Submarine Commander: A Story of World War II and Korea

5. The USS Atule: Minesweeper?

5 The USS Atule Minesweeper? I watched the sun rise over Tanapag Harbor on that early November day aboard Fulton. The morning air carried a tangy fragrance across the calm waters. Somewhere near the top of 1,554-foot Mount Tapotchau a Japanese flag flew unseen to any but the few surviving occupants still holding out in the network of caves and bunkers. Saipan was critically important to both sides, the key to U.S. conquest of the central Pacific, the keystone of the Japanese inner defense perimeter. U.S. troops had stormed ashore on 15 June after a spirited bombardment by fifteen battleships and heavy attacks by carrier aircraft. Vice Admiral Jisaburo Ozawa sent the greatest Japanese fleet ever assembled to aid the defenders. Four days after the initial landings, some five hundred aircraft were launched from the Japanese carriers and airfields in an all-out assault. In the "Great Marianas Turkey Shoot," four hundred Japanese planes were lost; one hundred U.S. planes were lost, most of them ditching or crash landing on the carriers when they ran out of gasoline on their return flights. The destruction of three Japanese carriers-two to U.S. subs, one to torpedo planes-and most of their pilots inflicted a blow from which the Imperial Navy never recovered. The loss of Saipan's Aslito airfield and four satellite fields on adjacent Tinian Island took away a major military staging base, the most important a.:r complex between Tokyo and Truk. Much of Japan's dwindling supplies of sugar, com, vegetables, and whiskey from the Suntori distilleries came from Saipan . During June and July Vice Admiral Takeo Takagi was ordered to send every Japanese submarine available to defend the Marianas. A dozen were lost to little or no purpose, including Admiral Takagi himself. The submarine force never recovered from the disaster. Priorities on new construction shipbuilding went elsewhere. The submarine program was changed from fleet boats to scores of small kaiten midget submarines to be used against the anticipated Allied invasion of the home islands. The remaining fleet submarines were adapted 45 30 15 120 + flManiia Subic ~4~. Philippine Islands • {t'.·'i)LevteGulf / V"Q· .,~ , ' 165E 180 I PACIFIC -' 0<{ z 0 o C E A N I0 <{ Z 0::: UJ IZ 3 Caroline Islands : Marshall Islands Majuro 165W I War Patrols of the -145 USS Atule, 1945 UJ Z - -' UJ l0 <{ 0 ,Midwav + Hawaiian Islands ,~ ~ -' 15 001 /'';;;'::;::::;:; 0 I I I E QUA TOR J0 0 120 135E 150 165E 180 165W The USS Atule 133 to carry either the kaiten or suicide torpedoes for use against the U.S. fleet. Despite the best efforts of the defenders, the island was declared secured by the American forces on 9 July. Prime Minister Hideki Tojo had personally guaranteed the successful defense of the island to the emperor. When Saipan fell, Tojo and his entire cabinet resigned. The disaster could not be hidden from the people and convinced many, including the emperor, that the war could not be won. Holland arrived in Tanapag harbor in August, Fulton shortly after, and the new afloat submarine base was immediately open for business . The capability for full submarine repair and logistic support in the forward area allowed a new patrol routine. Refits would occur alternately at an advance base-Midway, Majuro, or Guam-or at Pearl Harbor, using Saipan for topping off or emergency repairs. Japanese combat remnants holding out in the mountains made occasional foraging raids, causing a few casualties to men from ships in the harbor-including submariners-rubbernecking or souvenir hunting. I was as anxious as any to get ashore and have a look around. At first chance, several of us commandeered a jeep or hiked around, fascinated by the charred relics of tanks and equipment destroyed in the bitter struggle. The limestone hills were pockmarked with caves scarred by flamethrowers, their inhabitants still frozen in final death throes. The first day ashore we visited the internment camp at Charan Kanoa, where Japanese civilian workers from the destroyed sugar mill, their families, and others tried to resume life behind barbed wire. My lasting impression is of thick, grubby flies everywhere, on faces and feces, on food or swarming over rotting animal carcasses. The flies had been introduced into Saipan as a natural enemy of a local pest, but they immediately declared a truce, then went forward and multiplied, soon becoming far worse than the pest they were supposed to eliminate. I watched a native put a bowl of thin soup to his lips, several fat flies bathing in it, then suck it through his teeth, putting down the bowl, empty except for the ugly insects. The huge air complex developing on the southern end of the island offered a major point of interest. Army engineers put top priority on expanding Aslito airfield into a huge B-29 bomber and fighter base. Everybody on the island wanted to rubberneck; an ironhanded West Pointer decreed that every vehicle of any description passing through his area would carry coral. Whether a jeep or a general's car, they paid the price of admission, and the skyline changed day by day. Soon fighters zoomed off freshly rolled, dusty strips; by midNovember B-29 bombers launched their first Saipan-based raid on Japan. Days of scavenging along the beaches and interior always ended at 1630 at the "Officers' Club," hastily erected for the fleet on a low 134 Submarine Commander promontory overlooking the harbor. The club opened daily at 1630 and closed at 1900, so that all users could get back to their commands before nightfall and its hazard of Japanese raiding parties. Only beer was served; refrigeration was limited to a single large reefer that kept the contents far below freezing. Each day sufficient beer was set out early enough to be somewhat thawed by 1630 but not too warm by 1900. Regulations for tropical export beer required the use of formaldehyde as a preservative. When the beer froze, the formaldehyde distilled to the top. We fell into the "club" each day, hot and sticky from our brisk walks around the island, and couldn't wait to get a long sip of beer. It was mostly formaldehyde, and the overusers soon found they were embalming themselves. They quickly went berserk, causing wild, free-swinging battles before they could be brought under control. That stuff sure hit the spot. With many boats passing through, the friendship and sympathy of old friends greatly helped raise my morale. Fellow execs Johnny Shepherd of Trigger, Linc Marcy of Ronquil, Charles F. "Chuck" Leigh of Silversides, John D. Harper of Shark (lost two weeks later) Howard A. "Howie" Thompson of Scabbardfish, and Dick Laning of Salmonand their skippers, I soon found-were solidly behind me. The COs who knew my boss were surprised not over the break but that he lasted as long as he did before it came. Frederick A. "Pop" Gunn, Howie Thompson's skipper, tried to get me aboard Scabbardfish for a patrol as a PCO but couldn't swing it before heading out again. As my sagging morale struggled to return to normal, a nagging physical problem added to my concern. Despite my iron constitution, the emotional strain of the past year caused my weight to drop to 173, lower than it had been since plebe year. More bothersome was a severe case of "periscope eye" from long hours on the periscope or squinting through a sextant. During the last days at sea my left eye had weakened to the point that I could distinguish little more than light from dark-I, who frequently earned the nickname Hawkeye, now was half blind. After a thorough examination on the tender, all the doc could do was produce an ugly pair of glasses, which I detested. Meanwhile, the Japanese made one last hostile effort against the island. One day at high noon a dozen Japanese Zeros made a sudden low-level attack on ships and the airfield. They had secretly restored an airstrip on Pagan Island about a hundred miles away and moved in planes. For several days, usually at noon and midnight, a group of fighters flew over Tanapag, shooting up everything in sight. Since there was neither a carrier nor a known land base within range, the first attack achieved complete surprise. The twice daily attacks kept us busy until the last plane was splashed. The display of pyrotechnics, searchlights, crisscrossing tracer fire, flares, and rockets over the har- The USS Atule 135 bor at night was unbelievable, but the accuracy of the fire by the defenders was not impressive. Few of the ships at anchor were frontline combatants. Many, like Fulton, were support ships whose specialists could spare little time for gunnery drills. Since the Fulton AA battery was the same five-inch 38s with which I had spent so many hours in Wichita, I offered my services to run the AA battery, an offer quickly accepted by the CO. I thoroughly enjoyed the tracking exercises and control of the guns, my first experience banging away at live targets. We didn't shoot any down but our accuracy improved mightily in a day or so. Meanwhile, U.S. fighters and bombers soon smoked out the airstrip on Pagan and put it permanently out of commission. I had few duties formally assigned while waiting for orders. Wishing to stay occupied, I initiated a routine check of TOCs and other fire control equipment on every sub coming alongside for repairs. After all those hours of loving that toy, I wanted to use my experience for the general good. I used my file of training problems and checked each submarine over carefully, finding many mechanical errors, some significant. Any officer who wanted a wardroom bull session on attack tactics always found me ready. The skippers were genuinely appreciative . Part of my interest in spending time on the submarines rather than on the tender came from the differences I saw day by day in the officers and men aboard Fulton from what I was accustomed to in the boats. The tenders had serious problems in maintaining high-quality personnel. Rejects from the submarines went to the tenders and could rarely be sent anywhere else. The rest of the Navy didn't want submarine castoffs; they had their own to worry about. The spread of experienced regular Navy officers was also very thin. As a result, time-honored customs, so necessary in building the "band of brothers " spirit in a close-knit unit, fell by the wayside. To me, the shipboard life was different, disappointingly so. Nobody denied the remarkable job the tenders did. The display of American genius was unsurpassed. The Japanese knew; they called our submarine tenders "America's secret weapon." What I saw lacking were little things that create big impressions. The wardrooms on navy ships of every maritime nation are gentlemen 's clubs, a place for stimulating discussion by mature, well-traveled , and well-read individuals. Mealtime in the wardroom highlights the shipboard life. But here I found meals to be fifteen- or twentyminute affairs at which everybody bolted his food and bolted from the table. Outside their jobs, they found little to talk about, few shared escapades and adventures on the beach to live and relive. By the nature of their service, they knew precious little about each other's 136 Submarine Commander wives, families, or outside interests. The ideal cannot be endless bull sessions, but mealtimes should offer food for the mind as well as for the body. Specialists in the trades, most knew little of naval tradition and lore of the sea. Because they lacked a background of mutual ties and experiences, their conversation was largely shop talk or local news, the same as one might find in a cafeteria with a casual passerby. The department heads associated little with the endless waves of ensigns; the ensigns were too often fat, flabby, and little informed of service life. Conversation lagged, even with a great war going on around their ears. Meals became pit stops in a busy day. Few division officers knew their men or understood their problems; they showed little interest in making the ship their home. The vast expansion required by the war created many specialists and few professional seamen. Remarkably, standards of performance suffered little. Fulton in Saipan earned a special nickname. Submarine tenders at advance bases had access to steaks and no booze; the hospitals on the beach had nurses with access to booze and few steaks. It was not uncommon for late afternoon motor launch trips to the beach to include a few sailors in clean uniforms carrying $50 and a blanket. A rendezvous could easily be arranged with a female companion carrying a bottle of booze and a need for companionship. On the beach under a canopy of stars they could commune for the night while sharing their various offerings. Nor did such activities exclude the officers. The "0" Club ashore closed at 1900 each evening-but not completely. A few suites were available for after-hours parties. The beer had been returned to the freezer for another day, but the hard stuff came forth for a round or two by a select few senior submarine officers and their peers in nurses' uniforms. Then they would go back to the ship for some delicious steaks and a movie on deck. Who knows? Maybe they too had offerings over which to commune. The Fulton came to be known, in envy perhaps, as the pigboat "Pussy Palace." As often happens, relaxation of some shipboard standards encourages relaxation of others. The men deprived of the above-mentioned fringe benefits soon sought alternatives within easier reach. The Fulton engine room crew decided that if booze was not available, they would produce their own and have a private gillie party on board. Using a secret formula developed for such occasions, a cabal of sailors began a batch of brandy deep below decks. In a new fifty-five gallon GI can-trash can to the layman-they concocted a mixture of forty pounds of sugar, raisins, maraschino cherries, yeast, distilled water, and a few other ingredients. After a few days, the lid was soldered on to make it airtight. To get the tropical sun to work its wonders on The USS Atule 137 the mystic brew, when the word was passed through the ship to bring all GI cans topside for airing, the batch was carefully carried up on deck and just as carefully struckbelow each evening. After a minimum period of aging, the conspirators gathered to reap the reward of their industry. Unfortunately, the chief master-at-arms, the executive officer , and squadron medical officer also descended on the scene, took the culprits into custody, and confiscated the evidence. Somebody had blown the whistle, proving that there is no honor among thieves. The evidence was carefully examined to prove the allegation of manufacture and possession of alcoholic spirits on board. Privately I learned that it tasted delicious and was certainly less harmful than the embalming fluid being passed off as beer at the "a" Club every afternoon . The rebellious spirit permeating Fulton emerged in still another way. One evening shortly before Thanksgiving, when the officers and their covey of invited female guests walked aft for the movie on deck, only three or four enlisted men showed up. No other entertainment