Run Silent, Run Deep

by Edward L. Beach

  My final evaluation was the only one possible. Bungo had an Akikaze, he liked to escort from astern, and he operated in AREA SEVEN. Therefore we would avoid tangling with any destroyer of this type occupying such a position while convoying, at least of our own volition. But if he knew of our presence and general position, he would carry the fight to us anyhow, and in this case we might as well do as well as we could for ourselves if we got the chance.

  Another portion of the Operation Order dealt with the possibility of encountering Japanese submarines, and this Jim, Keith, and I discussed at length. There were indications (un- specified) that Jap submersibles were being used for antisubmarine work, perhaps ordered out to wait for U. S. boats going or coming on patrol. We might therefore be apt to encounter one of them almost anywhere.

  Daily drills en route to our operation areas had seemed a simple matter of keeping at the peak of training, and they had been an accepted part of our daily routine. Now, with the two special problems Walrus might run into, one of which only I knew about, I directed that the drills be doubled in frequency.

  We concentrated on two things: on detection and avoidance of an enemy submarine torpedo, calculating the quickest ways of dodging it in the various possible situations; and on swiftly changing fire-control problems, with emphasis on flexibility in setting the new data into the TDC and the angle solver and getting off an answering shot.

  Most important from the self-protection angle, of course were measures to avoid enemy torpedoes. First came the absolute imperativeness of seeing the torpedo as it came at us, or of spotting the enemy sub's periscope. To confound his approach, Jim and Rubinoffski cooked up a special zigzag plan of our own which consisted of steering either-side of the base course line-never on it, and following an indefinite zigzag while so doing. Once taught to our helmsmen, the plan took care of itself. It sent us all over the ocean and we hoped it would force the enemy boat to use his periscope more often, and thus increase our chances for spotting it. The need for alert look-outs we dinned into the ears of our new men, and our old ones too, with never-ceasing emphasis; it was up to them to see the telltale wake or periscope so-on enough to enable something to be done about it. On that simple, requirement our salvation depended., Once sighted, we could turn forward or away, or even line up for a torpedo shot in return. Given enough time, we knew we could get clear.

  All the way out to Kyushu we drilled on the possibilities, and when we got there we were as ready for them as we could be. Keith, already an expert on the TDC, became adept at switching his inputs virtually instantaneously at my snapped command. Jim, hovering as backer-up for both of us, found it possible to speed things up by making certain of the settings for him when he had both hands otherwise engaged. And I realized that in Jim one of the sub forces best TDC operators had never been developed, for it seemed to be nearly second nature to him.

  We varied the procedure and the personnel too, so that our abilities did not depend on who happened to be on watch when the emergency came. About the time we passed through the Nanpo Shoto our crew was so tuned to the problem that from a standing start, with only the cruising watch at their stations, we could get our torpedoes on their way within thirty seconds. Our battle-stations personnel could shoot a salvo at a destroyer going by at high speed, thirty knots, shift target to a submerged submarine at three knots on a different bearing, make the necessary changes in torpedo gyro angle, depth, setting, firing bearing, and get a second salvo of torpedoes on its way, all within ten seconds by stop watch.

  Perhaps our great emphasis on preparation also led me to expect something out of the ordinary as soon as we entered AREA SEVEN, just as we had on our first patrol, so long ago. Sub." consciously I had nerved myself to having a Jap sub fire at us somewhere during the trip across the Pacific, and to finding Bungo Pete waiting for us at the other end. Neither eventuality came to pass. The patrol began with the most prosaic of beginnings, a week on station, within close sight of land, without any sign whatsoever of enemy activity except for an occasional air- plane, and numbers of small fishing smacks with groups of straw-hatted Japanese out for a day's fishing.

  During the early part of our second week a big old-fashioned freighter, heavily laden, crawled up the coast pouring smoke from a large stack nearly as tall as his masts. He wasn't making much speed and disdained to zigzag, probably figuring he wasn't fast enough for it to do any good. There was plenty of time for both Jim and Keith to get a look at him before we sank him; he went down belching smoke and dirt. A great expanse of filthy water, studded with floating junk and debris of all kinds plus a number of round black objects which slowly clustered together, marked his grave.

  Two days later we trapped another single ship not far from where we had sunk the first, this time shortly after we had surfaced for the night. The approach was entirely by radar, for it was so dark that we did not see the target until just before firing. He never knew what hit him, either. We fired three torpedoes at short range, and all three exploded with thunderous detonations, one forward, one amidships, one at the stern.

  The ship went down like a rock, still on an even keel, leaving at least three boatloads of survivors. They must have been living in the lifeboats This was when Jim had an idea and, acting upon it, we ran south at full speed the rest of the night, moved close in to the coast in a totally new spot by next morning. Two ships sunk in the same vicinity would be sure to bring trouble instead of more targets, as he put it, and if we could move closer to where our victims came from-they had both been heading north-we might nab one before he was diverted.

  He was right, too, for the very next day a small tanker happened by. I told Jim that this was entirely his own ship, that he had found it, and that therefore he had the right to do it the necessary honors while I took over his job as backer-upper and general understudy.

