, which had remained confused by the smaller pips of numerous escorts and si
de lobes of the radar, clarified with the decreasing range and a change of its base course to 340. This placed us in a fortunate position on its port bow as the fuzzy blurps took shape. “Christ!” exclaimed Jones to my left as the individual ships became distinct in our 7 × 50s. He spoke for both of us and probably the whole bridge watch, too. In front of us were six large ships in two columns; the leading ships were possibly large escorts. Between Tang and this main body were six escorts, forming a part of two circular screens, 12 escorts in all, extending completely around the large ships. It was a formidable array.

  In the dark night, we moved in slowly, intent on sneaking across the stern of the leading port escort. Jones and Leibold, as on our first patrol, were my second and third pairs of eyes, keeping track of the next nearest patrols to port and starboard. Tang’s bow was steady on the leading escort’s stern, presenting our smallest silhouette. The escort’s wake, still showing a phosphorescence, was close aboard. We would make it across a thousand yards astern, but in so doing Tang must cross the bow of the staggered inner screen patrol. Ships and people look ahead, where they are going; we eased out to try again where the inner screen might be out of position.

  We paused a minute or two, a half mile from the second outer escort and a little abaft her beam, our course paralleling the enemy’s. Fraz came to the bridge to see the situation firsthand, and perhaps by way of encouragement, for he reported everyone quiet and on their toes below. His hushed voice betrayed Tang’s mood. Fraz dropped below, and again we headed in, the converging course moving us laterally with respect to the convoy. It was the exact maneuver I had used so many times as an OOD in destroyers. The wake of the escort ahead boiled just off our bow; Tang was slicing through it, and again an inner patrol was blocking our path. Only in blind disdain would a captain think he could cross that bow undetected. I hated the enemy’s guts, one has to if he’s going to fight effectively, but I felt no contempt. We diverged again to the convoy’s port flank, close to the quarter.

  The opportunities for penetrating the screen and securing a near broadside track, one that would permit a split salvo against two ships, had gone by. But large tracks had worked for others, and we could make them work here. We maneuvered to pass astern of the last outer screen escort and to avoid the trailing inner patrol. If we were successful, our torpedoes could hit on a 150 track, still giving us a target of half the ship’s length. For the third time we eased across an escort’s wake. It wouldn’t work; the inner screen patrol was exactly in position. Or would it! We should be able to see the trailing escort on the starboard flank.

  “I’ve got her, Captain,” said Boats. “She’s well out there.” Leibold ducked, and I looked out over his head, my 7 × 50s paralleling his. Thank God for young eyes; there was her low, sleek shape, but more distant than she should have been.

  “All stop. Take the con, Mort.”

  I heard his “Aye, aye, sir,” as I dropped down the hatch. A glance at the SJ confirmed my observation.

  “Fraz, get me the difference in ranges to these two trailing escorts and call it up to the bridge.” Caverly had the ranges as I was going up the hatch, and Fraz relayed the difference to me in person on the bridge, 2,300 yards. There was our slot!

  Tang went ahead standard, changing course 30 degrees to the right, and slid across the stern of the convoy. With the trailing escorts on either bow, we resumed the convoy’s course. A third engine went on the line.

  I thought for a moment of an incident on patrol in the Solomons. The night had been similar, and a large freighter with a single escort had just gotten by. We surfaced to see her stern still looming up, and I urged my captain to go after her. The thought of his reply still made me boil: “Don’t be stupid; a submarine can’t attack from here!” My further remonstration would have resulted in an invitation to go to my stateroom. Now here I was, in command, with a much greater opportunity and a duty to put all that I had learned to test.

  Tang was closing quietly but rapidly, the patrols now falling back on our port and starboard bows, as if they were backing down. Reluctantly, we slowed to 16 knots, just 4 knots above the convoy’s speed. It meant that we would be in jeopardy for a longer period, for now we would pass between them at only the pace of a fast walk. Motion of an object, however, catches the eye when it might otherwise see only the black night. It was a fine point, one of judgment.

  Jones was concentrating on the port patrol and would say nothing unless he saw her turn toward us. If the patrol continued on, she did not see us; that was axiomatic. Leibold was doing the same to starboard, while Caverly below was taking short keyed ranges, and those only when the navigator directed. Our patrols, now close and approaching broadside, had grown into destroyer escort size, with gun mounts fore and aft. At first alarming, their very height was encouraging, for if their lookouts were at bridge level, they could not possibly see Tang as a silhouette against the dark horizon; our background was the black sea. The ranges had closed to 1,500 and 1,700 yards; we were not quite in the middle, but we continued straight on our course, still overtaking by 4 knots.

