A Tale of Two Subs

by Jonathan J. McCullough

  “They might be out of depth charges—the men counted fifty-seven!” continued Cromwell. “Even if they do send more down, it would only be a few.”

  “We have no batteries left.”

  “But we still have air in the tanks. If we can stay down a few hours . . .”

  “It’s six hours to sunset. We have no batteries. We are flooding and we have no pumps. We have to surface while we can still bring her up.”

  “Keep the boat down! That’s an order!”

  “I am the captain of this ship. I am responsible for this ship and its crew. And I give the orders, Captain Cromwell.”

  For the second time that morning, the ocean parted over the Sculpin as it broached the surface of the water. Cromwell and Connaway were yelling at each other at the top of their lungs. Aghast at the argument raging between the skipper and Captain Cromwell, Chief Weldon Moore asked, “Make ready the tubes, Captain? Captain? Should we make ready the tubes?”

  “No, just battle surface,” Connaway replied.

  The order stabbed Bill Cooper in the gut—what the hell were they going to do? He wished that the experienced Chief Moore were the skipper. Cromwell was still arguing with Connaway.

  “Captain, permission to open the hatch?” Bill Cooper asked.

  “If we ever get back to Pearl I’m going to court-martial your ass!” Cromwell shouted at Connaway.

  “Lieutenant Allen! Lieutenant Brown!” Connaway shouted, “make damn sure this ship is scuttled!”

  “Yes, sir! Captain! Permission to open the hatch?” the exec, John Allen, asked. While Connaway and Cromwell were still arguing, Sculpin was a sitting duck. “Oh for Chrissakes give us a fucking chance!” someone muttered.

  Exasperated, Allen nodded to Cooper, who turned the wheel on the hatch. The hatch practically blew off its hinge as the pressure in the boat blasted it outward. Cooper jumped out onto the deck, followed by the gunnery crew. What they saw took their breath away: On a sea undulating with gentle whitecaps rolled a destroyer the size of a light cruiser not more than 1,000 yards away. It had three mounts, each with two 5-inch guns, and elsewhere was bristling with machine guns. It simply stood there, the cruelly sharp bow followed by clean lines, the smoke rising from its stacks, impassive and majestic as death itself.

  “Boys,” Cooper said, “it’s right over here on the port side, about half a mile.”

  The exec stayed in the conning tower with the radar operator. Joe Defrees—the gunnery and torpedo officer—was neither in the control room, nor the conning tower, nor on the bridge. There was in fact no officer on the deck. Defrees may have been trying to fix the outboard vents on the torpedo tubes so that Allen, in the conning tower, could draw a bead on the destroyer: If they were able to get off some fish, they might be able to get the destroyer before it got them—it was that close. In the control room, George Brown sent two men to the torpedo rooms to ready the tubes; he intended to shoot torpedoes from the control room. For their part, the men on the Yamagumo recorded that the Sculpin was severely damaged, its periscope shears bent and broken.

  Despite the lopsided fight, and the sheer enormity of their orders to attack the leviathan Japanese man-of-war, the gunnery crew ran to their little 3-inch gun. Chief Moore, Herbert Thomas, Warren Berry, Bob Wyatt, Joe Baker, Ed Ricketts, and Harry Milbourne prepared the deck gun for action. One man pulled the watertight plug out of the muzzle while another prepared the breech. A third opened the watertight locker on the doghouse and broke open the shells for the gun. Two others got the horizontal and vertical spotting gear ready. Eldon Wright and others passed shells, singing “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” Ed Ricketts loaded a shell into the gun.

  Bill Cooper helped gunner Jim Harper mount a 20mm machine gun he’d dragged up from the control room, but the sight of the huge Yamagumo looming over them was inescapable. Neither he nor Cooper could get it to fire, and Harper’s helper didn’t arrive.

  The gun crew got the first round off, which went over the Yamagumo’s bow and splashed behind.

  The crew listened to the deck gun’s report as the gunner’s mates fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded, bang . . . bang . . . the second shell fell short as the destroyer put on steam and started to make way.

