To tell the story of USS Wahoo, it is necessary also to tell the story of Mush Morton. More than any other man, Morton—and his Wahoo—showed the way to the brethren of the Silent Service. He was positive, intolerant, quick to denounce inefficiency if he thought it existed; but he was precise by nature, absolutely fearless, and possessed of a burning desire to inflict damage upon the Japanese enemy.

Just why Morton felt that destruction of the Japanese merchant marine was his own private job will probably never be explained, for he and Wahoo sleep forever somewhere in the Sea of Japan. But all that is immortal of both of them is indissolubly paired in the archives of a grateful (but forgetful) nation and in the minds and hearts of a few men who knew them.

Morton died, perhaps believing that his message had not been received by those for whom it had been intended, perhaps with a bit of bitterness that he could convince no one to follow where he led. But he need not have worried, for after him came a host of names which, by their very fame, proved that his ideas had fallen upon fertile soil. Trigger, Tang, Barb, Tirante, Harder—these were some of his disciples: the school of “outthinking the enemy”; the believers in the coldly logical evaluation of chances, followed by the furious, slashing attack; the devotees of the competition to bring back the most ships.

Morton believed that there was a certain way in which the job should be done. He would have nothing to do with any other way. There is no question but that his search for perfection in his science brought about his own undoing.

On the last day of 1942 Lieutenant Commander Dudley W. Morton took command of USS Wahoo at Brisbane, Australia. There was nothing particularly outstanding about the new skipper during the first few weeks of his command, except perhaps an almost fanatical determination to get the items of the refit completed and checked on time, so that there would be no unnecessary delay in starting upon patrol.

Finally, on January 16, 1943, all repairs had been completed, and Wahoo was ready for sea for her third war patrol—Mush Morton’s first in command. In company with her escorting destroyer—necessary in view of the “shoot on sight” order directed against any submarine in those “friendly” waters—the submarine got underway and headed for the open sea. At nightfall the escort turned back, a dimmed signal light blinking the customary farewell: “Good luck . . . good hunting!” Perhaps the captain of the destroyer wished that he, too, could go forth on his own, like some ancient sea rover, to seek out the enemy. Undeniably there was always a strong element of romance at the sight of a small ship setting out alone for enemy waters, bravely inviting the worst the enemy could offer, confident in her ability to best him in all encounters. Perhaps the destroyer skipper sensed this as he watched his signalman flash out his valedictory; perhaps Morton knew a momentary sense of understanding, also, but his answer was an equally simple: “Thank you!”

Wahoo was on her own.

It wasn’t long before the first plan churning around in the restless brain of Wahoo’s new captain became evident to the crew, now that the need for secrecy had passed. Only recently had it become known that the Japanese for some time had been using a harbor known as Wewak as a major staging area. The location of this harbor was loosely determined to be somewhere on the northeast coast of New Guinea, but its position was known to our forces only by whole numbers of latitude and longitude. Morton planned to find Wewak, enter the harbor unsuspected, and raise as much fuss as possible.

The preparations he and his officers made for this little expedition were thoroughly characteristic of the man. The only available chart showing even in vague degree the location of Wewak was contained in a school atlas. Using a camera lens and the ship’s signal light, a homemade projector was rigged up for the construction of a large tracing, designed to exactly the same scale as the ship’s charts of that section of New Guinea. Much study of the Notices to Mariners and of other publications resulted in the accumulation of a considerable body of information which aided in the location of the correct spot. After several round-table discussions, the most likely area—between and behind several small islands off the coast of New Guinea—was selected. A large-scale chart was then made showing all pertinent information, and this chart was the one Mush Morton proposed to use for his entry and egress.

All this time Wahoo was proceeding at the best practicable speed toward the general area where Wewak was known to be. Obviously this new skipper was a bearcat, at least insofar as getting into action with the enemy was concerned.

Eight days out of Brisbane, Wahoo silently dived, at 0330, just a couple of miles north of the suspected anchorage. As dawn broke, her periscope made continuous and wary observations while her plotting party carefully noted down all landmarks and other data which might aid the attack or the subsequent exit.

If there were any lingering doubts that the new skipper meant to follow through with his daring plan, they must have been dispelled by this time, for he calmly ventured right into the anchorage area, deftly avoiding a patrol of two anti-submarine torpedo boats which had just got underway for their daily sweep. Nothing was seen here, however, except a tiny tug and barge which Mush did not consider worth bothering with.

Some tripod masts on the far end of one of the islands excited his interest, for they might belong to a ship, and a warship at that. An attempt to circumnavigate this island was frustrated by a low-lying reef connecting the island to the next in the chain and thus effectively keeping Wahoo from getting around to where the masts had been spotted.

