by Larry Colton
“Let’s get married,” he proposed.
“When?”
“Now. As soon as you can find a church?”
She accepted his proposal.
With so many sailors and soldiers about to ship out for the war, young couples all over America had decided to speed up their wedding plans; churches all over San Francisco were booked solid. It took Barbara several calls to find a church and minister, but she finally set up a ceremony at San Francisco’s Trinity Church at nine thirty at night, December 16, 1941. Then she called her parents to break the news.
“No, no, no” were the first words out of her father’s mouth.
But when she persisted, her parents reluctantly agreed to return to California for the wedding. How could they stand in the way of their daughter marrying a man about to risk his life for his country? Bob also called his dad and stepmother, and they too agreed to attend.
Barbara took care of buying the rings as well, spending $30 out of her savings for two simple gold bands. She’d also bought a new black and gray knit dress and matching pillbox hat for the occasion. She was nineteen; Bob was twenty.
With their parents in attendance, they were married as planned, although Barbara’s father had made it clear he didn’t approve. Not only were they too young, he thought that with Bob shipping off to war in a few days, this was no way to start a marriage. Plus, he was still having trouble letting go of the feeling that Bob wouldn’t be able to provide for his daughter. But the outbreak of war and the photo images of the death and destruction at Pearl Harbor had created a national will and unity of purpose, and a respect for the men going off to defend the American way of life, especially in a branch of the service as dangerous as submarines.
Beneath all of Bob’s big smiles and excitement about getting married, he also felt a sense of inadequacy—he hadn’t been able to afford the rings; he didn’t have enough money to pay for the reception dinner at Vanessi’s in North Beach; he couldn’t afford to provide his new wife a nice apartment while he was gone; he didn’t earn enough so that she didn’t have to work. Maybe his new father-in-law was right; maybe he wasn’t good enough for Barbara. It helped that she told him otherwise, and that she loved him for his heart, and good looks, and sense of humor, and not his money. But still, Bob worried. He was also worried, of course, about going to war and dying, but he knew it was his duty, his responsibility. He took some solace in knowing that his Navy pay would double in wartime and that he’d be able to send most of it back to Barbara.
On January 9, 1942, the Tuna departed San Francisco on its way to Pearl Harbor. Bob was on the deck straining to catch a glimpse of Barbara as it sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge. She’d promised to be there to wave good-bye, but her boss wouldn’t let her off work. She cried most of the day.
Three weeks later, Bob was on the deck again as the Tuna left Pearl Harbor on its first patrol. It had just enough room to slide by the stern of the battleship USS Nevada, aground across the channel. Bob was shocked by the devastation to the ships in Pearl Harbor, and he worried that the Tuna was not sufficiently ready for battle.
The crews of the submarines making up the Pacific and Asiatic fleets, including the Gudgeon with Chuck Vervalin, now shared a deep mistrust for the Mark XIV torpedo and the Mark VI magnetic exploder, believing the torpedo ran deeper than designed and the magnetic exploder was defective, causing it to explode prematurely. There was little information on how to adjust or repair the device. The skippers had been instructed to set the torpedo to run deep beneath the keels of the enemy and let the exploder take care of the rest. But because of the shortage of torpedoes, no live tests had been conducted prior to sending subs out on patrol. Reports from the early patrols had substantiated the concerns. In the first three weeks of the war, American subs had fired ninety-six torpedoes, with only three hits. Several captains urged Admiral Withers, commander of the Pacific Fleet, to give orders to deactivate the exploder and fire the torpedoes for direct contact hits. Admiral Withers refused, reminding the captains that there was a critical shortage of torpedoes at Pearl Harbor and that they needed to trust their weaponry. The submarine force had no choice but to place blind faith in this order and the new weapon.
John DeTar, the captain of the Tuna, wasn’t happy with the decision. Like several other skippers, he toyed with the idea that once he left Pearl Harbor and reached the combat zone, he would deactivate the exploder and shoot for contact, which he hoped would improve the possibility of an explosion. If necessary, he would swear his men to secrecy and doctor the reports to justify using more than one torpedo.
