We eased to periscope depth from time to time during the day in order to copy our special radio broadcasts and fix our navigation position. While there, we also carefully searched our immediate surroundings for possible surface and air contacts, both visually and with our electronic emissions detection equipment. That was what we were engaged in as I manned our longer, larger-barreled number two, or observation, periscope.
The environment was spooky as the fog thickened and thinned. Trying to discern anything was tiring and stressful as I strained to pick out floating objects or sight a large fishing boat or ship that might be directly ahead or close aboard. It was easy to imagine you saw something only to realize nothing was there.
Any submarine at periscope depth under these low-visibility conditions was vulnerable, and just a few seconds of inattention or daydreaming could end up damaging the periscope and any other masts or antennas that were also raised. Even worse, it could spell disaster for the submarine and crew should we collide with a large, fast-moving merchant vessel.
The responsibility for Greenfish’s safety weighed heavily on my shoulders as I manned the periscope. Having served for several years on the destroyer Gregory before entering the submarine force, I already knew these waters to be hazardous for reasons that did not involve just safe navigation. An uncountable number of antiship mines, probably numbering in the tens of thousands, had been released or positioned on the ocean bottom throughout the Northwestern Pacific during World War II and the Korean War. As was always the case, the mines and their positions were soon forgotten upon the conclusion of these significant conflicts. It was always possible that an old mine might break loose from its moorings and float to the surface—anything from the traditional horned contact mine, extensively used since the early days of World War I, to the very sophisticated yet nondescript-looking acoustic and pressure mine. The frequent typhoons that had occurred since the two wars had, as one would expect, broken many mines loose and scattered them in every direction; this was especially true throughout the Northwestern Pacific. The slightest contact with a loose floating mine, of course, could spell doom for the unsuspecting ship or submarine.
My father, the late Capt. William F. McLaren, USN, had served during the Korean War as a destroyer captain and later as a mine squadron commander. He had warned me on several occasions—before I departed on my first WestPac deployment during the summer of 1956, as a newly commissioned ensign on board the Gregory—about the possibility of encountering free-floating mines.
Dad McLaren was right. The Gregory sighted and destroyed several floating mines with its 40-mm antiaircraft batteries during the course of that six-month deployment. The circumstances and visibility were always near ideal, however, and it was an event that all hands not on watch were called topside to observe and enjoy. These events were particularly important for me, since I was the ship’s antiaircraft officer and had charge of the guns involved.
As I rotated the periscope rapidly yet cautiously in a series of circles to search for and identify anything in our immediate vicinity that might pose a threat, I was always mindful of the possibility that a floating mine might suddenly appear out of the fog. It was even more worrisome when others were on the scope: What if the quartermaster of the watch and the junior officer of the deck, with whom I, as officer of the deck or conning officer, had set up a routine of fifteen minutes on the scope and thirty minutes off, did not see or recognize a mine until it was too close? It was easy to obsess on that concern. I reflected that Captain Knudsen, who never left the conning tower during our times at periscope depth, must have had similar thoughts.
I could not have been on the periscope more than ten minutes when there she was—a horned, floating mine just emerging from the fog, 20 degrees to starboard, and not more than twenty yards away. It was only partially afloat, but its horns looked threateningly close as it gently bobbed in the calm seas that surrounded us.
“Mine ahead! Mine ahead! Twenty degrees off our starboard bow! Range close aboard!” I yelled out, immediately followed by “Captain to the periscope! Captain to the periscope!”
Captain Knudsen took the periscope, confirmed my sighting, and quickly ordered, “Left 10 degrees rudder, make turns for three knots!” As the mine drifted dangerously close to starboard, he judiciously adjusted both course and speed as necessary to prevent further closure by the mine, particularly toward Greenfish’s stern planes and propellers. His was a careful and very well-executed maneuver. Too much rudder, coupled with speed, could easily have thrown our stern into the path of the mine, yet too little would have caused us to close the mine further. Whew! It was a tense moment, and the knees of all in the conning tower were fair to shaking as we slipped by the mine, noted its position, and slowly continued on our way.
