MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

"USS YORKTOWN AT THE BATTLE OF MIDWAY" BY ANTHONY SAUNDERS. THE YORKTOWN WAS LOST IN THE BATTLE. SHE IS DEPICTED UNDER ATTACK BY JAPANESE TORPEDO BOMBERS. ALSO PICTURED IS ONE OF HER DESTROYERS, THE USS HAMMANN.

GOONEY BIRDS LIKE THESE INHABITED MIDWAY ISLAND

A RECENT AERIAL VIEW OF MIDWAY ISLAND

By JOHN R. BAKER

CHAPTER NINE: THE  COVETED SUBMARINE SET OF DOLPHINS

 

I was one of the “new guys” who had to qualify as soon as possible.  Pressure was put on all of us to become qualified on our first fun.  This was #1 priority so that we would become as useful as we could be.  We were required to study and memorize all sections of our boat.  This meant the tanks, the pipes, the hydraulics, the trim system, the torpedoes and how to fire them, the engine rooms, the battery compartments, the armaments, and of course, the diving procedures.  So, until dinner time, unless we were at battle stations or otherwise pre-occupied, all of us new swabbies were kept prowling around the ship.  We helped one another by quizzing each other.  I don’t think anyone lasted two patrols without earning the coveted  dolphins.  When they were sewed on your right forearm sleeve you became a submariner!

By this time I could sleep right through the loud OO-GAH of the diving Klaxon no matter how close it was to my bunk.  (As a radioman, I had no direct diving responsibility.)  But the BONG BONG BONG of the battle stations alarm would have me scurrying by the second BONG!

In hotter parts of the Pacific we all learned to run around in just our skivvy drawers and sandals.  There was one fast rule, though.  No one could come to chow without a tee shirt.

Thankfully, we rarely had to do what’s called “silent running.”  That’s when pursuers are in close proximity and we’d be in danger of being detected by sound emanations.  We weren’t supposed to make any noise lest the close-by enemy could hear us.  All air conditioning, fans or other unnecessary noisemakers were squelched.  In areas with hot climates it was very uncomfortable.  We all wore towels around our necks to try to control the sweat.  Nevertheless, the linoleum deck would get oily and slippery.  All crew not absolutely conning the boat were required to stay very quiet.

During our first patrol we were in Philippines waters the whole  time and the enemy had beau-coup planes patrolling during daylight.  But also at this time there was a plentiful number of Japanese ships in the area.  They thought that they could drive us away!  Ha.  Night time was our chance to howl.  We always dove for the day before sunrise.  Of course this meant we couldn’t surface until after dark.  We always spent 12 to 14  hours submerged.  Eventually the oxygen level in our sewer pipe drops low.  Hard to keep a cigarette or a match lit.  Always a relief to surface and get those first breaths of fresh air.  I recall during that first patrol I didn’t see any daylight for about 60 days.  Once in a while we could climb to the bridge at night for fresh air, but it always had to be in darkness.

During our first two patrols we spotted at least two Japanese submarines.  In both cases they spotted us at about the same time.  We both did what submarines do best.  We both dove.  Out there another sub is considered a prime target, but we never did get to shoot at one.

On January 16, 1945, during the second patrol, we receive a report from headquarters — ComSubPac — regarding the position of a life-raft with a single survivor.  Later, we received a second report, this time 60 miles closer to us at the same latitude.  An American pilot reported dropping a raft to “several survivors, one injured”  We never found anything, and really, the position of the survivors was never  definitely established.  We were able to reach both of the first two reported positions, only to be told the positions were in error.  Frustrating.  This sort of thing happened more than once and never did we rescue Americans, but we sure tried our best.

After refueling at Saipan once more, on February 28, 1945, we headed for Midway Island, where we arrived on March 8, 1945.  This was the conclusion of O’Toole’s second patrol.

The famous “Gooney Birds” of Midway Island were there to greet us when we landed on the atoll.  The birds nested in the sand all over the place and were considered a danger to planes taking off.  A 27-second video of Gooney Birds dancing is added here: http://flickr.com/photos/x0jaderaven0x/2547756258/

THE COVETED SUBMARINE SET OF DOLPHINS

This was to be our second island rest camp, but wasn’t nearly as “South Sea Island” as Majuro.  There wasn’t a  tree to be seen.  After a nice greeting when we tied up to the huge dock section, we moved our gear to a Quonset hut in the submarine rest area. 

Midway is a circular atoll six miles in diameter.  It consists of two islands with a total area of two square miles.  It was named Midway because it lies about half way between California and Japan.  The Navy, in 1940, began to build both an  air and a submarine base at Midway.  The Battle of Midway fought June 3-6, 1942 was considered the turning point  of the battle in the Pacific.  On exploring our new temporary home we were amazed to see the signs of the major battles that were fought here.  At least one PT boat was still pulled up on the beach and just left there all shot up.  Bullet holes in a lot of the structures testified to the extensiveness of the fight.  Four Japanese  carriers were lost in large part because the U.S. was able to compromise the enemy code.  This had definitely been an air battle in which the ships on both side did not get really close to one another. 

On Midway, we had the usual routine.  Ate, slept, explored and drank beer when the beer garden was open.  I can remember being impressed with the beautiful movie theater and the well-stocked  ship’s service.  Supplies and mail were flown in daily from Honolulu and I even got to see Robert Taylor, the movie star, land his DC-4.

Up until then, I had never been up in an airplane.  Every day a  transport type plane  scouted all around the island just in case the enemy had some clever attack in mind.  At the airport I found out the plane would be up at least eight hours, so I opted out.  Up until then, whenever  we made day trips in Atule, fly-fly boys (military aviators)  always came along just so they could dive on a submarine.  Surprisingly enough, by the time we’d get to our diving zone they’d be sound asleep in  our forward torpedo room.  Not too thrilling, I’m sure.

One thing I wish I’d done though while I was at Midway was to have gone  deep sea fishing.  The Navy ran  regular trips after some really great fish.  I’ve kicked myself more than once because I passed up a great opportunity.  But  now the time was  running out and we’d soon be on our way to our next patrol.

Photo Credits:

Gooney birds (photo by deleware kathy on flickr.com)

Aerial view of Midway Island (photo by precisionartists on flickr.com)

“USS Yorktown at the Battle of Midway” (art by Anthony Saunders)

MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

AN ARTIST'S RENDERING OF A SUBMERGED BALAO CLASS DIESEL SUBMARINE LIKE THE ATULE

By JOHN R. BAKER

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE SECOND WAR PATROL OF USS ATULE

14 January 1945.  Time 0900.  Underway from Saipan, fully refueled and restocked.  Accompanied by USS Spadefish (SS-411), USS Bang (SS-385) and USS Devilfish (SS-292).  Our patrol destination is the Yellow Sea and the East China Sea.  We will spend 30 days in this area with a total of 62 days patrol duration.  By this time our wolf pack has regrouped to include the USS Spearfish (SS-190), the USS Pompon (SS-267) and us.

Before we enter the Yellow Sea and the frigid action of our second patrol, perhaps I should explain the jobs I had as a radioman.  The radio shack itself is quite small; only room for two chairs side by side along with radio transmitters from refrigerator size down to some as small as a phone book; also two typewriters and the code machine along with special supplies and related equipment.  Two men at a time stood four hours together.  Basically, one copied “Fox” and the other guarded the VHF frequency that allowed short range conversation between boats in the wolf pack and occasionally aircraft.

Incidentally, the controversial part of this second radioman’s job was to operate the aircraft radar detection receiver.  This was used to detect enemy planes which were using radar and closing in.  The problem with this was that to cover the wide range of frequencies used by the enemy we had to have up to four banks of separate coils to insert into the receiver one after the other so that the enemy’s searching could be detected.  One time when the radioman was involved with the VHF radio, he wasn’t able to operate the detector, too, and when he could get back to it we were almost surprised.  By the next patrol the radar detector was located in the control room where it belonged.  A lookout could run it and we weren’t surprised again.

