Submarine! (7 page)

But a few minutes after one, the situation changed. A ship
was sighted, about five miles farther into the harbor, apparently at anchor. She was too far away to be clearly made out, because of the mirage-like effect of the glassy bay waters, which also forced
Wahoo
to expose only an inch or two of her periscope per observation for fear of being sighted.

Wahoo
alters course, heads for the unknown ship. Two or three quick observations are taken, and the target is identified as a destroyer at anchor, with some smaller vessels alongside—apparently the tug and barge first sighted at dawn.

One of Mush Morton's unorthodox ideas, later adopted to some degree in the submarine force, was to have his executive officer make the periscope observations, while he, the skipper, ran the approach and coordinated the information from sound, periscope, plotting parties, and torpedo director. Thus, so ran his argument, the skipper is not apt to be distracted by watching the target's maneuvers, and can make better decisions. But you really have to have the courage of your convictions to carry out this stunt! And you also have to have an exec in whom you have complete confidence, and who can so work with his skipper that the two think and act together as one. Fortunately Morton has such a man in Dick O'Kane. They have thoroughly discussed and planned how everything should be done in case a chance comes their way—and here it is!

Battle stations submerged!
The word is quietly passed through the ship. O'Kane and Morton have both been up in the conning tower of
Wahoo
for hours, looking over their quarry. Now O'Kane keeps the periscope, while Mush handles the rest of the attack details. The plan is to sneak up on the destroyer while he is still swinging around his hook, and to blast him right then and there.
Wahoo
will start shooting from about three thousand yards' range. All is in readiness as the submarine creeps into position. Fully aware of the unprecedented risks they are taking,
Wahoo's
crew tensely stand to their stations. The temperature inside the ship wavers around 100 degrees, for the air-conditioning plants have been shut down for some time to avoid unneccessary noise. As a concession to morale, however, and in the interests
of having at least a bearable atmosphere inside the boat, the ventilation blowers and fans have been kept running—but now even these are stopped. A ship with all auxiliaries stopped can be eerily quiet indeed, and it is with this unnatural, deadly silence that
Wahoo
works into position for her attack.

“Up persicope! One more observation before we let him have it!” The voice is the skipper's.

Rising slowly from his haunches as he follows the 'scope up, his face pressed against the rubber eyepiece, O'Kane sees only greenish-yellow muddy water for a moment until the tip of the instrument breaks clear of the surface. Then bright sunlight strikes the objective lens of the periscope and reflects in multicolored hues as the tiny rivulets of water drain swiftly off the glass. O'Kane's voice rasps out:

“He's underway! Coming this way! Angle on the bow, ten port!”

“Right full rudder! Port ahead full!” The skipper is almost instantaneous in the command. “Standby aft!” You have to be quick in this business, if you expect to be good, or if you simply hope to survive. Morton's intentions are immediately obvious to everyone: swing around to the right, and let him have a salvo from the stem tubes as he goes by. Still no thought of avoiding action.

“Dick! What speed do you give him?” Mush has to have this information. “Sound! Get a turn count on the target's screws as soon as you can!”

The sound man, intently watching his bearing dials as though by divination they could give him the information sought, shakes his head even while, with one hand gently pounding his knee, he is attempting to count. O'Kane runs the 'scope down without comment, then speaks over his shoulder.

“He's just got his anchor up, and he's speeding up. Not a chance in hell of getting his speed!”

“Well, try again! We've
got
to have some idea of it!”

The 'scope starts up again. O'Kane's voice: “He's zigged! To his left! Crossing our bow! Bearing—mark!”

“Three oh three!”—this from the sailor intently watching the scribe marks on the periphery of the azimuth ring overhead, as the etched hairline on the periscope barrel matches that relative bearing.

“Down 'scope! Give him fifteen knots, Captain. That's just a guess, though!”

Mush Morton has not been idle during this periscope observation period. He has shifted preparations for firing torpedoes from the after room to the forward torpedo room. He has also made a swift approximation of enemy speed, from the meager information available. Quickly he supervises the insertion of the new situation into the TDC. In a matter of seconds
Wahoo
is ready to fire with a third completely new setup.

“Sound bearings!” The command starts the chant of numbers from the sweating sound man.

“Three two oh!—Three two five!—Three three oh!—Three four oh!—Three five three!—” It's difficult to stay on a target going by at such close range and such relatively high speed, and the sound man has his troubles, but he does the best he can.

“Standby forward. Standby one!”

All is in readiness. All is quiet. The skipper nods to his exec. “Give us the bearings, Dick!”

Up goes the periscope again. Firing torpedoes on sound bearings is not for
Wahoo
. To make your shots good, you must get the target's exact bearing as shortly before shooting as possible. You take a chance on his sighting your periscope! If you really make them good, you won't have to worry whether he sees it or not!

“Bearing—mark!”

“Three five eight!”

“Set!” The TDC operator reports that he is, at that precise instant, on the target.

The clipped commands, the staccato syllables, are a natural result of the tension generated in the confines of the conning tower. About twelve feet long by eight in diameter, the
conning tower is like a cylinder lying on its side, where, during general quarters, ten men must work.

“Fire!”

“Fire one!” repeats the firing key operator into his sound power telephones, as he presses the firing key.

In the forward torpedo room, the torpedomen are standing anxiously by the tubes. The tube captain wears the telephones and stands between the two banks of torpedo tubes, his eyes glued to his gauge board, his hand poised to fire the torpedo by hand if the solenoid firing mechanism fails to function electrically. But everything operates as it should. The click of the solenoid and the rush of air into the firing valve sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. The whine of the torpedo engine starting is heard momentarily as it leaves the tube, and the ship lurches. The pressure gauge for number one tube impulse air flask dies rapidly down to zero, and just before it reaches the peg at the end of the dial there is a sudden rush of air into the bilges under the tube nest, followed immediately by a heavy stream of water.