was scheduled that evening nor any other activity that could possibly interfere. The chief master-at-arms reported that the men had been ordered not to attend the movie in protest of something by somebody not yet determined. The following morning, only a handful showed up for breakfast. The pattern of planned absence at one meal and the movie was repeated for the next two days. If a reason emerged, it was both unknown and unimportant. By chance, an officer from the Third Marines on Saipan, veteran of several hard-fought island campaigns , happened to come aboard for a social visit. On learning of the sit-down strike in progress, he made an immediate suggestion: "I have any number of men who envy you the soft life on a submarine tender. Find me the leaders and let me administer a bit of discipline for a few days." Three malcontents were soon produced. At dawn the following morning they began carrying coral from the seashore up to the division camp, then late that afternoon began carrying it all back down again. They lived off Marine rations and in two days prayed for return to their ship. The protest was over; I never learned the cause. Yet I developed a fondness for the Fulton and the great job she was doing to keep the submarines on the line. Perhaps my feeling was only anticipatory-sixteen years later I was to command her, the first tender to be equipped to make nuclear repairs in the new atomic Navy. The duty in Saipan offered a fascinating interlude, but I was anxious to get back to a submarine. My departure from Fulton came as hastily as my arrival. The USS AtuZe arrived alongside on 2 December, just a month after I had left SterZet. Her exec, Richard H. "Dick" 138 Submarine Commander Bowers, a year senior to me, had orders for immediate detachment to command the USS Sea Cat. I was nominated to relieve him. I had heard the rumor late the night before but received my orders only forty minutes before Atule was due to go to sea. In a wild rush to clear up all the accounts on the tender, recover my laundry, dry cleaning , and pay records, and complete the myriad details necessary to get detached, I threw my gear on board Atule with only a few moments for a turnover with Dick. Fortunately, he had every possible detail ready for my scrutiny. We had spent an hour or so the night before "just in case." He, of course, was just as hot to get detached and off the ship. One can imagine the turmoil. As he walked up the accommodation ladder to the tender, the mooring lines already taken in, the engines idling, I shouted one last question: "Wait, Dick; what's the destination?" "Majuro," he replied from the top of the ladder. This may be one of the few times when the navigator of a warship doesn't know the destination two seconds before departure There are words to describe my reaction to duty on Atule, but I don't know them. I was elated to be back aboard a submarine, and I had lucked out on a great one. Her skipper, CommanderJohn H. "Jason" Maurer, Naval Academy '35, had a fine reputation. A Washingtonian, his dad was a professor of international law at Georgetown University. Atule was Jason's first command; previously he had served with the distinguished Samuel D. Dealey in the Harder and helped compile an enviable record. Dealey had been lost when Harder was sunk by a minesweeper on 24 August 1944 after sinking sixteen ships totaling fifty-four thousand tons, including four destroyers and two frigates. Maurer had departed not long before that date for command of Atule, a new construction boat from Portsmouth, named for a Hawaiian fish. I soon met the department heads in "the Fighting O'Toole," the engineer, Lt. Cmdr. Sidney W. Thaxter, a prominent New England attorney; gunnery, torpedoes and TDC operator Lt. Hollis F. "Tony" Church, another New Englander and an engineer in civil life; Lt. Jack W. Hudson, a Texan; and Lts. (j.g.) Charles N. Pettit, an Iowan, Fred A. Oyhus from Montana, and Glenn O. Olson, an Oklahoma oilman. Atule was in the latter stages of her first war patrol during which she sank the pride of the Japanese merchant service, the huge Asama Maru of 16,975 tons, on her maiden attack, plus a freighter and two destroyers , totaling 26,000 tons. After topping off on fuel in Saipan, her destination was the new refit base at Majuro, a coral atoll and lagoon in the Marshalls just four hundred miles north of the equator. Celestial navigation in that exotic part of the world was a delight. I found adventure picking my way through the southern constellations . The southern latitudes have fewer clouds and more brilliant The USS Atule 139 stars hanging low in the heavens than the northern skies. Guiding us through the tropical waters, they added calm and serenity to my Kantian "contemplation of the starred heavens." Relaxing on the bridge, the gleam of the astral diamonds mirrored on the calm sea, created the feeling of being suspended at the center of a spatial universe , our phosphorescent wake astern a celestial contrail across the cosmic vastness. Entranced, I was inspired one clear night to try to shoot every navigational star and planet in the heavens. Of the 110 listed in the almanac, I believe I shot fifty-five stars, the moon, and three planets. The navigational plot made a striking picture. Admiral Charlie Lockwood chose Majuro as an advance refit base shortly after the capture of the Marshall Islands and personally picked Myrna Island in the atoll for the submariners. The vast lagoon inside the ring of coral islands could accommodate several fleets. Its narrow entrance passage to the open sea was easily defensible against penetration by a hostile submarine, and a Japanese air or surface attack in this remote area was no longer possible. The highest point in the islands reared only about fifteen feet above sea level. This caused one minor variation in personal habits. To minimize any possible source ofwater pollution from human waste, some medical authority decreed that solid and liquid waste could not be excreted together; urine was to go down some pipes at one spot, feces at another. Only a bit of thought was required and we were happy to pay this small price for a passport to paradise. The lush growth of coconut palms, breadfruit, papaya, and dozens of other tropical delights made it impossible for anyone to starve even without tapping the abundance of the surrounding ocean. At night the trade winds provided a constant breeze, and the starry skies were so bright they looked artificial. Sleep, with the rolling surf just outside the cabin, was heavenly. Before I could even take a look around, however, I almost had to pack up and leave. Just after our departure from Saipan, orders came through for me to go to USS Batfish as exec, and on arrival in Majuro a message was waiting for the skipper to nominate either me or Sid Thaxter for the job. Jason didn't want me to go, and he felt that Sid was not fully qualified. After much haggling, he finally won out with the big boss; neither of us went. But that still left the problem of seniority. I mentioned to the CO that Bert Rodier in Scorpion had been senior to me and it caused no problem, nor should it with Sid. Sid agreed, and when his promotion came through, he delayed accepting it so as to avoid the problem of being senior not just in date of rank but in wearing an additional stripe on his sleeve. And I was glad to have him aboard. A Harvard lad, gregarious and well traveled, he might not have been the greatest engineer, but there was plenty 140 Submarine Commander of talent around. Off the ship I found him congenial and a fine tennis player. His sister, Phyllis Thaxter, was a rising movie star, but Hollywood to us then meant a scratchy, often spliced, second-rate movie each night, usually starring a horse. The first day in Majuro, Tony Church and I chose an uninhabited island in the atoll for some target practice. Tony was an ardent shooter, carrying his own piece. We had fun knocking down coconuts -green and just the right season for drinking the milk. Beautiful tropical birds fluttered all around; we aimed only at seagulls and never came close. Then I went fishing for several hours, noting much too late that my half-inch of hair gave far too little protection to my scalp. The blazing sun soon made my head feel like a safety valve trying to lift. Then, back at the club, the drinks were flowing, leaving me tired and sleepy. I walked down to the beach for a midnight swim in the warm, phosphorescent water under a sky full of stars. When I finally turned in, for the first time in my life I slept through breakfast. Bunks were made up and decks scrubbed, and I still snoozed my life away. Never had I slept better or longer. Christmas 1944 was approaching, and several sacks of gifts arrived . In this area one didn't wait until Christmas Day to open them. Where mold, mildew, rust, and baggage smashers were constant enemies , one salvaged what he could immediately, sharing the wealth with the less fortunate. Since no mail could catch up with me for quite a while-already I hadn't heard from Henri in three months-the other officers made up Christmas presents for me. A three-monthold Time magazine without wrapper was deeded to me, plus two totally useless official letters from the Bureau of Ordnance, some new charts of the Atlantic from the Hydrographic Office, a coconut, and a stack of outgoing mail to be censored. It was great fun; all I could say was that when Easter came I would have all sorts of Christmas gifts and they would have forgotten theirs. My real Christmas came a few days later, when Jason and I were invited to visit the island on the far side of the atoll, where the natives lived. Several times each year, the Red Cross made inspection tours of the islands. They invited two sub skippers and their execs to join. With us were Gordon W. Underwood, CO of Spadefish, and his XO, Theodore M. "Ted" Ustick, a Naval Academy classmate of mine. The visit was a step back into a past era. The way of life had changed little over the years, influenced only slightly by visits from missionaries encouraging somewhat more extensive use of clothing. From about the age of puberty all the males moved into a bachelor pad outside the village, the girls to another on the other side. Ties with the families continued, but the main stress seemed to be a preliminary to choosing a mate. Every male had sexual relations with The USS Atule 141 every female of his age group within wide limits. As a result, yaws, a tropical variation of syphilis, was widespread. As we walked from the boat landing toward the village, Ted and I passed the local laundry-four or five women under a tree beating clothes with sticks. They were just across the path, Main Street, and I watched with a curious eye. One young belle looked in my direction, quite coyly I thought. She began using her charms, including lowering her dress to bare a small, shapely breast, which she waggled at me shyly. Could it have looked other than shapely to us warriors so long removed from society? I nudged Ted, but as soon as he looked she called off the show and became a prim maiden again. He claimed that she recognized he meant business. I thought the incident, in the town square at high noon, was quite seductive. At noon the villagers assembled· in the town center to sell the trinkets they had made since the last market day. The king of Majuro presided, paying each inhabitant in turn what he judged the curios were worth. To his left sat the king of Wotje, a neighboring atoll, who had been driven from his kingdom by the conquering Japanese early in the war. Both looked very dignified in silk top hats, shorts, and spats over shiny hightop shoes. Some of the articles were crude, but many showed high skills and would bring good money when marketed by the Civil Affairs Committee in Honolulu. Meanwhile, the Atule refit was going very well. Walter L. Small, a year my senior and a longtime friend, was the temporary CO. The day we got back from the native island, Walt had a surprise set of orders to command Sterlet. We had a long chat about the boat; I assured him he was very lucky, but I hoped Joe and Gene were still aboard. Bill Jameson, who had left Sterlet after the near drowning incident, was in Majuro on his new boat and heartily seconded my enthusiasm. For some reason, however, Walt never got the boat; it was given to Hugh H. Lewis, a reserve officer, the first to get a frontline command. The stay in Majuro gave me the chance to indulge in my love of flying. The naval aviators on another island in the atoll arranged for me to fly a combat mission to dump some explosives on several of the Japanese held islands bypassed in the campaign across the central Pacific and now slowly dying for lack of logistic support. In an old gull-winged PBY flying boat, the birdmen showed me a very scenic trip. The last island we flew over was Wotje. I decided to drop a special calling card from the king on the invaders and, like Gulliver, used the only weapon at hand. I urinated on it. Christmas really arrived when the long-delayed mail reached me, my first letters from home in many moons. Pictures of the family and lots of news about Henri and our parents made a wonderful gift. I 142 Submarine Commander had barely finished devouring them when it was time for the eggnog party at the club. It took quite a number of storage eggs to find enough good ones, but the result justified the effort. Then many of us went to midnight mass on the tender, an inspiring sight under the stars with a thousand men singing the familiar Christmas carols. The padre, a stirring speaker, had been in the forward areas with the Marines. His vestments were stained with rust, mildew, and vestiges of five shades of mud, which no amount of laundering would ever remove. Perhaps it only added to the drama of the message he delivered. Jason and I went together, and for the first time in many months I finally felt I had recovered my normally rosy outlook on life. The war was far off; I felt totally at peace with the world. The time had come to go to sea again. The workup went very well. The new attack team stood out in intensive training exercises of a new type-with a wolfpack in coordinated action against a convoy . I felt I should have done a much better job during those hard, hard days and nights, but overall I felt satisfied. More important, I gained great respect for the skipper's ability, and my personal liking for him increased as well. We worked together like a charm, a detail noted most enthusiastically by the division commander, who rode with us as chief observer. For her second patrol, Atule, with Pompon, Jallao, and Spadefish, became part of "Underwood's Urchins," Group Commander Gordon Underwood in Spadefish. We departed Majuro on 6 January1945, and events started off with a bang. Less than six hours out of port, while traveling in a total bombing restricted lane, Spadefish was bracketed by two aerial bombs from low-flying TBMs (Navy torpedo dive bombers ) and made a quick dive. Pompon, next in line, also dived, but to prevent a tragedy, Atule tried to exchange recognition signals, finally succeeding by the time