Mel called me back to the conning tower at breakfast, for one of the PCs on a return trip south was continuing directly for us. At a periscope range of 2,000 yards, we headed down, rigging for depth charge as she closed. Tang was at 275 feet, two fathoms off the bottom, when the PC passed directly overhead, her sound bearing suddenly shifting to the reciprocal. As I expected, she gave no indication of suspecting our presence, and we were close to evasion depth if she had; we rigged for normal submerged cruising on the way up. She was back again within the half hour, heading up the coast, and we went through a repeat performance. Again our vertical evasion worked perfectly, even though we had but a slight gradient, and some of the troops began to share my confidence in the maneuver. Listening to the PC’s screws and pings growing in intensity till they were overhead and crossing our fingers that neither speeded up, indicating a contact or depth charges, did pick up the heartbeat a bit and would take some getting used to by all of us.
Fraz, who was supposed to be making up for a night without sleep, could not stand being outside of the activity and joined me for the second double pass. Mel kept the con and handled the PC’s southward leg so well that Fraz and I went below for coffee. My smile brought a query from Fraz.
“I was just thinking that with more time in submarines than Mel, I was essentially put under hack for shifting the Argonaut from one berth to another. The U.S.S. Beaver made port early, before dawn, and we were in her berth. I had the duty so I backed clear, but I was not yet qualified.”
Fraz shook his head. He, too, was well aware of the tremendous changes submarine service had undergone since the start of the war. He reached for the cribbage board, which might serve as a sort of therapy this day.
After one more double pass, the PC was relieved by a Hishun Maru class patrol. We were not leaving everything up to Mel, for planes in sight continuously indicated coming shipping. Flying low, they also limited our periscope exposures and the opportunity to fix our position. The counter Kuroshio had moved us southwest a mile, off Adashika Wan, when smoke appeared around Miki Saki. Battle stations sounded for the first time this August 25, a slowdown since yesterday, but our targets here looked better. Their tops were now in view, a medium mast-funnel-mast freighter and a smaller one with engines aft. Their track plotted across the narrow entrance to the bay, and we turned left for a stern shot with our last three torpedoes. The enemy came on and then turned unexpectedly into Adashika Wan, giving us a 130 port track with a range of 1,700 yards. It would be a reasonable shot, but not with our last torpedoes. Possibly influenced by their port quarter escort, which was about to wipe off our scope, we broke off the attack and bucked the current back to Nigishima Saki. Tang’s speed over the bottom was only a knot, but two hours after the sighting, now 1335, she was back in position.
Time had not dragged, but the hours since dawn had been wearing and we welcomed a period of inactivity. It lasted 54 minutes, ending when Frank sighted smoke to the south. As the tops and then the hull came in view, it proved to be another patrol with a deep-throated pinger, sounding like a pile driver over our supersonic JK. Her hull, however, had the chunky lines of a minesweeper, and as she drew closer a motor sailer or work boat came in sight about 100 yards on the sweep or patrol’s starboard beam. The two appeared to be sweeping. Our sonic JP, which amplified sounds just as they would be heard with your ears under water, took this delightful moment to report scraping and clonking noises, as though heavy chains were being dragged along the bottom. This certainly fortified the visual impression that they were sweeping for us.
Fraz went forward and Tang went down. The pile driver continued on JK as the range closed. We had 250 feet of sea above us when Fraz returned. The best he could say was, “I don’t think so,” and then the pile driver shifted to short scale. We were almost glad to exchange the cables and chains that had seemed so logically possible for the enemy’s sonar contact. We waited, there was nothing else we could do, and then a low cheer filled the conning tower as the enemy shifted back to long scale, having passed us up for a bump on the bottom. Still, we’ll never be sure he wasn’t sweeping too!
