“Bearing—mark!”
It had become doctrine in Wahoo, and now Tang, not to switch ships. Stay with the one you have in hand until it’s on the bottom, then go after the next one. But for most every rule there’s an exception. Besides, these were not ships yet, just smoke and light brown haze.
“Bearing—mark!”
It was still there, faint but changed in shape. Ogden had read the bearing, 185, which Fraz converted to 265 true, no change in bearing; Tang was close to her track.
“Right full rudder. All ahead standard.”
This ship was coming from the west or we would have seen her earlier. She was upsetting my traffic flow predictions, which bothered me not one bit, especially since she would get us out of another inshore scrape and into deep water, where a submarine belonged. Never could a shift of targets have been completed more quickly.
Fraz recommended course 290. It would take us clear of Osei To more rapidly, and then Tang could get on the surface, charge batteries, and look over the enemy. The island was soon on our quarter, and three blasts sent us up onto a flat sea, under the light of a full moon. Three engines fired, two to go on charge and the other for maneuvering. The time was 1953, still early in the evening, and there was no hurry. We could wait right here for the enemy to come over the horizon, but to insure an attack seaward of the 20-fathom curve, we would move slowly west. Though all practical considerations told us that contact with the enemy would soon be regained, the passing minutes were anxious ones. Caverly searched with the A-scope, which was becoming standard practice when examining a particular bearing or sector. There was nothing random about his search as he moved the reflector, examining every degree about the suspected bearing. Knowing what he was looking for, and assisted by local radar conditions, Caverly had a single dancing pip on the screen that quickly rose to half the viewing height. Tracking commenced immediately with this accurate range of 18,500 yards and the enemy bearing just slightly on our port bow. No immediate maneuvers were required as we quietly closed our target.
Some excitement was building up, noticeable in the voices making routine reports below and in one report delivered in person to me on the bridge. It did not seem logical, for up to now this approach offered no real troubles such as we had faced this morning. That was probably the answer. Then we had been too busy to look beyond the immediate problems, while now we had time to think ahead, each about his particular coming tasks. Mine was to sink this ship with but two of our four remaining torpedoes.
The report made to me on the bridge concerned the specific gravity of our pilot cells in each battery; we had enough for any submerged maneuvers. I was tempted to shift the two engines from charge to propulsion and close the enemy but restrained a natural urge to move in to the attack. It might work, but to take full advantage of the circumstances, exact solutions by tracking came first in putting the ship down. Our single pip danced, and now an inversion layer, or other phenomenon that helped radar and vision alike, brought the target into full view, in a mirage. The range was 15,000 yards; she sat there on an artificial horizon, smaller but otherwise as she would normally appear at half the range. Even the freak atmospheric conditions were on our side.
Within a few minutes, Fraz came to the bridge to report that he was satisfied with the solution of the enemy’s course and speed. The range had closed to 9,000 yards, and we discussed briefly the possibility that the enemy might also soon see us on a false horizon. It did not seem likely, but I secured the battery charge in anticipation of diving. The range continued to close, and I considered how clearly silhouettes stood out in a moon streak; tonight we were that silhouette.
The range was 7,500. I cleared the bridge, counted the lookouts as they went by in the moonlight, sounded two blasts, and stepped down the hatch. Ogden set the dogs as I held the hatch closed with the lanyard. The dive took two seconds longer than usual. The time was 2041.
As ordered before he went below, Larry leveled us off at 47 feet for radar tracking. The Bells of St. Mary’s chimed again, and Tang was into her ninth attack of this patrol. Bergman now took over radar, and Caverly went to sound. With accurate periscope bearings, Frank changed the enemy’s speed to 9½ knots. The solution continued to check, and we eased on down for a moonlight periscope attack.
