by Commander Edward L. Beach
We begin our tour with an excerpt from Submarine! by one of the most famous and decorated naval heroes of the twentieth century, Commander Edward L. Beach (1918–2002). Commissioned as an ensign in 1939, he attained the rank of commander before his retirement after twenty-seven years of naval service. He served throughout World War II in the Pacific theater, participating in the battle of Midway, and overseeing twelve combat patrols that sank forty-five enemy vessels. Afterward, he served on nuclear submarines, and commanded the USS Triton on its record-breaking submerged voyage around the world. He was awarded numerous honors and decorations for his valiant service, including the Navy Star, the Silver Star Medal, two Presidential Unit Citations, the Legion of Merit, and the National Defense Service Medal. After his retirement, he wrote both fiction and nonfiction, including the classic novel Run Silent, Run Deep, which was made into a film in 1958, and his autobiography, Salt and Steel: Reflections of a Submariner. He was also the coeditor of three editions of the Naval Terms Dictionary and wrote numerous articles for periodicals ranging from American Heritage to National Geographic. The Naval Historical Foundation History Prize has been renamed the Commander Edward L. Beach Prize in his honor.
It takes a certain kind of man to write about the everyday happenings aboard a submarine on war patrol, and make it as real as if you were standing right beside the men as it happened, and few do it better than Commander Beach. This excerpt is no exception, detailing the sixth war patrol of the USS Batfish, and bringing home the cramped, crowded, tense conditions under which its captain and crew played a deadly game of hide-and-seek with enemy submarines during the latter part of World War II.
USS Batfish got under way from Pearl Harbor on December 30, 1944, on what was to be her sixth war patrol. It was also to be one of the epoch-making patrols of the war, one whose influence may be discerned even at this late date. Her skipper was Commander J. K. Fyfe, a Naval Academy graduate of the class of 1936, who had already built up an outstanding record of successful submarine action. From the time when the PC boat escorting her out of Pearl Harbor was dismissed until she arrived at Guam, Jake Fyfe kept his ship at flank speed. He, in common with most submariners, saw no reason for delay in getting into the war zone, except the necessity of conserving fuel. The capture of Guam removed that necessity, insofar as the first leg of the trip was concerned. After leaving Guam ESPN it usually paid to be a bit conservative, in case you ran into a long chase, or were given a prolonged special mission.
On January 9, 1945, Batfish arrived at Guam, and on the next day she departed en route to an area north of the Philippines. On January 12 she sighted what was probably her first enemy contact on this particular patrol, presaging the turn which the whole patrol would subsequently take. A periscope suddenly popped out of the water some distance ahead. Since you don’t stick around to argue with an enemy submarine which has the drop on you, and since, besides, Jake was in a hurry to get to his area where he was scheduled for immediate lifeguard services, he simply bet on everything she would take and got out of there. Sightings of Japanese periscopes by our boats were fairly numerous during the war. The Japs never learned how doubly cautious you must be when stalking one of your own kind; we never learned a lesson better.
Between January 13 and February 9 Batfish had rather a dull time. She wasted two days looking for several aviators who were reported ditched near her track; investigated twenty-eight junks to see what kind of cargo they were carrying; dived at occasional aircraft alarms. Then, on February 9, while she was patrolling in Babuyan Channel, south of Gamiguin Island, the radar operator sounds a warning.
Something in his radar arouses his attention—he looks closely—there it is again—and again. It is not a pip which he sees; if it were, he would not wait to sing out “Radar contact” and thereby immediately mobilize the ship for action. This is something more difficult to evaluate. A faint shimmering of the scopes—a momentary unsteadiness in the green and amber cathode ray tubes—which comes and goes. Almost unconsciously he times them, and notices the bearing upon which the radar head is trained each time the faint wobble in the normal “grass” presentation is noticed. A few moments of this, and—“Captain to the conn!” No time to wait on ceremony. This particular lad wants his skipper, and he wants him badly.
A split second later the word reaches Jake Fyfe in his cabin, where he had lain down fully clothed for a few minutes of shut-eye. In a moment the skipper is in the conning tower.
The radar operator points to his scope. “There it is, sir! There it is again!I just noticed it a minute ago!” The operator is doing himself an injustice;from the time he first noticed there was something out of the ordinary to the moment Fyfe himself was beside him could not have been more than thirty seconds.
The captain stares at the instrument, weighing the significance of what he sees. This is something new, something portentous—there is a small stirring in the back of his mind—there seems to be a half-remembered idea there, if he can only dig it up—then, like a flash, he has it! If he is right, it means they are in grave danger, with a chance to come out of it and maybe add another scalp to their belts; if he is wrong, what he is about to do may make a bad situation infinitely worse. But Jake knows what he is doing. He is not playing some far-fetched hunch.
“Secure the radar!” he orders. The operator reaches to the cutoff switch and flips it, looking questioningly at his skipper.
“What do you think it is?” Fyfe asks the lad.
“It looked like another radar to me, Captain.” The reply is given without hesitation.
“What else?”
The boy is at a loss for an answer, and Jake Fyfe answers his own question:
“Japanese submarine!”
Submarine vs. submarine! The hunter hunted! The biggest fear of our submarine sailors during World War II was that an enemy submarine might get the drop on them while they were making a passage on the surface. It would be quite simple, really. All you have to do is to detect the other fellow first, either by sight or by radar, submerge on his track, and let go the fish as he passes. All you have to do is to detect him first!
Our submarines ran around the coast of Japan as though they were in their own backyards. They usually condescended to patrol submerged only when within sight of the enemy shoreline in order not to be spotted by shore watchers or aircraft patrols, for you can’t sink ships which stay in port because they know you are waiting outside. But when out of sight of land, and with no planes about, United States submarines usually remained on the surface. Thus they increased their search radius and the speed with which they could move to new positions. And it should not be forgotten that the fifty-odd boats doing lifeguard duty at the end of the war were required to stay on the surface whether in sight of land or not! Small wonder that our submarine lookouts were the best in the Navy.