Enemy planes never hesitated to  drop their bombs if they got the chance, but lucky for us they weren’t accurate.  Aircraft had been a real problem while they still controlled the Philippines, and it seemed we were up and down all night long.  Poor Bongiorno, the baker, he had to bake at night and you can imagine what pressure changes did to his products!

The Fox schedule was the method used to  send our orders from NPM radio Pearl Harbor.  At pre-directed times (if we had to stay submerged, we could stick an antenna above the surface), we would copy those five letter Morse groups so that on decoding them we could receive Admiral Lockwood’s orders.  These non-sensical words were run through the code machine and came out on a long tape as perfect English.  This was an efficient way for all subs to receive their orders.

My job, if I had watch when we dove, was to pull the antenna connectors from their attachments in the “trunk” which was a heavy duty bucket-sized compartment set into the overhead and then to seal this shut with a stout door so that it was pressure-proof.  Next, if our aircraft radar mast was extended, I would step out into the control room and lower it quickly so that it was secured.  After that, I would hurry to the forward torpedo room to supervise the lookouts who would operate the JP sound detection gear all the while we were submerged.

Now on our way west, going through the East China Sea and prior to entering the Yellow Sea we passed by the great Chinese city of Shanghai at night.  The “lovely” Yangtze River flows into the sea at that point.  Stink!  This whole area was really putrid and we wanted to get out of there pronto.  I was certain the place was bad enough to corrode our beautiful boat!  How could people live in such a place?  To enter the Yellow Sea, which separate China and Korea, we got the word that we would be passing through an area heavily sewn with mines.  Here I discovered that it paid to be ignorant.  So many of us were greenhorns, we had never been around any mines before.  A few of the “old salts” had been.  (Average age on O’Toole was 23-years-old.  The oldest man was Marchand, at 40.  Captain Jack was 34.)  So, I guess that’s why youngsters make good “soldiers” — they’re too dumb to realize what’s happening; too dumb to really be scared.  But some of the older guys knew the score.  I noted that a few of them were a bit shaky during that passage.  But we made it.

This was about the middle of January 1945, and it was so cold for the next month that we often dove just to melt the heavy layer of ice that formed all over the topside area.  If the hydraulic vents atop the main ballast tanks froze hard enough we wouldn’t be able to dive.  Lookouts could only stay at their posts atop the periscope shears for just a few minutes at a time, even though they were wearing extra heavy gear, including face masks.  I knew I was darn cold on watch even when I sat right over the electric heater in the radio shack.

We weren’t the only seagoing types out there cruising in the ice cakes.  I’d like to introduce a little bit of our log — dated 23 January — to show how O’Toole dealt with small wooden fishing boats and sampans which seemed to be well-dispersed all around.

Time 0746 — Sighted first of three sampans that effectively sabotaged our periscope observations by closing to 3,000 yards during morning.  Avoided only to close two sailboats who spoiled the afternoon.

Time 1931 — Radar contact on sampan, range 4,150 yards.  Changed to evasion course.

Time 1944 — Picked up two more sampans.

Time 2105 — Lost contact with last of total of five fishing boats.

My memory of operations prevailing at that time was that if the enemy small craft had a machine gun or an antenna in sight they were legitimate targets.  Maybe so, but we never attacked a target so small.  Captain Maurer would avoid any close contact, every time, with any but real Japanese targets.  Never did we fire at a spit kit.

24 February 1945.  1500.  Yellow Sea first attack, second patrol.  Sighted medium sized merchant ship at 21,000 yards.  (2,000 yards equals 6,000 feet or approximately one nautical mile.)  At periscope depth kept tracking target through snow and used our stern tubes and our Mk 18 electric fish since they had greater depth control than our steam fish.  The target appeared to be a brand new engines-aft freighter.  Set the depth at three feet and fired four torpedoes.  The first fish struck abreast of his stack and the second near his after mast.  The ship rapidly settled stern first as the crew quickly manned two motor life boats (one on each side).  Just as the life boats cleared, the damaged rear section broke off, taking the engine room with it.  The forward half popped  up like a cork, floating higher than ever.

About this time I heard that one of our lookouts shouted “Look, they’re sending blinker signals to us.”  Captain Jack answered: “Signals, hell!  He’s firing at us with his 40 mm cannon!”  So we dove and fired a steam torpedo at him.  We missed.  (Torpedo went under his bow.)  We had had shells exploding on either side of us, so we hastily left the immediate area and withdrew to decide our next move.  

Surprisingly, even machine gun bullets can sink a submarine!  For instance, holes in the top of our ballast tanks (outside of the pressure hull)  are very dangerous.  These tanks are not nearly as thick-walled as our pressure hull.  Holes in our ballast tanks would let air out of the to just the same as if we had opened the main vents.  We would dive but we couldn’t rise again.  Also, anything that damaged us so that we couldn’t dive would make us goners; we’d never get out of enemy waters if we couldn’t submerge.  Anyway, you get the idea.

After dark we went to battle stations, gun action, planning to use our five inch gun.  The deck was covered with ice.  The gun crew had trouble with their footing.  Loading the gun was difficulty because it was so slippery.  At 6,000 yards the order was given to “Commence firing.”  One shot went right over the target.  The gun recoiled from the firing, but did not return forward to be reloaded.  What caused this failure?  The extreme cold must have been the indirect cause.  This upset Captain Maurer to say the least.  We had used too many fish already.  One more steam torpedo would have to be used.  At a 3 degree setting it bounced along like a porpoise, but went straight to MOT.  As we retired northward we could see that the bow was down and the rear was sticking up.  Up to that point the ship had had excellent watertight integrity.

Heavy snow and blizzard conditions for the next few days.  Bitter cold.  Wind 25 to 30 knots with snow flurries and spray ice all over the topside.  On one of our quick dives to clear off the ice we were pooped as we surfaced.  The bridge hatch was quickly re-shut, so not very much water got into the boat.  Nasty weather.

We received a call from Pompon reporting a convoy.  All four engines went on line so that we could intercept.  The moon was full with scattered clouds.

28 January 1945.  0032.  Pompon reports attacking convoy from starboard.  Spadefish also reports attacking from starboard.  Next we heard explosions and sighted a smoke column.  At 0255 we observed a terrific explosion with a column of water high in the air.  Time 0345.  We are chasing a medium transport that is trying to reach shoal water on a westward course. Unfortunately we are not able to overtake prior to dawn.  Exchanged calls with Spadefish as she was standing by her victim, a ship observed to be burning from bow to stern.

Next, we commence criss-crossing the known Shanghai to the Empire shipping routes.  Our time will be spent patrolling all areas where enemy shipping might be expected.

We are now en route to a patrol station east of Hangchow Bay (what a name) and sighted our first floating mine about 30 miles southwest of Socotro Rock. In short order we sink five mines with our 30 caliber machine gun.  The sixth mine detonates.  Contact mines are about five feet or so across and have several horns sticking out of their perimeters.  Theoretically, when a horn is struck and broken, the mine explodes its hundreds of pounds of explosives. These mines were usually moored too the bottom at pre-set depth at the end of a cable attached to an anchor.  The areas where they were sewn were very often just where submarines were likely to travel.  The U.S. has been able to determine that seven of the 52 boats lost were destroyed by mines.  Only eight men were survivors of the USS Flier (SS-250).  On all the other boats all hands were lost.

Log of 30 January 1945.  The lucky O’Toole!  

0030.  Floating mine bounced disconcertingly down the port side of the ship, plainly heard by the bridge watch and officers seated in the wardroom.

5 February 1945.  In the interest of conserving our rapidly depleting supply of ammunition, since we have already dealt with 14 mines, we are approaching closer than the suggested 300 yards, so as to be more accurate.  We’re starting to recover shrapnel from our deck.  A photograph with this chapter shows what an “exploder” looks like.  The extreme acreage of floaters is believed to be the direct result of heavy seas we’ve been experiencing for the past several days.

Regarding the mine we hit on 30 January 1945: Thankfully this was another dud Japanese mine.  Not all of them exploded when they were “disturbed.”

