Clear the Bridge!

by Richard O'Kane

  “Any time, Captain.”

  “Constant bearing—mark!” My wire was on the leading ship’s after mast, the 7 × 50s now resting steady in their holder.

  “Set!” came over the speaker. The counter stern was in the field, its after edge coming on the reticle.

  “Fire!” The comforting shudder and zing came instantly. The next torpedo went to her stack amidships, the third to the tip of her bow, and we shifted targets.

  “Constant bearing—mark!” The reticle was on the after superstructure.

  “Set!” The squat stack crossed the field, about to touch the wire.

  “Fire!” Again the heartening feel and sound of a torpedo on its way. The fifth and sixth torpedoes were sent to the forward edge of her after superstructure and to the tip of her bow, zinging on their way.

  The tracks had worked out well, giving a longer torpedo run to the leading ship. Thus all torpedoes were under way well ahead of the first possible hit.

  “Torpedo run one minute forty-eight seconds, Captain.” The conning tower would keep us posted. At the moment we were turning to north again, now with four engines rumbling, ready to roll us into the clear. Evasion would have to wait on the hits and some minutes into the counterattack. In the inevitable confusion, we would find a route out of the area.

  “Thirty seconds to go.” Fraz joined us on the bridge, and now the times came over the speaker regularly. A whack, a flash, and a tremendous rumble came from the freighter’s stern. Then from amidships, and her whole side seemed ripped out. The countdown was resumed only to be smothered in two more explosions. The second ship’s stern was a mass of flames, and her superstructure aft crumbled with the second hit. More tremendous explosions and accompanying flashes followed, not timed as our torpedoes, and within minutes escorts were racing through the holocaust, dropping depth charges singly and in patterns. Tang was racing, too, for the nearest deep water. The closest escort at 1,400 yards did not see us and passed madly across our stern. We pulled up 5,000 yards from the attack and 7,000 from the projected position of the convoy. Only a great, low cloud of smoke marked the spot where the ships had joined Davy Jones’s locker, their pips fading off the SJ’s screen.

  It was 0000, midnight, only seven minutes after firing our last torpedo, almost unbelievable! The torpedo reload had been ordered; Mort had the deck; Fraz was taking care of another contact report; and I was on my way to the forward torpedo room for a much delayed but necessary visit. Hank’s reload crews were already at work, easing a new torpedo home. I could not help comparing their deliberate, unhurried performance to the frantic speed often required by peacetime exercises.

  Walker had a cup of coffee waiting as I started aft. “How many’d we get, Captain?” he asked, perhaps having been commandeered by shipmates.

  “Why, both of them, Walker. We saw them go,” I answered between sips.

  “I think there was more, sir,” he replied respectfully. I pointed out that there were certainly a lot more explosions but that it would be pretty difficult for him to tell what was taking place from below.

  “Oh, I wasn’t down here. You were topside so long, I brought your coffee to the bridge. It was so exciting, I dropped your cup down into the superstructure,” he added apologetically.

  Leave it to Walker; he’d find a way to get in the act whether it involved a tussle with the enemy or getting a hold on a pair of bones.

  Fraz had released the desired message to Sealion and Tinosa, telling them the convoy’s position, estimated setup, and that we were trailing. Ensign Kroth had sent it on out without bothering me, and he was right.

  It was 0020. There was radar interference to the southwest from one of the boats, probably Sealion, but it was so weak that we were sure she could not overtake any ships before they reached the haven of Nagasaki. Tang could, and with the torpedo gang completing their reloads, we started off after the one remaining decent-sized pip. Our approach was spurred by an escort, which closed rapidly, but our engine cylinders, which had loaded up with extra lube as we were idling along, now laid down a blue haze that obscured her completely. We presumed the reverse was also true, for she thought we had dived and commenced a depth-charge attack that must have been devastating to the fish. We felt a bit smug about it, but the loom of Nagasaki’s lights, probably her shipyards, brought us back to reality. The depth-charge explosions or the escort’s radio, perhaps both, had alerted the enemy.