It is difficult to describe the situation in which Morton had deliberately placed himself. He had entered, submerged, but in broad daylight, a suspected enemy harbor. He was in shallow water—a very bad place to be if your presence is detected. Moreover, there were enemy craft about, and in a position to do something about the submarine once its presence became known.

But far from worrying Morton, the fact that there were two Japanese patrol vessels active on anti-submarine sweeps in the area actually encouraged his belief that he had indeed found Wewak. So he spent the whole morning quietly cruising about the harbor area, nosing (submerged, of course) into all the suspected and possible anchorages, one after the other. By one o’clock he was quite disgusted, for he had seen nothing to show for his pains except a tug, two Chidori class patrol boats, and those unidentified tripod masts which he was unable to approach, and which, later observations showed, had disappeared.

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.

The dials of the TDC whirl around: 1,400 yards’ range!—1,350 yards!—1,300!—1,250!

As the range reaches 1,200 yards, the Captain’s lips part at last, and a roar bursts from him, as if pent up within him until there is no containing it.

“FIRE!”

Wahoo’s fifth torpedo starts its trip toward the rapidly approaching enemy. The men in their cylindrical steel prison feel a tightening of the suspense; the tension under which they are all laboring rises to a nearly unbearable pitch. But O’Kane is still giving bearings, and the TDC dials are still racing. Torpedo run for that fifth fish should be about thirty-two seconds. Morton waits a full ten seconds.

“FIRE!”

The sixth and last torpedo leaves its tube.

Dick O’Kane continues to watch at the periscope. A curious feeling of relief, of actual detachment from the whole situation, wells up within him. He now has the role of spectator, and there is nothing he or anyone else can do to change the outcome of events. He makes a mental reservation to pull the ’scope down if the torpedoes miss, so that the destroyer will not break it off passing overhead.

Two white streaks almost merged into one in the murky water, swiftly draw themselves toward the onrushing Jap. Twenty seconds since the first one was fired. Dick notices much activity on the bridge of the destroyer. He starts to heel to port, as his rudder is evidently put hard a-starboard. The first white streak is almost there now—is there, and goes on beyond, evidently a miss by a hairbreadth. But the second white chalkline is a little to the left of the first—it is almost there now—it is there. My God, we’ve missed! What?—WHAM! A geyser of dirty water rises right in the middle of the destroyer, breaks him exactly in half, holds him suspended there like a huge inverted V, his bow slanted down to the right. The white-clad figures crowded all over his top-sides are tumbling ridiculously into the water, arms and legs helplessly flailing the air. A cloud of mingled smoke and steam billows out of the broken portion of the stricken hull, rises hundreds of feet into the air, a continuation of the original geyser. Then, swiftly, the halves separate, and each slides drunkenly beneath the once-smooth surface of Wewak Harbor, now roiled up by the force of the explosion and the splashes from hundreds of particles of metal and other pieces of gear from the doomed vessel.

Within Wahoo’s thick steel hull the force of the explosion is terrific, something like a very close depth charge, as heavy a blow as if the destroyer had actually succeeded in completing his run upon her. Some of the crew, in fact, do believe they have received the first of a series of such depth charges. But in the conning tower there is wild exultation. Always kept ready for an opportunity such as this, the cam era is broken out, and several pictures are made of the bow of the enemy vessel which, for a moment, remains to be photographed.

Then, and not until then, Wahoo goes to deep submergence—obviously not very deep in an anchorage—and starts for the entrance of the harbor more than nine miles away. The trip out is punctuated by numerous shell splashes on the surface of the water, sporadic bombing, and the patter of several distant machine guns. No doubt the Japs in the shore batteries would like to cause the undersea raider to lie “doggo” on the bottom until some anti-submarine forces, perhaps the two patrol ships sighted in the early morning, can get to the area. But Wahoo doesn’t scare worth a damn, and late that evening she surfaces well clear of the harbor.

When asked later how he had managed to keep his nerve in the face of the attacking destroyer, Morton is reputed to have answered: “Why do you think I made O’Kane look at him? He’s the bravest man I know!”

So it was that Wahoo gave the submarine force her first lesson on one way to dispose of enemy destroyers. Needless to say, that method was seldom sought deliberately, even by the more successful sub skippers, but it is worthy of note that Sam Dealey in Harder, Roy Benson in Trigger, and Gene Fluckey in Barb at one time or another attempted similar shots.

Three days after Wewak, Wahoo’s lookouts sighted smoke on the horizon. This was to be a red-letter day.

The minute smoke is sighted, or radar contact made at night, it is necessary to determine the approximate direction of movement of the contact. Otherwise, the submarine might track in the wrong direction, lose contact, and never regain it. So Wahoo’s bow is swung toward the smoke, and several successive bearings are taken. This takes time, for it is not easy to determine the direction of motion of a wind-blown cloud of smoke when the ship making it is not visible. You don’t want it to be visible, either, for that might enable an alert lookout to sight you.

