The ships’ respective tracks were not sufficiently separated to permit firing from between them. To withdraw to one flank would mean abandoning an assured position for at least one attack, because both ships could zig away. We would stay underfoot, maneuvering for a stern, electric torpedo attack on the escort, and then play catch as catch can with the big fellow.
The convoy came on with a small change in base course. Moderate maneuvers put us ahead again, but the escort’s patrolling increased. Seldom did she appear on the freighter’s same bow on consecutive periscope observations. With broader angles, disclosing more details, the identification party pegged our ships. The escort was of the Amakasu Maru class, though probably of the 1940 series, as the pictures showed the bridge forward. The important things for the moment were her length, 270 feet, and the minimum draft of seven feet. The larger freighter looked similar to the Samarang Maru, 357 feet long and drawing a minimum of nine feet. Fraz stepped off the masthead heights from the drawings; we would use the figures of length and height on the periscope stadimeter.
The group was getting close, and there was a great temptation to switch targets, to feed information on the escort to the TDC. It could lead only to confusion, I knew, for her irregular patrolling was superimposed on the large freighter’s zigs. Our fire control party would then be trying to solve ahead for unknowns, instead of detecting a change in the base course or speed. The true plot would suffice for the moment, but the moments were becoming few. I took another setup on the freighter.
“Up scope. Bearing—mark! Range—mark!”
Jones read the bearing, 348, and then the stadimeter as I had left it, with superimposed images. I then gave the angle, it was easy, zero!
“Right full rudder. All ahead two-thirds. We’ll be going ahead full, Larry. Take her down to eighty feet.”
Zero angles are not always bad, and this one on the freighter practically guaranteed an attack on her escort, now proceeding to the freighter’s starboard bow. We had ample time to bring our stern tubes to bear, less time for solving accurately the escort’s course and speed.
“All ahead full.”
The Yellow Sea swished outside the conning tower, but no turbulence would reach the surface. Fraz announced the recommended course.
“Rudder amidships. Steady on one five zero. One-third speed. Sixty-five feet.” Tang slowed quickly, not having gained full headway during the turn. The steersman reported steady on our new course and then our speed at 3 knots.
“This setup will be on the escort.” Fraz provided the bearing, relayed from sound, and Jones guided the scope, now just breaking the surface.
“Bearing—mark! Range—mark! Angle—mark!”
Routinely, Jones read the bearing and range, but waited until I had given my estimate, 40 port, before reading the angle on the stadimeter. It was our way to insure that I was not influenced by the mechanical stadimeter reading.
“Caverly, grab an echo range.”
He trained ahead of the screws so the ping would fall amidships on the escort. “Eighteen fifty,” he reported, and then joined in three more setups, with just the accurate echo ranges and the periscope bearings.
“Checks good with escort speed ten knots,” Frank reported.
That would be about right, allowing for the extra speed required for patrolling. A quick sweep showed our big freighter right back there, still with a fairly sharp angle.
“Ten degrees to go, Captain. The outer doors are open aft.”
“Keep the sound bearings coming.”
“Two one five … two one three … two one zero….” The escort seemed to be creeping across our stern.
“Up scope.
“Constant bearing—mark!” Jones read 206.
“Set!” from Frank. Her stack aft came on.
“Fire!” Fraz hit the plunger, sending that torpedo on its way with a whine. The second torpedo went to the foremast, whining away from us.
“Down scope. All ahead standard.” We had to open the distance from the big freighter’s track. Fraz called out the time of the torpedo run for the 1,250 yards—90 seconds—and Jones commenced calling them off. Time crept as these slow, 27-knot torpedoes churned on their way. We slowed to one-third speed. Five seconds to go, four, three, two, one and then zero. Time had run out. With an oath on my lips, I managed to change the words to “Up scope.” We would attack the big freighter. WHACK! The still pending profanity was jammed down my throat. I swung the scope to see the escort’s whole stern in the air, then back to find our big freighter already turning away. A shot on the fly would have little chance. Dear God, another night of it!