For this mission, the Tuna was assigned to patrol off the east coast of Japan and in fact to go right into harbors. Bob tried to hide his nervousness. He’d heard the concerns about the torpedoes. He also worried about the crew’s readiness for battle; they were undertrained and inexperienced. Worse, he lacked confidence in DeTar: instead of sleeping in his quarters, the captain slept on a mattress in the conning tower; he strutted around with a pistol strapped to his side; he strictly rationed the crew’s use of fresh water even though he had two distillers on board; he forbade the men from taking showers and ignored their complaints; and when the hydraulic system malfunctioned, more than once, he accused someone on the crew of trying to sabotage him. Bob didn’t know if it was possible, but he was already thinking about requesting a transfer after this patrol.
Every day, he sat in his yeoman’s cubicle, staring at a framed photo of Barbara.
It was very dark as Barbara walked up Pine Street in her high heels; the streetlights were turned off because of the blackout. She was returning from the Red Cross office, where she’d gone after work to help pack boxes with emergency medical supplies. She’d watched teams of volunteers in a mock emergency medical drill, and the images of bandaged patients and men in helmets played on her nerves. The danger of an attack now seemed even more real, especially following numerous reports of Japanese warships off the California coast. It was February 2, 1942.
As she neared her apartment, she was looking forward to sharing her big news with Fern and Margie. She’d been to the doctor earlier in the day and gotten the word that she was pregnant. She was thrilled, and would write Bob that night to tell him he was going to be a father. She hoped he’d get the news before heading off on patrol. She would write her parents as well, not sure if they’d be happy about the news.
She also wrote her cousin June back in Medford:
Oh, it’s so awful to have him gone, June. He’s been gone only three weeks but I miss him terribly. I received two letters from him Saturday and another two today, which is the first I’ve heard from him. All of them were written while he was in Pearl Harbor and sent by clipper. I don’t know where he is now though. It’s awful not knowing, but guess I’ll have to get used to it.
The crew of the Tuna was on edge: DeTar’s disturbing behavior, repeated malfunctions of the hydraulic system, lack of confidence in the torpedoes, and the numbing fear of being on a mission to penetrate deep into enemy waters all took their toll. Moreover, the trip across had taken longer than scheduled, and DeTar had kept the ship submerged much of the way, including at night, despite orders to the contrary. He continued to maintain his strict rationing of drinking water.
Upon reaching the coast of Japan, DeTar guided the ship into a harbor—one suspected of being mined—close enough that he could see people ashore through the periscope. Bob heard a scraping against the port side of the boat; it was a cable from a mine.
DeTar kept the ship in the harbor for twenty-four hours, with nothing accomplished other than rattling the crew’s nerves. As they headed back out to sea, DeTar spotted a freighter in the distance. He closed to within 3,500 yards and fired three times, in direct defiance of orders. All three shots missed.
As they tried to flee the area, a Japanese destroyer moved in quickly and began dropping depth charges, at least twenty of them, one explosion after another shaking the Tuna, knocking out the lights and twisting the h
ull. Bob and the rest of the crew held on in terror.
One of the blasts damaged the propeller, causing it to squeak; now if they tried to run, the destroyer overhead would hear them. DeTar’s only option was to wait it out and hope the destroyer would eventually leave. But for the next twenty-three hours, the destroyer stayed, dropping more depth charges.
Barbara hurriedly opened the special-delivery letter from her mother, sure it was in response to the letter she’d sent announcing she was pregnant.
“Your father and I …,” it began.
That phrase was always a signal to Barbara that she was in trouble. In the letter, her mother spelled out the reasons she thought it was not the right time for Barbara to be having a child—she was too young; her husband was at war, with no guarantee of returning; a child needed two parents; money would be a problem; there would be plenty of time later to have a child.
Barbara fought back tears. It wasn’t just that her parents didn’t think having a baby was a good idea, it was the furious “how could you let this happen” tone of the letter.
