Run Silent, Run Deep

12

Despite my desire to see more of my old shipmates, our paths for the next three weeks were cast in dissimilar patterns. The three patrols they had made "down under," and the taste of Australia in between, were enough to set them apart, make them somehow different, from the men I had known. And now that they were back again from, patrol, entitled to temporary freedom from care at the Royal Hawaiian, there was a practical barrier too.

I caught a glimpse of Jim once, driving the station wagon issued to Walrus, with the handsome, dark face of Joan beside him. Neither of them saw me. She was sitting rather away from the right-hand door, but even so the breeze through the open window rippled her heavy black hair as she turned attentively in Jim's direction.

Keith I saw a couple of times. Being due for detachment upon Walrus' departure, he had been left in charge of her refit until the regular crew returned from their recuperation period.

This gave us a few opportunities to renew old acquaintance- ship as we occasionally encountered each other around the submarine base, and I came to notice him more particularly than before.

He had changed mightily from the willing but inexperienced youth who had reported to the S-16's fitting out and precommissioning office three years and some months ago. Tanned and fit, as most of us were who were fortunate enough to draw topside bridge watches, he was now poised, confident, sure of himself and his abilities. His wide-set eyes had turned a deep gray from their original pale blue-some of the color of the sea had seeped into them-and the set of his jaw betokened strength fired through experience. His once-boyish face was now a bit finely drawn, his hair bleached to a lighter shade by the sun and salt wind, his voice a perceptible amount deeper. He was the same old Keith, but a stronger, more vital one.

For that matter, Jim, too, had undergone changes. He was decisive, sure of himself, the old wayward immaturity long burned out of him. Probably all of us showed evidences of the passage of time and the effect of the hell of undersea combat.

There had been talk about sending the Walrus back to the States for overhaul, but it was eventually decided that she was in good enough condition to make one patrol before doing so. When the day came for her to depart, Keith and I were there to see her off. She looked beautiful in her coat of new gray paint, beautiful, lean, and deadly. The aura with which she had arrived was still there. Compared to some of the newer boats she might have an old-fashioned look about her, but neither could any of them boast her record of thirty-three ships sunk or damaged. It was hard to appreciate that she was only two years old-the Octopus had been still considered brand-new at the comparable time.

Next day Keith left for the States for a well-merited thirty days' leave, and I returned to my office, to the suddenly hum- drum routine of the Attack Teacher. I could hardly sit still.

That afternoon I sought out the Chief of Staff. "Captain," I. said without preamble, "when may I have another ship?"

He looked at me thoughtfully. "What's your hurry, Rich?

Tired of the routine of Pearl Harbor?"

"Yes. I just saw Jim Bledsoe go out for his eighth consecutive patrol. I've only made four. I've got a few more than that left in me."

"Maybe we'll let you relieve Kane when he brings the Nerka back."

"That's no good, Captain. She'll be going back to Mare Is- land, and Stocker rates bringing her back. I've spent enough time on soft jobs. Besides, my leg is OK now."

"OK, Rich," Blunt surrendered gracefully. "I'll. put your name back on the active list."

Back to the Attack Teacher. Back to making fifteen approaches a day, teaching doctrine to would-be dolphin-wearers, showing the latest tricks of the trade to skippers in for refresher, waiting for my ship to come in. The days passed, one upon another.

Three weeks later I was back to see Blunt. The boats had been going through Pearl steadily. Quite a few changes in skippers had been made, but always, it seemed, there was someone waiting to whom the available boat had already been assigned.

I was ready to put up a beef, but he didn't give me a chance.

"Sit down, Rich. I was about to send for you." His voice was grim. "Do you know what day this is?"

"Yes, sir. Tuesday, the twenty-fifth."

"It's the day the Nerka was due back from patrol."

"Was due. What do you mean?" I half-rose again. Not Stocker Kane!

"Was due, Rich. We won't see her again." Blunt spoke gently, sorrowfully. "She was a grand ship, and had a grand crew. Kane was one of the best."

"What happened to her?" I cried. "Where did she go?"

For once the battered pipe lay unnoticed on the desk top. Blunt met my eyes steadily. "He was in AREA SEVEN. That makes six boats that have been lost there."

