We had made up the six miles lost during the dive and would add a like amount by afternoon. A second dive would be in order, this one for our other new officer, Lieutenant (jg) John H. Heubeck from Baltimore, Maryland. He and Charles had swapped jobs, which was agreeable to all concerned, though we would miss Charles’s quiet Southern humor. John had the forenoon watch with Ed, and after Ballinger checked with Parker, Tang’s new chief commissary steward, lest pies and things might be in the oven, two blasts took us down. Our ship had almost dived herself the first day, giving the appearance that except for the reports and blowing negative to the mark, the diving officer could pretty much twiddle his thumbs. Accordingly, I had asked Larry to upset the trim a little. How much is a little? One or the other of us should have told Ed, who was a bit taken aback at our unexpected down-angle and the ensuing gallops. But we all found out in a hurry that in John we had a second Mel, who had that fine feel of diving from the very start. On the surface again, I looked at Frank and we both nodded; Tang would not be lacking in competent officers.
Extra activities to help time fly by continued to be unnecessary. Eight hours of watch, meals, school of the boat, studies, a book or an acey-deucey game, perhaps a movie, and the day was gone. This afternoon we threw in battle stations with a complete approach and attack. Periscope and sound inputs were again from our folder of time-versus-bearing plots, which had now become so extensive that it was impossible to recognize a particular problem from the first few zigs. Caverly’s bearings were especially realistic, for he had learned to throw himself completely into the problem, even switching on the speaker so the whole party could hear the shaving brush-microphone screw noises. Mel was setting our own ship’s ordered course and speed into the TDC so Tang could continue along the navigator’s track independent of the problem. I could not speak for Paul and John, but I’m sure that for the rest of us real torpedoes could just as well have been on their way. A few more drills would have them in the swing of things; it was impossible not to become involved.
Topside again, Frank shared my feeling of confidence, and then joined Jones, who had brought his sextant and watch to the bridge for an afternoon sun line. It was rather a precautionary position line, unnecessary with a good round of evening stars, but sometimes invaluable should the sky cloud over before dusk. All was going well, but a falling barometer bore out the weather briefing Frank had attended just prior to our departure. Anyone living in the northern hemisphere knows that with September come storms, especially at sea. In the fall, it had not been uncommon for returning submarines to circle Midway for days while waiting for the winds and seas from the south to moderate. Only then could a safe passage through the reef be assured. Should this be our lot, we would proceed on our mission, bypassing the atoll and the opportunity to top off. In anticipation of this possibility, every tank in our ship not reserved for fresh water and trimming had been filled with diesel fuel. We could still carry out our mission but would then have to forgo the advantage of being on station well ahead of other operations.
French Frigate Shoals lay 20 miles to port. Tang was doing well, but seas commenced building up during the night. They did not slow our speed of advance since, for the most part, we were riding in the trough. Our hot SJ raised a pip on Eastern Island at 0500, right on schedule, and I knew the satisfaction Frank must feel with his first landfall. We slowed and maneuvered to insure the customary long, straight approach to the channel. After we steadied on north, the seas commenced pushing us on. We could not slow or back down, for that would only accentuate the yaw that had come on with the shelving bottom. It was difficult to leave the steersman alone when one moment the bow was 30 degrees to the left of the slot through the reef, and a few seconds later in the same attitude off to starboard, heading for angry surf breaking over the coral. Seemingly, he could dampen out the yaw about the ordered course and keep the lookouts from climbing the shears. But should he try to overcome the natural forces, too much or improper rudder could indeed broach our ship, when she would otherwise continue in the right direction, though on wild headings. Tang would pass nicely through the reef if I just gritted my teeth, which would also insure keeping my mouth closed. They were anxious moments, nonetheless, but with a ship’s length to go she settled on course, bisecting the slot into the harbor.
