Clear the Bridge!

by Richard O'Kane

  Walker brought a cup of coffee and took the Night Order Book aft to the duty chief. Only the muted sounds of the racing seas beyond the pressure hull and the reports required by the standing orders disturbed the hours till daylight.

  In overcast, scuddy weather, Tang rolled past Aoga Shima. It was 0800 of August 26, and 3,325 miles of unobstructed seas lay between us and Pearl. We continued making knots throughout the day, and the required departure message went out to the force commander at midnight. Included in addition to the results was a general statement of where and when and under what circumstances we had found the enemy. The message should delay the next boats for the Empire until we would have a chance to talk to them at Pearl, Midway, or by rendezvous at sea, but that was staff business and ours was to bring Tang back safely. With this in mind, our first running dive was scheduled for midmorning. In peacetime this term would describe any dive with way on, but ours would have a variation. Those involved in the mechanics of the dive were cut in on exactly what we would be doing; the rest of the ship’s company would soon find out.

  Basil’s two blasts initiated the dive exactly like any other. Fraz, on the search scope with the prism fully depressed, watched forward. As soon as he called, “Decks awash!” I ordered three blasts. Tang’s downward momentum carried her another few feet in a long, shallow dip, and then she was on the surface at cruising speed. The pit log showed that our speed had dropped 3 knots, but the whole evolution had taken only four minutes. Using an average of the speed reduction, we had been set back only 200 yards in our run for the barn, instead of five or six miles by a normal trim dive. The troops liked it, and this dunking dive told me that Tang could go on down, which was all I needed to know. Frankly, it was enough different to be fun.

  In February of 1943 I had enjoyed two birthdays and felt none the worse for it. There would seem to be a chance in four that someone in the ship’s company would have a birthday on the day Tang recrossed the international date line. Yeoman Williams had gone through the individual records prior to our departure and had made up a birthday list, and now I took a look at it. Two fell on this August 30. Tomorrow would be August 30, too, and that meant two days of celebrating birthdays. When the cooks and bakers had such an incentive, they could do wonders, especially when in competition. For two days now, the humdrum meals of steak and strawberries would be topped by cakes the equal of Blum’s in San Francisco.

  Frank was polishing his navigation, department heads were preparing their base work requests, and those not on watch were polishing their compartments. Fraz and Williams were bearing the brunt of turning my longhand into an intelligible patrol report, but on occasion Fraz would accompany me when a particular compartment was ready for inspection. In the pump room, the vertical pipe housing the SD mast had a peculiar bluish-purple stain that caught my eye.

  “Oh, you missed that at the end of our last patrol,” Fraz volunteered. “I’ll tell you about it down at the Royal.” I would have passed it off as unmixed bluing in the priming paint now showing through the well-scrubbed finish, but the twinkle in his eye showed Fraz had a story more suitably told over a cold beer. That was not far away, for this night we reported passing the 1,000-mile circle and gave as our arrival 0900 on September 3. Ballinger posted a copy of our dispatch in the crew’s mess; it would serve as a target date for all hands.

  Our dunking dives continued, but one day out of Pearl, Ballinger reported a problem; our ship’s company would never be able to finish the steaks. There was little doubt about his thoughts, that those frozen fry cuts could be the makings of a luau-steak fry that would demonstrate to the new recreational specialists how things ought to be done, and I was confident that the combined ingenuity of the troops would triumph again. Frankly I was glad that our Taylor ice cream machine was securely installed with its compressor in the pump room and not as a single unit, or the crew would take it to the Royal, too.

  The dawn came on bright and clear. In fact the visibility was too good, for back on our quarter to the southwest was a searchlight signaling FORM ONE EIGHT, or in plain language, “Fall in astern.” Ogden took delight in sending IMI’S (repeat), INT’S (interrogatory), in fact every operator’s signal in the book, ending with a JIG (verify and repeat) as we went over the horizon. Having come this far safely and now in the homestretch, Tang would not submit to peacetime protocol.