Log of 6 February 1945:

0812.  Dived from “Emily” plane gliding at us from a position 3 miles away to 500 feet astern.  Received one distant bomb as we passed 90 feet.  He managed to break through a low overcast before we spotted him.  We surfaced in heavy snow squall and cleared the area for a reconnaissance of Korean coastal traffic.

Same day:

2032.  Commenced repairs to #4 main engine outboard exhaust valve.  Found valve disc  retaining pin had backed out permitting disc to drop off the operating arm into the bottom of the casing.  

[Note — I didn’t see it in the log but I seem to recall that MoMMC “Handsome John” Stringer did the welding over the side, in the dark of night, with welding flashes lighting up the whole area.]

We continued onward.  7 February 1945.  Surface patrol off southwest Korean coast.

0710.  Trim dive off OTO TO.

0751.  Nine depth charges in quick succession dropped by an unseen antagonist.  These were not close enough to really bother us, but weren’t so far as to have been directed at anyone else.

8 February 1945.

1115.  Made trim drive.  Enjoyed our noon meal on plates instead of laps. Continuing patrol.

12 February 1945:

1456.  Quartermaster-lookout sights either a fighter or dive-bomber in on starboard bow.  (Cloud cover was low and broken.  At this time we had double aircraft lookouts posted.)  We then made one of our snappiest four engine dives to date, so we must have been under in less than 30 seconds! Took two well-placed bombs, one at 75 feet and the second at 125 feet on his next pass.  We had been aware of an escort vessel — possibly a destroyer — out about 16,000 yards.  he had been acting suspiciously.  Now we could hear echo ranging closing our point of dive.  The whole thing appeared to be a well-coordinated “man and boy” combination so we upped to 2/3 speed and took evasive action.

Next the following occurred:

1812.  Five charges, none close.  echo ranging has disappeared.

1830.  Four charges.

1852.  Five charges.

1911.  Surfaced.  Aircraft radar signal at 155 mcs.

1935.  Signal very strong.  Dived.

1942.  Two explosions.  Not close.  Hoe he bombed  his own surface ship.

1956.  Surfaced.  Hurried to close the Korean Coast.

16 February 1945:

We are headed north on four engines towards reported battleship group.

18 February 1945:

En route Daikokuzan at best speed to intercept new battleship position. Next, and this was almost bad.  Struck mine with a jar that turned out a good percentage of ship’s complement.  It first hit near the stem, then it bounced several times down the side, busily exploring our limber holes with its horns. 

[Note — At the Albuquerque convention our captain told the wives they should appreciate having us.  Guess you’d have to ask them.)

18 February 1945 (continued):

1857.  We had covered 850  miles during our futile, almost fatal, chase of this elusive battleship task group.

20 February 1945:

Received instructions from ComSubPac to proceed to rest camp at Midway after putting in at Saipan for diesel fuel.

Ah, rest camp.  We’re certainly ready for it.  The ship we sank in the Yellow Sea assured that we would be credited as having had a “successful patrol.”  This patrol we had destroyed a total of 28 mines.  We were lucky with that last one.  Now is a good time to reminisce about our daily existence aboard the good old Atule while we were on war patrol.  I certainly can’t say I ever got blase about life on a submarine, especially after only two patrols.  All of us tended to adapt to the routine as day after day we stood our watches.  Four hours on duty and then eight hours off.  Now, this didn’t mean that we were as free as a breeze when off watch.  Oh, no.  My own watch was from 8 a.m. to 12 p.m. and then 8 p.m. to midnight.  Always at noon we had field day.  This meant that most of us had  to “turn to” on a specific part of the ship so that each section was bright and shiny and ready for inspection daily.  I can still recall the order.  At 12 noon we would hear the click of the IMC (the ship-wide announcing system) as the switch was depressed.  Always the same, those memorable words: “All hands.  Turn to and clean up the ship.”  My daily section was the passageway in the control room next to the radio room.  After that we could get our lunch.  At least on the first run there was plenty to do on the rest of our “off watch.”

Art Credit:

Submerged submarine artwork (subsim.com)

MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

TASK FORCE 58 CARRIERS, BATTLESHIPS AND DESTROYERS AT REST AT MAJURO ATOLL AFTER RAIDS THROUGHOUT THE CENTRAL PACIFIC IN FEBRUARY 1944

A MAP OF MAJURO ATOLL FROM A MAP COLLECTION TITLED: “PACIFIC ISLANDS 1943-1945”

AN AERIAL VIEW OF MAJURO ATOLL DURING THE WAR IN THE PACIFIC

MAJURO ATOLL’S LOCATION WITHIN THE MARSHALL ISLANDS

By JOHN R. BAKER

 

CHAPTER SEVEN: REST CAMP AT MAJURO ATOLL

Majuro provided a great three weeks of rest.  Our island was what we all had visualized a South Seas island would be.  We stayed in Quonset huts, ate very good food, had beer garden every afternoon and just enjoyed the brilliant white sand beaches and the tropical palm trees.  What a place it would make for a luxury resort!

The water was so clear a person could easily see 50 feet down to the bottom which was crowded with brilliant fish of all kinds.  All the while we “rested” the repair crews on the USS Bushnell (AS-15) were overhauling our ailing engine and fixing everything that needed to be put back in first class fighting trim.  It was also our good fortune to be at Majuro for Christmas.  The Red Cross had some fellows there who put on a welcome Christmas program and even handed out gifts to everyone.

Coming in to a rest camp area was a very special occasion for submarines after patrols.  First of all, for the obvious reason — we had made it back safely — but also because of the warm welcome we received.  Immediately upon securing our lines we would become the recipients of boxes of fresh fruit — oranges and apples (some of the latter being from my state of Washington, in boxes marked “Chelan” or “Wenatchee”).  We had been out so long that we had used up every bit of “fresh” food we had taken to sea!  Most important of all, we were given all of our accumulated mail.  The whole crew would be spread out topside, sitting everywhere, eating fresh fruit and reading all the precious mail from home — always in chronological order so we could keep events in proper perspective.

We had heard that earlier boats also used to get big cans of  ice cream delivered to them, but we on Atule had our own machine, so we were never short.  Incidentally, our cooks always made vanilla, so when I pleaded for chocolate, guess what, I became the “Captain of the Flavors.”  At least I could mix up my choice. 

After this happy greeting, we all got careful physicals.  Here we were examined and set up for dental work, etc., on the sub tender.  We all even  got a private chat with the psychiatrist.  “Do you want to stay on the submarine?”  We had men who suffered from chronic sea-sickness and lost a lot of weight while we were at sea.  They could have bagged  it,  but so far as I know they all plead their case and were able to fatten up in rest camp and stay with the crew.  I thought that to be real dedication on their part.

Standing watch with a bucket between your knees is a bit of a chore.  I know at least two of my shipmates had to do just that almost as soon as our lines were cast off.  Luckily, I wasn’t bothered, at least back in those days, so that was a blessing I appreciated, at least when I saw how miserable seasickness was. 

At last our days of swimming in the warm tropical waters and gathering exotic shells came to an end.  We would soon be “off to war” but first O’Toole had to be tested to make sure everything was ready for action.  We conducted our training exercises from 28 December 1944 to 3 January 1945 including wolfpack exercises with USS Spadefish, USS Pompon and USS Jallao.  We finally left Majuro, “good-by forever” and headed for Saipan to refuel.  The group’s escort left us and we all started through the Total Bombing Restricted Lane, i.e., American planes are not to bomb anything traveling in this restricted area.  About 1600 we observed the Spadefish dive and receive two aerial bombs from low-flying TDBs.  Pompon, next in line, also dove.  We managed to identify ourselves when the range had closed to a half mile.  Spadefish surfaced and informed the rest of us that only his spirit had been damaged.  Situations like this were not unusual.  Our submarines were leery of everything they saw in order to preserve their health.  14 January.  Moored alongside USS Fulton in Tanapag Harbor, Saipan.  Refueling. 

