Clear the Bridge!

by Richard O'Kane

  A flying boat after breakfast and a flare fired by a friendly submarine, which surfaced about 4,000 yards on our quarter, provided the only excitement for July 9. The smoke bomb was a bit sobering; an enemy submarine could have been in that position. It impressed on all hands that Tang was not yet out of the woods. For the benefit of the other submarine’s fire control party, we would include the target data in our patrol report. To make enemy tracking difficult, Tang had been using a course clock, which moved a false lubber’s line. The steersman kept the line on the compass card course and, depending on the cam selected, our ship wandered about her base course. Neither this nor a conventional zigzag plan would thwart an attack by one of our boats, and I would give the enemy the same capability. Well, we had used the clock in taking the advice of a senior, and now I secured it. The ten percent increase in speed along our base course would cut a day from our voyage and, for my money, reduce our chances of being torpedoed by at least one-eighth, assuming that we would be ordered again to Pearl.

  The required message reporting our departure from patrol and the results went out to ComSubPac after dark. We also included the information on the small killer group and the previous night’s passage, for possible use to Sealion and Tinosa. Our eight sinkings ought to set the staff buzzing in the morning. At dawn Tang was nearly buzzed, too, by a transport plane heading south through the Nampo Shoto. Its mission was obviously not antisubmarine, and 15 minutes submerged cleared the skies. Our track left Sofu Gan over the horizon to the north as four mains moved us back up to a safe speed, our fastest. Any submarine that spotted our shears would hardly have time to maneuver before we had passed by. Again Tang was “rolling down to Rio.”

  No one had complained about our daily rich diet, but why we were not all breaking out with strawberry rash or suffering from protein poisoning would doubtless mystify the doctors. On a turn aft toward midnight, I found the duty cook still busy over the galley range. At a glance, he seemed to be trying the texture of his handiwork between thumb and finger, as if judging pastry dough. Curiosity got me; I had to inquire.

  “Oh, I’m just trying to get the texture of Firecracker’s rice the way he’s used to it, Captain. We’ve been cooking it too hard,” our new ship’s cook, Roberts, replied. He was so sincere that I just could not remind him that Firecracker was, after all, a prisoner, not a guest.

  I had not paid any particular attention to our prisoner other than to have received daily reports; there hadn’t been time. This apparently was not the case with our crew, who had quite quickly developed a combination of sign and oral language that worked satisfactorily. The information obtained about the young man and his understanding of the status of the war would have made up a small dossier. The important facts, as far as we were concerned, were the name of the ship, the Yamaoka or Amaoaka Maru, her cargo of 7,000 tons of iron ore, and ports of call, Tientsin and Kobe. Of course Firecracker’s real name, Mishuitunni Ka, and his hometown of Kyoto were of interest, as was his belief that Japan had captured the Hawaiian Islands and half of Australia. The truth would come down hard some one of these days.

  Nightly now, as we were trying to use up the movies along with the steaks and strawberries, Firecracker would be brought forward, handcuffs and all, for the evening show. There was no longer any doubt that he had become much more of a crew’s mascot than a prisoner of war.

  A congratulatory message came from ComSubPac on the evening Fox of July 10. Not received too well by a part of the ship’s company was the second half of the same dispatch, assigning Tang to Midway for refit. Fraz and Jones laid down the new track, a bit to the north of our present one. Field days and compartment-by-compartment inspections went ahead, while Yeoman Williams typed the stencils of the patrol report. All the while, four main diesels drove us on through crisp Pacific seas. Our report on crossing the 1,000-mile circle went out on the 12th, giving our arrival time. Tang enjoyed two 13th’s and at high noon of the 14th passed through the reef.