Never, at this stage, could a submarine captain have had more accurate information nor have had his boat in a more favorable position; but then there were few, if any, other crews with this total experience. The silhouette soon developed into the one we had seen in mirage but now with more details discernible. Her bow had a very pronounced rake. Between the bow and bridge stood an extremely heavy tripod mast. Her bridge appeared mushroom-topped. Another heavy tripod mast lay between the bridge and large after superstructure, which was topped by a large, short stack. As yet her angle had never been wide enough to expose her stern. Ballinger came up head and shoulders through the lower hatch, waited for a proper moment, then announced that the identification party could find no such ship in the books. The reason became evident on the next zig, a wide one. At 4,000 yards, her side glistened in the moonlight; she was a new ship.
Fraz had ordered the tubes readied when we went down to periscope depth, the last two containing torpedoes forward and aft. At range 3,500 he ordered the outer doors opened, for maneuvers by the enemy, not those that I would order, would determine which torpedo room fired the last of its torpedoes first. That was well, for a part of payday was probably riding on it. The tactics we would use were fairly simple and revolved around nice timing and a good call of the angle on the bow after her next zig. If it put her track too close, we would pull away and fire from aft. If her zig was broad, we’d turn towards and fire from forward.
Caverly was now matching my periscope bearings with sound. The range was 3,000 yards as generated from the TDC, and a zig was due at any moment. The scope had been up continuously but now was down to water-lapping height. The enemy was closing at 300 yards per minute, and our 3 knots added another 100 yards to that.
“She’s zigging, Captain!” Caverly had caught the change in sound due to her rudder before the ship’s swing was perceptible. It was the mark of a real soundman, not just a listener.
“She’s zigging left!” I called. “Right full rudder. All ahead standard. We’ll fire on this leg. Stand by for a quick setup before we pick up our swing.
“Bearing—mark!” Jones called 358. “Range—mark!” He read 2,400. “Angle twenty-five starboard.” Jones lowered the scope.
“Steady us normal to her track, Fraz.”
Tang was picking up her swing, which at first had seemed much too slow. So slow that I had glanced at the TDC’s presentation to see that our bow was indeed drawing ahead of the enemy as it should. With 15 degrees to go, Quartermaster Welch put the rudder amidships and then met her swing. Tang settled on 355, almost north, and continued to close the track. Another glance at the TDC showed the enemy broad on our port bow.
“All ahead one-third.”
Caverly commenced calling sound bearings as the noise of our own screws subsided. Frank nodded, indicating that the bearings checked with those generated by the TDC. Welch called our own speed, 6 knots, 5 knots.
“Up scope.” Jones brought it up to my hands and then guided me to the correct bearing. The enemy ship was in the low-power field. I shifted to high; the angle was opening as it should. Caverly supplied three echo ranges to go with my next three bearings and angles on the bow.
“It’s all checking,” said Frank.
“Ten degrees to go.” She was big and broad, a massive, loaded ship, a beautiful ship.
“Constant bearing—mark!”
“Set!” The scope was steady as her decks raced across the reticle. The after superstructure came on.
“Fire!”
The torpedo left with a good zing. The second torpedo went to her bridge. Fraz announced the time of run, 30 seconds. Jones was already counting, “Twenty-five … thirty, thirty-one, th—” Explosions, shaking e
xplosions rocked us, but the great tripod masts were tilting toward each other; the enemy ship’s back was broken. Jones took a look and a second later said, “She’s gone, Christ, all of her!” The twisting, grinding, breaking-up noises came over sound and through the hull in increasing intensity. It was a frightening, sobering noise and should serve to keep any lookout on his toes for weeks to come.
Flotsam was but 500 yards dead ahead, and we surfaced to pick up possible survivors. The time was 2131, just three minutes after firing. The lookouts spotted one man, who ducked under an overturned lifeboat. It took Leibold’s grapnels to hold the boat alongside and bursts from White’s tommy gun to scare him out into the open. Our ship’s company was better at shooting torpedoes than in rescuing this one reluctant survivor. Finally, enmeshed in heaving lines, he was dragged aboard to a kinder fate than awaited in the Yellow Sea. Rescuing this young man had taken more time than the submerged approach and attack, but it had provided activity for the troops and filled a sense of obligation for all of us.
