by Claude C. Connor
Of all the authors in this volume, the one that seems to have sunk into obscurity the most is Claude C. Connor. My research found very little on him, save that he served during four patrols on the USS Guardfish, the submarine that was responsible for a terrible friendly-fire accident (which is hinted at in the title) when it torpedoed and sank the USS Extractor while on patrol. This book was critically acclaimed when it was first published, winning raves by authors such as Clay Blair, author of Silent Victory and Hitler’s U-BoatWar. (His quote about the book: “I can attest to the authenticity and soundness of Claude Connor’s Nothing Friendly in the Vicinity. It is an excellent firsthand account of the Pacific submarine war, and I heartily recommend it.” High praise indeed.) There is no evidence that Mr. Connor wrote anything else during the rest of his life, but it is very possible that with the publication of this memoir, he’d said everything he had to say about his war time experiences.
By 1943, the Allies had borrowed a few tactics from the enemy, and the submarine “wolf pack” was one of them. Connor takes us on patrol from resupplying at a still-battered and rebuilding Pearl Harbor to stalking convoys off the Philippines, and does it all with deceptive ease. His accounts of everyday life aboard a submarine are as engrossing as the tense minutes of a depth-charge attack, and equally informative for both.
We wound our way through the entrance to Pearl Harbor about noon on June 1, seven days after leaving San Francisco. The devastation from the surprise December 7, 1941, attack was still visible more than two years after it was delivered. Everywhere I looked, twisted hulks of warships protruded from the water. I admit seeing the wreckage in that matter was rather unnerving.
There was no visible damage at the Submarine Base. Fresh supplies poured aboard Guardfish for the first four days following our arrival, including food, fuel, fresh water, deck gun ammunition, and torpedoes. The flurry of activities impressed me; there were men scurrying everywhere. An officer with a clipboard in hand documented food storage locations, as his team stuffed packaged and canned items into every nook and cranny, into every pigeonhole throughout the boat. Base personnel, with their fuel and water tanker-trucks on the dock, draped large hoses over to the boat. The main deck was covered with those snake-like hoses and the smell of diesel fuel was everywhere. Another loading crew carried live ammunition by hand across the deck to topside watertight lockers and down the after-battery hatch into the ship’s magazine.
Torpedo loading was the most impressive of all. Transfixed on the pier, I watched as the crane lifted a torpedo from a carrier vehicle on the dock and swung it into the air over Guardfish. The 2,000-pound underwater missile had a warhead containing 600 pounds of high explosive. The crane operator slowly lowered the fish toward the submarine’s main deck, as a torpedoman guided it down onto the sloping skids that led through the loading hatch. For the torpedo crews, loading twenty-four torpedoes into the boat was a time consuming, backbreaking, nerve-racking job.
We faced ten days of sea trials and training before Guardfish left for her eighth war patrol, so there was no time for liberties. Everything was strictly business. Well, almost everything. The pending reentry into the war arena by such a famous submarine as Guardfish did not go unnoticed in the social circles of Pearl Harbor. A couple of days before our departure, the entire ship’s company received an invitation to a party to be held in our honor.
The gathering took place in a large white Colonial mansion on a hill overlooking the harbor. It was a glittering gala with officers in their dress whites and ladies in their jeweled finery dancing and toasting and eating. I felt completely out of my element and I don’t think I was the only enlisted man who felt that way. However, this celebration was an indication of the democratization that was infiltrating the navy, albeit little by little.
Our departure day, June 14, 1944, finally arrived. Shortly after we reached the open sea, the captain told us over the speaker system that our patrol area was to be north and west of the Philippine Islands, from the Straits of Luzon into the South China Sea. He also announced that our mission was “unrestricted warfare against the enemy.” We were to be part of a coordinated attack group, or “wolf pack” (as similar German operations in the Atlantic were known), with United States submarines Thresher, Piranha, and Apogon. The commander of the group’s operations, Captain William Vincent O’Regan, was aboard Guardfish. O’Regan’s nickname was “Mickey,” so he named his wolf pack “Mickey Finns.” Our patrol area was the eastern sector of “Convoy College,” bounded by the coasts of northern Luzon, southern Formosa (Taiwan), and China.
Four days after leaving Pearl we made an eight-hour refueling stop at those small mounds of coral sand known as Midway Islands. A number of submarines and other vessels went aground on the reefs adjacent to Sand Island’s very narrow channel, and the wreckage served to remind skippers of the danger of entry. In addition to the remains of vessels, the islands of Midway were a home for thousands of “Gooney Birds,” large, seagoing albatrosses that patrol much of the Pacific Ocean.