  All of the dignitaries that Eastern and Sand islands could muster were on the dock, along with the band, which was smartly drawn up in formation. We had anticipated some of this and had half of one section at quarters in clean, scrubbed dungarees and white hats. Except for the line handlers scurrying to take the mooring lines aboard, everyone on deck was at attention. From my position on the bridge, Tang looked smart indeed. The bandmaster gave a nod, but before he raised his baton, Aquisti, our accordianist, stepped quickly from behind the conning tower, playing the Midway Hymn. I was as much taken by surprise as the bandmaster. Somehow the lines were secured and doubled up, while those at quarters chanted, a few horribly off key:

  Beautiful, beautiful Midway,

  Land where the gooneybirds grow,

  Beautiful, beautiful Midway,

  The goddamnedest place that I know!

  Part V

  Fourth Patrol

  OFF THE COAST OF HONSHU

  1

  The usual formalities of an arrival were not restored; it would have been impossible, but on this day Tang could do no wrong. The troops had undoubtedly anticipated this and had taken advantage of the opportunity to blow off steam. Only one incident marred our otherwise happy landing, the arrival of four Marines. Six-footers, they had come complete with handcuffs and blindfold for Firecracker. It came close to being too much for the crew, who were already lining up to draw their monies. Ballinger interceded and went one step further, securing a signed receipt on a supply chit for one prisoner of war in good health. This seemed to mollify some, but others looked like boys who had just lost a pet.

  Captain Edmunds left the ship, perhaps to affix a padlock to his freezer and liquor cabinet, but Commander John M. Will stayed aboard. We had been assigned to his division for our upkeep, and as Commander Submarine Division 62 (ComSubDiv 62) he would lend such support as was required to insure the best of repairs. His resourcefulness in meeting the materiel needs of our Southwest Pacific submarines in the lean months of 1942 was well known, and now Tang would benefit.

  Most of the crew had vanished, each member with a ten-spot, and Walker was explaining our pantry’s baking oven to his temporary relief, probably itching to be on his way, too. I invited the commander to walk through the boat with me. It was not necessary for me to comment, for Tang’s department heads and their counterparts on the relief crew were discussing the work requests on the spot, though I took the opportunity for introductions. The spit and polish spoke for itself. Commander Will had gathered more information about our ship in these few minutes than would have been possible in an hour’s discussion. In fact, this was our pre-repair conference, and I saw him ashore.

  Fraz had finished all business except the final checking of the stencils of our patrol report, and Yeoman Williams was standing by to make any corrections on the spot. Fraz had made one change by lumping our attacks 4 and 5 together as 4A and 4B. It was a small point, but now the reader would know immediately that these concerned one ship, finally sunk on the later attack. I turned on to the final blue sheet preceding the tabulations, to paragraph (Q) Personnel:

  (a) Number of men on board during patrol 76

  (b) Number of men qualified at start of patrol 55

  (c) Number of men qualified at end of patrol 59

  (d) Number of unqualified men making their first patrol 18

  (e) Number of men advanced in rating during patrol 17

  What an introduction those 18 new men had had, 9,700 miles in 36 days, ten attacks, eight verified sinkings, and only three depth charges—and those from a freighter. Jones and Williams headed for ComSubDiv 62’s office with the report and the track chart tracings. Fraz and I were close on their heels, but we turned left for the Gooneyville. A few minutes later, we joined Frank and Mort in the corner room. With feet propped up and a beer in hand, we rehashed the patrol. It was here that the small trials came to light: the depth-setting spindle that would not re-engage until a minute before firing; the failure of a ready light in the firing panel, indicating t
hat No. 2 torpedo tube was not ready, but corrected by battle phone. None of these problems had affected the safety of our ship, and I was proud that the individuals on the spot had solved each one, and in time. I shuddered to think what might have happened if one more item had been added when we were aground, backing full, and firing.

  Submarines were never officially scored or rated, for there were so many variables affecting a patrol. By the very nature of anti-shipping patrols, however, a keen competition between boats did exist. Already, Tang was moving up the ladder, and Frank was discussing the results of our latest foray.

  “I read all of the patrol reports at sub school and all I could lay my hands on since; there’s been no patrol like this,” he commented.

  “You missed one, Frank.”

  “The Wahoo’s fourth,” joined Fraz.

