Clear the Bridge!

by Richard O'Kane

  “She’s zigging, Captain!” It was Boats, whose sole job was to spot just this. I did not slow; the cruiser was zigging away and we needed all the speed we could muster to regain position, for she had put us nearly astern. Boats chuckled; we needed something to break the tension, and with encouragement he explained what he thought was so funny. “I just never expected to be maneuvering with enemy warships,” he said, and I guess it’s well to have someone around who can see the lighter side.

  Zig plans do not simply meander back and forth along a base course at odd intervals, at least good ones don’t. The Japanese commander had selected the best, with several changes of course in the same direction and then an indeterminate number back. On top of this, he would likely throw in a change of base course, so we could not afford to head on down the line hoping for his return. The fight to stay with the cruiser continued every minute, and three legs later came another chance, with Tang again well up on her port quarter. The torpedo tube outer doors were opened for the second time, and we waited with 7 × 50s to catch the enemy’s first movement.

  “She’s turning, Captain,” called Jones, who had swapped positions with Leibold, and again we continued on at full power as the enemy turned away.

  A series of zigs definitely indicated a change of base course straight for Amoy. Frank stepped off the distance, and the enemy would be off the wide bay leading to the harbor at dawn. I had dropped down for a quick look and agreed. We commenced working up on the cruiser’s starboard quarter, and two legs later the doors were again opened, but the enemy zigged away. A fourth attempt convinced us that the slant toward Amoy was just a part of the enemy’s zig plan or a ruse. There was nothing unusual about this plan, at least from our point of view, and from a submerged position ahead that was anywhere near the enemy’s base course, we would have been able to gain an attack position and hit no matter which way he zigged. Here, able to fire from one end only, and with the equivalent of 7-knot torpedoes, we had to guess which way he would zig and do so before gaining position for the firing. We guessed port, and were again rolling at something over 23 knots to reach the required position on the cruiser’s port quarter. This would have to be the last such maneuver, since the start of morning twilight was but 20 minutes away, and the situation was further complicated by the fast-approaching Formosa Banks.

  The range remained nearly constant as we moved from 1,500 yards nearly astern toward the quarter, but the speed differential of only 3 knots made our movement seem aggravatingly slow. The sharpest eyes Tang possessed had 7 × 50s steady on the destroyer well ahead and on the Katori, but having gained this position four times during the past two hours quite unnoticed, we expected to do so once again. The bridge was quiet, and no one would speak other than to report an enemy movement. Frank reported the outer doors open a bit ahead of time. It was good, for we would fire on an early zig even from our present position.

  I continued to call bearings and an occasional angle as we passed the cruiser’s quarter and continued on toward the beam. Her zig was late, but it came suddenly—away!

  “Right twenty degrees rudder. Steady us on this true bearing, Frank.” I marked a bearing ahead of the cruiser. “Keep the outer doors open. We’ll try an up-the-kilt shot.”

  Frank replied with a ready “Aye, aye, Captain,” but then added a caution; the crack of dawn would come in five minutes.

  We were still a good 20 degrees on the cruiser’s port quarter, and as Tang slid diagonally toward the enemy’s stern the range dropped to 1,200 yards, then 1,100 as con commenced calling up the ranges regularly. The enemy’s angle was 180, and Frank steadied us dead on. I glanced to the east, no tattletale gray; the range was 900 and I ordered, “All back full,” for firing.

  “They won’t reach him, Captain. I’ve held up the maneuvering order.” Frank was right on two counts, our torpedoes would be closing at only 200 yards a minute, and the enemy would be opening the range while we killed our way.

  “What range, Frank?”

  “Six hundred yards, Captain.”

  My thoughts escaped, and I heard my own muffled “Jesus Christ” as I slid my right hand along the bridge cowl to the diving alarm. The range was 800 yards and seconds seemed like minutes. Seven hundred yards was a minute away and then one more minute would put us at the firing point.