We left Midway and resumed our westward voyage toward our patrol area, staying on the surface most of the time. We were in company with the other submarines, though we rarely saw them. The nearest boats were usually over the horizon, but we occasionally picked up their radar indications. After finishing our watch, those of us in the conning tower often got permission, one at a time, to go topside for a quick smoke on the cigarette deck. The weather, sea, and sky were beautiful. A couple of Midway’s “Gooney Birds” flew behind us for days. Flying fish and porpoises were our constant companions. It was a beautiful, and often breathtaking, scene.
The war front was no longer around the Solomon Islands. American forces had captured the Gilbert and Marshall Islands during and after Guard-fish’s seventh war patrol. The fighting for control of New Guinea by Allied forces began during the boat’s overhaul in San Francisco and continued during the entire eighth run. The American invasion of Saipan, the first island in the strategically important Marianas group, began as Guardfish set out on patrol number eight. The critically important island chain was only 1,500 miles east of the Japanese-controlled Philippines, and 1,400 miles south of Tokyo, Japan. Violent land, sea, and air battles for control of Saipan were in full swing as we passed about 800 miles north, on our way to “Convoy College.” It was only then that we got our first inkling that a war was in progress.
Twice on June 28 we were attacked by planes, each of which forced us to dive to escape destruction. The second plane triggered our IFF transponder several times as it made a bombing run on us, which indicated that the aircraft was a friendly plane checking us out. Nevertheless, it continued its hostile approach as our boat labored to get under the water.
The boat’s slow submergence probably had something to do with a sticking vent valve on one of the ballast tanks, but the captain was not certain. He made a submerged periscopic examination of the boat’s topside to see if he could spot anything else. I remember hearing him comment to the officer of the deck, in a matter-of-fact voice, “There are air leaks all over the place.” I did not realize the seriousness of the situation at the time.
Our lives changed radically just four days later when we reached our patrol area. Each morning at dawn we submerged as normal, not merely for a trim dive but to stay down all day. A pall of quiet slumber fell over the boat. The deck was motionless, and all we heard was the quiet background hum of electric motors and muted speech. We manned the underwater sound equipment continuously, both submerged and on the surface. Our submerged patrol depth was usually around 100 to 120 feet. Every fifteen minutes the officer of the deck in the conning tower called down the hatch to the diving officer to have him bring the boat to periscope depth. When we reached 60 feet, the officer of the deck raised the search periscope, made a quick spin around to look for airplanes, then slowly and methodically scanned the horizon for smoke from enemy ships. After he was satisfied that all was clear, we returned to 120 feet.
Wolf pack leader O’Regan’s instructions called for all boats in the pack to listen for coded radio transmissions from the others during the first few minutes of each hour. We did that by sticking our periscopic SD radar masts out of the water with our radio communication equipment connected to the mast, using it as a radio antenna. Thus, any of the boats could report enemy contacts to the others even though we were all submerged.
The Straits between the northern tip of Luzon and the southern end are relatively shallow and filled with small islands. There are two major east-west deep water channels between those islands. Bashi Channel, the northernmost one, was our first patrol assignment. The boats in the pack, spaced about twenty miles apart, patrolled below surface, north and south, across the channel. Guardfish spent the Fourth of July dodging twenty fishing sampans. O’Regan did not want to reveal the presence of a pack of American submarines, so the pack skippers were ordered to avoid contact with and not attack the sampans.
Very early the next morning our sound operator picked up sonar pinging from our first ship contact, an anti-submarine patrol boat. Our radar detected her forty minutes later at a range of about six miles. We tracked and avoided her for a couple of hours. Then, after we submerged at dawn, we changed course and headed for the nearby southern tip of Formosa. Nevertheless, the patrol boat’s pinging stayed with us. We heard distant, mysterious underwater explosions shortly before I came on watch at 8:00 a.m.
My radioman friend Anthony (Tony) Ubriaco relieved me at the end of my watch on the sonar, and I moved to the stool at the inactive SJ radar. As the officer of the deck, Lieutenant Donald C. Bowman raised the periscope to make an observation. At that moment an earsplitting, bone-rattling explosion rocked our starboard side. Another explosion followed immediately on our port side. The source of the explosions became quickly apparent: An unseen airplane had straddled us with bombs.
“Take her down, flood negative!” the officer of the deck shouted to the control room. “Rudder amidship, all ahead full!” he ordered the helmsman.
“Rudder’s amidship, all answered ahead full, sir,” came the reply.
“Make the depth two hundred feet. Check for damage,” Bowman ordered.