Photo and Map Credits:

Marshall Islands map (Lonely Planet Publications)

Aerial photo of Majuro Atoll (US Navy Photo from the Collection of Ken Butterfield)

Map of Majuro Atoll (Perry-Castaneda Library Map Collection, University of Texas at Austin)

Task Force 58 warships (US Navy Photo from the Collection of Ken Butterfield)

MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

THE SAILING LIST FOR THE FIRST WAR PATROL OF THE USS ATULE (OCTOBER 1944)

MS ASAMA MARU WAS A JAPANESE OCEAN LINER BUILT IN 1929 FOR THE NYK (NIPPON YUSEN KAISHA) LINE. THE SHIP WAS CONVERTED TO A TRANSPORT FOR WORLD WAR II. IT WAS THE FIRST SHIP SUNK BY THE ATULE.

 

 

 

SITE OF THE SINKING OF THE MS ASAMA MARU IN THE SOUTH CHINA SEA. THE SHIP WAS SUNK ABOUT 270 MILES SOUTHEAST OF HONG KONG AND ABOUT 100 MILES SOUTH OF THE ISLAND OF PRATAS

By JOHN R. BAKER

CHAPTER SIX: OUR FIRST WAR PATROL

It is now late summer of 1944.  We have at last traversed the Panama Canal and finally realize that the war in the Pacific against the Imperial Japanese Navy is the next item on our agenda.  All the way to the Hawaiian Islands area we trained steadily, in company with the USS Jallao (SS-368).  Drills pertaining to flooding, fires and other emergencies.  We practiced over and over the things we planned to do for real once we were in enemy waters.  These tests were ordered night and day by our skipper.  Special emphasis was made on our diving procedure due to the inexperience of most of our officers.  We practiced night surface, radar depth, submerged attacks constantly.  Lookouts got a lot of practice in sighting periscopes as we took turns practicing with Jallao.  The tracking party, i.e. those who would actually send our torpedoes into the enemy, got to be very good, and it paid off, because later on our torpedoes were dependable and accurate!

By mid-September of 1944, O’Toole reached Sub-base Pearl and reported to Com Sub Pac Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood, known as Uncle Charlie, but not by enlisted men.  More training close to the islands and last minute improvements to the boat itself made us at last ready in all respects for action.  On October 9, 1944, we left Pearl and headed for our first war patrol.  We were headed for the South China sea area in company with USS Jallao and USS Pintado (SS-387).  We were a wolfpack of three.  (One of our crew put the first initials of the boat’s names together and got J. A. P.)  Add the word “PATROL” and that’s what we were.  The wolfpack tactic was a skillfully contrived German concept whereby a group of submarines, operating mainly on  the surface, reinforced one another both by scouting the enemy and coordinating attacks.  This maneuver covered many more square miles of ocean, and even though our boats weren’t in sight of one another, we kept in close  touch using the newer VHF radio. 

Early during the war, U.S. Submarines successfully employed this plan for the test of the war.  The American invasion of the Philippines began while we were headed West, and we soon found ourselves involved.  Many Japanese warships and transporters were in the area as the enemy desperately tried to repel the American landings.  Atule was able to spot a Japanese light cruiser and notified the rest of  our pack.  Jallao drew first blood!  She sank the light cruiser.  A few days later our turn arrived.  On Halloween night, 1944, while we were on the surface, we sank a large troop transport that was headed to Leyte Gulf.  She was the Asama Maru, a former ocean passenger liner.  Several escorts accompanied the victim, so we promptly submerged.  Soon they started depth charging, to the detriment of the swimming survivors, I’m sure, but they never came very close to us.  Incidentally, in later attacks we always fired our torpedoes while we were surfaced,  and we never dived as part of the attack.  We thought of ourselves as a Navy ship which could fight on the surface and had the ability to submerge if necessary.  The enemy ship probably carried 3,000 to 5,000 troops, and the sound of that huge ship breaking us as she sank into the depths will never be forgotten.

Perhaps I should mention that our last contact with America was always the island of Saipan where we would rendezvous with the anchored submarine tender USS Fulton (AS-11).  Here we conducted refueling, either preparatory to heading out to the fighting zone or on our way back on our way to rest camp.  We would get three weeks between patrols.  Our first visit to Tanapag Harbor and  to Saipan October 21, 1944 was an eye-opener to the effects of battle for most of us.  The initial  Marine landings had been made  in June of 1944 on the 71 square mile island following the strategy of  occupying “stepping stones” towards the home  islands of Japan.  While Atule was refueling and loading last-minute stores the crew all got to go ashore for a beer party.  All of us loaded into small boats and accompanied by armed Marines we headed to solid ground.  That sandy beach was unbelievable.  Not a tree left in sight, just shattered stumps, none over about three feet high.  Trash of all kinds, especially a myriad of sake bottles — thousands of sake bottles — as well as all of the smashed and wrecked military junk you could imagine.  I even saw a chromed bread toaster amongst all that stuff!  We were given strict orders not to collect any souvenirs because of the possibility of booby traps.

And now, a word about our beer.  I may be giving away a military secret, but during the D-Day landings in June 1944, some of the small landing crafts were loaded with G.I. issue canned beer.  Some of them hadn’t made the beach and scuba divers had to go down to collect the olive-drab cans in gunny sacks.  Yep, our ration of two cans was starting to rust and were all coated with sand.  I’ll never forget the brand — Fishbach — because I was immediately hit with the worst headache I’ve ever had before or since.  The blinding sun and G.I. beer, after two weeks inside a dark submarine, was more than my delicate nature could stand.

Saipan still was not secure, quite a few of the enemy were still above us on the hillside, in caves.  It was here that I saw my first-ever helicopter patrolling along the beach, and also Navy fighter planes firing rockets into the caves.  Later on, we saw that those same uplands had been made into an American cemetery.  When you look at 4,000 white crosses you will always be able to realize the meaning of casualties.  Two of my Marine cousins from Minnesota, whom I had never met, are in that place.

But now we are well into our patrol and having success.  Statistically, our first patrol lasted 63 days, and Atule recorded 11 hits from the 22 torpedoes fired during four separate attacks resulting in  the sinking of five major enemy ships.

At this time I should mention that not all of the torpedoes fired during an attack are expected to connect.  No,  the idea is to fire a spread, usually four to six torpedoes, depending on the target’s size, so there is an overlap.  The first and the last shot may miss at the bow or the stern, but at least one torpedo should strike M.O.T. (Middle of Target) for the most  productive damage.  Eleven out of 22 is considered pretty good.  Of the six fired at Asama Maru, two and possibly three struck the enemy.  At least she went down in about four minutes.  With a well trained tracking party, one of the overlaps just might collect an escort even if it missed the main target.  Our tracking was pretty good, and later on we did just that! 

Our second successful attack occurred on November 20, 1944.   At about 3:30 a.m. our SJ radar picked up a good pip at about six miles.  After determining that it was an enemy ship, we commenced tracking.  Enemy was identified as a destroyer.  At around 5 a.m. we fired four fish from our stern tubes.  The first struck with a terrific explosion at about his forward stack.  Two and one-half minutes later his stern reared straight up and he slid under.  His depth charges kept going off as he plunged deeper and deeper into the depths.  No survivors. 

The very next evening one of the lookouts spotted the lights of a properly marked hospital ship.  Had him in sight for quite awhile.  He was probably headed for Singapore and was making  about 12 knots.  Of course, he never knew we were in the vicinity and  had a close eye on him.

Up until now, on this patrol, we had had over 20 aircraft contacts.  Some very close.  We avoided many of them and didn’t always dive, but those planes from the Philippines had radar so consequently we frequently did have to submerge as they keyed on us.  We even had some of their planes covering our VHF wolfpack frequencies and asking us in good English to “Come in please.”