  A full section in their scrubbed dungarees and white hats, this time including Aquisti lest there be another surprise, looked sharp indeed as they faced ships in the harbor. No better men fought any ship. First in, we chose our berth, and bowing to nostalgia I stopped the screws after ten-ten dock and ordered 15 degrees left rudder when the end of the pier lined up with the second palm tree. It used to work; it still did, and Tang brought herself alongside for a one-bell landing.

  The usual fanfare awaited, a bit more formal than at Midway but just as sincere. There would be three or four more boats arriving, in column if they had been caught by that FORM ONE EIGHT, so the troops were quickly free to go about the business of drawing their monies and boarding the awaiting buses for the Royal. Of the people who greeted us, one of the most welcome and respected was Commander David C. White. He had commanded Plunger at the commencement of hostilities and had departed December 11 for the Kii Suido, just to the west of the areas we had patrolled. There he sank the second Japanese ship of the war, and one of the depth charges Plunger received in return was so close that it expanded the port vent riser aft, jamming the stern plane shafting and temporarily putting the planes out of commission. As ComSubDiv 43, he would be our division commander during this refit and accompanied the officer in charge of the relief crew and me through the boat. In the crew’s mess he paused to look at the troops’ tabulations, 18 ships and 150 depth charges, all but a handful of the ash cans received on this last patrol.

  “It’s a rough area, isn’t it,” he commented, and he should know! We walked on aft, climbed up through the torpedo room hatch, and the commander politely went ashore. The troops’ spit and polish had not gone unnoticed, and we’d get our ship back shined up and ready for sea.

  In the wardroom, Fraz had all of the paperwork practically buttoned up. Frank was assisting by calling the totals from the rough tabulations: 20 ship contacts with 31 escorts, 22 separate patrol craft, and 41 bombers. It didn’t appear that the enemy was about to say uncle, but more important than these figures were those concerning our men. Fifteen had made new rates, and another 18 had qualified in submarines. The work had been going on for months, of course, but completing the taut requirements on this patrol was worthy of special credit. Perhaps it was further proof that some men excel under stress.

  Williams and Jones were on their way. The relief steward served us good coffee and then proceeded to put our gear in the back of the sedan at the head of the dock. With no alarms or 1MC to hurry us, we took our time before heading toward the Royal and the first reef.

  Part VI

  Fifth Patrol

  IN THE FORMOSA STRAIT

  1

  We had not kowtowed to Hank Munson and his Rasher, who was trying out his two years seniority with that FORM ONE EIGHT, but now we faced a new problem. Our beautiful suite at the Royal was reserved for the Pearl Harbor Commission, admirals with 30-odd years seniority who were still investigating the holocaust. I could not blame them for commandeering the best but wondered what pressures had forced Admiral Lockwood to admit them when even he would not come to the Royal except as a guest. It was probably a direct order from Admiral Nimitz, or more likely from Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Fleet, Admiral Ernest J. King in Washington. The commission would undoubtedly continue its study indefinitely, and with the added incentive of such accommodations, who could blame the admirals?

  Fraz and I were not accustomed to walking away from problems, big or small, and this one loomed big at the moment. A surreptitious inquiry with the assistance of the chief master at arms, a former chief of the boat, disclosed that the commission had not shown up for months
, but since the suite had been scrubbed and polished to a T, it was being kept vacant for the day when the commission might return. Chiefs of the boat, present or past, are wonderful men, and armed with this information and fortified by my brand-new commander’s insignia, I found regaining our former accommodations to be a simple matter. In fact, they were now even more luxurious, for the original rugs, drapes, and other beautiful furnishings had all been replaced.

  With our suite secured, the last letter from stateside read, and two beers under our belts, we headed for the rendezvous at the first reef. The surf was unusually high due to a kona, or wind from the Big Island. Only now, as the adrenaline subsided, was it evident that we were tired, exhausted, worn out. But it was nothing that a few days or possibly weeks would not rectify. At the moment, the physical support of the foaming sea was our therapy, though understandably none of the ship’s company ventured on to seaward this evening.