The smoke resolves itself into two freighters on a steady course, no zigzag—which makes the problem easier. Shortly before 0900 Wahoo dives with the two vessels “coming over the hill,” masts in line. Then she lies in ambush, her crew at battle stations, torpedoes ready except for the final operations, always delayed until the last possible moment before firing.

Wahoo’s plan is to lie a little off the track of the two ships, and fire at both almost at once in a single attack, so that torpedoes fired at the second ship will have nearly arrived before hits in the leading ship might give the second sufficient warning to maneuver to avoid. As the targets finally show up, however, Morton realizes that he is too close to the track to carry out his original intention of firing three of his six bow tubes at each ship. You must allow enough range for your fish to arm and reach running depth. So Mush regretfully reverses course, and now plans to shoot stern tubes. Since there are only four tubes aft, he will have to be content with two fish per ship, and consequently less certain of sinking them.

Closer and closer come the two unsuspecting ships. Submarining is exactly like hunting, for you stalk your prey, lay a trap for him, and then wait for him to fall into it. Granted that merchant ships do not have an equal chance against a submarine, a skillfully handled ship can escape once the submarine has been detected, and an exceptionally well-handled one might even do damage to the undersea craft. Of course any submarine caught on the surface, by no matter what agency, is in trouble. So there is a definite element of danger in the hunt, and it is accentuated if defensive vessels, such as escort ships or aircraft, are about. Tension mounts as the game draws nigh. Periscope exposures become briefer but more frequent, to prevent a chance sighting as the firing point approaches. O’Kane is still doing the periscope work—excellent training for the skipper-to-be of USS Tang.

Twenty degrees to go. Since the two ships are nearly in column and not far apart, it is planned to hit the first one just after he has passed astern of Wahoo, and immediately get the second just before he crosses her stern. Thus there will be the minimum interval between all fish, and it will be more like a single salvo.

“Make ready the stem tubes! Set depth ten feet!”

“Tubes ready aft! Depth set, ten feet!” The telephone talker repeats the report from the after torpedo room.

“Match gyros aft!” The TDC operator cuts in the gyro regulator for the after torpedo room, and a quick telephone check is made to insure that the angle transmitted from the conning tower is actually being reproduced at the tubes. It is the third time this particular check has been made this morning, but this is the time you want it to count.

“Standby aft!” Sound indicates there are only a few degrees to go. Plot and TDC indicate the same thing. O’Kane puts the ’scope back up.

“Continuous bearings!” The periscope bearing reader commences a singsong chant:

“One seven nine—one seven nine and a half—one eight oh—one eight oh and a half—one eight one . . .”

“Set—set—set!” from Rog Paine on the TDC.

Mush takes a final look at all dials, checks the bearings, and pronounces the word they have all carefully avoided saying until this moment:

“Fire!” The first torpedo speeds on its way. Ten seconds later, “Fire!” again, and the second torpedo is ejected, to follow nearly in the path of the first.

“Check fire! Shift targets!” Morton is taking no chances that an excited sailor might shoot off the last two torpedoes aft.

At the same time, from O’Kane on the periscope, “Check fire! Shifting targets!” These two know each other’s thoughts, know exactly what is expected and desired. Dick spins his periscope a few degrees to the left, picks up the second target, a somewhat larger freighter.

“On target! Bearing—mark! Continuous bearings!” And the chant resumes:

“One six nine, one six nine and a half, one seven oh——”

“Fire!” and, ten seconds later,

“Fire!”

Total time to fire all four torpedoes has been thirty-seven seconds.

The skipper orders left full rudder and full speed in order to get the bow tubes around in case the stern tubes prove to have been not enough.

Wahoo has barely started her swing to the left, when—

“Whang!” and then, almost exactly ten seconds later,

“Whang!” again. The first ship.

O’Kane had lowered his periscope to avoid being seen. Knowing the approximate time required for the torpedoes to reach the first target, he now raises it just in time to see the two hits, one near the bow of the leading ship, the other in his stern. He swings to the second ship, and sees a thudding hit in the stern of that one also, an instant before the sound and shock wave of that explosion reaches Wahoo.

Three hits for four torpedoes. Not bad shooting, Mush. Now let’s see if they sink, or if you have to polish these cripples off.

Down periscope again. Wahoo continues her swing, to bring her bow tubes to bear. Shortly before the circle is complete, up goes the ’scope, and a sweep around is made, to take stock of the situation.

Wonder of wonders! Now three ships are seen, instead of the original two! The newcomer is a large transport-type vessel, and troops can be seen crowding the decks. He must have been behind the larger freighter, hidden from the limited view of the periscope eye. So there are two damaged ships and one undamaged.

