For over a year now, small groups of boats had been patrolling together, at first under the command of an embarked division commander, but later under the senior commanding officer. The Pacific was too vast for division into a grid as the Nazis had quite apparently done in the Atlantic. If a contact were reported, the great distances would normally preclude headquarters’ vectoring boats to intercept, and the convoys themselves were too small for any large-scale operation. The direction thus fell on the senior skipper, who did not have the secure reliable communications the task demanded. It seemed to be the hope that a hot boat, by direction and example, could impart some of its fire to others in the group or wolf pack. I hadn’t changed my opinion that the boats could do better on their own, and areas for operation were not yet at a premium. Our recent areas, 4 and 5, could take four or five submarines and really stupefy the enemy. Neither had I changed my opinion that the spark that ignited a hot boat had to come from within, and to date the total sinkings by only one wolf pack had exceeded those of Wahoo or Tang in the Yellow Sea. We’d cross our fingers and hope for another independent patrol but of course would carry out whatever our next Operation Order entailed.
The Pacific war was accelerating, and to keep pace our submarine tenders were now deployed to Majuro and Saipan. They were in essence mobile bases and subordinate commands operating just as had Midway. Direction and patrol assignments remained under the one command at Submarine Base Pearl. Thus the same clean directives continued while the boats enjoyed a shortened turnaround time. Since January our boats had sent well over a million tons of enemy shipping to Davy Jones’s locker, but the enemy showed no sign of succumbing. Perhaps the acceleration might speed that day, for he had but an estimated 4 million tons left. We were considering these things and working ourselves back into a fighting frame of mind when a driver brought a note from the admiral.
The message merely asked that I drop by to see him at my convenience, which of course meant immediately or he would not have sent a car and driver. A word with Larry, for his engine overhauls would be a determining factor, and Fraz, Frank, and I were off for the base.
“How soon could you be ready to head west?” the admiral asked. “All the way west,” he added.
I had not arrived unarmed, having spent some hours during the past week at briefings, and had a pretty good idea of the urgency. The Leyte campaign, in which General Douglas MacArthur expected to return to the Philippines, was shaping up. In preparation, there would be carrier air strikes to the north and south to interdict enemy supply lines and destroy reinforcements. Most important, engagements with the Japanese fleet before this campaign was over were almost guaranteed. Now Tang would have a chance to be in the midst of all of this.
“Four days, sir,” I answered, “but there is one thing I request in return.”
“Yes,” he said, not seeming surprised and as if encouraging me to continue. The few words I had to say had been well rehearsed mentally, and I barged ahead.
“Admiral, Tang has been banging out patrols at nearly twice the customary rate. Most have been short, but so has every upkeep. My ship needs an ST scope, and I need something to take back to my crew. I’d like our next upkeep scheduled for Mare Island.”
“I appreciate what you say, and I’ll take care of it,” Admiral Lockwood replied and extended his hand to seal the bargain. “By this morning’s report, you may have trouble getting a load of torpedoes,” he cautioned, and I departed to start the wheels in motion. Fraz and Frank were both waiting, and fortunately for the moment, Tang still had two execs. Fraz sent for Hank, Mel, and Ballinger, while Frank reversed the overhaul of two mains, which were half disassembled in the after engine room.
Since all torpedoes were 21 inches in diameter, even most foreign ones, we anticipated little trouble in finding a load, though it might be a motley one. Torpedo shortages had cropped up occasionally throughout the war. Back in late 1942 one boat took a load of Mark 10 torpedoes on patrol when others were having troubles with later torpedoes and their magnetic exploders. We had all chuckled at the endorsement to the patrol report: “Even though attacking with Mark 10 torpedoes and obsolete inertia exploders, three valuable marus were sent to the bottom.” We would be tickled to find a few of them today, but another’s misfortune solved our problem. Tambor, Hank’s old ship, would be indefinitely delayed in proceeding on patrol due to main propulsion troubles, and the base commenced removing her complete load of Mark 18-1s and delivering them to Tang. A composite load with at least some steam torpedoes forward would have been preferable, but the fact that Tambor had accepted these told the story of another temporary shortage. Tang would sail on schedule, but in the middle of the preparations came another all-hands evolution.
