Final Patrol (2 page)

Courtesy of the U.S. Navy

I
t is the opinion of many historians (and, I might add, most old sub sailors) that submarines and their crews do not receive nearly enough credit for their role in helping to win World War II. Not only do I agree with this assessment, but I find it revealing to consider the reasons for the oversight. Perhaps the very nature of the submarine service makes such a lapse inevitable.

For one thing, it is a relatively small group about whom we speak. Submariners never, at any time during World War II, made up more than 2 percent of the U.S. Navy's total force, yet they and the boats they rode accounted for more than 55 percent of all Japanese shipping sent to the bottom of the Pacific. And their contribution was a major factor in the war ending not quite four years after the United States entered it.

But their success came with a heavy price. Of the approximately 325 submarines that took part in the war, 52 were lost. More than thirty-five hundred submarine sailors died during the war. That represents a death toll of about 20 percent—one in every five of all sub crewmen still remain on what their shipmates reverently term “eternal patrol.”

There is another reason why the so-called silent service (silent because its goal is to remain hidden, quiet, while it stalks and attacks enemy vessels) doesn't get the credit it is due, even today. Going all the way back to the War Between the States, submersible vessels were valuable weapons because of their stealth, their ability to sneak up on an enemy, deliver a mortal blow, and then disappear beneath the surface of the sea to fight again another day. They were (and still are) also well suited for reconnaissance work, for patrolling areas while remaining undetected, for maintaining a vigil from beneath the water's surface in areas where more visible means simply could not be used—areas where knowledge of their presence would keep them from effectively doing their jobs.

But the very stealth—the sneakiness, if you will—that makes submarines such powerful weapons also prevents them from finding a more prominent place in the consciousness of the public. Americans will probably never fully understand or appreciate what these ships and their crews do on our behalf. Out of sight, out of mind. But it would be hard to overestimate the power of their deterrence today.

Of course, all branches of the service played their parts in World War II. But the image of an almost invisible vessel sneaking up on the enemy, attacking, and then diving back below the surface to hide simply did not hold the same iconic status as a D-day-type beach landing or as waves of marines ferociously charging up a hill toward their foe. Marines or dive-bombers could be clearly seen in the newsreels as they raised the flag on hard-won land or zoomed in for the kill.

The territory they captured could be represented on maps, too, and lines and arrows could be drawn to show the progress and direction of their assaults. And to an extent, most of us are able to picture ourselves hypothetically doing what those men did, even if we pray we never have to.

That was not the case with submarines. There were no hills or territory to take or blocks of land to color in as captured. Lines marked on a sea chart could and did waver. If an enemy destroyer or battleship was sunk, there could be no flag raised over that spot in the ocean to claim it for the Allied cause. There was only an oil slick, a trail of bubbles, and a temporary field of debris to mark the spot of the victory, until even that was erased by the tide.

Even the targets that submarines were assigned to attack lacked glamour. Often they were freighters or oil tankers. Yet one of the ways the Allies won the war was by having the subs there to choke off supplies, petroleum, and other raw materials. There is nothing about sending a vessel loaded with raw rubber to the bottom of the sea that inspires songs or statues or patriotic poems, but it had to be done if we were to beat an island-based enemy like Japan.

Just like the infantry and marines and dive-bomber pilots, the submariners faced their own particular perils. Depth charges, torpedoes, and aircraft fire were the obvious hazards, but there was one constant peril the ground troops did not have to worry about. That was the natural threat of the sea. The ocean is a harsh, uninviting environment once an interloper is only a few feet beneath its waves. These submersible fighting machines were designed to dive to a depth of no more than three hundred to five hundred feet. Even the stoutest superstructure could give way to the awful pressure of tons of water, however, if something failed or if a crewman made a critical mistake or if the vessel was forced to dive deeper than that in order to escape the enemy. And if the submarine were trapped on the bottom at even a moderate depth, there was little hope for the young men imprisoned in her belly.

