A Full Life: Reflections at Ninety (7 page)

At the same time, I was fascinated as never before by the submarine force, including its proud history and the mandatory intimacy of all the members of the crew. Although some of the enlisted men could concentrate almost exclusively on their own fields of responsibility as enginemen, electricians, torpedo experts, boatswains, quartermasters, gunners, or operators of navigation or fire control equipment, every officer was expected to master all these disciplines. We knew that one mistake in judgment, a lack of knowledge, or an error in opening or closing a valve could endanger everyone onboard.

I was at submarine school in November 1948 and discovered that I was the only student there who planned to vote for Harry Truman. The other officers thought that he was too liberal on economic matters, gave inadequate attention to defense issues, and had no chance to win. His commitment to racial equality was never mentioned, but it may have been a factor. Rosalynn and I became tired of trying to defend his record in the mess hall or when we were with any of the other students in our private quarters, all of whom voted for Thomas Dewey. No one wanted to talk to us after Truman’s victory.

I was assigned to the USS
Pomfret
(SS-391) on graduation from submarine school and had to hurry to its base in Honolulu before it departed
three days later on an extended cruise to the Western Pacific. Rosalynn decided that she and Jack would stay in Plains with our relatives for about four months until my return to our home port. The
Pomfret
was one of the 320 standard types of submarines that served during World War II, of which 132 were almost identical to it. They were designed for seventy-five-day patrols, and from Hawaii could cover the entire Pacific Ocean with their normal range of twelve thousand miles, at an average cruising speed of ten knots. Each ship had a crew of about seventy-five men and officers.

A submarine has a very strong inner cigar-shaped hull, which will withstand pressure at maximum operating depth (then about 450 feet under normal conditions), and ballast tanks surrounding this hull, which hold diesel oil or are kept empty on the surface and filled with seawater when it is time to dive. When the vessel is surfaced, about 80 percent of the pressure hull is below water level, and we had a slatted wooden deck on which the crew could walk when we were in port or cruising in calm weather. At the bow, this deck was about 10 feet above the water level, but at the stern this “freeboard” was only 4 feet. Our pressure hull was 16 feet in diameter and 312 feet long, and we lived within this space with our engines, torpedoes, and batteries. On top of this hull was a small pressurized cylinder known as the “conning tower,” from which we could raise the slender periscope above the surface while the ship was submerged and survey the surrounding area without being detected.

Our primary offensive armament was twenty-four torpedoes, stored and launched from directly ahead or astern of the ship, which could turn to a preset course. In addition, we had a five-inch-diameter gun located on the main deck just aft of the conning tower, 20-mm and 40-mm antiaircraft weapons above the main deck forward and aft of the conning tower, and a heavy 50-caliber machine gun that could be used against aircraft or small surface ships.

These submarines were propelled on the surface with a top speed of about fifteen knots by diesel engines, and by 252 batteries while submerged. The batteries had to be charged while on the surface. Although each of them weighed about a ton, they had very limited total energy
to propel the ship and run all the equipment while we were submerged. We could cruise for about sixty miles if we crept along at only two knots, but at a maximum speed of thirteen knots—to get close to a moving target—the batteries lasted only half an hour, giving us a range of about seven miles. These limitations established our normal routine of operating on the surface when it was dark while charging our batteries and making progress toward our destination but remaining concealed and at low speed during daylight hours. At that time we had no way to draw air down into a submerged submarine to be breathed and to permit the diesel engines to run. The “snorkel” system was first made operational in a U.S. ship in 1947 but was not widely used when I began my submarine duty.

When our ship surfaced, the duty officer and two lookouts would open a sealed hatch and hurry upward from the conning tower through a steel tube to the bridge. The floor on which the officer stood was slatted like the main deck and about ten feet above the surface of the sea. The lookouts had a place to stand alongside the periscope tower, with their feet a short distance above the duty officer’s head. With excellent training, we could resubmerge in about thirty seconds when necessary, by flooding the ballast tanks and turning our bow and stern planes downward as we moved forward rapidly.

I was familiar with these basic facts when I arrived on the ship, having operated on similar submarines while in training, and I was soon authorized by Captain J. B. Williams, Jr., to join the other watch officers who carried out his orders and those of the executive officer. While not on duty, each officer was responsible for supervising one of the major functions of the ship’s operation. In addition, I was expected to learn from experienced enlisted men about every valve, pipe, lever, switch, hatch, torpedo, compass, wheel, or instrument that was used in the normal operation of the ship and in times of combat or other emergency.

I was designated to be the electrical officer and had spent my first two days while still in port in a cram course, primarily instructed by chief petty officers, in an effort to learn everything possible about the electrical equipment before we went to sea. When we sailed on the last day of December 1948, I began learning about my duties as a watch officer, which
I would share with the four other officers who served under the captain and the executive officer. This had been an integral part of our instruction at sub school, but each ship’s captain had his own idiosyncrasies. After three days I was standing watch topside on the bridge, with another officer on duty below in the conning tower. We were simulating a wartime patrol, remaining submerged during daytime and cruising on the surface at night. At our most efficient cruising speed, we proceeded about two hundred miles daily, heading toward China. This was about the same as a sailing ship in ancient days, with a fair wind.