  He was right, and I pointed out some interesting similarities. Each sub had suffered a like number of torpedo failures, though after one surface runner, Wahoo’s had been prematures. Both had put eight ships down, but Wahoo had accounted for two of her smaller ones by gunfire. For sentimental reasons, and love of that fine ship, I was quite satisfied that the results had turned out this way.

  Our dinner on the second evening with Captain Edmunds and Commander Will was delicious. The salads and mashed potatoes, decorated by the Filipino stewards, were beautiful. I caught Fraz’s look as he sawed through a slice of tough beef, however, and we lowered our eyes lest we’d explode in thinking of our past actions and the nice steaks we’d been enjoying. It was a relaxing evening, though we were surprised that our hosts were already familiar with our patrol report. The commander’s yeoman had obviously run the stencils through immediately, and we were not averse to filling in some of the details. For certain, we did not have to embellish the facts, but the place to swap stories and to learn what was going on was still the Gooneyville.

  Or was it? We excused ourselves early and dropped by the corner room to see who was around. None of our contemporaries was in sight, so we inquired.

  “Oh, they’re probably over at the senior officers’ bar,” was the courteous reply. We found it, but why we needed a bar and a steward to serve bottled beer was beyond us. Then we found we were expected to pay for each bottle instead of picking up the tab upon our departure for patrol. The small building and bar had been built, we were informed, so that the junior officers could supposedly kick up their heels elsewhere than right under their skipper’s or exec’s nose. What they were supposed to do on this gooney-infested island that needed shielding was beyond us. Those who had seen to this construction had unwittingly undercut the finest war patrol school in existence, for at that corner room ranks were never considered, and there the junior officer, coming exec, PCO, and skipper learned from seniors and juniors alike. We would not snub our friends from other boats, but Tang’s senior officers agreed to spend an appropriate amount of time at the Gooneyville hangout and keep that corner room buzzing at least while Tang was in port.

  Included in the submarine talk was an update on Cherbourg, which had fallen to the Allies on July 1. The port and facilities had been demolished by the Germans and the harbor mined, so it would not be usable for a couple of months. Closer to us, Albacore, Finback, Bang, and Stingray had been positioned as scouts prior to the Battle of the Philippine Sea. They were further backed up by Flying Fish off San Bernardino Strait and Seahorse off Surigao Strait in the Philippines. These two had made contact with the Japanese carrier forces and formidable battleship force and got off their contact reports as required. Commander J. W. Blanchard and his Albacore got one or more hits in the new carrier Taiho on June 19, while my classmate Herm Kossler with his Cavalla, en route to relieve Flying Fish, torpedoed the carrier Shokaku on the same day. Both carriers sank. The main battle between the carrier planes of the Japanese and Task Force 58 had taken place on the 19th and 20th, and was described as The Marianas Turkey Shoot. About four times the forces were involved as in any previous encounter, and Japanese losses in planes probably precluded their being able to engage our combined forces again. No one had to mention that the loss of two carriers, one probably the Japanese flagship, had had a significant effect on the outcome.

  I might just have to reconsider submarine actions in support of fleet operations, but in this case the submarines had been able to act independently, and their great value, other than the sinkings, was in contact reports from exact positions. Still, only two out of seven fired torpedoes, and for the others it had been a long patrol, as Tang well knew.

  Completion of the work requests was staying right on schedule, but on this turn through Tang I was surprised to see my surf and deep-sea rods still secured in the overhead. They had been brought along for just such places as Midway, and last time were in nearly constant use. Ballinger provided the answer. There was now a recreation department on the island, complete with outfitted sportfishing boats, and even manned by specialists. Well, tomorrow the fish fry and ball game would take everyone’s mind off their own and Midway’s problems.

