| |
Commander Hiriake Ito stood on the bridge of Atsukaze, first in a line of ten vessels that had been hugging the western coast of Palau Island, northbound at five knots. The visibility was terrible: the night dark, with a heavy ground mist, the shoreline of Palau a brooding blackness to the east. His navigator, a tall, gaunt, cerebral lieutenant from Sasebo, reported the barometer falling precipitously. A large storm system was on its way; best for the convoy to clear the harbor and be well underway before it arrived.
Ito’s ship and the others in the column were showing bright stern lights to keep the vessels in line. Once the radars aboard the kaibokan showed them clear of Palau and two tiny islands north of the tip of Palau, the line of ships could then turn northwest to clear the last reefs and make for open sea. Once in open sea, and once the visibility was good enough, the six “chicks,” two tankers and four cargo vessels, were to form ranks two abreast and three deep. Ito then planned to set the kaibokan in position in front of the convoy and on both flanks, placing his own ship to the rear of the convoy. Normally, he would have his ship, the largest escort, at the head of the pack, but his kaibokan had radar, and Atsukaze did not. At least, that was the plan.
But for the time being, Atsukaze was headed northwest for the channel between the reefs to open sea, and was being followed by Lt. Saburo Takashi in Kibuki, then Mikura, the four cargo ships, the two tankers, and finally Iki. Every ship in the convoy had been warned of the oncoming storm, to literally batten down the hatches, and to secure any loose gear topside.
“Captain, Kibuki is reporting four radar contacts to the northwest more or less evenly spread along an arc from three-zero-two to zero-one-four degrees, each out about forty-five hundred meters,” the bridge talker reported excitedly.
“Ask him if these contacts are large.” As Ito awaited Takashi’s reply, Mikura reported identical radar contacts.
“Captain, Kibuki reports that the contacts are small. Possible enemy submarines. Iki now also reports the contacts.”
Acting quickly, Ito ordered Mikura and Iki to break ranks and proceed at flank speed to close the two closest contacts, the two immediately outside the passage through the reefs. If they were submarines, the kaibokan were to attack. Once Mikura and Iki were safely clear of the formation and headed for the reef passage, he ordered Takashi in Kibuki to stay behind and shepherd the chicks to safe anchorage inside the reefs. Then Ito took Atsukaze out to engage the enemy, if, in fact, it was the enemy. This could, after all, be much ado over a bunch of sampans.
* * * * *
“Radar shows that two of those bastards have broken ranks and are headed straight for us,” Hal Chapman calmly informed Jake. “Looks like they’re doing about nineteen knots. Other three boats are reporting the same thing. I don’t know how they know it, but these guys know exactly where we are.”
“One thing for sure,” Jake countered, “they know we’re out here even though they couldn’t possibly see us with this visibility. For now, how about we all do a quick one-eighty and skedaddle on the surface while we still can stay ahead of ’em. If they get too close, we can submerge and evade. Pass the word to the other boats.”
* * * * *
“Captain, both Mikura and Iki report that they were unable to close with the contacts, and that all four are now headed out to sea at twenty knots.”
“Very well,” replied Ito. “Tell Mikura and Iki to disengage and return to the formation.” Then, thinking aloud, he explained to no one in particular: “So we know now that they are enemy submarines, that there are four of them, and that they will no doubt be waiting for us. So we will bide our time here until daylight, and possibly some better visibility, before we venture out to meet them? Their teeth are formidable, perhaps, but this time I am hardly toothless.”
* * * * *
“What was that about? Those bastards knew exactly where we were—they were headed straight for us,” Hal Chapman mused.
“Only one explanation,” Jake said. “Those pint-size escorts we saw the other day either have radar or something very much like it. How else could they know exactly where we are in this soup? And if they have radar, what else do they have? Perhaps the Japs have finally gotten serious about countering our submarines. My guess is that these little buggers are also armed to the teeth. Probably got about fifty depth charges aboard.”
“Okay, so let’s say they have radar,” observed Hal. “That means that surface attacks are out. We’re limited to submerged attacks. But we could still take advantage of our surface speed to maneuver on the surface, just stay out of their radar range. I’m betting those escorts that were headed for us were going flat out.”
“Exactly,” said Jake. “It means we position ourselves in advance of the enemy’s track so as to engage the enemy submerged,” practically quoting the submarine tactics textbook. “Now they had to be getting ready to form up that convoy—what did SUBPAC call it?”
“PAMA-32.”
“Yeah. And so we also know they’re en route to Manila. So we’ll fan out our four boats on the route to Manila and use our SJ radars. The first boat to make contact would report convoy course and speed and then run out of radar range. Then we could all maneuver at speed, on the surface, and out of radar range, to intercept.”
“Sounds good, Captain,” Chapman agreed. “I’ll see to it that the other boats are notified and set up their positions. But here’s a complication—Louie says the bottom is dropping out of the barometer and we’ve got a biggie on the way.”
“Then we’ll just have to deal with that if and when it happens. Make sure the other guys know about it. Meanwhile, we go ahead and set up that intercept.”
––––––––
On February 17th and 18th, 1944, carrier-based aircraft destroyed the Japanese naval base at Truk in the Caroline Islands. On February 20th, U.S. land and carrier-based planes attacked and destroyed the enemy’s base at Rabaul on the island of New Britain in the Australian territory of New Guinea.
––––––––
Palau was hit with 69 mile-per-hour winds on the evening of February 23rd, as what had started as a tropical depression off Yap, became a full-fledged typhoon. The storm pelted the atoll throughout the night, causing extensive damage to Japanese port facilities. One cargo vessel, riding on a mooring buoy off Koror, slipped its mooring line and was swept out to sea. Torrential rains caused extensive flooding, and the airfield at Peleliu was unusable for several days.
Before striking Palau, however, the typhoon’s path had veered sharply north, so the island had only experienced a glancing blow. By the morning of the 24th, the wind on the Island had subsided and the rain fell only intermittently as the outer bands of the storm passed over the atoll. By that evening, the storm was gone.