“Standby forward!” Bow tubes are ready, outer doors opened. There is no time to track this new target—only time to make the tubes ready, put the bearing into the TDC, and shoot. The same speed as for the original targets is used, because there is no information indicating a difference in the transport’s speed, until this moment anyway.

“Fire!” after ten seconds. “Fire!” and then “Fire!” for the third time. Three torpedoes flash out toward the transport, and the last two hit him, with the familiar tinny, high-pitched explosion. The sound of water pouring into his damaged hull comes clearly over the listening gear, and his screws can no longer be heard. That will hold him for a while. Now back to the other two ships!

A quick look around shows that one is dead in the water, listed to starboard, and down by the stern. Nothing much to worry about there. He’s evidently on his way to Davy Jones’ Looker right now.

But that second target is still underway, and has turned toward Wahoo. Give this Jap skipper credit for trying his best to fight his way out of the tough spot he is in. He has turned toward the place where the torpedoes came from, probably in the hope of ramming the submarine, or, at least, of interfering with further shots. He achieves his intention, too, for Wahoo is forced to fire two torpedoes quickly at him—another “down the throat” shot—in hopes of cooling off his combativeness. One hit, but even this doesn’t stop him. Closer and closer comes the wounded hulk, yawing slightly as the Jap skipper and helmsman try to keep on course. Too late to fire another fish. The range is too close to allow proper functioning, and it would simply be a torpedo wasted. Nothing to do except duck.

“Flood negative! All ahead full!” The orders crack out like a whiplash. “Left full rudder! Take her down!”

Down plunges Wahoo, to get out from in front of that tremendous bow on which O’Kane has been counting rivets for the past fraction of a minute. Eighty feet, by conning tower depth gauge, and everyone breathes easier. Nothing can reach you down here. And listen to what’s going on topside! Explosions, hangings, cracklings, water gurgles, a whirling and a thumping all over the place. Wahoo has certainly raised hell with this convoy!

But this is not the time for compassion. The job now is to get the rest of those ships down, and quickly, before they can get help from somewhere. “Up periscope!” Though the submarine is below periscope depth, and the range of visibility under water is not very great, a quick look will tell O’Kane whether they are coming up under the dark hull of one of the ships up there.

The periscope breaks surface to show nothing in sight, and Morton heaves an involuntary sigh of relief.

Only two ships can be seen now, while a large area covered with dirt, coal dust, and debris marks the end of the first target. The freighter which had attempted to ram is still underway, but the transport is stopped dead in the water, his topsides boiling with soldiers. Wahoo bores in, lines him up, and shoots one torpedo.

A bull’s-eye! The wake heads straight for the target, now looming big in the periscope field, and passes harmlessly beneath him. No explosion. Morton grimly orders another fish fired. It follows the path of the first, but this time the depth mechanism does its job, and the torpedo goes off right under the tall, sooty stack of the doomed vessel. A blast of water momentarily hides his amidships section from view, reaching up higher than the top of the stack itself. Then it subsides, showing the ship broken in half, sinking rapidly by the bow, with men clad in olive drab jumping off into the water, or trying desperately to lower the lifeboats they should have gotten ready long ago.

Two down out of three, and time out is taken to get a few pictures. Besides, the remaining torpedoes have to be loaded into the tubes and checked, a job much better accomplished submerged than on the surface. It is now noon, and Wahoo’s crew is sent individually, as they can be spared, to get what food the harried cooks have been able to get up on short notice. In the conning tower, Morton and O’Kane continue to watch the fleeing ship, munching sandwiches and drinking coffee between looks.

Suddenly, a pair of heavy masts is sighted over the horizon. This is beginning to look like old-home week for the Japs—and for Davy Jones, too, if the instantly laid plans of Wahoo bear fruit. This fellow looks like a warship. So much the better!

There are a few more torpedoes left, and his name is on one of them.

Wahoo proceeds at maximum sustained submerged speed in the direction of the unidentified vessel. Unfortunately, she has so badly depleted her storage battery during the morning’s action that she cannot chase at high speed, and hence cannot get into position to attack the new arrival. In the meantime, the crippled freighter has been staggering away from the scene as rapidly as his engines can drive his battered hull. The plotting parties check his speed at about six knots, quite respectable for a ship with two torpedoes in him. You really have to hand it to that Jap skipper.

It is soon obvious that Wahoo cannot hope to catch either vessel. She continues to watch through the periscope, and sees the newcomer revealed as a large tanker, instead of a warship. He joins up with the cripple, and the two proceed away at the maximum speed of the latter, black smoke pouring from stacks of both ships. All this time the undersea raider watches helplessly, too far away to interfere and too low in battery power to give chase.

