We were just inside 100 miles from the Island of Kyushu, the largest southern island of Japan, hoping to catch straggling remains of the Japanese Fleet after its defeat in the Battle of Leyte Gulf. In the middle of the night (about 0330, 30 November 1944) I woke from a sound sleep. Star time? We had to fix the ship’s position with stars, sun, and moon. No electronic aids or other systems were available to us at this time. During the age of the Dinosaurs, we had to use a sextant and math. It was cloudy—poor sights—but clear enough to get an accurate position. At least it was close to the dead-reckoning analyzer indicator (DRAI)—an instrument that gave latitude and longitude, working off the gyro compass and speed indicator. We made corrections to the instrument. Lieutenant Dick Laning, the executive officer and navigator, was good.
As senior quartermaster, my duties were assistant to the navigator, senior signalman, upkeep and maintenance of the bridge, conning tower, and all navigation equipment, and other duties as assigned. My battle station submerged was in the conning tower; on the surface, it was a .30-caliber machinegun on the forward port side of the bridge. In any action, submerged or on the surface, my duties placed me in the middle of it.
We had made radar contact with a large Japanese target and were trying to position ourselves for a surface attack. The tracking party already was at work. After stars, I was also an extra lookout. I think I was the first to spot the target. It was a tanker with four escorts. Not being able to get into position for a surface or submerged attack, we submerged and when all the ships were well ahead surfaced and followed them using a high periscope watch and sending out the tanker’s position, course, and speed about hourly. We fixed our position with sun lines hourly and checked and corrected DRAI as necessary. Otherwise, all was routine in the navigation department.
At around 1600, we heard explosions in the distance, and the target stopped, dead in the water. Our skipper, Commander H. K. Nauman, started maneuvering for an attack. Dinner was early that night; at around 1700 we went to battle stations and started to position ourselves for a submerged attack. It was a beautiful night, with a full moon and almost a flat, calm sea. Visibility was outstanding, with just a few rain squalls.
We maneuvered into position and fired four torpedoes; two explosions indicated two hits. At this point, Commander Nauman shouted out that the torpedoes had broached and ordered the Salmon down to 300 feet, rigged for depth charges and silent running. The tanker’s escorts were coming directly for us. I remember a loud squealing sound as I lowered the periscope. That noise along with that of the shaft bearings were like homing beacons for the escorts. The shaft was exceptionally noisy; new bearings (installed over June and July) seemed extra loud. We could hear the racket through the hull when submerged.
Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Lights went out, and we were knocked to our knees and thrown against bulkheads. Miscellaneous gear went in all directions. We had to use battle lanterns or flashlights, because most of the light bulbs had been broken with the force of the explosion, actually, several distinct small explosions (I think I heard four). After a few minutes, the emergency lights came on. Water was coming in from the periscope packing glands, radar antenna, and the hatch. As we went deeper, we abandoned the conning tower. The control room was a disaster. Gauges were broken, water was coming in from several hull valves, glass was shattered. One air bank was leaking and building up pressure inside the boat. The explosions were so violent that they knocked off cork insulation from the pressure hull. The depth charges kept coming, but nothing like the first five or six. Some still shook us up badly. All caused more damage.
While we had lost all power, except emergency lights and main motors, we still had hand steering and hand power to the bow planes in the control room. The stern planes were jammed on dive. I remember the quartermaster on the wheel saying that he could not use the gyro, because it was spinning like a top; he was using the magnetic compass. Auxiliary power came on, restoring some equipment to normal operation. All this was happening during depth charge attacks. What an auxiliary gang!
At this point, I had a quick breather until I relieved the quartermaster on the wheel. Hand power required a lot of muscle. The helmsman and the bow and stern plainsmen were serving as the hydraulic pump. It took about 14 complete turns to move the rudder 1° to 2°. Each man had to be relieved about every 10 to 15 minutes. The only time 1 had to steer the ship was in relief during silent running. I went to the mess hall to keep out of the way of working crew members. Broken dishes, glass, and records from the record player were thrown all over. The term mess hall lived up to its name. What a mess. The chief commissary steward was in the galley catching incoming water in a bucket from the broken main induction emergency shutoff valve and pouring it in the sink. I decided to help him. What we would have done when the sanitary tank was full, we will never know.
