Zoomies, Subs, and Zeros (Annotated) E-Book

Charles A. Lockwood

• Herausgeber: Merlin Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

As air battles with Japanese fighter planes increased over the Pacific toward the end of World War 2, the Submarine Lifeguard League was formed to rescue downed aviators who had zoomed into the drink. The League helped save the lives of hundreds of Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots - including future President George H. W. Bush - from Japanese planes as well as from death at sea. Author Charles Lockwood (Hellcats of the Sea, Sink 'Em All) brings his usual flair for submarine stories to this eye-witness narrative of the hair-raising adventures of this little-known sub-division of the US Naval Fleet.

*Includes annotations and images.

Leseprobe

Zoomies, Subs, and Zeros

Charles A. Lockwood and Hans Christian Adamson

Published by Merlin Books, 2019.

Copyright

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Zoomies, Subs and Zeros by Charles A. Lockwood and Hans Christian Adamson. First published in 1956.

Annotated edition with images published 2019 by Merlin Books.

Copyright 2019 by Merlin Books. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-359-57124-6.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

1 - “Hot Irons in the Fire”

2 - The Lifeguard League Is Born

3 - The Skate Wins Her Zoomie Star

4 - Westward Ho with Spruance and Mitscher

5 - Harder Stages Surf Rescue

6 - Tang Gets a Steel Umbrella

7 - Stingray Gives First ‘Scope Ride’

8 - Finback Also ‘Scopes Zoomie’

9 - Haddo and Mingo as Angels

10 - Sailfish Lays Ghost of Squalus

11 - Archerfish in Big League

12 - Pomfret Braves Tokyo’s Defenses

13 - Chub Defies Attacking Zeros

14 - The Bullhead Finds a Way

15 - Gato’s Zoomie Was Weighed and ...

16 - Scabbardfish Converts B-29ers

17 - POW’s—Unwanted Guests

18 - Tigrone, Trutta Beat ‘Ole Debbil Sea’

19 - AAF Pays a Tribute

20 - Gabilan Target of U.S. Guns

21 - Whale Provides Curb Service

22 - RAF Fliers Take Sub Ride

23 - Aspro in Hirohito’s front yard

24 - A-bomb Changes War Plans

25 - Lifeguard Earns Hearty Well Done!”

Further Reading: Patton and His Third Army

1 - “Hot Irons in the Fire”

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“DOWN WHEELS; DOWN FLAPS.”

The Army B-24, packed to the limit with passengers from Australia, Guadalcanal, and New Caledonia, circled for a landing at Hickam Field, the Army Air Base just outside the gates of the U.S. Naval Station at Pearl Harbor.

I stood silently behind the pilots, thrilled anew by the incomparable beauty of Oahu with its blue-green hills in the distance and its vivid checkerboard of cane, pineapple, and taro fields. Dozens of ships lay motionless at the docks in Pearl Harbor. How peaceful it all looked in the clear air of that Sunday morning, February 14, 1943.

Just so peaceful, I thought, it must have looked that Sunday morning in December 1941, before Japanese bombers and torpedo planes rained death and destruction upon it.

I viewed the scene with conflicting emotions: pleasure at being back at the real headquarters of the Pacific war theater and with my own people after ten months down under; distress at leaving West Australia, thousands of miles closer to the fighting and under constant threat of invasion from the Malay Barrier. I felt almost as though I had deserted in the face of the enemy.

I had put thousands of man hours into the job of operating my Submarines Southwest Pacific against advancing enemy forces. Disappointments, progress, tragedy, and triumph had all played their parts, and the going had been tough, but I was loath to leave my hard-fighting submarines while enemy shipping still plied the waters of the East Indian and Philippine seas.

Dispatch orders from Cominch (Commander in Chief U.S. Fleet, Admiral Ernest J. King), directing me to take over the job of Commander Submarines Pacific, had left me no choice. My predecessor in that command, Rear Admiral R. H. “Bob” English, had been killed on January 21, 1943, with three members of his staff, in a tragic plane crash in the mountains of northern California while en route to a top-level conference of submarine builders and representatives of the Bureaus of the Navy Department.

The wheels of the big plane kissed the concrete, brakes screeched, and we taxied to the disembarkation area. The long two-day flight from Brisbane, Australia, had ended. It was good to feel solid ground once more beneath my feet and to have a respite from the constant roar of the plane’s powerful engines.

As I arrived at the foot of the gangway, the ringing in my ears still made it difficult for me to hear the greetings of Captain John H. “Babe” Brown, all-American guard and hero of several pre-World War I football games, when beating the Army was one of the most serious problems with which the Navy had to contend.

As the senior submarine officer at Pearl Harbor, John had assumed temporary command upon the death of Bob English.