There is a hasty council in the conning tower. Morton, O’Kane, and Paine do some rapid figuring. Then, their computations completed, Wahoo changes course and proceeds directly away from the fleeing ships as rapidly as her waning battery power will permit. A continuous watch is kept on the quarry until finally the tops of their masts have disappeared over the horizon. Then Wahoo commences some maneuvers which are rather strange for a submarine anxious to avoid detection in enemy waters.

The periscope rises higher and higher out of the water as the submerged vessel comes closer to the surface. As the height of the tip of the periscope increases above the surface of the sea, O’Kane and Morton can see farther over the horizon, and sight is thus kept on the escaping ships as long as possible. Finally, with the hull of the submarine only a few feet below the water and the periscope extending a full fifteen feet into the air, contact is finally lost. The periscope twirls around rapidly, scanning the horizon and the skies for any sign of other enemy activity. Then, swiftly, it starts down.

There is a moment’s hiatus, and suddenly a long black shadow, visible beneath the waves, becomes sharper and more distinct. A moment later a sharp bow breaks the surface of the water at a large angle, plowing ahead through the waves like the forehead of some prehistoric monster, and within about ten seconds the whole low dark hull, cascading water from her decks and through freeing ports along the sides, has appeared.

Up on the bridge there is sudden activity. The crash of metal on metal is heard as the conning tower hatch is flung open. The head and shoulders of a man appear, shortly to be joined by another.

Morton’s robust voice: “Open the main induction!”

There is a loud clang as hydraulic mechanism opens the huge engine air-induction valve. Instantly the exhaust roar of a diesel engine starting explodes into the stillness. Simultaneously, a small cloud of gray smoke pours from a half-submerged opening in the after part of the hull. This process is repeated three times, at rapid intervals, until four streams of exhaust vapor, two from each side, are sputtering and splashing the water which attempts to flow back into the half-submerged exhaust pipes. The speed of the submarine increases through the water. A high-pitched screaming sound can be heard distinctly over all the other noises, as though a hundred cats had caught their tails in a wringer simultaneously. This noise is made by the low-pressure air blower, which is pumping atmospheric air into the ballast tanks, completing the emptying job which had been started submerged by high-pressure air.

All this time Wahoo’s speed through the water has been increasing as the diesel engines take the place of the battery for propulsion, and she rises higher and higher out of water as the ballast tanks go dry. Soon she is making a respectable 17 knots—considering that one engine must be used to recharge the nearly empty storage battery so that Wahoo will be ready for further action submerged if necessary—which, of course, is exactly Mush Morton’s intention.

While other members of the crew are relieved from their battle stations, there is no rest or relaxation for the plotting parties. But not one of them thinks of being relieved, nor would he accept relief were it offered. The plotting parties are busy with a problem which, by virtue of nearly incessant drill, has become second nature to them. You have a target trying to get away from you. You have his approximate bearing, and you have a good idea of his speed. Also, you have a lot more speed available than he has. Problem: Find him. Problem: Keep him from sighting you. Problem: Dive in front of him so that, despite his zigzags, he will run near enough to the spot you select to give you a shot!

So Wahoo chases her prey from the moment of surfacing, shortly after noon, until nearly sunset. This is known as the “end around,” and is to become a classic maneuver in the Submarine Force. You run with your periscope up, barely maintaining sight of the tips of the enemy’s masts, so that he will not have a chance of spotting you, and you run completely around him, traveling several times as far as he does, in order to arrive at a point dead ahead of him.

Half an hour before sunset Wahoo dives, once more on the convoy’s track. This approach is much more difficult than the previous one. The enemy remember only too vividly the fates which befell their two erstwhile comrades, and consequently are zigzagging wildly. Then, too, Wahoo wants to attack the tanker first, since he is as yet undamaged.

Finally, one hour after diving, Wahoo sees the tanker limned in her periscope sights in perfect attack position. The old routine procedure is gone through. As always, there is still the same breathless hushed expectancy, the same fierce thrill of the chase successfully consummated, the same fear that, somehow, at the last possible moment, your prey will make some unexpected maneuver and frustrate your designs upon him. And you never forget that your life, as well as his, is in the scales.

O’Kane is at the periscope . . . Paine is on the TDC . . . Morton is conducting the approach, as always, blind.

Bearing! Range! Set—FIRE!

And three torpedoes race out into the gathering dusk. One minute and twenty-two seconds later, “WHANG!”—a single hit. The tanker stops momentarily, then gets underway again, at reduced speed. Wahoo spins around for a shot at the crippled freighter, but that canny Jap has already started away from there, and his change of course has spoiled the setup.

It is still fairly light, though too dark to see effectively through the periscope. There are only four torpedoes left in the ship, all aft. A moment’s reflection, and Morton gives the command to carry the fight to the enemy.

