Chapter 10

The only problem encountered with “rig for port” was difficulty in retrieving the pit sword. Among other things attended to before entering any port, was retracting the pit sword, cranking the device up into the boat so that it no longer protruded beneath the keel. Apparently, tightening down on the seals that kept seawater out had somehow damaged the assembly, and now it again leaked.

That Sunday morning in August, the boat’s mooring lines were made fast to dockside in the Port of Brisbane, Australia, at the sub base well up the Brisbane River in the inner city suburb of Teneriffe. Jake Lawlor, standing beside his XO and exposed to the weather on Orca’s bridge, felt a damp chill run through his body. It was the dead of winter in the Southern Hemisphere, and Brisbane was far enough south for the weather that morning to be cold and miserable.

Teneriffe was a busy place. Brisbane had been one of the destination ports for the S-boats stationed in Cavite after Pearl Harbor, and while there were four S-boats tied up alongside the sub tender, USS Griffin, there were also now three fleet boats there as well. The port had a single dry dock at the beginning of the war, but since it was just the right size to service submarines, and since it was well out of the range of Japanese aircraft in New Guinea, the choice of Brisbane as a submarine service facility for the U.S. Navy was a natural.

By the spring of ’42, the Griffin had arrived in Teneriffe along with a dozen or so sugar boats. In no time, the port facilities expanded to service fleet boats as well as S-boats, and Brisbane became a homeport for both generations of American submarines and the occasional British boat. Jake had expected to join the brood tied up alongside Griffin, but was instead directed to a berth directly alongside the repair dock.

First aboard the boat was an Aussie lieutenant commander in a rumpled uniform, who introduced himself with an outstretched hand and wide smile.

Quigby’s breath left a vapor trail. In contrast to Jake’s buttoned-up, foul weather jacket, Quigby was without an overcoat, and seemed oblivious to the chill. He was short, wiry, and very blond. His face was somewhat pinched and craggy, his complexion ruddy, and he had prominent cheekbones, ice-blue eyes, and a continuous smile.

”Commander Quigby, I’m Jake Lawlor,” Jake replied, as he shook Quigby’s hand, “and this is my Executive Officer, Clem Dwyer. Welcome aboard Orca.”

Below, in the wardroom, with Clem, and now Bucky, present, Quigby and the Americans first exchanged pleasantries over coffee.

“Coffee. Oi! Never understood how you fellas became so straight-laced. Now when you come aboard an Aussie ship,” he announced with a broad smile, “we’ll be sure and treat you proper . . . offer you a real libation.”

“Now then,” Quigby continued, “understand you fellas have a problem with one of your torpedo tubes. Aft array, wasn’t it?”

“Yep, number eight,” Clem interjected. “Outer door’s jammed open, and inner door’s sprung—held shut right now with clamps—a little present from a Jap depth charge . . .”

“Unfriendly fellows, these Japanese. Understand they took offense to your attacking one of their transports. Sensitive fellas, oi?”

“Yeah,” Clem chimed in, “pitometer log assembly sprung a leak during the depth charging, and we had to tighten down on the seals so much that we may have messed it up badly. Need to look at it, too.”

“Right, then,” Quigby acknowledged, “torpedo tube and the pit sword. Reason you’re tied up here is ’cause we’ve instructions to turn you around ASAP. Apparently, your command has special plans for you. We have you scheduled to go straight to dry dock tomorrow morning, and the yard’ll put that torpedo tube right in a jiffy. Meanwhile, I understand your own lot will be topping off your provisions, and you’ll be refueled when you get out of dry dock. All goes well, and we’ll have you back at sea in a week.”

Considering that Orca was to go into dry dock, such a fast turn-around was surprising. And this was also the first he had heard of COMSUBPAC having special plans for Orca. He wouldn’t say anything to Quigby, or question what he had heard, simply because he doubted that Quigby would know any more than he had just told them. He was also sure he would hear about those “special plans” soon enough.

“Sure, if all goes well.” Quigby’s reassuring response brought Jake abruptly out of his reverie.

That afternoon, a bag of mail caught up with the boat. Jake had already mailed his own long letter off to Kate, and mused that maybe he should have waited until he read the fistful of letters from his wife before he had mailed off his own—just in case there was something in her letters which bore comment. But then, of course, he could always write her another.

