Ghosts of Bungo Suido (2013) Page 3

  In Forward Torpedo the sweating crew was just finishing the reload of tube one. The interior of the sub was still under red-light conditions, and the torpedomen looked like they had been slow-roasted during the previous hours. Dragonfish had sailed from Pearl with twenty-four torpedoes: fifteen steamers, seven electrics, and two Cuties, as the new homing torpedoes were called. After Torpedo carried eight fish, four in the tubes, and four reloads. The balance lived in Forward Torpedo. Gar was not a fan of the electrics, but they were the prescribed weapon for use against Jap ships that could shoot back. The merchies, on the other hand, could only watch in horror when the telltale trail of bubbles from a steamer appeared, poised to open up their engine room.

  Tonight he’d fired steamers at both tin cans, which technically was a violation of approved doctrine. The main advantage of the electrics was that they left no telltale wake to show the escorts where the submarine was lurking. Gar, however, was no slave to doctrine, especially when it was emanating from big staffs, safe back in Pearl. The second tin can had already known where they were, and the first one wouldn’t have been able to see the torpedo wake embedded in his own wake, bubbles or no bubbles. Besides, the steamers had a much bigger warhead. In any event, he was protected by the unwritten rule: Nobody in Pearl would be second-guessing his using steamers as long as the targets were on the bottom, where all Jap ships belonged. Except, he thought, the chief of staff at SubPac, Captain Mike Forrester, who was not one of Gar’s fans.

  He walked back aft through the boat, talking to the men and generally taking the crew’s emotional temperature after the fight with the destroyers. The chief of the boat joined him on his way back to After Torpedo, where they’d finished reloading. As they headed back forward toward Control, he paused in the passageway and asked Cob if his predilection for engaging destroyers was truly scaring the crew.

  “They love it when they sink a Jap ship,” Svenson said. “But there is a pretty high pucker factor when you decide to go one-on-one with a tin can.”

  “Going after them is a better tactic than just going deep and spreading our legs,” Gar said. “You go deep and just wait for it, you hand the initiative to them. You start shooting back, you raise their pucker factor and maybe throw ’em off the scent. I’ve seen escorts run for it when we shot at ’em. The best defense, and all that.”

  “Yes, sir, and I agree with you,” Cob said. “I’ve never felt so damned helpless as when we’re down below and getting hammered on. The guys’ll get used to it.”

  “I hope so, Cob, ’cause this cat’s not gonna change his stripes. We’re out here to do a job of bloody work, and I’m just the guy, unfortunately, to take the fight to them for a change.”

  “They’re good guys, Cap’n, but most of ’em are real young, remember?”

  Gar knew Cob was right about that. The average age on board was probably twenty.

  “Captain, please contact Conn,” came over the announcing system.

  Gar grabbed the nearest sound-powered phone handset, set the dial for Conn, and twirled the handle once, causing a squeaking noise at the other end. The exec picked up the phone.

  “Whatcha got, XO?”

  “Plot has these guys zigzagging. We’re gonna be on ’em pretty quick—their true speed of advance is only six knots. I’m assuming a surfaced attack unless we discover another escort. I’d like to set battle stations, surface, in ten minutes.”

  “Make it so, XO. Keep the gun team below until we know for damned sure there aren’t any more escorts. And Russ? I want you to conduct the next attacks. I’ll be up there shortly, but I’m gonna sit back and watch the whole picture while you sink these tankers. Okay?”

  “Absolutely,” Russ said.

  Gar hung up the phone and told Cob they’d be back at GQ in ten minutes. Cob hurried away to spread the word. Gar made his way to Forward Officers’ Country for a quick head call.