Japanese antisubmarine forces were 50 miles behind us, or so we believed. Having no desire to verify this, I ordered three engines on the line, and Tang headed north with two celebrations to mark our Independence Day:
Kurosio Maru 10,000 tons Lat. 35° 22′ N.
Long. 125° 56′ E.
New Maru 10,000 tons Lat. 36° 05′ N.
Long. 125° 48′ E.
12
Our prisoner was dubbed Firecracker before he was brought over the bridge on the way below. He seemed to be in reasonable shape, at least as viewed by moonlight. That is, until he saw the conning tower hatch and the glow of red lights below. To him, it must have looked like the fire pit or some American inferno. Firecracker stiffened and went into convulsions, and only with the aid of Chief Pharmacist’s Mate Rowell was the poor lad ushered below.
The course north should keep Tang in the clear for the remainder of the night and give all hands an opportunity to return to normal fighting trim, eager but rested and sharp. The brief night orders were written accordingly, but the night did not cooperate. Within an hour we were tracking another target, which was zigzagging leisurely, as if it owned the Yellow Sea. Not until well into the approach could we make it out, a sailing junk beating to windward. We should have known what we had by her movements and the direction of the wind long before the sighting, but we probably would have closed to look her over anyway.
The tracking and partial approach had taken us south of the Kakureppi Islands, so the navigator laid down a new track to leave the islands well clear and then awaited my decision for the coming day’s patrol. The original plans for moving up the coast had been so interrupted by contacts and approaches that our track looked as if we had been playing leapfrog. Tang would normally have arrived off Choppeki Point in due course and with plenty of torpedoes. We were not objecting to a single one of our side excursions, but it would be a shame to come all this way and not spend a little time off that advantageous promontory. With but two torpedoes left, which meant none for defense after an attack, our approach to the point required good timing and preferably a reconnaissance before moving in to attack. Just to the south of Choppeki Point lies the Daisei Group, with good water all around and a natural channel between the islands and the promontory. Off these islands we would be able to see what was going on and even move in to the south of them for attack in the channel. Fraz moved the arm of the drafting machine till the rule passed through our position; its other end passed over the center of the three islands. It was good to have an exec and navigator thinking along the same general lines with you, especially when he would not hesitate to point out an objection if he saw one. The bearing on the protractor was 340, and Tang came to it. With our present speed on this track, we would be approaching the Daisei Group before dawn, and I changed the night orders accordingly.
The days were getting a little shorter by the calendar, but this could not begin to match the extra daylight as we approached Manchuria. Jones called the navigator for morning stars, and a glance at the luminous dial on the clock showed 0245. A half hour later, two welcome blasts took us down into the shallow though still protective seas.
Rumbling distant explosions commenced at breakfast time, reassuring in that they gave the general location of the enemy effort, way to the south. They also served to reignite the conversation that had been running since our previous dawn attack, a rehash of the whole episode as various individuals had seen it, which helped all of us relax. We did not get too far unwound, however, for Hank sighted distant smoke. The time was 0917, and section tracking went to work with only true bearings of the puffs of smoke, beyond the Daisei Group. They drew slowly to the right, showing that the ship below the smoke was traveling south, inaccessible in six fathoms of water. The sighting and tracking practically guaranteed an early attack off Choppeki Point, for the coastal shipping was still running and had to round this promontory.
Fraz and Jones needed no stars this night since our OODs had been able to keep our position plotted with bearing lines on the three islands. The time was 1952, the period late in evening twilight just before the near full moon would rise. Tang surfaced and commenced the three-hour run to seaward around the islands and then to Choppeki Point. There we could fire in 17 fathoms and have our torpedoes hit any ship trying to round the point. Fraz brought the chart to the wardroom as was customary when there was more to consider than could conveniently take place in the conning tower. The sailing would be clear, but our approach should be cautious, with the APR-1 searching the frequencies for enemy radar. Certainly if the enemy had an installation to spare, this would be a natural location. Lying submerged off this point, unsuspected, would be like hunting with your rifle laid across a stump and pointing down the trail. I circled a 30-fathom mark that lay about ten miles northwest of the tip of Choppeki Point.