The bow and stern plane operators in the control room had their planes at full dive. Normally, full speed would take us to about seven knots, submerged, but not this time. Our stern probably broke out of the water because the boat took on a steep downward angle and we were slow to get down. I had to hold on to the radar cabinet and brace my feet against the inclined deck. Seconds after the explosions I looked down and saw Captain Ward climbing into the conning tower through the lower hatch. He surprised me when he laughed and had a big grin on his face as he spoke to Lieutenant Bowman. “Those SOBs caught me in the head. I stumbled and hopped my way into the control room trying to pull my pants up.” A third bomb exploded overhead as we went down, but it was not as close as the first two.
The captain took the conn and had us reverse course to evade the attacking airplane. A short while later I heard him lecture the diving officer about broaching the stern, which caused us to lose propulsion during submergence. After a couple of hours at 200 feet, we went up to periscope depth and found the sky clear. The captain left the conning tower and the officer of the deck resumed normal patrol duties.
After finishing my turn on the sound gear, I was back at the inactive radar, killing time. When I remembered that I had not finished filling out my radar maintenance log, I asked the officer of the deck for permission to go down to the radio shack to complete it. I promised to come right back to take over the sound watch at the appropriate time. When he agreed, I climbed down to the control room, walked aft to the shack, and sat down at the ECM. The seat that we used was the metal spare-parts box for the SJ radar. It had a thick, green cushion on top. I sat there, straddling the box with the logbook and pencil in my hands. Suddenly, I heard another bomb splitting through the water directly overhead: swishshshshsh… BOOM! The boat rolled violently, almost throwing me off the box. The sharp vibration from the depth charge caused the hull, piping, and bulkheads to crash together loudly for several seconds before merging into discordant musical tones. Cork particles from the hull coating showered the deck. My ears rang, my pulse raced, and I felt like running—but there was no place to hide. The airplane had found us again, even though we were 120 feet below the surface. For years I thought that the pilot must have seen us through the crystal clear water. It was not until recently, when I read the patrol report, that I realized he must have seen our track of leaking air bubbles Captain Ward had commented on several days earlier.
After hurriedly completing my logbook entries, I went back to the conning tower to take over the sound watch. Captain Ward was there and he had us going deeper. As we passed 230 feet, another bomb exploded, but it was far away and barely rocked the boat. Back at the sound gear, I had only been listening on the QB for a few minutes when I heard the rapid screws of a patrol boat. She was coming directly at us from the south, probably in response to a call from an airplane. I reported the sound contact to Captain Ward. He immediately ordered, “Sound battle stations.” The helmsman reached to his right and actuated the battle stations alarm contactor: bong, bong, bong… went the alarm, softly, seventeen times.
“Rig for depth charge,” the captain said calmly. “Rig for silent running.” He also called down the hatch to the diving officer, “Close all vents.” Closing the vents prevented air that was leaking into our ballast tanks from marking our location on the surface.
Brink Brinkley, whose battle station was QB/QC sound gear, quickly relieved me and I ran to the forward torpedo room. My station was with the torpedo reloading crew—about which I knew absolutely nothing. I sat on one of the torpedo racks and watched Ojay across the room. He had the JP sound operator station at the after end, starboard side of the room, regularly reporting the patrol boat’s bearing over the chest-mounted battle telephone hanging around his neck. After noting the bearing, he cranked the sound head 360 degrees to look for other possible targets. When he got back to the patrol boat, he again reported her bearing, then continued his search. Operating on silent running (with fans and air conditioning off) was really stifling. Ojay stripped his clothes off down to his undershorts. Cranking the sound head was a strenuous job and rivulets of sweat poured off him, soaking his shorts.
Eight minutes after we detected the patrol boat, the first depth charge exploded far astern. First we heard a “thud,” as if someone outside hit the hull with a ten-pound sledge hammer (not a “click,” as is often heard in the movies), followed a few seconds later by the explosion. Then we heard swishing and gurgling sounds, as water rushed through the superstructure supporting the boat’s main deck. The time interval between the “thud” and the explosion, swishes, and gurgles became shorter and shorter as the depth charges got closer: Thud…. boom! Thud… boom! Thud.. boom! Thud-BOOM! I quickly learned that if no thud was heard, the depth charge was disastrously close to the boat. As the explosions became more violent, the ship’s piping and other structures vibrated and clattered together for several seconds. No submarine movie I have seen has accurately protrayed the cacophonous racket brought about by a depth charge explosion.
The patrol boat stalking us dropped thirteen charges over a three-or four-minute period. Luckily, none of them was close enough to cause serious physical damage, but the strain on the nerves was real enough. Eventually the patrol boat left, but we stayed deep for the rest of the day. The damage control party found that either the aerial bomb or the deep dive had caused some flooding of several electrical circuits leading up to the bridge. One of the boat’s three air banks was found to be leaking. Damage Control spent the following day attempting repairs, and ended up bleeding all the air out of the damaged air bank, thereby preventing its use to surface the boat for the rest of the patrol.
