4
All had appeared dark through the scopes, but now with 7 × 50s and the faint light from the upper limb of the moon, our lookouts would spot any ship or patrol that crossed our horizon. It gave us a secure feeling, as did the two diesels jamming energy back into Tang’s batteries. When the gravity was sufficient for another day submerged, we would move on to the southwest coast of Honshu, an easy hour’s run ahead. For the moment, our position below the shoals extending down from Daio Saki seemed ideal. Any sizable shipping would have to pass at least five miles south of the point, and contact would be almost guaranteed. The topside watch was quiet and intent.
There was a mixture of business and pleasure below. Willing hands were beating down a mound of dough on the forward starboard table in the crew’s mess. It had obviously risen more than usual in our long, hot dive and was attracting more attention than the acey-deucey. To port, at the far end of the crew’s washroom, two hands from the duty section were taking their turn at running the sacks of accumulated laundry through the machine. They would then hang it on lines in one engine room, and since it was well marked each man could easily retrieve his own. This nightly detail insured clean skivvies daily and provided a change of pace for those involved. Aft, electricians and motormacs were at their stations in the engine rooms and maneuvering, meticulously following the curves that guided the charge. In the battery wells, below the living spaces, others were checking the specific gravity of the pilot cells and then recording the ventilation flow meters in the living spaces above. It was all business, serious business, except in the forward torpedo room, where the usual movie was in progress before a full house. The whole scene would surely have given anyone a feeling of satisfaction and confidence.
A pause in the movie to announce that the smoking lamp was out indicated that the battery charge was on the finishing rate. The extra hydrogen now being generated would be carried away by the blowers at their maximum speed; still, every precaution would be taken to insure that there could be no explosion. The announcement also meant that we could move on to the coast and carry out any operation, night or day, even both if need be. We were not unhappy at leaving this spot, for Daio Saki, according to the intelligence supplement accompanying our Operation Order, had 252 megacycle radar. It did not show on our APR-1, which was coupled to the raised SD antenna, before surfacing nor after our decks were high and dry. Still, an enemy radio technician could just be completing the last connection on a new modulation network, and one pip would eliminate surprise. At least these considerations provided a good enough reason to get on with our exploration, which anyone would prefer.
The coast loomed up black, a bit foreboding and eerie as we followed the 100-fathom curve due west to within five miles of the shore. The curve turned southward, down the coast, and its line served as a ready-made track for Fraz and Jones, one from which Tang departed to investigate various locations but which remained as a safe guide. Except for a 15-mile straight portion, the coast was marked by large and small bays with intervening sharp headlands, some with deep water nearly to the cliffs. The best of these promontories was Miki Saki, about halfway down the coast, and we doubled back at midnight to insure reaching it before the crack of dawn.
Frank temporarily filled in for Fraz as had Mort in the Yellow Sea. Perhaps having two execs was the answer for successfully patrolling the Empire, for now Fraz and I had nearly four hours to get in shape for another inshore day. We relaxed with Mel and Charles, who had just come off watch, and reviewed what we had seen while waiting for Adams’s apricot turnovers to come out of the oven. We were unanimous in the opinion that no ship had sneaked by so far this night, but I was alone in believing that the enemy had to run some night shipping. Surely the enormous losses he had suffered made getting the available bottoms through without delay all the more imperative. But night or day, we meant to find and sink his ships.
An hour or so passed before the heat from the battery charge was dissipated and the cool predawn air returned the living spaces to normal. It was still not a night for sleeping, as Frank and the OOD kept me informed of Tang’s progress up the coast. Then came the anticipated report from Frank: Nigishima Saki was abeam and we had slowed as directed. The next point, only five miles farther on, would be Miki Saki. The duty chief, Hudson, had the morning watch relieve a few minutes early so as not to confuse the pending dive. Fraz gave the course to the point, 280 true, and Tang came to it. When we steadied, Miki Saki’s black shape showed up dead ahead. The time was 0400. Eighteen minutes later, three miles from the point, Dick’s firm “Clear the bridge” and well-spaced blasts sent our ship below the sea.