After twenty-four hours on the ocean floor under steady depth-charge bombardment, the Tuna finally escaped, heading east toward deeper, safer waters. Soon the crew began pursuit of a 4,000-ton freighter.
Defying orders again, DeTar deactivated the magnetic exploder on his remaining torpedoes. Bob was no torpedo expert, but it made sense to him. The torpedoes they’d fired earlier hadn’t sunk anything, so something needed to be done.
DeTar moved in for the attack. At 2,000 yards, he fired. Bob heard the explosion; this time they scored a direct hit. After a few minutes, DeTar brought the Tuna to the surface to observe the damage. The freighter was splitting in two.
Standing on the deck, Bob watched the freighter going down, but instead of a sense of vindication, he had a sick feeling in his stomach. In the oily, fiery ocean, men, women, children, and dogs struggled to stay afloat; the freighter had been carrying civilian passengers. He heard screams and saw desperate, outstretched hands disappear under the water. He knew that the freighter was probably carrying supplies to be used against American troops and ships, but later that night he could still see the images of the outstretched hands.
After receiving the letter from her mother, Barbara had confided her situation to Estelle, a woman with whom she worked. Estelle was twenty-nine, and to Barbara she seemed worldly wise. Estelle told her about a clinic, reassuring her that it wasn’t some back-alley place but a clean facility, with a receptionist, nurses in white uniforms, and a doctor who was known as the safest and most experienced abortionist in the city. Patients received printed instructions for follow-up care.
Although she didn’t know anyone who’d had an abortion, or at least anyone who admitted it, Barbara had heard tales of “coat hanger” abortions and hospitals having “abortion wards” filled with women suffering from botched procedures. She knew it was illegal, and risky. She’d made the decision to tell people, including Bob and her parents, that she’d had a miscarriage.
Her whole life Barbara had pretty much done what her parents told her; going against their advice seemed wrong. While her mother had not directly told her to have an abortion—she would never do that—the letter made it seem that having a baby at this point in her life would be a huge mistake.
As badly as Barbara wanted a child, she saw her parents’ point. A few days earlier, she’d seen a newspaper headline declaring JAPS SINK TWO MORE AMERICAN SUBS. Manila was about to fall, the Germans were sweeping through Europe, and military leaders were forecasting a long and bloody war. As much as she didn’t like to think about it, there was a good chance that Bob could get killed. She didn’t know any single mothers.
She was also persuaded by her mother’s point about the financial difficulty she would have in raising a child, especially if Bob didn’t return. She would have to quit her job to raise the child, and that would mean she would have to move back home with her parents in Central Point. She definitely didn’t want to do that.
But what if Bob wanted her to have the baby? She’d written and told him she was pregnant, but she wasn’t sure if he’d even gotten the letter. They’d talked about having children, but it was something they figured would happen later, after the war, after their lives were more settled.
As she wrestled with her options, half a world away Bob’s submarine sailed through the debris and bodies from the sinking Japanese freighter.
7
Tim “Skeeter” McCoy
USS Trout
Stripped to the waist, seventeen-year-old Tim wiped the sweat off his freckled shoulders, his lean frame glistening in the tropical sunshine. Along with the rest of his new crewmates on the submarine USS Trout in Pearl Harbor, he was helping to load 3,517 rounds of artillery shells on board for a special mission. The fact that most of the ship’s torpedoes had been unloaded signified something was up. Why would a submarine about to head off toward enemy waters be without a full load of torpedoes? They were due to leave tomorrow, January 12, 1942.
Tim had been a submariner for only two days. After only five weeks of basic training in San Diego, his entire company of new recruits had been rushed off to Pearl Harbor just days after December 7.
Tim had arrived in San Diego by train from Dallas, and for him, boot camp seemed easy enough, mostly just marching and learning Navy terminology. He liked getting to sleep in a hammock and living in a big barracks with other recruits. His company had taken a bus to the harbor once and boarded an anchored training ship for an orientation session. But that was the extent of his training before shipping out.