the range closed to half a mile. Spadefish soon surfaced and announced that only his spirit had been damaged. The period at sea gave me some much needed time to adapt the Atule training program to my style. I was fortunate in having a very capable predecessor to set up the organization. But Dick Bowers used far more personal control than I. I favored making training the direct responsibility of the department heads and division officers, who after all were involved with the new men on a day-to-day basis. I talked to the men about their submarine qualification if they fell behind; but I prodded the department officers and petty officers to monitor progress . The ideal was to train the junior officers to do my job as well as their own and to do both so well that the ship ran smoothly in my absence. Then I had extra time to write letters to my beloved Henri and our children. On only this last point did I find any divergence with Jason. The USS Atule 143 The captain admitted to a very convenient superstition. He didn't write to his wife, Billie, while at sea. She agreed as long as he came back. Since we were both convinced that we'd survive the war, everybody seemed to be happy. Long ago Reggie Raymond tried to convert me to his system. Reggie wrote no long letters, stressing numbers rather than tonnage. Marge preferred opening letters at various times to enjoy each individually. If he wrote long letters, she was apt to read them hastily and without the intensity given a short missive. I was impressed with both schools but continued to write at sea as the urge or opportunity arose. My only regret was the requirement for censorship, which eliminated from discussion much of the life on board a submarine and its highly colorful devotees. The other task I customarily worked at en route to a new area was a strategic estimate of what to expect and how to get the best area coverage. For the current destination in the Yellow Sea-East China Sea, I had an additional advantage of having made a previous patrol there in Scorpion. The major shipping centers were Shanghai, Tsingtao, Dairen (Port Arthur), Seoul, Nagasaki, and Shimonoseki. Shipping lanes ran from Formosa and the South China Sea, along the China coast to Shanghai, from Indonesia and the Philippines through the Nansei Shoto Islands to Nagasaki, and from the Japan Sea through the Straits of Tsushima to Nagasaki. Analysis of tonnages, seasonal variations, strategic cargoes, and enemy naval and air activity were made from intelligence material on hand (before destroying it on entering salvageable waters), from the operation order, and from intelligence briefings before departure. With this background, the captain and I were able to derive a plan for area coverage; it is interesting that for every patrol I made, the area coverage and development of the resources received favorable comment by Commander Submarines . The only exception was the Scorpion Yellow Sea patrol when Bill Wylie left the area prematurely after the grounding. On 14 January, radar landfall was made on Anatahan Island at 45 miles, and shortly before noon the "Urchins" moored alongside Fulton in Tanapag Harbor for an overnight fuel stop. On departure the follOwing morning, USS Bang and USS Devilfish joined the formation in place of Pompon and Jallao, who were delayed. On the second day out, Commander Submarines reported a life raft with a single occupant near our track ahead. Closing the position at high speed, we soon located a yellow oxygen bottle with heavy marine growth, indicating a long time in the water. A second amplifying report placed the raft 60 miles closer, with three survivors, one wounded. At the new location at 1744, we fired a green rocket and commenced a search. At 1819 a third report placed the raft 120 miles to the northeast. Temporarily abandoning the search, we headed north to rejoin the Ur- 144 Submarine Commander chins, but a half hour later received new instructions to search for twenty-four hours at the scene of the first reported contact. We turned back at high speed, and an all-night run put the ship again in position, only to be instructed to abandon the search. The position of the survivors was never accurately established, unfortunately, and lives may have been lost for lack of navigational data. Something happened that surprised me after I joined Atule. Always a light sleeper, I suddenly began sleeping like a log. On one occasion the diving alarm six feet from my head failed to rouse me; I even had to be called a couple of times for morning stars. And for no apparent reason, I felt my performance as navigator and personnel administrator was not up to my standards. Small mistakes I had never made before bothered me considerably because I could find no reason for them. I knew I was trying to do my best to reflect the confidence Jason had in me. It was a long time before I recovered my customary zip. At noon on 19January, fifteen B-29s passed by on their way north. The wolfpack commander established VHF contact with them, and we each manned the lifeguard frequency for the next six hours in case our airborne brothers needed assistance. The skies were full of aircraft, and the voice radio became more and more important. Increasing numbers of aircraft of all descriptions were being detected by radar, radar receiver, or visually, and we had great difficulty in identifying friend from foe. Jason and I asked Fred Oyhus, the radar officer and an electronic genius, what could be done. Few submarines used the air search radar any more because it acted like a beacon to enemy fliers. The Japanese homed in on the signal with seeming ease. I wanted to know why we had to put out a continuous radar signal. Why couldn't the radar be keyed, somehow, to send out a short pulse, for example, just enough to see if a plane was within range but not long enough to give him a homing signal. Fred, a true scientist, answered any technical question with a "Yes" or a "Yes, but" and then outlined the price to be paid for the desired result. After some thought, he said it could be done, but the major problem would be to make the blip visible on such a short signal. It might be necessary to soup up the voltage on the radar screen to increase its image retentivity. The incidental problem of illegally modifying shipboard equipment Jason and I dismissed as tomorrow's concern. True to his word, Fred disappeared into the pump room to emerge a few days later with the new gadget. The souped-up screen worked well. To protect the operator's eyesight Fred added a tinted screen over the radarscope. Now, instead of a steady outgoing signal, the radar transmitted a single pulse of eight The USS Atule 145 microseconds. The results were encouraging and seemed immune to enemy receivers. A more sophisticated version soon became standard throughout the force. Late in the afternoon on 20 January the Urchins transited Nansei Shoto, the island chain dominated by Okinawa, then headed north past Nagasaki to enter the assigned patrol area. Sampans and junks cluttered the seas, plus an occasional patrol craft lying to or searching at low speed. An effective periscope search became difficult. At sunset on 23 January, Atule headed north along the coast of Korea for a daylight submerged patrol off Chopekki Point-where Scorpion had grounded so many months before. Just before the group commander ordered the Urchins to continue patrolling this area unti127 January. The weather, meanwhile, caused increasing difficulties for the topside watchstanders. Snow flurries fell throughout the day, and our Majuro suntans faded quickly as the hunt went on for warm clothing. The temperature had fallen sixty degrees in two days and I felt great. The air had a snap to it, and I could feel it singing through my system. I spent hours on the bridge, but as Jack noted, "You can go below when the snow and sleet falls; we get to enjoy it up here for four hours out of every twelve." Celebrating the frosty weather in the wardroom, the chef and our fine stewards put on a special meal. I added the background with one of our new recordings on the large discs prepared for the armed services-slow speed, half an hour per side. It was a special Christmas performance with good music and comedians Fred Allen, Jack Benny, W.e. Fields, Bob Hope, Jimmy Durante, and others. We laughed hard and often. This was my idea of a gentleman's club. The following day at 1500, however, our blood began to flow a bit more warmly when a mam was sighted to the east at 21,000 yards, unescorted, heading west at eight knots. When the range closed to 16,000 yards, we dived and commenced a periscope approach. The enemy soon disappeared in a snow squall, but, broaching shallow enough to expose the radar, we headed in for a bow shot. The enemy was seen to be very light in the water, so Jason decided to try a stern tube shot using the electric torpedoes for better depth control at a shallow, three-foot depth setting. At 1658, we fired four torpedoes at a range of 720 yards, small gyro angles, from a position just abaft his beam. Jason watched two torpedoes hit, the first abreast his stack, the second near his mainmast. The enemy was an engines-aft medium freighter, described at the time as "new as a 1945 dime." It was in fact the mint-new 6,688-ton Taiman Maru No.1, heavily compartmented for maximumdefense againsttorpedo attack. She settled rapidly by the stern; the survivors manned two motor lifeboats launched 146 Submarine Commander from the fantail with great speed. Both boats cleared the heavily damaged tail section just as it broke off and disappeared from view with a rending and tearing heard throughout the ship. The forward half popped up like a cork, appearing little the worse for wear despite loss of the working end of the ship. Atule opened to three thousand yards and surfaced to give the men a look and to finish off the wreck with gunfire. With the bridge force up and ballast tanks partially blown, the target suddenly came to life with well-directed 40-mm gunfire from mounts near his bridge structure. Sightseers dived for the hatch as Jason cleared the bridge, then fired one steam torpedo from the bow tube nest. The "tin fish" broached repeatedly as it steamed toward the enemy, passing just under his bow. With 40-mm shells bursting like giant firecrackers to the right, left, and ahead, it seemed prudent to retire hastily and plan the next phase of the action. We cleared the area and circled to the northwest to put the hulk up moon, then headed in after dark to try the deck gun. On a dark and bitterly cold night, stations were manned at 2055 for gun action. The deck was covered with ice, and the gunservers had difficulty toting shells from the ready locker to the gun. The target was beautifully silhouetted in the moonstreak, and at six thousand yards, the captain's command rang out across the still waters: "COMMENCE FIRING." Nothing happened. The ice-covered firing mechanism was frozen and the safety pin inoperative. One shot was finally kicked out by hand. The target began blinking a signal light to westward, perhaps to an arriving escort or salvage vessel. The gun crews were ordered below. When the range closed to five thousand yards, the ship went to battle stations torpedo. Closing to one thousand yards we fired one more steam torpedo, set to run at three feet, a straight shot on his starboard beam. The torpedo again porpoised along the surface but ran straight and true for a hit amidships, or better, a hit in the middle of what was left of the ship. This hit, just forward of his bridge structure, vented a few more bulkheads and started the hulk down by the bow on its final plunge, the bridge rearing into the night sky before settling into the depths. The ship was empty, with good damage control, and tough to sink. Sailing on her maiden voyage, she got less than fifty Iniles from her home port of Inchon, Korea, when her short but interesting career came to an end. Atule cleared the area on the surface, retiring to the north, then set course to return to Chopekki Point. By midnight the radio antennae were heavily coated with ice several inches thick. Diving at dawn to clear the ice off the topside, we The USS Atule 147 surfaced after breakfast on a brilliantly clear, cold day to patrol the traffic lanes across the northern Yellow Sea. From the high periscope watch while we were on the surface, one could see almost the entire upper Yellow Sea. Many fishing floats and much debris cluttered the water, but a heavy blizzard soon struck with remarkable suddenness and nothing could be seen. The following day, 26 January, we surfaced in midmorning in bitter cold, with heavy snow near blizzard strength whistling through the bridge. Just before noon, the horizon suddenly cleared, revealing the Shantung Peninsula on the Chinese mainland. We closed to the twenty-fathom curve, noted the water change from light green to yellowish brown, and turned south before it shoaled further. The wind at twenty-five to thirty knots drove flurries of snow and sleet through every crevice in one's clothing. The topside began icing heavily from freezing salt spray. The charts of the China coast were inadequate, with many unexplored areas left totally blank. The muddy water looked suspicious. I wanted to take a sun sight to check the latitude and notified my quartermaster to meet me on the bridge. Chief Charles Birck arrived topside wearing a heavy parka, fur helmet, galoshes, and heavy mittens ; I arrived in my usual below-deck wear-open-toed sandals and skivvy shorts. One thing I had mastered from the SterZet was the necessity for speed in celestial navigation in a submarine. At that precise moment, however, Jason wanted to take pictures of our snowcovered exterior. The photos looked good, except for one individual seemingly at ease in a totally inappropriate costume. I didn't learn for many years that the bridge watch was mightily impressed by the new exec and his "fastest sextant in the west." Throughout the afternoon several fishing trawlers were sighted, all heading for the lee of Shantung. That night we wished we had too. Diving again to clear the ice from the topside, we surfaced into a pooping sea, almost rolling the bridge under from aft. In the heavy column of water pouring down the hatch came a fish, three feet long, trying to fight his way into the galley fry-pan unai~ed. The hatch was pulled shut before much water was taken in, but the temperature was dropping and the gale winds, straight out of Siberia, drove icicles of snow into every crevice. Officially, it was a nasty night. The following evening, a report of a convoy, received from Pompon three hours late, set us on the chase at four-engine speed. With characteristic suddenness the seas abated, and a full moon cast cold shadows on the dying whitecaps. Just before midnight, Pompon corrected his position report, adding that both he and Spadefish were attacking from the starboard flank. We should have made contact, but not until 148 Submarine Commander 0230 was smoke sighted to the south. We headed to intercept at flank speed before he reached the sanctuary of shoal water. Explosions echoed