It was now 1530. We had spent just over an hour with the sweep, and as she continued driving piles to the northeast, two and then three patrols moved in to search the area. They, at least, were not fitted for sweeping, though avoiding the three of them required almost continuous trips close to the bottom. The action and the possible decisions now required more experience. Fraz had the con for the moment. Since something was obviously brewing, I flipped the eavesdropping switch on the Voycall at the head of my bunk. I could now listen in on both control and the conning tower and thus judge when I should go up to take the con. This could, of course, be rather dangerous to my pride, but it had saved countless trips to the conning tower or bridge, and had permitted enough horizontal exercise to keep me going. Word from con of distant high-frequency echo-ranging drifted through, followed by a hushed statement from control that surely expressed the sentiment of the whole ship’s company: “Jesus Christ, I wish the Old Man would get rid of these three goddamned torpedoes!”
The duty chief’s messenger brought the official word of the echo-ranging from down the coast, growing louder though no ships were yet in sight. In the conning tower, the JK speaker had been turned on. The high-pitched, squeaky pings, like steam from a radiator valve, were the same as those we had heard the day before. Though its peak was above the range of our receiver, the intensity increased steadily, and on the next observation four escorts were in sight. The Bells of St. Mary’s chimed for what all hands certainly prayed would be the last time on this patrol. Happily, the last three PCs had shifted their activity to Miki and Kuki Saki just to the northeast, apparently satisfied that our vicinity was safe. For the moment, Jones and I were able to search at will. This was well, for passing rain squalls were obscuring the coast, and we needed the earliest contact possible on the ship that must be following.
The report “Battle stations manned” was almost immediate, giving the impression that the ship’s company had already been standing by, which was very probably the case. Now I heard Fraz’s order to make torpedo tubes ready aft. The enemy ship was not yet in sight, but on the next observation her two masts poked out of the squall, followed by her long, low hull.
I called, “Starboard eight,” Jones read, “Range eight thousand,” and Tang was off to move onto her track. From there we could pull off anytime for a stern shot as she came by. The time was 1743, a half hour since hearing her escorts’ pings. Fraz called the time for our run, 15 minutes. We slowed for a midpoint squint and a range; all was well and we continued on. Another six minutes passed, and we slowed again. Caverly immediately had her screws beating 90 turns by metronome but abaft our port beam; we had crossed her bow or she had zigged to seaward. The next minute seemed interminable, but with Welch’s call Jones and I took a quick sweep and the scope was down. I gave Fraz the OK sign and ordered left full rudder. The angle was 10 port; Tang was inshore of the enemy ship, and we were coming to the reverse of her course for low parallax firing. Our torpedoes would leave in the direction of the enemy’s motion and their gyros would then take them to the right to intercept.
There was now a moment during the turn to describe our target for the identification party and very probably all hands, too. It was not difficult; she was a heavily loaded, medium-sized diesel tanker, the identical ship that had slipped by us out of Kazampo yesterday morning. The overall speed of under 2 knots must have been nearly intolerable to the enemy; we meant to make it impossible.
We had steadied on course 223. The escort that I had first seen across the tanker’s deck, forward of her after superstructure, had now dropped nearly astern. The other three were fanned out on her starboard bow, while a fifth ranged ahead. None of them could interfere with us, and there was still time to turn away for a straight stern shot. The navigator tabooed this; there was not room between us and the island. I would now want echo ranges to substantiate the stadimeter, fo
r the data computer’s angle solver must account for the advance and transfer of each torpedo to the point where it settled on its gyro’s course. An error in the range set into the TDC would result in a displacement of the torpedo at the target.
Fraz reported the outer doors open; the enemy was coming on. We would get one more setup and then shoot. Jones brought the scope to my hands as usual, and I rode it up. Caverly was standing by.
“Bearing—mark!” Jones read 292.
“Range—mark!” The scope lowered and Jones read 1,100 yards; Caverly called 800 from his echo, 300 yards out!