––––––––
Thursday, February 24th, 1400, the boats of TG 510.1 were operating on the surface, their SJ and SD radars active. There was a slight sea return on the SJ radarscope, because the sea was choppy, with four-foot swells, and white-capped waves. Cowboy Two was the first to make contact with the advancing convoy. Actually, Cray didn’t have a radar contact on its PPI, rather the scope showed a slight flicker, evidence to an alert operator that another radar was operating downrange. Of course, their own radar might do the same on the intruder’s receiver, but that operator would have to be as skilled as Cray’s to first, notice, and, second, to interpret the anomaly. As soon as the scope flicker was reported to a hastily awakened Jim Fortnoy, he ordered the Cray’s radar shut down. He was gratified to learn that his OOD had already done so.
“Cowboy One, this is Cowboy Two,” Fortnoy reported to Jake on the tactical radio. “PPI flicker indicates approaching radar. Recommend Cowboy Two immediately submerge, close, and track contact visually and with passive sonar, over.”
“This is Cowboy One. Excellent plan, Cowboy Two. Submerge, close, and track passively.”
“Two. Roger that, Cowboy One. Wilco. Out.”
“This is Cowboy One. Targets possibly closing. Cowboys Three and Four are to cease all emissions and submerge to periscope depth in present location. Leave your radio antennae up. Use optics and passive sonar only. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Cowboy Three. Roger. Submerge, radio whip up, and use passive detection only. Wilco.”
“Cowboy Four. Acknowledge submerge, leave whip up, and use passive only. Wilco, One.”
“Very well, Three and Four. One, out.”
* * * * *
Lieutenant Saburo Takashi in Kibuki led the convoy designated PAMA-32. His ship was stationed five hundred meters out in front of the convoy of six vessels, two abreast by three deep, four cargo ships in front of two tankers. The weather was unusually warm for that time of the year, with a hot sun burning its way through band of fast-moving, wispy clouds overhead.
Visibility was excellent. A stiff, warm and humid breeze from the east whipped up little whitecaps in the surrounding, heaving sea.
PAMA-32 was heading for the northern tip of the Philippine Island of Samar, on a base course of 306 degrees. There would be plenty of air cover available once the convoy reached Samar, but until then, PAMA-32 would zigzag on its base course of 306. The pattern was a simple one: ten minutes on 291, then right to 321 for another ten minutes. And progress was slow. The slowest ship in the convoy, a 1,650-ton cargo ship, could only make 9 knots; that meant that their actual speed on the base course was just over 8.5 knots.
Kibuki’s radar was activated, as was Mikura’s and Iki’s. The other two kaibokan were stationed on the left and right flanks, respectively, of the convoy. All three ships, and Atsukaze, stationed at the rear of the convoy, were operating their active sonar. And, since leaving Palau, there had been no contacts whatever.
Ito had risen early, and was standing on the bridge of Atsukaze, scanning the dawn horizon through his binoculars, enjoying the stiff, hot breeze. The men who operated the American submarines, he knew, were not fools. They now knew the capabilities of the kaibokan and would not expose themselves to their radar without good reason. He also knew that that the American submariners he had surprised at Palau would never give up and would eventually attack his convoy by any means available to them. The kaibokan radars merely limited the enemy’s surface operations. He had warned all captains and masters that it was vital that the lookouts on every vessel in the convoy stay alert for submarine periscopes. He prayed that if that storm were coming it would arrive quickly, for it would provide excellent cover for the convoy.
* * * * *
At the very moment that Hiriake Ito stood on his bridge, Jim Fortnoy had his eye fixed to Cray’s search periscope observing the progress of the escort on the convoy’s left flank. He had had to bring the boat up to fifty-eight feet so that the periscope lens was clear of the heaving sea. During an earlier observation, he had gotten a visual bearing, single-pinged the ship, and gotten a good range reading. The escort was so busy pinging away with its own sonar that it never noticed Cray’s ping. He worked the problem backwards and calculated the escort’s masthead height at eighteen feet, so he could use the periscope’s stadimeter to get a range if he so chose. The boat had been riding up and down with the sea, so he did his best to time his observations to when the boat was riding the top of a swell.
“Bearing, mark,” he called out.
“Zero-eight-five,” his quartermaster sang out.
“Range, mark.”
“Four thousand, three hundred and twenty yards.”
“Down scope. Quick, get a single ping range.”
Moments later: “Four thousand, three hundred yards.”
“Excellent. Preliminary course and speed?”
From the chart table, where his XO, Lt. Dakota Bloom quickly drew lines on a maneuvering board, “Course three-two-one, speed nine.”
“Come right to three-two-one,” Fortnoy ordered, paralleling the convoy, seeking to maintain contact as long as possible, even at his best sustainable submerged speed of five knots.
He waited.
Seven minutes later, he ordered, “Up Scope.” Then, “Bearing, mark.”
“Zero-eight-three.”
“Range, mark”
“four thousand, six hundred.”
“Sonar single-ping?”
“Four thousand, six fifty.”
From the chart table: “Course three-two-one, speed nine.”
Seven minutes later: “Up scope.” Then: “He’s zigged toward. Angle-on-the-bow port one-zero-zero. Bearing, mark.”
“Zero-eight-zero.”
“Range, mark.”
“Four thousand, five hundred thirty.”
“Down scope.” This time, confident his stadimeter ranges were accurate, Fortnoy did not ask for a confirming sonar range. “What kind of course have you got on him?” he asked his TDC operator.
“With that AOB, Skipper, two-nine-five.”
“Very well. Helm, come left to two-nine-five.”
“Two-nine-five, aye.”
––––––––
After thirty minutes, Jim Fortnoy was fairly confident he had the convoy’s base course, speed, and zigzag pattern figured out. He hated to let it slip past Cray without taking a shot at it, but that was just what he did, as he assumed shadow position. As he slipped his boat astern of the destroyer at the tail end of the convoy, he radioed, “Cowboy One, this is Cowboy Two. Convoy base course three-zero-six, speed eight-point-five. Ten minute zigs. Left course two-nine-one, right course three-two-one. Over.”
“Roger that, Cowboy Two. Base course three-zero-six, speed eight-point-five. Ten minute zigs. Left two-nine-one, right three-two-one. Cowboy One, over.”
“That is correct, Cowboy One. Two moving to shadow. Out.”
“Cowboy Three and Four, this is Cowboy One, did you copy? Over.”