"Six submarines lost in AREA SEVEN?" I was incredulous. No one I knew had had any idea of this.

"Yes, six. The Needlefish, Turbot, Awlfish, Lancetfish, Sting- back, and now the Nerka."

"But, good Lord, Captain, the Turbot and Awlfish were lost en route to SouthWestPac in Australia! And I never heard of the Stingback!"

"Quite so. Naturally we didn't want to give Bungo any in- formation as to how badly he was hurting us. Incidentally, he thinks he sank several others too, among them the Octopus. But I think he's taken the Walrus off his list; at least, he doesn't mention her any more. He got the Turbot last year and Eddie Holt in the Awlfish several months ago; we made out that they had been sent south, just to quiet the local rumor factories.

Stingback was a brand-new submarine, built at Manitowoc, Wisconsin, but she had a veteran skipper and so we let her go in to SEVEN anyhow. She was the boat just before the Nerka. You were deep in the torpedo problem at the time, and I'm not surprised you don't remember her."

I couldn't believe it. Poor old Stocker Kane! Why, only a few weeks ago he and I had sat up into the wee hours in his room at the Royal Hawaiian chewing the rag over old times. And now he was dead! Poor Hurry! I wondered how she would get the news. "How did it happen, about the Nerka, I mean?"

"We don't really know anything, yet, Rich." The pipe went into Blunt's mouth at last. "He's only been overdue at our new base at Majuro for a few hours, but old Nakame has been claiming him for two weeks. And we've not had a message from him in that time."

"Did Bungo give any hint as to how he sank her?" I was holding a wake, but I couldn't help it.

"The old fellow is too smart for that. The only thing we know about him is that he is still apparently picking up garbage sacks, despite our caution to the boats about them, and is get- ting their names out of them. I guess it's pretty hard to keep all mention of your ship's name out of all your garbage."

I was counting on my fingers. "Good God, Captain! Out of the last six boats that have gone into AREA SEVEN, he's sunk three!"

"That's right. And of the last two, he's sunk both of them.

And Jim Bledsoe is in there now."

My stomach felt suddenly all washed out. "Walrus," I gasped.

"Why did you send the Walrus? Jim's already made seven consecutive runs-the whole ship is tired. They deserve a rest!

Not this! Why, this is suicide!"

"Easy, Rich." Blunt's eyes were steady, but his face looked old, troubled. "ComSubPac has orders to keep the Bungo Suido and Kii Suido under surveillance. Maybe the Jap fleet's in there-I don't know. Some day maybe Admiral Nimitz will let us know why. In the meantime, all we can do is put our best boats in there, let them know what they're up against, and try to prepare them the best we know how. Besides, at the time Jim left Stocker was doing fine. We had a message from him only the day before."

I told him I was sorry for my outburst. "But what can we do?

I anxiously asked him. "We've got to do something We can't just let Walrus run into that kind of setup without some kind of action to help him!"

"We're doing all we can." Blunt fumbled in a pile of papers, "Here's what we sent him."

The message said: URGENT FOR WALRUS X, INDICATIONS EXTREMELY EFFECTIVE ANTISUBMARINE ACTIVITY VICINITY BUNGO SUIDO X, TAKE MAXIMUM PRECAUTIONS THIS IS AN URGENT WARNING FROM COMSUBPAC.

Silently, I handed it back.

"The Walrus has been in the area nearly a week already, Rich, and he's sunk three ships. Two the first night, and one several days later. If there's anyone who can handle themselves in there, it's Jim Bledsoe and your old crew. But that's not why I wanted to see you. I think we've got a ship for you. That please you?"

Would it! In spite of the ominous shadow that lay on my mind, I started up eagerly at the news.

"The Eel is coming in from Balboa, and they think their skip- per has pneumonia. We'll have to check the whole crew, of course, and may have to transfer some of them if they show signs of having contracted the disease. You can have her as soon as she gets in."