  A salvo from the Yamagumo’s 5-inch guns straddled the Sculpin as huge geysers of water erupted on either side of the submarine. It seemed to take forever for the water to stop splashing. The Yamagumo was going around the Sculpin to gain a position so that the deck gun would be masked by the conning tower.

  “Let’s go down to the deck and help them bring up the ammo,” said Cooper. Harper nodded and went along one side of the conning tower while Cooper ran along the other. The Yamagumo fired another salvo from behind the Sculpin, and this time a shell found its target. The raking shot hit the air induction pipe behind the conning tower with a deafening explosion, sending a torrent of hot scrap metal flying forward. Bill Cooper was thrown down onto the deck, stunned. His ears were ringing—both eardrums had split—and his back was filled with incredible pain. Lifting his head, he saw Jim Harper, who had been on the other side of the conning tower as they’d raced forward. One of his arms was missing. Crimson blood stained his white T-shirt from what was left.

  The Yamagumo now opened fire with its machine guns and several men not yet hit by the shell that had destroyed the main induction fell as the bullets splashed all around them and ripped up the teakwood slats of the deck. Fireman Alex Guilot passed ammunition despite deep chunks missing from his chest.

  Another volley of 5-inch shells penetrated the conning tower and exploded inside. George Brown confirmed that the exec, John Allen, and the radarman, George Embury, were killed. We do not know where Lieutenant Commander Connaway or Lieutenant Defrees were at this point, only that they did not die in the conning tower. Lieutenant George Brown succeeded to command.

  Another shell hit, this time above the forward torpedo room, injuring several men. As the new skipper, Brown knew that he had to scuttle the ship—it was too far gone and they’d never outrun the destroyer, and he said as much to Cromwell. “Go ahead,” he replied. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  Cromwell sat down on an ammo box in the control room and pulled out a photo of his family.

  Brown gave the order: “Emergency speed! Abandon ship! You have one minute! Abandon ship!” In case the battle phones had been damaged, he sent two runners to either end of the boat, who yelled the orders at the tops of their lungs.

  Waiting in the engine room, George Rocek was tending to the engines when the order to abandon ship came. The crewmen were absolutely stunned. This couldn’t be happening to them. They were going to die out there, all alone. Some remained at their stations. Others sat down to contemplate their fate. Still others made their way up the ladders and opened the hatches. The battle topside was raging, and the men heard the guns roaring, the Japanese bullets riddling the sides of the submarine and tearing through the wooden deck. One man panicked uncontrollably because he couldn’t swim and he didn’t have a Mae West life jacket.

  In the after battery, Ed Keller watched in horror as Bob Carter went up the ladder into the withering machine gun fire, only to come back down again, decapitated. Duane White put Carter’s body on the green linoleum and backed away.

  George Goorabian was next to go up the ladder, followed by Keller, who told White to hurry up.

  Dripping with sangfroid, White simply said, “Them sons a bitches have got me this far. They can take me the rest of the way.” White shook out a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lit up.

  As he came up the hatch, a shell hit Goorabian squarely, slicing him in half in a sudden puff of pink mist. Another shell hit so soon afterward that Keller was blown up and out the hatch, seriously wounded. The Yamagumo recorded that “black smoke started to rise from the submarine’s rear hull area.” This may have been a shell hit or exhaust from the Sculpin’s engines as they sputtered and started.

  George Rocek got out through a ha
tch and ran toward the conning tower. He saw the bloody mess of what had been a crewmate on the deck. He’d gone into a door on the conning tower called the doghouse when a shell hit, sending hundreds of pieces of shrapnel like fine, curled iron shavings through his legs. The concussion momentarily stunned him and he stood there blinking, seeing, but curiously unfeeling and unaware. When he gathered his senses and realized he was still alive, he jumped into the water. Bill Cooper had been thrown into the water, unconscious.

  Other men were jumping in as fast as they could while the Sculpin pulled away. George Brown’s two runners returned to the control room. Everyone had received the orders to abandon ship, but some decided to stay. Ensign Fielder, who had accidentally broached the boat due to the faulty depth gauge, played solitaire in the wardroom as he waited to die. Sitting next to him was one of the cooks, Eugenio Apostol, who preferred death to capture. Brown tried to get Captain Cromwell to go topside, but he explained that he knew too much, and that he couldn’t afford to divulge his secrets in the event of torture. Also apparently choosing death were Lieutenant Defrees, as well as skipper Fred Connaway, if they were not already dead.