“Cowboy Three copied, convoy base course three-zero-six, speed eight-point-five. Ten minute zigs. Left two-nine-one, right three-two-one, over.”
“Cowboy Four copied, convoy base course three-zero-six, speed eight-point-five. Ten minute zigs. Left two-nine-one, right three-two-one, over.”
“Very well, Three and Four, Cowboy One, out.”
That night, under the light of a waning moon, the dogs of war were unleashed.
* * * * *
It was just before midnight on the 25th, and Ito had just settled into his bunk, when he heard the first explosion. He threw on a kimono, and rushed to the bridge. His XO, Lt. Cmdr. Shoici Koroki, a short, thick, and oily sycophant whom Ito couldn’t stand, reported in an excited voice, “There’s been an explosion on one of the cargo vessels, the Shinryu Maru. The master reports a torpedo strike, but it couldn’t be. Mikura was right there beside her when it happened, and reported that no torpedo wake was sighted.”
“So a torpedo without a wake was used!” Ito barked. “Have Mikura immediately do an active sonar sweep to port. Find that Submarine!”
As Koroki rushed off to convey Ito’s orders, there was another explosion, this time on the tanker Jakarta Maru, immediately in front of Atsukaze and to starboard. It was followed perhaps a half-minute later by a second explosion on the same vessel. The tanker burst into flames, as her cargo of fuel oil ignited. Despite the deteriorating sea conditions, Ito could just make out two distinct torpedo wakes leading to the stricken ship, with a third wake having passed her astern. But a fourth torpedo wake was far more frightening. This wake was pointed at a spot in the ocean that the bow of Atsukaze would occupy in a matter of seconds.
––––––––
“Back emergency!” Ito shouted into the voice tube to the engine room. “Full right rudder,” he called to the helm. He held his breath as the torpedo wake disappeared under the bow of his ship, which was shuddering, slowing, and turning. Then he gratefully let that breath out as the wake continued past.
The torpedo must have missed, he thought, but by only a hair’s width.
“Full ahead,” he ordered, setting a course down that last torpedo wake. En route to his submerged prey, he ordered the remaining convoy vessels to make best speed on course 306 with Kibuki to remain with them as escort. He then ordered Iki to join him in hunting the tanker’s tormentor. Behind him, as the cargo ship Shinryu Maru stood burning, down by the stern and dead in the water, the stricken tanker Jakarta Maru exploded and blew apart in two pieces; both halves sank like stones in a matter of minutes. Jakarta Maru left behind nothing but a burning oil slick on the roiling sea, which, along with Shinryu Maru’s smoky blaze, at once brightened and blackened the night sky.
* * * * *
Jack Petrosky, in Perro, knew he was in trouble. Two of the three torpedoes he had aimed at that tanker, had erased it, all right, but his fourth had missed the destroyer. Perro was now in for it, as the destroyer bore down on her.
“All ahead full, right full rudder, take her down! Make your depth one hundred feet, and make it quick.”
“Full dive on the bow and stern planes, fifteen degrees down bubble, make your depth one hundred feet,” Perro’s engineer officer Lt. Joel Himmelfarb shouted, acknowledging and executing the order with the same command. As the boat was driven downward, the pinging above grew ever louder as the destroyer bore down on Perro.
“He’s after us and he’s pissed,” Petrosky muttered under his breath to no one in particular. Then, aloud, he said, “Rig for depth charge.” The boat was passing eighty feet, and leveling off to a five-degree down bubble, when the first depth charge went off well astern and to starboard. Boom! “He’s not on to us yet,” Petrosky observed to his XO, Lt. Frank Witherspoon.
“Sonar reports a second set of screws above, Captain,” the conning tower talker, Seaman Bob Hooker, announced. “And he’s pinging on us.”
“Steady at one hundred feet, Captain,” Himmelfarb reported.
“All ahead one-third,” Petrosky ordered. “Rudder amidships. What’s our heading?”
“Zero-two-seven, Captain,” the helmsman announced.
“Very well, come right to zero-three-six.” That would point Perro in a direction ninety degrees off the convoy’s base course. If Petrosky wasn’t able to shake his pursuers, he could at least draw them away from the convoy and give the other boats better odds at sinking a few more marus. Then, almost as an afterthought, he ordered, “Rig for silent running.”
Now only one source of pinging could be heard. One of the ships above Perro had stopped using their active sonar.
“Steady on zero-three-six.”
“Sonar reports one contact, screws stopped, dead in the water, echo locating. Second contact coming on fast,” Hooker announced.
Then came a string of depth charges, close aboard and directly overhead. Boom! Wham! Wham! WHAM! Boom! Wham! WHAM!
“What in hell?” was all Petrosky could think to say as the boat whipsawed beneath his feet. Directly overhead in the conning tower, the bridge hatch lifted off its seat and reseated, admitting a shower of water under pressure, soaking the personnel below.
“Take her down to two hundred feet. All compartments, damage report!” shouted Petrosky. As the boat headed down to 200 feet, the damage reports came in. The forward torpedo room reported two sea valves had lifted off their seats. The forward engine room reported that sections of gasket had blown out of the engine air induction valve and the main induction valve. The after torpedo room reported the most damage: a four foot by two foot dent in the pressure hull just forward of tube eight—no evidence of a crack in the hull, though. A sea valve casting had cracked, and water was spurting from it, producing a flat stream of water the size of a knife blade. The stern planes were also making noise whenever they were moved. Other compartments reported minor damage, and bits of cork insulation and splinters of glass were everywhere.
“Steady at two hundred feet,” the report came up from Himmelfarb.
“Sonar reports that second ship now stopped and echo locating” Hooker announced. “First vessel now coming on fast.”
Two more depth charges went off, still overhead, but now set too shallow to do much damage. And so it went. Each of the two vessels overhead taking turns, one apparently having enough depth charges aboard to release a half-dozen at a time.
“We’re being double-teamed,” Petrosky noted to no one in particular, “and they don’t appear to be ready to give up on us any time soon.”
Perro had suffered the worst damage from the second vessel’s initial attack. Subsequent attacks by both ships were on the mark, but the depth charges were still set too shallow, and the physical damage they caused was minor: more glass shards and chunks of cork insulation. Psychological damage to the crew—from the ominous pinging and incessant pounding—was something else again.