Leaving the port and provisioning arrangements up to Clem and Bucky, Jake retired to his cabin to read his mail. Saving Kate’s letters for last, he read the three he received from his mother. They bore the usual news about the people in their particular suburb in Des Moines, many of whom were now strangers to him. His father had apparently forgiven him for marrying a Catholic, because he had resumed adding his own comments at the bottom of Jake’s mom’s letters. Finally, Jake began opening Kate’s letters, carefully following the order of their postmarks.

Her letters were newsy, as usual, and filled him in on all the goings and comings at the base hospital, mostly about people he knew only casually or not at all. He avoided the temptation to skip to the good parts of the letters—the places near the end, where she told him how much she loved him and missed him, and exactly what pleasures she might have in store for him when he saw her again. She wrote things that he wouldn’t have the nerve to write to her, no matter how much he contemplated them in the depths of his heart. And he treasured her every word.

“I hadn’t been feeling too well for a day or two, and consulted one of the doctors at the hospital. He ran some tests and I found out a couple of days later, that it had been nothing serious. Indeed it was all perfectly normal. I’m just pregnant it seems, my darling, and we’re going to have a baby. The doctor says that he or she should arrive sometime around the beginning of April.”

Still grasping the letter, Jake threw his arms up in the air and let out a joyful “Whoo-hoo!” and ran topside to share the good news with Clem and whomever else he might find.

Later that same Sunday afternoon, Jake led Clem to the wardroom, and both sat down with a cup of coffee.

Jake acknowledged the reference to his impending fatherhood with a grin. “Been thinkin’. Remember our last attack, the one on the transport?”

“Do I! I hope we never get another ass-pounding like the one that Jap destroyer handed us.”

“I wouldn’t let you raise the scope until we were ready to fire, remember?”

“Yeah, you didn’t want to give the Japs any heads-up as to where we were until we were ready to shoot.”

“Exactly. And we relied on sonar information to get us lined up first, then used the scope at the last minute to get the final firing solution.”

“Okay,” Jake continued, ignoring the complement, “we kind of had to keep the sonar information in our heads, compare it with the chart plot in the conning tower, and with the TDC output . . .”

“Okay. We’re doing a submerged approach, just like last time. We’re using the chart plot in the conning tower, just like always. What if we had another plot going on at the same time, one that processed just the sonar information? Then we wouldn’t have to stick out anything above the surface until we were good and ready, just like last time. We could use the sonar plot to set up our initial track every time and then, only when we were good and ready, stick up the attack scope, refine our firing solution, and attack.”

“You mean do what we did last time during every submerged approach, but get the sonar info down on paper, and be able to make more sense of it.” Clem mulled over the idea. “And where, exactly, will we find room for this plot? The conning tower and control room are already jam packed.”

“I was thinking right here, in the wardroom. Spread a huge sheet of paper on the table, have a talker relaying the information out of sonar, and plot the situation just as the sonar operator sees it. The talker then relays the plot solution to the conn.”

“Okay. And who runs this show? Everybody already has a GQ station for a submerged attack.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Clem stroked his jaw for a minute or two. “I should be the one to do it, but you have me on the scope.”

“And that’s not going to change. We make too good an attack team. Who next?”

Clem pondered a bit, then said, “Well, Louie—our navigator—but then who would run the chart plot? I suppose John Catinella could do that, but he’s a third class, pretty junior. And he just made third class. Besides, he’s already on the scope with me. No, Louie needs to stay where he is.”

“What about Bill Salton?” Clem suggested. “Right now he’s in the sonar room for GQ, but we could easily shift Chief Lione out of the maneuvering room and into sonar—Chief Clements could easily handle maneuvering by himself, without Bobby. And poor Bobby’s already in the sonar room most of the time anyway—he’s the only guy aboard who can keep that equipment running.”

“Right,” Jake said. “Having Bobby Lione in sonar at GQ actually makes more sense than having Bill down there. If the equipment goes on the fritz, Bill would just have to get Bobby there to fix it anyway. But can our young ensign do the job on this new plot? You think Salton is up to it?”