United States submariners were, as a class, far too well acquainted with the devastating surprise which can be dealt with a pair of well-aimed torpedoes to take any preventable risk of being on the receiving end themselves. Submarines are rugged ships, but they have so little reserve buoyancy that a torpedo hit is certain to permit enough water to flood in to overbalance what remaining buoyancy there is. Even though the submarine might be otherwise intact, she would instantly sink to the bottom of the sea with most of her crew trapped inside. Tang was a prime example. Ordinarily there are no survivors from sunken submarines, with the exception of the Germans, who had a habit of surfacing and abandoning ship when under attack.
The submarine, which hunts by stealth, is therefore itself peculiarly susceptible to attack by stealth. But don’t make the mistake of underestimating the enemy submarine crew. The fact that they are operating a submarine at all indicates that they are picked men, who know as much about the game, in all probability, as you do. The odds are definitely even, and it is a question of dog eat dog. The only advantage lies in superior ability and equipment.
Not counting midgets, the first Japanese submarine sunk by our forces was the I-173, which fell victim to the Gudgeon on January 27, 1942. The last such was sunk by the Spike fish on August 13, 1945. Between these dates twenty-three additional Japanese subs were destroyed by our own undersea warriors. And we regret to chronicle that some five of our own subs, it is thought, went down under the periscope sights of Japanese submarines. Unfortunately the Jap records are so poor that the precise manner in which all of our lost submarine vessels met their doom will never be discovered. The fact remains that our submarines were convinced that the Japs were sending the two-man midgets out at night, looking for them. And almost every patrol report turned in by our people toward the end of the war records that one or more torpedoes had been fired at them.
The most outstanding record of enemy subs sunk was the one hung up by Batfish, beginning that fateful February 9.
“Secure the radar!” Jake Fyfe turned to a shocked conning tower crew, and ordered crisply, “Battle stations torpedo!”
The helmsman instinctively had already extended his hand in the direction of the general alarm. Now he grasped it, pulled it out, and then down. The low-pitched chime of the alarm resounded through the ship, penetrating every corner, waking men who had turned in dead tired, vowing to sleep for a year—meaning only until their next watch—bringing them upright, fully alert, instinctively racing to their battle stations, all in the space of an instant.
What is it? What is it?
Don’t know. Something on the radar.
Skipper says a Jap sub out there.
How does he know that?
The process of deduction by which Fyfe arrived at the conclusion that the source of the radar peculiarities was an enemy submarine was not at all illogical. The wavering of his radar scope was probably due to the presence of another radar. It was known that the Japs had radar, though of an inferior type to ours. If this radar came from a vessel as large as a destroyer, he should have been detected on Batfish’s radar before the emanations from his low-powered radar had been noticed. This, of course, was the usual case. Since the radar waves had been the first to be picked up, it followed that the ship producing them must be small and low on the water. Yet it must be a valuable ship, sufficiently important to rate one of the relatively few radar sets the Nips possessed. Hence, a submarine.
The reason why Fyfe ordered his own radar temporarily secured was simply to deny the Jap the same information which he himself had just received, while he and his executive officer, Lieutenant C. K. Sprinkle, USNR, broke out the charts and did some very rapid figuring.
The enemy radar emanations have been from 220, approximately southwest. Babuyan Channel runs more or less north and south. Therefore the target must be on a northerly course, approaching from the south.
To check this deduction, Batfish’s radar is cautiously turned on for only a moment. Sure enough, the bearing of the other radar has changed slightly. It is now 225.
“All ahead full! Right full rudder!” Batfish leaps ahead and steadies on a course calculated to get to the north of the approaching enemy vessel. She runs for a short time, every now and then checking the situation with her radar. All clear—no other ships around. Just the Jap, and his signals are becoming stronger, while his bearing is now drawing to the southward. This is as it should be.
But Fyfe does not, of course, propose to make his approach and attack on bearings alone. He wants to close the range, but on his own terms, with his bow on the enemy, his torpedoes ready—in short, with the drop on him.
Finally, Jake Fyfe and Sprinkle figure their position is about right. Batfish turns toward the enemy and ghosts in, keeping the darkest section of the midnight horizon behind her, and sweeping frequently, but at odd intervals, with her radar.
“Radar contact!” The word from Radar this time startles nobody—they have all been expecting it for several minutes. The tracking party now goes to work in earnest, with some concrete information instead of the rather sporadic and imprecise dope they have had up to now.
Target is on course 310, speed 12. The dials whirl on the TDC in the conning tower, where Sprinkle is in charge.
The range continues to decrease, the radar operator and the TDC operator tirelessly feeding in the essential information on the fire-control instruments. The plotting party also has its part in this, for all solutions must check before torpedoes may be fired.
On the bridge, the captain strains his eyes, and so do the lookouts up therewith him. Suppose the Jap has somehow learned of the presence of the American submarine! It is possible. In this case, if he deduces what is going on, he might very logically turn the situation to his own advantage by firing his torpedoes first. After all, when you make an approach on another ship, there is a period during which you are in a much better position for him to shoot torpedoes at you than you at him—at a somewhat longer range, of course. Or, more probably, he might simply dive, thus spoiling the shot Batfish has worked for so long, not to mention making it immediately imperative for her to get the hell out of there!
Closer and closer comes the unsuspecting enemy sub. It is so dark that as yet he cannot be seen by the tense bridge party. As the situation develops, it is apparent that he will pass through the firing position at just under 2, 000yards’ range. This is a little long for optimum torpedo fire, but Fyfe wants to take no chances of being detected. On he comes—only a little more now—then from the conning tower, “On the firing bearing, Captain!” This from the exec.
“Let them go when ready, Sprink. Shoot on radar bearings. I still can’t see him from up here.” From the skipper.
Silently, four torpedoes are loosed into the water. Four new wakeless electric fish start their run toward the target They have 1, 800 yards to go; it will take a while. The watch hands crawl slowly and maddeningly around their faces. The wait grows longer, more anxious. Something should have happened by now! Those fish should surely have arrived! We could not have been so far off that our spread missed also!