  “Our bow’s inside their sterns.” Fraz’s voice, coming over the speaker, was hushed but confident. It was well that one of us was shielded from the sight to port and starboard. It would not take much to spook us here on the bridge. We waited tensely.

  “Bow’s amidships.”

  We had an overlap. I wondered what quirk brought that sailing rule to mind at a time like this.

  “Range abeam, eleven hundred port, thirteen hundred starboard!”

  I knew Fraz’s reports were, in part, meant to be reassuring, but they did little to ease the situation we saw topside. The next report, with ranges increasing, was almost jubilant, and very probably helped throughout the boat; but Tang was now working up to the escorts’ bows, where, for a short time, the likelihood of being sighted would be the greatest.

  We had been in more taut situations, where the immediate danger was greater, but never before in one where all words had been in whispers for nearly two hours. Now the only sounds were the quiet rumblings of our diesels as we drew slowly ahead. Again the speaker, this time barking into the night: “Range two thousand!”

  “Come up here, Fraz. This you’ve got to see!”

  My invitation must have been unnecessary, for he was at my shoulder as I stopped speaking. I would like to have seen the expression on his face, but I knew what it was. Fraz, Mort, and I surveyed the situation, and I felt my shoulders relax, naturally.

  Astern were sharp, tall silhouettes, menacing, but Tang was drawing away. On either flank, the long, low outlines of escorts lay in encompassing arcs; those forward were barely visible, blending into the night. Dead ahead, in the center of it all, lay the great, fat sterns of the main body.

  The task ahead would be less trying, but it would be more exacting. Mort took the con, and I dropped below for a glance at the chart with Fraz. Ogden’s plotting was up to the minute, with our position and that of the main body marked with the time. The convoy had just passed Oniki Saki and would undoubtedly continue on another 25 miles, at least as far as Nagasaki. A finger of the 50-fathom curve lay ahead, but there was no immediate shoal water. We could attack from either flank and, should it become necessary, evade submerged. Our targets would be the two large ships in the port column, three torpedoes each, fired from forward, but all tubes would be ready.

  Deciding on our plan of attack had taken but two or three minutes, and the first change was in order immediately. Jones had spotted a small patrol well out on our port bow, just about where we had intended to go. We eased off to starboard to attack the right-hand column from shoreward instead. The increasing swish and phosphorescence along our waterline accompanied Tang’s acceleration to 17 knots. Conveniently, the convoy steadied on course north and slowed to 10 knots, helping us gain position. The features of the two ships now in the near column were becoming distinct, and I called them down to control. The after ship was an engine-aft tanker or freighter with plumb crui
ser stern; her two-deck after superstructure was topped by a modern, squat stack, and she had a conventional bridge structure forward. The leading ship was a large, modern, four-mast or goalpost freighter with high composite superstructure. Both appeared heavily laden and were most probably diesel-driven, as there was nary a wisp of smoke. I made no attempt to identify the partially obscured ships in the far column, for they were not our immediate targets. Control acknowledged the information, and the identification party would be searching ONI-208J for the probable ships.

  “Make all tubes ready for firing.” I took over the TBT from Mort and, just to be sure, marked a bearing on Tang’s bullnose. A pause and then came the call from the conning tower, “Zero zero zero. Right on.”

  “All tubes ready. We’re ten degrees forward of their beam,” advised Fraz. That was the word I wanted.

  “Come left to two seven zero. Open outer doors forward. Slow to one-third when steady.”

  This time I would mark no bearings during the turn. The movement of the bridge rudder angle indicator caught my eye as the steersman met our swing. A glance at the dimly lighted gyro repeater, installed flush in the bridge cowl, showed us steady on, and I commenced marking bearings on the stern of the leading ship. There would be no undetected speed change this night, and Frank’s course solution would be better than my estimate through an angle on the bow. I called none.

  “Enemy course still zero zero zero, speed ten knots, Captain.” Fraz’s report made unnecessary my pending question. We had not forgotten our mistakes on the two-stack Horai Maru and were double-checking.

  “Outer doors are open. Five degrees to go.”

  I could not speak for the ship’s company, but with the moment we had worked months for only seconds away, I could hear my heart in my ears above the idling diesels. I marked another bearing to keep in the swing, as one might follow through on a bird, though not firing.