No Ordinary Joes (9 page)

Adding to the anxiety, there was a critical shortage of torpedoes
available at Pearl Harbor, with no sign that production could increase fast enough to solve the problem; the order was to use no more than two torpedoes when shooting at a merchant ship.

By the third day of the voyage, Chuck and the rest of the crew had settled into a routine. He stood watch—four hours on, eight hours off—and slept in the enlisted men’s crowded bunk space in the aft torpedo storage space. On watch, he tended to the diesel engines, making sure they were performing properly, the strong smell of diesel fumes a constant. Most of his free time he spent studying so he could pass his qualifying tests. What little time he had left, he joined friends in playing poker and drinking coffee in the crew’s mess. Others played cribbage or acey-deucey, but he stuck to poker: five-card draw and seven-card stud. He loved the rush of gambling, even if he was at risk of losing a week’s pay in one sitting.

One week passed at sea for the
Gudgeon
, then a second, the journey proceeding slowly, tediously, and, as ordered, cautiously. Grenfell was under orders to run submerged in daylight as soon as they got to within 500 miles of the Japanese coast, but he did so at 1,000 miles. At night he ran on one engine to conserve fuel.

One night while playing cards, Chuck noticed a mild pain in his side. He dismissed it as a strain he’d gotten while loading supplies onto the ship. In the morning the pain was still there, up under his ribs.

After living with the pain for several days, he went to see Doc. Each submarine had a pharmacist’s mate, or Doc, as he was called by the crew, and it was his duty to keep the crew as healthy as possible. Usually, the extent of the training given these men consisted of first-aid awareness and a rudimentary understanding of commonly prescribed painkillers and antibiotics. Beyond that, they mostly winged it. Stories abounded of pharmacist’s mates heroically performing emergency surgeries with knives and spoons from the mess kitchen.

After a brief examination, Chuck was ordered to his bunk and given an ice pack to keep on his side. “I’m not sure what it is,” Doc said. “It could be your appendix.”

Chuck knew that if the pain was caused by his appendix, he could be in serious trouble. It didn’t help when he overheard the pharmacist’s mate tell an officer that he’d “be a goner if that thing bursts.” Chuck pressed the ice bag tight to his side. He also knew that the ship was entering Japanese waters and was likely to encounter the enemy soon. The last place he wanted to be when the action started was confined to his bunk.

Over the next twenty-four hours, the pain worsened, especially when he tried to take a deep breath. It was Christmas Day.

On January 2, 1942, twenty-one days after leaving Pearl Harbor, the
Gudgeon
arrived at Bungo Suido. They were close enough to land that they could see navigational beacons ashore and sampans with running lights. The pain in Chuck’s side had disappeared as mysteriously as it had begun, and he had been told by the pharmacist’s mate to have it examined by a doctor upon returning to Pearl. Now he was just scared. He was in a metal tube under the ocean, thousands of miles from his home in New York, a place he might never see again.

It didn’t take long for Grenfell to spot a small coastal freighter. He closed to within 2,600 yards. As later reported, torpedoes were readied for firing and the necessary calculations were hastily taken. A new guidance system had been installed in U.S. subs: it received data from the periscope or sonar on the enemy’s bearing, range, speed, and “angle on the bow,” and then was supposed to automatically plot the course of the target relative to the course of the submarine, computing and setting the proper gyro angle in the torpedo to intercept it. But to obtain an accurate range estimate, the captain had to calculate the height of the target’s mast, then extrapolate from the horizontal lines in the periscope’s crosshairs using a slide rule. At the same time that Grenfell was sorting out this data, he had to keep sweeping around the horizon for enemy escorts and aircraft.