Someone passed the word to shift weight forward— fast—so I went to the forward torpedo room, wondering how much difference my 128 pounds would make in trim. The forward room and forward battery had suffered negligible damage, especially in comparison to the rest of the boat. In the forward torpedo room, the sound gear locks were broken, and the shaft that raised and lowered it was forced back into the boat. It seemed as though I was there only a minute or two, but it had to have been longer. Word came to take stations for battle surface, and 1 returned to the control room while we waited to get up to 300 feet. Our deep depth gauge went only to 450 feet; she had never been below 300 feet before this time. Doc Borglund was passing out drinks with a Bible in one hand and a bottle in the other, saying “This is the end.” To my knowledge, he never before drank at sea, and Navy regulations prohibited alcohol on board ships—except for medical purposes.
The crew was too busy to take drinks. We were going all ahead emergency to get up to 300 feet. At that depth we slowed our speed, trying to control our depth and reduce the power drain on the batteries. Our efforts were for naught; we started to go down again. We had too much water weight in the after section, engine rooms, and after torpedo room, and we were sliding down backward. We could not control our depth. Most of the water weight was still coming in. Our depth was estimated by sea-pressure gauges. The bathythermograph located in the control room went off the scale at 520 feet. This instrument drew a graph outlining depth and sea-water temperature. Below 300 feet, we had a large change in the temperature. This distorted the escorts’ detection gear such that they could not ascertain our position exactly.
The Salmon—designed for depths of only 250 feet—was the first boat in her class with an all welded hull, and she was classed as a thin-skin boat. Her pressure hull was 5/8 of an inch thick. This day, we had a 15° to 20° up angle, and her stern was down 600 feet or more. At that depth, the water compression pressure was about 268 pounds per square inch.
With our hydraulic system out, the ballast tank vents had to be closed by hand when surfacing. Chain falls, hammers, and wrenches gave us a workout. But the vents did get closed. When we hit the surface we were blind; both periscope lenses were shattered, the radar flooded, and we had no sound gear. What is more, we had no idea where we were in relation to the tanker or the escorts. And to top it off, the conning tower hatch had jammed and would open only partially. I could visualize the escorts charging, shooting, or attempting to ram us, so I went to get something heavy to beat the hatch open. Just as I returned, Lieutenant Laning had it open. I think he used a sextant to do the job.
We went topside and manned our battle stations, even though we didn’t have much of a chance, crippled and on the surface. No escorts were close, or we would have had it. They were just under the horizon—my estimate was about 4,000 to 5,000 yards—and passed us by at first. Why they did not see us we will never know. With the brightest night, calm sea, a few squalls, and full moon, we could see for miles.
We tried to use our radio but the antenna was down. First Class Electronics Mate B. Block tied it up with a piece of line so we could transmit. This respite gave us time to man all guns, put some machinery in operation, and try to correct a 15° to 20° list, using our low-pressure blowers. By some miracle, they were working. Some machinery never could be repaired. Our air compressors were completely gone and under water; the pump room was flooding, almost half full of water. With water still coming in until we surfaced, the motors were grounded with salt water. We had used all the high-pressure air remaining just to surface.
We were able to get one main engine going, after about five or ten minutes. Number One engine had been knocked off its foundation and never could be started again. The main induction was crushed. It was later discovered flattened as if it had been gone over with a flat iron. Air to the engines came through the conning tower hatch.