The next five days were relatively uneventful. All I could think of was the oppressive heat and humidity in the conning tower while we were on the surface at night. I discovered why they called an experienced sailor an “old salt.” The salt-laden air caused salt crystals to encrust on my bare neck, back, arms, and chest. Boy, did I long for my weekly shower. The monotony was broken one day by a couple of enemy aircraft. One of them closed for an attack and forced us to make a quick dive to safety. We found out much later that the ferocious battle for American control of Saipan successfully came to an end that week.
One of the submarines in our patrol group broke radio silence on July 11 at 10:41 p.m., waking the Mickey Finns from almost a week-long slumber. Thresher, the westward boat, had made a radar contact twelve miles west of her position, as the pack was in the process of moving on the surface to new hunting grounds about ninety miles to the south. The target was soon determined to be a convoy of nine large ships steaming in three columns. It was surrounded by five escort vessels. Guardfish changed course and went to full speed on four main engines to assist Thresher. We picked up the convoy on our radar at a range of about fifteen miles. Our fire-control party tracked the convoy on radar while we tried to get into an attack position on the port side of the Japanese ships. Visual contact was made around midnight, when our starboard lookout spotted the convoy ahead of us in the bright moonlight.
Captain O’Regan, the commander of the group’s operations and stationed aboard Guardfish, was pleased with the way the situation was developing. “The attack doctrine at this time was working beautifully,” he later explored in his report of the action. “The situation resolved itself into this: The Thresher was trailing astern and reporting movements of convoy. The Apogon was working up the starboard flank and the Guardfish the port flank. The Piranha was kept informed of the convoy’s movements and was closing from the northwest at four engine speed.”
O’Regan directed the Apogon to open the attack. At 2:30 a.m., she made a submerged radar approach (that is, with only her radar antenna out of the water). Shortly after 3:00 a.m., we heard ten sharp explosions. The blasts caused a ripple of speculation in Guardfish. Some of us thought that two of the explosions had been torpedoes, and the rest depth charges, while others were unsure of their origin. Guardfish, meanwhile, soon reached a position about nine miles ahead of the convoy, at which point we were ordered to battle stations and dived for a radar approach.
Fire-control party personnel packed the conning tower. Captain Ward was working the periscope, while Ensign Curtis, with red flashlight in hand, stood on the opposite side of the scope reading its bearings and operating the lifting motor. Lieutenant Schnepp was on the TDC at the after end (port side) of the room. Lawrence F. (Larry) Teder, the enlisted fire controlman, stood behind him as relief TDC operator, with his back to Brinkley, who sat at the sonar or the starboard side. The SJ radar operators, Chief Dudrey and Lieutenant Howarth, sat on the port side with their backs to the captain and Ensign Curts. The executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Alexander K. Tyree, was there as well, as a backup for the captain. Two enlisted men manned the ship’s log and helm positions. I was a relief radar operator, but since I had no deck to stand on, I straddled the lip of the lower hatch—and waited.
The dark room glowed softly with a low intensity red lighting. The two radar screens illuminated the faces of the operators with an eerie radiance: green light from the A-scope, yellow from the PPI. We were tracking the leading ship in the convoy, trying to obtain firing solutions on the TDC. It wasn’t working, however, because we were too far away. Closing the distance meant we had to get past the convoy’s two forward escorts without being detected by their sonar. It was a dangerous proposition because of the bright moon, and Captain Ward was concerned the enemy lookouts might see our radar antenna and the sizable phosphorescent wake stirred up by it and our periscope shears. Instead, he decided to go deep to avoid the escorts.
“Make the depth one hundred feet,” Ward said.
“One hundred feet, aye.”
“Right full rudder, steady on course zero one six.”
“Zero one six, aye.”
“All ahead one-third.”
“All answered ahead one-third, sir.”
“Q33 sound, keep a sharp watch,” Ward intoned coolly. “Tell me if either escort switches to short-scale pinging [which indicates that the enemy may have a sonar contact at short range]. Keep the escort bearings coming to me. Tell JP sound to maintain a continuous 360-degree search.”
We were barely creeping through the water at about two and a half knots, but the convoy’s closing speed was nearly thirteen knots. We all held our breath while the first escort passed down our starboard side to the east of us. One down and one to go.
“QB, now give me continuous bearings to the escort on the port side,” Ward ordered.