It was 0700 when we came alongside the fuel dock. In spite of the hour, friends were down to greet us, though we saw no dentists. Frank and I turned down a luncheon invitation from captains Edmunds and Will with some regret, for there had been a great innovation at Midway. Instead of carting the garbage to leeward of the island in the old scow, they had for some time now been spreading it out on the coral sand. After it cured in the sun for a day or so, a bulldozer covered it over with a thin layer of sand. The whole project had taken months, but Midway now had rich soil and raised vegetables unobtainable elsewhere, even in submarines during the early weeks of patrol.
No special instructions had been issued concerning Walker, and he seemed in excellent spirits upon our return from the morning’s courtesy calls. Diplomatically, we did not inquire, especially since the captains accompanied us for a cup of our good wardroom coffee. It wasn’t long till the diesels fired, and we went topside. The fuel hoses were on the dock, the mooring lines singled, and after the handshakes and Godspeed captains Edmunds and Will stepped ashore. The brow was on the dock, and the last lines let go as I reached the bridge. At the end of the prolonged blast, “All back two-thirds” moved us quickly from alongside. Hands on deck paused at attention in response to those on the dock and then went about the necessary checking and securing topside. “All ahead two-thirds. Right fifteen degrees rudder” brought Tang onto the range. Ten minutes later she passed through the dredged slot in the reef, directly into the seas rolling up from the south. The time was exactly 1200, September 27.
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Again we had fuel in every tank and corner, but the dead reckoning positions along the track, which Frank had diligently plotted, would all have to be stepped off again. The three-engine speed that we had planned would expend too much energy in fighting the seas. If we could believe A. M. Knight’s Modern Seamanship, the direction of the wind and seas, and our own barometer, two days at the most would move our ship beyond this storm. There, a third engine would really count, and it was just common sense to take advantage of the natural movement of the storm before increasing our speed.
Pertinent parts of our Operation Order were now posted in the crew’s mess, and after stepping off the new DR positions, Jones would be tacking up their chart, too. The posted Operation Order read:
When in all respects ready for sea and patrol on or about 25 September 1944, proceed at best speed by route north of French Frigate Shoals to Midway for topping off as weather permits. Thence follow track north of Marcus, between Volcano and Bonin islands, south of Ryukyus and into Formosa Strait. Adjust speed so as to arrive on station if possible prior to 12 October. Friendly submarines in the Bonin-Volcano area will be informed of Tang’s transit. As seems desirable the patrol area may be extended northward into the East China Sea, but your attention is invited to the JICPOA Supplement to this order, and particularly to the Ryukyu and other minefields detailed therein.
The general nature of the order would undoubtedly stir the imagination of the troops, but they would probably deduce that some specifics were included in private communications still in my desk safe, as had been the case in the past. But the only additional information had been given to me orally—Task Force 38 would strike Formosa on October 12. Frank’s expected course recommendation came over the bridge speaker, and at my nod Paul ordered, “Come right to two six seven.” With small variations as might be indicated by the star fixes and sun lines, this would remain our heading until just before entering our area. Paul and John would continue standing their watches with our most experienced officers, topside as OODs and then exchanging for the conning tower watch, which might best be called operations. We would try to funnel as much of the acti
vity their way as possible during this transit. If their performance during the past three days was any indication, they would be able to take most anything in stride by the time Tang reached her area.
The seas continued to be brisk, with eight-foot waves and whitecaps through September 29, but our ship was riding well, very nearly in the trough. Well, that is, for everyone except Caverly and a few others. Since the commencement of our shakedown, whenever the seas kicked up a bit Caverly had been the first to feel it, and a kid’s potty hooked to his belt had become a trademark. As time went on, the presence or absence of the ornament proved to be more reliable than our barometer in predicting coming storms or their passing. On more than one occasion, Caverly was encouraged to accept pending jobs on the staff, once actually leading to his detachment. A last-minute reshuffle of the paperwork got him back aboard, for though he dreaded his seasickness, his hate of the enemy won out, though antipathy to the staff may have tipped the balance. Finally, at morning fire control drill on the third day from Midway the pot was missing, and a third engine went on the line. By late afternoon, Tang had moved into friendly seas under clearing skies.
