Submarine!

14 Albacore and Cavalla

One of the most successful instances of collaboration between our submarine forces and the surface fleets took place at the First Battle of the Philippine Sea. Several subs were involved, but the two principal actors were Albacore and Cavalla.

Jim Blanchard and Herman Kossler would probably both tell you today that collaboration was furthest from their minds on the 19th of June, 1944. Although each knew of the other’s presence in the general vicinity, the fact that together they would deprive the Imperial Japanese Navy of two of its largest first-line aircraft carriers would have seemed the height of the unexpected to both of them. Curiously, Taiho and Shokaku were virtually sister ships, although the former was the newer by about two years and carried the latest improvements in design; and they were sunk on the same day — almost within sight of each other — by sister submarines. Cavalla was about two years newer than Albacore, but our standardization of design was such that the two were almost identical.

To Albacore and Jim Blanchard, veterans of many submarine war patrols, fell the brand-new, unseasoned Taiho. A few hours later Herman Kossler and his Cavalla, both fresh out of the building yard, got the veteran carrier Shokaku.

So it was that the First Battle of the Philippine Sea found only three large Japanese carriers opposed to our seven, which perhaps was part of the reason why our airmen knew that battle as the “Marianas Turkey Shoot.”

This story really starts on June 14. Albacore was on her ninth war patrol, operating in the area between Yap and Guam. For the past two days she had experienced heavy wind and seas, and consequently was behind schedule. Another submarine had reported damaging a ship in a convoy apparently en route for her area, and Jim Blanchard had bent on everything but the galley range in his effort to get into position to intercept. His chances looked pretty poor because of the bad weather, but he hung on grimly, running at full speed on the surface, hoping that the convoy also might have been delayed.

On the afternoon of the 14th, however, a message from ComSubPac directed Jim to discontinue the chase and to proceed to a point in almost the exact opposite direction. Since the submariner always works on the theory that the bird in the hand is worth several still in the bush, and since there still seemed to be hope of catching the elusive convoy, it was with some disappointment that Jim reversed course.

Not quite seven hours later another message was decoded in Albacore’s wardroom: she was to proceed to yet another spot for patrol. Again Blanchard ordered the course changed, and off they went to the new station. By this time there was little doubt in the skipper’s mind that something was happening — or about to happen.

All day long, on the 15th, Albacore patrolled assiduously back and forth, never straying more than a few miles from her station, and remaining constantly on the surface in order to increase her search radius. All day long also Blanchard drilled his crew at battle stations for what he hardly dared hope might come his way. A careful check of all messages received in the radio room was kept, and many, addressed to other submarines, were decoded. Pieced together — and then scrupulously destroyed, for you aren’t required to decode any messages except those addressed to you — they spelled out that something big was in the wind, and that Albacore was one of several submarines to be placed in what looked like strategic positions.

At 0800 on June 18th a message arrived for Albacore, ordering her to shift position about one hundred miles to the southward. This itself was encouraging, for it showed that whatever was expected had not yet happened somewhere else, and that ComSubPac was keeping his fine hand right in the deal. Jim Blanchard sent his submarine south at full speed.

When June 19th arrived, things had so built up in the minds of the crew that most of them knew this was to be the day.

The feeling was not at all discouraged by the detection of two aircraft on the radar at 0430. Albacore promptly dived.

At 0700, the critical period of dawn with its tricky visibility past, she was again on the surface. And at 0716 a Jap patrol plane was sighted by an alert lookout, and once again the submarine dived.

Now sighting three aircraft within such a short interval usually indicates that something interesting is about to come along, for the Japs don’t have enough airplanes to waste in indiscriminant area search.

And so it proves. At 0750 ships are sighted. It is still pretty hazy to the west in the direction of the contact, and for a moment the skipper cannot make out what they are — but only for a moment.

“Battle stations submerged!” Before his eyes Jim Blanchard has the submariner’s dream come true — an enemy task force. Through the periscope he can see a huge aircraft carrier of the largest class; at least one cruiser, maybe more; and several other ships, some of them no doubt destroyers. It is given to very few submariners to see this sight and to be on the spot with a well-drilled crew, your torpedoes ready in the tubes, your battery warm with a full charge just completed.

“Left full rudder! All ahead flank!” The helmsman leans into the wheel and at the same time reaches up to the two annunciators and rings them over to the position marked FLANK. Men are still tumbling up from below, racing to their battle stations under the stimulus of the alarm, and Lieutenant Commander Ben Adams, Albacore’s exec, takes over the job of periscope jockey.

Blanchard’s initial observation has shown the carrier’s angle on the bow to be seventy degrees port, range about seven miles. It’s going to be an all-out race to get to a firing position, and if the enemy is making any speed at all, reaching him will be an impossibility, barring a radical zig toward.

“Up periscope!” Time for another look. Also, better take a careful look around. The situation is developing very fast, and you’ve got to keep the whole picture in your mind as fast as it develops, for you are the eyes and the brains.