––––––––
Jake had tried to reach Cray on the tactical radio before he fired two Mark-18s at the cargo ship. He wanted to invite Jim Fortnoy up to join in the fray, but Cray, as shadower, had obviously slipped so far behind the convoy that she was out of range of tactical radio.
And now Orca, having drawn first blood by torpedoing the cargo ship, was also getting a going over from one of the “pint-sized escorts.” Jake had taken the boat deep to 200 feet from the first, however, and the kaibokan had difficulty locating the submarine. Going slow enough to echo locate the boat, the pint-sized escort would establish contact, only to lose it as it sped up to unleash a flurry of depth charges. Invariably, Orca was elsewhere when the charges went off—and the charges were set too shallow anyway. The worst effects Orca suffered from the explosions were some violent jolts that threw crewmembers off balance and broke a few dishes.
Jake maneuvered Orca so as to slowly draw the escort west, and away from the convoy. “If I can keep this guy busy,“ he reasoned with his XO, “and away from the convoy, then the other boats will have one less escort to worry about.”
Jake was completely amazed at the number of depth charges the little escort carried. At each pass, there were up to a half-dozen explosions, and there were multiple passes. He eventually lost count. And the little bugger was persistent, if not—thank God—terribly accurate.
––––––––
After two hours had passed, and Orca and had drawn her pursuer several miles west of the convoy’s track, Jake decided he had had enough of the two vessels’ little dance. Despite any evidence of success, the escort showed no signs of giving up and abandoning the chase. Evidently an occasional positive active sonar contact was sufficient to assure the escort of ultimately succeeding: either sinking its adversary or forcing the sub to surface. In desperation, Jake decided to try a tactic that had been widely written about before the war, but had never actually become doctrine. If it worked, Orca would turn the tables and become the escort’s stalker.
Using reports on the escort’s approximate location from passive sonar, Jake slowly maneuvered the boat into a position where he could pinpoint the escort’s exact location using active sonar. When he had done so, he found that the escort was still actively searching over the last spot he had found Orca. Trusting that the escort’s active sonar would mask Orca’s, Jake ordered sonar to single-ping the escort. But sonar reported that it could get no return from the escort.
“No return, “ Jake mused aloud to his XO. “Why can’t we get an echo return off this guy? He’s practically overhead!”
Chapman thought a bit. “The sonar dome’s mounted under the bow. The active sonar is designed to acquire targets ahead of and below us. Maybe our bow superstructure is in the way?”
“Maybe. Let’s see.”
Jake had Joe Bob slowly change Orca’s attitude to a fifteen-degree up bubble. This time sonar reported a single-ping bearing and range to the contact. Then, with Early Sender operating the TDC, and Lou Carillo on the chart plot, Jake ordered sonar to single-ping the escort enough times to get bearings and ranges so a course and speed could be calculated. The chart plot soon reported course 096 at five knots.
The torpedomen in the forward torpedo room were astonished when Jake ordered the outer doors opened on tubes three and four.
“I have a firing solution, Captain,” Sender said.
“Very well, fire three.”
One Mark-18 was sent on its way.
At 29 knots, Jake knew, a Mark-18 traveled about 980 yards per minute. The escort was twenty-three hundred yards away, and a hundred and ninety feet above, so he figured travel time was just over two minutes and twenty seconds, doing the math in his head. But it had to climb to its running depth of ten feet without wavering, and without broaching in a very busy sea. A broach might throw off the torpedo’s gyroscope and take it off course. All sorts of things could go wrong. Maybe I should risk coming up to periscope depth, and attack the usual way.
Exactly two minutes and twenty-two seconds later, Mikura was hit just forward of her starboard screw. When Orca did come up to periscope depth, the escort was seen to be afire and dead in the water. The outer doors on tube four were still open, and Jake was thinking about putting a second torpedo into her, when, apparently, an armed depth charge went off astern, blowing off the entire aft end of the ship. She sank minutes later. Jake ordered the outer doors closed on tube four.
After sweeping the horizon at a shallow periscope depth of fifty-seven feet and seeing nothing, Jake ordered the boat broached so the SJ radar could be activated. The sea action was so violent, however, that attempting to broach was an exercise in futility. Jake finally had to order Orca surfaced. But grappling with the escort for almost three hours had taken Orca miles away from the convoy’s track. There were no contacts within the range of the radar, no “flickering” on the PPI, and none of the other TG units answered the tactical radio.
Jake ordered Orca to proceed on course 306 at maximum speed for the sea conditions, which proved to be ten knots, hoping to reconnect with the elements of TG 510.1 and intercept—and destroy—the remnants of the convoy.
And then the rain began.
* * * * *
LT Saburo Takashi led his charges north in heavy seas, the convoy now making a steady ten knots, Kibuki’s radar showing no contacts whatsoever, aside from the four ships following two by two. The winds had picked up markedly since morning, and now rain pelted the bridge windshield, with the sky darkening noticeably. The remnants of PAMA-32 were still executing the same zigzag pattern as before, fifteen degrees on either side of the base course of 306. At ten knots, and in such heavy seas, Kibuki’s active sonar was effectively useless, so Takashi would occasionally take his ship up to its maximum speed (in these conditions) of twelve knots, open up a good lead on the convoy, then slow to five knots and use his active sonar to search for submarines ahead. They had left the other escorts and the two torpedoed vessels behind, four hours earlier, and had not had any additional trouble so far.
But Takashi’s luck was about to run out.
* * * * *
Cray had been shadowing the convoy on the surface just out of the escort’s radar range, when the action began without them. Fortnoy ordered flank speed along the convoy’s track as soon as he saw the flashes on the horizon. Out of range of the tactical radio, he could only imagine what was going on up ahead.
After ten minutes, radar reported three contacts up ahead. One appeared to be dead in the water, while the other two appeared to be milling about with no apparent purpose. It took Cray another half-hour to reach the battle scene. One contact off to port was a cargo ship ablaze, down by the stern, listing to port, and dead in the water, pitching and yawing in time with the heaving sea. Boats filled with men had been somehow put over the port side, despite sea conditions, and were clearing the ship. The blazing ship let off sufficient light to illuminate the rest of the battle scene.
