Iron Men and Tin Fish: The Race to Build a Better Torpedo during World War II

IRON MEN AND TIN FISH

Praeger Security International Advisory Board Board Cochairs Loch K. Johnson, Regents Professor of Public and International Affairs, School of Public and International Affairs, University of Georgia (U.S.A.) Paul Wilkinson, Professor of International Relations and Chairman of the Advisory Board, Centre for the Study of Terrorism and Political Violence, University of St. Andrews (U.K.) Members Eliot A. Cohen, Robert E. Osgood Professor of Strategic Studies and Director, Philip Merrill Center for Strategic Studies, Paul H. Nitze School of Advanced International Studies, The Johns Hopkins University (U.S.A.) Anthony H. Cordesman, Arleigh A. Burke Chair in Strategy, Center for Strategic and International Studies (U.S.A.) The´re`se Delpech, Senior Research Fellow, CERI (Atomic Energy Commission), Paris (France) Sir Michael Howard, former Professor of History of War, Oxford University, and Professor of Military and Naval History, Yale University (U.K.) Lieutenant General Claudia J. Kennedy, USA (Ret.), former Deputy Chief of Staff for Intelligence, Headquarters, Department of the Army (U.S.A.) Paul M. Kennedy, J. Richardson Dilworth Professor of History and Director, International Security Studies, Yale University (U.S.A.) Robert J. O’Neill, former Chichele Professor of the History of War, All Souls College, Oxford University (Australia) Shibley Telhami, Anwar Sadat Chair for Peace and Development, Department of Government and Politics, University of Maryland (U.S.A.) Jusuf Wanandi, co-founder and member, Board of Trustees, Centre for Strategic and International Studies (Indonesia) Fareed Zakaria, Editor, Newsweek International (U.S.A.)

IRON MEN AND TIN FISH The Race to Build a Better Torpedo during World War II

Anthony Newpower

War, Technology, and History Robert Citino, Series Editor

Praeger Security International Westport, Connecticut • London

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Newpower, Anthony, 1967Iron men and tin fish : the race to build a better torpedo during World War II / Anthony Newpower. p. cm. — (War, technology, and history, ISSN 1556–4924) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–275–99032–X (alk. paper) 1. Torpedoes—United States—Design and construction—History—20th century. 2. United States. Navy—Weapons systems. 3. World War, 1939– 1945—Equipment. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Naval operations— Submarine. I. Title. II. Series. V850.N49 2006 940.54’5—dc22 2006015430 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available. Copyright © 2006 by Anthony Newpower All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, by any process or technique, without the express written consent of the publisher. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006015430 ISBN: 0–275–99032–X ISSN: 1556–4929 First published in 2006 Praeger Security International, 88 Post Road West, Westport, CT 06881 An imprint of Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc. www.praeger.com Printed in the United States of America

The paper used in this book complies with the Permanent Paper Standard issued by the National Information Standards Organization (Z39.48–1984). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Contents Series Foreword

vii

Preface

xi

Acknowledgments Prologue

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1. Early Torpedo Development

7

2. A Deadly New Application

21

3. “… to Fight with a Wooden Gun”

39

4. Deep Trouble (U.S. Torpedoes 7 December 1941–3 June 1942)

59

5. Success beyond Expectations

75

6. Lockwood to the Rescue

87

7. Outclassed

113

8. “We Don’t Like Prematures”

131

9. The Toothless Sharks

163

10. A Weapon Worthy of the Crews It Served

183

Epilogue

197

vi

Contents

Notes

199

Bibliography

221

Index

225

Series Foreword Military historians can be a contentious, feisty lot. There is little upon which they agree. The importance of attrition versus maneuver, the relative qualities of “deep battle” and “Blitzkrieg,” the command abilities of Patton and Montgomery: put two military historians in a room, and you’ll likely get three opinions on any of these questions. And yet, there is one thing that unites military historians across the spectrum. Virtually everyone within the field recognizes the crucial role that technology has played in the development of the military art. Indeed, this is almost axiomatic: the very first man who picked up a club against his neighbor was wielding “technology” of a sort. The outcomes of wars have been profoundly affected by the technological contexts in which they were fought. From spoke-wheeled chariots to the M1A1 tank, from blades of Toledo steel to the AK-47, from primitive “bombards” to the MOAB (“mother of all bombs”), the problem of technology has stood at the forefront of military history. Beyond that unifying proposition, however, problems can still arise in analyzing the precise role of technology. Consider for a moment the impact of the Industrial Revolution. Just as it transformed society, economy, and culture, it changed the appearance of war beyond all recognition. It was the age of the mass army, “railroads and rifles,” and the telegraph. The growth of industry allowed military forces to grow to unheard-of size. In 1757, Frederick the Great triumphed over the French at Rossbach with an army that totaled 22,000 men; at Ko¨niggra¨tz in 1866, well over 400,000 men contested the issue, and the Austrian casualties alone, some 44,000 men, totaled precisely twice as many as Frederick’s victorious host at Rossbach. The railroad allowed these hordes to move, quite literally, 24 hours per day, and the problem of the slow-moving supply column that had bedeviled military

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operations from time out of mind seemed to have been solved. Moreover, the introduction of the telegraph meant that armies could be kept on a tight leash, even by commanders hundreds of miles away. For each advantage of the new technology, however, there was a corresponding difficulty. It was soon clear that commanding and controlling the mass army was a huge, even insurmountable problem. It is generally agreed that Napoleon I had serious problems in this area in 1812 and that he was at his best with armies that totaled 85,000 men or less. It was foolish to expect an army of several hundred thousand men to maneuver nimbly across the countryside, wheel like a company, and whack the opponent a surprise blow in the flank. In fact, getting them to maneuver at all was a stretch. The telegraph was a modern marvel, true, but the vision it offered of total control of far-flung operations turned out to be a mirage. Tied to a static system of poles and wires, it was far more useful to the defender than to the attacker, and it was nearly useless in any kind of mobile campaign. The mass army, then, was a huge body with a small brain, and it had a very difficult time doing much more than marching straight ahead and crashing into whatever happened to be in front of it. At that point, a mutual slaughter would begin. The other great technological advance of the era was the introduction of new firearms. The rifled musket, or simply the “rifle,” dramatically improved the range and firepower of infantry. The 1860s saw another breakthrough, the breech-loader, which greatly increased rate of fire. With long-range rifles in the hands of the defenders, assault columns could theoretically be shot to pieces long before they struck home. In place of the old-style assault, there then arose the firefight, with extended skirmish lines on both sides replacing the formations of line and column. It was an “open order revolution,” the logical culmination of the tactical developments since the French Revolution. Open order tactics, however, rarely allowed enough concentration of fighting power for a successful assault. Both sides lined up and fired. There were casualties—enormous casualties—often for little gain. It was the great conundrum of the era. Clearly, technology was not so much a solution to a problem on the nineteenth century battlefield; it was more like the problem itself. These are the issues that will form the heart of Praeger’s new War, Technology, and History series. Books in the series will focus on the crucial relationship between warmaking and technological advances in the past 200 years. During this period, new machines like the rifle, the railroad, and the telegraph (in the nineteenth century) and the machine gun, the airplane, and the tank (in the twentieth) have transformed the face of war. In the young twenty-first century, the U.S. Army has been emphasizing the ways in which information technology can have an even more radical transformative impact.

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Historically, armies that have managed to integrate new technologies have found corresponding success on the battlefield, and their victories have as often as not come at the expense of those who have failed to ground their warmaking doctrine squarely in the available technology. The question is, therefore, much wider than a simple list of technical “specs” for various weapons. Books in the series will link technology and doctrine, that is, the weapons and the manner in which they were employed on actual battlefields of the day. The series is intended for a wide readership, from buffs and wargamers to scholars and “operators”—military officers and policy makers. It is hard to argue with the notion that technological change has held the key to understanding military history, and in our contemporary era of information management and smart weaponry, technology continues to change the face of battle. Questions remain, however. Is technology our master or our servant? Are there limits to its usefulness? Does it alter the nature of war, or is war based on timeless, unchanging principles? These are a few of the themes to be explored by the authors—recognized experts all—in this new series. It presents no party line or previously-agreed-upon point of view. Nor does it offer any simple answers to any of these questions. Welcome to War, Technology, and History. Robert Citino, Series Editor

Preface When I set off to write Iron Men and Tin Fish, I expected to produce a story describing the fearless warrior gallantly going off to sea with a weapon he knew was defective but could do little else, while his bureaucratic deskbound counterparts leisurely worked on the warrior’s concerns between cocktail parties and golf dates. The fearless warrior part of the story held up; our submariners placed themselves in harm’s way enough to earn the highest casualty rate of any branch of the military service. This was because life or death in submarines was usually discussed in the collective. Very few sailors survived the sinking of a submarine in wartime. My view of the bureaucrats in the Bureau of Ordnance and the Newport Torpedo Station changed as I researched the correspondence between their offices and those of the U.S. Fleet and the submarine force commanders. In particular, I believe BuOrd Chief Rear Admiral William H.P. “Spike” Blandy tried his best to motivate the Newport Torpedo Station to find and fix the bugs in the torpedoes. What the story ended up becoming was a microcosm of war itself: nothing is ever as simple as it seems on the surface (or in this case, below the surface). Assigning blame is something of a Navy tradition, and for major snafus a court of inquiry usually receives the task of finding a name to associate with the debacle du jour. Amazingly, nobody saw fit to open such an inquiry regarding the torpedo problems. One reason might have been the technical complexity of the subject matter and finding people unbiased but qualified enough to rule on the matter. Another reason was probably that no substantial loss of life or property could be directly attributed to the weapon’s failure in terms of depth control, the contact exploder, or the magnetic exploder. Circular runs were another matter, though, which I cover later. The fact that

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ULTRA intelligence revealed many of the failures possibly precluded an open inquiry, since to do so would have resulted in compromising the ULTRA secret. Finally, the emergence of the Mk. 18 torpedo as the weapon of choice late in the war marked a shift in philosophy, for the Mk. 18 was produced by Westinghouse, not the Newport Torpedo Station. Perhaps Navy officials felt that Westinghouse had made a better example of Newport and the problems with monopolization than any court could do. Although this book mainly addresses three major problems with the Mk. 14 torpedo, I would be remiss if I did not at least mention the problem of circular-running torpedoes. There were two documented cases of fatal circular runs from U.S. submarines in World War II: the USS Tullibee and the USS Tang. We know about both of these because in each case, there were survivors. The Tullibee succumbed to a Mk. 14, Mk. 18, or Mk. 23, while the Tang fell victim to a Mk. 18. Other more fortunate submarines managed to avoid the torpedoes as they circled back. The circular-run problem most likely stemmed from issues other than an inherent defect in the torpedo. For example, installing the torpedo gyro backwards or not at all could produce a circular run. The high cost incurred by each submarine made the two instances above so notable: only one man survived the loss of the Tullibee: Gunners Mate Second Class Clifford W. Kuykendall. Tang fared slightly better, with her skipper, Commander Richard H. O’Kane, and eight others surviving. All ten men spent the remainder of the war in Japanese POW camps. In addition to these fatal circular runs, various sources report another 22 cases of circular-running torpedoes. I do not cover these in detail in the book because it is not clear that any particular defect caused any or all of these circular runs. For example, the circular run that USS Sargo reported in April 1942 occurred because the torpedo’s gyro had not been installed. The gyro provides directional stability in the horizontal plane. Without a gyro, the torpedo’s path of travel would be anyone’s guess. This has been confirmed by the torpedoman who discovered the gyro still in its storage can after the torpedo had been fired. The book also takes a deeper look at the German torpedo problems, since they very closely resembled our problems; indeed, many of Grand Admiral Karl Do¨nitz’s comments could easily have been made by Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood or vice versa. Along with the United States, Britain, Germany, and Japan, other navies fired torpedoes in combat in World War II. The Dutch had a number of successes against Japan, and those will be briefly covered. The exploits of the French, Italian, and Soviet navies are outside the scope of this book. All factual errors are solely the responsibility of the author.

Acknowledgments I am grateful to a number of people who encouraged me to take on this project and helped me see it through to completion. I am eternally thankful to Professor Bryan Mark Rigg, who, as an accomplished author himself, convinced me that my story had merit and that I should seek publication. A true friend, Bryan has been there every step of the way for me. Rob McQuilkin tirelessly shopped my story to publishers, and Heather Staines decided to take a chance on an unproven commodity. Rob Citino’s superior editing and guidance helped work the narrative into its current form. A number of World War II submariners worked with me to tell this story. These men are truly a national treasure, and we owe them a great debt: Captain Eric L. Barr, Jr. was the first submariner I interviewed, and we have remained in contact ever since. Rear Admiral Maurice Rindskopf commanded Drum during the war and has been an invaluable source of information for me and, even on occasion, a researcher from his home in Annapolis. His work to bring new stories to light regarding our submariners is most appreciated by me and other historians. Captain Norman C. Nash was instrumental in telling the sad story of the Tunny, as well as providing general insight and perspective on the problem. Vice Admiral James F. Calvert also reviewed my work both at an early and a later phase of the project and was most supportive. Gunners Mate Bart Bartholomew and Torpedoman Jim Haywood helped tell USS Sargo’s story and provided much positive feedback. Ron “Warshot” Smith provided anecdotes for the warhead drop testing at Pearl Harbor. The late Captain Slade D. Cutter provided inspiration for me early in the project. Captain Charles R. Clark helped me to understand the nature of the JANAC numbers and provided thoughtful opinions on the torpedo problems. Don Gentry’s fantastic Web site, SubmarineSailor.com,

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enabled me to take up a regular correspondence with a number of World War II sub vets. A number of esteemed authors also looked at my manuscript and provided expert advice, including Professor Doctor Ju¨rgen Rohwer, Rear Admiral Professor Yoichi Hirama, Professor Frederick J. Milford, Mr. Edwyn Gray, Mr. David Jones, and CDR John D. Alden, USN (Ret.). Many archivists have also worked hard to respond to numerous requests, including Wendy Gulley from the Submarine Museum in New London, Connecticut, Jo Lawler of the Royal Navy Ordnance Museum in Gosport, United Kingdom, George Malcolmson of the Royal Navy Submarine Museum in Gosport, United Kingdom, and Barry Zerby at the National Archives at College Park, Maryland. Finally, I would like to thank my loving wife Christine, whose support and encouragement allowed me to spend hours each evening writing and researching and who encouraged me to travel to archives, reunions, and interviews while she stayed at home to look after our three children, Paul, Sarah, and Grace, who were all under the age of seven at the time of the book’s writing. For this I am forever grateful.

Prologue As the USS Tunny quietly slid from her berth at Pearl Harbor to begin her second war patrol, Captain John A. Scott stood on the bridge, probably wondering what surprises, challenges, and adversities awaited him and his crew. Scott’s first patrol produced mixed results. Although credited with sinking two freighters totaling 16,600 tons,1 faulty torpedoes plagued the other five attacks. The patrol reached its nadir during a night periscope attack when a perfectly aimed torpedo impacted its unsuspecting prey, a Japanese merchant vessel. A 3,209-pound torpedo traveling at 46 knots will certainly make some noise when it hits its target, explosion or not. This torpedo was no exception. Scott watched as the impact occurred, creating a large splash against the merchantman’s hull, but no explosion. The ship’s cook, maybe perturbed by this interruption of his evening meal preparations, appeared topside and shined a flashlight along the side of the ship near where the torpedo hit. Satisfied that it was probably nothing more than a glancing blow from a piece of flotsam, he returned below to finish cooking dinner. The merchantman’s captain also dismissed the incident, for, had he suspected a torpedo attack, he likely would have ordered course and speed changes to evade a subsequent attack.2 Scott’s Division Commander noted the problems in his endorsement: “Evidence of erratic torpedo performance again appears to be well founded.”3 The Squadron Commander’s endorsement hinted at the effect such failures had on the crew: “Erratic and unreliable torpedo performance undoubtedly deprived TUNNY of an opportunity to inflict much more damage on the enemy. It is readily understood that such unreliable torpedo performance can be most discouraging to the Commanding Officer, his control party, and the torpedo personnel.”4

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A failed attack was bad enough, but not to raise the concern even of a lowly cook on a merchant vessel must have really irked the crew. Another load of cargo was going to reach its destination, maybe to feed or clothe Japanese soldiers in an occupying force, maybe to provide vital spare parts for Japanese fighter squadrons, maybe all of the above; no matter, this cargo got through. Scott’s tonnage total on his first patrol, despite the torpedo difficulties, indicated his aggressive nature and tactical ability. On his second patrol, Scott hoped for more cooperation from his torpedoes, allowing him to improve on his previous score. On 18 March 1943, Tunny departed Pearl Harbor for Midway, where she refueled and underwent minor repairs. On 23 March, she set sail for her patrol area in the vicinity of the massive Japanese naval base at Truk. On 28 March, a mere five days out from Midway, Scott sighted his first target of the patrol while passing near Japanese-occupied Wake Island. Determined to start Tunny’s second patrol off on a good note, Scott maneuvered to attack. At 0719, he fired two torpedoes, obtaining one solid hit that blew off the target’s stern. Seeing the explosions and watching the target’s stern come apart certainly bolstered Scott’s confidence in the torpedoes; indeed, more successes awaited him. On 2 April, while still en route to the actual patrol area, Tunny encountered another cargo vessel that Scott identified as the Akita Maru. The skipper confidently guided Tunny into perfect firing position and, from the pointblank range of 960 yards, fired three torpedoes at the unsuspecting merchantman. Scott observed a hit near the maru’s forward hold, but due to the presence of escorts, Scott went deep to evade. Although unable to confirm the sinking, Scott knew that, at a minimum, the damage was extensive, and the torpedoes had once again done the job. Indeed they had, for Scott’s victim, actually the Toyo Maru #2, succumbed to Scott’s attack.5 Five days later, Scott encountered another target, this time a passenger vessel similar to the Buenos Aires Maru. Both torpedoes Scott fired found their mark, and Tunny’s third victim of the patrol, identified as the Kosei Maru, joined her predecessors. By this time, Scott had ample evidence to conclude that the torpedo problems of the first patrol were behind him. Three ships were already either damaged or sunk, and Tunny was barely two weeks into her patrol. As pleased as Scott had to be, it is unlikely that, even in his wildest imagination, he would have considered the scenario that presented itself on the evening of 9 April 1943. At 2228, the SJ (surface search) radar operator reported a convoy bearing 285˚ True (T), 7–8 nautical miles distant, on course 060˚T. Scott placed all four engines on line to maneuver Tunny into firing position. Tunny’s good luck continued to hold; at 2237, the convoy came right to a new base course

Prologue

3

of 085˚T, putting Tunny in perfect position to intercept. Soon afterward, visual contact was made. Scott probably checked and rechecked his binoculars when he saw what they revealed: to starboard, a large auxiliary aircraft carrier steamed with a single destroyer escort; to port, a second aircraft carrier steamed in column with a heavy cruiser, escorted by four destroyers.6 On a patrol already rich with targets and good luck, this seemed almost too good to be true. Things now began moving very quickly. Scott’s original plan called for maneuvering Tunny to bring her six bow tubes to bear on the carrier and cruiser in the port column and her four stern tubes to bear on the single large carrier to starboard. Just as he was about to maneuver, Scott sighted three small craft similar in appearance to motor torpedo boats. Unwilling to gamble on their identity, Scott wisely submerged and instead came right, putting the lead carrier in the port column in range of his stern tubes, and the carrier in the starboard column in range of the bow tubes. The hard part of the approach was now over. Scott’s maneuvers placed Tunny in perfect firing position on both carriers, in effect forming an “H” with the carriers being the vertical components and Tunny the horizontal. One wonders what Scott thought as he took the final bearings prior to attacking. Sinking a single carrier would be reward enough, but two carriers! Scott decided to wager everything on a successful attack. Because of the high speed of the carrier group, he knew he would get only one shot. In the next five minutes, with a little luck and a lot of skill, Scott could do what no skipper had ever done before or since: send two of the enemy’s most prized capital warships to the bottom in a single attack. Only the Battle of Midway would surpass the amount of damage inflicted on the enemy’s carrier forces in as short a time, and that was accomplished using the assets of three carrier air wings and land-based aircraft, while Tunny was but a single submarine manned by a crew of seven officers and 70 enlisted personnel. The tracking party reported to Scott that the torpedo data computer (TDC) held a good firing solution on the first target; since the other carrier’s course and speed data matched the first target, shifting targets posed no difficulty. The moment of truth had arrived. Scott gave the order: “Fire seven! Fire eight! Fire nine! Fire ten!” Four Mk. 14 steam-driven torpedoes with their revolutionary top-secret Mk. 6 magnetic exploders sped toward the first carrier, only 880 yards distant. With no time to lose, Scott shifted his attention to the carrier approaching ahead. A quick check confirmed the validity of the TDC solution. At the extremely close range of 650 yards, Scott ordered, “Fire one! Fire two! Fire three! Fire four! Fire five! Fire six!” Tunny, with all ten torpedo tubes empty and thus practically defenseless, needed to go deep quickly. As much as Scott wanted to observe his handiwork through the

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periscope, he knew that his audacious attack would certainly draw the attention of the carrier’s escorts. As the Tunny dove, Scott and his crew heard all four stern shots explode. Shortly thereafter, three of the six bow shots were heard exploding at the expected time. Between depth charges, Scott, his sound man, and crewmen in all compartments reported hearing crackling and grinding noises typically associated with a large vessel breaking apart. Scott described the moment in his report: “Amid all this confusion the TUNNY slipped quietly away to the northward, extremely happy and barely conscious of the destroyers screws heard milling around for a time overhead.” Spirits were high as Tunny radioed Pearl Harbor to report probable success on her attack. Scott must have been proud of his and his crew’s performance. In tonnage and importance of targets, this patrol would go down in history as one of the greatest ever. Scott appeared to be ready to take his rightful place among the greatest skippers of the war. On 23 April, Tunny returned to Midway, the bad luck of her first patrol seemingly a distant and rapidly fading memory. In the remarks section of his patrol report, Scott gushed with praise for the performance of his torpedoes: “The Commanding Officer is pleased to report that the efforts of the ship, submarine base, and [submarine tender] SPERRY torpedo overhaul personnel were entirely successful in eliminating the erratic torpedo performance experienced on TUNNY’s first patrol. Every torpedo fired ran hot, straight and normal for a score of 59% hits.”7 Norm Nash was a junior officer on Tunny for this patrol: “… we arrived in Midway believing we had at least damaged the two carriers of the three or more ship task force. I remember thinking that Captain Scott would receive at least the Medal of Honor!”8 Praise continued to flow in, first from the Squadron Commander: “The evidence of sinking of one or more of the carriers in the attacks made on April 9 is strong.”9 Perhaps the most impressive comments came from Vice Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, Commander, Submarines, Pacific, in his endorsement: The Second War Patrol of the U.S.S. TUNNY belongs in that exceptional category of one of the most outstandingly aggressive patrols of the war. … the “supreme moment” of the patrol was made on the night of April 9, 1943. … The efficiency and aggressiveness with which the whole attack was carried out reflects outstanding ability of the entire TUNNY organization. The audacity, combined with the superb judgment of the Commanding Officer … is an illustrious example of professional competence and military aggressiveness.10

These endorsements stood in stark contrast to the endorsements of the first patrol; indeed, John Scott and Tunny were now all the buzz in Pearl Harbor and the submarine force.

Prologue

5

Unfortunately for Scott and the Tunny, fate had other plans. Code breakers in the top secret ULTRA11 group intercepted and decrypted a Japanese message describing the attack. Scott had fired at the escort aircraft carriers Taiyo and Chuyo. Apparently, the torpedoes exploded a mere 50 yards short of the target, startling the carriers’ lookouts and causing slight damage to Taiyo but nothing more. All Scott’s efforts—the maneuvering, the tracking, the approach, the attack itself—were foiled by a defective instrument of war. As a result, Taiyo and Chuyo would continue in battle for at least another year, inflicting numerous casualties and prolonging the war.

Chapter 1 Early Torpedo Development The term torpedo has been in the naval lexicon for over two centuries. Historians debate the origin of this term; many credit American inventor Robert Fulton with borrowing the name from a type of fish that stuns its prey with an electric shock. The Civil War saw the first extensive references to torpedoes, although not to the self-propelled weapons of today. At the time, the term referred to static weapons, typically submerged, that contained an explosive charge. An approaching vessel triggered an explosion by tripping a flintlock detonator. These “infernal machines,” as they were also called, served both the Union and the Confederacy with varying degrees of effectiveness. The static torpedo (known today as a mine) served a limited purpose, for success required that the victim “find” the weapon; conversely, if the intended victim knew the location of the mines, simply avoiding that area nullified the weapon’s effectiveness. In many cases this alone was sufficient, preventing enemy incursions into areas deemed vital by their defenders.1 But for targets of opportunity a different weapon was clearly needed. Prior to the Civil War, the naval cannon acted as that weapon; however, other technological developments during the war threatened to marginalize its effectiveness. Engineers now possessed sufficient knowledge of metallurgy to create and work with large pieces of iron. Confederate engineers, looking for any tactical advantage against the industrially superior Union, quickly seized the initiative and began modifying the partially scuttled steam frigate USS Merrimack for that purpose.2 Large plates of iron replaced the former frigate’s charred topsides and provided protection for the gun crews and propulsion machinery. Union intelligence reported this development; if no action were taken, the Confederates would likely succeed in breaking the

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all-wooden ship blockade of Norfolk. Thus, a Union ironclad seemed the only solution. John Ericsson conceived USS Monitor to negate the effectiveness of its Confederate counterpart. The anticlimactic battle occurred on 9 March 1862. Both ships emerged from battle dinged and dented, but essentially intact. Clearly, the combination of iron plating and smoothbore cannon would render future engagements indecisive. And so the ages-old struggle to gain a tactical advantage once again accelerated into high gear. Since the iron plating extended only to the waterline,3 tacticians focused on designing a weapon to penetrate the unprotected, submerged portion of the hull. Mines possessed this capability, but were limited by their immobility. Some sort of “mobile mine” was needed. Designers felt they possessed the answer: the spar torpedo. The theory was straightforward: an explosive charge, similar to that found in a static torpedo, was attached to the end of a very long wooden pole. To secure the charge against the hull, engineers employed a number of methods, including men simply holding the spar against the ship’s side (hence the long length of the spar!). Once secured, the attacker dispatched his target by pulling on a line attached to the explosive’s trigger mechanism. The gaping hole created by the explosion easily and quickly admitted more than enough water to rapidly flood and sink the vessel. Two spectacular instances of successful spar torpedo attacks deserve mention: Lieutenant William B. Cushing’s attack on CSS Albemarle and the Confederate submersible H.L. Hunley’s attack on USS Housatonic. By the spring of 1863, the Union blockade was effectively suffocating the Confederacy. As each day passed, the need to devise a tactic for breaking the blockade became more and more a matter of life or death. One proposed method involved delivery of an explosive charge by a submerged vessel. Two of the more gifted Confederate submarine inventors in New Orleans, James McClintock and Baxter Watson, had already completed work on a three-man submersible named Pioneer. Midway into this venture, Horace L. Hunley joined their partnership. By July 1863, the team began trials on their latest offering, the H.L. Hunley. On 30 July, the craft successfully destroyed a flatboat target anchored in the Mobile River.4 Mobile Bay proved to be a hostile environment for a hand-powered submersible, and military officials suggested that Charleston’s deepwater harbor was a better base of operations. Charleston’s commander, General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, concurred, and the inventors promptly loaded their boat aboard two railroad flatcars for the journey to South Carolina. On arrival in Charleston, the submersible attempted a number of attacks against the Federal blockaders, failing to achieve any damage. These unsuccessful attempts frustrated Confederate commanders desperate for a

Early Torpedo Development

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breakthrough against the Union blockade. As a result, the Confederate Navy seized the Hunley, replacing her civilian crew with Confederate sailors. On 29 August, while returning to base, the all-Navy crew suffered a tragic accident. Details are confusing, but apparently a mooring line from another vessel snagged one of Hunley’s hatch combings. As the line tightened, it pulled Hunley deeper into the water, until the water level reached the open hatches. The boat flooded quickly, and five sailors drowned as a result. Divers recovered and raised Hunley for another crack at the blockaders.5 By the middle of October, with H.L. Hunley himself in command, the refurbished Hunley made another practice run against the Confederate receiving ship Indian Chief. Many onboard the receiving ship witnessed Hunley’s approach and dive; unfortunately, she never returned to the surface. This time nobody survived.6 The Confederate Navy’s desperate hope for a miracle weapon drove it again to employ divers to salvage the vessel. On completion of this refit, Lieutenant George F. Dixon assumed command of the Hunley. Dixon trained his crew tirelessly, hoping to regain Beauregard’s confidence and obtain permission to launch another attack. After months of intensive training, Dixon finally secured Beauregard’s confidence. On 14 December 1863, Beauregard issued Special Orders No. 211, ordering Dixon to take command of the Hunley and “… sink and destroy any vessel of the enemy with which he can come in conflict.”7 On 5 January, two Confederate sailors from the Indian Chief deserted and informed their Union captors of the existence of the Hunley. Almost immediately, Admiral John A. Dahlgren, in charge of the Union blockade at Charleston, issued precise and detailed orders for defense against submarine attack.8 Finally, on 17 February 1864, the right combination of wind, tide, moon, and available targets converged. Dixon and his crew cast off their moorings at dusk, intent on claiming their first victim. The closest vessel happened to be the 1,800–ton corvette Housatonic. Dixon’s crew labored at the crank, slowly propelling the Hunley ever closer to destiny. At 2045, the Housatonic’s Officer of the Deck noticed a disturbance in the otherwise calm waters off the starboard quarter. The alert watchstander immediately sounded the alarm, and the crew rushed to their stations. The Housatonic immediately began backing down, while a gun crew unlimbered the swivel gun; the captain, the executive officer, and others fired their rifles at the disturbance. Suddenly, a large explosion forward of the mizzenmast rocked the Housatonic, which rose from the surface, broke apart, took on a heavy port list, and quickly sank.9 The entire crew of the Hunley perished in the attack. The sinking had a measurable impact on aspiring Confederate submariners, motivating them to develop vessels to duplicate Hunley’s feat (with survival of the crew a hoped-for improvement). Unfortunately for them, the Union Navy

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responded as well, again changing tactics and continuing to improve defenses against subsequent attacks. The Hunley’s attack on Housatonic remained the only successful submarine action until World War I. Years later, McClintock prophesied on the future of submarine warfare: “Since the war, I have thought over the subject considerable [sic], and am satisfied that the Power can easily be obtained … to make the submarine Boat the most formidable enemy of Marine warfare ever known …”10 Despite his status as one of the founding fathers of submarine warfare, it is doubtful that McClintock could have imagined just how formidable the submarine would eventually become. As the Hunley incident demonstrated, the Confederacy faced many difficult challenges in 1864. As Union blockades tightened and the ground campaign’s momentum turned in favor of the North, Confederate leaders needed a spectacular victory to regain the advantage. Construction of an ironclad ram capable of breaking the Union blockade of the North Carolina Sounds would allow for transportation of Confederate goods abroad, as well as a resupply of Confederate Army forces. The Confederate Navy conceived of the CSS Albemarle for just that purpose. Construction of the Albemarle began in January 1863 under the supervision of John L. Porter, the man responsible for designing the iron superstructure of CSS Virginia. On 17 April 1864, after 16 months of construction, Albemarle received her commission with Commander James W. Cooke in command.11 Cooke wasted no time testing his new command in combat. Only two days after her commissioning, Albemarle encountered a pair of Union steamers, Miami and Southfield. The two steamers intended to trap the Albemarle between them, reducing her to scrap under the combined weight of their two batteries. Cooke, sensing the plan, deftly maneuvered Albemarle to avoid the trap and bored in for his own attack. Cooke aimed Albemarle’s initial thrust at the Miami, but failed to cause any damage. Cooke finally found his mark with the Southfield, sending her to the river bottom by means of Albemarle’s iron ram.12 During Albemarle’s entanglement with Southfield, the Confederate ram received a relentless barrage of gunfire from Miami. Practically every round scored a direct hit, only to bounce off Albemarle’s iron plating. One of the shells ricocheted back onto the deck of the Miami, instantly killing her captain, Commander Charles W. Flusser.13 The Union defeat was devastating; the Southfield had been sunk and the Miami heavily damaged, her captain killed. The retreating Union steamers paved the way for Confederate forces to capture the strategic port of Plymouth the next day.14 Two weeks later, Cooke and Albemarle, along with the steamers Cotton Plant and Bombshell, were at it again, this time engaging five Union vessels: Sassacus, Wyalusing, Mattabesett, Commodore Hull, and

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Ceres.15 Union commanders carefully crafted their battle plan to combat Cooke’s iron menace. The Sassacus attempted to ram Albemarle and paid heavily for her efforts, receiving multiple volleys from Albemarle’s hundredpound rifle at a range of 10 feet. Although more severely damaged in this engagement, Albemarle once again convinced her adversaries that she ruled the waterways for which she was named. By this point, Union commanders had grown quite concerned with their new Confederate tormentor. Admiral Samuel Phillips Lee, commanding Union blockading forces, needed a plan to eliminate the Albemarle and restore Union naval supremacy to the North Carolina Sounds. Lieutenant William B. Cushing had conducted a number of highly successful commando raids against Confederate forces; Lee decided Cushing was the man for the task of sinking the Albemarle. Cushing proposed a bold plan in which he would sneak a spar torpedo boat past Confederate defenses on a moonless night, impaling the ram with his deadly device and, with any luck, avenging the death of his good friend Flusser. The device Cushing planned to use in the attack, designed by John L. Lay, featured an intricately complex detonation mechanism. To affix and detonate the spar torpedo, Cushing controlled two lanyards. Additionally, to permit control of the torpedo boat and crew without shouting orders (thus attracting the attention of the Albemarle’s sentries), Cushing held three other lines in his right hand: one attached to the engineer’s ankle for engine commands, one attached to the wrist of Ensign Thomas S. Gay, who controlled the boom, and one attached to the howitzer in case the action required its use. On the night of 27–28 October 1864, Cushing led his assault force upriver toward Albemarle’s berth at Plymouth. Cooke, prepared for such a contingency, surrounded Albemarle with log obstructions and posted sentries both on the deck of the Albemarle and downriver on the wreck of the Southfield. Cushing successfully eluded detection by the sentries on the Southfield, but a barking dog alerted the Albemarle to his approach. Undaunted, Cushing pressed home his attack, speeding over the log barricade and impaling his spar torpedo deep into the side of the Albemarle. Under fire from all sides, Cushing calmly detonated the torpedo and escaped into the river. The explosion tore a huge hole in Albemarle’s hull, sending her to the bottom.16 Amazingly, Cushing survived the explosion, evaded capture, and returned to his ship a true hero. These two attacks, although successful, highlighted the limitations of the spar torpedo. First, the attacker needed to close the target to extremely close range to attach the explosive. Even under the most favorable attack conditions (a dark, foggy, moonless night), this proved difficult, since lookouts patrolled the decks of these ships around the clock. Second, the same

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favorable attack conditions made navigation extremely difficult, increasing the likelihood of grounding or failing to find the target. Third, the close range required by the spar meant that captains of potential targets could easily place simple obstructions (such as logs) around the perimeter of the ship, barricading it from an approaching torpedo boat. Fourth, the attacker stood a very good chance of being destroyed in the attack, since the spar linked the attacking craft to the target. Finally, the spar torpedo failed to address the issue of ship-to-ship engagements on the high seas. Since the vessels carrying the spar rigs were typically quite small, they possessed limited range, endurance, and poor seakeeping qualities; as a result, employment of this device generally occurred only in harbors or anchorages, usually against moored or anchored targets. Despite these shortcomings, the world’s navies incorporated the spar torpedo into their arsenals. As spar torpedo proponents continued to perfect their weapon’s design and tactics, a brilliant English engineer began work on the device that would render these weapons obsolete. Robert Whitehead came across the idea for a self-propelled (or automobile) torpedo after having a discussion with a retired Austrian naval officer, Giovanni Biagio De Luppis, sometime in 1864.17 Whitehead experimented with De Luppis’s floating design, but found it unsuitable. Whitehead was intrigued by the idea of a weapon potentially fearsome enough to deter future naval battles. He threw himself into the task of designing and building a self-propelled, explosive carrying device that could travel undetected beneath the surface of the water, impacting and exploding in the vulnerable submerged portion of the hull. Whitehead lived in Fiume, at the time part of the Austro-Hungarian Habsburg Empire. As such, word of his experiments quickly reached the right ears inside the Austrian Navy; subsequently, Whitehead and the Austrians agreed to a trial in December 1866. The early prototype showed plenty of potential but significant problems remained, particularly in the area of depth control. The Austrian Navy left the trials impressed, but not enough so to order the invention into production.18 Whitehead returned to the drawing board and focused on solving the problem of depth control. Ironically, as will be seen later, depth control continued to plague torpedo performance well into the twentieth century. Whitehead struggled with the depth-control problem for another two years, until inspiration finally struck. The answer became known as “The Secret.” Whitehead developed a component he dubbed the balance chamber. Inside the chamber, a watertight disk moved against a spring until the external water pressure equaled the resistance offered by the spring. The inclusion of a pendulum stabilized the mechanism’s feedback loop. By attaching the

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mechanism to a set of linkages to the horizontal rudders, Whitehead achieved somewhat reliable depth control.19 By 1870, the Royal Navy realized the benefits this revolutionary new weapon offered and entered into a contract with Whitehead to license the rights to his invention. The adoption of the automobile torpedo by the Royal Navy had two major implications: first, it legitimized the torpedo as an effective weapon of war against enemy ships. Second, it meant that any navy attempting to compete with the Royal Navy would either have to purchase their own Whitehead torpedoes or invent a suitable alternative. The U.S. Navy initially chose the latter avenue. In 1869, the Navy established the U.S. Naval Torpedo Station at Newport, Rhode Island. Early projects focused on the development of mines and spar torpedoes.20 Elsewhere in the Navy, others, including Lieutenant Commander J.A. Howell, worked to devise an American alternative to the Whitehead torpedo. Howell took a completely different approach on propulsion, using a flywheel to drive two side-by-side propellers. The early prototypes were by no means ready for production, so Howell labored on. One year after Howell began work, the Newport Torpedo Station received a set of requirements for an automobile torpedo. The specification’s authors loosely outlined the performance parameters: the torpedo should “go underwater for a considerable distance at a fair rate of speed” and “make a straight course and maintain constant immersion.”21 Despite these extremely vague guidelines, Newport managed to produce a torpedo that used a 2-cylinder reciprocating engine powered by compressed air capable of 6–8 knots for a range of 300–400 yards. The performance of the prototype left much to be desired. The hull lacked watertight integrity, the air flask leaked, and directional control was questionable. The negatives far outweighed the positives, forcing the engineers at Newport back to the drawing board. Meanwhile, as the U.S. Navy struggled to duplicate Whitehead’s success, torpedoes continued to gain acceptance with more and more of the world’s navies. On 20 May 1877, the Whitehead Torpedo made its combat debut, when HMS Shah fired a single Whitehead at the rebel Peruvian ironclad Huascar. The Shah initially attempted to disable Huascar with a well-aimed broadside, but found her armor impenetrable. With no other options, the Shah’s captain decided to employ this new, unproven weapon as the only option remaining to defeat his foe. The torpedo missed, but its use in combat marked a turning point in naval strategy.22 Just as in the case of the clash between Monitor and Virginia off Hampton Roads, armor once again proved superior to naval guns. This time, however, the automobile torpedo offered another option and, if successful, technological supremacy to those who possessed it.

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Less than a year later, the Whitehead again saw action, this time in the hands of the Russian Navy. On 25 January 1878, the Russian torpedo boats Tchesma and Sinope entered Batum Harbor and fired two Whitehead torpedoes at the Turkish revenue cutter Intikbah from a range of 80 yards. Observers on the torpedo boats claim the Intikbah exploded and sank within two minutes. The Turks, however, deny this claim, so history cannot rule decisively on the matter. Still, assuming the Russian report was correct, this was the first successful employment of an automobile torpedo in history.23 While other navies were firing Whiteheads in anger, the U.S. Navy continued its struggle to develop a workable torpedo. The Newport failure opened the door to a number of potential suitors who offered their wares during the 1870s and 1880s. Notable early efforts included the Lay (the same John L. Lay who gave Cushing his spar torpedo) torpedo of 1872, which featured a reciprocating engine powered by superheated carbonic acid gas. Two cables connected to the torpedo from shore provided start, stop, and steering functions. The Barber torpedo of 1873 featured rocket propulsion. The Ericsson torpedo of 1873, designed by the same John Ericsson who created USS Monitor, diverged from the fusiform (or tapered-cigar shape) design, instead using a rectangular hull and employing a compressed air engine that received its motive power not from an onboard air flask but from a shore-based air supply, fed to the torpedo through a rubber hose.

Torpedoes on the assembly line at the Whitehead factory in Fiume. (National Archives)

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In 1889, the Sims-Edison torpedo used cables and a shore-based electrical power source to propel, steer, and detonate the torpedo against its target. A second effort at rocket propulsion appeared in 1893 in the form of the Cunningham Rocket Torpedo.24 None of these designs actually saw service, but they serve to illustrate the tactical thinking of the period. Namely, American inventors saw torpedoes as excellent tools for harbor defense, since many relied on shore-based power supplies or command and control. Interest in the torpedo steadily grew within the U.S. Navy; by 1887, a prototype torpedo boat, USS Stiletto, entered service at the Newport Torpedo station. Two years later, Howell’s efforts, started almost two full decades earlier, finally bore fruit: the U.S. Navy placed the Howell flywheel torpedo into service. Howell’s invention boasted a top speed of 8.5 knots and a range of 400 yards.25 The following year, the U.S. Navy put its first torpedo boat in commission, appropriately named after Lieutenant William B. Cushing of Albemarle fame. The Cushing boasted a top speed of 23 knots with a main armament of three 18-inch torpedo tubes. Around this time, the Whitehead Torpedo Works produced a major innovation in torpedo design: the exploder mechanism. Given the name “War Nose Mk. 1,” the relatively simple design featured a firing pin that contacted the exploder only in the event of impact along the torpedo’s longitudinal axis. The exploder also incorporated a safety mechanism that prevented premature detonation of the torpedo. Once the torpedo began moving through the water a small propeller on the nose of the torpedo, attached to the firingpin mechanism, began rotating. After a sufficient number of rotations (about 70 yards), the firing pin effectively unscrewed itself, permitting its free movement into the exploder cavity on impact. Once again, the Whitehead Torpedo Works proved to be ahead of its competition. In 1891, Chile erupted into civil war, as the Chilean Congress struggled for power with President Jose´ Manuel Balmaceda. Much of the Chilean Navy sided with Congress; despite this presumed naval superiority, it was the Balmacedist Rebel torpedo boat Almirante Lynch that made history, firing three Whitehead torpedoes at the Chilean Navy ironclad Blanco Encalada. Only one of the three Whiteheads found the target, but the one that did created enough damage to send its victim to the bottom in under seven minutes.26 Twenty-five years after making its debut, the automobile torpedo finally claimed its first undisputed victim. The U.S. Navy took note of the Whitehead torpedo’s performance in the attack on the Blanco Encalada; in 1891 the E.W. Bliss Company of Brooklyn, New York, signed a licensing agreement with Whitehead to manufacture his Mk. I torpedo. Shortly thereafter, Bliss entered into a contract with the U.S. Navy to deliver 100 of the Bliss Whiteheads at a cost of $2,000 each.27 From

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The evolution of the Whitehead torpedo. This early twentieth century photo shows, from top to bottom, an early Whitehead torpedo, a modern Whitehead torpedo, and the De Luppis prototype that inspired Whitehead. (National Archives)

1896 to 1904, Bliss produced another 300 torpedoes of the Whitehead design. This contract effectively spelled the end for the Howell torpedo. Howell’s design, though ingenious in its use of the flywheel, clearly had its limits. There was very little likelihood that a flywheel could eventually propel a torpedo substantially farther than the current 400 yards. On the other hand, the Whitehead torpedo continued to evolve, with constant improvements in steering, speed, and range. The purchase of the Whitehead design by the U.S. Navy symbolized a shift in its philosophy. The Navy no longer viewed the torpedo as a gimmick or an unproven weapon. To be considered one of the world’s leading navies, the United States needed a torpedo equal to or better than its competition. For the time being, “equal to” sufficed. The U.S. Navy began its efforts to close the torpedo gap. Torpedoes saw significant action during the Sino-Japanese War of 1894– 1895. Japan and China both possessed a German copy of the Whitehead known as the Schwartzkopff torpedo. The Chinese employed their Schwartzkopffs first, at the Battle of the Yalu River on 17 September 1894. Both fleets featured capital ships of similar types and armaments, but the Chinese hoped to tip the scales in their favor with four Schwartzkopff-equipped torpedo boats. Admiral Ting Ju ch’ang’s torpedo boats fired their weapons, but to no avail: none of the torpedoes found their mark. Accounts from the battle indicated torpedoes ran beneath their targets and skimmed on or near the surface. Such indications prompted historians to conclude that poor maintenance of the Chinese Schwartzkopffs led to their erratic depth keeping.28

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Five months later, the Japanese proved how deadly the torpedo could be, if properly maintained and employed. On the morning of 5 February 1895, the Japanese commander, Admiral Ito Sukeyuki, sent five torpedo boats into the harbor at Weihaiwei with orders to annihilate the Chinese fleet blockaded within. The boats fired a total of 11 Schwartzkopff torpedoes, sinking three Chinese warships. Ito’s bold attack plan, coupled with superior maintenance of the torpedoes, resulted in the most successful torpedo attack to this point in history.29 The world’s navies took notice of Ito’s success, and orders poured in to Whitehead, Schwartzkopff, and other torpedo manufacturers. If the Sino-Japanese War served as the automobile torpedo’s coming-out party, the next two decades marked its coming of age. Around the time of Ito’s bold victory at Weihaiwei, a remarkable invention began to take form halfway around the world. Although torpedo hits typically spelled doom for their targets, successfully completing an attack still required extraordinary courage due to the torpedo’s short range. Circumstances had changed little since the time of Cushing and the Albemarle. Sharp lookouts and accurate gunfire presented even the most dauntless of torpedo boat crews with countless challenges. The closer they approached their targets, the more accurate the returned gunfire. If only the torpedo could be delivered by a launch platform as stealthy as the weapon itself, nothing less than the balance of naval power in the world would shift, with the owner of this advantage at its fulcrum. A latecomer to torpedo warfare, the U.S. Navy provided this final innovation, one that eventually resulted in the world’s ultimate antiship weapon system: the submarine. Most historians credit John Holland with the invention of the first operationally successful submarine. Holland immigrated to the United States in 1872 and immediately began pursuing his dream. After a number of moderately successful attempts, he finally produced a winner: the Holland VI. Trials of this extraordinary new craft began on 25 February 1898. The first practical submarine measured 53 feet in length and 10 feet, 3 inches in diameter. The internal combustion gasoline engine propelled the submarine at 6 to 7 knots on the surface and 5 knots submerged, with an endurance of eight hours. The Holland VI also featured a single 18-inch torpedo tube forward and two dynamite guns: one forward, one aft.30 These first trials revealed a number of shortcomings that resulted in a return to the shipyard for overhaul and update. On 14 March 1900, the newly refurbished Holland VI underwent a second set of trials, this time witnessed by Admiral of the Navy George Dewey. The hero of Manila Bay immediately realized the potential of the submarine as a harbor-defense weapon; less than a month later, the Navy purchased the Holland VI for $150,000.31 That summer, Holland’s Torpedo Boat Company signed a contract with the U.S.

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Navy to provide another seven boats at a cost of $170,000 ($3.5 million in 2003 dollars) each. These seven submarines comprised the Adder class, named after the lead submarine of the class. Later that same year, the Holland reported to the Newport Torpedo Station for testing. The initial armament consisted of three Bliss-manufactured Whitehead Mk. 2 torpedoes.32 The torpedo finally found its ideal delivery system, and together the two made history two decades later. Meanwhile, British engineers at Woolwich working on the torpedo’s propulsion unit finally applied an interesting discovery made years earlier: heating the compressed air before sending it to the engine dramatically increased its efficiency.33 This efficiency translated into significant improvements in the effective range of torpedoes equipped with heaters. This meant that torpedo attacks no longer required a suicide dash by a torpedo boat skipper into the teeth of a point-blank hail of bullets and naval artillery. To be sure, these extended ranges were still well within the range of most naval guns, but there could be little debate that a small, fast torpedo boat presented a much more difficult target at the greater distances. By 1904, the U.S. Navy finally found a non-Whitehead torpedo with comparable performance to the state of the art Whitehead Mk. 5. Frank McDowell Leavitt, an engineer at E.W. Bliss Company, proposed a torpedo with a singlestage vertical turbine engine using alcohol to preheat the compressed air. The Bliss-Leavitt Mk. 1 torpedo matched the Whitehead Mk. 5’s speed and range, but the single-stage turbine and single propeller created a torque effect that rolled the torpedo, compromising its directional stability. The solution arrived a year later from the mind of Navy Lieutenant Gregory Davison. His design utilized a two-stage turbine that drove contrarotating propellers.34 The rotation of one propeller canceled the torque effect of the other, allowing the torpedo to steer much straighter with fewer course corrections. All future Bliss-Leavitt torpedoes used Davison’s design, as did most U.S. torpedoes through World War II. So, by the beginning of the twentieth century, all the basic elements of the modern torpedo existed in one form or another: the contact exploder, the depth-control mechanism, the propulsion plant, and the steering controls. The Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905 featured another large-scale use of torpedoes in combat. The first attack occurred on 8 February 1904, when a Japanese torpedo boat force attacked the Russian anchorage at Port Arthur. The Japanese proved in the Sino-Japanese War that superior training and regular maintenance played a critical role in the successful employment of this new and complicated weapon. Again, both were up to the task, and the Japanese were rewarded with damaging hits to three Russian warships. If this attack failed to achieve greater success than it actually did, it is because the

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Russians employed torpedo nets around their ships as a measure of protection.35 This relatively simple precaution proved to be highly effective. The most resounding success of the torpedo to date came during Admiral Togo Heihachiro’s brilliant victory in the Battle of the Tsushima Straits on 27 May 1905. Japanese torpedo boats undertook a night action against the Russian fleet and succeeded in sinking two battleships and three armored cruisers.36 Any doubt about the effectiveness of the torpedo as a weapon of war had now been erased. Surprisingly, despite their extensive training and maintenance efforts, the Japanese experienced a large number of torpedo failures during the war. The precise cause was never determined and Togo lost confidence in the weapon. Still, it seems likely that the Japanese learned much from these failures; indeed, less than four decades later they went on to develop the world’s finest torpedoes. Around this time, the U.S. Navy seemed to experience an epiphany regarding the torpedo. The purchase of the Whitehead Mk. 5 torpedo amounted to a tacit admission of the poor state of torpedo research and development in the United States, but news of Togo’s astounding success at Tsushima Straits forced even the most stalwart holdouts to acknowledge the torpedo’s power and potential. Possibly as a result of these revelations, Admiral N.E. Mason, Chief of the Bureau of Ordnance, went to Congress with a request for funding to construct a torpedo factory in Newport, Rhode Island. On 1 July 1907, construction of the factory began, and Whitehead Mk. 5 torpedoes began rolling off the line sometime in 1908.37 With its own torpedo factory now, Newport began a consolidation of power that continued unabated until World War II. During the early days of the factory, the Bliss-Leavitt and Whitehead designs still dominated the U.S. Navy inventory, and with ample reason. By 1910, both companies offered torpedoes capable of steering a curved course to intercept their targets. This was significant, since a submarine with its fixed torpedo tubes no longer had to maneuver to place the tubes on the firing bearing. In 1912, the E.W. Bliss Company produced its finest torpedo to date, the Bliss-Leavitt Mk. 7. This innovative design featured the use of steam, generated from water sprayed into the combustion pot along with the fuel. The resulting mixture dramatically boosted the efficiency of the torpedo, leading to markedly improved performance. The Mk. 7 ran at a respectable 35 knots for a distance of 6,000 yards, putting it on par with the best torpedoes in the world at the time. The Mk. 7, despite its outstanding performance, also signaled the end of an era: it was the last 18-inch-diameter torpedo ordered by the U.S. Navy.

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In 1911, Newport began work on an alternative to the Whitehead War Nose exploder. In 1915, four years’ worth of research and development culminated in the release of the Mk. 3 exploder, the first U.S. Navy exploder to be issued to the fleet. The level of sophistication in an already sophisticated weapon continued to rise, and unremitting engineering improvements gradually but steadily enhanced the killing power of this proven and deadly weapon. As with many new and complex inventions, the automobile torpedo continued to experience teething problems as engineers worked to incorporate and mature an ever-increasing number of modifications. For example, the same feature that allowed a torpedo to steer a curved course, if overdone, allowed the torpedo to circle right back to its point of origin, destroying the firing vessel. To prevent this occurrence, engineers devised an anticircularrunning feature that supposedly prevented the torpedo from straying more than 110˚ from its initial course.38 By this time, the United States stood precariously on the precipice of war; joining the conflict in Europe seemed a certainty. As a result military planners focused on programs and strategies suited to a European land campaign. This led to a temporary suspension of any further torpedo research and development. The Bliss-Leavitt Mk. 7 served as the primary torpedo in the U.S. inventory during World War I. The Navy’s role in the war, primarily antisubmarine escort duty, limited the use of any torpedoes in combat; however, on 21 May 1917, the destroyer Ericsson reportedly fired a single torpedo at a German U-boat.39 The Germans, on the other hand, placed the torpedo at the centerpiece of their commerce raiding strategy. They were about to show the world how deadly the torpedo-U-boat combination could be.

Chapter 2 A Deadly New Application Like any island nation, Britain relied heavily on the sea for its commerce and supplies. Millions of tons of food, raw materials, and munitions arrived annually in British ports from every corner of the world. The Germans realized the importance of this commerce and therefore the fragility of the British situation: if the volume of shipping could be slowed or even stopped, Britain would have to sue for peace eventually or else face starvation. The Germans decided to employ a naval strategy of guerre de course, or commerce raiding, according to well-established guidelines used for centuries among warring nations on the high seas. Using lightly armored, fast cruisers such as the Emden, they made sure that dozens of vessels bound for Britain never completed their trips. Having been ordered to stop, a vessel would be boarded and inspected for contraband. If the boarding party found illegal goods or the vessel belonged to a belligerent nation, they seized the vessel and sailed it into port or removed the crew and promptly sank the now evacuated merchant ship. The second leg of the German strategy involved the U-boat and its torpedoes. Unlike the large cruisers, however, U-boats were far too small to accommodate the entire crew of a captured vessel. Additionally, surfacing and giving notice to a much larger merchant vessel invited disaster, since the vessel’s captain could just as easily turn to ram the fragile surfaced U-boat. And so the Germans made a fateful decision that forever altered the face of naval warfare: the commencement of unrestricted submarine warfare. On 1 May 1915, the Royal Mail Steamer Lusitania got underway from New York bound for Liverpool. The trip proceeded without incident, and on 7 May, Lusitania made landfall off the coast of Ireland. Her approach did

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not go unnoticed, however. On the bridge of the German submarine U-20, Kapita¨nleutnant Walther Schwieger sighted the approaching liner and identified her as either the Lusitania or Mauretania. The Brassey’s Naval Annual, used to make the identification, listed Lusitania as an armed merchant cruiser.1 Accordingly, Schwieger maneuvered U-20 to intercept and fired a single torpedo at his unsuspecting prey. The torpedo ran straight and true, impacting Lusitania behind her foremast near the aft end of her cargo hold and about 10 feet below the waterline.2 Controversy exists as to whether more than one torpedo was fired; a fact not in dispute is that shortly after the first torpedo hit, a second, larger explosion occurred, mortally wounding the proud liner. Eighteen minutes later, Lusitania slipped beneath the surface, taking 1,201 souls with her. Ushering in the era of unrestricted submarine warfare, the sinking of the Lusitania caused outrage in America and Britain; hundreds of innocent people—many of them from the then still neutral United States—perished in an unprovoked and unlawful act that fell well beyond the bounds of traditional commerce raiding. German U-boat forces experienced many more successes in their campaign against the Allies, nearly strangling Britain at one point. For the first part of the war, merchant ships sailed independently without escort and the U-boats fed on them with impunity. By 1917, millions of tons of supplies, munitions, equipment, and men bound for Britain or her allies lay at the bottom of the Atlantic. Only by resorting to escorted convoys did England ultimately stave off capitulation. World War I proved, once and for all, the deadly effectiveness of the torpedo, the inherent stealth of which now was further enhanced by the stealth of its new delivery vehicle, the submarine. These two inventions, combined with the concept of unrestricted submarine warfare, presented naval strategists worldwide with a dilemma of unmatched proportions—the threat of unprovoked attack at any time, in any weather, from any direction. Britain survived this deadly new kind of naval warfare, but only by the thinnest of margins. Indeed, had the Germans known just how effective their U-boats would be, greater emphasis would have been placed on their use in the war. Regardless, the submarine, with its torpedoes, now reigned supreme as the ultimate commerce raider. Following World War I, the U.S. Navy relied exclusively on the Newport Torpedo Station for all of its torpedo research, design, and manufacturing under the guidance of the Bureau of Ordnance (BuOrd). Officers assigned to BuOrd typically possessed advanced degrees in ordnance or related fields, and their line officer counterparts referred to them, both in admiration and derision, as members of the Navy’s “Gun Club.” Newport personnel considered themselves an elite organization within BuOrd. The Newport Torpedo

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Station was on its way to becoming the U.S. Navy’s unchallenged authority on all aspects of torpedo design, development, and manufacturing. The first result of this new arrangement was the Mk. 10 torpedo. Designed as a larger replacement for the Bliss-Leavitt Mk. 7, the Mk. 10 measured 21 inches in diameter, 3 inches more than the Mk. 7. Performance was comparable; the Mk. 10 could run for 3,500 yards at 36 knots. The lesser range of the Mk. 10 was relatively inconsequential for a submarine, since the Germans proved that their U-boats could approach their targets to well within 1,000 yards before firing. What did matter was the Mk. 10’s larger 500-pound warhead and Mk. 3 contact exploder. Even though the Mk. 10 was considered a Newport Torpedo Station design, the engineers there received substantial assistance from the E.W. Bliss Company. Whether or not a willing participant in this technology transfer, Bliss gave the Newport technicians the know-how they needed to supplant their longtime partner, effectively securing a monopoly on future torpedo development. The E.W. Bliss Company’s long affiliation with U.S. Navy torpedo development ended with the Mk. 10. Despite the arrival of the Mk. 10, the venerable Mk. 7 remained in service a remarkable 33 years, serving all the way through World War II on older World War I surplus four-pipe destroyers recommissioned as a result of the

The Torpedo Station at Newport, Rhode Island, circa 1927. (National Archives)

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Iron Men and Tin Fish

U-boat crisis in the North Atlantic, as well as O-class submarines used for training.3 The exigencies of war affected Newport’s research and development activities; indeed, since February 1917, Newport had been operating under BuOrd directives subordinating experimental work to the business of outfitting ships and submarines for war. On 9 August 1918, BuOrd lifted the restrictions, requesting Newport to put together a list of incomplete research activities and their current statuses. BuOrd then intended to rank each project and gradually get Newport back into the research and development (R&D) business.4 A month later, BuOrd reinforced its stance on the subject, acknowledging the essential nature of R&D not only to develop new weapons but to correct shortcomings in existing torpedoes as well.5 Apparently, not all at the Newport Torpedo Station welcomed a return to research and development projects. Newport’s Inspector of Ordnance in Charge felt that these projects would dilute the workforce necessary to sustain production and that the advanced work should occur only during manufacturing lulls.6 In fact, the debate between BuOrd and Newport dragged on past the armistice. Frustration mounted in the Bureau toward its unruly charge, to the point that BuOrd felt it necessary to define Newport’s primary functions: first, to prepare and supply weapons and materials to the fleet; second, to repair and overhaul existing materials.7 BuOrd linked the first mission to the R&D role by stating, “The preparation and supply of material to the Fleet … necessarily implies not only the efficient … distribution of material, but its quality and design, which should be the best practicable, requiring that the experimental work upon which design is based should be at least abreast of and, if possible, in advance of development by other nations.”8 BuOrd clearly longed to get back into the research and development game, likely due to lessons learned by examining German torpedoes following the war. Unfortunately, Newport at best played the role of reluctant partner in this venture. With E.W. Bliss now out of the picture, BuOrd lacked other dance partners, and Newport knew it. As World War I gradually receded into memory, Newport took BuOrd’s suggestions onboard and returned at least part of its staff to the R&D function. Experience in World War I demonstrated the effectiveness of primitive, magnetically activated mines. The basic principle was simple: the earth possesses a magnetic field of predictable characteristics capable of being altered by large metal objects (such as a ship). By placing a compasslike detector inside a mine, calibrated to the existing magnetic field, experts theorized that a large ship could create a magnetic disturbance large enough to deflect the needle, triggering the mine’s detonator. This contraption worked well in

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World War I, so well, in fact, that the world’s leading navies sought other applications for the technology. Submarine torpedoes emerged as a logical application for the magnetic influence exploder. In World War I, torpedoes worked on the principle of contact explosions, meaning that activation of the warhead required impact of the torpedo with the target’s hull. Large warships with armor belts along their hulls resisted this type of attack fairly well, whereas merchant ships, generally unarmored, did not. But since submarine doctrine of the day favored attacks on warships over merchant ships, submariners desperately sought a counter-countermeasure to armor belts. A torpedo equipped with a magnetic exploder held promise since it could detonate beneath the warship’s unprotected keel at the point of greatest magnetic influence. If the torpedo could break the ship’s keel, its fate would be sealed.9 The idea of underkeel detonation appealed to Navy leaders for economic reasons as well. Sinking a well-armored battleship with contact torpedoes required several hits, perfectly aimed and spaced. But in combat, a captain typically had only one chance to make an attack before the target ship’s antisubmarine escorts descended upon his location. Thus, to ensure success with the contact exploders, he needed to fire large spreads of torpedoes. And torpedoes were precious. The difficulties inherent in squeezing a complex steam engine, its fuel and air sources, and their associated plumbing into a space a mere 21 inches in diameter were not lost on the engineers at Newport. To build this intricate, precise machine required highly skilled labor. The machinists employed at Newport had more in common with artisans such as watchmakers than assembly-line workers, and their manufacturing approach more closely resembled the construction of prototypes than any kind of genuine mass production. As a result, Newport produced torpedoes in relatively small quantities. In a full-scale war, the standard practice of firing off multiple torpedoes to hit a single target would have cost the Navy millions of dollars, rapidly depleting inventories and quickly exceeding the manufacturing capacity of Newport. Clearly, a design that eliminated the need for large torpedo spreads appealed to gun clubbers and submariners alike. Thus, the magnetic exploder received high priority within BuOrd. In a 22 April 1922 memo, BuOrd made its case to Newport for a torpedo that could explode beneath its target. BuOrd cited numerous reasons for such a device, including increased armor and other hull strengthening in warships, the inherent vulnerability of a ship’s bottom, and familiarity within Newport regarding magnetic influence detonators. BuOrd also suggested alternatives to magnetic influence detontation, including having the torpedo stream a water kite above it while running beneath the target’s keel, placing an electric field around the torpedo and

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Iron Men and Tin Fish

A worker at the Amertorp factory assembles the contrarotating propellers for a Mark 14 torpedo. As can be seen, much of the assembly was done by hand. (National Archives)

detonating it when the target’s steel hull sufficiently disrupted the field, and finally sensing the bounce that occurred when the torpedo first impacted the side of the target, then ordering it to dive below and then detonate (BuOrd failed to elaborate on how the torpedo would stay intact following a head-on collision at 30-plus knots).10 In closing BuOrd left it to Newport to pursue the most promising avenue for underkeel explosions. Newport settled on the magnetic influence approach and in 1922 undertook its design.11 The activity started simply as Project G 53. The Bureau also

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initiated Project G 67, a study of multipurpose magnetic pistols for use in both mines and torpedoes. Records of early development activities are scarce; in 1924, BuOrd canceled Project G 53 and replaced it with Project G 156. Around the same time, Admiral Bradley Fiske submitted a patent for an influence exploder design of his own. Fiske’s activities resulted in a flurry of message traffic within BuOrd to investigate possible infringements on its design, among other things. Newport began experiments with Fiske’s design, but subsequently canceled them at BuOrd’s request. BuOrd felt no need to subsidize Fiske’s research activities for his personal gain.12 BuOrd focused Newport on two approaches for the magnetic exploder: the first involved modifying an experimental magnetic pistol from a mine (named M-2) under the auspices of project G 67. The other approach involved a completely new design, using the “resistance of sea battery method” posed by a Lieutenant Commander Moses.13 BuOrd also informed Newport, to its utter relief, that live testing of the rebound-dive-explode theory was unnecessary. By July 1925 BuOrd sensed that Newport clearly favored the development of a specialized magnetic exploder for its torpedoes; as a result, the Bureau canceled project G 67 and focused all of Newport’s energy on development of the specialized magnetic influence exploder.14 Work pressed on throughout the 1920s and culminated in a test firing against the obsolete submarine L-8. One of the young members of the gun club assigned to Newport at this time was Ralph Waldo Christie. A 1915 graduate of the Naval Academy, Christie’s first exposure to torpedoes came as an ensign onboard USS Montana in 1916. At the beginning of 1917, he transitioned into submarines and served in various capacities until December 1920, when he returned to Annapolis for postgraduate education in ordnance engineering. Following completion of the course at Annapolis, Christie returned to his home state of Massachusetts and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), where he pursued a Master’s degree in Mechanical Engineering. His studies focused on the application of these principles to torpedoes; in June 1923, Christie graduated and returned to the submarine force. It would be another three years before Christie received the first opportunity to apply the talents he acquired during his three years of study at Annapolis and MIT. In the summer of 1926, Christie reported to Newport, where he actively participated in the development of the highly evolved successor to the Mk. 10 torpedo’s Mk. 3 exploder mechanism. The finished product received the designation Mark 6. The Mk. 6 exploder mechanism contained both a magnetic influence exploder and a conventional contact exploder. An elaborate, complex technical marvel for its time, the Mk. 6’s magnetic exploder consisted of a multitude of parts: core rod and pickup coil, solenoid and delay device, and generator and firing mechanism.

