Operation Storm: Japan's Top Secret Submarines and Its Plan to Change the Course of World War II

by John Geoghegan

  Although Ariizumi was not involved in formation of the policy, he was determined to set a good example. When he was still an NGS staff officer, he’d been overheard saying, “To win a war, you must exhaust [the enemy’s] human resources.”24 The new policy was hardly a departure from his own thinking.

  Not all sub captains thought this way, of course. Of the nine captains in SubRon 8, five refrained from massacring merchant crews. Of the four captains who did kill survivors, three (Ariizumi, Kusaka, and Shimizu) would go on to oversee, or captain, Sen-toku subs. Nambu and Ohashi would be the only Sen-toku captains with no blood on their hands.

  At least one Penang-based sub captain was reprimanded for being too lenient in his treatment of survivors.25 Given Japan’s historical animosity toward POWs, Ariizumi’s disdain for taking prisoners should come as no surprise. Though it doesn’t excuse his actions, which were heinous, it does explain them. It wasn’t just a case of Ariizumi following orders; he was adhering to a code he’d been raised to believe in, a code that hundreds of years of history reinforced and that his education and training had taught him to serve. That’s why Ariizumi was the first to carry out the order more than a year after it was issued.

  Japanese treatment of POWs may have been barbaric, but it wasn’t crazy. It not only had historical precedent—it had its own indisputable logic as well. If killing merchant crews meant fewer men for supply lines, then so be it. Of course, the Tjisalak survivors had no difficulty differentiating between the horror of drowning from a torpedo attack and being bludgeoned to death aboard a Japanese sub. The resulting hue and cry confirmed as much.

  The British government was first to protest. In a letter to the Japanese Foreign Ministry dated June 5, 1944, the British demanded “immediate instructions to prevent the repetition of similar atrocities and to take disciplinary action against those responsible.”26

  The British protest was delivered to Japan’s foreign minister by the Swiss foreign minister in Tokyo. No reply was received; nor was anything heard in response to a follow-up message.27 On July 28 the Dutch government also complained about the Tjisalak’s sinking.28 Finally, two months after the Swiss foreign minister had sent a reminder, the Japanese Foreign Ministry issued an official response.29

  My Dear Minister

  I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your Excellency’s letters … concerning a protest by the British Government which pretends that in the Indian Ocean some Japanese submarines torpedoed British merchant vessels and unlawfully attacked the survivors of the vessels.

  Concerning this matter I have caused the competent authorities to make strict investigations of each case indicated, and it is clear that Japanese submarines had nothing to do with the facts alleged in the protest.

  I have the honor to ask your Excellency to forward this reply to the British Government.

  I take this opportunity,

  Mamoru Shigemitsu, Minister for Foreign Affairs30

  British, Dutch, and American protests eventually forced an inquiry into the massacres, resulting in a Kafkaesque investigation where the Japanese military conducted interviews about a policy it had sanctioned and now denied. When the investigation eventually reached SubRon 8, Ariizumi was called in for questioning. Asked about the massacres, he could hardly disguise his anger. The duplicity of being questioned for something he’d been ordered to do so sickened him, he refused to answer questions and turned his head away in disgust.31

  Ariizumi may have been nicknamed “the Butcher,” but his failure to answer questions didn’t harm his career. A few weeks after the I-8 returned to Yokosuka, he was given the most important assignment of his life: command of the Sen-toku squadron.

  Meanwhile, his future nemesis, the USS Segundo, was heading his way.

  * The USS Wahoo (SS 238), under the command of Lt. Cmdr. Dudley “Mush” Morton, machine-gunned approximately 1,000 Japanese afloat in the ocean after sinking a troop transport on January 26, 1943. This was only one of many atrocities that U.S. military personnel committed in the Pacific theater.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE SEGUNDO (SS 398)

  THE PORTSMOUTH NAVY YARD WAS BITTERLY COLD WHEN THE USS Segundo launched stern first into the icy waters of the Piscataqua River. Richard “Fox” Binkley, seaman first class, stood on deck that winter’s day along with 20-plus crew members assigned to the Segundo’s fitting out.1 It was so freezing outside, it must have seemed like the wife of the assistant secretary of the treasury was taking her sweet time breaking a champagne bottle across the bunting-draped bow. But finally the air horns screeched their jubilant message, and the half-finished sub began moving down the building ways.

