The Galloping Ghost (11 page)

The squadron returned to Scotland and for the next six months sought out German U-boats and enemy transports off the coast of western France and northern Spain in a notch of the Atlantic known as the Bay of Biscay. The
missions were perilous to the extreme. Allied aircraft buzzed overhead with orders to sink any submarine they came across. Scores of enemy submarines also prowled the surface at night. Many were outbound from Nazi sub bases on the French coast to wreak havoc on Allied convoys in the North Atlantic. The
Barb
's orders were to attack the subs and to interdict Axis ships carrying supplies to Nazi bases in occupied France. However, Waterman was restricted from attacking any vessel flying the Spanish flag; Spain had declared neutrality and had agreed to post lists of its vessels, sailing times, and their destinations. It was soon obvious to the
Barb
crew that many more ships were being encountered than what was posted. Waterman, like other skippers, concluded that German ships were sailing under the ruse of being Spanish.

In early December, on the boat's second war patrol, the sub moved in on a ship that Waterman was convinced was a Nazi oil tanker. The skipper fired four torpedoes, sinking the tanker
Campomanes
. Spain, however, lodged a protest, claiming it was a neutral ship. Rather than create an incident, the Allies apologized and blotted out any references to the sinking, to Waterman's chagrin. During the rest of the month-long patrol, observers on the
Barb
watched in frustration as a parade of 225 ships went by with suspicious cargoes. Suspect targets were tracked, approaches made, and firing tubes readied, only to be foiled by discovery of a Spanish flag.

On the
Barb
's third war patrol, the sound of frequent explosions from Allied aircraft attacking U-boats in the Bay of Biscay kept the crew on edge throughout the run. Waterman sighted even more ships—upwards of 600, with 127 large transports singled out for possible attack. The
Barb
had to snake between smaller surface craft in order to close in on each ship, only to be foiled each time because they turned out to be “Spanish.” “The feeling of futility engendered by such numerous contacts which failed to develop into attacks was hard to overcome,” the skipper reported on his return to Scotland. “The tendency was to become lax and the effect on morale was noticeable.”

Waterman was temporarily relieved for the
Barb
's fourth war patrol. The results were the same for Lt. Cdr. Nick Lucker: lots of targets, no attacks.

Reassuming command for the boat's fifth war patrol, Waterman asked the British to conduct a sound test on his boat. For some reason, the sub had not encountered a single U-boat in its first four patrols. Something didn't seem right. “We took the
Barb
up into one of the lochs where the British had an underwater sound measuring range,” noted Lt. Robert W. McNitt, who was the boat's gunnery officer. Captain Waterman was ashore with a telephone connection between the sub and the British sound station. Explained McNitt, “We got a call back from the Brits saying, ‘You are so noisy you're
off the meter. We can't measure you. You've got a trim pump that's bloody noisy. We can hear floor plates in the engine room as your crew are walking around because they're not screwed down. Your cook is washing dishes in the sink, we can hear the silverware.' That got our attention . . . all kinds of things were wrong that hadn't been thought out ahead of time. It was a real eye-opener.” Worst of all, the
Barb
's sail area—the conning tower rising above the deck at amidships—was twice the size of a typical U-boat. The reason for the large size was the Navy's insistence that its subs carry a standby compass. The only ones available were those built for battleships and standing six feet high with a big brass nonmagnetic structure built around them that required the massive sail structure.

It was now apparent to Waterman why the
Barb
had been so unsuccessful in its patrols in the Bay of Biscay and a foray up the Norwegian coast in a futile hunt for the German battleship
Tirpitz:
the boat was too noisy when submerged and its conning tower was too large when surfaced. U-boats could see the
Barb
long before it could detect them, allowing the Germans to skirt around the Americans or dive under them. Furthermore, the
Barb
made so much noise that a good soundman on an enemy ship would hear the sub coming long before it arrived.