The target should bear on the starboard bow, but the skipper suddenly switches his attention to something on the starboard beam. He quickly completes a 360-degree sweep, motions for the periscope to be lowered, and orders, “Right full rudder!”

His exec looks at him questioningly. As all executive officers and assistant approach officers should do, he has mentally visualized the relative positions of his ship and the enemy. Turning to the right is obviously the wrong maneuver for the situation as he knows it. But he does not have to wonder long.

“Another flattop! This one’s coming right down the groove. All we have to do is wait for him!”

Both men know the same thought: what a pity that there is only one submarine here. One carrier is sure to get away. The flattops are too far apart for an attack on both, even assuming that the submarine would be able to reach the first one. There is not even any argument about it: the thing to do is take the one which gives you the better shot, and worry about the other one later. As a matter of fact, the decision has already been made, and Albacore is even now turning for an approach on the carrier more recently sighted.

“Give me a course for a seventy track!” Blanchard spent many years in the old “S-boats” which had no TDC, and this is S-boat procedure, usually glossed over by skippers brought up in the fleet boats where you only have to glance at the TDC to have the whole picture right before your eyes.

Ben Adams has a small plastic gadget called an Is-Was hung around his neck. Consisting of a series of concentric compass roses of different diameters, plus a bearing indicator, it enables the assistant approach officer to keep track of the problem without a TDC to help him. It got its name from the fact that you can set it up for where the target is, and see from it where he was—and thus determine where he probably will be. At the skipper’s orders, Adams picks up the Is-Was and starts turning the two upper dials. In a moment he announces, “Zero three zero, Captain.”

“Steady on zero three zero!” Albacore is still swinging to the hard-over right rudder, and the helmsman eases the rudder slightly. A few seconds after the ship is steady on the course.

Another periscope observation. The range is now 9000 yards. Distance to track, 2,300 yards — the enemy will pass 2,300 yards from Albacore’s present position, if he doesn’t change course. Angle on the bow, fifteen starboard.

A minute later the periscope whirs upward again, then slithers downward. “Left full rudder!” Blanchard barks the order, then briefly explains it.

“There’s a destroyer between us and the carrier. He has a ten-degree starboard angle on the bow, which means he’ll pass fairly close to us. We’ll change to north for a while to let him go by, and then come around for the big fellow. No zig yet.”

One of the customs of the submarine service is that of continually cutting in your control party on what is going on. Doubtless this grew out of everyone’s desire for the dope — and the fact that the person at the periscope is the only one in position to have any.

So Jim Blanchard needs no prodding, and gives with more dope as soon as he makes another observation. “The can has zigged slightly away and now has a forty starboard angle on the bow. He’ll pass well clear. We’re coming around to get set up for the flattop. Give me a course for a ninety track!” The last is a command addressed to Ben Adams.

“Zero five zero, Captain!” Ben has been expecting that, and he has the answer ready. A ninety track means that the submarine course and target course are at exactly right angles to each other — the perfect position.

“Steady on zero five zero, sir!” from the helmsman. Blanchard glances at the TDC. The range has certainly closed fast. There isn’t much longer to go.

Suddenly a squawk box — a regular commercial interoffice speaker mounted above and alongside the TDC — announces with a tinny voice: “Conn, this is Plot. Target course one four zero, speed two seven — repeat, speed two seven!”

This is the confirmation the skipper has been waiting for. “Set in speed two seven!” he snaps at Lieutenant Ted Walker, operating the TDC.

The latter swiftly whirls a small crank with his left hand, stops it carefully, and sings out, “Set!”

“Up ’scope!” Then, “Looks good! All clear around! Nobody close aboard! Make ready all tubes!” There isn’t time to spare now, and Jim makes no effort to describe what he has just seen. Albacore is well inside the formation. The destroyer recently avoided is about one thousand yards dead ahead, evidently oblivious of the submarine’s presence. He has been heard to echo range listlessly once or twice; you can’t blame his lack of interest, for at 27 knots he’d be lucky to hear anything anyhow. A heavy cruiser is crossing Albacore’s stern, and the cruiser and carrier first sighted are about three miles away on her starboard quarter. Two destroyers on the target’s own starboard quarter look as though they will be in the best position to give a little trouble, but Jim plans to shoot before they can get up to him. Quite a few planes are in the air, and that adds to the problem, for if the submarine is detected now things will go to hell in a hurry. The carrier needs but to turn hard left to stay nicely out of torpedo range, while those two tin cans with him could keep right on coming. Not to mention another destroyer who, if he puts his rudder hard right, will pass direcover Albacore.

Albacore plans to shoot bow tubes, and has so handled the approach; stern tubes are made ready also simply to be prepared for anything. The carrier might zig across her stern, for example, although not a zig has he made so far — he probably is trusting to his high speed to protect him from attack.

