“Captain, you put us in position, and we’ll blow her out of the sea!” Chief Torpedoman’s Mate Weekley had put his finger directly on our mutual responsibilities. I went forward to carry out mine, pausing in the messroom to look at our second plot; Tang was moving in ahead.
When I reached the bridge, the enemy was astern, with a sharp angle and on a parallel course. We had time for a final accurate check.
“All back two-thirds.” I watched over the moonlit side. “All stop.” Tang was dead in the water.
Radar ranges and TBT bearings went to plot and TDC; there were no other inputs. The enemy was closing at 9 knots, exactly as tracking had previously found, but the double check increased our confidence.
“All ahead two-thirds. Dive when I’m clear, Ed.” Two blasts took Tang down, and battle stations sounded as our ship leveled off. The time was 0227 on July 6.
The freighter came on, overtaking us, becoming more distinct every minute till a predawn mist set in and her shape disappeared completely.
“Bring her up to forty-five feet, Larry.” Tang took a modest but steady up-angle and leveled off. Bergman, standing by on SJ, called, “Range five thousand. Bearing one seven zero.” That would be a relative bearing; she was just off our stern to starboard and coming on nicely, her present track just 500 yards to starboard. We went back down to wet the scope, now hopelessly fogged, and Caverly called the bearings of the freighter’s propellers as she closed.
Both the surface mist and the fogging of the periscopes had resulted from the very cold water and the moist summer air here in the northern Yellow Sea. The patch of mist was now behind us, but the fogging periscope lens persisted. The enemy could be viewed for only a second or two on any one exposure, but frankly this was all I dared to use in a close-in day approach. The angle was now opening but hard to call. Caverly backed up the observation with a single pulse echo range, 1,100 yards.
“Left full rudder. All ahead full,” I ordered.
Fraz ordered the course for a 90 track with zero gyros, and I watched the TDC presentation as we pulled off the track. Our stern was now ahead of her bow. Welch was meeting our swing.
“All ahead one-third.”
“Ten degrees to go,” called Fraz.
This would be a new one for me. I could get the “Constant bearing—mark” off handily, but the “Fire” on a separate exposure might be too early or late. I considered firing on generated bearings, most submarines did, but with only two torpedoes, I’d stick with our bow-and-arrow method.
“Constant bearing.” Jones raised the scope on the generated bearing. I swung it ahead to amidships and called, “Mark!” Jones dunked the scope and raised it immediately.
“Fire!” The mainmast had passed the wire, but the after well deck was still on. The torpedo went out with a whine.
The second double dip was more accurate, and our last torpedo was on its way for her foremast, its whine fading out in a few seconds. The range was 900 yards, the gyros near 180, the same as near zero for a bow shot. Both torpedoes were running at six-foot depth. Ogden called off the seconds; they should hit on the 60th and 68th. I gave the scope to Fraz and Jones; my job was over, and they could work out a hurried dunking sequence. The scope broke the surface ahead of a shaking detonation. The time was 0320.
“Her whole side’s blown out!” Another whack and explosion followed on time. “She’s capsizing!”
“Take the con, Frank, and take her up. The lookouts can follow later. Move us in to any flotsam.”
Immediately, three blasts took Tang to the surface, and Frank conned her in a quick turn to close the small amount of wreckage that was visible in the pale gray dawn. The largest piece was a portion of a lifeboat; there were no survivors. We could not dally, for radar had two contacts at 16,000 yards, closing.
13
Every effort, every maneuver would now be pointed toward the accomplishment of one task, cruising home safely. Perhaps the two pips were belated escorts; we did not wait to find out. Now, just five minutes after the contacts, Tang was nearly up to full power and the range was opening. The course of 190 would take us past the Shantung Promontory, the great peninsula of China that juts about 200 miles into the Yellow Sea and forms the southern boundary of the Gulf of Pohai. This would be the first leg of a large arc, curving to the east, which would pass well clear of the scenes of our recent attacks. Should someone viewing our track chart characterize us as running scared, he would be absolutely right. When the torpedoes were expended, it was the only way to run.
