If Wahoo could only get into this lush area, Mush figured, she should find so many targets that she would have an ideal opportunity to try out his theory. He knew the entrances were mined but he also knew that it takes an awfully good mine field to completely close up such a large passage as La Perouse or Tsushima, and that his chances of running through on the surface above the anti-submarine mines (which, of course, would be laid at depths calculated to trap a submerged submarine) would be good. He also was banking on probable laxness and inattention on the part of the Japanese defenders, and on taking them by surprise.
So on August 2, 1943, Wahoo departed Pearl Harbor for the Japan Sea, carrying with her a determined Captain and an entirely new team of officers, some veterans of her previous patrols, but practically all of them in new jobs as a result of the drastic changes at the top.
On August 14 Wahoo transited La Perouse Strait, on the surface at night, at full speed. Though detected and challenged by the shore station on Soya Misaki, she remained boldly on her course, ignoring the signal, and having done his duty the watcher in the station went back to sleep, leaving all navigational lights burning as though it were still peacetime.
Mush Morton was certainly right about one thing. He entered the Sea of Japan on August 14; that same night Wahoo sighted four enemy merchant ships, steaming singly and unescorted. In all, she carried out four separate attacks, three of them on the same ship, firing only five torpedoes in all. And here Fate dealt Morton her most crushing blow! Faulty torpedoes!
There is nothing in the world so maddening as to bring your submarine across miles of ocean; to train your crew up to the highest pitch of efficiency and anticipation; to work for weeks getting into a good fertile area; to assume heavy risk in arriving finally at an attack position — and then to have the whole thing vitiated by some totally inexplicable fault in your equipment.
Time after time Wahoo sights the enemy’s vital cargo carriers and tankers. Time after time she makes the approach, goes through all the old familiar motions which have previously brought such outstanding success — and time after time there is nothing heard in the sound gear, after firing the torpedoes, save the whirring of their propellers as they go on — and on — and on! Once, indeed, the sickening thud of a dud hit is heard, but most of the time the torpedoes simply miss, and miss, and miss!
Desperately, Morton tries every conceivable trick in his book. He does not lack for targets — that he had foreseen correctly — so he has plenty of time to try everything he knows. But he is still stubborn, and mutters savagely something to the effect that there is no use in firing more than one torpedo at any target until he has found out why they don’t go off.
For four days Wahoo valiantly fought her bad luck, and made, in all, nine attacks upon nearly as many enemy ships. Results achieved, zero! Heartbreaking, hopeless, utter zero!
And then Mush Morton finally broke down. After four nightmarish days in the area, during which he became increasingly silent, moody, and irascible, sometimes venting the smoldering fury which possessed him with outbursts of a fantastic, terrifying rage, Morton decided that there was only one thing left to do. Characteristically, it took him only four days to reach this decision and to implement it. Fate had been able to make him do something no Jap had ever succeeded in doing — cry “Uncle.”
A message was sent to the Commander Submarines, Pacific, informing him of the complete failure of the torpedoes of his most outstanding submarine. The reaction from Admiral Lockwood was instant: orders to proceed immediately to Pearl Harbor, and Mush Morton’s action was equally decisive: Wahoo’s annunciators were put on “All ahead flank,” and were left in that position until the submarine reached the entrance buoys off Pearl. The only exceptions to this performance were caused by appearance of a neutral merchant ship, which was identified as Wahoo maneuvered in for an attack; and two Jap sampans, whose captured crews found their final destinations to be somewhat different from what they had expected.
On August 29, only eleven days from the Japan Sea, Mush Morton and his Wahoo stormed into Pearl Harbor and tied up at the submarine base. This time there was no broom tied to an extended periscope, and the booming exuberance with which this sub had been wont to return from patrol was totally lacking. But such was the fame of Wahoo and her skipper that there was quite a crowd of men and officers on the dock to greet her and to tender the usual congratulations upon safe return. On this occasion there was a cloud over the normally lighthearted feelings of those present, for all knew that there was something radically wrong. One or two made an effort to say something cheerful to the obviously suffering Commanding Officer, but nothing they could say or do could allay the fact that Morton, who up to this time had been the most successful skipper of the whole force, had returned from his last patrol empty-handed. As soon as he decently could, Mush strode away from the crowd and hurried to the office of ComSubPac.
Once there he gave voice, in no uncertain terms, to the anger which possessed him. Virtually pounding his fist on the table — after all, you don’t pound your fist at an admiral, even one so understanding as Admiral Lockwood — he insisted that something was radically wrong, and that corrective measures had to be taken immediately. The Admiral and his staff listened thoughtfully, for this was by no means the only report they had received about malfunctioning of the submarine’s major weapon, and Morton was not the first man to cry “Damn the torpedoes!” Half-formed thoughts about sabotage, inefficiency, or improper preparation hovered above this gathering, and the upshot of it was that the Commander Submarines, Pacific Fleet, gave his word to Commander Dudley Morton that he would find out what was wrong with the fish if it killed him. In their hearts, the members of his staff echoed his sentiments — for, after all, every man there was a veteran submarine skipper himself.
The interview with Wahoo’s skipper at an end, Lockwood asked the question which Morton had been waiting for: “Well, Mush, what do you want to do?” Knowing his man, the Admiral was prepared for the answer he got, but it must be admitted that he would hardly have been surprised had Morton indicated that he had been taking a beating lately, and would like a rest.
A rest was farthest from Mush Morton’s mind at that moment. “Admiral,” he said, “I want to go right back to the Sea of Japan, with a load of live fish this time!”
The two men took stock of each other. Morton saw a seamed, genial face, normally weather-beaten from years at sea, now showing signs of the strain of keeping his boys going and solving their problems for them — of holding up his end of the larger scope of the war plan — of defending and protecting his operations from those who, not knowing of the phenomenal results being achieved, would encroach upon, limit, or circumscribe them. With a small shock, however, he realized that at the moment there were only two emotions showing in the Admiral’s eyes — worry, over him, and—envy.
On his side, the Admiral saw a young, virile officer, proud in his profession with the pride that comes only from a sense of accomplishment, and which will support no criticism. A fiery man, a fighter, and a leader. But burning in his steady eyes was the shining light of the crusader, now doubly dedicated, because his latest crusade had failed.