War is hell, regardless of which branch of the service is doing the fighting or whichever means of delivery the assault may employ. Brave men participate on all fronts. But a case can be made—beyond just the casualty rate—that submariners and their unique boats faced particularly tough sailing. That is why submariners did then and still do receive more pay than those serving in the surface navy. This has been the case since Theodore Roosevelt took his first ride in a “plunging boat” in Long Island Sound and proclaimed it would be so. Service in submarines has always been voluntary only; no one has ever been drafted into the silent service. And at any time, if a submariner decides he does not want to continue to serve there, he is allowed to transfer off his boat immediately with no black mark on his record for his decision.

Even as we acknowledge these men's sacrifice and bravery, we have a hard time picturing ourselves climbing into one of those steel cylinders, pulling the hatch closed over our heads, deliberately flooding the compartments, and sinking with her into the dark, crushing sea. Or riding along blindly through the cold blackness, “seeing” only with sonar pings and sea charts.

The men who have chosen such duty ride around in vessels that have been called “sewer pipes,” “devil boats,” “pig boats,” and “plunging boats.” They do their work in black depths, intentionally keep their heads down and out of sight until they are able to creep up on their targets, fire their weapons, and then skedaddle, running and hiding.

Except for a few Hollywood movies, we have little to go on in picturing the environment in which they worked, how they lived, how they fought, how they did what they did; and those few films, such as
Run Silent, Run Deep
, are limited in how well they are able to serve reality.

Without undergoing a similar experience, it is nearly impossible for us to put ourselves in the place of the World War II sailors, to identify with the submariners who did the work. What manner of man would volunteer to dive beneath the waves to such an uninviting place, knowing full well that the odds were stacked against him? What would compel someone to willingly choose to serve in a force that automatically gets hazardous-duty pay all the time, not just when the nation is at war, because of the unique danger inherent in the job?

The conditions are much better today, but in the 1940s, submarining was a rough life. Only the best were selected to go. Their training was rigorous. They didn't just need to know how to perform a particular task—they were required to qualify at all duty stations on the vessel, just in case they were needed to step in should a man fall. Each sailor was expected to be ready to keep the boat righted, to pull her out of a potentially deadly dive, or to bring her to the surface for a breath of sweet, fresh air. And that was true of every man aboard, whether he was the captain of the boat or the mess cook.

The living conditions on the World War II boats were not much better than in a foxhole or trench. Imagine six to seven dozen men living in cramped spaces, sharing for weeks on end two bathrooms and a dining room not much bigger than a typical suburban house's walk-in closet. Picture having to sleep on a narrow cot, often hung from the wall among explosive torpedoes, and sharing that same cot in shifts with other crew members.

It shouldn't surprise us, then, that the men who rode the plunging boats constitute one of the strongest brotherhoods going, that even those who served in World War II, over sixty years ago, continue to meet at reunions, to stay in touch with each other. This should also help you understand why they are so determined that the story of what they did does not die with them. Not their own stories, mind you—submariners tend to be very humble types and reluctant to talk of their war experiences—but the stories of their shipmates, and especially those who did not come back.

And that's also why they and others have worked so hard to preserve some of their submarines, to restore and authentically reequip them, and to fix them up so that they, you, and I are all able to visit them. They wanted to help us to see what life was like for them and their brothers—to learn a little bit about their shipmates and their boats as we stand on the bridge, as we walk her decks and climb up and down her ladders, as we peer through the periscope at rush-hour traffic across the harbor.

These submarine sailors are adamant that we breathe in the lingering perfume of diesel fuel, still fragrant in the various compartments throughout their vessels, even sixty years after they swam in the warm Pacific waters. They even want us to know what it smelled like aboard them.

In 1941, the American submarines being built were the most advanced military machines yet developed. And crewing each one of those boats were some of the bravest young men in the history of warfare. Amazingly enough, many of them were still in their teens. The average age of most of the boats' crew members was less than twenty-five years old. The “old man,” the skipper, was rarely much over thirty.