“Surface!” Three blasts of the diving alarm, the traditional surfacing signal, sound raucously in the confined interior of the submarine. Up comes Wahoo, ready to try her luck on the surface, under cover of what darkness there may be.

In this she has the advantage of a much lower, darker hull, and, since there is as yet no moon, the shadows of night grow progressively thicker, concealing her more and more from the Japanese lookouts. Another advantage lies in the fact that the two damaged ships choose to stick together instead of separating. But having torpedoes in the after tubes only is a tremendous disadvantage in a night surface attack and Wahoo maneuvers unsuccessfully for two hours, trying to get lined up for a shot.

In desperation Morton even tries to back into attack position, but is frustrated by the submarine’s poor maneuverability while going astern. So he must outguess the enemy, despite his radical zigzag plan. Wahoo gets directly behind the tanker, which in turn is behind the freighter. Then, as the two Japs zig to the right, Wahoo stays on the original course, and when they zig back to the left, the submarine is about a mile on the beam of the unfortunate tanker. Suddenly Wahoo’s rudder is put full left, and her port propeller is backed at full power, while her starboard screw is put at ahead full. In this manner Morton is able to twist his ship, get her end on to the broadside of the now-doomed Jap, and let fly two torpedoes.

One hit amidships. The sound of the explosion cannot be heard, but its effects are spectacular. The vessel folds in the middle and plunges from sight almost instantly.

“All ahead full!” Now for that freighter! Wahoo has played around with him long enough.

But the skipper of the lone remaining Jap ship has other ideas. He keeps up a continuous fire with his guns and steams in even more radical and haphazard fashion than before. Now and then he sights the ominous shape of the sea wolf stalking him, and places a few well-aimed shells alongside, forcing her to turn away and once even forcing her to dive.

For an hour this cat-and-mouse game keeps up. Finally, a powerful searchlight beam is sighted over the horizon. An escort vessel or destroyer, probably sent to succor four vessels who had reported being under attack by submarine. Wahoo had better do something to end this stalemate fast! Again Morton puts on his thinking cap. What would he do, if he were the skipper of the Jap freighter?

“Well,” thinks Mush, “there’s no doubt at all what I’d do! I’d head for that destroyer just as fast as ever I could!” And he heads Wahoo toward the destroyer, full speed.

Sure enough, the lumbering hulk of the wounded cargo vessel is soon sighted, headed in the same direction. Only Wahoo has preceded him, and now lies in wait for him, and two torpedoes come out of the night to put finis to a gallant defense.

Four ships sighted and four down was Wahoo’s record for January 27, 1943. The whole one-sided battle lasted thirteen hours, and after its conclusion one Jap destroyer was left fruitlessly searching the area with his searchlight.

Like everything else she did, Wahoo’s entrance into Pearl was dramatic, for lashed to her fully-extended periscope was—a broom!

On her next patrol, which she spent in the Yellow Sea between China and Korea, Wahoo ran the entire distance to the patrol area, deep in the heart of Japanese-controlled waters, on the surface, diving only for necessary drills. When the patrol was completed she surfaced, still in the middle of the Yellow Sea, and headed for home, digressing only to track and sink one lone freighter sighted on the way. Only this attack, incidentally, prevented her from making the same “no dives” boast on her return trip as well. During the patrol, which covered nineteen days in the assigned area, Wahoo sank nine ships, one trawler, and two sampans, and again expended all her ammunition. Once again the broom was lashed to the periscope.

And again, in April, 1943, Wahoo and Morton made their third war patrol together, sinking three ships and damaging two.

But she fell upon bad days, and Morton was a stubborn man; to these circumstances, and their unfortunate combination at just the wrong time, we may lay the responsibility for the sad loss of USS Wahoo and her fighting skipper.

After Mush Morton’s third war patrol in command of Wahoo, an inspection of the ship showed that an extensive overhaul was needed to replace the worn-out battery, to repair damages, and to install new apparatus. So the vessel was ordered to Mare Island Navy Yard for two months. While there, the fine team Morton had built up suffered serious injury with the detachment of Dick O’Kane, who received orders to command the brand-new submarine Tang, then under construction at the Navy Yard. Roger Paine moved up to the position of Executive Officer. Mush Morton, though he regretted the loss of his very capable second officer, was overjoyed to see him finally get the command which he had longed for, and for which he, Morton, had repeatedly recommended him.

In late July, 1943, Wahoo arrived back at Pearl Harbor, after the completion of her overhaul. Then bad luck struck, for Paine developed appendicitis, and had to be removed to a hospital for an operation. Morton had been deprived of the two officers he depended upon most, but, nonetheless confident, he proceeded on his fourth patrol.