“All tubes ready, Captain. Depth set, speed high. Ready to shoot!” As the report is made, the familiar quietness settles in the conning tower. Here comes the biggest chance Albacore has ever had. The value of this particular target is incalculable. The very sequence of messages during the past week has proved that. ComSubPac doesn’t know yet that one of his submarines has made contact, but he certainly bent every effort to dispose enough submarines along the anticipated track to insure that someone would. Now that he has brought this particular submarine into action, however, it is up to Jim Blanchard and his Albacore to take their turn at shaping destiny.

Jim Blanchard squats on his heels before the lowered periscope. He doesn’t need to look at the TDC — those years in S-boats have given him the ability to visualize the setup without any mechanical help.

“Six five feet,” he orders. The previous order had been sixty-four feet; now he goes down as deep as he can, leaving only a few inches of periscope exposure.

“Up periscope!” The strident whirring of the electric hoist motor fills the conning tower.

“I figure we’ll be on the firing point in one minute, Captain!” This from the Executive Officer. “Recommend we let them go any time!”

Jim Blanchard motions impatiently. He, too, has figured that out. He squats before the periscope, facing the shiny oily barrel, then raises his head and looks at the members of his fire-control party. Not a word is spoken; all eyes are on the skipper.

Something in their bearing tells Jim what he wants to know. No question about their readiness. As the periscope handles rise into his hands, he speaks softly: “Final bearing and shoot!”

“Stand by number one!” He fire control talker speaks into his telephone mouthpiece. Then he speaks louder, so that the whole party in the crowded conning tower can hear him—“Standing by ONE!”—signifying that the people in the forward torpedo room have the word and are ready.

The ship’s control talker speaks softly into his telephone headset. “We’re getting ready to shoot now. Final bearing going in!” This is unofficial but very understandable, and it is not known that any skipper ever objected to it.

In the after port corner of the conning tower, squeezed into a space barely large enough to stand in, the ship’s torpedo and gunnery officer is attentively watching the spinning dials of the TDC. It is Ted Walker’s responsibility that that instrument is correctly lined up, and this, of course is the crucial point. Suddenly he starts. “CHECK FIRE!” he bellows. “Correct solution light has gone out!”

“Stop the periscope!” The tip of the ’scope has not yet broken the surface, and Jim stops it where it is, in hopes that the trouble can be quickly discovered and fixed.

The target is sliding by the firing point at 27 knots. It is already too late for the “Banjo” solution — veteran S-boat sailor that he is, Blanchard has not neglected to have the old angle solver broken out and set up also, together with the TDC. But there is no hope for it, for with the target’s high speed there is not the slightest possibility of swinging ship fast enough to catch up with him.

Only one thing to do, if you don’t want to let the target get away. If you put up the periscope and feed continuous dope in the TDC, perhaps you can keep close enough to the correct solution to go ahead and shoot anyway, with a good chance of hitting. If the light is merely burned out, this does no harm; if there is something seriously wrong with your gear, this is the only hope anyway.

But this has the tremendous disadvantage of requiring you to keep the periscope up for a very long period. Two destroyers are tearing down upon you in close quarters; they will surely spot you, and be on you within seconds after you get the torpedoes away. Your only hope of nailing the carrier is to be so close that he doesn’t have time to turn away to parallel the torpedo wakes — which he certainly will do as soon as he sees them — which means as soon as he spots the ’scope.

Blanchard has had about ten seconds to figure all this out. He cannot wait any longer. The risks, the odds, all facets of what he is about to do flash through his mind. This is a desperate chance he is about to take, and he is putting his ship and his fine loyal crew into grave danger. The carrier, and all that that ship might mean to other United States forces — Jim must make the decision alone, without help, and instantly!

“Up periscope!” Since it had been stopped just short of breaking surface, it is up almost instantly. “Continuous bearings!” Jim snarls the words as though by their defiance alone he could straighten out the trouble in the TDC. “Sing ’em out, Ben; I’m going to stay right on him!”

Adams starts chanting the bearings as they are matched on the asimuth circle by the hairline on the periscope barrel. “Three three eight — three three nine — three four one…”

“Set! — Set! — Set!” from Walker. He has had to make only slight adjustments to his computer. The TDC is following all right, so the trouble is in the angle-solver sections. Possibly the small red light which indicates that the TDC is operating properly has merely burned out, and nothing is actually wrong at all.

Blanchard hazards a quick look at the two destroyers coming along behind the target. No definite sign that anyone has yet spotted Albacore’s periscope, despite the long, continuous exposure from close aboard — but it’s hard to tell, because the two DD’s are bows on anyway.

The skipper’s mind is working like lightning. Apparently there is still a chance of avoiding detection, if he doesn’t persist in the attack and gets the periscope down immediately. Whatever is wrong with the TDC is either deep-seated or completely inconsequential. If deep-seated — the torpedoes will probably miss by a wide margin; if it is simply a burned-out bulb, he can go ahead and shoot. But somehow he knows the trouble is more than a burned-out light bulb!