He had no regrets about dropping out of high school at the start of his senior year to enlist. It was time for him to get out on his own, and the guarantee of three square meals a day and a regular paycheck made sense. His decision had nothing to do with what Hitler was doing in Europe—it was all about getting out from under his mom’s feet and earning enough to help her out. It seemed unlikely that his father was ever going to provide his mom with any financial help.
When he first arrived in Hawaii, he felt like he’d reached the edge of his world. But this wasn’t Hawaii the tropical paradise; there would be no hula girls, grass huts, or splashing in the surf. The Hawaiian Islands were now under martial law. Barbed-wire fences lined the beach at Waikiki. Tim and the men in his company would be restricted to base. After docking, they rode a bus straight to the submarine base at Pearl Harbor, the whole company assigned to the submarine tender USS Pelius, a huge floating repair shop for subs.
Two days after being assigned to the Pelius, Tim answered a call for volunteers for the USS Trout, one of twelve new fleet submarines commissioned in 1940 in the hasty prewar Navy buildup. Its skipper, Lieutenant Commander Frank Fenno, had been asked how fast he could get the ship ready for sea. It was urgently required to deliver much-needed antiaircraft ammunition to Corregidor, the small island fortress in Manila Bay nicknamed “the Rock.” Fenno said he needed only a couple of replacements for his crew and could be ready to go in a couple of days. That’s when Tim volunteered and became a submariner.
Tim figured a submarine would be safer than a surface vessel because it could see the enemy while the enemy couldn’t see it. But more than that, there was something daring and adventurous about being a submariner that appealed to his cocky nature. He was assigned as a mess cook, which meant a lot of peeling potatoes and cleaning dishes. There was really nothing else on board he was qualified to do, except help load tons of artillery shells for the “secret mission” the ship was leaving on in the morning.
The Japanese knew the Philippine Islands were essential to controlling the western Pacific and providing a lifeline to Indonesia and its many resources, as well as to Australia. By the time the Trout left Pearl Harbor, Japanese forces had created a hopeless situation for the 100,000 U.S. and Philippine troops on the Bataan Peninsula. Manila had been evacuated and General MacArthur had moved his headquarters to Corregidor, now the final U.S. foothold against the i
nvading forces.
On Corregidor, the main defensive feature was the man-made rock tunnel near the middle of the tadpole-shaped island. It had become an underground storehouse for the Philippine and U.S. forces, as well as for a large portion of the Philippine treasury’s gold and silver. The Japanese were bombarding the island by air and with artillery fire from Cavite on the mainland, pounding it relentlessly day and night, making life on Corregidor unbearable; even the tunnel trembled. It was the Trout’s destination.
The antiaircraft gunners on Corregidor urgently needed more long-range, mechanically fused, high-altitude projectiles, the ammunition Tim had worked up a sweat to get onto the Trout. For Tim, it had all happened so fast—boot camp, coming to Pearl Harbor, volunteering for submarine duty—that he didn’t have time to sit around and develop a case of war nerves.
As the Trout sailed for Corregidor, every inch of its interior space was crammed with the cargo of ammunition, a priority so great that the spare torpedoes had been removed, leaving only eight torpedoes on board. Commander Fenno was under orders not to engage the enemy unless his own safety was in peril. Having seen the destruction at Pearl Harbor and eager to sink Japanese ships, he was unhappy about the assignment, so he engineered a compromise with his commanding officers. After dropping off his load of artillery shells, he would pick up a load of torpedoes and fuel at Corregidor, then patrol the Formosa Strait and the lower reaches of the East China Sea on the way home.
To Tim, everything was new and exciting. He’d been a submariner for less than three days and he was already headed into combat. When the ship made its first dive beneath the surface shortly after leaving Pearl Harbor, he loved it: there was no claustrophobia, no fear of being under the water. In fact, he liked being submerged better than riding on top. “It’s as smooth as glass,” he said, describing the underwater ride.