After about a week, a storm began brewing, and I became increasingly seasick. Cigarette smoke and diesel fumes permeated the compartments belowdecks, and my nausea was uncontrollable. I was either in my bunk or throwing up in the toilet. The cold, fresh wind helped when I was on the bridge, and I stayed there whenever I could, even volunteering to take the duty from other officers a few times, so I could easily vomit over the side. Our ship was affected by the swells down to periscope depth (about sixty feet), but we could go deeper, where it was relatively calm. We remained submerged as much as possible to protect the ship from the huge seas, but it was absolutely necessary to surface during the night to charge our batteries and make progress along our assigned route. A submarine is extremely strong and rigid along its length, but its cylindrical shape makes it very susceptible to excessive rolling when wind and waves beat on it from the sides. I had experienced bad weather on midshipmen’s cruises and in the Atlantic on battleships, but this storm soon exceeded anything I had known. Since my head was only about fifteen feet above the surface when I was on the bridge, I became accustomed to the salt spray and wave tops being constantly in my face. I was shivering after several hours topside in the strong January wind, even in the tropical latitude. As the waves mounted, the captain directed that we head directly into the seas to minimize the violent rolling, and this order was to save my life.

I was standing watch on the bridge about two hours after midnight, with my feet on the slatted wooden deck, when I saw an enormous wave dead ahead. I ducked down beneath the chest-high steel protector that surrounded the front of the bridge and locked my arms around the safety
rail. The wave, however, smothered our ship, several feet above my head. I was ripped loose, lifted up, and carried away from the ship. I could only swim around in the turbulent water, striving to reach the surface. This was my first experience with impending death, but when the wave receded I found myself on the main deck directly aft of the bridge and was able to cling to our five-inch gun. In the interval before the next huge wave, I scrambled back onto the bridge, where I found the lookouts hugging their protective rail, drenched above their waists. We all donned life preservers, and I tethered myself in place with a rope. If we had been traveling just a few degrees at an angle to the waves, I would have been lost at sea. It would have been impossible for the ship to return to the same site, and finding me in the dark would have been a hopeless effort. The next morning I made a report to the captain, but with a minimum of dramatic effect, just telling him that I had been swept from the bridge, landed on the afterdeck, and recovered without injury.

Our ship continued to suffer a heavy pounding, and some of the topside fittings, including our radio antennas, were washed away or damaged. After some hasty repairs, we were able to receive but not transmit messages. It was mandatory for submarines to report our status and positions at least every eight hours, but we were unable to do so. Inquiries from Hawaii began to arrive with increasing urgency and frequency when our status was not known, and eventually a message was sent to the Pacific Fleet stating that the
Pomfret
was presumed lost and all ships and planes should be on the lookout for floating debris and possible survivors in the general area westward from where we had last reported. We were then about six hundred miles south of Wake Island, and Captain Williams decided to remain on the surface and turn northward to reach the small navy base as quickly as possible. During the three days required for this journey, we realized that our families had been notified of our presumed loss. In fact, all the wives living in Hawaii were informed, but Rosalynn was still in Georgia and never received the heartbreaking news. After reporting our survival and receiving repairs for three days, during which the storm subsided, we continued our voyage.

In addition to training under simulated wartime conditions, our task
was to visit the Philippines for a courtesy call and then go to the major port cities of China, where we would conduct antisubmarine warfare exercises with ships of Nationalist China, Australia, Great Britain, and the United States.

I had been especially proud of General Claire Chennault and the Flying Tigers, who fought alongside the Chinese against Japanese invaders during the early days of World War II. Later I followed the civil war in China as well as possible from the news media, hoping that Nationalist forces could prevail over Mao Tse-tung’s Communist troops. Georgians were proud that Chiang Kai-shek’s wife had been a student at Wesleyan College in Macon, Georgia. When World War II ended, I strongly supported President Truman’s decision to send General George Marshall to China to negotiate a peace agreement between Chiang Kai-shek and Mao Tse-tung. But his mission failed, and the civil war escalated. I was disturbed later when Senator Joe McCarthy blamed Marshall and others for successes of the Communist forces and was glad when Marshall was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

The American government was completely committed to its alliance with Chiang Kai-shek and his forces, and our visit was designed to give them some psychological support and demonstrate that the Communist forces had not succeeded in their effort to control the mainland. It was obvious to us when we arrived that the Nationalists had already lost the war, having been driven from most of China but being permitted to remain in a few seaports along the eastern shore. We began our tour in Hong Kong, moved to Shanghai, and then to a longer stay in Tsingtao (now Qingdao). Because of the ongoing conflict and the uncertainty of its outcome, we always tied up at the pier heading out to sea and kept a substantial part of the crew onboard for a potential rapid departure. We could see the campfires of Mao Tse-tung’s Communist troops on the nearby hillsides and observed the Nationalists recruiting boys and young men at gunpoint. On one occasion, the jeep carrying our captain strayed beyond the city and was hit by bullets, but no one was injured. Most of the shops were boarded in front, but potential customers were admitted through side or rear doors, and merchandise was offered at giveaway prices. When we were alongside the dock, the captain let merchants display their wares on the deck.

The USS
Pomfret
in China in 1949, with merchants on deck.

I had very little money and bought just a few small souvenirs of ivory and jade, but some of the officers and men purchased expensive gifts to take home. We returned to Pearl Harbor after about two months of operation in the China seas.

This visit aroused my special interest in China and its history, and I was intrigued when, just a few months later, the Nationalists were forced to evacuate to Taiwan and the People’s Republic of China was formed on October 1, 1949—my twenty-fifth birthday. After that, I monitored quite closely the events in China and Taiwan.