The submarine, which hunts by stealth, is therefore itself peculiarly susceptible to attack by stealth. But don’t make the mistake of underestimating the enemy submarine crew. The fact that they are operating a submarine at all indicates that they are picked men, who know as much about the game, in all probability, as you do. The odds are definitely even, and it is a question of dog eat dog. The only advantage lies in superior ability and equipment.
Not counting midgets, the first Japanese submarine sunk by our forces was the 1-173, which fell victim to the Gudgeon on January 27, 1942. The last such was sunk by the Spikefish on August 13, 1945. Between these dates twenty-three additional Japanese subs were destroyed by our own undersea warriors. And we regret to chronicle that some five of our own subs, it is thought, went down under the periscope sights of Japanese submarines. Unfortunately the Jap records are so poor that the precise manner in which all of our lost submarine vessels met their doom will never be discovered. The fact remains that our submarines were convinced that the Japs were sending the two-man midgets out at night, looking for them. And almost every patrol report turned in by our people toward the end of the war records that one or more torpedoes had been fired at them.
The most outstanding record of enemy subs sunk was the one hung up by Batfish, beginning that fateful February 9.
“Secure the radar!” Jake Fyfe turned to a shocked conning tower crew, and ordered crisply, “Battle stations torpedo!”
The helmsman instinctively had already extended his hand in the direction of the general alarm. Now he grasped it, pulled it out, and then down. The low-pitched chime of the alarm resounded through the ship, penetrating every corner, waking men who had turned in dead tired, vowing to sleep for a year — meaning only until their next watch — bringing them upright, fully alert, instinctively racing to their battle stations, all in the space of an instant.
What is it? What is it?
Don’t know. Something on the radar.
Skipper says a Jap sub out there.
How does he know that?
The process of deduction by which Fyfe arrived at the conclusion that the source of the radar peculiarities was an enemy submarine was not at all illogical. The wavering of his radar scope was probably due to the presence of another radar. It was known that the Japs had radar, though of an inferior type to ours, If this radar came from a vessel as large as a destroyer, he should have been detected on Batfish’s radar before the emanations from his low-powered radar had been noticed. This, of course, was the usual case. Since the radar waves had been the first to be picked up, it followed that the ship producing them must be small and low on the water. Yet it must be a valuable ship, sufficiently important to rate one of the relatively few radar sets the Nips possessed. Hence, a submarine.
The reason why Fyfe ordered his own radar temporarily secured was simply to deny the Jap the same information which he himself had just received, while he and his Executive Officer, Lieutenant C. K. Sprinkle, USNR, broke out the charts and did some very rapid figuring.
The enemy radar emanations have been from 220, approximately southwest. Babuyan Channel runs more or less north and south. Therefore the target must be on a northerly course, approaching from the south.
To check this deduction Batfish’s radar is cautiously turned on for only a moment. Sure enough, the bearing of the other radar has changed slightly. It is now 225.
“All ahead full! Right full rudder!” Batfish leaps ahead and steadies on a course calculated to get to the north of the approaching enemy vessel. She runs for a short time, every now and then checking the situation with her radar. All clear — no other ships around. Just the Jap, and his signals are becoming stronger, while his bearing is now drawing to the southward. This is as it should be.
But Fyfe does not, of course, propose to make his approach and attack on bearings alone. He wants to close the range, but on his own terms, with his bow on the enemy, his torpedoes ready — in short, with the drop on him.
Finally, Jake Fyfe and Sprinkle figure their position is about right. Batfish turns toward the enemy and ghosts in, keeping the darkest section of the midnight horizon behind her, and sweeping frequently, but at odd intervals, with her radar.
“Radar contact!” The word from Radar this time startles nobody — they have all been expecting it for several minutes. The tracking party now goes to work in earnest, with some concrete information instead of the rather sporadic and un-precise dope they have had up to now.
Target is on course 310, speed 12. The dials whirl on the TDC in the conning tower, where Sprinkle is in charge.
The range continues to decrease, the radar operator and the TDC operator tirelessly feeding in the essential information on the fire-control instruments. The plotting party also has its part in this, for all solutions must check before torpedoes may be fired.
On the bridge, the captain strains his eyes, and so do the lookouts up there with him. Suppose the Jap has somehow learned of the presence of the American submarine! It is possible. In this case, if he deduces what is going on, he might very logically turn the situation to his own advantage by firing his torpedoes first. After all, when you make an approach on another ship, there is a period during which you are in a much better position for him to shoot torpedoes at you than you at him — at a somewhat longer range, of course. Or, more probably, he might simply dive, thus spoiling the shot Batfish has worked for so long, not to mention making it immediately imperative for her to get the hell out of there!
Closer and closer comes the unsuspecting enemy sub. It is so dark that as yet he cannot be seen by the tense bridge party. As the situation develops, it is apparent that he will pass through the firing position at just under 2000 yards’ range. This is a little long for optimum torpedo fire, but Fyfe wants to take no chances of being detected. On he comes — only a little more now — then from the conning tower, “On the firing bearing, Captain!” This from the exec.
“Let them go when ready, Sprink. Shoot on radar bearings. I still can’t see him from up here.” From the skipper.
Silently, four torpedoes are loosed into the water. Four new wakeless electric fish start their run toward the target. They have 1,800 yards to go; it will take awhile. The watch hands crawl slowly and maddeningly around their faces. The wait grows longer, more anxious. Something should have happened by now! Those fish should surely have arrived! We could not have been so far off that our spread missed also!
But miss they do, all four torpedoes. Finally there is no escaping that conclusion. The whole careful and well-executed approach — wasted! All hands are bitterly disappointed. What can have gone wrong?
The question is answered by Plot, dramatically. “Target has speeded up! Speed now fourteen knots!” Too bad this was not detected a minute or two earlier. At least it explains the trouble, and allays the suspicious doubts which had already inevitably crept into the minds of both skipper and exec.
But the target continues serenely on his way, giving no sign of being aware of having been fired upon. Maybe Batfish will be able to try again.