  Jim needed no urging or second suggestion. He grabbed the, periscope eagerly, took over command as though born to it, and,, the conduct of the approach was beyond criticism. He even swung at the last minute to use the stern tubes instead of bow tubes, thus equalizing our torpedo expenditure; and there was that same unholy exhilaration in his face as he gave the final command, "Shoot!" I wished old Blunt could have seen it, in any event I would see that he heard about it.

  The only criticism I might have made was that instead of lowering the periscope after firing and getting it back up in time to see his torpedoes hit, Jim left it up the whole time the torpedoes ran toward the target, and watched the doomed ship's hopeless last-minute efforts to evade with positive glee..

  It took it twenty minutes to sink, with one torpedo amid. ships which blew part of his side off. Jim gave everyone in the conning tower and several from the control room a chance to get a look at the death agonies.

  Three ships in four days, and not a depth charge in return!

  We felt pretty cocky as we stood out into the center Of AREA SEVEN to let our "hot spots" cool off a little. We had not even experienced much trouble with our torpedoes, though one of the odd "pawhyunng" noises had been reported during each of the first and last attacks. After a day we moved into one of our old positions on an enemy probable course line drawn from the mouth of the Bungo Suido.

  Another week went by. We changed our position several times, went close into the coast once more, then back out to the original position again, all to no avail. The Japanese were simply refusing to cooperate, we decided.

  And then one night, after the surfaced routine for the night had become well established, Kohler rushed to the bridge hatch, called up to me: "Captain! They're calling us on the radio!"

  There was something strange about this, I felt, as I hastily put on a pair of red goggles and climbed below. Kohler preceded me down the ladder, but he went right by the radio room, led me into the crew's mess compartment immediately aft of it. A crowd of our men were gathered around the entertainment radio mounted above one of the mess tables. Several were hastily clothed, some merely in their underwear, one man, I saw, h
alf-shaven with lather drying on his face. Dave was there, looking grave, and so was Pat Donnelly. A woman's voice was coming over the loud-speaker.

  American submarine sailors," she was saying, "we regret to have to do this to you, but you have brought it upon yourselves. Japan did not make war upon you; you brought killing and wanton destruction to us. You have violated our waters, killed our toilers on the sea whose only crime is that they sought to travel our own home waters, which you have unjustly invaded. For this you have merited death, and death you shall have." Her voice lilting, she kept on: "While you are awaiting your last moments, perhaps this recording from home may make the thought of the future easier to face with equanimity." The melodious voice stopped and the strains of a popular dance tune filled the crowded compartment.

  "Who the hell is that?" I interjected angrily.

  Dave turned, seeing me for the first time. "Haven't you heard her before, Captain? The men call her 'Tokyo Rose.'"

  Kohler nodded. "Yes sir, we've had her on a couple of times before this. Usually she just plays music and hands out a load of baloney. Tonight, though, she was different."

  "Dammit, Kohler!" I blazed, "I don't want anyone to listen to her again! I'll have the radio disconnected until we leave the area if you do!" Her words had been disturbing enough to me; who knew what their effect could be on some of our less experienced sailors?

  "But she called us by name, Captain!"

  "What!"

  "That's what I tried to you tell you, sir! She was telling that to us-to the Walrus!"

  Dave nodded. "I heard it too, sir. She said she had a special message for the crew of the U. S. submarine Walrus. She said she knew we were here, not far from the Bungo Suido, and that we had sunk some ships, but those were the last ones we'd ever sink." Several solemn faces nodded in corroboration.

  The music stopped. "Men of the Walrus," the limpid voice said sweetly, "enjoy yourselves while you can, for eternity is a long, long time. Think of your loved ones, but don't bother to write because you'll never be able to mail the letters. just think of all the thoughts they will be wasting on you, and the un- answered letters your wives and sweethearts will write-those who do think of you, and who do write!" She ended in a loud titter, almost a giggle. I had never heard anything quite so evil in my life.

  "Turn that Goddamned radio off! Kohler, remember what I told you!" I stamped furiously away and climbed back on the bridge, more upset in mind than I could admit anyone to see.

  I needed to think.

  No one on Midway, for that matter no one in the ship, either, except Jim, had known of our destination until after we had left the island out of sight. But somehow the Japanese propaganda ministry had full knowledge that Walrus was the sub- marine currently off Kyushu. Captain Blunt already had hinted that he was worried about some of the uncannily accurate information Bungo Pete seemed to possess; now I could see why.

  There could be only one explanation: espionage at Pearl Harbor!

  For that matter, only Captain Blunt, ComSubPac himself, and one or two others on his staff knew where we had been sent, and even if others had guessed, how could they have predicted our movements so accurately? It had to be more specific than guesswork. No, unless some rational explanation presented itself, there must be a security leak back in Pearl. It was a horrid conclusion, yet inescapable. Then another thought presented itself: We had not yet gotten to the bottom of the torpedo troubles. Could there, somehow, be some connection?

  Could those, also, be the result of sabotage or espionage? I paced back and forth on the cigarette deck, puzzling over the few facts at my disposal, feeling the cool breeze of the night on my forehead, feeling anything but cool inside.