“Bill’s young, all right,” Clem answered, “and he’s got a lot to learn, but he’s also very smart. He’s actually a bit ahead of Joe Bob on getting his dolphins, may even qualify yet, this trip. But he can’t run the plot all by himself. Needs somebody to help. John Catinella’s the logical choice to help Bill. I hate to lose him on the scope—just got him trained—but I suppose I could always train somebody else on the scope. We could take Henry Coons off the helm and put him on the scope. He’s a quartermaster striker, and it would be good training for him, anyway.”

“Right. Okay. Salton and Catinella it is, and Coons goes to the scope. Now guess who’s got the job of setting all of this up and getting these guys trained?”

“Of course. What’s a COB for? You guys can start right after we leave port.”

Despite the fact that Orca was due to enter drydock at 0800 the very next morning, Trevor Quigby volunteered to take the wardroom into town that night and show them the treasure-trove of pleasures that Brisbane had to offer. Both Jake and Clem declined, and Hal Chapman and Bill Salton had the duty, but Louie Carillo, Early Sender, and Joe Bob Clanton jumped at the chance.

Enlisted men were required to pull liberty in their uniforms, but officers were allowed to go into town in civvies. In fact, it was preferred by the brass that officers not wear their uniform to town unless on Shore Patrol or other official business. If they misbehaved, the theory went, they would be less conspicuous. It actually seemed to the officers that it made them all more conspicuous. Any strange carousing men in town in civilian clothes were most likely officers.

Quigby picked up Louie, Early, and Joe Bob, all wearing civvies, in a battered old Chevrolet just after 2000 that evening. “With rationing, petrol’s a bit scarce, but you fellas seem to have all you need and even give the Captain of the Port pump privileges. So tonight you get a tour of the city without having to ride the bus into town.”

In what seemed like no time at all, they were in the heart of the city. Brisbane looked just like any other small town, exactly as one might find in rural America, but from the early 1930s—mostly wood buildings, with few streets paved, but the dirt streets were currently dry. Automobiles had to be imported to Australia, and they were expensive. There were as many horse-drawn conveyances as there were cars—and there were servicemen everywhere. They seemingly consisted of equal numbers of Aussies and Americans, with a smattering of New Zealanders and Brits thrown in. There were also, surprisingly for the submariners, who came from an overwhelmingly white branch of a largely white Navy, a fairly large number of “colored” American soldiers.

Even on a Sunday night, the town seemed to be bustling with activity. Servicemen seemed to travel in packs, or groups between ten and forty-five persons, almost always dominated by one national service or the other—although there were some groups mixed nationally, inevitably Aussies with Americans. And every group always included females. (The “Negro” troops seemed to travel in groups by themselves, but still with a significant number of white females included. Australian girls, apparently, paid no heed whatsoever to the American practice of strict racial segregation. The Australian girls also apparently preferred American troops to their own—there were far fewer of them attached to the Aussie packs than to the American ones.)

“It’s the American PXs, you see,” Quigby explained, “they’re scattered all about the city, and all loaded with goodies that your fellas can buy, but rationed to our lads. And your boys are better paid as well. Our Sheilas aren’t stupid. Hang with the American lads and you share in the benefits. Reasonable enough, you see—but it galls our lads. But enough of that. We’re here to have a good time! And here we are.”

Quigby pulled up in front of what looked like a saloon from some Wild West movie: wooden porch in front and all, with a big wooden sign over the porch advertising “Mom’s Place.” All that was lacking were the swinging doors in front.

Inside, Mom’s Place on a Sunday night was bustling, filled with a smoky haze and crowded with servicemen of every stripe: officers and men; Aussies; Americans; New Zealanders; Brits. And women—all young, all about the room, and all apparently available. Everyone, men and women alike, appeared to be very inebriated, or well on their way to that condition.

Quigby found them a place at a table in the far reaches of the saloon and went to fetch the first round. He returned with their drinks and four of the local lovelies in tow.

“These ladies are Alice, Janet, Daisy, and Margaret. Alice is with me. Ladies, these here Yanks are me new best mates—practically won Coral Sea single-handed. You need to be especially nice to them.”

Chairs for the women appeared from somewhere, and, smiling broadly, the ladies all sat down. Apparently Quigby had planned the event, since he returned to the table with not only the ladies, but also with eight bottles of beer, four clutched in each hand. Other than Alice, each “Sheila” immediately selected a partner, and sat down beside her claim.

