The discovery of the USS Wahoo wreck in 2006 sent a ripple of excitement through naval history circles. The submarine went missing in October 1943, apparently sunk by a combination of Japanese planes and patrol ships while exiting the Sea of Japan. In July 2006 Russian divers located the wreck under 600 feet of water on the floor of La Perouse Strait. The U.S. Navy confirmed the submarine’s identity on 31 October, ending a mystery that had persisted for over sixty years regarding the precise location of the Wahoo’s sinking.1 But while the final resting place of the submarine and its crew now appears resolved, much remains contested.
The Wahoo’s skipper, Dudley Walker “Mush” Morton, is arguably America’s most famous submarine commander, but also the most controversial. Even the origin of Morton’s nickname is disputed; despite consensus that “Mush” was short for “Mushmouth” and that Morton acquired the moniker while attending the Naval Academy, its provenance remains obscure. Some claim the nickname resulted from Morton’s southern drawl, given that he grew up near Owensboro, Kentucky, and later lived in Miami, Florida. Many academy plebes came from the South, however, so it would be surprising if he were singled out for this alone. Other writers have suggested the nickname came from his habit of talking with a cigar clenched in his teeth, or even his reputed ability to speak while holding four golf balls in his mouth. But if Morton’s own account is to be believed, the name originated from a character in the syndicated comic strip Moon Mullins.2
Morton’s nickname is not an entirely trivial issue, for one might expect it to reveal something of his personality. Theodore Roscoe attributes the nickname to Morton’s “knack for yarn-spinning,” and a common denominator in stories about Morton is his penchant for boastful showmanship.3 Even in high school he appeared adept at making himself the center of attention; his senior yearbook remarked on his facility to “crack a joke” and amuse his companions.4 At least in hindsight, Morton’s gift for embellishment proved something of a liability to his reputation.
When Morton took command of the Wahoo on 12 December 1942, he was thirty-five years old. Tall, with broad shoulders, he was described by one fellow officer as “built like a bear.”5 He had played football in high school and then at the Naval Academy, from which he graduated in 1930. Just how Morton assumed command of the Wahoo is also subject to conflicting accounts. He had previously skippered the USS Dolphin (SS-169), but was relieved of command in 1942 After condemning the submarine as unfit for war patrols. At least one division commander thought Morton too erratic to be given command of a boat. According to another account, Morton was on his way out of the submarine service before being assigned a berth on the Wahoo as prospective commanding officer (PCO). Captain John “Babe” Brown assigned him the duty, so one story goes, because he was impressed by the way Morton shook hands.6
The role of the PCO was largely that of an observer. Before being assigned their own boat, prospective skippers were required to take a four-week course at the New London Submarine School on tactics and were then assigned to make a patrol with a seasoned skipper in order to get firsthand experience. Morton, though, appeared to regard the Wahoo’s commander, Marvin G. Kennedy, as more a menace than a mentor. When the submarine terminated its patrol at Brisbane, Australia, on 26 December 1942, Morton harshly criticized Kennedy, allegedly calling him “a yellow-bellied S.O.B.”7 Specifically, Morton disputed Kennedy’s claim that the Wahoo sank a Japanese submarine east of Bougainville.
As detailed by the patrol report, the Wahoo torpedoed a surfaced submarine from 800 yards, and despite problems of visibility due to rain squalls, Kennedy witnessed the Japanese craft go down with personnel still on the bridge.8 Although Kennedy claimed the torpedoed submarine to be the I-2, official records indicate that the I-2 was not lost until 7 April 1944, when it was attacked by the destroyer USS Saufley. Of course, it could have been another Japanese submarine; subsequent books—one published by the executive officer, Dick O’Kane, and another by yeoman Forest Sterling—corroborate that a submarine was indeed sunk. At the time, the commander of submarines at Brisbane, James Fife, confirmed the sinking in his endorsement of the Wahoo’s patrol report and Kennedy received a Silver Star on the strength of the patrol.9 Fife later claimed in his memoirs, however, that at least some of the Wahoo crew discredited the sinking.10 Kennedy was more or less drummed out of the submarine service, and the command of Wahoo went to Morton.