Ward’s gamble paid off. After we passed the second escort undetected, the captain resumed the submerged radar attack.
“Make the depth sixty feet.”
“Make ready all bow tubes.”
“Up scope.”
“Plane up to forty-two feet.”
“All ahead two-thirds.”
“We have ready lights on all bow tubes, sir.”
“Radar, give me a range to the nearest ship in the convoy.”
“3,800 yards, sir.”
“Stand by to mark the bearing,” said the captain, as he trained the periscope on the target. “Mark!” The tension mounted with each passing exchange.
“Three five nine.”
“TDC, how does that check out?”
“We’ve lost our solution light, Captain.”
“Very well, keep radar ranges coming.”
“Stand by to mark scope. Mark!”
“Zero zero two.”
“Captain, it looks like they’ve changed course.”
The convoy had made a radical course change to the southeast shortly before dawn. We went to standard speed (about six knots) and changed course, but submerged there was no way we could keep up. A short while later we secured from battle stations, surfaced in the dawning daylight, and fired up four main engines. Although we gave it everything we had and tried to again overtake the convoy as it steamed westward toward the Babuyan Channel, our effort was to no avail. By this time the convoy was covered by air as well as naval escorts. On six separate occasions we were driven down by Japanese airplanes, and we lost contact with the ships. The disappointment in the conning tower was palpable.
The probable course of the enemy ships was plotted as we traveled on the surface, over the horizon from the convoy, until dead reckoning placed us ahead of it. The captain repeatedly sent messages to the engine room to reduce the smoke produced by our diesel engines so we would not give away our position. In the early afternoon we turned back for what we hoped would be an intercept course—but the ships were not there. We discontinued the search at 6:30 p.m., July 12, reversed course, and resumed the voyage to our new patrol area. Piranha and Thresher reported by radio that they were also heading to the new station.
We repeatedly tried to contact Apogon, but our efforts proved futile. A chilling fear spread throughout the boat that Apogon had been lost. Had the enemy gotten the better of our group? The faces of the crew showed few smiles, just tightly set jaws and grim determination.
We received good news on the night of July 14 as we plied westward through Balintang Channel toward a new station: Apogon was safe, although she had sustained serious battle damage. A ship in the enemy convoy she was attacking had rammed her periscope shears, destroyed her periscopes and radar antennas, and flooded her conning tower. Fortuately, no lives were lost, but it had been a close call. She informed the pack commander, O’Regan, of her abort as she blindly limped back to base. The news that Apogon was safe raced through Guardfish’s narrow hull, and some of the men even woke their sleeping buddies to share the good news.
I was on my July 14th night watch when a series of problems disabled the SJ radar. The first problem involved a serious component breakdown. Dudrey and I worked on it for over seven hours before we got it back in commission, after which I went back on an uneventful watch. Shortly after I was relieved, the radar’s power source, a DC-to-AC motor generator set, went out of control. The set’s finicky amplidyne motor needed frequent adjustment. After a couple of shutdowns, Dudrey left instructions for the conning tower watch to call me to make further adjustments. Unfortunately for me, this piece of equipment was located below the control room deck in the auxiliary room. I spent much of my off-watch time down in that oily, steamy tightly crammed “hell hole” over the next two days. The motor generator refused to cooperate. Every time I warned to get some sleep, it broke down again. To this day I remember the exhaustion and frustration I experienced dealing with it.
We reached our new panel area about midday on July 15, surfaced, and fired up all four of our diesel engines. Excitement coursed through the boat, because the roaring engines usually signaled to the crew that we were out to chase an enemy ship. According to a radio message we received, a convoy was somewhere in our general vicinity, northwest of Luzon. O’Regan had the three boats left in the pack (Piranha, Thresher, and Guardfish) make a coordinated search spaced twenty miles apart. Thresher received the order for a course charge, but Piranha somehow missed the message and continued searching to the northeast. The mistake was our good fortune, for it was Piranha that made contact early in the morning of July 16. She reported a convoy of twelve ships traveling in three columns about 100 miles directly north of the northwestern tip of Luzon. She reported she was traveling on the surface trying to get into position for a submerged attack. While the news was welcomed by all of us, Guardfish and Thresher were out of position about 110 miles to the west of the convoy’s location. O’Regan ordered full speed on the surface and we moved as fast as we could to join Piranha.