Louie and Early were married, but not wanting to make Quigby appear foolish, they didn’t shoo their “dates” away. But neither did they have any intention of doing any more than engaging in innocent conversation, or just being a dancing partner.

It was soon very obvious, however, that Joe Bob was very seriously engaged with the Sheila who had attached herself to him, a brown-eyed, 18-year-old blonde named Daisy. And Daisy Norton was a very lovely young lady indeed. Dressed in a simple blue dress that clung to her attractive curves, she drank her beer in delicate sips from the bottle (Mom’s Place apparently did not provide glasses to the clientele). She seemed to, in turn, have eyes only for Joe Bob. She was very blonde, with a sweet, symmetrical face, and a long, straight nose. Her best features, though, were her doe eyes—large, limpid brown pools. And Joe Bob Clanton dove into those pools head first.

Everyone pretended not to notice when Joe Bob and Daisy got up without a word and left Mom’s Place right after the third or fourth round. Louie and Early only hoped Joe Bob had enough sense to make it back to the boat by 0400, when liberty expired. Orca was scheduled to go into drydock at 0800 whether Joe Bob was AWOL at morning muster, or not.

Joe Bob Clanton was graduated with a major in Electrical Engineering from the University of Alabama, in Tuscaloosa. That was in 1940, and the Alabama native knew for sure that war was coming, and he wanted in, but he didn’t want to get into the fray as an Army grunt. He had never seen an ocean, nor taken the two hundred-mile trip from Tuscaloosa to the Gulf of Mexico, but he was sure the Navy was the service for him.

In appearance, Joe Bob was the epitome of “average.” At five feet ten, with brown hair and a medium build, Joe Bob was certainly not ugly, but neither were his even features anything beyond pleasantly handsome. But when he smiled, his smile was bright and prepossessing, and when he spoke, the Southern lilt in his voice was pleasant and soothing. Ask anyone, Joe Bob Clanton was a charmer.

The Navy had just set up an Officer’s training program, called the V-7 program. They were accepting applicants for the first classes at Prairie State, a school in New York City, set up aboard a converted battleship, the USS Illinois. To his surprise, Joe Bob was accepted into the second class to go through Prairie State. That very summer, he had an initial training cruise aboard the battleship USS New York, and, in February of 1941, he was commissioned an ensign in the United States Naval Reserve along with 479 other classmates.

Joe Bob applied for immediate active duty, and, that March, reported aboard the destroyer USS Benson out of Brooklyn, New York. A year later, with the war now declared, he applied for Officer’s Submarine School in New London. Normally, a Naval Reserve Officer wouldn’t have a shot at getting into Sub School, but his fitness reports had all been outstanding, and, somehow, Joe Bob was accepted.

He graduated Sub School near the top of his class, and, as a newly promoted Lt. j.g., was assigned to USS Argonaut out of Pearl. en route to Pearl, he came down with a serious attack of peritonitis, and was eventually hospitalized in San Diego. When, sans appendix, he finally recovered, Argonaut had been reported lost at sea, and he was reassigned to Orca. Joe Bob, at 25, was the second youngest officer aboard Orca, just two years older than Ensign Bill Salton.

Joe Bob made it back to the boat before 0400, but with only minutes to spare. He was not drunk, but he also obviously had not slept. He saluted the quarterdeck watch with “Permission to come aboard,” and then went straight to his bunk to get whatever sleep he could before reveille at 0600. He mustered on the dock alongside with the rest of the officers and crew at 0610. Luckily he didn’t have much to do to get the boat into dry dock.

By 0820, Orca was positioned in the dry dock, and the pumping of water from the dock’s tanks had begun. By noon that Monday, the boat was high and dry.

With Orca safely buttressed in the drydock, Lt. Cmdr. Quigby’s job was done for the time being; it was now up to the American repair forces to assess and repair the damages suffered by Orca from her encounter with the enemy destroyer.

Submarine repair in Port Brisbane was headquartered in the submarine tender, USS Griffin. The port was originally equipped to service and repair only the sugar boats, and the Griffin had a complete supply of spare parts for them aboard. But as the fleet boats arrived, room aboard Griffin for spares became scarce, so facilities ashore were expanded to handle stores for these newer boats as well.