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Iron Men and Tin Fish

The exploder mechanism received its power from the generator which itself received power from the rotation of an impeller in the base of the mechanism. This impeller turned as a result of the torpedo’s motion through the water. The generator powered the electrical components inside the Mk. 6. The core rod and the pickup coil acted, collectively, as the exploder’s eyes and ears, responding to changes in the direction or intensity of the earth’s magnetic field. The designers tuned the pickup coil’s sensitivity so that a ship’s steel hull created sufficient perturbations to induce a voltage on a triode in the grid circuit. This enabled the flow of current in the grid circuit to a large thyratron tube. At a preset voltage, the tube acted as a switch, closing a circuit to a solenoid valve. The solenoid lifted a mechanical arm attached to a pawl. This motion meshed the pawl with the gears of a ratchet attached to the same impeller that powered the generator. A lever connected to the pawl then made contact with the firing ring, a circular metallic enclosure around the exploder mechanism. This in turn triggered the exploder.15 All of this happened within

The guts of the Mark 6 exploder. Even this photo belies the complexity of the device. This inherent complexity eventually doomed what was once a promising idea—underkeel explosions triggered by the magnetic influence of the ship’s hull. (National Archives)

A Deadly New Application

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a fraction of a second. Even this simplified description speaks to the complexity of the Mk. 6’s design. The Mk. 6 ushered in the era of electrically triggered detonators for U.S. Navy torpedoes. The concept of an electrical circuit in close proximity to both seawater and high explosives probably concerned many of the engineers assigned to the project. Seawater, if introduced into the exploder’s internals, created the possibility of a short circuit. If the wrong circuit shorted at the wrong time, the detonator could be accidentally triggered, resulting in a premature explosion. Thus the manual for the Mk. 6 clearly specified that after immersing any Mk. 6-equipped torpedo in seawater, a number of tests were to be performed to validate the integrity of the exploder’s electric circuitry.16 The vehicle Newport designed to carry this new exploder was the Mk. 14 torpedo. Development on the Mk. 14 began in 1931 to replace the aging Mk. 10 torpedo. Christie returned to Newport in 1931 for a second tour of duty and found himself right in the middle of this activity. Designers responded to the Navy’s requirements for increased range and warhead size. Development work on the Mk. 14 spanned approximately seven years, with the first Mk. 14s reaching the fleet in 1938. By this time, Christie had graduated to the Bureau of Ordnance as Head of the Torpedo Section. Thus, Christie followed both the Mk. 6 and the Mk. 14 through not only their development but their deployment to fleet units. Newport’s Mk. 14 achieved significant improvements in most important performance categories [Mk. 10 figures in brackets]: length: 20 feet, 6 inches [16 feet, 3 inches]; diameter: 21 inches [21 inches]; weight: 3,209 pounds [2,215 pounds]; speed: 46.3 knots (high), 31.1 knots (low) [36 knots]; range: 4,500 yards (high speed), 9,000 yards (low speed) [3,500 yards]; warhead weight: 643 pounds [500 pounds].17 The Mk. 14 was divided into four major sections: the head, the air flask, the afterbody, and the tail. Two types of head sections existed for the Mk. 14: the warhead and the exercise head. The warhead was filled with high explosives for use against enemy shipping. The exercise head, as its name implied, permitted the torpedo to be fired for training and then recovered. The ingenious system devised for this purpose made use of a liquid solution approximating the weight of high explosives poured into a steel casing of identical proportions to those of the bronze warhead. At the end of the exercise torpedo’s run, air from the air flask entered the exercise head, blowing the ballast overboard and allowing the torpedo to rise to the surface in a manner similar to a submarine. Torpedo recovery vessels or the submarine itself then steered toward the torpedo and hoisted it back aboard for use in subsequent exercises. In all likelihood, many of the torpedoes fired in the first part of

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Iron Men and Tin Fish

World War II had actually been fired on multiple occasions in peacetime prior to their one-way missions post-7 December 1941. The air flask section of the Mk. 14 housed an air compartment, a water compartment, and the midship section. The air flask contained air pressurized to 2,800 psi (pounds per square inch). The air from this flask serviced a number of functions on the Mk. 14. Among the most important of these was to serve as a combustion agent, mixing with alcohol and water to produce steam that drove a turbine attached to the torpedo’s propellers. The torpedo’s midship section, open to the sea, utilized seawater as a cooling agent to offset the heat generated by combustion. The afterbody contained the Mk. 14’s engine and its control mechanisms. One of the more important components in the afterbody section was the depth mechanism. The price of the Mk. 14 reflected the substantial labor and materials expenses associated with its construction. Each Mk. 14 produced at Newport cost the Navy $10,000, or $142,857 in 2006 dollars, adjusted for inflation—a staggering expense for the depression-era Navy.18 The same economics that dictated the need for the Mk. 14 and its magnetic exploder impaired their development. Rivaling any of Rube Goldberg’s wildest inventions, the Mk. 6 required substantial testing, including live firing exercises against real targets. Moreover, the Mk. 14’s dramatically increased speed and size warranted, at a minimum, a thorough revalidation of previously understood principles related to torpedo performance. However, the depression-era Navy frowned upon excessive capital expenditures, constantly refusing requests by Christie for live firing tests of the magnetic exploder. The Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral William H. Standley, refused to provide a suitable target for testing unless Newport promised to guarantee the target would not be destroyed, an absolutely ludicrous request for torpedo testing.19 Additionally, since each torpedo itself cost a significant amount, the Navy refused to authorize testing that would destroy even the torpedo. In short, training exercises prior to World War II forbade live firing.20 Christie made the best of his situation, conducting tests using the cruiser Indianapolis and two destroyers as targets and equipping torpedoes with dummy warheads containing a photoelectric cell. When the torpedo passed under the target’s keel, the exploder tripped the cell in lieu of the firing pin, taking a picture of the ship’s bottom. Christie and his team fired over 100 exercise shots along the equator and up to 10˚ north and south of the equator. The team also made and recorded over 7,000 magnetic field readings during testing.21 Satisfied with the results, Christie and his team returned to Newport, where they placed the finishing touches on the Mk. 6 exploder. The revolutionary weapon promised to provide the U.S. Navy with a substantial combat

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31

Torpedomen hoist an expended exercise torpedo back aboard their submarine in this photo likely taken prior to World War II. Torpedoes were a precious commodity and thus were retrieved after all exercises. (National Archives)

advantage; as a result, even its existence remained a closely guarded secret. Few torpedo specialists even knew the weapon existed, since the exploder was not issued to the boats in peacetime, and the manual for adjusting, employing, and maintaining the exploder, although written, was not distributed to the fleet for fear of security breaches.22 As a result, those responsible

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Iron Men and Tin Fish

for torpedo maintenance, the boat’s torpedomen, knew little, if anything, about the exploder’s design. This zeal to guard the exploder’s secrets also deprived the device of important feedback from its maintainers. And so the development of this new and extremely complex weapon system occurred primarily in a controlled, laboratory-like setting, without the benefit of extensive testing under varying conditions or simulated combat scenarios. Waterfilled warheads replaced TNT, and dummy exploders substituted for the real thing. As Theodore Roscoe stated in his submarine history of World War II, “The U.S. Navy entered the war with an entire generation of submarine personnel who had never seen nor heard the detonation of a submarine torpedo.”23 While the Americans worked to perfect their latest creation in the evolution of this deadly underwater weapon, the nations whose navies would form their principal allies and adversaries in the next war also labored to develop comparable weapons. The principal British torpedo throughout World War II was the Mk. VIII. The Royal Navy Torpedo Factory (RNTF), Britain’s equivalent of Newport, began work on the Mk. VIII in the mid-1920s. The Torpedo Division of the Admiralty’s Naval Staff alluded to a new submarine torpedo design with a 700–750-pound warhead in its 1927 annual report. In the same report, the authors noted that the contemporary Mk. IV submarine torpedoes had a tendency to run 6 feet deeper than set. With very little sense of urgency, the torpedo staff noted that “[p]roposals to ensure that torpedoes will actually run at their set depth are now being considered.”24 The Mk. VIII made its official debut in the Torpedo Division’s 1929 report (actually published in July 1930). Initial tests proved “satisfactory,” but the early models of the Mk. VIII struggled with depth control, as the Mk. VIII employed a new engine design that tended to run up to full speed a bit slower than its predecessor.25 Keeping in mind the understated advice of the Naval Staff in its 1927 report, designers quickly overcame this problem. This report also made mention of experiments with a magnetic influence pistol similar in concept to the U.S. Mk. 6. The initial enthusiasm eventually waned and the Admiralty concluded that its design contained too many variables to guarantee consistent performance in all conditions of combat and subsequently abandoned development.26 By the 1930 annual report, the Mk. VIII was settling into its role as the submarine force’s new torpedo, with performance “… well up to expectations.”27 By September 1932, following a number of minor modifications, the Royal Navy officially accepted the Mk. VIII torpedo as its primary weapon and began issuing them to submarines of the China flotilla.28 Three years later, the Torpedo Division had collected enough operational evidence on the Mk. VIII’s performance to substantiate the claims from

A Deadly New Application

33

earlier trials. The China flotilla submarines test fired over 200 Mk. VIIIs with a success rate of 97 percent. The crews also reported that “… care and maintenance of this torpedo is simple …”29 No major defects in the Mk. VIII were noted in the 1936 annual report. In this same report, the Torpedo Division seemed to close the book on the idea of a magnetic influence exploder for submarines: “The problem of the 21-inch [submarine] pistol is more complicated owing to the requirements for angling, safety range, and non-countermining. The present design … is not expected to be able to meet this requirement with a magnetic pistol of this type.”30 In short, the RNTF felt the complexities of the submarine torpedo fire control problem precluded the use of such an intricate mechanism to control torpedo detonation. The appeal of underkeel detonation was strong, however, and the RNTF completed its redesign of a simplified duplex (contact/magnetic influence) pistol in 1938.31 Subsequent trials of the magnetic pistol proved discouraging, with too many variables in the firing equation to guarantee reliable results. As a consequence, the Royal Navy abandoned its magnetic pistol, choosing to rely on the proven Type 3 contact pistol. The Mk. VIII’s dimensions closely mirrored those of the American Mk. 14 [Mk. 14 figures in brackets]: 21 inches in diameter [21 inches], 21 feet 7 inches long [20 feet 5 inches], with a weight of 3,452 [3,209] pounds. The burner cycle engine propelled the Mk. VIII at a speed of 40 [46] knots for a maximum range of 15,000 [4,500] yards carrying a 750 [643] pound warhead. Thus, the British and the American navies in 1940 possessed frontline torpedoes with similar dimensions and characteristics; however, the exploder mechanisms of the two torpedoes differed greatly. As war with Germany appeared inevitable, His Majesty’s submariners felt quite confident their Mk. VIII torpedoes and Type 3 pistols equaled the best the Germans had to offer. In later annual reports, the Admiralty’s Naval Staff continued to give glowing marks to the new torpedo. The Royal Navy felt completely confident in its torpedo and essentially left well enough alone. The Germans, bolstered by their World War I successes, looked to innovate even further with their next generation of torpedoes. Torpedo attacks in World War I employed basic contact exploders. This design, elegant in its simplicity, sent millions of tons of Allied shipping to the bottom of the Atlantic during the Great War. Since postwar merchant ship design remained essentially unchanged, a reasonable observer might assume that future torpedoes would also need few, if any, changes. Like the British and the Americans, the technology of the magnetic mine infatuated the Germans. They also focused on the torpedo as an obvious application. Work began in the German Torpedo Directorate to apply this innovation to the more dynamic world of the self-propelled torpedo. Despite

The elegantly simple contact exploder used in the British Mk. VIII torpedo. (From the Archives of Explosion! Museum of Naval Firepower, Gosport, Hampshire, UK)

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severe limitations imposed by the Treaty of Versailles, the Torpedo Directorate developed a magnetic “pistol” that worked on a principle similar to that of its stationary cousin, the mine. The new detonator underwent testing using the G7v torpedo as its transport mechanism.32 The testing regimen was completed to the satisfaction of the Torpedo Directorate, and the magnetic pistol was pronounced fit for service. Remarkably, however, the fitness for service criteria failed to include the successful detonation of a magnetic exploder beneath the hull of a target vessel. In fact, the two trial runs actually proved unsatisfactory, but apparently went well enough to confirm the old adage, “close enough for government work.”33 In parallel to the work on the magnetic pistol, the Torpedo Directorate worked to produce a successor to the G7v. German-owned firms based in Sweden began development of the new torpedoes cloaked in secrecy to avoid treaty violations.34 Two torpedoes emerged from this effort: the G7a, an airdriven (sometimes also referred to as steam-driven) torpedo, and the G7e, an electrically powered torpedo. The torpedoes shared identical dimensions: 23 feet, 7 inches in length and 21 inches in diameter. Both torpedoes used dual-purpose detonators—magnetic or contact. Developed around the same time as the Mk. 14, the G7a utilized the chemical solvent Decalin for its wet-heater engine. Each torpedo had advantages and disadvantages. The G7a ran faster, but left a telltale bubble wake that accusatorily identified its firing point. The G7e did not exhaust air due to its battery propulsion; as a result, U-boat captains came to prefer its improved stealth qualities. On the other hand, the G7e required substantially more maintenance, especially concerning the batteries. Therefore, any lapse in scheduled maintenance tended to have a greater effect on the G7e. Additionally, the weight of the batteries and the weaker propulsion plant dictated a smaller warhead size. In contrast, the G7a was considered rugged enough to be stored externally, only brought into the boat after expending the more fragile electrics. Once Hitler renounced the treaty restrictions on armament development, both projects returned to Germany and became the property of the new Kriegsmarine’s Torpedo Directorate, also known as the Torpedo Experimental Establishment. The concept of the new magnetic pistol mated to the G7a and the G7e represented the culmination of German undersea warfare technological achievement. The magnetic pistol allowed the torpedo to travel well beneath the keel of the intended target, detonating when directly below the ship’s backbone. The large warhead’s high explosives created an air bubble capable of lifting the ship out of the water. At the apex of the bubble’s upward travel, the bow and stern flexed toward the sea, creating an arch in the otherwise rigid keel. The bubble then quickly collapsed, creating a void into which the

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unfortunate victim now fell. This action created the opposite effect on the keel, with the bow and stern now flexing upward. As strong as a ship’s keel might be, naval architects never intended for it to survive such a cycle of stresses and strains; indeed, the effect was similar to breaking a green branch: a bend in one direction followed by the other usually did the trick. The power of this concept appealed to weapons designers, U-boat captains, force commanders, and logisticians as well. Since a single torpedo now did the work of multiple torpedoes, captains could shoot fewer torpedoes at more targets, stay on patrol longer, and sink more ships. This also eased the burden on the supply chain, presumably eliminating large spreads and reducing the rate of consumption of this vital commodity. Japan’s torpedo development evolved as part of an overall naval strategy designed to counteract the numerical inferiority imposed on the Imperial Japanese Navy by the Washington and London naval treaties of the 1920s and 1930s. Following the defeat of the Russian Navy in the Russo-Japanese War, the Imperial Japanese Navy viewed the United States as the most likely opponent in any future naval conflict. All subsequent strategic planning reflected this viewpoint. In the finest traditions of Alfred Thayer Mahan, Japanese naval planners envisioned a scenario where the American fleet would sortie from an advanced base (Pearl Harbor, for instance) intent on finding, engaging, and destroying the Japanese fleet in what Mahan referred to as the “decisive battle.” Able to build a navy only 60 percent the size of the U.S. Navy because of the terms of the Washington Naval Treaty, Japan needed a way to even the odds prior to the decisive fleet engagement. Shortly after World War I, Japanese naval strategists devised a plan called yuˆgeki zengen sakusen (“interception-attrition operations”). The elaborate scheme encompassed a series of attacks by various naval elements designed to whittle down the American fleet prior to the final clash between the main bodies of each navy’s battlefleet. Following the neutralization of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet and advance bases in the Philippines and Guam, naval forces planned three phases of attack on the American fleet, which strategists expected to sortie in the wake of the attacks on the Philippines and Guam. First, submarines planned to deploy to the Eastern Pacific to report on U.S. fleet movements and to attack where possible to reduce its strength. The second phase of the plan entailed a series of attacks on the American fleet by land-based aircraft operating from Japanese bases in the South Seas Mandated Islands (also known as Micronesia) and by carrier-based aircraft. Finally, an advance force of cruisers and destroyers, with the support of fast battleships or battle cruisers, would launch a night torpedo attack against the remaining elements of the advancing fleet. The remnants of these attacks

A Deadly New Application

37

would be destroyed the following morning by the main body of the Japanese fleet.35 For this strategy to succeed, the Japanese needed one additional advantage: the ability to engage their enemy at ranges in excess of the maximum range of the enemy’s weaponry. This tactic, known as outranging, theoretically allowed Japanese forces to launch attacks without fear of response due to the shorter ranges of their enemy’s naval weapons. Thus, all naval weapon development in the 1930s focused on this maxim. As the torpedo played a major role in the interception-attrition strategy, designers placed special emphasis on its design. What emerged from this process were arguably the best surface ship and submarine torpedoes of the era. The Torpedo Department at the Kure Naval Shipyard oversaw the development of these new weapons. In 1928, work began on the Type 93 surface ship torpedo. The massive weapon’s diameter, 24 inches, exceeded that of all other surface-launched torpedoes. By 1932, all design work was complete and prototypes became available in 1933. Over the next two years, a series of tests at the torpedo ranges in the Inland Sea near Kure validated the design. The Type 93 went into operational service in 1935. The torpedo’s name reflected its role in the interception-attrition strategy: “Long Lance.” The Type 93 achieved its long reach by utilizing a revolutionary kerosene-oxygen wet-heater propulsion plant. With the outranging concept now validated for surface ship torpedoes, Mitsubishi received the task to produce a similar torpedo for submarines. In 1934, the Nagasaki division of Mitsubishi began work on the Type 95 torpedo as essentially a smaller version of the Type 93, with the now-standard 21-inch diameter. The Type 95 followed a similar development and testing cycle to the Type 93’s, with testing completed in 1935 and final delivery to the fleet in 1937. This revolutionary propulsion technology not only delivered on the outranging requirement, but it also allowed both torpedoes to carry payloads unmatched by any other torpedo of the era: 1,078 pounds of high explosives for the Type 93 and 893 pounds for the Type 95.36 Japanese ordnance experts experimented with magnetic influence mines but, unlike the Americans, British, and Germans, avoided the urge to adapt that technology for use in torpedoes. As a result, both torpedoes utilized a standard contacttype exploder mechanism. As Table 2.1 shows, the principal naval powers of World War II entered the war with torpedoes similar in size and performance characteristics. Only the Type 95 stands out in terms of range, speed, and warhead size. On paper, then, one might assume that these navies began the war on equal footing regarding their torpedoes. As will be seen, appearances were deceiving. As the storm clouds of war once again gathered over the European continent,

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Table 2.1 Comparison of Submarine Torpedoes at the Beginning of World War II Mk. XIV (USA)

Mk. VIII (UK)

G7a G7e Type 95 (Germany) (Germany) (Japan)

Service date

1938

1927

1938

1939

1938

Diameter

21 in.

21 in.

21 in.

21 in.

21 in.

Length

20 ft. 6 in.

21 ft. 7 in.

23 ft. 7 in.

23 ft. 7 in.

23 ft. 5.5 in.

Weight

3,209 lb.

3,452 lb.

3,369 lb.

3,534 lb.

3,671 lb.

High speed

46.3 knots

45.5 knots

44 knots

30 knots

49–51 knots

Low speed

31.1 knots

41 knots

40 knots

n/a

45–47 knots

Range (high speed)

4,500 yd.

5,000 yd.

6,560 yd.

5,470 yd.

9,850 yd.

Range (low speed)

9,000 yd.

7,000 yd.

8,750 yd.

n/a

13,100 yd.

Warhead

643 lb.

722 lb.

661 lb.

440 lb.

893 lb.

Exploder mechanism

Magnetic, contact

Contact

Magnetic, contact

Magnetic, contact

Contact

Propulsion

Wet heater

Burner cycle Decalin wet Electric heater

Keroseneoxygen wet heater

torpedoes figured to play a prominent role in any large-scale conflict. Indeed, the lessons of World War I rang true in the minds of many, but, in particular, those of the new German Kriegsmarine, many of whom served with distinction in the First World War. With relatively basic submarines and torpedoes as well as crude fire control techniques, the Germans amassed staggering tonnage figures against the Allies. On the eve of a second European war in as many decades, Germany’s naval leaders hoped their improved U-boat and torpedo designs could now tilt the naval balance decisively in their favor.

Chapter 3 “… to Fight with a Wooden Gun” Germany sent the world back into war with its invasion of Poland in September 1939. U-boat deployments fell under the responsibility of Kapita¨n zur See und Kommodore Karl Do¨nitz, commander of German U-boat forces. Do¨nitz had no illusions about sending his forces against the full might of the Royal Navy; indeed, being a World War I veteran himself, Do¨nitz knew that commerce raiding, not fleet engagements, supplied the U-boat with its raison d’etre. On 3 September 1939, two days after Germany’s invasion of Poland, Great Britain declared war on Germany. Do¨nitz’s U-boat force was about to face the ultimate test against the world’s finest navy and largest merchant fleet. That very day, Do¨nitz had U-boats on patrol all around the British Isles. One of those boats, U-30, started the war off in ignominious fashion. Her captain, Fritz-Julius Lemp, sighted what appeared to be a transport, steaming on a zigzag course with no running lights. Lemp made no further effort to discern the vessel’s identity, assuming it to be an armed auxiliary cruiser. At the appointed range, Lemp fired two torpedoes at the approaching vessel. One ran straight and true; the other ran wild. The first torpedo proved sufficient, however. A huge detonation rocked the large vessel. In the glow of the explosion and subsequent fires, Lemp first came to grips with the vessel’s true identity and the fact that he had committed a grievous error: the vessel in question was not an auxiliary cruiser, but the passenger liner Athenia, bound for the United States with a full load of passengers, including many Americans. This latter fact made Lemp’s act particularly troublesome, since American or potentially American targets were off-limits to U-boats at this point. Strict adherence to the Prize Regulations was the order of the day for U-boat captains. This meant unescorted merchant vessels must first be stopped,

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boarded, and searched for contraband. If the inspection revealed prohibited items, the boarding party ordered the crew into lifeboats, provisioning them and providing them with navigational assistance. Only then could the vessel be sunk. In a single instant, Lemp violated practically every element of the Prize Regulations.1 British propagandists seized the opportunity to vilify the U-boat arm, with plentiful references to the Lusitania. Back in Germany, Hitler fumed at Lemp’s ill-conceived attack and immediately put master propagandist Josef Go¨bbels to work on spin control. Go¨bbels’s ludicrous story included claims that Britain deliberately sabotaged the Athenia to pull America into the war. That same evening, a different communique´ went out to all U-boats: “By order of the Fu¨hrer and until further orders no hostile action will be taken against passenger liners even when sailing under escort.”2 Amid the furor surrounding the attack and the subsequent cover-up, the failure of the second torpedo garnered scant attention. Lemp’s blunder gave Do¨nitz other things to worry about. Only a few days later, a similar torpedo problem occurred on the U-47, skippered by Gu¨nther Prien. At this early phase of the war, Prien had yet to obtain his nickname “The Bull of Scapa Flow,” for that famous attack was still in the future. Nonetheless, Do¨nitz respected Prien as an experienced mariner and accomplished officer in the fledgling U-boat arm. On 7 September 1939, Prien’s U-47 encountered the British freighter Gartavon. In strict adherence to the reemphasized Prize Regulations, Prien attempted to stop and board the vessel. The plucky crew of the Gartavon not only ignored Prien’s hail, but put on speed in an attempt to escape her attacker. Prien’s gunners then fired a single shot that knocked out the freighter’s goalpost mast, to which the radio antenna was attached. The freighter’s fearless crew quickly realized the hopelessness of their situation and abandoned ship, but not without rigging her steering and engines to turn toward the U-boat at high speed in an attempt to ram U-47. Attacked in such a manner, Prien no longer had any obligation to follow the Prize Regulations; accordingly, he prepared a single torpedo for firing. Just like Lemp’s second torpedo against the Athenia, this missile ran erratically, missing the Gartavon completely. Unwilling to waste more valuable torpedoes on an unmanned merchantman, Prien finally consigned Gartavon to her watery grave courtesy of shells from his deck gun.3 This early in the war, minor failures such as Lemp’s and Prien’s went unnoticed by Do¨nitz and his staff. In both cases, the targets met their prescribed fates (though Do¨nitz probably wished Lemp’s first torpedo had also failed). Four days into the war, no meaningful statistical data were yet available, and none would be until the first boats returned from patrol. One week later, Lemp encountered the British freighter Fanad Head. Still smarting from his Athenia experience, Lemp knew this attack must follow Do¨nitz’s playbook

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to the letter. One might imagine Lemp and his First Watch Officer huddled over a copy of the Priesenordnung (Prize Regulations), making sure of every step. Lemp ordered the ship to halt, which she did, but only after radioing the submarine distress signal SSS. Lemp’s original plan called for the boarding party to set demolition charges within the Fanad Head as a less costly but equally effective alternative to torpedoes. Unbeknown to Lemp, the British carrier Ark Royal patrolled nearby and heard Fanad Head’s distress calls. She quickly launched three Skua aircraft equipped with antisubmarine depth bombs. The aircraft appeared overhead with Lemp’s team still onboard the freighter in the midst of their demolition preparations. Lemp dove immediately, but failed to cut the line securing the demolition team’s dinghy to the U-30. As a result, the dinghy acted as a marker buoy for the Skua pilots. All these factors should have spelled the end for U-30, but luck was on her side. Inexplicably, the bombs skipped back into the air and exploded directly in the path of the oncoming Skuas. The shrapnel tore two of the aircraft apart, forcing them to ditch. The demolition team observed this bizarre sequence and fished the aviators out of the water. Lemp decided the better of continuing with the demolition effort and prepared all four bow tubes for firing. All four torpedoes missed, probably running deep. A fifth torpedo from the stern tube found the mark, and Fanad Head finally slipped beneath the waves.4 Lemp’s botched attack on Fanad Head marked the second time in as many attacks by U-30 that a torpedo had not performed as expected. Given the publicity surrounding Lemp’s Athenia fiasco, though, Do¨nitz and his staff likely cared more about the subsequent cover-up than they did about the indicators of potential torpedo problems. The bizarre story of the Fanad Head and the doomed Skuas still contained one final twist, for during the time of the Skua’s attack, Ark Royal was under the observation of Gerhard Glattes and U-39. The carrier’s turn into the wind to launch the Skuas separated her from her destroyer escorts and unknowingly pointed her directly at the U-39. At 1507, Glattes fired three G7e electric torpedoes with their magnetic pistols at the oncoming behemoth. The torpedoes detonated prematurely, alerting both the Ark Royal and her escorts. Had Glattes’s torpedoes found their mark, the escorts likely would have focused their attention on the carrier’s survivors. The premature detonation of the three torpedoes allowed the escorts to focus instead on U-39. Their ensuing counterattack battered the U-boat. With flooding in many compartments and chlorine gas forming from seawater coming in contact with cracked battery cells, Glattes thought the better of things and ordered his boat scuttled. Thus U39 became the first combat loss of a U-boat in the war, a loss due in large part to the failure of her torpedoes.5

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Glattes’s failure against Ark Royal might have provided Do¨nitz with important information concerning the torpedoes had he made it back to port; instead, he and his crew ended up prisoners of war and Do¨nitz remained in the blind regarding the performance of his torpedoes, known by the crews as “eels.” Three days after the loss of U-39, Do¨nitz finally received an indication of problems with the eels. Johannes Franz in U-27 encountered an unescorted British freighter and promptly moved into attack position. Confident in his data and his target, Franz loosed a full bow salvo at the hapless vessel. Some 273 yards into the run, two of the torpedoes exploded prematurely. Franz, understandably baffled, moved a safe distance away, surfaced, and radioed Do¨nitz to inform him of the failures. Two days later, Franz encountered a formation of seven destroyers and boldly moved in to attack. He fired three torpedoes with magnetic pistols at the overlapping columns of warships. Two of the torpedoes prematured 30 seconds into their run, and the third missed, either due to poor aim or improper depth setting. The effect was similar to swatting a hornet’s nest with a stick. The now alerted destroyers peeled off toward U-27. HMS Fortune made contact first, unleashing a punishing depth charge barrage. A follow-up attack by Fortune triggered heavy flooding throughout the boat. Daring to the end, Franz decided to surface and try to make a run for it. The ever-vigilant Fortune stood ready and pounded the U-boat with her guns. Franz had seen enough and, in a break with seafaring tradition, dove over the side. The rest of the crew quickly got the message and followed their captain. Only the brave actions of the engineer prevented the intact capture of U-27 by the destroyer column. Franz’s actions during the attack were certainly strange. Attacking a column of antisubmarine destroyers, surfacing and attempting to run, and diving over the side while the rest of the crew remained onboard all called into question the intelligence of the U-27’s skipper. In less than a week, and barely two weeks into the war, torpedo failures had now directly or indirectly led to the loss of two U-boats. Do¨nitz now had Franz’s first report, but little else. And with Franz now a prisoner of war, Do¨nitz could do little to follow up on U-27’s initial message. In any event, the war was still too young to begin identifying any trends, and nobody wanted to jump to conclusions based on the reports of a single U-boat. As a result, patrols continued with the tactical guidance as issued at the beginning of hostilities. As the first month of the war progressed, more and more skippers started reporting problems with their torpedoes: erratic runs, premature detonations, and no detonations. Do¨nitz, faced with substantial evidence of a disturbing trend, questioned the Torpedo Directorate and the Admiral Superintendent of Dockyard regarding these reports. Clearly, the Directorate

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reasoned, U-boat crews improperly employed their torpedoes and their reports comprised an attempt to shift the blame away from their highly suspect marksmanship skills. This answer infuriated Do¨nitz. His men underwent more training than any other submarine force in the world—Do¨nitz had personally seen to that. U-boat crews had been honing their wolfpack skills for the last two years, and each U-boat captain fired hundreds of exercise torpedoes before being allowed to go on patrol.6 The Admiral Superintendent of Dockyard offered a bit more contrition, admitting that torpedoes had been adapted with gyro-angling gear for curved torpedo tracks, but that the torpedo tails failed to receive the required modifications to support such shots. This may have explained some of the erratic runs early in the war.7 Bolstered by his confidence in his own training program and the ability of his handpicked crews, Do¨nitz undertook a detailed analysis of all the failures and presented a report to Grand Admiral Erich Raeder, head of the Kriegsmarine. Raeder found the data equally disturbing and immediately ordered the Torpedo Directorate to conduct a formal investigation. The Torpedo Directorate’s final report identified two problems: the G7e’s electric cable layout lacked robustness, and the G7a possessed a somewhat vague “mechanical flaw.” The recommendations included a new cable layout for the G7e and a suggestion that only the contact pistol option be used in the G7a.8 Do¨nitz, himself not an ordnance expert, instinctively felt the Directorate failed to dig deep enough into the problems reported by the skippers. Do¨nitz’s own analysis, as well as the reports of his returning U-boats, pointed at another problem not even considered in the Directorate’s inspection: the torpedoes seemed to be running too deep. This was the only explanation in cases where the target course, speed, range, and angle on the bow were known beyond doubt. If all parameters were correct, or even within an acceptable margin of error, a torpedo fired based on these data was bound to hit the target unless it malfunctioned. A premature explosion or erratic run gave obvious indications to the crew; the case where no explosion occurred but all other indicators seemed normal led Do¨nitz and his skippers to the only remaining conclusion: the torpedoes ran too deep—so deep, in fact, that not even the magnetic pistol could detect the magnetic disturbance. As a result, the eels sped beneath their intended victims, running until their fuel or battery supply was exhausted. On 17 October 1939, more bad news greeted the newly promoted Konteradmiral Do¨nitz: U-46, commanded by Herbert Sohler, made contact with and attacked the convoy Homebound Gibraltar 3. The attack failed miserably. One G7e prematured and six other failures of various types plagued Sohler in his prosecution of the convoy. Sohler correctly chose to break radio silence

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and notify Do¨nitz. Do¨nitz responded by immediately ordering all U-boats to use impact pistols only. Privately, Do¨nitz fumed. Do¨nitz’s unilateral decision to abandon the magnetic pistol sparked the Torpedo Directorate into making a stunning admission: the torpedoes ran 6½ feet deeper than set. Even more astonishing came word that engineers in the Directorate were well aware of this problem and had been for three years.9 The explanation given to a now completely bewildered Do¨nitz centered on the following notion: for a torpedo equipped with a magnetic pistol, depth control meant little, since the torpedo could be equally (if not more) devastating by detonating beneath the target’s keel. This notion sounded good in the classroom and on paper, but it tended to ignore one simple glaring truth: U-boats in World War I devastated merchant shipping equipped with only a simple contact pistol. In other words, the new torpedoes’ designs failed to meet Do¨nitz’s primary requirement: the ability to efficiently, economically, and consistently send merchant shipping tonnage to the bottom of the Atlantic. Undoubtedly, the magnetic pistol did promise to achieve this requirement—when it worked. Unfortunately, after only six weeks of combat, it seemed clear that this supposed leap in torpedo technology failed to live up to its billing. Do¨nitz received additional agitation in November when Victor Schu¨tze’s U-25 attacked a two-ship formation with four contact pistol-equipped torpedoes. All four failed to explode, despite what seemed to be an excellent fire control solution. In keeping with the practice established by his frustrated predecessors, Schu¨tze surfaced and radioed Do¨nitz about the failures. Schu¨tze’s report infuriated an already extremely disturbed Do¨nitz, who immediately ordered yet another investigation by the Torpedo Directorate. The Directorate complied with Do¨nitz’s request and also informed him that the magnetic pistol had been modified to the point where a marked improvement in performance was obtained. With no alternative but to trust his experts, Do¨nitz reversed his earlier contact pistol order, telling his captains to once again place their faith in the hands of the magnetic pistol.10 One can only imagine the conversations that followed between U-boat captains and among U-boat crews. After barely two months of war, three sets of orders regarding employment of torpedoes had been issued: first was the G7a contact pistol-only edict, quickly followed by Do¨nitz’s amendment to include the G7e (effectively abandoning the magnetic pistol), and finally the complete reversal—reverting to the magnetic pistol only. And all these orders came within a one-month span. Do¨nitz loved his U-boat crews and they him, but all this confusion certainly had to have an impact on that trust. This was not for lack of effort on Do¨nitz’s part. A war diary entry for 31 October 1939 summarized Do¨nitz’s frustrations. In his diary, Do¨nitz

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expressed concerns that the engineers in the Torpedo Directorate failed to grasp the urgency of the situation. Do¨nitz felt that his analysis effectively proved a 30 percent failure rate for the Directorate’s torpedoes. Furthermore, this performance and the myriad of confusing orders to the crews were beginning to erode the confidence of the skippers in their weapon. Do¨nitz closed with the following: “In the end their fighting spirit will suffer. The torpedo failure problem is at present the most urgent of all the problems of U-boat warfare.”11 In light of mounting evidence provided by Do¨nitz and his crews, Grand Admiral Erich Raeder, intending to shake up the hidebound Torpedo Directorate, appointed a civilian scientist, Dr. E.A. Cornelius, to the newly created position of “Torpedo Dictator.” With this position came wide powers to not only find and fix the defects in the torpedoes, but to improve production rates as well.12 The appointment of a civilian was unprecedented; the move was clearly designed to communicate to the remaining Directorate personnel that the traditional military bureaucracy had completely failed in its mission to design an effective torpedo. Raeder expected Cornelius to infuse the team with the freshness of an outsider’s perspective; one of his biggest challenges would be to overcome the inertia established by years of doing things a certain way simply because things had always been done that way. It was a daunting task, indeed. On 12 November 1939, U-49, commanded by Curt von Gossler, provided Do¨nitz with more ammunition to present to the new Torpedo Dictator. Von Gossler encountered the freighter Rothesay Castle, escorted by two destroyers, HMS Echo and HMS Wanderer. Fully aware of his numerical disadvantage, von Gossler nonetheless pressed home the attack, believing the disposal of the Rothesay Castle justified the risk of tangling with the two destroyers. He fired four torpedoes at the freighter, three G7a torpedoes with the improved magnetic pistol and a single G7e. All four torpedoes failed, three of them exploding prematurely, two a mere 656 feet from U-49. The worst was yet to come for von Gossler. The two destroyers, fully alerted courtesy of the two geysers of water erupting just in front of U-49, moved in for the kill. With no other choice, von Gossler descended to the unprecedented depth of 557 feet. The U-boat held together and von Gossler slipped the noose from around his neck. Later that night he surfaced and radioed Do¨nitz about the failures. Do¨nitz was apoplectic; von Gossler’s near loss destroyed Do¨nitz’s faith in the supposed improved magnetic pistol. In his war diary entry for 14 November, he penned yet another condemnation of his crippled eels: “… the torpedo can in no way be regarded as a front line weapon of any use.”13

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Do¨nitz’s captains provided him with more than ample reason to suspect serious defects in at least the magnetic pistol. Obviously concerned, Do¨nitz approached the Torpedo Inspectorate with his data. As the organization’s name implied, the Torpedo Inspectorate certified torpedoes for use in combat. Do¨nitz’s concerns thinly veiled the implication that the Inspectorate had failed to properly carry out its duties with regard to the U-boat arm’s torpedoes. Predictably, the Inspectorate circled the wagons in typical bureaucratic fashion: there were no problems with the exploder, perhaps the captains were poorly trained, not following procedure, or not maintaining their weapons properly. On 21 December 1939, in an attempt to shake things up even more, Raeder sacked Oskar Wehr, head of the Torpedo Directorate, and replaced him with Oskar Kummetz. Kummetz quickly threw himself into his work with characteristic German efficiency and determination. Within a couple of days, he confirmed by laboratory testing what Do¨nitz and his crews already knew: the torpedoes were defective.14 Despite Dr. Cornelius’s and Kummetz’s appointments, Do¨nitz grew increasingly pessimistic about the situation, so much so that he penned the following entry into his war diary in January 1940: The fact that its main weapon, the torpedo, has to a large extent, proved useless in operations has been the greatest difficulty with which the U-boat arm has had to contend since the beginning of the war and it has had a most serious effect on results. At least 25 percent of all shots fired have been torpedo failures. According to statistics covering all shots up to 6 January, 40.9 percent of unsuccessful shots were torpedo failures. … The commanding officers’ and crews’ confidence in the torpedo is very much shaken. Again and again the boats have tried in the face of strong enemy activity to fire their torpedoes under the best possible conditions and often when they have made a daring attack they have been rewarded with failures and even danger to themselves. … It is very bitter for commanding officers and the executive control to find that the U-boat arm cannot achieve the success expected of it, in spite of thorough peacetime training, because of torpedo failures. I will continue to do all I can to keep up the fighting spirits of the U-boats in the face of all the setbacks.15

Do¨nitz had little time to ponder the situation, for a large-scale preemptive invasion of Norway was planned for early April. Do¨nitz’s U-boats would provide scouting and defensive patrols of the multitudinous fjords against a suspected British counterattack. Though Do¨nitz had received little in the way of hope from Kummetz, he understood that Norway’s territorial waters provided one of the few safe havens through which precious Swedish iron ore could be safely transported to Germany. The U-boats would sail on their missions and put up the best defense possible.

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The Norwegian coast presented numerous challenges to Do¨nitz. It stretched over 1,000 miles, not counting the numerous fjords that reached inland from the sea. As many of these fjords offered navigable waters to warships, the Germans had to do their best to guard all possible approaches. Do¨nitz decided to split his meager force into nine U-boat groups. All told, it was an impressive deployment, capable of exacting a heavy toll on any Royal Navy task force that dared to challenge the German occupation. On 7 April 1940, Admiral Sir Charles Forbes, Commander-In-Chief, Home Fleet, sailed from Scapa Flow with a task force consisting of two battleships, a battlecruiser, two cruisers, and ten destroyers. The French cruiser Emile Bertin, accompanied by two destroyers, also joined Forbes’s force. Two additional cruisers, along with four destroyers, departed Rosyth, Scotland, the same afternoon. To this already impressive force were added four destroyers pulled from escort duty for convoy HN.24 and six more escorts from convoy ON.25, including two cruisers. The next day, another ten ships —six destroyers and four cruisers—departed Rosyth to augment the already powerful armada headed toward Norway.16 The British force shared the same goal as its German adversary: to gain control of Norway and its surrounding waters. On 9 April 1940, Do¨nitz’s forces made contact with units of the Royal Navy. Five British destroyers entered West Fjord, probing for elements of the German landing forces. One of the Group 1 boats, U-51, reached an attack position twice on the destroyers’ inbound leg. None of the torpedoes hit their targets.17 These were costly misses. The Royal Navy destroyer force steamed onward to Narvik, Norway, sinking numerous merchant ships, two German destroyers, and damaging two more at the cost of two of their own, plus one damaged.18 On their way out of Narvik, the destroyers once again encountered U-51 and U-25. Both skippers chose to attack using the G7e electric torpedoes with the magnetic pistol. Neither boat reported any hits, but U-51 did report two premature detonations.19 On 11 April, Herbert Schultze in U-48 located a large British force, including battleships and heavy cruisers searching for the German battlecruisers Gneisenau and Scharnhorst. Schultze, one of Do¨nitz’s top skippers, found himself presented with the rare opportunity to dispatch at least two enemy capital ships in a single attack. With proven aggressiveness and competence, Schultze expected nothing but success as he lined up on his first target, a heavy cruiser of the Cumberland class. His three-torpedo salvo sped toward the warship. As the time of impact came and went, no explosions occurred. The torpedoes had missed. Schultze reloaded and prepared to go back in. He fired three more torpedoes at the cruiser HMS York; all three exploded prematurely. A golden opportunity to deal the Royal Navy a major blow had been lost, foiled by defective torpedoes.

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Schultze radioed Do¨nitz, alerting him to the task force and reporting the torpedo failures.20 After receiving Schultze’s report, an unnerved Do¨nitz made the following entry in his KTB: “U 48 reported 2 triple spreads in the evening on a large cruiser, no hits scored, 4 self detonators. This report of failure, together with those of U 51 and U 25 give rise to extreme doubts as to the effectiveness of magnetic fuse in Zone O [north of 68˚N latitude]. The question of torpedo failure appears to threaten the success of the entire operation.”21 Two days into the campaign, Do¨nitz still awaited news of any major U-boat successes. Fearing the worst, he sent out a message to all U-boat groups to report their status. The results were, in Do¨nitz’s own words, calamitous: “In the twelve torpedoes with magnetic pistols discharged by U-25, U48 and U-51 on April 11 … there were six to eight cases of premature explosion—anything … between 50 percent and 66 percent certain failures.”22 Do¨nitz, his worst fears realized, once again turned to the Torpedo Directorate for answers. Kummetz, now commander of the Oslo invasion force, was unavailable, so Do¨nitz conferred with Dr. Cornelius. After a lengthy discussion, they determined that all torpedo salvos should include a combination of magnetic and contact exploders, theoretically improving the probability of a torpedo success. Do¨nitz issued orders to that effect the same evening.23 Do¨nitz’s order included other specifics that meshed poorly with a commander’s need to act quickly and decisively in rapidly evolving combat situations. For example, if the U-boat patrolled north of 62˚N latitude, the instructions dictated a four-torpedo salvo consisting of three torpedoes using impact pistols and one using a magnetic pistol. For deep-draft vessels (typically heavy cruisers or larger), Do¨nitz specified that contact pistols only be used. For shallow-draft ships (light cruisers, destroyers, and escorts) one torpedo with each pistol type was to be fired, with spacing of 8 seconds between shots to reduce the risk of destruction of the contact pistol torpedo if the magnetic pistol torpedo exploded prematurely.24 These orders probably did little to reassure the crews on station off Norway. For a boat patrolling near the 62˚N latitude line, the fourth torpedo tube’s contents were in question. Additionally, especially in high seas or poor weather, ship identification was not an exact science. A light cruiser may appear to be a heavy cruiser, and vice versa. Clearly, Do¨nitz’s orders created more questions than they answered. Then, on 13 April, Schultze in U-48 encountered the British battleship HMS Warspite in Ofotfjord. The veteran captain skillfully maneuvered his boat into ideal attack position at close range. Despite the previous problems, the crew remained optimistic as they ticked off the seconds until impact. When the appointed time came and went, the crew’s collective heart sank: all four torpedoes missed. Hoping to salvage something for his efforts,

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Schultze reloaded and went after the two escorting destroyers. Once again, luck favored the British. This veteran skipper, winner of the Knights Cross and a proven torpedo marksman, left Ofot Fjord empty-handed. Seaman Horst Hofmann served aboard the U-48: “One after the other we fired all our magnetic torpedoes. Not one of them exploded. What the devil was wrong with those bloody torpedoes?” Hofmann continued, voicing what other crewmen certainly thought: “Not one of those damned tin fish found its mark. … the torpedo-gunner’s mate inspected the huge, steel cigars, but nothing could he find which might have accounted for their failure. The only redeeming feature had been that Vaddi Schultze had remained benignly calm.”25 Two days later, Do¨nitz’s other Knights Cross winner, Gu¨nther Prien, took U-47 into Bygden Fjord to reconnoiter the approaches to the town of Elvenes, Norway, a principal British objective. When he arrived, he could scarcely believe his eyes. Before him loomed three transports of greater than 30,000 tons each, another three slightly smaller transports, and two cruisers. All were anchored and busy disembarking troops and equipment. It was the discovery of a lifetime, and Do¨nitz could not have picked a better skipper to be the recipient of such good fortune. A good score here would cement Prien’s ever-growing legend. Prien figured that he could fire his four bow tubes at four separate targets, reload, and fire four more eels at four different targets. Prien closed the range so that the closest target was only 750 yards away, the farthest 1,500 yards distant. For the first attack, Prien focused on two cruisers and two large transports. With the skill and swagger befitting a man of Prien’s stature, U-47 moved in for the kill. One by one, Prien emptied his bow tubes, pausing 8 seconds between shots as Do¨nitz had ordered. With the targets at anchor, a fire control solution was unnecessary; additionally, since the targets overlapped each other, even slight errors promised to be marginal in their effect on the results. As the time for the first explosion came and went, the crew began to worry. As the second, third, and fourth impact times passed, Prien knew something had gone horribly wrong.26 Like his fellow Knights Cross winner Schultze, Prien was determined to leave with some measure of success. Since the misses failed to alert the transports or the cruisers, Prien calmly reloaded all four bow tubes and set up for a second attack. Prien ordered his torpedomen to carefully check every eel before sticking it in a tube. Even the simple fire control solution was rechecked. After completing all the checks, Prien fired all four tubes in the same manner as the first attack, with the exact same result. Prien radioed Do¨nitz and informed him of the failures.

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A crestfallen Do¨nitz responded to Prien’s report with the following war diary entry: “… to all intents and purposes, then, the U-boats were without a weapon.”27 Indeed they were. Do¨nitz once again went to the Torpedo Directorate, looking for answers. What he found generated only more questions. The magnetic pistol used a propeller mounted on the torpedo’s nose to unlock the firing pin and arm the warhead through its spinning action. A certain number of turns of the propeller indicated a safe distance from the firing vessel, allowing the warhead to activate without danger to the firing vessel. These arming propellers normally had five blades, but a four-bladed variant had also been issued. The Torpedo Directorate personnel went on to explain with characteristic German bluntness that the four-bladed model went to sea without testing, and thus 10 percent of the exploders might fail due to this “oversight.” Compounding matters, the staff hydrographer felt that the high iron ore content of the Norwegian seabed might cause some of the magnetic pistols to discharge prematurely. If all this bad news were not enough, the “experts” concluded that, since the depth-keeping problems still persisted, boats should revert to the exclusive use of the magnetic pistol.28 Do¨nitz was now back to square one. Feeling that he had no other option, he reversed his earlier contact pistol-only order, warning his crews that “… the G7e torpedo probably runs more than six feet deeper than the set depth.”29 He then told his crews to once again employ the magnetic pistol, despite its previously acknowledged failures, and followed this order with a complex set of instructions. Morale in the U-boat arm was plummeting. Naval leaders set the tone for their organizations; Do¨nitz was no exception. When he was inspired, so were his captains and crews. When he was frustrated or distraught, his men were also. The continual string of torpedo failures during the Norwegian campaign ebbed at Do¨nitz’s reserve of strength. Near the nadir of this disappointing campaign, Do¨nitz noted the following in his war diary: “It is monstrous that B.d.U. should have to be burdened with lengthy discussions and investigations of the causes of torpedo failures and their remedy. This is the business of the technical inspectorates and departments. But as long as these authorities [the Torpedo Inspectorate and Experimental Establishment] are slow to do what is necessary, I am forced to take action.”30 As he probably expected, Do¨nitz’s new orders did nothing to stem the tide of failure. U-boats continued to achieve excellent firing position only to have their torpedoes fail them. The effect on the crews was almost unimaginable. The U-boats took tremendous risks approaching heavily escorted British warships and transports, formulating attack plans, and maneuvering to fire. If a U-boat experienced a premature explosion, retribution could be swift in the form of angry destroyers racing toward the firing point betrayed by the faulty

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magnetic pistol. If the destroyer’s sonar operator made contact, depth charges soon rolled off the destroyer’s stern, raining down on the now-cornered Uboat. Perhaps it was a combination of these thoughts, coupled with a succession of spectacular failures, that led Gu¨nther Prien, the Bull of Scapa Flow and winner of the Knights Cross, to allow an entire convoy to pass without attack. In his report to Do¨nitz, Prien explained that “I cannot be expected again to fight with a wooden gun.”31 Shortly thereafter, Do¨nitz pulled his remaining U-boats out of Norway. In the history of German U-boat warfare, the Norwegian campaign ranked as an abject failure. On countless occasions, U-boats made contact with enemy warships and transports, achieving excellent firing position in almost all cases. Battleships, cruisers, and huge troop transports all passed within the crosshairs of Germany’s finest torpedo marksmen and all emerged unscathed. Tactics certainly were not to blame: the skippers aggressively worked their boats into ideal firing positions only to have their efforts undone by the defective eels. Immediately following the war, Do¨nitz wrote an essay for the Royal Navy in which he attempted to make sense of the debacle: The naval staff and the U-boat command had expected great results from the use of U-boats [in the Norwegian campaign]. … the result of the U-boat activity was extraordinarily disappointing. The chief reason for this was torpedo failures. … The reason for the increasing number of torpedo misses was only understood by the German navy at a very much later date, when the individual technical faults of the torpedo were ascertained by systematic testing. … despite numerous opportunities to fire, there were few, if any, successes. The effect on the crews was marked; they lost confidence in the weapon, and the personal influence of the C in C U-boats was necessary to restore their morale.32

As Do¨nitz’s downtrodden U-boats sulked their way back to their home ports, their commander searched for answers. The numbers confronting Do¨nitz were ugly: U-boats made 38 attacks during the Norway campaign. Four were made on battleships, 14 on cruisers, 10 on destroyers, and 10 versus transports. Ignoring all attacks made under anything but ideal conditions, Do¨nitz believed at least one battleship should have been sunk or damaged, along with seven cruisers, seven destroyers, and five transports. The only reason they survived, he surmised, was because of the torpedo faults.33 On 20 April 1940, Grand Admiral Raeder appointed a special commission to investigate the Norway disaster. Despite agreeing to the commission, Raeder harbored suspicions about Do¨nitz’s claims regarding the impact of defective torpedoes on the campaign; indeed, Raeder ordered Do¨nitz to include the following entry in his KTB (war diary):

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Iron Men and Tin Fish The point of view expressed by B.d.U. in his reports and War Diary, that shortages of torpedoes and warhead pistols were especially prevalent during the Norwegian operations and had a decisive effect on the outcome makes it necessary to point out that one cannot speak of a particularly noticeable increase of failures during the Norwegian operation in the comparison with previous U-boat results. The mishaps of this period can be attributed to a far greater extent to explained misses—41.8%. They were considerably influenced by the unique, tricky conditions of U-boat warfare experienced in this operation (high firing range, small fast-moving targets, heavy protection, short light nights, un-heated torpedoes and unusual light conditions.34

The commission, chaired once again by Dr. Cornelius and comprised of the best and brightest German science and industry could offer, set off to find the answers Do¨nitz so desperately needed.35 While the committee investigated, Do¨nitz fretted and reflected on the misfortune which befell his crews, causing them to be “… plunged into a state of dismal depression … a slough of despond [sic].”36 Sending U-boats to sea with their crews in a slough of despond was no way for Do¨nitz to win the tonnage war. He longed for answers, and fast. As each week passed, more food, equipment, troops, munitions, or supplies safely arrived in Allied ports to fuel the war machine. And for all Do¨nitz knew, the bomb with his name on it was now resting within the hold of a newly arrived merchant ship swinging safely at anchor in a British port. Finally, on 15 May 1940, Dr. Cornelius’s commission produced some answers. Do¨nitz reported the findings in his war diary: I have been told that the functioning of the AZ [contact setting] was considered as proved in peacetime after only two not even faultless shots. Such working methods can only be described as criminal. The numerous defects of the torpedoes were only suspected little by little by the BdU on the basis of practical operational experiences … . In all cases the torpedo technicians either denied the possibility of a failure or else attributed it now to one cause, now to another. In all cases a basic defect was in fact finally discovered.37

In addition, the investigation concluded that the sensitivity of the magnetic pistol, combined with the ferrous nature of Norwegian waters, combined to cause premature detonations.38 Convinced of the fallibility of the magnetic pistol, and believing perhaps the British had devised a countermeasure, Do¨nitz directed the Torpedo Directorate to focus on improving the contact pistol and depth control. For the time being, captains compensated for these deficiencies by firing with a shallower depth setting on the torpedo and trying for orthogonal impact points. A bit of luck helped Do¨nitz solve the contact exploder deficiency. On 5 May 1940, the British minelaying submarine

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HMS Seal surrendered to a Luftwaffe floatplane after hitting a mine and sustaining both damage and casualties. To the Germans’ great fortune, the crew had not jettisoned all their torpedoes, and the exploder mechanism of one of these samples made its way to Dr. Cornelius and his team. In short order, a copy of the contact pistol was made and issued to replace the defective model.39 Dr. Cornelius also insisted that the magnetic pistol was now much improved; Do¨nitz relented and decided to grant the petulant device a stay of execution, pending the results of an upcoming patrol. On 23 May 1940, U-37, commanded by Viktor Oehrn, went on patrol with torpedoes featuring both the improved magnetic and contact pistols. Oehrn made contact off the Western approaches and fired five torpedoes, all using the “improved” magnetic pistol. The results were two premature explosions, two misses, and one erratic run. Oehrn immediately reported the failures, and Do¨nitz responded in kind, ordering all U-boats to abandon the magnetic pistol entirely. The next day, Oehrn put three ships on the bottom, all courtesy of the impact pistol.40 This marked the turning point for the U-boats in this phase of the war. The U-boat arm emerged from the Norway-induced funk and headed for the “Happy Time.” During this period, roughly from June 1940 through March 1941, a combination of improved torpedoes, lack of convoy escorts, and more accessible bases in France led to huge scores by aces such as Prien, Otto Kretschmer, and others.41 If the Norwegian campaign destroyed the crews’ faith in their torpedoes, the Happy Time restored it. One problem still remained, and it would plague Do¨nitz and his crews until early 1942. This was the nagging depth-control issue. The insidious nature of the problem made it difficult to isolate. For a torpedo to understand the concept of depth, a reference depth had to be provided. Atmospheric pressure at sea level provided this value and corresponded to a depth of zero feet. Thus, the German torpedoes were designed with “depth chambers”— sealed enclosures that maintained atmospheric pressure within the enclosure. The difference between the pressure inside the chamber and the sea pressure outside corresponded to a relative pressure, or depth setting. As the difference rose or fell, the horizontal rudder of the torpedo moved in the corresponding direction to maintain the ordered depth. This worked well in theory; however, the depth chamber possessed a serious flaw: it was not quite airtight.42 This in itself was not fatal, though. The problem came when a U-boat submerged for an extended period of time and the combined effect of air leaks and torpedo firings (where the air used to fire the torpedo was vented back into the boat) caused significant rises in atmospheric pressure within the U-boat. Under these circumstances, the interior of the depth chamber, now at higher than atmospheric pressure, provided more resistance to the sea pressure and thus a smaller relative pressure—in effect, the torpedo thought

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itself to be running shallower than it was. As a result, the chamber did exactly what it was designed to: compensate for the low relative pressure by diving deeper. Meanwhile, Do¨nitz and Raeder sought accountability for the disaster that denied them even more underwater successes. Raeder convened a court of inquiry, which returned recommendations for court-martial against the former head of the establishment, Konteradmiral Wehr, and two junior officers. The primary charge against the men related to their knowledge of the depth defect prior to the commencement of hostilities. Their only defense: they felt the magnetic exploder should compensate for the lack of accurate depth control, since contact was not required (nor desired) to achieve success with the magnetic pistol. All three received six months’ confinement and all were returned to jobs involving the research and development of armament.43 This sentence, especially in Hitler’s Germany, amounted to a slap on the wrist. This verdict seemed to be an admission that the system was actually the guilty party, but in the finest of military traditions, final blame must be assigned to a person (or in this case, persons). The German experience with faulty torpedoes actually began when a single authority (the Torpedo Directorate) received absolute authority and control in the design and development of these complex weapons. As often happens in large bureaucratic organizations, innovation fell victim to lethargy and inertia. Even when presented with factual data from U-boats in combat, the Directorate could not believe its weapon possessed any flaws. Only after a combination of constant pressure from Do¨nitz, detailed reports from captains on torpedo failures as they occurred, and Raeder’s appointments of Kummetz and Dr. Cornelius did the Torpedo Directorate emerge from the stupor of bureaucratic bliss and work to develop an effective weapon of war. The frustrations experienced by the Germans in the Norwegian campaign represented a stark contrast to the performance of British submarines and their torpedoes in the same campaign. When war finally came, British employment of their submarines consisted mainly of supporting a blockade of Germany with patrols along the German and Dutch coasts. Additionally, all British submarines constantly scouted for any sign of German capital ships attempting to sortie into the Atlantic. As a global power with many overseas commitments, the Royal Navy’s submarine force found itself stretched thin in the fall of 1939. At that time, only 18 frontline submarines served in home waters. Lacking inspirational leadership and largely relegated to second-tier status in the Royal Navy, submarines figured to play a supporting role at best in Britain’s war plans. Since the invention of the submarine, Britain had tried on more than one occasion to outlaw the vessel as a weapon of war. The submerged torpedo attack

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appalled many of the traditionalists in the Royal Navy who felt this tactic at best ungentlemanly and at worst utterly barbaric. Moreover, British surface forces effectively blockaded German ports, reducing the need for such an offensive. Consequently, few planners gave serious consideration to the idea of a Royal Navy submarine sinking an unarmed, unescorted merchant vessel without prior warning. And these were the exact orders issued to British submariners at the outset of the war: merchant ships were to be fired upon only if the submarine could guarantee the safety of the target’s crew.44 Despite these handicaps, Royal Navy submariners trained and operated their boats with the same professionalism and aggressiveness as their surface navy counterparts. On 4 December 1939, Lieutenant Commander Edward Bickford, skipper of HMS Salmon, scored some of Britain’s first submarine victories. Patrolling west of Skagerrak, the body of water separating Denmark from Norway and, as such, a natural funnel for shipping, Bickford’s lookouts spotted a submarine’s conning tower. The vessel appeared to be heading north. With no other friendly submarines in the area, Bickford prepared to attack the U-boat. Unable to achieve optimal firing position, Bickford settled on a low-probability, long-range shot; nevertheless, Bickford’s salvo scored, practically vaporizing the German U-36. On 13 December 1939, Bickford sighted what looked like part of the German fleet sailing with an escort of light cruisers. Unable to close the main body but determined to make an impression on his adversary, Bickford decided on another long-range shot against the light cruisers. Once again, the Mk. VIII torpedoes performed flawlessly, hitting both the Nu¨rnberg and the Leipzig. Though neither cruiser sank, the Nu¨rnberg spent the next five months in a shipyard undergoing repairs and the Leipzig never again sailed in battle. Bickford and HMS Salmon returned home as conquering heroes, giving both their navy and the submarine force a much-needed shot in the arm.45 In early 1940, the Royal Navy submarine force received another boost when Vice Admiral Sir Max Horton assumed the role of Flag Officer Submarines. Horton, a decorated submariner from World War I, commanded the respect of all who served under him. Like his contemporaries in many other navies, Horton truly cared for his crews and made regular visits to his submarines. This behavior in all likelihood stemmed from the necessary closeness and informality that developed within the cramped confines of the boats. At the beginning of April 1940, the Royal Navy, in response to intelligence reports, positioned a number of submarines in the vicinity of Norway, anticipating the German invasion attempt described earlier. On 8 April, the Polish submarine Orzel, now under British command, attacked and sank the 5,261ton German transport Rio de Janeiro. The transport carried hundreds of

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troops headed to Bergen, Norway, as part of the invasion force. That same day, Lieutenant Commander A.G.L. Seale, commanding HMS Trident, disposed of the 8,036-ton tanker Posidonia in the Skagerrak.46 The next day, HMS Truant (Lieutenant Commander C.H. Hutchinson) sighted the upperworks of what appeared to be a German cruiser to the northwest. Hutchinson’s tracking team reported the cruiser’s course to be southeasterly. This put Truant in position to get a crack at the German warship. About 20 minutes later, the formation revealed its details to Hutchinson. He identified the cruiser as a member of the Koln class, escorted by three Maas-class destroyers. The cruiser, later identified as the Karlsruhe, earlier participated in the delivery of German troops to Kristiansand, Norway. Hutchinson maneuvered for a torpedo shot, but at a range of 4,500 yards, Karlsruhe and her escorts executed the next leg of the zigzag pattern, this one to the northeast. Despite the zig away, Hutchinson’s team felt it had a bead on the cruiser and at 3,500 yards, Hutchinson gambled on a relatively long-range shot. Figuring this would be his only chance at bagging the cruiser and given the unfavorable range, Hutchinson decided to fire all ten torpedoes at the Karlsruhe. Alert lookouts on the German cruiser spotted the incoming wakes, but the cruiser’s captain could not avoid them all. Hutchinson’s logic was sound and the gamble paid off: he heard three explosions while taking Truant deep. The attack destroyed the rudder, screws, and a number of watertight spaces aft. Without propulsion and steering, and with considerable flooding, the Karlsruhe was doomed. Hutchinson and his crew were not out of the woods yet, as the German destroyers moved in to work over the Truant with depth charges. Over the next four and a half hours, the Germans dropped 31 depth charges, “nearly all of them unpleasantly close” in Hutchinson’s own understated remarks from his patrol report.47 Around the same time of Hutchinson’s heroics, the British War Cabinet decided to relax restrictions on British submarines as a result of the German invasion of Norway. Going forward, Royal Navy submarines no longer needed to ensure the safety of the target’s crew prior to destroying the vessel. This relaxation applied in the vicinity of Norway and the approaches to Norway. The Royal Navy transmitted this message to all submarines in the area immediately. While this was happening, Lieutenant Commander J.E. Slaughter, captain of HMS Sunfish, coincidentally happened to be in the middle of a simulated attack on an unescorted German freighter for training purposes. Slaughter maintained contact and a good fire control solution while his radiomen decrypted the message. Slaughter’s description in his patrol report was succinct: “Just as the sights came on the last part of V.A. (S)’s 1324/9 [Vice Admiral (Submarines) message relaxing restrictions on merchant

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shipping] was read out to me: so I fired.”48 His aim was true and the Mk. VIII torpedoes took care of the rest. The message also elated Lieutenant Commander E.F. Pizey in HMS Triton, who encountered a German convoy in the Skagerrak and promptly sank three ships. The most significant attack of the day, though, did not even result in a sinking and did not involve a merchant ship. Surfacing just after midnight and following a three hour depth-charge attack, Lieutenant Commander J.H. Forbes of HMS Spearfish spent most of the evening hours of 10 April 1940 enduring depth-charge attacks from one or more German destroyers in the vicinity of the Kattegat. Finally, after six hours, the depth charging subsided and Forbes surfaced the boat into a clear, dark evening. At 0029, Forbes’s First Lieutenant spotted a contact broad on the starboard beam, 3,000 yards distant, moving at high speed. Initially believing it to be one of his tormentors from earlier in the evening, Forbes brought his stern to bear on the target, preparing for another evasion. Less than a minute into his turn, Forbes realized that the silhouette belonged to a much bigger warship, possibly even a pocket battleship. Forbes sounded the torpedo alarm and made ready all six bow tubes. Because of the extremely dark conditions that evening, Forbes dared not take his eye off the big German warship. Three minutes later, using his trained captain’s eye, Forbes fired all six Mk. VIII torpedoes at the approaching man of war. Five minutes after firing, Forbes heard a single explosion which achieved substantial damage in the after section of the target.49 Intercepts later identified Spearfish’s victim as the German pocket battleship Lu¨tzow. Barely able to limp into port, Lu¨tzow remained out of action for an entire year.50 The news improved once again on 14 April 1940. In the early morning hours, HMS Snapper patrolled on the surface while completing a battery charge. Suddenly, her lookouts sighted an enemy convoy emerging from the mist. Snapper’s skipper, Lieutenant William King, knew he needed to attack the convoy while surfaced. Unable to afford the time necessary to work up a proper firing solution, King fell back on an old submariner’s rule of thumb: King extended his arm directly in front of him and placed the Snapper’s bow on the firing bearing ahead of the convoy’s track. He then sighted down the fist and when the first target’s bow touched the left edge of his fist, he fired. Visibility precluded King from witnessing the results, but he saw one explosion through the mist and heard an additional three. King received credit for sinking three ships and returned home to a hero’s welcome.51 Overall, British submarines fared far better in the Norway campaign than did their German counterparts. During the five weeks of the campaign, British submarines sank 18 merchant vessels totaling in excess of 60,000 tons. Add to this the Karlsruhe, one U-boat, a training ship, and heavy damage to

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the Lu¨tzow, British submariners had much to be proud of in their first major unrestricted action. The Mk. VIII torpedo, now in its second decade of service, outperformed its much newer and supposedly technologically superior German cousins. In varying sea conditions, at long and short ranges, the Mk. VIII fulfilled its duties in an exemplary manner. So by mid-1940, both the British and German submarine forces carried highly reliable and deadly torpedoes into combat, this despite the Germans’ early teething problems and frustrations they experienced in Norway.