9
Ballinger had four men standing by, and they manned the scope for a moment each. It was the best way for the troops to get the picture of the final results. No embellishments would be needed. The escort’s severed stern had gone down immediately, and now two minutes and 20 seconds after the torpedo’s detonation, the tip of her bow disappeared in the frothy boil of the sea. We searched carefully through the area, but there were no survivors, probably because of the detonated explosives aboard her.
A glance at the chart showed that the larger freighter was very probably caught between third base and home, for she was approximately 100 miles from the Korean coast. Should her track veer at all to the south, it would lead to Sealion and Tinosa, perhaps between them. As agreed, we were obligated to send a contact report, but we would have done that anyway. Dick prepared the message, but it would have to wait, for the enemy was still close and we did not wish to tip our hand.
Tang’s batteries still showed nearly a full charge, for our submerged running and speed had been minimal during the approach and attack. Now we were trailing the freighter at 6 knots, which we could maintain handily until dark and still have enough juice left for a possible submerged attack.
The freighter pulled away steadily, with an estimated speed differential of 5 knots. At least the book said her top speed was 11, and under the circumstances she would hardly make less. The time for the next hourly contact schedule with Tinosa and Sealion was coming up, and with the freighter still in view on the horizon, I was hesitant about surfacing to send a contact report. The freighter had certainly stationed lookouts, just as had the naval tanker, and they would be searching westward, where Tang would be a silhouette. As a compromise, Hank brought us up to SJ depth and then eased Tang skyward till the lead to our flat antenna would drain free of salt water. Radio was ready, and Bergman keyed the message through twice, blind. There was no receipt, and Hank eased Tang down again, surely unsighted by the freighters lookouts now peering through her smoke.
Dick had the con and with volunteers waiting in control manned the scopes continuously. Vibrations at our speed made searching difficult, but they were looking for only two things, a change of course by the enemy and the air patrol that would surely search down the freighter’s wake. No planes arrived, and the enemy continued on a straight course for the coast. We wondered about this ship, for she seemed to be a Japanese version of our Hog Island freighters, which had been designed to carry Allied supplies during World War I. They had eventually been sold for scrap, mainly to the Japanese, who ran or towed them to the Far East. It seemed that out of each four they had put together three operating ships. Since the start of the war, they had been absorbing our torpedoes, though most of those in this China trade had gone free.
The submerged chase would last another three hours. Leaving explicit instructions to call me if sight of both freighter and smoke was lost, I went below for a turn through the boat. My thoughts on the coming night reflected, in part, my concern for some of our men, principally the new hands. They had not been thrown into this sort of thing before, especially two day and night attacks back to back. It was different with Fraz, Ballinger, Hank, and others, for we had done this before and were somewhat calloused. We had learned to take these dangers in stride and would probably be more hesitant if suddenly faced with boarding the shuttle at Times Square. The turn di
d me good, not just in stretching my legs, but in exchanging a few words here and there with the crew about our attacks and late successes. The men’s determination bolstered my own, and their confidence was brought home sharply in the crew’s mess. On their chart, the track of the enemy had been carried almost to the coast, where it ended in a large, black X. I had the message.
At sunset, the enemy was marked by a great, low funnel of smoke, hanging above the horizon due to the mild following wind. It brought to mind a distant tornado and well might be a prophecy for this night. We were unhurried and waited for dusk, when the last chance of air cover would have vanished. Lookouts were standing by, and De Lapp gave us a healthy blow, bringing the decks clear. The turbos started and so did all mains, three working up to their full power rating while the other with auxiliary went on charge.
I marked a bearing on the middle of the black cloud ahead. “Zero seven eight, Captain,” came over the speaker. “Make it so.” Tang was rolling on the enemy’s tail.
The tail was a long one, for the freighter had conjured over 11 knots from her coal-burning power plant. Our 18 knots was steadily closing the gap, but too slowly when I glanced at the chart and considered the arc Tang must follow to avoid detection. In the 30 minutes since we had surfaced, that one main had jammed her full output into the can. Now the future would have to take care of itself; we needed that other diesel on propulsion. She pulled her weight like a Belgian, removing any overload on the others.