“Is that where Wahoo sank one of her ships?” Fraz inquired.
“No. That’s where Mush Morton dealt me a twenty-eight cribbage hand.”
“I can’t think of any better criterion,” said Mort. Fraz extended Tang’s track to the circled mark, Mort reached for the cribbage board, and our grand strategy session was over.
Tang’s mood was obviously one of cautious optimism, cautious because the old hands knew we could not stay ahead of the opposition indefinitely. If the enemy resorted to escorting his ships past dangerous spots, as he did around the main islands, then this was the place to start. We did not have long to wait, for the radar presentation became confusing just before 2200, with a side lobe and several multipulse echoes, such as we had experienced on our first night in the East China Sea. These could be reflections from distant mountains falling almost in phase with later outgoing signals, but they could also be a ship at 15 miles. Perhaps it would be fair to say that we shared in the confusion, for differentiating one from the other was time-consuming and would remain so until Ed had a chance to operate on our SJ, giving us an additional knob that would vary the pulse rate. This, he assured us, would solve our present problem, but it would have to wait for another patrol.
We had coasted two miles beyond our selected spot, essentially stopped to see if one mountain to the north would move. It remained stationary, but a new pip showed up to the northwest. It too could be a secondary return, but if so the echo was coming back from a mountain range in Manchuria. We killed our way completely, and the pip moved steadily away from Choppeki Point. Tang did likewise, hot on its tail.
Again my theory of a southward traffic flow was somewhat incorrect, though understandably no one mentioned it. We were too busy anyway, for the original contact was at 29,000 yards, and we had now tracked it out to 34,000. Under an almost full moon, we commenced a long, long end-around. Fraz broke out an old-fashioned mooring board, a pad of sheets with a compass rose in the center, bearing lines coming out radially, and with evenly spaced concentric circles. The sheets were designed specifically for plotting relative movement situations. This was such a problem indeed, for Tang
must pass from 17 miles dead astern to nearly ten miles ahead, all beyond the enemy’s sighting range. Further, this must be completed before the enemy reached the sanctuary of Gaichosan Retto. Fraz plotted our course legs and recorded the times. We would make it with a few miles to spare, but just to be sure we worked on up to full power.
Tang rolled under a still-rising moon and on a rippleless sea. The run to our diving position would take three and a half hours, the submerged approach and attack at least an hour more. This would be another one of those nights, or more exactly, nights and mornings, for firing would come near dawn. There was a great temptation to stay on the bridge or in the conning tower and to share in all of the excitement of this maneuver. Then I thought of a former skipper, the one with his bunk in the conning tower, and wished to avoid similar mistakes. Fraz, Mort, and Frank could conduct this end-around; after all, two of them were qualified for command. I could relax and then conduct the approach and attack. There was a difference this night, however, for we had all enjoyed a good measure of rest on our all-day dive, and this would be the last maneuver against the enemy on this patrol. Staying clear of the mechanics of the plot and TDC but generally at hand seemed a good compromise.
Ballinger had temporarily moved Firecracker from the after torpedo room to forward. It was a logical move, for even handcuffed to a bunk, he could disturb the firing aft. The young man was recovering remarkably from his ordeal, perhaps helped by being the center of attention and by Rowell’s ministrations. Topside again, the enemy ship was abeam, her silhouette now identifying her as a freighter of conventional size for the China trade. The end-around was going well, following almost exactly the tracks that the navigator had moved to the true plot. Another 90 minutes and we would dive. I went below for a turn aft and found men up and about as space would permit. Two ahead of me, proceeding through the engine rooms, gave each main a reassuring pat, and I was tempted to follow suit. The shaft tachometers in maneuvering showed an even 345, about ten turns high. Culp was in charge, and we were both satisfied. The after torpedo room was all business. Their true test would come with the firing plunger.
Clear the Bridge! Page 30