in the distance. At 0250 a terrific explosion blew a column of water high enough in the air to create a saturation-strength radar pip at sixteen miles. At 0302 we made radar contact on a ship to the east at 19,200 yards, a medium transport attempting to clear the scene of the attack toward the western shoals. A few minutes later, we dived in his track at 16,000 yards. The enemy was clearly visible to the naked eye. At 0340, sonar reported distant echo ranging. An escort was apparently rushing in to rejoin the formation. To get in an attack before the escort arrived, we went in at full speed, but, five minutes later, the target changed course to the north and the escort was sighted coming up on his port quarter. When the range to the target had decreased to 5,000 yards, the escort closed to 1,500 yards, slowed, stopped pinging, and took a sounding. This made me uneasy. If his concern was about the depth of water, how did he think I felt about ours? Or worse, perhaps he was merely determining how shallow to set his depth charges. We couldn't even risk a sounding. When he resumed pinging , our sonar operator reported that he was developing contact. At this time we were directly ahead of him, trying to cross his bow to get between him and the target. Crossing the bow of an alerted escort at 1,000 yards is neither wise nor healthy, particularly in less than ninety feet of water. We eased toward him to reduce the silhouette slightly and to attack from abaft the transport's'beam, but the escort continued on a near collision course as the transport passed within the safety of the ten-fathom bank. Stymied, we couldn't overtake him before dawn, nor could we hazard an attack on the surface. As soon as he drew clear, we surfaced, just after dawn. The approach had taken us five miles inside the twenty-fathom curve, in uncharted water much too shallow for minimum maneuverability submerged . Immediately, a new column of heavy smoke could be seen on the horizon to the southeast. We headed toward it at flank speed, hoping to find a cripple from the attacks by our wolfpack partners. An hour later, calls were exchanged by radar with both Pompon and Spadefish. The smoking ship was burning fiercely throughout most of her length, Spadefish standing by her victim. Wishing her luck, we cleared the scene and returned to our assigned area, picking the way carefully through patrol craft and trawlers returning from the melee. Wreckage of a small wooden vessel and a floating raft were noted, indicating earlier submarine successes in these waters. On 29 January, we crossed the Great Yangtze Bank thirty miles southwest of Socotra Rock, and a new phenomenon entered our cata- The USS Atule 149 logue of concerns. Shortly after breakfast a floating mine was spotted, apparently torn loose from its mooring cable. Two ammo pans from the 20-mm failed to detonate or sink it. The patrol report for the rest of the day read: 1043 Detonated mine with 30 cal. machine gun fire. 1110 Sank mine with 30 cal. machine gun. 1145 Sank mine with 30 cal. machine gun. 1315 Sank mine with 20mm. 1435 Sank mine with 20mm ... 2352 Floating mine was avoided by Officer of the Deck. Passed thirty feet off the starboard beam.... 0030 Floating mine bounced disconcertingly down the port side of the ship, plainly heard by bridge watch and officers in the wardroom. These were moored, contact mines which, according to the Geneva Convention, were supposed to disarm if they broke free of their moorings. When the mines were encountered at sea, many questions came to mind. Did the Japanese observe the Geneva Convention? Even so, if a mine had a great length of cable when it carried away, would a defusing mechanism still work? If a mine had three inches of barnacles or moss on it, could one still have faith enough to bet his life on the disarming mechanism working properly? We were soon to learn that about half detonated when hit by gunfire. What about those we didn't see, as when cruising on the surface at night? The mines were not toys. The Japanese had planted one of the largest fields in history trying to protect their shipping against marauding u.S. submarines. One of the most heavily mined areas was the trade route from Nagasaki to Shanghai, the area we were then patrolling. Here Scorpion and Escolar were lost, most probably to mines. Swordfish was lost to a mine off Okinawa where Sterlet made her close-in rescue of the Moose. Could we expect to operate for a month in a heavily mined area and totally disregard that they were in place solely to counter the submarine threat? The mines were spherical, about thirty inches in diameter, with four to six horns visibly protruding from the upper surfaces. A rolling, pitching submarine with only an open sight against an almost wholly submerged target had to move in close, to seventy-five or a hundred yards, and allow a team of sharpshooters to cut loose. If the mine detonated and the big orange ball appeared, all hands ducked behind the bridge fairing and got drenched with icy water and hot mine fragments. What would happen in the dark of night when they couldn't be seen? The answer to that question was not long in doubt. The red outlines of known mined areas on the chart coincided 150 Submarine Commander closely with our patrol area. Probably the mines were set deep enough to catch a submerged sub and not shallow enough to be struck by surface shipping. Therefore it seemed wise to stay on the surface when possible. It was hardly necessary to remind the bridge watch to become doubly alert. Apparently the contractor who supplied the Japanese with mooring cable for their mines unloaded some lousy goods on the Imperial Navy. Every storm passing through the area tore many loose to float to the surface as new hazards. A few days of fruitless patrol off Nagasaki created a new challenge for Fred Oyhus. Atule had no steerable unit on the surface radar such as I had used so effectively in Sterlet to search inside of harbors and anchorages while we steamed several miles offshore. When I asked Fred if he could make one at sea, this remarkable officer had it in full operation in only a few hours. Thus equipped, we headed west hoping for better pickings off the China coast and the unknown mud flats close inshore off Shanghai, hoping to intercept northbound traffic en route to Japan. The weather again worsened, with heavy winds, sleet, and snow driving in from the north. When the seas abated, the mines reappeared in our track, tom loose by the storm. Thirteen more were sighted, five of which were exploded and seven sunk by gunfire. The last one of the day passed close aboard, but minesweeping operations had to be canceled because of darkness. We were within the known mined area south and west of Oaikokuzan Gunto, and Japanese shipping apparently avoided the area. On the morning of 6 February, while we were on the surface, an Emily bomber broke through a low overcast at three miles, five hundred feet astern. We dived, receiving a light bomb while passing ninety feet. Surfacing shortly after in a heavy snow squall, we headed for a new patrol area off the south coast of Korea, looking for traffic transiting the Straits of Tsushima. The steerable unit on the radar showed the anchorage off Amba Gunta to be all clear. Local navigational lights were burning normally, suggesting that inter-island shipping might be moving through the area. Then at 0751, nine depth charges exploded not far off, all dropped in quick succession by an unseen, unknown enemy. Nothing further developed. Occasional patrol vessels and big antisubmarine patrol bombers were encountered over the next few days. One of the bombers appeared to be tracking us using magnetic MAD search equipment. With another storm swirling about, Atule dived to enjoy lunch on plates instead of in our laps. As we prepared to surface, the 000 noted a bomber circling at a thousand feet altitude. Two hours later, another bomber was noted circling inside of two miles. Even in very poor visibility these planes apparently could track us successfully with the The USS Atule 151 MAD gear. Heavy air and surface patrols and no shipping told their story; we decided to try the China coast for better hunting. On the surface at 1337 on 12 February, Charlie Pettit on the high periscope watch detected a destroyer heading westerly at about twenty thousand yards, zigzagging on five-minute legs at a speed of ten knots. When the range closed to sixteen thousand yards, the enemy headed directly toward us and increased speed. Then the quartermaster suddenly saw a dive bomber coming out of the clouds on the starboard bow, heading in for an attack. Because the cloud cover was low and broken, double aircraft lookouts had been posted. Making a steep dive off four engines put some heavy traffic down the hatch for a few moments. Two well-placed bombs shook us up, one as we passed 75 feet, the other at 125 feet on his second pass. This appeared to be a coordinated "man and boy" attack team, except that the airman jumped the gun just a bit. When the destroyer closed our diving position, he began echo ranging. We tried to clear the area at eight knots to prevent his making contact. Three hours later he was still searching. In the shallow water, he thought he had something. He made three attacks at twenty-minute intervals, dropping five depth charges on each attack. He appeared to be attacking and reattacking the spot where we had dived, or possibly a wreck on the bottom. It is easy to believe that there is no such thing as a distant depth charge, but none of these fell close. By dark we were well clear. On surfacing, we immediately noted a strong enemy aircraft signal on the radar detector, driving us back down as two explosions rattled the deck plating aft. Returning to the China coast on 14 February, we heard distant explosions that continued throughout the day. Surfacing at 1917, we received a report from a China-based plane of a battleship force to the south. This seemed unlikely, but we headed toward it on three engines, detouring to detonate three mines and sink a fourth. At 1550, we dived for a Nell bomber on the starboard beam at five miles, heading in with bomb bay doors open. No bombs were dropped, but an hour later he was still circling overhead. After dark we tried to make up for lost time but the following day, Naval Group China had no further information. This group, the Sino-American Cooperative Organization or SACO, under Commodore Milton E. "Mary" Miles, USN, was based in Chungking, China. The colorful Miles served under Chinese Communist General Tai Li and frequently traveled through China disguised as a Buddhist monk. A senior submariner on the staff coordinated intelligence for the subs and assisted in providing rescue services by the subs for downed aviators. Bang and Sunfish were in the area also groping for information. Surfacing at 1845, we avoided a mine dead ahead and turned north 152 . Submarine Commander at flank speed toward a new position on the enemy task force, arriving off Saishu To Island at dawn for submerged patrol. On surfacing that evening, we continued north at flank speed toward the enemy. At 0127 a mine was struck flush on the bow with a jar heard and felt throughout the ship, turning out a good percentage of the crew. The sound of a thousand pound (explosive) sledgehammer hitting a steel hull is not soon forgotten. After the first impact, it bounced several times down the side, busily exploring limber holes with its horns. When heartbeats returned to normal, a quick survey showed no obvious damage. Then Sunfish returned us to the other war with a contact report on three ships, which we soon located 11 miles to the north. The three ships were apparently two destroyers and a patrol craft heading east at nineteen knots. At this time Sunfish was ten to twelve miles west of Atule, and Bang to the southwest. None of us was in position to make an attack, hence we patrolled across the track in hope that the destroyers were sweeping ahead of the battleships and cruiser. No other contact could be developed, and the futile 850-mile pursuit was abandoned. Time in the area having expired , Atule also headed for the exit. We were not to leave, however, without a few parting shots by unfriendly air. Before transiting the Okinawa chain, we were forced to dive several times, once by a Betty bomber coming out of a low overcast at five hundred feet, three thousand yards away. Thirty seconds later, while still at forty feet, a very close bomb rattled the ship from stem to stern. This was the third time during this patrol that we were bombed by airmen coming in low and close during low visibility. In no case did we have contact on the radar receiver, suggesting a MAD search or enemy use of a higher-frequency radar not covered by our equipment. Even Fred Oyhus couldn't offer much help. When I requested an omnifrequency detector, his "Yes, but" indicated that the equipment would fill the whole control room and part of the conning tower. At 0500 on 26 February, Atule again moored alongside Fulton in Saipan. After a quick fuel stop, course was set for Midway, where we arrived for refit at 0940, 7 March. Standing with the dignitaries awaiting our arrival was a tall lieutenant, his Irish visage rising above the crowd, a wide grin almost disappearing into an unruly shock of gray-black hair. It was none other than Ed Skeehan, whom Sterlet had left behind after his accident with a pot of boiling coffee. Ed had recovered completely and even managed to steal some home leave in Pittsburgh while recuperating, bringing firsthand news of Henri and our families. We also learned, to our great delight, that Ed was to be in charge of the Atule refit. In record time we were clear of the The USS Atule 153 ship and off to the Cooneyville Tavern for a beverage and a bull session-the proper way to start any refit. Ed was a superb example of a wartime reserve officer, highly successful in business, a volunteer for submarines and hot to get into combat at an age when his civilian accomplishments could have guaranteed him a position of responsibility in a more sedentary role in the war effort. He was immediately accepted by the "Fighting O'Toole," and we began scheming to get him aboard for duty. A stack of back mail caught up with me, and I soon begged off to get to my room at the Cooneyville Lodge for a bit of privacy. And a splendid room it was-freshly decorated corner room with large windows and french doors opening onto a balcony. Overhanging fir trees made it cool and shady by day and wonderful for sleeping at night. Midway is blessed with gorgeous weather most of the year, and we were soon back at the daily sports ritual. Commander Submarines congratulated the ship for an aggressive, tenacious attack which sent the new maru to the bottom on 23 January and credited the killing to Atule's scorecard. The tonnage of floating mines-twenty-three sunk and two struck by the ship out of twentynine encountered-wasn't included but added additional color to the battle flag. Our experience in hitting the mine stimulated an excellent cartoon, framed and mounted in the submarine force operations center in Pearl, our hair standing on end. More seriously, the increasing hazard of mines in submarine operating areas caused considerable head-scratching. I hoped, while in Midway, to get some news of my chances for command. Several members of my Naval Academy class had been given command of fleet submarines, but they were old boats used for training in the Pacific area or returning to the Atlantic Fleet for the same thing. Many of us '3gers had borne the brunt of the war, and the high command feared that too many would be burned out by the time we were ready for command. All those with two patrols since a new construction tour were eligible for a system of rotating "school boats," spending half the time in the forward area, half on the West Coast for training the thousands of aviators and surface sailors in new ships and squadrons heading for the war zone. Despite the great attraction of having my own command, my enthusiasm was tempered . I didn't want an old boat running training routines. Execs of new, front-line combatants were an exclusive fraternity, and I didn't want to leave the front until the war was over. In at the start, I planned to be there at the finish. Just before I joined Atule, the personnel bureau asked for volunteers from my class for the Naval Postgraduate School in Annapolis. 