Chapter 4 Deep Trouble (U.S. Torpedoes 7 December 1941–3 June 1942) The Battle of the Atlantic provided Americans with a nearby reminder of the struggle ensuing between their European neighbors. Many of the vessels sunk by Do¨nitz’s U-boats had either begun their journeys from American waters or were headed there. American neutrality patrols over the Atlantic underscored the nearness of the conflict. Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, relations continued to erode between America and Japan. Concerns about Japanese aggression in China and their vision for a “Greater East Asia CoProsperity Sphere” raised alarms within the American government. Following an embargo on oil to Japan, the militaristic government settled on war as the only option to fulfill its objectives in East Asia. This manifested itself in the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941. The Japanese decimation of Battleship Row at Pearl Harbor, coupled with the paucity of American carrier forces in the Pacific, left the submarines at the vanguard of a badly depleted Pacific Fleet. Though they faced a daunting task, the submariners had every reason to believe they would acquit themselves as well as their British allies and their German enemies. After all, both nations’ submarine forces proved the deadly effectiveness of the submarine-torpedo combination. As in World War I, the torpedo reigned as the preeminent weapon with which to conduct a war on commerce; moreover, both the British and Germans found success even against better armored capital warships. Word of the exploits of Gu¨nther Prien at Scapa Flow1 certainly raised the bar for daring among submarine captains. At the war’s onset, there was little reason to doubt that American submarines could mount a formidable response. The newest types of U.S. Fleet Submarines prowled the seas without a technological equal in range, sophistication, or crew comfort. Captains and their crews received first-rate training at the submarine school in New

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London, Connecticut. And the American industrial machine began to churn out Fleet Submarines at a breakneck pace. And of course there was the torpedo. The Mk. 14 represented the state of the art in torpedo design and its top-secret Mk. 6 magnetic exploder held the promise reserved for that special category of ordnance known as “wonder weapons.” Peacetime training involved the firing of countless exercise torpedoes. Skippers and their attack teams practiced and repracticed the art of the blind submerged sound bearing attack. The peacetime training system praised procedure and punished any digressions. Confidence infused all echelons of the submarine service, from the fleet commanders down to the greenest torpedoman. These men certainly believed their torpedo to be at least the equal of any other nation’s and probably felt it superior to their Axis counterparts. Bart Bartholomew, a Gunner’s Mate onboard USS Sargo for her first war patrol, exemplified the American submariner’s thoughts on the Mk. 14 at the outbreak of the war: “We all figured that the torpedo was an excellent weapon because all our practice shots ran HOT STRAIGHT and NORMAL under the center of the target.”2 Pearl Harbor bolstered this confidence with a heavy dose of American resolve; indeed, as Pacific Fleet submarines sortied on war patrols in the wake of Pearl Harbor, expectations were high. The Pacific and Asiatic fleets combined contributed 22 and 29 submarines, respectively, to the defense.3 Although the number was comparatively small, senior leaders hoped that the Mk. 6 magnetic exploder, coupled with the stealthy submerged sonar tactics taught prior to the war, would inflict heavy casualties on any Japanese invasion force. Asiatic Fleet Commander Admiral Thomas C. Hart hoped a delaying action using submarines could weaken Japanese invasion forces and stem the tide of the Japanese thrust south. Correspondingly, Hart’s war plan called for patrols of waters in the Northern Philippines and near the entrances to known Japanese naval bases. On the commencement of hostilities, Captain John Wilkes, Hart’s submarine force commander, intended to deploy 21 of his boats in accordance with Hart’s plan. The remaining 8 submarines comprised Wilkes’s strategic reserve.4 The Japanese plan called for landing their main Philippine invasion force in Lingayen Gulf on the island of Luzon. This plan came as no surprise to Wilkes and Hart, and many of the Asiatic submarines deployed in the defense of the Philippines centered on this strategic objective. Nonetheless, by 9 December 1941, sustained Japanese attacks on the Philippines convinced Wilkes to deploy his 8-boat reserve. Wilkes’s submarines5 comprised the Asiatic Fleet’s naval defense of the Philippine Islands. One of the boats employed in Wilkes’s defense plan was Sargo, under the command of Lieutenant Commander Tyrell D. Jacobs.

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Bartholomew recalled Jacobs being a “sailor’s skipper”: approachable, competent, and professional.6 Jacobs took command of Sargo on 3 March 1941, and, after a brief tour of West Coast ports, headed to Manila to join the submarines of the Asiatic Fleet. During the first week of December 1941, war with Japan seemed just a matter of time. All Asiatic Fleet boats moved to their highest state of readiness. Jacobs trained his crew hard, and the men of Sargo responded. That very week, Sargo completed a crash dive in less than 60 seconds. The final exercise of the week involved the firing of three Mk. 14 exercise torpedoes. Jacobs conducted three flawless approaches, and all three torpedoes ran hot, straight, and normal right below the center of the practice target.7 Jacobs and his crew knew they were ready to deal the Japanese a hefty blow if they decided to descend upon the Philippine Islands. At 0300, 8 December 19418, flashing light signals from the Asiatic Fleet Flagship interrupted the early morning stillness bearing the message expected by all Asiatic Fleet sailors: “JAPAN STARTED HOSTILITIES. GOVERN YOURSELVES ACCORDINGLY.”9 Jacobs wasted little time getting his boat ready for patrol; by 1425, 8 December 1941, Sargo was underway on her first war patrol. As word of the attack on Pearl Harbor circulated among the crew members, they felt quite confident that, soon enough, Sargo and her topnotch torpedoes would visit similar destruction upon the Japanese invaders. After a brief stop in Marivales Bay, Sargo continued to her patrol area, departing the Philippines via the Palawan Passage. After five days of transit, Sargo arrived in her assigned area off the coast of Indochina (now Vietnam); it was not long before she received her baptism by fire. The next evening,13 minutes before sunset, an alert lookout spotted a lone Japanese merchant ship. Battle stations sounded, and the results of months of training were about to be put to the test. One-half hour after sunset, Jacobs maneuvered Sargo into favorable attack position 1,100 yards off the target’s port beam. Jacobs decided to fire a single Mk. 14 torpedo, set to run at 15 feet depth. These settings ensured that, in the event the target’s draft ended up being less than 15 feet, the torpedo would still be close enough to the keel to detonate by magnetic influence. Jacobs probably preferred to fire a spread of torpedoes, but the Navy already faced a supply (and demand) problem that became even worse when Japanese bombers obliterated the torpedo stockpile at the Cavite Naval Base in Manila. Besides, Sargo excelled in peacetime torpedo exercises, so a single shot against an unarmored merchant ship ought to suffice. Jacobs took a final look through the periscope and gave the order: “Fire five!” The single, well-aimed torpedo surged from the number five stern torpedo tube. Everything proceeded just as in training to this point. Eighteen seconds after firing, a loud explosion rocked Sargo. Men throughout the boat cheered,

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assuming that the torpedo struck home, exacting a small measure of revenge for Pearl Harbor. Jacobs already knew the truth, but he took a look through the periscope anyway to confirm his fears. “She’s turning … she’s not sinking. DAMN! The torpedo exploded prematurely.”10 The merchantman, now alerted to the Sargo’s presence, turned away from the explosion and escaped. Jacobs knew torpedoes. He owned a Master’s degree in ordnance engineering and belonged to the exclusive fraternity known as the Gun Club. His training and experience led him to suspect a fault within the magnetic exploder. Immediately following the attack, Jacobs conferred with the Executive Officer and the Torpedo Officer. He wanted the men to brainstorm and determine why the torpedo detonated so early. The specifics of the conversation were lost to history, but the participants identified at least two possible causes: either the Japanese developed a countermeasure to the magnetic exploder, or the exploder possessed a defect that led to a premature detonation.11 Jacobs settled on the latter explanation, possibly since the Mk. 6 magnetic influence exploder existed in a veritable shroud of secrecy, its details kept from the very sailors expected to effectively use the device, with no manuals distributed to the fleet. Nobody believed, one week into the war, that the Japanese already possessed a countermeasure to a weapon that only a select few men in the U.S. Navy even knew existed. Satisfied with his conclusion, Jacobs made the following entry in his patrol report: “After the premature functioning of the exploder mechanism, decision was made to deactivate all [magnetic] influence exploder mechanisms and rely on the contact exploder mechanism. This was done on all remaining torpedoes.”12 Jacobs thus became the first of many skippers who deactivated the Mk. 6 on their own initiative in violation of standing orders. Sargo continued on patrol, working her way up the coast of Indochina. The next ten days passed without event. On Christmas Eve, lookouts spotted two cargo ships sailing together at a range of 16,000 yards. As the men raced to their battle stations, many probably thought sinking two cargo ships would be the perfect redemption for their unfortunate and unsuccessful baptism under fire. The two targets steamed in a column formation. Jacobs raised the attack periscope to take a look. To his chagrin, fog on the lens rendered it useless. Fortunately, Sargo had two periscopes, the other located in the control room, one deck immediately below the conning tower. Jacobs made all subsequent observations from there. He planned to fire two torpedoes at the lead ship and a single torpedo at the second ship. With the magnetic exploder deactivated, nobody expected these torpedoes to betray Sargo with a premature explosion. At 1238, Jacobs fired on the mini convoy, ordering a two-shot spread on the lead target from 900 yards at a depth of 15 feet, set for contact detonation

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and a single torpedo at the trailing ship from 1,100 yards at a depth of 16 feet. The loss of that weight forward affected the buoyancy and trim of the submarine and required compensation by the Diving Officer. The Diving Officer accomplished this by pumping more water into the forward trim tanks, replacing the weight lost by firing the torpedoes. This procedure did not happen properly and Sargo broached the surface. The enemy vessels observed this and immediately turned away. By this time, the original three torpedoes should have reached their targets, but no explosions occurred. Keeping his cool, Jacobs quickly maneuvered Sargo, bringing her stern tubes to bear. Two more torpedoes sped toward their prey, destined to meet the same fate as the previous three.13 Sargo’s broaching and torpedo wakes certainly attracted attention, for later that afternoon, a destroyer of the Amagiri class approached Sargo from Cam Ranh Bay. Fortunately for Sargo, the Amagiri, despite continuous pinging with her active sonar, failed to locate the submarine. This close call illustrated the danger a submarine faced if its torpedoes failed to register hits. Once the drama subsided, Jacobs convened his second torpedo performance committee of the patrol. The experts pored over the data from the previous attack, checking for any tactical errors, poor assumptions, or blatant mistakes. Finding nothing conclusive, the committee recommended rechecking all remaining torpedoes. At 0330, 25 December 1941, the men settled down to Christmas dinner. Bart Bartholomew recalled the crew’s thoughts before eating: “Some men said a silent grace while others muttered, ‘DAMN the torpedoes.’”14 Damn the torpedoes, indeed. In just over two weeks of patrolling, Sargo encountered half a dozen potential targets, developing attacks on three of them, firing six torpedoes with nothing to show for her efforts. As the men not on watch drifted off to sleep, bellies full of the best Christmas dinner the Navy could provide, visions of working torpedoes replaced those of sugarplums in more than one Sargo sailor’s head. Christmas Day and the next day passed without incident. The submerged patrol on 27 December proceeded without incident until late afternoon, when another pair of merchant ships steamed into view. Forty-three minutes after making contact, Jacobs again had Sargo in perfect position. Skillfully, Sargo slipped ahead of its quarry, setting up for two stern shots from a range of 900 yards with a depth setting of 10 feet. The attack team ticked off the seconds as the torpedoes pursued the unsuspecting freighter. At this point-blank range, everyone expected at least one hit. The moment of impact came and went; neither torpedo exploded, and the vessel gave no indication that it was aware of the attack. Jacobs had done all that could be asked of an aggressive skipper, deftly maneuvering his boat into favorable firing position on four separate targets, only to come away empty each time.

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Forty minutes after this attack, another pair of freighters hove into view, presenting Sargo with yet another chance at redemption. Jacobs steeled his resolve to make this attack count. Checking and rechecking each aspect of the approach, Sargo spent almost an hour meticulously achieving optimum firing position. During the 57 minute attack run, Jacobs made 37 periscope exposures, with his second officer checking each reading. The attack team double-checked each piece of data sent to the Torpedo Data Computer (TDC). Convinced that all parameters were perfect, Jacobs loosed two spreads of torpedoes at the convoy from a range of 1,000 yards at a depth of 10 feet. These torpedoes missed as well. Jacobs, hoping for a logical scientific explanation, again rechecked all data from the attack. No errors were found; indeed, Jacobs believed that the torpedoes “… were fired with as correct data as will ever be possible to obtain on an enemy ship … .” Convinced that the Mk. 14 torpedo ran deeper than set, Jacobs ordered the rudder throws on all remaining torpedoes set to run at a depth shallower than set. Jacobs’s adjustments were tested on 4 January 1942, as yet another target sailed into Sargo’s sights at a range of 1,300 yards. The Sargo attack party again began a precision approach, making 17 periscope observations in 35 minutes. Jacobs ordered a single torpedo for this attack. As in all previous attacks, the torpedo not only failed to hit its target, it either ran so deep or wide of its mark that the vessel’s lookouts never even noticed they were under attack.15 Jacobs then broke radio silence to inform Wilkes of the torpedo failures and the adjustments he made as the fight progressed. Wilkes ordered Sargo to end the patrol and head for Surabaya, Java. With the Asiatic Fleet in an already tenuous defensive position, Sargo’s patrol results did little to buoy the spirits of Wilkes and Hart. The aggressively skippered Sargo made a total of eight attacks, all from excellent firing range and position, firing a total of 13 torpedoes.16 Not a single torpedo hit its intended target. Based on Jacobs’s notations in the patrol report, Sargo’s intended victims together totaled almost 40,000 tons of shipping, including one tanker. All of these vessels narrowly avoided watery graves due to the failure of the Mk. 14 to perform as specified. Allowing for some exaggeration on the part of Jacobs’s size estimates,17 even a 50 percent success rate for his attacks would have denied the Japanese use of thousands of tons of resources in their southward campaign of expansion. During Sargo’s return to base, Jacobs and his Torpedo Officer, Lieutenant Doug Rhymes, hypothesized on the causes of the failed attacks. Prewar exercise torpedoes used water-filled dummy warheads. At the end of a firing exercise, compressed air expelled the water from the dummy warhead, creating positive buoyancy in the torpedo and popping it to the surface for easy retrieval. A warhead-equipped torpedo weighed more than one fitted with

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the water-filled dummy. The Mk. 14 testing program utilized the dummy warheads, basing all depth settings and calibrations on these characteristics. Jacobs and Rhymes concluded that the torpedoes ran too deep because of this.18 Procedure required all captains to comment on major defects and casualties experienced while on patrol. In his report, Jacobs said the following about his torpedoes: The Commanding Officer is of the opinion that the Mark 14 Mod. 1 torpedoes are faulty in two respects. First that the influence exploder mechanism cannot be relied on to function as designed. Second that set depth is not being obtained within 2000 yards. … It is believed that a change of rudder throws, to give more up rudder, should be given careful consideration and that test firings, with a tube depth of at least forty-five feet, be conducted to determine the depth performance of these torpedoes.19

Thus, the Asiatic Submarine Command, less than one month into the war, possessed evidence of potential problems with the Mk. 14 torpedo. It would, however, be months before Jacobs’s suggestions were acted upon. With so few patrols in the books, senior commanders hesitated to believe what they heard from Jacobs. Experimenting with weapon settings in the field was (and still is) a generally discouraged practice and deactivation of the exploders violated operational orders. Jacobs’s superiors probably believed that, had the exploder been left alone, some of the subsequent attacks might have been successful. Jacobs’s knowledge of torpedoes enabled him to experiment on settings with more confidence than most of his brethren, who regarded the Mk. 6 as a mysterious black box provided by the Bureau of Ordnance (BuOrd). With crews operating in such conditions, the poor scores from these early patrols were no surprise. Unfortunately for Jacobs, timing worked against him. As one of the first boats to return from war patrol, most senior officers reading Jacobs’s report probably attributed the failures to “teething” problems, as the whole business of submarine warfare was a new experience for the American Navy. Jacobs’s superiors thinly masked their displeasure with his actions, assigning Sargo to transport duty for her second patrol. The mission called for Sargo to deliver a load of ammunition to U.S. Army forces on Mindanao and to pick up 24 enlisted ground crew members from the Army’s 14th Bombardment Squadron. No doubt the mission provided a vital service to the defenders of Mindanao and relief to the evacuated personnel; however, submariners lived to sink ships, and transport duty appealed little to the men. Indeed, scuttlebutt quickly circulated throughout Sargo. Gunner Bartholomew summarized the crew’s reaction: “I believe we all thought Captain Jacobs was being punished for tinkering with the BuOrd torpedo.”20

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Jacobs reflected on the first patrol, his actions while on patrol, and the pedestrian second patrol. He concluded that his superiors had lost their confidence in him and BuOrd blamed him for the failed attacks, not the torpedoes. This demoralized Jacobs to the point that he asked to be relieved of his command.21 He remained in Australia for the next several months arranging for the accommodation of submarine crews returning from patrols. In one of war’s many ironies, Jacobs eventually received orders—to the Bureau of Ordnance. Jacobs’s departure dealt another blow to the morale of the Sargo’s crew. Jacobs clearly left his men with a positive and lasting impression. Bartholomew said, “At our yearly gathering we always talk about what a great Skipper Jacobs was and believe that with torpedoes that worked he would have been a high scorer in the War.”22 As a result, Lieutenant Commander Tyrell D. Jacobs became the first casualty of the war between the submarine skippers and their deskbound superiors. During the same period in which Sargo met with one frustration after another, the other Asiatic Fleet submarines turned in eerily similar and disappointing results. On 11 December 1941, USS Swordfish fired two torpedoes at a Japanese auxiliary cargo ship. Both torpedoes missed.23 On Christmas Day, USS Salmon fired four torpedoes at a Japanese transport with the same result. Pickerel, Spearfish, Sturgeon, Searaven, Snapper, Permit, Perch, and Tarpon also reported unsuccessful attacks during this time.24 While in port, Sargo’s Torpedo Officer Doug Rhymes ran into his Sculpin counterpart, Corwin Mendenhall. Mendenhall, Rhymes, and the Sargo torpedomen spent half a day brainstorming on why the torpedoes performed so poorly, but failed to reach a conclusion.25 Mendenhall recalled that many boats in the Asiatic Submarine Force returned empty-handed from these early patrols due to faulty torpedoes. Our submarines there [Lingayen Gulf] had not been very effective in opposing the landings. Reports of their [U.S. Asiatic Fleet Submarines] torpedo attacks told of misses despite near perfect setups, of fish running hot, straight, and normal but not exploding. Our analysis on board Sculpin concluded that the fish must be running too deep, passing so far beneath the target that the super-secret Mark-VI magnetic exploders were not triggered by the magnetic field of the target ship. The captain [Lucius Chappell] instructed me to set the depth controls in the fish to a shallower depth than doctrine called for. As more and more reports came in concerning nonexploding torpedoes, the captain kept having me adjust the depth controls shallower and shallower. Finally our fish were set to run essentially on the surface.26

Unfortunately, plenty of hard evidence existed to corroborate Mendenhall’s recollections.

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By the spring of 1942, submarine force commanders possessed enough war patrol results to feel comfortable speculating on the causes of the poor performance to date. In April, Rear Admiral Robert English took command of Submarines, Pacific (ComSubPac). Like his predecessor, Rear Admiral Thomas Withers, English knew of concerns within the ranks about the Mk. 14’s performance. The whole matter came to the forefront shortly after English assumed command in Pearl Harbor. One of English’s Division Commanders recommended some modifications to the Mk. 14 and its Mk. 6 exploder, based on similar feedback received in a number of war patrol reports. When word of these modifications reached English, he categorically rejected them, citing instead seven reasons he felt more viable: errors in estimated target range, speed, and course, inexperience operating the TDC, “guess and snap decisions,” and the physical condition of the skippers.27 And besides, the Germans were proving in the Battle of the Atlantic how effective the torpedo was as a weapon. Clearly, English reasoned, the problem lay elsewhere. In short, English felt culpability for the attack failures lay with the men doing the attacking, not their weapon. By this time, many other skippers put their thoughts on the Mk. 14 in writing, just as Jacobs had done. Despite their on-scene perspective and the fact that many of the boats reported the problems in completely different scenarios and types of attacks, English and the others refused to believe the mounting evidence. Noted submarine historian Clay Blair interviewed scores of submarine captains and other personnel for his seminal work on the subject, Silent Victory. Based on these interviews and his exacting research, Blair concluded that “[b]y the end of March [1942], almost every Pearl Harbor submariner who had fired a torpedo in anger believed that the Mk. 14 torpedo or the Mk. 6 exploder—or both— was defective. That Withers, McCann, English, Styer, and the other deskbound staffers refused to listen to suggestions and criticisms … seems, in retrospect, incomprehensibly stubborn and stupid.”28 The irony of this position lies in the fact that the same commanders condemning the skippers were also responsible for their training. At Captain Wilkes’s headquarters, much soul-searching occurred in the wake of the failures in the Philippines. Theories abounded. Tyrell Jacobs and Lucius Chappell of Sculpin delivered blistering reports condemning the performance of the Mk. 14 torpedoes. Meanwhile, other skippers seemed to adjust slowly to the realities of combat. The peacetime methods of training quickly gave way to new tactics developed on the fly by aggressive and innovative captains. For whatever reason, a number of captains from the peacetime Navy never made the transition, and, as a result, some of the early patrols reflected this cautious approach. Peacetime emphasis on the

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effectiveness of air patrols and other detection methods led to the development of tactics that maximized the submarine’s stealth advantage when submerged. Thus, the submerged attack based solely on sound bearings became a staple of all peacetime exercises. Not surprisingly, captains fell back on this training once war erupted. Quite early in the campaign, it became obvious that the submerged sound attack paled in effectiveness compared to the night surface or daylight periscope attack, since sound data provided no range information and inaccurate bearing data compared to a visual observation. As a result of these circumstances, Wilkes and other Navy leaders began to suspect that the tactical employment of the submarine was the problem; in essence, the crews, not the weapons, were at fault. As was the case with Tyrell Jacobs, such accusations had a deleterious effect on the morale of the captains and their crews. In some cases, captains did fail to measure up to the strains of wartime command. Some requested to be relieved, and others were removed from service based on their performance under fire. Most of the time, though, captains aggressively fought with their submarines and employed the best tactics available to them at that point in the war. However, in early 1942,

Lieutenant Commander Lucius Chappell. As captain of USS Sculpin, Chappell noted defects with the Mark 14 and its Mark 6 exploder in the first few months of the war. Unfortunately, nobody was ready to listen. (National Archives)

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reputations remained to be established and senior commanders needed results in order to judge their subordinates’ performances. The submarine defense of the Philippines, from a naval perspective, indicated that tactics needed drastic and immediate revision, crews lacked proper training, captains lacked aggressiveness, or the torpedo possessed flaws that inhibited its effectiveness. At this stage of the war, sentiments in the Pacific submarine commands favored the first three. Meanwhile, frustration awaited Chappell, Mendenhall, and Sculpin on their third patrol. Chappell fired nine torpedoes, all from ranges approaching the ideal. None of the torpedoes hit their targets. In his patrol report, Chappell made the following comments: “… the Commanding Officer [Chappell] was so completely demoralized and disheartened by repeated misses that he had little stomach for further action until an analysis could be made, the finger put on the deficiency or deficiencies responsible, and corrective action taken.”29 Answers eluded Chappell, but his report recommendations offered plenty of suggestions. Chappell called for a close examination of all torpedoes, particularly the depth-control mechanism and the Mk. 6 exploder, auditing of torpedo maintenance by the Force Torpedo Repair Officer, examination of all torpedo tubes, and firing of dummy torpedoes in port to check for additional problems.30 Chappell’s report seemed to substantiate Jacobs’s claims made three months earlier; however, Wilkes ordered no actions taken as a result of Chappell’s or Jacobs’s suggestions. In April, the submarine force received a shot in the arm when the USS Drum departed Pearl Harbor for her first patrol. Commanded by Lieutenant Commander Robert H. Rice, the newly commissioned Drum was out for blood. Assigned to the waters off Japan, Rice conducted a brilliant patrol, managing to sink four ships for 22,666 tons, including the 10,930-ton seaplane carrier Mizuho.31 One of the junior officers onboard was Maurice H. Rindskopf. Rindskopf remained onboard Drum for all of her wartime patrols, eventually ending up as the boat’s skipper. This unique situation afforded him a special perspective on the evolution of the torpedo problems during the war. During this first patrol, despite resounding successes, defective torpedoes still played a part. In the melee following the attack on Mizuho, Rice tangled with one of the stricken seaplane carrier’s escort destroyers. After making one run in the Drum’s general direction, the destroyer stopped, presumably listening for the submarine. Rice observed this from periscope depth and fired three torpedoes at the now dead-in-the-water destroyer. Most training exercises provided far more challenging setups than did the Japanese destroyer. Despite the fantastic opportunity, none of the torpedoes hit and Rice felt certain at least two of them ran beneath the target. Rindskopf could offer no explanation for the misses other than the torpedoes ran too deep.32

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On 14 April 1942, Lieutenant Commander J.W. Coe departed Fremantle, Australia, for his first patrol in command of USS Skipjack. A veteran Asiatic Fleet submariner, Coe previously commanded the older S-39. His red hair, aggressive reputation, and navy traditions inevitably earned him the nickname “Red.” Coe received orders to the fertile hunting grounds of the South China Sea, operating off the coast of Indochina. By 1437 on 6 May, Skipjack’s lookouts identified a medium-sized passenger vessel sporting a French flag on the side of its hull passing astern of the submarine from port to starboard. Coe immediately came about to intercept the target. At 1520, from the lengthy range of 2,500 yards, Coe fired three torpedoes. The first he aimed a half ship’s length ahead of the target, the second amidships, and the third a half ship’s length astern. The large lead and trailing angles of the first and third torpedoes were designed to accommodate any errors made in speed or range at this distance. If all estimates were correct, the second torpedo should still strike home. If the vessel was going faster than estimated, the first torpedo would hit; if slower, the third would hit. Coe never got the opportunity to validate his solution, for 50 seconds into the run, still 1,500 yards from the target, two of the torpedoes exploded prematurely. Coe remarked in his patrol report: “The TDC solution was excellent and it was a bitter blow to have these fish go off prematurely as we should have gotten at least one hit. Our position of course was also given away.”33 Disappointed but not dejected, Coe continued searching for targets. Around breakfast time the next morning the bridge watch spotted a column of two freighters on a north-northeasterly course. Coe put on all speed in an attempt to close to firing range. At the extreme range of 5,400 yards, he decided to fire a three-torpedo spread using the Mk. 14’s low-speed setting. Few skippers tempted fate with shots from such a marginal range, but Coe’s targets failed to accommodate anything closer. Not surprisingly, no hits were registered. On the afternoon of 13 May, the Skipjack lookouts reported a southwesterly bound two-ship convoy approximately 8 nautical miles east of Cape Padaran. After two hours of maneuvering, Coe reached excellent firing position on the convoy’s port beam at a range of 850 yards. Coe watched the wake of the first torpedo pass under the target’s stern, indicating that the torpedo had passed beneath its aim point too deep to impact the vessel’s hull and apparently outside the magnetic influence of the Mk. 6 exploder mechanism. Coe was “so sure of a hit that I had purposely held up firing [a] second torpedo to save fish.”34 Unfazed by the unexpected miss, Coe fired the second torpedo but had to lower the periscope because of gunfire from the nowalerted auxiliary transport. The diversionary gunfire, an aggressive zigzag plan, and poor torpedo performance conspired to spare the transport. Coe’s

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patrol report remarks on the attack said it all: “This was a bitter dose and I now have little confidence in these torpedoes.”35 Another four days passed before Skipjack spotted another target. At 0115 on 17 May, Skipjack’s eagle-eyed lookouts identified two auxiliary transports on a northerly heading 15,000 yards distant. Coe performed another end around, submerging on the convoy’s projected track after a three-hour run. The skipper focused his attention on the larger of the two transports. Skipjack’s tracking party provided its captain with an excellent fire control solution and he expected to score again. His patrol report sums up what happened next: “Fired one torpedo at second AP at range of 700 yards, 88˚ port track, point of aim amidships. Was so sure of a hit that I held up firing second fish to save it. Watched smoke from wake pass directly under stern counter of target, no explosion.”36 Again, Coe sighted the telltale wake pass astern of the target—another deep-running torpedo. Twice in one week, Coe’s attempts to economize his use of torpedoes were foiled by deep running. He immediately returned to the task at hand and quickly fired the second torpedo. Before Coe could get too angry, the second torpedo slammed home. The stricken transport began listing to port and the crew took to the lifeboats. Forty-five minutes later, the 5,478-ton transport Taizan Maru slipped beneath the waves.37 This would be the last attack of the patrol. In accordance with orders, Skipjack resumed a course for Fremantle. On the long transit back, Coe had plenty of time to reflect on the highs and the lows of this patrol while preparing the war patrol report. Despite the prominent failures, Coe also managed to sink three confirmed ships for 12,849 tons.38 Coe’s exceptionally well-detailed narrative and attack summaries reflected the results of this preparation. Perhaps the most remarkable portion of the report was Section 9: Major Defects Experienced. In this section, Coe dedicated four and a half pages to a discussion of the torpedo problems that occurred during Skipjack’s attacks. Coe used a depth setting of 10 feet for all 18 torpedoes fired at the high-speed setting. Coe then systematically analyzed torpedo performance over two categories of ranges: 500– 800 yards and 900–2,500 yards. He noted that of the nine torpedoes fired between 900 and 2,500 yards, two exploded prematurely, six missed, and one hit. This resulted in a mere 11.1 percent success rate between 900 and 2,500 yards. For the shorter ranges (500–800 yards), performance improved somewhat. Of the nine fired from these ranges, one missed due to incorrect gyro angle settings, five missed for other reasons, and three hit. This yielded an efficiency rating of 33.3 percent for the shorter ranges. Although the torpedoes performed three times better at the shorter ranges (as may be expected), considering the overall success rate for all torpedoes fired on patrol was 22.2 percent, Coe rightfully considered the Mk. 14’s performance to be dismal

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at best. Coe’s frustration clearly began to show as he concluded his analysis of the misses: It therefore appears that these torpedoes when fired at ranges of 500 to 800 yards run considerably deeper than set depth and can only be depended upon to explode about 40% of the time even though they pass below target. This makes me wonder if there is any advantage in trying to gain that attack position between 500 and 1000 yards where “you can’t miss”, which has been a premise I have always tried to follow. Evidently it is only as true as torpedo performance is good.39

Coe next pointed out a problem with the anti-countermining device settings. This feature prevented a torpedo from experiencing a sympathetic detonation as a result of the nearby detonation of another torpedo. This feature disabled the firing mechanism of the torpedo for five seconds following the detonation of a predecessor. Coe felt the five-second duration to be far too long and presented a scenario similar to his stern tube attack on the maru, the destroyer, and the naval auxiliary. This scenario proved that the anticountermining feature could inhibit multiple successes against overlapping targets at slightly different ranges. Coe insightfully suggested that if the Japanese became aware of this feature, they could drop depth charges when spotting torpedo wakes to activate the anti-countermining feature. Coe wrote the analysis not to serve as an excuse for poor marksmanship—he readily accepted responsibility for any mistakes discovered in his attack procedures —but to spark action within the ranks of the submarine force and BuOrd to address this distressing issue. Coe’s concluding remarks on the issue served to represent all his fellow skippers: The above statements may seem extreme and rabid; they represent my honest opinion and explain why “sure hits” resulted in misses on this patrol. I believe that many of the wartime misses of the other submarines of this squadron are also explained by the same discussion. If it can be shown that this explanation is wrong I shall be the first to acknowledge it. What we on the submarine firing line need is a dependable torpedo; and at least the knowledge of what the fish will or will not do; when we have this some of those Jap ships which “got away” will start going to the bottom.40

With this report, Coe became the unofficial spokesman for his submarine squadron. Perhaps the detailed report was particularly designed to jolt Coe’s new boss, Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood. These failures affected more than the submarine force. From the beginning of the war, Navy code breakers periodically decrypted information regarding Japanese capital ship movements. These became known as ULTRA intercepts.

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The head of the unit at Pearl Harbor, Commander Joseph J. Rochefort, agreed to provide these vital facts to the submarine force. Rochefort chose thenLieutenant Wilfred J. “Jasper” Holmes, a medically retired former submarine skipper, as his conduit to ComSubPac. In late April 1942, Rochefort’s code breakers developed intelligence indicating that the auxiliary aircraft carrier Taiyo was slated to arrive at Kwajalein on 4 May. SubPac alerted the submarine Gato, patrolling the area at the time. Gato managed to achieve attack position and fired a five-torpedo spread that failed to register a single hit. Rochefort dryly remarked to Holmes that “… it did not do much good for me [Holmes] to carry information to my submarine friends if they could not make their torpedoes hit.”41 The intelligence community could now be added to the list of organizations chagrined by poor performance of American submarines to this point in the war.

Chapter 5 Success beyond Expectations While the Americans fought to solve the depth problems with their Mk. 14 torpedo, the Germans demonstrated firsthand how deadly effective their newly retooled G7a and G7e torpedoes could be. Their proving ground was the American East Coast and the operation was called Paukenschlag (“drumbeat”). The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor resulted in Hitler’s declaration of war against the United States. Germany’s extensive military commitments, coupled with the insular effect of the Atlantic Ocean and the deterrent effect of the Royal Navy, precluded any sort of direct attack on American soil. Nonetheless, Hitler wanted to make an impression on this new belligerent, and Do¨nitz’s U-boat arm offered the perfect vehicle with which to make such a statement. Do¨nitz’s U-boat force, though growing, found itself spread increasingly thin as the Battle of the Atlantic seeped into the Mediterranean Sea along with a number of his precious U-boats. To mount an attack of any significance against American shipping required a diversion of resources from another theater of operations; moreover, only those U-boats with sufficient range, the Type IX, could be assigned to the Paukenschlag patrols. As Do¨nitz drew up the plans for Paukenschlag, countless thoughts undoubtedly raced through his mind: How would the Americans react to U-boats off their coast? What type of antisubmarine measures would be encountered? How many aircraft patrolled off the coast? What types of weapons did they employ? How would the convoy system be employed? What were the capabilities of the convoy escorts? Do¨nitz felt that the American response to U-boat attacks along their coast might mirror the British response in the first year of the war. In other words, conditions were at their best right now, and that advantage would quickly

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erode as the American military-industrial machine gained momentum. Undoubtedly, the Navy and Army air force crews would be green. They faced a steep learning curve, but somewhat less so than their British allies thanks to Britain’s lessons learned. Time was of the essence for Paukenschlag. Every day’s delay meant another day of training for the American antisubmarine warfare (ASW) crews. Do¨nitz knew a quick, decisive strike could put Germany firmly on the offensive against her new foe, dealing the already reeling Americans a second Pearl Harbor-esque blow. Do¨nitz had ample reason to be confident. His crews were superbly trained, with two years’ worth of combat experience in the demanding waters of the North Atlantic against a superior naval foe. Their weapons were relatively reliable and effective. Certainly nothing the Americans offered could match that experience. Do¨nitz favored a force of 12 U-boats deployed near areas likely to see a convergence of merchant shipping. These areas, called “focal points,” stretched from the mouth of the St. Lawrence River south to Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. Intelligence reports indicated that merchant traffic still sailed independently without escort up and down the American coast. The focal points represented the entrances to major port cities or significant navigational landmarks that tended to funnel shipping traffic through relatively narrow, thus easily patrollable, passages. The second element of Do¨nitz’s strategy called for the U-boats to shift focal points immediately after their attacks. This “hit and run” approach was designed to keep the American ASW forces off balance and presumably always one step behind. History has never confused Hitler with the world’s great military strategists, and his handling of the Paukenschlag operation offered more proof why. The success of the operation depended on having enough U-boats in the right locations, with an inexperienced enemy, to deal a decisive blow to the U.S. Merchant Marine, and to demoralize the American ASW forces. Do¨nitz’s assessment of his existing commitments, combined with the expected return on investment of an all-out assault on previously unmolested shipping traffic, led him to arrive at the reasonable figure of 12 U-boats for the first Paukenschlag patrols. Do¨nitz had firm commitments for 6 U-boats and felt he could divert the other 6 from defensive patrols west of Gibraltar. The Naval High Command rejected his request. A frustrated Do¨nitz sent all the long-range U-boats he could muster, 5, toward American waters between 16 and 25 December 1941. Do¨nitz, keenly aware of the uniqueness of this opportunity, appealed again to the High Command on 30 December 1941 with a nine-point entry in his war diary requesting the release of additional U-boats. Do¨nitz called into question the High Command’s order number 2024, prescribing a buildup of U-boat forces to a total of 34 in the Mediterranean.

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At that time, 23 U-boats patrolled areas throughout the Mediterranean. This meant 11 additional boats were required. The buildup was thought necessary to deal with the crisis in Cyrenaica. Do¨nitz argued that to achieve the required number of 34 U-boats within the Mediterranean, 17 U-boats would have to be reserved for the operation, since evidence showed that 33 percent of those U-boats attempting to enter the Straits of Gibraltar would either be sunk or damaged to the extent that they would have to abort their mission.1 Moreover, Do¨nitz rightly believed that considerably more damage could be done stationing these boats in the fertile, unspoiled hunting grounds off the American East Coast. Do¨nitz’s pleas initially fell on deaf ears, but on 2 January 1942, the High Command issued order number 2220, reducing the requested number of Mediterranean U-boats from 11 to 2 or 3, and reducing the U-boat patrols off Gibraltar from 6 to 2 or 3. A grateful Do¨nitz deployed these boats to the tanker-rich area between Aruba and Curac¸ao and the shipping focal point of Trinidad. Thus, at the beginning of January, Do¨nitz had a total of 10 U-boats in transit to the Americas: 5 earmarked for the East Coast of the United States, and 5 allocated to the Aruba-Curacao-Trinidad area. The methodical preparations of the Germans contrasted sharply with the disarray that comprised the American response to the formal declaration of war. Atlantic Fleet sailors (or at least their bosses) should hardly have been surprised by the onset of war: Lend-lease, the Greer, Kearny, and Reuben James incidents, and a “shoot-on-sight” order from President Franklin D. Roosevelt gave ample reason to believe a shooting war lurked just around the corner. On the morning of 3 January 1942, British U-boat trackers developed intelligence indicating that U-123 might be headed toward the United States. The trackers were directed to inform and keep informed their American counterparts. Unfortunately, such scintillating information barely managed to raise an eyebrow in Washington. Line officers loathed their intelligence community stepbrothers and instead preferred to draw their own inferences from data provided by the Office of Naval Intelligence. To make matters worse, the various components of the intelligence organization found themselves engaged in bitter turf wars and political battles. Anytime this dirty laundry became visible to the Regular Navy, the reputation of the intelligence community tarnished even further.2 The Americans relied heavily on intercepts provided by their British allies, who shared everything they had on U-boat deployments. Indeed, in May 1941, the British Director of Naval Intelligence, Admiral John Godfrey, presented a summary report to his American counterpart, Captain Alan G. Kirk, detailing everything the British had learned in fighting U-boats in the North Atlantic for over a year and a half. Equipped with this wealth of information, a reasonable observer might expect the U.S. Navy to immediately apply these

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hard-won lessons to the defense of the American coasts. Sadly, intraservice politics and limited resources conspired to thwart any such plans, were they even considered. The sudden entrance into war also sparked a wave of paranoia that resulted in numerous false reports of enemy vessels sighted near shore and in harbors. Every day, sensational new stories emerged. All of this madness attracted the attention of Roosevelt, a longtime Navy patron. With the Pearl Harbor fiasco and a poor showing to date against Japan, Roosevelt decided new leadership was required and subsequently appointed Admiral Ernest J. King Chief of Naval Operations. The man responsible to King for much of the defense was Rear Admiral Adolphus Andrews, Commander of the North Atlantic Naval Coastal Frontier and Commandant, Third Naval District. Based in New York, Andrews exercised control over the few naval assets detailed to the defense of the American coast from the northern tip of Maine to the southern border of Onslow County, North Carolina. Eventually, this command became known as the Eastern Sea Frontier and moved south to include northern Florida as well. Andrews was known as a firm man, not afraid to stick to his guns. He was aware of many shortcomings in his command and took measures to address them. It is also known that Andrews maintained a plot showing the estimated dispositions of German naval forces in the Atlantic and that on that plot was marked the advance of the five Paukenschlag U-boats. Even equipped with knowledge of the Germans’ advance, Andrews possessed little in his arsenal to meet them. In total, Andrews could commit 20 vessels to the defense of the entire East Coast, making even a paper blockade appear substantial by comparison. Moreover, this list included no destroyers and only one relatively modern Coast Guard cutter. Andrews sorrowfully summarized his pathetic situation: “There is not a vessel available that an enemy submarine could not outdistance when operating on the surface. In most cases the guns of these vessels would be outranged by those of the submarine. … Considering the foregoing and the long coastline, it is submitted that should enemy submarines operate off this coast, this Command has no forces available to take adequate action against them, either offensive or defensive.”3 Because of material maintenance problems, the actual fleet available to meet the Paukenschlag force totaled only three. The timing of the German offensive could not have been better. Do¨nitz decreed that action in American waters would not begin until all U-boats were on station. Do¨nitz chose 13 January 1942 for the commencement of Paukenschlag. While en route to his patrol area, Kapita¨nleutnant Reinhard Hardegen of U-123 encountered two suitable enemy targets. Unable to sink the damaged Greek freighter Dimitrios Inglessis, Hardegen had better success on 11 January, sinking the British steamer Cyclops.

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Hardegen’s attack on the Cyclops delayed his arrival to his first patrol station—the entrance to New York Harbor. Heavy seas conspired to slow U-123 even further. Just before 2200 on 13 January, Hardegen and his crew made visual and radio beacon observations on Montauk Point Lighthouse. The U-boat’s navigator made good use of the information, ordering a course correction to the north. Suddenly, lookouts spotted lights moving on the horizon. These lights quickly disappeared into a rapidly forming fog bank. Minutes later, Hardegen saw something likely not seen in European waters since August 1939. To the U-boat skipper’s utter disbelief, a large tanker appeared, heading directly at U-123 with all running lights and deck lighting fully illuminated. With skill befitting a captain of his experience, Hardegen deftly maneuvered U-123 into perfect attack position dead ahead of the oncoming tanker. He planned to fire two G7e electric torpedoes at the vessel from ranges of 800 and 700 yards. At the precise instant, the first torpedo sped toward the target. Eight seconds later, the second G7e followed in its predecessor’s wake. At the calculated time of impact for the first torpedo, nothing happened. Hardegen had little time to ponder this before the second torpedo impaled its victim precisely on time and where aimed.4 The U-boat’s radio operator intercepted a distress call from the stricken tanker, identifying her as the Norness, a 9,577 GRT (gross registered ton) tanker owned by a Norwegian firm that shifted operations to New York following the German invasion of Norway. It quickly became apparent that the stoutly built Norness would not succumb to a single torpedo. Hardegen put his boat in position to administer a second blow, this time from the stern tube. This torpedo, the third fired, ran true and smashed into Norness directly below the bridge. Despite a large explosion and subsequent fires, the tough tanker refused to die. Hardegen fired yet another torpedo, this from the second stern tube. Just like the first torpedo of the attack, the fourth torpedo failed to explode. Concluding that both had run deep, Hardegen adjusted his depth settings and positioned the boat for one last attack, this one from the bow tubes. The fifth torpedo was the charm for Hardegen. Sufficiently weakened by the first two hits, the valiant tanker had little in reserve to deal with Hardegen’s final ultimatum. As the Norness’s stern section flooded rapidly, her bow rose above the surface, where it remained after the stern settled in the relatively shallow waters off Long Island. Though depth problems affected two of the five torpedoes fired, the other three performed flawlessly. Hardegen’s handling of the matter indicated that deep-running torpedoes were not altogether uncommon, but neither was the problem systemic. Small depth corrections seemed to provide an adequate

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remedy to the problem, and, in any case, the Norness rested on the bottom of the Atlantic. Hardegen’s blows marked only the beginning; to his north, another group of 12 smaller Type VIIC U-boats, the Ziethen group, scored a number of victories off Nova Scotia and the Newfoundland bank. Despite heavy weather and extreme cold, the smaller Type VII boats acquitted themselves well. Over the period from 8 January to 12 February 1942, these boats accounted for 21 confirmed sinkings.5 Following on his successes with Cyclops and Norness, Hardegen continued his aggressive and meticulous patrol. At 2200 on 14 January, U-123 approached the charted location of the Ambrose Channel Lightship, the entrance to New York Harbor. Nobody on the bridge spotted the lightship, but all were taken aback by the spectacle looming just over the horizon to the northwest: New York City, fully illuminated, threw a gigantic beacon of light skyward. Hardegen and his crew, used to blackout conditions in Europe, could hardly believe the complacency of their new foe. Shocked by America’s seeming indifference to his presence on her doorstep, Hardegen resolved to make her aware of his presence yet again. Less than four hours later, Hardegen received his opportunity. Lookouts spotted ship’s lights astern, trailing U-123 on a similar course. The captain looked through his binoculars and identified the vessel as a large tanker, steering a steady course and with all running lights fully illuminated. This was almost too easy. Hardegen simply slowed to maintain steerageway, came to starboard, and waited. From the cannot-miss range of 750 meters, Hardegen fired a single torpedo. The subsequent explosion tore into the tanker’s hull just below the bridge, sending flames, smoke, and debris hundreds of feet high. This tanker possessed a deck gun, and Hardegen saw its crew running to man the weapon. He quickly maneuvered to fire a second torpedo at the machinery spaces. Less than a minute later, a second conflagration sealed the tanker’s fate. Hardegen’s prize was the 6,768 GRT British-flagged tanker Coimbra.6 After less than a week on station, Do¨nitz already appreciated the incredible advantage possessed by his U-boat crews over their greenhorn American counterparts. In his war diary entry for 17 January, Do¨nitz made the following comments: “Reports from the coast of USA and Canada show that activities of U-boats can be successful much longer than was expected. Reports from U 123 point out that this boat has had success far above its expectations.”7 Do¨nitz now had the answer to his questions regarding the American response to his “beating of the drum.” By the evening of 19 January, U-123 had moved to a new patrol area and continued the hunt. Around midnight, the unmistakable outline of a

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medium-sized freighter hove into view. Two hours of maneuvering at high speeds allowed Hardegen to overtake his prey and set up for another closerange shot. From the unheard-of range of 250 meters, Hardegen fired. The explosion, so close aboard U-123, staggered the topside watchstanders while they scrambled for cover avoiding the airborne remains of the City of Atlanta, a 5,269 GRT steam freighter bound for Savannah from New York. Of her 47-person crew, 44 perished in the attack. Down to his last two torpedoes, and given the bounty of targets in the area, Hardegen became rather particular concerning target selection for his final attacks of this cruise. At 0430, the lookouts sighted five ships in loose column formation on a southerly course. The first vessel appeared to be a bit on the small side, probably around 4,000 GRT, nearly his estimate for City of Atlanta. What made the cut for torpedoes three hours earlier now rated only guns. Hardegen put his gun crew to work for the first time on this patrol. Hardegen’s bold plan called for U-123 to steam up the lead vessel’s wake, close to about 200 meters, and hope to sink or disable the ship with gunfire. They would then come about and fire a single torpedo at each of the next two ships in column. At the appointed range, the gun crew put ten rounds into the unsuspecting tanker. The rounds significantly damaged the vessel and she began to lose way. As the U-123 came alongside, Hardegen realized the vessel was actually much larger than originally estimated. A torpedo would now be reserved for finishing off this cripple, but U-123’s gunfire had alerted the other vessels, which quickly began to scatter. Hardegen hoped to set up on the next ship in column, but was unable to get U-123 into firing position. Around this time, the radio room reported to Hardegen that it had intercepted the stricken tanker’s distress call. The vessel was the 8,206 GRT Malay, headed to Port Arthur, Texas, from Philadelphia.8 As he received this report and another concerning an engineering casualty, another steamer appeared out of the darkness a mere 500 meters away. With little time to react, Hardegen fired a single torpedo at the approaching shape. This turned out to be the 3,779 GRT Latvian-flagged steam freighter Ciltvaira. Twenty-seven of the crew of 29 survived the attack.9 Hardegen now turned his attention and his single remaining torpedo back to the wounded Malay. By 0544, U-123 had reached her appointed position 400 yards away from the tanker. Because of the tanker’s close proximity to shore, the distress calls, and the nearness of sunrise, Hardegen decided not to wait around to observe the results. The torpedo struck home, but instead of igniting a hold full of fuel oil, the torpedo merely ripped open a tank containing seawater —the tanker had been traveling in ballast to pick up a load of oil. The tough vessel managed to shrug off this attack and Hardegen’s earlier shelling to

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make it to port in Newport News, Virginia, a day later. Meanwhile, U-123, all torpedo tubes empty, set course for her home port of Lorient, France. When Hardegen tallied his butcher’s bill for Paukenschlag, the total was staggering: by his estimate, he had sent ten ships totaling 66,135 GRT to the bottom. The actual tonnage was closer to 53,000, but the figure was monumental no less. U-123 returned triumphantly to Lorient, pennants flying for all her victims and a kettledrum painted to the front of her fairwater. Hardegen received the Knights Cross for his patrol. Following a well-deserved leave, the crew of U-123 was rewarded by Do¨nitz with orders to return to the fertile hunting grounds off the American coast. Hardegen was not the only commander having his way off the American coast. On 18 January, Kapita¨nleutnant Richard Zapp put U-66 on the scoreboard, dispatching the 6,635 GRT tanker Allan Jackson northeast of Cape Hatteras. Zapp fired two torpedoes at the oncoming vessel. The torpedo explosions created fires that spread to the oil that poured from the belly of the holed tanker. The oil spread around the doomed vessel, creating a wall of fire between the tanker and any possible escape route. This particularly gruesome attack resulted in the loss of 22 of the tanker’s 35-person crew. The next day, Zapp struck again. Still lingering in the vicinity of Cape Hatteras, U-66’s lookouts spotted a southbound freighter. Zapp maneuvered to investigate and confirmed the vessel to be a passenger/general cargo vessel. He worked his U-boat to a position ahead of the freighter and fired two torpedoes from his stern tubes at a range of 1,200 meters. Apparently, the vessel’s lookouts spotted the torpedoes, as the freighter took evasive action. Unfortunately, these actions were of no consequence. Both torpedoes slammed into the freighter’s hull. The vessel, now identified as the Canadian-registered Lady Hawkins, immediately took on a heavy list, preventing deployment of half of her lifeboats. Twenty minutes later, she slipped beneath the waves, taking 251 of her 322 passengers and crew with her.10 On 22 January 1942, Zapp encountered the Panamanian-flagged, 5,335 GRT merchant vessel Olympic, dispatching of her in similar fashion to his previous two victims. Then, two days later, U-66 scored two quick victories in succession. Sitting just off Diamond Shoals Light buoy, Zapp lay in wait, expecting big game. His patience was rewarded when, at 2140 local time, he spotted two merchant vessels steaming in loose formation and unescorted. The lead vessel was the 8,139 GRT British tanker Empire Gem and the trailing vessel an American-flagged 8,017 GRT ore carrier named Venore. Zapp set up a fire control solution on the Empire Gem, sending two torpedoes into her after starboard storage tanks. The flames provided perfect illumination for the approaching Venore. Zapp quickly turned his attention to the approaching ore carrier; within three minutes she shared the fate of Empire Gem.11

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Zapp’s rampage off Cape Hatteras was now complete: in less than one week, U-66 added five ships totaling 33,456 tons to the already cluttered ocean floor known as the “Graveyard of the Atlantic.” With the arrival of the Paukenschlag U-boats, Mother Nature, already a formidable foe in these waters, gained an even more aggressive coconspirator.12 Do¨nitz could barely contain his excitement. He knew from experience that the window of opportunity off the American coast would stay open only so long, and he intended to extract the maximum amount of success from those fertile hunting grounds while he could. Writing in his war diary for 24 January, Do¨nitz explained his decision to pull boats from the Western Approaches to England: “Attack possibilities off the North American and Canadian coasts are very favorable as is shown by success reports of the boats both in single ship movements and paucity of defense. This situation must be taken advantage of with as many boats as possible before defense measures are strengthened and convoy systems are taken up.”13 Do¨nitz possessed every possible advantage: the element of surprise, veteran U-boat crews, inexperienced enemy antisubmarine forces, poorly disciplined merchant shipping, lackadaisical blackout procedures in coastal cities, and a torpedo that worked more often than not. Every factor contributed to success, but only one—working torpedoes—was mandatory. Despite the resounding successes of the first U-boats to ply American waters, Do¨nitz still had concerns about torpedo performance. Captains reported a substantial number of misses in scenarios that should have produced results. By the end of January, Do¨nitz’s captains had provided him with enough data to prompt the following entry in his war diary for 29 January: The first reports of boats operating off the American coast embrace a number of faulty shots as follows: U 553—7 misses on a tanker of 8,000 tons, U 701 2 pistol failures, 3 undetermined misses, U 84 heard 2 impact noises among a number of faulty shots. U 654 reports 7 out of 9 misses on targets lying motionless gave torpedo noises normal for running course of 1000 meters. According to positions in which the faulty shots occurred and the fact that they were fired in different areas all along the coast, the influence of the cold cannot be the explanation. Reports by the boats will be relayed to torpedo testing stations so that a rigid test can be made upon their return to port. Following was reported: U 203 fired 3 undetermined misses on what appeared to be a U-boat trap, a ship of 6,000 tons, hove to. As a result a patrol craft near by was hit although it was not fired at. It is not certain whether it was a ship of especially shallow draft or not; moreover the torpedoes were set very shallow.14

Do¨nitz’s comments underscore his desire for perfection in every aspect of U-boat operations. Despite the successes his boats experienced, Do¨nitz continually sought to find any imperfection, eliminate it, and thus improve the

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force’s overall performance. Additionally, the Norwegian campaign taught Do¨nitz a stern lesson about over-reliance on technology and those who develop it. He also understood the bureaucratic workings of his Torpedo Directorate and, as a result, maintained a very visible presence within that organization while the torpedo problems persisted. The results of Operation Drumbeat provided a wake-up call to King and Andrews. Despite the obvious failure of the Navy to defend against these initial attacks, little was actually being done to stem the destruction. As U-boat captains reported to Do¨nitz the ease with which they completed their patrols, more and more U-boats were sent West. Eventually, the problem of limited endurance was solved with the deployment of the Type 14 Milchkuh, or “milk cow” tanker U-boats. Even as the oil, debris, and bodies from sunken tankers washed ashore, ships still sailed independently, silhouetted against the urban glow of coastal cities too busy to be inconvenienced by a blackout. As merchant shipping losses continued to mount, the Navy’s antisubmarine warfare machine began to wind up. By May 1942, the first coastal convoys got underway. Not surprisingly, U-boat sinkings tailed off rapidly, with the majority occurring against vessels steaming independently. More escort vessels of all shapes and sizes joined in, making U-boat skippers exercise more and more caution. By July, the return on investment for Do¨nitz had evaporated. The U-boats returned to their North Atlantic hunting grounds south of Greenland. The damage left in their wake, however, was enormous: almost 400 vessels littered the seafloor in U.S. Navy-controlled waters. Well over twice as many men lost their lives to U-boats during these six months than did at Pearl Harbor. Not every torpedo fired by Zapp, Hardegen, and the others found its mark. Indeed, their brash attacks close to the coast provided the U.S. Navy with a unique opportunity. The Americans recovered a number of G7e torpedoes that washed ashore following attacks. The Navy analyzed the construction of these beached eels and initiated a project to build copies to the German specifications because the Newport Torpedo Station’s lack of progress on its own electric torpedo was disappointing at best. The specifications for the G7e were turned over to private industry and Westinghouse and the Electric Storage Battery Company joined forces to begin development of the Mk. 18 electric torpedo. Just as the Germans solved one of their major torpedo issues courtesy of HMS Seal’s impact pistol, the Americans were about to repay the favor on behalf of their ally. Despite a superior torpedo, excellent tactics, and courageous skippers, the Germans’ U-boat campaign could not sustain effective operations at such a great distance from their home ports. The disgraceful living conditions onboard German U-boats did little to help their cause. The American

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antisubmarine forces benefited from the British experience and overcame their deficiencies relatively quickly. With their new procedures in place, Do¨nitz found few open patches of water in which he could safely and effectively implement his strategy of guerre de course. The eventual success of the American forces in stifling the fruitfulness of U-boat patrols along their coast vindicated the methods perfected by their British allies over the previous two years. Given the paucity of Japanese ASW forces at this point in the war, the stage seemed set for the Allies to gain the advantage in the Pacific submarine war, while at the same time suppressing the Germans in the Atlantic. Unfortunately, the Allied effort largely relied on the success of the American submarine force and, though this force possessed arguably the world’s finest submarine, it was clear that problems existed. Skippers such as Tyrell Jacobs of Sargo and Lucius Chappell of Sculpin believed serious defects plagued their torpedoes. They felt strongly enough to include their comments in the official record of their patrols—the war patrol reports. Knowing these reports would be seen by most of the senior submariners in the Navy, as well as by their peers, Jacobs, Chappell, Coe, and the others hoped to draw attention to the seriousness of the situation. As the German experience to this point in the war demonstrated, well-trained submariners with ineffective torpedoes faced virtually insurmountable odds for success (Norway), while those same submariners equipped with merely adequate torpedoes (Paukenschlag) could achieve success beyond imagination.