How men can toil at striking stores, fueling, loading torpedoes, and carrying out the dozens of pre-patrol tasks and an hour later appear as if ready for a military inspection will always be a wonder. But our crew at quarters this September 22 would match the best in the fleet. It was well, for punctually as always, Fleet Admiral Nimitz and Admiral Lockwood, with an entourage such as we had not seen since returning with the downed aviators, proceeded with presenting awards for the third patrol. A second Navy Cross to me; a third Silver Star to Fraz; Silver Star medals to Frank and Jones; Bronze Star medals to MacDonald, Weekley, Ogden, and Caverly; and the Secretary of the Navy’s Letter of Commendation with ribbon to Montgomery, Robertson, Kivlen, Andriolo, Aquisti, and Wixon. In addition, under the revised instructions, Hank received a Silver Star for the first patrol, so if I had erred in that choice between Bill and Hank, it was all squared away now.
These presentations were not all, however, for more important than any one or all of them combined was the award of the Presidential Unit Citation. Signed for Franklin D. Roosevelt, it cited the actions during Tang’s first three patrols, and from this moment every man who served in Tang would wear the ribbon with its blue, gold, and red horizontal stripes, and with a star if aboard during the actions cited.
It was not something that one scored, but with the recommendations submitted as a result of our last foray, I believed our ship now led all others in personal and unit awards. In any case, no submarine captain could have been prouder of his fighting ship and men.
We had retained our billets at the Royal, and this evening I finally learned the story behind the purple stains in the pump room. Cases of Welch’s grape juice were being struck below when provisioning ship for our third patrol. Our radiomen had volunteered for this working party, so slipping a few cases into the adjacent radio shack became a simple matter. Thus on board was the major ingredient for home brew to liven up Midway upon our return. The brew had worked, in fact during the hot dives it had worked too well and couldn’t be capped or stopped. The purple froth oozed from the brewing area in the back of the spare parts lockers, down through openings in the nonwatertight deck, and thence to the bulkheads and SD mast housing in the pump room. Scrub as they would, the radiomen could not completely eliminate the purple stain, and there was no paint aboard with which to cover it. It did not matter, for the auxiliarymen had now invited themselves to the party.
It had all taken place in an unused shack on Eastern Island, with the two gangs rowing over from Sand Island after dark. The brew had some kick but was apparently also a potent uretic. Stumbling in the dark in answering the urge, one of the auxiliarymen had stepped hip-deep into a hole or burrow filled with rats. His shouts and the frightened, squealing rodents running about and over everyone had a sobering effect that brought about a retreat across the harbor, back to the sanctuary of Gooneyville.
I was undoubtedly the last to learn about this escapade, but it need not have been so. There were few my age who had not tried their hand at home-brewed concoctions during Prohibition, though I suppose it would have been impossible to pass on the benefits of experience. One thing for sure, Tang’s troops were no sissies.
Fraz’s orders had arrived, and I signed the detaching endorsement before our one-day trainin
g period, albeit with a bit of a lump in my throat. We had been through much this past year, and with results that neither of us could have accomplished without the other. The skipper-exec was a unique relationship in submarines, but I was confident that with Frank I would be blessed once more.
Our day under way was really a post-repair trial rather than a training period. As before, we did sandwich in a round of emergency drills for our new officers and men, but we moored at a respectable hour so that those who wished could spend another relaxing late afternoon at the Royal. Though not many left the base, we found the swim to the third reef and beyond was now a breeze and returned to our ship physically tired but relaxed and mentally refreshed.