154 Submarine Commander Fred Clarke, who had been forced to relieve his CO, Frank Acker, on Pomfret's second patrol because of Acker's acute illness, got the best of both worlds. He was given command of Seal and very shortly thereafter received orders to postgraduate school. It was a good policy, but again I didn't want shore duty in time of war. The request for volunteers indicated that they wanted to take us off the firing line, but I felt it more important and valuable for me to remain where I was. There was another factor. As explained by Clay Blair in Silent Victory (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1975, pp. 588-89): At Admiral Lockwood's insistence, all fleet boats remained in the hands of Naval Academy graduates for the first three years of the war. He reasoned that reservists, now composing about 50% of all wardrooms, were not nearly so experienced as Academy graduates. Few reservists had held responsible jobs in the boats, such as exec, and Lockwood believed it was unfair to give command to a reservist when able men then serving as execs-from the class of 1939, for example-with five, six, or seven war patrols under their belts (plus two years in peacetime surface forces) were still being denied. I would miss out on a command to give a reserve officer a chance, so my strong desire for a combat command seemed temporarily thwarted in every direction. When Jason and I talked about it a few days before arrival in Midway, he offered to fly to Pearl to plead my case. I deeply appreciated the offer, and, happy as I was with him in Atule, I began to count the days. On the tennis court I lost a favorite opponent when Sid Thaxter left for surface ships. He realized he had reached his peak in submarines and would be far better employed as a judge advocate somewhere . Jack Hudson fleeted up to his job as engineer and diving officer, where his great talents quickly made him nearly indispensable . Jack also wielded a wicked tennis racket, having held a national ranking while in college. Tennis became our favorite sport, next to beer drinking. With Sid's departure and the routine transfer of another officer to the relief crew, the path seemed clear, we thought, to get Ed aboard. Jason went to work on it immediately. He was also using his influence toward getting me a command. No plane was available for a flight to Pearl Harbor but a better alternative soon emerged. Atule's next patrol called for outward routing via Guam, where Admiral Lockwood had moved his headquarters. We could talk to the big boss personally on the way through. This would mean staying on the Atule for another patrol, and then detachment in Guam or Saipan to wait for a command in the forward area, far preferable to waiting in Pearl Harbor as part The USS Atule 155 of the millon or two servicemen now sinking the Hawaiian Islands under their weight. During the final preparations for sea, we learned that Ed Skeehan would not go with us. Ed had made himself too valuable in his zealous work with the relief crews; others had been waiting longer than he. Despite the best efforts Jason and I could exert, we failed. Ed was broken up, thought he had gotten a bum break, and promised "to be a bad boy." That night the Wild Irishman really hung one on. The highlight occurred when, fueled by some eighty-proof spinach, he tried to emulate Popeye and smash through a wall, leaving his silhouette in the broken plaster. Unfortunately, the Gooneyville Tavern, built to withstand heavy gales roaring across the tiny island, was much more resistant than a Hollywood movie set, and Ed carried the abrasions and bruises for a long time. Shortly thereafter he joined the Tirante, another fine boat, and got his wish for a combat patrol. In his stead we got Lt. Earl G. "Woodie" Woodward, an upstate New Yorker who soon proved to be a boon member of the wardroom fraternity. In "real life," Woodie was a restaurateur; wardroom meals soon reached unscaled heights of culinary delight. Christmas arrived while we were in Midway. A pile of packages chasing me all over the Pacific finally caught up. Their sad condition gave us a lot of laughs but not much else. I was being razzed about a butchering the local barber had given me, leaving only a half-inch of fuzz on top. The first gift I opened was a bottle of hair oil. Since I had no hair to oil, one of the less rude suggestions was to rub it into my navel as they do to babies. All the packages were crushed or broken; several had been rewrapped but were without cards or other identification. A cardboard cylinder of broken glass left us mystified. Two fruitcakes, badly mauled, were OK if a bit rancid. The saltwater taffy from Henri had melted into one large, sticky, gooey wad of tasty paper. Since it reminded me of the many happy times we had enjoyed in Atlantic City back in the Wichita era, I enjoyed every chew. A can of cookie crumbs smelled good; we served them under ice cream. The box of dried fruit survived, but ants or little bugs with wings infested them and I had to pitch the mess over the side. The promised box of cookies from my mother hadn't arrived, and-as I write more than forty years later-probably will not. By the time we were ready to return to the lists again, the progress of the war looked encouraging. The European campaign was nearing its close. In a letter to my wife back in the Iceland days, I had predicted that the "inevitable" war in Europe would last four long years. Now, three and a half years into it, a hot rumor swept Midway that Germany had thrown in the sponge. We all had a big celebration; the radio 156 Submarine Commander station on Midway, its puny signal spanning the entire one-mile length and breadth of the island, promised to stay on the air all night waiting for confirmation. In the Pacific a lot remained to be done. The Japanese were taking a terrible shellacking but still represented a mighty force in the field. Jason and I learned that the campaign against Okinawa would open the day of our departure; plans for the invasion of the Japanese home islands were well in hand, but the Japanese were largely unchecked in China and to the south in Burma and Indochina. The submarines had nearly driven enemy shipping from the seas. What was left was being fought over with the carrier airmen. The mission for the forthcoming patrol reflected the change in the tide of war. More and more submarines were being allocated to lifeguard services, a role that grew almost by accident and now represented a major morale factor for Army and Navy airmen making flights deep into enemy territory, secure in knowing a friendly submarine would reach them even if it needed keel wheels to drive up on the beach. Yet sad news from the front always lurked nearby. Trigger, which had operated with Sterlet in the Salmon rescue, was lost with her fine skipper, Dave Connole, a superb officer, and her exec, Johnny Shepherd , my classmate at Annapolis and sub school. Edward Ackerman, one of the first in the class to get a command, went down with his submarine, the USS Kete, stopping a torpedo from a Japanese submarine while he was en route to Okinawa. Finally, Layton Goodman had gone down with his ship, the Barbel, operating out of Brisbane. Layton had been my Naval Academy roommate, fellow fiddler, and closest friend in the class, and I felt his loss deeply. His mother was a widow, he the only son. I knew his family in Newport News, Virginia , and just couldn't accept the terrible news. For weeks I consoled myself that he might have gotten ashore on one of the many islands in the South Seas. I spent much time after the war investigating some strange happenings at the time of his loss, all to no avail. Just before our departure, another item long in preparation finally reached completion. The subsolar fix shot during the Sterlet's transit down the coast of Mexico interested the Naval Institute Proceedings, but first, security required that I use neither my name, the precise location, nor the name of the ship. For a nom de plume I opted for my first and Reggie's last name, but even that gave problems, so I compromised on Henri's maiden name. As the months rolled by, I finally cleared the galley proofs and sent the final draft off for publication as the last act before we left for sea again. After the usual farewells on 1 April, Easter Sunday, we were off into the deep blue. Our destination was Bungo Suido, the major en- The USS Atule 157 trance to the Inland Sea and the heart of central Japan. The area was just east of my last patrol area in SterZet. I knew it better than the streets of downtown Annapolis. I should have; I spent more time there in two patrols than I ever did in Annapolis in four full years at Canoe U. The carefree life which Jason and I maintained on the O'Toole brought on a heavy problem. I had gained twenty pounds since leaving the SterZet; other officers were also gaining. The presence of a baker who spent all night turning out a continual stream of pies, cakes, doughnuts, and twenty loaves of fresh bread a day helped the morale of others but destroyed mine. I do not mean to imply that the war was now a piece of cake. The bitter campaign for Iwo Jima had been fought and won in February. We knew only too well the determination of the Japanese to fight to the death and the need for eternal vigilance. As long as the Allies demanded unconditional surrender, we could see no possibility that the Japanese leaders would give in before total defeat. The war was in its decisive stages, and the savagery with which it was fought on both sides increased rather than decreased. In the three days before the assault on Iwo Jima on 19 February 1945, Admiral Marc Mitscher's Task Force 58 destroyed 150 Japanese aircraft in strikes against military targets in the Tokyo area. In coordination with the Navy attack, 200 of General Curtis LeMay's B-29 bombers destroyed two square miles of highly inflammable residential areas of Tokyo, killing eighty-four thousand people and wounding forty-thousand others. This new phase in the brutality of war, now involving indiscriminate bombing of population centers, was described in a Pacific Fleet intelligence survey that came aboard in Midway . The experience in Europe showed that a factory could be rebuilt in eighteen months but a worker still took eighteen years. The airmen 's primary target in the incendiary raids, hence, was the Japanese labor force, the civilian population living in their flimsy wood and paper homes. I found it difficult to believe that this could be put in print as a deliberate aim of U.S. national policy. I had been educated in parochial schools and saw myself as a man of moral principle. I felt a repugnance in carrying hostilities indiscriminately to women and children. The submarines were conducting a ruthless unlimited war, also involving death of noncombatants in violation of Judeo-Christian standards of morality. But at sea, little else could be done. I thought of these things many times when nuclear arms became weapons of war. Guam carried a particular fascination. Here Don Giles, myoId engineer on the Wichita, had started and ended his war on 10 December 1941 and now languished in a Japanese prison camp on For- 158 Submarine Commander mosa. The new submarine rest camp on Guam, named Camp Dealey in honor of Jason's former skipper on Harder, offered a superb beach and recreational facilities, but occasional Japanese stragglers were still being flushed out of the jungle. The road to Dealey was a massive, slimy mudhole. On a steep hill just before one reached the camp, supplies moved forward only by a continuous tow-chain of large trucks moving down one side and hauling trucks up the other. The transformation of the island into a major fleet base was a logistical miracle. Supply ships arrived by the score, piling up mountains of war supplies of every description. But at the moment, Jason and I were more interested in an evening near the beach with old friends, exchanging war experiences, and perhaps talking of home and family more than anything else. Atule departed Apra Harbor, Guam, on 12 April en route Bungo Suido. Gato shared the patrol area, and by mutual agreement she covered the east entrance to Bungo and the southern coast of Shikoku the first half, Atule the western approaches and the coast of Kyushu, then we would switch. Lifeguard missions, nineteen each for Atule and Gato, necessitated some departure from the plan. In addition, good coverage of the entrances was maintained by both boats throughout the patrol. The Japanese added several hazards-new minefields, submarines in transit and patrolling out of the big base at Kure, and the new MAD-equipped antisubmarine patrols. Two days out of Guam we were back at our adopted trade. At 0550, 15 April, a mine directly in our track was exploded by gunfire. Then we interrupted the routine at 1300 as all hands observed, with the rest of the fleet, five minutes of silence as a memorial tribute to the late President Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was the only U.s. president to serve during our entire adult lives, a period when the United States had developed from the depths of depression to the most powerful nation in the world, and the Navy in particular had a warm feeling for him. Late that evening orders arrived for lifeguard station for the following morning, thirty miles to the southeast. We were on station early, and the B-29 air cover, a so-called Superdumbo, appeared at 1120 and exchanged calls. Cruising on the surface at this point in the war produced an electronic nightmare. U.s. fleets of all descriptions, carrier strike forces, battleship groups, amphibious assault groups, antisubmarine forces, underway replenishment groups, countless aircraft , and a continuous bridge of ships of every description from the states to the forward areas