  A blinding flash hit us; it was a battery of enemy searchlights. My two blasts sounded before some lights had completely struck their arcs, and no one could have missed my “Clear the bridge!” for I had years of training in hooking them up in series. Leibold and Jones cleared first, four lookouts raced by, and I rode John’s shoulders down the hatch while hanging onto the hatch lanyard. Welch gave the wheel a twirl, setting the dogs, and Tang was below before the first bullets landed. There were still two orders to complete this evolution: “Rig ship for depth charge. Rig for silent running.”

  10

  If the Katori detached one of her destroyers to work Tang over, our best defense in these 20 fathoms after daylight might well be a salvo of wakeless Mark 18-1s. We remained at battle stations, waiting, while Caverly followed the enemy’s screws. Loud and on a broad band, their intensity was nonetheless decreasing as the cruiser hightailed to the southwest. An all-around search found no separate set of props nor echo-ranging, and the enemy commander had been smart in all respects, figuring that we might still be in a mood to shoot, no doubt.

  After the first periscope search at daylight, we assumed normal submerged cruising, except that the smoking lamp, which was doused automatically at battle stations, remained out. Now defense called for distance, and normally we would be heading up for a dash on the surface. With the aid of the current, however, Tang had run five miles from the diving position; we were near enemy bases, and a sighting would throw away our advantage. With another five miles the enemy would have 150 square miles to search in the northeast semicircle alone, an almost impossible task. We’d leave well enough strictly alone, and chow went down for all hands.

  Frank and I paused in control to brief Ballinger concerning the expected plans. It took but a minute, and then the chief pointed with a turn of his thumb toward the messroom. Frank stepped over by the door and listened a minute before returning.

  “I was tempted to go on in and learn what really went on topside,” he commented and then explained that the lookouts were holding forth, cutting their shipmates in on the details. It was their moment; few adjectives would be needed, and at least the troops would have a hot topic for conversation this day.

  We found it little different in the wardroom, with John giving his impressions. Frank took my customary chair, but only so I could prop up my foot on one of the chart drawers, and then the discussion continued in the cheeriest of moods. I had expected the opposite, for cruisers were of tremendous importance to the enemy. Since the early days of the war, Japanese cruisers had shown their mettle. And now this Katori was free and racing to help oppose our imminent landings at Leyte, in the Philippines. But we couldn’t fight a war if down in the mouth about a failure, and I was thankful for these young men and their optimism. We had done our very best and still had our torpedoes; to them that was enough.

  “I wonder what the Katori’s captain would do if he knew that five times in a row he’d missed getting six pickles in the side?” Dick asked. “And a half dozen up the fanny,” Paul added. This vein of conversation tapered off with the suggestion of adding bicyclist’s spring metal pants clips to the submarine allowance list, a set for each member of the topside watch at battle stations. I trusted this included the captain.

  Though the mood might not indicate it, we had serious business. Our dead reckoning indicator could be somewhat in error after the high-speed chase and early-morning gyrations, and trying to run up our position from all of the entries in the Quartermaster’s Notebook would be almost impossible. But what we really needed to know could be found from a few soundings. If they were close to 30 fathoms, our course of 040 would be taking us across one of the deeper area
s of the submerged plateau connecting Formosa to China. Ahead, halfway across the strait and due east of Amoy, would be a trench about 20 miles wide with a small area of 40 fathoms at its center. It was a logical place to hide, perhaps too obvious, for no sooner had the soundings shown us on course than air patrols commenced a persistent search. They were joined before noon by surface patrols, and it was at once apparent that they were paying little attention to all of the areas where we might have gone and were concentrating on the route toward the deeper water.

  The enemy search succeeded only in making this October 20 seem a bit longer, and we were glad we had spent the initial two hours of the dive at standard speed, thus keeping out ahead of the enemy. There were no evening stars for Frank and Jones, for the enemy on the horizon kept us down until it was quite dark. Three patrols were still there when we surfaced and became more menacing when our radar started acting up. Before they made contact or called in night bombers, three engines started us north. The move was just in time, for Ed came to my cabin to report that the SJ had given up the ghost. A day north of the strait would give all hands some rest and permit uninterrupted repairs.