There could be found not only a supply of the newer Mark-14 torpedoes, but also parts for the 21-inch torpedo tubes on the fleet boats. And, among all the men in the entire U.S. Navy, there was only one man who knew where each and every spare part for each and every class of boat in Brisbane was, whether it was aboard Griffin, or stored ashore, and his name was Chief Machinist’s Mate—MMC(SS)—Grady Caruthers.

Late that afternoon, a wizened Grady Caruthers, chewing on the stub of a cigar, conferred with Jake, Bucky, and Clem in temporary office space the port had provided dockside. Chief Caruthers acknowledged Jake and Clem respectfully, but then addressed his remarks directly to Bucky.

“Both doors on that torpedo tube are sprung pretty bad, the outer one worst of all. We’ll have to replace that one entirely. But I think we can straighten the inner one, and it’ll be okay. Ingenious how you managed to clamp it down shut, by the way. Problem’s liable to be on the tube itself. The outer door seal looks good, but the inner one’s scored badly. Have to machine it in place. May take some time. Depends on how deep the score marks are. Try to get you out of the dock in a day or two, if we can.

“Rest of the boat looks good, far as I can see, but we haven’t looked all that hard yet. And, oh yes, we plan to change out your pit sword assembly entirely. Put a new one in, and then fix yours, if we can, for the next boat that needs one.”

With the boat in drydock, there was only a fire watch posted that night, Chief O’Grady in charge. The rest of the boat was granted liberty.

Clem insisted that Jake join him for dinner in town that evening to celebrate his upcoming fatherhood. They were joined by the rest of the wardroom, and they found the relatively quiet restaurant in town that Quigby had recommended. Just before dessert was served, Joe Bob excused himself from their company claiming “a prior commitment.” Clem signaled his displeasure to Joe Bob at this abrupt departure, but Joe Bob, looking sheepish, was not to be deterred, and left. Jake waved him goodbye, not noticing the exchange between the two. Clem then commented under his breath to Jake, “I wonder what was so much more important to Joe Bob than his shipmates?”

“Don’t be so suspicious, Clem,” Jake chided. “Joe Bob’s young and he’s single. It’s more than likely all perfectly innocent.”

The next morning, Tuesday, Joe Bob was almost an hour late reporting back from liberty. When he was told about it, Jake put the matter into his XO’s hands.

“Missed reporting time by almost an hour!” Clem practically yelled in Joe Bob’s face. “What if we’d been getting underway this morning to go back on patrol? What the blazes were you thinking?”

Clem had called Joe Bob to the dockside office. They were alone, and, to insure their privacy, Clem locked the door. Orca was still in dry dock, and Chief Caruthers was less optimistic than the day before. His crew had run into trouble machining the sealing surface of the inner door of torpedo tube number eight, and the boat might not be out of the dock as soon as he hoped.

“I’m sorry, Clem, honest. I fell asleep, and by the time I woke up, there was no way I could make it back on time, not the way the busses from town run at that hour.”

“You fell asleep. From the look of you, though, you didn’t get much rest! Well, you will tonight. I’m confining you to quarters during off-duty hours for the duration.”

“Please, Clem, no, don’t do that! We aren’t going to be here that long, and if you do that I won’t be able to see Daisy.”

“Daisy Norton. She’s the girl I met first night in. Trevor introduced us,” he said, stretching the truth just a bit. “We love each other, Clem, and we’re gonna get married.”

“Married? Are you nuts? You just met this Daisy Norton, Joe Bob. How could you possibly already want to marry her?”

“I just do is all. Doesn’t it just sometimes happen like that? Well, it did with us. I loved her from the moment I first saw her.”

“Oh, boy. Love at first sight. No, it doesn’t happen like that, Joe Bob, not in real life. You can’t possibly know this girl well enough to want to marry her—not in this short a time.”

“Okay. I’m done trying to talk sense into you. But Daisy or no Daisy, you can’t just overstay liberty and not have consequences. My orders stand. Off-duty, you’re confined to quarters until we leave port.”

“Yes, Sir.” Joe Bob said and left, dejected and seemingly on the verge of tears.

Soon afterward, Clem told Jake what had happened. Jake mulled the situation over. “I kind of feel sorry for Joe Bob. “He’s confused and he did a stupid thing. But you’re absolutely right, he can’t get away without some sort of punishment, and his being confined to quarters is the least he could have expected. You handled the situation just right, and the only way you could have. Let’s just hope Joe Bob doesn’t do anything else stupid—like jumping ship.”