  Somewhere a naval band played “Anchors Aweigh” as Binkley, locked in salute, stood firm on the Segundo’s deck. The sub moved amazingly fast for an object weighing 2,500 tons. Nevertheless, Binkley rode her all the way down into the slack tide, ending in a roiling ocean of foam. It was February 5, 1944, and the Segundo was nearing completion.

  The USS Segundo (SS 398) was a Balao-class submarine. Named for a fish in the cavalla family that includes yellow jack and pompano, she was one of 44 Balao-class subs built by the Portsmouth Navy Yard during the war. After Congress approved a massive fleet expansion in 1940, Portsmouth had found itself at the center of the greatest sub construction program in history. U.S. submarine forces had come a long way since the start of war, and the navy was now producing boats at a record pace.

  Portsmouth built more subs during World War II than any shipyard in America. New London’s Electric Boat Company came next, followed by Mare Island Navy Yard in San Francisco, the Manitowoc Shipbuilding Company in Wisconsin, the Cramp Shipbuilding Company of Philadelphia, and the Boston Navy Yard. Still, none compared to Portsmouth.

  Portsmouth built a total of 80 subs during the war, more than half Balao-class.2 Electric Boat may have produced better-finished subs, but Portsmouth subs had the latest equipment that captains hungered for.3 Portsmouth subs also had a more angular silhouette than those of Electric Boat. Edward Beach, author of Run Silent, Run Deep and a sub commander himself, described Portsmouth boats as looking like “sleek, streamlined monsters.”4

  Since Portsmouth was a government yard, it didn’t have to worry about profit margins. Designers could concentrate on construction techniques that reduced time on the building ways. Some sub sections were prefabricated before a keel was even laid. This modular approach shortened the time from keel to commission. The fastest Electric Boat ever built a sub was 317 days. By the time the Segundo was commissioned in May 1944, Portsmouth had reduced that time to a record 173 days.5

  Interestingly, Portsmouth’s construction methods stood in stark contrast to Japanese methods. Though Japan would eventually lead the world in automotive assembly techniques, she had not yet learned the fine art of mass production. One reason Japan’s sub construction faltered was that the Imperial Japanese Navy never consolidated behind a standardized fleet boat design. Instead, they built almost as many sub variations as General Motors built car models. This approach took longer to produce subs, cost more, and hampered quality. When material shortages struck, Sixth Fleet sub production further declined.

  The key to American success was building one submarine design at a time. Once the United States had standardized behind the Gato-class design, shipyards could concentrate on increasing sub production.6 It was exactly this replacement capacity that Hitler feared. Portsmouth was the first shipyard to build the Balao-class sub. Balaos were the successor to the Gatos and were virtually identical, with one important difference. They could dive 100 feet deeper. This was crucial because Japanese depth charges were often set to explode at 150 feet.7 Since Balao-class subs could dive twice that depth, they stood a better chance of surviving an attack.

  The secret to their increased depth was a thicker hull design using high-tensile steel. This enabled the sub to reach a depth of 925 feet before collapsing.8 Sub designers, conservative by nature, set an operating limit of 400 feet. Thi
s may have been playing it safe, but it was still an improvement over Gato subs, whose safety depth was capped at 300.

  For obvious reasons, submariners referred to Gato boats as “thin skins” and Balao boats as “thick skins.” In the beginning, some feared the Balao’s thicker hull might reduce flexibility, causing her to rupture when depth-charged. This did not turn out to be a problem though. In fact, many sub commanders felt comfortable enough to take their subs down to 600 feet in an emergency, well below the prescribed “safety depth.”

  The Balao sub’s depth limit was so important, it was labeled top secret.9 If Japan were to learn of it, American subs would lose their advantage because Japanese depth charges would be set to explode deeper. One hundred and nineteen Balao subs were built between 1942 and 1945.10 In keeping with her lead role, Portsmouth built the first, laying her keel on June 26, 1942. When Congress authorized the 1943–44 Combatant Building Program, hull numbers 381 through 410 were assigned to Portsmouth. Hull number 398 would eventually become the Segundo.

