Neither he nor his crew were unduly surprised when the five men and their equipment came on board at Okinawa. The men were all dressed in black and all had their faces covered like bandits. Even more curiously, one of the men, the smallest of the five, had only one arm.
The Moray was a Gato-class submarine stationed off northern Kyushu, one of more than sixty in that efficient and effective category. She was 307 feet long and displaced 1,525 tons. Along with ten torpedo tubes, she had a three-inch deck gun and a 20mm Oerlikon antiaircraft gun. The Moray was a formidable weapon and had been built at Mare Island, California, in late 1944.
The sixty-five men in her crew normally lived in cramped and abominable conditions, which were exacerbated by the presence of the five additional men and their equipment. To make matters worse, the five secreted themselves in the captain's cabin and wardroom and stayed there for the duration of the short voyage, thus pushing out the officers who would normally have lived there.
From Okinawa to Kyushu was less than five hundred miles, and Captain Hobart was confident he and his crew could gut out the overcrowding for another chance at the Japs. His crew was not as confident. While skilled and professional, many had this nagging feeling that Hobart was aggressive to the point of recklessness, and most did not share his confidence in wanting to tweak the enemy one last time. They also wanted the five interlopers gone from their boat and their little breathing room back in their cramped world of tubes, pipes, and bad air.
When the Moray surfaced at night just a mile off the northern coast of Kyushu, everyone was relieved that at least part of their journey was over. With precision and dispatch, the five men, still black-clad and masked, emerged on deck with their gear and a rubber raft. Silently, they pushed off, and four men paddled while the fifth, the one-armed man, sat unmoving in the center of the small craft. Within minutes they had disappeared into the darkness. The sky was only partly cloudy, and starlight and moonlight made the Moray fairly visible if anyone knew where to look. Prudently, her skipper submerged her farther, until only her conning tower was above the surface of the gently rolling sea.
"Skipper?"
"Yes, Randy?" Hobart tried not to show his impatience. His second-in-command, in his opinion, did not show proper aggressive spirit. Randy Bullard was a reservist who'd made it known that he wanted to go home more than anything else. Well, he would go home when his captain decided, and not before.
"Captain, I strongly suggest we submerge to periscope depth. There's just too much of us showing and we are very close to enemy territory."
Hobart sniffed the air and looked about. It was humid and he thought it might soon rain. There was no sign of anything on the sea or in the air, and the brooding hills of Japan, so tantalizingly close, were dark and still as well. It was the middle of the night and the Japanese were asleep, even those who had survived the nuclear assaults on Nagasaki and Kokura. He wondered if he should risk a look at Nagasaki 's harbor after finishing this assignment.
"Negative, Randy. Let's air the place out. It stinks like a stable down there. Besides, those banditos in the raft have to be able to see us in order to find their way back to us." Besides, Hobart thought silently, he didn't want to give in to his weakling of an exec.
Only just before the raft had shoved offhad Hobart been given the final portion of his orders, which informed him that only one of the five men- he presumed they were Marine Raiders- would actually be leaving the sub. He was dismayed and knew his crew would be unhappy as well, because it meant that the intolerable living conditions would be improved only slightly. Screw it, he thought. Get them back here so I can look for some Jap shipping.
After what seemed forever, a lookout spotted the raft on its way back. Despite his annoyance at having to keep them, Hobart felt relief and admiration for the boys who had paddled their human cargo to Japan and come back without incident. Hobart thought it would be wonderfully exhilarating to be able to say he'd actually set foot on Japanese soil. He ordered the sub to surface higher so that the men and their raft could be taken aboard via the deck hatch.
A little less than half a mile away, Comdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto looked transfixed through the periscope of his submarine, the I-58. The I-58 had just returned from its last patrol confident it had sunk an American battleship, only to find that Japanese naval intelligence now believed it was the heavy cruiser Indianapolis that he'd sent to the bottom of the Pacific. No matter, he had been successful. For quite some time, Japanese sub victories had been few and far between; thus, it was with a kind of delight that he saw the silhouette of the conning tower piercing the surface. The shape was American and he was insultingly close to Japan.
The I-58 was a fairly new addition to the Imperial Japanese Navy and, at 355 feet long, was believed to be larger than any American sub. She could simultaneously fire six thirty-foot-long, oxygen-driven torpedoes that had a range of several miles and a speed of over forty knots. She also had a 5.5-inch deck gun and several machine guns as antiaircraft protection.
Attached to the I-58's deck were four kaiten human torpedoes. Because of the need to make room for a rider and a rude steering mechanism, the kaiten were slower and had a smaller warhead.
But they would never miss. The kaiten would be launched at a suitable target and the pilot would steer into it. The human torpedoes were a German device so there was a release mechanism that, theoretically, would save the pilot. The release would not be needed. Not one of the kaiten pilots would think of not dying.
During the cruise, the kaiten pilots had been a problem for Commander Hashimoto. They had begged for the opportunity to hit the American battleship that had turned out to be a cruiser, but Hashimoto had denied them because he thought their efforts would be wasted. The shot was so easy that human guidance was unnecessary. Wait, he'd counseled.
Now they were at him again, begging and whining like children for the right to obliterate themselves against an American ship. In a way, he felt sorry for them. They had pledged to die, and to return safely to port was a disgrace, even though it wasn't their fault. They had set out to die, so die they must or suffer shame. A kamikaze pilot generally went out with only enough fuel in his plane for a one-way trip, so a return was unlikely. Even if a kamikaze didn't find an American warship, he would find a reasonably honorable death by crashing into the sea.
Not so the kaiten. Commander Hashimoto was adamant that in their use they would not jeopardize the I-58 or waste themselves in any attempt. The I-58, and a few like her, were all the Imperial Japanese Navy had to fight off the Americans, and while suicide might be a future option, Hashimoto did not think that now was the right time. Hashimoto was also acutely aware that many of the large Japanese subs were now being used solely to ferry troops and supplies to isolated garrisons, and he was gratified that he was still able to carry out combat operations and not have to operate as an undersea transport.
The American sub looked just about right for the kaiten to make their final efforts. The target was small and a miss would be too likely with a conventional torpedo.