The moon that had set at 0020 the night before would be up another 50 minutes, until after 0100. That meant our night would remain fairly bright even up to midnight. I looked at the chart again and then raised the scope to be sure. To the south, the horizon was quite distinct; so also would be the silhouette of a ship, especially a close one. I would not prolong this until moonset but would dive in the first good lee for a submerged attack.
We were now using the SJ freely. The accurate tracking and navigation showed that Tang would have to pass the enemy ship up moon and to the south of Ko-To to insure against losing her in the islands to the east. Full power and extra turns just shy of smoking had Tang waiting with about three minutes to spare as the enemy approached the southern tip of the island.
It was 2224 when we dived a mile and a half off Ko-To and 1,200 yards north of the enemy’s track. As soon as Dick leveled Tang off, the Bells of St. Mary’s were sounded for the third time this day, still July 1. Manning stations and preparations were more rushed than previously, for the enemy was only 6,000 yards away and closing at nearly 400 yards per minute. Stations reported and tubes were readied, four forward and two aft, as the freighter passed the southern tip of the island. Suddenly my periscope bearings failed to keep pace with the TDC. Three echo ranges by Caverly, coinciding with three periscope bearings, put the TDC back on; the enemy had slowed to 9 knots, probably taking a deep breath at reaching the apparent protection of the island.
Tang was already closing the track for a straight bow shot. “Fifteen degrees to go. Outer doors are open.” Fraz had allowed an extra 5 degrees for a rapid bearing change.
“Ten degrees.”
I was following the freighter’s stack continuously, Jones calling the bearings.
“Five degrees.”
“Constant bearing—mark!”
“Set!” from Frank. Her after well deck came on the wire.
“Fire!” Torpedo sounds were in the background, but there was no time to contemplate. The next torpedo went to her well deck forward.
“Both hot, straight, and normal,” reported Caverly.
“What’s the time of the run?”
Frank called the firing range, 500 yards; Fraz was interpolating out loud for the torpedo run of 460 when a frightening whack and explosion shook us. It shook the enemy far worse, apparently setting off a cargo of munitions. A short section of the bow was all that remained as Fraz bowled me off the scope and watched it go, timed by Ogden in another 20 seconds. Our second torpedo was in there somewhere adding to the destruction or had been robbed.
Four minutes after the torpedoes were fired, Tang was on the surface poking around in the debris. Again there could have been no survivors; we would have seen them in the moonlight. Somewhat awed by the finality of the attack, we rounded Ko-To and proceeded northwest, toward a position 60 miles out into the Yellow Sea for our usual patrol.
10
It had been a classic approach and attack, ending with a firing range to our liking. There were submariners who frowned at getting so close underfoot, where an enemy zig in the closing minutes could drive a submarine down. By and large, they were not the ones who sank many ships, though in certain places there could be advantages in staying on the flank. Here in the Yellow Sea, if a submarine was driven down before firing, there was a good chance of being able to make the approach all over again. If not, she still had her torpedoes and could find another target.
These things, of course, made up the general conversation in the wardroom and probably aft in the crew’s mess, too. Fraz had laid down our track, a straight line, and joined us. His quick apology for grabbing the scope was unnecessary. I really should have handed it to him when the last torpedo was on its way; he rated the gesture, though there had been quite a bit going on at the moment. Fraz was in the middle of the conversation in a minute. I listened and approved, even of a jibe or two directed at Mort. Tang was clicking and Mort knew it, for he had participated in everything that had taken place. How could anybody aboard feel other than satisfaction at the way this patrol was now developing? Five ships down and we still had five steam torpedoes plus two electrics waiting for targets.
To an observer, our operations this day might have looked routine, even simple. Finding and sinking a freighter and a converted escort with the odds stacked against them was no great feat. But he would be forgetting that Tang had secretly rolled 5,000 miles to get here, and that every one of a thousand mechanical devices had operated properly. To our ship’s company, today’s success meant that every man had performed his task without error. To Fraz and me it meant one thing more. We had changed horses in the middle of the stream; the recent understudies had performed admirably, and we would stay on top of the enemy regardless of personnel transfers.