But miss they do, all four torpedoes. Finally there is no escaping that conclusion. The whole careful and well-executed approach—wasted! All hands are bitterly disappointed. What can have gone wrong?
The question is answered by Plot, dramatically. “Target has speeded up!Speed now fourteen knots!” Too bad this was not detected a minute or two earlier. At least it explains the trouble, and allays the suspicious doubts which had already inevitably crept into the minds of both skipper and exec.
But the target continues serenely on his way, giving no sign of being aware of having been fired upon. Maybe Batfish will be able to try again.
No sooner thought than tried. The four murmuring diesels of the hunter lift their voices, and the submarine slips away through the water, seeking another position from which to launch her deadly missiles. But by this time, of course, the target has passed beyond Batfish, and in order to regain firing position it will be necessary to execute an end around.
Jake Fyfe has elected to remain on the surface for the whole attack, crediting to his superior radar the fact that he had been alerted before the Jap;and trusting to his belief that he could keep the enemy from detecting him. His plan is to get up ahead of the other submarine, and to head in toward him while the unsuspecting Nip is pounding along in nearly the opposite direction. Thus the range would close rapidly, and the amount of warning the other submarine could expect before torpedo junction would be very little. It was surprising that the Jap sub gave no indication of being aware he had been shot at. Whereas Fyfe had expected only one chance at him, he now finds another. “Obviously the fellow isn’t as good as I gave him credit for!” And concurrent with this came the resolution to get in closer the next time, play his luck a little harder. If he could only sight the enemy, and fire on optical bearings instead of radar bearings, he would have a much neater solution to his fire-control problem—and thus greater certainty of hitting.
And besides, although Jake was morally certain the ship he was stalking was another submarine—and therefore Japanese, for he knew positively there were no friendly submarines in that area—he naturally wanted very badly to see him, just by way of confirming things. He had thought that visibility was good enough to see 2, 000 yards—a mile—and therefore had settled on about 1, 800 yards for firing range. Events had proved him too optimistic, and he had not been able to see him at that range. This time he would get a look!
All the while, Batfish is racing through the black night at full speed. She has pulled off abeam of her quarry, just within maximum radar range in order to be outside range of the less-efficient radar carried by the enemy, and she is rapidly overhauling him. Jake is still very careful with his own radar, searching all around and getting a radar range and bearing on the enemy as frequently as he dares, but he is not going to take a chance on being detected. All this time, of course, the radar emanations from the Jap have been coming in regularly, and their unchanged characteristics add proof that he is still sound asleep.
The skipper stands on the bridge of his ship during the whole of the new approach, for the situation could change so radically and so quickly that he must remain where he can take immediate action. So he must trust the coordination of everything below decks to Sprinkle.
Batfish has worked up somewhat ahead of the enemy’s beam. Fyfe is trying to visualize the chart of the channel, for if he remembers rightly, some kind of a change is going to have to be made at the rate they are covering ground. The sea is fairly smooth, as it so often is in these southern waters, and hardly any solid water comes over Batfish’s main deck, although considerable spray is whipped across it by the wind of her passing. It is an absolutely pitch-black night. No distinction can be seen between sky and water—the horizon simply doesn’t exist. All about is warm, dank, murky grayness, broken only by the white water boiling along your side. It is as though Batfish were standing still, dipping and rising slightly, and occasionally shaking herself free from the angry sea which froths and splashes beneath her.
In a moment Clark Sprinkle’s voice is heard on the interior communication system:“Plot says target is changing course. They’ll let us know for sure in a minute.”
The skipper presses a large heavy button on the bulkhead beside him and leans forward to speak into the bridge speaker:“Fine! As soon as you’re sure, we’ll change too.”
About a minute later a speaker mounted to the overhead of the conning tower squawks: “This is Plot. Target has changed course to the right. New course, zero one five.”
“I’ve got the same, Sprink,” says the TDC operator. “New course about zero two zero, though.”
Sprinkle pulls a portable microphone toward him, presses the button. “Bridge, Plot and TDC have the target on new course between zero one five and zero two zero. Suggest we come to zero two zero.”
“Right full rudder! Come right to new course zero two zero!” The order to the helm is sufficient acknowledgment.
“Rudder is right full, sir! Coming to zero two zero!” the helmsman shouts up the hatch.
Batfish heels to port as she whips around. Her white wake astern shows nearly a sharp right-angle turn as her stern slides across the seas.
Several more minutes pass. Fyfe is on the point of asking for more information, when again the bridge speaker blares its mu?ed version of Sprinkle’s voice:“Captain, we’ve got him on zero two zero, making fourteen knots. Range is seven oh double oh, and distance to the track is two five double oh. This looks pretty good to me. Recommend we come left and let him have it!”
“Okay, Sprink. Give me a course to come to.” The captain’s voice has assumed a grim finality, a flat quality of emotionless decision. This is always a big hurdle; until now you really have the option of fighting or not fighting—of risking your neck or not—that is, if you can remain undetected. But when you start in, you are committed. You go in with the bow of your ship pointed directly at the enemy; you get well inside his visibility range, and radar range, too, for that matter; and you depend upon the quickness with which the attack develops to give you the opportunity to get it off. Keeping your bow on him gives him less to look at, a very important factor in the night surface attack; but if you change your mind and try to pull out of there you’ve got to change course, give him your broadside—and set yourself up for a beautiful counterattack on his part. Destroyers are supposed to be able to get a half-salvo in the air within seconds after having been alerted; submarines always carry one or two torpedoes at the ready, which can be fired instantly from the bridge. Small wonder that starting in is a crucial decision!
“Left full rudder!” Fyfe’s command whips down the conning tower hatch to the helmsman.
“Rudder is left full, sir!”
“All ahead two-thirds!” Fyfe has waited a moment before slowing, in order to make the turn faster.