The Chief Torpedoman waits an agonizingly long time, then reaches up to a manifold of valves and levers and pulls one toward him. The roar of the water stops with a tremendous shuddering water hammer, and immediately a sailor, stripped to the waist, vigorously turns a large chromium-plated crank attached to number one tube, thus closing the outer torpedo tube door.

Up in the conning tower, the firing key operator has been counting to himself as he holds down the firing key, but suddenly he is interrupted by a report in his earphones and sings out, “Number one tube fired electrically!” He then releases his firing key—actually a large brass knob fixed to the bulkhead beneath the ready-light and selector switch panel—reaches to the selector switch for number one tube, turns it to “Off,” and then, very precisely, turns the selector switch under the number “2” to “On.”

Meanwhile the TDC operator, who is the ship's Gunnery and Torpedo Officer, has been watching a stop watch and at
the same time turning a crank set low in the face of the director before him. This introduces “spread,” causing successive torpedoes to follow slightly diverging tracks. When his stop watch indicates ten seconds after the first fish has been fired, the TDC operator snaps, “Fire!”

“Fire two!” repeats the firing key operator into his phones, pressing his brass knob.

“Number two fired electrically!” reports the firing key man.

Roger Paine, operating the TDC, waits until his stop watch again indicates ten seconds, and then repeats, “Fire!” Three torpedoes churn their way toward the unsuspecting destroyer.

Cautiously Dick O'Kane runs up the periscope. Suddenly he curses. “They're going aft! The bastard has speeded up!”

At the same moment a report from the sound man: “Two hundred turns, sir!”

“That's eighteen knots,” says Morton. Then to Roger Paine, “Let's lead him a bit. Set speed twenty knots!”

“Bearing—mark!” from O'Kane.

“Zero one zero!”

“Set!”

“FIRE!”

A fourth torpedo heads for the enemy.

A cry from O'Kane-“Cease firing! He's seen the fish! He's turning away! Down 'scope!” The periscope starts down.

“Leave it up, by God!”
Mush's voice has taken on a new quality, one not heard before by
Wahoo's
crew. A raging, fighting, furious voice—the voice of a man who will always dominate the fight, who will lead and conquer, or most assuredly die in the attempt.

As the periscope starts up again, all eyes in the conning tower instinctively turn toward their skipper. This is something entirely new and unorthodox.
“Why, that will make sure he sees us, and will surely bring him right down on top of us! What can the Captain be thinking of?”

As if in answer to the unspoken thought, Morton speaks again, in the same reckless, furious tone as before. “We'll give that son of a bitch a point of aim all right. Let him come
after us! Wait till he gets close, and we'll blast that goddam tin-can clean into kingdom come!”

At the full import of these words, the atmosphere in the tiny conning tower is electric. Striving to keep his voice calm, the telephone talker relays the plan of action to the rest of the ship, so that every man is apprised of it, and, of course, aware of the most extreme danger in which it places
Wahoo
. But not one of them falters, not one quails; although some may be mentally saying their prayers, they loyally go through with their skipper all the way.

Morton's plan is indeed unprecedented in submarine warfare, although obviously it has not been thought up on the spur of the moment.
Wahoo
is going to remain at periscope depth, instead of going deep and trying to evade the working over with depth charges she has invited. She will leave the periscope up in plain view—it being broad daylight, remember—to make sure that the enemy destroyer knows exactly where the submarine is. Seeing the periscope, of course, the Jap will also know the exact depth to set on his charges. But as he rushes in to make this apparently easy kill,
Wahoo's
bow will be kept pointed toward him, and at the last possible minute, so that he will not have a chance to avoid it, a torpedo will be fired right down his throat!

This, rather obviously, is a pretty risky way to operate. Four torpedoes already have been fired, and there are only two more ready forward. All four after tubes are ready, of course, but there is no time to turn the submarine around. So Morton is shooting the works with only two fish, and one of them had better hit!

Grimly, O'Kane hangs on to the periscope, watching the Jap ship complete his evasive maneuver—turning away and paralleling the last torpedo, and then, after it has safely passed, turning around once more and heading for the source of the sudden attack. Smoke belches from his stacks as his firerooms are called upon for full power. Around he comes, a full 180 degrees, until all that O'Kane can see is the destroyer's sharp, evil-looking bow, curiously now rather fat in appearance. Men are racing around the decks, and at least
a hundred of them take stations in various spots of the topside, on top of turrets and gun shields, in the rigging, and along the rails on both sides of the bow.

Sweat pours off the face of the Executive Officer as he stares at what looks like certain destruction. But he does not forget his primary mission. “I'm keeping right on his bowl” he growls. “Angle on the bow is zero! You can get a bearing any time!” Occasionally he twirls the periscope range knob, and a new range is fed into the TDC. All is silent—except for the muttered bearings and ranges of the quartermaster, and the Captain's terse commands, and the hoarse breathing of the ten men in the conning tower, and the creak of the hull and the murmur of water slowly passing through the superstructure. O'Kane becomes conscious of a drumming sound and realizes that it is only the racing beat of his own heart.

“One five double oh yards”—from the quartermaster. Paine looks inquiringly at his skipper. Surely he must fire now!

Morton's jaw muscles bulge, and his face assumes even more vividly that prize-fighter expression which was to become well known—and even feared—by his crew. But his mouth remains clamped shut.