Tang was one of only three ships in the U.S. Navy to receive two Presidential Unit Citations. Note the error made by the citation writer in crediting Tang with sinking every ship of the last convoy, which consisted of 14 major ships with 13 escorts.
March, 1946. Commander Richard O’Kane is awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor by President Harry Truman. U.S. NAVY PHOTOGRAPH
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Navigators and radio repairmen can work at their own methodical speed, and any interference or insistence on faster solutions leads to errors and omissions that cause unnecessary delay. The two blasts that sent us down were perhaps disturbance enough, but the triumvirate continued on the SJ without interruption, pausing only to grab parts that were sliding forward due to our rather steep dive.
Except for the possibility of air-dropped torpedoes, and the enemy had proven himself good at that, sighting the exhaust meant that he had missed. Staying around for another pass without any radar tracking facilities would be warranted only if we had a ship in sight. We ran north an hour, and with the old SD warmed up and apparently working well according to the echo box, its mast went up to catch the enemy for the first time since our second patrol. The skies appeared clear on a five-second observation, and three blasts followed instantly.
Again we moved north at a modest two-engine speed so as not to churn up a luminous wake. The remainder of the evening watch was uneventful topside, and the first movie in some days played all the way through below. For all appearance, Tang could be on a peacetime interisland cruise. An encouraging report came down from Ed, but we’d continue our run out of the strait and give the radar a shakedown all its own. We had done this for our torpedoes off Honshu, and now Ed and his gang deserved the same.
The midwatch relieved with Larry the senior officer. I’d hate to lose him as an engineering officer, but he should be fleeting up to exec; someone would get a gold mine. These thoughts were interrupted by his report that they were firing off the revamped SJ. There was no “Fixit Book” in Tang, and these men had spent more hours than any others in staying with their gear until it worked. I flipped on the eavesdropping switch to hear the results, and in the background came Caverly’s unmistakable report of good sea return. Switching off the Voycall, I considered a change in the night orders but decided to stick with the original plan to clear the strait. The decision was barely firm when the duty chief’s messenger literally burst into my cabin.
“We’ve got a convoy, Captain!” he almost shouted, and then added to the official report in his enthusiasm, “The chief says it’s the best one since the Yellow Sea.”
I thanked the messenger while already tying up my sand shoes, and he continued on forward. That convoy was in the East China Sea, not the Yellow Sea, I thought, though most everyone in Tang called our third foray the Yellow Sea patrol. What a time for nitpicking. I raced aft and up the ladder to the conning tower. Caverly had reported the cluster of blops as an island group at 14,000 yards after the very first sweep of the SJ.
No such islands, other than the Pescadores, lie in the strait, and Larry’s turning south to put the convoy on our quarter as soon as the range was shown to be closing was absolutely correct. We’d need time to think this one over, and not just the minutes that would be available had we continued to close the enemy. Fortune had not been with us since the first two attacks, for the carrier possibility might well have resulted in an attack, and surely no warship had ever given more than Tang in her effort to chase down a cruiser. But in each case, so unlike our last patrol, we still had the torpedoes, and this convoy offered another chance to really hurt the enemy.
We had two options. One would be to stay with the enemy for an always successful, as far as Tang was concerned, crack-of-dawn submerged attack. With a split salvo we could sink two ships and, if luck were on our side, possibly a third. The other would be night surface firing, though I shuddered at the thought of another penetration between trailing escorts. That might not be necessary, however, for the best count from Caverly had been ten ships, half of them probably escorts based on the height of their pips on the A-scope, or five escorts compared to the 12 south of Nagasaki. This night, time was on our side, too, for the convoy had no nearby port, and a night surface attack, which could be deliberate and devastating, would not preclude an additional submerged attack at dawn.
