Captain Warder, sitting in his chair, perspiration pouring off him, asked repeatedly, “Anything on sound now, Eck?”
Each time I reported, “I can still hear them, sir, but nothing very close.”
My watch over, I lurched across the control room, through the passageway, bumping against the bulkheads, and climbed heavily into my bunk. It grew hotter. I lay there, trying to breathe, as gently and as little as possible.
At last Captain Warder dared to take another periscope observation. He saw nothing. And finally the Wolf rose to the surface.
The Wolf had been submerged for long hours, and for most of that time with her air-conditioning off and under the cumulative air pressure of the compressed air sucked back in the firing of eight torpedoes.
The hatch was opened. As if produced by magic, a small gale roared through the ship. Papers flew about. The clothes of the men standing in the passageway billowed outward; their hair stood on end as though they had touched an electrically charged rod. The foul air imprisoned under pressure in the Wolf was rushing out the hatch, and they were in its path. The Diesels started up: the gale was reversed; fresh air poured in.
The men breathed deep draughts. They began to talk again. “Doesn’t that stuff smell good!” and “Oh, God, it does!” Then, laughter. “Well, goddammit, we gave them hell and we got away with it, didn’t we?” And, “I’ll bet we can hear those slant-eyed bastards hissing all the way over here!”
Captain Warder wasted no time. The Wolf headed directly out to sea. Once more we inspected our damage and sent a report of our action. This time damage was practically nil. We all managed to get a good night’s sleep.
Next morning, refreshed, we headed into the straits again. We had got three Jap ships, and we wanted more. But we could find nothing. Apparently we’d frightened them off again.
On the fourth night my radio spluttered with an order from the High Command to leave the area and start a new patrol.
We had been out for some time now, and our new patrol was an area off Tjilatjap, a Javanese seaport on the south coast used by the Allied powers to evacuate personnel from the East Indies to Australia. Hours before we reached our position we saw the city aflame. The flames lit up the sky for miles around. Bridge lookouts told us the shoreline looked like a carnival of light and fire. Only the pillars of black smoke twisting furiously upward told the story. The Dutch, following the scorched-earth policy, were putting the torch to everything before the Japs arrived.
For several days we made routine patrols, watching the burning city, and waiting for the Japs to show up and pluck off their prize. Then a new dispatch ordered us into the southern entrance of Sunda Straits, a 60-mile-wide stretch of sea between Sumatra and Java. If the Japs hoped to reach the southern coast of Java in their southward push, they must use the Sunda Straits. Our job was to sink anything they’d try to send through. We had perfect conditions in these waters, which were deep and maneuverable, and Captain Warder and Lieutenant Deragon spent hours poring over their chart tables, plotting out the probable shipping lanes the Japs would use.
“I think we can ignore the Sumatra side,” Captain Warder’s voice said. “I don’t see anything there. But the Java side does have a beautiful harbor. They might try to put some ships in there.” He added, “But we can’t get up there because of the water depth.” And finally: “Very well, Willie, this is the way we’ll do it: We’ll run back and forth on a coastal patrol for several days. If we haven’t made any contacts by that time, we’ll set a patrol to take us into the center of the straits.”
We spent quite a few days there, and saw nothing but the wreck of a Jap bombing plane. It was a long patrol, made under the constant strain of expectation, and for the first time an attack of nerves broke out. Half a dozen men weren’t talking to one another. By this time we had been out on the longest sustained run we had made so far—and most of the crew had not seen the sun or been topside all during the patrol. It didn’t help any that we were all running short of cigarettes. There were less than half a dozen packs left on the boat. Some of the men had a few cigars, and they nursed these along. Those who smoked pipes weren’t in any better fix. Their tobacco was all gone. There were some pretty stretched tempers on the Wolf.
Then came a dispatch from the High Command ordering us to patrol the Christmas Island area and then proceed to a southern port.
Heading for port! That meant a new lease on excitement for all of us. We hopped to it. Christmas Island was a little piece of British land south and west of Java, valuable for its phosphate. It was John Street, with his gift for looking up things, who checked on the place and discovered it was an old pirate hangout. O.K., we thought. We’d do a little pirating ourselves.
We started immediately, diving by day and surfacing by night. At dawn of the third morning we were in a perfect position to dive off the island. Captain Warder took pains. The Allies were reported still in possession of the island and to have established batteries on shore. These batteries had spotted a couple of reconnoitering Jap subs and were presumed to have sunk them. We had to be carefuclass="underline" from a distance all submarines look alike.
The Skipper could find no sign of life. Our charts indicated that the only dock facilities on the island were in a small inlet called Flying Fish Cove. The Skipper found the cove and kept a wary eye on it.
“I ought to go in there tonight and blow that dock up,” I heard him say. “The Japs probably will have it, anyway.”
“Might be a good idea,” came Ensign Mercer’s voice.
Captain Warder hesitated. “But there are probably some natives on the island. They may be killed on the docks.”
Nothing was done. That night we received a coded dispatch:
“Air reconnaissance shows transports, destroyers, and cruisers en route to Lombok Straits.” Apparently the convoy was bound for Christmas Island.
Well, my thoughts ran, if anyone can keep us out of harm, this man will do it. He’s an artist with a submarine.
“What I want to do,” the Skipper was saying, “is to put your direction finder on this frequency and keep searching. Be sure you cover it thoroughly. I want you to sweep over your entire range of frequency constantly.”
With action in sight, petty quarrels vanished. Men spoke to each other again. Stations were checked and then double checked. It was as though an electric shock had gone through the crew. We patrolled all day. We saw nothing. I searched and searched and searched.
“They’re probably coming in under cover of darkness,” said the Skipper.
At night we surfaced. At dawn we dove in front of Flying Fish Cove. The Japs had the same charts as we, and undoubtedly they’d set their course for the cove. With their heavier armaments they might bombard the island before attempting a landing, trying to knock out the shore batteries.
Captain Warder tirelessly studied his charts. He analyzed the Jap strategy: “The cruisers will bombard the island, with the transports undoubtedly standing off, waiting for the bombardment to cease. In that case the destroyers will be used to guard against submarines. That means our most valuable targets are the cruisers. Very well, we’ll ignore the destroyers. We’ll attack the transports if conditions are favorable, and we’ll really make a try for the cruisers.”