Chapter 6 Lockwood to the Rescue Shortly after Lucius Chappell, Tyrell Jacobs, and J.W. Coe penned their damning reports on the torpedoes, the single most important change in the U.S. Navy’s prosecution of the submarine war occurred when Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood replaced John Wilkes and assumed the newly created role of Commander Submarines, Southwest Pacific. A respected veteran submariner, Lockwood doted on, admired, and envied the crews he sent on patrol. If the submarine’s captain was a sailor’s father figure, then Lockwood was the captain’s father figure. Throughout the war Lockwood repeatedly petitioned his boss, Commander in Chief, Pacific, Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, for permission to make a war patrol. Nimitz repeatedly rejected the request, finally telling Lockwood: “ I appreciate your desire to see more active duty—a desire which I also share—but while we are in these billets we must remain close to our command posts.”1 Lockwood’s career was, in fact, a microcosm of the birth and evolution of the U.S. Navy’s submarine force; indeed, to understand Lockwood’s career was to understand the submarine navy. Nothing in Lockwood’s youth indicated such yearning for the sea.2 Born on 6 May 1890 near the small farming community of Midland, Virginia, Lockwood had no close relatives in the naval service. Despite the fact the sea was far from Lockwood, he never felt far from the sea. He attributed some of this to stories recounted by his mother of the Spanish-American War exploits of the American Admirals George Dewey and William T. Sampson. He fueled his curiosity with a voracious appetite for books. His literary interests were well balanced in the rural Midwestern environment. The family’s proximity to a river prompted Lockwood and a friend to build a boat they intended to navigate to the Mississippi, an idea quickly shot

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Vice Admiral Charles Andrews Lockwood. Lockwood was universally admired by his submariners, and he worked tirelessly to solve the defects in the Mk. 14 torpedo and its Mk. 6 exploder mechanism. (National Archives)

down by their parents. Young Lockwood’s interest in the sea continued to grow and, as he approached the end of his high school years, he sought an appointment to the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. He received a Congressional appointment and reported to Annapolis on 9 June 1908 as a member of the incoming Class of 1912. It was at the Academy that he had his first encounter with a submarine. His initial impression was far from positive. Lockwood found the boat cramped and dirty. After that visit, he resolved that service in destroyers, cruisers, or battleships suited him better. Following graduation, Lockwood served two years in battleships. Desiring more adventure, he repeatedly petitioned for orders to the Asiatic Station. In the summer of 1914, Lockwood’s persistence finally paid off as his orders arrived. Two months later, he stood in the receiving area of the U.S. Naval

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Base at Cavite, Philippine Islands, awaiting orders for his new assignment. What he heard next shocked him. Everyone before Lockwood received orders to exotic postings throughout Asia. Lockwood assumed he would be joining them in Hong Kong, Shanghai, or some other port of call. Instead, the detailing officer instructed Lockwood to head around the corner to the modified steam frigate Mohican, headquarters for the First Asiatic Submarine Division, for instruction in submarines. Lockwood was mortified, his romantic view of life on the Asiatic Station replaced by the reality of the tiny, unglamorous submersibles. Visions of the submarine visit in Annapolis leapt back into his head. It only made matters worse when he heard the diminutive craft referred to as the “Hellholes of Cavite.” Lockwood reported aboard the Mohican and met his new division commander, Ensign Thomas Baxter. The fact that an ensign commanded a submarine division gave Lockwood an idea of where submarines ranked in the Navy’s pecking order. Baxter informed Lockwood that he would assume command of the submarine A-2, provided he satisfactorily passed a check ride in its sister boat A-4 and met the other qualifications for submarine command. Depressed by his new assignment, Lockwood regretted pushing so hard for Asiatic duty. After talking with friends, he considered putting in a request for other duty, but decided to hold off until completing his check ride the next day. The A-class submarines were among the Navy’s oldest and smallest. The entire bridge occupied a mere four by six feet. Lockwood described the combined battery compartment and engine room space as “… too small to swing a cat by the tail without beating its brains out.” The tiny boat put to sea with a crew of nine plus the captain. On a positive note, Lockwood noted the cleanliness of the boat’s interior, a clear sign of the crew’s pride in its submarine. The A-4’s entire armament consisted of a single torpedo tube with two reloads. A single 160 HP Otto gasoline engine powered the A-class submarines and also generated fumes immediately evident in the boat’s interior. On the way out to sea for his trials, Lockwood struck up a conversation with the boat’s skipper, Ensign “Tommy” Mann. Mann seemed to be reading the regret on Lockwood’s face, probably recalling his own experience when he first reported for duty in submarines. Mann began extolling the virtues of submarine life to Lockwood: early command responsibility, quick promotion in assignments and responsibilities, and, if nothing else, submarines provided a good springboard to other careers in the Navy. His final piece of advice to Lockwood: “Keep your shirt on, learn all you can about subs, and one day you’ll thank me for talking to you like a Dutch uncle.”

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After giving Lockwood his Dutch uncle lecture, Mann gave the order to dive. Lockwood now experienced the sensations of a submerged submarine for the first time. Shortly after diving, Lockwood heard a steady thumping sound. After inquiring with Mann, Lockwood learned that the noise belonged to the pounding blades of a large ship’s propeller as it sliced through the water. For Lockwood, this evoked memories of past hunting excursions and the thrill he felt after sensing the presence of big game nearby. In his memoirs, Lockwood stated that this moment changed his attitude regarding submarines. Like a skilled salesman, Tommy Mann sensed the change in Lockwood’s attitude and moved to secure the sale. Mann conned the A-4 into attack position on the steamer whose thumping propeller caught Lockwood’s attention. Explaining the art of the torpedo attack to Lockwood as he worked, Mann set up to fire a water slug at the unsuspecting ship. A water slug was merely a flooded torpedo tube minus the torpedo. Introducing the high pressure compressed air into a flooded tube resulted in the ejection of the water back to the sea. This was much easier than firing and retrieving an exercise torpedo, and it exercised all other aspects of a real attack. On completing his attack run, Mann turned the periscope over to Lockwood for his first torpedo attack. As Lockwood stared through the periscope at the approaching steamer, he recalled his childhood escapades with a friend on Muddy Creek. Simulating battles from the Russo-Japanese War, one of the boys would toss a piece of flotsam representing a ship into the creek. The current carried the “ship” down to the other boy, who waited with a .22 rifle. The rifleman usually represented one of the Russian ships and the flotsam one of Admiral Togo Heihachiro’s Japanese warships. In that moment on the A-4, Lockwood experienced the realization of his boyhood dreams. Reflecting on the whole experience later that evening, Lockwood knew he wanted to be submariner and committed himself to qualify for command of A-2 as quickly as possible. After six weeks of intensive training and a final at-sea qualification trial presided over by Lockwood’s old Dutch uncle Tommy Mann, Lockwood received the news he had been awaiting: he was now qualified in submarines and ready to command the A-2. Lockwood eventually moved up to command of the slightly larger and newer B-1. Though old by current standards of the day, the B-1 still represented a significant upgrade over the even older A-class boats. These first command experiences helped shape Lockwood into the man who eventually would lead the entire submarine force. The dangerous nature of these early submarines convinced Lockwood that a zero tolerance for errors was essential for survival. As a result, Lockwood developed a firm but fair leadership style —in his own words, he ran a “taut ship.”

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One incident in particular drove home to Lockwood the need for such vigilance. Lockwood took B-1 out into Manila Bay for a five-hour submerged engineering run. The criteria for a successful run required the boat to remain submerged the entire time. Surfacing prior to the end of the run resulted in a score of zero and would drop the B-1 from the running for the division engineering trophy. With about 30 minutes left in the run, Lockwood detected gasoline fumes inside the boat. Besides the obvious explosion hazard, the fumes also had a narcotic effect on the crew, initially causing silly behavior, then boisterousness, and, if left unchecked, potentially even death. Lockwood decided to try and complete the run. He managed to hold out another 20 minutes, but noticed many of the crew well into the first stages of intoxication from the fumes. Lockwood gave up the trial when he managed to realize that he himself was also being overcome by the fumes. Lockwood kept a clear enough head to keep his men away from the main motor switch. Pulling this switch secured the motors as part of the surfacing procedure. Since they drew a large amount of current, the switches tended to spark from time to time. Once Lockwood surfaced the B-1, he ordered all hatches open and the boat completely ventilated. Once all traces of gasoline fumes disappeared, Lockwood finally gave the order to secure the main motors. The electrician performed the task and grimly reported to Lockwood that a foot-long spark shot from the switch. Had they pulled the switch with the boat full of fumes, Lockwood’s story would have ended right there. Fortunately for B-1’s crew, its captain demonstrated the coolness and ability to think clearly under pressure. Throughout his career, Lockwood continued to rely on these skills forged in the First Asiatic Submarine Division. In June 1917, Navy doctors determined that Lockwood’s prolonged time in the Philippines affected his red blood cell count. Feeling that more temperate climes provided the best remedy, Lockwood received orders for temporary duty in a more northern Asiatic posting. That month, he reported to the protected cruiser Galveston as division officer for one of the warship’s five-inch gun mounts. Going from command of a submarine, albeit a small one, to command of a single gun mount must have been quite a change for Lockwood. In his time onboard, Galveston made port visits to Weihaiwei, China, and Nagasaki, Japan. Just as Galveston prepared to depart Nagasaki, a messenger delivered a package. As it turned out, the package contained a message ordering Lockwood back to Cavite for duty as Commander, First Asiatic Submarine Division. On returning to Cavite, Lockwood learned that one of his submarines, A-7, experienced a gasoline fume explosion in early July. Eight sailors died in the explosion. Shortly after assuming command of the division,

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Lockwood’s old boat, A-2, suffered a similar fate, costing the life of yet another sailor. Lockwood quickly suspended operations and dove into the root causes of the disasters. During the stand-down, ventilation systems received improved blowers, fuel lines were inspected for leaks, carburetors were adjusted, and sparking electrical equipment was repaired. These actions resulted in the A-2 incident being the last gasoline explosion in an American submarine. By this point, America had entered the war in Europe, and many of Lockwood’s friends received orders closer to the action. A number of submarines entered the fray, patrolling from the Azores on the lookout for enemy U-boats or surface raiders. Lockwood hoped that soon he would receive orders to join friends and classmates in battle. Orders were indeed pending, but unfortunately for Lockwood, not to the war zone. In April 1918, Lockwood reported to the naval attache´ in Tokyo for duty inspecting recently purchased merchant ships. After four months, the Navy Department ordered Lockwood to New London for duty in submarines. On his arrival, Lockwood reported to the base commander, Captain Ernest J. King. King informed Lockwood that he was to command the submarine G-1. Lockwood took the news with mixed emotions. G-1, though newer than Cavite’s A- and B-class boats, was by no means state of the art. At the same time, many contemporaries commanded the newer O-class submarines and were preparing for duty in the war zones. Lockwood’s frustrations finally ended near the end of the year when he was promoted to Lieutenant Commander and given command of the brand-new N-5. After only a few months in command, Lockwood was asked if he were interested in bringing back one of the captured German U-boats. Viewing this as a once in a lifetime opportunity, Lockwood immediately accepted the offer and left his new command. Lockwood’s eventual duty assignment was as executive officer of the minelaying submarine UC-97. After inspecting this and other U-boats, Lockwood concluded that American subs were deficient in a number of areas: diving time, periscope optics, and gyrocompasses were some of the most significant advantages possessed by the Germans. After a number of weeks’ worth of hard labor bringing UC-97 back to seaworthiness, the boat departed England for the American Great Lakes and a war bond tour. On the conclusion of the tour, Lockwood and much of the U-boat’s crew received orders to the new construction boat R-25. Upon completion of construction and successful sea trials, Lockwood and R-25 received orders to report to Coco Solo, Panama Canal Zone, for duty at the recently opened submarine base. A couple of weeks after arriving at Coco Solo, R-25 experienced every submariner’s worst nightmare: diving with the

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main induction valve wide open. During the dive, responsibility to close this most important valve fell to a relatively inexperienced crewman. When he went to turn the valve, it failed to move and he therefore assumed it had already been shut. Once water began pouring into the ship, Lockwood quickly deduced the problem and ordered two men to grab a wrench and break the valve stem loose. This they did, and just in time. Over four feet of water sat in the bilges. The added weight of all this water nearly prevented the R-25 from reaching the surface. Lockwood again learned a vital lesson about the importance of continual training and over-reliance on new or unproven crewmen. Time passed quickly for Lockwood in Coco Solo and soon he received orders to yet another new construction submarine: this time, the S-14. S-14 was commissioned in February 1921 and reported for duty in a submarine squadron commanded by Captain Thomas C. Hart. The boats of the squadron provisioned in Newport, Rhode Island, and made their way to Manila, Philippine Islands, via the Panama Canal. Though modern for their time, the S-class submarines still lacked the capabilities to operate for extended periods as an extension of the main battlefleet. So when the time came for the squadron to begin its transit to the Asiatic Fleet, successful completion of the transit itself was by no means assured. While en route, Lockwood met his father in San Pedro, California, and snuck him aboard for a training dive. Apparently, the routine nature of the dive failed to impress Lockwood’s father, who expected the event to be far more chaotic (or at least consuming) than it was. The irony was not lost on Lockwood. The boats departed Newport in mid-May and arrived in Manila just before Christmas. Lockwood’s time in the Philippines mirrored many of the same activities from his previous duty there: training dives, simulated torpedo attacks, and even diving to retrieve a lost torpedo. Much had changed regarding the ships in the harbor: new navy destroyers capable of speeds greater than 30 knots dueled in simulated engagements with submarines of much greater capability than the A- and B-class submarines from Lockwood’s first tour. After a mere six months on station, Lockwood received orders to command the USS Quiros. Based in Hankow, China, the wooden gunboat came into U.S. Navy ownership as a result of its victory over Spain in the Spanish-American War. For the first time, Lockwood commanded a surface vessel. Lockwood’s China tour lasted 18 months. In that time, he commanded multiple gunboats, served as Flag Lieutenant for the Admiral commanding the Yangtze River Patrol Force, and acted as a representative of the United States on numerous occasions. Feuds among warlords made China in the 1920s a very dangerous place. Lockwood came under fire from Chinese soldiers on multiple occasions. Lockwood’s first extended contact with the

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Chinese left a lasting impression on him and filled him with admiration and respect for the Chinese lifestyle. Lockwood’s detaching orders directed him to return to Manila and report to the Commander in Chief (CinC), Asiatic Fleet. Lockwood knew that larger submarines with enhanced capabilities, the V class, were now being built. These big boats were the forerunners of the Fleet Submarine of World War II. He hoped that CinC, Asiatic Fleet would present him with the good news that he was about to assume command of one of these submarines. As it turned out, Lockwood received orders to yet another surface ship, this time as executive officer of the destroyer Peary (DD-226). Since the Peary’s captain also served as division commander, Lockwood learned that day-to-day operations of the ship fell into his responsibility. By this point, Lockwood had commanded nine vessels, many of them relatively small submarines. The prospect of commanding a man-of-war with almost 100 men under his command excited Lockwood. He felt this duty would help round out his command experience and broaden his perspective. Lockwood next received orders placing him in command of the destroyer Smith Thompson. He ascended to this post in somewhat ignominious fashion, as the previous captain was relieved for wrecking one of the destroyer’s propellers in a collision with a channel buoy. Smith Thompson sailed to Shanghai, where repairs were completed on the propeller, then continued on to rejoin her squadron in Chefoo, China. Shortly thereafter, Lockwood received orders back to the United States, this time for duty as an instructor at the U.S. Naval Academy. Lockwood felt no urge to be a teacher, believing it to be a job better suited for a more senior officer. Despite his pleas, Lockwood knew that orders were orders and prepared to carry them out. In desperation, he fired off a letter to an old friend, Sherwood Picking, who was the Prospective Commanding Officer of the new fleet submarine V-1. Lockwood begged Picking to vouch for him to the squadron commodore for command of a new V-class boat. Lockwood booked transportation back to the United States still unsure of his fate. When he arrived home in Lamar, Missouri, a letter from the Bureau of Navigation awaited him. With great anticipation, Lockwood tore open the envelope and learned that he was now to report to the Portsmouth Navy Yard in New Hampshire for duty as the Submarine Repair Officer. Though not a V-boat command, it at least put Lockwood within striking distance. While assigned to the Navy Yard, Lockwood experienced firsthand the continued evolution of submarine technology. Then, on 25 September 1925, tragedy struck the submarine service. That evening, the coastal passenger steamer City of Rome collided with the submarine S-51. Thirty-two of the submarine’s 35-person crew perished in the disaster. The Navy convened a

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Court of Inquiry to investigate the disaster, and Lockwood participated as judge advocate. As in past assignments, Lockwood executed his duties to the best of his ability, whether he liked the assignment or not. The Bureau of Navigation finally rewarded his loyalty in May 1926 when he received orders to command the newest of the V-boats: the V-3. In the winter of 1927, Lockwood and his fellow V-boat skippers took their vessels with the rest of the fleet to Panama for the annual winter exercises. The new fleet-type V-boats were exercised as their designers had envisioned: as the eyes of the fleet. Their primary mission was to detect, report, and track the enemy fleet movements. They then launched torpedo attacks, hoping to thin the enemy’s ranks prior to the decisive Mahanian-style fleet engagement. The exercise was a success for the new class of submarines, seemingly validating their utility as advance scouts for the battlefleet. This, of course, was in the days before most battleships and heavy cruisers carried aircraft to serve as scouts of their own. As submariners in all navies would soon learn, aircraft proved to be worthy adversaries for the submarine. By the fall of 1928, Lockwood’s time as captain of V-3 drew to an end. His next assignment was as submarine officer for the naval mission to Brazil. One of the more interesting tasks assigned to Lockwood was demonstrating the proper use of the Momsen Lung to the Brazilians. Recently invented by Lieutenant Commander Charles B. “Swede” Momsen, the lung provided submariners with an adequate supply of oxygen to egress a stricken submarine and ascend to the surface. Lockwood and one of his chiefs submerged to 60 feet in a diving bell in preparation for their Momsen Lung ascents. Lockwood charged the chief’s Momsen Lung with oxygen and he promptly and safely rose to the surface. When Lockwood went to charge his Momsen Lung, he found the oxygen flask to be empty, despite the gauge indicating adequate air pressure. Thinking quickly, Lockwood breathed into his Momsen Lung’s oxygen intake valve until he felt he had enough air to make the trip to the surface. Fortunately for him, this worked and he made the trip safely, with nobody the wiser. The other interesting aspect of Lockwood’s time in Brazil was on a more personal note. Lockwood became attracted to the daughter of his boss, Admiral N.E. “Bull” Irwin. A long established bachelor now approaching 40, Lockwood had for the longest time espoused the notion that navy life was not for a married man. However, as time passed and many of his close friends found happiness, Lockwood became increasingly lonely; finally, the additional isolation of being single and alone in a foreign country convinced him to change his views. Shortly thereafter, he proposed to Phyllis Irwin, who to Lockwood’s delight accepted the proposal. On 29 January 1930, Lockwood and Phyllis

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were married in a civil ceremony followed the next day with a formal Anglican wedding. Lockwood’s time in Brazil ended in January 1931 with the dissolution of the naval mission there. Lockwood considered the tour one of his least strenuous and felt it time to return to his beloved submarines. The detailers in the Bureau of Navigation felt differently, and Lockwood soon found himself staring at a radio message ordering him to report to the battleship California for duty as first lieutenant. Lockwood referred to himself as the California’s “maid … and … janitor.” As if to underscore the point, one of Lockwood’s first tasks upon arrival was to rid the battlewagon of a bedbug infestation. By the end of 1931, Lockwood’s tour on California came to an end. Lockwood’s good nature again carried him through an assignment that he probably would have preferred to avoid; nonetheless, he gained vital experience regarding the operations of capital ships in the surface navy. His education in the surface navy continued, with orders as navigator of the light cruiser Concord. In October 1932, Phyllis gave birth to their first child, Charles Andrews Lockwood III. The remainder of the year consisted of routine operations and port visits along the West Coast. As 1933 arrived, Lockwood learned that he had graduated to the position of executive officer of Concord. This significant responsibility was almost certainly part of the Bureau of Navigation’s grooming of Lockwood for bigger things. He once again jumped into the role with his typical dedication and zeal, perhaps hoping that the sooner he started, the sooner he could return to his beloved submarines. Unfortunately for Lockwood, submarines remained in his more distant future. In the middle of 1933, Lockwood received another set of orders to the Naval Academy. Although again reluctant and longing for sea duty, Lockwood could no longer use the argument of not being senior enough. He reported to Annapolis and began instructing midshipmen in the art of seamanship. In the spring of 1935, Lockwood ran into Commander Robert H. English while running errands in Washington, D.C. English asked Lockwood if he were interested in assuming command of a new submarine division, Submarine Division 13 (ComSubDiv13), based in San Diego. English barely finished his question before Lockwood gleefully accepted, renewing his association with submarines. Lockwood arrived in San Diego and found that his division consisted of only two submarines for the moment; however, what Lockwood’s division lacked in quantity, it more than made up for in size. Both boats were cruiser-type submarines, the Narwhal and the Nautilus. These leviathans measured 371 feet in length and featured twin 6-inch deck guns, six torpedo tubes, and a number of smaller guns. Their Achilles’ heel was their propulsion

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plants, the one component Lockwood prized most. Despite all their impressive features, their engines pushed the massive craft along at a leisurely 16 knots on the surface and half that (for a maximum of one hour) submerged. Sustained operations in support of a main battlefleet were simply not practical for a submarine with a top speed of 16 knots. Eventually, the smaller Cachalot and Cuttlefish also joined Lockwood’s Division 13. As division commander, Lockwood gained visibility into emerging technological and tactical developments in submarines. Some of the most interesting occurring during this time included the development of the Torpedo Data Computer, advanced passive target range estimation techniques, and new camouflage schemes for submarines to avoid detection from the air. The subsequent full-scale Japanese invasion of China in 1937 provided a dramatic exclamation point to America’s growing concerns regarding Japan’s designs on East Asia. Positioning the U.S. Fleet in Hawaii substantially reduced the sailing time to Japanese waters. This strategically calculated move, combined with diplomatic efforts, managed to keep things in check for a few more years. In late 1937, Lockwood’s time as ComSubDiv13 came to an end. He returned to Washington, D.C., for duty in the office of the Chief of Naval Operations (CNO). Despite his desire to serve at sea, Lockwood understood the importance of such tours and relished the prospect of becoming more involved in the development of new submarine designs and tactics. Once again, Lockwood’s old friend Bob English was looking out for him. English recognized Lockwood’s recent experience as a division commander made him the ideal person to relieve English as chairman of the Submarine Officers’ Conference, a group of experienced, distinguished submariners who met twice a month with the CNO’s official blessing. The group focused its energies and specific talents on specifying the next generation of fleet submarines. Lockwood threw himself into this juicy assignment with even more zeal than normal. When not handling matters related to the Submarine Officers’ Conference, Lockwood acted as the CNO’s official representative on sea trials for all new construction submarines on the East Coast. In the course of carrying out this most important assignment, Lockwood learned much about how the Navy’s newest submarines were built and operated, including all of their strengths and weaknesses. At this point in time, few people in the U.S. Navy possessed a greater understanding of submarine construction, operations, and tactics than Lockwood. His travels also afforded him the opportunity to spend a fair amount of time at the submarine school in New London, where he familiarized himself with the state of the art in submarine rescue technology.

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As Lockwood kept busy with his regular duties, the Submarine Officers’ Conference completed its recommendations for the Navy’s next fleet submarine. Its recommendation was presented to the Navy’s General Board, a sixperson team of senior Navy leaders, chaired by Admiral Thomas C. Hart. Lockwood chose his old squadron commander from San Diego, Captain “Dicky” Edwards, as spokesman. Hart favored smaller submarines, similar to the German U-boats of World War I. These boats displaced less than 1,000 tons, but proved their deadly effectiveness in that campaign. Lockwood’s team preferred a somewhat larger vessel—around 1,500 tons. The Conference also recommended adding an additional two torpedo tubes in the stern, for a total of ten: six forward, four aft. Hart again questioned this, but the Conference felt strongly that many of Hart’s perceptions were rooted in the old coastal defense mentality, whereas the members of the Conference felt that the next submarine should be able to bring the war to the enemy’s doorstep, instead of waiting for him to bring it to theirs. The Conference felt the boats needed two months’ endurance with as minimal crew hardship as possible. The boats also needed room to store an adequate number of torpedo reloads to complete a 60-day war patrol. This of course also meant room for provisions and other stores. The Submarine Officers’ Conference also recommended a 5-inch gun for use against undefended merchant ships or shore targets. Finally, the Conference members requested a much improved attack periscope with a tapered top similar to German and British designs already in use. At the end of the proceedings, Lockwood’s Submarine Officers’ Conference won most of its main points. The six submarines of the new Tambor class would be outfitted with ten torpedo tubes, storage for 24 torpedoes, and better attack periscopes. They also met the two-month endurance requirement. The only point of compromise came on the deck gun: a 3-inch gun would be standard, but the mount was designed to support a 5-inch gun should the need arise. Lockwood personally worked with the Navy’s periscope supplier to develop an attack periscope with a 1-inch diameter at its head. Lockwood next turned his attention to the new submarine’s propulsion plant. At the time, three manufacturers supplied diesel engines for the Navy’s submarines. Lockwood spent a significant amount of time shuttling among the three manufacturer’s facilities, comparing and contrasting their processes, capabilities, and finished products. His main goal was to ensure the companies could scale their operations concurrently with the expansion of the submarine force and the advent of the new Fleet Submarines. With these tasks completed, Lockwood stood as one of the major contributors to the refinement of the basic submarine design destined to fight a world war less than three years later.

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Lockwood’s intimate knowledge of the submarine of the future made him a hot commodity within his beloved submarine community, and it was not long before Rear Admiral W.F. Friedell, Commander Submarine Force U.S. Fleet, tapped Lockwood to be his Chief of Staff. Despite his love for his current assignment, Lockwood knew this assignment meant more influence over the operational aspects of the submarine fleet, not to mention tremendous exposure to those in power in the submarine navy. In April 1939, Lockwood accepted Friedell’s offer and prepared for his new duties. A month later, as Lockwood prepared to go to lunch after a busy morning tying up loose ends in his soon-to-be former assignment, he received a call from the CNO’s Chief of Staff, ordering him to the CNO’s office immediately. It was there Lockwood learned that the new fleet-type submarine Squalus had sunk near the Isles of Shoals. The CNO, Admiral William Leahy, ordered Lockwood to begin coordinating rescue activities from Washington and to presumably keep Leahy informed of their progress. Lockwood first tracked down Swede Momsen, inventor of the Momsen Lung escape device and presently in charge of the diving school at the Washington Navy Yard. He left immediately and arrived at the naval base in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, that evening. Lockwood’s next call was to the other big name in submarine rescue technology, Allan R. McCann, coinventor of the rescue chamber named for him. He and a team of divers left from Norfolk, Virginia, that afternoon and arrived in Portsmouth around midnight. The rest of the story has been told in multiple texts, but the end result was simultaneously encouraging and sobering: 33 men were saved by the McCann Rescue Chamber, but 26 men died in the flooded after section of the submarine. During the crisis, Lockwood sifted through the volumes of message traffic, piecing together a cogent summary to deliver to Leahy. On 22 June 1939, Lockwood arrived in San Diego and reported for duty as Friedell’s Chief of Staff. Once again, in a trend that continued throughout their careers, his predecessor was his old friend Bob English. Lockwood’s first few months of duty were eventful: in early August, he attained captain’s rank; exactly one month later, Germany invaded Poland and World War II began. Friedell and Lockwood inspected a number of potential island bases west of Hawaii, including Johnston Island and Midway Island. On their return to Pearl Harbor, they learned that all mothballed submarines were being ordered back into commission to meet the growing emergency in Europe and to address rising tensions with Japan. This presented the submarine force with a tremendous staffing challenge. As part of this activity, Friedell, accompanied by Lockwood, toured all submarine bases under his command. They returned to their home port in San Diego just before Christmas, 1940.

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At the end of January, Lockwood received orders to London for duty as naval attache´. Determined not to miss out on the action this time, Lockwood hoped his assignment in the war zone would include firsthand observation of the Royal Navy from the decks of her ships and submarines. Shortly after arriving in England, Lockwood made the circuit of senior British naval officers. Here he first encountered Admiral Sir Max Horton, a World War I submarine ace and now Flag Officer Submarines. Lockwood’s first impression of Horton was that of a man who did not suffer fools, but one with a compassion for his men and a sense of humor as well. Horton and Lockwood discussed possible base locations for U.S. submarines, pending America’s inevitable entry into the war. Lockwood spent much of his time in England scouting bases, conferring with his British counterparts, and trying to get an understanding of the overall situation in Europe. The Germans introduced Lockwood to the concept of night bombing raids, and he soon adopted the trademark British defiance during the attacks. Lockwood felt strongly that America needed to enter the war before the British succumbed to a German invasion of their shores. In the dark days of early 1941, this still loomed as a serious possibility. On 26 May 1941, Lockwood monitored the pursuit and sinking of the German battleship Bismarck from a front-row seat in the British Admiralty’s War Room. The event gave the beleaguered Royal Navy a much-needed shot in the arm after the devastating loss of the battlecruiser Hood less than a week earlier. On 8 September 1941 the British reported to Lockwood the capture of the German U-570. Lockwood sent two of his observers to Reykjavik, Iceland, where the boat was being kept. Eventually, the British allowed the United States to take one of the German torpedoes. This amazing bit of good fortune seemed to make a minimal impact in U.S. torpedo development. Lockwood eventually visited the submarine after she was placed in British service as the Graph. He noted that the German torpedoes used two types of exploders: contact and magnetic. In his discussions with British torpedo officers, Lockwood learned that the British had experimented with the magnetic exploder and found that “… these new, fancy magnetics [exploders] were unreliable —no bloody use—and went back to the old dependable contact exploders.”3 Lockwood prepared and sent a report on this matter back to Washington and filed this piece of information away for now; eventually, it influenced one of the most important decisions he made during the war. Throughout the autumn, Lockwood continued with his endless rounds of tours, technical briefings, weapons trials, and conferences. Then at dinner one evening, Lockwood received an urgent call from his office in a cryptic code created to compensate for the lack of scrambling equipment. When he

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received and decrypted the message, he was so stunned he blurted its contents back to the duty officer in plain English: Pearl Harbor had been attacked by the Japanese. After a mad dash to his London office, Lockwood received initial reports regarding the scope of the devastation. The Japanese surprise attack annihilated Battleship Row and did substantial damage to other ships in the harbor and aircraft on the surrounding airfields. Thousands of soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines lost their lives. The next day Lockwood, his shock replaced by determination, sent a private message to a Detail Officer in Washington. He requested a submarine assignment in the Pacific that allowed him to apply his training and experience to the protracted naval campaign about to ensue. Finally, on 5 March 1942, Lockwood read a dispatch ordering him to return to the United States. Lockwood also discovered, to his amazement, that he had been selected for promotion to rear admiral. After an overdue reunion with his wife, Phyl, Lockwood reported in person to Admiral King who presented Lockwood with a verbal set of orders “[t]o proceed to Perth, Australia, and take command there as Commander Submarines Southwest Pacific.” Lockwood received exactly the command for which he had hoped. After spending a brief holiday with his family, he began his journey westward on 20 April. He stopped in Pearl Harbor and conferred with Admiral Nimitz, the new commander of the Pacific Fleet. The visit also gave him his first look at the devastation wrought by the Japanese attack some four months earlier. The hulks of the Arizona and the Oklahoma rested on the bottom of the harbor at their moorings—a grim and sobering reminder of the tragedy suffered that past December. Lockwood finally arrived in Australia, at Brisbane, on 28 April. The next day he met with Rear Admiral F.W. Rockwell, Senior Officer Present Afloat and Submarine Division Commander R.L. Dennison. Also present was prominent Gun Clubber Captain Ralph W. Christie. Christie now commanded the submarine squadron based in Brisbane. Lockwood reached Perth at the beginning of May and reported to Rear Admiral William R. Purnell for duty as Commander Submarines Southwest Pacific. Purnell introduced Lockwood to Captain John Wilkes, the man he would be relieving. Lockwood detected exhaustion, dejection, and low morale in Wilkes and his staff and attributed it to their forced retreat from the Philippines, to Java, and ultimately Australia. Lockwood needed to quickly get a handle on the situation, and the initial reports were discouraging: captains reported perfect setups only to have the torpedoes fail to detonate. Lockwood carefully pored over every war patrol report, including the reports from Chappell, Jacobs, and other skippers, and whenever possible met with skippers returning from

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patrol. Most captains now suspected the Mk. 14 ran too deep, and word of these concerns reached Lockwood immediately.4 On 6 May 1942, Chappell and other skippers met with Lockwood in Albany, Australia. Foremost in their minds were the torpedoes they perceived to be defective. Lockwood listened to report after report of torpedoes detonating shortly after being fired and perfectly aimed torpedoes passing harmlessly beneath their targets. Complaints to BuOrd had fallen on deaf ears to date; indeed, BuOrd accused the skippers of inventing this as an excuse for their own performance shortcomings. All these factors added to the already immense pressures a submarine captain in wartime faced and for many, like Tyrell Jacobs of Sargo, enough was enough. Lockwood spent most of May traveling to meet his submarine captains and division commanders, inspecting their boats, inspecting the submarine tenders, and gathering information on the operations of the Southwest Pacific submarines. On 15 May, Lockwood learned that his good friend Bob English had relieved Rear Admiral Thomas Withers as Commander Submarines Pacific. Finally, on 22 May Lockwood relieved Wilkes as Commander Submarines Southwest Pacific. A short while after assuming command, Lockwood greeted “Red” Coe and Skipjack on their return from Coe’s first patrol as skipper off the coast of Indochina. As mentioned earlier Coe, like Jacobs and Chappell, felt that the Mk. 14 ran deeper than set, and his meticulous comments to this effect spoke volumes: To make a round trip of 8,500 miles into enemy waters, to gain attack position undetected within 800 yards of enemy ships only to find that the torpedoes run deep and over half the time will fail to explode, seems to me to be an undesirable manner of gaining information which might be determined any morning within a few miles of a torpedo station in the presence of comparatively few hazards.5

Coe’s persuasive, detailed analysis and common sense proposal drove Lockwood to action. In his discussions with skippers who reported misses on near-perfect setups, Lockwood often heard them report seeing the bubbles of the torpedo wakes pass near the stern or astern of the target. Given that the bubbles rose from 15 or more feet below the surface and the target was moving ahead during that time, Lockwood agreed that the torpedoes were running deep, too deep for the target’s magnetic field to trigger the Mk. 6 magnetic exploder. The Skipjack skipper’s report struck a chord with Lockwood. Armed with Coe’s extensive analysis and additional evidence gleaned from conversations with other skippers and from reading their patrol reports, Lockwood was

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convinced that problems existed with the Mk. 14 and its Mk. 6 exploder. In a 4 June 1942 letter to his boss, Vice Admiral H.F. Leary, Commander Allied Naval Forces, Southwest Pacific Area, Lockwood made mention of problems with the Mk. 6 exploder, citing the “incorrect functioning of the anti-counter mining device or the failure of the magnetic pistol.”6 In addition to concerns regarding the exploder’s performance, Lockwood also informed Leary that “[w]e are convinced also that they [Mk. 14 torpedoes] run much deeper than the set depth even though Buord assures us this difference is only four feet.”7 Lockwood then contacted the Bureau of Ordnance in Washington. To Lockwood’s chagrin, the Bureau suggested that maybe the problems lay not with the Mk. 14 torpedo and its Mk. 6 exploder, but instead stemmed from deficiencies in aptitude of the captains and their crews.8 As a lifelong submariner knowledgeable in submarine construction, design, tactics, and training, such assertions incensed Lockwood. Feeling abandoned by BuOrd, Lockwood resolved to get to the bottom of the issue himself. Lockwood’s immense responsibilities as both Commander of all Allied naval forces in Western Australia and Commander Submarines Southwest Pacific precluded him from devoting his full attention to the torpedo problem. As force commander, Lockwood regularly dealt with volumes of requests and issues ranging from habitability, community relations with the Australians, selecting advanced bases, upkeep of the submarines and their tenders, and personnel matters. Therefore, the force torpedo officer shouldered much of the burden of solving this dilemma. Lockwood’s torpedo officer was Lieutenant Commander Theodore Aylward. Aylward’s previous duties included a tour at the Newport torpedo station and a stint as skipper of the Searaven. Lockwood knew Aylward to be well qualified for the job, but the same health problems that resulted in his relief as captain of Searaven meant his days in Australia were numbered. On 16 June, Lockwood wrote Commander J.W. Suits, the submarine detail officer, asking for a replacement for Aylward. In his letter, he explained the problems his submarines were having with torpedoes and requested that Aylward’s replacement be “… a man with up-to-theminute information along those lines.”9 With Aylward’s health and replacement status looming over him, Lockwood turned to his old friend and Chief of Staff, Captain James Fife. Fife began wracking his brain for ideas regarding the deep-running torpedoes. At this stage of the war, torpedoes were extremely scarce. The complex nature of the Mk. 14 hindered the ability to mass produce the weapon; moreover, the Japanese attacks on Cavite in the Philippines accounted for the loss of 230 torpedoes kept in storage there.10 In normal peacetime exercises, torpedomen replaced the warheads with water-filled exercise heads. Unfortunately, to prove the torpedoes fired in combat were running too deep, the test

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conditions needed to match the actual conditions reported by the skippers. This meant the torpedoes would sink at the end of their run and be lost forever. In order to be statistically significant, a number of torpedoes would need to be fired. These torpedoes would of course no longer be available for submarines going to war. Even a half dozen torpedoes expended this way would impact the combat effectiveness of the Southwest Pacific submarines. Determined to preserve the torpedoes for subsequent examination or use, Fife finally arrived at a solution. In March 1942, the tender USS Holland moved to Albany, Australia, as a dispersal measure. On one of his visits, Fife took notice of the small resort town’s brilliant white beaches. The vast expanses of sand offered an ideal landing zone for torpedoes fired from seaward. Fife decided to string a fishing net across the bay, between the beaches and the submarine to seaward. The

Captain James Fife. Fife supervised the tests in Albany, Australia, that identified the extent of the depth problem with the Mk. 14 torpedoes. Fife’s tests claimed the Mk. 14 ran 11 feet deeper than set; BuOrd admitted that the Mk. 14 ran 10 feet deeper than set after doing its own tests. (National Archives)

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submarine would then fire at the net; the torpedo would pierce the net and continue on to the white sandy shore, where its dark shape would be easily visible to the recovery team. Fife’s crew would then pull up the nets and measure the depth of the hole created by the Mk. 14 passing through. With no fishing nets readily available, Fife enlisted the services of four Portuguese fishermen who made him a net. This they strung 6,000 yards offshore, in water deep enough for a submarine to fire torpedoes, but close enough to shore to recover them.11 On 20 June 1942 Fife, Aylward, and others from Lockwood’s staff conducted the first test of a Mk. 14 torpedo using a properly weighted warhead. Red Coe’s Skipjack served as the firing platform. From a range of 1,000 yards, Coe fired one of Skipjack’s remaining torpedoes into the fishing net strung across Frenchman’s Bay. Upon inspection of the nets, Lockwood and his staff found that the torpedo ran 15 feet deeper than set. The next day, Coe fired two more torpedoes at the same nets. The first shot, set at 10 feet, cut the net at 18 feet. The second shot, set at zero feet, cut the net at 18 feet. Based on these tests, and accounting for porpoising of the torpedo and other factors,12 Lockwood concluded that the Mk. 14 ran 11 feet below its set depth.13 Finally, after six months, Lockwood’s tests confirmed Tyrell Jacobs’s and Lucius Chappell’s suspicions. The next day, Lockwood reported his findings to the Bureau of Ordnance, which immediately questioned the scientific methods used for the test, specifically the improper trim caused by the exercise warhead. Based on this correspondence, Lockwood and his team set out to confirm their original findings. On 11 July, Lockwood wrote to Rear Admiral R.S. “Dicky” Edwards, Admiral King’s senior staff submarine officer. In the letter, Lockwood described the problems his command faced with the torpedoes and his correspondence with Admiral William H.P. “Spike” Blandy, BuOrd’s chief, to solve the problems. He also spoke to Edwards of the frustrations faced by his skippers: “As you can imagine it is very discouraging to a commanding officer to fire at six or seven hundred yards and see the smoke of his torpedo come up under the stern of his target with no Bang [sic].”14 In the same mailbag, Lockwood included a letter to Blandy, urging a prompt resolution to the problem. Referring to a spate of messages sent over the previous month, Lockwood attempted to defuse the tension by appealing to his old friend’s better sensibilities. Lockwood also understood that the medium of radio messages left much room for misinterpretation of a message’s true meaning and too often allowed for an unintentional insertion of emotion where none was intended. With this in mind, Lockwood urged Blandy to “… lend us a hand to clear the air and give us the dope we need.”15 Lockwood went on to explain to Blandy that accurate depth information

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Rear Admiral William Henry Purnell “Spike” Blandy, Chief of the Bureau of Ordnance during the torpedo crisis. (National Archives)

played a vital role in ensuring the Mk. 6’s magnetic feature could be properly employed. Lockwood now feared that the deep-running problems identified on 20 June meant the torpedo passed too far below the target’s keel—beyond its magnetic influence—thus failing to trigger the magnetic influence feature.16 Like most of his contemporaries, Lockwood felt that, given the shortage of torpedoes, proper employment of the magnetic influence feature of the Mk. 6 offered the only alternative to large spreads fired for contact hits. A second set of tests on 18 July, using properly trimmed torpedoes and again supervised by Captain Fife, delivered findings identical to the original test. The test results disrupted the bureaucratic calm within BuOrd. Admiral King received a copy of the results and immediately wrote to Blandy ordering retests of the Mk. 14. King emphasized the importance of ensuring the submarine force had a properly functioning weapon. Finally, on 1 August, engineers at Newport conducted their own tests and conceded that the Mk. 14 ran 10 feet deeper than set. That same day, Lockwood wrote English and told him of his impromptu tests: “We have finally fired sufficient shots with the

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Mark XVI head to convince me that torpedoes so fitted will run eleven feet deeper than that set on the dial.”17 On 26 August, English communicated this technical bulletin to the fleet and boats received orders to adjust their depth settings while the Torpedo Station worked to identify and fix the root cause of the problem.18 After exhaustive investigation, Newport uncovered a chain of defects and oversights that conspired to produce the deep-running defect. The first link in the chain was the depth-setting calibration process. The calibration procedure utilized a lighter exercise warhead instead of an actual warhead. The increased weight of an actual warhead created a nose down attitude, affecting torpedo trim. Such a condition forced the torpedo downward, running deeper than set. The second link concerned the location of the pressure sensor for the depth-keeping mechanism. By placing the sensor port on the tapered

Rear Admiral Robert H. English. Lockwood and English had similar careers in the submarine service, with Lockwood succeeding English in a number of posts. The last instance of this was under tragic circumstances, as English (Commander Submarines, Pacific) died in a plane crash in California. English had varying views on the torpedo problems, but did order his skippers to fire at depths above the keel because he also doubted the Mk. 6’s reliablilty. (National Archives)

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after section of the torpedo, flow across the sensor was subjected to Bernoulli’s Theorem, a concept well understood by mechanical engineers of the day. The pressure drop created by this arrangement meant that the sensor always read a pressure lower than sea pressure for that depth.19 To compensate, the torpedo dove deeper until the greater depth minus the effects of Bernoulli’s Theorem equaled the pressure for the original depth setting. Speed also affected this error. At the higher-speed setting, the pressure drop increased, meaning the torpedo dove even deeper to compensate. On the seldom-used low-speed setting, the error was less pronounced. However, the instrumentation used to calibrate the bellows in the mechanism contained its own error, exactly equal to the error caused by the location of the sensor.20 This amazing set of coincidences played havoc on submarine attacks throughout the first part of the war. Jacobs, Chappell, and the others received their vindication, but the price paid by the submarine force far exceeded any satisfaction derived as a result. The Philippines campaign stood as a stark example. Sadly for the beleaguered defenders of Bataan, about the worst thing the Japanese invaders suffered during their voyage to the Philippines was the occasional bout with seasickness. Of Wilkes’s 28 Asiatic Fleet submarines, few scored confirmed sinkings. During the period from 8 December 1941 until the fall of Corregidor on 6 May 1942, Wilkes’s submarines sank a mere seven confirmed ships in the vicinity of the Philippine Islands.21 As mentioned earlier, only one out of 80 Japanese ships in the Lingayen Gulf invasion fleet fell victim to U.S. submarines, the 5,445-ton transport Hayo Maru, sunk by the heroic Lieutenant Wreford G. “Moon” Chapple in the venerable old S-38. The S-class submarines carried the older, World War I vintage Mk. 10 torpedo equipped with a simple contact exploder. Chapple’s attack displayed the type of courage and heroism that set the standard for subsequent skippers. However, despite his daring penetration of Lingayen Gulf, his courageous attack and his brilliant evasion, the sinking itself barely affected the invasion. Since the transport was already at anchor, it seems probable that many of the troops had already gone ashore, and the vessel’s close proximity to the shore and other unharmed transports meant that probably all survivors of the explosion went on to fulfill their combat duties. Indeed, some of the failures resulted from poor training, passive captains, and other problems, but not all of them. Assuming the Mk. 14 torpedo worked as advertised, even conservative assumptions would have placed the total number of vessels sunk much higher. Had this been the case, the Japanese would have needed additional troops and supplies to replace those lost, diverting them from other campaigns. Also, the presence of a credible submarine threat would probably have led to an increased antisubmarine presence, again diverting resources from other areas. Even if the Japanese

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decided not to replace these resources or bolster the antisubmarine warfare force, the increased attrition might have allowed the dauntless defenders of Corregidor and Bataan to hold out longer, inflicting more casualties of their own and increasing the cost to the Japanese. For Wilkes’s defense plan to succeed, submarines needed to intercept the convoys well offshore, ensuring the cargoes carried by these vessels sank at depths preventing their salvage. Additionally, invasion troops lost at sea were less likely to be rescued or to find their way ashore. Whereas S-38 was ordered into Lingayen Gulf and did her duty, those submarines patrolling the approaches to Lingayen Gulf and the rest of the Philippines failed miserably. It would be almost two years before the reasons behind these failures were fully understood, and in the meantime, disappointment continued to permeate the submarine force. The other major campaign affected by this defect was fought in the oil-rich East Indies. Once again, submarines knew the likely routes invasion forces would take to their objectives. And once again, Wilkes managed to deploy a small force of submarines to these locations. As in the Philippines, strategists hoped to fight a delaying action, buying time to evacuate personnel and vital materiel ahead of the imminent Japanese invasions. And as in the Philippines, most submarines diligently patrolled their areas and aggressively attacked Japanese shipping when encountered. Unfortunately, the similarities of the two campaigns continue when analyzing torpedo performance. From the surrender of the Philippines until the evacuation of Surabaya, U.S. submarines conducted a number of attacks in this area. These attacks resulted in only three confirmed sinkings for a total of 12,597 tons. Dutch submarines fared slightly better, sinking a confirmed six ships totaling 29,624 tons.22 In many ways, Lockwood’s response to this crisis mirrored Do¨nitz’s response to similar problems during the Norwegian campaign. Both men, veteran submariners intimately involved in the growth of their respective submarine forces, inherently trusted the training and capabilities of the officers and men manning their submarines. Thus, when the skippers spoke, Do¨nitz and Lockwood listened. However, when it came to solving the problem, the two commanders’ methods diverged greatly. The German naval structure stood rigidly on protocol and authority; as a result, Do¨nitz turned to the Torpedo Directorate to solve the problem. Do¨nitz really had no choice; the German system hardly encouraged individuality or creativity. Indeed, Do¨nitz’s exercise of operational control over all his U-boats exemplified his leadership approach. Only through relentless, unfailing pressure and forced personnel changes at the Torpedo Directorate was Do¨nitz finally able to stimulate the bureaucratic system and get the problems solved. Any bureaucracy in the midst of major disruption strives to quickly regain equilibrium. Clearly, the

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Torpedo Directorate realized its path to equilibrium passed through Do¨nitz’s office and only the solution of the problems reported from the Norwegian Campaign enabled achievement of that most basic and comforting of bureaucratic needs. The American system also reflected the bureaucratic nature of large governmental organizations. BuOrd’s inexplicable dismissal of constant reports from the field describing these failed attacks smacked of the self-preservation instinct so prevalent in such agencies. Lockwood’s vast experience as both a submariner and onetime member of the bureaucratic machine in D.C. equipped him perfectly to deal with this crisis. In that most American of traits, he performed his own “end around” on BuOrd to cut through the red tape and confirm the existence of a problem with the Mk. 14’s depth control. Lockwood relied on his submarine crews to help and, in some cases, to guide him in this pursuit. Staffers and skippers developed theories and proposed solutions; Lockwood listened intently. Finally, Fife brought Lockwood the idea he had been looking for. Weeks later, evidence in hand, Lockwood confronted BuOrd. Despite feeble attempts to attack the validity of the test conditions, BuOrd had little choice but to accept Lockwood’s findings and produce a solution. To BuOrd’s credit, once it acknowledged the problem, it quickly set about finding a proper solution. Two experts traveled to Australia to confer with Fife and Lockwood regarding the reported problems and their testing. BuOrd undertook a complete redesign of the depth-setting mechanism and issued modifications to the fleet. The modified torpedoes bore the added designation “A” following their Mark number. For example, the Mk. 14-1 now became the Mk. 14-1A. On 2 January 1943 Rear Admiral English sent Confidential Bulletin No. 1-43 to his submarines informing them of the modifications being made to their torpedoes for depth control. English noted in the bulletin that about 250 torpedoes had been fired by the Herring and the Haddo at Newport to validate the new depth-keeping performance. The newly modified torpedoes performed much better: plus or minus 3 feet at 500 yards or less (at high or low speed), minus 3 feet at 1,000 yards or more (high speed), and plus 1 foot at 1,000 yards or more (low speed). English recommended against firing torpedoes at a zero depth setting unless seas were calm.23 In the end, the persistence of the submarine captains, coupled with Lockwood’s faith in their reports, led to the correction of the deep-running torpedo defect. As Jim Coe (and earlier, Jacobs and Chappell) had so presciently suggested weeks before, a few hours’ worth of testing with a single submarine, a fishing net, and a few torpedoes was all that was needed to prove the captains right. One is left to contemplate the possibilities had the

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torpedoes run at their proper depths from day one. As was the case many times during the war in all services and theaters, the ingenuity of the troops in the field overcame an obstacle by ignoring the bureaucratic red tape, rolling up their sleeves, and forcing the issue. Unfortunately, that ingenuity would be needed again.