Accompanying him were the Submarine Force Chief of Staff, Captain John Griggs, and the Flag Lieutenant, J. A. “Sparky” Woodruff. Their grave faces and hushed voices reflected the sorrow and shock which the loss of three messmates and their Force Commander had inflicted.

Bob English had fought in submarines in World War I and was admired and respected throughout the Service. The three staff members lost with him, Captain Robert H. Smith and Commanders John Crane and Reilly Coll, were old friends of mine and skilled specialists whom we could ill afford to lose.

I felt the weight of the duties I was about to assume as well as deep sorrow for the fine lads so suddenly taken from us.

“Boys,” I said, looking from one to another of our little group, “Bob English’s shoes will take a lot of filling and I shall need all of your help even to attempt the job... Let’s get going.”

I reported at once to Cincpac (the Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet), Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, in Aiea Naval Hospital, where he was recovering from an attack of malaria evidently contracted in a recent inspection trip to Guadalcanal and the South Pacific. I had never served with the Big Boss before, but I knew his reputation for running a “taut ship;” the type of ship wherein the captain tolerates no slackness, the type of ship most sailormen prefer.

You always know just where you stand and just what to expect with a taut skipper; the type known as a “popularity Jack” is too likely to be unpredictable in his favors and judgments. It required only one glance at the cut of Admiral Nimitz’ jaw and the steel blue of his eyes to confirm what others had told me, but the geniality of his smile also told me of his sense of humor.

Here was the ideal leader—one who could lighten the gravity of a tense situation with a witticism; one who could temper justice with mercy and the wind to the shorn lamb. I have yet to find it necessary to revise the opinion I formed that morning.

I delivered a secret personal message to him from General MacArthur, gave him a brief rundown of the situation in Western Australia, and then retired to dig myself into my new job.

“Admiral,” said John Brown, when he and the Chief of Staff had rejoined me in my new office, “we’ve got a hell of a lot of irons in the fire and some quick decisions to make. I’ve held off the top-level stuff until you could get here.”

When Babe was being official, I was “Admiral” to him; otherwise I was “Charlie,” a brother skipper who had grown up as he had, in subs, and shared the heritage of all early submariners: the struggle for better torpedoes, better engines, better boats.

Then followed twenty-four hours in which we hardly left my office. Quarts of hot coffee kept us awake and meals on trays came down from our mess.

The time passed all too quickly, for there were king-sized hot irons in the fire and too few asbestos gloves with which to handle them. Time was of the essence.

In spite of titanic efforts in the United States to repair and enlarge our battered fleet, submarines were still the only men-of-war which could carry the battle into enemy waters. Thus, on that small force rested the whole responsibility of stopping the flow of munitions and aircraft to the far-flung Japanese perimeter. On the submarines rested also the equally crushing burden of stopping the flow of oil and strategic materials from the Japanese Co-Prosperity Sphere into the factories and shipyards of the Empire.

That was Hot Iron Number One, and pulling it out of the fire required intestinal fortitude—guts—on the part of our submarine skippers and crews, plus foolproof, dependable torpedoes to do the execution.

The first item we had in abundance; in the second we were deplorably lacking.

The defects in our Mark XIV torpedoes were serious, but they were corrected in a few months and in a manner which reflected great credit upon the clever, determined youngsters who sweated out the answers.

The second hot iron concerned the development of Midway Islands into a full-scale base where submarines could be completely refitted at the end of their patrols, thus lopping 2,400 miles off the round trip to Empire home waters.

That problem we also solved with the approval of the Big Boss and the assistance of Admiral Ben Moreel’s miracle-working Sea Bees [Construction Battalions or ‘C.B.’s.]

The third hot iron involved operations which were still in the planning stage in my office and in the great, mud-colored, bombproof headquarters which flew Admiral Nimitz’s flag and seethed with the activities of the members of Cincpac’s joint Army, Navy, and Marine Staff.

Every conceivable phase of naval warfare was represented therein by its paper-working brain-trusters. Operations, Logistics, Intelligence, Planning, Code Breaking; all were housed in close contact and all were working toward a single goal: the winning of World War 2.

We did not know it then, but that Iron Number Three contained the germ from which grew our Lifeguard League; a submarine organization dedicated to saving Army, Navy, Marine, and Allied fliers shot down or otherwise forced down at sea. The lives of hundreds of American fighting men, our brothers of the air forces, were destined to be saved by the Lifeguard League.

Fleet Adm. Chester William Nimitz, Sr. pins the Navy Cross on Doris “Dorie” Miller on board USS Enterprise, Pearl Harbor, May 27, 1942.