Now Dudley W. Morton was a man of original ideas and independent thinking. Submarine doctrine called for shooting several torpedoes at each target, in a spread, in order to take into account possible maneuvers to avoid, errors in solution of the fire control problem, or malfunction of torpedoes. No quarrel could really be had with this procedure, so long as a submarine was apt to see and be able to shoot only a few ships per patrol. But in three successive patrols Wahoo had returned before the completion of her normal time on station, with all torpedoes expended. Morton knew he had the knack of searching out targets where other men could not find them.

If you know you are going to see plenty of targets—so ran his argument—why not shoot only one torpedo at each ship, and accept those occasional misses? If a submarine fires three fish per salvo, and sinks eight ships with her twenty-four torpedoes, is that as effective in damaging the enemy as a submarine which fires single shots and sinks twelve ships with twenty-four torpedoes? Yet in the first case the sub should be credited with 100 per cent effectiveness in fire control; in the latter, with only 50 per cent. The problem, according to Mush, lay simply in the number of contacts you could make. So he asked for, and received for his fourth patrol, the hottest area there was—the Japan Sea!

The Japan Sea is a nearly landlocked body of water lying between Japan and the Asiatic mainland. It can be reached from the open sea in only three ways—through the Straits of Tsushima, Tsugaru, or La Perouse. The only other possible entrance is through the Tartary Strait, between Sakhalin Island and Siberia, which is too shallow for seagoing vessels and, anyway, under the control of Russia. It was known that the Japanese had extensively mined all possible entrances to “their” sea, and that they were carrying on an enormous volume of traffic in its sheltered waters with no fear whatever of Allied interference.

If Wahoo could only get into this lush area, Mush figured, she should find so many targets that she would have an ideal opportunity to try out his theory. He knew the entrances were mined but he also knew that it takes an awfully good mine field to completely close up such a large passage as La Perouse or Tsushima, and that his chances of running through on the surface above the anti-submarine mines (which, of course, would be laid at depths calculated to trap a submerged submarine) would be good. He also was banking on probable laxness and inattention on the part of the Japanese defenders, and on taking them by surprise.

So on August 2, 1943, Wahoo departed Pearl Harbor for the Japan Sea, carrying with her a determined Captain and an entirely new team of officers, some veterans of her previous patrols, but practically all of them in new jobs as a result of the drastic changes at the top.

On August 14 Wahoo transited La Perouse Strait, on the surface at night, at full speed. Though detected and challenged by the shore station on Soya Misaki, she remained boldly on her course, ignoring the signal, and having done his duty the watcher in the station went back to sleep, leaving all navigational lights burning as though it were still peacetime.

Mush Morton was certainly right about one thing. He entered the Sea of Japan on August 14; that same night Wahoo sighted four enemy merchant ships, steaming singly and unescorted. In all, she carried out four separate attacks, three of them on the same ship, firing only five torpedoes in all. And here Fate dealt Morton her most crushing blow! Faulty torpedoes!

There is nothing in the world so maddening as to bring your submarine across miles of ocean; to train your crew up to the highest pitch of efficiency and anticipation; to work for weeks getting into a good fertile area; to assume heavy risk in arriving finally at an attack position—and then to have the whole thing vitiated by some totally inexplicable fault in your equipment.

Time after time Wahoo sights the enemy’s vital cargo carriers and tankers. Time after time she makes the approach, goes through all the old familiar motions which have previously brought such outstanding success—and time after time there is nothing heard in the sound gear, after firing the torpedoes, save the whirring of their propellers as they go on—and on—and on! Once, indeed, the sickening thud of a dud hit is heard, but most of the time the torpedoes simply miss, and miss, and miss!

Desperately, Morton tries every conceivable trick in his book. He does not lack for targets—that he had foreseen correctly—so he has plenty of time to try everything he knows. But he is still stubborn, and mutters savagely something to the effect that there is no use in firing more than one torpedo at any target until he has found out why they don’t go off.

For four days Wahoo valiantly fought her bad luck, and made, in all, nine attacks upon nearly as many enemy ships. Results achieved, zero! Heartbreaking, hopeless, utter zero!

And then Mush Morton finally broke down. After four nightmarish days in the area, during which he became increasingly silent, moody, and irascible, sometimes venting the smoldering fury which possessed him with outbursts of a fantastic, terrifying rage, Morton decided that there was only one thing left to do. Characteristically, it took him only four days to reach this decision and to implement it. Fate had been able to make him do something no Jap had ever succeeded in doing—cry “Uncle.”