Chapter 7 Outclassed With the depth problem now fixed, submariners began patrols in the late summer of 1942 with the most optimism since the beginning of the war. Many of the skippers and their crews now felt like the hand tied behind their back had been cut free and that they were entering a fair fight. In the face of this renewed optimism, the Japanese demonstrated that, irrespective of American improvements to their submarine torpedoes, the Japanese Type 93 “Long Lance” and Type 95 submarine torpedoes stood in a class by themselves. Japanese torpedoes proved their effectiveness on the war’s first day, when Nakajima B5N2 “Kate” torpedo planes unleashed their deadly cargoes against the unsuspecting inhabitants of Battleship Row. These were the Type 91 airborne torpedoes. Much has been written about how the Japanese trained for the Pearl Harbor attacks and the modifications made to the Type 91 torpedoes to prevent them from burrowing into Pearl Harbor’s relatively shallow bottom. The weeks of training and the modifications paid off on 7 December 1941. Surprisingly, submarines played a minor role in Japan’s overall naval strategy. Unlike their German allies or their American foes, Japan subordinated the war against commerce, or guerre de course, to the Mahanian doctrine established for them years before: to act as the eyes of the fleet and to thin down opposing forces as much as possible before bringing the two fleets together for the decisive engagement. Warships, especially capital ships such as aircraft carriers and battleships, presented difficult challenges for submarine commanders. These vessels sailed at high speeds, heavily escorted on zigzag course plans. Their armor plating, torpedo blisters, and other countermeasures meant that even in the event of a hit, damage would be

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minimized or at least localized. Few expected a submarine torpedo salvo to be capable of sinking a modern capital ship. A month after Pearl Harbor, the Japanese submarine force found a perfect opportunity to test these theories. On 9 January 1942, the submarine I-18 spotted a Lexington class carrier steaming west in the vicinity of Johnston Island. Fulfilling its role as the eyes of the fleet, the I-18 reported the contact to Rear Admiral Yamazaki Shigeaki, Commander Submarine Squadron 2. Yamazaki hastily ordered another scouting line established with all submarines at his disposal. At 1740 on 11 January I-6, commanded by Commander Inaba Michimune, spotted the carrier with an escort consisting of one cruiser and two destroyers. Inaba maneuvered I-6 into attack position at a range of 4,700 yards and fired. The three-torpedo spread sped toward the carrier. Inaba heard two hits at the proper time. His well-aimed volley significantly damaged the USS Saratoga. The resulting damage plus a need to modernize the carrier’s defenses kept her out of action until the middle of June 1942, after the conclusion of the Battle of Midway. On the few occasions that Japanese submarines pursued merchant shipping, they also managed to produce results. Over a three-month period from January to March 1942, a number of submarine patrol groups roamed the East Indies with orders to choke Allied supply lines. Patrol group “A,” operating off the Java coast, sank 16 vessels during this period. Group “B,” based in the Indian Ocean, sank another 19 vessels. Group “C”, patrolling southern Java and western and northwestern Australia, sank 7 ships. The three groups together, a total of 20 submarines, sank 42 ships.1 During this same period, American submarines conducted 51 war patrols and managed to sink only 26 confirmed vessels.2 The poor American scores resulted not from a lack of targets or attacks, for plenty of skippers obtained excellent firing position only to be thwarted (as in the cases of Sargo and Sculpin) by defective torpedoes. The Japanese submarines, equipped with the outstanding Type 95, took advantage of their limited opportunities and made practically every attack count. The next U.S. aircraft carrier to encounter a Japanese submarine fared even worse than Saratoga. The Battle of Midway pitted the U.S. carriers Hornet, Enterprise, and Yorktown against the Japanese carriers Hiryu, Soryu, Akagi, and Kaga. Dauntless dive bombers from the Enterprise battered the Akagi and the Kaga, while the Yorktown’s dive bombers immolated the Soryu. The one remaining undamaged Japanese carrier, Hiryu, launched a counterstrike that located and significantly damaged Yorktown. Already in poor shape as a result of damage sustained a month earlier from the Battle of the Coral Sea, the bomb and torpedo hits from the Hiryu strike force appeared to doom the carrier. Her skipper, Captain Elliot Buckmaster, ordered the crew to

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abandon ship. To everyone’s surprise, the next morning the stubborn flattop continued to float. Buckmaster gathered a team to return aboard and continue salvage operations. Unbeknown to Buckmaster and his men, the Japanese submarine I-168 observed all of this, carefully maneuvering between the screening destroyers to get in position for the coup de grace. I-168’s captain, Lieutenant Commander Tanabe Yahachi, managed to close the stricken carrier to a range of 1,000 yards, well within the Type 95 torpedo’s effective range. At 1305, Tanabe fired four torpedoes at the Yorktown. He probably noted the destroyer Hammann alongside providing power and support to the salvage team onboard the carrier. One of the four torpedoes slammed into the Hammann, breaking her back. She sank shortly thereafter. The remaining torpedoes plowed into the defenseless Yorktown, adding to her already substantial list of injuries. Meanwhile, the other destroyers searched for and mercilessly pounded I-168 in a depth charge attack lasting seven hours. Despite significant damage to her batteries, I-168 survived and slinked away as dusk fell. Surprisingly, the Yorktown continued to stay afloat, but by the next morning, continual flooding increased the carrier’s port list until she lost stability and capsized. She finally began her trip to the bottom at 0701 on 7 June.3 By mid-1942, despite a very limited, narrow mission, Japanese submarines significantly impacted U.S. carrier strength in the Pacific. The damage to Saratoga left the Americans shorthanded for two important carrier battles: Coral Sea and Midway. The loss of Yorktown meant that a carrier on the builder’s ways intended to augment existing forces now had to replace the Yorktown, as had been the case a month earlier when Saratoga’s sister ship, Lexington, succumbed to Japanese aerial torpedoes and bombs during the Battle of the Coral Sea. In each case, splendid torpedo performance ensured the efforts of the submarine crews were not wasted. With vital momentum courtesy of the monumental victory at Midway, the United States looked to stem further Japanese aggression and claw out a foothold in the South Pacific. All eyes focused on a tiny island in the Solomons chain called Guadalcanal. Intelligence reports indicated that the Japanese intended to build an airfield there, reinforcing the approaches to Rabaul, their large naval base, from the south. Plans already existed to invade Tulagi, a small island to the northeast of Guadalcanal, as part of the larger objective to neutralize Rabaul. The existence of an airfield under construction caused the priority to shift to Guadalcanal and on 7 August 1942, 11,000 Marines, primarily of the First Marine Division, went ashore, surprising their unsuspecting enemies. Despite this early success, the Americans expected a stiff response from the Japanese. The Japanese knew that the invasion force could not survive long

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without supplies. If the Japanese naval and air forces could interdict the supply lines, the invaders would be repelled. The Japanese responded immediately. Vice Admiral Mikawa Gunichi, the Eighth Fleet Commander based at Rabaul, ordered six transports loaded with troops and protected by a destroyer escort to speed to the relief of the beleaguered Japanese defenders on Guadalcanal. He also recalled a number of cruisers about to proceed to other operating areas. He then embarked on the heavy cruiser Chokai and gathered his strike force consisting of the heavy cruisers Chokai, Aoba, Kako, Kinugasa, Furutaka, the light cruisers Yubari and Tenryu, and the destroyer Yunagi. On the afternoon of 7 August, Mikawa’s strike force headed south, intent on repelling the American landing fleet. Meanwhile, the Japanese reinforcement convoy assembled at Rabaul, where troops and supplies were quickly loaded aboard the vessels. Time was of the essence, and the crews worked feverishly to load their ships with men and supplies to send to the aid of their beleaguered comrades on Guadalcanal. One of the transports was the Meiyo Maru. The 5,627-ton vessel embarked a significant number of troops fully expecting to carry out Mikawa’s orders to their fullest. These troops never got that chance. Around midnight the evening of 8 August, the convoy fell under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Commander Henry G. Munson of the S-38. As previously noted, the older S-38 lacked many of the comforts and features of the newer fleet boats; fortunately, she lacked one other element as well: instead of the Mk. 14, the S-class submarines carried the older Mk. 10 torpedo with its simple contact exploder mechanism. Munson fired two of these vintage torpedoes on sound bearings at a range of 1,000 yards. Both found their mark and the Meiyo Maru went to the bottom, taking 14 officers and 328 men with her.4 Once again, the venerable Mk. 10 performed well enough to do the job, just as it had done months earlier for Moon Chapple when he commanded the same S-38 in Lingayen Gulf. Munson’s success against the Meiyo Maru went far beyond the sinking of a single transport; unnerved by the loss and fearing additional submarines in the area, Mikawa recalled the remaining five transports. This incident demonstrated the power of the submarine when properly employed. The expenditure of two World War I vintage torpedoes, torpedoes that worked as designed, halted a major enemy operation. Ralph Christie, commanding the S-class submarines from Brisbane, Australia, could hardly have been more pleased. So it was that American torpedoes, no less the World War I-vintage Mk. 10s, drew first blood in the series of naval battles that comprised the naval campaign of Guadalcanal. The Japanese would not wait long to answer this challenge. The Meiyo Maru’s sinking by S-38 drove home the urgency of Mikawa’s strike mission against the transports moored off Guadalcanal and

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Tulagi. With Japanese reinforcements now delayed indefinitely, Mikawa knew he needed to deal a devastating counterpunch to the momentum-fueled Marine forces now storming ashore. Confusing reconnaissance reports led Rear Admiral Richmond K. “Kelly” Turner to conclude that Mikawa’s force planned to establish a seaplane base for subsequent air attacks on Turner’s landing forces despite the fact that Mikawa was spotted at least three separate times on his transit southward. Notwithstanding this belief, plans still existed to defend the landing forces from attack by sea. On the evening of 8 August, Turner deployed his covering forces to defend against such an attack. He had in his possession the Australian cruisers Australia, Canberra, and Hobart, the American cruisers Chicago, Vincennes, Quincy, Astoria, and San Juan, and the destroyers Blue, Helm, Wilson, Ralph Talbot, Bagley, Patterson, Monssen, and Buchanan. Turner’s defense plan partitioned the waters between Guadalcanal and Tulagi into three distinct patrol areas: northern, southern, and eastern. The Vincennes, Quincy, Astoria, Helm, and Wilson patrolled the northern sector in column formation steaming in a box-shaped pattern between Savo Island and Florida Island. The Canberra, Chicago, Patterson, and Bagley also steamed in column formation, but on a northwest-southeast patrol line between Savo Island to the north and Cape Esperance to the west. The eastern force consisted of the San Juan, Hobart, Monssen, and Buchanan. This force remained to the southeast of the other two groups and patrolled on a northwesterly southeasterly pattern near to the landing forces at Tulagi. Well ahead of these forces, two picket destroyers, Blue and Ralph Talbot, used their radars to detect and report the approach of any enemy forces from the north. Blue covered the western channel (between Savo Island and Cape Esperance), while Ralph Talbot covered the eastern channel. As the evening of 8 August wore on, Mikawa’s force sped southeast. The Japanese admiral planned to pass to the southwest of Savo Island, attack the forces unloading troops and supplies on Guadalcanal, turn east and attack the Tulagi landing forces, and then retire to the northwest. At 0054, Japanese lookouts on the Chokai spotted Blue. The picket destroyer happened to be on the southwest leg of her picket line and as such was steaming away from the Japanese force. None of Blue’s lookouts saw Mikawa’s force; consequently, Mikawa pressed ahead. At 0132, Mikawa altered course to the east and shortly thereafter detected Patterson and Bagley. Six minutes later, the strike force launched a spread of Type 93 “Long Lance” torpedoes at the approaching southern force. Two of these deadly 24-inch diameter monsters with their massive 1,080-pound warheads tore into the Canberra about the same time as the first shells from the Japanese cruisers’ main batteries. The hits occurred on Canberra’s starboard side, between the

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boiler rooms. Flooding ensued, and smoke forced evacuation of the engine rooms. The mortally wounded cruiser fell dead in the water.5 At 0147, a Long Lance from a second salvo blew a section of Chicago’s bow off. At this point, the southern force ceased to exist as an effective fighting unit. Three minutes later, Mikawa’s formation made contact on the northern patrol force and opened fire. Star shells and searchlights provided ample illumination for the 8-inch main batteries of Chokai and her sisters. Despite initial confusion over whether this was friendly fire, Astoria’s captain, Captain William G. Greenman, decided that friendly fire or not, he needed to respond to the salvoes. At 0154, Astoria began returning fire. Unfortunately for her, the Japanese found the range first and began pounding the hapless cruiser. The fires that broke out on deck served as range finders and illumination for the Japanese gunners, who skillfully reduced Astoria to a burning hulk. Meanwhile, the Japanese force inadvertently split into two columns: one led by Mikawa in Chokai and the other consisting of the cruisers Furutaka, Tenryu, and Yubari. Though not part of Mikawa’s original plan, the result was devastating to the next cruiser in line, the Quincy. As gunfire pounded the Quincy from both beams, another Long Lance found its mark, crushing the Number 4 fireroom on the port side.6 With fires and flooding ravaging the ship, her captain and executive officer dead, Quincy was doomed. About 40 minutes later, the stricken cruiser capsized and sank. Captain Frederick L. Riefkohl of the Vincennes thought the illumination sighted at 0150 came from the southern patrol force and ordered them to extinguish their searchlights. He quickly realized his mistake when the first salvo from Kako splashed 500 yards away. Vincennes immediately fired her own star shell illumination rounds, quickly followed by a full 8-inch broadside. Vincennes found the range on Kinugasa at the same time the Japanese found her range. Once again, fires on deck conveniently marked Vincennes for Mikawa’s cruisers. The Long Lance torpedoes then took control of the situation. The first spread of two or three torpedoes came from Chokai and tore into Vincennes’ Number 4 fireroom. The entire ship shuddered from “remarkably heavy” explosions caused by the detonation of the Long Lances’ massive 1,080-pound warheads.7 This attack also cut power to Vincennes’s main battery. At 0203 another Long Lance, this one from the light cruiser Yubari, plowed into the Number 1 fireroom, destroying it completely. Another 12 minutes of relentless, accurate gunfire spelled the end for the ship lovingly known by her crew as the “Vinny Maru.” She sank at 0250, about two miles northeast of Savo Island. Though Astoria and Canberra survived the evening, they would not survive the next day. Canberra succumbed to her injuries at 0800, Astoria at 1215.

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The Battle of Savo Island went down in history as the U.S. Navy’s greatest single defeat. The Long Lance torpedo played a starring role in this drama for the Japanese. These massive torpedoes performed exceedingly well with their oxygen-fueled engines and enormous warheads. Excellent torpedo marksmanship and superior performance resulted in hits on Canberra, Chicago, Vincennes, and Quincy. These hits, most of them in vital engineering spaces, severely crippled each vessel, denying vital power not only to the main engines, but to the electrical systems used for everything from the main gun mounts to the radar sets. The flooding caused by the torpedo damage certainly contributed substantially to the demise of these warships. By the end of the Battle of Savo Island, it was clear that the Japanese Long Lance torpedo stood head and shoulders above its American counterparts. As Mikawa, basking in the success of his brilliant attack, hightailed it north to Rabaul and Kavieng, Allied reconnaissance aircraft tracked his retirement course. Unbeknown to Mikawa, the U.S. submarine S-44 lay in waiting off Kavieng, hoping to provide an American rebuttal to the Battle of Savo Island. Like Munson’s S-38, S-44 carried the older, simpler Mk. 10 torpedoes. Despite its age and lack of sophistication, the Mk. 10 proved to be more than serviceable in the hands of a well-trained captain and crew. And few S-boat skippers were better trained or more aggressive than S-44’s John R. “Dinty” Moore. Around 0900 on the morning of 10 August, Moore encountered a formation of heavy cruisers consisting of Aoba, Kako, Kinugasa, and Furutaka. Mikawa ordered them to proceed to Kavieng while he and the rest of the force returned to Rabaul. Moore placed S-44 in ideal firing position a mere 700 yards from the Kako. With all firing data checking, Moore loosed a salvo of four Mk. 10s at the unsuspecting cruiser. After a run of slightly more than half a minute, the first of the Mk. 10s hit in the engineering spaces. This was a fatal blow. Moore suspected the boilers had exploded; indeed, the secondary explosions sealed Kako’s fate and she plunged to the bottom in less than five minutes, the taste of victory still very much on her lips, but now suddenly and cruelly replaced by the same bitter pill she had visited on the Americans slightly more than 24 hours earlier. This first battle off the coast of Guadalcanal marked the beginning of an epic naval struggle that spanned a period of six months. The basic elements of the conflict stemmed from the Americans’ need to resupply the Marine defenders of Guadalcanal from the south and the Japanese need to repel the invaders and remove the threat posed by an American airfield in close proximity to their bases, particularly Rabaul. The typical scenario involved a clash between the Japanese force heading south toward Guadalcanal and the American force in the area to defend against Japanese efforts to resupply or

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Rear Admiral Ralph Waldo Christie congratulates Lieutenant Commander John R. “Dinty” Moore, captain of S-44, after sinking the Japanese heavy cruiser Kako following the Battle of Savo Island. Moore used the Mk. 10 torpedo to achieve his success and exact a measure of revenge for the disaster at Savo Island. (National Archives)

bombard American forces. Torpedoes on both sides continued to play a major role in the campaign. The Long Lance claimed its next victim two weeks later in the same vicinity of its earlier victims. At 0355 on 22 August, the picket destroyer and Battle of Savo Island survivor USS Blue detected on both radar and sonar an unidentified surface vessel moving at good speed about 5,000 yards off her starboard beam. The ship continued to close Blue, whose crew prepared to bring the vessel under combined torpedo and gunfire. They were too late. At 0359 a Long Lance fired from the Japanese destroyer Kawakaze ripped into Blue’s stern, rendering her propellers useless and flinging sailors and debris everywhere. Once again, superior U.S. Navy damage-control efforts succeeded in preventing Blue from sinking. Unfortunately, the damage to her stern made towing the beleaguered destroyer extremely difficult. As night fell on 23 August, Blue still remained a fair distance from the harbor at Tulagi. Fearing her destruction by the Japanese in an expected attack that evening,

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Turner ordered the Blue scuttled. And so the Long Lance chalked up yet another victim in the aptly named Ironbottom Sound. Turner’s fears of an impending attack were well-founded. The next major clash between forces occurred mainly in the air. The Battle of the Eastern Solomons, fought from 23–24 August, consisted mainly of bombing attacks by both forces. Both sides featured many of the same commanders and participants from the Battle of Midway some three months earlier. Torpedo planes from the Saratoga and the Enterprise managed to register attacks during the clash, and a torpedo hit on the light carrier Ryujo contributed to its demise in battle. Japanese torpedo aircraft failed to make an impact in the battle, largely due to the excellent combat air patrols conducted by the American fighter screen. The Mk. 13 aerial torpedo used by the United States at the time favored a simple contact exploder mechanism of a design completely different from the Mk. 6. When placed in the hands of a well-trained pilot, the Mk. 13 worked with deadly efficiency, as survivors of the Ryujo would attest. As both sides picked up the pieces and regrouped, an American warship already familiar with submarine torpedo attacks received a refresher course. The morning of 31 August began routinely enough for the officers and men of the Saratoga. With the excitement of the previous week’s battle quickly subsiding, Saratoga resumed the more mundane task of patrolling the approaches to Guadalcanal. Saratoga was not the only warship patrolling this area to the east of San Cristobal Island. Commander Yokota Minoru of the submarine I-26 shared these waters with the Saratoga and around 0745 that morning fired a spread of six Type 95 torpedoes from a range of 3,800 yards. One of the six torpedoes found its mark, exploding on the starboard side amidships.8 The damage from this attack paled in comparison to that inflicted by Inaba’s attack in I-6 the previous January; nevertheless, the required repairs forced Saratoga to return to Pearl Harbor and kept her out of action until November. Perhaps the defining moment of the war for the Type 95 torpedo occurred two weeks later. The Battle of the Bloody Ridge on Guadalcanal from 12 to 14 September significantly depleted supplies and chipped away at the strength of the Marine forces desperate to retain control of the island. In the wake of the battle, reinforcements in the form of a six-ship convoy departed Espiritu Santo on 14 September. The importance of the mission was underscored by the forces assigned to protect it from Japanese attack. Both of the undamaged aircraft carriers in the area, Hornet and Wasp, received the assignment. They augmented their primary mission of convoy defense by flying missions to protect themselves from attack by air or submarine. No patrol plan is perfect, and Wasp’s was far from it this day. In the same general area, nine Japanese submarines conducted a patrol of their own,

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intending to deny the Americans the ability to resupply the Marines ashore. One of the submarines was I-19, commanded by Commander Kinashi Takaichi. Around lunchtime that day, his sound operator reported hearing propeller noises from a number of ships. Kinashi closed on the sound bearing for almost an hour; a periscope search revealed a sight most submariners only dream of: an aircraft carrier escorted by a cruiser and some destroyers. Kinashi had spotted the Wasp and her escorts engaged in the launching and recovery of her patrol aircraft. Unfortunately for Kinashi, the force’s course and speed precluded I-19 from closing within range of her Type 95 torpedoes. Just as all seemed lost, Wasp turned back to her northwesterly base course. With the range now down to a point-blank 1,000 yards, Kinashi fired six torpedoes at 1445.9 In war, timing is everything and Kinashi’s timing, like the American dive bombers at Midway, was exquisite. The postflight operations routine required the rearming and refueling of the recovered aircraft. Throughout Wasp, systems pumped gasoline through the distribution piping to the planes in the hangar and on deck. Ordnance handlers brought out additional ammunition to replenish spent stores. An aircraft carrier in this condition was at her most vulnerable and in many ways was little more than a ticking time bomb waiting for a spark. Kinashi’s Type 95 torpedoes provided that spark seconds later as three of the six Type 95s found their mark on Wasp’s starboard side forward of the island structure. The giant 893-pound warheads erupted with such fury that planes took to the air on the hangar deck, men and machines went flying, and fires broke out everywhere. The conflagration soon raged out of control, with most spaces on the upper decks forward completely consumed by flames. The explosions and fires ruptured firemains, denying damage-control parties the vital ingredient needed to defeat the flames. Unable to combat the growing inferno, Wasp’s captain, Captain Forrest Sherman, ordered her abandoned at 1520.10 With that, total U.S. Navy carrier strength in the South Pacific fell to one—Hornet. Less than four months after their Midway debacle, the Imperial Japanese Navy had evened the score, largely thanks to superior performance of their Type 95 submarine torpedo. Unbeknown to the valiant crew of the stricken carrier (and Kinashi for that matter), two of I-19’s remaining three torpedoes were about to add their exclamation point to an already wildly successful attack. Torpedoes in World War II knew not their intended victims. Like most weapons of the era, success depended on proper completion of the fire control solution: target course, speed, bearing, range, and angle on the bow. To hedge against inaccuracies in any one of these variables, submarine skippers fired spreads of torpedoes; indeed, in most spreads of three or more torpedoes, the captain aimed one or more of the torpedoes to miss ahead or astern of the target, assuming

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correct firing data. This provided additional margin of error for the captain: if the target was faster, slower, nearer or farther away, the torpedoes aimed for misses on incorrect data would now be hits. Kinashi’s six-shot spread employed these tactics, registering three solid hits on Wasp. The other three Type 95 torpedoes continued straight on their firing bearings, running until exhausting their fuel supplies. Or at least that was the expectation. If something managed to come between the Type 95 and the end of its run, the result would be no less significant than if the torpedo were deliberately aimed at the vessel. It seems unlikely that Kinashi saw the other vessels behind Wasp or if he even concerned himself with them; nevertheless, more targets loomed beyond the Wasp, part of the Hornet battlegroup 12 nautical miles distant. Screening vessels between the two forces spotted the torpedo wakes and barked warnings over the radio, but garbled transmissions caused confusion more than anything else. The battleship North Carolina followed the lead of Hornet, putting her rudder right full and increasing speed to avoid the torpedo. The big battleship simply could not turn fast enough. One of Kinashi’s three remaining Type 95s slammed into the North Carolina on her port bow below the number 1 turret. Water and debris rained down on the battlewagon, washing a man overboard. Five additional men died belowdecks. The large warhead on the Type 95 opened up a hole “as big as a truck” well below the waterline.11 The damage forced her back to Pearl Harbor for repairs. Once again, Japanese submarines and their Type 95 torpedoes denied the Americans use of one of their more valuable naval assets for almost two months. A second of Kinashi’s stray torpedoes also found a surrogate target, the destroyer O’Brien. Just like North Carolina, the Type 95 exploded near her port bow. The damage appeared insignificant at the time and the destroyer made her way back to Espiritu Santo for a more detailed assessment. The experts there determined her seaworthy for a return voyage stateside for permanent repairs. What nobody knew at the time was that the Type 95 had weakened the O’Brien’s hull structure much more than was apparent in the inspection. On 19 October, en route to San Francisco, the hull finally yielded and the O’Brien slipped beneath the waves—one final victim for Kinashi’s remarkable, unprecedented torpedo spread.12 Twice in less than three months, Japanese submarines had destroyed an aircraft carrier and a destroyer with a single salvo of torpedoes. Only the incredible range and destructive power of the Type 95 made this possible. By the fall of 1942, the Japanese Long Lance Type 93 torpedo and the submarine-fired Type 95 had amassed impressive records of destruction against U.S. warships operating in and around the Solomon Islands. U.S. submarines operating in the same waters enjoyed significantly fewer successes, and of the

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few they did, several came courtesy of the older Mk. 10 torpedoes and the S-class submarines of World War I designs. Unquestionably, these results raised significant doubts not only about warship torpedo defenses, but also the inequity of torpedo successes so heavily weighted in favor of the Japanese. At the Battle of Cape Esperance in October, torpedoes played a supporting role, with the American shipboard Mk. 15 torpedo contributing to the demise of the heavy cruiser and Savo Island veteran Furutaka. The Mk. 15 shared most of the components of the Mk. 14, including the Mk. 6 magnetic influence exploder. The destroyer Duncan fired at least two torpedoes at the cruiser, with crewmen observing one hit. Unfortunately for Duncan, an illadvised departure from formation left her sandwiched between the Japanese and American forces. Sadly, fire from American as well as Japanese vessels contributed to her demise that evening.13 This marked the first confirmed surface-launched torpedo hit for the Americans in the Guadalcanal campaign. Encouraging as this was, the Japanese still held a substantial torpedo performance advantage in the campaign. American submarines patrolling around the Solomons managed to score some moderate successes in October. On the first day of the month, Gun Clubber Lieutenant Commander Herman A. “Pi” Pieczentkowski in Sturgeon sent four of his Mk. 14s on a one-way rendezvous with the aircraft ferry Katsuragi Maru. Whether or not owing to their master’s credentials, the torpedoes performed flawlessly and the 8,033-ton prize plunged to the bottom. On 7 October, Lucius Chappell and Sculpin encountered the 4,731-ton transport Naminoue Maru in the vicinity of Rabaul. Chappell fired four Mk. 14s from periscope depth and observed three hits. The transport sank shortly thereafter. Three days later, the Amberjack, commanded by Lieutenant Commander John A. Bole, lurked off Kavieng looking for big game. Bole found what he was looking for: the 19,262-ton tanker Tonan Maru II. He fired a pair of Mk. 14s into the huge ship’s side, damaging it substantially. In the same attack, he fired another two Mk. 14s at the armed naval transport Tenryu Maru, causing more damage, although neither vessel sank. A week after his first success, Chappell and Sculpin scored again, vanquishing the cargo vessel Sumiyoshi Maru approximately 75 miles to the southwest of Kavieng. On 21 October, Gudgeon, skippered by Lieutenant Commander William S. Stovall, Jr., closed out a relatively productive month for U.S. submarines off of Kavieng by sinking the 6,783-ton armed transport Choko Maru. These successes highlighted an important fact: the Mk. 14s and their magnetic exploders periodically worked as designed; indeed, not every torpedo fired in 1942 was a dud, ran too deep, or exploded prematurely. A number of factors combined to determine the fate of each and every torpedo. Also, since the Mk. 14s were essentially individually handcrafted one at a time,

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subtle differences existed in each torpedo. Combine these with variations in maintenance practices from boat to boat plus a lack of manuals for the Mk. 6 and one might conclude that some of the failures (and successes) could be attributed to these factors. Regardless, American submarines began making a minor dent in the Japanese shipping resupplying these advanced bases, while their Japanese counterparts continued to focus primarily on warships. That focus once again paid off on 20 October, when the I-176 sighted the heavy cruiser Chester. Despite her armor and other defenses, the Type 95s of the I-176 caused substantial damage. The Chester limped back stateside to Norfolk, Virginia, for major repairs. The refit kept the Chester out of action until well into 1943. Despite this success, Japanese submarine performance during October ultimately claimed only Chester as a victim. These results stemmed more from poor employment of submarine forces than they did from torpedo performance, though.14 The Japanese skippers received numerous messages ordering them to new patrol areas or to resupply isolated garrisons. As a result, submarines spent much time in transit between areas in their pursuit of American forces. This stemmed from the fact that the Mahanian-style battle plan favored by the Japanese considered the submarine an advance element of a fleet engagement. Submarines, with their low surface speed relative to frontline capital ships, made terrible pursuit vehicles. Senior commanders would have been much better served leaving their scouting lines where they were and taking their chances. Even the best torpedo in the world cannot overcome poor tactical employment. The next major naval engagement occurred on 26 October. Known as the Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, it pitted the carrier forces of Admiral William F. “Bull” Halsey against those commanded by Pearl Harbor, Midway, and Eastern Solomons veteran Vice Admiral Nagumo Chuichi. Halsey could muster only two carriers: Hornet and Enterprise, the latter recently repaired and returned to operation after being pasted by Japanese bombers in the Battle of the Eastern Solomons. Once again, this battle prominently featured naval air forces, and air-launched torpedoes again played a role. Japanese aerial torpedoes drew first blood, scoring two hits on the Hornet’s stern. The damage done by these torpedoes, though not mortal wounds themselves, sealed the carrier’s fate. The torpedoes hit in the vital machinery spaces crippling Hornet’s ability to generate electricity or provide propulsion. As she went dead in the water, dive bombers administered the finishing touches with their 500-pound bombs. The carrier that had carried Doolittle’s Raiders to within striking distance of Tokyo was in dire straits. Once again, the American sailors demonstrated their superior damagecontrol training, bringing most of the fires and flooding under control and placing the carrier under tow by the cruiser Northampton. At 1515, the force

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spotted six Japanese torpedo planes. Northampton cut the towing hawser to permit her the ability to maneuver; unfortunately, this placed Hornet in an untenable situation. Basically dead in the water, the carrier provided easy target practice for the incoming torpedo planes. Despite better than ideal conditions, only one pilot managed to put his fish on target, but that sufficed. Progressive flooding steadily increased the carrier’s list and the captain gave the worst order any skipper must utter less than half an hour later. The derelict carrier remained afloat into the evening despite sustaining additional damage from Japanese dive bombers. Then came yet another embarrassing moment for U.S. torpedoes. After deciding that the carrier needed to be scuttled, the destroyer Mustin received the assignment. She positioned herself 2,000 yards off the Hornet’s beam and fired eight Mk. 15 torpedoes at the carrier, one at a time. As Samuel Eliot Morison noted in his history of the battle, “Results were not complimentary to American torpedo performance: two erratic runs, three indeterminate runs and only three hits.”15 The destroyer Anderson fared better with her eight-shot spread, observing six hits. Meanwhile, the carriers Zuikaku and Junyo lurked in the vicinity hoping to scavenge on any wounded prey nearby. The ongoing drama involving the Hornet attracted their attention. The American destroyers, torpedo tubes now empty, attempted to bombard Hornet to the bottom. Around 2040 that evening, Japanese planes arrived on the scene, scaring off the destroyers. In less than an hour, the strike force itself arrived and assessed the salvageability of the carrier. After determining this to be impossible, the destroyers Makigumo and Akigumo fired their Long Lance torpedoes into the writhing carrier’s belly. At 0130, the drama finally ended, courtesy of the Long Lance. This served to illustrate the biggest difference between the Mk. 15 and the Japanese Type 93 Long Lance: the Japanese warhead carried almost twice the explosive punch. The Mk. 15s simply could not match the destructive power of the Long Lance. And the worst was yet to come. It began in the early morning hours of Friday, 13 November. The unlucky Friday the Thirteenth, scourge of superstitious sailors in all navies, visited its fate upon the sailors of Task Group 67.4, commanded by Rear Admiral Daniel J. Callaghan, and Task Group 62.4, commanded by Rear Admiral Norman Scott. Callaghan’s and Scott’s forces had spent much of the day covering the landing and unloading of reinforcements and supplies off Guadalcanal. Throughout the day, patrol aircraft reported a large enemy surface force closing Guadalcanal from the north. The absence of any transports indicated this force’s mission was likely to be a bombardment and opposition to the American landings. Callaghan, senior officer of the two forces, received orders to escort the transports to the relative

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safety of the southeast and then return to the waters between Guadalcanal and Savo Island to oppose any Japanese sortie into the area. At 0141, Callaghan’s force spotted the Japanese. Callaghan disposed his force in a column formation, course due north, with the destroyers Cushing, Laffey, Sterett, and O’Bannon in the van leading the cruisers Atlanta, San Francisco, Portland, Helena, and Juneau. Bringing up the rear were the destroyers Aaron Ward, Barton, Monssen, and Fletcher. Cushing made initial visual contact off the port bow with two Japanese destroyers, Marusame and Yudachi, steering an easterly course at a range of 1.5 nautical miles. These were the advance units of a much larger force, including the battleships Hiei and Kirishima, the light cruiser Nagara, and the destroyers Amatsukaze, Yukikaze, Akatsuki, Ikazuchi, Inazuma, Teruzuki, Asagumo, Samidare, and Harusame. By the Nelsonian measure of weight of shot, the Japanese possessed a significant advantage. Considering the deadly effectiveness of the Type 93 Long Lance, proven already in numerous previous engagements, the Japanese destroyers posed an equally menacing threat. The official U.S. Navy combat narrative of the battle said it all: “Our squadron was not only outnumbered but heavily outclassed.”16 In order to bring her torpedo batteries into action, Cushing came left to 315˚. Amid the confusion of the close range and the difficulty in separating friend from foe on a dark evening, Cushing never fired her torpedoes. With the range between both forces already close and getting ever closer, Callaghan opened fire as Japanese searchlight beams began painting his battle fleet. Atlanta opened fire at targets a mere 1,600 yards off her beam. Her frenzied activity drew the attention of her opponents, and counterfire began to overwhelm the Atlanta, a ship more suited to shooting at aircraft than ships. One of these rounds destroyed the bridge and, with it, Admiral Scott and the majority of his staff. The Long Lance delivered the final ignominy, a fatal salvo fired from one of the destroyers into the light cruiser’s soft underbelly; Atlanta was out of the fight.17 As each force continued to steam toward the other, the forces became intertwined in a melee reminiscent of the age of sail. Unlike those sailors of old, the participants in this battle possessed an additional, deadly, stealthy weapon: the torpedo. With Atlanta already disabled, the Long Lance rang up its second victim of the evening as the melee ensued. Battleship guns and a single Long Lance ripped apart the destroyer Laffey, whose crew quickly abandoned her. The destroyer O’Bannon drew a bead on the Japanese battleship Hiei, firing two Mk. 15s at the leviathan. Despite good fire control data, neither Mk. 15 scored. About this time, Callaghan thought his ships might be firing on other friendlies, particularly the stricken Atlanta. To resolve this, he ordered a

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cease-fire, which the Japanese gladly took advantage of. The battleship Kirishima began pounding Callaghan’s flagship, San Francisco. As with Atlanta, a well-aimed heavy caliber volley found the San Francisco’s bridge, killing Callaghan and the cruiser’s captain, Cassin Young. As the cruiser Portland joined the fray, an undetected Long Lance shredded her stern and rendered steering impossible. The huge explosive charge of the massive torpedo severed the inner two screws from their shafts. Plating bent outward from the explosion and acted as a fixed rudder, holding the cruiser in a tight right turn. Portland spent the rest of the evening steaming in lazy circles, fending off her attackers as best she could.18 The last cruiser in the group, Juneau, succumbed to yet another Long Lance, this one finding its mark on the light cruiser’s forward fireroom. The lack of armor and other torpedo protections left Juneau in a most precarious position. She fell out of the action at this point, her damage-control teams stretched to the limit. As the trailing destroyers came into the fracas, they also came face to face with the dreaded Type 93. Two of these underwater missiles slammed into the Barton, breaking her completely in half. Each piece sank so quickly as to make escape next to impossible. The Japanese did not emerge unscathed, and the Mk. 15 torpedo played a part in ensuring that fact. The Hiei received the attention of practically every ship in Callaghan’s force at one point or another. Heavy caliber rounds from San Francisco and Portland as well as 5-inch rounds from the destroyers and light cruisers incessantly pounded the big battlewagon. A number of destroyers fired Mk. 15 torpedoes at Hiei; many observed and reported hits, but the small warhead did little against the armor and torpedo blisters of this capital ship. Against smaller targets, such as destroyers, the Mk. 15 performed much better. Two fired from the Sterett slammed into one of her opposite numbers, the destroyer Akatsuki. The next morning, Ironbottom Sound resembled a nautical rendition of the apocalypse: Portland, Atlanta, Cushing, Aaron Ward, and Monssen all lay dead in the water with heavy damage. The Japanese destroyer Yudachi and the battleship Hiei remained from the enemy’s force. As the sun rose that morning and the scene became apparent to the crews, more engagements ensued. Portland spotted and sank Yudachi; Hiei bracketed but failed to hit Aaron Ward. Tugs finally brought her to the safety of Tulagi Harbor. The light of day also exposed the gravity of Atlanta’s condition to her crew. With more raids expected and no way to tow the cruiser to safety, her crew scuttled her later in the day. Cushing and Monssen finally succumbed to fire and flooding that afternoon. Portland, her unwanted impromptu anchor still making steering impossible, finally made it to Tulagi with the assistance of the tug Bobolink.19

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The remaining survivors of the battle departed the scene to the southeast. With both Admirals Callaghan and Scott dead, Helena’s captain, Captain Gilbert C. Hoover, assumed command of the formation that consisted of Helena, San Francisco, Juneau, O’Bannon, Sterett, and Fletcher. At 1050 that morning, the force came under the observation of I-26 and Commander Yokota Minoru. Yokota had previously sent Saratoga back for repairs in his 31 August attack. Yokota fired a spread of Type 95s at the force; one hit the already wounded Juneau, which promptly vaporized. The loss of life was staggering: nearly 700 sailors died, including all five Sullivan brothers. So it was that the Type 95 finished what the Type 93 had started. And what the Type 93 had started was staggering in scope: Long Lance torpedoes severely damaged the cruisers Atlanta, Portland, and Juneau. Only the Portland survived the day. Also the destroyers Laffey and Barton met their fates at the hands of this incredibly effective torpedo. Thus, the final score for Japanese torpedoes in the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal was four ships sunk and one severely damaged. For the American Mk. 15, one ship damaged (Hiei) and one sunk (Akatsuki). American submarines did not participate in this battle. The Japanese provided one final exclamation point to the superiority of their torpedoes at the Battle of Tassafaronga on the evening of 30 November 1942. Admiral Tanaka Raizo, aboard his flagship, the destroyer Naganami, brought a unit of eight destroyers modified for their mission to resupply Japanese troops now evacuating Guadalcanal. Opposing him were four American heavy cruisers, one light cruiser, and six destroyers. Tanaka knew better than to challenge fate; he thus endeavored to quickly dump his supplies and turn for home. He relied completely on his Type 93 Long Lance torpedoes as a defensive measure against the Americans’ overwhelming force. On paper, everything favored the American force: more torpedoes, more heavy guns, and radar. Unfortunately, the force’s commander, Rear Admiral Carleton H. Wright, had assumed command of the force only two days earlier, replacing the battle-hardened Rear Admiral Thomas C. Kinkaid. Despite making radar contact on Tanaka’s force at 2316 that evening, Wright withheld firing his own torpedoes for four minutes. This made the difference in the battle, for Tanaka’s force had already put Wright’s formation abaft their beam, making the torpedo run for the American Mk. 15s effectively a tail chase. When Wright’s cruisers and destroyers opened fire with their main batteries minutes later, Tanaka ordered his destroyers to unload their Long Lances in the direction of the muzzle flashes. Seven minutes after Wright’s torpedoes began their futile chase of Tanaka’s fleeing formation, Tanaka’s first response landed home in the form of two Long Lances against the hull of the heavy cruiser Minneapolis. The heavy

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cruiser New Orleans, next in column, maneuvered to avoid the badly wounded Minneapolis and wandered right into the path of another Type 93, which slammed into her port bow in the vicinity of the magazines. The massive explosion vaporized the bow section all the way back to the number 2 turret. At 2339, the cruiser Pensacola received a hit from a Long Lance on her port side below the mainmast, knocking out power to a number of vital ship systems, including three gun turrets. Finally, the cruiser Northampton steamed right into a volley of eight Long Lances, of which two found their mark with devastating results. A gaping hole had been opened in the area of the aft engine room, with fuel oil pouring out of severed lines. Fires spread rapidly as did flooding. Despite heroic damage-control efforts, the veteran cruiser was beyond help and finally succumbed to her injuries at 0304.20 The loss devastated morale among the naval leaders in the Guadalcanal campaign. Besides the loss of Northampton, the cruisers Minneapolis, New Orleans, and Pensacola all required repairs that kept them out of action for more than one year. The Long Lance once again more than leveled the playing field, allowing a far inferior force to inflict unspeakable destruction on a force that theoretically owned every advantage except the one that mattered most that evening: superior torpedoes. By the end of 1942, Japanese torpedoes had unequivocally demonstrated their awesome destructive capability. The American equivalent of the Long Lance, the Mk. 15, possessed all the same flaws of its submarine counterpart, the Mk. 14. Although Lockwood and Fife made progress by correcting the deep-running defect with their fishing net experiments, the Japanese clearly led the race to build a better torpedo; indeed, more failures awaited the Americans.

Chapter 8 “We Don’t Like Prematures” Despite the Japanese successes at Guadalcanal, morale among U.S. submariners continued to improve. With the deep-running defect now corrected, submarine crews went on patrol instilled with greater confidence in their weapons. Lockwood, Christie, and others believed that the deep-running defect caused the torpedo to run far below the influence of the target’s magnetic field. Since doctrine called for a depth setting of 10 feet below the keel for battleships, and 5 feet for smaller vessels, the faulty torpedoes ran 15 to 20 feet below the target’s keel.1 Now with the torpedoes running at the proper depth, all expected the exploder to activate at the proper time, sending more Japanese merchant shipping tonnage to the bottom of the Pacific. Torpedo conservation remained a priority in mid-1942 as supply still appreciably lagged demand. The magnetic exploder with proper depth settings promised to alleviate some, if not all, of the torpedo supply problem. That confidence would be short-lived. Not all war patrol veterans shared the optimism of Lockwood, Christie, and the others. Submarine captains and their crews regularly discussed tactics with their counterparts on other boats. Being a relatively small community, most captains knew each other and, as a result, information quickly propagated through the entire fleet. By early 1942, a number of captains believed the magnetic exploder failed to perform as designed.2 Premature explosions dated back to the first weeks of the war, as evidenced by Sargo’s December 1941 war patrol. Lieutenant Commander Lew Parks, commanding officer of USS Pompano, also experienced premature explosions on his boat’s first patrol. Retired Admiral James Calvert was a junior officer on USS Jack during the war. He describes a situation that probably occurred countless times during the war: “Even worse than the problems with the Mk. 14 torpedoes

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themselves were the obvious defects in the much-vaunted magnetic exploders. … the delicate exploders would sometimes cause the warhead to detonate before reaching the target, doing no damage but giving away the presence of the submarine and often subjecting it to a gratuitous depth charging.”3 These gratuitous depth chargings took their toll on the nerves of the crews. After firing torpedoes at escorted targets, captains generally took their boats deep and rigged them for silent running. This practice made it more difficult for the Japanese destroyers and patrol craft to locate the submarine using their passive listening devices, known as sound gear. As hard as silent running may have been on the Japanese sound gear operators, it was much harder on the submarine crews. Silent running meant turning off all nonessential equipment. One of the noisier components deemed nonessential was the airconditioning unit. In a submerged submarine without air conditioning, temperature and humidity quickly rose to tropical levels inside. Condensation formed on most surfaces and the air quickly became foul and difficult to breathe. Men stripped to their skivvies in a vain attempt to cool off. Add to this situation the presence of a ship trying to locate and destroy the submarine and one begins to grasp the tension that permeated a boat during silent running. Things only got worse once the first depth charge fell. Depth charges destroy submarines by detonating close aboard and sending a powerful shock wave against the submarine’s pressure hull. If the charge is close enough and powerful enough, it can breach the submarine’s pressure hull, causing catastrophic flooding. With the submarine at depths of over 300 feet in most cases, death would be instant and certain were a depth charge to find its mark. When a depth charge exploded close to the pressure hull, all hell broke loose inside the boat. Cork dust from the insulation filled the air, making already stagnant air even more foul and difficult to breathe. The fine dust also clung to the sweaty skin of the crew members, exacerbating their ever-increasing discomfort. Light bulbs shattered in various compartments, showering those beneath them with shards of glass. Fuses popped out of their panels, causing any equipment not already secured for silent running to temporarily shut down. Suffice it to say, the submarine’s electricians stayed thoroughly occupied during a depth charging. More than one sailor reported seeing a blue flash enter the boat through a deck hatch, and others said they saw the sub’s pressure hull compress and then return to normal. Deck plates flew into the air, as did anything not properly secured for depth charging. A close blast could also force valves off their seats; if those valves controlled the entry of seawater into the boat, flooding immediately followed. Following one wave of depth charges, crews set about repairing the damage, working furiously

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before the next wave. Once they located a submarine, Japanese destroyers and patrol vessels rarely dropped a single depth charge; indeed, in many cases their prosecution relented only upon exhaustion of their depth charge supply, higher priority orders, or destruction of the submarine. Of the 52 submarines lost by the United States during the war, at least 20 succumbed to depth charges, damage from depth charges, or depth charges used in concert with naval gunfire or aerial bombs.4 Nobody in submarines wanted to carry or use weapons that not only failed, but by the nature of their failure invited more, and more accurate, depth charge attacks. On a February 1942 resupply mission to Corregidor, Lieutenant Commander Mike Fenno in USS Trout discussed torpedo performance with skippers fighting in the waters surrounding the Philippines. Fenno listened to their complaints, which primarily focused upon the reliability of the Mk. 6 exploder. On his return to Pearl Harbor, Fenno shared this information with his fellow captains. Admiral Thomas Withers, then commanding submarines based at Pearl Harbor, believed in the effectiveness of the Mk. 6 exploder. Buttressed by reports such as Fenno’s, his skippers disagreed, pleading with Withers to deactivate the magnetic actuator and switch to the contact exploder. Withers weighed the skippers’ pleas against the ongoing torpedo shortage and concluded that the magnetic exploder, with its promise of one shot, one kill, offered the only solution to the torpedo supply crisis. Some skippers directly disobeyed Withers’s orders and deactivated their magnetic exploders.5 In an attack using contact exploders only, the captains fired the traditional two- to three-torpedo spread, and in their patrol reports, exaggerated the target size to justify use of a multitorpedo spread. When USS Triton submitted a patrol report describing attacks on targets using torpedo spreads, Withers appended the following endorsement: “The extreme shortage of torpedoes will not allow this high expenditure for the results obtained. One good hit using the magnetic exploder should be sufficient for a 5000 ton ship.”6 Tensions in the submarine force continued to mount as sentiments increasingly turned against the magnetic exploder. In March 1942, Commander George “Turkey Neck” Crawford assumed command of Submarine Division 43 in Pearl Harbor. Crawford’s previous duty stations included a tour as commanding officer of the Navy’s submarine school, and as a naval observer in London. While in London, Crawford, like Lockwood, learned that both the Germans and British deactivated their versions of the magnetic influence exploder. Armed with this evidence and the mounting complaints of the skippers in his division, Crawford ordered boats in his division to deactivate the magnetic exploder. Upon hearing of Crawford’s order,

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Withers immediately countermanded the order and subjected Crawford to a severe upbraiding.7 That same month, Withers received at least partial vindication, as Trout reported positive results using the magnetic exploder. Commanded by the same Mike Fenno who brought news of the exploder’s problems from Corregidor, Trout conducted 12 attacks, firing 22 torpedoes at 12 targets. In each attack, Fenno employed the magnetic exploder as instructed, firing his torpedoes with depth settings between 35 and 40 feet. Fenno believed the attacks resulted in the sinking of five merchant vessels totaling 30,000 tons, plus damage to a 15,000-ton ship. Postwar records confirm only two ships for 9,507 tons, but sufficient evidence existed at the time for Withers to credit Fenno with all the sinkings.8 Cautiously optimistic about the prospects of the Mk. 6, Withers nonetheless made an inquiry to Blandy at BuOrd regarding the effect on the magnetic influence mechanism when the torpedo was fired for a contact hit. Withers asked BuOrd to investigate whether the magnetic influence of the ship’s hull might detonate the torpedo close aboard but far enough away so as to prevent significant damage. Withers based his inquiry on what he referred to as “very meager” evidence of this phenomenon occurring. Withers clearly still believed in the weapon and tended to doubt the reports of his skippers. In his letter to Blandy, he reiterated that all submarines under his command were to fire for magnetic influence detonations on all their attacks. One suggestion Withers did make was a reduction in the arming distance for the magnetic influence exploder. He cited two instances where submarines had attacked from ranges inside 425 yards without success, potentially due to the torpedo failing to arm before reaching its target.9 Perhaps as a result of perceived inaction by Withers and other commanders, one skipper, Lieutenant Commander A.H. Taylor of USS Haddock, took matters into his own hands and wrote Blandy at BuOrd directly. Taylor recently sent part of his torpedo department to Newport for training on the Mk. 6. Based on that training and information received in a circular letter issued by BuOrd, Taylor began doubting the effectiveness of the Mk. 6. Particularly concerned about the forces generated if firing a torpedo with a substantial gyro angle, he theorized that the rapid change in direction could impart a force similar to that experienced in the early part of the torpedo’s run (before it is armed) while it tries to find its set depth. Since BuOrd clearly held this up as a reason for the minimum safe arming distance, Taylor surmised the same rules applied for a shot with a high gyro angle. Taylor’s men also understood from their trainer that a torpedo passing close aboard its target on a parallel track would also fail to trigger the exploder. Taylor felt this meant for a bow-on “down the throat” shot or a stern chaser, leaving the magnetic feature activated would result in a miss. Taylor requested

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clarification from BuOrd and forwarded the letter via his division commander.10 Taylor’s division commander, Commander O.S. Colclough, noted in his endorsement that he felt the angular velocity for a high gyro angle torpedo shot was still insufficient to trigger a premature explosion. He essentially ignored Taylor’s concerns regarding the torpedo detonating while passing through the wake of a ship up to 150 yards from its stern, citing the “nuisance factor” and sound screen to cover the submarine’s escape caused by the early detonation. Colclough neglected to consider that if Taylor were attacking, for example, a tanker screened by an escort that the escort’s wake could act as a screen for the tanker. With this less than rousing endorsement, BuOrd essentially ignored Taylor’s inquiry.11 On another patrol, Grenadier, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Willis A. “Pilly” Lent, achieved varied results in an attack on a six-ship convoy bound for the Dutch East Indies. The convoy carried hundreds of engineers and technicians needed to restore the Dutch oil fields to production capability, allowing their precious fuel to feed the Japanese War Machine. Lent eyed one particularly juicy target: the former passenger liner Taiyo Maru. He fired four torpedoes, two set for contact and two using magnetic exploders. The two fired for contact hit, sinking the liner. The two set for magnetic influence passed harmlessly beneath the vessel. Fortunately, Lent’s common sense in using a mixed spread resulted in success, but the message remained clear: the Mk. 6 magnetic exploder failed to work as advertised. Upon his return to Pearl Harbor, Lent shared this news with his division commander, Forrest M. O’Leary. O’Leary concluded that Lent’s report held merit, citing the reports of three other skippers in his division as supporting evidence. O’Leary went on record calling for adjustments to the running depth of the Mk. 14 when fired using the Mk. 6 exploder.12 Despite the concerns of skippers such as Lent and division commanders such as O’Leary, Withers chose instead to focus on successful patrols using the Mk. 6. On 22 May 1942, Withers again wrote Blandy. The letter stood as one of the few positive letters Blandy would receive from submarine force commanders during his tenure at BuOrd. In the letter, Withers gushed with praise for the Mk. 6’s magnetic influence feature. Withers told Blandy that “… all submarines are now impressed with the increased effectiveness of underbottom explosion over impact explosion …”13 He referred to recent successes from the submarines Thresher, Tambor, Grayling, and Trout. More of the ill will earned by the Mk. 6 to this point in the war receded in August 1942 with the identification and subsequent correction of the depth problem. Lockwood, Christie, and Rear Admiral Robert English (Withers’s successor in Pearl Harbor) believed the magnetic exploder, now running at

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the correct depth, would demonstrate its true effectiveness. Still, something seemed amiss. In a 19 August letter from Lockwood to his old squadron commander Dicky Edwards, now the senior submariner in Admiral King’s office, Lockwood complained about new torpedo problems: “We make too many misses with torpedoes. … we have had 4 misses underneath the target. BuOrd wants to know what was the magnetic heading of the target. I hope they don’t tell us we have to shoot ‘em only on east and west headings!!”14 Actions by the Bureau of Ordnance at the time gave credence to Lockwood’s insouciant remarks about the Mk. 6’s reliability and offered an explanation regarding its request for target heading information. That same day, Blandy wrote a letter to the Inspector of Ordnance in Charge at Newport and agreed to supply a target ship for additional testing of the Mk. 6 Mod. 1 exploder. Blandy felt previous testing of the device to be inadequate and provided the following guidance to Newport: Since the purpose of conducting these tests is to determine more fully the operation of magnetic exploders in general under various conditions of magnetic heading, depth under, etc., it is requested that these features be kept in mind as it is noted that previous tests have generally been confined too much to north and south headings and that an insufficient number of firings on east and west headings have been made; furthermore, shots should be fired with both starboard and port track angles as the magnetic pattern of the ship generally is not symmetrical with respect to the keel.15

The BuOrd guidance to Newport illustrated a number of significant flaws in the prewar testing of the Mk. 6. The fact that Newport conducted testing only on a limited number of headings with a limited number of firings smacked more of an experimental research project than a weapon being prepared for production. As August rolled on, Lockwood’s frustration increased, as boat after boat came back with stories of missed opportunities. By this point, Lockwood certainly expected the modified depth settings for the Mk. 14 to lead to much better scores from his submarines. Inexplicably, almost the opposite was the case. On 22 August, he wrote Christie to vent about his situation and also to explain what measures he took to address the issue: “We are starting a system whereby the division commanders take turns going out with a ship of their division and perhaps we can find a solution to some of our difficulties in this way.”16 Lockwood hoped his more senior division commanders might spot some flaw in training, tactics, or doctrine that could explain away the “slump” experienced by the Southwest Pacific submarines. As Lockwood’s head scratching continued into September 1942, he persisted in his search for reasons to explain the lack of sinkings. He shifted his

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thinking away from training and tactical problems and focused on enemy countermeasures. Many navies used a process called degaussing to reduce the magnetic signature of their ships and lessen their susceptibility to magnetic influence mines. Lockwood wondered if the Japanese employed these methods to protect their capital ships and, if they did, what effect they might have on the Mk. 6’s effectiveness. The problem fascinated Lockwood so much that he asked his division commanders if they thought it possible to board an enemy merchant vessel and search it for evidence of magnetic influence countermeasures.17 Meanwhile, a contrite Spike Blandy returned to Washington in September after a tour of Pacific bases. On his tour, Blandy visited a number of destroyer squadrons and their tenders. Appalled by the lack of trained technicians and equipment, Blandy recommended that the Mk. 6 exploder’s magnetic influence feature be deactivated in the Mk. 15 surface ship torpedo. The destroyermen, taking a page out of Lockwood’s book, ran similar tests with their Mk. 15 against their own fishing nets. To their dismay, the torpedoes ran so deep they actually passed under the nets. Perhaps this explained the lackluster scores turned in by the Mk. 15 during the naval battles off Guadalcanal during that same period. Blandy took this all in and made a note to himself to have Newport add the Mk. 15 torpedo to its ever-growing list of potential problems. Meanwhile, Blandy and BuOrd continued their own investigation into the Mk. 6. The cloak of secrecy that surrounded the weapon’s development meant scant documentation existed concerning its design and operation. On 14 September, Captain J.L. King, USN (Ret.) submitted a memo to the Chief of BuOrd complaining about Newport’s slow response in modifying the descriptive pamphlet for the Mk. 6 Mod. 1. King noted that he made his first request over seven months earlier. Newport did acknowledge to King that small training courses were now being held at Newport to educate torpedomen in the operation of the Mk. 6. King also queried Newport regarding the minimum safe arming distance from the submarine for the Mk. 6. Newport recommended retaining the current distance of 450 yards, claiming that on torpedo shots involving an angled approach to the target, the high-speed turn might result in temporary vertical instability, a condition Newport felt might cause enough magnetic field variation to induce a premature explosion.18 This was exactly the scenario proposed by A.H. Taylor of Haddock some five months earlier, but rejected by both his division commander and BuOrd. The same day as King complained to Blandy about Mk. 6 documentation, Lockwood received a response from Dicky Edwards to his 19 August letter. In his reply, Edwards explained that Lockwood’s predecessor in Australia, John

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Wilkes, was now supervising new torpedo experiments. Edwards expressed confidence in Wilkes’s ability to get to the bottom of the matter. In the same paragraph, though, Edwards told Lockwood, “I still think we would be better off if we adopt the British [Mk. VIII] torpedo …”19 This was a shocking revelation for the senior submarine officer on Admiral King’s staff to make at this point in the war. The British Mk. VIII torpedo, as explained earlier, used only a simple contact exploder mechanism and performed admirably in all theaters of the war. Clearly, Edwards thought little of the Mk. 6 and preferred firing for impact hits. Despite Edwards’s desire to use the superior Mk. VIII torpedo, he felt that ramping up U.S. factories to produce this weapon, not to mention making necessary modifications to torpedo tubes and fire control systems, would result in delays and even greater shortages of torpedoes in the meantime. Nobody felt this to be an acceptable risk and the matter died quietly. As has been seen, the Mk. VIII worked as advertised most of the time; one can only speculate what might have happened had Edwards obtained even a few of the Mk. VIIIs for trials in American submarines. Lockwood responded to Edwards on 25 November 1942. Perhaps slightly taken aback by Edwards’s rhetoric regarding the British Mk. VIII, Lockwood exuded optimism despite the rash of problems experienced to this point in the war: “Don’t let worries about our torps and things get you down. We of the sub. service know that you, Frog and all our gang back there are 100% behind us and doing all they can. We’ll work with the tools you give us.”20 Once more, Lockwood relied on his charm and political savvy to defuse the situation and prevent an unproductive buildup of resentment over a problem largely outside of his control for the moment. BuOrd continued to ponder the possible reasons for premature explosions with the Mk. 6. Once again, Blandy prodded Newport regarding its investigation into the magnetic exploder’s performance. In a 4 December 1942 memo to Newport, he directed the torpedo station to focus its investigation on air dryers using silica gel, more secure brush holders, a torque wrench for tightening the base plate screws, better gasket materials, and reconsideration for activating the anti-countermining feature on war shots. The majority of the comments from BuOrd indicated it suspected moisture inside the Mk. 6 might be causing short circuits that resulted in premature explosions. BuOrd cited statistics claiming that 1.28 percent of all torpedoes fired exploded prematurely; moreover, in defense of the Mk. 6, BuOrd pointed to other factors including everything from sticky depth engines to poor ejection from torpedo tubes could be factors in causing premature explosions.21 On 2 January 1943, F.H. Roberts, Newport’s Inspector of Ordnance in Charge, provided a detailed point-by-point update to Blandy’s query of 4 December 1942. Newport felt many of the problems lay in the design of

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the brush rigging. Roberts based this conclusion on reports received from various torpedo service activities. Roberts continued, explaining that the close tolerances required of the brushes left little margin for error. If a brush warped or was improperly set, the torpedo might explode prematurely. Newport looked at a redesigned circuit with greater robustness regarding brush rigging tolerances. Three different approaches to solving the problem received consideration and underwent testing at the time. While investigating these improvements, Newport recommended continued use of the Mk. 6’s magnetic influence setting, provided the torpedo used newer brass brush disks.22 Roberts went on to mention that Newport had conducted a number of test firings beneath the converted yacht USS Niagara. The testing indicated that the Mk. 6 would probably fail to explode beneath smaller ships that had undergone degaussing. Roberts failed to elaborate on what size ships could or could not be successfully attacked with the Mk. 6, but promised to continue testing to arrive at better conclusions. Roberts also mentioned plans to introduce air dryers and exploder base plate screw torque specifications very soon. Finally, he addressed the issue of leaky gaskets, stating that pending redesigns would inherently improve watertight integrity and in the meantime he raised the priority of gasket material inspections at Newport.23 He also suggested that the forces afloat might want to investigate sealing screw holes and the gap between the warhead and the exploder base plate with a material called “tackiwax.” Regarding the anti-countermining device, Roberts felt it would eventually be suitable for use in war shots.24 Finally, Roberts concluded with his best theories regarding the ultimate causes of the premature explosions. He noted that a large number of reported premature explosions seemed to occur very early in the torpedo’s run, a time that roughly corresponded to the arming time of the exploder mechanism. Significantly fewer torpedoes exploded well into their runs. Newport felt that electrical failure and torpedo instability were the prime culprits for the prematures occurring shortly after arming. Torpedo porpoising occurred early in the torpedo’s run while the depth mechanism sought to find and maintain the ordered depth setting. If the device armed before the set depth was achieved, the Mk. 6 (in testing at Newport) tended to fire prematurely. Roberts concluded that the early premature explosions generally occurred as a result of electrical problems, presumably the brush rigging issues mentioned earlier. For the later premature explosions, he concluded that erratic behavior of the torpedo was to blame.25 No evidence exists that anyone within BuOrd or Newport questioned the logic of relying on a mechanism so sensitive to motion. Indeed, a significant number of Allied and Axis submarine attacks to this point in the war were made in heavy sea states and foul weather, both of which could certainly affect

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a relatively shallow-running torpedo. Furthermore, no mention is made of discussing the matter of erratic-running torpedoes with the sections responsible for their design at Newport. Given that a large number of shallow-draft vessels (destroyers, corvettes, etc.) served in antisubmarine patrol roles, putting a torpedo into service that could not operate at those shallow depths posed a defensive problem for the submarine. It seems that relative isolation of each team might have contributed to delays in isolating the problem. The same day that Roberts sent Blandy his status update, Lockwood’s old friend and Withers’s successor, Rear Admiral Robert English, issued a bulletin to his submarines ordering them to fire at depths ensuring contact hits: “In view of the fact that only meager information is available on drafts and character of magnetic fields under enemy ships, the Commander Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet, desires that submarines adjust the depth settings of torpedoes so that the exploder will function on impact. It is believed that this procedure will insure maximum damage to enemy ships.”26 As will be seen later, these shallower depth settings coupled with leaving the magnetic influence feature active likely caused additional problems. English went on in his bulletin regarding torpedo maintenance and overhaul procedures as well as arming distances for the magnetic and contact exploder mechanisms. English clearly felt concerned about torpedo performance and hoped his bulletin would help alleviate some of the problems. Four days after English alerted his submarines about the Mk. 6 Blandy again contacted Newport regarding the Mk. 6. This time he wanted information regarding earlier magnetic exploder tests done south of the equator.27 He was probably referring to the prewar tests involving the USS Indianapolis and a pair of destroyers. Presumably, BuOrd felt this information might shed some light on problems experienced by submarines now operating in those same latitudes. Interestingly, BuOrd retained no records of the tests and it is not clear that Newport ever provided copies to Blandy, but the history of Project G-53 and its successors now had the full attention of the Navy’s Bureau of Ordnance. In the midst of all the negative commentary surrounding the Mk. 6, one of the most famous war patrols of World War II finally brought some positive publicity to the Mk. 6 magnetic exploder. Lieutenant Commander Dudley W. “Mush” Morton took USS Wahoo to sea on his first patrol as her commanding officer. Forest Sterling, Morton’s yeoman, captured Morton’s philosophy on submarine warfare in his recollection of the speech Morton made to the crew prior to departing on his first patrol as captain: Wahoo is expendable. We will take every reasonable precaution, but our mission is to sink enemy shipping. We are going out there on this war patrol to

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search for Japs … we are going to hunt him down and kill him … Now if anyone doesn’t want to go along under these conditions, just see the yeoman.28

Morton firmly believed in the magnetic exploder and he employed his torpedoes with the exploder activated. In Wahoo’s first attack under Morton, the boat penetrated an isolated harbor on the New Guinea coast called Wewak. The daring reconnaissance revealed the presence of a Japanese destroyer, later identified as the Harusame, and what appeared to be a nest of submarines alongside.29 The destroyer’s lookouts spotted Morton’s first salvo of torpedoes and the destroyer quickly got underway, avoiding the attack. Two more quick setups failed due to underestimates of Harusame’s increasing speed. Now the destroyer began its pursuit of Wahoo. In an unbelievably bold stroke, Morton ordered Lieutenant Dick O’Kane, his executive officer, to leave the periscope up, acting as a beacon to draw Harusame toward Wahoo. Morton knew the destroyer captain could not resist the urge to charge straight at the ’scope, either ramming the sub or bracketing it with a deadly depth charge pattern.30 Morton, however, had other plans for his attacker. He intended to let the destroyer close to 1,000 yards, at which point Wahoo would fire a torpedo straight down the reciprocal of the destroyer’s course using a tactic called the “down-the-throat shot.” This type of shot relied on magnetic influence for the detonation since the small aspect of a destroyer bow provided little hope for a contact explosion. The first shot missed its target, now making well over 20 knots and closing rapidly. Morton knew the next shot, good or bad, would be Wahoo’s last. At a range of 800 yards Morton fired another downthe-throat shot using the magnetic exploder. The torpedo performed as expected, slamming into Harusame’s starboard side and eliciting a collective sigh of relief from the crew of Wahoo.31 This attack marked only the beginning for Morton and his crew. On 26 January 1943, a four-ship convoy moved into Wahoo’s patrol area. In a daylong battle, Morton and Wahoo wiped out the entire formation. For the first time in U.S. Navy history a single submarine vanquished an entire enemy convoy, a feat known as a “clean sweep.” Wahoo returned to Pearl Harbor, broom affixed to the periscope mast indicating the feat. Morton submitted his patrol report to English, praising the magnetic exploder he used in every attack on the patrol. Morton’s astounding patrol immediately elevated him to elite status within the submarine fleet. Senior commanders once again felt convinced that the magnetic exploder, when properly employed, performed extremely well. Wahoo’s report provided all the proof they needed; however, a careful examination of the patrol report shows that even though Morton left the magnetic exploders activated, he fired his torpedoes at depth settings

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consistent with contact explosion tactics, exactly as English had ordered.32 Nevertheless, the extreme pressure on force commanders to conserve torpedoes, coupled with success stories like Morton’s, reaffirmed their conviction to promote magnetic exploder firing tactics.33 By early 1943, the submarine community featured two camps with distinctly different perspectives on the magnetic exploder: senior commanders felt the weapon worked when used by a trained crew, and division commanders (most of them recently captains of their own submarines) and submarine captains felt that while the weapon occasionally performed as designed, problems existed that substantially affected its reliability. Lockwood, Christie, and English faced an obvious dilemma: had every attack using the magnetic exploder resulted in failure, deactivation of the exploder would have been a forgone conclusion. However, every time doubts about the weapon began to mount, a Trout or a Wahoo came along, seemingly refuting the evidence of the other boats. These successful patrols, coupled with the need to conserve torpedoes, fulfilled the scenario the commanders desired:

Lieutenant Commander Dudley W. “Mush” Morton (fifth from left) and his executive officer Lieutenant Richard H. O’Kane (leaning over chart) explain one of Wahoo’s attacks to the press. At this point in the war, Morton believed the Mk. 6’s magnetic feature to be one of the key reasons for his success. (National Archives)