“Answered all ahead two-thirds!” Maneuvering room has matched annunciators with the conning tower, thus indicating that they have the word.
Sprinkle has been following things closely from the conning tower—checking bearings, ranges, courses, and speeds. He performs a rapid mathematical computation, drawing arrows this way and that, and measuring angles. Then he speaks into his little mike:“Captain, if we steady up on two four oh we’ll have him ten degrees on our port bow, going across. His angle on the bow is now starboard forty.”
“Steady on new course two four oh!” The ship has about thirty degrees more to swing, and the helmsman eases the rudder upon receipt of the command from the bridge.
“Steady on two four oh, sir!”
The exec speaks again. “Captain, he is on course zero two oh, making fourteen knots. Angle on the bow is starboard forty-five, and he now bears five degrees on our port bow. The distance to the track is two three double oh. Range, five oh double oh.”
No answer from the bridge, but that doesn’t bother Sprinkle. He knows he will hear quickly if the skipper isn’t satisfied with the way things are going or the reports he is getting.
A few more tense moments pass. Again the speaker near the skipper’s left elbow reproduces Sprinkle’s familiar voice. “He’s crossing our bow now. Range, four oh double oh.”
“Come right to two five oh.” Fyfe, who is working the same problem in his head that Sprinkle is solving mechanically in the conning tower, has the situation firmly fixed in his mind. He wants to keep coming around to head for the enemy, and has anticipated by seconds only the latter’s recommendation.
“What is the distance to the track?”
“Two oh double oh, Captain.”
“All ahead one-third.” Batfish is closing the target’s projected track too quickly, and the firing range will be too short, or the target might detect her before firing. Fyfe’s brain is now in high gear, and he can feel every part of the problem falling into place. In fact, it is almost as if he could reach out and control the movements of the Japanese skipper also, and his mind wills the enemy to keep on coming, to keep on the course and speed as set up; to come unerringly and steadily on to his doom.
And on and on he comes, totally unaware of the trap set for him, totally unaware that he is springing the trap on himself, that any change whatsoever which he might make would be to his advantage, that the most serious mistake you can make, when it’s submarine against submarine, is to relax—ever. Of course, to give him his due, the Jap doesn’t know he is being shadowed. But he knows very well that he is proceeding through a submarine-infested area—and in this little game no excuses are accepted.
At 1, 500 yards the keen eyes on Batfish’s bridge distinguish a blur in the gray murk, and at 1, 000 yards the sinister outline of a Japanese I class submarine is made out—the first time during the whole evening that the enemy has actually been sighted. He wallows heavily in the slight chop of the sea—low, dark, and ungainly.
At 1, 000 yards the Jap is broadside to Batfish: Fyfe’s plan has borne fruit, for his own bow is exactly toward the enemy, and he has all the advantage of sighting. Furthermore, the darkest portion of the overcast is behind him.
Sprinkle is beside himself with eagerness. For about thirty seconds he has been imploring his skipper to shoot. He has a perfect solution and doesn’t want to let it get away from him. “We’ve got them cold! Ready to shoot anytime, Captain!” He repeats the same formula over and over, a veteran of too many patrols to say what he really means, which would be more on the order of, “Let’s go, Captain! What are we waiting for?”
But Fyfe refuses to be hurried. He’s worked too long for this moment, and he has already missed once, possibly because of a little haste in firing. Carefully he takes a bridge bearing and has it matched into the TDC, swings the TBT and takes another, to make sure there is no transmission lag which might cause an error. Then, for the first time using the word, he says, in a curious flat voice, “Fire torpedoes!”
“Fire one!” Sprinkle’s voice is a split second behind that of his skipper.
Almost immediately the telephone talker standing under the conning tower hatch shouts loudly, so that his message is heard in the conning tower as well as on the bridge:
“Number one did not eject! Running hot in the tube!”
Something has gone wrong. The torpedo should have been pushed out of the torpedo tube by the high-pressure air ejection system. Instead, it has stuck in the tube, and the torpedo men forward can hear it running in the tube. This is critical, for it will be armed within a matter of seconds, and then almost anything could set it off. Besides, the motor is over speeding in the tube, and it could conceivably break up under the strain and vibration—which might itself produce sufficient shock to cause an explosion.
But there isn’t time to think much about possibilities. The skipper’s reaction is instant. “Tubes forward, try again, by hand. Use full ejection pressure!” Full pressure is used only when firing at deep submergence, but this is an emergency.
The next command is for Clark Sprinkle in the conning tower. “Check fire!” Fyfe is not going to let the Jap get away while he waits for the casualty to be straightened out, but neither does he want the faulty torpedo to be ejected at the same time as a good one, and possibly interfere with it. If it does not eject on the second try, he will shoot the remaining tubes, and then return to the balky one.
“Number one tube fired by hand. Tube is clear!” The very welcome report is received after a few anxious seconds with a profound sense of relief. Only half a dozen seconds have been lost, altogether, and the situation is still good for the remaining fish.
“Resume fire, Clark!” But the exec has not needed that command. Number two torpedo is already on its way, followed a few seconds later by number three. Torpedoes number four, five, and six are held in reserve in case the first salvo misses.
Because these are wakeless electric torpedoes, Jake Fyfe, on the bridge, does not have the pencil-like wakes of steam and air to mark where they have gone. There is a slight disturbance of the surface of the water to show the direction they took, but that is all. Seven pairs of binoculars are glued to the Jap’s low, lumbering silhouette and his odd-shaped bridge.
Down in the conning tower, the radar operator and the exec are staring at their screen, where the blip which is the target is showing up strongly and steadily, showing radar emanations still at the same uninterrupted interval. Suddenly, however, the radar waves become steady, as though the enemy operator had steadied his radar on a just-noticed blip, possibly to investigate it.
“I think he’s detected us, sir!” whispers Radar. “See—it’s steadied on us!”