In summary, the evidence of what happened on the patrol is confusing, suggesting either that Kennedy (wittingly or unwittingly) fabricated the sinking, or that he fell victim to a veritable coup. Somewhat ironically, Morton faced a similar ambush from his PCO following his second patrol in command of the Wahoo. Duncan Calvin MacMillan complained to the squadron commander that his experience on the Wahoo revealed a lack of planning and discipline in making attacks. In this instance, though, Morton retained his command and MacMillan took command of the USS Thresher.11
Soon After assuming command of the Wahoo at Brisbane, Morton made his own predilections known. He demonstrated a more democratic style than the reclusive Kennedy, and according to O’Kane, who stayed on as executive officer, soon “had his crew eating out of his hand.”12 Morton’s avowed hatred of the Japanese also became obvious. Placards posted in the watch bill holders of each compartment proclaimed, “Shoot the Sunza Bitches.” Also posted in the submarine were the words of General McNair: “We must shoot to kill for our enemies have pointed the way to swifter and surer crueler killing.”13 The Wahoo crew soon had the opportunity to put such admonitions into practice.
The Wahoo departed Brisbane at 9:30 a.m. on 16 January 1943. Arriving at Pearl Harbor only twenty-four days later, it had made the shortest Pacific patrol to date but also the most successful. The Wahoo received credit for sinking five ships on the patrol, including an entire four-ship convoy. Later investigation eventually reduced the official tally to three ships, but for the time being news of the patrol created jubilation. While many in the submarine service were demoralized by defective torpedoes, the fact that Morton made his attacks with the controversial Mark VI magnetic exploder renewed faith in the weapon.14 Confidence in the torpedoes proved shortlived, but Morton’s patrol promised a new kind of aggression.
The timing of the patrol was serendipitous. In Europe the Axis powers had suffered reverses at Stalingrad and in North Africa, while in the Pacific the Japanese offensive had been stalled at Guadalcanal Island and at Buna in New Guinea. At a meeting of the Allies at Casablanca in French Morocco, President Roosevelt had just announced a policy of demanding “unconditional surrender.”
Taking advantage of an enthusiastic reception on arrival at Pearl Harbor, the Wahoo flew a massive white pennant declaring in black letters Morton’s slogan, “Shoot the Sunza Bitches.” Charles Lockwood, newly installed as commander of Submarines Pacific, pronounced the Wahoo “The One-Boat Wolf Pack.”15 Morton received a Navy Cross for the patrol, and an impressed General Douglas MacArthur conferred on him the army’s Distinguished Service Cross. The Wahoo also received a coveted Presidential Unit Citation. At the Mare Island Navy Yard, where the Wahoo was the first of seventeen fleet submarines constructed during the war, a huge billboard went up proclaiming: “Shoot the Sunzabitches! And the Wahoo did! Another Mare Island–built Champion!!”16
Morton became the first genuine superstar of the submarine service, giving numerous media interviews and appearing in The March of Time newsreel series. An article on the Wahoo’s patrol graced the pages of Time magazine under the leader “Clean Sweep.”17 A correspondent for the Associated Press, Walter B. Clausen, portrayed Morton as “the embodiment of American spirit, a devoted father, and easily approachable, kindly leader, with a quiet, deep enthusiasm that spreads confidence in his youthful crew until the moment of action, when he blazes forth like a tiger to kill.”18
There was, though, a dark side to Morton’s patrol that would dog his reputation to the present. On 26 January, at 11:35 in the morning, the Wahoo torpedoed a Japanese transport ship, the Buyo Maru, approximately 250 miles north of New Guinea. Using the graphic language that became a Morton trademark, the patrol report recorded: “The explosion blew her midships section higher than a kite. Troops commenced jumping over the side like ants off a hot plate. Her stern went up and she headed for the bottom.”19
What happened next became the most contentious action by a U.S. submarine in the war. The Wahoo surfaced and opened its deck guns on the Japanese survivors, some in various small craft and others floating in the ocean. No one denies that the Wahoo fired on survivors, but debate has since raged over the intent and results of this event.