A message was sent to the Commander Submarines, Pacific, informing him of the complete failure of the torpedoes of his most outstanding submarine. The reaction from Admiral Lockwood was instant: orders to proceed immediately to Pearl Harbor, and Mush Morton’s action was equally decisive: Wahoo’s annunciators were put on “All ahead flank,” and were left in that position until the submarine reached the entrance buoys off Pearl. The only exceptions to this performance were caused by appearance of a neutral merchant ship, which was identified as Wahoo maneuvered in for an attack; and two Jap sampans, whose captured crews found their final destinations to be somewhat different from what they had expected.

On August 29, only eleven days from the Japan Sea, Mush Morton and his Wahoo stormed into Pearl Harbor and tied up at the submarine base. This time there was no broom tied to an extended periscope, and the booming exuberance with which this sub had been wont to return from patrol was totally lacking. But such was the fame of Wahoo and her skipper that there was quite a crowd of men and officers on the dock to greet her and to tender the usual congratulations upon safe return. On this occasion there was a cloud over the normally lighthearted feelings of those present, for all knew that there was something radically wrong. One or two made an effort to say something cheerful to the obviously suffering Commanding Officer, but nothing they could say or do could allay the fact that Morton, who up to this time had been the most successful skipper of the whole force, had returned from his last patrol empty-handed. As soon as he decently could, Mush strode away from the crowd and hurried to the office of ComSubPac.

Once there he gave voice, in no uncertain terms, to the anger which possessed him. Virtually pounding his fist on the table—after all, you don’t pound your fist at an admiral, even one so understanding as Admiral Lockwood—he insisted that something was radically wrong, and that corrective measures had to be taken immediately. The Admiral and his staff listened thoughtfully, for this was by no means the only report they had received about malfunctioning of the submarine’s major weapon, and Morton was not the first man to cry “Damn the torpedoes!” Half-formed thoughts about sabotage, inefficiency, or improper preparation hovered above this gathering, and the upshot of it was that the Commander Submarines, Pacific Fleet, gave his word to Commander Dudley Morton that he would find out what was wrong with the fish if it killed him. In their hearts, the members of his staff echoed his sentiments—for, after all, every man there was a veteran submarine skipper himself.

The interview with Wahoo’s skipper at an end, Lockwood asked the question which Morton had been waiting for: “Well, Mush, what do you want to do?” Knowing his man, the Admiral was prepared for the answer he got, but it must be admitted that he would hardly have been surprised had Morton indicated that he had been taking a beating lately, and would like a rest.

A rest was farthest from Mush Morton’s mind at that moment. “Admiral,” he said, “I want to go right back to the Sea of Japan, with a load of live fish this time!”

The two men took stock of each other. Morton saw a seamed, genial face, normally weather-beaten from years at sea, now showing signs of the strain of keeping his boys going and solving their problems for them—of holding up his end of the larger scope of the war plan—of defending and protecting his operations from those who, not knowing of the phenomenal results being achieved, would encroach upon, limit, or circumscribe them. With a small shock, however, he realized that at the moment there were only two emotions showing in the Admiral’s eyes—worry, over him, and—envy.

On his side, the Admiral saw a young, virile officer, proud in his profession with the pride that comes only from a sense of accomplishment, and which will support no criticism. A fiery man, a fighter, and a leader. But burning in his steady eyes was the shining light of the crusader, now doubly dedicated, because his latest crusade had failed.

They shook hands. “We’ll get you ready as soon as we can,” said Lockwood. Morton stood up gravely, thanked him shortly, and departed. As he watched that straight, tall figure stride out of his office, the thought flashed across the Admiral’s mind: “I shouldn’t let him go. I ought to take him off his ship and let him cool off a bit. But I just can’t do it!”

So Wahoo was given another load of torpedoes, which were most painstakingly checked for perfect condition, and immediately departed for the Japan Sea to redeem her previous fiasco. She stopped at Midway en route, but nothing more was ever heard or seen of her, and what information we have been able to gather, consisting of reports of losses which could only have been due to depredations made by Wahoo on her last patrol, has come from Japanese sources. According to these sources, four ships were sunk by Wahoo in the Japan Sea between September 29 and October 9, 1943. Knowing the Jap tendency to deflate records of losses, it is probable that the actual number of ships sunk was eight or more, instead of four.

Wahoo never returned. Surprisingly, however, among the 468 United States submarines which the Japs claimed to have sunk, there was not one record, or any other information anywhere discovered which, by any stretch of circumstances, could explain what had happened to her. The enemy never got her. They never even knew she had been lost, and we carefully concealed it for a long time, knowing how badly they wanted to “get” Wahoo.

Like so many of our lost submarines, she simply disappeared into the limbo of lost ships, sealing her mystery with her forever. This has always been a comforting thought, for it is a sailor’s death, and an honorable grave. I like to think of Wahoo carrying the fight to the enemy, as she always did, gloriously, successfully, and furiously, up to the last catastrophic instant when, by some mischance, and in some manner unknown to living man, the world came to an end for her.