Before we encountered a real storm the usual inspection was in order. It was set up for midmorning, and as I had already seen that everything forward was secured for sea, I joined Frank in the forward engine room. I was rather surprised to see our junior officers gathered in a group.
“I suggested that they be here to see what you demand on these inspections,” Frank volunteered, and that seemed a good idea to me. They saluted and I returned it, looking them in the eye as is customary. They stepped aside and I stepped forward—directly into the open hatch to the engine room’s lower flats, about five feet below. The bottom ladder rung broke my fall, but also my left foot. Hollywood would have one bouncing back from such an accident, but when you’re doubled up, nauseated, and with a sweaty brow, you’ve had it. Some minutes later, snaked up from the lower flats, I hobbled forward and Frank continued the inspection aft.
Submarine pharmacist’s mates are the best in the world, and I’d match their knowledge and skill with that of the country doctor. It had been proven in all sorts of doctoring, including lesser amputations and even appendectomies. Chief Larson took one look, straightening my foot and damned near sending me to the overhead, and then announced, “You’ve got some small broken bones—I could feel ’em, but they’re pretty straight now—and one hell of a sprain, but there’s nothing they’d do ashore that I haven’t done except to take some × rays, and I already know about what they’d look like.”
Those were the words I wanted to hear, so I was relieved of the necessity of pulling rank had they been otherwise. Stretched out in my bunk and with my club of a foot propped up on the bulkhead and the Voycall by my ear, I’d command orally over the squawk box.
Tang was now within patrol plane radius from the Bonins, and Frank stationed extra lookouts forward as had been our custom. The daily dives continued, and then unscheduled ones as Bettys from the Bonins or the Volcano Islands seemed to concentrate along our track. The contacts were most probably just the result of our passing through the enemy’s normal search patterns, and by all reports we seemed to get below without being sighted. If there was doubt, we would alter our track during darkness to foil a vectored enemy submarine. But Frank was confident we were still undetected, and I shared his feeling.
Hearing all of the reports, from the lookout’s initial call to the diving officer’s “Satisfied with the trim,” without participating physically was contrary to my previous experience, and I wondered how the realization that Tang could get along without me, even through the torpedo fire control drills, would affect the troops. Finally, I chose to consider it a compliment to our ship’s training. Judgments, maneuvers, angles on the bow, and torpedoes that hit would salvage any lost prestige.
The Bonin and Volcano islands were behind us, and on the night of October 4 came our first opportunity. An Ultra for action to Trigger and Silversides included Tang as an information addressee. They had departed Pearl a few hours ahead of us, stopping at Saipan for topping off, and would be patrolling as a two-submarine group off the Nansei Shoto. The Ultra alerted the boats to an enemy weather ship east of the Ryukyus. Frank brought the chart, and I hobbled to the wardroom, where we could lay it out. The position plotted only 50 miles south of our track and but a 40-hour run ahead, less if we put a fourth engine on the line and worked on up to full power. We considered the possibilities. There seemed little doubt that Tang would reach the position first, and the experience leading to our very first attack dictated that any submarine with a chance should go after every target. A weather ship might not be much of a target, but she could be of inestimable value to the enemy in the brewing engagements. Besides, entering your area with a ship already on the bottom was most any submariner’s dream.
Fortunately, weather ships usually occupy a station, so we expected little trouble in locating this one. A few hours in searching should do the trick, and then there’d be a long submerged run from over the horizon. A ship, any kind of ship, was all that was required to perk up a crew, and with some misgivings I allowed members of the gun crew on deck to grease their gun. If we could polish this one off with the deck gun and enter the Formosa Strait with a full load of torpedoes, Tang would be a jump ahead indeed.