Did the Wahoo surface for the express purpose of killing survivors, or did it fire only in self-defense? Charles Lockwood, writing After the war, indicated the latter. According to his account, as the Wahoo approached the Japanese to pick up prisoners, the submarine received rifle and machine-gun fire. Lockwood concluded, “There was nothing to do but sink them all, which Wahoo promptly did.”20 The Wahoo’s executive officer, Dick O’Kane, also backed this version of events and remained a staunch defender of Morton’s command throughout his life.21 On the other hand, the Wahoo’s patrol report indicates the intention of attacking the Japanese from the beginning: “[W]e surfaced to charge the batteries and destroy the estimated twenty troop boats now in the water.” According to this version of events, only After the Wahoo fired its four-inch gun at one of the craft did it receive return fire. The crew of the Wahoo then “opened up with everything we had.”22
If the initial intention had ever been to pick up prisoners, this idea was quickly abandoned. According to one of the Wahoo crew, John Clary, when a Japanese survivor floated within twelve feet of the submarine, obviously “playing possum,” some crewmen suggested taking the man alive. Morton ordered them instead, “Shoot the Sonza bitch.”23 Another Wahoo crew member, William Young, recalled, “We killed everyone we could.”24 Of course, even if the Wahoo had been fired on first, it could have simply steamed away, as other submarines did on occasion.
At the heart of many later discussions of the incident are the issues of how long the Wahoo actually fired on the Buyo Maru survivors and how many were killed. Morton claimed that the action lasted about an hour, but O’Kane challenged this as typical Morton hyperbole, insisting that the firing lasted no more than twenty minutes.25 It is indeed likely that the action was shorter than many perceived, since combatants often describe an attenuation of time. The stress and excitement of battle speed up the participant’s internal clock, making external events appear to be unfolding more slowly.26 Of course, even a relatively brief period would have allowed the Wahoo to fire an immense amount of ammunition. In addition to the four-inch gun and two 20 mm guns, two Browning Automatic Rifles (BARs) were used to fire into the water. At one point Morton is credited with telling the crew, “Anyone who doesn’t get up here and load the deck guns, I’ll court-martial.”27
According to some estimates, the massacre involved thousands of victims. Morton himself claimed that they killed most of the troops in the water, estimated at between 1,500 and 6,000. But again, O’Kane considered this a gross exaggeration, putting the number at more like 500 troops. Not until James DeRose published his research almost sixty years later were firmer statistics available. According to DeRose, the Buyo Maru carried a total of 1,126 men on board, and of these 491 were Indian prisoners of war being shipped from Singapore to New Britain for forced labor. The Indian POWs in fact took the main brunt of the Wahoo’s attack, with 195 killed, compared to 87 Japanese. Unfortunately, DeRose’s documentation for these claims is vague, citing only that the information came from the Japanese Diet Library and U.S. Archives.28 Until the information can be independently verified, the number of fatalities must remain questionable.