  As before, the day started off with softball and beer. The game between the deck force and the engineers was the only one recreation had scheduled, however, and things hardly got warmed up before chow was down. The beer was good and cold, though short on quantity, but the fish fry was something to behold. Packages of fresh-frozen fillets from Boston had been allowed to thaw. They were then opened, and the fish were dipped in batter and dropped directly into hot cooking oil. The entrapped moisture practically exploded, and those who escaped a burn or two were just plain lucky. After recreation had secured, Frank took a volunteer working party to the Gooneyville and returned with all of the available cold beer. It saved the day. Before long, men were lolling along the beach, some taking a swim, and others sailing gooneybirds into the air with a gentle assist from the windward wing. With very little breeze, the albatross seemed to like the help in becoming airborne.

  The gooneys would not change, but Midway had. The island was no longer a frontier, and it was time for Tang to be on her way. A private letter from our chief of staff, Captain Joe Grenfell, preceded our Operation Order and contained the necessary information for Fraz and Jones, who would need to draw detailed charts from the base. The last part of the letter would go on the bulletin board in the crew’s mess:

  Incidentally, Mishuitunni Ka insisted his name was Firecracker. CinCPac’s intelligence questioned him for a week before they got him to say anything other than “Ten thousand tons,” and say he was the toughest nut they’ve had to crack.

  The Yamaoka Maru was not 10,000 tons but 7,500, and was carrying that amount of iron ore. If it is any consolation to Tang’s crew, she was on her maiden voyage to Tientsin and was returning to Kobe fully loaded.

  The letter had Fraz laughing. “I guess I might as well tell you,” he said. “Whenever you saw Firecracker coming to the movies, it was a reward for saying the tonnage of his ship was ten thousand. Sometimes the troops would feed him ice cream, but in the end they had him so well indoctrinated that if you’d just point to the middle of any good-sized ship in 208J, he’d say, Ten thousand tons,’ without fail.”

  We had more serious things to discuss, for a short training period would start in two days, and I would now follow through on a decision I had made when having Frank surface Tang and close the last flotsam. A part of this period would be his, to make approaches and fire torpedoes, so that without reservation I could designate him as qualified for command. In the other part of the training period we would schedule a few indoctrinal depth charges. These would be primarily for our new hands but for the rest of us as well, for not since the tooth-shakers of our first patrol had Tang really been depth-charged.

  Preliminary loading was routine, and there was no evidence of tampering with any of the frozen meat cartons. Frank made practice approaches on the first underway day, sandwiched between emergency drills for our two new officers and eight enlisted men. On the second day, his exercise torpedoes were hot, straight, and normal. A
message from the target ship remained puzzling indeed, for the PC reported that one of the torpedoes still had its propeller key in place. Perhaps they were referring to the propeller lock, a rugged bronze device that slipped over one blade and between others of the counterturning propellers to prevent accidental firing. A check showed the propeller locks from our torpedoes still aboard.

  Perhaps we would find out more about the locks ashore, but now came our depth-charge indoctrination, apparently the first conducted at Midway for some time. It had been necessary, of course, to notify all commands, and so the word spread, resulting in a fair number of spectators. Tang dived, keeping both scopes, well above the surface, and the PC rolled by at maximum speed. The charge at 200 yards was approximately as expected, the whack followed by the rumbling swish through the superstructure. The next charge was scheduled for 100 yards but fell somewhat closer and did a fine job of indoctrinating all hands. It should have been milder, but apparently the shock wave and detonation reflected from the hard coral bottom reinforced one another. Coinciding with the whack came the sound of a ton of bolts being dropped into our superstructure, or so it seemed. It was a reminder not to judge the proximity of a depth charge by the intensity of the sounds alone, and at least those ashore and on the PC had enjoyed a grand show.

  The best part of the day had been Frank’s performance, and now I faced the same dilemma as had my skipper before the war. If I sent in Frank’s qualification now, he would probably have transfer orders waiting when we returned from our upcoming patrol. I could then lose both Frank and Fraz, and this would approach the situation that obtained in both Argonaut and Wahoo preceding their losses. For selfish reasons, but also in the best interests of our ship, I would ask Commander Will to hold up forwarding the correspondence and his endorsement until Tang was heading back.