In the morning, Caverly went forward again wearing his trademark, though we had only picked up a long, easy swell from the southwest. It had helped in kicking aboard some flying fish, so one’s loss was another’s gain. The day passed quickly with extra drills, and with satisfaction I listened to Frank going through the periscope procedure with Jones. The weather ship would be Frank’s to sink, and I would only advise after contact that he move in to where a single torpedo would be sure to hit. His first ship and only one torpedo to put her down, but that had been my lot. These and similar thoughts kept cropping up during a night made fitful by increasing seas and then at 0300 by the report of a falling barometer. The sound of mounting seas now came through the ballast tanks, great muffled roars, but they were mild compared to the screaming winds and crashing seas I could hear over the Voycall. Remembering a near disaster in Wahoo, I ordered the lookouts below; the OOD had the protection of the bridge cowl and should be in no immediate danger. We’d assess the situation at daylight. But soon the thunder of green water on the bridge and a rising stern as Tang commenced seasledding dictated a change in plans. Only one order was possible or we’d lose the watch overboard and flood the inductions: “Button up the ship. Shift propulsion to the battery and slow to steerageway.”
The immediate pressure on my ears told me that securing had already been in progress. That’s my exec, I thought. Not so pleasant was the last barometer reading before the boat was sealed, 27.8 inches; it left no doubt about the severe nature of the storm. Dawn was breaking, however, and having come this close to the reported position of the weather ship, we’d stay on the surface and search with raised scope. An attack would be impossible, but we could perhaps stay with the ship and fire later.
It did not seem credible, but the seas increased, forcing us to run before them in an attempt to hold down the roll. Good seamanship would have dictated diving long ago and running under the storm, but finding the enemy ahead required high periscope searching and one could not dive except in the extreme. The extreme came suddenly, with violent rolls dumping me over the guardrail of my bunk and onto the deck. Frank came quickly; he needed my help in the conning tower and had brought Chief Larson, the two climbing the bulkheads along the passageway. A shot in my foot and the support of about a size 14 sand shoe, laced tight, had me standing on one foot and a club in no time. Frank and I headed aft, hanging on as we could, but when we reached the control room Tang took a violent roll to starboard. I landed on the after end of the high-pressure air manifold, with my face about a foot from the bubble inclinometer on the forward end of the low-pressure blows. It read 70 degrees, and there she hung, obviously broached by the seas.
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“Jesus Christ, is she ever coming back?” I heard myself say.
Frank had his own troubles, having landed spread-eagled on the open knife switches of the IC switchboard. The 110 volt AC juice had him doing a jig as he tried to get clear, but somehow he called out a cheerful answer: “Sometimes they don’t, you know!”
In all of his gyrations, Frank must have crossed himself, or the good Lord thought he had, for we eased back to 60 degrees for a couple of rollers and then slowly righted. Frank scrambled up the ladder to the conning tower, and I followed, mostly pulling myself up with my arms. Jones raised the search scope, perhaps saving the attack scope for business after we pulled clear of this mess.
When submerged, looking through the scope gives the viewer the impression that his eye is just above the surface of the sea, at the position of the lens. When the boat is on the surface, it’s like looking out and down from a 55-foot tower. I was looking up at a single monstrous wave, so big it had normal waves on its crest, which were blowing out into spume as it rolled in. Reflexes made me duck momentarily just before it hit, and then green water, solid green sea, went over the top of everything, burying Tang scope and all. Amazingly, the scope was still there when the wave rolled past. I had expected a mangled tube, if indeed it was not broken off above the roots. Jones lowered away lest the next wave finish it off.
With a bit more speed to help the steersman and—right after waves thundered overhead—quick scope exposures to con our stern exactly at the seas, we got the roll down to cycles ranging from 45 to 20 degrees. We knew exactly where we were, in the dangerous semicircle of a full-fledged typhoon, where the great circular winds are augmented by the speed of the advancing storm. Our present position was untenable, for we were being pushed ahead in addition to our own turns, and our total speed likely equaled the advance of the storm. We could thus remain in this dangerous semicircle for days, even into the Ryukyus to the immediate north.
Clear the Bridge! Page 43