Once clear, the captain wisely ordered, “Lower all masts and scopes, ease down to one hundred fifty feet!” He realized that his conning tower watch was burned out for the moment, and it was time to take a breather.
Steady at depth, the captain had the word passed to all compartments on what had just occurred and announced we would run deep and quiet for the next several hours. He later complimented me for my alertness and remarked, “Greenfish was a lucky boat!” The entire event was the stuff of nightmares and what-ifs. I loathed and even feared fog, particularly dense fog, for the rest of my submarine career, and to this day I still muse and dream about what could have happened. A number of both Axis and Allied submarines, during both world wars, were not so fortunate.
The remainder of the transit was relatively uneventful operationally, with the exception of an average of at least three or four emergency deeps per watch as we were forced to avoid detection by what seemed to be an endless procession of fishing boats off the Kurile Islands and northeastern Japan.
Spotting an Indicator
Below decks the poker games for those off watch continued, as they had every afternoon and evening throughout our entire mission. In the wardroom, where most of us played at least four to six hours every evening, things were rapidly approaching closure for a number of us as our exec, Mac McKenzie, was in the final stages of relieving us of a significant portion of the pay that we were expecting upon arrival in Yokosuka five days hence. Mac was an old hand at the game, and at his insistence we had been playing pot limit the entire voyage. That meant that a knowledgeable and experienced player had the opportunity to protect his hand by matching whatever was in the pot each time it came his time to bet. It made no difference whether he had good cards or bad cards. Whoever wanted to find out would have to match or call his bet. This could prove expensive, particularly for the novice, as most of us were. The captain joined the game from time to time but didn’t really know what was going on, or I am sure that he would have stepped in. The exec was the only winner of the six officers playing, and at least three of us were down by over $100. This was back in the days when my total pay was not much more than $400 per month, which in 2014 dollars would be about $2,500.10 Thus far, I had lost a total of $119. If I did not recoup, my total pay upon arrival in Yokosuka would not amount to more than $138 and some change, after the allotment to my wife had been deducted—not enough to cover the tremendous amount of laundry I would have to have done in Yokosuka. I would also not have any money to pay for a few drinks and dinner at the officers club or, indeed, buy a few gifts for my family. It was a profoundly depressing thought. I consoled myself with the knowledge that one other officer in our wardroom might owe the exec as much as $400.
Poker is very addictive. Although I had originally resolved early in the patrol to quit when I had lost $50, I found I just couldn’t stay away from the game and the camaraderie that went with it. About six of us were sitting around the wardroom table one evening playing the exec’s favorite game of seven-card high-low. High-low always ensured a large pot because, in addition to providing the opportunity of winning at least half the pot—by betting that you had the highest or the lowest hand—it also gave you the chance to bet that you h
ad both the highest and the lowest five cards out of the seven you were dealt and take the entire pot. The catch was that, once you declared, you had to win both. If you were beaten either high or low, you lost all claim, either high or low, to the pot. With such a large pot, of course, almost everyone stayed in longer than he should have in hopes of getting either the best or the worst hand. Hence, it was not only hard to drive anyone out early by continually betting what was in the pot, but also each bet required more money than usual.
For some reason I was paying closer-than-usual attention to the exec, Mac McKenzie, who exuded confidence with each and every hand he held and who then bet accordingly. As the game went on, and the other officers and I continued to lose to the exec, I thought I detected an involuntary tic in his left eye. I had never noticed it before. The tic seemed to manifest itself each time he bet. The thought occurred to me during the play that he might be bluffing and that my hand was good enough to call him. I was looking at three aces—enough for me to stay in for at least one more round. I therefore decided to take a chance on the tic being an indicator that he was bluffing and stick it out, no matter what it cost me. Following the deal-out of the last card of seven and the last round of bets, everyone else folded, leaving only the exec and me. Clearly, everyone else thought he had garnered yet another winning hand. It was his bet and he matched the pot, which was now well over $200. He looked at me with a confident smile. Having noticed the tic in action again just seconds before, I called his bet. He declared high-low and laid down his cards. He had been bluffing! He had only two pair. I declared high with my three aces, and since I beat the high of his high-low, I won the entire pot.