  The ship, which we had been closing steadily, suddenly showed zero speed on both plot and the TDC. The range of 7,000 yards became 5,000 and then suddenly 3,800. In minutes our combined range rate was over 40 knots, closing. We had barely time to complete a 90-degree turn when she passed 1,600 yards astern, a modern-looking destroyer escort. She spotted us and closed for a minute, but our team of overload experts forgot everything they had ever learned about mean effective pressures and kept pouring on the coal. The blotch of smoke we laid down would surely mark us as a smoky maru. But the enemy was still coming, big and tall, and Tang was much closer to the beach than we liked.

  “Can we dive, Fraz?” I shouldn’t have used that word; it’s a wonder someone didn’t sound two blasts.

  “Not yet, unless we have to.”

  The DE was giving us a little port angle. She was heading for our blotch of smoke, not us. We eased off to port so we would get further on her bow. An inadvertent patch of smoke brought the DE on and through a repeat performance, but our log showed 22 knots, and each time she gave us an angle the range increased. Tang was out to 3,400 yards when her searchlights came on, illuminating the diving alarm for Mort. The sound heads were pulled in, but there was no crunch on diving. Our camouflage apparently worked in artificial light, too, for the enemy still had not spotted us and raced by madly echo-ranging. It had been a rough way to test a paint job, but its effectiveness would never be in doubt again. A quick sounding showed a couple of fathoms under our keel. The sound heads went down, and we moved toward deeper seas.

  It was 0200 of another night to remember. Now with time to consider, it seemed that the shallow Nagasaki area would be very unhealthy at dawn, but a little over two hours away. The opinion was quite apparently shared by the whole ship’s company, for lookouts were standing by in control, perhaps a subtle way for Ballinger to suggest that it was time to “get the hell out of here.”

  A search by sound, a single sweep by SJ, each showed our vicinity clear. Three blasts and high-pressure air such as we had never used before, and Tang hit the surface running. The turbos had us high and dry in minutes; four mains were delivering full power, and we headed southwest to round the Koshiki Islands. Off the wide southern entrance to the strait, the seas would be deep if not friendly.

  5

  Sleep was impossible. After reasonably fixing our position with quick SJ ranges on Kami Koshiki, and Shimo Koshiki to the south, the navigator joined Mort and me in the wardroom. This time we did not immediately reach for a cribbage board, for we were already played out by the action of the night.

  “Well, they sure fell in our lap tonight,” commented Fraz, quite effectively concealing the customary twinkle in his eye and directing his remark to our PCO. Mort sat back and contemplated a moment before saying a word. His usual broad smile came on slowly.

  “If the object is to sink ships and avoid depth charges, then I guess this is all right, but I’d hate to think it was going to be my steady diet. I’ll take a few depth charges out in deep water any old day.”

  Mort voiced my sentiment, especially at this moment, but a look at the chart of the Yellow Sea, where Tang would be patrolling within a few days, would tell anyone that shallow seas would be our lot. There were advantages to be had in any area, however, and for the time being we would capitalize on the opportunities offered here. Fraz called for the large-scale chart, so here at 0330 we figured on the best plan for patrolling the southern end of the strait. This immediate area held everything. Deep water right up to the promontories on the islands and the mainland would assure us of
shots at any coastal shipping, while a submarine lying off the middle of the strait should be able to detect any shipping at night. In the main, we could revert to being a vessel of opportunity here, still do our job, and see if the ship’s company, all of us, could get our heartbeats back to a normal 73.

  Fraz and Jones were able to get a good round of morning stars, so further playing of the SJ on the islands to fix our position became unnecessary. At 0500 this June 25, with light gray all around, Tang dived for the day. The passage close in to the southern tip of Shimo Koshiki was interesting, as were all close-up views of enemy land. We took pictures through the scope, more for the benefit of our camera buffs than for any reconnaissance consideration, and then moved out into the mouth of the strait. Occasional high periscope searches found clear seas, and the rumblings of distant depth charges indicated that enemy shipping might also be enjoying a day of contemplation. At 1900, however, while Tang was withdrawing prior to surfacing, Mel spotted a surface patrol. We avoided carefully, for if she reported the area clear after an all-night search, perhaps the enemy would try to run his merchant shipping tomorrow, during daylight. It could be some time, however, before he would run night shipping again. If this proved to be true, Tang would have accomplished a part of her mission, for that would reduce the movement of cargo essential to the war effort by half in this area.