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one properly used magnetic exploder should result in one target sent to the bottom. In January 1943, while on a visit to the mainland, English was killed in a plane crash.34 The Bureau of Personnel chose Lockwood as his successor. While Lockwood traveled back to Pearl Harbor to assume command of Pacific Fleet submarines, English’s earlier order to fire at contact depths caught the attention of Blandy and BuOrd. On 6 February 1943, Blandy sent a letter to Roberts at Newport in which he quoted English’s order to fire torpedoes at depths ensuring contact hits. Blandy expressed his concern to Roberts that this order effectively negated the magnetic influence feature and asked for his opinion regarding the order.35 Roberts’s response was lost to history, for around this time, Ralph Christie arrived in Newport to assume Roberts’s duties as Inspector of Ordnance in Charge. Despite the deficiencies evident in the Mk. 6, many of them acknowledged by Blandy himself, the BuOrd Chief still felt concerned about abandoning the magnetic influence feature. During the spring of 1943, force commanders received more blows to their confidence in the magnetic exploder. In March, USS Scamp set out from Pearl Harbor on her first war patrol. Early on the morning of 13 March, Scamp’s lookouts reported smoke on the horizon about 13 miles distant. Her captain, Lieutenant Commander Walter G. Ebert, immediately ordered a course change to intercept the potential target and sped in on the surface, using the fully raised periscope to extend his view. After about eight minutes, Ebert determined the vessel possessed two guns fore and aft and it bore some resemblance to the Kohuku Maru. After closing the distance a bit more with his bold surface run, Ebert finally pulled the plug and spent a little over an hour working Scamp into firing position. At a range of 1,000 yards, Scamp fired her first three torpedoes of the war, all from her stern tubes. Eighteen seconds later, all hell broke loose as two of the torpedoes exploded nearly simultaneously. Five seconds later, the third torpedo also exploded. All three torpedoes were set to explode either using magnetic influence or contact. The premature detonations of all three torpedoes convinced Ebert that he was dealing with some sort of antisubmarine decoy or Q-ship equipped with an apparatus capable of detonating the torpedoes well before they reached their target. Before reloading the three tubes aft, he ordered the pickup coils and core rods removed from the three torpedoes. Ebert obviously felt justified in doing so, in direct violation of standing orders, as he recorded the fact in his patrol report. Simultaneously, he ordered checks performed on all remaining torpedoes. Three days later, an opportunity for redemption offered itself to the Scamp. At 1050 that morning, lookouts again sighted smoke to the southwest. The captain again turned in the direction of the smoke and called away the

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tracking party. Five minutes later two ships were spotted due north on a southerly course. Ebert decided on attacking the ships approaching from the north, since attaining ideal attack position required less maneuvering and the ships appeared to be fully laden with cargo. From a range of 1,100 yards, the captain fired three torpedoes from the bow tubes at the first ship in the formation. In eerily similar fashion, the first torpedo exploded after a mere 15 seconds. Neither of the remaining two torpedoes in the spread found their target, and Ebert even reported seeing one of the torpedoes porpoising along near the surface, well ahead of and beyond the target. The nearby explosion of the other torpedo likely induced this abnormal behavior in its running mate. This incident attracted the attention of the target, which now turned toward the Scamp, whistle blaring and preparing for a ramming attempt. While recalling his preparations for a second attempt on the target, Ebert allowed some sarcasm regarding torpedo performance to seep into his report. As Scamp and the target continued their maneuvers, “[i]t soon became evident that his range would be too short (unless we could count on a 10 second premature) …”36 Ebert shifted his attention to the other ship in formation, a freighter of about 4,000 tons. At 1146, he emptied his remaining three bow tubes from a little over 1,200 yards. Once again, the first torpedo blew up 15 seconds into its run. However, the explosion failed to affect the running of the second torpedo, which exploded at the expected time of 65 seconds. Around this time, the diving officer briefly lost depth control, forcing Ebert to lower the periscope and denying him an opportunity to observe the results of the attack. Seven minutes later, with the depth problem corrected, the skipper returned to periscope depth and spotted an escort presenting its beam to Scamp for a textbook torpedo attack. Ebert, just like Gu¨nther Prien in Norway, lost confidence in the magnetic exploder and “decided to fire no more torpedoes until magnetic feature had been inactivated.”37 For their troubles, the crew of the Scamp received ten depth charges from the grateful escort. Later that evening, Scamp surfaced and radioed her report regarding the premature explosions. On 17 March, Ebert ordered the magnetic feature deactivated in all remaining torpedoes. Commander Task Force 7 ordered Scamp to provide attack data on all three premature explosions. The data requested required 30 minutes of continuous transmission by Scamp’s radioman. This was extremely risky in light of Japanese radio direction finding capabilities. Finally, on the evening of 21 March, Scamp made contact with an unescorted tanker steering a radical zigzag course. Because of an extremely bright full moon, Ebert ordered an end-around approach to gain attack position. With two torpedoes remaining in his stern tubes and at a range of almost 2,000 yards, he fired. One minute and 15 seconds later, Ebert observed a solid

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hit in the forward section of the tanker. Scamp quickly learned that the tanker was armed as shells began flying in its direction. Determined not to let the wounded beast escape, Ebert made ready five bow torpedoes and fired. With two torpedoes remaining, Scamp moved in to administer the coupe de grace. The first torpedo appeared to run erratically and the second one ran straight at—and under—the target. The captain surmised that the settling aft had lifted the bow enough to reduce the draft forward, allowing the torpedo to pass beneath the keel. At approximately the appointed time, the skipper observed two more explosions and the tanker went dead in the water, settling by the stern. The moderately damaged Manju Maru managed to return to port, underwent repairs, and resumed service.38 To say the crew was dejected by the defective torpedoes would be a tremendous understatement. In the closing remarks of his patrol report, the captain eloquently summarized practically every problem that could result from a prematurely exploding torpedo: Prematures are more disconcerting than may appear at first thought. The torpedoes that follow in the wake of a premature must be made of stout stuff to continue a normal run. The target gets wind of an attack long before torpedoes get to his track, thus he has more time to avoid. The great geyser of water is like waving a flag at a destroyer. And, most important, they break down confidence. The great depression within the SCAMP during the two days after the Battle of Kinkasan and before Monomi Saki was difficult to overcome. We don’t like prematures.39

Scamp’s chain of command responded to the report in mixed fashion. The division commander, Captain Leo L. Pace, fully concurred with Scamp’s analysis. The squadron commander, Captain John B. Longstaff, suspected that the relatively shallow depth settings used in some of the attacks might have affected torpedo performance. Captain John H. Brown, acting for Lockwood, noted in his endorsement that the shallow depth setting might have contributed to the premature explosions. He also theorized that if the torpedoes sat for a long period of time with a deep setting, that the spring in the depth-control mechanism might acquire a permanent “set” at that depth. Once again, implications of operator error or poor training surfaced as probable causes of the failed attack.40 Around the time of Scamp’s frustrating first patrol, BuOrd stepped up the pace regarding its efforts to fix the Mk. 6. On 20 March, Blandy sent a letter to Admiral King requesting a ship or hulk for testing of a newly developed exploder mechanism. BuOrd hoped to install an athwartship boom beneath the vessel’s keel along which the new mechanism would be moved and detailed measurements taken. Blandy expected the testing to be completed

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in four days and with no harm done to the test vessel.41 A month later, Blandy ordered four civilian scientists from the Office of Scientific Research and Development to Newport for discussions with their experts regarding the problems with the Mk. 6.42 By now, Blandy heard the clock ticking on the Mk. 6, and he made his last desperate push to fix this intricate device. Many officers and torpedomen within the submarine force speculated about the causes of the premature explosions. Clearly, some aspect of the Mk. 6’s design lacked the robustness needed to function properly in wartime conditions. BuOrd focused on two potential areas of concern: incursions of seawater into the exploder cavity, causing a short in the firing circuit that triggered the detonator, and perturbations during the torpedo’s run that resulted in rapid depth changes, potentially appearing to the exploder as significant alterations in the local magnetic field resulting in detonation. One young torpedo officer focused on the former problem. Lieutenant Paul Schratz had recently transferred from USS Mackerel to new construction duty as prospective Torpedo Officer for USS Scorpion in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.43 During this period, Schratz read accounts of numerous torpedo failures in the war patrol reports. Schratz also felt defective torpedoes probably cost Mackerel a chance to send a German U-Boat to the bottom.44 He spent significant time with his leading torpedoman analyzing the Mk. 14 and Mk. 6 designs, looking for possible sources of the problems noted in the reports. This research led to the formulation of an intriguing theory. Schratz focused on the impeller mechanism used to arm the Mk. 6 after launch. The impeller spun a set number of revolutions, corresponding to a safe distance from the firing submarine. Packing glands sealed the shaft of this small propeller from sea pressure. BuOrd specified the proper torque for the packing glands: tight enough to prevent seawater incursion but loose enough to prevent binding of the impeller shaft. Schratz and his leading torpedoman believed the BuOrd value insufficient to prevent seawater leakage at greater depths. If seawater entered the warhead through the leaky packing glands, a short circuit could be created, possibly leading to premature detonation of the warhead. BuOrd ignored Schratz’s suspicions, and, despite the mounting concern over the magnetic exploder, no single command or bureau felt the need to investigate this comparatively minor problem.45 Undaunted, Schratz set the packing gland torque on all of Scorpion’s torpedoes to a value three times greater than that specified by BuOrd. Scientific conclusions cannot be drawn from the results of one boat’s torpedo performance, but Scorpion never experienced erratic-running torpedoes or premature explosions while using the higher settings prescribed by Schratz and his chief. Additionally, Scorpion boasted a torpedo hit rate one-third higher than the fleet average. Scorpion was the only submarine known to employ these

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settings. Without additional evidence, one is left to ponder the possibilities had BuOrd ordered all submarines to tighten their arming propeller shaft packing glands.46 Schratz and his leading torpedoman exemplified the ingenuity and initiative of the American sailor. Just as in Captain James Fife’s tests with the deep-running torpedo, the weapon’s users developed a theory based on common sense and experience. This theory led to a possible remedy (in this case, tightening the packing glands), which, when applied to operational torpedoes, seemed to improve their performance at a time when others were still experiencing premature explosions. Unfortunately, Schratz’s information never reached the fleet even through unofficial channels, and boats continued to go to sea with their packing glands set to the BuOrd-specified level. In March 1943, Lockwood embarked on a whirlwind tour to Alaska and the mainland, visiting San Francisco, San Diego, and Washington, D.C. While in Washington, he spent a fair amount of time discussing the matter of defective torpedoes with Blandy and others at BuOrd. One of his more impassioned presentations found its way back to Blandy’s ears. This time, Blandy felt his old friend had crossed the line and accused Lockwood of discrediting BuOrd.47 Blandy again reiterated his request for experienced submariners to assist him at BuOrd and Newport. Lockwood harbored numerous apprehensions regarding Blandy’s request, owing to a shortage of experienced skippers in theater. In a subsequent letter to Blandy, Lockwood cited a number of reasons, including the fact that few of his skippers had more than three or four war patrols as a captain, new construction submarines were pulling experienced officers back stateside to train and man the new boats, the dilution of crews with reserve officers, and the necessity to promote ever-younger officers into command positions.48 Despite his misgivings, Lockwood decided to send the man he considered to be his top torpedo expert, Lieutenant Commander Herman A. “Pi” Pieczentkowski to Blandy if torpedo performance did not improve soon. On 26 March 1943, the Bureau of Ships (BuShips) drove another nail into the Mk. 6’s coffin. In a letter from BuShips chief Vice Admiral E.L. Cochrane to Blandy regarding the most effective depth at which to achieve torpedo hits, Cochrane took the opportunity to comment on the supposed advantage of magnetic influence explosions beneath a ship’s keel: “Except for ships fitted with torpedo protection systems, the Bureau [BuShips] is unable to see any great advantage in obtaining non-contact hits under the bottom.”49 The Bureau of Ships housed the Navy’s foremost ship designers and naval architects. The BuShips’ engineers studied torpedo damage on scores of ships, including those of foreign navies. For them to conclude that the Mk. 6’s magnetic feature offered no advantage over contact exploders (except on large capital ships) was a devastating revelation to BuOrd, who cited the effect of

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magnetic influence explosions in defense of charges levied against the Mk. 6 by the operational submariners. On 6 April, Lockwood’s torpedo officer, Lieutenant Commander Henry Maynard, submitted a damning report on torpedo performance. The report looked at the results of attacks made by submarines carrying Mk. 14s with the new depth-control modifications. Fifteen submarines were included in the study; a total of approximately 225 torpedoes were fired, with 20 exploding prematurely. Maynard noted that statistically, the increase in “… prematures, now about 9%, is more than twice what it was before our depth modification went into effect.”50 From the attack data provided by the submarines, Maynard noted that most prematures occurred at a depth of 9 feet. He suspected a correlation between the shallow depth and the premature explosions. As an additional precaution, eight boats went on patrol with the magnetic feature deactivated for comparison purposes. Maynard also concurred with Blandy’s request to station an experienced submarine commander at Newport to help with torpedo development. Lockwood and his predecessors balked at this suggestion as previously noted, arguing their services were needed more in combat than at Newport. This suggestion actually originated in an attachment to Maynard’s report prepared by Lieutenant Commander Tony Miers, Royal Navy, the British Submarine Liaison Officer. Miers submitted a detailed five-page report describing the problems he saw from a detached observer’s perspective. Miers offered a number of interesting insights. In addition to restating the problems of depth control and premature explosions, Miers noted that the Mk. 14, unlike the British Mk. VIII, utilized a much smaller warhead that also affected its ability to cause lethal damage; moreover, British Mk. VIIIs were watertight, whereas the Mk. 14s became flooded if left in a flooded torpedo tube for more than about 15 minutes. Miers also noted that the spring used to set the depth in the depth-control mechanism became fatigued if left set too long. If a shallower depth setting was made on such a torpedo, the spring failed to respond, causing the torpedo to run deep. Miers offered up an interesting theory regarding the vicious cycle American submarine skippers faced every time they contemplated their attack strategy. He suggested that Newport’s stance was that the modifications made to the Mk. 6 allowed it to be an effective weapon if employed at the proper depth, as Maynard alluded to in his letter. On the other hand, the commanding officers’ inherent distrust of the Mk. 6 led them to fire for contact hits (at the shallower depth settings), which resulted in more premature explosions. Miers summarized the situation with, as Lockwood noted in his comments on the report, “British diplomacy:” “The result is that the Submarine personnel are losing confidence in their primary weapon just at the time when a

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number of their Commanding Officers have developed an offensive spirit of a very high order.”51 Miers also noted that the decision to send the eight boats on patrol with the Mk. 6’s magnetic feature disabled was, to the commanding officers, “… a highly popular decision.”52 Miers summarized his report with seven suggestions to improve torpedo performance: 1. Understand the limits of the Mk. 14 at shallow depths. Everything seemed to point toward a correlation between premature explosions and shallow depth settings. Miers suggested nothing less than 8 feet in calm seas and 12 feet in heavy seas. 2. Establish an unambiguous policy for force commanders regarding the attack of vessels with shallow drafts. If they desired the submarines to do so, Miers concluded that the magnetic feature needed to be used and hence trusted. Interestingly, Miers noted that the British design was guaranteed to be free of premature explosions only below a depth of 20 feet. 3. Allow skippers to have control over their choice of magnetic or contact exploder settings for their attacks. (As has been seen, captains frequently exercised this prerogative, policy or no policy.) 4. Design improvements focused on better watertight integrity, a more resilient spring in the depth setting mechanism, better gaskets on the exploder mechanism’s base plate, and a check valve in the torpedo’s exhaust system to prevent flooding of the torpedo in the tube. 5. Train captains and their crews better on the “inner workings” of the Mk. 6 and the Mk. 14. Miers noted that the security procedures used to protect the Mk. 6 from espionage hurt the forces afloat, who knew little about how the contraption functioned. 6. Establish better ties between BuOrd and the submarine forces. Because of the highly technical nature of naval weapon systems, Miers felt the torpedo was being ignored as ordnance experts focused on advances in gunnery. 7. Send an experienced submarine officer to Newport to explain the operational employment of the Mk. 14 to the technicians there. In return, the technicians would explain the potential and the limitations of the Mk. 14 to the submariner. Miers then suggested rotating this officer back to staff duty with Lockwood, Christie, or Fife and bringing in another young officer to gain the same experience.

In the end, Miers concluded that the British made the right decision in keeping the Mk. VIII elegantly simple in its design and cautioned against any changes that might “… weaken the tremendous confidence in the efficiency of our own submarine Mk. VIII torpedo, which has been so well built up by past and present experience in this war.”53 And Miers had plenty of

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experience. As captain of HMS Torbay, he won the Victoria Cross, Britain’s equivalent to the Medal of Honor, for a daring raid deep into the Corfu Channel off Greece on the night of 5/6 March 1942. Totally illuminated by a full moon, Miers nonetheless brought Torbay into firing position on two supply ships and a destroyer. He fired a pair of Mk. VIIIs at each target. He reported sinking both freighters and missing the destroyer. Although postwar analysis indicated only a single loss, the steamer Maddalena G., Miers’s bravery remained beyond reproach. Thus, his credentials alone made Lockwood and his staff take notice of the remarks in his report. In the spring of 1943, a series of failed attacks on Japanese aircraft carriers and other major vessels prompted more concerns about the Mk. 6’s reliability. First came Tunny’s 9 April attack on the carrier formation. Fate never offered this opportunity to another skipper. Lockwood learned through ULTRA that all three torpedoes exploded prior to impacting the second carrier.54 Later, John A. Scott commented on the attack: “The shallow [depth] setting thus

Admiral Chester W. Nimitz pins the Navy Cross on Lieutenant Commander John A. Scott, captain of USS Tunny, for his attack on the Japanese escort aircraft carriers Taiyo and Chuyo. At the time of this photo, both Nimitz and Scott knew the attack had failed, but because this fact was derived from ULTRA information, pretenses were maintained. And in any case, Scott’s tactics were worthy of commendation, even if the torpedoes were not. (National Archives)

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caused the torpedo to reach the activating flux density of the exploder some fifty meters from the target. The settings I had used worked well on lighter, less dense targets, but backfired on these heavier men-of-war.”55 Once again, doubt about the torpedo’s ability to run at the set depth forced a captain to fire at a shallower setting to ensure hits on a highly valuable target. This resulted in premature explosions and the greatest missed opportunity for any single U.S. submarine attack during the war. Once again, senior commanders thought they had received evidence that tactical, not technical, defects caused at least some of the magnetic exploder failures. Jim Calvert summed it up this way: “In short, they [senior commanders] believed what they wanted to believe.”56 The very next day, 10 April, USS Pompano encountered the Pearl Harbor veteran Shokaku and attacked with six torpedoes. En route to their target, three of the torpedoes exploded early, and two exploded close to the expected time. Lockwood knew from ULTRA57 that Shokaku survived the attack and although he credited Pompano with damaging the carrier rather than revealing ULTRA information, doubts began to surface in his mind concerning the magnetic exploder.58 That same day, Blandy radioed Lockwood in Pearl Harbor and informed him that at depths of 12 feet or less the Mk. 6 was much more likely to prematurely explode, especially in heavy seas—seemingly reinforcing the Tunny experience. Blandy also recommended that if Lockwood wished to continue with English’s order to fire at contact depth settings, the magnetic feature should be deactivated. Finally, almost 18 months into the war, submarines received their first technical guidelines for the employment of this complex exploder mechanism. Despite this recommendation, Blandy promised his old friend Lockwood that help was on the way and BuOrd felt the Mk. 6 would soon be defect-free.59 The list of exceptions, special considerations, and parameters of use for the Mk. 6 was becoming increasingly complex. BuOrd and Newport, completely consumed by the problem of the Mk. 6’s defects, failed to realize that the weapon’s inherent sensitivity and intricacy hindered its tactical employment. In quick-reaction-type situations, captains simply wanted to know that they could trust their weapons to work. Despite the Mk. 6’s potential, the return on their investment continued to dwindle. Until that memo, the only guidelines came from the crucible of combat itself. Unfortunately for Scott and Tunny, the bulletin arrived a few weeks too late. Days later, BuOrd issued a second notice concerning safe arming distance. The memo suggested that the 450-yard arming distance from the submarine provided insufficient time for achieving a straight run at the correct depth. As mentioned in earlier BuOrd-Newport correspondence, both organizations believed that perturbations experienced with the magnetic exploder

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A periscope view of the Japanese escort carrier Taiyo, taken by USS Haddock in April 1943. This was only days before John Scott and Tunny made their fateful attack on the same carrier. Scott’s view of Taiyo would have filled his periscope. (National Archives)

armed may cause premature detonations, similar to those experienced by Scamp. By waiting until 700 yards before arming, depth control would be achieved in most torpedoes; consequently, BuOrd believed that the torpedo’s effectiveness could be improved by 10 to 30 percent.60 Of course, captains felt this hampered their ability to attack close-in targets. Admiral King agreed, rejecting the BuOrd memo.61 BuOrd issued yet another advisory for the Mk. 6 days later, on 8 May. This instruction stated that the magnetic influence feature of the Mk. 6 was effective only at keel depth above 30˚N magnetic latitude. Between 30˚N and 30˚S, the feature was effective at or above keel depth. Below 30˚S latitude, the magnetic influence shots should be avoided. BuOrd again reiterated its earlier guidance regarding deactivation of the Mk. 6’s magnetic feature for contact shots. BuOrd also promised to send experts to all the submarine bases to make field modifications to the Mk. 6’s circuitry in a further effort to reduce the instances of premature explosions.62 One can only imagine a captain’s reaction when reading BuOrd’s guidance. Captains assigned patrol areas around these latitudinal demarcations must have wondered what magically happened as they approached and then crossed

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30˚N latitude. All of these confusing operating instructions from BuOrd certainly did nothing to endear the Mk. 6 exploder to the submarine crews. Lockwood pondered these confusing data. From his experiences in Australia, he knew the Mk. 14 torpedo had at least a depth problem, a problem solved only through the ingenuity of his staff and his skippers. Lockwood’s skippers inundated him with stories of premature explosions and lack of explosions. Admiral Chester W. Nimitz’s gunnery officer, Captain Tom Hill, also spoke to Lockwood on numerous occasions about the Mk. 6 exploder. Hill, an outspoken opponent of the Mk. 6, urged Lockwood to order its deactivation. Up until now, Lockwood retained his faith in the weapon, particularly for down-the-throat shots like Morton’s in Wahoo. Lockwood saw none of the weapon’s faults as critical design flaws; indeed, he hoped for improved performance with but a few minor adjustments by BuOrd.63 Lockwood’s suspicions mounted as each day passed. With a steady stream of enemy reports being decoded daily by the Navy’s code breakers, Lockwood amassed substantial amounts of evidence from the Japanese themselves that backed his captains’ claims. On 8 May 1943, Lockwood compiled a list of excerpts from top secret ULTRA intercepts indicating torpedo failures and forwarded these to Admiral King via Nimitz.64 Lockwood hoped the Japanese messages would serve as an unbiased third party when it came to assessing torpedo failures. Then came the backbreaker for the Mk. 6. On 21 May, Mush Morton brought Wahoo back to Pearl Harbor from a patrol that sank three ships, but experienced numerous torpedo problems, including erratic runs, duds, and premature explosions. Dick O’Kane, Morton’s executive officer, believed that the proliferation of subcontractors supplying parts for the faster construction of torpedoes affected the quality of those same torpedoes. Since no supplier’s responsibility extended beyond the single part it manufactured, O’Kane theorized that the suppliers failed to understand the importance of their contributions.65 Morton, on the verge of exploding, stormed into Lockwood’s office and let fly with a list of complaints against the Mk. 14 and its Mk. 6 exploder. Morton’s faith in the weapon was gone, and he was determined to let Lockwood know it.66 After his meeting with Lockwood, Morton phoned his wife, Harriet, and recounted his fiery encounter with Lockwood. Harriet later recalled, “After the meeting, Mush called me on the phone and said his career was finished. A subordinate cannot speak this way to a superior, much less the commander of the Submarine Forces in the Pacific. He even went as far as saying that I had married an officer without a future. Perhaps had Mush not been so highly regarded at the time, his career would have been over.”67

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Morton, Lockwood’s star skipper whose tactics and marksmanship were beyond reproach, failed on patrol for the first time in four tries. Lockwood never questioned Morton’s aggressiveness and skill as a skipper and thus accepted Morton’s report at face value. Morton’s prior advocacy of the Mk. 6 lent even more credence to his account. Even with all this evidence, Lockwood still hoped for a small miracle. Lockwood trusted his friend Blandy and wanted to give him a bit more time to fix the problem.68 If Lockwood’s patience seemed to be wearing thin, Admiral King’s had just about run out. In a 27 May 1943 memo to Blandy, Dicky Edwards advised Blandy on behalf of King that “[t]he Commander in Chief concurs strongly in the recommendation that the Mk. 6 Mod. 1 exploder be replaced at the earliest possible moment by a simple and fool-proof magnetic exploder.”69 With BuShips, SubPac, and the Commander in Chief, U.S. Fleet opposing further use of the Mk. 6, the device clearly lived on borrowed time. On 9 June, Lockwood again wrote Blandy to discuss problems both with the Mk. 14 and the new electric torpedo then under development, the Mk. 18. A comment Lockwood made regarding complicated firing settings proposed for the Mk. 18 could just as easily have been applied to the instructions given weeks earlier for the proper use of the Mk. 6: “… these T.D.C. setups are arrived at under conditions of excitement, strain and sometimes of exhaustion which make it necessary that only the simplest type of mental gymnastics be required.”70 Lockwood went on to complain that even though his boats were now firing at depths no less than 15 feet, prematures were still occurring. A few weeks earlier, BuOrd sent an engineer out to Pearl Harbor to modify a number of Mk. 6 exploders with the hope that the number of premature explosions would be reduced. Lockwood sent a batch of submarines on patrol with the modified Mk. 6s and awaited their results. Beyond his respect for and trust of his friend Blandy, Lockwood sincerely believed in the results delivered by a properly functioning magnetic influence exploder: “I am loathe to inactivate the magnetic feature because it produces such splendid results when it does perform properly …”71 The horrific results turned in against Japanese aircraft carriers weighed even more heavily on Lockwood’s mind, though. He still believed that the Japanese may have developed an effective countermeasure and justly felt some incredible opportunities had been missed. To that effect, he finished the above quote by warning Blandy: “… but unless we get an aircraft carrier soon I feel that we must cut out the magnetic feature. We have shot at 4, with prematures in every case … I await only the news of the results of Mr. Bayhi’s conversions before taking this step.”72 While Lockwood waited for Blandy to provide the miracle fix, another glorious opportunity presented itself to one of Lockwood’s subs. On the

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evening of 10 June, USS Trigger, under the command of Commander Roy Benson, made contact with what Benson referred to as a “huge” Japanese aircraft carrier escorted by two destroyers. Despite the carrier’s high speed (estimated at 21 knots), her aggressive zigzag pattern, and the destroyer escorts, Benson, like Scott in Tunny, skillfully maneuvered Trigger into excellent firing position 1,200 yards from the carrier. Benson fired all six of his bow tubes at the target; because of the nearby destroyers, Benson took Trigger deep immediately after firing. Benson surmised in his report that four of the torpedoes hit the carrier, later identified as the Hiyo.73 Justifiably pleased with his efforts, Benson wrote in his patrol report, “… tens of millions of yen, months of work, vast quantities of material and equipment and the tie-up of a huge dry-dock will be necessary to convert this wreck into a man o’ war.”74 Later analysis revealed that two torpedoes missed ahead, one prematured, one was a dud, one hit the bow, and one hit the boiler rooms.75 Hiyo safely returned to port for repairs. Benson, keenly aware of past torpedo failures, made mention of them in his report and the steps he took to ensure such problems would not occur on this attack. Benson wrote that “… this

The USS Trigger returns home from patrol. The submarine managed to severely damage the Japanese carrier Hiyo despite one premature explosion and one dud. Had these torpedoes worked, Hiyo might have been sunk. (National Archives)

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commanding officer as well as nearly all others have had … so much deep running and failure of attacks thereby that deep running and prematures are our greatest worries.”76 Thus Benson, like Scott, fully cognizant of the Mk. 14’s past tendencies to run deep, decided on shallower settings for this attack, for, in Benson’s words, “[t]he chance of failure on this, possibly the enemy’s most important warship, could not be taken.”77 Benson wanted to make sure he got hits, and even though a deeper setting might have resulted in more damage, Benson feared a deep-running torpedo might pass too far below the keel with no detonation whatsoever. The Mk. 14’s and Mk. 6’s questionable track records clearly influenced Benson’s tactics in this attack. One is left to wonder how many other skippers made similar adjustments because they could not completely trust their weapons. Two days earlier, Lieutenant Commander Tommy Dykers and USS Jack watched as a three-torpedo spread fired at a Japanese antisubmarine warfare (ASW) ship failed when one of the three torpedoes exploded early, apparently knocking the other two off course. Dykers verbalized the frustration of the moment: “Damn those exploders … damn them all to hell!”78 Dykers’s frustration spoke for the entire submarine force. Over the first half of the year, Trigger, Tunny, and Pompano all skillfully maneuvered into optimal firing position on Japanese aircraft carriers. Each captain obtained good torpedo firing ranges and bearings. Each attack failed because of the torpedoes. During that same period, Japanese Type 95 submarine torpedoes sank or contributed to the sinking of the carriers Wasp and Yorktown, as well as damaging Saratoga twice. On 19 June, Blandy penned his response to Lockwood’s 9 June letter. In it, he again displayed his willingness to cooperate, saying he was “damn glad” to receive his friend’s letter and that copies had been distributed throughout the Bureau. With Pieczentkowski still not detached from Lockwood’s command, Blandy reminded Lockwood that “… the submarine service, the greatest users of torpedoes, have contributed very few officers to their development and production.” And when Blandy did receive officers, he complained that they were generally “… somebody who hasn’t made good in the boats themselves. …” Blandy urged Lockwood again to “[s]end me a damn good officer who knows torpedoes as well as submarines, and you will get results.” It was clear that Blandy felt cornered by Lockwood and was being asked to solve a demanding problem with one hand tied behind his back. The lack of good, experienced officers at BuOrd who had witnessed these problems in combat handicapped its efforts to solve the problems, in Blandy’s opinion. Addressing accusations that not enough attention was being given to fixing the Mk. 6, Blandy had this to say in response:

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I personally have lost more sleep over that gadget than any other one of the thousand problems that confront me in running this five billion dollar a year ordnance program. … I see to it that quite a number of other officers are damn well concerned about it too. … The principal difficulty was in learning just what was happening. All of it could have been determined in peacetime target practices by putting the exploder into a properly designed exercise head, (now being done). That was an extremely shortsighted policy of this bureau. …”79

Blandy’s letter was not one written by a man in denial; he clearly assumed responsibility for addressing the problems at hand, but insisted that success relied on obtaining the assistance of experienced, successful submarine captains. Unfortunately for Blandy, the Trigger’s failure to sink Hiyo essentially sealed the Mk. 6’s fate. After Trigger, Lockwood’s faith in the exploder eroded rapidly. Lieutenant Commander Ellis A. Johnson, a member of Lockwood’s staff, obtained a draft copy of a BuOrd letter qualifying the conditions for effective employment of the Mk. 6 exploder. Much of the letter dealt with the scientific principles of the earth’s magnetic field, how it changed in different zones, and what happened to it when large steel ships passed through it on various headings in each of the zones. BuOrd reiterated earlier guidance on target headings and magnetic latitudes needed to obtain success with the magnetic influence feature. Blandy also conceded the magnetic feature to be useless in southern latitudes. Finally, BuOrd admitted that countermeasures such as degaussing and a paravane towing a current-carrying wire could be used to defeat the Mk. 6.80 After reading the letter, Lockwood reaffirmed his earlier belief that no captain in a tense tactical situation would have the time to compare the target parameters with the suggested BuOrd parameters and then set the torpedoes accordingly.81 The draft found its way to Admiral King’s office, where his Assistant Chief of Staff (Readiness), Rear Admiral Walter S. DeLany, said the following in a memo to his counterpart at BuOrd, Rear Admiral T.D. Ruddock, Jr.: I frankly do not feel that this letter does anything to clarify the situation. To me it is all rather confusing, because so many elements enter into the problem of when, how and why we may expect duds or prematures in the different areas. That introduces a doubt as to the reliability of the exploder and, in my opinion, makes the forces afloat question its usefulness. I presume there is no real answer to the thing, but I do believe that this letter will not help the man in the field very much.82

DeLany echoed Lockwood and his skippers’ thoughts; with Admiral King’s office in agreement, the magnetic influence exploder, like a torpedo that missed its target, reached the end of its run. The confusing BuOrd letter never

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made it to the fleet. It did not matter if the Mk. 6 itself was flawed or the Japanese had developed an effective countermeasure to the magnetic influence feature. Crews could not count on the exploder against capital targets. In a 23 June letter to Jimmy Fife (now commanding Task Force 72 in Brisbane), Lockwood told him of poor results from the Mk. 6 exploders modified by Mr. Bayhi. He told Fife he planned to meet with his staff and discuss the fate of this perplexing weapon. He believed they would return a “guilty” verdict on the Mk. 6.83 After conferring with his staff and ordnance experts, Lockwood received exactly that conclusion and went to Nimitz for permission to deactivate the magnetic exploder.84 The next day, 24 June 1943, Nimitz’s order went to all submarines under his command. This did not include the submarines in Australia now under Christie’s command. The Seventh Fleet, to which Christie’s forces belonged, fell under General Douglas MacArthur’s jurisdiction as Supreme Commander of the Southwest Pacific Theater. The same day that Lockwood wrote Fife and met with his staff, Christie wrote Lockwood. In his letter, he questioned Lockwood’s claims regarding flaws in the Mk. 6 mechanism: “… we are definitely not in accord with the opinions expressed in various patrol report endorsements. … Many remarks made in patrol reports are absurd.” Christie went on to complain that skippers misinterpreted the meaning of a torpedo’s bubble track passing under a target and improperly characterized some hits as premature explosions. He also questioned maintenance and operational practices: “A great deal can be done in improving torpedo performance in the overhaul shop and in the forward and after torpedo rooms.”85 Despite the problems reported to him by his own skippers, endorsed by their division and squadron commanders, Christie stubbornly clung to his belief in the infallibility of his prodigal son, the Mk. 6, and instead chose to assign culpability to his own crews. Christie’s objections arrived too late to save the Mk. 6, at least for boats under Lockwood’s command. As was his prerogative, Christie ignored the order and wrote to Nimitz asking for an explanation. Nimitz responded that he deactivated the Mk. 6 “because of probable enemy countermeasures, because of the ineffectiveness of the exploder under certain conditions, and because of the impracticability of selecting the proper conditions under which to fire.”86 Even after corresponding with Nimitz, Christie remained unconvinced. He felt that the Mk. 6 got at least “some” hits, that it was the only effective weapon against shallow draft ASW ships, and if it was “gone forever,” it could never be improved.87 Christie would get his opportunities for improvement. In July one of Christie’s boats, USS Grouper, experienced a premature explosion close aboard. Things went from bad to worse the next month, when another

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Christie boat, USS Silversides, had four premature explosions on one patrol, including two in one salvo. On 31 August, BuOrd tried one last time to make a convincing argument for retaining the Mk. 6 exploder. After acknowledging the fact that Lockwood’s submarines were already firing for contact hits, Blandy included the contents of the earlier circular letter that never reached the fleet. He left it to each commander’s discretion whether or not to share the data contained therein with their operational forces. One may presume what Lockwood did with the letter, but Christie, still hoping for a miracle, welcomed the additional information. The BuOrd letter cited two primary advantages of the Mk. 6: it results in explosions when torpedoes run deeper than set or when target draft is overestimated, and it causes greater damage to capital ships by exploding under the keel instead of against the compartmentalized sides of the ship.88 This also applied to tankers, now a priority target for Christie’s command. Tankers, by nature very compartmentalized vessels, posed difficulties for attacks using contact exploders. Christie and his friends in the gun club believed the magnetic exploder offered the only solution. Despite the seemingly positive guidance, the BuOrd letter also contained a number of startling admissions regarding the Mk. 6’s limitations, including a general acknowledgement that the Mk. 6 worked well only in northern latitudes. In southern latitudes, the peak voltage (or trigger voltage for the magnetic exploder) occurred at the “… wrong polarity to fire the exploder.” If the enemy ship utilized a degaussing system, things went from bad to worse: “Shots against large, square-hulled vessels, degaussed with an outside coil, may explode 20 or 30 feet from the near rail [of the target] …” and that “… shots at contact depth against undegaussed ships may also fire too soon.” Finally, if the enemy chose to over-degauss its ships, it would “… to a certain degree … prevent the exploder from firing on most headings …”89 The Mk. 6’s idiosyncrasies, now fully documented by BuOrd, validated Nimitz’s decision to deactivate the Mk. 6’s magnetic feature two months earlier. By the fall of 1943, Christie had few supporters left anywhere in the submarine force. Commander Martin P. “Spike” Hottel, the captain of Grouper and himself a torpedo expert, summed up the thoughts of the majority of Christie’s captains: “It would appear far better to sink the enemy vessels encountered—when targets in certain areas are so hard to find and attack— than to continue spoiling good chances just to prove that a really useless mechanism can be made to function a fair proportion of the time.”90 Then in November, USS Blackfish experienced a number of premature explosions while on a patrol using a mixed bag of magnetic and contact exploders. His credibility now clearly in doubt, Christie desperately sought a change of fortune. Then, later in the month, Lieutenant Commander Walt Griffith took

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Blandy during one of the lighter moments of his time at BuOrd. Submariners struggling with defective torpedoes in the far distant Pacific probably would not have been amused. (National Archives)

USS Bowfin on patrol using the Mk. 6 exploder per Christie’s orders. Five ships and 27,000 tons later, Bowfin returned to port, claiming and receiving credit for all five ships, obtaining hits with 19 out of 24 torpedoes fired. Results like these only prolonged the inevitable, for in the same month,

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Lieutenant Commander Earle Hawk in USS Pompon watched three of four torpedoes explode early in a single attack. Hawk ordered the rest of the Mk. 6 exploders on board deactivated for the remainder of the patrol. Christie, already frustrated by the exploder controversy, reminded all captains to keep their magnetic exploders activated at all times.91 This order was to be short-lived, for at the end of the year, Admiral Thomas C. Kinkaid relieved Christie’s boss, Admiral Arthur S. Carpender, and ordered Christie to deactivate the Mk. 6 magnetic exploder in his boats. On 20 January 1944, Christie sent the order to all of his captains. Deflated and defeated, Christie recalled the death of his brainchild: “Today, the long hard battle on the Mark 6 magnetic feature ends—with defeat. I am forced to inactivate all magnetic exploders. We are licked.”92 Two full years into the war, the saga of the Mk. 6 finally ended. The reluctance of senior commanders to recognize the problems with the exploder early in the war perplexed those who went to sea with the defective component. Given that Tyrell Jacobs in Sargo correctly identified both the deep-running and magnetic exploder defects in December 1941 and that both the Germans and the British deactivated their exploders prior to Pearl Harbor, it seems illogical that actions to correct the problems did not occur sooner. Unlike the depth mechanism, no glaring design defect accounted for the Mk. 6’s problems; instead, the device’s inherent complexity and lack of testing under realistic conditions forced Nimitz’s hand. Christie made one last-ditch attempt to salvage the Mk. 6 in early 1944, commissioning Lieutenant Commanders Chester Nimitz, Jr. and James McCallum to study and propose improvements to the Mk. 6. Patrols on USS Haddo and Bowfin, with the torpedoes modified to Nimitz’s and McCallum’s specifications, failed to produce the desired results. Thus, on 12 March, Christie finally closed the book on the Mk. 6 with this diary entry: “We have reached the positive end of the long trail with the magnetic exploder … from now on BuOrd can do the experimenting … finis!”93 For all of his posturing, Christie remained a professional and truly thought his invention could make a difference. Christie assumed full responsibility for his role in the Mk. 6 exploder saga: “The shortcomings of the submarine torpedo can be laid to me very properly, for, for [sic] 2½ years I had charge of the design of the 14 and for three tours at Naval Torpedo Station was concerned directly with the magnetic exploder.”94 Submarine crews thought little of Christie’s graciousness. Many lost friends because, in their opinion, the torpedoes failed at a critical moment, or the premature explosions directed ASW forces right to their location. These claims, though impossible to verify, contain at least some grain of truth. Over 50 years after the war, Admiral Calvert summarized the anger felt

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by these men in his book, Silent Running: “There they (BuOrd) were … sitting on their fat duffs in perfect safety while we were out here risking our necks with these lousy, prematuring torpedoes they had given us. This whole mess we were in had started with that damned premature. They had twentythree years between the wars to perfect these torpedoes and exploders— couldn’t we have expected better?”95 The crews could have and should have expected better from BuOrd; however, one problem still stood between Calvert, his fellow submariners, and the weapon they expected.

Chapter 9 The Toothless Sharks Finally Admiral Lockwood, his staff, and most submariners felt they possessed a weapon capable of bringing Japanese merchant shipping to a standstill, completing the strangulation of the Japanese home islands. Unfortunately, one problem remained, however—one observed by skippers on attacks throughout the first half of the war. At the Battle of Midway in June 1942, Lieutenant Commander William Brockman in USS Nautilus fired four torpedoes at a target he thought to be the stricken Japanese carrier Soryu. Brockman and the other five officers in the conning tower at the time observed flames leaping from the carrier and personnel abandoning ship.1 The carrier’s escorts quickly turned their attention to Nautilus, forcing Brockman to go deep and thus not be able to observe the sinking. Robert English, ComSubPac (Commander of Submarines, Pacific) at the time, credited Brockman with sinking the Soryu, but postwar analysis found differently. It was the carrier Kaga that Brockman had actually attacked, not Soryu, and the four torpedoes failed to sink her.2 Japanese survivors from Kaga later reported that two of the four torpedoes missed altogether, and at least one other torpedo hit Kaga amidships without exploding. In fact, the air flask from the dud torpedo ended up serving as a life raft of sorts for some of the carrier’s crew members.3 This example illustrated the difficulties encountered in tracking down the dud torpedo problem. Because of the structural failure of the torpedo, most notably the rupturing of its air flask, the impact of a 46-knot torpedo against the steel hull of its target created at least the appearance of an explosion, and to an unseasoned crew it may even appear as a successful attack. And skippers who knew a dud torpedo when they saw it generally chalked it up to the laws of probability, fortunes of war, or something else. For the most part, duds

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failed to resonate in the minds of captains in the same way the prematures and the deep runners did. Around that time, Lieutenant Commander Lawson “Red” Ramage took Trout on an aggressive, well-conducted patrol in which 5 out of 14 torpedoes fired were duds. Ramage (who would go on to win the Medal of Honor while commanding USS Parche) used textbook tactics as well as great tenacity in pursuing Japanese convoys; the fact that even he could achieve disappointing results with the Mk. 14 influenced Lockwood’s view of the torpedo’s reliability.4 A few months later, USS Tautog, under Lieutenant Commander Joe Willingham, made six torpedo attacks while on a minelaying mission. On at least one of the attacks, Willingham and his sound operator reported clearly hearing the torpedo hit the hull of his target without exploding. Willingham’s division commander, Commander Al McCann, noted in his endorsement that Tautog’s experience was only the latest in a series of torpedo failures related to the Mk. 14’s Mk. 6 exploder, but that this patrol pointed to flaws with the contact portion of the exploder as well. “Every effort is being exerted to insure the proper function of the exploders,” wrote McCann.5 In August 1942 USS Guardfish, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Thomas Klakring, embarked on her first patrol of the war. Ordered to the target-rich northeast coast of Japan, Klakring and his crew encountered a 7,000-ton cargo ship on 25 August. Klakring fired two torpedoes at the freighter from a range of 1,500 yards. The fire control solution called for a track angle of 100˚, nearly a perpendicular shot. Klakring estimated the target’s draft to be 20 feet and he set his torpedoes to run at 10 feet, intending to trigger the contact mechanism of the Mk. 6. The second torpedo slammed into the target, sending a cascade of water onto the target’s main deck, but did not explode. The first torpedo was seen to jump from the water like a porpoise several times before finally passing ahead of the target’s bow and disappearing.6 Klakring quickly set up to fire a third torpedo with a less than optimal track angle. This weapon exploded normally, apparently either close aboard or beneath the target’s keel by Klakring’s estimation. In all likelihood, a detonation close aboard (essentially a premature) actually occurred, since an underkeel detonation almost certainly would have broken the unarmored freighter’s back; nonetheless, the detonation occurred close enough aboard to cause the vessel to slow down and begin limping to port. When Klakring surfaced to give chase, he spotted his first torpedo floating away, sans warhead. Both Klakring and his exec closely examined the pathetic remnants, noting that the air flask looked intact, but the warhead was nowhere in sight. Further deliberations quickly ended when patrol aircraft appeared on the

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scene. Klakring surmised that the water column occurred as a result of the second Mk. 14’s air flask exploding in the collision.7 Even torpedo gurus were not immune to the duds. Another gun clubber, Lieutenant Commander William J. “Moke” Millican, took USS Thresher on a patrol plagued by defective torpedoes. Millican noted some torpedo problems in an attack on a five-ship convoy. He attributed the defects to the Mk. 6 exploder. Millican owned a Master’s degree in Ordnance Engineering, so he did not arrive at this opinion in haste. Charlie Rush served under Millican on Thresher and described him as “… a multi-talented genius, [and] a fascinating person. By observing his action in many crises I learned, among other things, what enabled me to save USS Billfish in November 1943”8 (for which action President George W. Bush awarded Rush the Navy Cross in April 2002). Rush was Officer of the Deck (OOD) during the events that occurred next and described them in his own words: On December 29, 1942, USS THRESHER … sighted a large (10,000 ton) unescorted ship leaving Surabaya, heading at high speed across the shallow waters of the Java Sea. In the gathering darkness THRESHER surfaced and gave chase at flank speed on four main engines. Three hours later she reached firing position, slowed, swung toward the target and fired a spread of three torpedoes from the bow tubes. The torpedoes ran hot, straight, and normal. One appeared to be a direct hit but there was no explosion. Millican made another flank-speed end around and fired two torpedoes from the bow tubes. Sonar reported that one torpedo hit the target; and on the bridge the OOD and the Captain witnessed the torpedo air flask burst but again—no explosion. THRESHER turned to make a third attack and this time Millican ordered, “Man the deck gun!” At an hour past midnight THRESHER and the Japanese ship commenced a running gun battle that resulted in stopping and holing the Japanese ship. Millican then swung the submarine’s stern toward the slowly sinking target and fired one torpedo from an after tube. The torpedo was set to run at shallow depth; it struck the target “dead on” but did not explode. By radio THRESHER reported the torpedo failures and was ordered to return to port.9

Surprisingly, evidence provided by experienced skippers such as Millican and Tyrell Jacobs, both of whom possessed theoretical knowledge of ordnance, failed to convince Lockwood, Christie, or Thomas Withers. Just days after Thresher’s frustrating attack, USS Whale got underway for her second war patrol under the command of Lieutenant Commander John B. Azer. Around dawn on 13 January 1943, Whale’s lookouts sighted smoke on the horizon. After determining the target’s general course and speed, Azer surfaced and began an end run of 117 miles. After an hour, the freighter

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altered course to port, frustrating Azer’s approach. Azer matched the course change and recommenced the end run. By 1300, Whale stood well ahead of the target’s projected track and submerged to await her prey. At 1336, from a range of about 1,700 yards, Azer fired three torpedoes at the freighter. After the calculated time to hit came and went, Azer fired a fourth torpedo. At almost that precise instant, one of the original torpedoes struck, shattering the vessel’s stern. A second one of the original salvo also scored forward of the bridge structure. Azer’s fourth torpedo also hit. Despite all the hits, the freighter continued to remain afloat. The freighter’s crew was as tough as its ship, for slightly after the attack, gun crews began laying accurate fire on Whale’s periscope. Six minutes later, the vessel, later identified as the 3,550ton converted collier Iwashiro Maru, finally gave up the fight and plunged to the bottom. Days later, on 17 January, Whale encountered a large transport vessel and fired three torpedoes from a range of 1,500 yards. All three appeared to hit and detonate, with Azer recording hits near the midships section and the stern. Despite what should have been lethal damage, the vessel slowed a mere two knots and turned toward its tormentor. Azer fired a single Mk. 14 from one of his stern tubes at the close-in range of 600 yards. The skipper reported this as a “… good hit, stopping the target cold.”10 The vessel, though now down by the stern and with a heavy port list, still refused to sink. A mere 13 minutes later, Azer observed to his utter disbelief that the crew had corrected the list and appeared to be gaining control of the various fires burning throughout the ship. Azer noted the crew and passengers abandoning ship; that is, everyone except the deck crew, who took aim on Whale’s periscope. Azer wisely decided not to engage the plucky gunners with his own deck gun; instead, he resolved to finish the vessel off with another torpedo. At 1532, Whale’s sixth torpedo of the attack sped toward the transport. Again, the torpedo appeared to hit in the after section of the ship, but with little noticeable effect otherwise. Azer then decided to lay to for almost 45 minutes to see if the ship could possibly survive six apparently solid torpedo hits. A glance through the periscope at 1645 answered the question: Azer prepared to fire yet another torpedo. Again, the skipper noted what appeared to be a solid hit, but once again the vessel remained afloat. At 1701, he put Whale’s stern tubes to bear and fired his eighth torpedo of the attack. This one hit, but failed to explode. Finally, with darkness approaching, Azer fired his ninth torpedo at the transport. Again, he reported a solid hit, noting debris thrown into the air from the impact. The ninth torpedo sealed the vessel’s fate—the 9,816-ton Heiyo Maru finally lost her valiant battle and succumbed to Azer’s overwhelming barrage.

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26 January was a busy day for Azer and the Whale. Just after midnight, Azer moved into attack position on a large oiler apparently of the Syoyo Maru type. His three-torpedo spread included one hit, a premature explosion, and a miss (quite possibly caused by the premature second torpedo). No more could be done with this contact, for a Japanese escort soon appeared on the scene, dropping depth charges with “… considerable sobering effect …”11 Most of the rest of the day proceeded without incident, until lookouts reported smoke on the horizon at 1634. After five hours of tracking and maneuvering, Whale once again sat well ahead of the target’s projected track, waiting to send her tin fish in for the kill. A radical zig just before firing forced Azer to maneuver and bring his stern tubes to bear. This he did and at 2241 he fired a single Mk. 14 on a “… perfect setup” with the 1,500-yard range verified by active sonar. At the predicted time of impact, sonar reported a dull thud as opposed to the expected loud explosion. Once again, dud torpedoes had visited their ill will on Whale. Apparently, the dud caused little concern on the target vessel, later identified as the 14,050-ton oiler Shiretoko,12 which “… showed no consternation, whatever, continuing course and speed.”13 Azer gave up the idea of any further attacks that evening, choosing to track the target and attack at dawn. This is exactly what he did, and the results were not much better: the first three-torpedo spread all either missed or passed beneath the target. Feeling that depth problems were to blame, Azer adjusted his fourth torpedo to a depth of 10 feet. This one also missed. With accurate gunfire now bracketing his periscope, Azer knew the time to fish or cut bait was quickly approaching. He fired another pair of torpedoes at the vessel, with the first one exploding prematurely (likely due to the effect of perturbation of the sea due to the shallow depth setting) and the second one passing beneath the ship’s stern without exploding. With only one torpedo left aboard, Azer remarked that “… the negative performance in the two attacks on the present target left little enthusiasm for continuing.”14 Despite his lack of enthusiasm, Azer hoped to make good on this target. He ordered his torpedo officer to pull the remaining torpedo and conduct a thorough inspection. The torpedo data computer itself was also checked. Both were reported to be functioning normally, a verdict confirmed at 1424 when Whale’s last torpedo exploded just aft of the target’s stack. Though not sufficient to sink the vessel, Azer felt the damage would require the assistance of a towing vessel. Indeed, ULTRA intercepts confirmed hull damage to the vessel, identified as the 5,624-ton converted transport Shoan Maru.15 For all of the torpedoes fired on this patrol, Whale’s results were disappointing at best. It seems hard to imagine that a 9,800-ton transport could absorb seven or eight direct hits from properly functioning Mk. 14 torpedoes. Indeed, the vessel’s cargo might have provided sufficient reserve buoyancy;

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however, what seems more likely is that some of the hits were either duds or very close aboard premature explosions that could have caused comparatively minor damage to a direct hit. In the end, the Heiyo Maru succumbed, but nine torpedoes were a significant price to pay for a single ship of this type. Another aggressive skipper experienced duds on a patrol that March. Lieutenant Commander Vernon L. “Rebel” Lowrance took Kingfish on patrol in the area west of Formosa. On the late afternoon of 17 March, Lowrance’s lookouts reported a medium-sized transport steaming very close to shore. Its current position made attacking impossible, so Lowrance surfaced and proceeded to do an end around, getting ahead of the target and submerging on its track after a run of almost five hours. At 2237, with the unwary transport now a mere 700 yards away, Lowrance fired a pair of Mk. 14s. Both torpedoes hit the target, which started settling by the stern. The slow pace of the sinking was not to Lowrance’s liking; ten minutes later, he fired a third torpedo, this time from 1,000 yards. Lowrance watched

Lieutenant Commander Vernon L. “Rebel” Lowrance receiving the Navy Cross for actions as captain of USS Kingfish. On one memorable patrol, Lowrance experienced duds, prematures, and one of the worst depth-charge poundings of any submarine in the war. (National Archives)

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the torpedo hit the target but not explode, the only indication of a collision being a 10-foot high column of spray thrown up by the explosion of the air flask. Rebel immediately prepared a bow tube and closed the target to 800 yards. He then fired another single Mk. 14 and this one prematured 20 seconds into the run. Frustrated by the failures, but convinced of his target’s fate, Lowrance abandoned further torpedo attacks and opted not to use his deck gun since the transport had her own deck guns manned and ready. In his patrol report, Lowrance commented on the attack: “In retrospect I believe I should have expended another torpedo on the target, however there is no doubt in my mind but that the target eventually sank …”16 Lowrance should have gone with his instincts, for the transport, subsequently identified as the Tenryugawa Maru, 3,883 tons, managed to return to port with moderate damage.17 Once again, a Japanese merchant vessel received a second lease on life courtesy of the defective Mk. 14 and its flawed Mk. 6 exploder. Lowrance and his crew barely got the opportunity to tell the story of their failed torpedo attacks, for six days after the abortive attempt to sink the transport, Kingfish made contact on a large enemy destroyer on a calm evening with a full moon. Lowrance prepared to attack, but the destroyer got the draw on Kingfish and began working the submarine over with 40 depth charges spread across a period of 15 hours. Lieutenant Eric L. Barr, Jr. was the executive officer onboard at the time: “We tried every trick in the book to get away from that fellow … but we couldn’t shake him … then he hit us with some beautiful [depth charges]—about eight. Quantity doesn’t mean too much; it’s quality that matters!”18 And the quality was devastating to Kingfish—the main induction valve was deformed and began leaking, both gyros were knocked out, as were the periscopes. Both engine rooms took on water, and a bucket brigade formed to move water out of the engine rooms to the after torpedo room. Much of the pressure hull surrounding the engine rooms was bashed in about 4 inches from its normal location. Facilities at Pearl Harbor did not possess the required skills to make such major repairs, so Kingfish returned stateside to a builder’s yard for a major refit. This attack was regarded as one of the worst poundings a U.S. submarine received during the war where the crew lived to tell about the experience. In June 1943, the new submarine USS Mingo, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Ralph C. “Red” Lynch, departed from Pearl Harbor on her first war patrol. In the prologue of his patrol report, Lynch points out that in accordance with Admiral Chester W. Nimitz’s earlier directive, he deactivated the magnetic influence feature in all of Mingo’s torpedoes. On 6 August, Mingo encountered a convoy comprised of three ships and a destroyer escort.