Looking at me somewhat strangely as I joyfully raked it in, the exec seemed anxious to deal another round as soon as possible. This time it was straight five-card draw, with the best five cards winning after betting, once, drawing up to three more cards, and betting again. I held a pair of kings plus an ace to start and two small cards. Since it was my bet, I opened by betting the pot. The other officers dropped out right away, leaving only the exec and me. He called or matched me. The dealer asked us each how many cards we wanted. I asked for two, and the exec, his tic working away, stated that he was good with the five he had. This meant that he was acting as if he held either a straight (five cards in numerical sequence), a flush (all five cards of the same suit), or a full house (three of a kind plus a pair). Figuring he was bluffing again, I bet the pot. The exec, smiling broadly, matched my bet and raised me another $75. Man! His tic indicated he was bluffing again. As I was not completely sure, however, I just called his bet and laid down my two pair: kings and tens. He threw down a pair of fours in utter disgust.
I had now won back my $119 and much more besides, so I quickly got up and excused myself because I “had some submarine qualification work to get back to.” The exec begged me to stay in the game, but I was adamant. I wanted to catch my breath and savor my victory.
I rejoined the seemingly endless wardroom poker game after dinner that night and, unless I had a particularly strong hand, I folded. I bet whenever I caught the exec’s tic at work and most, if not all, of the other players dropped out. I caught him three more times, winning an additional $200 or more from him that evening
When we broke up at close to midnight, the exec called me aside saying, “Fred, I have an indicator of some sort that you have picked up, haven’t you?” I pretended not to have any idea what he was talking about, because I was “new to the game.” He was unconvinced, but walked away. At that point I was certain that I had nailed his indicator and, exacting a promise of absolute confidentiality, I shared what I thought was going on with the officer who had lost close to $400.
We both won steadily from that point on. By the time we reached port, the other officer had won a significant portion of his money back, to his very great relief. I finished with close to $250, most of which was McKenzie’s money. The exec, in the meantime, had become frantic. His favorite game was being ruined for him. He called me aside several times more, begging me and then outright ordering me to tell him what his indicator was. I acted confused by his question. Needless to say, I knew that no good could possibly come to me, particularly in any future poker games, by sharing this information with him. Besides, he had been merciless to us all and seemingly cared little whether he had hurt any of his fellow officers financially. I felt strongly that he richly deserved whatever happened to him in any future poker games.
All debts were squared upon our arrival at the Yokosuka Naval Base, thanks to a Navy paymaster coming on board and paying us each in cash. The exec’s wistful expression as he saw our own money return to our hands, plus some of his own, was priceless.
Once all protocols and amenities had been completed with Commander Submarine Group Seven (ComSubGrp7) those officers not having in-port duty changed into civilian clothes and headed for the submarine sanctuary, while the crew headed for their favorite bars in Yokosuka.
CHAPTER 4
Coming into Yokosuka
In the years immediately following World War II, through the Korean War and up through the end of the war in Vietnam, Yokosuka was, next to Hong Kong, the favorite port of all Pacific-based submariners. The large naval base and the surrounding town provided a welcome and relaxing respite from Cold War operations and the privations of the older deployed diesel boats. Both officers and senior crewmembers, if they chose, could live on shore, returning to their submarine only when duty required.