A smaller pip moving swiftly from the convoy directly toward our position, now 12,000 yards on the enemy’s bow, was to make the decision for me. It was now 0050, only 20 minutes after the initial contact, and two more engines pulled us away, but not before the enemy patrol had closed half the distance. She then turned back, according to our plot, and was proceeding on a parallel but opposite course to that of the main body. It appeared that she had a radar contact that she lost, or perhaps she had side lobe troubles, too. Then Frank thought of the blue exhaust; that plane could have reported our presence, and this escort could just be making a cautionary wide sweep.
Whatever the case, we turned to follow her, and the Bells of St. Mary’s chimed for the sixth time on this patrol. First things first, and Walker preceded those coming up to their battle stations with my cup of coffee. He was fast indeed if the general alarm had turned him out of his bunk. Then I remembered the chief’s messenger proceeding on forward. If Walker had a standing call every time I was called, it would account for his promptness in many things and on numerous occasions. I’d have to ask Ballinger—but on further thought, why inquire about a good thing and maybe spoil it.
The patrol had slowed, and we moved inside 5,000 yards for a good observation. Her narrow though tall silhouette positively marked her as an escort but larger than any we had previously encountered, perhaps close to the size of our DEs. Our business was not with her, and we came right 30 degrees so we could close the convoy and cross its bow. It was still a probing operation to size up the enemy and thus see how we could best attack. The SJ screen showed three ships in column flanked by two other large ships, one to port and the other to starboard. Four small pips, presumed to be escorts, surrounded the convoy. The fifth, which we had just observed, would probably make up a five-ship circular screen.
The frequent zigs, placing one or the other of the forward flanking escorts in the lead, made it impossible to tell from the SJ just what position if any had been left uncovered by the patrol that we had followed back halfway to the convoy. But finding out was our immediate task, and we would do so with the eyes the good Lord gave us, albeit with an assist from our 7 × 50s.
The range to the main body closed quickly with our combined speeds, and we came right to pass broadside to the enemy while still outside of possible visual sighting. Now with the convoy on our port quarter, we slowed to let the range close as we slid silently across its van. Leibold and Jones were to starboard and port as I marked bearings on the after TBT, and I felt the best of eyes and experience were searching out the enemy. The silhouettes loomed big as the range closed below 4,000 yards, and those ships in the center showed little freeboard. This and their protected position marked them as tankers, targets of highest priority among Japanese merchantmen, and second only to capital ships of the Imperial Navy.
They would receive our first salvo, split as necessary; but moving Tang into firing position undetected offered a problem. A possible solution appeared with a report from Frank during our second pass across the enemy’s van. Larry, on the true plot, had the convoy now steaming on its base course of 210, and the fifth member of the screen was indeed absent from her leading position while making the precautionary sweep. If she continued around the convoy she would be gone for an hour. There was our hole, dead astern of Tang at a range just under 3,000 yards.
Rather than present a broadside silhouette in turning, we stopped and let the convoy overtake us. The range dropped quickly, now 2,300 yards, and the ships took on sharp outlines, all appearing big and black. The situation was developing more quickly than it had with the convoy in the East China Sea, and we had little time for apprehension. At
the moment the enemy was zigging, and we zigged too, arriving at the new course by an angle on the bow. If any of the ships could see us, they did not challenge our presence, but for the moment we had to go ahead at convoy speed or lose our selected slot between the port freighter and the tankers.
Frank would report when the convoy was again on or near its base course, and in the meantime Boats had another chance to maneuver with the enemy. On the next three legs of the enemy’s zig plan, we moved closer to the major ships till it was my estimate that we occupied the position of the wayward escort, and we now identified the starboard flanking ship as a transport. Frank reported all tubes ready and outer doors open, and then on the next zig that the enemy was close to the base course. Plot was surely correct, for our position was right on an extended line drawn between the tankers and the freighter.
“All stop.” The ships came on quickly.
“Port ahead two-thirds, starboard back two-thirds.” Tang twisted right for near zero gyro angles on the tankers and to get her stern in position for a subsequent attack on the freighter. It was our standard maneuver, but the first time for ships in two columns.