Whatever the number killed, the episode must be considered in context to understand both its motivation and the official response. As has been pointed out by some writers, for Morton and his crew the troops in the water represented a potential threat, for if rescued they might well have ended up facing Allied troops in the desperate island campaigns being fought at the time. Admiral Halsey’s chief of staff, Rear Admiral Robert B. Carney, expressed a similar logic when commenting on the sinking of Japanese hospital ships. To his mind, “[T]hey were caring for NIPs which we failed to kill in the first attempt. Every one who is restored to duty potentially costs the lives of many of our people.”29
Only a few weeks After the Wahoo’s action, the result of similar thinking manifested itself during the battle of the Bismarck Sea. Am erican B-17s destroyed a convoy of eight Japanese transports and four destroyers sailing from Rabaul to reinforce forces at Lae, New Guinea, and then PT boats and aircraft systematically shot survivors on rafts or clinging to wreckage. According to a report in Time magazine, strafing U.S. A-20 Havocs along with Australian Beaufighters “turned lifeboats towed by motor barges packed with Jap survivors into bloody sieves.”30 Such actions were fueled by stories of Japanese atrocities. According to one account, for example, Morton was incensed by stories of Japanese planes bombing an Australian hospital ship, the Manunda, and strafing survivors when they attacked Darwin on 19 February 1942.31
Hatred, in part a lasting legacy of the attack on Pearl Harbor, goes far in explaining the killing of the Buyo Maru survivors. The Wahoo’s yeoman Forest Sterling recalls, “You have to remember how badly we hated the Japs and how far behind we were in the war then.”32 In a similar vein, Morton reportedly told news correspondent Richard Haller, “That’s the only way we’ll ever lick ’em. The Japs fight hard and use all the tricks and we’ve got to shoot, shoot, shoot.”33
For some there were perhaps more personal motives for revenge. Only a few days before departing Brisbane on patrol, O’Kane had learned of the death of his former crewmates when the submarine Argonaut went down with all hands After an attack by Japanese destroyers in the waters southwest of New Britain.34 But there were also those repulsed by the killing. David Veder, still a teenager when he served on the Wahoo, observed: “My view was that you sank ships, not people. There were humans in lifeboats. We were shooting them.”35
While some in the submarine service were shocked by the incident, no official censure materialized. The lack of response may have resulted, as one writer suggests, from a “leadership gap” at the time of Buyo Maru incident. Rear Admiral Robert English died in a plane crash shortly before the Wahoo began its patrol, and Admiral Charles Lockwood assumed command of Submarines Pacific only After the Wahoo’s arrival at Pearl Harbor.36
In any case, there is no indication that Morton felt the slightest regret or remorse. On the Wahoo’s next patrol an incident took place that was in some ways more shocking than the gun attack on the Buyo Maru survivors. The Wahoo departed Pearl Harbor on 23 February 1943, heading for the Yellow Sea. On the morning of 21 March, at about 10 a.m., the Wahoo sank a 6,543-ton freighter identified as the Nitu Maru. The ship sank within minutes, and when two junks looked like they might attempt to rescue survivors, the Wahoo drove them off.37
This much is recorded in the official war patrol report, but there would be a chilling postscript that emerged only much later. Among the Wahoo crew was John Clary who, contrary to regulations, kept a diary of the patrol. According to Clary, when the Wahoo returned to the site where the freighter went down, the crew found three men amid the oil and debris. One of the men was on a raft, and two others were on an overturned lifeboat. The Wahoo approached slowly, striking the lifeboat with its bow and knocking one of the men into the water. Crewmen threw the man a lifeline, but he refused to come on board. Clary believed that the intended Japanese prisoner, who appeared to be about seventeen years old, was too stunned to understand their entreaties to board the submarine. Clary then records, “[H]e was riddled by machine gun fire & also the other Jap with him.” The Japanese survivor on the raft met a similar fate, as the crew “held target practice on him & he soon sank beneath the sea.”38 This time there could be no pretense of self-defense, immediate or potential, since the men in the water were not soldiers.
The kind of hatred that could take pleasure from others’ misery reared its head again, if less graphically, four days later. On 25 March, with the mountains of Korea as a backdrop, the Wahoo attacked the 2,556-ton freighter Sinsei Maru. After missing the ship with torpedoes, the Wahoo surfaced for a gun attack. It claimed nearly ninety hits with the four-inch gun, while the 20 mm gun poured shells into the blazing vessel. When the submarine passed about a dozen survivors in the water, the crew called out, “So Solly, Please.”39 John Clary confided to his diary, “[I]t was very sad to hear them moan & sink.”40