drove us electron-happy. With no doctrine for emission control, radar signals saturated our scopes, frequently blanking out whole quadrants in the direction of Okinawa, where the majority of the surface Navy was hard at work. Any hope for an The USS Atule 159 effective electronic search routine became quite wishful. Our new radar receivers detected frequent and strong Japanese emissions from shore stations ringing us from the southwest to the northeast. In a wardroom bull session we put the problem to Fred Oyhus. Fred's earlier modification to the air search radar, to prevent the Japanese homing in on it like a radio beacon, worked fine. Now we needed help against radar saturation from so many ship transmissions that they severely limited our tracking ability. The most likely torpedo target in the Bungo Suido area was a Japanese submarine on patrol or moving in or out of the big Kure naval base. Could he build a directional receiver that would make it possible to locate and track a Japanese warship passively by "listening" to his radar signals to get us into attack position? Second, could such a directional antenna intercept signals from Japanese shore radar stations for navigational use as an electronic lighthouse? The first problem concerned us more than a little. The ship spent all day on the surface, easily visible from ashore. Why wouldn't the enemy send a submarine out from the Kure Naval Base to take a potshot at us as we steamed around in circles all day, retreating only a few miles to sea at night until the next call from the birdmen to be back in the same place the following morning? The Japanese at that time were building hundreds of two- or six-man midget submarines in Kure less than a hundred miles away. To make it harder for them to track us, all V.S. subs used extreme zigzag plans that kept the helmsman steering like a madman. But too many of the advantages still favored the enemy. Fred's resourcefulness met the challenge easily. Out of the pump room soon came a portable reflector and adjustable dipole constructed by some capable machinists under his direction. Looking like a cross between a snow shovel and a TV antenna, "The Thing" was mounted over the Target Bearing Transmitter (TBT) on the bridge with a portable coaxial cable leading down the hatch to the control room. The TBT was then used to transmit bearings to the fire-control system for an attack or to me for navigational purposes. The major objection was the cable running down the hatch, a hazard not every CO would tolerate when enemy aircraft forced us down many times daily, or where a periscope sighting might require an equally quick dive. Yet it worked satisfactorily for navigation; two friendly aircraft were detected , and on the return home, the island of Midway radar station was detected at long range with an accuracy of about fifteen degrees. It was hardly good enough for navigation. A permanent, positive directional antenna system was badly needed. The German V-boats and Japanese I-boats already had directional radar receivers, which they used with excellent success. 160 Submarine Commander For two solid weeks we wore ourselves into a frazzle diving from aircraft or trying to solve the riddle of continuous saturation signals from nearby radar sources. On several occasions dives were made to escape bombers zooming overhead at extremely low altitudes. Why they didn't drop bombs or use machine guns was another riddle. Then, while we were patrolling the coast of Kyushu, the answer to the heavy air activity came to us. We were directly in the path of aircraft raiding Okinawa from airfields in Kyushu and Shikoku; each wave of planes forced us down as they flew overhead going south and on returning northward. So often were we forced down that sometimes we dived at noon just to enjoy a peaceful meal without interruption. Even with the intensive air activity, mine warfare never ceased. Every day brought a sighting, a sinking, or a scare, and our tally continued to mount. And, thrashing around at night, when the buggers couldn't be seen, where were all those mines we saw by day? If we hit another like that sledgehammer experience in the previous patrol, could we again count on it not to explode? Many of those we saw now were new models, with no growth on them, indicating a very short time in the water. These thoughts were not sleep inducing. Could we have realized it, wise counsel would have suggested, "Patience , you will soon know." Alas, we soon did. To date our services as lifeguard were unneeded. One possible rescue was chased down in Gato's area without success; Pogy beat us to another ditching and rescued ten aviators. A couple of rescued aviators meant a successful patrol. If two subs ever closed the same contact there might be an awful tug-of-war as each tried to be the first to pull a survivor aboard. At 0613 on 4 May, twenty miles south of Ashizuri Light, the port lookout sighted a large enemy submarine on the surface to the south at about eight miles. The seas were rough but the visibility was perfect, allowing the captain, exec, and OOD to verify the enemy character before we dived to attack. We took the normal approach course at full speed, and the first two looks through the periscope showed a radical turn away and an increase in speed to twenty knots. That was was all we got from what was to be the one and only ship contact during the patrol. In the post-mortem, we decided that he either had just surfaced or was trying to gain position ahead of us for an attack. Since we had detected his radar signal on our receiver just at the moment of visual sighting, it seemed more likely that he had just surfaced and, on detecting us, cleared the area to the west at maximum speed. As soon as he was clear, we surfaced and crossed the Suido to cut him off from another approach into the east channel. We were fortunate in The USS Atule 161 being between him and port, but after diving on the new station at 1115, no further contact was made. The following morning our luck changed. Heading in for the assigned lifeguard station, we were forced down by an aircraft contact at 0419, surfacing on station at 0730. At 0759 we were again forced down by a Japanese Jake and Rufe who apparently hadn't gotten the word on the B-29 air strike soon due on target. Sighting our B-29 Superdumbo air cover at 0855, we surfaced and established radio communications. An hour later Jake and Rufe reappeared, coming in on the starboard. beam. The Dumbo had just checked out and headed home, disappearing southward as the enemy came in from the north. We recalled the Dumbo immediately, then discreetly dived to periscope depth to watch the show. Jake passed directly overhead, close enough for us to distinguish the tail fins on the bomb between his floats. In the meantime, Dumbo had gone to battle stations gun action; the big ship spun around like a fighter and charged into the fray. Awed by the sight, Rufe turned tail and fled, leaving his teammate to tackle the monster alone. The fight was short and unequal. The panorama through the periscope was an unforgettable scene as the action unfolded, low over the water and less than two miles away. The CO at the periscope acted as commentator, giving a play-by-play account throughout the ship by all communications systems-mostly by direct voice. At 1006 Jake dropped his bomb, then began a twisting, weaving retreat until stopped by one short and devastating barrage from the B-29, the tracers plainly visible from Atule. He burst into flames aft and crashed into the sea in a sheet of exploding gasoline and bomb. At 1009 we surfaced. The Dumbo thanked us for the assist and again headed for home. As we reached the scene of the crash at 1020, one survivor was calling for help, but of the remaining two, one had been decapitated and the other was dead and floating face down in the gasoline covered water. The survivor, Lt. Masayosi Kojima, a naval observer, was pulled past the grisly corpse and floating head of his teammate and hauled aboard, crying in English, "I surrender." He was suffering from shock, second-degree bums of the face and hands, flesh wounds on the neck and arm, and gunshot or crash wounds in his right ankle. How he escaped alive from the exploding plane was amazing. Our "doctor," Chief Pharmacist's Mate Archie Sierks, was examining him on deck when a stentorian voice from the bridge asked, "What shape is he in?" "Bums face and hands, deep lacerations on his legs, semi-shock, and can't tell if anything internal, captain." 162 Submarine Commander "Throw the bastard over the side. We can't save him." "No, no, I fine," cried the lieutenant, waving his arms in proof. The doc, true to the best ethics of his profession, asked for a chance to dress his wounds, and "Bungo," as he was immediately nicknamed by the crew, was helped below to the after torpedo room. We then received the surprise of our lives. In addition to English and Japanese, Bungo spoke German and French, and he certainly was no ordinary POW. He was wearing about three layers of clothing and from a dozen pockets poured identification , seven packs of Japanese and one of British cigarettes, ration books, club tickets, diary, notebook, flight record, and, of prime importance , two magnetic detector traces from his antisubmarine search gear and notes concerning them. Proving he was a man of the world and ready for anything, he also carried a thick wad of currency, a vial of perfume, and several condoms. The speed of this operation was unusual. The elapsed time from initial sighting, reporting the contact, diving, the attack, surfacing, and rescue of the POW covered only twenty minutes. And an hour later-ho hum-we detonated another mine. About that time, Captain Maurer went aft to interview the prisoner; as soon as Bungo saw him coming, he turned his head toward the bulkhead and feigned sleep. Bungo was terrified. Trussed in a straitjacket for safekeeping and given a bunk on an empty torpedo cradle, he was sure we were preparing to fire him out the torpedo tube. A burly guard, Keith Hayter, towered over him with a huge .45 pistol on his hip. Hayter claims today he had no idea how to shoot it, but the effect was the same. Bungo recovered quickly from his injuries. At his first meal he stared in disbelief at the quantity and quality of the food. That night the menu called for steak, mushrooms, fresh frozen peas, ice cream, and the works. He couldn't understand how we had such food so far from home. Never having tasted ice cream before, he soon became a nut for it. To keep his attitude correct, however, crewmen would occasionally work the grinding wheel near his bunk to hone a large knife, occasionally glaring fiercely at the prisoner manacled to the top bunk. The familiar Jake plane again appeared overhead as preparations were made for surfacing, then was sighted three more times at fifteenminute intervals, on north-south and east-west courses. Preliminary interrogation of Bungo revealed that he was on antisubmarine patrol when we detected him and was making a bombing run when shot down. He admitted that his plane would not have left base that day if they had known B-29s were in the area. We learned from the traces The USS Atule 163 of his magnetic recorder that the Japanese equipment was very similar to our own MAD gear, so similar that the spools of recording paper seemed interchangeable. Of major significance, the traces he provided from tracking Atule indicated a sharp loss of sensitivity on certain magnetic headings, which gave the submarines a major advantage in evading an air search. We passed the information immediately to Commander Submarines. On 7 May, just before dark, we detonated a floating mine with only four rounds of .30-caliber ammunition. This was a new peak in efficiency for the mine-disposal squad. The patrol report adds, "The state of training and morale of this group, composed entirely of volunteers from among old Naval Officers, is very high." Two days later we celebrated the announcement of V-E Day in Europe by conducting a photo reconnaissance of the Kyushu coast from Muroto Saki to Hane Saki at five miles off the beach. This section of the coast might be important for an amphibious landing in the forthcoming Operation Olympic, the invasion of Kyushu set for late fall. Two days later, another giant mine was seen close off the coast, looking at least three times the listed forty-one-inch diameter. It had six horns and a cover plate bolted on top. Tony was doing the honors. After a few rounds, he could see three or four holes in it and said, "I think it's going to sink, captain." Jason said, "Give it one more." Tony swore we had drifted to within fifty yards of it, and he sure didn't want to see it detonate with his pate the only one exposed. He obeyed the captain but, truth be told, aimed wide so as not to have this one go off in his face. Lots of sighs of relief went up when it failed to explode. Then it was the Navy's turn again for new carrier strikes. At 0742, survivors in a lifeboat were reported close offshore in the Inland Sea.. At 0915, two enemy destroyers were reported eight miles away and heading toward us. The fighter cover over the survivors strafed the destroyers until they were out of ammunition, requesting assistance from the carrier in the meantime. We then requested permission from the carrier to send our own cover to the rescue. With permission granted, they disappeared like twelve-year-olds after the fire engines, negotiating the hundred miles in record time. By noon the situation was under control. Our cover, with additional help from the carrier, strafed the destroyers and set them afire as they retreated northward. The Kingfisher float planes arrived on the scene, recovered the survivors , and were on their way back to the carrier. This remarkable rescue, equivalent to an enemy landing inside New York or San Francisco harbors to save a countryman, indicated the degree to which control of the air had been gained over Japan. 