By 0600 we had put 50 miles of Yellow Sea between us and the position of our last attack. Hank pulled the plug on schedule, and Tang slid under the sea, on down to 100 feet for a leisurely cruise at 4 knots. All hands would have preferred 6, but then we would have to charge batteries on surfacing, and there would be insufficient gravity for possible submerged evasion should we be driven down. Our speed was a compromise weighted toward safety, as was our depth.
Tang continued along her track, and hands not on watch did just what they pleased. For the majority, that meant sleep. Like our storage batteries, which could receive enormous amounts of energy when flat, so these young men stored away their sleep. By midmorning men were stirring about, some caught up on sleep and others perhaps still too keyed up to stay turned in. I fell in that latter group and examined two weekly menus awaiting my signature. I signed them but drew question marks on each evening meal. Fraz gave the word to Wixon, who had no trouble in rounding up volunteers. Two at a time they sorted the cold room, a few degrees below zero, bringing all steaks, roasts, and fresh-frozen strawberries to the front for daily consumption. All hands fully understood that none of this was to be turned in to the base, and no one objected.
As we were sitting down for lunch, the rumblings of distant explosions came through the hull. Sound was able to obtain a reasonably broad bearing on the source, approximately the reverse of our course. It was reassuring, but we needed more than an educated guess about what was going on above the surface. Fraz left to take us up for low and then high periscope searches. All was clear, but we remained at periscope depth. Fraz returned with the chart that I had requested and watched, while having his lunch, as I sought out a 36-fathom spot north of the promontory. I’m sure that Fraz could visualize more exploring, or at a minimum a new track to plot.
“Now this is where Mush Morton dealt me my twenty-nine cribbage hand, one chance in fifteen million. I have it framed, with each card signed by a different officer.” Fraz seemed relieved that I had nothing serious in mind; the others in the mess commenced figuring the odds and in a concerted effort finally agreed.
“Do you still feel lucky?” asked Fraz.
“Well, that is one of the reasons I asked for the chart.” We got out the cribbage board and Fraz proceeded to pin my ears back, which simply verified that my luck was now concentrated in torpedoes and enemy ships. It then occurred to me that in all of the excitement of the attack and getting on our way, I had still not looked over the findings of our identification party for the last ship. They had worked fast and diligently, and it was quite possible that we would have had more misses without their determinations. They had settled on a ship similar to the Osaka Maru, on page 132 of ONI-208J. The silhouette pictured certainly looked like the broadside I had seen on firing, and I thanked them for their assistance.
Everything had gone well this day. Sunset was coming in another half hour, and any enemy patrol planes would already be en route to their bases. There was nothing holding us back, so I went to the conning tower, advising Chief Hudson and Mel to make preparations for surfacing as I passed through control. Frank was on the search scope, I took the attack scope, and we searched carefully in low and high power. All was clear, and three blasts sent us up to continue the 700-mile run to the Nansei Shoto and the boundary of our area.
This evening I penned a well done in the night orders and then proceeded to list the cautions I would demand as we headed home. On rereading, the two messages di
d not seem to belong on the same page, but that was the way they came to mind. As before, on the previous page I listed the data on our last enemy ship:
Osaka Maru class 4,000 tons Lat. 38° 40′ N.
Long. 123° 40′ E.
Any further considerations were interrupted by a quiet knock, and with my answer, Walker stuck his head past the curtain.
“I think we’re in the news, Captain,” he reported. I stepped across the passageway to hear Tokyo Rose, who frankly presented the most entertaining program available. No specific submarines were mentioned as sometimes was the case, but dire fates were predicted for submarines that foolishly entered the East China and Yellow seas. Excellent music was followed by the usual funeral march. If the Japanese were bothered now, wait until a few more ships failed to make port. Actually, the program served to emphasize my night orders, and I should have thanked Tokyo Rose for the cooperation.