  Chief Machinist Phil Gabrunas stood by, waiting for Brown to give the order to scuttle. Brown nodded. It was time to scuttle the Sculpin. They opened valves to flood the submarine and scrambled up to the conning tower. Brown got through the hatch to the conning tower as the water reached it. Gabrunas was right behind him, but the water was spilling in through the hatch already. Brown never saw Gabrunas again.

  Inside, the cataracts of water quickly poured thousands of gallons into the compartments. Books, papers, and those left behind rose with the water, more quickly than they could have imagined, as the men pressed up toward the remaining air overhead, then took that first gulp of saltwater. Those still alive to see the Sculpin’s last dive described it as seeming ordinary, as though it were merely slipping down the ways like the day she was launched by Mrs. Joe Defrees. The waters churned and bubbled around the Sculpin as the periscope—the very last thing they ever saw of the ship—grew smaller and eventually disappeared with a momentary flash of white water, then vanished as though the USS Sculpin had never existed at all.

  There was a massive underwater explosion, followed by another—possibly the engine blocks cracking and the batteries exploding.

  For the men still on the surface, grievously wounded and exhausted from their efforts, the ordeal had only just begun. George Brown and Weldon Moore gathered the men together as best they could. Bill Cooper became conscious again; he didn’t know how long he’d been in the water. Ed Keller didn’t have a life preserver and swam over to Jules Peterson and Del Schroeder, who did. John Rourke had also been unconscious and was in very bad shape. A shipmate helped keep him afloat, but his head dunked under the water several times, and he took several choking gulps of water. The Yamagumo went back and forth as sailors on the fantail shot at the men in the water with machine guns. Del Schroeder took two bullets in the chest and died; Dowdey Shirley was either shot in the water or died from shrapnel wounds he had received on the deck. Other men were losing blood and near death. Henry Elliott had a bullet hole in his hand, Charlie Pitser had one in his arm. Bill Welsh also had wounds to his arm, above his eye, and torso, and was fading in and out.

  The Yamagumo slowed and threw over lifelines to the men in the water; according to one account, some of the men swam away, and Eldon Wright initially thought he’d do that. But he changed his mind and swam toward the destroyer with the others. They pulled themselves out of the water onto the deck of the Yamagumo, where the excited Japanese sailors gestured and yelled to them in Japanese. They motioned the men forward to the forecastle of the ship, where other sailors bound their hands and feet. While Bill Cooper was helping a fellow Sculpin crewman forward, a Japanese sailor stopped Cooper and made him drop the man. While incapacitated, the man was still conscious. The Japanese sailor then rolled him over the deck and into the water. Cooper remembered this man as Claiborne Weade, but other sailors claimed it was Bill Welsh.

  The Japanese destroyermen likewise stopped two men helping John Rourke, who had swallowed a great deal of seawater and was barely conscious. But Rourke may have seen what had befallen the other sailor, and in a final, desperate burst he scrambled away on the deck toward the forecastle, thereby saving his life. On their way up the rope and while on the deck, the men’s hearts sank when they saw that the Yamagumo had only three depth charges left; maybe they really could have held out and survived. But in truth, any one of the explosives could have been the one to split the Sculpin in half with all men aboard. Their fates were sealed and there was no going back to what might have been.

  The men of the Sculpin sat on the forecastle, bound hand and foot, shivering with exhaustion and nerves. Most of them were wounded, some seriously, and the blood from their wounds pooled around them like the floor of a charnelhouse. As the Yamagumo headed back toward Truk, they made a head count: Forty-one men had survived the sinking of the Sculpin. Lieutenant George Brown and Ensigns Worth Gamel and Charles Smith were the only officers left. The seas kicked up that afternoon, and the destroyer started to roll and heave while storm clouds gathered. It started to rain on the men, and the Japanese sailors gave them a tarp, as well as hardtack biscuits and a little water. Even now the interrogations started. Torpedoman Herbert Thomas was among the first to undergo the process, and they asked him detailed questions about the Pacific Fleet’s composition and placement: How many battleships? How many submarines? Where were the carriers? Were any of the battleships raised on Pearl Harbor? They became frustrated with Thomas’s noncommittal answers and started beating him. Where were the U.S. Navy’s secret island bases? Where did they refuel? All the while, the beating continued. Under duress, Thomas resorted to the classic tortured man’s confession, and revealed a secret refueling depot between the Marshall and Gilbert islands. The interrogators looked for maps of the area in question and showed him a map dated 1820, where he indicated the general location of the secret island. But he failed to mention the unicorns and leprechauns that lived on the Big Rock Candy Mountain there, and when he got back to his shipmates, he spread the word for them to repeat the lie.