Jim Blanchard seizes upon the one thing left to him by which he can rescue his approach from dismal failure. The huge Japanese carrier, obviously one of the biggest class — the Shokaku or one similar — is now right at the firing point, racing past with all his majestic glory, completely unaware of the ominous periscope in the water so close to his starboard side. So near, and yet so unattainable! So near… and Jim decides to take that last desperate chance which may yet bring victory out of seemingly hopeless confusion.

“Standby forward! Standby ONE!”

“One standing by!”

“Bearing—mark!” The skipper has moved the periscope hairline slightly, now holds it perfectly motionless. His voice is loud, commanding.

“Three four eight!” from the Executive Officer.

“Set!” from the TDC.

“FIRE ONE!”

“One fired, sir!” This is something new in the way of procedure for firing torpedoes. Ordinarily they are fired from the TDC, as the fire control officer gets the instrument set up for each succeeding fish and as the proper time interval passes. The Captain has deliberately taken over firing the torpedoes himself, and, by his specific commands, has completely contravened the training they all have had.

It is normal, too, to put the periscope down as you are shooting torpedoes, at least between fish. But Jim Blanchard is not putting down his periscope. Suddenly he speaks again.

“Standby TWO!”

“Number two standing by, sir!”

The skipper moves his periscope to the right a perceptible amount, stops it, and says, “Mark!”

“Three five five!”

“SET.”

“FIRE TWO!” And number-two torpedo ejects and runs out toward the enemy.

“Standby THREE.… “Bearing — mark!”… “Fire THREE!”

“Standby FOUR!”… “Bearing — mark!”… “Fire FOUR!”

… “Fire FIVE!”… “Fire SIX!”

What Blanchard has done, quite simply, is to watch where each torpedo goes, and then compensate for it in aiming the next one. Since he is firing steam torpedoes, it is possible to tell where they are going by their telltale stream of bubbles and the small amount of smoke they make. In each case it has been obvious to the skipper that the torpedoes were passing astern of the target, and in each case he has had to compensate by aiming more to the right. The final bearing of the sixth torpedo was quite a bit on the starboard bow and considerably ahead of the target.

Now there are six torpedoes in the water, and there is nothing left for Albacore to do but get away and hope that one or more may strike home. But first a look at the onrushing destroyers. Jim Blanchard spins his periscope.

“Take her down! Take her down fast!” The skipper roars the orders through the lower conning tower hatch to the diving officer in the control room just below. “All ahead full!”

He is answered by the swoosh of air as negative tank is vented into the control room. Albacore’s deck tilts steeply forward, and down she rushes. Just before the periscope goes under, the skipper sees three destroyers heading his way, and the airplanes which had been flying overhead have apparently turned and headed for the spot from which the torpedoes had come.

Much as Jim wishes to, there is simply no time to wait and see whether any of his torpedoes hit. He has taken enough chances with his ship and crew already, and it would not be fair to expose them further. Nothing he can do now will change matters, and the obvious maneuver is the well-known get the hell out of here!

Down goes Albacore, struggling to reach the friendly depths before the ash cans arrive. Throughout the ship her crew are feverishly rigging for depth-charge attack.

Thirty seconds after the periscope goes under, while the submarine is still speeding to deep submergence, a single explosion is heard. One hit! In spite of all the troubles he has had, Albacore has managed to get one fish into the target. That will slow him up some. Then the preliminary gladness is submerged in bitterness. A perfect firing position, with six fish fired, for only one hit! Damn that fire control system!

So much for the Japanese carrier, for one minute later Albacore has something else to think about. Payday arrives with a flourish. Jim Blanchard has, of course, left his periscope up entirely too long. The nearest enemy tin can could not have been more than five or six hundred yards away when Albacore completed firing her torpedoes, and is coming for her with express-train speed.

The frenzied beating of the destroyer’s propellers resound through the submarine’s hull as he races closer. Somehow, there is nothing to compare with the furious menacing cadence of the propellers of an anti-submarine warfare ship of any kind — especially when that particular ASW vessel would have words with you.

With his stop watch in hand, Commander Jim Blanchard listens as the roar of the enemy screws grows louder, louder, ever more deadly in timbre, until finally it reaches a screaming crescendo of churning, malevolent, revengeful fury; until the very bulkheads vibrate with it, the THUMTHUMTHUMTHUMTHUM coming in such rapid sequence that Albacore’s whole hull resounds to it like a huge tuning fork — and then he starts the watch, holding it negligently in his hand, its leather thong looped around his left wrist. No point in looking at the watch — he keeps his eyes on the depth gauge. The submarine is still on her way down, seeking the protection of a few hundred feet of sea water between herself and the attacking destroyer.

With the watch perhaps Jim can get some kind of line on the depth settings the Jap is using. It takes almost as long for the depth charges to go off, once you’re reasonably sure the enemy has dropped some, as it does for your torpedoes once they’re fired, with the difference that you know exactly when the torpedoes get in the water. It’s getting about that time now. The skipper is holding his watch hand more attentively…

WHAM!.. WHAM!.. WHAM!.. WHAM!.. WHAM!… WHAM!