In the solitude of my cabin after dinner and cribbage, I reviewed my ship’s readiness for this mission, my thoughts reaching back to the lay of the ways, which had determined the north and south poles of Tang’s magnetic field. The Nazis used this characteristic of all ships to trigger their magnetic mines, and the immediate antidote had been the shipboard installation of great degaussing coils to counter the ship’s magnetic field. In a later substitution, this field was sufficiently reduced at dockside degaussing stations. So Tang was demagnetized, as a jeweler does a watch, but her residual magnetic character would never change.
Along the way our ship had acquired other traits that would remain a part of her. Many of these had intensified on succeeding patrols, for the unusual had become routine in our operations, while the expectations of the ship’s company were ever increasing. The constant flow of new hands in no way lessened this, for her reputation had spread and was the very reason they sought billets aboard. The determination to live up to her name and to better her previous performances had become a driving force, defining Tang’s unchangeable character as a fighting ship.
So Fraz’s departure would not materially affect our ship’s performance, and neither, I would have to admit, would my own inevitable detachment after another patrol or so, one with the designated PCO aboard if possible. Presumably, I would then assist in the direction of our sub-air rescue, which would become a major mission. But this was in part conjecture, and my thoughts belonged with the task immediately ahead. Frank’s quiet knock speeded my return to the present as he entered to report all hands aboard and Tang ready for patrol. The clock over the doorway read 2200.
2
Hundreds of patrols had now originated at our base, some boats returning routinely as had been our lot, but others continuing on to the Southwest commands. With departures almost a daily occurrence, one might expect them to be considered commonplace, routine. This had not been our experience in the past, and if this September 24 was any indication, the sincere formalities would continue till the curtain was rung down on the war.
There had been ample time for the officers and crew to exchange words with friends, for Tang would not get under way until 1300. Now, as Frank and I awaited Commander White and Vice Admiral Lockwood, we spoke of our enemy, wondering if his submarines also departed on an air of formality. Probably, we surmised, but guessed that the wardroom coffee would be replaced by a saki toast to the emperor.
Walker’s coffee was obviously still considered better than that at headquarters, for the admiral had allowed ample time to enjoy it. We did not speak of the patrol, for not until on station would we find out what might be in store. The conversation instead turned to the Empire areas, their possibilities, and our mutual hopes for the future. The diesels fired on schedule, and we adjourned topside. The Godspeeds were accompanied by firm handshakes, and I saw our visitors ashore.
Base personnel snaked the brow over to the dock in seconds and then took the lines, but not fast enough, for the admiral, by chance in position, caught the bow line; he was everybody’s admiral and stood at attention with others on the dock, but with his fingers in his ears for the five seconds of our prolonged blast.
With “All back two-thirds,” the diesels stopped purring and got down to business. Tang quickly gathered good sternway and “Left twenty degrees rudder” pulled the stern into a great arc around the finger piers and into the basin beyond the base. “All ahead two-thirds; shift the rudder” killed the sternway, and our ship headed out the channel.
The harbor was quiet and had for the most part assumed its prewar appearance. Now the capsized Oklahoma, which would have been on our port hand, had been righted and moved for refitting. The Tennessee, only damaged, had been rapidly repaired and had nearly stolen our ice cream machine back at Mare Island. The Nevada, hit repeatedly and holed forward, had been beached on Waipio Point, now on our starboard hand, and then quickly repaired. Together with Tennessee, she would be engaged in the very campaign Tang would support. How ironic that our fleet, which had been caught in port on that fateful day when seemingly it should have been at sea, had really survived due to this very circumstance. If our ships had been off soundings, such a surprise attack would very probably have sent the majority of them irretrievably to Davy Jones’s locker.
When first viewing the holocaust on returning from patrol in late January of 1942, I should have looked beneath the tears streaming unashamedly down the faces of those at quarters with me. I would have seen jaws set as was my own, but all had then become a blur. The same determination was apparently reflected across the land, for otherwise we could not now be closing the clamps on the enemy.
