after some inquiry, found the means to make him a Chief Petty Officer so that he could have the added rank and prestige to go with his new responsibilities.
Our officer complement remained the same, however, except that a new Ensign was ordered to us, and everybody except Jim and rue received a promotion. Tom became a full Lieutenant; so did Keith. Hugh and Dave found their names in a promotion AlNav to the rank of Lieutenant, junior Grade.
Our new wardroom occupant was jerry Cohen, fresh out of the submarine school and as green as grass. Though he had been sent to us for training, so said the ComSubPac Personnel Officer, it was obvious that he had to have a job and a battle station, and that some revision in our setup was therefore necessary.
Jim, Keith, and Tom, of course, stayed in their depart- ments as before. Jerry Cohen, a short, slightly built lad, became assistant to Keith in the gunnery and torpedo depart- ment and took over Dave Freeman's chores with the commissary department. He also relieved Hugh on the navigational plot in the conning tower at battle stations, freeing that young man for direct help to Tom Schultz during such times.
We had two day of training, 'refresher training' it was called-and then for two days- more we loaded, fueled, and, — provisioned the ship. On the eighteenth day after arriving at Midway from our second war patrol Walrus got under way for her third, bound this time for Palau and the area between R and New Guinea. As a matter of curiosity I had looked into the situation off the Bungo Suido, partly to see what Stocker' had rtm into while there, and had — found ample evidence Bungo Pete's continuing effectiveness. The Nerka, somehow, had not met with him at all. Perhaps he had been otherwise occupied or under overhaul. But the next submarine in AREA SEVEN had been horribly knocked about and had to return to Midway for emergency repairs. And Turbot, the next one after that, had not been heard from for a long time and became one day overdue from patrol at the time of our own departure from Midway.
After the Aleutians, Palau was a pleasure cruise, warm an balmy, most of the nights star-lighted, the sea smooth.
Except for one thing: where our Aleutian patrol had been notable for lack of activity, Palau gave us all we could handle, and then some, nor did it wait for our arrival.
We ran all the way to Palau on the surface, except for one day spent submerged in the vicinity of Guam so as not to be detected by planes flying patrol from there. We crossed our area boundary at midnight, were speeding southwest in hopes of getting in sight of the main island, Babelthuap, before submerging for the day, when Jim called me to the bridge.
I was up there within seconds. He had slowed down and we were swinging to the northward.
'There's a ship, Captain!' He pointed to the southern horizon. I had taken the precaution of keeping red goggles on whenever I went below at night, even when lying down for a few minutes' doze on my bunk. Hence I could see the object he was pointing out almost right away. It was a small vessel, short and stubby, with a lot of top hamper and a single tall thin stack. A small freighter, alone and unprotected 'Call the crew to battle stations torpedo, Jim,' I ordered.
He dashed below eagerly. A second later the musical chimes of the general alarm rang forth, and the scurrying of feet told me that Walrus was girding her loins for action. Tom came to the bridge, relieved Keith of the deck; the latter ran below to his TDC. On night surface action Tom had nothing to do unless we dived, hence we had decided that he would relieve whoever happened to have deck at the time, and back me up on the bridge as QOD.
This indeed seemed a good opportunity to try the night surface attack technique. Our SJ radar had been worked over and much improved during our last refit, and a talk-back circuit had been rigged up between the conning tower and the bridge so that I no longer had the nuisance of trying to shout down through the open hatch or of relaying orders and in- formation by messenger or through the bridge speaker. Word would come up from Jim via the general announcing speaker, as before. In a moment it blared: 'Bridge, conn testing!' I picked up my mike: 'Loud and clear, conn; how me?'
Jim's steady voice came back in reply: 'I hear you the same!'
A few seconds later Jim again: 'Bridge, the ship is at battle stations. No range yet to the target.'
We were still too far for radar to get a return echo from the target. 'Give him eight thousand yards,' I called back.
'Angle on the bow looks like starboard, about broadside, give him starboard ninety! Stand by for a TBT bearing.' So saying, I jammed my binoculars into their socket on top of the instrument, twisted it around until the other ship loomed in the center of their field, and pressed the button. In the conning tower the relative bearing would appear on a dial repeater near the TDC, could be set into it exactly as a periscope bearing might. Similarly, Jerry Cohen would set it up on his plotting sheet.
Without radar ranges, a few bearings alone would give us an idea of the enemy's course and speed. If two of them could be paralleled by accurate ranges, we would have a definite solution, the essential information necessary for accurately angling our torpedoes.
The objective, of course, was to get the enemy's course and speed quickly, run in close and finish him off before I spotted the submarine or had other opportunity for escape.
We were still making slow progress on our new course, to the north. To get a radar range it would be necessary to approach a little closer. 'Jim, I'm going to change course toward the target to get within radar range,' I called down, and directed.
Oregon to put the rudder full left, calling for more speed as I did so.
Snorting from her four aroused diesels, Walrus wheeled in the smooth water toward the enemy ship and began to close the range at an oblique angle.
'Radar contact!' The speaker blared beside me. Then steady voice. 'We have him on the radar, Captain. Range six thousand. Give us a bearing!'
I went through the business of transmitting a TBT bearing below. Approximately a minute later I did the same thing again. In the conning tower they would get a range at the same instant, and the resulting plot would give us enemy course and speed, which was all we needed to know.
It was time to sheer out again, run on up ahead, attain our firing position, and get ready to let go our salvo; but this was where the roof caved in on us. I was looking at the target through my binoculars, had him clearly in my field of view, when suddenly his whole side erupted into light. At least four simultaneous flashes-two amidships, one on the bow and one on the stern. Seconds later there came a tearing whistle close overhead' As if by magic, four white blossoms appeared in the water, two alongside to starboard, one just astern, one a few feet ahead and to port. Foaming water deluged our forecastle. We had been trapped, as neatly as you please, and by the oldest trick in the book.
I fumbled frantically for the bridge diving alarm, pressed it hard, twice. 'Clear the bridge!' I yelled. 'Take her down!'
Our vents popped, almost simultaneously. Air whistled out of them, casting thin. geysers of vapor up through our deck slats.
Our four lookouts tumbled down from their perches up on the shears and scuttled for the hatch, Tom right behind them.
Our bow planes up forward, normally housed against the side of the ship while on the surface, began to turn out and down- into the 'rigged out' position for submerged operation.
I swung back to the enemy, just in time to catch the sec- ond salvo-a bit more ragged than the first. Four more white blossoms in the black ocean, no closer than before, thank God!
He had some kind of salvo-fire system, and was no doubt firing as fast as he could reload his guns, in a way a fortunate circumstance for us. Also, I noticed, his length had decreased and he was stubbier than ever. Obviously he had turned toward, was racing for us as fast as his engines would drive him.
Our deck dipped, went under. I was the last man left on the bridge. Time for one last look-a third. salvo coming- not at all together this time. The night was ripped again, once-twice-three times… 'WHRANG!' I saw nothing but stars and bright flashes. A hit! We had been hit!
There was no other conscious thought. I was knocked against the side of the bridge, felt, rather than saw the open hatch to the conning tower yawning at my feet, Rubinoffski standing in the middle of the bole with the bronze lanyard gripped in his hand, the sea rushing up the side of the conning tower, gurgling and splashing. I lurched to it, sort of half-stumbled into the Quartermaster's arms, felt myself unceremoniously pushed aside and down as, intent upon only one thing, Ru- binoffski jerked the hatch lid down with one hand, spun the dogging hand wheel with the