Off Cray’s starboard quarter was one of the radar-equipped escorts running hard and firing into the air what looked like a dozen depth charges (well, maybe not that many, but a lot). In company with the escort, the destroyer was off to one side and making bare steerageway, dancing ungracefully to the tune of the heaving sea around her.
Somebody below is getting a thorough going-over, Fortnoy thought, and a huge hole is being blown in the ocean. And if we’re on that escort’s radarscope, she’s ignoring us. That will be her mistake. Fortnoy had decided to make his boat’s presence known.
It’s firing run completed, the escort was sitting in place, moving up and down with the increasingly violent ocean swells, its angle on the bow, Fortnoy estimated, starboard 80. Then the destroyer started a run. Fortnoy quickly decided to get a snap shot off at the bouncing, sitting duck. In a matter of seconds, two Mark-14s were on their way, half-a-degree spread, aimed directly at the escort, still heaving up and down in one spot with the motion of the sea, and about two thousand yards away.
Sit there, you sucker. You only have to stay put for about one and a quarter minutes, Fortnoy prayed. And the sea gods have to cooperate!
Not quite one and a quarter minutes passed, and Iki was hit, a flash of fire and a column of water rising from her hull amidships. Perhaps three seconds later, the second fish passed beneath her harmlessly as the upwelling ocean lifted the stricken ship from the torpedo’s path. At almost the same moment, the Shinryu Maru capsized and the battle scene’s source of illumination disappeared. The night was suddenly dark. Still, as an infuriated Hiriake Ito searched the scene for this new player, the dark looming presence of Cray, low in the water, heaving up and down, could not be missed.
* * * * *
By first light on February 26th, Takashi had begun to feel confident that the remaining four vessels of PAMA-32, under Kibuki’s watchful eye, would make their way to Manila without further incident. After all, Atsukaze and his two sister ships had immediately counterattacked the enemy, and there was every possibility that they had prevailed. His only worry now was the weather, which was growing steadily worse. The sky was dark, the sea confused, with waves up to three meters high moving in all directions, and heavy wind gusts coming from the east.
Then there was a bright flash off Kibuki’s starboard quarter followed by a loud explosion, and the lead cargo ship in that position, Sanaye Maru, burst into flame. Only then did his starboard lookouts report what could be three torpedo wakes in the heavy chop off their bow. As the stricken ship slowed and veered off to the right, Takashi maneuvered his ship down the barely visible trace of the nearest wake, and dropped a pattern of a half-dozen depth charges over the spot where the three wakes appeared to converge. Doubling back, he ordered a sonar search over the same area, but came up empty.
Hermit, a hundred and fifty feet below and five hundred yards to the north, had heard the explosions going off dead astern, and felt their now gentle push in the water as the shock waves dissipated past the pressure hull. Hermit’s novice skipper had ordered his boat to clear the escort’s search area as quickly as possible, and was soon planning just how to reposition his boat for another attack. Carter Vaughn mulled over just how two of his torpedoes could have possibly missed, even given sea conditions.
* * * * *
As Iki sank slowly, bobbing up and down, Ito ordered Atsukaze to be steered directly at Cray, picking up speed as the gap between them closed, intending to ram. But Jim Fortnoy had already ordered flank speed, and first ordering rudder full left, and then, when Cray was pointed almost directly at the oncoming destroyer, ordering rudder amidships, he maneuvered his boat so that it sped past the destroyer close aboard and along that vessel’s port side. Cray crash-dived just after it passed the destroyer’s stern. By the time Ito had Atsukaze turned and the course reversed to search for this second submarine, Cray was passing a hundred and fifty feet, on her way to two hundred.
Atsukaze then spent two hours echo locating, attempting to locate either of the two submarines Ito knew to be below. Finally, as the rains began and the wind increased to gale speed, Ito gave up the search and turned his ship north to rejoin the convoy.
* * * * *
At two hundred feet, more or less, Jack Petrosky in Perro had his hands full. He had to direct the efforts to save his boat, and also try to make sense of what was going on in the ocean above him.
Petrosky worried that possible slow venting of the main induction and air supply trunk as they flooded past the blown gaskets may have been leaving a trail of air bubbles. Or, another possibility, the initial pounding Perro received may have ruptured a fuel oil tank or a fuel line and there might be a telltale oil leak. In any case, he had been unable to shake the two ships above tenaciously attempting to either sink his boat or force it to the surface.
Depth control had been almost impossible; only the skill of Perro’s diving officer, Joel Himmelfarb, had kept the boat within plus-or-minus ten feet of ordered depth. The DC (damage control) crew in the after torpedo room had been unable to staunch the leak in the sea valve casting. Any material stuffed into the crack quickly blew back out at them, but the DC crew was reluctant to forcibly pound anything into the crack, for fear of widening the crack and only making a bad situation much worse. Thus the after torpedo room bilge was flooding up past the deck plates, making the stern heavier and heavier, and the trim pump was continually losing suction to that bilge.
Isolating the compartment and pressurizing it would slow down the leak, but there was that dent in the hull to consider: What if pressurizing the compartment caused that weak spot in the pressure hull to give way completely?
––––––––
Perro’s stern planes were still noisy, but were working. The air conditioning had been secured when “Rig for Silent Running” was ordered, and the air in the boat was hot, rank, and wet. But battery capacity was already alarmingly low, so turning the air conditioning back on was out of the question. With the boat’s trim giving problems, “Rig for Depth Charge” had to be breached to enable a bucket brigade to transfer water forward, keep ahead of the rising bilge water aft, and avoid grounding out the electrical motors. The dent in the pressure hull was scary alright, but appeared not to have affected the boat’s watertight integrity—for now. Through it all, the sweating, the terrifying pounding, and the sheer anxiety, Perro’s crew did everything Petrosky asked of them. Perro’s drain pump, however, was not keeping up with the challenge, and the water level in all the bilges was still slowly rising no matter what he or his crew did.