The
Barb
's fifth patrol was into the North Atlantic in a futile search of German “milch cows,” large submarines deployed to refuel and rearm U-boats at sea. The sub ended its Atlantic adventure on 1 July 1943 in New London, where the boat's sail was cut down and the compass was replaced by a small armored-vehicle unit no larger than a man's hand. Other measures were taken to silence the clatter detected by the British and to correct engine problems. Also, two 20mm guns were added to the bridge and a 3-inch gun on the after deck was moved forward at Waterman's direction.

It was during this time that a
Barb
enlisted man accused a warrant officer of molesting him in his bunk when the officer was on watch. The following morning, the skipper and McNitt, who had moved up to executive officer, interviewed the officer, a family man with children. As Waterman went to consult the squadron commander about what to do, McNitt relieved the warrant officer of his duties. As the exec went into the log room to write up a report on the incident, the warrant officer went down to the pump room below the control room, where he buckled on a 45-caliber pistol and shot himself in the chest. McNitt, like the rest of the crew, was shaken by the tragedy. He considered the warrant officer a good man, “but something overcame him.”

After the refit, the
Barb
embarked for Pearl Harbor via the Panama Canal, arriving in September 1943 and going right back out on its sixth war patrol
to the coast of Taiwan. Despite numerous chances to go after enemy targets, however, few attacks were made. Many aboard were very frustrated at a perceived lack of aggressiveness on the part of the captain. “I thought we were much too cautious,” said McNitt, the boat's executive officer. “We'd come up, and if there was an aircraft that passed by we'd dive immediately and stay down. Or if there was any risk of attack, why, we'd be very, very cautious, and I think that was the main problem we had with that patrol.” Perhaps some close calls had unnerved the captain. An enemy plane dropped a bomb that just missed. “Only his poor marksmanship saved us,” noted Waterman in his official war patrol report.

McNitt didn't question Waterman about his tactics. “I was new to this,” he said of his early promotion to executive office while the boat was in the Atlantic. “I was not critical of Captain Waterman because I didn't know how this could be done and what the proper way of handling it was.”

The
Barb
came in off patrol in late November in hopes of a major overhaul. The failure of the main hydraulic plant came close to “causing the loss of the boat,” the skipper noted in his official report. There were numerous other problems: grinding in the rudder mechanism, a fuel leak, sound equipment leaking badly, the bow plane magnetic brake failing, the auxiliary engine needing overhaul, and outboard exhaust valves leaking excessively. The condition of the crew was another concern. “This is the sixth war patrol of this vessel and many of those aboard have made them all,” concluded the captain. “The cumulative effect is becoming apparent in some cases in the form of slacking interest or increased nervousness.”

The boat returned to Pearl Harbor and then continued on to San Francisco for its overhaul. But on the approach to the city, the vexed
Barb
was attacked by a freighter coming out of San Francisco Bay. “We were on the surface, and we'd thought we were back home now,” explained McNitt. “All of a sudden this ship opened fire on us with a deck gun. The first round was about a mile astern. The next one was about half a mile astern. They were getting closer, and we thought we'd better dive. So we pulled the plug, and we went down like a rock. We had to blow main ballast before we got to test depth and came up like a cork, burst out of the water, and broached. He opened fire again at us and we got [the
Barb
] under again and finally got control of the ship. It was a close call.”

Captain Waterman was all but certain he would be relieved and move up to division commander. But it wasn't to be after the
Barb
returned from its overhaul to Pearl Harbor. Now in Gene Fluckey's cabin on the sub tender, the skipper disclosed his orders to make one last run before being detached. He confided he'd bow out as captain right then and there if it
wouldn't be disastrous for his career. He was worn out—and fearful the
Barb
would be sunk on its next patrol. The story was going around that subs disappeared on either their first or fifth patrols—the first because the captain was inexperienced and the fifth because the same skipper was fatigued and complacent, letting down his guard. In the first nine months of 1943, eleven submarines had been lost. Waterman was beyond fatigue and worried that the string had run out for him and the
Barb
.