  Despite premonitions I could not put down, nothing of note occurred the rest of the night, nor during the next day, but I had done some heavy thinking. When next we surfaced there was one significant change in our routine. Our garbage contained several carefully prepared scraps of paper bearing the name USS Octopus, some official in appearance, some apparently from personal mail. Quin, entering into the spirit of it, had even made, by hand, a very creditable reproduction of a large rubber stamp of the name. And all vestiges of the name Walrus had been carefully removed.

  The garbage sacks were thrown overboard as usual, and as usual they floated aft into our wake, slowly becoming water- logged. As I had suspected, and found to be so upon investigation, some of them were not so well weighted as others.

  There was, a good possibility that some of them might remain afloat for an appreciable time.

  There was no longer a submarine in our navy named the Octopus. Choice of that name for our stratagem had been made for that reason, and out of pure sentiment. It was a good joke through the ship that the skipper had decided to change the name of Walrus to that of his first boat, the old Octopus.

  And I told no one that my regular nightly visits to- the radio room, which became a habit at about this time, were for the sole purpose of plugging a pair of earphones into the extra receiver and surreptitiously listening to Tokyo Rose's program.

  She several times made me speechless with rage, but she never mentioned the Octopus, nor, for that matter, did she refer to the Walrus again. The whole thing began to look like a great waste of time and effort, for our men had to go over everything they put into the garbage very carefully, and every day Quin had to prepare more natural-looking paper with Octopus on it.

  But we kept it up during the rest of our time in the area.

  There wasn't much time left, as a matter of fact. A few days more than a week, and our "bag" of three ships was beginning to look like the total for that patrol. The week passed. We sighted nothing but aircraft and a number of fishing boats.

  Then, only two nights before we were due to leave the area, the radar got a contact. It was a rough night, dark, overcast, raining intermittently, with a high, uneasy sea running. It was warm, too, unseasonably so, and the ship was bouncing uncomfortably with "no regular pattern as we slowly cruised along, two engines droning electricity back into our battery.

  "Radar contact!" O'Brien happened to have the radar watch, and it was his high-pitched voice which sounded the call to action. "Looks like a convoy!" he added.

  "Man tracking stations!" responded Keith, muffled in oilskins on the forward part of the bridge. Pat Donnelly, standing watch with Keith as Assistant OOD, was aft on the cigarette deck, as was I. I was beside Keith in a second.

  "What's the bearing?"

  "I've got the rudder over. We'll have it dead astern in a minute!" A main engine belched and sputtered; then another, and we had four half-submerged exhaust ports blowing engine vapor, water, and a thin film of smoke alternately above and under the waves.

  "True bearing is nearly due north, Captain!" Keith was doing my thinking for me. "We're steadying up on course south right now, still making one-third speed."

  I went aft again, searching the ocean astern. Nothing could be seen through the binoculars, not even the faint lightening of the murk which would indicate where water and sky met to form the far-distant and unseen horizon. Walrus pitched erratically, and a sudden gust of warm wet wind whipped my sodden clothes around my body. I spread my feet apart and leaned into it with my knees slightly bent, adjusting to the jerky motion of the ship. Holding my binoculars to my eyes, I made a deliberate search all around the horizon, or where I imagined the horizon to be. Nearly completed, I was startled by, a small black object which abruptly intruded into my field of view, relaxed as quickly. It was only the stern light fixture, mounted on top of our stern chock where, for over a year, it had been a useless appendage.

  "Keith, have the radar search all around!" I called. It wouldn't do for us to become so interested in our contact that something else, an escort vessel perhaps, or some as-yet- undetected section of the convoy, could happen unexpectedly upon us.

  "Nothing on the radar, sir! just the original contact!" Keith had anticipated that, too. I moved back to the forward part of the bridge, almost
collided with Hugh Adams, who chose that instant to come jumping out of the hatch. He was rubbing his eyes.

  "Take me a few minutes to relieve you, Keith," he gasped.

  "I'm not night-adapted-I was sound asleep when you called tracking stations."

  "I've been up here. I can see fine," I broke in. "Keith, I'll take over that part of it. You go below and take over the TDC so that Jim can organize the approach."

  Both of them nodded gratefully, and delaying only long enough to make the turnover of essential details to Hugh, Keith swung himself below.

  Jim's voice came over the announcing system: "Captain, it's a good-sized convoy. Looks like a dozen ships, maybe more.

  At least two of them are escorts-maybe more of them, too.

  Course one-six-zero, speed about ten!"

  "Steer one-six-zero!" I told the helmsman. Not Oregon-he would not come on until battle stations was sounded. "All ahead two thirds." Then raising my voice, "Maneuvering, make turns for ten knots!" The conning-tower messenger would relay the word to the maneuvering room via telephone. In a moment I could feel our speed pick up, a slightly more determine manner with which Walrus thrust her snout into the seas. Some of them began to come aboard over the bow, running aft on the deck, partially washing down through it, smothering our new four-inch gun and breaking in a shower of spray on the forward part of the bridge beneath the 20-millimeter gun platform.