Tang continued on course, blind for the next half hour. Then details gradually became discernible, first the shore and then almost simultaneously the bow wake of a patrol and smoke. Before we could reach an approach course, this escort and a large engine-aft ship had ducked around Miki Saki into Kada Wan and then down the coast. Whipping around that point at full speed, exposing themselves for only minutes, had been a smart move. Even if in position, a submarine would have had no time for tracking, and for the moment we all knew how Casey at the bat must have felt.
The enemy’s patrol activity increased steadily. At least one echo-ranging patrol was in sight almost continuously, and another cruised back and forth about 1,000 yards off Miki Saki. The action of this latter patrol dictated our own tactics; Tang would simply do the same 2,000 yards farther out and move in to attack the next ship. By presenting a minimum angle for her ping, we would probably not give her an echo, and there was plenty of water for evasion if we did. Fraz joined me for a late breakfast. Dick and Larry had already finished but stayed for more coffee and perhaps to hear if we had anything to say. We did, but not about the first ship; that was already in the past. I could tell what Fraz was going to say by his smile and the look in his eye.
“This is the spot, Captain.” I answered with a nod.
“That makes five of us in agreement,” said Larry. “I’m including the Japs, of course.” He had hit it on the button; find the patrol activity and you’d find the ships. Larry handed me the phone, which had buzzed to my left. The Japanese had just added something new, simple, and possibly effective to their antisubmarine arsenal; Mel had a small-craft in sight, resembling a landing craft, carrying six lookouts. He also reported the wind dying. Fraz went up to survey the situation, and I followed shortly after.
The sea had become smooth and glassy, and just cutting in our position now required minimum periscope exposure lest it be sighted. This was made more difficult by the speed required to overcome the countercurrent setting us to the south; we had to slow before each look so that our scope would show no feather. The inshore patrol did not help, either, for just as we were regaining our position, so it seemed, we would be forced to steer courses across the current in order to present a minimum angle and thus were set to the south again. It all made for a trying morning, further aggravated by the small-craft, who did a good job of making a nuisance of herself. The situation became more serious at 1244, when a modern-looking gunboat, loaded with depth charges, forced us on down as she passed nearly overhead. On our way back to periscope depth, sound detected loud pinging on a bearing different from the gunboat’s. Jones and Fraz quickly had the general course plotted as coming up the coast. This antisubmarine patrol was not as big as her ping, but what she lacked in size she made up in savvy. When abreast of Miki Saki, she turned directly toward our scope and succeeded in bluffing us off the 50-fathom curve as we kept our stern to her. The reason for this tactic became apparent when a tanker nosed out of Kada Wan, to the south, and ducked around Miki Saki with Tang again in no position to attack. In fairness to our ship and Hank, who had been on the scope, lucky timing by the escort was a big factor. The patrol was back on our quarter when she turned towards, and to swing toward her would have meant presenting our broadside to her ping before our aspect would again sharpen. With a ship in sight, an aggressive submarine commander would have done t
his anyway, but the ship had come minutes later and Hank was not in command. It was my responsibility, and next time we would turn towards and go under the SOB.
In midafternoon we were still at it when quite suddenly our periscopes commenced fogging as they had in the Yellow Sea. A check with the bathythermograph gave us the answer; changing tides were bringing cold seas from the deep to the surface near shore. Our chilled lenses now fogged almost instantly on exposure to the humid midsummer air and would not clear for several seconds. The longer exposures led to the sighting of our scope by the pesky small-craft. She was tenacious and extremely difficult to shake, remaining in our immediate vicinity for over an hour and probably calling like mad for assistance from one of the patrols. This tomfoolery came to a screeching halt with the Bells of St. Mary’s.
We had smoke, two columns of it, coming up the coast, and Tang, now a bit to the north in shaking the small-craft, was off on a high-speed run into Owashi Wan. Welch took the wheel, Jones stepped over as my assistant on the scope, Ogden went to plot, Caverly to sound. In moments the immediate battle stations were manned, and an air of confidence seemed to permeate the conning tower. This would be no fly-by-night approach and attack; we’d be all set for these ships when they came by. The time was 1635, over 12 hours into the dive.