2 - The Lifeguard League Is Born

In February-March 1943, our naval surface forces in the Central Pacific were at a low ebb. Four carriers—Lexington, Yorktown, Wasp, and Hornet—had been lost to Japanese bombs and torpedoes, three in the South Pacific and one at Midway.

The bulk of our available battleships and carriers, under Admiral Halsey, supported Army and Marine forces in the Solomons area. The Central Pacific Force, later to become the Fifth Fleet, consisted of several old battleships, two carriers, and a few cruisers and lighter craft. At that time our initial strategy in the reconquest of the Pacific was not even fairly well crystallized.

It had been decided that two roads were to be pushed through toward Tokyo—though just where their junction would be was still under discussion in the top-level councils. As it turned out, several unforeseen and important detours and bypasses, dictated by the turn of events, were to be thrown onto the trestle-boards of the master draftsmen.

Nevertheless, the Joint Chiefs of Staff had decreed that the construction gang led by General MacArthur, Admiral Halsey, and Admiral Kinkaid should hew its way up the New Guinea coast and through the Bismarck Barrier with Mindanao as its immediate objective.

The bridge builders and island hoppers commanded by Admiral Nimitz and General Holland Smith of the Marines were to push their freeway through the Marshall and Caroline Islands. Their westward goal might be Singapore and it might be Hong Kong.

The objectives contemplated by these early plans were radically altered to northward as our attack gained momentum and the weight of our offensive made itself felt upon the enemy. It was foreseen, in our Navy Planning Sections, that this latter line of advance—westward across the wide, tumbled spaces of the Pacific—would require plenty of air offensives to hunt down and destroy enemy aircraft and air bases which had sprung up like mushrooms upon the islands that dotted the chosen route.

Furthermore, our advancing fleet, while shepherding the amphibious forces, must be prepared at any moment to join battle with the Japanese fleets—fleets which were built around battleship-carrier task forces and which could be expected to vigorously dispute our advance.

The problem of providing adequate air support in the far reaches of the Pacific, beyond the radius of the scant supply of land-based planes then available, could be solved only by pouring aircraft carriers and yet more aircraft carriers into the Pacific Theater.

The resultant flood of CV’s [aircraft carriers], CVL’s [light aircraft carriers], and CVE’s [escort aircraft carriers, or “jeep” carriers] produced a naval air arm the like of which had never before been seen in the history of the world. In the ensuing operations, the splendid performance of these forces saved the lives of thousands of American fighting men who stormed the beaches.

Just how my new command, Task Force 7 (later changed to Task Force 17) Submarines Pacific Fleet, was to pioneer, assist, and cooperate with this westward and northward advance was my Hot Iron Number Three—and it was plenty hot.

A big game hunter once said to me, while patting his favorite rifle: “She has taken me into many places where I wished I hadn’t gone.”

I might say the same of that Iron Number Three—and with the same tone of pride—for supporting fleet, air, and amphibious operations introduced to us phases of submarine adaptability and flexibility as yet unexplored; phases fraught with extreme hazard of sudden extinction; phases in which the natural weapon of the submarine, its torpedo, was of no avail; and, last but not least, phases in which the greatest natural defense of the submarine, its ability to disappear beneath the surface, could not be resorted to.

Extracurricular jobs were not new to the submarine forces. Our primary mission was, of course, to patrol the waters of the Pacific Ocean and its subjoined seas—some eight million square miles of water—and to sink everything which floated and flew an enemy flag.

However, since the beginning of the war, submarines had demonstrated their versatility by doing, as Kipling might have said, “all sorts and all manner of things.”

The Trout, under Commander Mike Fenno, ran medical supplies and antiaircraft ammunition into beleaguered Corregidor and brought out the currency reserve of the Philippines—twenty tons of bullion, coin, and securities—funds that never fell into enemy hands.

The Searaven, under the redoubtable Commander Hiram Cassedy, working out of Perth, West Australia, in early 1942 had rescued thirty-three Australian fliers from the enemy-held island of Timor and thereby won the hearts of our sturdy allies.

So dangerous had been this mission that I made my first recommendation of World War II for a personal award—a Navy Cross—for Ensign G. C. Cook, USNR, the Searaven’s boat officer who made the actual landings and rescue.

A dozen or more other submarines—among them the Seawolf, Seadragon, Sorgo, Swordfish, Permit, Snapper, Spearfish, Porpoise, Nautilus, Grayback, Gudgeon, and Gato—had won their spurs and had hair-raising adventures in removing refugees from enemy-held territory all the way from the Philippines to the Solomons. Their passengers ranged from service personnel, civilians, nurses, missionaries, and nuns to the U.S. High Commissioner of the Philippines and President Manuel Quezon.

The submarines boasted a record of never having lost a passenger but evidently the creature comforts accorded were not of the highest order.