Our bow was nicely ahead of the leading tanker, and shifting the screws for a moment stopped our swing. The three lumbering ships were coming by on a modest line of bearing, slightly disadvantageous to us since only the after half of the second tanker protruded beyond the leader. Tankers were not sunk by hits in their forward section, however, and this vulnerable stern would be all that we needed.
To assist plot, I had been marking bearings on each of the three ships; Caverly would be supplying the corresponding radar range. Then came Frank’s warning of ten degrees to go. All bearings up to firing would now be on the leading tanker’s stack. I marked but two.
“Everything checks below. Any time now, Captain.”
“Constant bearing—mark!” The reticle rested on her superstructure.
“Set!” came immediately. Her squat stack was coming on.
“Fire!
“Constant bearing—mark!” The wire was on her after well deck.
“Set!” Her after superstructure was coming on.
“Fire!” We shifted targets in trying to get all torpedoes on their way before the first would hit, perhaps impossible, for the range on the leading ship was 300 yards.
The third torpedo went to the stack of the second tanker at a range of 500 yards. The fourth sped to the stack of the trailing oiler at 800 yards; the fifth, to the forward edge of her after superstructure, was delayed a few seconds by the first two detonations.
John, Leibold, and the lookouts would have to vouch for the other detonations, as I was racing to the after TBT, where Jones was keeping an eye on the freighter. She was still coming on in spite of the detonations beyond our bow and the eerie light of oil fires, which surely must make us stand out in silhouette. Perhaps she figured that the torpedoes had come in from the starboard flank and that the tankers had in fact formed a protective barrier for her. Between TBT bearings, Jones checked forward for me and was gone but seconds.
“They all hit as we aimed ’em, Captain. They’re afire and sinking.”
No one could have asked for a better report, but I did not have time to acknowledge, as Frank had asked for one more bearing. I gave a “Mark!” on the freighter’s stack; her bow was about to cross our stern. Impatient, I called, “Constant bearing—mark!” with the reticle ahead of her midships superstructure, but Leibold literally collared me, physically dragging me forward. I would not have left the TBT otherwise.
The transport on the other side of the tankers had spotted us in the glow of the fires and, like a monstrous destroyer, was coming in to ram. She was close; there would not be time to dive, and never had flank speed been rung up twice with greater urgency. Frank must have phoned maneuvering about the emergency, for the black smoke that poured from our overloaded diesels rivaled a destroyer’s smoke screen. The transport continued to hold the upper hand, however, with her bow becoming more menacing by the second.
I would doubt that more amperes had ever poured through the armatures of a submarine’s four main motors; the fields limiting the current were near zero, for the props had now driven Tang’s bridge across the transport’s bow. But she was dangerously close, inside 100 yards and still headed to strike us near amidships. The enemy now added to our precarious situation with a fusillade, apparently of anything that would shoot. The gunfire was cracking overhead as if we were in the butts at a rifle range pulling and marking targets.
At her 16 knots the transport would strike us in another 30 seconds. We had gained a little more, and in calculated desperation I ordered, “Left full rudder.” At least the blow would be oblique, perhaps glancing, and there would be ballast tanks and frames to crumple before her bow could slice to our pressure hull. For the moment we were protected from the transport’s gunfire by the extreme down-angle; a rifleman standing on her deck would have to lean out and shoot down. But more important, our stern’s swing to starboard was fast, now accelerating as if it were the end man on a snap-the-whip, as indeed it was, for a submarine pivots well forward.
Unbelievably, Tang was alongside the transport. If we had been mooring to a submarine tender it would have been a one-bell landing, passing the lines over by hand, but not at our combined speeds of 40 knots. In seconds, with the transport’s continued swing and Tang pulling away, the gunfire now above us could be brought to bear. I yelled, “Clear the bridge!” sounded two blasts, and counted seven men precede me down the hatch. Out of habit, I took a glance aft to be sure nobody was being left behind. What I saw changed my mind about diving. “Hold her up! Hold her up!” I shouted.