Fraz had plotted the approximate track of the tanker that had slipped by early in the afternoon, and a spot on this track was our destination. At standard speed down here at 80 feet, we would cause no turbulence and should leave our small-craft still searching some four miles behind out in 80 fathoms. Tang should still have 40 fathoms, or nearly 180 feet under her keel, when she reached the track, and that was more than we had enjoyed almost anywhere in the Yellow Sea.
The half-hour run passed slowly, seemingly minute by minute. I held up both hands, fingers extended, and Fraz ordered all ten tubes ready for firing, torpedo depth six feet. The order and subsequent reports seemed to make the time pass more quickly. With five minutes to go, we slowed to two-thirds speed, and then one-third.
“Bring us up to sixty-four feet, Larry.” The up-angle was modest, but Tang leveled at periscope depth quickly and took a slight down-angle that would counter the bow’s tendency to rise on firing. Welch called our speed and Caverly the sound bearing. We had guessed right; the enemy was on our port bow, and Jones guided the scope to the correct bearing before the lens broke the surface. Marks for the bearing, range, then angle, and the scope was down. We went ahead standard, and then I described the enemy to the fire control party; the telephone talkers would send the word throughout the ship. The columns of smoke had become two mast-funnel-mast split-superstructure freighters. The leader was medium-sized, about 5,000 tons, the second in column somewhat smaller. On our side of them was the gunboat that had driven us deep, while ahead a smaller escort was apparently patrolling. Best of all, both ships were heavily loaded.
Six minutes at standard held the bearing, but a tapping sound broke the silence in the conning tower.
“No change in speed, Captain, still seven two turns,” Caverly reported, and Sherman Clay’s metronome had become a part of Tang’s sound and torpedo fire control equipment. There was time only to acknowledge the report, for even with the enemy’s slow speed, firing was but minutes away. Identification had now classified the larger ship, a Biyo Maru freighter. Fire control had her on course 020, steaming at 6 knots. Fraz gave the course for a 100 starboard track, 290, and at my nod Welch brought Tang to it.
“Open all outer doors forward.”
“Seven degrees to go, Captain.” Fraz’s was the best report of all; it had been a rough two days, and in minutes we’d be getting the hell out of here.
“Stand by for constant bearings. Up scope.”
“Fast screws bearing three four zero, Captain!” Caverly was not excitable, but with this report he came close to it. I swung left and Jones brought me on. It was the gunboat with a zero angle, this side of a thousand yards, and with a tall, white V for a bow wake. At 20 knots it would take her over a minute to reach us; continuing with the attack was automatic.
“Constant bearing—mark! Keep her sound bearings coming, Caverly.”
“Set!” came instantly; Frank sensed the urgency.
“Fire!” and the first torpedo was zinging to intercept the leading freighter. Two more fish followed, and then a similar spread of three to the second ship in column. Never could individual torpedoes, each to hit a point, have been fired more urgently. I swung left to the sound bearing of the gunboat. With the scope in low power, she filled the field. I had misjudged her range or speed, but if she had once had our exact position, she had lost it during our water-lapping periscope exposures. Now she was boiling past our stern, apparently having mistaken the direction of Tang’s motion, and was out of position for an immediate attack. Ogden was counting the seconds till our first torpedo should hit, “Five, four, three …” I swung the periscope back to the leading freighter in time for the first explosion, right in her middle. It must have ruptured her Scotch boilers, for the ship broke in two, practically disintegrating. I took a final bearing of the gunboat, then gave Jones the scope; I had more pressing interests in conning Tang to put the gunboat astern. Though she had missed our position before, she would now have six converging torpedo wakes leading right to Tang’s firing point. Her turn would be far enough away to insure being at full speed for her attack, but she could be back within two minutes. With a conscious effort to sound calm and assured, I ordered, “Flood negative. Take her deep. Rig for depth charge.”