  This had been a day of comparative relaxation, but lest we let down our guard, I reached for the Night Order Book and penned special cautions. Then for the record I copied the data on the sinkings observed just before midnight on June 24:

  Aobasan Maru class freighter 7,500 tons Lat. 32° 30′ N.

  Long. 129° 35′ E.

  Genijo Maru class tanker 10,000 tons Lat. 32° 30′ N.

  Long. 129° 35′ E.

  Identification with but oral details of the silhouettes could not be certain, of course, but these were the selections of our identification party. In the quiet of this day, I had compared them with other ships in ONI-208J and could find no fault with our men’s choices.

  Dick and Frank were in the wardroom. Before they donned their red masks prior to going on watch, I handed them the Night Order Book. Dick took it, as he would be going topside first, and I watched him study each sentence, then place his initials in the lined space before again reaching for his coffee cup. He was jolly, seemingly carefree, but when it came to his watch, Dick was all business. This night we would search well clear of the strait, probably sharing the area with the patrol boat of an hour earlier. There was room for both of us, just as long as we knew where she was and she did not detect us. Our periodic SJ searches would locate her handily. Frank and Dick would be followed by Hank and Mel, watch officers that would give any captain eight hours of calm assurance, but reports of increasing squalls, then the patrol, coupled with an alerted enemy just to the north prevented any solid sleep.

  “Radar contact, bearing zero two zero true, range eight thousand.”

  The report was no louder than any of the others, but every word carried forward from the control room. It was apparently a matter of having my mind tuned as well as my ears. The clock above the doorway read 0424, minutes after the crack of dawn. Fraz would be on the bridge or in the conning tower. Answering bells from maneuvering followed by the slight list of turning to port told me that appropriate action had been taken; there was no reason to rush to the bridge. Over a cup of hot coffee, I realized that Tang could undoubtedly develop this contact, and sink it should it turn out to be a ship, without my participation. Fraz was, after all, designated as qualified for command, and I would certainly be losing him after another patrol or so. The thought was sobering and would require continued consideration.

  Topside, off in the fog and rain, was a good ship, tracked as having just rounded Noma Misaki, a sharp point jutting out from Kyushu about seven miles into the strait. A glimpse confirmed that Tang was already on the enemy’s starboard beam, and Ed had rightfully come to a diverging course to reduce the chance of our being sighted between squalls and in the increasing light. My only change in the action that Ed and Fraz had taken was to order, “All ahead full.” We would start our end-around to the south immediately.

  The light rain and fog hung in irregular scallops, for the most part obscuring the coast but giving us an occasional quick sighting of our enemy. She was a medium-sized mast-funnel-mast freighter with a split superstructure. Surprisingly, she was traveling alone, though hugging the coast for the protection of the shallow water. Already she had passed one danger point, Noma Misaki, but another, Bono Misaki, lay ten miles ahead. What urgency would call upon the Japanese to send this ship out thus, when our submarines were known to be in the vicinity? Did they think that we had been destroyed in the melee following our attack, or had Sealion and Tinosa been sighted elsewhere, leading the enemy to believe that this area was clear? In either case, we had no complaints, for with more than twice the freighter’s speed, Tang had gained a position 7,000 yards ahead and but 1,000 off her present track. Less than 2,000 yards from the track on the other side lay Bono Misaki, so a good firing range was insured. Only by reversing course could the freighter avoid the attack.

  “When we’re all clear, take her down.”

  Ed acknowledged the order and gave Fraz and me a few extra seconds. Then came his “Clear the bridge! Clear the bridge!” and the two blasts, sounding topside and throughout the ship. I wondered if others were as calm at this moment as they looked. To me it was always a thrill to take a 1,500-ton ship charging below the seas. The lookouts were hitting the deck on below. Ogden whirled the wheel on the hatch by its swing-down handle, setting the dogs, as Ed kept the lanyard taut. The whole procedure was as fast as ever, but gone was a little of the slam-bang of earlier patrols. Perhaps Tang had come of age, and I approved.