At any rate, it was rumored that some passengers stated they would rather endure the hazards of dodging the enemy ashore than live in a depth-charge-battered sardine can.

Out of these experiences grew a fund of information which served us well when the need arose to land and retrieve coast watchers and liaison personnel, to supply the guerrillas fighting in the Philippines, and to reconnoiter and photograph islands marked for invasion.

By the summer of 1943, our rapidly increasing fleet of splendid aircraft carriers was beginning to crowd the none-too-spacious harbors available; Guadalcanal and the Solomons in the South Pacific had been secured and forces were being trained and massed for the mighty roll-up of Japanese-held islands which was to begin with bloody Tarawa and end with even bloodier Okinawa.

In order to keep the enemy guessing as to the direction from which these island-hopping attacks might be expected and at the same time give Task Force 58, the carrier force of the Fifth Fleet, valuable dress rehearsals and perfect their tactical dispositions, Rear Admiral Charles A. “Baldy” Pownall planned three elementary operations.

The first of these was to strike tiny Marcus Island, a mere dot in the Western Pacific some 1,000 miles southeast of Tokyo. The second was aimed at the Gilbert Islands of which Tarawa is one—some 1,700 miles to the southeast of Marcus. The third would be in the center of the line at Wake Island, scene of a heroic though hopeless Marine defense against overwhelming odds in December 1941.

One morning early in August 1943, my telephone at Sub Base Pearl Harbor rang. At the other end was Rear Admiral Pownall, two years my senior and a valued friend ever since service together in the Asiatic station in the early 1920’s.

“Charlie,” said he, “I’ve got a project which concerns you considerably and vitally concerns me. It may save a lot of lives. Could you drop in at my office sometime soon and look it over?”

“Charles,” I replied, reaching for my battered seagoing hat, “I’m on my way.”

A call on the squawk box brought my Force Operations Officer, Captain Richard G. “Dick” Voge. A man of many parts was Dick Voge, a strategist and tactician constantly poring over charts and devising more effective ways and means of destroying the enemy; a humorist and poet whose refreshing humor and poetic ability frequently produced masterpieces of rhymed cheer for our nightly communiques to the lads far out in enemy waters.

We found Admiral Pownall surrounded by a group of eager-faced aviators. His usual broad smile and florid, cheery face were somewhat sobered by the weight of his responsibilities in the impending mission. To him, as Task Group Commander of the big carriers Yorktown, Essex, and Independence, had fallen the honor of starting our long-awaited offensive to westward.

Marcus Island, some 2,500 miles from Pearl Harbor and less than 1,000 miles from Tokyo, was to be his first bombing target in a rehearsal intended to destroy enemy planes and air facilities as well as to develop techniques and procedures for future raids and invasions. Marcus might be caught with its planes down.

On the other hand, our zoomies—a name bestowed upon fliers by submariners—might catch a Tartar. Losses might be nil, or they might be considerable.

Admiral Pownall’s proposal was that I should station surfaced submarines during the forthcoming strikes at points close to the target area where they might rescue aviators shot down or forced to ditch or hit the silk [parachute].

“If you can do that,” explained Pownall, “it will give a much needed and comforting sense of security to my fighter and bomber crews and save a lot of boys from drowning or becoming shark bait.”

I could readily see that such an operation was not going to be all beer and skittles for the submarines that might undertake it. Enemy shell fire from the beach had to be anticipated, as well as attacks by enemy fighters and bombers. The chance of picking up a few downed aviators had to be balanced against the risk of losing a highly valuable submarine with her entire crew.

On the other hand, an aviator’s knowledge that, if shot down, he would still have a submarine in which to take refuge from sharks and strafing Jap planes would certainly increase his morale, add daring to his attacks, and multiply damage inflicted on enemy installations. Also, such assurance would combat the idea held by some aviators that they were expendable.

Dick Voge was strong for the project, which was all the additional support I needed. Suicide attacks are not a part of American psychology. Everyone wants a chance for survival; even a chance as slim as that of a submarine being on hand to pick a very small human being out of a very large ocean. This is in line with the general feeling of the average individual to the effect that he is prepared enough, lucky enough, and smart enough to knock the other fellow out and still come home with a whole skin.

In this factor of safety—an important morale factor—it was up to us, the submarines, to provide that feeling of security, however tenuous—that chance for survival after all else seemed lost. No one else could do the job. Only a submarine could underwrite that kind of a last-chance insurance policy.

“It’s a deal, Charles,” I said after thinking over the pros and cons. “I’ll explain the plan to Admiral Nimitz. I’m sure he will give it his blessing. This last chance is something your lads need and deserve, and I feel absolutely certain that we can provide it for you!”