Eel was a brand-new Portsmouth-built boat, containing all the new and fancy gadgets which we in the old Walrus had wanted for so long, and improvised to get. She had a thicker skin and heavier frames, a narrower silhouette bows on, a larger conning tower with more gear in it and a smaller bridge, and the very latest in radar. In her engine rooms were four of the new ten- cylinder double-crankshaft Fairbanks-Morse diesels, rated at the same horsepower as the earlier nine-cylinder jobs and as the sixteens of the Walrus, but capable of considerably more. On deck she carried the same gun armament as Walrus, except for a new five-inch gun instead of our old S-boat four-incher.

Altogether she was a wonderful command, a real dreamboat, except for one thing-she had no crew.

It turned out that the trouble with her skipper was diagnosed as tuberculosis, and every man in her whole complement had to be sent up for observation. The probability of any others having it, the submarine force doctor said, was not too high, but they had been breathing the same air as their skipper for a long time, and in the confined quarters of a submarine, especially when submerged and recirculating the ventilation, the chances for wholesale exchange of germs could not help but be at their highest. The ship was thoroughly fumigated after the crew was taken off, and a crew of medical corpsmen went over her with disinfectant before anyone else was permitted to go aboard. When I got my new ship, that's exactly what I got, a ship. Bare.

Not that getting a crew assigned was difficult. With the normal rotation system in full swing, there were ample men with the necessary rates and skills to fill out several complete crews.

And some of the old Walrus crew, who had been left behind when she last departed, had already had enough of the rotation and specially asked to be assigned to the Eel. Among these were Quin and Oregon, both now first-class Petty — Officers with war experience which belied their youth.

My best piece of luck, however, was in getting Keith assigned also. He was due back anyway from leave in a few days, so I sent a telegram to his leave address asking him if he wanted the job of Executive Officer, and telling him to come back right away if he did. The answer came back next morning, and consisted of only one word: ENROUTE.

The rest of the officers were taken from the various relief crews which were the usual rotation assignments. I was careful to take only volunteers, however. A thin, nervous-looking Lieutenant named Buckley Williams came as Gunnery and Torpedo Officer, and another Lieutenant, Al Dugan, rather heavy-set and phlegmatic in appearance but already known for his sure touch on the dive, as Engineer and Diving Officer.

But merely having the personnel assigned is a very long way from having a fighting submarine, or a fighting anything else, for that matter. First we had to get things organized, lay out a Watch, Quarter and Station Bill, assign everyone in the crew a locker and a bunk, divide them into watch sections and into the various departments aboard a ship, lay out all their duties in accordance with what needed to be done as determined by the way the ship was built-and then begin the training.

Fortunately, having had the pick of the relief crews, Eel's new complement was basically all experienced. We were not, at least, required to take aboard a load of trainees in addition to the rest of our training problem. Though it was a back-breaking job, it turned out to be a fruitful one. I was amazed at the amount of progress that could be made in a day. As an Exec, Keith was a natural. In four days we had Eel at sea for her first dive, and in six we were shooting torpedoes. In two weeks I was beginning to wonder what area we would draw for our patrol.

The last week, our third, was spent merely polishing things up. We practiced the quick snap shot at an enemy submarine, taught all the officers, and the Quartermasters too, how to determine the quickest way to turn, how to line up the shot with sight of eye, what essential inputs the TDC had to have, and how to shoot. And we practiced how to shift instantly from one target to another, how to anticipate the enemy's next zig during the firing and how to correct for it. By the time I reported Eel to Captain Blunt as in all respects ready for a combat assignment, there was no doubt in my mind that this was the case.

He had to come out with us for a day's operations to see for himself, of course, and his comment before the day was half over was proof of his satisfaction. "You've got a beautiful ship here, Rich," he told me. And he told me where he planned to send us for our first patrol: AREA — TWELVE, the Yellow Sea, between Kyushu and the mainland of China, all the way up to the Gulf of Pohai on the north.

It took quite a while to put Eel through all her paces, and it was long after dark before we finally put her back alongside the dock in the submarine base. As we came in, the ComSub- Pac Duty Officer and a car were waiting for Captain Blunt.

There was a whispered consultation. He turned back to me before stepping in: "Rich," he said, "after you get finished with the ship, come on up to my office, will you?" His face was grave. Something was wrong.