  Hank Munson joined us for chow, laughing about his visual signal and claiming that it was just a gag. We were not topside when the other boats entered port, so we couldn’t say if they were in column, but we were perfectly willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, we shared a common enemy, and that alone put any differences aside. Further, Rasher had just completed a fine patrol with five ships down, and they were not coming easily as the war progressed; we knew. This night, as all first nights in from patrol, was not measured in hours of rest but rather in the exchange of yarns and the camaraderie that holds between men who have shared similar experiences and dangers.

  We had enjoyed routine sleep on our return voyage but awakened truly refreshed for the first time on September 4. It was well, for already important business awaited us at the submarine base. During her shakedown and subsequent patrols, our ship had logged sufficient nautical miles to have taken her twice around the world. The initial marine growth on her underwater body would have been killed by the antifouling ingredients of the plastic bottom paint, but on their faint skeletons new plants and animals would have thrived. To maintain Tang’s speed and endurance, a docking and bottom job were in order.

  I regretted the passing of the all-hands toil of scraping and wire-brushing the bottom as the water receded. Though working from punts snubbed in close to the hull made it an arduous task, this and the subsequent painting were chores of pride that offered each hand an equal chance to work on his ship. The fact that the troops on this one occasion could ignore everything they had ever learned about proper topside painting and just slap paint on the bottom, themselves, shipmates, and even on unwary officers or chiefs who had been unnecessarily taut merely added to the esprit of this field day.

  Alas, dock workmen with high-pressure hoses and a few others to brush out the spots would now complete the preparations. The plastic paint would then be sprayed on by professionals and the ship undocked with only a few of our ships company involved. Among them would be Fraz, Frank, and Mel, plus a few selected hands, and on this morning all but Fraz and Frank had gone on ahead. Frank was driving and dropped me off at squadron headquarters, for this was the time for him to handle our ship. Without my presence, his judgment would not be tempered by thoughts of what I would desire, and thus with his sole direction, Tang would dock handsomely. Word would pass through the crew, and Frank’s prestige would rise several notches as had mine, with the troops anyway, following the Beaver incident.

  My business was with Commander Submarine Squadron Four and had been briefly though completely stated on a single sheet. I doubt that one page had ever received more thought and care by a skipper and his executive officer, for it could affect Fraz’s whole future. After a cup of coffee, I handed the letter to Captain C. F. Erck and watched his expression as he read. The first paragraph summarized Fraz’s experience, now a total of 11 patrols, probably more than any contemporary. In addition, it pointed out that he had been designated qualified for command for more than a year. The second paragraph described his performance and fighting ability and stated that we were doing the enemy a favor by holding Fraz in his present billet when he should be fighting his own ship. The next paragraph recommended that he attend the special PCO school at New London to catch his breath before taking his own command. An equally important reason for sending him to PCO school—that some of his knowledge might rub off on others—was left out. The last paragraph, which should be the clincher, simply stated that Tang had trained officers in excess of complement and a suitable relief as executive officer and navigator was aboard.

  Captain Erck raised his head and started to nod, but a prolonged blast from the waterfront delayed any immediate discussion.

  “I didn’t know any boats were getting under way this morning,” he commented while walking over to the window to see what was going on.

  “That’s Tang,” I volunteered. “The executive officer will be docking her,” I added.

  Captain Erck blinked a bit, obviously not quite attuned to my reasoning concerning such delegation of responsibility. A few words of explanation were in order but were forestalled by a polite knock on the office door. In walked Fraz.

  “Who has the con?” I inquired, trying not to show any surprise.

  “Oh, Mel is backing her clear,” he replied. Then he added, “Frank will be putting her across the sill, of course.”

  “You certainly have confidence in your executive officers,” the captain commented and by the use of the plural signified his approval of the basic request.