Sprinkle has also seen. Eyes fixed on the cathode tube face he reaches for the portable mike to tell the skipper about this new development, when he drops it again. Before his eyes the blip has suddenly, astoundingly, grown much larger. It is now nearly twice the size it had been an instant before. Small flashes of light can be seen on the screen, going away from the out sized pip and disappearing. Then, swiftly, the pip reduces in size and disappears entirely. Nothing is left on the scope whatsoever.
At this moment a jubilant shout from the bridge can be heard. “We got him! We got him! He blew up and sank!” Sprinkle mops his brow.
The watchers on Batfish’s bridge had hardly expected anything quite so dramatic as what they saw. One torpedo had evidently reached the target, and must have hit into a magazine or possibly into a tank carrying gasoline. The Nip sub had simply exploded, with a brilliant red-and-yellow flame which shot high into the night sky, furiously outlined against the somber, sober grayness. And as quickly as the flame reached its zenith, it disappeared, as 2, 500 tons of broken twisted Japanese steel plunged like a rock to the bottom of the ocean.
There was nothing left for torpedo number three—following a few seconds behind number two—to hit, and it passed over the spot where the enemy ship had been.
Batfish immediately proceeded to the spot where the sub had sunk, hoping to pick up a survivor or two, but the effort was needless. Undoubtedly all hands had been either killed instantly by the terrific explosion or carried down in the ship. There had been absolutely no chance for anyone not already topside to get out. All Jake Fyfe could find was a large oil slick extending more than two miles in all directions from the spot where the enemy had last been seen.
Strangely—delighted and happy though he was over his success in destroying the enemy sub—the American skipper felt a few twinges of a peculiar emotion. This was very much like shooting your own kind, despite the proven viciousness and brutality exhibited by some of the enemy—and but for the superiority of his crew and equipment, the victim might have been Batfish instead of HIJMS-I-41.
The final attack on the Jap sub had been made at exactly two minutes after midnight on the morning of February 10. Then, an hour or so after sunset on the eleventh, at 1915—
“Captain to the conn!” The skipper is up there in an instant.
The radar operator points to his radar scope. “There’s another Jap sub, Captain!”
Sure enough, there, if you watch closely, is the same tiny disturbance which alerted Batfish two nights ago. This time there is less doubt as to what action to take. The same tactics which were heralded with such signal success on the first occasion are immediately placed into effect. The crew is called to battle stations, the tracking parties manned, and all is made ready for a warm reception. The radar party is cautioned—unnecessary precaution—to keep that piece of gear tamed off except when a range and bearing are actually required.
If anything, it is even darker than it was the first night. Having found how ineffective the Jap radar really is—or was it simply that the Jap watch standers were asleep?—Fyfe determines to make the same kind of attack as before.
The situation develops exactly as it did before, except that this submarine is heading southeast instead of northeast. At 1, 800 yards he is sighted from the bridge of the American submarine. He is making only 7 knots, somewhat slower than the other, and it takes him a little longer to reach the firing bearing. Finally everything is just about set. Sprinkle has made the “ready to shoot” report, and Fyfe will let them go in a moment, as soon as the track improves a bit and the range decreases to the optimum. About one minute to go—it won’t be long now, chappy.
“Hello, he’s dived! He dived right on the fire bearing!” Where there had been an enemy submarine, there was now only the rolling undulation of the sea. Nothing to do now but get out of there. Batfish must have waited too long and been detected. The Jap was keeping a slightly better watch than Fyfe had given him credit for, and now Batfish is being hunted. Just as quickly as that the whole situation has changed. With an enemy submarine known to be submerged within half a mile of you, there is only one of two things to do. Dive yourself, or beat it.
If you dive, you more or less give up the problem, and concentrate on hiding, which many skippers probably would have done. If you run away on the surface, however, there is a slight chance that he’ll come back up, and you’ll have another shot at him. Jake Fyfe is a stubborn man, and he doesn’t give up easily: he discards the idea of diving. “Left full rudder!” he orders instead. His first object is to get away, and his second is to stay in action. Maybe the Jap will assume that he has continued running—which is precisely what Jake hopes he will do.
“All ahead flank!”
The Jap was on a southeasterly course before he dived. Knowing that his periscope must be up and watching his every move, Fyfe orders a northerly course, and Batfish roars away from the spot, steadying on a course slightly west of north. Three miles Fyfe lets her run, until he is reasonably sure to be beyond sonar as well as visual range. Then he alters course to the left, and within a short time arrives at a position southwest of the position at which the Jap sub dived.
In the conning tower, at the plotting station, and on the bridge there is some rapid and careful figuring going on. “Give the son of a bitch four knots,” mutters Sprinkle to himself. “That puts him on this circle. Give him six knots, and he’s here. Give him eight knots—oh, t’hell with eight knots!” Clark Sprinkle’s exasperation is almost comical as he grips his pencil in sweaty stubby fingers and tries to decide what he’d do if he were a Jap.
The point is that Batfish wants to arrive at some point where she will be assured of getting a moderately long-range radar contact the instant the Nip surfaces, in a position to be able to do something about it. But don’t let her spot us through the periscope, or wind up near enough for her to torpedo us while still submerged. This is where the stuff you learned in school really pays off, brother.
Naturally, Batfish cannot afford to remain overly long in the vicinity. Every extra minute she spends there increases by that much the diameter of the circle upon which the enemy may be; and even at that very moment he may be making a periscope approach—while she hangs around and makes it easy for him. But Fyfe has no intentions of making it any easier than he can help. Once he has put his ship in what he has calculated to be a logical spot to await developments, he slows down to one-third speed—about 4 knots. Then he orders the sound heads rigged out. With his stern toward the direction from which the enemy submarine would have to come, were he making an attack, and making 4 knots away from there, Batfish is forcing the Jap to make high submerged speed in order to catch her; she is banking on detecting him by sound before he can get close enough to shoot, or on detecting the torpedo itself if a long-range shot is fired.