“You mean you wouldn’t, Clem, and I wouldn’t. But stupider things than that have been done in the name of love.”

That afternoon, Orca came out of dry dock. The pitometer log had been changed out the previous day, but the machining on the inner door-sealing surface of number eight was incomplete. The dry dock was needed for another vessel, however, and with the tube’s outer door secured, the yard crew was sure they could complete the in-place machining alongside.

With Orca tied to the dock, Bucky saw to the topping off of fuel and provisions and the replacement of the fired torpedoes. One of the replacement torpedoes had to be stored in the damaged number eight tube aft, and it could be quickly replaced as soon as the machining was completed, but not until then. Chief Caruthers promised Bucky that the yard machinists in the after torpedo room vowed to work nonstop until the job was done.

Clem made sure that Joe Bob was kept busy. He had to liaise with base communications in any case; documents and code books had to be updated before the boat could get underway. Sea trials might now happen as early as the following day, Wednesday, and if all went well, the boat could possibly leave to go back on patrol the day after that.

Clem gave Joe Bob the duty that night. As Duty Officer, he was expected to be on call all during the night. The watch reported to him in person every time it was relieved, that is, at 1000, midnight, 0400, and 0800. At 0400, he would also normally be on the quarterdeck as the liberty party returned. Clem figured that Joe Bob, no matter how lovesick, would never jump ship when he had the duty. Even if he was dumb enough to consider “going over the side,” he would never be foolish enough to do it with the duty section continually checking in with him throughout the night.

Job Bob called Brisbane Information on the dockside phone before going on watch, and got Daisy’s number. The number listed for her was a common line, shared with at least two other parties, he was told, and the appended letter “J.” He called, and Daisy answered. He quickly explained that he had drawn the duty that night, and would be unable to meet her as originally planned, but would “do whatever it takes” to meet her the following night. She told him how disappointed she was that she wasn’t going to see him that night, but that she understood, and that his absence that evening would make her all the more appreciative the following night.

“Tomorrow night may be our last in a while,” he said. “There’s a good chance we’ll be leaving for patrol on Thursday, so tomorrow might be our last chance to be together until Orca’s back in port, wherever that will be—probably Pearl. I promise, no matter where that is, I’ll get you there so we can get married. I love you so much, Daisy.”

“I know, my darling, I know, and you know I love you. And if tomorrow is going to be our last night together for a while, I promise I will make it a night you’ll never forget.”

Joe Bob’s gut was in knots as he walked the length of the dock back to the boat. He had just promised Daisy that he would go AWOL so they could be together the next night. Going AWOL, he reasoned, was nowhere near as bad as jumping ship. That was something he could never do, and he would make sure he was back on board Thursday morning or whenever Orca was heading back to sea. But he had to see Daisy again, even if it was just for one night, and he would suffer whatever the consequences came his way for ignoring the XO’s orders and going AWOL.

Meanwhile, Daisy went out that night with her friends, Janet and Margaret. The three women soon found male company to entertain them for the evening. After drinking and dancing into the wee hours, Janet and Margaret went home with their newfound friends. But, to her credit, Daisy went home alone.

The machinists were satisfied that the inner door fit properly at 0150 that Wednesday morning.

Under the watchful eye of Chief Caruthers, Chief Walakurski immediately exercised the inner and outer doors of number eight tube, flooding the tube, and blowing out water slugs alongside, until he was satisfied that the tube was working as it should. Then, beginning at 0300, he pressurized the tube at intervals up to a simulated depth of 300 feet, the test depth for the boat. At each simulated depth, the doors held. Finally, the pressure in the tube held at the simulated test depth for two hours. Caruthers then left, satisfied that his crew had done their job well.

“Now,” Wally told Bucky, “we need to take it to sea and be sure the seals hold under actual operating conditions. Then we can load her up and get back on patrol.”

“No way we can load a fish now, and be ready to go when you’ve finished your testing?”

“Where would we put it? The only spot I have open aft is in the tube itself. I can’t test the tube with a fish in it!”

“So,” Jake asked, “if the tube checks out, all we need to come back to port for is to load a fish aft, and then we can take off again?”