  One of the submarine force’s superstars in terms of tonnage sunk, Commander Dudley “Mush” Morton, had introduced a different command-and-control approach to submarine attacks. Prior to Morton, the captain and only the captain conducted every attack. He manned the scope, supervised the TDC, approved the plot solution, chose the attack bearings and methods, and did everything but push the firing button. Morton, who became famous for conducting most of his attacks on the surface, realized that there was too much data coming at him during an attack, so he decided to step back from the minutiae of the actual attack in order to better grasp the big picture: where the target was, where the escorts were, where the next target was going to be, where the best escape routes lay, what the radar picture showed, and so on. Morton let his XO, another superstar named Richard O’Kane, execute the individual torpedo attacks, while he, Morton, made sure some other part of the tactical picture wasn’t getting ready to bite them in the ass.

  The result was a superbly trained exec who could go on to a command of his own already highly experienced in attacking Jap ships, as O’Kane had amply demonstrated. To do it required a very confident captain and an equally competent exec. Gar hadn’t adopted this system yet, but, having removed the warships from this particular convoy, small as it was, he felt this was the time to let Russ have a shot and try out Morton’s system. As in every other aspect of submarine command, until you actually tried it, you never knew.

  He went back to Control, where the battle teams were already taking their places in the red glow of the night-lights. He told everybody there that the XO was going to run the attacks and that he was going sit back and criticize. There were grins all around, albeit nervous grins. He knew he was going to have to work on this problem. A scared crew was a dangerous crew—a man who’s afraid will freeze faster than a man who’s on the hunt with his blood up. Training, he reminded himself. We have to do more training.

  “Set battle stations, surface.”

  He climbed the ladder into the dim red light of the conning tower to begin the dance. The stream of cold fresh air whistling through the hatch to the bridge was wonderful. The diesels were purring as only Fairbanks Morse engines could. The exec was getting ready to go up to the bridge, where he would conduct the torpedo attacks against the two tankers up ahead. Instead of the periscope he’d be using the target-bearing transmitters, or TBTs. These were simply a set of high-powered binoculars welded to a movable frame. The frame was connected electrically to the TDC weapons control computer. The firing officer would point the TBT at the target ship and squeeze a button. The target’s bearing would be transmitted to the computer, and a firing solution would soon materialize. The computer would then continuously communicate the appropriate gyro and depth settings to the torpedo itself, which would be launched as soon as the attack team agreed that the computed solution looked right. The TBT was a bit crude, but very effective, because the firing officer didn’t have to worry about up-scope/down-scope delays in getting the firing data into the computer. This time, Gar would stay down in the conning tower, directly below the bridge, and oversee the tactical plot and the TDC’s outputs, watching out for errors or any indications that they weren’t the only killer maneuvering out there in the dark.

  The roar of the main engines subsided as the exec brought her down to 10 knots. The plotting team was back on station, and there were two target tracks unfolding on the plotting table, courtesy of some quick radar sweeps as they’d closed in. The exec could not yet see either of the two tankers, who should be running dark.

  “Where’s the third guy?” Gar asked the plotting officer.

  “Haven’t found him,” replied Hoot, back on station. “TDC has a solution on the lead ship; we just need to get closer.”

  Gar studied the dials on the torpedo data computer. The range was 3,200 yards; they needed to get in to under 2,000 yards to ensure the torpedoes could reach the target.

  “Go easy on the radar,” he said. “I don’t want it to become a beacon.”

  “Actually,” Hoot said, “the exec says he thinks this guy is showing a light. He’s
using TBT bearings on that. We took one radar range ten minutes ago, and we plan to take another one before he shoots.”

  “Oh, my,” Gar said. “A stern light. Talk about a fatal mistake.”

  “Yes, sir. Whoops, there’s a zig.”

  Gar stepped back from the plot as the team tracked the target’s movements with little penciled x’s on the plotting sheet. From what he could see, the two ships were trying to zigzag in a loose column formation, which was probably why the lead ship had left a dim yellow light burning on his stern. The exec called down a course change to accommodate the targets’ new course.

  Gar itched to go topside to see what the exec was seeing, but Russ needed to learn how to do this without coaching. That said, nobody was using the periscopes. The plot was clear enough, the exec had a visual on the target, and the computer was happily crunching numbers, so he stepped over to the night scope, raised it, and took a look down the indicated bearing. He saw precisely nothing.

  “Target’s changed course to zero three zero,” Hoot called. “Seems to be steady on that now.”

