Finally, Rochefort waded out to the last raft, which bobbed in knee-deep water. “Jake, I truly appreciate everything you’ve done, and, good God, I wish you the best of luck,” he said.
Jake and the commander shook hands warmly. “I’ll see you someday in California,” Jake said.
“God willing.”
“Joe, I want you to do me a favor. Here’s a letter I’ve written, with some thoughts I’ve put down. After the sub’s been under way for a couple of hours, please open it and read it, but not before. Will you do that?”
Rochefort was a little puzzled but agreed to Jake’s request. He settled into the raft and was taken out to the looming bulk of the submarine. She was the Cachalot and had been present at Pearl Harbor during the attack.
Like all subs, the Cachalot was small and cramped, and stank of oil, sweat, urine, and stale air. Rochefort soon found that his quarters was a folding bunk that he was expected to share with at least one other officer. It was going to be a miserable voyage, but at least he was headed to safety.
Even if he had wanted to read Jake’s letter right away, he wouldn’t have been able to as he spent nearly half a day helping the sub’s skipper get everyone and everything squared away.
When he finally got a moment’s rest, he recalled the letter and unsealed it. As he began to read, his expression changed from anticipation to astonishment.
When he was through, he folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. “Jake, you are a son of a bitch,” he muttered with a mixture of anger and admiration. Then finally he laughed. “Yeah, a real, no-good, rotten son of a bitch.”
Admiral Spruance looked through the window of the PBY at the panorama below. A sizable fleet was stationed around the target area. “Congratulations, Lieutenant Priest. I gave you virtually unlimited authority, and I see you exceeded it. Are there any ships in the navy not involved in this experiment?”
Jamie grinned. “I presumed you wanted this done right, sir.”
In the couple of days since the meeting, Jamie had been almost frantically busy, and, if it hadn’t been for Sue Dunnigan’s help and connections, he might not have completed the assignment in the time allotted.
First, he had to acquire target ships. By going through local registries, Sue was able to find a couple of ancient freighters that hadn’t gone anywhere in a couple of years because their engines were completely shot. These had been towed to the target area and anchored.
Then it was necessary to have a number of destroyers stationed in the area to keep the curious away and to make sure that errant torpedoes didn’t sink a friendly ship. A more distant screen of destroyers and light cruisers was employed to keep out any possible Japanese submarines. None had ventured as far south as San Diego, but there was always the first time.
After that, the rules of the test were developed. It was decided that the Monkfish would fire two torpedoes at the first ship while submerged and fire the second pair at the remaining ship while on the surface. The Monkfish had fired at the Japanese destroyer while submerged, but other attacks and misfires by other boats had occurred both on the surface and while submerged. From anecdotal evidence, it seemed to make no difference whether the sub was submerged or not-the torpedoes just weren’t exploding.
All four torpedoes would be fired at a range of a thousand yards. If either target ship remained, Lieutenant Fargo of the Monkfish had permission to try impact shooting with an additional two torpedoes.
Captain Winters was confident that both ships would be sunk forthwith. “Hell,” he’d said with a laugh. “Those tubs are so rusty a near miss’d make them fall apart.”
With that Jamie agreed. Winters was so certain of his torpedoes that he bet a dinner in town with Fargo and Jamie. Jamie didn’t begrudge him his happiness. He was a scientist and engineer, and looked forward to the results of an experiment that, while expensive, would get people off his back. In the couple of days since the meeting, Jamie had found Winters to be sincere and hardworking, although more than a little stubborn about his beloved torpedoes.
As an added bonus, an experimental sonar system had been mounted on one of the destroyers. It was hoped that it had been fine-tuned enough to hear the torpedoes in the water and ascertain what occurred when they were fired. Sonar could determine the direction and distance of an object but not its depth. Even so, it would be invaluable if the targets were missed. At a thousand yards on a sunny day and with a calm sea, Captain Winters was confident his torpedoes would hit.
“Where’s Winters?” Spruance asked. Admiral Lockwood was on one of the destroyers, while Sue Dunnigan was onshore.
“He’s on the sub, sir, managing things. Uh, and that’s why we’re making the first shots submerged. He’s claustrophobic, and we want to get the boat up as quickly as possible.”
Spruance stifled a smile. “Then let’s get on with it.”
Jamie confirmed that all was in readiness, then spoke into the radio. “Captain Winters, the admiral wishes you to commence when you are ready.”
Almost immediately, the Monkfish reported a torpedo fired. Seconds later, the sonar operators said they heard it running in the water.
Anxiously, Spruance and Jamie counted down until time of impact.
Nothing.
“Sonar,” Jamie called. “What do you hear?”
“Torpedo is still running and the sound is fading. It’s like she’s getting farther away.”
Okay, Jamie thought. One malfunction. An angry Winters said he was firing the second, and sonar again picked it up. A little later, the results were the same. No hit and the torpedo continued on.
“Surfacing,” radioed an obviously shaken Winters, and, seconds later, the sub emerged from the sea and took up station to fire at the second hulk.
From the PBY, they could see the torpedoes leave the tubes and head directly for the target before they submerged to run under it. Sonar reported them running loud and true and, again, nothing. No hits and the torpedoes continued on, out into the ocean. Jamie turned toward Spruance, who looked perturbed.
“Sir,” came Fargo’s voice on the radio, “we wish to fire two impact-trigger torpedoes with the normal mechanism and two with triggers we’ve made ourselves.”
“Go ahead,” Spruance said and then muttered under his breath, “Can’t hurt.”
The first impact torpedo hit the target ship and exploded. This brought relieved cheers from everyone on the plane. The target immediately began to settle in the water. The second torpedo arrived a moment later and, to the astonishment of everyone, clearly bounced off the crippled target without exploding.
“Unbelievable,” said Spruance.
The Monkfish then shifted and quickly fired two more torpedoes at the remaining target ship. These, Fargo reminded them, had had their triggers altered by one of the sub’s mechanics. Both hit and exploded, sending the rusty hulk to the bottom in a minute.
There was nothing more to be seen, and the PBY headed back to shore.
“Well,” said Spruance. “We’ve raised questions and possibly resolved some of them. We’ll tell Admiral Lockwood that his subs are to override the hull-detecting trigger mechanism and go impact only.” Then he recalled that only one of the first two impact triggers had worked. “I will strongly suggest that our people see just what the Monk’s people did to make their triggers work better than the original ones and copy it.”
Unsaid was the fact that it would take time, maybe months, for all the changes to be made. Many American subs were at sea and wouldn’t even know about the changes until they returned to port. All present hoped they would return to port and wouldn’t be sunk by angry Japanese warships after failed attacks with the flawed Mark 14s.