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Lynch drew a bead on the largest ship in the column. With a perfect 90˚ track angle and from a range of 1,470 yards, Lynch fired three tin fish at the freighter. All torpedoes ran hot, straight, and normal to the target, but “… four minor explosions, timed at the proper firing intervals, were heard throughout the ship.” Lynch noted a “water disturbance” at the impact point for the torpedo as well as a telltale plume of spray. The convoy, now fully alerted, turned away from Mingo while the destroyer escort began working the submarine over.19 Mingo’s experience once again demonstrated not only the frustration of a dud torpedo, but the danger it posed to the crew of the submarine. In this case, a single destroyer escort, alerted by the plumes of water created by the exploding air flasks, accurately tracked and depth charged the submarine for over two hours. Mingo was lucky—had the destroyer been accompanied by other escorts, they could have stayed on station longer, perhaps dropping enough depth charges to finish off the submarine. As it was, the destroyer could not stay around long, leaving its convoy unprotected. This combination of luck might have spared Mingo; one wonders how many submarines were not as lucky. The dud torpedo posed a difficult challenge to those trying to unwrap its mysteries. In many attacks, the submarine quickly left periscope depth for the safety of deeper water, hoping to avoid the antisubmarine warfare escorts. This obviously impaired the crew’s ability to determine the results of its attack.20 If no distinct explosion occurred, any number of factors could be responsible: inaccurate target speed or range estimate, incorrect depth setting, erratic-running torpedoes, deep-running torpedoes, or failure of the magnetic or contact exploder.21 Granted, sound gear occasionally detected the sound of a torpedo impacting a hull without detonation, but at longer ranges and higher sea states, or in cases requiring drastic and immediate maneuvers, such information was unobtainable. And in any event, submariners, for the most part, accepted the occasional dud as part of the cost of doing business. Just like dud bombs and artillery shells, commanders expected some of their ordnance to fail under combat conditions.22 Thus, normal operational conditions sufficed to mask problems with the contact exploder; that is, until one spectacular failure drove the problem to a rapid and final conclusion. Japan relied heavily upon the Pacific Ocean for its livelihood. These waters provided the Japanese with their primary source of nourishment, and over the centuries they perfected the exploitation of these resources. The mobile whale factory exemplified Japanese resourcefulness. These gigantic ships, over 19,000 tons, followed the whaling fleets and provided on-site processing services, including the rendering of whale blubber to oil. Wartime demands altered Japanese commerce priorities, relegating whaling to near the bottom

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of the list, certainly lower than the need for crude oil. But with their large capacity, the whale factory vessels appealed to the merchant fleet as tankers. Accordingly, the Japanese converted three of these monsters into tankers capable of carrying 19,000 tons of crude oil to the homeland. U.S. submarine captains coveted the opportunity to encounter and dispatch these valuable targets. One such captain was Lieutenant Commander Lawrence R. “Dan” Daspit of Tinosa. On 24 July 1943, fate deemed Daspit worthy of the opportunity, and in remarkable fashion. Sailing off Truk, Daspit found Tonan Maru III sailing unescorted, in broad daylight, on a straight course. Such a confluence of fortune rarely greeted submariners, particularly for a target of such high value. Daspit set out to ensure Tinosa’s success by carefully planning a textbook approach. He closed his target on a 95˚ track, practically perpendicular—exactly as taught in submarine school—and proceeded to fire off a four-torpedo spread at Tonan Maru III. Two of the torpedoes missed, acceptable in the doctrine of torpedo spreads, and the other two hit but failed to explode.23 Now alerted, the converted tanker turned away and increased speed. In desperation, Daspit fired the remaining two torpedoes from the forward tubes at a less than ideal oblique angle, with increasing target range. Both torpedoes hit the Tonan Maru III near the stern, exploding properly and causing significant damage to the steering gear and propulsion.24 With his prey now dead in the water, Daspit carefully maneuvered to administer the coup de grace. Unable to surface because of accurate gunfire from the stranded tanker, Daspit maneuvered Tinosa to an ideal firing position 875 yards off the beam of the tanker, dead amidships. He then fired a single torpedo, following it all the way to impact from his periscope view. The torpedo hit exactly at the aim point, but did not explode.25 Unruffled, Daspit repeated the process, obtaining the same result. This continued for seven more torpedoes, all fired from perfect position, and all observed to hit the tanker, but no explosions. Concluding that yet another torpedo defect was present, Daspit saved his remaining torpedo and headed for Pearl Harbor.26 Upon arrival at Pearl, Daspit immediately proceeded to Lockwood’s office and engaged him in a conversation all too similar to Mush Morton’s a couple of months earlier. Daspit’s mix of frustration, anger, resentment, and disappointment practically rendered him speechless during the meeting. Lockwood knew all his skippers well, and he listened carefully to Daspit’s report. Lockwood felt Daspit’s frustration, referring to the torpedoes as “… banging against the sides of enemy ships like toothless sharks.”27 By now an old hand at torpedo troubleshooting, Lockwood wasted little time in isolating the problem. The Pearl sub base torpedo shop examined Daspit’s remaining torpedo and pronounced it completely fit, only adding to the confusion. Then,

Commander Lawrence R. “Dan” Daspit. As captain of USS Tinosa, Daspit fired 14 torpedoes at the Japanese tanker Tonan Maru III. Of those, 2 hit, 2 missed, and 10 were duds. Daspit wisely saved his last torpedo for inspection back at Pearl Harbor. This incident prompted Lockwood to once again rely on his sailors’ ingenuity to correct a design flaw in the Mk. 6’s contact exploder. (National Archives)

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The USS Tinosa returns from patrol flying one flag for each of her victims. Tinosa had the dubious distinction of proving unequivocally that the Mk. 6’s contact exploder was defective, firing ten duds at the Tonan Maru III. (National Archives)

one of Lockwood’s squadron commanders, Captain Swede Momsen,28 came up with a suggestion. Lockwood turned to Momsen, an innovative thinker with an extremely respectable track record, for a common-sense solution to this mysterious problem.29 Momsen suggested that the only way to solve the problem was to examine the exploder mechanism of a dud torpedo. He proposed loading a submarine with live torpedoes, including Daspit’s remaining sample, and proceeding to the sheer cliffs of Kahoolawe Island, Hawaii. The practically vertical face of the cliffs extended about 50 feet below the surface, easily within reach of navy divers. Momsen’s suggestion was remarkably simple: keep firing torpedoes until a dud occurred, then recover the dud and examine the exploder. Lockwood prepared to send USS Muskallunge to Kahoolawe for the tests. On 11 August, Spike Blandy sent Lockwood a blistering memo with BuOrd’s analysis of torpedo performance to date in the war. Table 9.1 shows the data reported in the memo. In summary, BuOrd calculated that 93 percent of all torpedoes fired from 7 December 1941 to 30 June 1943 ran hot, straight, and normal. Blandy, by now aware of Tinosa’s plight, felt once again on the

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Captain Charles B. “Swede” Momsen. Momsen’s suggestion to fire the Tinosa torpedo and others against the Kahoolawe cliffs led to the detection and correction of the defective contact exploder mechanism. (National Archives)

defensive and, performance figures in hand, fired back at Lockwood: “I will admit that they [Mk. 14 torpedoes] are not perfect, but they are a damn sight closer to perfection than some of the work your people do with them.” Later in the letter, Blandy jabbed even deeper: “… It is therefore quite evident that even when we do have torpedo failures, the trouble is sometimes due to your personnel rather than mine.”30 All along, Blandy tried to orchestrate a delicate balancing act between placating his customer, the submarine force, and coddling his supplier, Newport. His frustration with this difficult challenge was manifested in the tone of his letter to Lockwood. Meanwhile, a few days before the scheduled tests against Kahoolawe’s cliffs, Lockwood fired off a letter to Dicky Edwards listing not only duds but once again deep-running torpedoes as problems. Amazingly, Tambor even reported premature explosions with the magnetic feature deactivated. This is

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not as absurd as it initially sounded, since the Mk. 6 still fired its warhead electrically, meaning electrical anomalies such as grounds possibly accounted for the prematures. Some of Lockwood’s most experienced and trusted skippers still thought the Mk. 14 might be running too deep. In order to quickly prove or disprove these claims, Lockwood called for a reprise of the Albany tests of 1942, this time substituting chicken wire for fishing nets. In his letter, Lockwood also hypothesized that the duds were being caused by deformation of the rails up which the firing pins traveled, jamming the pins short of the fulminate caps.31 As Lockwood and his staff began unraveling this latest torpedo mystery, yet another submarine experienced frustration on a level similar to Daspit in Tinosa. On 28 August, Pete Galantin maneuvered USS Halibut in for an attack on a Shigure-class destroyer. He fired all six bow torpedoes at the warship from what he later called the best firing position he ever obtained on a target during the war.32 None of the torpedoes exploded. Three days later, Galantin fired three more torpedoes at a freighter from 650 yards. Again, none of the torpedoes exploded. Perhaps believing he had misjudged the vessel’s draft, Galantin set the next three torpedoes to run at a depth of 8 feet Table 9.1 U.S. Submarine Torpedo Performance from 7 December 1941–30 June 1943 Number Total torpedoes fired by SubPac since beginning of war, up to June 30, 1943 Total number of hits

Percentage

1811

100%

633

35%

Total number of misses, including failures

1178

65%

Total number of duds, prematures, erratics, and magnetic failures, including some “uncertain” and some “very uncertain” failures, as follows:

124

7%

Duds

10

0.5%

Prematures

52

2.8%

Erratics

36

1.9%

Magnetic failures

25

1.4%

Certain failures only

75

4.4%

Total number of torpedoes that ran hot, straight, and otherwise normal (except for deep running in early months of war)

1687

93% (95.6% excluding uncertain failures)

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only to achieve the same result. On his next contact, Galantin fired two torpedoes from a favorable position and observed a large water column erupt alongside the target at the precise time of impact, but no explosion. He then fired two more torpedoes, but as they sped toward their target, Galantin observed that the freighter was settling. Apparently, the dud torpedo impacted its target with sufficient force to punch through the rusted hull plating, causing a loss of stability. The 6,581-ton Taibun Maru plunged to the bottom. Thus, Galantin and Halibut salvaged an ironic victory from an otherwise incredibly frustrating patrol—a vessel sunk by a dud torpedo!33 The day before the scheduled tests, Lockwood wrote Spike Blandy to discuss development issues with the Mk. 18 and also to update him on the dud problem. Lockwood expressed his pleasure with Blandy’s proposed testing of the Mk. 6 against armor plates placed at various depths on the Newport test range. With the failures of Wahoo and Tinosa still fresh in his mind, Lockwood expressed his mounting frustration: “… it is unbelievable that experienced submarine officers can shoot torpedoes on the simplest sort of elementary approaches with ranges near 1,000 yards at slow moving targets and still miss.”34 Then, Salmon nearly duplicated Galantin’s feat in Halibut by stopping a freighter with a dud torpedo (a working torpedo eventually finished off the target). Lockwood also told Blandy of his recent inspection of Japanese torpedo damage done to the cruiser Helena. He noted that the hits made on the cruiser “… completely destroyed the water-tight integrity of the ship in that particular vicinity …”35 Lockwood also made reference to captured Japanese documents regarding their torpedoes. He correctly guessed that the Japanese exclusively employed contact exploders, and he was obviously impressed by their explosive power, although he felt that, had the Japanese possessed an influence exploder, Helena would have never made port. Lockwood closed his letter by suggesting that Blandy investigate adapting the old Mk. 3 exploder used in the Mk. 10 torpedo for use in the Mk. 14. Lockwood almost certainly had the earlier S-boat successes of Moon Chapple, Hank Munson, and Dinty Moore in mind when he made this recommendation. With the magnetic feature of the device already deactivated and serious doubts emerging about the exploder’s contact feature, Lockwood’s proposal made plenty of sense. Before signing off, he promised Blandy his long-requested experts once again. Oliver Kirk was on his way, but Pi Pieczentkowski would stay until Lockwood’s impromptu test program was completed. On 31 August, Muskallunge proceeded to Kahoolawe Island, accompanied by the supporting vessels Widgeon and Chalcedony. Prepared to fire as many torpedoes as necessary to obtain the dud, Lockwood and Momsen did not have to wait long. The third shot from Muskallunge failed to explode.36

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Immediately, divers from Chalcedony entered the water to search for the dud. A few hours later, in 55 feet of water, boatswain’s mate John Kelly located the torpedo and attached the retrieving line, a remarkably courageous act considering the torpedo contained a live warhead with 685 pounds of high explosive Torpex. After carefully hauling the torpedo aboard Widgeon, the force returned to Pearl Harbor, where the examination of the exploder began in earnest.37 The contact exploder utilized a nonintuitive design. When impact occurred, the mechanism released a spring that drove the firing pin up a set of guide rails to impact a mercury fulminate cap, which in turn initiated the detonation. Interestingly, the exploder’s design called for the guide rails to be perpendicular to the axis of travel for the torpedo. The torpedo shop experts discovered that the firing pin did indeed travel up the rails, but the rails themselves were badly distorted by the impact.38 The consensus felt that the friction created by the distortion of the rails against the firing pin exceeded the force with which the spring drove the firing pin toward the fulminate cap; however, to be conclusive, more evidence was needed. Lockwood’s team suggested dropping torpedoes from a suitable height to simulate at-sea conditions. The drop tests were a spectacle vividly recalled by any submariner who passed through Pearl Harbor around that time. Lockwood set up the crane with its guide wires and the steel plate target right in front of his headquarters for all to see. Led by Pi Pieczentkowski and with advice from one of BuOrd’s technical experts, torpedomen removed the torpex explosive from the warhead cavity and replaced it with a cement mixture of very similar density. The guide wires ensured that the torpedo impacted the steel plate with the same orientation expected of a live warshot. The 100-foot height resulted in a speed of impact of 45 knots, just about the 46-knot figure for the Mk. 14’s high-speed setting. Lockwood brimmed with confidence that his testing regimen was scientifically sound and would soon yield the root cause of the dud problem. Ron Smith was an 18-year-old torpedoman who participated in the testing. He described the daily routine: At about 0800 we would assemble at the Base Torpedo Shop, climb on the back of a two ton stake bed truck driven by Chief Deason, the head torpedoman at the Sub Base at Pearl. We, the working men, rode in the back. Deason drove up on the mountains above Aiea to the Ammunition Dump. We would go to the building that contained the Warheads. The Warheads were on skids, some fifteen to twenty feet high. We had to climb up the face of the storage racks, select a warhead and insert the hook attached to a chain fall and pull the warhead out. This was a little tricky because they were stored on their sides and as they came to the end of the skid and cleared the skid they swung to a vertical

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Mark 6 Exploder Diagram (National Archives)

position hanging from the hook at the end of the chain fall. We were a little nervous each time one cleared the skid that it might jump off the hook as it swung out. When we had loaded about six or eight warheads, standing on the backends, on the truck we drove back to the Sub Base. Then they were lifted by the crane for dropping on the steel plate. Remember, each one of these weighed over six hundred pounds.39

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Following each drop test, a group of officers and senior torpedomen, led by Pieczentkowski, assembled around the warhead and its exploder mechanism. Smith observed that the discussions consisted of highly academic topics, most likely each man’s theory for why the exploder failed or triggered on that drop. Lockwood related as much in a letter to Blandy: “… practically every submariner present, is kabitzing [sic] this show, and trying to pick flaws in it …”40 For his part, Smith held the torpedo in high regard: “As a young starry-eyed torpedoman I thought the entire machine was fabulous. I had never seen anything like it with its precision and finite tolerances. I loved it. I didn’t think the people that had designed and built this fantastic machine could possibly make a mistake.”41 Unfortunately, the drop tests shattered not only the warheads but Smith’s illusion of the designers’ infallibility and matched the results obtained by the Muskallunge at Kahoolawe. In fact, a stunning seven out of ten torpedoes failed in this manner when impacting the steel plate at a 90˚, or textbook,

Lieutenant Commander Herman A. “Pi” Pieczentkowski (third from left) receiving the Silver Star for action as captain of USS Sturgeon. He subsequently served on Lockwood’s staff as torpedo officer and supervised the contact exploder drop tests in Pearl Harbor. (National Archives)

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attack angle. By tilting the plate to 45˚, the failure rate dropped dramatically. Lockwood immediately sent a priority dispatch to all submarines on patrol urging them to use oblique attack angles on their targets.42 Meanwhile, Lockwood’s team sought a long-term solution to this final, nagging problem. During all of this activity, Lockwood also conducted his depth testing using the chicken wire screen. The tests were done in Maalaea Bay, with the submarine positioned 1,000 yards from the screen, representing a typical firing position. The submarine fired four torpedoes with a depth setting of 12 feet. The first two punched the chicken wire at 11 feet, the next at 14 feet 7 inches, and the last at 10 feet 6 inches. The average of the four shots came out to just about 12 feet, satisfying Lockwood that at least depth control was no longer an issue.43 When the experts completed the drop tests and their analysis of the same, one thing became clear: the torpedo’s designers failed to account for the higher speed of the Mk. 14 torpedo compared to its predecessors. The contact exploder portion of the Mk. 6 differed little from its predecessors. The Mk. 13 air-dropped torpedo used an exploder of virtually identical design throughout the war without problems. The Mk. 13 traveled at 33.5 knots as opposed to the 46.3 knots of the Mk. 14. The additional 13 knots practically doubled the force of inertia experienced in the torpedo’s rapid (almost instantaneous) deceleration as it impacted the target’s hull. These increased inertial forces exceeded the design limitations of the device and rendered it ineffective in the Mk. 14 when fired at the textbook 90˚ angle.44 The effect was similar to that of a person’s head in an automobile that suddenly stopped. If the firing pin was the person’s head and the car was the torpedo body, one can clearly see that the head (firing pin) would want to continue to move forward. In the case of the firing pin, this meant it impinged itself on the forward rail of the mechanism and the resulting friction impeded its progress in the vertical direction, reducing the force with which the pins hit the fulminate caps, resulting in a nonexplosion or “dud.” The somewhat unique design of the contact exploder, particularly the orthogonal arrangement of the guide rails, might lead one to believe the engineers involved in the project would have been particularly conscious of the friction element the rails would impart on the firing pin. To engineers who worked on the Mk. 6, the physics and the corresponding equations that defined this problem were not so complex as to justify not recomputing them for the higher speed of the Mk. 14. Around this time, Galantin returned Halibut to Pearl, expecting to inform Lockwood of yet another torpedo problem. To Galantin’s surprise, Lockwood explained that a solution was in the works, albeit too late for Halibut. In one of war’s ironic twists of fate, the solution to the contact exploder problem came from the Japanese. Because the friction element on the firing pin

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exceeded the driving force of the spring, the experts theorized that a lighter firing pin of equivalent strength could overcome the friction and impact the fulminate cap with enough force to cause the proper explosion.45 Propellers from Japanese aircraft downed at Pearl Harbor provided this lighter stronger metal, machined by the torpedo shop into new, lightweight firing pins. In static testing, the pins appeared to perform far better than their predecessors; however, Lockwood firmly believed in live-fire testing and in September he ordered Galantin and Halibut to duplicate the Muskallunge tests using the newly modified exploders. Galantin fired six straight shots at the cliffs without a dud. Still, without official concurrence from the top, Lockwood felt he could not send his modified exploder on actual war patrols. As luck would have it, Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Ernest J. King arrived at Pearl Harbor on 25 September for a strategy discussion regarding the Central Pacific campaign. Lockwood seized this golden opportunity and approached King with the test results for both the current exploder design and the modified exploder. Lockwood expressed concern that the BuOrd process to modify and mass produce exploders to the new specifications would take months. He appealed to King for permission once again to circumvent normal channels and order the torpedo shop to modify all contact exploders with the lighter firing pin. Nimitz and King received Lockwood’s report and at his suggestion ordered the modified exploder into mass production immediately.46 On 30 September 1943, USS Barb sailed for patrol armed with 20 torpedoes all modified to carry the new exploder design. Almost as if in response to Lockwood’s doubts, BuOrd acknowledged on 21 October that testing of their reworked contact exploder mechanism was complete and the new parts would shortly reach the fleet for installation in all Mk. 6 exploder mechanisms, newly designated the Mk. 6 Mod. 5.47 Finally, after almost two full years of war in the Pacific, U.S. submarines possessed a weapon equal to the task. While the modified exploders hastily entered production, a BuOrd officer based at the Midway submarine base was engrossed in a project to produce a completely new exploder design free of the problems of the Mk. 6. Lieutenant Robert S. Brod worked on a more logical concept that placed the firing switch along the torpedo’s axis of travel. Brod’s creation worked with all existing exploder mechanisms and successfully passed drop tests similar to the ones conducted in front of Lockwood’s office. The exploder still fired electrically, but Brod claimed the circuitry was not susceptible to short circuits, even if the entire exploder cavity were flooded. By his estimation, Brod’s design eliminated “a few hundred” parts compared to the Mk. 6. On 1 December, he wrote Lockwood proposing a series of tests to justify putting the exploder into production.48 Lockwood responded on 7 December after discussing

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the idea with his new torpedo officer, Commander Taylor. They expressed uncertainty about the device’s safety features and the feasibility of using a dry cell battery to power the circuit. Their doubts were certainly tempered by the horrible experience with the Mk. 6 and its limited testing prior to entering service. Before signing off on any new design, Lockwood wanted all the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed.49 Yet again, the ingenuity of Lockwood and his submariners came to the rescue of BuOrd. From the anecdotal evidence provided by Lockwood’s captains, Momsen devised another simple but truly effective test to validate the theory. Under the expert supervision of Pi Pieczentkowski and others, Lockwood’s staff devised a safe and relatively inexpensive means of proving the systemic nature of the problem. Then, with sufficient evidence in hand, the sailors in Lockwood’s torpedo shop experimented with their own ideas. These ideas then underwent significant testing to validate results and eliminate statistical anomalies. And when a solid, proven solution emerged, the base torpedomen made modifications on site and immediately applied them to all torpedoes. This can-do approach stood in marked contrast to the Byzantine workings of BuOrd and Newport. Clearly, one’s proximity to the shooting war raised the level of urgency applied to solving a problem.

Chapter 10 A Weapon Worthy of the Crews It Served BuOrd completed its modifications to the Mk. 6, addressing the contact exploder problems. The resulting Mk. 6 Mod 5 exploder looked practically identical to its flawed predecessor; indeed, it retained most of the necessary circuitry for triggering a magnetic influence explosion even though it would never again be used in that manner. Lockwood’s relentless pressure over the preceding months finally yielded results. Though still far more complex than its British cousin, the Mk. 6 Mod 5 turned out to be very reliable, and this made all the difference to captains and crews chagrined by months of betrayal from their torpedoes. By late 1943, many of the new skippers going on patrol had previously served as executive officers during the time of greatest frustration with the Mk. 14 and Mk. 6. One of those skippers was Lieutenant Commander Eric Lloyd Barr, Jr. In April 1944, Barr took his new submarine, USS Bluegill, on her first patrol. Barr came from a navy family—his father won the Navy Cross for his actions as a submariner during World War I. As executive officer of USS Kingfish, Barr survived one of the most devastating depth charge attacks of the war. He honed his fighting skills on Kingfish under the tutelage of the highly regarded Rebel Lowrance. He also participated in a number of attacks thwarted by defective torpedoes. With his past experience and proud pedigree, Barr resolved to get in his licks at the Japanese. Assigned to Task Force 72, Barr received orders to patrol in the vicinity of Morotai, Halmahera, Helen, Pulo Anna, and Sonsorol islands west of New Guinea. Bluegill got underway on April Fool’s Day 1944 from Milne Bay en route to Helen Island. The first week of the patrol yielded no surface targets and only a few aircraft contacts. On 8 April, Bluegill made landfall on Helen Island. Two days later, Barr had his first surface contact as a skipper. Eager to get on the

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scoreboard, Barr attempted to approach, but his position was not favorable. Barr recorded the disappointment in his patrol report: “Unable to close. DAMN!” Barr’s frustration was understandable, for by this point in 1944, targets were getting harder to find and aggressive skippers like Barr knew they had to make the most of every contact if they were going to contribute to the tonnage totals. Another week passed with only the sighting of the submarine Paddle. On 15 April, Bluegill arrived in the area off Pulo Anna Island. Once again, paucity of surface contacts meant many days of fruitless patrolling. This period did not lack for aircraft contacts, and Barr crash-dove on multiple occasions to avoid attacks. On 23 April, lookouts spotted Sonsorol Island, and it would be here that Barr would make his mark and exact a measure of revenge for an earlier action in which Japanese torpedoes played a major role. After four days of uneventful patrol, Bluegill picked up a radio message from the submarine Blackfish reporting two high-speed contacts headed Bluegill’s way. High speed usually equated to warships—an elated Barr could think of no better way to start his captaincy than to put a Japanese man-of-war on the bottom of the Pacific. Barr put all four engines on line and made a beeline for Sonsorol Island. At 0707, Barr spotted the tops of one of the contacts as it emerged from a rain squall. Not wanting to be spotted and thus lose the element of surprise, Barr dove. After an hour of maneuvering, he saw the target sitting dead in the water to the south of Sonsorol Island. Barr once again turned toward the target. With his battery running low and the sun rising ever higher, Barr approached at slow speed to save battery life. By 0830 he recognized the vessel as a Mutsuki-class destroyer. The vessel steamed in slow circles as if waiting for another ship to arrive. Barr increased speed and continued to close the destroyer. At 1010, lookouts reported the destroyer signaling by flashing light—clearly she was communicating with another vessel, but what kind and where? Four minutes later, Barr had his answer as the light cruiser Yubari, veteran of the Battle of Savo Island, emerged from behind Sonsorol Island steaming at high speed. Barr ordered ahead full and maneuvered to intercept. The cruiser’s radical maneuvers frustrated Barr’s approach, so he instead headed for a reference point to the south of Sonsorol Island. Presumably, Japanese forces knew of Bluegill’s presence, for at 1022 the first depth charge shook the submarine from a distance. This probably came from a patrol aircraft. Eleven minutes later a second depth charge was felt, again not too close. At 1037, Barr lost contact with Yubari as she steamed behind Sonsorol Island. With the destroyer still in sight, Barr decided to attack her as a consolation prize.

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At 1050, the destroyer beat Bluegill to the punch, heading directly at the submarine. Barr prepared four bow tubes at shallow depth settings of 6 and 8 feet to take on the destroyer. Four minutes later, with the destroyer at a very favorable attack range of 1,000 yards, Yubari reappeared on the scene, “… with large stern wake and bone in her teeth!”1 Barr quickly shifted targets, putting on right full rudder and swinging Bluegill into position. He ordered the remaining two bow tubes made ready and changed the depth setting to a uniform 10 feet. With the high speed and sharp turn, Bluegill’s periscope trembled with the same excitement felt by every man on board. At 1058, with Bluegill still in her turn but with Yubari at the most favorable range obtainable —1,900 yards—Barr fired all six bow tubes as a precaution against faulty course or speed estimates due to his quick setup. Two minutes later, Barr watched through his periscope as the fifth torpedo slammed into Yubari’s engine room spaces. The cruiser took on a starboard list and appeared to be settling, but Barr could ill afford to hang around and witness her fate, for the destroyer was now bearing down on Bluegill. Barr prepared his stern tubes for the destroyer. At 1108, he began firing all four stern torpedoes. The destroyer maneuvered just as Barr fired and managed to avoid the salvo. Depth charges rained down on Bluegill as Barr sought the protection of a greater depth. Over the next five hours, destroyers scoured

The Japanese light cruiser Yubari. In the Battle of Savo Island, Yubari’s Long Lance torpedoes contributed to the destruction. In April 1944, the tables were turned as Eric L. Barr, Jr. and the crew of USS Bluegill put Yubari on the bottom courtesy of the newly debugged Mk. 14 and Mk. 23 torpedoes. (National Archives)

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the area for Bluegill, dropping 21 depth charges. During his evasion, Barr made a number of trips to periscope depth to check on the fate of his victim. He never saw the cruiser again and assumed he had sunk her; indeed he had. Barr then told his proud crew, “Well, we just paid for the Bluegill.”2 Yubari, veteran of Savo Island and numerous other raids throughout the Pacific, had finally been caught and the survivors of her attack on Vincennes received their justice. Barr used a combination of Mk. 14 and Mk. 23 torpedoes in this attack; he believed one of each hit the Yubari. (The Mk. 23 was a Mk. 14 modified for a single-speed setting—46 knots.) These torpedoes carried the Mk. 6 Mod 5 exploder mechanism, which still had all the parts used in the magnetic influence version, but fired only for contact hits. The torpedoes performed as designed, with all ten used in both attacks running hot, straight, and normal. With the Mk. 14 now functioning as had been expected all along, Lockwood hoped his submarines could get a shot at redemption for their earlier failures against capital ships. Lieutenant Commander Joseph F. Enright was a submariner looking for his own redemption. Earlier in the war, Enright commanded the USS Dace. On 15 November 1943, Enright received an ULTRA message reporting the Japanese carrier Shokaku in his general vicinity. Enright found the carrier and made a timid approach, abandoning the effort as daylight approached. Days later he came across another juicy target, a large tanker. Before he could fire, the tanker’s escorts pinned Dace down with a brutally accurate depth charge attack. The experience destroyed Enright’s confidence and, on his return to base, he asked to be relieved. Lockwood granted his request. Almost exactly one year later, Enright received a rare second chance at command, this time as captain of USS Archerfish. On 30 October 1944, Archerfish departed Pearl Harbor for her fifth war patrol and Enright’s second chance. On 9 November, Archerfish arrived in the harbor at Saipan for voyage repairs and fuel. On Armistice Day, Archerfish resumed her patrol. The next two weeks consisted mainly of lifeguard duties—surfacing near the sites of planned air strikes and recovering any downed aviators in the vicinity. Finally, on 28 November, fate offered both Lockwood and Enright their long-awaited shot at redemption. At 2048 that evening while patrolling off the Japanese coast due south of Nagoya, Enright’s radar operator reported a surface contact some 12 nautical miles distant. Enright called away the tracking party, as the contact appeared to be heading toward Archerfish. At 2140, Archerfish’s lookouts identified the unmistakable outline of an aircraft carrier and a single escort to starboard. Enright remained surfaced and continued to maneuver so as to obtain good

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firing position on the carrier. He was not about to repeat his error with Shokaku a year earlier. By 2300, the composition of the group became clearer: as expected, the carrier had not one, but four escorts encircling her as she continued on her zigzag course at 20 knots. Enright and his tracking party worked feverishly in their high-stakes chess match, desperately trying to gain attack position and match the carrier’s unpredictable maneuvers. Despite the carrier’s decisive speed advantage, the zigzag pattern slowed her actual advance, allowing Archerfish to gradually work ahead of the carrier. At 2330, Enright sent a contact report, ensuring that if he could not get in position to attack, perhaps Lockwood could vector another boat to the carrier’s general vicinity. At 0241, Enright felt he had lost his opportunity as the carrier turned westward, leaving Archerfish in an impossible tail chase. Frustrated, Enright sent another contact report. Then at 0300, fate made a down payment on the debt Lockwood felt she owed him, Tunny, Trigger, Pompano, and the other submarines who were less fortunate with their poor torpedoes: the carrier zigged to the south, putting Archerfish again on a course to intercept. Things rapidly fell into place. Enright made a periscope observation on the carrier showing it to be 3,500 yards away. About ten minutes later, another zig to port put the unsuspecting carrier in near perfect position for Enright to attack. At 0317, with the carrier a mere 1,400 yards away, Enright commenced firing all of his bow tubes. All six torpedoes were Mk. 14 Mod 3s with the modified Mk. 6 Mod 4 contact exploder. Forty-seven seconds later, Enright watched as the first torpedo tore into the carrier’s stern sending a huge fireball into the air. Ten seconds later, Enright saw the second Mk. 14 hit about 150 feet forward of the first. Now conscious of the destroyers, Enright took Archerfish deep and rigged for depth charge. As Archerfish proceeded to the relative safety of deeper water, the skipper heard four additional hits, all at the expected time. As Enright wrote in his report, “The six hits are certain.”3 Enright was also certain he had scored against a large aircraft carrier he identified as a member of the Hayntaka class. Over the next 47 minutes, sonar reported various breaking-up noises, convincing Enright that indeed he had achieved his redemption. In fact, his target exceeded all possible expectations, for this was the brand-new carrier Shinano, built on the same hull as the superbattleships Yamato and Musashi. With a displacement of a whopping 59,000 tons, Enright, in a single stroke, sank the largest ship of the war and delivered the largest confirmed tonnage total for a single patrol. The Mk. 14s used by Enright were a far cry from those that thwarted John Scott and Tunny so many months earlier. Now when skippers risked their submarines to get in close on heavily defended targets, the Mk. 14 and the newer Mk. 18 electric torpedoes finished the job. Old hands from the first two years

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of the war gradually regained their faith in the weapon and the newer submariners knew of the problems only through their more seasoned shipmates. Such an infusion of confidence meant bad news for Japanese shipping. Using Joint Army-Navy Assessment Committee figures, U.S. submarines in 1944 sank 603 merchantmen totaling 2.7 million tons. From December 1941 through December 1943, submarines sank 515 ships totaling 2.2 million tons.4 Thus, in 1944 alone, U.S. submariners eclipsed their totals for the first two years. Excitement over the increase in successful convoy attacks and capital warship sinkings replaced the malaise felt during the first two years of the war when torpedoes ran under targets, exploded prematurely, or failed to explode at all. The long struggle to get a decent torpedo had finally ended. Most submariners and many historians, most notably Clay Blair5 and Theodore Roscoe,6 consider the U.S. torpedo problems in World War II one of the great scandals in the history of warfare. The initial reaction of blaming the crews for poor tactics and execution, while occasionally appropriate, was not the root cause of the problem. Many captains, unsuccessful on earlier patrols, turned in fantastic results later in the war using good torpedoes. A number of factors contributed to their subsequent success: experience gained on the previous patrols, reliable surface search radar, a weapon that functioned as intended, and confidence in that weapon. All of these factors led to tonnage totals for 1944 that eclipsed the totals from 1941 to 1943. One can only imagine the final score had reliable torpedoes been available from the beginning of the war. After the Japanese surrender, occupation forces witnessed firsthand the effects of the U.S. submarine blockade of Japanese merchant shipping. Much of the population suffered from lack of rations, and had the war continued, especially with the improved torpedoes and the dwindling merchant fleet, the effect on the population may have been devastating enough to force capitulation.7 U.S. submarines participated in practically every major naval engagement of the Pacific war. A force of submarines sortied against the Japanese invasion force headed to the Philippines, where torpedo failures prevented sinking of any troop transports. Japanese capital ships, including Shokaku (by Pompano), Hiyo (by Trigger), and both Taiyo and Chuyo (by Tunny), narrowly missed watery graves due to torpedo failures. Anecdotal evidence suggests a viable torpedo probably would have shortened the naval war.8 Statistically, the torpedo problems seem minor, for as Spike Blandy reported to Lockwood, the torpedoes seemed to work properly at least 93 percent of the time, even with all three defects present. While this may have been statistically true, such a conclusion ignores other important facts. First, deep-running torpedoes early in the war appeared to run hot, straight, and normal. Blandy admitted that his data could not account for these torpedoes.

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Indeed, torpedoes were at their worst when they were needed the most: to buy time for the defenders of the Philippines and the Dutch East Indies. Here they failed miserably. Second, the data ignored the fact that until USS Sailfish finally sank the Chuyo of Tunny fame on 4 December 1943, Japanese aircraft carriers were practically impervious to American submarine attacks. Skippers set torpedoes to run shallower to ensure hits on these valuable targets. Unbeknown to them, this increased the likelihood of premature explosions due to the wave effect on the Mk. 6. Finally, given the shortages of torpedoes experienced for a large part of the war, failures due to preventable defects should not have been tolerated. In total, the U.S. Navy lost 52 submarines, 374 officers, and 3,131 enlisted men during the war with Japan. While precise figures are unobtainable, torpedo failures likely contributed to some of these losses. The Mk. 14 torpedo used a steam-driven turbine for propulsion. This turbine exhausted to the sea, leaving a trail of bubbles behind it. Once an antisubmarine warfare (ASW) escort detected the bubble stream, it would follow the trail back to its origin and begin searching or attacking from that point.9 A submerged submarine in World War II typically traveled at speeds under 5 knots to conserve battery power. At best, a submarine could run one hour at maximum submerged speed (approximately 9 knots) before exhausting its battery. Japanese ASW vessels traveled at speeds up to 30 knots; in other words, the ASW ship reached the submarine long before it could put any distance between itself and the torpedo firing point. Duds, deep-running torpedoes, and premature explosions all provided ample indication to escort vessels of the attacker’s approximate location. Only tremendous skill, luck, and superior hull construction spared more submarines from this fate. Ironically, the Navy never conducted inquiries or a formal investigation to determine the cause of the torpedo problems. History has generally been quite hard on BuOrd and the Newport Torpedo Station. Much of this judgment is indeed justified; however, BuOrd did begin investigations into the Mk. 6’s reliability in early 1942. The complexity of the mechanism made finding a specific problem extremely difficult. Once it became obvious that the Mk. 6 required further testing and modifications to function properly, BuOrd should have ordered the feature deactivated. Instead, it issued no such advisory to the fleet and allowed submarines to continue to go on patrol with a weapon whose performance BuOrd itself questioned. The desire to make the Mk. 6 work, coupled with its tremendous potential, obscured BuOrd’s view of the reality of war—the submariners needed reliable weapons that worked now. BuOrd would have been better off to order the Mk. 6’s removed and replaced with either the Mk. 3 or the Mk. 5, both of which were contact-only

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exploders. The British, the Germans, and the Japanese proved that contact fuses worked exceedingly well against any targets other than battleships. And battleship versus submarine encounters were so rare as to be statistically meaningless during the war. BuOrd also felt pressure to increase production of the Mk. 14, especially early in the war. The best short-term solution to the torpedo shortage crisis was for submarines to use fewer torpedoes. The Mk. 6 provided the best means to accomplish this, since a single underhull explosion should have been sufficient to dispatch most targets. This was probably on Blandy’s mind when he debated what to do next. In the end, no individual or organization faced any punitive measures as a result of this debacle. Amazingly, many of the offenders went on to long careers in the Navy and as civilians at the Newport Torpedo Station. In the German Kriegsmarine, where similar torpedo problems occurred, the responsible individuals faced courts-martial.10 Whatever his faults, Spike Blandy clearly took the problem seriously and worked tirelessly to provide solutions to these problems. In a memo to his department heads in September 1942, Blandy offered some very candid introspection on these problems, two of which remained unsolved at the time of the memo: Both of these [deep running and premature/dud exploders] defects can be traced to wrong policies in peacetime. The Mark 6 exploder was kept so secret that we now have a most valuable device which fleet personnel are unable to use because of no instruction or indoctrination in time of peace. The deep running can likewise be attributed to our complacency in being satisfied with merely running torpedoes under the target at all times. I blame this on no particular officer or group of officers. Every officer in the service who has fired torpedoes in this manner during the past twenty years is as guilty as anybody else, and I include myself in this category. All of us accepted as a hit any torpedo which ran under the target, without questioning how far under the target they were running. Of course, it was primarily Newport’s job to check on the actual depth performance, and we apparently accepted as reliable the performance of one gadget (the depth recorder) as a safe check on another gadget (the depth gear). All of this points to the well-known necessity of doing things in peacetime exactly as you are going to do them in war, short of the actual loss of ships, planes and lives. I hope to God we remember this better after this war.11

When Blandy drafted this memo, he almost certainly believed the worst days were behind BuOrd regarding torpedo performance. Sadly, another year of baffling misses, premature explosions, and duds awaited the submarine force and BuOrd. With a relatively strong commitment from the BuOrd chief to fix these problems, one must look to Newport for answers as to why.

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A closer examination of the prewar political and labor climate at the Newport Torpedo Station offers some insight as to the genesis of these problems. As mentioned earlier, the Newport Torpedo Station provided the Navy with all its torpedoes; no secondary source existed to stimulate competition or new ideas. Prior to World War II, Newport reigned as the unchallenged authority on U.S. Navy torpedo research and development. This monopoly pleased not only the Torpedo Station, but the Rhode Island congressional delegation as well.12 During the 1930s, a number of labor-management disputes arose, centered on various issues that ostensibly diluted the power of the unions employed by the Newport Torpedo Station. The congressmen typically sided with the unions, while the Secretary of the Navy (and even President Franklin D. Roosevelt himself) sided with the Navy. Such a contentious relationship almost certainly affected productivity, and this seems the case, evidenced by the meager production rate of two and one-half torpedoes per day.13 This is not to suggest that the machinists deliberately turned out poor-quality torpedoes; however, the subconscious effect of a negative work environment probably contributed to quality issues in at least some of the torpedoes. The exclusive supplier status enjoyed by Newport certainly stifled innovation in torpedo development. Later in the war, the Navy realized the benefits of multiple suppliers when Westinghouse Corporation developed and delivered the Mk. 18 electric torpedo in a span of approximately two years. The Mk. 18 quickly gained favor with submarine captains mainly due to its wakeless design; by the end of the war, the weapon accounted for 65 percent of all torpedoes fired.14 In his own postmortem assessment, Admiral Karl Do¨nitz felt strongly that lack of private industry competition led to problems with his torpedoes: In reality, then, the root of our troubles lay in the inadequate development and testing of the torpedo. One of the reasons for this was the fact that the Torpedo Experimental Establishment, as a department of the navy, was in charge of torpedo development. It designed the torpedo, built it, even tested it and itself decided whether or not it was fit for operational use. This, in my opinion, is fundamentally wrong in principle. The Armed Forces should themselves have nothing whatever to do with the construction of the weapons they require, but should pass on their requirements to private industry. They should then submit the best weapons which emerge as the result of very keen industrial competition to most rigorous tests under as near to war conditions as possible and should then accept them only if they prove satisfactory. It may, perhaps, be necessary to depart from this principle in the case of torpedo development, because the sea trials stage of development cannot be entrusted to a private firm. But even so, the whole process of developing, testing and

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Torpedomen load a Mk. 18 electric torpedo aboard a submarine. The Mk. 18 found favor with submariners for a number of reasons: it produced no telltale wake, it was available in quantity due to the use of mass production techniques, and it was quickly debugged. (National Archives)

passing as fit for operational use should never be left in the hands of one single authority.15

Another factor in the slow response by the operational commands and BuOrd might have been the fact that, of all the major Allied and Axis powers, Britain, Germany, and Japan had all fired torpedoes in anger in previous conflicts (World War I, Russo-Japanese War, and Sino-Japanese War) and as a result had learned some hard lessons about the need for proper training and maintenance of these complex weapons. America’s lack of torpedo actions prior to World War II denied it valuable experience that both its allies and enemies already possessed. Although American ships fired a few torpedoes in anger during World War I, none found their mark. From the benefit of hindsight, many factors converged to produce this debacle. Poor design of the entire Mk. 6 exploder (both magnetic and contact), poor design of the depth-keeping mechanism, lack of funds for live-fire testing, poor labor-management relations, low morale in the manufacturing

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organization, lack of competition, a dubious testing strategy, and bad luck all combined to produce the blunt spear provided by Newport via BuOrd to submarines during the first half of World War II. Present and future generations should study this torpedo crisis and apply the following lessons to the procurement of modern weapon systems: Competition: The best weapon designs emerge from a competitive environment. If a product or service is offered by multiple companies or organizations, customers of that product are faced with a purchasing decision— quality, performance, cost, service, convenience, or a combination of these and other subjective factors pass through the procurement officer’s mind when choosing a vendor. Skilled procurement professionals frequently leverage competing companies against each other to achieve cost or other savings. As a result, the competing companies look for ways to deliver their product cheaper, quicker, and with higher quality. In a competitive environment, companies innovate to achieve these goals. In the case where a single supplier enjoys a cozy, exclusive relationship with its customer (as Newport did with BuOrd), there is no motivation to innovate or to become cheaper, faster, or better. Involving the war fighter: The defense industry today speaks of involving the “war fighter” (a euphemism for active-duty operational military personnel) in the design, development, and testing process for new weapon systems. This stems from the fact that companies are competing with each other to win big government contracts. Successful businesses have always understood that the key to their success is understanding their customers; getting the war fighters involved provides them with credibility—a critical edge that can earn them a lucrative contract. Testing: Though a comprehensive weapon testing program is very expensive, the cost of thorough testing is far less than the cost of a flawed weapon system. As Blandy wrote in his memo, testing should simulate wartime conditions in every possible way, including live firing, and reports from the field of problems should be acted upon immediately. Every probable scenario should be thoroughly exercised; indeed, so should many of the seemingly improbable ones. This is because the ingenuity and creativity found in the soldiers and sailors of the armed forces means that weapons may be employed in ways never conceived of by their designers. The war-fighter involvement principle can also help in this area. Proper testing should comprise a significant part of the weapon system’s development schedule and cost—the consequences of failure are too great. The only bright spot in this otherwise tragic story is that the spirit, ingenuity, persistence, and inventiveness of the American submariner overcame obstacles that should never have been there in the first place. Lockwood’s faith

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in his people gave them the confidence to propose common-sense solutions to suspected problems. Lockwood encouraged his people to find solutions to problems regardless of protocol breaches. His men responded to these challenges with the same intensity and tenacity they used when pursuing a Japanese shipping convoy, carrier battle group, or cruiser division. The key actors in this drama experienced a broad range of fates during and following the war. Admiral Do¨nitz assumed control of the German government following Hitler’s suicide and served ten years in prison, the result of a sentence handed down by the war crimes tribunal at Nuremberg. Vice Admiral Lockwood retired at that rank, having reached the pinnacle of his career as ComSubPac. For the next two decades, Lockwood wrote prolifically, particularly about his experiences as a submariner and those of some of his favorite skippers. He passed away in 1967. Spike Blandy, at his own request, left BuOrd 10 December 1943 to become Commander, Group 1, Amphibious Force, Pacific Fleet. In this role he oversaw the naval bombardment of Iwo Jima. He later assumed the post of Commander, Cruisers and Destroyers, Pacific Fleet. After the war he commanded Joint Task Force 1 during the atomic bomb tests at Bikini Atoll. He eventually commanded the 2nd Task Fleet and later served as Commander-in-Chief, Atlantic Fleet. Admiral Blandy died 12 January 1954 at the relatively young age of 63. Red Coe, the analytical captain of the Skipjack, who motivated Lockwood’s famous fishing net test in Australia in 1942, died in a depth charge attack while commanding the Cisco. His first patrol on Cisco left Port Darwin, Australia, on 18 September 1943. Coe’s orders again directed him to the fertile and familiar hunting grounds of the South China Sea where he had made his mark in Skipjack those months earlier. On 28 September, while patrolling due west of Negros Island in the Philippines, Cisco came under combined air and surface attack by Japanese ASW forces. The aircraft homed in on an oil slick emanating from the boat; it is unclear if the slick was the result of an earlier attack or related to repairs made on the hydraulic system the day before departing on patrol. Whatever its source, it doomed Coe and the other 75 officers and men of Cisco.16 Mush Morton, the legendary skipper of Wahoo, who at first praised the Mk. 6 and then condemned it, forcing Lockwood’s hand, succumbed to Japanese forces in La Perouse Strait while exiting the Sea of Japan at the conclusion of another successful patrol. John Scott, Norm Nash, and their boat Tunny survived the war. Norm Nash kept in touch with both his old skipper and his old boat. Ten years after his Tunny war patrols, Nash found himself commanding a division of guided missile submarines that included his old wartime home for seven patrols. While commanding the division, Tunny’s skipper got orders to interview with

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A dockside view of USS Tunny. In April 1943, the submarine had the most glorious opportunity of the war—a chance to sink two escort carriers in a single attack. Everything was perfect except the performance of the torpedoes, all of which exploded prematurely. (National Archives)

Admiral Hyman G. Rickover for the nuclear propulsion program. Since Tunny’s XO was not qualified for command, the squadron commodore ordered Nash to take command of Tunny. So, ten years later, Nash stood in the same shoes of the captain he had admired all those years ago, John Scott. Six years after that, Nash commanded a submarine squadron in Yokosuka, Japan, with the Seventh Fleet. Once again, he found his old boat Tunny among his charges. Now in her third incarnation, Tunny served in the special operations community, employing divers on covert missions. Nash, as squadron commodore, flew his flag from Tunny. Nash rode his old boat into war once again, this time off the coast of Vietnam. There, the Tunny bottomed, deployed swimmers, and performed other special operations tasks. Thus Nash most likely became the only submariner in history to ride the same submarine on war patrols in both World War II and Vietnam. The venerable British Mk. VIII torpedo also soldiered on and in 1982 claimed yet another victim in another war, when Commander Christopher

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Wreford Brown of HMS Conqueror fired a spread of three Mk. VIIIs at the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano during the Falklands campaign. As was the case so many times before, the Mk. VIIIs ran true and dispatched of the hapless cruiser. Brown’s submarine contained both the battle-proven Mk. VIII and the newer, high technology Tigerfish torpedoes. In a subsequent interview, Brown claimed he chose the Mk. VIII because of its large warhead and ability to do greater damage. However, one wonders if Brown felt a bit sentimental about the attack, as a single Tigerfish with underkeel detonation should have been able to destroy the World War II-vintage cruiser. Even in the technology-savvy Navy of today, these lessons still hold their value. While the weapons of today far exceed the technical complexity of their World War II predecessors, in relative terms this is not really the case. The modern sailor is highly trained in the operation of these complex systems and still brings the same ingenuity and common sense to the table. The naval weapons procurement bureaucracy would do well to remember this lesson and give careful consideration to ideas that emerge from sailors at sea. History taught the Navy an important lesson about weapon development; application of the principles mentioned above can reduce the possibility of a repeat of this unfortunate chapter in U.S. Naval history.

Epilogue The USS Norfolk, a Los Angeles class nuclear attack submarine, cautiously and deliberately began her attack run on the destroyer in the distance. Conditions were ideal for the attack, and the submarine approached without being detected. Norfolk’s captain, Commander Al Ponessa, obtained one final set of bearings from sonar; periscope bearings are helpful, but unnecessary with modern sonar and torpedo systems. Upon confirming the data with his fire control team, Ponessa gave the order to fire. A single Mk. 48 Advanced Capability (ADCAP) torpedo sped toward the unsuspecting destroyer. Guidance wires attached the torpedo to the Norfolk for its entire run, allowing for constant course and depth corrections provided by the Norfolk’s fire control system. As the ADCAP neared its target, it activated its own onboard sonar system for the terminal guidance phase. The torpedo approached the destroyer at a depth well below its keel. Unlike its World War II ancestor, the ADCAP was not running deep, however. Finally, the ADCAP’s terminal guidance system indicated the torpedo’s position to be directly beneath the destroyer’s keel. At this moment, the guidance system provided this important piece of information to the detonator. Upon receipt of this signal the detonator triggered the explosion of the warhead. The effect of this explosion well beneath the destroyer’s keel was devastating. Effectively, the subsurface explosion created what amounted to a large air bubble that rose to the surface, lifting the destroyer out of the water. As the bubble reached the surface, it collapsed, creating a large void beneath the helpless target. The effect of the bubble pushing the ship upward caused both the bow and stern to bend downward, or “hog.” When the destroyer fell back into the void, the opposite effect occurred, known as “sagging.”

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Onboard the Norfolk, the crew felt two shock waves hit its submarine. The first shock came from the explosion of the warhead. The second one, a bit less severe, came from the pieces of the destroyer’s hull slamming into the ocean’s surface. Captain Ponessa ordered a rapid ascent to periscope depth and placed the image on the Norfolk’s closed-circuit television system. The crew was just able to see the shattered stern section of the destroyer slip beneath the waves. Amazingly, the bow section continued to float, but this was without consequence. The poor destroyer’s days were finished. This event was significant not in terms of combat, but in terms of torpedo development. For this sinking marked the successful culmination of the development of the Mk. 48 ADCAP torpedo. The destroyer was the ex-Jonas Ingram, a long-decommissioned volunteer from the Navy’s extensive mothball fleet. The live-fire exercise took place only after years of research, development, and testing. Captain Ponessa had fired countless exercise torpedoes, maybe more than any skipper in the Navy at that time. The livefire exercise provided him with a fitting reward for his years of service in testing this new weapon. Even more important, the exercise provided the Navy with confidence that its new weapon system would work in combat. Finally, the tests that Ralph Waldo Christie pleaded for in the depression-era 1930s were being conducted during the Cold War-era 1980s. The result was a weapon skippers could employ with confidence, knowing it had been tested under warlike conditions.

Notes Prologue 1. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Tunny (SS-282)— Report of First War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. John A. Scott, File M1752-1141, RG 38, National Archives, ComSubPac Endorsement Letter. 2. Captain Norman C. Nash, USN (Ret.), email correspondence with author, March 28, 2004. 3. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Tunny (SS-282)— Report of First War Patrol,” ComSubDiv 102 Endorsement, 1. 4. Ibid., ComSubRon 10 Endorsement, 1. 5. John D. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes in the Pacific and Far East During World War II: Chronological Listing (Delmar, NY: John D. Alden, 1999), D-48. 6. Ibid., D-49–D-50. Alden lists the convoy’s actual composition (from Japanese records) to be the aircraft carriers Taiyo and Chuyo, the heavy cruiser Chokai, and four destroyers. It is not clear which ship represented the third carrier reportedly seen by Scott, though it seems likely that only the larger Chokai could be mistaken for a third carrier. 7. Accounts in the preceding paragraphs draw heavily from U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Tunny—Report of Second War Patrol,” 3, 5–8, and 25. 8. Captain Norman C. Nash, USN (Ret.), email correspondence with author, March 28, 2004. 9. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Tunny—Report of Second War Patrol,” ComSubRon 10 endorsement. 10. Ibid., ComSubPac endorsement. 11. ULTRA was the code name for information obtained by the Navy’s top-secret code-breaking team. This team solved many of the Japanese high-level encryption

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codes and provided the intelligence from these operations to Admiral Nimitz in time for U.S. forces to prevail at the Battle of Midway. While Midway ranks as ULTRA’s most visible contribution to the Pacific War, many successful submarine attacks originated from information obtained in the ULTRA radio intercepts. Excellent overviews of World War II code-breaking activities are available from Ladislas Farago, The Broken Seal (New York: Random House, 1967); and David Kahn, The Codebreakers (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1967). With the declassification of ULTRA, more details have come to the surface about these activities, and readers should also consult W.J. Holmes’s Double-Edged Secrets (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1979); John Prados’s Combined Fleet Decoded (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1995); and Rear Admiral Edwin T. Layton’s memoirs, “And I Was There” (New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1985).

Chapter 1 1. Even this failed to serve as a deterrent in all cases. Admiral David Glasgow Farragut, during his attack on Mobile Bay in 1862, was fully aware that the Confederates had mined the approaches to Mobile with these torpedoes. Apparently, Farragut was unimpressed by the deterrent effect, as embodied in his famous quote made during the battle, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” Whether due to poor construction, an excessive time submerged, or just plain luck, the torpedoes failed to inflict significant damage on Farragut’s force, and his subsequent victory secured his place in naval history. 2. The Merrimack was left behind in the haste to evacuate Norfolk shortly after hostilities were declared. Hoping to avoid Merrimack’s capture by Confederate forces, Engineer in Chief Benjamin Isherwood successfully brought steam into Merrimack’s engines, but obstructions placed in the Sewell’s Point–Craney Island channel prevented the deep-drafted frigate from making her escape. Left with no alternatives, Union forces burnt Merrimack to the waterline to prevent the Confederates from exploiting her against her former comrades. 3. The Royal Navy’s HMS Warrior, launched in 1860, actually featured all-iron construction of her hull, but such ships were still quite rare at the outbreak of the Civil War. 4. Milton F. Perry, Infernal Machines: The Story of Confederate Submarine and Mine Warfare (Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 1965; reprint, Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 1993), 98–99. 5. Mark K. Ragan, Union and Confederate Submarine Warfare in the Civil War (Mason City, IA: Savas Publishing, 1999), 127–128. 6. Perry, Infernal Machines, 101. 7. Ibid., Infernal Machines, 105. 8. Ragan, Union and Confederate Submarine Warfare, 177. 9. Perry, Infernal Machines, 105. 10. Ibid., 108.

Notes

201

11. Dictionary of American Fighting Ships, Albemarle, www.hazegray.org, 2003, http://www.hazegray.org/danfs/csn/a.txt (retrieved December 17, 2003). 12. Ralph J. Roske and Charles Van Doren, Lincoln’s Commando: The Biography of Commander William B. Cushing, U.S. Navy (Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute, 1995), 198. 13. Ibid., 198. 14. Dictionary of American Fighting Ships. 15. Naval Historical Center, CSS Albemarle (1864–1864), www.history.navy.mil, May 5, 2001, http://www.history.navy.mil/photos/sh-us-cs/csa-sh/csash-ag/ albmrl.htm (retrieved December 17, 2003). 16. Facts quoted in the previous four paragraphs are taken from Roske and Van Doren, Lincoln’s Commando, 204–33. 17. Edwyn Gray, The Devil’s Device: Robert Whitehead and the History of the Torpedo (Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute, 1991), 33. 18. Ibid., 50. 19. Ibid., 57–58. 20. E.W. Jolie, A Brief History of U.S. Navy Torpedo Development, http://num.kpt.nuwc.navy.mil/, 15 September 1978, https://www.keyportmuseum .cnrnw.navy.mil/html/index.htm (retrieved 29 February 2004). 21. Ibid., 10. 22. Gray, Devil’s Device, 108. 23. Ibid., 113. 24. Jolie, A Brief History of U.S. Navy Torpedo Development, 13. 25. Ibid., 8–10. 26. Gray, Devil’s Device, 147. 27. Jolie, A Brief History of U.S. Navy Torpedo Development, 19. 28. Gray, Devil’s Device, 149. 29. Ibid., 151. 30. Norman Friedman, U.S. Submarines Through 1945: An Illustrated Design History (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1995), 24. 31. Ibid., 27. 32. Jolie, A Brief History of U.S. Navy Torpedo Development, 28. 33. Many of the early pioneers in torpedo development applied some form of heating to improve efficiency. Edwyn Gray explores this subject in great detail in his authoritative work Nineteenth Century Torpedoes & Their Inventors (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2004). 34. Jolie, A Brief History of U.S. Navy Torpedo Development, 22. 35. Gray, Nineteenth Century Torpedoes, 164–166. 36. Ibid., 171–172. 37. Jolie, A Brief History of U.S. Navy Torpedo Development, 25. 38. Ibid., 25. This feature did not always work properly, as evidenced by the loss of Tullibee and Tang during World War II.

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39. Naval Historical Center, Dates in American Naval History: May, www.history.navy.mil, April 10, 2003, http://www.history.navy.mil/wars/datesmay.htm (retrieved 30 March 2004).

Chapter 2 1. Lusitania.net. Torpedo, www.lusitania.net, 2003, http://www.lusitania.net/ torpedo.htm (retrieved 26 December 2003). 2. Ibid. 3. Ibid., 26. 4. BuOrd Letter no. 35954 dated 9 August 1918, “Experimental Work,” RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, Box 2699, National Archives. 5. BuOrd Letter no. 35954 dated 7 September 1918, “Experimental Work,” RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, Box 2699, National Archives. 6. BuOrd Letter no. 35954 dated 15 February 1919, “Experimental Work,” RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, Box 2699, National Archives. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. A detailed technical overview of torpedo functions is outside the scope of this document; however, an excellent reference for both the history of U.S. torpedo development and the problems with World War II–era torpedoes is Frederick J. Milford, “U.S. Navy Torpedoes,” Submarine Review (October 1996). 10. BuOrd Letter no. 40563 dated 22 April 1922, “Torpedo Explosion under Vessels,” RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. In one of history’s many ironies, the Chief of BuOrd at the time was Charles Butler McVay, Jr. Slightly more than two decades later, his son, Captain Charles Butler McVay III, skipper of U.S.S. Indianapolis, was sunk by Type 95 torpedoes from a Japanese submarine. This was exactly the type of situation McVay and BuOrd hoped to avoid by encouraging more R&D at Newport. Tragically, his son paid a steep price for Japan’s superiority in this area. 11. O.P. No 632. “Instructions for Care and Upkeep of Mark VI Mod.1. Exploder Mechanisms,” RG 74, National Archives, Technical Publications, 1902–1967. Entry A1 1022 Ordnance Pamphlets Box 99, 4. 12. BuOrd Letter no. 40563/6 dated 3 November 1922, “Magnetic Torpedo Firing Gear,” RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 13. BuOrd Letter no. 40553/7 dated 22 November 1922, “Experimental Work,” RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 14. Data for Annual Torpedo Record, 1924, “Project G-67,” RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 15. O.P. No 632. “Instructions for Care and Upkeep of Mark VI Mod.1. Exploder Mechanisms,” 6. 16. Ibid., 27. 17. Jolie, A Brief History of U.S. Navy Torpedo Development, 77, 81.

Notes

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18. Robert Sahr, Inflation Conversion Factors for Dollars 1665 to Estimated 2013. Orst.edu, 18 December 2003, http://oregonstate.edu/dept/pol_sci/fac/sahr/sahr.htm (retrieved Feb 6, 2004). 19. Clay Blair, Jr., Silent Victory (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1975; reprint, Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 2001), 62 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 20. Theodore Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations in World War II (Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1950), 252. 21. Blair, Silent Victory, 61–62. 22. Ibid., 62. 23. Ibid., 253. 24. Records of the Admiralty, C.B. 3002/27, “Progress in Torpedo, Mining, AntiSubmarine, and Chemical Warfare, 1927,” File ADM 186/461, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 4, 6. 25. Records of the Admiralty, C.B. 3002/29, “Progress in Torpedo, Mining, AntiSubmarine, and Chemical Warfare, 1929,” File ADM 186/476, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 4. 26. Ibid., 9. 27. Records of the Admiralty, C.B. 3002/30, “Progress in Torpedo, Mining, AntiSubmarine, and Chemical Warfare, 1930,” File ADM 186/481, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 4. 28. Records of the Admiralty, C.B. 3002/32, “Progress in Torpedo, Mining, AntiSubmarine, and Chemical Warfare, 1932,” File ADM 186/500, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 3. 29. Records of the Admiralty, C.B. 3002/35, “Progress in Torpedo, Mining, AntiSubmarine, and Chemical Warfare, 1935,” File ADM 186/522, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 4. 30. Records of the Admiralty, C.B. 3002/36, “Progress in Torpedo, Mining, AntiSubmarine, and Chemical Warfare, 1936,” File ADM 186/540, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 7. 31. Records of the Admiralty, C.B. 3002/38, “Progress in Torpedo, Mining, AntiSubmarine, and Chemical Warfare, 1938,” File ADM 186/551, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 13. 32. Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1990; reprint, Da Capo Press, 1997), 484 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 33. Ibid., 96. 34. Peter Padfield, War Beneath the Sea: Submarine Conflict During World War II (New York: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 1998), 44. 35. Admiral Professor Yoˆichi Hirama, “Japanese Naval Preparations for World War II,” Naval War College Review LIV, no. 2 (Spring 1991), 63–64. 36. Comparison of Japanese Torpedoes. www52.tok2.com, 2005, http:// www52.tok2.com/home/BByamato/heisou.html (retrieved 27 November 2005). By the end of the war, both the Type 93 and the Type 95 had even larger warheads, a

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staggering 1,716 pounds for the Type 93 Mod 3 and 1,210 pounds for the Type 95 Mod 2.

Chapter 3 1. Robert C. Stern, Battle Beneath the Waves: U-Boats at War (London: Cassell & Co., 2002), 82. 2. Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days, 57. 3. Clay Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War: The Hunters 1939–1942 (New York: Random House, Inc., 1996), 80. 4. V.E. Tarrant, The U-Boat Offensive 1914–1945 (London: Cassell & Co., 2000), 86. 5. Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 87. 6. Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days, 21. 7. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 14 September 1939, 22, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30250.htm (retrieved 31 December 2005). 8. Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 102–3. 9. Padfield, War Beneath the Sea, 84. 10. Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 115–116. 11. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 31 October 1939, 48, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30250.htm (retrieved 28 October 2005). 12. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], November 14, 1939, 54, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30251.htm (retrieved 28 October 2005). 13. Ibid. 14. Ibid., 81. 15. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 21 January 1940, 82, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30256.htm (retrieved 22 September 2005). 16. Ju¨rgen Rohwer and Gerhard Hu¨mmelchen, Chronology of the War at Sea: 1939–1945 (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1992), 15. 17. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 11 April 1940, 6, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30303.htm (retrieved September 22, 2005). 18. Rohwer and Hu¨mmelchen, Chronology of the War at Sea, 16. 19. Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 149. 20. Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days, 84.

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21. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 11 April 1940, 7, www.uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30303.htm (retrieved 22 September 2005). 22. Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days, 85–86. 23. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 11 April 1940, 9, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30303.htm (retrieved 22 September 2005). 24. Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 150. 25. Jochen Brennecke, The Hunters and the Hunted: German U-Boats, 1939–1945 (New York: Norton, 1958; reprint, Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2003), 52– 56 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 26. Dan van Der Vat, The Atlantic Campaign: World War II’s Great Struggle at Sea (New York: Harper & Row, 1988), 115. 27. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 11 April 1940, 37, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30303.htm (retrieved 22 September 2005). 28. Padfield, War Beneath the Sea, 82. 29. Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days, 87. 30. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines] 19 April 1940, 39, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30303.htm (retrieved 31 December 2005). 31. Van Der Vat, The Atlantic Campaign, 116. 32. G.H. Bennett and R. Bennett, Hitler’s Admirals (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2004), 71. 33. Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 159. 34. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 11 April 1940, 6, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30303.htm (retrieved 22 September 2005). 35. Grand Admiral Erich Raeder, Grand Admiral (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1960; reprint, Da Capo Press, 2001), 317 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 36. Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 159. 37. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 15 May 1940, 68, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30264.htm (retrieved 28 October 2005). 38. Van Der Vat, The Atlantic Campaign, 116. 39. Ibid., 114. 40. Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 161.

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41. Van Der Vat, The Atlantic Campaign, 147. 42. Bennett and Bennett, Hitler’s Admirals, 71. 43. Ibid., 116. 44. Padfield, War Beneath the Sea, 69. 45. Ibid., 73–74. 46. Rohwer and Hu¨mmelchen, Chronology of the War at Sea, 15. 47. Records of the Admiralty, Submarine Patrol Reports, “H.M.S. ‘TRUANT’— Patrol Report—6th April, to 12th April, 1940,” Lt. Cdr. C.H. Hutchinson, File ADM 199/1861, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 2. 48. Records of the Admiralty, Submarine Patrol Reports, “H.M.S. ‘SUNFISH’— Patrol Report—5th April–17th April, 1940,” Lt. Cdr. J.E. Slaughter, File ADM 199/ 1843, National Archives of the United Kingdom, 1. 49. Records of the Admiralty, Submarine Patrol Reports, “H.M.S. ‘SPEARFISH’—Patrol Report—from 2nd April, 1940 to 19th April, 1940,” Lt. Cdr. J.H. Forbes, File ADM 199/1927, National Archives of the United Kingdom, Appendix I. 50. Padfield, War Beneath the Sea, 79. 51. Ibid., 40.

Chapter 4 1. Prien’s daring raid at Scapa Flow has been recounted in numerous sources and is worthy of its own treatment. See Blair, Hitler’s U-Boat War, 104–109 for an excellent description. Prien’s attack was not flawless, however. Only one of the first three torpedoes fired hit and did so with minimal effect. The fourth torpedo fired was a dud. The final three torpedoes all scored and dispatched the aging battleship in 13 minutes [Ju¨rgen Rohwer, Axis Submarine Successes 1939–1945 (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1983), 4]. 2. Cornelius W. Bartholomew, correspondence with author, June 15, 2004. 3. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 4. 4. Ibid., 26. 5. The total number of submarines available to Wilkes had already been decreased by one, for on 8 December the USS Sealion was sunk at her moorings during a Japanese air attack. 6. Cornelius W. Bartholomew, correspondence with author, 15 June 2004. 7. Cornelius W. Bartholomew, Damn the Torpedoes, http://www .submarinesailor.com/, 12 June 2004, http://www.submarinesailor.com /Boats/SS188Sargo/DamnedTorpedoes.htm, (retrieved 12 June 2004). 8. Since the Philippines are west of the International dateline, this corresponds to 7 December 1941, in Hawaii and the Continental United States. 9. Samuel Eliot Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, vol. III (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1950), 169. 10. Bartholomew, Damn the Torpedoes. 11. Blair, Silent Victory, 140.