He offered Fluckey a deal.

The skipper had long been aware of Gene's high efficiency ratings for both engineering and torpedoes while attached to the S-42 and
Bonita
in Panama. That sort of technical know-how was exactly what the
Barb
needed. Waterman also believed Fluckey's youthful vigor would help reenergize the
Barb
. He suggested Fluckey come aboard as prospective commanding officer, that the two alternate every other night as skipper so that Waterman could get sufficient rest and Fluckey the experience he needed as captain. Sensing reluctance, Waterman assured Gene that if they returned alive and the
Barb
was intact, he would relinquish command to Fluckey and make it stand with higher-ups.

That was the deal-maker.

The next day Fluckey approached the division commander about making the next run with Waterman. Hensel, having ordered the would-be skipper to hang around a few months to learn the fleet boats, was taken aback by such a precocious request just two days after Fluckey's arrival. Without flinching, the lieutenant commander did some fast talking, unleashing an encyclopedic knowledge of every job of every single member of the
Barb
crew.

Hensel gave in.

“Gene, if you've got that many ants in your pants, get going,” he replied curtly. “You'll get your orders.”

Thirty minutes after convincing his division commander that he was ready to become a boat captain, Lt. Cdr. Eugene Fluckey was aboard a submarine that he believed could do much to win the war against Japan. The
Barb,
after its overhaul, was back in fighting condition and ready for remarkable events with eager shipmates rejuvenated by new blood.

Captain Waterman had worried after the boat's most recent sixth war patrol that the crew had been together too long and that changes were warranted. The Navy agreed. But the skipper was surprised at the “unusually large turnover” at Mare Island—about a third of the crew. Out of sixty-nine veterans, thirty new rates, including three first-class petty officers, had come aboard. To make room for them, twenty-six crewmen, including five petty officers, had been transferred to other boats. That was consistent with a growing practice of transferring about a third of each crew after three or four war patrols. It provided a veteran core for new boats and improved morale on the older boats by melding new rates with experienced hands who took personal interest in training them. What concerned Waterman was the fact that eighteen of the new men had never been to sea. Training began at once to school the men in air and surface craft recognition, night lookout techniques, torpedo mechanics, gunnery practice, gas welding, and optical, gyroscope, and sound equipment repairs. Cross-training and critical split-second timing in diving and surfacing routines were practiced. The skipper was impressed. “The newcomers turned to with remarkable
enthusiasm which was soon reflected in the efforts of the old timers to help them along,” he noted in the deck log. Still, with so many inexperienced sailors, it was comforting to have Lieutenant Commander Fluckey aboard with his wealth of technical experience in keeping the old
Bonita
running. The best news for the entire crew was that problems with the Navy's infamous Mark 14 torpedoes had finally been resolved, thanks to the tenacity of Vice Adm. Charles Lockwood.

“Uncle Charlie,” as he was known in the undersea Navy, was a submariner's submariner, a sparkplug of a man who was a legend in the force going all the way back to the early days of the Silent Service. After the outset of World War II, he had taken command of U.S. submarines in the southwest Pacific and vigorously defended his boat captains who insisted the Mark 14s were defective. The Navy's Bureau of Ordnance bristled at criticism of the secret weapon, blamed submariners for fouling up, and wouldn't field-test the weapons. Lockwood, refusing to buckle under, took a submarine into the harbor off Albany, Australia, and fired Mark 14s into a net, proving they ran too deep, deep enough to miss a ship's hull. Henceforth sub captains adjusted depth controls accordingly, ignoring bureau directives. Still, magnetic triggers tended to explode prematurely during attacks. No one could figure out why. Lockwood, by then promoted to commander of all Pacific Fleet submarines, and Adm. Chester Nimitz, commander of the Pacific Fleet, ordered the exploders deactivated permanently.