Near the middle of my morning watch Lieutenant Bowman, the officer of the deck, sighted smoke on the horizon off our starboard bow. It turned out to be a new convoy heading south, a different one than that reported by Piranha. Our lookouts quickly determined that this convoy had at least two airplanes overhead acting as escorts. Bowman called Captain Ward to the bridge. The skipper immediately ordered what we referred to as an “end around,” a change of course roughly to the convoy’s heading in order to stay over the horizon as we pulled ahead to an attack position. Simultaneously, the captain directed Lieutenant Howarth, the communications officer, to compose a contact report and radio it to the other two boats. Twenty minutes later, one of the convoy’s air escorts spotted us and banked in our direction, zeroing in for the kill. We dove for cover as fast as possible. While submerged, we heard two of Piranha’s torpedoes explode against one of the enemy ships. Piranha’s attack, of course, revealed her presence to the Japanese and she quickly became the quarry. Her pair of torpedo blasts were soon followed by a series of forty-eight explosions. Piranha was taking a depth-charge beating from the escorts. Knowing your fellow submariners were going through such hell without being able to assist them is an awful feeling.
We surfaced several times and tried to move ahead of our convoy, but the air cover kept driving us down, causing us to drop behind the ships. During our submerged runs we heard over twenty more underwater explosions, which meant that Piranha was still under attack. At 5:00 p.m. we received a message from Thresher. She was tracking yet a third convoy comprised of four ships and two escorts, all traveling in a westward direction. “Convoy College” (a gathering of convoys) was certainly a good code name for this place.
In spite of harassment from their planes, under cover of darkness Ward finally managed to work Guardfish into position ahead of our convoy. When my round of watch rolled along, I took my normal first watch position at the radar. For some unknown reason, our radar’s motor generator held steady. I fervently hoped it would not decide to go out while we were tracking the enemy. The convoy was still beyond the horizon when unusual radar indications, coming from the direction of the ships we were tracking, appeared on our screen. I could tell from the width and shape of the radar pulses on the A-scope that the strange emanations were not from an American radar transmitter. I immediately reported this to the captain, who was on the bridge with the officer of the deck, Lieutenant Bowman.
The enemy’s radar antenna, high atop his mast, was apparently high enough to peek over the horizon. This was one of the earliest inklings we had in the war that the Japanese had microwave radar capability. Somehow they had succeeded in copying our “secret weapon,” the microwave magnetron. Captain Ward directed Lieutenant Howarth to come to the conning tower and examine the radar interference. Howarth reached the conclusion that the Japanese were attempting to jam our radar screen to make it more difficult for us to detect their ships. Actually, their signal led us right to them, and within a short time we detected the convoy on our radar screen at a range of about eleven miles.
“Battle stations torpedo,” the captain ordered.
Immediately the man at the chart desk broadcast the announcement to all compartments over the 1MC and the helmsman actuated the general alarm. Men went scurrying to their battle stations throughout the boat. Dudrey climbed briskly up into the darkened conning tower and took the stool at the radar’s A-scope. Lieutenant Howarth relieved me at the PPI position. Although we were on the surface, the executive officer, Alex Tyree, took over the search periscope. The night was clear, but there was no moon. The exec coordinated all the activities in the conning tower. Enlisted man Larry Teder was on the TDC. Brinkley sat at the sonar with the equipment in standby condition. Ensign Curtis, the gunnery and torpedo officer, was periscope bearing reader. I stood aside until everyone was in position, then got out of their way by taking up my familiar position straddling the lower hatch. I craned my neck to watch the emerging picture of the convoy on the PPI screen. Lieutenant Schnepp was in the control room plotting the target course on the Dead Reckoning board.
“Keep the radar rotating constantly,” the captain instructed.
Initially, the radar picture of the convoy was merely a single big blob of light, but soon we were able to distinguish pips representing the individual ships. Eventually we were able to make everything out. There were ten ships in the convoy arranged in two columns of five each. Four escort vessels encircled the convoy, two ahead, port and starboard, and two spread behind on the flanks. The group was traveling southwest, less than fifty miles off Luzon’s northwest coast.
“Lookouts, keep a sharp watch in your sector,” I heard the captain repeatedly call to the men topside. “Do not get distracted by the action ahead.”
When we closed range to about five miles, the captain was able to vaguely discern the enemy ships. The phosphorescent sea was relatively calm, rolling with long, glowing swells. He decided that we would attack on the surface and that our best approach was to let the ships pass us so we could attack the port flank. That gave us the advantage of having a dark background of clouds and rain squalls behind us, making it more difficult for the Japanese to spot us. He decided on that course of action even though “the most desirable target was leading the starboard column.” Later, one of his superiors described Ward’s approach as “masterful.” The captain began to carry out his plan as we crept up on the lead escort.
“Make ready all torpedo tubes, fore and aft. Open outer doors forward. Set depth at eight feet,” Ward instructed.
“We have ready lights all tubes forward, Captain.”