Twenty minutes pass. Fyfe cannot guess how long the Nip sub will stay down, but his game is to outwit him. If his initial gambit of running away to the northward has fooled him, he’ll probably show within an hour after diving. The sound men listen with silent intensity, their headphones glued to their heads. The radar operator scrutinizes his scope with equal urgency. It would not do to miss any indication.
Suddenly, both sound operators look up at the same time. The senior one speaks for both. “Mr. Sprinkle! There’s a noise, bearing zero one five!”
Clark is there in an instant. “What’s it like?” He flips on the loudspeaker switch.
Clearly, a rushing sound can be heard, a sort of powerful swishing sound. It changes somewhat in intensity and tone, then suddenly stops. Like a flash the exec grabs the portable mike. “Captain,” he bellows to the bridge. “He’s blown his tanks, bearing zero one five. He’ll be up directly!”
The blast from the bridge speaker nearly blows everyone off the bridge, for Sprinkle has a powerful voice. All binoculars are immediately turned to the bearing given. But the black night conceals its secrets well. Nothing can be seen.
The bridge speaker blares again. “Radar contact, zero one eight. That’s him all right!”
Apparently convinced that all is clear, the Japanese submarine has surfaced, and is evidently going to continue on his way. Batfish is to get another chance. Whether the target saw them, or thought he saw them; heard them, or thought he did; detected them on radar, or simply made a routine night dive, will never be known. One thing Jake is definite on, however: He will get no chance to detect Batfish this time.
Once again Batfish goes through all the intricate details of the night surface approach—with one big difference. The skipper is not going to go in on the surface. The Jap detected him the last time. He’s got more strings to his bow than that.
The Jap has speeded up and changed course slightly. Batfish again seeks a position in front of him, and when the range and distance to the track are to Fyfe’s liking, Batfish dives—but not entirely. Since the radar antennae are normally on top of the highest fixed structure of the ship, it follows that they are the last things to go under when a submarine dives. All Fyfe had done was dive his ship so that these vital antennae were still out of water, although nearly all the rest of the submarine is beneath the surface. This is a good trick; that Batfish had been able to do it so neatly is a tribute to the state of training and competence of her crew. With her radar antennae dry and out of water, they still function as well as when she was fully surfaced, and the dope continues to feed into the fire-control gear, even though not a thing can be seen through the periscope.
And of course the Jap, probably alerted and nervous—maybe he has heard of the failure of one of his brother subs to get through this same area two nights ago—has no target to see or detect by radar, unless you consider a few little odd-shaped pieces of pipe a target.
So on he comes, making 12 knots now, fairly confident that he has managed to avoid the sub which had stalked him a couple of hours ago. He doesn’t even notice or pay any attention to the curious structure in the water a few hundred yards off his starboard beam—for Jake Fyfe has resolved to get as close as possible—and four deadly fish streak his way out of the dark night.
Mercifully, most of the Nip crew probably never knew what hit them. The first torpedo detonated amidships with a thunderous explosion, virtually blowing the ill-fated ship apart. As the two halves each upended and commenced to sink swiftly amid horrible gurgles of water and foaming of released air and fuel oil, the second and third torpedoes also struck home. Their explosions were slightly mu?ed, however, as though they might have struck some stray piece of metal and gone off mostly in water; but they served to increase the probability that none of the enemy crew had survived the initial attack.
Three minutes later Fyfe logged two more blasts from deep beneath his ship, evidently some kind of internal explosions in the broken hulk of the sinking submarine. Eight minutes later one terrifically loud explosion rocked Bat-fish. First thought to be an aircraft bomb, the explosion was finally put down to part of the swan song of the Nipponese tub. All during this period, and for some time later, Sound heard the usual noises of a sinking submarine—mainly small internal explosions and escaping air.
This time Jake Fyfe was prevented from trying to rescue any of the possible survivors of the catastrophe by the presence of a plane, which was detected just as Batfish was getting ready to surface. It is highly doubtful, however, that there could have been any survivors, in view of the triple-barreled blow the submarine had received.
Shortly after midnight, some twenty-four hours later, one of the more irrepressible members of Batfish’s crew was heard to mutter, “What, again? Ho hum; here we lose another night’s sleep playing tag with these slant-eyed submarines!” —as Captain Jake Fyfe rushed past en route to the conning tower.
For the third time in four days the radar operator has called his skipper—unfortunately the patrol reports of our submarines do not usually list the names of the crew, nor their stations—it would be interesting to know whether the same man spotted the enemy each time. From the times of the three contacts, however, 2210, 1915, and 0155, it would appear that one contact was made by each of the three watch sections, and that therefore the three men standing the radar watches each can lay claim to one Nip sub.
Naturally, the particular peculiarity in the appearance of the radar scope which had first served to alert Batfish had been carefully explained to all radar watchers, and they all knew what to look for. In this case, as in the last, the operator simply pointed to his scope and stated flatly, “There’s another one of those Jap subs, Captain!”
One look at the screen, and Jake Fyfe raps out the command to sound the general alarm.
This time Fyfe himself gets on the ship’s interior announcing system. “It looks like another Nip submarine, boys,” be says. “We ought to be written right into their operation orders by this time. Let’s see if we can’t help him along the same road as the other two!”
Fyfe and his tracking party are pretty fine hands by this time, and it only takes a short while before the Jap is picked up for sure on the radar; and his course and speed are known. The United States submariners are fairly certain he will be on either the northerly course of the first sub or the southeasterly one of the second. It proves to be the latter—course one two zero, speed 7. Batfish heads to intercept, playing it cagily, as always, but a little more self-confident this time. Somehow these Japs don’t seem to have as good equipment as our own—we can thank the home front for that—and they surely are not using what they have to the best advantage—for which we can thank them. And we will—in our own unique fashion.
But with the range still quite long, and before Batfish is able to get into attack position, the Japanese sub dives. Just why he does, no one knows. Possibly he detected an aircraft, or thought he did—although Batfish sees no planes on her radar—or perhaps he got a momentary contact on Batfish through some unexplained vagary of his radar equipment. The most probable explanation is that he has heard of the failure of two other boats to get through this particular stretch, and is attempting to make pursuit more difficult by diving occasionally.