“Oh, Christ! I got a reciprocal on the rocks,” Caverly said and trained the sound head 180 degrees to bring the echo-ranging QC elements on the tanker. We tried again, and both checked at 900. Only seconds had actually been required, and now came Fraz’s warning of 10 degrees to go. I glanced at plot; the projected firing range was under 600 yards, no problem since the Mark 18-1s armed before 200. The TDC now read 700, with enemy course 033 and speed 8. It all looked good, but with no escorts on our side of the tanker, we’d take one more range before firing; it would never be heard amidst the array of pings on our port hand and could make this the most accurate salvo we had yet fired. This time Caverly, Jones, and I were all at the ready.
“Any time, Captain,” said Fraz, stepping over to the firing panel. Jones raised the scope from deck level to my hands, and I stationed the wire amidships on the tanker.
“Constant bearing—mark!” Caverly called a range of 600. Jones read the bearing. “It all checks,” said Frank, backing up Mel.
“Set!” Her after superstructure was already coming on, and now her stack.
“Fire!” Fraz hit the firing plunger, and the first torpedo was on its way. The second fish went amidships. But the third I aimed a quarter of a ship’s length ahead, for the middle of three escorts, nearly on a line of bearing.
Caverly was tracking the torpedoes, all running normally as Ogden called out the seconds. At this range even the slow Mark 18-1s would not take long. The time was 1805.
“Torpedo run forty seconds,” called Fraz, both to us and over the 1MC. All 88 in the ship’s company were apparently urging these torpedoes on, some men close by quite audibly. They had been babied, checked, and rechecked. If ever torpedoes were to run true, these should. They did; the first with a whack and disintegrating explosion that crumbled the whole after section of the tanker, as if she’d been constructed of poorly reinforced concrete. The second torpedo finished the job. I swung left to the escorts ahead and gave Jones a thumbs up for the search scope. They had not recovered from the shock of the first two explosions, and the leading escort never would; our last torpedo had just blown her to pieces.
What was left of the tanker’s bow had now sunk, and the stern escort was making a run for where the tanker’s quarter would have been. Expecting some close ones, we put her on our port bow to work toward deeper water, rigging for depth charge on our way.
11
The depth charges rained, but not close, for the enemy obviously had not the faintest idea of our firing position. To close the escorts now solely for the purpose of reaching deep water by the shortest route was certainly not in our best interest. We eased off to starboard and proceeded along an arc, keeping track of the nearest escorts by sound and water-lapping looks. At the end of about ten minutes, the initial barrage stopped, but we had now obtained deepwater soundings with the enemy abaft our beam. Any curiosity concerning the enemy’s tactics after the escorts regrouped was put aside. Larry took our ship on down in a long, slow-motion glide and trimmed her off at an even 500 feet.
Our course was 116 to pass Aoga Shima, safe in the central Nampo Shoto. Any course to the east, as long as our 100 turns outflanked the enemy, would have been satisfactory. But knowing that Tang was proceeding along the general route for Pearl gave us all a lift. The Japanese were tenacious, however, for bearings of their echo-ranging showed a search extending across our stern from quarter to quarter. It was 1915. Over an hour had passed since the attack, and if we were to observe the enemy it had to be now, before the end of evening twilight.
Standard speed assisted Larry’s long climb to 100 feet, where we slowed while he adjusted the trim and then proceeded smartly on up to 60 feet. The enemy was not close, but neither was he as far astern as we would have liked, for the bright moon lay dead ahead. We would be in its streak on surfacing. Tang was holding her own, perhaps drawing away slowly at 100 turns; we speeded up to standard. The time was now 2000, and off on our starboard bow, at about the same elevation as the moon, lay a single black cloud. It was not large but big enough. Its bearing was drawing slowly to the left, and I had never expected to hear a conning tower cheer for a cloud. Preparations for surfacing were completed; we stood by, moving up to full speed on the battery. The cloud started across the moon’s face; a minute later three blasts sounded, then a cheer rang through the boat as Tang hit the surface.