Six beauties, evenly spaced and expertly dropped. The fourth and fifth are real humdingers. Albacore’s finely attuned steel hull shivers throughout her length with a hundred discordant frequencies. Light bulbs dance around on the ends of their short cords, and a few of them shatter. Dust and particles of cork fill the air. One or two men are flung sprawling to the deck.

The destroyer proceeds across on his run and turns for another, slowing his propeller beat not one revolution. Overhead he comes again, dead on as before, and again a string of close ones is released. Then he turns, waits for the uproar in the water to subside in order to regain a firm contact, and once again he sails in. Then another short wait, and yet another deliberate attack. There is no question about it, this lad is a graduate of the number-one Japanese antisubmarine school.

Many German submarines, in similar circumstances, simply surfaced and gave up the fight. But not United States submariners, and not Jim Blanchard. Deeply submerged, running slowly at her maximum designed depth, Albacore creeps along, hoping and looking for the opening which will facilitate her breaking contact. And, as so often happens, the break comes rather sooner than might be expected.

By noon Albacore was at periscope depth again, well out of sight of the task force. When she returned to port, she reported damage to one large enemy flattop of the Shokaku class, little knowing of the final irony.

For H.I.J.M.S. Taiho, less than two years old, the newest in a long line of Japanese aircraft carriers, a sister ship — though considerably improved — of the famous Shokaku, had indeed received one torpedo hit. The sixth and last fish fired by the American sub hit under one of the elevators. The damage was in itself slight, and Taiho reduced speed from 27 to 21 knots more from force of habit and doctrine than anything else. But the gasoline stowage for refueling aircraft happened also to be under that elevator, and the torpedo explosion started a small fire in the gasoline stowage deck. This did not bother the Japs either, for a great carrier like Taiho is well equipped to handle a small fire. Nevertheless the three destroyers were ordered to forget the submarine and concentrate on assisting the carrier.

Fighting the fire was a little difficult, as a matter of fact, because of the heavy gasoline fumes about the lower decks, and the order was given to start all blowers and fans, and to open all ventilation lines and bulkhead doors in an attempt to clear the atmosphere, or at least to reduce the concentration of the vapors. And thus it was that the Japanese skipper qualified for the United States Navy Cross, which he certainly deserved for assisting in the destruction of one first-line Japanese carrier.

For the inevitable occurred a few hours after the torpedo hit. With a sibilant swish a spark ignited the whole lower deck, and Taiho instantly became a mass of roaring flame.

So it was, eight hours after being hit by Albacore’s lone torpedo, and thirty miles from the position of the attack, that Taiho finally gave up the ghost and, mortally wounded, meekly bowed her head to the sea. Her hull seams opened by the heat within her, some of her compartments above the water line flooded in the effort to put out the fire; her decks and sides gutted with gaping holes, she sank lower and lower into the water and finally, belching great clouds of smoke and steam, disappeared beneath the surface.

Less than one hundred miles away from the spot where Taiho had been tagged, Cavalla maintained her patrol station. After many patrols as second or third officer during the earlier years of the war, Herman Kossler had been sent back to the States for a much-deserved rest and to put a brand-new submarine into commission as Commanding Officer. Now he was back on the firing line for his first patrol in command, with his new ship and a newly organized crew. One advantage he had over boats which made their first war patrol in 1942 or early 1943 was that many of his crew and officers, like himself, were already seasoned veterans. It had been merely a matter of training until they were all accustomed to working together, the inexperienced as well as the experienced.

In order to give a new boat a chance to get really shaken down before letting her in for the tough assignments, it was customary to send her on her first patrol in the less active areas — unless, indeed, her performance during the training period marked her as outstanding from the start. Such a boat was Cavalla, and so it was that Herman Kossler found himself patrolling, on June 14, between Guam and Mindanao, the route enemy task forces would probably have to take to get within carrier strike range of our forces then engaged in the campaign for Guam and Saipan.

Cavalla also made pretty heavy weather of it on the 14th, somewhat heavier than Albacore, and no doubt passed closer to the storm center. On the 15th, with the storm passed, she entered her assigned area and commenced surface patrolling. Except for USS Pipefish, also on the same mission, no contacts were made until an hour before midnight on the 16th.

At this time five ships — two large and three small — are contacted by radar. Immediately Herman mans his tracking party and begins maneuvers to close. The convoy is making high speed, and it is not until 0315 in the morning that Kossler is able to submerge on the convoy track. Through the periscope the enemy is identified as two tankers and three destroyer-type escorts. With the crew at battle stations, Herman starts in. He hopes to make his first attack with stern tubes, figuring that the convoy’s 15 knots will leave him with a better chance to whip around for a bow shot in case of a bad zig at the crucial moment.