  The Segundo was a typical Balao-class sub. She was 312 feet long and 27 feet wide with a draft of 15 feet. She ran on four Fairbanks-Morse diesel engines (the most reliable sub engines of the war), was rated at a top surface speed of 20 knots (9 submerged, which she could only maintain for a limited time), and had a cruising range of 11,000 nautical miles. Additionally, the Segundo was operated by ten officers and 70 enlisted men, could patrol for up to 75 days, and could remain underwater 48 hours albeit at very slow speed (12 hours was more typical). And she was by no means small. Displacing 1,525 tons surfaced and 2,415 tons submerged, she was one of the largest submarines the United States had to offer.11

  Because of her hull number, a Portsmouth worker called the Segundo a $3.98 sub knocked down from four dollars. He meant it as a joke, of course. Brand-new fleet boats were regularly called “gold-platers,” mostly out of envy.12 They were state-of-the-art combat subs and every commanding officer wanted one, especially if he had something to prove.

  When the Segundo launched in February, she still required four more months of construction. Not surprisingly, her commanding officer, Lt. Cdr. James D. Fulp, Jr., was concerned that if his boat wasn’t finished soon, the war might end without him. By mid-1944 the United States was flooding the Pacific with so many submarines, Japanese naval targets were becoming scarce, which is probably why Fulp and his crew were eager to get back to the action. For the meantime, they’d have to wait until the Segundo was finished.

  THIRTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD FULP WAS an experienced submariner when he was named commanding officer of the Segundo. If a sports team is nothing without a winning coach, then the same can be said for the crew of a combat sub. Fulp began shaping his men two months before the Segundo even touched water, and his influence would continue well beyond the four patrols he would captain. In many ways, Fulp did more to shape the future of the Segundo’s crew than his successor, Capt. Stephen L. Johnson, which would turn out to be both a blessing and a curse.

  When the war began, Fulp was executive officer of the USS Sargo (SS 188) based in the Philippines. It was a baptism of fire because the U.S. Asiatic Fleet was outgunned, outmanned, and virtually obsolete compared to the Japanese navy. When hostilities commenced, the Sargo was one of the first U.S. subs to go on war patrol. By the time Fulp finished seven patrols, he was already a hero.13

  James Douglas Fulp, Jr., was born August 27, 1910, in Ridgewood, South Carolina. Known as Toots to his family and J.D. to his friends, Fulp had brown hair, blue eyes, and a mouth full of crooked teeth. His mother was named Daisy, and his father, J. D. Fulp, Sr., had served in the army during World War I. Fulp’s ancestors had come from Scotland and, according to the 1790 census, were already established in what was to become North Carolina. A staunchly Presbyterian family whose relatives had fought in the Revolutionary War, the Fulps had a strong military heritage. If J.D., Jr., learned anything growing up, it was respect for the military.

  Fulp was raised in Greenwood, South Carolina, where he played softball, football, basketball, and track, excelling at each sport. He transferred his junior year in high school to the Bailey Military Institute, where his father, “Colonel” Fulp, was superintendent. The institute was a modest affair. The school’s main barracks consisted of a three-story brick building with a front portico and side porches. Cadets wore uniforms and, for special occasions, jodhpurs, boots, Sam Browne belts, and a dress sword. Precision drilling took place on the school’s broad lawn, while its brass band paraded regularly through town.

  Records show that J.D. was one of Bailey’s best athletes, especially in football, where he excelled. His grades were consistently in the high eighties and low nineties, and when he graduated with honors in 1928, he was fourth out of a class of 42. It’s unclear how much slack if any J.D.’s father cut him at Bailey. One area where he may have received help was getting appointed to the U.S. Naval Academy. When J.D. passed the entrance exam, he was still short a physics credit. As a result, he didn’t report until July 1, 1929,14 three months after Nambu had started at Etajima.