164 Submarine Commander The Atule fighter cover then lucked out in finding a small freighter near the scene which made the fatal mistake of coming into their gunsights. While they were absent on their errand we kept busy by sinking a mine and, when they returned, detonated another as a special pyrotechnic display, then did some giant porpoising on quick dives and surfacing to complete our "show and tell." At 1730 they headed for the birdfarm; we prepared for the .local enemy and their plans to entertain us. Occasional fun and games notwithstanding, the submarines didn't enjoy the best of all possible worlds while lifeguarding. The air cover was great while the raids were in progress, but to make the submarine easy to find for a damaged aircraft trying to ditch in the sea, the lifeguard stations were always close to a prominent landmark . Of necessity we operated on the surface, where we were just as visible to an enemy sub as to our friends, and in clear view from the hostile shore. The lifeguard subs were a great boost for the airmen's morale. Fifty percent of all downed birdmen were rescued; the score would have been higher if others could have survived and been able to reach the sea. One naval aviator was shot down three times and rescued three times by submarines. Ensign George Bush was among the Navy pilots pulled from the sea by a submarine and saved for a distinguished career in public life. So complete was the destruction of enemy air in the days of coordinated B-29 and carrier attacks that we had our first peaceful night free of aircraft alerts since entering the area. We returned to the Kyushu coast for close-in examination of Toi Misaki, then surfaced at noon to detonate a mine, very clean and new looking with no growth. Tony, who had detonated the previous monster with only four rounds, took only two rounds of .30-caliber ammunition on this one for an all-time low. On the return home, three more mines were detonated, the last the scariest of them all. When it was sighted, dead ahead, the 000 backed emergency and threw the rudder over. When the captain and I got to the bridge, it was very close, very close under the forefoot. The CO ordered, "Give it everything you got, maneuvering room." The rudder had absolutely no effect. The fleet submarine, like most ships, backs into the wind. Both wind and sea here were from dead aft. The ship was in irons, in the grip of Neptune. As the bow rose on a sea, the mine disappeared from view. As it came down, the mine reappeared, very close aboard to port. It disappeared a second time under the bow, then reappeared very close to starboard. The third time the bow rose on a swell, the mine didn't reappear. Pulses raced; tension built up, but the backing bell had finally taken The USS Atule 165 hold. The mine was dead ahead, missing us by one foot. I said, "Captain , that was close." But no words came out. When this one finally sank under a hail of lead, tension was still high. The last of forty-four destroyed from fifty-two sighted in two patrols, this at least should had given us membership in the United Mine Workers Union. On the return trip I spent much time polishing up the patrol report. It was a good heads-up patrol, but to qualify for the combat insignia, the standard required "significant enemy shipping ... sunk or a comparable mission accomplished." It was important to us, especially to the enlisted men, because it added a battle star to the submarine combat insigne each man earned with his first successful patrol. Not many people in a submarine have chances to earn individual awards; the combat insignia did the equivalent. Long ago I learned from reading patrol reports that many skippers are more powerful with the sword than the pen. Jason was very modest in describing his exploits, letting the deeds carry the message. On this patrol the only enemy contact was a few peeks at a submarine several miles away; we rescued no aviators while lifeguarding. The rescue of Bungo, while of considerable intelligence value, was hardly a Rosetta Stone. I wrote the report with only minor ~hanges by the skipper, and these would have been bigger if the other officers hadn't asked him to leave it as written. The report of the last mine was a point of difference. I had half a page of narrative as above, which was certainly no exaggeration, but he finally overruled all of us with the bland statement, "1748Sank floating mine." He had a point. "We weren't out there roaming the oceans looking for those little baubles that couldn't shoot back." On 21 May Gina celebrated her second birthday. I was not far from the spot where Reggie was lost, and I sent her a special letter commemorating the day, along with a poem I found in a ragged old magazine. Dolphins guard thy infant slumbers, Davy Jones thy sandman be, For thy father's gone ahunting, In the jungles of the sea. Moonless nights and sunless days Doth he stalk the watery ways Where the pale anemone Decks the gardens of the sea, Where the coral's lacy fan Waves in courts unmarred by man; Where the shark and dolphin play 166 Submarine Commander There thy father hunts his prey. Where the great whales rise and blow, There thy father tracks his foe, With periscope for magic eye To watch the ships go swiftly by, With darker magic tuned to hear The pulse of foeman drawing near. He'll come home to thee at last, Broom triumphant at the mast. Dolphins guard thy infant slumber, Davy Jones thy sandman be, Child of war thy father's hunting In the jungles of the sea. Atule arrived in Midway on 25 May to take on enough fuel to get us to Pearl Harbor for rest and refit. By now I had learned that boats arriving late afternoon in Midway are allowed to stay overnight, so my navigation skills brought us alongside at 1400. Had we been ten minutes earlier we would have been back at sea before sunset; ten minutes later we would have missed ten minutes of good fellowship at the tavern. Proper planning gained a pleasant evening at the Gooneyville Tavern visiting with old friends almost until departure the following morning at 0900. Bungo was turned over to the Marines on arrival, blindfolded and thoroughly scared at leaving us. Eventually repatriated, he was scorned by his peers for surrendering. Nevertheless he entered the postwar Japanese Defense Force and eventually retired as a rear admiral. At 1030 on 30 May we moored at the Submarine Base Pearl for a well-deserved rest after fifty-nine days at sea. On the dock were Commodore Weary Wilkins, always warm and friendly, and old friends Mike Fenno and Vernon L. "Rebel" Lowrance. Anxious to hear of our exploits, they immediately dragged us off to the Sperry for lunch. Several people recalled the fine job Sperry had done replacing the Scorpion sonar domes in Midway two years before. The impossible job of those days was the routine of today. The incoming mail included a check for $28.40 from the Naval Institute for the article on the subsolar fix, my first as an author. At the evening bull session at the club with Bing Gillette, Charles R. "Honey" Clark, Jr., Howie Thompson, and a few others, somebody mentioned the article in conversation, wondering who the author, "Paul R. Frank" was. When I confessed, they were surprised, more so that I had to use a pen name. The incoming mail also brought a note from the Red Cross that my brother-in-law, Dr. Regis J. Ging from Pittsburgh, had donated The USS Atule 167 a pint of blood in my name. When Jason, Tony, Jack, and the others learned that their poor, anemic, two-hundred-pound shipmate was storing up blood transfusions, it became table talk for days. I shared in the levity but I deeply appreciated Rege's thought. The orders to command, my main interest, also came through. I would be detached from Atule and proceed to Guam with Submarine Squadron 36 in Sperry for a command as soon as one was available. I was number three on the list. When Jason and the O'Tooles heard, they beseeched me to stay aboard for one more patrol. Jason promised that if I did, he'd give me a strong boost for a new construction boat. Since it would then be a year and a half since I left the states, his may have been the best advice. Strongly tempted, I accepted this alternative if no relief could be found. Shortly after we moved into the Royal Hawaiian some very pleasant news came our way. Three or four families on the beautiful island of Maui frequently invited recuperating submarine officers to spend a few days with them. Jason, Woodie, Jack, and I were nominated for a four-day visit. All transportation was perfectly arranged by the manager of the Royal Hawaiian, with cars, boats, and planes warmed up and ready for each leg of the trip. In Wailuku we were met by Mrs. Frances Allen, whose husband Ray managed the Wailuku sugar plantation. Jason and I stayed with Ray and Frances, Jack and Woodie at a forty-thousand-acre ranch in the mountains. The Allen home was a gorgeous stone mansion with wide lawns, spreading eucalyptus trees, lily ponds with Japanese bridges over them, and a riot of flowers in bloom everywhere-gardenia , fuschia, orchids, hibiscus, birds of paradise, and hundreds of others I couldn't begin to name. The wide lanais around the home opened onto a panorama sweeping down to the beach and ~he brilliant blue ocean beyond. To the south a fertile valley led to the vast tenthousand -foot Haleakala crater in the distance, and to the north two precipitous, cloud-shrouded peaks guarded the entrance to the rain forest in the lea Valley. Add a tennis court and swimming pool, mango, breadfruit, avocado, orange, grapefruit, and lime trees, plus the friendly chatter of mynahs, cardinals, bluejays, and many exotic birds flitting about, and we were in heaven. Dinner the first evening included thick, luscious T-bone steaks and mushrooms, fresh corn, fresh tropical fruit, fresh blackberry pie, and fresh milk-deeelicious! Friends dropped in later, and we played games but mostly just got acquainted. Frances roundly trimmed me for $1.50 at cribbage-which doesn't happen often. The following morning Jason and I played tennis, then swam a bit, shot some skeet, drove up the beautiful lea Valley with Frances, enjoyed cocktails with the commandant of the Naval Air Station, then enjoyed another of 168 Submarine Commander those perfect dinners-broiled pheasant this time. In the evening, I won a couple of bucks at bridge with Frances's sister as partner, and Jason won ten at poker with host Ray and the men. We finally got a chance to shop, finding some beautifully made clothing for Henri and the two daughters, and then were ready for a swim at the Allens' private beach-an eight room bathhouse with three beautifully furnished suites and the usual sweeping lawns and flowering shrubs. The third day, we drove up to the rim of the Haleakala crater to see the sunset, then enjoyed dinner in the clouds. In addition to the breathtaking scenery from this two-mile-high aerie, we enjoyed the bracken, a phenomenon seen only here and in Switzerland. A complete circular rainbow can be seen in the crater, with the observer's shadow in the very center. Each viewer sees only one shadow, even though five or six may be standing side by side looking at it. On a beautiful spring evening, a panorama ofmountains 125 miles away towered skyward; pheasant and mountain goats rustled in the underbrush, yet the miracle of the evening was the organization of the whole trip. Frances made all the arrangements for the party of seventeen people, including Jack and Woodie and their "family," some Marine colonels, Red Cross girls and friends, and supplied all the food, drink, and transportation. Dinner, served five hours after we left home, included a twenty-pound rib roast piping hot, fresh baked beans, an iced salad, fresh pumpkin pie, and numerous other delights. The food was kept hot in an electric roaster in the trunk of their big Packard limousine. I particularly enjoyed the mixed company. Could it be possible that this was my first chance to converse with a young lady in over a year? The group was extremely congenial, and a sudden wave of homesickness almost did me in. When the stars came out, I slipped away for a few moments of fond meditation, high above the clouds, dreaming of Henri and the faraway family I hardly knew. Fortunately, nobody noticed my short absence, but I will always carry a special bond of warmth and appreciation for Ray and Frances for making these treasured moments possible. I really needed the break in routine they offered. Now well into my second year since departure from the folks in Pittsburgh, in a few days I would head west again for still another duty tour on the far side of the globe. But I was determined to see the war through. I was a professional: this was the job I was trained to do. Jason and I returned to Pearl in time to read Commander Submarines ' endorsement on the patrol report. Praising the well-planned, heads-up, and smart patrol, regretting the lack of shipping or other The USS Atule 169 attack opportunities, he nevertheless authorized the award of the combat insignia. A lot of people wondered how we did it. The track chart of the patrol earned special praise. As in all my patrols, I had done it with drawing instruments, lettering guides, and five or six colors of ink. The wardroom officers shared the credit for the report, feeling they had influenced the skipper to accept my dramatized version rather than his straight factual prose. Jason and I were riding high. Neither of us had yet had an unsuccessful Pacific patrol. To show his appreciation he presented me with a truly beautiful and complete set of drawing instruments, which I cherish to this day. The O'Tooles did their usual fine job in the athletic competition. I tried to help out with tennis, softball, and volleyball, so after winning in all sports the men asked if I would accept the trophy for the ship. The photograph of the winning volleyball team showed more horseplay than ability, but the beer was flowing by then. Many commented -facetiously-on our gaunt and haggard appearance after so many weeks in close confinement under the sea. Near the end of the refit, my relief appeared, John B. Dudley, a classmate and an outstanding officer. Johnny had just relinquished command of an "R" boat in Key West; he would be exec and PCO, which means that he would leave Atule after one patrol and then wait for his own command. His arrival made it certain I could not stay aboard, and I made my preparations for departure quickly. At a special ceremony, the ship presented me with a purse with which to buy war bonds for the children, plus "a permanent seat in the wardroom bull sessions." Again I was embarrassed. The men couldn't afford these gifts, but there was little I could do about it. They were generous by nature, and their hearts were always in the right place. Early that morning, 29 June, I made my farewells, my sad parting from Jason and all the O'Tooles. Jason and I walked down the deck and across the gangway, arms on each other's shoulders. This truly was a most congenial group of shipmates. With a big lump in my throat, I watched silently as the sleek ship backed away from the dock and headed out to sea. Walking aboard the Sperry, I was hoping for a real surprise. For several weeks there were rumors that I once more had a good chance to get command of the Sterlet. At the last moment, however, it didn't work out. She was in a Pearl Harbor squadron that had quite a number on the list waiting for a command; my chance would come from Squadron 36 in Guam. Two days after the Fighting O'Toole headed west, I followed in Sperry, en route to Apra Harbor, Guam, arriving there 12 July 1945. The trip was pleasant and relaxing. My only sur- 170 Submarine Commander prise, on the last few days before arrival, was that we weren't zigzagging . Surely the experienced submariners running Sperry knew its value. A few weeks later a Japanese submarine would send the USS Indianapolis, not zigzagging, to the bottom with an enormous loss of life. In Guam as a PCO, my main duties were temporary command of boats in refit, supervising the work, getting subs under way to shift berths, moving them in or out of the huge floating drydock, offering technical assistance on new equipment being installed, and in general representing the regular CO in his absence-and