But Jake Fyfe has the answer for this one cold. Last night qualified him in its implementation. He heads, despite this new development, to the spot originally selected for attack position. Then, instead of diving, he proceeds down the track at 4 knots, sound gear rigged out, radar sweeping steadily and deliberately, lookouts alerted and tensely watching.
Half an hour after the Jap dived, Batfish’s radar once again picks up the faint, shimmering emanations of the Nip radar. He’s back up again, though this time no blowing of tanks has been heard. Fyfe, Sprinkle, and the tracking party start the same old approach game.
The first thing to do is to get actual radar contact; this wobble in the scope is no good for tracking, even though it does give a vague indication of the enemy’s bearing. So Batfish heads for the source of what her radar operators now term the “wobbly,” expecting to get contact momentarily. Several thousand yards are covered in this manner, with no result, except that the wobbly is getting stronger. Fyfe and his exec become worried over this development. They know the Jap is surfaced—or can he have thought of the same dodge they themselves used only last night? Suppose the Jap is even then in the process of making the same type of approach on Batfish! An unpleasant thought to entertain. The lookouts redouble their vigilance, especially directing their search at the water surface within half a mile around them. At the skipper’s order everything else in the ship is subordinated to the sound watch. Fans and blowers are secured. Unnecessary gear throughout the ship is turned off. Most important, the diesel engines are secured and propulsion shifted to the battery. Silently, eerily, Batfish glides through the water, peering and listening for the telltale swoosh of a torpedo coming at her. If the Jap is very smart indeed, he will silence also, and will get so close before shooting that Batfish will not have a chance of avoiding the torpedoes, even though she might actually hear them on the way.
The lapping of the water alongside is excruciatingly loud in the unnatural stillness. The very air seems stifling and oppressive on the bridge, as it most certainly is down below, with all blowers turned off. Your breath seems to stop, and your heart beats with a mu?ed thump. The tiny blower motor in the radar gear whines insistently in the conning tower; impossible to shut it down because it keeps the radar tubes from overheating. Sprinkle makes a mental note to have it pulled out and overhauled at the first opportunity. Down below everyone talks in whispers, not that whispering could do any good, but in tacit recognition of the deadly desperateness of the situation. The Jap sub, submerged, possibly making an approach, and themselves still on the surface!
The basic problem, of course, is to compute how far the Jap sub can travel toward them, assuming his most probable course and speed for the time since he dived, and then to stay at least that distance, plus a little to be on the safe side, away from the spot where he submerged. Fyfe, straining for that elusive radar contact which his reasoned deductions say should come soon, allows Batfish to go as far as he dares before reversing course again. Just as he gives the order, someone in one of the engine rooms drops a wrench on the steel deck. The sharp noise is carried up the silent main induction pipe and hits the tensely waiting and watching bridge with a shock. All hands are visibly startled, and one lookout almost drops his binoculars. The skipper half opens his mouth, then shuts it again. It wouldn’t do to show exasperation atthis point.
And then, finally, with Batfish still swinging to her hard over rudder, it comes at last. “Radar contact, bearing three three six!” Fyfe’s judgment and nerve have been vindicated again. The Jap was probably just being cagey himself, and had no knowledge of the presence of the United States submarine.
It happens that there are only two torpedoes left forward in Batfish, which really does not matter much since she is due shortly to depart station en route to Pearl Harbor. But it must be admitted that no one expected to run into three nearly identical situations like this—and until the third submarine was detected Fyfe had held no qualms whatever at being nearly dry forward. Now, however, a problem presents itself.
It is necessary to maneuver Batfish so that the Jap goes across her stern instead of her bow. Not too easy to do, since you have to be going away instead of toward the target. Fyfe plays his target slowly and carefully, somewhat like an expert fisherman campaigning against a crafty big one. The cast has been made, the fly has landed, the big fellow is nosing toward it, ready to head back for the deep water at the slightest suspicious sign.
This particular submarine has shown considerably more wariness than either of the other two. His peculiar actions on surfacing have proved him to be astute and careful, and Jake Fyfe is not the man to underrate his opponent. His recent scare is rather fresh in mind, and the ice is still mighty thin, measured as it is only in the superiority of United States equipment and alertness.
So Batfish tracks the target, gets his course and speed entirely by radar without ever having seen him, and finally submerges dead ahead of him, several miles away. Once again Fyfe uses the stunt of leaving his radar antennae out of water, so that the all-important information on the target’s movements will continue to be available to his fire-control party and the intricate instruments they operate. Only this time he keeps his stern toward the target and moves slowly away from him, turning as he does so, with the result that the doomed Jap passes directly across his stern at the desired range, and three torpedoes are on their way to meet him. This is really a deliberate shot.
It also is slightly longer in range than the two previous attacks, and there is a longer wait in Batfish’s conning tower after the fish are finally sent on their way.
The skipper is watching through the periscope. He can now clearly see the long, low shape of the enemy, his odd-shaped bridge, and his peculiar undulating deck line. He is not a bad-looking ship, Fyfe must admit to himself, and most of these big Jap boats are pretty fast—at least as fast as our own. Not much is known about how they handle under water, however, and, like all United States submariners, Fyfe will reserve his judgment on that score. Our experience with big boats is that you pay for size with submerged maneuverability, and that the well-established theory about efficiency varying with the size of the vessel does not apply to submarines. The Nip is painted black, which makes him just a little easier to see against the gray night, and on the side of his bridge can quite plainly be seen a white rectangle with a dark disk in the center.
On he comes, ominous and a bit pathetic, entirely unaware of the three messengers of doom speeding his way. Fyfe, in the meantime, is a bit anxious. Without taking his eyes from the periscope, he calls out, “How long since the first one?”
Clark Sprinkle answers obliquely, “About fifteen seconds to go, Captain.”
“Fifteen seconds! Damn!”