  “Give me a radar range,” the exec called down. “One sweep.”

  The radar operator let the radar come up for a few seconds, then turned it off.

  “Range is sixteen hundred yards, bearing one three five from us,” the operator announced.

  “Stand by to mark visual bearing. Stand by—mark!”

  “Plot set!” Hoot reported. “Bearings and range match. Fire any time.”

  “Fire two!” called the exec, and the console operator mashed down on the mushroom-shaped firing button. Gar waited for him to fire a second fish, but the exec was apparently going to do it the captain’s way. Gar smiled, set the scope onto the firing bearing, and waited.

  Hoot was holding up a stopwatch. “Run time one minute thirty,” he called.

  “Hot, straight, and normal,” announced Popeye, ever vigilant for a circular runner.

  “Stand by to mark visual bearing on target two. Stand by … Mark! Estimate range at twelve hundred yards.”

  “Plot not ready,” Hoot said. “Range and bearing not in agreement.”

  Gar left the scope and stepped quickly over to the plot, where he saw that the TDC’s course and speed on target two were not agreeing with the exec’s last visual bearing.

  “He’s still turning,” the exec called down. “I’ll get another bearing in one minute.”

  “Why the hell can’t we use the radar?” Hoot grumbled.

  “Because we don’t know where that third target is, or, more importantly, what he is,” Gar said. “Could be a tin can, just waiting for a radar signal to home in on.”

  A sudden glare of bright yellow light flooded down into the conning tower from the bridge, followed by a very loud boom. Gasoline tanker.

  “Clear visual bearing on target two … Mark! Estimated range, one thousand yards.”

  “Bearing close, range agrees,” called Hoot. “Solution!”

  “Fire three,” the exec ordered.

  Gar went back to the periscope, dialed in a glare filter, and took a look. The first tanker was low in the water and burning from end to end, great gouts of flaming gasoline pouring off her port side. He came right with the scope and saw the second tanker, about a half mile behind the first. She was larger and now completely illuminated by the fire. As he watched she began a turn to the right, but then an enormous waterspout rose up just behind the pilothouse as the Dragon’s torpedo struck home. Moments later, the dark ship began to sag in the middle as her keel gave way. This one wasn’t burning, which meant an engine room hit. The XO was on a roll tonight.

  He turned the scope back to the burning ship, which, if anything, was burning even harder now. Then he continued to the left, scanning the seas, whose small whitecaps created brilliant green lines in the light of all that burning gasoline. Twenty degrees to the left of the burning ship he saw something that made his heart stop.

  “Captain has the conn,” he shouted so that the exec could hear him topside. “All ahead flank, emergency,” he yelled. “Come left with full rudder. Emergency dive, dive, dive!”

  The helmsman responded instantly, although the rest of the men in the conning tower just gaped at him for a second before springing into action. The dive Klaxon sounded as the propellers bit into the sea and the sub began to heel to the right. There was a roar of escaping ballast tank air outside, followed by the first of the lookouts dropping down into the conning tower, with just the tips of their shoes barely touching the rungs as they literally fell down the ladder. Then came the OOD—officer of the deck—and finally the exec, who paused only long enough to secure the hatch, creating an immediate squeeze on everyone’s ears as the main induction valve slammed shut and the diesels died away. In the space of ten seconds or so, they were back on the batteries.

  Gar was still glued to the scope. “TDC, mark my bearing, prepare to emergency-fire tube number eight, running depth at twenty feet! Stand by … Mark!”

  “Mark at three five zero, tube eight standing by.”

  “Fire eight, shift your rudder, make your depth three hundred feet, ten-degree down bubble.”

  The air in the sub pinched as the torpedo left tube eight.

  “Pressure in the boat, green board,” the diving officer called out belatedly from Control. It better be, Gar thought—we’re under. “Make my depth three hundred feet, aye, sir.”

  “Hot, straight, and normal.”

  “Captain?” It was the exec.