  The general alarm and “Battle stations!” substituted for reveille this June 26. The time was now 0521, just shy of an hour since the original contact. Fraz proceeded with ordering the torpedo tubes readied, four forward and all four aft, as I searched on the bearing where the freighter should break out of the mist and rain. The moments were anxious ones until Caverly reported the sound of heavy screws and then a propeller count of 110 turns. Jones guided the scope a few degrees to the left. There she was, still an indistinct shape, a little farther inshore than anticipated, and with a larger starboard angle.

  “Down scope. All ahead standard.” Frank adjusted the target dial on the TDC to the estimated new course. A five-minute run would close the enemy’s new track. All hands were quiet; only the rush of the sea about our hull broke the silence. The minutes passed on Fraz’s stopwatch, four, and now five.

  “All stop.” Ogden, on the wheel, called our speed from the Bendix log as we lost way, “Five knots … four knots.” Another minute passed before Tang was down to 3, but sound bearings showed the freighter coming on as expected.

  “Up scope. Bearing—mark!”

  I flipped the handles up, and the scope went down. Jones read the bearing, and I called the angle, 35 starboard. Jones read the stadimeter range from the dial, now just above the periscope well, 3,200 yards.

  “Right full rudder; all ahead two-thirds.” It was proving to be a typical approach. We were turning in the direction of the freighter’s advance until our stern tubes would bear, and would then fire four Mark 18-1 electric torpedoes. They were slower, 27 knots instead of the 46 knots of our steam torpedoes, but only the twist of a knob on the TDC was required to throw in the proper cam so they would take the correct lead angle. Of more importance, these torpedoes were wakeless, leaving no line of bubbles and smoke to alert the enemy or to mark the submarine’s firing position.

  “All ahead one-third. Open the outer doors aft.” I could imagine the excitement in the after torpedo room. This was their first chance on this patrol. Two more setups for Frank followed, and then came Fraz’s warning, “Ten degrees to go.” That would be the firing bearing for the ideal track. I glanced at the depth gauge, then indicated the desired
handle height. Jones brought the scope up smartly; I rode it up another foot.

  “Constant bearing—mark!” Jones called it.

  “Set!” from Frank. The freighter’s stern was coming on the wire.

  “Fire!” The shudder, the slight pressure rise, coinciding with a high-pitched whine, for the series type electric motors were up to speed instantly. The other three torpedoes followed, spread along the freighter’s length from aft forward. She was a dead duck!

  “Christ!” Two of the torpedoes had broached, porpoised twice, and then settled down on surface runs, throwing continuous plumes of water in the air, like the rooster tails of hydroplanes. The time of the 2,100-yard torpedo run was just over two minutes, ample for the enemy, who avoided all of the torpedoes by turning towards well inside their track. All of the exploders operated, detonating the warheads as they hit the beach, if that is any consolation to anyone.

  After some random gunfire, the enemy took refuge in a cove just north of Bono Misaki. We commenced an investigation but found ourselves being set toward the beach, so we surfaced and made a full-power dash to the west, unobserved by our late-arriving patrol boat. A day checking the depth mechanisms of our remaining Mark 18-1s was in order, and the place to do this was in the peace and quiet below the surface of the seas. An hour’s run seemed ample, especially since nothing had arrived in the skies. Here we had plenty of depth and were not completely withdrawn from possible activity. At 0740, still refraining from any profanity, at least within my earshot, Tang dived for the day.

  “Sometimes it happens this way,” said Mort as he finished his breakfast coffee. It was his turn, and his remarks were pointed at Fraz. We were all thinking, as the conversation soon disclosed, of the rash of torpedo troubles our boats had experienced earlier in the war. Then the failures lay mostly in the exploders, which sometimes had the startling habit of detonating as soon as they armed, 400 yards from the firing submarine. On other occasions, the magnetic feature would set off the exploder just as the torpedo entered the enemy ship’s magnetic field, about 50 feet away from impact. It wasn’t funny at the time, for not only did the enemy usually escape, but counterattack by any escorts was immediate; I knew, for Wahoo had experienced four prematures in this same area. Now as we looked back, we chuckled at the dismay the nearby explosions must have caused on the enemy’s bridge. The conversation eased a bit our disappointment and frustration, directing our attention to the next real and serious task. The four remaining electric torpedoes must be made to work properly.