  I had business with Commander White and Fraz with the personnel office, undoubtedly to grease the skids for the preparation of his orders. Knowing Fraz, he’d probably sit down at the typewriter himself and leave nothing to chance. We’d meet after lunch at the dry dock.

  Tang was high and dry with an exceptionally clean bottom. Apparently the first semblance of marine growth had washed away in the fresh to brackish waters of Mare Island Strait. Since then, our short periods in port and speed at sea must have prevented the expected accumulation. Our zincs were another matter. These plates, about six inches wide, a foot long, and a half inch thick, were secured with cap screws to the struts, propeller shafting, and the area around the stern tubes. Without them, the electrolytic action between the bronze propellers and steel hull would erode and pit the structures about Tang’s stern. Higher on the atomic scale, the zincs went into solution first. Ours were gone, so the docking was necessary if for this reason alone. Since undocking would take place in the morning we wasted no time in heading for the Royal.

  Surprisingly, with the surf nearly as high as before, we moved out handily to the second reef for bodysurfing shoreward. This would have been the time and place for my prewar board. More of a paddleboard than a surfboard, it measured 15 feet long by 17 inches wide, and was four inches deep. Hollow and tailing off gradually to a narrow transom, it would catch practically any wave with just a paddle or two, but it was a devil to steer. Kamaainas would shout when they saw it coming and give it a wide berth. Fraz and I spoke of those days and wondered if such would ever return. Perhaps, we concluded, though knowing they could never be quite the same.

  The undocking and return to the base the next morning were routine, so we were soon free to take care of other business. Mine concerned another pitch for a radar periscope, called an ST. Its 3-centimeter radar, one-third of the wavelength of our SJ, would undoubtedly remain immune from detection for months, maybe till the end of the war. Radar, at least our own, had not played an important part in our last patrol except as an aid to navigation. None of our patrols held much in common with one another, however, and with the enemy closing the radar gap, we needed this ST scope to prolong Tang’s advantage. I didn’t think much of the staff comment that our submarine didn’t seem to need one anyway. A couple of them should have been on our front porch when we penetrated the convoy in the East China Sea. Thoughts of that night still sent goose pimples up my spine. But true, we had not been shot at while on the surface during this last patrol except by the patrol yacht, and that was of our own mak
ing. Still, our last patrol was in an area of daytime operations, and surely in the offing were operations requiring more difficult nighttime penetrations. Tang rated the facilities to conduct some of them submerged, but in spite of previous requests, she was not listed for the installation.

  I suspected that Tang’s lack of success in getting an ST was the result of a missing comma or dash between the words “radar” and “periscope” in a précis of our third patrol report prepared by a reporting senior. Referring to certain approaches and attacks that were in part conducted by radar and then periscope, his brief called them radar periscope attacks, and this at least implied that Tang had the installation. As it developed, this would have made no difference, for as of the moment there was no ST available at the base. Still, the confusion pointed to the dangers of trying to further condense an already brief and exact report. Better that interested parties read the words of the submarine commander.

  Fraz and Frank had enjoyed better luck and had laid the groundwork for changes in personnel that would follow our established pattern. Not one of those men who had manned key battle stations during the last half of the fourth patrol would be touched, and again we would pick replacements for others from the relief crew, all volunteers for Tang. Frankly, this was more important than the ST, and we headed for the Royal again in good spirits.

  The first week had passed with seemingly more time spent at the base than at the Royal, at least daytime hours. This had affected few of the troops, however, who organized what turned out to be the luau to top all luaus. In the wartime rationing, meat points were as scarce in the Islands as anywhere else, almost as scarce as young ladies. Apparently the word of steaks had brought the latter out of hiding, and our single junior officers now had second thoughts concerning the advantages of commissions. But that was just one day, and with the available recreation interrupted little by business, we kept pace with our ship in returning to fighting trim. Already we had begun conjecturing concerning our next patrol, and the logical guess was not to our liking.