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12. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Sargo War Patrol Number One—Report of,” Lt. Cdr. Tyrell D. Jacobs, File M1752-816, RG 38, National Archives, Part A, 4–5. 13. Ibid., Part A, 6–8. 14. Bartholomew, Damn the Torpedoes. 15. Sources for the preceding paragraphs are largely drawn from U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Sargo War Patrol Number One—Report of,” Part A, 10–12, 15–16. 16. Ibid., Part G, 1–4. 17. Guessing the tonnage of an enemy vessel under wartime conditions was not easy. Postwar analysis shows that most skippers overestimated the size of their targets. A similar affliction pervaded the aviation community, with bomb damage assessments often dramatically reducing the effects reported by the pilots delivering the ordnance. 18. Blair, Silent Victory, 141. 19. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Sargo War Patrol Number One—Report of,” Part I, 1–2. 20. Bartholomew, correspondence with author, 15 June 2004. 21. Ibid. 22. Ibid. 23. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 33. 24. Ibid., 34. 25. Ibid., 31. 26. Rear Adm. Corwin Mendenhall, Submarine Diary: The Silent Stalking of Japan (Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin Books, 1991; reprint, Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1995), 11 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 27. Blair, Silent Victory, 227. 28. Ibid., 216. 29. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “Report of Third War Patrol —U.S.S. Sculpin,” Lt. Cdr. Lucius F. Chappell, File M1752-850, RG 38, National Archives, Part A, 4. 30. Ibid., Part G, 5. 31. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-10–D-12. 32. RADM Maurice H. Rindskopf, USN (Ret.), correspondence with author, 22 November 2005. 33. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “War Patrol Report—April 14, 1942–June 3, 1942—U.S.S. Skipjack,” Lt. Cdr. James W. Coe, File M1752-963, RG 38, National Archives, Part 7, 2. 34. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “War Patrol Report—April 14, 1942–June 3, 1942—U.S.S. Skipjack,” Part 7, 5. 35. Ibid., Part 1, 12. 36. Ibid., Part 1, 14. 37. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-11. 38. Ibid., D-10–D-11.

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39. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “War Patrol Report—April 14, 1942–June 3, 1942—U.S.S. Skipjack,” Part 9, 4. 40. Ibid., Part 9, 6. 41. W.J. Holmes, Double-Edged Secrets: U.S. Naval Intelligence Operations in the Pacific During World War II (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1979; reprint, Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1998), 75 (page citations are to the reprint edition).

Chapter 5 1. Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days, 199–200. 2. Michael Gannon, Operation Drumbeat (New York: Harper & Row, 1990; reprint, New York: HarperPerennial, 1991), 160–161 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 3. Letter from VADM Adolphus A. Andrews to ADM Ernest J. King dated 22 December 1941, “U-boat Archive–Eastern Sea Frontier–War Diary,” December 1941, www.uboatarchive.net, 2006, http://www.uboatarchive.net/ ESFWarDiaryDec41APP2.htm (retrieved January 22, 2006). 4. Michael Gannon., Operation Drumbeat, 216. 5. Rohwer and Hu¨mmelchen, Chronology of the War at Sea, 115. 6. Gannon, Operation Drumbeat, 233–235. 7. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 17 January 1942, 23, www .uboatarchive.net, 2005, http://www.uboatarchive.net/BDUKTB30303.htm (retrieved 25 June 2005). 8. Ship Details—Malay, www.ubootwaffe.net, 2005, http://www.ubootwaffe.net/ ops/ships.cgi?boat=66;nr=7 (retrieved 3 July 2005). 9. Ship Details—Ciltvaira, www.ubootwaffe.net, 2005, http://www .ubootwaffe.net/ops/ships.cgi?boat=66;nr=7 (retrieved 25 June 2005). 10. Ship Details—Lady Hawkins, www.ubootwaffe.net, 2005, http://www .ubootwaffe.net/ops/ships.cgi?boat=66;nr=7 (retrieved 25 June 2005). 11. Ship Details—Empire Gem, www.ubootwaffe.net, 2005, http://www .ubootwaffe.net/ops/ships.cgi?boat=66;nr=7 (retrieved 25 June 2005). 12. Rohwer and Hu¨mmelchen, Chronology of the War at Sea, 116. 13. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 24 January 1942, 33. 14. Kriegstagebu¨cher Des Fu¨hrers/Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote (F.d.U./B.d.U.) [War Diary of Commander in Chief, Submarines], 29 January 1942, 42.

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Chapter 6 1. Letter from Admiral C.W. Nimitz to Rear Admiral C.A. Lockwood, 9 June 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 2. Lockwood wrote his autobiography in 1967 and the following paragraphs are based on his recollections as recounted in Down to the Sea in Subs (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1967). This section also draws from research done in Lockwood’s papers on file at the Library of Congress in Washington, DC. 3. Ibid., 251. 4. Charles A. Lockwood, Sink ’Em All (New York: Bantam Books, 1984), 9. 5. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “War Patrol Report—April 14, 1942–June 3, 1942—U.S.S. Skipjack,” File M1752-963, RG 38, National Archives, Part 9, 5. 6. Letter from Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood to Vice Admiral H.F. Leary, 4 June 1942. The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 7. Ibid. 8. This is made clear in a letter from Blandy to King dated 27 March 1942, Box 268, RG 38, Records of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives. 9. Letter from Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood to Commander J.W. Suits, 16 June 1942, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 10. Admiral James Fife, Reminiscences of Adm. James Fife (New York: Columbia University Oral History Research Office Collection, 1961–1962), 286. 11. Ibid., 283–284. 12. Ibid., 276. 13. Lockwood, Sink ’Em All, 9. 14. Letter from Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood to Rear Admiral R.S. Edwards, 11 July 1942, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 15. Letter from Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood to Rear Admiral W.H.P. Blandy, 11 July 1942, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 16. Ibid. 17. Letter from Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood to Rear Admiral R.H. English, 1 August 1942. The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 18. ComSubPac message serial 221950 NCR 3545 dated 26 August 1942, Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 19. Letter from Inspector of Ordnance in Charge, Newport Torpedo Station, to RADM W.H.P. Blandy, Chief of Bureau of Ordnance, “Improvement of Mark 14 type Torpedo Depth Performance from Submerged Tubes,” dated 10 September 1942, Box 219, RG 38, Records of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives.

210

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20. Frederick J. Milford, “U.S. Navy Torpedoes (part two),” The Submarine Review (October 1996): 4–5. 21. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-1–D-13. The term “confirmed” sinking refers to a vessel whose loss can be validated by official Japanese records or ULTRA intercepts of Japanese radio messages. Most of the figures in print today rely on the work of the Joint Army-Navy Assessment Committee, known as JANAC. This postwar group was assigned the responsibility of verifying U.S. submarine skippers’ claims of vessels sunk against official Japanese records and ULTRA intercepts. In a large number of cases, the scores reported by each skipper, both in terms of tonnage and vessels sunk, were greatly reduced by the JANAC investigators. Most historians have relied solely on the JANAC figures; however, because there are no other officially accepted compilations and because Japanese records cannot be guaranteed to be complete, the actual truth probably lies somewhere between JANAC and the Force Commanders’ estimates, but most likely closer to JANAC. This uncertainty was exacerbated by the fact that many Japanese records were destroyed during the war, and there is no guarantee that the surviving records told the complete story. Alden’s work quoted here draws on postwar sources unavailable to JANAC and represents, in this author’s opinion, a more accurate assessment of the actual sinkings. 22. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-1–D-7. 23. Commander Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet Confidential Bulletin No. 1-43 dated January 2, 1943, “Torpedoes and Exploders,” Box 1006, RG 80, General Correspondence of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives.

Chapter 7 1. Carl Boyd and Akihiko Yoshida, The Japanese Submarine Force and World War II (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1995; reprint, Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2002), 74–75 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 2. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-3–D-8. 3. Carl Boyd and Akihiko Yoshida, The Japanese Submarine Force, 84–86. 4. Samuel Eliot Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, vol. V, The Struggle for Guadalcanal August 1942–February 1943 (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1950), 18. 5. Winston B. Lewis, The Battles of Savo Island, 9 August 1942 and the Eastern Solomons, 23–25 August 1942 (Washington, DC: Publications Branch, Office of Naval Intelligence, United States Navy, 1943; reprint: Washington, DC: Naval Historical Center, 1993), 9, www.ibiblio.org, 24 July 2002, http://www.ibiblio.org/hyperwar/ USN/USN-CN-Savo/USN-CN-Savo-4.html (retrieved 3 September 2005). 6. Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, vol. V, 45. 7. Lewis, The Battles of Savo Island, 26. 8. Boyd and Yoshida, The Japanese Submarine Force and World War II, 98. 9. Ibid., 99. 10. Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, vol. V, 131–135.

Notes

211

11. Capt. Ben W. Blee, USN (Ret.), Submarine I-19, http://battleshipnc.com, 2005, http://battleshipnc.com/history/bb55/wwii/battles/subi19.php (retrieved 7 September 2005). 12. Dictionary of American Naval Fighting Ships, DD-415: O’Brien III, http:// www.hazegray.org, 2003, http://www.hazegray.org/danfs/destroy/dd415txt.htm (retrieved September 7, 2005). 13. Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, vol. V, 161. 14. Boyd and Yoshida, The Japanese Submarine Force and World War II, 101–102. 15. Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, vol. V, 222. 16. Colin G. Jameson, The Battle of Guadalcanal, 11–15 November 1942 (Washington, DC: Publications Branch, Office of Naval Intelligence, United States Navy, 1944; reprint, Washington, DC: Naval Historical Center, 1993), 17, www.ibiblio.org, July 22, 2003, http://www.ibiblio.org/hyperwar/USN/USN-CN-Guadalcanal/USNCN-Guadalcanal-1.html#phase2 (retrieved September 15, 2005). 17. Ibid., 21. 18. Ibid., 24. 19. Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, vol. V, 256. 20. This section is largely drawn from Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, vol. IV, 296–313.

Chapter 8 1. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 254. 2. Ibid., 216. 3. Vice Admiral James F. Calvert, USN (Ret.), Silent Running: My Years on a World War II Attack Submarine (New York: John Wiley and Sons, Inc., 1995), 52. 4. U.S. Submarine Losses World War II, 5th ed. (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1963), 11. 5. Blair, Silent Victory, 206. 6. Ibid., 206–208. 7. Ibid., 213. 8. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-5. 9. ComSubPac letter dated 9 April 1942, “Mark 6-1 Exploder Mechanism,” Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 10. U.S.S. Haddock (SS-231) letter dated 4 April 1942, “Mark 6, Mod I Exploders —Request for Information Regarding,” Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 11. First endorsement dated 17 April 1942 on U.S.S. Haddock (SS-231) letter dated 4 April 1942, “Mark 6, Mod I Exploders—Request for information regarding,” Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives.

212

Notes

12. Blair, Silent Victory, 226–227. 13. ComSubPac letter dated 22 May 1942, “Effectiveness of Mark 6-1 Exploder Mechanism,” Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 14. Letter from Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood to Vice Admiral R.S. Edwards, 19 August 1942, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 15. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated 19 August 1942, “Assignment of Target Vessel to Narragansett Bay Area for Use with Tests of Magnetic Exploders,” Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 16. Letter from Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood to Captain R.W. Christie, 22 August 1942, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 17. Memorandum from Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood to Commanders Murray, Connolly, and Thorp, 10 September 1942. The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 18. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated 14 September 1942, “Mark 6 Mod. 1 Torpedo Exploders,” Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 19. Letter from Vice Admiral R.S. Edwards to Rear Admiral C.A. Lockwood, 14 September 1942, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 20. Letter from Rear Admiral C.A. Lockwood to Vice Admiral R.S. Edwards, 25 November 1942, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 21. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated 4 December 1942, “Mark 6 Mod. 1 Exploders —Report on Progress Made in Improvement of,” Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 22. Naval Torpedo Station Letter S75-1(We/28510) (G1-MLM) dated 2 January 1943, “Mark 6 Mod. 1 Exploders—Report on Progress Made in Improvement of,” Box 240, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives, 1. 23. Ibid., 2. 24. Ibid., 3. 25. Ibid., 4. 26. Commander Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet Confidential Bulletin No. 1-43 dated 2 January 1943, “Torpedoes and Exploders,” Box 1006, RG 80, General Correspondence of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives. 27. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated 6 January 1943, “Mark 6 Mod. 1 Exploder— Information Regarding,” Box 241, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 28. Forest Sterling, Wake of the Wahoo, 4th ed. (Philadelphia: Chilton Books, 1960; reprint, Placentia, CA: R.A. Cline Publishing, 1999), 72 (page citations are to the reprint edition).

Notes

213

29. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Wahoo—Third War Patrol—Report of,” Lt. Cdr. Dudley W. Morton, File M1752-1146, RG 38, National Archives, 2. 30. Rear Admiral Richard H. O’Kane, Wahoo: The Patrols of America’s Most Famous World War II Submarine (Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1987; reprint, Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1996), 138–139 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 31. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Wahoo—Third War Patrol—Report of,” 3. In Alden’s second edition, pages D-37–D-38, he reports that Harusame, though severely damaged, managed to be salvaged and towed to Truk, then on to Yokosuka for full repairs. 32. Ibid., 10–13. 33. Blair, Silent Victory, 206. 34. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 202. 35. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated February 6, 1943, “Mark 6 Mod. 1 Exploders —Firing of for Contact Hits only,” Box 241, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 36. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Scamp—Report of First War Patrol,” File M1752-843, RG 38, National Archives, 4. 37. Ibid., 4. 38. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-46. 39. “U.S.S. Scamp—Report of First War Patrol,” 14. 40. Comsubpac endorsement to “U.S.S. Scamp—Report of First War Patrol,” File M1752-843, RG 38, National Archives. 41. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated 20 March 1943, “Tests of Torpedo Exploder Mechanism—Request for Vessel or Hulk,” Box 241, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 42. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated 26 April 1943, “Mark 6 Mod. 1 Exploder Mechanisms—Investigation of Deficiencies,” Box 241, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 43. Paul Schratz, Submarine Commander (Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky, 1988), 37. 44. Ibid., 42. 45. Ibid., 43. 46. Ibid., 42–44. 47. Letter from Rear Admiral C.A. Lockwood to Captain James Fife, 26 April 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 48. Letter from Rear Admiral C.A. Lockwood to Rear Admiral W.H.P. Blandy, 19 July 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 49. Letter from Vice Admiral E.L. Cochrane to Blandy, 26 March 1943, RG 38, Correspondence of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives.

214

Notes

50. Memorandum from LCDR H.C. Maynard to Rear Admiral C.A. Lockwood, 6 April 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 12, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 51. Extract from British Submarine Liaison Officer’s Report dated 1 April 1943. Enclosure (A) to Maynard Memo to Lockwood, 6 April 1943. 52. Ibid. 53. Ibid. 54. ULTRA translation of Japanese radio intercept dated 11 April 1943, Box 218, RG 38, Records of the Chief of Naval Operations, Translations of Intercepted Enemy Radio Traffic and Miscellaneous World War II Documentation, 1940–1946, National Archives. ULTRA was the code name for information obtained by the Navy’s topsecret code-breaking team. This team solved many of the Japanese high-level encryption codes, and provided the intelligence from these operations to Admiral Nimitz in time for U.S. forces to prevail at the battle of Midway. While Midway ranks as ULTRA’s most visible contribution to the Pacific War, many successful submarine attacks originated from information obtained in the ULTRA radio intercepts. Excellent overviews of World War II code-breaking activities are available from W.J. Holmes, Double-Edged Secrets (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1979), and John Prados, Combined Fleet Decoded (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1995). 55. Blair, Silent Victory, 413. 56. VADM James F. Calvert, USN (Ret.), letter to author, 21 January 2004. 57. ULTRA translation of Japanese radio intercept dated 12 April 1943, Box 218, RG 38, Records of the Chief of Naval Operations, Translations of Intercepted Enemy Radio Traffic and Miscellaneous World War II Documentation, 1940–1946, National Archives. 58. Blair, Silent Victory, 407. 59. BuOrd message to ComSubPac serial 272348 NCR 2924 dated 27 April 1943, Box 241, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 60. BuOrd letter to CominCh dated 3 May 1943, Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 61. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 258. 62. BuOrd message to ComSubPac serial 071450 NCR 6150 dated 8 May 1943, Box 241, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 63. Lockwood, Sink ’Em All, 93. 64. Letter from Lockwood to King dated 8 May 1943. RG 38, Secret Correspondence of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives. 65. O’Kane, Wahoo, 265. 66. Blair, Silent Victory, 426–27. 67. Harriet [Morton] Bradford, interview with Bryan MacKinnon, www.emackinnon.com, 2005, http://www.emackinnon.com/wahoo-home-frame.html (retrieved August 23, 2005). 68. Lockwood, Sink ’Em All, 93.

Notes

215

69. Letter from Vice Admiral R.S. Edwards to Blandy, dated 27 May 1943, RG 38, Correspondence of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives. 70. Letter from Lockwood to Rear Admiral W.H.P. Blandy, dated 9 June 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 71. Ibid. 72. Ibid. 73. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Trigger—Report of Fifth War Patrol,” File M1752-1116, RG 38, National Archives, 9. 74. Ibid. 75. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-58. 76. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Trigger—Report of Fifth War Patrol,” File M1752-1116, RG 38, National Archives, 17. 77. Ibid. 78. Calvert, Silent Running, 61–62. 79. Letter from Rear Admiral W.H.P. Blandy to Lockwood, 19 June 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 80. Draft of Bureau of Ordnance Circular Letter No. T, “Mark 6 Mod. 1 Exploder Mechanism,” Box 240, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 81. Lockwood, Sink ’Em All, 93. 82. Memo from W.S. DeLany, Assistant Chief of Staff (Readiness) to Rear Admiral T.D. Ruddock, Jr., BuOrd dated 6 July 1943, Box 240, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 83. Letter from Lockwood to Capt. J.A. Fife, 23 June 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 84. Lockwood, Sink ’Em All, 92. 85. Letter from Rear Admiral R.W. Christie to Lockwood, dated 23 June 1943. The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress (both quotes in paragraph taken from same letter). 86. Blair, Silent Victory, 430–31. 87. Ibid., 431. 88. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated 31 August 1943, “Mark 6 Mod. 1 Exploder Mechanism,” Box 240, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 89. Ibid., 3. 90. Blair, Silent Victory, 479. 91. Ibid., 499. 92. Ibid., 504. 93. Ibid., 618.

216

Notes

94. Letter from Rear Admiral R.W. Christie to Rear Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, dated 23 July 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 95. Calvert, Silent Running, 63–64.

Chapter 9 1. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 130. 2. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-13. 3. Mitsuo Fuchida and Masatake Okumiya, Midway: The Battle That Doomed Japan, the Japanese Navy’s Story (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1955; reprint, Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2001), 220 (page citations are to the reprint edition). 4. Blair, Silent Victory, 354–55. 5. Ibid., 352. 6. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Guardfish—Report of First War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. Thomas Klakring, File M1752-369, RG 38, National Archives, 5, 6. 7. Monthly Analysis of Torpedo Performance Sheet #3, September 1942. Box 1006, RG 80, General Correspondence of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives. 8. Capt. Charles R. Rush, USN (Ret.), letter to author, 21 November 2003. 9. Ibid. 10. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Whale—Report of Second War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. John B. Azer, File M1752-1076, RG 38, National Archives, 5–6. 11. Ibid., 8. 12. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-38. 13. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Whale—Report of Second War Patrol,” 9. 14. Ibid., 10. 15. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-39. 16. The description in the preceding paragraphs is primarily drawn from U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Kingfish—Report of Third War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. Vernon L. Lowrance, File M1752-491, RG 38, National Archives, 5–6. 17. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, D-45. 18. Capt. Eric Lloyd Barr, Jr., USN (Ret.), Interview with author, 21 October 2003, Tape #2. 19. The description in the preceding paragraphs is primarily drawn from U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Mingo (SS261)—Report of First War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. Ralph C. Lynch, File M1752-517, RG 38, National Archives, 1–12.

Notes

217

20. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Thresher—Report of Fourth War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. William J. Millican, File M1752-1076, RG 38, National Archives, 20. 21. Ibid., 8. The Thresher patrol is cited as an example; similar experiences are reported in the war patrol reports of many submarines throughout the war. 22. Capt. Charles R. Clark, Jr., Commanding Officer, U.S.S. Sennet (SS-408), 1945, telephone conversation with author, 29 October 2003. 23. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Tinosa—Report of Second War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. Lawrence R. Daspit, File M1752-1096, RG 38, National Archives, Part VII, 2. 24. Ibid., Part VII, 2–3. 25. Ibid., Part VII, 3. 26. Ibid., Part I, 7. 27. Vice Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, Down to the Sea in Subs (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1967), 292. 28. Momsen’s naval career was remarkable in its own right. Early in his career, Momsen experienced frustration at the loss of submarines during training exercises in relatively shallow waters. Prior to World War II, Momsen invented the submarine escape device that bears his name, the Momsen Lung. In 1939 he also led the successful rescue and salvage efforts on the U.S.S. Squalus. Recommissioned as the U.S.S. Sailfish, she went on to a distinguished record of service in the war. See Peter Maas, The Terrible Hours (New York: HarperCollins, 1999), for an account of Momsen’s prewar heroics. 29. Lockwood, Sink ‘Em All, 100. 30. Letter from Blandy to Lockwood dated August 11, 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 31. Letter from Lockwood to Vice Admiral R.S. Edwards dated August 27, 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 32. Adm. Ignatius J. Galantin, Submarine Admiral (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1997), 86. 33. Ibid., 87. Alden, United States and Allied Submarine Successes, lists three other Japanese ships likely sunk by dud torpedoes: Hokuto Maru by Permit on 4 March 1943, Seinan Maru by Scamp on March 20, 1943, and Koyo Maru by Harder on 9 September 1943. 34. Letter from Lockwood to Blandy dated 30 August 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 35. Ibid. 36. Blair, Silent Victory, 438. 37. Lockwood, Sink ‘Em All, 100. 38. The guide rails in the Mark 6 contact exploder ran perpendicular to the torpedo axis, meaning that at impact a substantial friction element was introduced as

218

Notes

the firing pin attempted to run up the rails. Milford, in “U.S. Navy Torpedoes,” provides an excellent technical description, as does Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 259–61. 39. Ron Smith, correspondence with author, 19 July 2004. 40. Letter from Lockwood to Blandy dated 9 September 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 41. Ibid. 42. Lockwood, Sink ‘Em All, 100–1. 43. Lockwood letter to Blandy, 9 September 1943. 44. Milford, “U.S. Navy Torpedoes,” 9. 45. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 260. 46. Thomas B. Buell, Master of Sea Power: A Biography of Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1980), 390. 47. BuOrd Letter S75-1 (26) dated 21 October 1943, “Modification to Firing Pin Guide and Stem of Marks 4 and 6 and Mods Torpedo Exploder Mechanisms,” Box 241, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 48. Letter from Lieutenant Commander R.S. Brod to Lockwood dated 1 December 1943, The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. 49. Letter from Lockwood to Brod dated 7 December 1943. The Papers of Charles Andrews Lockwood, Box 13, Collections of the Manuscript Division, Library of Congress.

Chapter 10 1. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Bluegill—Report of First War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. Eric L. Barr, Jr., File M1752-139, RG 38, National Archives, Part B, 8. 2. Capt. Eric L. Barr, Jr., USN (Ret.), conversation with author, 16 October 2003. 3. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Archer-fish—Report of Fifth War Patrol,” Lt. Cdr. Joseph F. Enright, http://www.ussarcherfish.com/warptrl/ patrol5.htm (retrieved 1 October 2005). 4. Blair, Silent Victory, 816. 5. Ibid., 216. 6. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 263. 7. Blair, Silent Victory, 694. 8. Roscoe, United States Submarine Operations, 263. 9. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945, “U.S.S. Thresher—Report of Fourth War Patrol,” 2. Many captains cite examples of this tactic in their war patrol reports. U.S.S. Thresher is used here since Millican covers evasion tactics in great detail in his report. 10. Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days, 92.

Notes

219

11. BuOrd Memorandum S75-1 (26) dated 12 September 1942, Box 136, RG 74, General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, National Archives. 12. Newport was reluctant to part with its status as sole torpedo supplier to the Navy. When Westinghouse was asked by BuOrd to develop the Mark 18 based on captured German electric torpedoes, Newport was ordered to assist with indoctrinating Westinghouse in the basics of torpedo development. Blair cites multiple instances of complaints from submarine force officers assigned to Mark 18 development that Newport was stonewalling Westinghouse’s requests for assistance. 13. Captain Isaac C. Johnson, Letter, 11 May 1936, File NP1/P9-1. Record Group 80 (Washington, DC: National Archives), quoted in Paul Merkle and Jacqueline McConnell, “A Historically Significant Case of Labor-Management Problems: The Newport Torpedo Plant Before World War II,” Journal of Economics and Finance 18, no. 3 (Fall 1994): 308. 14. Lockwood, Sink ‘Em All, 95. In fairness to the Mark 14, the Mark 18 was not without problems of its own. Early models occasionally experienced circular runs. It was one of these circular runs that doomed the USS Tang and landed its captain, Commander Richard H. O’Kane, and the other surviving crew members in a Japanese POW camp for the duration of the war. His captors were familiar with his record and as a result subjected him to even harsher treatment than was the norm. O’Kane barely survived his captivity. O’Kane was the top-scoring U.S. submarine captain of the war and certainly would have added to his totals had he not been sunk by his own weapon. O’Kane describes the events surrounding this incident in his book, Clear the Bridge!: The War Patrols of the U.S.S. Tang (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1977). The Mark 18 problems were corrected quickly, no doubt a result of the painful lessons learned with the Mark 14. 15. Doenitz, Memoirs: Ten Years and Twenty Days, 97. 16. U.S. Submarine Losses World War II, 57.

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———. The Struggle for Guadalcanal. Vol. 4, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1950. National Archives. General Correspondence of the Bureau of Ordnance, RG 74. PreWWII records are kept at the Archives I building in Washington, D.C. WWII records are kept at the Archives II facility in College Park, MD. Correspondence is separated into boxes and organized according to the version of the Navy Filing Manual in effect at that time. ———. General Correspondence of the Chief of Naval Operations, RG 80. Includes bulletins, notices, and other information, filed by box number at Archives II for WWII. ———. Records of the Chief of Naval Operations, Translations of Intercepted Enemy Radio Traffic and Miscellaneous World War II Documentation, 1940–1946, RG 38. ———. Records of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, RG 38. WWII records are kept at Archives II and are filed by box number and contain classified correspondence between CNO and all subordinate commands, including SubPac, BuOrd, and others. ———. U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports 1941–1945. RG 38. File M1752. Each submarine war patrol report is filed separately with its own ID number in the microfiche files at the National Archives. National Archives of the United Kingdom. Records of the Admiralty, C.B. 3002. Progress in Torpedo, Mining, Anti-Submarine, and Chemical Warfare, 1927. File ADM 186. ———. Records of the Admiralty, Submarine Patrol Reports. File ADM 199. Naval History Division, Office of the Chief of Naval Operations. U.S. Submarine Losses World War II, 5th ed. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1963. O’Kane, Rear Adm. Richard H. Clear the Bridge!: The War Patrols of the U.S.S. Tang. Chicago: Rand McNally, 1977. Reprint, Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1997. ———. Wahoo: The Patrols of America’s Most Famous World War II Submarine. Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1987. Reprint, Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1996. Padfield, Peter. War Beneath the Sea: Submarine Conflict During World War II. New York: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 1998. Perry, Milton F. Infernal Machines: The Story of Confederate Submarine and Mine Warfare. Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 1965. Reprint, Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 1993. Raeder, Grand Admiral Erich. Grand Admiral. Translated by Henry W. Drexel. Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1960. Reprint, Da Capo Press, 2001. Ragan, Mark K. Union and Confederate Submarine Warfare in the Civil War. Mason City, IA: Savas Publishing, 1999. Rohwer, Ju¨rgen. Axis Submarine Successes 1939–1945. Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1983. Rohwer, Ju¨rgen, and Gerhard Hu¨mmelchen. Chronology of the War at Sea: 1939–1945. Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1992.

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Roscoe, Theodore. United States Submarine Operations in World War II. Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1950. Roske, Ralph J., and Charles Van Doren. Lincoln’s Commando: The Biography of Commander William B. Cushing, U.S. Navy. Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1995. Sahr, Robert. Inflation Conversion Factors for Dollars 1665 to Estimated 2013. Orst.edu, December 18, 2003. http://oregonstate.edu/dept/pol_sci/fac/sahr/sahr.htm (retrieved February 6, 2004). Schratz, Paul R. Submarine Commander. Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky, 1988. Sterling, Forest J. Wake of the Wahoo. 4th ed. Philadelphia: Chilton Company, 1960. Reprint, Placentia, CA: R.A. Cline Publishing, 1999. Stern, Robert C. Battle Beneath the Waves: U-boats at War. London: Cassell & Co., 2002. Tarrant, V.E. The U-boat Offensive 1914–1945. London: Cassell & Co., 2000. van Der Vat, Dan. The Atlantic Campaign: World War II’s Great Struggle at Sea. New York: Harper & Row, 1988.

Index Aaron Ward, USS, 127–28 Akatsuki, IJN, 127 Akigumo, IJN: in Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, 126 Albemarle, CSS, 10, 11 Almirante Lynch (Chilean rebel torpedo boat), 15 Amatsukaze, IJN, 127 Amberjack, USS, 124 Anderson, USS: torpedo performance against USS Hornet, 126 Andrews, RADM Adolphus A. (USN): on the state of U.S. defenses against U-boats, 78 Archerfish, USS: attack on IJN Shinano, 186–87 Ark Royal, HMS (British carrier), 41–42 Asagumo, IJN, 127 Astoria, USS, 117–18; loss of, 118 Athenia, 39–40 Atlanta, USS, 127; scuttling of, 128 Australia, HMAS, 117 Azer, LCDR John B.: attack on Heiyo Maru, 166; attack on Iwashiro Maru, 165–66; duds on patrols in USS Whale, 165–67; frustration with torpedo performance, 167

Bagley, USS, 117 Balance chamber, 12 Barb, USS: on patrol with modified torpedoes, 181 Barr, LCDR Eric L. Jr. (CO, USS Bluegill): as XO of USS Kingfish, 169; attack on IJN Yubari, 183–86 Bartholomew, Cornelius (Bart) (Gunner’s Mate, USS Sargo), 60, 61, 63 Barton, USS, 127–29 Benson, CDR Roy S. (CO, USS Trigger): attack on IJN Hiyo, 155–57 Bickford, LCDR Edward (CO, HMS Salmon): attacks on Nu¨rnberg and Leipzig, 55 Blackfish, USS: premature explosions of torpedoes, 159 Blair, Clay, 67; on torpedo defects, 188 Blanco Encalada (Chilean Navy ironclad), 15 Blandy, RADM William H.P. (USN), 134–35; analysis of torpedo attacks and failures, 173–74; cooperation with Lockwood, 156; on firing magnetics at contact depth, 143; introspection on torpedo defects, 190; investigation of Mk. 6 exploder, 138–40; postwar

226

Index

activities, 194; on preoccupation with Mk. 6, 157; recommendation to deactivate magnetic feature in Mk. 15, 137; target ships for testing Mk. 6, 136, 145; tensions with Lockwood, 147, 174; testing guidance for Newport, 136; torpedo performance statistics, 188; warning about prematures at shallow depth, 151 Bliss-Leavitt torpedoes: Mk. 1, 18; Mk. 7, 19, 20, 23 Blue, USS: 117; loss of, 120–21 Bluegill, USS, attack on IJN Yubari, 183– 86 Bole, LCDR John A. (CO, USS Amberjack), 124 Bowfin, USS: success with magnetic exploder, 160 Brockman, LCDR William (CO, USS Nautilus): attack on IJN Kaga, 163 Brod, LT Robert S. (USN): work on alternative to Mk. 6, 181–82 Brown, CDR Christopher Wreford (RN) (CO, HMS Conqueror): in attack on General Belgrano in Falklands War, 196 Buchanan, USS, 117 BuOrd. See Bureau of Ordnance Bureau of Ordnance: admissions of Mk. 6 limitations, 159; cancellation of Project G-67, 27; causes of premature explosions, 146; concerns about lack of prewar testing of Mk. 6, 140; dismissal of Schratz Mk. 6 modifications, 147; dismissal of Taylor inquiry, 135; final arguments for Mk. 6 exploder, 159; guidance to Newport on Mk. 6, 138; “Gun Club,” 22; heading info for magnetic shots, 136; initial investigations of torpedo problems, 189; lifting WWI restrictions on torpedo R&D, 24; Mk. 6 advisories, 157; modifications to Mk. 6 exploders, 154; other factors

in premature explosions, 138; proposal to Newport for influence exploder, 25; redesigned Mk. 6, 181; relationship to Newport Torpedo Station, 22; statistics on premature explosions, 138; testing of Mk. 6, 145; work on alternative to Mk. 6, 181 Bureau of Ships: on influence exploder performance, 147 Callaghan, RADM Daniel J. (USN), 126– 27; death of, 128 Calvert, VADM James F. (USN): on effects of premature explosions, 131– 32; on torpedo defects, 162 Canberra, HMAS, 117; loss of, 118 Chappell, LCDR Lucius H. (CO, USS Sculpin): 66–68, 85; attacks on Naminoue Maru and Sumiyoshi Maru, 124; suggestions for improving torpedo performance, 69 Chester, USS, 125 Chicago, USS, 117; Type 93 attack on, 118 Chokai, IJN, 139–40 Christie, RADM Ralph Waldo (USN), 116, 136, 142; assignment to Newport, 27; blaming captains for failures, 158; deactivates Mk. 6, 161; on deep running and magnetic influence, 131, 136; development of Mk. 6 exploder, 27; development of Mk. 14 torpedo, 29; experiments with modified Mk. 6, 161; as Inspector of Ordnance in Charge, 143; response to Nimitz’s Mk. 6 deactivation order, 158 Chuyo, IJN, 188 Cochrane, VADM E.L. (USN): on influence exploder performance, 147 Coe, LCDR James W. “Red” (CO, USS Skipjack), 85; analysis of torpedo failures, 71–72; death of, 194; first war patrol as CO, 70; loss of confidence in

Index torpedoes, 71; questions anticountermining feature, 72 Colclough, CDR Oswald S. (USN): endorsement to Taylor inquiry on Mk. 6, 135 Commerce raiding: as German U-boat strategy for WWII, 39; by Germany in WWI, 21; Japanese successes, 114; Japanese views on, 113 Cooke, CDR James W. (CSN), 10–11 Cornelius, Dr. E. A.: appointment by Raeder, 45; commission to investigate failures in Norway, 52 Crawford, CDR George “Turkey Neck” (USN): ordering deactivation of Mk. 6’s magnetic feature, 133–34 Cushing, LT William B. (USN), 11 Cushing, USS (torpedo boat), 11 Cushing, USS (WWII destroyer), 127–28; loss of, 128 Dace, USS, 186 Daspit, LCDR Lawrence R. “Dan” (CO, USS Tinosa): conversation with Lockwood on duds, 171; Tonan Maru III attack, 171–73 De Luppis, Giovanni, 12 DeLany, RADM Walter S. (USN), 157 Depth charge attack: description of, 132– 33 Dixon, LT George F. (CSN), 9 Do¨nitz, Grand Admiral Karl: analysis of early torpedo failures, 43; comments on initial Paukenschlag successes, 80; concerns about torpedo performance, 83; on effect of monopoly on weapon development, 191; frustration with T.E.E., 45; frustration with torpedo performance, 46, 48, 50–52; initial abandonment of magnetic pistol, 44; initial response to torpedo failures, 42–45; Norway invasion, 46–51; orders to use magnetic and impact pistol salvoes, 48; Paukenschlag order

227

of battle, 76–77; postwar activities, 194; U-boat philosophy, 39 Drum, USS: first war patrol, 69 Duncan, USS: torpedo attack on IJN Furutaka, 124 Dykers, LCDR Thomas M. (CO, USS Jack): frustration with Mk. 6, 156 Ebert, LCDR Walter G. (CO, USS Scamp): attack on Kohuku Maru, 143; attack on mini convoy, 144; attack on tanker Manju Maru, 144–45; deactivates Mk. 6, 143–44; effect of prematures on morale, 145; loss of confidence in Mk. 6, 145 Edwards, VADM Richard S. “Dicky” (USN), 136, 174; preference for British Mk. VIII torpedo, 138 Emile Bertin (French cruiser), 47 English, RADM Robert H. (USN), 96, 97, 99, 142; assuming command of Submarines, Pacific, 67; blaming crews for torpedo failures, 67; death in plane crash, 143; on deep running and magnetic influence, 135; orders subs to fire for contact hits, 140 Enright, LCDR Joseph F. (CO, USS Archerfish): attack on IJN Shinano, 186–87 Enterprise, USS: in Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, 125 Ericsson, John, 8, 14 E.W. Bliss Company: Adder class submarine torpedoes, 18; assistance to Newport on Mk. 10, 23; end of USN affiliation, 23; manufacturer of Whitehead torpedoes, 15; production of B-L Mk. 7, 19 Exploder mechanisms: British experiments with magnetic exploders, 32; British Type 3 contact pistol, 34; U.S. Mk. 3, 20; Whitehead War Nose Mk. 1, 15

228

Index

Fanad Head (British freighter): attack by U-30, 40–41 Fenno, LCDR Frank W. (CO, USS Trout): discussion on torpedo performance, 133; success with magnetic exploder, 134 Fife, CAPT James (USN), 147, 158 Fiske, Admiral Bradley (USN): patent for magnetic influence exploder, 27 Fletcher, USS, 127, 129 Flusser, CDR Charles W. (USN), 10 Forbes, ADM Sir Charles (RN): Norway invasion force, 47 Forbes, CDR J.H. (CO, HMS Spearfish), 57 Fortune, HMS, attack and sinking of U-27, 42 Franz, Korvettenkapita¨n Johannes (CO, U-27): torpedo failures, 42 Furutaka, IJN, 118; loss of, 124 G7a torpedo (Germany), 43–45, 75; characteristics, 35; mechanical flaw in, 43; use contact pistol only, 43 G7e torpedo (Germany), 41, 43, 44, 50, 79, 84; cable layout problems, 43; characteristics, 35; premature explosions, 43; recovery by USN, 84; in U-39 attack on HMS Ark Royal, 41– 42 G7v torpedo (Germany): test platform for magnetic pistol, 35 Galantin, LCDR Ignatius J. “Pete” (CO, USS Halibut), 180; duds in attack on Taibun Maru, 175–76; testing of modified exploders, 181 Gartavon (British freighter): attack by U-47, 40 Gato, USS, 73 German torpedo failures: concerns about failures in Paukenschlag, 83; court of inquiry into failures, 54; deep running, 41, 43, 44; gyro angling gear, 43; leading to U-boat losses, 42;

Norway invasion, 46–51; by U-25 early in war, 44; by U-27 early in war, 42; by U-30, 39; by U-37 with “fixed” pistols, 53; by U-39 against HMS Ark Royal, 41–42; by U-46 early in war, 43; by U-47 early in war, 40; by U-49 early in war, 45; in U-123 attack on Norness, 79 Glattes, Korvettenkapita¨n Gerhard (CO, U-39), 41–42 Godfrey, ADM John (RN), 77 Gossler, Korvettenkapita¨n Curt von (CO, U-49), 45 Grayling, USS: success with Mk. 6, 135 Greenman, CAPT William G. (CO, USS Astoria), 118 Grenadier, USS, 135 Griffith, LCDR Walter T. (CO, USS Bowfin): success with Mk. 6, 160 Grouper, USS: premature explosions of Mk. 6, 158 Guardfish, USS, 164 Gudgeon, USS, 124 guerre de course. See Commerce raiding Haddo, USS: experiments with modified Mk. 6, 161 Halibut, USS, 175–76 Hardegen, Korvettenkapita¨n Reinhard (CO, U-123): attack on Ciltvaira, 81; attack on City of Atlanta, 81; attack on Coimbra, 80; attack on Malay, 81; attack on Norness, 79; attacks on Dimitrios Inglessis and Cyclops, 78; results of Paukenschlag patrol, 82 Harusame, IJN, 127; attack by USS Wahoo, 141 Hawk, LCDR Earle C. (CO, USS Pompon): premature explosions of torpedoes, 161 Heiyo Maru, 166, 168 Helena, USS, 127, 129; torpedo damage to, 176 Helm, USS, 117 Hiei, IJN, 127–28

Index Hill, CAPT Thomas (USN): urges Lockwood to deactivate Mk. 6, 153 Hiyo, IJN, 188 H.L. Hunley, CSS, 8–10 Hobart, HMAS, 117 Holland, John (submarine inventor), 17– 18 Holmes, LT Wilfred J. “Jasper” (USN), 73 Hoover, CAPT Gilbert C. (CO, USS Helena), 129 Hornet, USS, 121; in Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, 125–26 Horton, VADM Sir Max (RN), 55 Hottel, LCDR Martin P. “Spike” (CO, USS Grouper): on Christie’s decision to continue using the Mk. 6, 159 Housatonic, USS, 15, 17 Howell, LCDR J.A. (USN), 13, 15 Huascar (Peruvian ironclad), 13 Hunley, Horace L., 8, 9 Hutchinson, LCDR C.H. (CO, HMS Truant), 56 I-6, IJN: attack on USS Saratoga, 114 I-18, IJN, 114 I-19, IJN, 122 I-26, IJN, 129 I-168, IJN: attacks on USS Yorktown and Hammann, 115 I-176, IJN: attack on USS Chester, 125 Ikazuchi, IJN, 127 Inazuma, IJN, 127 Indianapolis, USS: prewar testing of Mk. 6, 140 Infernal machines. See Mines Interception-attrition operations: development of, 36; outranging, 37 Intikbah (Turkish revenue cutter), 14 Iwashiro Maru, 166 Jack, USS: attack on ASW vessel, 156 Jacobs, LCDR Tyrell D. (CO, USS Sargo), 85, 161; investigation into torpedo

229

performance, 62, 63; orders adjustments for deep running, 64; orders deactivation of Mk. 6 magnetic feature, 62; relation with crew, 61; relieved of command, 66; report on torpedo defects, 65; torpedo expertise, 62 Johnson, LCDR Ellis A. (USN): on BuOrd instructions for Mk. 6 use, 157 Joint Army-Navy Assessment Committee (JANAC), 188 Juneau, USS, 127–29 Junyo, IJN: in Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, 126 Kaga, IJN, attack by USS Nautilus, 163 Kahoolawe Island: tests of torpedoes against, 173 Kako, IJN: loss of, 119 Kelly, Boatswain’s Mate John: recovery of dud torpedo, 177 Kinashi, CDR Takaichi (CO, I-19), 122 King, ADM Ernest J. (USN): appointment as CNO, 78; approval to use modified Mk. 6, 181; desire to replace Mk. 6, 154; rejection of increased arming distance, 152 King, CAPT J.L. (USN): concerns with torpedo documentation, 137 King, LT William (CO, HMS Snapper), 57 Kingfish, USS, 168–69, 183 Kinkaid, RADM Thomas C. (USN), 129; orders Christie to deactivate Mk. 6, 161 Kinugasa, IJN, 118 Kirishima, IJN, 127 Kirk, CAPT Alan G. (USN), 77 Kirk, LCDR Oliver G. (USN): orders to BuOrd, 176 Klakring, LCDR Thomas (CO, USS Guardfish): duds on patrols, 164–65 Kummetz, Konteradmiral Oskar: appointment as T.E.E. head, 46

230

Index

Laffey, USS, 127, 129 Lay, John L.: spar torpedo development, 11, 14 Lemp, Kapita¨nleutnant Fritz-Julius (CO, U-30): attack on Athenia, 39–40; attack on Fanad Head, 40–41 Lent, LCDR Willis A. (CO, USS Grenadier): attack on Taiyo Maru, 135 Lexington, USS, 115 Lockwood, VADM Charles A. (USN), 136, 142, 163; actions to investigate failures, 137; asks Nimitz to deactivate Mk. 6, 158; assuming command of SubPac, 143; complaints about torpedo misses, 136; concern about electric detonators, 182; concerns about countermeasures, 137; confidence in Blandy, 154; correspondence with Blandy on duds, 176; on deep running and magnetic influence, 131, 136; describing drop tests, 179; discussions with Blandy in D.C., 147; frustration with duds, 171; frustration with Mk. 6, 136, 154; isolation of contact exploder defect, 171, 173; on Japanese torpedoes, 176; optimism on torpedo situation, 138; postwar activities, 194; on replacing Mk. 6 with Mk. 3 exploder, 176; on results of Mk. 6 modifications, 158; retesting Mk. 14 depth performance, 175; theories on causes of duds, 175; ULTRA data on torpedo failures, 153 Lowrance, LCDR Vernon L. “Rebel” (CO, USS Kingfish), 183; duds in attack on Tenryugawa Maru, 168–69 Lusitania, RMS, 21, 22, 40 Lynch, LCDR Ralph C. “Red” (CO, USS Mingo): duds on patrols, 169–70 Mackerel, USS, 146 Magnetic exploders: proposal from BuOrd, 25; initial U.S. research, 25– 27; Project G-53, 26, 27; Project G-67,

27; test against submarine L-8, 27; German testing of, 35; effect on ship’s keel, 35, 36 Makigumo, IJN: in Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, 126 Mark 3 exploder mechanism, 27; as alternative to Mk. 6, 189 Mark 5 exploder mechanism: as alternative to Mk. 6, 189 Mark 6 exploder mechanism, 67, 69; analysis of dud failures, 177; arming distance for, 134, 137, 151–52; benefits of, 60; captains’ mistrust of, 131; complexity of use, 151; dangers posed to submarine firing premature torpedoes, 170; deactivation of magnetic feature, 133; description of components, 27–28; difficulties in isolating defects, 170; drop tests at Pearl Harbor, 177–80; duds in attack on Tonan Maru III, 171; duds in contact mode, 169; duds on USS Halibut patrols, 175–76; duds on USS Kingfish patrols, 168–69; duds on USS Mingo patrols, 169–70; duds on USS Nautilus patrols, 163; duds in USS Salmon, 176; duds on USS Tautog patrols, 164; duds on USS Thresher patrols, 165; duds on USS Trout patrols, 164; duds on USS Whale patrols, 165–68; Edwards’s opinion of, 138; effect of higher speed on, 180; effect of moisture on, 139; effect of shallow depth settings on, 148; effects of degaussing, 137, 139; electric firing of, 29; failures in Grenadier attack, 135; failures in USS Tunny attack, 150–51; impeller shaft torque, 146–47; limitations of, 159; Nimitz orders deactivation of, 158; positive feedback from Withers, 135; prematures with magnetic feature disabled, 174–75; reliability of, 133; results of drop tests, 180; secrecy precautions for, 31;

Index solution to dud problem, 181; statistics on premature explosions, 138; success on USS Wahoo patrols, 141–42; testing at Kahoolawe, 176–77; testing beneath target ship, 139; testing during development, 30, 136; wartime testing of, 136 Mark 6 Mod 5 exploder mechanism, 183, 186 Mark VIII torpedo (Royal Navy), 57; in attack on General Belgrano in Falklands War, 195–96; comparison to USN Mk. 14, 33, 148; confidence in, 149; development of, 32; initial performance, 33; performance in Norway campaign, 57–58; preference for, 138 Mark 10 torpedo: in attack on IJN Kako, 141–42; in attack on Meiyo Maru, 116; comparison with Mk. 14, 29; development of, 23, 27 Mark 13 torpedo, 180 Mark 14 torpedo, 138, 155, 169; in attack on IJN Yubari, 186; comparison with Mk. 10, 29; comparison with RN Mk. VIII, 33, 148; components, 29–30; cost, 30; deep running, 64, 135, 174; development of, 29–30; exercise heads, 64–65; peacetime training with, 60; performance in Philippines and Dutch East Indies, 189; premature explosions of, 61–62; proper functioning of, 124– 25; reports of poor performance, 67; successes in Guadalcanal campaign, 124; in USS Sargo’s first patrol of the war, 76–80 Mark 15 torpedo, 124; in attack on IJN Hiei, 128–29; in Battle of Tassafaronga, 130; deactivation of magnetic feature, 137; defects in, 130; depth testing of, 137; failures in USS Hornet sinking, 126; in Naval Battle of Guadalcanal, 129; sinking of IJN Akatsuki, 128

231

Mark 18 torpedo, 191 Mark 23 torpedo: in attack on IJN Yubari, 186 Marusame, IJN, 127 Maynard, LCDR Henry C. (USN): report on torpedo performance, 148 McCallum, LCDR James L.P. (CO, USS Bowfin): experiments with modified Mk. 6, 161 McCann, CDR Allan R. (USN), 99; on duds with Mk. 6, 164 McClintock, James, 8, 10 Mendenhall, LT Corwin (Torpedo Officer, USS Sculpin): discussing torpedo failures with Rhymes of USS Sargo, 66 Merrimack, USS, 7. See also CSS Virginia Miers, LCDR Tony (RN): report on USN torpedo problems, 148–50 Mikawa, VADM Gunichi (IJN), 137–39, 142 Millican, LCDR William J. “Moke” (CO, USS Thresher): duds on patrols, 165 Mines, 7; with magnetic exploders in WWI, 24 Mingo, USS, 169–70 Minneapolis, USS, 129 Momsen, CAPT Charles B. “Swede” (USN), 99, 173 Monitor, USS, 8 Monssen, USS, 117, 127–28 Moore, LT John R. “Dinty” (CO, USS S-44): attack on IJN Kako, 141–42 Morton, LCDR Dudley W. “Mush” (CO, USS Wahoo): success with Mk. 6, 141– 42; failures with Mk. 6, 153–54; death of, 194 Munson, LCDR Henry G. (CO, USS S-38): attack on Meiyo Maru, 116 Muskallunge, USS: tests of Mk. 6 contact exploder, 173, 176 Mustin, USS: torpedo failures against USS Hornet, 126

232

Index

Naganami, IJN, 129 Nagara, IJN, 127 Nagumo, VADM Chuichi (IJN), 125 Nash, Capt. Norman C. (USS Tunny): postwar activities, 194 Nautilus, USS, 163 Naval battles: Cape Esperance, 124; Eastern Solomons, 121; Guadalcanal, 126–29; Midway, 135–36; Santa Cruz Islands, 125; Savo Island, 117–19; Tassafaronga, 129 New Orleans, USS, 130 Newport Torpedo Station: construction of factory, 19; development of Mk. 3 exploder, 20; discussions with OSRD on Mk. 6, 146; documentation for Mk. 6, 137; first torpedo design, 13; founding of, 13; investigation into Mk. 6 problems, 138; labor unrest, 191; manufacturing practices, 24; post-WWI research, 24–25; prewar testing of Mk. 6, 136; Project G-53, 26–27; Project G-67, 27; Project G-156, 27; resistance to research, 24; target ships for testing, 136, 145 Niagara, USS: as testbed for Mk. 6, 139 Nimitz, ADM Chester W. (USN), 87; orders deactivation of Mk. 6, 161 Nimitz, LCDR Chester W. Jr. (CO, USS Haddo): experiments with modified Mk. 6, 161 North Carolina, USS: attack by I-19, 123 Northampton, USS, 125–26; loss of, 130 Norway campaign, 47–51; British torpedo successes, 57–58 O’Bannon, USS, 127, 129 O’Brien, USS: attack by I-19, 123 Oehrn, Korvettenkapita¨n Viktor (CO, U37), 53 O’Kane, LCDR Richard H. (USN), 141, 153 O’Leary, CDR Forrest M. (USN): depth control concerns with Mk. 14, 135

Operation Drumbeat, 75–77 Orzel (Polish submarine): attack on Rio de Janeiro (German transport), 55 Paddle, USS, 184 Parks, LCDR Lewis S. (CO, USS Pompano): premature explosions of torpedoes, 131 Patterson, USS, 117 Paukenschlag. See Operation Drumbeat Pensacola, USS, 130 Perch, USS: early torpedo failures, 66 Permit, USS: early torpedo failures, 66 Pickerel, USS: early torpedo failures, 66 Pieczentkowski, LCDR Herman A. “Pi” (CO, USS Sturgeon): attack on Katsuragi Maru, 124; orders to BuOrd, 147, 156, 176; supervising drop tests, 177, 179, 182 Pizey, LCDR E.F. (CO, HMS Triton), 57 Pompano, USS: attack on IJN Shokaku, 151, 187–88 Pompon, USS: premature torpedo explosions, 161 Portland, USS, 127–29 Prien, Korvettenkapita¨n Gu¨nther (CO, U-47): early war torpedo failures, 40; failures in Norway, 49–51; frustration with torpedoes, 51 Priesenordnung. See Prize Regulations Prize Regulations, 39–40 Project G-53, 140 Quincy, USS, 117; Type 93 attack on, 118 Raeder, Grand Admiral Erich: appointment of commission to investigate Norway failures, 52; organizational changes in torpedo R&D, 45; replacement of Wehr, 46; response to torpedo defect reports, 43 Ralph Talbot, USS, 117 Ramage, LCDR Lawson P. “Red” (CO, USS Trout), duds on patrols, 164

Index Rhymes, LT Douglas (Torpedo officer, USS Sargo), 64–66 Rice, LCDR Robert H. (CO, USS Drum), 69 Rindskopf, LT Maurice H. (USS Drum), 69 Roberts, F.H. (Inspector of Ordnance in Charge, Newport), 139 Rochefort, CDR Joseph J. (USN), 73 Roscoe, Theodore, 188 Rothesay Castle (British freighter), attack by U-49, 45 Ruddock, RADM T.D. (USN), 157 Rush, LT Charles (USS Thresher), 165 Ryujo, IJN: loss of, 121 Sailfish, USS: sinking of IJN Chuyo, 189 Salmon, HMS (British submarine), 55 Salmon, USS: early war failures, 66; dud torpedo, 176 Samidare, IJN, 127 San Francisco, USS, 127–29 San Juan, USS, 117 Saratoga, USS, 121, 129, 135, 136 Sargo, USS: attack on mini convoy, 62– 63; attack on second mini convoy, 63; attack on third mini convoy, 64; first attack of war, 61–62; first patrol results, 65; premature torpedo explosions, 131 Scamp, USS: premature torpedo explosions, 143–44 Schratz, LT Paul R. (USS Scorpion): modifications to Mk. 6, 146–47 Schu¨tze, Victor (CO, U-25), 44 Schultze, Korvettenkapita¨n Herbert (CO, U-48), 47–49 Schwartzkopff torpedo: use in SinoJapanese War, 16–17 Schwieger, Kapita¨nleutnant Walther (CO, U-20), 22 Scorpion, USS, 146–47 Scott, RADM Norman (USN), 126; death of, 127

233

Sculpin, USS, 69, 124 Seal, HMS (British submarine): capture by German forces, 53 Seale, CDR A.G.L. (CO, HMS Trident), 56 Searaven, USS, 66 Shah, HMS, 13 Shiretoko (Japanese oiler), 167 Shoan Maru, 167 Shokaku, IJN, 186, 188 Silent running, 132 Silversides, USS: premature torpedo explosions, 159 Sinope (Russian torpedo boat), 14 Skipjack, USS, 71; premature torpedo explosions, 70 Slaughter, LCDR J.E. (CO, HMS Sunfish), 56–57 Smith, Torpedoman Ron “Warshot” (USN): on drop tests, 177–78; torpedoman’s view of Mk. 14, 179 Snapper, HMS (British submarine), 57 Snapper, USS, early war failures, 66 Sohler, Korvettenkapita¨n Herbert (CO, U-46), 43 Soryu, IJN, 163 Spearfish, HMS (British submarine): attack on Lu¨tzow, 57 Spearfish, USS: early war failures, 66 Sterett, USS, 127–29 Stiletto, USS (first U.S. torpedo boat), 23 Stovall, LCDR William S. (CO, USS Gudgeon): attack on Choko Maru, 124 Sturgeon, USS, 124; early war failures, 66 Submarine, invention of, 17 Submarine losses (U.S. Navy), 189 Sunfish, HMS (British submarine), 56– 57 Swordfish, USS: early war failures, 66 Taibun Maru, 176 Taiyo, IJN, 188 Tambor, USS: success with Mk. 6, 135; premature torpedo explosions, 174

234

Index

Tanabe, LCDR Yahachi (CO, I-168), 115 Tanaka, RADM Raizo (IJN): in Battle of Tassafaronga, 129 Tarpon, USS: early war failures, 66 Tautog, USS, 164 Taylor, LCDR Arthur H. (CO, USS Haddock): inquiry to BuOrd on Mk. 6, 134; vindication of inquiry, 137 Tchesma (Russian torpedo boat), 15 Tenryu, IJN, 118 Tenryugawa Maru, 169 Teruzuki, IJN, 127 “The Secret.” See Balance chamber Thresher, USS, 135, 165 Tinosa, USS, 171–73 Tonan Maru III, 171 Torbay, HMS, 150 Torpedo Directorate (Kriegsmarine). See Torpedo Experimental Establishment (Kriegsmarine) Torpedo Experimental Establishment (Kriegsmarine): acknowledgment of deep running, 44; admission of defects, 46; experiments with magnetic pistols, 35; initial defect discoveries, 43; response to claims of torpedo problems, 42–43; response to Norway crisis, 52 Torpedo Inspectorate (Kriegsmarine): comments on defects, 46 Torpedoes: Barber, 14; Cunningham rocket, 15; Ericsson, 14; first exploder for, 15; heating air, 18; Howell flywheel, 13, 15; Lay, 14; as mines, 7; in Russo-Japanese War, 18–19; SimsEdison, 15; in Sino-Japanese War, 16– 17; spar torpedoes, 8, 11, 12; USN use in WWI, 20. See also Bliss-Leavitt torpedoes; G7a torpedo; G7e torpedo; G7v torpedo; Mark VIII torpedo; Mark 10 torpedo; Mark 13 torpedo; Mark 14 torpedo; Mark 15 torpedo; Mark 18 torpedo; Mark 23 torpedo;

Schwartzkopff torpedo; Type 91 torpedo; Type 93 torpedo; Type 95 torpedo; Whitehead torpedo Trident, HMS (British submarine), attack on Posidonia, 56 Trigger, USS, 187–88; attack on IJN Hiyo, 155–57 Triton, HMS (British submarine), 57 Triton, USS: use of large torpedo spreads, 133 Trout, USS, 164; success with Mk. 6, 134 Truant, HMS (British submarine): attack on Karlsruhe, 56 Tunny, USS, 187–89; 194–95; attack on carrier formation, 150–51 Turner, RADM Richmond K. “Kelly” (USN), 117 Type 91 torpedo (Japan), 113 Type 93 torpedo (Japan), 113, 117–19; 123; attack on USS Barton, 128; attack on USS Juneau, 128; attack on USS Portland, 128; in Battle of Tassafaronga, 129–30; development of, 37; in Naval Battle of Guadalcanal, 129; at Savo Island, 119; sinking of USS Blue, 120–21; sinking of USS Hornet, 126 Type 95 torpedo (Japan), 113–15, 121, 125; attack on USS Juneau, 129; in attacks on USS Wasp, North Carolina, and O’Brien, 122–23; development of, 37; success against U.S. carriers, 156 U-20: attack on Lusitania, 22 U-25: early failures, 44; in Norway, 47–48 U-27: torpedo failures, 42 U-30: attack on Athenia, 39–40; attack on Fanad Head, 40–41 U-37: patrol with “fixed” torpedoes, 53 U-39: attack on HMS Ark Royal, 41–42 U-46: torpedo failures, 43 U-47, 49 U-48, 48–49 U-49, 45

Index U-51, 47–48 U-66: in Operation Drumbeat, 82 U-123: in Operation Drumbeat, 78–82 U.S. Naval Torpedo Station. See Newport Torpedo Station ULTRA: use in validating torpedo failures, 150–51, 153 Unrestricted submarine warfare: attack on Lusitania, 21; British view of, 55 Vincennes, USS, 117, 186; loss of, 118 Virginia, CSS, 7 Wahoo, USS, 141, 142, 153 Warspite, HMS (British battleship), 48 Wasp, USS, 121; loss of, 122 Watson, Baxter, 8 Wehr, Oskar: fired by Raeder, 46 Westinghouse Corporation: development of Mk. 18, 191 Whale, USS, 165–68 Whitehead, Robert, 12, 13 Whitehead torpedo: combat debut, 13; depth control problems, 12; early development, 12; first confirmed sinking with, 15; introduction of exploder, 15; Mk. 2 submarine torpedo, 18; Mk. 5, 18, 19; Mk. 5 production at Newport, 19; RN

235

licensing of, 13; use by Russian Navy, 14 Wilkes, CAPT John (Commander Submarines, Asiatic Fleet), 60, 64, 67 Willingham, LCDR Joseph (CO, USS Tautog): duds on patrols, 164 Withers, RADM Thomas (USN), concerns about arming distance, 134; endorsement to Mk. 6, 135; spread doctrine with Mk. 6, 133 Wright, RADM Carleton H. (USN): in Battle of Tassafaronga, 129 Yokota, CDR Minoru (CO, IJN I-26), 129 York, HMS (British cruiser), 47 Yorktown, USS, 115 Yubari, IJN, 140, 141, 184–86 Yudachi, IJN, 127–28 yuˆgeki zengen sakusen. See interceptionattrition operations Yukikaze, IJN, 127 Zapp, Fregattenkapita¨n Richard (CO, U66), 82 Ziethen Group: U-boat patrols in North Atlantic, 80 Zuikaku, IJN: in Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, 126

About the Author ANTHONY NEWPOWER is a 1989 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy and a former naval officer. An avid student of World War II naval history, Newpower has lectured on submarine warfare at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas. He has conducted dozens of interviews with submarine veterans of World War II and maintains a regular correspondence with a number of submarine veterans who played important roles in the torpedo crisis. He lives in Cambridge, United Kingdom, with his wife Christine and their three children Paul, Sarah, and Grace.

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