Thus in 1943—in hardly more time than it takes to tell it here—the Lifeguard League was born. Over the next two years it was to pay dividends in low-level attacks of unequalled abandon and in devastation to enemy units and installations. Without that last-chance saving clause, those attacks would have lost much of their ferocity, flash, and fire.

Moreover, it paid extra dividends to the tune of 504 fliers of all branches of our armed services, including some Britishers and Australians, who were saved from death by thirst, by man-eating fish, or by murderous enemy planes, through the almost magical presence of lifesaving submarine crews.

The work of planning coordination between Lifeguard submarines and our fliers was begun immediately, and training was outlined to division and squadron commanders. Communication with and recognition by the planes in the air was the chief difficulty to be overcome. Our submarines had not yet been equipped with radio phones which were the only practicable communication media for planes in combat areas.

It appeared, therefore, that information would have to be passed from sub to plane, and vice versa, via the aircraft carriers. However, before long, our smart submarine radiomen discovered that the chatter between the planes, with which they were training, could be picked up on the ordinary commercial radios in the wardroom and in the crew’s mess.

Thereafter, instructions regarding location of downed aviators were passed direct by the planes to the Lifeguards. Replies, if any were required, were sent back by Morse code via the carrier flagship.

The geographical points at which our Lifeguard submarines would be stationed were given secretly to the carriers before each strike. These points were laid down, whenever possible, on a definite bearing from and at a stated distance from an easily recognizable landmark.

Lifeguards were each given a code name—a name well sprinkled with the letter “L” so as to trap the tongue of any enterprising Japanese aviator who tried to trick our submariners.

As experience was gained, numerous clever procedures were added. Recognition signals between planes and submarines were always a serious problem. As a result of this difficulty, twenty-eight subs were bombed or strafed by “friendly” planes flown by “trigger-happy” zoomies.

The loss of the Dorado in the Caribbean Sea and of the Seawolf north of New Guinea were grim reminders that death was always close to a submarine at sea. The Dorado was undoubtedly lost [off Panama, 12 October 1943] with all hands because of a tragic failure of our recognition procedures. The Seawolf also was [most likely] undoubtedly lost in a similar manner [friendly fire] from after a combined attack by planes and a destroyer escort [USS Richard M. Rowell, off Morotai on 3 October 1944].

Neither of these submarines was on Lifeguard duty at the time but, as we shall see, several Lifeguards were attacked while on station in locations of which our air and surface forces had been advised.

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USS Dorado (SS-248) in construction, 1943

3 - The Skate Wins Her Zoomie Star

The first two Lifeguarding missions were dry runs.

The Snook at Marcus on Sept. 1, 1943 did not have any fliers to pick up, nor did the Steelhead have any rescues to make when the Gilberts were hit on September 18-19. The next training strike was planned for October 6-7, 1943, when six big carriers, seven cruisers, and twenty-four destroyers under Rear Admiral A. E. Montgomery were to give Wake Island a working-over.

For the Lifeguard job on this occasion we selected the Skate. She was a brand-new submarine built at Mare Island and had just completed training and target practice for her first war patrol.

Her captain was Commander E. B. “Gene” McKinney of Eugene, Oregon. Her Executive, Lieutenant Commander Marion Frederic Ramirez de Arellano of Puerto Rico, was called Freddy for short and later was to become renowned as the Officer in Charge (dubbed “The Sheriff”) of our Camp Dealey Recuperation Center in Guam.

They faced quite a problem in getting ready for her first war patrol a ship which had only twenty qualified submarine men among her seventy-two enlisted personnel. However, their determination and drive had accomplished wonders, and her last “readiness” inspection before leaving Pearl Harbor had proved that she was in an excellent state of training.

My attention had first been attracted to the Skate when she arrived from Mare Island with a stowaway on board. The culprit was a fifty-year-old World War I reserve quartermaster named Minton, whom the skipper had decided to leave behind as being too old for the rugged life of a submarine sailor.

The quartermaster thought otherwise, and with the aid of the quartermaster of the watch, whose name I shall withhold, Minton smuggled himself aboard the Skate during the early morning hours of her sailing day. He managed to remain hidden from the eyes of the ship’s officers for three days. The cooks knew he was aboard and supplied him with rations. Finally, he surrendered and pleaded to be kept aboard.

The skipper, however, was adamant, but after a conference with me, he decided that no disciplinary action should be taken. As a matter of fact, I felt quite proud of the incident. Men don’t stow away aboard unhappy ships, often called “hell ships,” and few men ever stow away to go to war. We had one other such case and I’m proud of that, too.

Minton, with tears in his eyes, saw the Skate off from the dock and sadly went back to his job with the repair crews. He had my sympathy. I, too, had been refused permission to go on war patrols. I went back to a mountain of paperwork.