I was afraid to sound three blasts to keep Tang on the surface; someone might interpret them as a plea to take her down faster (Mush Morton had once used five blasts in Wahoo for that very purpose), and I had unfinished business on the after TBT. Tang barely got her decks wet—and who would have thought that our dunking dives would pay off on patrol? About a ship’s length astern, the transport was continuing to turn in an attempt to avoid the freighter, which had apparently been coming in to ram us also. Collision was imminent; the freighter would strike the transport’s stern. I yelled, “Stand by aft!” and marked three consecutive bearings for a speed check before Frank’s call, “Set below.” The two ships stretched from quarter to quarter; I marked a single constant bearing on their middle, nearly dead astern, and Larry directed the spread of four torpedoes with the TDC along their dual length. The departure from our usual firing procedure was for speed, since seconds would count in getting us clear.
The four fish left in a seeming single salvo. Small arms fire dropped astern, and larger calibers had obviously lost us in the night. I called for John, Jones, and Leibold, for there were PCs on our port bow and beam and a larger DE about 1,000 yards on our starboard quarter with a zero angle; Tang was far from being out of the woods. To put the DE astern we headed for the PC on our port bow. The Mark 18-1 torpedoes commenced hitting, four tremendous explosions in rapid sequence, and Jones called the results, the freighter going clown almost instantly bow first and the transport hanging with a 30-degree up-angle.
For some reason the PC ahead turned left, probably to assist the last stricken ship, and Tang pulled steadily away from the pursuing DE, perhaps catching her with one boiler on the line. When we had opened the range to 4,500, she gave up the chase, and our radar tracked her back toward the scene of the transport. The battle stations lookouts now came topside since diving was not imminent. We followed the DE, however, for the bow of the transport still showed on radar and then became visible through our 7 × 50s as the range neared 6,000 yards. Suddenly a violent explosion lighted the skies for a moment, and then the transport’s bow disappeared from sight and the radar screen. The detonation set off a gun duel between the DE and other escort vessels, who seemed to be firing at random, sometimes at each other and then out into the night. Their confusion was understandably complete.
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As recorded in the Quartermaster’s Notebook, only ten minutes had elapsed from the time of firing our first torpedo until the final explosion that marked the sinking of the transport’s bow. Frank had questioned the multiple witnesses to each sinking, since too much was going on for any one of us to have observed everything. There was no doubt that all five major ships of the convoy had sunk. As a further practical check, we took a turn around the scene of the holocaust. Assuming that the best speed of any ship would be 16 knots, that of the transport, an escaping ship could have traveled only 5,300 yards till that final explosion and another 2,650 to the present moment five minutes later. Our SJ was hot, and there was nothing on the screen except the milling escorts; but to cover a remote possibility, we made a great horseshoe sweep about the scene to widen our search in all directions. Nothing else appeared on the screen or in our 7 × 50s, and we steadied on north to clear the strait.
The night orders contained our course of 000, the speed (now down to full), a line of congratulations to the troops, and a caution to those with the morning watch to get some rest before 0345. To mention sleep would have been meaningless, for surely there was no one in the ship’s company who was not too keyed up for that. In fact, the rehash had already started by the time Frank and I reached the wardroom. Mel was extolling his torpedoes, already a jump ahead in taking over from Hank, which was tentatively in the works, while John was taking him down a peg by remarking that Ben Hogan with a driver could have bisected each ship except the second and third tankers, and even those on the second or third strokes. Dick was listening, but with Larry’s order it was actually his hand on the spread knob of the angle solver that had directed a perfect divergent spread accounting for the last two ships. It would be difficult to single out any member of the ship’s company this night, for all had obviously carried out their tasks without mistake.
Clear the Bridge! Page 49