5
Fourteen thousand welcome pounds of salt water surged into negative, accentuating the down-angle and pulling Tang bodily toward the deep. Watertight doors were being closed and dogged; bulkhead clapper valves in the ventilation lines were being secured; and all machinery not required for maneuvering was shut down. It seemed painfully slow, until Ogden timed two sharp detonations as our fourth and fifth torpedoes; only 66 seconds had passed since firing! The gunboat would have to be our proxy in observing the results. She would be coming in from near astern and was already echo-ranging. It would be comforting to know there was a temperature gradient above us that would deflect her howling pings, but getting a bathythermograph card in these seconds would have been difficult. The knowledge would really make no difference, for on reaching a path just off the ocean floor, we would be below any gradient that existed.
There had been various staff recommendations concerning personal protection during depth-charging, such as lying in one’s bunk, relaxed. Since most of these were not very realistic, submariners at sea did what they liked as long as it was compatible with their battle stations. Some preferred standing in the clear, where they’d not be bashed by solid objects and such. Others liked to hang on tightly, for the very same reason. My position when conning by sound was to remain wedged between the large pipe housing the SD mast and the battle stations sound operator, specifically Caverly, who had already turned his left earphone outward.
The gunboat was now closing fast from slightly on our port quarter. The very low bearing rate and the intensity of her screws both spelled close. Any maneuver would throw our bow or stern closer still; there was but one order: “Keep her going down, Larry!” If we lost one sound head, we still had another. The bearing rate suddenly picked up. Caverly trained right and had the gunboat going away; she would have dropped. She had, but between ear-splitting, wracking explosions Welch heard me order, “All ahead full, left full rudder!” As arranged, Caverly got a sounding, and Larry was on the way to 180 feet, two fathoms off the bottom. Maneuvering poured in the juice, and by the gunboat’s fifth pass all detonations were to shoreward. There had been 22 close ones, and now compartments checked in from forward aft. No damage except light bulbs; we should have more with flexible portions above the threads. Even better than the reports was the unmistakable twisting, scrunching, breaking-up noise, loud in the direction of the enemy, easily audible even above our screws at 100 turns. We rigged for normal submerged
cruising.
In 38 minutes we were back at periscope depth watching the gunboat, 4,000 yards back on Tang’s quarter. Beyond her was the other escort, at the approximate scene of the attack and apparently picking up survivors. One plane was now circling the area; nothing else was in sight. The time was 1821, only 40 minutes after the attack, but it seemed like a week.
In the wardroom, Larry was slowly shaking his head and looking down at the green poker cloth as if it were spread out for a court-martial. Before I had a chance to compliment his excellent control of our ship, he spoke up.
“Captain, if I’d known depth charges would be like those, I might just have stayed in surface ships.”
“Larry, they seemed close because you’re not used to them. When we get some that are really close, these won’t seem too bad. Just wait and you’ll see.”
Larry looked up in disbelief, and Fraz, sitting across from him, was able to keep a sober face. I wasn’t and confessed: This was my tenth patrol, and that lousy gunboat had laid them down faster and closer than any I had experienced before. If Tang were not blessed with the new deep hull, we’d probably be wrestling with repairs this very minute. The confession perked Larry up, and he reached for the cribbage board to get us back in fighting trim, while Fraz took a turn through the boat.
Fraz returned shortly and reported that he had observed almost identical reactions by the troops fore and aft, a reassuring pat on our ship’s pressure hull. It was no wonder, for with the sea about a submarine acting like a solid in transmitting any quick shock, a detonation of sufficient severity to move her violently could crush her as well. Some submarines had returned from patrol with dimpled hulls, bashed inductions, and jimmied hatches. Lesser damages involved the distortion of various fittings or the breaking loose of fixtures, and almost traditional in this latter category was the captain’s washbasin. But today our light bulbs had borne the brunt of the enemy’s wrath. I nodded when Fraz raised his hand to his mouth and tilted it as though sipping from a glass, and he went aft to disburse the depth-charge medicine. For most of the troops the brandy would celebrate the sinking rather than soothe jangled nerves.
Clear the Bridge! Page 35