After a high-speed run to Midway Islands where she topped off her fuel tanks, the Skate headed for Wake Island. Her days and nights were filled with surprise dives and casualty drills.

Gene McKinney and Freddy de Arellano were fighting to cut off those extra seconds in diving time which they knew might spell the difference between life and death in this Lifeguard game—a game played on the surface under the shadow of Japanese Zeros, the fastest fighters the enemy possessed.

She arrived early on station and on October 4-5 reconnoitered the islands and made weather reports for the benefit of the fliers. She recorded sighting many buildings and installations and that the enemy appeared well dug in. Perhaps they believed Wake was going to be a permanent unit of the Asiatic Co-Prosperity Sphere. If so, the Japs got a rude awakening in the early morning of October 6 when hundreds of bombers and fighters from the six big carriers of Admiral Montgomery’s task force hit them at 0448.

Twelve years later, Gunner’s Mate William A. “Bill” Shelton in his comfortable home in Santa Clara, California, told me of the awe-inspiring and tragic happenings of that first morning, the Skate’s baptism of fire and initiation into the Lifeguard League. Shelton had the morning watch (0400 to 0800) as the starboard lookout high on the periscope shears. Lieutenant Ralph Stroup was the Officer of the Deck and Lieutenant (jg) Willis E. Maxson III was the Junior OOD.

“The night was still black,” said Shelton, “when the first heavy bombers swept over at high altitude. The flares they dropped looked like falling buckets of fire and the crruump, crruump, crruump of their bombs was terrific. All hell broke loose as the Japs opened up with AA and automatic weapons. Tracer bullets streaked through the night. As they came in, the strafing planes reminded me—with just a bit of what might have been called homesickness—of the summer night fire-falls from the canyon rim at Yosemite National Park.

“Fires broke out ashore and they were fine beacons for the bombers which came from our carriers in great swarms. Everybody in the Skate wanted to come on the bridge. That, of course, couldn’t be allowed. But even with the Old Man’s frequent refusal of the customary request: ‘Permission to come on the bridge, sir?’ as daylight broke, I could count nine or ten people on the bridge and cigarette deck.

By means of a throat mike, the Executive kept up a running description to the crew. As a newscaster, he was a wow. A small radio set had been brought to the conning tower and set on the same wavelength as the zoomies used for their radio phones. That way we could hear the flight and squadron commanders telling off targets or getting word to us of plane crashes.

“There were thrills and chills by the carload. For instance, just as one group of fighters approached us, we heard some zoomie holler: ‘There’s a sub. Let’s get ’em!’ But, thank God, his squadron leader came right back with a quick: ‘Lay off—he’s for us.’ ”

Terrific mushrooms of dust, debris, and smoke arose as explosions rocked the three tiny islets that compose the atoll. Despite this heavy pounding, enemy planes rose to meet the invaders. The Skate had a ringside seat for the show. With many of her crew hearing their first shots fired in earnest, Commander Gene McKinney had a hard time keeping the eyes of his lookouts on their assigned sectors.

Dogfights were everywhere and fighting commands babbled endlessly over the radio loudspeakers. Eight or ten planes, trailing long streamers of sooty black smoke, spun to their deaths in the sand or, with terrific geysers of water and flame, into the glassy sea. In less than half an hour, our carrier planes, it appeared, had command of the air and were forming up for more bombing runs.

Meanwhile the Skate, at flank speed of 19-20 knots, with spray flying from her onrushing bow, was heading for the nearest crash.

Suddenly came the excited shout of the after lookout, Seaman Van Horn: “Plane coming in on starboard quarter!”

Both the Captain and the Executive swung around.

“It’s one of ours!”

From head-on to almost three-quarter profile, the Jap Zero [Mitsubishi A6M] did closely resemble the Navy Hellcat [Grumman F6F Hellcat].

“No, sir,” yelled the lookout, “it’s got a meatball [the big red dot of Japan] on its side!”

“Lookouts below!” yelled the Skipper. “Clear the bridge! Take her down! Flood negative!” Commands to be echoed by hundreds of submarine skippers in the same dire situation across the wide Pacific in many months to come.

“The men tumbled down the hatch two or three at a time, trampling on each other’s shoulders,” related Shelton. “When I got into the conning tower, I grabbed the wheel from the relief man who had it and rang up ‘Ahead, Frantic’ (Ahead, Flank Speed). The Captain could have been proud of that dive. We made it to ninety feet faster than we had ever made it to periscope depth.”

Periscope depth of our subs is classified information, but I may say it is considerably less than ninety feet.

Machine-guns spitting death from its wings, on came the Zero. Its bullets screamed off the hull as the Skate’s bow slanted down and the waters rose over her deck. Even in this tight corner, Captain McKinney counted heads as the men dashed past him. He wanted no one left on deck. As the count reached eleven, the Skipper scrambled down the hatch himself and slammed the cover shut. Twelve men had been on the bridge. Twelve came down.