“We have some big babies up here. A tanker leads the starboard column, and a large AK [cargo ship] leads the port column. We will target the lead ship in the starboard column with a spread.”
Firing “a spread” of torpedoes meant that they fanned out, each one aimed slightly differently, to compensate for measurement errors and uncontrollable variations as they traveled toward the target.
The exec leaned over and studied the radar PPI. He discussed the situation with Howarth for a bit and then pointed to the pip on the radar that was our target. Each time the radar antenna swept over that pip, Dudrey and Howarth called out the target’s range and bearing, which Teder then entered into the TDC. The coffee-grinder-sounding mechanical computer noisily worked away, until its “solution light” finally came on. As Teder fed in more data, however, the light suddenly blinked off. Something was wrong.
Although the radar range measurements were very precise, the bearing readings, under the best of conditions, were not as good as optical readings. The best radar bearing accuracy could be obtained by stopping the antenna rotation and activating a bearing improvement device, called the “lobing motor.” But the captain’s instruction to keep the antenna rotating meant that we could not do that. The bearings had to be taken directly from the inaccurate PPI screen. A further complication was that for each measurement, Howarth had to mentally add two and a half degreees to correct the PPI observation before he called out the bearing. The exec repeatedly tried to use his periscope to get accurate bearings on the target, but there was not enough light. He reported the situation to the captain over the intercom. Ward immediately responded with a command: “Lieutenant Howarth to the bridge.”
Howarth was being called topside to take optical bearings using the Target Bearing Transmitter, the TBT, a binocular-equipped target sighting device that electronically transmitted the bearings to the conning tower. The recently installed TBT system had much better light gathering power than the periscope.
As Howarth was leading, he turned to me and said, “Conner, take over the PPI.” My head swam as I tried to read the target bearing from the PPI, add two and a half degrees, and call out the corrected number to the waiting TDC operator. I stumbled and stammered and missed some observations as the antenna whizzed by the target. My mind seemed numb; I could not think straight. The exec said, “Keep those bearings coming.” I stammered out additional corrected readings. The TDC solution light came on briefly, then went dark a second time.
The exec yelled at me in exasperation, “KEEP THOSE BEARINGS COMING, DAMN IT.” Finally, I just called out the uncorrected readings. That kept the exec off my back until Howarth was ready.
Howarth got the TBT binoculars focused on the target ship in short order. The exec read the bearings from the TBT indicator that was mounted on the starboard side, between the periscope lift motors and the sonar. Teder fed several more sets of ranges and bearings into the TDC before jubilantly announcing, “I have a solution; it’s a good one!”
The exec relayed that word to the captain. Ward responded, “Very well, fire when ready. Make a two-degree spread.” By fanning out the torpedoes as they went toward the target on the starboard column, the captain hoped that some of them might hit ships in the closer port column, as well.
The exec told Ensign Curtis, the mustang torpedo and gunnery officer who had been an enlisted torpedoman, to fire the torpedoes. That order elated Curtis, who had never fired a torpedo in battle. The firing panel, located on the port side over the radar’s A-scope, had switches representing each of the torpedo tubes. Dim orange lights above each indicated all forward tubes were ready to be launched.
“Fire one!” called out the exec, who had a stopwatch in his hand to time the torpedo’s journey to the target.
Curtis switched tube number one to the “Fire” position and pushed the two-inch-diameter red firing key above the panel with the palm of his hand.
Fifteen seconds passed.
“Fire two!”
Fifteen seconds more.
“Fire three!”
The voice of the captain interrupted our thoughts. “New target. Second ship in the starboard column.” New TBT bearings and radar ranges went into the computer.
“We have a solution,” Teder called.
Tyree responded quickly. “Fire four!”… “Fire five!”… “Fire six!”
The captain could see the faint phosphorescent glow of the wakeless electric torpedoes as they shot out of the tubes and angled off to intercept the unsuspecting targets. At the moment of firing, Ward’s attack plan came to fruition. The images of five ships in the port and starboard columns merged, forming a continuous line of vessels. It was almost impossible to miss. That is, it was impossible if the ships did not see the ghostly torpedoes coming toward them and make radical course changes to escape.
Three minutes after fixing, the slow electrically powered fish found their marks. The first hit struck a large tanker loaded with fuel. Ward’s patrol report described the resulting cataclysm:
The Tanker was loaded with gas and blew up immediately sending flames thousands of feet high. The large AK was also loaded with combustibles, commencing [sic] to burn aft and later blew up. The third ship in line, an AK, broke in two in the middle and sank, and the fourth ship in line went down bow first. The scene was lit up as bright as day by the explosions and burning ship.