Above, for the first three hours, the two ships taking turns making depth charge runs on Perro had managed to maintain contact, keeping the boat deep. After the first few runs, the second ship made only dry runs, dropping no depth charges. Has it run out? Petrosky wondered. But the second ship seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of the infernal devices, dropping patterns of anywhere from four to six over on top of Perro with each pass. And together with the depth charge explosions, the incessant pinging of their sonars, first from one, then the other, back and forth, was quickly driving everyone aboard the boat nuts. Then sonar reported the arrival of a third set of fast screws, and things above really got muddled. A torpedo—no, two torpedoes—in the water, an explosion, then, later, sinking and breaking-up noises. More fast screws reported, two sets, and then a submarine diving.
––––––––
Two more hours of echolocating passed. Make that two more hours of incessant pinging, but—thank God!—no more depth charging. The boat was getting heavier and heavier. With the battery getting lower and lower, and, unable to maintain sufficient speed, despite Joel Himmelfarb’s best efforts (and a bubble in the safety tank), the boat began to sink deeper and deeper—250, 300, 325, 350, 380 feet. The boat’s pressure hull was audibly straining with every foot of depth passed, and that dent in the after torpedo room hull was very much on everyone’s mind. Finally—fast screws above fading.
––––––––
Another half hour passed. Perro was now far below test depth, the deep depth gauge reading four hundred and fifteen feet.
Blowing noises, the other boat surfacing.
The other boat has to be one of ours, Petrosky reasoned. Confident that Perro was well clear of the other boat, he ordered his own boat to the surface, blowing all ballast tanks. The boat surfaced in a heavy storm, Perro bobbing in the water, and Petrosky almost slipped on the ladder while scrambling up to the bridge. A quick glace aft revealed a surfaced submarine also bouncing in the rough sea, silhouetted against a hazy early morning glare. Further east, the tossing underside of the capsized cargo ship was still visible. But Petrosky’s only concern was the submarine.
It is one of ours!“ Petrosky shouted. He ordered “This is Cowboy Three” sent out on tactical radio.
The response, “This is Cowboy Two, welcome topside, Three, the coast is clear,” drew tears of grateful relief to Perro’s skipper’s eyes.
––––––––
Jake had just arrived on the scene when Hermit’s target, on the other side of the convoy from Orca, went up in flames. Orca had performed much the same maneuver that Hermit had, but from the west of the convoy rather than the east, and had submerged along the convoy’s projected track, waiting to pounce. The sea was in such a state, with white-capped waves, and ten-foot swells, that periscope depth became fifty-six feet before enough of the scope could be exposed to see anything. Jake ordered Orca headed into the oncoming sea to minimize the boat’s motion, and Hal Chapman, manning the periscope with difficulty because of the pitching deck under his feet, reported that the radar-capable escort had veered off to the east in search of whichever one of TG 510.1’s boats had scored the hit. But now the convoy had scattered, the remaining three vessels taking off in different directions, and there was no way that Orca could get into position to dispatch any one of them.
“What about the cripple?” Jake asked Hal.
“Wait one.” He adjusted the scope, slewing the handles right. “Okay. It’s on fire, there’s a good blaze aft of the wheelhouse, but it’s got way on. Bearing, mark.”
The QM of the watch, QMSN(SS) Henry Coons read “One-zero-three.”
“That wasn’t a very good bearing. The boat’s bouncing around too much. Down scope,” Hal ordered.
“Can we get into position to finish it off?” Jake asked.
“Possibly. How about we get a single-ping range on it?”
Jake ordered a single-ping range on the contact at 103. Sonar reported back that the boat was pitching too much to get a range
“Steer one-zero-three to close the target,” Jake ordered (Orca had been making three knots). “Make turns for five knots,” he ordered, bumping up her submerged speed to better close the target.
––––––––
Seven minutes later, Hal raised the periscope again. He first did a three hundred and sixty-degree sweep. Besides the target, and in the early morning light, he couldn’t see anything but waves washing over the scope lens. Jake ordered to boat up to fifty-five feet. “Can’t find the escort at all,” he volunteered. “Wait one. I think I have her.”
With the boat at fifty-five feet, Chapman could barely make out the escort off in the distance. He couldn’t see the other three ships in the convoy at all. “Bearing to escort.”
“One-one-zero.”
“Escort’s pretty far away, Skipper, barely visible. My guess is about eight thousand yards, max. Probably still working over whoever’s down there.” Swinging the scope left, he put the crosshairs as best he could on the target. “Bearing.”
“One-zero-one,” Coons sang out.
“Down scope. Another lousy bearing, I’m afraid. Guessing range to be about six thousand yards. And it looks like they’re putting the fire out, Skipper,” Hal reported.
––––––––
Another seven minutes passed. “Up scope.” Hal had to swing the scope further left to observe the target. Bearing!”
“Zero-nine-nine.”
“Fire’s out, left bearing drift, and she’s definitely farther away. My guess is seven thousand yards. Looks like she’s gotten underway and we’re losing her, Captain,” Hal said.
“Yeah, and the weather’s getting crappier and crappier, and if we surface to go after the AK, we’ll have that escort on our back. Some days you just can’t make a buck.”
––––––––
Perro had to wait until the engine intake and ventilation induction piping was drained before the boat’s engines could be started and a much-needed battery charge begun. Once the diesels were on line, Petrosky raised Jim Fortnoy over the tactical radio.
“Cowboy Three, this is Cowboy Two, over.”
“Go ahead, Two.”
“Two has a dented pressure hull and blown gaskets on the engine intake and main induction valves. There is a cracked and badly leaking sea valve casting in the after torpedo room, and the bilges are flooded. And those are the problems we know about, over.”
“Roger, Two. Sounds like you had a pretty good going over. Nothing for it but for you to head for the barn. Do you need us to escort? Can you dive? Are all electronics working? Over.”
“Two can dive, once the can is full and the bilges dry, but not very deep, and most likely cannot stay down for long. All electronics are working. Thanks anyway, but negative on the escort. Over.”
“Roger Two. We’ll stick around for a bit anyway.”
––––––––
An hour later, the weather had deteriorated to the point where Petrosky was anxious about Perro’s chances of making it to Midway. The swells were getting higher and the wind was blowing harder and gusting from the southwest. At least the wind will be at the boat’s back as we head to Midway, no aircraft will be flying in this muck, and in these seas diving the boat is out of the question anyway, Petrosky thought.