On the afternoon of November 24, 1944, Atule detected echo ranging  on  a bearing of 200 degrees True.  By  1400 we had four ships in sight and we went to battle stations torpedo.  This would be our third attack on this  patrol.  Tracking showed this group  of four ships to consist of a large transport with a  destroyer covering the starboard bow, a patrol  craft on the port bow and another destroyer trailing astern.  A group of small islands was nearby, and if they could  zig-zag through them until daylight, we would be snookered.  It was now or never!  We eased in or the starboard flank jockeying for a good set-up at the transport and the destroyer.  Flat, calm water for a change, and still they didn’t spot us!  After more  careful tracking, Captain Maurer announced : “The near D.D. (destroyer) and the transport overlap.  Commence shooting.”  As the bow torpedoes headed towards the target,  Atule swung about so our stern tubes would bear.  By timing with a stopwatch, the order of hits could be calculated.  Torpedoes three and four hit the destroyer, which literally exploded into a funeral pyre.  Nothing was left but fuel oil burning on the water.  A few more seconds and # two hit the big transport followed by # seven.  The transport stopped dead in the water mortally wounded and then went  under in  less than 10 minutes.  This was a classic shot, i.e., two successive targets destroyed in one barrage.  The remaining Japanese escorts made a rapid search, fired a sporadic burst of gunfire, then dropped several depth charges, but in the wrong area.  As it turned out, we weren’t able to get a shot at them,  so as soon as we lost radar contact we secured from battle stations.  I felt elated, for on  our very first patrol we seemed to be having great success.

Our final attack on this patrol was a bit different from what I imagined was a practical tactic.  On November 27, 1944, after midnight, we made a good radar contact and went to battle stations.  We were close to two small  islands.  When we approached, we identified a ship anchored at the northern end of the channel  between the islands.  Four shots remained in the bow tubes on this patrol and we would not be denied.  Morning light would soon be coming and w didn’t want to wait much longer.  Captain Maurer ordered everything made ready with four  torpedoes set at 0 degree angle, i.e., all to track straight ahead.  Our helmsman, Russell Miller, Gunners Mate Third Class, would direct the fish by swinging our bow across the target from left to right as the torpedoes left their tubes.  Thus, each torpedo was sent on a different bearing along the enemy hull.  Conditions were perfect and all torpedoes hit, one after another, and a gigantic fire erupted.  She was aflame from bow to stern and heeled over as the stern settled to the bottom.  We turned 180 degrees and headed away at full speed.  Oh,  did I mention that there were a couple of escorts in the vicinity?  Our reversing maneuver got us out of there in a hurry, and, as we had fired all our fish, we couldn’t go after them.  Using our five inch deck gun was a possibility, but not a good one as the odds were against us.  The target burned for over an hour and lit up the sky with explosions on six different occasions.  Finally, when we were about 18 miles away came the last and most brilliant explosion which blew the charred remains to bits.  I was one of the crew allowed to come to the bridge one at a time to take a look at our accomplishment.

About a half hour later the # two main engine  went  out of service with a sheared lock plate on the vertical drive.  We had no spares for repair, but Atule had three more main engines plus a “dinky” for additional battery charging power.  We were okay for now.  On December 2, 1944, we moored alongside the USS Fulton at Saipan and commenced  refueling.  Next day our executive officer, LCDR R. Bowers, was detached to become a PCO (Prospective Commanding Officer) and was replaced by LCDR Paul Schratz.  We headed out of Saipan that same morning on our way to our first rest camp — Majuro Atoll.  Looking at the charts we found Majuro was a circle of islands surrounding a deep harbor.  A whole Naval Fleet had been assembled there earlier before the attack on Saipan, but the ships were all gone now.  We had our very own island.  The natives had all been moved to their own island and we never saw them.  We went back and forth to the sub tender in whale boats; there were no permanent dock installations on the island.

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DECORATIONS AWARDED FOR THE  FIRST PATROL

The Atule departed station with four ships sunk and one completely destroyed with a grand total of 26,700 tons of enemy shipping destroyed.

The following  awards were presented for this First War Patrol:

NAVY CROSS — Commander John H. MAURER, USN, NW Washington, DC

SILVER STAR — Lieut. Comdr. Richard H. BOWERS, USN, Annapolis, MD; Lieut. Hollis F. CHURCH, Jr., USNR, South Windsor, CT; Burdell R. CARTER, TM1c, SS, USN, Chicago, IL

BRONZE STAR — Lieut. Jack _. Hudson, USNR, Marfa, TX; Lt. (jg) Charles W. PETTIT, USNR, Bloomfield, IA; Norman L. FREEMAN, CRM, USN; John S. STRINGER, CMo__, USN, Sand, TX

LETTERS OF COMMENDATION WITH RIBBON — Lt (jg) Glenn O. OLSON, USNR, Armarillo, TX; Lt (jg) Frederick A. OYHUS, USNR, Akron, OH; Davis M. McLANE, CEM, USN, San Diego, CA; Grant T. Humphrey, T_1c, USN, Long Island City, NY; Thomas E. COREY, MoMM1c, USN, lEWISTON, ME; Harold G. HALM, QM2c(T), USNR, Salem, OR; Estel E. LUDLOW, TME3c, USNR, Alexandria, IN

SUBMARINE COMBAT INSIGNIA — To all officers and men.

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1.     The USS Atule — THE SUBMARINE COMBAT INSIGNIA has been awarded the Navy Unit Commendation for service during the following period(s): 9 October to 11 December 1944.

2.     In accordance with reference (a) the following men, by virtue of their service in this unit during one or more of the above periods, are hereby authorized to wear the Navy Unit Commendation Ribbon transmitted herewith:

CREW OF U.S.S. ATULE (SS-403)

3.     This authorization has been made a part of the official record of the personnel concerned.

By direction of Chief of Naval Personnel

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SUBMARINE FORCE, PACIFIC FLEET

6 January 1945

FF12-10/A16-3(15) — Serial: 060 — Care of Fleet Post Office — San Francisco, CA — CONFIDENTIAL — THIS REPORT WILL BE DESTROYED PRIOR TO ENTERING  PATROL AREA — THIRD ENDORSEMENT to Atule Report of First War Patrol — COMSUBPAC PATROL REPORT NO. 620 — U.S.S. ATULE — FIRST WAR PATROL

From: The Commander Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet; To: The Commander in Chief, United States Fleet; Via: The Commander in Chief, U.S. Pacific Fleet

Subject: USS Atule (SS-403) — Report of First War Patrol (9 October to 11 December 1944)

1.     The first war patrol of the ATULE, under the command of Commander John H. Maurer, U.S. Navy, was conducted in the Luzon Straits — South China Sea Area.  The ATULE along with USS JALLAO (SS-368) and the USS PINTADO (SS-387), formed a coordinated attack group with the Commanding Officer of the PINTADO as the group commander.

2.     During this outstanding patrol, the first for the ATULE, excellent area coverage was maintained, and numerous valuable targets were contacted.  Enemy anti-submarine measures, particularly radar equipped night flying planes were intense.  The ATULE, however, displayed a cool aggressiveness worthy of a veteran submarine in developing contacts and delivering four successful torpedo attacks which resulted in five enemy ships being sent to the bottom.

3.     Award of Submarine Combat Insignia for this patrol is authorized.

4.     The Commander Force, Pacific Fleet, congratulates the Commanding Officer, Officers, and crew for this outstanding first patrol.  The ATULE is credited with having inflicted the following damage upon the enemy during this patrol:

SUNK

1 Large AP (EU) — 10,000 tons (Attack No. 1); 1 DD (HATSUHARU Type)(EC) — 1,400 tons (Attack No. 2); 1 Large AP (EU) — 10,000 tons (Attack No. 3); 1 DD (MUTSUKI Type)(EC) — 1,300 tons (Attack No. 3); 1 Medium AK (EU) — 4,000 tons (Attack No. 4) — TOTAL SUNK: 26,000 tons.

s/ C. A. LOCKWOOD, Jr.

Distribution and authentication on following sheet; THE ENTIRE REPORT CONTAINED HEREIN DOWNGRADED TO UNCLASSIFIED.  AUTH: DOD 52009 (9-2)

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Photo Credits:

xxx

MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

AN EXAMPLE OF A MONKEY'S FIST

By JOHN R. BAKER

 

CHAPTER FIVE: WHAT THE HECK’S A MONKEY’S FIST?