At 0355 the convoy is getting close to the firing point. A periscope observation shows one of the escorts, a fast destroyer of the Asashio class, closing rapidly, showing a slight port angle on the bow. Thinking fast, Herman orders a slight change of course to the right, to give the Jap a little more clearance in the hope of avoiding detection, and at the same time not spoiling his shot at the larger tanker.

No luck! With the main target only five minutes from Torpedo Junction, Sound reports the destroyer’s screws have speeded up. A swift look proves the worst: Cavalla has been detected.

Herman can’t see much of the destroyer, for all the periscope shows is a huge bow boring right in, close aboard, and pushing a tremendous froth of water to either side. “Take her down?” The urgency in the skipper’s voice galvanizes the diving officer and his crew into instant action. Cavalla’s depth gauge registers only seventy-five feet as the destroyer churns overhead. A narrow escape! No telling why depth charges are not dropped — maybe he had not had time to get them ready. Evidently he was trying to ram, and nearly succeeded.

However, the destroyer’s own furious rush plays him false, too, for he is unable to regain the contact, now that the submarine is at deep submergence and evading. He remains in the vicinity for half an hour, listening carefully, while Cavalla, in turn, silences every bit of machinery except that absolutely necessary for submerged control.

Then he disappears, leaving Herman Kossler a sadder and wiser man, and a bit angry too. But you can’t blame the Jap exactly; he’s done a beautiful job of protecting his convoy.

One hour after the near brush with the tin can, Cavalla is on the surface, attempting to retain contact, send a contact report, and pursue in the direction of the convoy’s original course until late that afternoon. With the speed the Japs were making, plus a possible increase because of the brush with a submarine, not to mention a possible change of course, the chances of regaining contact are small. Three aircraft contacts during the course of the day are no help either, since in each case Herman is forced to submerge to avoid detection.

Nevertheless, Cavalla moves along after the convoy, hoping somehow to sight it again, until 2000 when finally the welcome cry, “Radar contact!” electrifies all hands. A few moments’ observations suffice to prove that this is not the same bunch at all. On the contrary, it is a much bigger, much faster outfit.

Cavalla maneuvers into position. It doesn’t take long this time: the contact has been made with the submarine nearly dead ahead of the enemy ships. It isn’t long, either, before Herman realizes that he is really on the track of something important. He had been put in this area, so his operation order stated, to warn of the approach of enemy task forces and to intercept. Unlike Albacore’s orders, Cavalla’s very specifically stated that warning of the approach of large enemy task forces was of greater importance than a successful attack on even a major unit. Until now, Herman knew, there had been no information of the approach of such a task force. Our carriers and planes were lambasting the stuffing out of Guam and Saipan, and some kind of retaliation was certain to be expected.

Cavalla’s contact tracks at 19 knots, and as the range closes many ships begin to be picked up on the radar, in addition to the several large ones first seen. Obviously this is some kind of task force, and from its course and speed it is heading from the Philippines to Guam. This information is vital to our forces engaged there, but Herman resolves to continue the approach until he is certain of his contact. Perhaps it isn’t a carrier task force at all, in which case he’ll be free to attack. It must be admitted that by this time Kossler is hoping that the ships prove to be almost anything except carriers.

But at 2030 Herman can make out one large carrier, several cruisers, and many destroyers through his periscope as he closes the range. And remaining submerged, his crew at battle stations, he passes right through the whole formation without firing a shot, counting the number and types of vessels in it! It is not until he is almost clear of the task force that two of the escorts begin to be suspicious of his presence, and for an hour they search the area, forcing Cavalla to take evasive action until they tire. And finally, with the skipper in a cold fury, the submarine manages to surface and get the all-important contact report off by radio.

Herm Kossler has good reason for being angry with the two little fellows who kept Cavalla down that extra hour. By so doing they have almost surely prevented her from catching up with the task force again. For the second time in twenty-four hours the sub chases at full speed, hoping to regain contact, knowing well that there is precious little chance of it.

All day long, that June 18, as Cavalla dashed in pursuit, her skipper was a prey to doubts as to whether he had done the right thing. After all, the submariner’s creed is to attack whenever you have the chance. Maybe he should have taken the flattop when the Jap went across in front of his torpedo tubes — how would he ever he able to explain his action to his fellows?

But what Herman didn’t know, couldn’t have known, was the effect of this message and the change it made in the plans of the high command at that important juncture. Since we had a pretty good idea of the composition of the Jap forces, and since Herman had been so careful to detail the exact composition of the particular group he saw, our planners were enabled to make some rather shrewd estimates of the disposition of the enemy’s forces and the remainder of his plans. Within a few hours of the receipt of Cavalla’s contact message, orders went out to every submarine in the vicinity to shift patrol stations according to a carefully laid out plot. One of these boats was Albacore and another was Cavalla herself.

Shortly after midnight on the morning of June 19 Herman broke off the chase and headed for his newly-assigned patrol station — assigned, although he did not know it — as a result of his own contact report of some twenty-eight hours previous. By this time he was racked with disappointment, and completely exhausted from having been on his feet for nearly forty-eight hours. Some sleep was possible now, although it was broken three times in the next nine hours by plane contacts which forced Cavalla to submerge.