  The night orders congratulated the troops on giving the Katori the scare of her life and did not contain any terse cautions; such were unneeded. Our course of 040, changing to 050 and slowing to standard at midnight, completed the entries. Frank would be about, trying his hand at celestial navigation on a truly black horizon.

  The last 24 hours had been taut and tiring, but now with almost normal surface night cruising in pulling clear of the strait, I could consider the fortunes that had also accompanied our ship. The chase was far more dangerous than most any submerged approach and attack, but since it didn’t pay off would receive no note. But we knew, and I believed the experience would further cement our ship’s company. Frank interrupted my thoughts, bringing the chart and his plotting sheet to my cabin. His star lines had given him a triangle with about four-mile sides. He had conservatively drawn a circle about its center that encompassed all of the points. Tang was somewhere within this circle, near the middle of the strait and slightly southeast of Oksu Island, and that was all we needed to know.

  We were greeted with rain and increasing seas before dawn. Such weather seemed a characteristic of the northern mouth of the strait, probably due to the warm current from the south emptying into the East China Sea. JK or JP would pick up the prop beats of any substantial ships long before they could be seen in the reduced visibility, so Tang dived during morning twilight. It was comforting to become a true submarine again, listening and searching as possible with the scopes for any ships; they were all enemy. Then too, Ed, Caverly, and Bergman could spread the SJ’s parts out on the deck with no seasickness to interrupt their probing.

  Others no doubt had tasks that had been pending, and we changed the Plan of the Day to make this October 21 a ropeyarn Sunday. It was a date I had been waiting for, since the luncheon menu called for a New England boiled dinner. The idea had surfaced with the discovery of two long-forgotten cases of S. S. Pierce canned clams. They had come aboard at San Francisco when supply had let us down during our provisioning for sea. I had readily signed a bunch of special purchase chits, and the whole commissary department, except for the duty cook, had left with a truck from Hunter’s Point shipyard to fill out our allowance or procure reasonable substitutes. They must have had a grand spree, waving those chits and picking up whatever struck their fancy. Though most was substantial chow, San Francisco can supply weird items, too. The total was a bit staggering; I expected it to come to $1,000 or perhaps a bit more, but not to nearly $5,000. After each patrol a reminder would be waiting, a letter from the Bureau of Supplies and Accounts wanting to know by what authority these purchases had been made. The answers just added more references to be listed in succeeding letters until the whole thing became quite ridiculous.

  But we had our clams, and I had provided security for those two cases that would match the radiomen and their Welch’s grape juice. It was midmorning when I sauntered aft, for New England clam chowder, not any adulterated Manhattan stuff with tomatoes, would introduce the main course. Now for some reason, ship’s cooks insist on opening cans with a cleaver. In the galley 46 cans were lined up in ranks, each with a deep cleaver cut in the top, right next to the edge. The duty cook had the final two cans in hand, pouring the last of the clam juice down the drain!

  I found it difficult to say good morning, but one can’t saw sawdust, and I continued my turn aft. Everything was in fine shape, and no number of reports could ever replace the complete knowledge that could be gained from a few minutes’ walk and brief exchanges with the watch. Back in the messroom, the aroma of the dinner was already attracting a number of troops, most of whom would be eating early prior to relieving the watch, but there was nothing about a boiled dinner that any one of us could filch ahead of the serving. Surprising to some, the meal did turn out well, as frankly does any chow that has meat and potatoes as the main ingredients. The clam chowder was something else, rather resembling corn chowder mixed with chewy nodules, but it was probably preferred that way by our lads from the Midwest.