When O’Toole got to Pearl Harbor she had a wonderful collection of monkey’s fists stowed in her gear locker.  We had just come westward through the Panama Canal.  (I’m certain after 60 years the statute of limitations has expired, so I’ll tell you more.) 

Now, a monkey’s fist is made from a chunk of lead intricately wrapped with light line to about the size of a baseball, and thus it can  be accurately tossed from pier to boat or vice-versa.  Next, a hawser is affixed to the line and then the whole thing can be hauled back to the thrower.  In this way the linehandlers moved us through the Panama Canal from lock to lock position as the funny little lock locomotives connected with our cleats and pulled us along.

We knew Panama Canal monkey fists were probably the world’s best — after all, so many of them were made!  Anyhow, when a fist and line crashed down on our deck — snick–snick — one more  prime piece of ground tackle joined our collection before the hawser could be bent  on.  This turned out to be our very best source of supply.  Of course, being a left arm rate, I was merely an observer, not a line handler.  I can still hear those lock workers, wishing all of us bon voyage and smooth sailing.

MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

AN MK40 (5 INCH, 25 CALIBER) DECK GUN ON THE TOPSIDE OF THE USS ATULE (SS-403)

By JOHN R. BAKER

 

CHAPTER FOUR: AND NOW, ATULE’S FIRST DIVE . . .

Before being commissioned on June  21, 1944, the boat had to pass all her  pre-commissioning tests, including that all-important first dive.  Going out the channel that morning was certainly a pre-quel to one of the most important, memorable events of my life.  I’m sure all of you who have ever participated on a first dive will agree it’s a never-to-be forgotten experience.  Think  about it.

Who could be absolutely sure another disaster like Squalus wouldn’t be about to happen?

The sound-powered phones were manned in all compartments and everyone enjoined to keep a sharp eye on developments.  When we reached our diving  area (not too deep, I’m sure) all the watertight doors throughout the boat were sealed tightly and the air conditioning flapper valves were made fast.  Our safety and negative tanks were full and trim tanks were calculated to be topped off correctly.  Everything was checked one  more time.

The captain directed developments from the conning tower and spoke over the 1-MC.  “Everybody ready?  Here we go,” he said.  COB Pyle checked the Christmas Tree carefully — making sure all the red and green signal lights were indicating correctly.  “Open the main ballast vents!”  A person can hear those vents cycle clear through the hull.  You can even hear the rush of air out of the tank tops as salt water pours into voids on the tank bottoms.  “Close the vents.”  This after we were technically still on the surface.  “All compartments report!”  Up until that moment I had imagined we’d just “pull the plug” and let her rip and hope for the bet.  This way might not be so bad, after all.  All reports were favorable, so the order was repeated.  “Open the vents!”  This drill went on, a few feet at a time, until we were completely submerged and Captain Maurer could use the periscope.  All told, it took almost a half hour to get completely under.  Any problems with the boat must have been minor, at least that’s how I remember, and we headed back to the yard.  All in all, it hadn’t been too bad a day.  After that momentous occasion we went out day after day to test all the many things we had to know about O’Toole.  Things such as speed on the surface and submerged, the proper operation of all our pumps, controls, gauges, etc.  In  other words, check out everything so as to give us complete trust in our boat  and in our ability as a crew to master her operation.

Oh yes, we still looked forward to the very important “DEEP DIVE.”  That’s when we must drop to our maximum depth.  This was sort of in the nature of an aftermath.  But, by the time we got to that test I know I for one  wasn’t as concerned about my immediate future as I had been on that FIRST DIVE . . .

Commissioning day finally arrived.  As previously mentioned, this was June 21, 1944.  The entire crew, dressed in their dress blue uniforms fell into two rows facing each other on the narrow deck behind the conning tower.  (They call that the sail now.)  When the traditional ceremony was over we were all forever plank-owners on this USS Atule.  Training went on constantly until it was time to head south.  Our next stop was at Newport, Rhode Island, where we took on a load of torpedoes before continuing on to New London Sub Base.  All manner of stores were put aboard here. 

Somewhere along the way we took on one of the new MK40 deck guns that had been developed for submarines.  It had a stainless steel barrel and didn’t have to be sealed every time we went under.

Another interesting thing happened when at last we cleared New London.  Our complement called for two stewards mates to take care of the wardroom and  the officers’ needs.  Stewards were usually black and until Truman made changes they were the only blacks in a Navy crew.  Ellis (ex Golden Glove champ) had served on other boats, but Griffith was brand new, and except for boot camp had no Navy training, certainly not submarine school.  Anyhow, on our first after leaving New London (remember, we had put on a lot of stores, fuel, etc.) the unnamed diving officer apparently had not allowed for 12 tons of water ballast in our bow buoyancy tank.  We went down  shall I say head first.  I know the forward bulkhead in the radio shack became the deck and I was standing on our main radio transmitter.  If I’ve got this correct, Mr. Bowers, our executive officer, who happened to be in the control room, took over the dive, and by judicious tank-tank blowing and full motor reversal we leveled off before we struck bottom.  Bear in  mind, a submarine in that condition is like a train running down a steep grade — it goes faster and faster until the crash. 

We were a little shook by this caper, but imagine  how Griffith felt  This was his very first dive!  I heard that he fled into the wardroom pantry and pulled the curtain down over himself.  If this was the way it was going to be he wanted off and right now!  He did recover and soon became a popular member of the crew.

A big Navy school operated at Key West and new boats heading  south were called in from time to time to operate with the school.  By chance, we were chosen and soon we headed toward the same pier the boat we were relieving was vacating.  We were now very close.  The other boat had her lines singled up and their brow was still over.  Just then, over a low knoll,  came a motor scooter with two riders, hell bent for the pier.  I swear, everyone on the submarine bridge was urging the motor scooter to hurry.  The two guys ran up to the brow, dragged the scooter aboard and around behind the conning tower.  Next, over the knoll came a shore patrol jeep with two irate cops.  Too late.  The boat left quickly and Atule rapidly moved in to occupy the vacated space. 

Our week at Key West Base was an enjoyable interlude.  I believe Sally Rand and her girls were appearing ? there. 

When we crossed the Caribbean Sea I was intrigued by the beautiful light blue color of the water.  We were on our way to Panama and the canal and we tried to be very alert.  Possible German U-Boats.  Going through the canal was enjoyable and we went through lock after lock and even had swim call in one of the lakes.  Captain Jack had a machine gunner on the bridge protecting swimmers from sharks.  No casualties.

Photo Credit:

MK40 deck gun photo provided by Richard Sanger

MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

THE LAUNCHING OF THE USS ATULE (SS-403) ON MARCH 6, 1944

By JOHN R. BAKER

 

CHAPTER THREE: THE BUILDING OF “MY BOAT”

Now it was time to move on and  put my schooling to use.  I had been trained to be  a Naval radioman and also submarine soundman at the schools I had attended in both Madison, Wisconsin, and New London, Connecticut.  On arriving at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, I discovered that more school was in the offing before we would actually get to go aboard Atule (now nicknamed O’Toole) as a crew.  Here I got introduced to my shipmates.  Most of us were just out of high school, but of course the real backbone of this new “band of brothers” was the experienced cadre of men who had already been to sea and who had been on war patrols.  For instance, Jeff Freeman, our most skilled radio man, had served in “S” boats.  He had actually been forced to lay on the bottom during a depth charge attack when they all thought they were done for.  (After a long time the Japanese left and  Jeff’s boat was able to rise and escape.)  All of us worked hard to meld, both the young swabbies and the old salts, into being shipmates.

The town of Portsmouth itself is an old New England coastal town, rich in American history.  For instance, Naval hero John Paul Jones is buried there.  The town had played an important part as a base during the Revolutionary War.  Also, many whaling ships over the years had called Portsmouth their home port.  Being stationed at this historic place was certainly a good experience for me.  Portsmouth Naval Shipyard is an old, old installation and has a long and distinguished history of building submarines.