Their stories, if we take the time to listen to them, are dramatic, moving, and as fascinating today as they were over half a century ago. They are full of human drama and colorful characters. Many of these adventures have yet to be shared with the general public, however, and we are quickly losing the veterans who lived them, the ones who can tell them the best. That's why it is so important that the boats be saved from the scrap heap or demolition, salvaged and preserved—and opened so we can visit them and learn more about them.

And it is also why the memories recounted by their crew members must be preserved and passed on, so that these men and what they did and how they did it can be properly appreciated.

Among the vessels so preserved is the USS
Bowfin
, dubbed “the Pearl Harbor Avenger.” She was put under construction only eight days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, which took place on December 7, 1941. She went on to a brilliant patrol record, including a stint delivering medicine, radio transmitters, ammunition, and money to Philippine guerrillas in a daring, near-suicidal mission. Later, she was depth-charged to the point that the enemy was certain she was dead. They raked a grappling hook down her deck trying to snag her and drag her to the surface but could not grab her.

It was the
Bowfin
's crew who had to recover from the guilt brought about by one of the war's greatest tragedies. She sank what her crew believed was an enemy troop ship—only to discover later that the vessel carried nine hundred Japanese children who were being evacuated from an island that was about to come under attack from the Allies.

Crew members of the USS
Drum
worked feverishly in water up to their knees after a vicious depth-charge attack. Even with their sub damaged, they loaded and launched torpedoes and finally sank the enemy aircraft carrier they had their sights on. With cold seawater pouring in around them, they cheered as their skipper reported what he was seeing as he watched their damaged target, listing so badly that her decks were clearly visible through his periscope.

Some of the boats carried odd names. There was the
Croaker
, the
Clamagore
, the
Requin
, the
Razorback
. And there was the USS
Becuna
, affectionately called Becky by her crew.

It was aboard the USS
Silversides
, nicknamed “the Lucky Boat” because of her many close scrapes with the enemy, that Pharmacist's Mate Tom Moore successfully removed a shipmate's gangrenous appendix—even though he had never performed any kind of surgery before and had to resort to using knives and dinner forks from the galley for surgical instruments.

Then there was the USS
Cod
, whose skipper, Commander James Dempsey, had sunk the first Japanese destroyer of the war when he was captain of a tiny 1920s-era submarine. And it was the
Cod
that endured a vicious barrage of seventy Japanese depth charges in only fifteen minutes. Twelve hours later, the air inside the boat was so dank that the men couldn't even get a match to strike so they could light their cigarettes; there simply wasn't enough oxygen left. They finally surfaced—into the middle of a tropical thunderstorm. The boat's sound operator was still so deafened from counting the explosions of the depth charges that he couldn't hear the thunder, but he could certainly appreciate the sweet, fresh air that spilled down the open hatch once they were on the surface.

It was the new skipper of the
Batfish
who drew curious stares from his crew when they learned his prior war history. Captain Wayne Merrill had already served as an officer aboard two previous boats in the Pacific. Only a few days after he shipped off each of them, the submarine and its crew were lost. The men assigned to his newly constructed sub wondered if their captain was bulletproof . . . or if maybe his luck was about to run out on this new boat. But the
Batfish
went on to accomplish one of the most amazing feats of the war—sinking three enemy submarines in three days.

The USS
Cavalla
was almost out of fuel and a long way from home, but she stayed on station as ordered to report the location of a massive enemy armada that was forming. Then, when she finally left and headed for port, she coincidentally ran across one of the war's true prizes, the enemy aircraft carrier
Shokaku
. The Japanese carrier was one of the ships that had launched the planes that attacked Pearl Harbor. She was also a veteran of the Battle of the Coral Sea. Later, the
Cavalla
's skipper, Commander Herman Kossler, happily radioed back to Pearl, “Hit
Shokaku
-class carrier with three out of six torpedoes . . . believe that baby sank!”