In peacetime, U.S. subs had trained primarily with destroyers with known masthead heights. But now the target ships would have unknown masthead heights, and in most cases these ships would be zigzagging. These
zigs and zags had to be considered. Another potential problem was the torpedo spread—how to space the firings so as to score hits. In practice, three torpedoes were fired—one forward of the bow, one at the middle, and one astern; the spread compensated for errors in speed estimates or changes in the target’s speed. But because they were under orders to fire two rather than three shots at merchant ships, the spread technique had to be revised, requiring a higher degree of accuracy in estimating speed and range, but also the length of the target ship; all this was being done in the heat of battle. In addition, the captain had to be calculating his ship’s escape route immediately after firing in case an escort ship chased down the torpedoes’ bubbles. This required that the sub dive neither too steeply, which could structurally endanger the ship, nor too shallow, which would leave the shears (external housing and support for the ship’s periscope) exposed and make them vulnerable to counterattack.

But the biggest problem facing the
Gudgeon
, as well as all American subs at the onset of the war, was the growing concern that these subs were equipped with defective torpedoes; in prewar testing these Mark XIV torpedoes, the only ones the United States had produced, either had run too deep or their Mark VI magnetic exploders had not detonated. By design, a trigger in the Mark VI allowed the torpedo to explode at a distance beneath a ship, where it had no armor. When this explosion reached the hull, it would cause catastrophic failure to the keel.

Following a perfect approach by the
Gudgeon
, the small coastal freighter was dead-center in the crosshairs. “Fire torpedo one … fire torpedo two,” ordered Grenfell. Everybody on board waited for the explosion. Nothing.

The
Gudgeon
escaped, but now the real possibility existed that they were deep in hostile waters armed with useless torpedoes.

After almost two weeks of patrolling near Bungo Suido, the
Gudgeon
started the trip back to Pearl Harbor, Captain Grenfell surprised that they had gone over a week without spotting anything despite patrolling in a busy
shipping lane. But shortly after turning for home, they encountered another freighter, this one estimated at 5,000 tons. It was night, and the
Gudgeon
was on the surface, recharging its batteries. Grenfell maneuvered to within 2,500 yards, and despite orders not to fire more than two torpedoes at merchant ships, he fired three. From his place in the hull, Chuck felt the shock of an explosion. As the
Gudgeon
fled the area, everyone on board shared in the jubilation of believing that they had sunk their first ship and that their torpedoes weren’t ineffective after all.

Like everyone else on board, Chuck felt relieved to be returning to Pearl Harbor. They’d been gone over six weeks—six weeks of unrelenting tension. Rumor had it that the whole crew would be housed at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. What a treat after the cramped and foul-smelling quarters of the submarine—fresh air, good food, big beds, and, who knew, maybe even a woman.

The sense of relief was short-lived. On January 24, the
Gudgeon
received a coded message that three Japanese submarines were headed in their direction.

The tracking of Japanese submarines by naval code breakers had been made a high priority after December 7. As later confirmed, Japanese submariners were irresponsibly chatty, communicating almost daily to their commanders or home base in a code that was easy for the Americans to decipher. The three subs for which the
Gudgeon
now lay in wait had brazenly been patrolling off the California coast, firing a few shells into a refinery near San Pedro that did no damage but caused great fear with the citizens of Southern California. This alerted Navy intelligence, which began tracking the subs, their job simplified by the subs’ frequent radio transmissions as they proceeded on a great circular route back to their base in Kwajalein. Perhaps emboldened by sneaking so close to the California shoreline, the subs also fired a few shells onto Midway Island as they passed, further betraying their position.

At 9:00 a.m. on January 27, just as projected, one of the subs crossed the path of the submerged
Gudgeon
. Spotting it through the periscope,
Grenfell was dumbfounded. “Look at this,” he said. “They’re coming along, fat, dumb, and happy. They’re not even zigzagging. The men are lounging on the deck, sunbathing and smoking.”

Grenfell ordered battle stations, then fired three torpedoes from the bow tubes. Eighty-one seconds later, he heard a dull explosion.

Not positive if they’d scored a direct hit, Grenfell cautiously brought his ship closer to the surface. There was no submarine in sight, no propeller sounds or sonar. It’s not known for sure if the torpedoes worked; there is speculation that I-173 tried to dive but forgot to close its hatches, thus flooding the ship. In any case, the submarine disappeared from radio traffic forever, making it the first major Japanese warship sunk in World War II.