Tang rolled throughout the night and continued at full power into morning twilight, the change barely perceptible under the bright moon. Sunrise came, and we now expected a patrol plane within an hour. The lookouts were cautioned accordingly, and before the sun had barely cleared the horizon, two blasts took Tang down. Probably a seabird, I thought, but Dick had followed a caution in the night orders and had answered the lookout’s report with two blasts. It was a plane, a Betty off on the southern horizon. We watched it through the scope, continuing on its way. Tang did likewise, submerged.
Only true seabirds and an occasional sampan came into our periscopes’ view throughout the rest of the morning. The dawn patrol would now have returned by another route, so after careful high periscope searches, we got up for another full-power run. After nearly seven hours, with 150 miles behind her, Tang looked forward to running on the surface on into the night. Tokyo Rose and friends obviously thought differently, and a distant patrol plane sent us down. It was 1914, shortly after sunset, and all planes should have returned to base. We watched it continue on its way, apparently unaware of us. Or was it? We had seen this same thing en route to Saipan. We waited another 30 minutes, then resumed our race through the evening twilight.
Our course was now 125, heading into the loom of a full moon. Our APR-1 picked up 250 megacycle radar with random train, perhaps a brand-new installation on Danjo Gunto, our old meeting place. The time was 2055. An hour later, when we were between the islands and the southern minefield described in the JICPOA (Joint Intelligence Center Pacific Ocean Area) supplement to our Operation Order, SJ reported five pips at range 16,000 yards, dead ahead! The range was suddenly 12,000, and right full rudder put them astern. Well, we couldn’t say we’d had no warning, and I wondered if Tokyo Rose really was a turncoat. Certainly her antics were too corny to fool a bluejacket.
I had discounted the effectiveness of this reported minefield on both my voyages to the East China and Yellow seas. This was based in part on personal experience in trying to maintain a minefield off the Golden Gate. It was a peacetime test, and the cases were loaded with concrete. Every blow would break some of the mooring cables, and the mine cases would end up on the beach. In one instance, they had further found their way to a ranch, where they served as unique gate markers. One good typhoon would likely do an excellent job in sweeping this field if it really existed, and then the floating mines would be a hazard to the Japanese. As I viewed it, a minefield here would serve no real purpose, though planting a pseudo field by including the coordinates in a code that was suspected of being broken could be useful to our enemy. These were my theories, but we would not put them to a test this night.
Tang commenced a reverse end-around to get on the enemy’s quarter, a much more prudent position for any further investigation and clear of the minefield, pseudo or not. Our section tracking party was doing well, but this was developing into a task for the first team. The group had been on course 310, nearly the reverse of our original course, then on 340, and finally 060. Apparently they were shifting their front to intercept us. It was too late; the combined speeds accelerated our maneuver, and Tang was already on their quarter. The night had become lightly overcast, with the moon breaking through occasionally, but still with excellent visibility. We closed the group cautiously to obtain information that could go in a contact report to Sealion and Tinosa. At a range of 10,000 yards we could observe blinker signaling but still could not make them out with 7 × 50s. Any good-sized ship would have shown up clearly, so based on their maneuvers, signaling, and size—or lack of it—we classified this as a killer group, probably directed by the early evening plane. We would report their presence after clearing the area, but now we slunk away and then bent on the turns.
I had elected to pass through the Nansei Shoto a little farther to the south this time, using the Nakano Strait. There was no particular reason for this selection other than avoiding the more common passages. Our track through the remainder of the night was thus more southerly and, we hoped, deceiving. Still rolling at full power, we dived at 0500, well outside of possible contact by enemy radar. A diving position 30 miles closer to the islands would have been more desirable, but the hunter-killer group and our ensuing investigation had put us behind schedule. Continuing further on the surface would likely tip our hand, disclosing our intended route to the Japanese. They would then have all day to muster antisubmarine forces. Thus, diving here was a compromise, as was our submerged speed of 4 knots, for all mains would be required for another full-power run when we next surfaced. Should enemy patrols outfox us, or just get lucky, Tang might need a near full battery to shake them.