“Thank God!” murmured Gene. “Nobody hit!”

The tragic truth, however, was that young Willis E. Maxson, Lieutenant, Junior Grade and Junior Officer-of-the-Deck, had been hit. He managed to reach the control room. There he collapsed, his hands clutching his stomach, his face contorted with agony.

“I guess he got me, sir,” he gasped, as McKinney knelt beside him. Then he lapsed into unconsciousness.

They took him into the wardroom. There swift hands of shipmates and Florshinger, the Pharmacist’s Mate, found a bullet wound in the right side of Maxson’s back between the shoulder and the hip. A syrette of morphine was administered immediately and the wound dressed. The bullet had evidently lodged in the region of the stomach.

Maxson had been hit by a ricochet while crouching behind the periscope shears as the plane bored in. Shelton was crouching right behind Lieutenant Maxson when he was hit.

“I heard the thud of the bullet,” Shelton told me. “It’s a hell of a horrible sound—a bullet hitting flesh—but you can’t mistake what it is.”

The crashing of three bombs, as she passed ninety feet, hastened the Skate’s descent but did no great damage. The bathythermograph, a thermometer for recording automatically the sea water temperatures, was the only other casualty. Its outside element was hit by a bullet.

The wounding of Willis Maxson cast a pall of gloom over the ship. He was a splendid lad, an officer of great promise and a general favorite throughout the vessel. His wound obviously could be a serious one and, short of major surgery, no help could be envisioned.

This was the sort of tragedy to which a submarine is wide open when it operates on the surface in the presence of planes that can attack quicker than a sub can clear the bridge and dive.

As talk about the incident sped throughout the ship, dark doubts assailed even the most stout-hearted veterans. Was Lifeguarding too great a hazard? Would subs lose more lives than they saved? Certainly, this was a bad start. So ran the whispers from forward to after-battery aboard the Skate.

Hence it was with sober thoughts and aching hearts that McKinney and his men brought the Skate to the surface at 0617 to continue the search for downed aviators.

Previous conclusions that the carrier forces had obtained command of the air were proven premature. Twice during the day, the Skate was forced into quick dives by enemy Zeros. She found no downed aviators but while submerged heard numerous heavy explosions. Some of them were fairly close. They might have been depth bombs dropped by planes.

During the afternoon the cruisers and destroyers moved in and bombarded the island to silence its guns. Although they did a fine job, they failed to knock out all of the Japs’ six- or eight-inch guns.

The night of October 6-7 passed quietly, but McKinney was sick with worry about Lieutenant Maxson. The latter was conscious most of the time. Although in great pain, he bore it bravely and in silence. The youngster repeatedly requested that the show go on and that the Skate carry out her mission without regard for him.

Naturally, the Captain sent a dispatch to me reporting Maxson’s serious condition. I immediately asked Admiral Montgomery to send a destroyer to rendezvous with the Skate and remove the wounded officer. I further directed the Commanding Officer of the Skate to proceed at full speed to Midway at the end of the second day’s strike if Maxson had not yet been transferred.

Reviewing those nightmarish days of strain and anxiety a decade later, Captain McKinney said: “I received instructions to rendezvous with a destroyer that night about twenty miles north of Wake.

“We were there at the prescribed time, but the destroyer just wasn’t there or anywhere near the designated spot. After trying most of the night to affect a rendezvous without success, we returned to our new station ten miles southwest of Wake, in preparation for the second day of attacks, October 7.”

The morning of the second strike dawned squally and overcast. At 0545 the Skate sighted several squadrons of friendly planes searching for Wake. Finally, at 0601, she was circled by four dive bombers who asked the direction and distance to the target. McKinney informed them and they headed in the proper direction. Shortly thereafter antiaircraft fire was heard from the direction of Wake, followed by the thunder of bombs.

This was to be a busy day for the Skate. By 0915, the visibility had cleared, and many planes could be seen depositing their loads of bombs on the unlucky defenders of Wake. Smoke and flames rose all over the island and when a bomb hit a gas tank or an ammunition dump, a mass of flame would shoot five hundred feet into the air. Many buildings remained standing, but most appeared to be gutted by fire.

In spite of this, ack-ack fire still persisted. When the Skate ventured in toward the beach on a rescue mission, she got the surprise of her life. It came in the form of three heavy shells fired from a range of six miles. They whistled over the bridge and slammed into the water uncomfortably close aboard. Needless to say, the submarine made record time in getting down but continued toward her objective.

