0600: plot reports the ship has stopped.
0620: in the growing light the Jap ship has evidently sighted Seawolf still prowling in the distance on the surface, keeping well clear of possible erratic torpedoes. Since this is the only enemy he can see, he opens fire again. Seawolf does not even bother to dive.
0623: one terrific explosion in the target. Smoke, spray, and steam rise high in the air, and the ship settles by the bow.
0635: the target has sunk, a victim of at least two torpedoes from Whale. Seawolf is on her way back to port, with the skipper, the exec, the plotting party, and the communication department utterly exhausted after seventy-two hours on their feet under the most grueling strain.
When Seawolf returned to Pearl Harbor with her report of four ships sunk, plus one “assist,” she was again received with wild enthusiasm — a not unusual thing for the Wolf. Characteristically, Gross gave the credit for his fifth ship to Whale, who had actually sunk it. Acey Burrows, on the other hand, stated that the credit belonged to Seawolf. There was glory enough for all.
The career of the grand old submarine was just about over. She went back to San Francisco and for the second time was modernized. But progress is rapid in war, and she was an old ship — as fighting submarines go. She neither carried the number of torpedoes nor possessed the thick hull skin of later vessels. With full recognition of her valiant record to date, Seawolf was confined to secondary missions. She had sunk her last ship.
The remainder of the saga of the Seawolf is quickly told. Under the command of Lieutenant Commander A. L. Bontier she left Australia on what was to be her fifteenth patrol.
On October 3, 1944, a Japanese submarine attacked and sank USS Shelton (DE407) not far from Seawolf’s reported position. Maddened, Shelton’s comrades fanned forth in all directions to hunt the Nip submersible.
On that same day, as luck would have it, Seawolf, Narwhal, and two other United States submarines were also in the vicinity, in an area in which no attacks on any submarines whatsoever were permitted.
USS Rowell (DE403), anxious to avenge the sinking of Shelton, pressed her search hard, and finally detected a submerged submarine. Either not having been informed or having forgotten that he was in a “no attack” zone, her skipper immediately ordered attack with all weapons. He later reported that the submarine behaved in a peculiar manner, making little attempt to escape, and continually sending a series of dots and dashes over the sonar equipment. After several attacks, debris and a large air bubble came to the surface. A probable “kill” was credited, and a submarine silhouette was painted on Rowell’s bridge.
Seawolf had been contacted by Narwhal at four minutes of eight on the morning of October 3. She did not answer an attempt to contact her next morning, nor was she ever heard from thereafter. It has since been established that the Japanese submarine which sank Shelton experienced no counter-measures, and was able to return to Japan. There is no Japanese report of attack on an American submarine which could possibly account for the known circumstances of Seawolf’s disappearance.
Investigation disclosed what looked like certain though circumstantial proof that the submarine sunk by Rowell had been Seawolf. The fact that the trapped submarine had sent sonar signals, instead of evading, provided the final argument. Personnel of the American destroyer strenuously insisted that the signals were not in the correct recognition code, but mistakes had been made in them before.
Sooner or later it was bound to happen. There had been instances of our own forces firing on United States submarines — one of the most inexcusable occurring near San Francisco in 1942 when USS Gato, escorted by one of our destroyers, was bombed nevertheless by a blimp which totally ignored the frantic signals sent by the escort. There had been many other cases of United States planes attacking friendly submarines during the war, and a few of surface forces firing on them. Indeed, the whole problem of submarine recognition had long been a perplexing one. Elaborate systems for safeguarding our submarines had been built up, and those lapses which did from time to time occur could be explained, usually, as unfortunate errors in the heat of battle. A few times, however, what appeared to be a lack of the rudiments of common sense had tragic results.
And so, alone and friendless, unable to defend herself, frantically striving to make her identity known to her attacker, the old Wolf came to the end of the trail. Who can know what terror her crew must have tasted, when it became plain to them that the American destroyer escort above them, specially built and trained to sink German submarines, was determined to sink them also? Who can appreciate their desperation when they realized that the genius of their own countrymen had, by a monstrous miscast of the dice, been pitted against them?
And who can visualize the hopeless, futile, unutterable bitterness of the final disaster, when, combined with the shock of the frame-smashing depth charges, came the rapier-like punch of the hedgehogs, piercing Seawolf’s stout old hull, starting the hydrant flow of black sea water, and ending forever all hopes of seeing sunlight again.
7
Trigger
Trigger spent eight weeks being ripped apart and then put back together again by the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard. Dornin relieved Captain Roy Benson, and I was sent off on three weeks’ leave in the States. When I got back to Pearl, I carried in my heart the knowledge that I had met my bride-to-be, and had seen my father for the last time. A mountain of work instantly engulfed me.
One day toward the end of the overhaul, Stinky sought me out.
“We want to install an ice-cream freezer on board,” said he without any preliminaries.
“You mean one of those wooden hand-cranked jobs?”
He nodded.
“Who in hell ever heard of an ice creamer in a submarine?” I demanded.
“Well, we think we know where we can get one. Besides, wouldn’t you like a nice cool dish of ice cream sometime when it’s good and hot, like right after charging batteries or running silent for half a day — like two months ago when those two tin cans were after us?”
“My God, man, you’re fat enough already. How are you ever going to lose weight with an ice creamer on board?”
Stinky grinned. “Speak for yourself. But just think how good a big heaping bowl of cool raspberry ice or peach melba would taste. All you have to do is push the pantry button, and in comes Wilson with a big double scoop of it on a dish, all round and firm and cool, just starting to melt a little on the edges, maybe with a dab of whipped cream and a cherry on top—”
I could taste the saliva starting to drool into my mouth. “Sounds swell,” I growled. “Just where do you think you’re going to stow this contraption, and where will you get the ice, and who’s going to turn the crank — you? Or will you put a special man on watch?”
“It’s going to be automatic. We’ll take the motor off the ship’s lathe—”
“The hell you will!”
“—and we’ll hook it up to the ship’s main refrigerating system so we won’t have to bother either with ice or cranking it.”
Submariners are born gadgeteers, and if anyone could rig up this kind of contraption, they could. I felt myself weakening.