At 1039, as the submarine is preparing to surface after the last dunking, Herman sights four small planes circling in the distance. A few minutes later the sound operator reports some peculiar water noises in the same direction. All thoughts of immediate surfacing are now forgotten, as a careful watch is kept on the planes. They are too small to be patrol planes, so maybe something of interest will come of the contact.

Sure enough! Masts are sighted directly under the planes, and screws of other ships are heard on the sound gear. Once again the musical chimes resound through Cavalla’s steel hull, calling her crew to battle stations for the third time in two days. Once again men race through the ship, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, hurriedly throwing on some clothes as they go, wordlessly taking their stations as they wonder what fate has in store for them this time, and hope that Cavalla will be able to sink her fangs into something.

“Up ’scope!” Herman spins it around once. “Down ’scope!”

“One carrier, two cruisers, one destroyer! Angle on the bow, starboard two five.” The bearing and range have already been set in. There are four ships in sight. The two cruisers are on the carrier’s port bow and the destroyer is on his starboard beam about one thousand yards distant. This is bad, because Cavalla is on the carrier’s starboard bow, and the situation indicates that she’ll have to fire from the starboard beam — in other words — from right beneath the destroyer. So Kossler will either have to let his fish go a little sooner than he would like to — which won’t prevent the escort from immediately letting go with a most effective counterattack — or try to outmaneuver the destroyer and shoot after he has gone by. The latter is perhaps the safer tactic, but it is also fraught with the unthinkable possibility of losing the target entirely.

Without further ado Kossler makes the decision to press home his attack on the carrier without regard for the destroyer. Perhaps he’ll fire a little early, in order to make sure of getting his fish off, but that’s the only concession he’ll make.

Target speed is tracked at 25 knots. He is making a large bow wave as he plows steadily through the water, pitching slightly to the seas. The planes originally sighted are in the landing circle, and Herman has a close view of Japanese carrier landing tactics during his quick periscope observations. He notices that the forward end of the flight deck is crowded with aircraft, and that there are only one or two planes left in the air, one of which appears to be coming around for his landing approach.

It won’t be long now! Kossler motions to Tom Denegre, his Executive Officer. “You make the next look!” Herman had previously decided to let two other officers also look at important targets, partly for their own indoctrination, but principally for identification purposes.

“Up periscope!” Number two squats before it, goes up with it, makes a quick look, shoots it down again. “Shokaku class, Captain! I’m sure of it!”

“I think so, too, Tommy. Just remember what you saw, so we can pick him out when we go through the silhouette identification book!” The skipper answers shortly, then speaks to the torpedo officer, who up to now has been running the TDC. “Take a look, Jug!”

Up goes the periscope once more, just long enough for Jug Casler to photograph the unforgettable scene in his mind. The carrier is one of the largest class with a flight deck extending almost, but not quite, from the bow to the stern. The island is rather smaller than is customary on contemporary American ships and located farther forward. The smokestack is subordinated to the rest of the island structure, and dominating the whole thing is a large “bedspring” type radar rotating slowly on top of the single mast.

“Up ’scope for a setup! Bearing — mark!.. Range — mark! Down ’scope!”

“Angle on the bow, starboard forty! Make ready all tubes!”

“Set!” from Casler on the TDC. “Perfect setup, Captain.”

“All tubes ready forward,” from the telephone talker. “All tubes ready aft!”

“Normal order, speed high, set depth fifteen feet!” Herman is echoed by the telephone talker.

“This will be a bow shot!” orders the skipper. “One more observation — up ’scope! Down ’scope!”

Herman has taken the opportunity to snatch a quick look at the destroyer on the carrier’s starboard beam, and what he sees heightens the urgency in his voice. “Angle on the bow, starboard five five! The destroyer is heading right for us, about one oh double oh yards away. We’ve got to shoot right now!”

“Standby forward!” This is the culmination of the approach.

“Check bearing method!” to the TDC. This simply means that the skipper plans to get one or more check bearings during the firing.

“Up ’scope!.. Final bearing and shoot!.. Bearing—mark!”

“Three four two,” snaps Denegre, as the periscope starts down.

“Set!.. FIRE!” from Casler, and all hands feel the torpedo leave the tube.

Then numbers two, three, four, and five. The moment number-five torpedo has been fired, Kossler shouts down the hatch, “Take her down!” Then, to Casler, “Let the sixth one go on time!”

All the while Cavalla has been firing, Herman has been ticking away in his mind the yards yet separating her from the onrushing Jap destroyer. There has been no time to look at him, but he will surely spot the telltale torpedo wakes in the water and begin an immediate harassing attack.

As Cavalla lowers her periscope and starts for deep submergence, the racing beat of the enemy propellers can be heard, rapidly becoming louder, in the sound operator’s earphones. With maddening slowness the submarine tilts downward.