Dawn was coming earlier as we worked north. After Fraz and Jones had taken a round of stars, more to keep their hand in than for any immediately required exact navigation, Tang dived for the day, and we made it another ropeyarn Sunday. Masts of two trawlers poked over the horizon at midmorning, but no one suggested surfacing to look them over. Perhaps we were not ready for what might be beyond. Before lunch, Mel reported that they had gone below the horizon of our raised periscope. They had gone their way, and we had gone ours, but sighting fishermen rang a bell. The Fourth of July was but two days away, and I checked the menu, which I had signed too casually. Fraz and Wixon had not let me down. There in New England tradition was salmon and peas for the 4th. Of course, it was actually salmon loaf, but one can’t have everything.
At my desk I penned careful night orders, for it was at a time like this, following prolonged action, that we could unconsciously let down our guard. Then on the preceding page I recorded the ships we had just sunk, together with their positions:
Amakasu Maru class 2,000 tons Lat. 34° 37′ N.
Long. 123° 46′ E.
Samarang Maru class 4,000 tons Lot. 34°38′ N.
Long. 125° 12′ E.
That would not only be a matter of record but would also give the oncoming OODs and duty chiefs something to think about.
July 3 passed quietly. Men broke out their course books and worked on their qualification, making up for the days their studies had been set aside. Such effort was another of the reasons for carrying replacements. A new rate and qualification were keys to a new billet, which would not necessarily be open in Tang. Some men would stay, and others might be looking for milder assignments. With men ashore waiting for the chance to come aboard, Fraz could comply with most requests for tr
ansfers, but Tang’s requirements came first. Once we had begun patrolling such requests had leveled off, however.
Upon surfacing at dusk, Tang headed northeast for a rendezvous with Sealion. Her radar signal appeared on our SJ at 2200, and just 50 minutes later Fraz and his bow hook were paddling out into the Yellow Sea toward our friend. She was barely visible at 500 yards, even under a bright moon, but our yellow life raft stood out plainly. The fact that I kept my 7 × 50s glued on the raft may have been in part responsible for its apparent visibility.
Fraz was to deliver an oral invitation for Eli Reich and his Sealion to accompany us counterclockwise around the Yellow Sea. We would operate independently but in mutual support, and I would guarantee targets for Sealion. The rubber boat also carried ten movie programs, a second reason for the meeting. An hour passed before the lifeboat returned, and willing hands snaked Fraz aboard and out of the way so the flat film tins could be struck below. Fortunately, Sealion had not exchanged movies with Tinosa, so we did not get our original films back, but the troops felt that even those would be better than the ones they had just seen. Now with this consideration all squared away, I ducked below to speak with Fraz.
Mort and I were having a cup of coffee when Fraz, in clean, dry clothes, joined us. I shivered as I remembered what the temperatures had been when I was here in Wahoo in March, 1943; exchanging visits between submarines would have been virtually impossible. But Wahoo had had the area all to herself back then. Eli Reich had decided not to bring Sealion north with us but to head directly for the Shanghai area instead. I could not blame him. Having operated closely with Don Weiss’s Tinosa while we were more or less banished, he had been somewhat restricted and obviously would now want to go it alone. Eli was familiar with that area, having served on the China Station before the war and, as I remember, after hostilities commenced. Fraz had further discerned that both Sealion and Tinosa had indeed patrolled on the surface with SDs on and had been driven down frequently. Sealion had sunk her first ship of the patrol while en route to this rendezvous. Fraz withheld nothing about our method of operation, so they could try it for whatever it was worth. There would be one thing lacking, of course, for we would not be patrolling in a manner that would cause the enemy to reroute his shipping past someone else, as had the other two boats. Our normal patrol would continue to be submerged with high periscope looks during daylight.
Clear the Bridge! Page 28