  Fulp was well liked by his peers. They considered him a natural leader, though like a lot of midshipmen, he struggled his freshman year. Within the first few months of his arrival, he was deficient in math and physics and failed the school’s swimming requirement, a surprising lapse for a midshipman. Matters grew worse when Fulp spent the better part of October in the infirmary due to a football injury.

  A December 1929 letter from the secretary of Annapolis’s academic board to Colonel Fulp explained: “It is difficult to state just what has been the cause of your son’s deficiencies … the course here is an intensive one and boys quite frequently have a bit of difficulty in adjusting themselves to their new surroundings.”15

  Fulp had to forgo Christmas leave and spend it at school undergoing remedial instruction. He was probably still “adjusting to his surroundings” when he was given 50 demerits for “conduct to the prejudice of good order and discipline.”16 Records indicate Fulp was returning from the city on Christmas Eve when a commander, suspecting he was drunk, escorted him to the officer of the watch. On reaching Bancroft Hall, Fulp made a run for it.17 It was poor judgment, typical of boys his age, but that didn’t help his case. Fulp “bilged out” of Annapolis a month later.

  Despite this record of failure, Fulp was encouraged to reapply. When he was admitted for the 1930 fall term, he never looked back. By the time he graduated four years later, Fulp had gone from being a somewhat doughy, awkward-looking teen, into movie star handsome. Annapolis had not only fixed his teeth, it had turned him into a serious young man ready for responsibility. Fulp may have felt more at home on Farragut Field than with academics, but his classmates considered him “a true southern gentleman” for his good looks and polite behavior.18

  Upon graduation, Fulp was commissioned an ensign in the U.S. Navy and posted to the USS Tuscaloosa (CA-37). He was soon promoted to lieutenant (junior grade) and transferred to the USS Winslow (DD-359), where he won distinction as a gunnery control officer.

  Fulp’s life changed dramatically in January 1939 when he enrolled in the basic officer class at the Submarine School in New London, Connecticut. Classmates included Chester Nimitz, Jr., son of the famous admiral, who six months later graduated second out of a class of 26. Fulp graduated sixteenth. Soon afterward he was assigned to the Sargo.

  Fulp found time to marry in between war patrols, and in August 1943 he entered command class at the New London Sub School. Enrollment in the six-week course was for only the most promising candidates. Lt. Cdr. Nobukiyo Nambu had entered a similar program in Japan the previous year and emerged a full-fledged sub captain. Fulp hoped for a similar result. Continuing his mixed academic performance, he graduated tenth out of a class of ten. In January 1944 Fulp was transferred to the Portsmouth Navy Yard to fit out the Segundo. If all went well, the new sub would be his first command.

  THERE’S NO UNDERESTIMATING the complexity of a Balao-class sub, even if it ope
rated on basic principles. There were miles of piping, a rat’s nest of wiring, and complex ballast tank arrangements to understand. Emergency valves hung from bulkheads like mushrooms after a rainstorm, and there were so many systems to comprehend, it could be intimidating to the uninitiated. In addition to propulsion, ventilation, refrigeration, and air-conditioning systems, there were trim and drain systems, as well as water-distillation and waste-removal systems (all with their own plumbing), not to mention hydraulics, steering, bow and stern plane mechanisms, anchor handling gear, and fuel and oil lubricating systems. Many of these were necessary to keep a sub not only habitable but a functioning war machine as well.

  The sheer mechanical intricacy of a World War II sub was so overwhelming, it required an understanding of math, geometry, science, chemistry, physics, biology, mechanics, and engineering. And if that weren’t enough, whenever a sub was at sea, the very environment she operated in threatened to flood her at any moment. It was a never-ending battle that put a sub crew on their guard, and this was before they’d even encountered a single enemy.

  In terms of sophistication, a Balao-class sub was the space shuttle of its day, only safer. And though low-earth orbit may be a hostile environment, at least it didn’t have enemy ships whose sole purpose was to sink you with a depth charge. One way sub designers managed risk was to build redundancy into every system. If steering failed in the conning tower, there was another steering station in the control room. If bow plane hydraulics failed, they could go to manual. If the sub was having trouble surfacing because a main ballast tank was ruptured, they could always blow the safety.