“All ahead flank!” Herman is anxious to put as many feet of protective water between him and the surface as possible, and with Cavalla’s nose once pointed down, he gives her the gun.

“Rig for depth charge!” This is where the veteran submariners among the crew show their worth, and where the initiative assiduously cultivated among them begins to pay off.

Slowly, all too slowly, the depth gauges creep around. The propeller beat of the enemy destroyer becomes more and more audible.

“WHANG!.. WHANG!.. WHANG!” Three rather tinny metal-crashing explosions are heard throughout Cavalla’s straining hull. Three hits! Nothing in the world sounds the same as the noise of your torpedoes going off. Nothing in the world equals the thrill of hearing them. A subdued cheer echoes in the submarine’s confined hull and a grim smile of satisfaction appears for a moment on the skipper’s face.

One hundred fifty feet, by Cavalla’s depth gauges. Hang on to your hats, boys!

“Left full rudder!” Herman is hoping to alter course a bit and thus throw the Jap destroyer off, but there is hardly time for the change to take effect before the first four depth charges arrive.

For the next three hours 106 depth charges are dropped on Cavalla, and things grow progressively worse for the submarine. This Jap is no novice. Since Cavalla is a new boat, and consequently not yet depth charge proved, seams leak water here and there. The propeller shaft packing is apparently not properly set up and, under the double effect of the deep depth and the series of trip-hammer shocks received from the depth charge explosions — luckily none quite within lethal range — sea water pours into the motor room bilges at an alarming rate. Shortly after the depth charging begins there is a loud hissing heard in the galley overhead. No water comes into the ship, but she immediately becomes heavy aft and starts to sink deeper. It is believed that the main induction piping outside the pressure hull must have been flooded, probably through rupture of the line somewhere. An immediate test is made by opening some of the main induction drains, and sure enough, a steady stream of water spurts out under full sea pressure. The combination of this, plus the water taken into the motor room, forces the submarine to increase speed and run with an up angle in order to maintain her depth.

But as was so frequently the case during the war, the Japs finally either got tired, lost contact and could not regain it, ran out of depth charges, or simply gave up — maybe because they had something else to think about.

For with three torpedoes evenly spaced throughout her length, the Japanese carrier Shokaku, member of the Pearl Harbor attacking force on December 7, 1941, and veteran of many engagements in the Central and South Pacific, sank with all her planes on board just three hours after having been hit.

Cavalla showed up at Saipan a few days later while the attack on that hapless island was still going on full blast. The Japanese Navy had just been decisively defeated in the First Battle of the Philippine Sea — the Marianas Turkey Shoot — which to a large extent showed the pattern for the remainder of the battles of the war.

But on the day of the battle, despite the fact that our carrier-based planes shot practically every Jap plane out of the sky, only one Japanese carrier was sunk — the ill-fated Hitaka on her maiden voyage. Incidentally, this was the same carrier which had stopped two torpedoes from USS Trigger a year earlier at the mouth of Tokyo Bay. Try as they might, however, the American airmen could find but three Jap carriers the day of the battle, although it was known that five had left the Philippines. At first the supposition was that somehow the enemy had outguessed our people, for the number of planes they put into the air was obviously more than the complement of three carriers.

The explanation was simple, when the pieces were finally put together. Five carriers had started out originally with intentions of making a surprise attack on our fleet, which at the moment was engaged in giving Saipan and Guam the works. Our high strategic command had placed a cordon of submarines across the route which it seemed most logical the enemy would use.

A submarine reconnaissance had reported the passage of the task force through San Bernadino Strait on the 15th, but Herman Kossler’s contact on a convoy of fast tankers on the early morning of June 17 was the first proof of the direction of the Jap move. The location of the convoy gave a good indication of the prospective course of the enemy task force, since these could only be fleet tankers (because of their speed and position) en route to a refueling rendezvous. A redisposition in submarine patrol positions was thereupon ordered. While this repositioning was still under way, however, Kossler reported his second contact, on a carrier force this time, and our whole Pacific Fleet command went into immediate action. Although Herman had some idea of the import of his contact, he could have had no conception of the tremendous difference made by the fact that he chose to report the contact instead of attacking it. Had he done so, he might have sunk the carrier; but there would not have been the timely warning to alert our own people, and there was always the chance, of course, that Cavalla might have been sunk during or after the attack, and thus not able to make a contact report at all. Albacore’s position would then not have been changed, and Taiho might well have escaped detection.

Shokaku’s planes went down with her, since they had just been taken back on board when Cavalla’s torpedoes struck home. Taiho’s, however, were in the air when she sank, and having nowhere else to go, they landed on the already-loaded decks of the remaining carriers, seriously overloading them. Loss of the battle, and of many of the engaged units including three of the few remaining carrier-trained air groups, was a foregone conclusion.

Brought home once more to our own people, and presumably to the Jap admirals also, was this tenet: you cannot operate on the sea during war unless you have command of the sea, the air above it, and the depths beneath it.