I turned a few details over to Keith, followed Blunt in a few minutes, a cold foreboding clutching at my heart. I knew what it was the moment I opened the door to his office. He was standing alone, looking out the window at the black waters of Pearl Harbor, the pipe in his mouth, hands clenched behind his back.

He didn't turn when he heard the door open. "That you, Rich?"

Upon my affirmative, he told me to sit down. Still he didn't turn. just stood there. I stood also, waiting.

For about a minute he stood there, motionless. I could hear him breathing. His hands were working gently behind his back, massaging his fingers.

Then, without turning, he commenced to speak softly, almost tenderly. "There are some parts of that ocean out near Japan which are worth more than any material value can ever express.

They are parts which are consecrated, for they are hallowed by our heroic dead. One day God, in His infinite wisdom, may let us see the reason why some men must die young that others may live to a useless old age-why men like me, who have never heard a shot or seen a torpedo fired in anger, must be the arbiter of life and death for younger and better men."

He paused, turned to face me. "Every grave on land and in that ocean is a tomb to an ideal. Some of the ideals are wrong, some right. But the graves are never wrong, they are monuments to the heroic men of either side who sleep there. For who has the right to say to the men who bear the brunt of the battle, 'This was wrong, this was worthless to die for?' Is not the warrior the purest and most heroic of all, because he dies for his beliefs? It is the men who send the warriors on their quests who must answer to that question."

He stopped.

"When did it happen?" I asked quietly.

"Maybe it hasn't happened!" he turned away again, almost fiercely. "This might just be their propaganda claim!"

"Jim was not due out till tomorrow, was he? Should we have heard from him?"

"Rich, we had him reporting weather every three days from his area. Our task forces need to know that weather data. It moves from west to east, you know. Three days ago he sent a message, giving the weather and telling us that his total bag for the patrol so far was then six ships. He had only four torpedoes left, all aft. Ordinarily we would have had him come back, but we have to keep a watch on the Bungo, and we have to have those weather reports. So we told him to stay till tomorrow, which is the day the Tuna is scheduled to move in there to relieve him. Bun, — o Pete claims to have sunk him the same night he sent his message. Another one was due this morning, but he made no transmission."

"Maybe he's only been damaged and his antenna or his radio are out of commission."

"Maybe so. Anyway, we can't send any more boats into SEVEN. You were right, it is suicide. I've already sent a message to the Tuna to stay clear, and the Admiral has an appointment with CinCPac in the morning to tell him the same. If only there were a way of eliminating that bastard Nakame! Until we do, I'm afraid we'll have to give up on this much of our assigned mission. The trouble is, of course, that once he realizes we're not going into the area around Bungo any more, he'll simply shift his own operating ground."

"Let me go into SEVEN! I can get him!" I spoke with a surge of confidence and rage. "I've been practicing for just this type of thing all during the past months at the Attack Trainer. Give us just a couple of days to get ready." I argued a long time, finally got down to pleading with the old man.

At first he wouldn't hear of it, but the thought of the Explanations, the Admiral would have to make finally swung the tide in my favor. I was determined, reckless, in a mad fury. Bungo Pete had to got Walrus had outwitted him twice before, with a little luck. Now Eel would not only outwit him, but sink him, and we'd not need luck!

We got the base ordnance shop to give us a little high-priority emergency assistance: we designed some waterproof demolition charges which we could put into the garbage which would go off when the package was opened. We carried along a lot of old Walrus stationery and got some papers made up with rubber stamps and other markings, just as we had improvised for the Octopus, only using the name Walrus.

And we put aboard a full load of brand-new electric torpedoes, the wakeless kind.

When we finally shoved off, somehow it looked as though word of our mission might have leaked out. A great crowd of submariners gathered silently on the dock to see us off, and I could feel the cumulative force of their unspoken thought.

The Admiral was there, of course, and so was Captain Blunt, and as we backed clear the band struck up "Sink Em All" which, by this time, had become a sort of submarine hymn.

Under the circumstances, it had a special meaning for us.

They kept playing the same tune over and over until we had headed up beyond ten-ten dock, and the submarine piers had drifted beyond our sight.