Chuck’s reaction surprised him. He expected to feel a sense of revenge, and in fact he’d shouted and raised his fist in triumph when he heard the explosion, until he visualized the Japanese crew in their control room, doing the same job he did. Surely they must have heard the swishing sound of the torpedo approaching, and surely for an instant before the explosion they knew what was about to happen. Rationally, he knew they were the enemy and needed to be eliminated. Still, it bothered him.

W
hen Bob dropped out of Medford High to join the Navy in September 1939 just before Germany invaded Poland, it was not for duty and country. He wanted to get away from his stepmother Cora and from the pain of the breakup with his sweetheart Barbara Koehler.

Initially, Bob thought joining the Navy was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. At boot camp in San Diego, California, he loved everything about it: the playing of taps in the evening, the colors, saluting the flag, and even all the marching on the Grinder, which is what the recruits called the marching compound. Sometimes in the morning when they raised the flag and played reveille, he’d feel so much pride that he got tears in his eyes. For the first time in his life, he felt he belonged. He liked the simplicity and regimented routine. His life had purpose. But by the time he finished boot camp, he was beginning to have doubts, thinking the only skills he’d really learned were how to march and how to peel potatoes. When he was assigned to the USS
Wright
, an aging World War I mother ship to seaplanes, he had hopes of working as an airplane mechanic, but in the three months he’d been at Pearl Harbor, all he’d done was scrape paint from the hull of the old ship. About the only thing he felt good about was all the letters he’d written home for his crewmates. It surprised him how many of them didn’t know how to write.

Then one day the ship’s executive officer asked if anyone on the crew could type. Bob was the only person who raised his hand; in his junior year
he’d taken a typing class, thinking it might be a good way to meet girls. The officer instructed him to step forward.

“You just volunteered,” he said.

The next day, Bob reported to the USS
Tuna
, a submarine, and was assigned to be the man in charge of clerical duties, the ship’s yeoman, or as crewmates often called the position, “first pussy.” And that’s how he became a submariner.

Bob quickly regained the sense of purpose he’d initially felt when he joined the Navy. He liked his crewmates on the
Tuna
. What struck him most about this crew as compared with that of the
Wright
was how much smarter the men seemed. They could all read and write, and they were good at mechanical and engineering problems. Plus, there was a camaraderie and togetherness that he hadn’t felt before. It wasn’t something the crew talked about, it was just there.

He admitted, however, to being nervous on his first training dive. It was his first time aboard a sub. The ship plunged downward at a steep angle and there was a lot of clanging and banging, the sound of rushing air, and the sight of men furiously spinning valves. It was the noises that scared him most. As the ship’s yeoman, he had the sense that he was just along for the ride, a reluctant passenger on a scary ride at an amusement park. He felt the ship throb, almost like it was groaning. He held on to the desk in his little cubbyhole of an office, hoping everyone else on board was too busy to notice how scared he was. In the weeks ahead, he got progressively less frightened with each dive, but he was never completely at ease.

Bob couldn’t believe his good luck. It was October 1941, and when the
Tuna
got sent to Mare Island near San Francisco for repairs, he found out that Barbara was now working as a secretary for an insurance company in San Francisco. She had dropped out of the University of Oregon after a year and was living in a cramped studio apartment on Pine Street with her cousin Margie and Aunt Fern. He wasted no time in calling her, and to his great joy she agreed to go out on a date with him.

That first date didn’t go quite as he’d planned. The day before he was supposed to meet her, he forged an officer’s signature on a weekend pass for a shipmate and got caught. Sentenced to a week in the brig, he couldn’t call. When he finally got out and called, he apologized profusely; to his relief she quickly got over being angry and gave him another chance.

When he arrived at the apartment and Barbara opened the door, he stood there, mouth agape. She was even cuter and shapelier than he remembered.

For her part, she thought he looked pretty damn cute himself, all decked out in his sailor suit. He’d matured since she’d last seen him, his lean frame filled out a bit, his face fuller, more mature. And those eyes, sky blue and friendly, reminded her why she’d first been attracted to him back in high school, and why she’d let him sweet-talk her into the backseat of her father’s car across the street from the Baptist Church.