  Gar unstuck his eyes from the periscope as it went underwater, sent it down into its well, and refocused into the conning tower. The exec was staring at him with a what-the-hell expression on his face. His shirt was soaking wet from waves hitting the bridge as they’d executed the emergency dive.

  “Periscope,” Gar said. “Clear as day.” He glanced at the compass indicator. “Ease your rudder to left standard.”

  “Target number three,” the exec said, softly. “A goddamned I-boat.”

  “Torpedoes in the water,” Sound announced. This stopped everyone in the conning tower cold. They should be safe, Gar thought, unless the Jap submarine skipper had guessed their course and intended depth once Gar had called the crash dive. Should be, unless the Japs had developed a homer.

  “And down Doppler,” Popeye announced. “They’re going to miss astern.”

  A collective sigh of relief went up.

  “Where’s the layer?” Gar asked.

  “Last layer was three hundred twenty.”

  Deep in the distance they heard torpedo eight explode, but whether it had hit the other sub or simply reached its end of run, they couldn’t tell. The chances of their having hit the other sub were almost zero.

  “Make your depth four hundred, rig the ship for silent running. Slow to four knots. We’ll head east for a while.”

  Behind them they heard some breaking-up noises as the second tanker went down. Apparently the other one was still on the surface, trying to boil off the Pacific Ocean.

  I need a drink, Gar thought. That had been too damned close for comfort. Instead, he told the XO he’d done good work. “Two for two, with single torpedoes. Who taught you that, anyway?”

  TWO

  Submarine base, Pearl Harbor, October 1944

  On Monday morning Gar arrived at the SubPac headquarters building promptly at ten for his appointment with Captain Mike Forrester, chief of staff to Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood, who commanded all the submarine forces in the Pacific. Normally his division commander would be there with him, but he was on home leave back in the States. The yeoman asked him if he needed coffee and then indicated that he should take a seat in the outer office.

  They’d gotten back from patrol three days ago to a generous pierside reception, which included Uncle Charlie, as Admiral Lockwood was known affectionately throughout the Pacific Fleet submarine force. Nimitz had chosen well in appointing him to three stars and command of the entire force. He was a demanding boss, but one who fought fierc
ely for his people when other commands proposed stupid things that affected the submarine force. Gar’s being summoned for a one-on-one with the chief of staff wasn’t that unusual. He’d handed in his personal commanding officer’s patrol report on Friday afternoon, and Gar supposed Captain Forrester wanted to go over it with him.

  The yeoman finally indicated that he could go into Forrester’s office. The chief of staff was a tallish, spare man who was still showing the effects of injuries he’d sustained in an especially vicious depth-charging while skipper of Albacore back in late 1942. Most of the current skippers were convinced Forrester was in constant pain, which probably accounted for his acerbic disposition. Having brought home a full bag, Gar was not anticipating any criticism, and, at first, his expectations were rewarded. Forrester congratulated Dragonfish on a highly successful patrol and told Gar that radio intercepts had confirmed almost all their kills.

  “Two tankers, two freighters, and two destroyers sunk; one tanker damaged,” Forrester said. “That’s a damned good haul.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He leaned back in his chair for a moment. “One thing got my attention,” he said. “Those two destroyers in your bag. Prior to that you’ve downed three others. You’re sinking almost as many tin cans as you are Marus. That’s quite unusual. I was wondering if you were perchance hunting them deliberately.”

  Gar had to think about that for a moment. Their overall mission orders charged them to sink Japanese shipping, with an emphasis on ships carrying war matériel from the Southeast Asian part of the empire back to Japan. Everyone wanted to bag a carrier or a battleship, but the Pacific submarine warfare strategy was now firmly focused on strangling the empire’s ability to wage war. Skippers were given a lot of latitude as to which kinds of targets they went after, with the only “crime” being to have a Jap ship in your sights and fail to attack.

  “It’s not a vendetta or a thirst for glory,” Gar said finally. “I don’t go looking for tin cans to attack, if that’s what you mean. But I do think it makes sense to reduce the escort numbers around a convoy, if possible. There are, of course, situations when that isn’t possible.”