So, on the morning on February 26th, Perro limped off in the direction of Midway, and Cray headed north to attempt a hook-up with the remainder of the Task Group.
––––––––
Jake, waiting until the kaibokan had disappeared over the horizon, and with the cargo ship now long gone, surfaced Orca. An SJ radar sweep showed only one contact in the sea return, and it was headed away from Orca, steaming north-northwest at ten knots. It had to be the escort in search of the remaining convoy elements. Jake knew the escort had radar, and might now know Orca’s location. But chances were, with the boat’s low profile, and with the sea conditions, that Orca was lost to the escort’s radarscope in the sea return. He ordered radar to keep watch on the contact just in case, and to notify him immediately if the contact changed course toward Orca. Fifteen minutes later Hermit surfaced, bobbing in the rolling waves.
––––––––
The typhoon had changed course again, and was now headed due west, straight for a landfall on the southern end of the Philippine Island of Mindanao. As the eye of the typhoon passed over the warmer waters of the Kuroshio Current, just east of the Philippines, the typhoon gained in strength. The storm was now seven hundred miles wide, packed a hundred and eighty mile per hour winds around its eye, and was ambling along to the west at an uneven eight knots.
––––––––
Perro was caught up in the outer bands of the storm, headed northeast, and on a propulsion charge. The boat was making turns for ten knots, but with the following seas was actually making more like thirteen over the ground. But following seas were also termed “pooping seas” for the danger of waves crashing down on the boat’s stern, and pushing it violently forward. Pushed violently forward, the boat might very well then meet the next wave ahead straight on, and slew around broadside to the oncoming sea. Waves hitting broadside could then heel the boat over. Heel any vessel over far enough, and it will capsize. The safest course of action would be turning the boat into the wind and riding out the storm. Petrosky was well aware of the danger, but was also aware that by carefully paying attention to sea conditions and the boat’s speed, Perro could “run before the sea,” and actually gain time on her trip home.
Only once was control of the boat lost. An unusually high wave broke over the after deck, and before any corrective action could be taken, the boat was sitting in the depth of a trough, broadside to the oncoming waves to port. She heeled over a full twenty-five degrees to starboard before righting herself. Luckily enough, the next wave had far less power, and the quick reaction on the part of the OOD (the intrepid Lt. Himmelfarb), ordering a hard left rudder and a short burst of speed, turned the boat into the oncoming waves. Perro was then able to confront the angry sea more safely, if not more comfortably. Petrosky looked on the incident as a warning from the Almighty, and resolved to wait out the rest of the storm headed into the sea.
* * * * *
Kibuki was not so lucky. The kaibokan were not well designed to begin with, with her superstructure really being too high for the hull. Now, with the majority of her remaining depth charges secured topside, Kibuki was even more top-heavy. Lieutenant Saburo Takashi was well aware of the problem, but was then heading into the teeth of the typhoon, and it would have been outright murder to order any men on deck to stow depth charges below. Compounding the problem was the availability of only the starboard engine and the requirement to keep constant right rudder on to compensate. There was nothing for it but to keep Kibuki headed into the sea and try to ride out the storm.
As it rode the surging sea, the ship suddenly veered sharply to port. Too late, Takashi saw the rogue wave—it had to be forty meters high—tower over the starboard beam. Kibuki was lifted up high out of the water as if it was no more than a cork float on a fishing line, and then slammed down on her port side into the trough below. The rogue wave curled over the ship, rolling the vessel over as it advanced, its energy finally dissipated as it crashed onto the sea below, all foam and white water.
And when the wave was gone, so was Kibuki.
––––––––
The Sanaye Maru, having unknowingly escaped Orca’s murderous intentions, was making its way northwest, with the intention of escaping the worst of the storm by rounding the southern tip of Mindanao, placing the island’s mountains between it and the oncoming storm, running west under Zamboanga, and then north to Manila. Hermit’s torpedo, had it struck the ship below the water line, would have surely sunk her, but sea action had disturbed the torpedo’s depth control mechanism, and it had broached, hitting the ship and exploding above Sanaye Maru’s water line. Putting out the subsequent fire, and shifting ballast so as to list the ship to port and minimize flooding, her crew managed to get the ship back underway, and escape Orca.
But Sanaye Maru could not escape the oncoming typhoon. The driven sea began to pour more and more water into the hole in her side as the wave height increased, until the ship floundered, and the inevitable could no longer be denied. Too late, the order to abandon ship was passed. Men died trying to launch lifeboats in the height of the storm; others were washed over the side; still others went down with the ship.
The three other ships in the convoy, two cargo ships and the tanker, had the same, more or less obvious, plan: seek shelter from the storm by rounding the leeward, southern, tip of Mindanao, and then running west, making their way through the Zamboanga Straight north to Manila. It was there, two days later, that Ito found them, running north along the Mindanao coast.
* * * * *
Orca, in company with Hermit, had ridden out the storm more or less in the same spot where Hermit had torpedoed the Sanaye Maru.
Jake had reported to SUBPAC that “TG 510.1 attacked and sank one cargo vessel, one tanker, and two destroyer escorts. A third cargo vessel was damaged. A violent storm caused the TG to break off action, and caused TG leader Orca to lose contact with Cray and Perro.”
SUBPAC responded with an encrypted message saying that “. . . both Cray and Perro have reported in. Cray was battle ready. Perro has been damaged and is returning to Midway.” A rendezvous point was designated for TG 510.1 to reform and await further orders.
––––––––
When they arrived at the rendezvous point the morning of March 1st, Orca and Hermit found Cray waiting for them. On reporting in, SUBPAC ordered TG 510.1 “. . . to proceed at best speed to intercept convoy designated GUPA-17 leaving Guam this date en route Palau and engage. Convoy consists of two merchants, one escort.” The three boats took off due west at full speed to intercept the enemy.
TG 510.1 arrived at the intercept point just after midnight on March 2nd. Jake had selected a point halfway along the main shipping route between Guam and Palau, just northeast of Yap. Any point along the route was easily accessible to Japanese patrolling aircraft out of either Guam or Palau, and Jake warned the other Captains that their boats were very vulnerable to discovery from the air. He ordered the three boats to fan out along the probable route, and await the enemy—Cray to the west, Orca in the center, and Hermit to the east. TG 510.1 then settled in to wait.