It was exciting to be there and watch 7/8 inch thick sheets of special high-test steel being rolled into cylinders to form the pressure hull and then being carefully joined end to end by very skilled welders to form a long “cigar.”  The first construction work on Atule had been laying of the keel back in December 1943, and  she was launched (not finished) only 3-1/2 months later.

Our boat was launched on March 6, 1944, and was now tied to the “fitting out” pier where all final touches were being applied by the Navy yard workers.  Our crew lived in barracks on land but we worked aboard a large Navy barge positioned alongside our boat.  Here we concentrated on our specialties.  The radiomen had a secure area where we accumulated equipment, publications, spares, etc. — all the things we would work with when at last we went  aboard Atule prior to going to sea.  It was now summertime, and  after chow on many evenings I wandered down to the water just to check progress on “my boat.”  This particular evening the workmen were applying a soap suds solution around all hatches and openings to check that things were water-tight when pressure was  pumped into the boat.  A senior yard workman was standing nearby on the dock, and  naive young lad that I was I asked him: “Do you think this  is going to be a good boat?”  His reply: “Son, I’ve built submarines at this yard for many years, and in my opinion, this is going to be the best boat we’ve ever put out.”  Now, I wasn’t so dumb that I didn’t know he was just being nice to an apprehensive young sailor, but know what?  I have never forgotten that sensitive man who said just the appropriate thing at an appropriate time.  Best of all, he was right!  Portsmouth boats were the best.

Usually there were three subs being constructed about the same time, so all of these crews attended  classes together at the Navy yard.  We went to school with the crews of the Seafox SS-402 and as I recall the Spikefish SS-404.  As a matter of interest, we later heard that the Seafox, while at rest camp at Guam between patrols, lost five members from  her crew when they got bored while “resting” and went Japanese hunting after they heard that the enemy was rumored to still have troops loose on the island.  Those of the crew who participated armed themselves with small arms from the boat and went looking.  They were ambushed and killed.  I can assure you, our training did not include scouring the boondocks for the enemy.  Another not-so-smart event occurred while we were still living in the barracks at the Navy yard.  Both French and Italian submarines were in Portsmouth for repairs.  The two crews were given liberty at the same time!  The honchos discovered what a mistake that was.  Nobody was killed, but there were a lot of bruises.  Somebody forgot that Frenchmen and Italians didn’t like one another.  Oh well, it tended to relieve any boredom we might have.

Photo Credits:

Launching of the Atule — photo provided by A. Dewayne Catron (Atule 1963)

Submarine being repaired — photo by Jason Merserve, Network World, Inc., Southborough, MA

AN UNIDENTIFIED SUBMARINE BEING REPAIRED AT THE PORTSMOUTH NAVAL SHIPYARD IN NEW HAMPSHIRE ON JULY 21, 2007

MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

By JOHN R. BAKER

CHAPTER  TWO: COMMANDER TUNNEY AND HIS MAGIC EXERCISES

Maybe some of us can remember the winter of 1943-44 at Sub Base New London where Cmdr. Gene Tunney led the trainees in how to exercise while at sea.  For those who need an introduction, Tunney became heavyweight champ  in 1926 by defeating Jack Dempsey.  Next year he did it again and then retired from boxing in 1928.

Anyhow, somebody got an inspiration and we swabbies became the victims.  After we finished our sub-school classes each day hundreds of reluctant enlisted men were herded into the huge parking lot in front of Gilmore Hall.  The Commander mounted a platform atop the building with an enlisted man at each side.  He’d then run through a set of jumping jacks or windmills and then have his assistants continue the exercises ad finitum.  The idea was to introduce a regimen of exercises we could perform at sea during our war patrols and keep us in “fighting trim.”  Chief Spritz even had his henchmen guarding all exits to keep us from sneaking away. 

It was winter.  All of us  wore our good peacoats.  Didn’t matter.  There we were doing sit-ups and pushups in that dirty parking lot!  What a mess. 

Needless to say, when we went to sea we forgot all about our “Tunney Drills.”

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The following is a story told to me  personally by a Lockwood Chapter shipmate, Mike Heberling:

It was a day in 1943 and I was hard at work running the waxer over the second floor of the new barracks up on the side of the hill when I looked out the open window and who should I see but Chief Charlie Spritz riding down the street on his bicycle.  He always wore his 1920s chief’s hat that stood high above his  head.

Two young sailors were walking down the street, coming towards him.  Horrors.  Their hats weren’t squared!  Spritz twisted his head around to holler at them and  wham — he ran  up over the curb and piled into a tree!  It was such a tangle of bicycle and chief that I couldn’t help but  howl with laughter.  As soon as he spied me he roared; “Stay right there, don’t move!”  As he started towards the  barracks door I dropped the waxer handle and popped out the back door.  I wasn’t about to be transferred to that infamous French cruiser in N.Y., the “Pier 92.”  I ended up at the lake and stayed until after chow.  Fortunately, I never heard another word.

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Photo Credit and Art Credit:

United States Navy

NAVAL SUBMARINE BASE NEW LONDON AT GROTON, CONNECTICUT

NAVAL SUBMARINE BASE NEW LONDON (SUBBASE NLON) IS LOCATED ON THE EAST SIDE OF THE THAMES RIVER

MY STORY: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE US NAVY

By JOHN R. BAKER

CHAPTER ONE: THE LUCKIEST EVENTS OF MY LIFE

I was born July 12, 1924 at Swedish Hospital in Seattle, Washington.  Growing up in north Seattle was a happy time for me, mostly because of family events and grade school.  I was eight-years-old in 1932, the height of the Depression, and I vividly remember the Hoover – Roosevelt presidential campaign.  None of my contemporaries had any money, but hey, none of us ever felt deprived.  I’m glad I grew up back then rather than having to endure the lifestyles kids face today.  Life was great back then and  I had nothing  to complain about.

Back in 1935 my dad’s job as a salesman for Pacific Fruit and Produce called for a transfer and our family moved to Bremerton, Washington.  We were the Baker family — my mom and dad and my little sister Marilyn and me.  Bremerton is located on Puget Sound and is home to Puget Sound Naval Shipyard.  This yard is still very active what with repairing, rebuilding, mothballing and maintaining all types of Navy ships.  As an 11-year-old and then a 12-year-old kid with a bicycle I got to cover a lot of territory, and soon the Navy yard was the most interesting part of my world.  Back then my favorite activity was to ride down to the Navy yard gate and hang out with the Marine sentries.  I was well aware that this was a special place — guarded and protected from all but those who belonged there.  Nevertheless, sneak that I was, I’d ditch my bike and ease on into the yard.  Oh, joy!  This was where I loved to be.  On these trips I was always alone; I needed no buddies to confuse the issue.

Now, the one piece of advice I can give to anyone trying the same stunt — always fold your hands behind your back and don’t touch anything, and  by all  means stay out of the way.  Just look.  This way you’ll probably never have trouble with the honchos.

I could spend hours prowling around those Navy piers jammed tightly with ships.  I soon had preferences.  I can’t tell you why, but my all time favorite was light cruiser USS Raleigh.  I fell in love with that sleek, deadly warship

USS RALEIGH, USS OREGON AND USS SAINT LOUIS AT PUGET SOUND NAVAL SHIPYARD, BREMERTON, WA, ABOUT 1913.

and often went by her pier just to take another look at her.  Other special favorites were the aircraft carriers Lexington and Saratoga.  At that time  these carriers were the pride of the US Navy.  One Navy Day I even got to go aboard Saratoga!  The thrill of a lifetime.  All my life I’ve loved the water and boats — all kinds of boats.  (I still prowl around boat yards and moorages, even now that I’ve retired.)

In town we rented a house next to a popular bicycle rental shop, so I got to be around lots of sailors who came to rent the bikes.  Later on we rented a house, just for the summer, at Kitsap Lake, not far from Bremerton.  I had my own rowboat to use for three months.  Best of all, the Navy had a rest camp on the opposite shore of the lake.  That summer the neighbor kid and I would hang around there a lot.  They had all kinds of sailing craft that they used and sometimes we’d get to ride along with them as they cruised about the lake.  I never really learned to sail, but those future admirals were plenty salty, so associating with real sailors made our joy complete.  Can’t you see now why the Navy was my only choice?