After forty-five minutes of this, McKinney surfaced and trimmed his ship down until she was awash with practically nothing but the bow and the conning tower out of water. Two aviators could be seen in the sea ahead about two miles off the beach. They were being circled by planes that dropped flares to attract the Skate’s attention.

By this time a hail of large- and small-caliber shells was falling around the submarine. Captain McKinney sent everyone on the bridge except himself below, and closed the lower CT (conning tower) hatch. At the same time, he called for a rescue party, and Ensign Francis Kay with two torpedomen, Baugh and Smith, went up the hatch.

“When Baugh and Smith got to the bridge,” related Shelton, “the Skipper said he couldn’t afford to lose two torpedomen. So, he sent Baugh below and I took his place. I went down on deck with Mr. Kay and torpedoman Arthur G. Smith. We wore life jackets and carried heaving lines and life rings. We waded through almost knee-deep water from the conning tower to the tip of the bow. The latter was just barely out of water.

“Despite the water, the skipper told us to lie flat and we sure did. The Japs were shooting at us with a six-inch gun on a disappearing carriage. And, believe me, when we looked down its muzzle, it looked like a sixteen-inch. As the Skate moved closer, the Japs opened up with everything they had on the beach, shooting at the sub and at the zoomies. We came so close to the shore that we could actually feel the heat from the burning buildings.

“And all this time, the dive bombers were strafing the Jap’s six-inch gun. They finally knocked it out while we were picking up our first zoomie.”

In discussing this incident later, Captain McKinney recalled that he had no trouble in getting the rescue party to hug the deck even though the seas were breaking over them. “In fact,” said Gene, “I wished I could be down there with them.

“On that pass,” he continued, “we picked up Lieutenant Harold Kicker and Ensign Murray H. Tyler, who had been shot down close inshore. Lieutenant Commander Charles L. Crommelin, a squadron leader from the Lexington, guided us into the spot where the pilots were in the water.

“I had ordered everyone else below and directed Freddy de Arellano, the Executive, to keep me informed of our position by periscope bearings so that I could devote my attention to maneuvering the ship to pick up the pilots. Tyler only had on a Mae West [life preserver] and was so exhausted that he couldn’t hold onto the line that we passed him. Torpedoman Smith had to swim out with a couple of heaving lines knotted together and bring him aboard.

“It is of interest that—when Commander Crommelin was so badly wounded and shot up while leading an attack against the Japs sometime later—it was this same ‘Tim’ Tyler, whom he had helped to save, who flew wing to wing with him and guided him in for a safe carrier landing.

“Altogether, during the course of World War 2, Tyler was picked up three times by submarines, which he said was better than par for the course. After the war I understand he went back to teaching high school in Tyler, Texas.”

Kicker and Tyler thus became the first two aviators rescued by the Lifeguard League.

Commander McKinney then went to full speed and headed for an aviator reported down off Peacock Point. A heavy gun straddled the Skate at five miles with three near misses which sent her below in a hurry while three more close ones whanged into the water above. This business of running targets for heavy artillery practice, McKinney felt, could lead to trouble, so he stayed down for forty-five minutes and then surfaced at 1330 to continue his search.

Luck was not with him, however. Twice more, before midnight, the Skate was forced to take cover from enemy planes.

One of these planes dropped two bombs which landed very close to the diving submarine and did considerable minor damage. The DCDI (depth charge direction indicator) was evidently frightened out of its wits and thereafter indicated bombs in all directions whenever the switch was turned on.

In spite of these unwelcome attentions, the Skate continued to search throughout the night, using her Aldis signal lamp to light the seas and hailing regularly into the darkness with her megaphone. Several times, red flares were believed to have been seen. But search in their reported direction was of no avail.

At 0200 of October 8, De Arellano and the Pharmacist’s Mate came to the bridge and reported to the Captain that Lieutenant Maxson would die unless he got medical help immediately. Commander McKinney at once headed at full speed for a rendezvous that had been arranged with a doctor proceeding from Midway. Meanwhile, he continued to search the darkness for downed aviators.

The rendezvous was never reached. The dark angel came aboard the Skate shortly before dawn and peace came to Willis Edward Maxson, III.

Lieutenant Maxson was a native of Austin, Texas. He was the only submariner lost in this grim game of saving downed aviators in the entire war. The career thus ended had been brilliant. Young Maxson had been Regimental Commander at the Naval Academy, president of his class (1943), letterman in football and track, and president of the YMCA. He died as he had lived, with courage and with honor. He died trying to save others.

Sadly, the Skate headed back to the vicinity of Wake and with the dawn began searching in expanding rectangles. At noon, a lookout, Seaman Elijah H. Simms, sighted an object in the water about three miles away and the ship changed course toward it. However, as they neared it and definitely identified it as a life raft, a plane was sighted on the port beam coming in fast.