  The next day the Yamagumo reached Truk lagoon. To conceal the Japanese navy’s strength there, the submariners were forced to wear blindfolds, but occasional peeks revealed an awesome sight: battleships, cruisers, destroyers as far as the eye could see. Their guards took note of this and cuffed the curious men. After a trip in a launch to the dock, the men got into trucks for a ride to a barracks away from the harbor. Their blindfolds and clothes were taken off and they found themselves in a compound with three cells that were about seven feet by eight feet, with a hole in the corner for the latrine. So many men—about fourteen—were packed into each cell that none of them could lie down, so they simply stood there naked, sometimes crouching. The guards came by to beat them with clubs through the single window. If they spoke, they would reach through the window with a long club and beat them about their heads and shoulders. If they tried to lie down, the guards would beat them. One of the guards, whom they called “Tulagi,” was particularly vicious and beat them just for the hell of it.

  They sweated in the oppressive tropical heat, but received no food and no water. The interrogators brought them out one by one for questioning, where they were asked about their duties, how the submarine operated, what kind of equipment they used, and the equipment’s specifications. The interrogators creepily referred to them by their first names. If they didn’t answer questions quickly, the guards beat them. If they were caught out in a lie, the guards beat them. When they asked for water, the guards beat them.

  By the second day the men were out of their minds with thirst and pain. They hadn’t gotten any food or water, and no medical attention for their wounds. George Rocek’s legs were peppered with shrapnel-like shavings from a metal lathe, and the sores and wounds had begun to fester. Other men had gashes or were riddled with bullet ho
les and were missing chunks of flesh. Joe Baker, who was missing part of one of his calves, cried piteously through the night for water. The guards became upset, and beat him and the men around him. Having no other alternative, his mates had to muzzle him to prevent further harm to himself or them.

  On the third day, Bill Cooper was at his wit’s end. Though he had no open wounds, his back was severely injured. While doubling over in pain, the real agony was the fact that they had had no water for three days, and he and the rest of the men came to the conclusion that the Japanese intended to kill them from exposure. “I was so thirsty I prayed to God to take my life,” Cooper later said. Baker recalled that ants, maggots, flies, and mosquitoes were “pestering the wounded and getting into their wounds.” Despite their dehydration, exposure to high temperatures, and beatings, the interrogators gained only one thing: the identity of the radarman, whom they beat mercilessly for technical details of the sub fleet’s radar program. The interrogators were especially brutal with the officers, who endured the longest and worst treatment. As ranking officer, George Brown asked over and over again for food, water, and medical treatment for his men. The guards responded by beating him.

  But that day they got food, a rice ball cooked in seawater, which made them even thirstier. For their thirst they also each got a single teacup of water. It was the same on the fourth day. On the fifth day, a group of officers in snappy-looking uniforms came and asked in English for the ranking officer. George Brown identified himself. The officers were sniffing the horrible smell coming off the men as the translator asked questions—had they received medical care? No, Brown answered, and hoping they might be delivered he detailed their treatment thus far.

  One of the officers was visibly outraged and punched another officer in the face. This was probably Admiral Mineichi Koga, successor to Admiral Yamamoto after the Combined Fleet commander’s death. Koga had previously commanded the General Staff’s intelligence division, and although there was little love lost between him and Americans in general, he doubtless valued the possible intelligence they might glean from the submariners. His outrage may have stemmed from humanitarian motives, or the possibility that the submariners might render up their souls before their secrets, or that the POW camp commander had disobeyed direct orders.