The time was 2039, and one at a time the diesels took over the full-power load lest we leave a telltale blotch of smoke. We could probably outrun the enemy’s escorts anyway, but there had been enough excitement for one patrol. Again we had one objective, and for the moment our props at 315 turns were taking care of that. Of lesser importance, though perhaps not in the minds of the ship’s company, was a delayed evening meal, announced by the aroma of frying steaks coming from the hull exhaust.
Enemy radar signals on 142, 242, and 306 megacycles weakened rapidly as we withdrew, and searchlights astern were soon lost in gathering rain squalls. Now with even the weather rooting for us, Fraz and I left our ship in Dick’s capable hands and went below to see if the steaks were, as good as the smell would indicate. The formality of waiting for the captain or executive officer to be seated before serving was normally waived by them when under way if they would be delayed. Watch officers, of course, completed their meal in time to assume the watch by a quarter of the hour. This night, all the officers except Dick and Ed, on watch, chose to wait for us. It was a compliment, but also with this meal would commence the rehash of the day and the patrol. It was natural, and probably no different from the stories swapped back at camp after a day’s hunt. In a factual sense, ours was hunting to the nth degree. I do believe that an air of relief greeted my characterization of the day’s tactics as being suited to a particular problem and set of circumstances, and so at least indicated that this would not become Tang’s modus operandi. It seemed best not to point out that when fighting the Japanese in their front yard, the tactics used this day were applicable off every deepwater promontory. I would be the first to admit that a submarine would never feel completely comfortable in staying underfoot. But compared to the minimum-angle tactics we had used earlier in this patrol, it was considerably less dangerous, for the enemy would already be past the drop point for depth charges by the time he detected the sub, and the sub could be halfway to deep water.
Our conversation was accompanied by the score of Flying Down to Rio showing in the forward torpedo room. All of our movies were of course repeats, but it happened that this show with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers was the only one I had attended on this patrol. There was a remote possibility that it was having a rerun for my benefit, though most probably for the suggestion contained in the title. If so, I had the message.
“What’s our fuel status, Larry?” This was normally a daily report but quite understandably had been pushed aside this day. Frank handed Larry his notebook, which he’d apparently left on the sideboard in anticipation.
“On surfacing we still had fifty-five thousand, and we’re burning five thousand a day at this speed, that is outside of charging batteries,” Larry replied, checking the figures in the notebook.
“That would get us to Pearl with at least seven thousand to spare, Captain,” Frank volunteered. The two had obviously been advised by Fraz to be primed for the query.
“Let’s let her roll for the present and see what auxiliary can do about pumping up the battery durin
g the next day or so.”
It was fun to observe Tang’s officers remaining maturely serious but unable to totally suppress a boyish glee at the thought of a high-speed run from Honshu all the way to Pearl. Perhaps they were thinking the same of me. It was a far cry from peacetime steaming at the most economical speed, but other than the added safety such a run afforded us, it was far and away the most economical move in the overall war effort. Since departing on her first patrol, day in and day out including refits, Tang was averaging one enemy ship on the bottom every 12 days. In dollars and cents they would be worth several million dollars apiece, and many times that figure to the enemy since they were irreplaceable. So it was very easy to justify to ourselves the three days we could save now, for we would be able to depart on patrol again just that much sooner. And should any staff nitpicker dare to raise an objection, we could throw the figure of at least a million bucks on the table.
My night orders and congratulatory message to the crew seemed familiar on rereading. I thumbed the pages back to July 6, the day of our last attack in the Yellow Sea. Except for listing the cautions and course ahead of the congratulations, the entries were almost identical. The message had worked well before; there was no reason to change except to record the data on this last ship and escort. The identification party had found no picture of the tanker in the publications, undoubtedly because she was too new. The escort, however, appeared to be a Kushiro type, and I recorded them as had become customary:
1 medium diesel tanker 5,000 tons Lat 33° 55′ N.
modern, new appearing Long. 136° 13′ E.
1 Kushiro Maru class 600 tons standard Lat. 33° 55′ N.
escort vessel (PCE) displacement Long. 136° 13′ E.
Clear the Bridge! Page 40