More planning and figuring were taking place for this transit than for any one of our approaches and attacks. This was in part due to the time involved, for we could plan ahead, knowing exactly where we would go. It would be foolish to consider that the enemy was not doing likewise. Our close brush with him pointed the finger to his probable efforts. In all of this was one more factor, one that had been so beneficial during parts of this patrol: the bright moon. Still bright, and rising at 2130, it would benefit the enemy, especially should Tang still be in transit.
The day was uneventful, but a tautness and extra note of seriousness were discernible on surfacing. It was early, 1600, for we had to make up the lost time, and a five-hour run lay ahead. All engines went on propulsion or the battery charge. When the first enemy radar registered on the APR-1 at 1940, Tang was already rolling with four engines on propulsion. The next hour was quiet, but one minute after we sighted Gaja Shima light, a searchlight commenced sweeping the horizon to the right of the islands. The time was 2106, and we went to full power. Seventeen minutes later, the APR-1 had 153 megacycle radar, strong but with random train. At 2145 the signal steadied at highest strength. The enemy was tracking Tang; that was a twist. The maneuvering room answered the signal for emergency speed.
We were already between Gaja Shima and Taira Shima, racing through the strait into a rising moon. As we passed Nakano Shima, the steady 153 megacycle signal reached a maximum; that was its location. But radar is not a weapon, as some would want to classify it. The signal doesn’t bite or shoot projectiles and should be considered assisting equipment. I found it a little difficult to go along with my own thesis, however, especially when five small surface patrols moved in ahead from port and starboard. There were no prescribed procedures for such a situation. I chose to run the gauntlet and not let them bluff me into diving.
Fraz came to the bridge from a quick turn below and reported all men at their battle stations. Each word, each order was being relayed by the telephone talkers, and you’d hear a pin if it dropped. Quite admittedly, we were all in the middle of a small drama.
“I’ll take them one at a time, Fraz, and give way just enough to get its true bearing drawing aft. We may close another in doing so, but then we’ll do the same with it. I’ll call the bearings as usual, and you keep me posted on the true bearings.”
Fraz caught the plan and ducked below with his usual cheerful “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Though th
e patrols would probably not have our speed, they could give us trouble from their advantageous position ahead. Unless their movements were coordinated, however, our tactics should work. If not, we had that small button to starboard on the cowl to take us down. The range rate had picked up as the patrols headed towards. We gave way to the nearest one on our starboard bow. She held the bearing for a minute or two and then drew aft. The next was also to starboard because of our turn. We were being driven diagonally across the channel, but we now had two in back of us. The next maneuver to starboard was closer, but it took care of two more patrols. The last one had no chance as Tang outran her to the open sea, our hearts pounding.
The time was 2300; the whole maneuver with the patrols had lasted but 15 minutes. We had had our seagoing slalom off Amma To, now this was like a punt return. True, there were fewer tacklers, but these were playing for keeps. Again, I believe the whole ship’s company breathed out in unison, and to ease the adrenaline, the electricians proceeded with a shoot-’em-up Western in the forward torpedo room.
Fraz, Mort, and Frank joined me for coffee. We concluded that the enemy had done well with what he had. Chidoris, or faster patrols, could have forced us down for a 20-hour dive due to the moonlight, but here in 200 fathoms we were assured of good temperature gradients, and successful evasion would have been just a matter of time. We were 20 miles south of the 30th parallel, almost 600 miles due west of Sofu Gan. That pinnacle lay far from inhabited islands, so our present course of 090 needed no change. Neither did our speed, for having been just 30 days on patrol, we had fuel to burn, and Tang rolled on through the night.
Clear the Bridge! Page 31