The Submarine Sanctuary
The submarine sanctuary, as it was called for officers, occupied the top floors of a building within the naval shipyard. Within easy walking distance of where our submarines were moored, it was the first place we retreated to once on shore following a lengthy transit across the Pacific or a long and difficult operation in unfriendly waters. There were a sufficient number of rooms and comfortable beds with clean linens to accommodate all the officers of whatever submarines were moored nearby. In addition, private rooms for commanding officers were always available. The sanctuary was particularly famous for a gigantic black marble soaking bathtub. You could sit for hours up to your neck in steaming hot water with your legs fully extended and completely relax. It was the only place for most of us where we could remove the accumulated dirt and smells of weeks of close confinement on board.
In the early days, the sanctuary was used for every conceivable social get-together. Beer, wine, and hard liquor were available twenty-four hours a day from an unusually well-stocked bar that was on the honor system. Drinks were so inexpensive they were almost free.
USS Greenfish (SS 351) outboard in nest of diesel submarines, Pearl Harbor, 1959. U.S. Navy
In addition, breakfast and lunch were served seven days a week. We could send off our laundry and dry cleaning and have it back in an hour or so. We could place radiotelephone calls home in privacy, and most of us took advantage of this on arrival in port. We also could just sit and read or write home in uninterrupted quiet.
On the other hand, the sanctuary was also an excellent launching pad for a night of eating, drinking, and heavy carousing with fellow submariners, particularly on those nights when we planned to raise hell in the sizable local officers club or repair to the infamous Kanko Hotel. The sanctuary was quite popular with an abundance of congenial on-base women—for instance, Navy nurses and department of defense school teachers there to teach the children of the U.S. armed forces stationed in the area. From time to time romances would develop that raised tensions between the soon-to-depart and the just-arrived officers, to the amusement of everyone else. Not surprisingly, the sanctuary was also the location of frequent inter-submarine wardroom poker games in the late 1950s. The best players from each boat came there looking for fresh victims, and most games ran through the night.
The sanctuary was, in short, a true refuge, where we could completely unwind in every respect. It was also the only place available where attack boat commanders could physically and mentally prepare themselves
for the next long and, more often than not, exceedingly arduous mission.
ComSubGrp7 and the officer members of his small staff had their headquarters in the sanctuary building. The commanders I met through the early years were nearly all decorated submarine war patrol veterans of World War II, and their staffs were made up of colorful submarine veterans of repeated tours of duty in Japan, Okinawa, and the Philippines. A few had spent so much time cohabitating with a local girlsan that they were considered to have gone “Asiatic.”
One memorable character was “Frank the Friendly Boatswain’s Mate,” a bachelor warrant officer in his forties with many years of submarine-related duty under his belt. He could always be found at the sanctuary’s bar when he was not otherwise occupied as a ship superintendent for one or more submarines requiring repair work. Frank was a tour guide of slightly shady repute when it came to exploring the after-dark sights and charms of Yokosuka and its surrounding environs. As he sat at the bar every evening, Frank would often hold forth about the “huge, brightly lighted hand” that suddenly appeared every night above Yokosuka and beckoned submarine sailors to sample the city’s delights. The hand was, of course, imaginary, but Frank had a way of making it seem real as he enthusiastically waved his long heavily tattooed arms in the air, describing it and suggesting to all within earshot that they join him and head into town “to find the switch and turn it off” as the case may be, or, “turn it on again.”
Most of us in WestPac were at one time or another suckered into joining Frank on one of his nightly forays. The routine was always the same: We would first drop in on one of his favorite Japanese restaurants to have sukiyaki and copious amounts of Kirin beer. Those still ambulatory would then head for the infamous Kanko Hotel, where there was always a good band and, for the bachelors or those who considered themselves to be so, numerous attractive young Japanese women with whom they could dance away the night. A man was expected to keep his companion for the evening well supplied with pricey drinks—which were caramel-colored and nonalcoholic—if he wanted to retain her company. By the end of evening, the unwary would find his bar bill had reached staggering proportions.
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