Later on  the family moved back to Seattle where my dad was killed in an auto accident when I was 17.  This was in 1941 and war soon came on December 7.  I was a junior in high school by then but I got to finish.  By 1943, I graduated, enlisting wasn’t permitted for our age group, so we had to be taken in through the draft.  All of us had been given our pre-induction physicals and at their pleasure we were called up by our draft boards.  I was in board #4 and was ordered to report for induction on June 6.  (High school graduation was held the night of June 5.) 

Now for one of the luckiest events of my life.  Of course, all I wanted was the US Navy.  Certainly not the Army.  All of my formative years I had been gearing for the Navy.  Very important to me.  What could I do?  At least three different boards were called in at a time.  There was a strict quota system in effect.  I can still remember the ratio very well.  Forty went to the Navy, seven to the Marines, seven to the Coast Guard.  The Army took the rest.  I would have to be there early.  At 7:30 the next morning I was first in line at the induction center downtown.  At 9 a.m., when they opened, we were directed to wait until called.  This is when I found out that board #4 was going to be interviewed last.  When at last I got to the head table I was met by a Navy chief, Marine sergeant, Coast Guard chief and an Army sergeant, seated all in a row.  The Navy chief asked me: “Do you have a preference?”  I smartly answered: ‘Navy.”  He said: “Sorry, son, the Navy quota is already filled for the day.”  At this the Marine sergeant leaned over and asked: “How about the Marines?”  I thought for a moment and  answered: “That will be okay.”  We were then sent out to have a last, brief physical and then returned to the same table.  The sergeant had my eye test and said: “I’m sorry, son, but I can’t recommend the Marines because of your eyesight.  Do you have another service branch you would like?”  I immediately answered: “I’d like to join the Navy.”  I sometimes wonder what became of the 40th choice that day, because immediately I was made #1 in the Navy draft.  Next, we all had to march through downtown Seattle to the Navy recruiting station to be sworn into the service.  I was given everybody’s records and got to lead the whole shebang!  Needless to say, I was the happiest kid in the whole city of Seattle.  It couldn’t have worked out any better for me.  My car had been parked on a busy downtown Seattle street all day and was about to be towed, but I didn’t care.  The heck with the fine.

Boot camp was at Farragut, Idaho, and was a good experience for me because I did well on  the testing and was sent to radio school at the University of Wisconsin in Madison.  We got there in September while the weather was perfect.  But, winter, when it came, was colder than any place I’d ever seen.  They even sawed up the lake and saved big chunks in sawdust insulated ice houses.

I spent five months attending radio school on campus.  I found out we were learning Morse code by a new method.  The special training was developed to make us respond to Morse code by striking the proper typewriter key according to what we heard over the earphones.  In other words, dit-dah meant “Contract the little  finger of your left hand and strike ‘A’.”  You didn’t think, that would slow you down.  You simply automatically struck the proper key.  Some trainees couldn’t do it that way above about 10 words per minute, and one of my buddies, B. B. Ball, was shipped out because of it.   Eventually, those of us who made it through could be reading a pocket book and copying code at the same time.  At school, my roommate, Don Bergfeld (matches by alphabet are in the service) and I became buddies.  He had a brother, Bill, on the submarine USS Growler who wrote to him often and made the boats sound so good my roommate couldn’t hold off.  He just had to volunteer for submarines.  As for me, I had no thought about submarines, but Don worked on me and I decided to go, too.  Of 125 in radio school, seven were accepted for New London.  My vision still wasn’t 20/20.  But I went with the other six to the college infirmary to take our physicals.  I easily memorized the simple eye chart and was accepted.  I figured it would be a lot different story when we got to take the real submarine physical later.

The first thing to happen to us when we got to the subbase was our introduction to “Spritz’s Navy.”  Charley Spritz was an old-timer who had retired from the Navy a long, long time ago and then was recalled to make life miserable for all the students and potential students at submarine school.  For three weeks he kept us in a special barracks area while we were being tested to see if the Navy was going to let us enter submarine training.  Spritz had a crew of “henchmen,” sadistic types all, who kept us under iron control during this three weeks and even afterwards while we were taking sub classes.  We all got a more thorough physical checkup than I’d ever seen before.  The usual color-blind test, etc., but also “depth of field” tests and dental overbite testing to make sure we could bite the Momsen Lung mouthpieces properly in case we ever had to escape from a sunken submarine.  We also got written tests to make sure we were competent to learn our lessons and even, get this, a psychiatric interview with a Navy shrink.  I hesitate to even try to recall that shocking episode!  The corpsmen had detected a deviated septum I didn’t even know I had, but to my surprise nothing was said about my eyesight and so I passed the physical.  There was more to come, however. 

It was January of 1944 and most of us had colds — I think the Navy called it “Cat Fever” — and we were in bad shape.  The air pressure test, because of our blocked Eustachian Tubes was particularly painful.  We were put into a big air pressure tank, the hatches were sealed, then air pressure was applied.  The pressure was again run up and down a few times, all while men were being cycled out of the tank.  Eventually, most of us passed.  The diving tank was next.  I recall this as actually being fun, like a day at Disneyland.  We were put into a pressure tank fixed to the side of the big diving tank which was over 100 feet tall.  Groups of about five at a time put on Momsen Lungs, were sealed into the pressure tank at the 50 foot level.  Air pressure was increased and when that pressure matched the water pressure inside the diving tank at 50 feet, the heavy side door was opened and we left via a line which led to a buoy on the surface.  We had been instructed to let ourselves slide up the line slowly, breathe into the Momsen Lung, and whatever we did we were not to hold our breath.  We were told to do this was potentially fatal.  My group from radio school didn’t do too well.  One fellow, after coming up from 50 feet in the driving tank, wouldn’t let go of he buoy in the tank center.  Turned out  he had never learned to swim and had to be aided to the edge of the tank.  I know, I know, you’re not supposed to get out of boot camp if you can’t swim, but it seems there are always exceptions to the regulations.  He was no longer with our group.  Another had severe acne.  Chronic staph. infections can’t be allowed in the tight confines of a submarine so he was gone, too.  In all, Bergfeld and I were the only two to make it through the whole school.

We spent  any of our spare ? time down at the docks along the Thames River looking at all  the REAL submarines.  As well as the American boats there were some French and English boats, but they didn’t seem to be doing much.  After concentrated study it was time for our first “trip” to sea on a real submarine.  When Don and I went through submarine school they had no contemporary subs available for training, so we were forced to concentrate on the “O” boats.  These rusty buckets had been built back during World War One.  Certainly they weren’t state of the art.  In retrospect, I think going out on an “O” boat was about as risky as going on War Patrol in  the Pacific.  However, in school, we had to learn that boat from one end to the other, even though after graduation we would never be exposed to anything so ancient again.

One painful episode occurred for me when I was assigned to man the trim manifold.  On an “O” boat this featured a bank of dinky valve handles about like those found on a garden spigot, only a lot more of them and spaced closely together.  Anyhow, we were given a rapid series of orders regarding the pumping of water between the trim tanks to keep the boat nice and level.  I was so charged up in my new duties that my feverish valve-twisting caused my fingernails to scrape my fingers and hands all bloody!  Somehow, I got through this early training.

I had been rated RM 3/C from radio school and  had done well in sub school so I got new-construction at Portsmouth, N.H.  My boat was to be the USS Atule, SS 403.  Bergfeld was sent to a training boat at Cosco Bay, Maine.  Sadly, I never saw him again. 

Photo Credits:

USS Raleigh, USS Oregon and USS Saint Louis (Donald M. McPherson — US Naval Historical Center Photograph)

USS O-1 (US Naval Historical Center Photograph)

USS 0-1 (SUBMARINE #62) IN DRY DOCK AT PORTSMOUTH NAVY YARD IN SEPTEMBER 1918

"HIT 'EM WHERE IT HURTS!" -- A SUBMARINE SERVICE RECRUITING POSTER FROM 1943

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