But the torpedoes run true and as intended, and Fyfe’s impatience finally is brought to an end. “A hit!” he shouts. “A beautiful hit!” And so it is: a single hit which produces a brilliant orange explosion right in the center of the stricken ship.
Simultaneously, a wide diffusion of pips is noted on the radar screen, indicating that the target has blown apart. Then all the pips die away. The whole catastrophe has been silent; no sound whatsoever has reached the eager listeners in Batfish. A moment later, however, the noise of the explosion with its terrifying aftermath crackles over the sound gear into the headsets of the operators, and, indeed, comes right through the pressure hull, so that no man in the crew need have it described to him.
The loud WHAM of the warhead going off is followed instantly, and almost as though it were a single explosion, by a much louder and more prolonged WHRROOOM. This undoubtedly must be the enemy’s magazines going up—and there exists a strong probability that he is carrying an extra-heavy load, possibly intended for the beleaguered Japs in the Philippines.
One of the three stopwatches is stopped with the first hit, and there is no doubt that this was the first torpedo, running the calculated range at exactly the calculated speed. But there are no further hits, despite the care with which the other fish had been launched on their way. This occasions no disappointment, however, since there is simply nothing left for the last two fish to hit.
As for Batfish, Jake Fyfe had her fully on the surface again within three minutes after the torpedo hit. Though he strongly doubted that there could possibly be any survivors of the terrific explosion he had witnessed, he was determined, as before, to give them a chance for their lives. It was nearly dawn, and no good came from use of the searchlight, which Fyfe had ordered turned on and played upon the water, so the decision was made to wait until daylight, in hopes that Jap planes patrolling the area would somehow not be immediately in evidence.
Parenthetically, one cannot help comparing Batfish’s repeated magnanimous attempts to succor the victims of her attacks with the treatment meted out in similar circumstances by the Japanese. There is one instance on record in which most of the crew of an American submarine were picked up by a Japanese destroyer; one man was injured, and was promptly thrown overboard. Another had swallowed so much salt water that he was retching heavily, and would also have gone overboard had he not fought clear of his saviors and joined the remainder of the group of survivors. In the case of Tang, the pitifully small number of survivors were mercilessly beaten and clubbed about the head and body. By contrast, Batfish deliberately exposed herself by turning on a searchlight to assist in locating survivors of her night’s handiwork, and then voluntarily remained on the surface in these enemy waters until long after daybreak, in hopes of possibly finding one or two. Since her position was well within enemy aircraft patrols, the unofficial rules by which most United States submarines guided their actions required that she be submerged during daylight.
Several of our submarines were enabled to rescue enemy survivors in some manner or other, after either they or someone else had torpedoed them. In more than one instance American sailors or officers had to go overboard after survivors and force them to accept their hospitality. In no case was such a prisoner badly treated after rescue; most of them gained weight during their sojourn on board, and were so well treated that instructions had finally to be issued to treat them with greater severity in order not to “spoil” them.
With the dawn Batfish sighted much oil, bits of wood and paper, debris of various kinds, all newly in the water and quite evidently from the sunken submarine. No Japanese were seen, however—dead or alive. It appeared that once again there was to be nothing tangible to reward Jake Fyfe for his brilliant achievement, but finally a small wooden box recovered from the water was found to contain the Jap navigator’s workbook and navigational instruments. Evidently he had just brought it topside, perhaps preparatory to taking a sight or two despite the not-too-favorable weather, but had not yet opened it.
Because the Japanese use Arabic numerals for navigational purposes, there was no difficulty in reading the workbook. Apparently the Jap departed Nagoya for Formosa, and had left there for Luzon—where he never arrived.
Batfish left her area for Guam three days later, and on February 21 she moored alongside the submarine tender Apollo in Apra Harbor, Guam.
To say that Jake Fyfe was received with open arms by the submarine brethren is putting it mildly. Though no public announcement of his magnificent feat could be made, owing to the well-laid policy of cloaking our submarine activities in anonymity, it instantly became known and broadcast throughout the submarine force. Here was another patrol nearly on a par with Sam Dealey’s famous five-destroyers cruise. Here was additional proof that the spirit of the submarine force, so beautifully exemplified by Dealey and O’Kane and Morton, was still going strong, and that those who came after had not lost the touch of their predecessors.
There was, however, an even more important and far-reaching effect. To a nation like the United States, with its far-flung merchant marine, the submarine is perhaps the greatest menace to successful prosecution of war. That is to say, if and when we should get into another war our backs will immediately be up against the wall if the powers arrayed against us have a powerful submarine force. Witness what the Germans did to Great Britain in two world wars, and to us in World War II. In both instances the Allies won, but only by the narrowest of margins.
However, born of the imminence of defeat, a new type of submarine was developed in the closing days of World War II by the Germans. True, they did not invent anything extraordinary, but they put together several known but unused ideas to develop the high-speed snorkel submarine, and it may safely be said that this vessel has revolutionized previous concepts of antisubmarine warfare. It is virtually immune to the counter measures we used so successfully against German and Japanese submersibles, and its efficiency in attack is trebled.
Fortunately, our military leaders have not neglected the challenge laid down by the fast submarine. A tremendous amount of thought has gone into the problem of how to get enemy subs before they can wreak their threatened damage upon our commerce—our lifeblood, so to speak. And every time the discussion in the halls of the Navy Department or the Pentagon—or even in the White House—has waxed long and earnestly, someone is sure to come up with a reference to Jake Fyfe and the fact that Batfish sank three enemy submarines within the space of four days with no damage and very little danger to herself. Why not set a submarine to kill a submarine?
The idea has grown until now, seven years after Fyfe’s exploit, something is being done about it. It is obvious that the submarine will enjoy, in relation to another submersible, those same advantages which all subs always have had. That is, surprise, the ability of concealment, and so on. With one difference:Since the hunt is to take place in the natural environment of the submarine, either one may become the hunter and either the hunted. Prior detection will assume much greater importance than ever before—if that is possible. There is no question but that it will still be a nerve-racking occupation.