It seemed like hours, but we had been on the surface only minutes before one of the escorts sighted us and opened fire. At times, the shells were close enough to throw water on the bridge, gun crew, and ammunition passers, and frequently a stream of them would go ripping down the side. When we returned fire with our 4-inch deck gun, the escort would withdraw. We were firing with open sights and sighting over the barrel. It appeared as if one of the escorts would take turns trying to herd us toward the others, as a sheepdog would herd sheep. Then they would close and open fire. When we returned fire, they would retreat, and the whole routine would start over again. It looked as if they knew we were crippled and were trying to make a sure kill.
During one escort’s half-hearted attack someone wanted to come on the bridge. Suddenly, a stream of tracers came close, and he said, “I can get just as scared down below.” So down he went. During another of these strange attacks, a small-caliber round took out the shinbone of Adams, my loader, and exploded on the periscope sheers, behind where 1 stood. He was taken to the conning tower and Doc Borglund took over. Doc was one of the best pharmacist’s mates in the submarine force and one of the best radar operators in the fleet. He could not draw radar operators’ pay, because he was classified a “noncombatant”—on a submarine, no less! Anthony, one of our ammunition passers, had a fragment from one of the Japanese shells rip open the shell casing of the 4-inch shell he was carrying to our gun. He said he never knew what he did with it. He was just too scared to remember. Regardless of where they hit, each tracer seemed to be coming directly at us. That is when I got scared. I was afraid I would get shot to pieces.
From about 2330 to 2400 we were permitted, one at a time, to go below and get jackets, as we had not had any contact with the escort for a short while. I could not find mine and just picked up one. Going up the conning tower hatch the captain ordered, “Left full rudder.” Larson, on the wheel, did not hear the word; it was hard to hear with all the wind coming down the hatch going to the main engines. I relayed it, and thank God I did. By then we had two engines going, and later three. 1 was just about getting straightened up from under the overhang when the captain ordered that we open fire. 1 had the .30-caliber gun on the forward left wing of the bridge. As I got to it, I saw what I thought for sure was a battleship, trying to ram us, crossing from port to starboard. He appeared suddenly out of a rain squall, close aboard. We were turning toward him. As he was crossing the bow, 1 emptied my magazine into his bridge. I do not know if I hit anyone, but I bet I made them duck. As the ship went down the starboard side, we opened up with everything we had. It was so close, we could not miss. I shifted my gun from the forward port side to starboard and got off a few rounds, but the escort was almost out of range by that time.
The vessel that tried to ram us passed within 50 to 200 feet, even though it seemed like about 10. Even though it was called an escort, it surely looked like a battleship; it was so close, and it seemed so big. In fact, it was the biggest ship I had ever seen. And it was the closest I had ever come to anyone trying to kill me. When last seen, it was smoking and listing. We entered the rain squall (the same one the escort had come out of) and made our escape and had no other contacts.
After several hours we stood easy at battle stations and reverted to an on and off watch. Some went to sleep at their gun stations. During all this time we were unable to fire torpedoes, as we had used or lost all high-pressure air trying to surface. We got the third engine going and increased our speed.
Those extra lookouts not required went below to repair machinery, some of which never could be repaired. After stars, I had planned to sleep in the conning tower. But there was no room. Others had the same idea. I did go to sleep on the trim manifold in the control room. The valve stems hurt and woke me up, but I hardly noticed them when I went back to sleep. I did get about an hour- and-a-half before going back to work in the navigation department.
During the day, we received air coverage of a sort. We heard through our radio operator that they had shot down a Betty bomber coming up on us about 25 miles astern. Also during the day another of our submarines spotted the escorts. One was damaged, and one was missing. Later they were identified as ships of the Kaiboken class, designed especially to fight submarines.
The pitometer (an instrument that indicated our speed through the water) was not working, so we estimated the speed by throwing an object over the bow to time how long it took to reach the conning tower. We figured we were making about 15 or 16 knots.