The horrendous explosions and flames awed even Captain Ward, who invited each man from the fire-control party to come to the bridge, one at a time, to view the spectacle. To this day I still get a chill when I think of the sight I saw that night.
Radar interference from the convoy disappeared from our screens when the first ship exploded. As the port and starboard columns of ships erupted, the forward Japanese escort sped away at top speed. She careened into the space between the baling columns and dropped depth charge after depth charge. The escort commander had no idea where we were. Meanwhile, we veered right and increased speed in an attempt to get set up on the next group of ships with our stern tubes. Unfortunately, we were not fast enough and the small convoy broke up, the ships scattering in all directions.
Just past midnight on July 17, we found ourselves surrounded by the remnants of the convoy. With depth charges exploding in the distance, the captain isolated his efforts against a large cargo ship and we started to track her. I remember wondering, each time a depth charge exploded in the distance, how many Japanese were killed in the water that night by their escorts.
When we reached our attack position we could see only two ships on our radar screen: an AK (cargo ship) and a small escort. Tracking went without a hitch. We turned right to bring our stern tubes to bear, as we were on the cargo vessel’s starboard bow. Ensign Curtis fired tubes seven, eight, and nine at ten-second intervals. The exec counted off the minutes and seconds with his stopwatch. BOOM!… BOOM! Two hits engulfed the big ship, which erupted in explosions and flames from stem to stern. We were dangerously close to the escort vessel at this time, and wisely pulled away when the fish hit the target. Our torpedomen worked frantically to reload the torpedo tubes while the captain continued to hunt for the residue of the convoy. The burning ship turned over on her starboard side, about four miles from us. After one last explosion, she disappeared under the water.
We searched for a little over half an hour and found another ship from the splintered convoy. The fire-control party tracked the new target as Guard-fish moved ahead to get into firing position. The target ship had an escort and was zigzagging radically every four or five minutes. It took us about an hour and a half to get into position. The captain ordered two stern tubes fired. Just as Ensign Curtis hit the firing key the target zigged, and as a result both torpedoes passed ahead of the ship’s bow.
In an effort to obtain another attack position, Ward ordered Guardfish “ahead flank, swing left and make two bow tubes ready.” When the boat was within 1,250 yards, tubes three and four fired. Both shots struck the cargo ship. According to the captain, the “proximity of [the] escort and rising moon induced [him] to head out fast,” especially since he was “sure this ship would sink immediately.” The stricken merchant freighter, however, continued steaming at about three knots although she was visibly settling by stern. According to Captain Ward’s patrol report, the ship…
disappeared from the radar screen at 13,000 yards with escort seen at 12,500 yards at same time. Numerous lights and much activity was seen on the target as we hauled clear. It is believed this ship sank, but only damage is claimed. Did not consider it possible to make another attack on any of the widely scattered targets, so secured from battle stations and pulled clear to northwest on four engines. Everyone in the control party was beginning to show fatigue after six hours at battle stations under constant tension; the commanding officer had not enjoyed any rest for over fifty hours. Under these conditions it was considered best to let the others go.
The captain was right. I was thoroughly exhausted and, like him, had been up for almost fifty hours because of repeated radar problems and the torpedo action. We secured from battle stations around 3:30 a.m., May 17. “Amazing,” I thought, “the radar didn’t go out while we were at battle stations. I hope it doesn’t crap out again soon.” I was scheduled to go back on watch in less than five hours, so I dragged myself to the crew’s quarters, climbed to my top bunk, and crashed into it with my clothes on. Sleep immediately enveloped me as the boat submerged and peace returned once again.
“Rig for depth charge! Rig for depth charge!”
The announcement blasted out through the loudspeaker directly above me. As the patrol boat headed toward us, the boat dove to a depth of 350 feet. I was too tired to move, and I did not know what I was supposed to do. Although it may seem odd today, I fell back asleep. The exploding depth charges, however, threw me wide awake.
Thud…. boom! Thud…. boom!
The explosions were far off the mark.
Thud…. Boom!
I turned over and closed my eyes again.
Thud.. BOOM!
That one was closer! Back to a fitful drowse. Hour after hour the attack continued, with over forty depth charges being dropped around us. Only a few were close enough to raise eyebrows, but each one woke me up with a start. Finally, the patrol boat gave up his search. Our loudspeakers blared, “Secure from depth charge!” A few seconds later the below decks watchman shook me twice to get me to wake up. “Conner, get up, it’s time to go on watch.”
We soon learned Thresher had been busy as well. She had sunk her convoy of four cargo ships, expended all of her torpedoes, and was on her way back home. Now the Mickey Finn wolf pack consisted of only Piranha and Guard-fish.