praying for my chance. One of the first subs passing through Guam on her way out was Sterlet. We had a great reunion. Gene Barnhardt and Bob Wright were the only veterans left and reported everybody happy in the wardroom now, although sorry I didn't get command. Gene was now the exec, Bob the TOC expert. Bob reported having recently heard from our old CO, enclosing a five dollar bill he presumably owed for a bet he had overlooked. With a wry smile, Bob handed the fiver to me for a (fictitious) bet he had lost to me. The next day at mass the priest took up a special collection for the local Chamorran bishop in rebuilding churches and schools. I pitched in the five, feeling it would do the most good in Bishop Omura's hands. The most surprising news concerned Joe Garland. Joe had gone back to a school boat in New London but was hospitalized for tuberculosis immediately after and discharged from the service. After griping about the Navy for twenty years, he fought like a tiger to stay in. That confirmed bachelor also decided to get married, having found an absolutely delightful lady fully worthy of him. One day the tender had to shift berths to accommodate the major construction of new docks and other facilities. Six submarines had to be moved simultaneously. Shiphandling with a crew who had never worked together sometimes offered unusual thrills and always a surprise . I moved one sub and tied up to a mooring buoy in the outer harbor, then got another and moored it alongside. With two hours to kill before we could go back alongside the tender again, I sounded swimming call and most of us stripped and dived over the side. A few moments later, the USS Tirante, returning from patrol, passed quite near us. There on the bridge was Ed Skeehan, just returning from his first patrol. We gave a hearty, bare-assed welcome. I foresaw a big reunion that night. Ed was happy. He had earned his combat pin and had been selected to be the new diving officer for the next patrol. Suddenly I was the only PCO in the squadron. It was great to head the list, but with no other qualified shiphandler around, my The USS Atule 171 duties began to escalate. I fully earned my pay. Another day when multiple subs had to be moved, I was in one or another for ten straight hours, with no brekky, no lunch. The need, with a catch-as-catch-can team, to be continually alert made it very tiring, especially while parboiling and stewing under a blazing sun and alternate driving rain. On Guam I found time to visit the U.S. Marine cemetery, where rows and rows of white crosses, and the occasional Star of David, offered their silent testimony to the losers in the brave battle for a piece of turf. Many Marines were present, taking the day off to pay their last tribute to buddies no longer around the mess tent. Officers, burly sergeants, privates, and plain Marines walked down the lanes carrying flowers to decorate a particular plot, aided in many cases by humble native men or women. I've seen these cemeteries on Saipan and Tinian and Majuro and Oahu; every island out here has one, but I never saw one without wondering if the folks back home-all of us-will remember ten years from now these men who never made the trip home. I wasn't discouraged , but, as I wrote Henri, "Sometimes I take a very pessimistic view of the ability of the people back home to win the peace as well as the war. These poor fellows are sure going to be awful let down if we don't." My time on Guam gave me the chance to learn more about the air war on Japan. Three other submariners arranged to ride a Superdumbo covering the lifeguard sub; this wasn't what I had in mind. I wanted to make a combat mission over Japan on one of the massive night fire raids. I requested orders to ride the Dumbo, but when I met General LeMay at Northeast Field on Guam, I showed him only the top half of the authorization "to make a B-29 mission." He looked no further before putting me in a Pathfinder plane, one of the three lead planes over the target, the top navigators who find the spot and drop the first bomb load to light up the drop area for the rest of the flight. The target that night was near Nagasaki, a maximum-range effort for the B-29s from Guam. A total of 350 B-29s made firebomb raids that night, dropping twenty-two hundred tons of incendiaries on three cities with a total population of 377,000. I went through the briefings with the regular crews and happened to catch the first use of a new psychological weapon-announcing the target in advance. Radio Guam began telling the Japanese that five of ten named cities would be hit, thereby encouraging mass absenteeism and work stoppage in ten cities rather than the five actually targeted. Also, having made two war patrols off Nagasaki, I was far more familiar with the terrain, the economy, and the defenses than the briefers-although they were very good. One item surprised me. Shipbuilding, naval 172 Submarine Commander bases, and warships got no mention from the briefers even as targets of opportunity if the main target was weathered in. I soon learned that destruction of naval targets had no effect on destroying the "will to fight" or on the economic collapse of the country and therefore held no priority in the airmen's strategic plan. After the briefing I drew my gear-flak suit, parachute, Mae West, night ration, rubber boat-which pushed my displacement to about 250 pounds dead weight on the plane. Then we learned that the prevailing fifteen-knot trade winds had reversed. The runway plan couldn't be changed and we would take off down wind. The planes took off at one-minute intervals. Large markers every couple of hundred yards along the runway gave the minimum speed. If a plane fell below minimum, he dropped out and another took his place at the end of the line. We never had quite enough speed at any of the markers, and, reaching the end of the paved runway, we were still bearing down hard when we hit the coral strip. Another few hundred feet and a small shack loomed into view dead ahead. The pilot "humped" the big plane over the shack, clearing it by inches, then zoomed downward to regain air speed before hitting the ocean at the foot of the small cliff. With ten thousand pounds of incendiaries aboard, it would have been quite a splash. Interminably, we finally started to climb. The tail gunner muttered, "John, do I have to fly clear to Japan and back with this load of s-t in my pants?" It broke the tension, but it took hundreds of miles before we gained any real flying altitude. Passing over Iwo Jima, we headed directly for the target. The navigation, I thought, was superb. What a long way we'd come since those primitive raids on Wake two years before! Over the target I thought it would take two or three runs to complete the drop. No way; one pass and it was all over. The Japanese AA fire as we approached the target was impressive. I heard claims of losses but never learned for sure. In a few moments it was all behind us. But the tremendous holocaust of fire and smoke rising two miles into the night sky was simply beyond imagination. Ideally the planes dropped on the perimeter so that the burn was toward the center, shutting off the oxygen and uprooting giant trees as everything was drawn into the vortex. I could see why the loss of life was so high. One of the other targeted cities that night was on the Inland Sea near Kure. On our return trip we flew within about 150 miles of Kure and could see the giant volcano of flame rising into the night sky, reflected brightly on the aluminum surfaces of the planes in the formation . The USS Atule 173 After the long sixteen-hour, thirty-two-hundred-mile flight, there were no bands, no oranges, no ice cream, no mail waiting-and no depth charges to duck after the attack. But a double shot of whiskey, hot coffee, and doughnuts served by two Red Cross ladies made a reasonable substitute. It was a fantastic experience. I thought the B29 raids were probably the finest example of tactical planning in the war. But the moral implications of indiscriminate bombing of cities I found difficult to put out of mind. Having made a night raid, I wanted to make a day raid on Tokyo, and again used my "authorization" with General LeMay. It was now 8 August 1945; I got to the field, went through the briefing, and drew my gear. Just as the call came to man planes, the raid was suddenly canceled. The weather was perfect; the real reason soon emerged. I returned to my quarters on the tender about midnight. Two hours later I was awakened by a big Marine showing me a message from Commander Submarines to General LeMay revoking my permission, and requesting my presence at Admiral Lockwood's headquarters "at my earliest convenience." It became "convenient" at about 0600, and the day, already unforgettable, soon became much more so. When I arrived at the submarine force headquarters shortly after dawn, the place was a beehive. The Russians had declared war on Japan, and Russian troops immediately marched into Manchuria and northern Korea. The first atomic bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima two days before; the second was to be dropped on Nagasaki the following morning. Japan had put out a peace feeler through Swiss and Swedish channels-which caused the cancellation of the B-29 raid-and in Guam, four submarines were arriving from or departing on patrol. Yet with all these earthshaking events happening, the submarine force was most concerned with my flying bombing missions, and called off the war for a few moments to investigate and take proper action. My first contact that dramatic morning was with Rear Admiral William D. "Happy Jack" Irvin, the humorless communications instructor at sub school so many years before. My offense was that as a recipient of highly classified Ultra intelligence information I was forbidden to overfly enemy territory. Given the gravity of even using the word at the time, this was a serious offense. I had not deliberately violated the regulation; I had simply forgotten about it. My offense apparently came out in the open when General LeMay recommended me for an Air Medal. Based on the same evidence, the submarine force suggested a general court-martial. After much discussion, not much of it on a "boys will be boys" level, it was decided to pit one recommendation against the other and forget both. I received no Air 174 Submarine Commander Medal and no general court-martial. The award of a medal would be prominent recognition of an obvious violation of security regulations, and the submarine force wanted no part of it. When Henri learned that I was making combat air missions, she blew her stack. I suggested to her that since the submarine force wouldn't send me home, I might make thirty-four more missions and get home on aircrew rotation. I wasn't rejecting her concern. I recognized that the problem of wives waiting at home was far tougher than ours. In a considerably lighter mood, another wife had expressed the sentiment quite aptly. I'm getting awfully tired of the sexless life of a saint, I'm thinking mighty seriously of writing a complaint. To the OPA in Washington or whoever writes the laws, To tell them the system has one too many flaws. They provide a substitute for everything we lack; They take the dough for war bonds and we can't get it back. They ration all the canned goods; sugar stamps they redeem, But where in hell can a Navy wife let off a little steam? She knits for the Red Cross and does V-mail till she's dead, But that's a poor substitute for being alone in bed. Of course we write our love letters until we fairly burst, But does he get his mail direct? The censor gets it first. I buy my bonds dutifully and write poems for a laugh But don't you lose the point of this-I want my better half. So with all this New Deal red tape and OPA complex, There's still no stamp in my ration book redeemable for sex. You can take my stamps for sugar and another one for shoes, But give me back my husband, please, before I blow my fuse. The peace feeler from the Japanese soon had its effect in the squadron. On 12 August, Commodore Lew Parks, the senior submarine squadron commander in the forward area, sent for me to tell me I was selected to be part of a force to leave for Japan as soon as possible after the cease-fire, and to take over a Japanese submarine to take back to the states. His news sounded fantastic. The chances of getting a normal command seemed to be fading. The new construction program had been cutback to nothing, and as the war neared its close many senior submariners, who had done their share earlier and gave up commands for a little home life, now suddenly wanted a peacetime command. Those still in command were hanging on, seeing no comparison between sea command and a shore job somewhere . The loss of submarine pay by going ashore made it still less attractive. To reduce the list of those waiting for command, the ad- The USS Atule 175 miral first decided to limit command to the top half of '39 or senior. I would be included but this would be a severe blow to a lot of fine people. The news of the surrender came on 14 August. We received the word about 1600, just as several of us left the ship for a quiet afternoon at the club. Despite what one might expect at the end of a long and hard war, things were quieter than usual with no apparent difference from the day before-no whistles, sirens, fireworks, or celebrations. I met two destroyer COs, friends from academy days; we talked about many things, little about the peace. It was simply taken for granted. We had fought a tough, cruel enemy and won; we were glad it was over. When I got back to the ship for dinner, I felt only acute loneliness for my family and a strong desire to get on with the world in a peaceful era. The following morning I was on the move again. At 1230 I had just finished a pleasant Sunday lunch when the commodore sent for me and told me to pack my bags and be ready to leave by 1300. I flew through packing, getting clear of mess bill, laundry, tailor, paymaster , doctor, and the rest, and was on my way to Squadron 20 and the USS Proteus for transportation to Japan for the surrender, there to take command of a Japanese submarine. I had just scrambled aboard the Proteus when I learned of a message to all submarine COs in the area asking if they wanted to make the trip to Japan and let us PCOs take command of their submarines while they were gone. Classmate Lloyd R. "Joe" Vasey almost lost out. I was next in line. Only the lack of time saved us. We sweated through preparations for getting under way, counting the minutes. The long blast on the whistle as Proteus slowly backed clear meant we were safe. Already I was figuring ahead-get a submarine command and head back to a West Coast shipyard to rebuild it as necessary to meet U.S. fleet standards. I guessed that H-Day on the West Coast-for Heaven and Henri-would be in early fall. My eyes turned toward Tokyo. Not for months had I felt more lighthearted. The final chapter, the culmination of the war, was at hand. But I was heading west with the setting sun toward the land of the Rising Sun, not east toward home. ...