“Near as I can figure,” Bucky replied. “Of course we’ll have to run the measured course to calibrate the pit log. We’d have had to come back into port to offload the technician that did that anyway.”

“Very well,” Jake said. “Clem, notify SUBPAC that if repairs check out in sea trials to be conducted tomorrow, we expect to be completely ready for sea by tomorrow evening, and await further orders.”

Encrypted orders came within an hour after Clem had reported to SUBPAC that the boat had completed all repairs, and would be conducting sea trials the next day. Barring unforeseen complications, Orca would be ready for sea the following evening. The orders decrypted as follows:

”Orca is to proceed earliest and at best speed and to arrive at rendezvous point 20 degrees, 36 minutes, 60.0 seconds N, by 148 degrees, 5 minutes, 19.0 seconds E, a point in the Philippine Sea with no nearby landfall. On arrival Orca is to join forces with submarines Seahorse, Conch, and Devilray, forming task group 51.2. Once joined, this force is to conduct coordinated attack group operations under LCDR Warren Blaylock, USN, task force commander, in Devilray. Force mission is to attack enemy shipping, disrupting insofar as is possible fuel shipments from enemy-held oil fields and refineries in the Netherlands East Indies to the Japanese homeland.”

Now Jake knew what the “special plans” for Orca were that Trevor Quigby had alluded to their first day in Brisbane. What the U.S. Navy termed “coordinated attack groups,” the German U-Boat Command called “rudeltaktic,” and the Allied convoys in the Atlantic called “wolf packs.”

Orca left dockside at 0800 that Wednesday morning, just after the technician from the base came aboard. By noon, they were in water deep enough to dive and test number eight tube. Wally and his crew exercised the tube at fifty feet, one hundred feet, two hundred feet, and two hundred and fifty feet. Both the outer door and the inner door held at each depth.

Warily, Jake took Orca to her three-hundred-foot test depth. When the gauge indicated they were at three hundred feet, Jake had the word passed aft, and also had every man on the boat watching for any leaks of any kind. They stayed at three hundred feet for fifteen minutes. Only minor leaks were reported anywhere aboard the boat. Not only had Chief Caruthers’ crew done their job well, so also had the men at Electric Boat who had built Orca.

Wally passed the word up that he was satisfied with the yard’s work, and Jake, breathing a sigh of relief, brought the boat up to periscope depth. On the way back into port, they ran the measured course, and the base technician calibrated the pitometer log. In the interim, Wally had the after torpedo room crew load one of the torpedoes off its rack into number eight tube. By 1800, they were tied up alongside again. The replacement fish was already waiting alongside, and an hour later it was secure in the newly empty rack aft. By 1930, Wednesday, August 25, 1943, Lt. Cmdr. Trevor Quigby, RAN, was waving goodbye to Orca from dockside as she headed back out on patrol.

Below decks, at his station in the radio room, the Communications Officer, Lt. j.g. Joe Bob Stanton, was seriously contemplating making his way topside, jumping over the side of the boat, and swimming back to Brisbane. In the end, in absolute misery, he prudently decided to remain aboard.

Louie Carillo laid out a track of some 3,100 nautical miles to the rendezvous point. Averaging thirteen knots, Orca should transit to the rendezvous in just under ten days. Arrival on station should then be about 2130 on Saturday, September 4th.

Once at the rendezvous point, Orca had to be able to communicate with her sister boats. Boats on patrol were under orders to maintain strict radio silence, and all incoming information was broadcast at regular intervals on very low frequency (VLF) transmissions from their headquarters, in Orca’s case, SUBPAC. A boat would broadcast on VLF only if routinely reporting in or if a special situation—such as a damage report to headquarters—called for it. The only other exception was the high frequency (HF) ship-to-ship, tactical radio that transmitted line-of-sight, and could only be intercepted and understood by the enemy if they were close aboard and just happened to be on the proper transmission frequency. The mere existence of these transmissions, however, and the direction of their source, could be detected by RDF—Radio Direction Finders—with which most, but not all, Japanese fighting ships were equipped. RDF could usually be defeated by limiting transmissions to short bursts, well under thirty seconds, and by limiting HF transmissions to only those absolutely necessary.

The Navy’s preferred method of communication ship-to-ship, and the most secure, was still directional light using Aldus lamps and Morse code.