But that was in the past; ahead lay the open antisubmarine net, the red and black channel buoys to port and starboard, and down their corridor, the sea buoy. Tang entered the safety lane, and two more diesels went on the line. The maneuvering room would add turns slowly as the engines warmed up until we reached full power. When Captain Swede Momsen had informally characterized our ship as having two speeds, full or stopped, it was not entirely in jest. It all depended on whether or not we had someplace to go and of course the fuel on hand. At this moment, the destination was clear and the fuel no problem.
Dick, now a lieutenant (jg), took the con as we headed west along the line dividing the two operating areas in the submarine sanctuary. They were unoccupied at the time, and the shortcut would save a dozen miles. At my nod, he ordered, “Rig ship for dive.” We were reading each other five by five, and no other words were necessary. Circling ahead was the PBM that would escort us till dusk should we wish. Frank was calling a round of bearings and then went below to plot our departure position. A few minutes later, on the heels of “Ship rigged for dive,” came the navigators recommended course, and we came to 284 degrees true, paralleling the Islands. The regular sea detail, first section, assumed the watch, and Tang was on her fifth patrol.
The quiet, businesslike manner of our departure, of the transition from the Royal to patrol, augured well for this mission and should lend confidence to the whole ship’s company. Our immediate destination was our friendly atoll, Midway. This accounted for the leisurely hour of our departure, for we would thus arrive at dawn of the second morning. At the moment, Dick was still turning over the watch to Lieutenant (jg) Paul T. Wines from Ridgewood, New Jersey. Called Tiny, he would obviously round out Tang’s basketball team and by his jolly nature would fit in well. He would share the afternoon watch with Larry, who was now our senior watch officer, so nothing would go wrong.
On watch with Ballinger as duty chief was Leibold, who like others had advanced a rate. A second class boatswain’s mate but a year before, he would work in as chief of the boat on this patrol. Frank dropped below, and we scheduled a dive for 1530 so Paul could get his feet wet. In the wardroom, Adams served us the first coffee of the patrol, and it was difficult indeed to tell that our ship had just spent three weeks in port.
Tang was rolling, and at 1525 Kauai already lay well back on our starboard quarter. We released our escort with sincere thanks and received a Godspeed in return. In minutes the PBM was but a spot above the eastern horizon, probably under full throttle heading for the golf course. After brief instructions to Paul, I proceeded below. The dive was intentionally slow, following the peacetime sequences
to best demonstrate all the elements involved. We had not done this since our initial dive and training period, and though it might seem a step backward, it was akin to reviewing the precautions for handling explosives and reminded all of us to be alert for any irregularity in a dive. Failure to note a crucial item was not unheard of and in some boats had led to disaster.
With Larry’s previous compensation and immediate coaching, the dive was surprisingly smooth. Perhaps this was a good way to commence a training period, and we’d consider it for the next full one. Now Paul was going through the more deliberate and cautious procedure of surfacing, where the submarine, not the enemy, picked the time. With the first surfacing in enemy waters, the reasons for the caution would be evident.
Frank’s evening star fix showed us behind by a half dozen miles, so Larry picked up the phone to speak to Chief Culp. A few extra turns would have us back on schedule by morning, when we would be to the north of the island chain. A jog in our track would come up shortly after passing Nihoa, and we welcomed this northerly route as an overdue change. Sooner or later an enemy submarine with endurance and patience would surely get off a shot at the traffic along the virtual highway to the south. Of course our more southerly routes were never the same, and that held true for other boats, too. Still, our present track followed an almost unused corridor as far as we were concerned.
Our speed made the moderate seas race by this night, and though muted by the ballast tanks beyond our pressure hull, the sound was of a plunging waterfall. The quiet movements on changing the watch and the punctual hushed reports in accordance with the night orders told that all was well with our ship, and the night passed quickly.
Clear the Bridge! Page 42