  Tang had been moving steadily due west throughout the day, for we anticipated that with the sum total of their experience, our radar gang would have the SJ back on its feet by dark. They did not disappoint us, and though we surfaced with no reflections but sea return, the waves presented a mottled, luminous disk spreading out from the center of the tube and not completely disappearing for some miles. The SJ was hot, and Turnabout Island should come on the screen early in the evening watch. A single tall pip on the A-scope preceded the expected island contact.

  The time was exactly 2000, and we were off on another chase to the southwest but in a dark, stormy night. Our predawn experience of the day before immediately conjured up expectations of another cruiser, but additional pips of escorts did not appear, though the enemy was similarly zigging and heading down the coast. Closing the range this time offered no real problem, for section tracking showed us forward of the enemy’s beam and gave a speed estimate of 15 knots. Ours was a wet bridge as three engines drove our ship through the rough seas, some waves breaking high on the conning tower fairwater and threatening to come solidly aboard.

  At our 2115 position, the true plot showed an enemy angle of 20 degrees port, assuming that the ship was at the moment on the base course. It was time to slow and let her come on, and battle stations sounded. The enemy became visible for the first time at 2,500 yards; it was a warship but making much too heavy weather to be a cruiser. Frank reported the tubes ready forward and aft, and at the same time through our 7 × 50s we could see the waves crashing white on her forecastle. She was a DE-PC type patrol, well armed, but she could not possibly man her guns in these seas. We were in little better shape, for torpedoes set to run shallow enough to hit her would surely tumble and run erratic. It was a standoff, but the range continued to close as neither of us gave ground.

  We were not this hard up for targets so early in the patrol, especially one that stumped us like this. We came left to put her astern and went ahead full. As if by mutual consent, the enemy reversed course and hightailed it, probably as happy as we were to get out of a nasty situation. When clear we slowed to a comfortable two-engine speed and at the same time gave Larry the engines he needed to continue the battery charge. The regular watch section was posted, and since our evasion course had taken us toward Formosa, we continued on toward where the lee of her mountains would provide some shelter from the Pacific’s fall gales.

  Tang was still pounding into head seas when I took a turn topside at midnight. We would not reach the coast anyway, so dropped to one-engine speed for the remainder of the night. Scuddy weather at dawn let us continue on the surface with little likelihood of being sighted, but with the first distant plane, perhaps a bird, we dived without question. Aircraft activity increased throughout the day, the numbers and types indicating an influx of planes to replace those destroyed during the
carrier air strike. This also meant a concentration to oppose U.S. fleet actions in support of the Leyte campaign, if not to disrupt the invasion of Leyte itself. Perhaps the invasion was already in progress this very Sunday the 22d; but this was just a guess, since only those who needed to know were privy to such information.

  The planes gave us no trouble, but neither did any enemy ships come our way. By 1800 all of the patrols seemed to have gone on or returned to their fields, and three blasts took us up into a quiet night. It did not remain so, however, for following the report of a pip with a range rate that could only be a low-flying plane, our SJ, which had been performing so beautifully, became temperamental and quit again. We headed north, as we had found this area unhealthy after our aborted run for the anchored carrier. Without the SJ it could quickly become untenable. It did, with blue exhaust roaring overhead.

  Tang’s ship’s company, during refit at Midway following her first patrol. From right, front rank: Division engineer who accompanied Tang on post-repair training, Murray Frazee, Mel Enos, Chief of the Boat William Ballinger. Rear rank: Hank Flanagan, Scotty Anderson, Frank Springer. AUTHOR’S COLLECTION

  Tang rescuing airmen, from a drawing by crewman John T. Kassube.

  Admiral Nimitz presenting the author his first Navy Cross for Tang’s first patrol.

  Vice Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, Commander Submarine Force, Pacific, from February, 1943, to December, 1945. The inscription reads: “To Comdr. Dick O’Kane—When and if better submariners are built, they’ll be constructed of materials to be found in Dick O’Kane and his Tang.” AUTHOR’S COLLECTION.

  From left: Richard O’Kane, William Leibold, and Floyd Caverly hold a press conference in 1947. U.S. NAVY PHOTOGRAPH