The basic problem, of course, is to compute how far the Jap sub can travel toward them, assuming his most probable course and speed for the time since he dived, and then to stay at least that distance, plus a little to be on the safe side, away from the spot where he submerged. Fyfe, straining for that elusive radar contact which his reasoned deductions say should come soon, allows Batfish to go as far as he dares before reversing course again. Just as he gives the order, someone in one of the engine rooms drops a wrench on the steel deck. The sharp noise is carried up the silent main induction pipe and hits the tensely waiting and watching bridge with a shock. All hands are visibly startled, and one lookout almost drops his binoculars. The skipper half opens his mouth, then shuts it again. It wouldn’t do to show exasperation at this point.
And then, finally, with Batfish still swinging to her hard over rudder, it comes at last. “Radar contact, bearing three three six!” Fyfe’s judgment and nerve have been vindicated again. The Jap was probably just being cagey himself, and had no knowledge of the presence of the United States submarine.
It happens that there are only two torpedoes left forward in Batfish, which really does not matter much since she is due shortly to depart station en route to Pearl Harbor. But it must be admitted that no one expected to run into three nearly identical situations like this — and until the third submarine was detected Fyfe had held no qualms whatever at being nearly dry forward. Now, however, a problem presents itself.
It is necessary to maneuver Batfish so that the Jap goes across her stern instead of her bow. Not too easy to do, since you have to be going away instead of toward the target. Fyfe plays his target slowly and carefully, somewhat like an expert fisherman campaigning against a crafty big one. The cast has been made, the fly has landed, the big fellow is nosing toward it, ready to head back for the deep water at the slightest suspicious sign.
This particular submarine has shown considerably more wariness than either of the other two. His peculiar actions on surfacing have proved him to be astute and careful, and Jake Fyfe is not the man to underrate his opponent. His recent scare is rather fresh in mind, and the ice is still mighty thin, measured as it is only in the superiority of United States equipment and alertness.
So Batfish tracks the target, gets his course and speed entirely by radar without ever having seen him, and finally submerges dead ahead of him, several miles away. Once again Fyfe uses the stunt of leaving his radar antennae out of water, so that the all-important information on the target’s movements will continue to be available to his fire control party and the intricate instruments they operate. Only this time he keeps his stern toward the target and moves slowly away from him, turning as he does so, with the result that the doomed Jap passes directly across his stern at the desired range, and three torpedoes are on their way to meet him. This is really a deliberate shot.
It also is slightly longer in range than the two previous attacks, and there is a longer wait in Batfish’s conning tower after the fish are finally sent on their way.
The skipper is watching through the periscope. He can now clearly see the long, low shape of the enemy, his odd-shaped bridge, and his peculiar undulating deckline. He is not a bad-looking ship, Fyfe must admit to himself, and most of these big Jap boats are pretty fast — at least as fast as our own. Not much is known about how they handle under water, however, and, like all United States submariners, Fyfe will reserve his judgment on that score. Our experience with big boats is that you pay for size with submerged maneuverability, and that the well-established theory about efficiency varying with the size of the vessel does not apply to submarines. The Nip is painted black, which makes him just a little easier to see against the gray night, and on the side of his bridge can quite plainly be seen a white rectangle with a dark disk in the center.
On he comes, ominous and a bit pathetic, entirely unaware of the three messengers of doom speeding his way. Fyfe, in the meantime, is a bit anxious. Without taking his eyes from the periscope, he calls out, “How long since the first one?”
Clark Sprinkle answers obliquely, “About fifteen seconds to go, Captain.”
“Fifteen seconds! Damn!”
But the torpedoes run true and as intended, and Fyfe’s impatience finally is brought to an end. “A hit!” he shouts, “a beautiful hit!” And so it is: a single hit which produces a brilliant orange explosion right in the center of the stricken ship.
Simultaneously, a wide diffusion of pips is noted on the radar screen, indicating that the target has blown apart. Then all the pips die away. The whole catastrophe has been silent; no sound whatsoever has reached the eager listeners in Batfish. A moment later, however, the noise of the explosion with its terrifying aftermath crackles over the sound gear into the headsets of the operators, and, indeed, comes right through the pressure hull, so that no man in the crew need have it described to him.
The loud WHAM of the warhead going off is followed instantly, and almost as though it were a single explosion, by a much louder and more prolonged WHRROOOM. This undoubtedly must be the enemy’s magazines going up — and there exists a strong probability that he is carrying an extra-heavy load, possibly intended for the beleaguered Japs in the Philippines.
One of the three stop watches is stopped with the first hit, and there is no doubt that this was the first torpedo, running the calculated range at exactly the calculated speed. But there are no further hits, despite the care with which the other fish had been launched on their way. This occasions no disappointment, however, since there is simply nothing left for the last two fish to hit.
As for Batfish, Jake Fyfe had her fully on the surface again within three minutes after the torpedo hit. Though he strongly doubted that there could possibly be any survivors of the terrific explosion he had witnessed, he was determined, as before, to give them a chance for their lives. It was nearly dawn, and no good came from use of the searchlight, which Fyfe had ordered turned on and played upon the water, so the decision was made to wait until daylight, in hopes that Jap planes patrolling the area would somehow not be immediately in evidence.
Parenthetically, one cannot help comparing Batfish’s repeated magnanimous attempts to succor the victims of her attacks with the treatment meted out in similar circumstances by the Japanese. There is one instance on record in which most of the crew of an American submarine were picked up by a Japanese destroyer; one man was injured, and was promptly thrown overboard. Another had swallowed so much salt water that he was retching heavily, and would also have gone overboard had he not fought clear of his saviors and joined the remainder of the group of survivors. In the case of Tang, the pitifully small number of survivors were mercilessly beaten and clubbed about the head and body. By contrast, Batfish deliberately exposed herself by turning on a searchlight to assist in locating survivors of her night’s handiwork, and then voluntarily remained on the surface in these enemy waters until long after daybreak, in hopes of possibly finding one or two. Since her position was well within enemy aircraft patrols, the unofficial rules by which most United States submarines guided their actions required that she be submerged during daylight.
Several of our submarines were enabled to rescue enemy survivors in some manner or other, after either they or someone else had torpedoed them. In more than one instance American sailors or officers had to go overboard after survivors and force them to accept their hospitality. In no case was such a prisoner badly treated after rescue; most of them gained weight during their sojourn on board, and were so well treated that instructions had finally to be issued to treat them with greater severity in order not to “spoil” them.