The three boats did not have long to wait. Four hours after they arrived at the intercept point, Orca’s SJ radar operator reported a line of three contacts, closest one at ten thousand yards, and heading toward the boat from the north-northeast. Jake sent a message to the other boats reporting the contacts. Within minutes all three boats had them on their PPIs.
Jake ordered “General Quarters, Torpedo Action Surface.” He was on the bridge, and Hal Chapman was in the conning tower. There was a waxing half-moon biting through the haze high in the northern sky, and visibility was about six thousand yards. There may have been contacts out there, but nobody on the bridge could see them, no matter how hard they stared through their binoculars.
“Convoy course two-three-seven, speed nine knots,” Louie Carillo reported up to the bridge from the chart plot, and Early Sender cranked the information into the TDC. The convoy, radar reported, appeared to be holding on a straight course, without zigzagging.
Jake grew suspicious. “I’ll bet they have air cover. Make sure the SD radar operator stays alert. And warn the other boats,” he called down to the conning tower.
Hal Chapman passed the word.
Let’s assign target,” Jake called down again. “There’s one for each of us. We’ll take the lead contact, Hermit the second in line, and Cray, the last in line.”
Again, Hal passed the word to the other boats.
“Radar reports air contact, bearing zero-five-five, range six thousand,” the conning tower talker shouted up to the bridge.
“Quick, Hal,” Jake ordered, “Alert the other boats. Have ‘em dive.”
“Cowboy Two and Cowboy Four, this is One. Air contact bearing zero-five-five, range six thousand. Dive your boats, out,” Hal sang into the tac radio.
“Cowboy Two, aye, out.”
“Cowboy Four, aye, out.”
Jake pressed the diving alarm. Ah-ooh-gah! Ah-ooh-gah! “Dive, dive,” he spoke into the 1-MC. Four lookouts, a quartermaster, and Jake, in that order, scrambled down the conning tower hatch. Jake pulled the hatch lanyard taut as he hit the deck of the conning tower, waiting while the quartermaster dogged down the hatch. “Make your depth six-zero feet.”
At periscope depth, with radar blind, all three submarines had to now rely on their periscopes and their sonars.
On the search periscope, Hal first did a three hundred and sixty degree sweep of the horizon and then concentrated on the reported bearing of the oncoming targets. “Nothing visible, Skipper.”
“Aircraft?” Jake asked.
Hal adjusted the periscope lens to look upward, and did another sweep. “Nothing, Captain. Down scope.”
“Very well.”
And they waited.
Every seven minutes, Hal raised the scope for another observation. The third time he raised the scope, he reported, “I have something, Captain, a hull low in the water, looks like maybe a minesweeper, probably the escort, angle on the bow starboard two-zero.”
“Have sonar get a single ping range to the lead target,” Jake ordered. Sonar quickly reported back that the target range was 4,900 yards.
Early Sender cranked the new information into the TDC. “Course two-three-five, speed nine,” he reported.
Jake changed Orca’s course to starboard, so as to decrease the torpedo’s gyro angle and to close the target. “CPA?” Jake asked Early.
“Five hundred yards in just under three minutes,” he replied.
“Open outer doors forward, tubes one and two,” Jake ordered, knowing he now had to act quickly. He let a minute pass and ordered another single-ping range, as Hal raised the scope for a final target bearing.
“Bearing.”
“Zero-five-zero.”
“Range, forty-seven hundred.”
“I have a firing solution, Captain,” Early Sender sang out.
“Fire one.”
“One fired,” the talker reported.
To Early Sender: “Spread the second torpedo two degrees right.”
Early adjusted a knob on the TDC. “Two degrees right entered, Sir.”
“Fire two!”
“Two fired.”
“Sonar reports two fish in the water, hot, straight, and normal.”
Less than thirty seconds had passed when the first explosion was heard. Boom! Hal was watching the action through the periscope. “We got her, Captain. Direct hit aft. Definitely a minesweeper. “ Everyone waited for a second explosion, but there was none.
“One fish missed,” Jake announced to no one in particular. Then another explosion was heard, followed closely by another.
Chapman swung the periscope left. “Can’t see too much, Skipper. Hazy. Looks like a cargo ship. She’s been hit on the side away from us. Chalk one up for Carter Vaughn.”
Less than a minute later, another explosion was heard. Boom! Chapman swung the periscope further left. “Can’t see anything, Captain. But I’ll bet that that was Jimmy Fortnoy’s work.”
Another five minutes passed. Another explosion. Then again, several minutes afterward, another very loud explosion was heard. “What was all that, I wonder?” Hal said.
“Absolutely no idea,” Jake said.
––––––––
Ten minutes later, sonar reported breaking-up noises. Raising the scope, Chapman could see only Orca’s target, still afloat, afire, dead in the water. “Minesweeper,” he observed. “Wood hull. Hard to sink.”
“Have the other boats surface and report in,” Jake said, as he ordered Orca to the surface.
“This is Cowboy One. Two and Four surface and report, over,” Hal spoke into the tac radio. The other two boats acknowledged the order and surfaced. It was first light, and the visibility was fair, about seventy-five hundred yards. Except for the minesweeper’s burning, floating, hulk, and pieces of flotsam everywhere, they were alone. All three boats immediately lit off their diesels and began charging their batteries. From Orca’s bridge, Jake used his binoculars to scan the surface, looking for men in the water. There were none. The other boats reported in:
“This is Cowboy Two. Three torpedoes expended, two hits. One AK sunk, over.”
“This is Cowboy Four. Three torpedoes expended, two hits. One AK sunk, over.”
“This is Cowboy One. Good shooting! One fired two fish, one hit. Target minesweeper still afloat. But that’s only five explosions. We counted six. What gives? Over.”
“This is Cowboy Two. Sixth bang was a bomb from that patrol plane. Dropped it about five hundred yards astern. No damage, but scared the crap out of Cowboy Two, over.”
Laughing, Hal replied over the tac radio, “This is Cowboy One. Very well. Out.”
It was obvious that TG 510.1 had made a clean sweep of convoy GUPA-17, and Jake so reported to SUBPAC.
SUBPAC responded with a congratulatory signal, and ordered the task group back to Midway.