Before sunset, we made a rendezvous with the submarines Trigger (SS-237), and Sterlet (SS-392). They had instructions to remove the crew, and sink the Salmon. But we determined that we had fought her this far and were not going to leave her. The crew was given a choice, to go or to stay. We all stayed. All we needed, we figured, was ammunition. We put over a rubber boat and were getting our ammunition from them. This had gone on for about an hour, when suddenly, the Japanese fired three or more torpedoes into the group. All of us took off. After about an hour, we stopped and recovered our boat and personnel.
The rest of our trip was uneventful until we reached Saipan and moored alongside the submarine tender Fulton (AS-11). We transferred our seriously wounded crew member (five others refused to leave), and we received and made some emergency repairs and replenished our high- pressure air.
That night an air raid warning broke the monotony. I remember the master-at-arms on the tender shouting for us to lie down on deck, or go below decks to avoid being hit by fragments if a bomb exploded. This, after all we had been through? “Up yours!” was our reply.
One night in the crew’s mess, Commander Nauman said: “I am not religious, but someone not on the crew list was with us.” I firmly agree. The quote that “There are no atheists in foxholes” applies to submarines as well.
Upon arrival at Pearl, we created quite a stir. No one there had seen a submarine with such extensive damage still under her own power and afloat. The pressure hull in the after part of the hull looked like corrugated iron roofing. In other places, it was dished in one to two inches or more.
For all this, the Salmon received the Presidential Unit Citation, but she never dove again. Her damage was so extensive that she was scrapped in 1945. Submarines damaged almost as badly by depth charges were able to make enough emergency repairs to get back home. Some others fought with their deck gun and made it back home. The Salmon was the only one that had to do both.
This fight was so small, as battles go, that it never made a newspaper. It was just one four-hour skirmish between an old, tired, worn-out submarine and four Japanese escorts.
Splice the Main Brace
By Captain Richard Laning, U.S. Navy (Retired)
During World War II, submarine officers were allowed a ration of booze, and many of us consumed some during the first few days of refit between patrols. The ration often included rum, gin, and brandy, and I bought all I could. The stuff other than bourbon I stored under my bunk and gave to the chief petty officers when we got to such places as Midway, where all they could get was beer.
The night of the Salmon’s (SS-182) gun fight, I looked at the gun crew on deck, water sloshing around, and saw chilled and scared people. I ran down to my room and got a bottle of rum; miraculously, my stores had survived the severe shocks. I handed the open bottle to the gun crew with a shout: “Splice the main brace!”
The effect was immediate, as the gun crew shouted to the enemy: “Come get yours, you SOBs!”
When we had broken away and met up with the Trigger (SS-237), I went over in a rubber boat with a gunner’s mate to borrow machine gun ammunition, and the Salmon had to fix an oil leak. The commanding officer of the Trigger was giving me a nice little brandy, when lookouts shouted “Torpedoes headed for Salmon!" I could see the wakes a couple of hundred yards away. We got under way in a hurry, and so did the Salmon.
The plan at this time was that the Trigger would run ahead to warn of surface traffic, while the Sterlet (SS-392) and the Silversides (SS-236) would travel abreast so that, in the event of air attack, they could dive and pick up survivors from the Salmon.
Just before dawn, the Trigger launched the gunner’s mate, me, and the ammo. After a lonely period, the Salmon showed up. At about 1000, when we were abreast of Iwo Jima en route to Saipan, a two engine Betty bomber came out of an overcast at 4,000 feet, headed for us. We had our guns manned. Instead of diving, the Silversides moved closer with her guns manned. Jack Coye was one of the best skippers in the war and at this time, he was my hero. Commander-in-Chief, Pacific, had sent out a message: “Get Salmon Home!” As the Betty approached from 7,000 to 4,000 yards, a B-24 came out of the overcast and shot the Betty down. The Salmon made it to Saipan.
My whole booze supply went to the crew of the B-24, some of whom joined us in a later reunion of the Submarine Veterans of World War II. Our skipper, Ken Nauman, will always be my hero. When the squadron commander mentioned that Ken should get the Medal of Honor, Ken said: “Hell no; I was just trying to get home.”