Zoomies, Subs And Zeros

By Admiral Charles Lockwood

The exploits of the Submarine Rescue League, which had the job of picking up American flyers shot down while attacking objectives in the Pacific.

‘In writing this book, the authors had a triple purpose.

First, to write the superbly human history of the Submarine Lifeguard League while those who participated in its creation and in its splendid work are still among us to tell that story. It is a chapter of Naval and Air Force operations in the Pacific that richly deserves preservation.

Second, to convey to submariners whose vessels took part in the saving of the lives of hundreds of Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps men an essential picture of the overall scope of their activities; as well as to give aviators whose lives were saved by submarines—and their families—a view of the far-flung operations established for snatching airmen from Japs as well as from death at sea.

There remains one more reason for the writing of this book and, perhaps, it is, after all, the most important: namely, to impress upon those who have a voice in such matters at defense and Congressional levels that with new long-range planes and nuclear powered submarines, the lifesaving know-how acquired by submarine and air commanders through bitter and time-consuming experiences should be preserved for future generations of submariners and airmen.’-Author’s Preface.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Verdun Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781786254207

Admiral Charles Lockwood

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Text originally published in 1956 under the same title.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

ZOOMIES, SUBS and ZEROS

by Charles A. Lockwood, VICE ADMIRAL, USN, RET.

and Hans Christian Adamson, COLONEL, USAF, RET.

WITH FOREWORDS BY

VICE ADM. C. A. POWNALL, USN, RET.

GEN. CURTIS E. LEMAY, COMMANDER IN CHIEF, STRATEGIC AIR COMMAND, USAF

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

Dedication 5

Navy and Air Force Forewords 7

NAVY 7

AIR FORCE 9

Authors’ foreword 10

1 — Hot irons in the fire 12

2 — The Lifeguard League is born 15

3 — The Skate wins her zoomie star 20

4 — Westward ho with Spruance and Mitscher 28

5 — Harder stages surf rescue 30

6 — Tang gets a steel umbrella 46

7 — Stingray gives first ‘scope ride 52

8 — Finback also ‘scopes zoomie 66

9 — Haddo and Mingo as angels 72

10 — Sailfish lays ghost of Squalus 78

11 — Archerfish in big league 83

12 – Pomfret braves Tokyo’s defenses 87

13 — Chub defies attacking Zeros 97

14 — The Bullhead finds a way 104

15 — Gato’s zoomie was weighed and ... 110

16 — Scabbardfish converts B-29ers 116

17 POW’s—unwanted guests 125

18 — Tigrone, Trutta beat ole debbil sea 131

19 — AAF pays a tribute 143

20 — Gabilan target of U.S. guns 150

21 — Whale provides curb service 156

22 — RAF fliers take sub ride 168

23  — Aspro in Hirohito’s front yard 172

24 — A-bomb changes war plans 184

25 — Lifeguard earns hearty well done! 192

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 196

Dedication

To the Airmen and Submarine Lifeguards of the Pacific Forces in World War II. They share equal honors for gallantry and daring.

Navy and Air Force Forewords

NAVY

Of all the special tasks performed by our various Naval Forces during the war in the Pacific, none has a more appealing and satisfying note to it, particularly to the men who flew in combat, than that of the Submarine Force Lifeguard League.

For background, a glance at the Submarine Force Pacific of that day is in order. The submarine itself is classified as an effective offensive weapon of naval warfare. Its primary assigned mission is to sink and destroy enemy vessels. Therefore utility assignments to serve the missions of other Forces, with the exception of reconnaissance, are usually ruled out as an unjustified employment of a valuable offensive weapon of war.

The Submarine Force were a reticent outfit. They refrained from self-plaudits and kept their troubles to themselves. Their meat was the sinking of enemy tonnage. In the secret councils at Headquarters, Lockwood’s Scoreboard was awaited with keen anticipation. Now and then a boat was declared overdue or lost—his favorite boat. We soon realized that each submarine of the Force was in reality Lockwood’s favorite boat. In general the personnel of the Force were pleasant, reserved, but with an evident underlying motivation to get on with the war and To Sink Them All.

The aircraft carriers and their respective air groups were a comparatively new weapon in naval warfare. We had lost four in combat and heavy attrition in our air groups. When attacking island positions of the enemy, we were confronted with a serious problem. Our pilots were daring. Enemy A.A. was effective. Aside from the ups and downs of aerial combat itself, this combination meant that pilots would be forced to bail out or crash-land close in to the enemy’s points of observation. The chances for survival under these adverse conditions were slim unless rescue could be effected promptly. Normally the carrier and her supporting vessels would find themselves about sixty miles from the downed airman.

Before leaving for the Marcus raid in August, ‘43, and armed with these thoughts, I called on Commander Submarine Force Pacific and asked that a submarine be stationed off Marcus for rescue purposes during our attacks. We realized that it was more than an ordinary request. However, in about five minutes we received an affirmative answer. This, with the final approval of our Commander in Chief (an old submariner himself), instituted a service to Naval Air by the Submarine Force which continued throughout the war. The action typified a fundamental doctrine and tradition of our Navy—the high regard for saving human life, regardless of war conditions and related factors.

I recall an incident that is typical of the Lifeguard League. Our carrier groups were pounding away at Mille and adjacent enemy airdromes during the Gilbert Island operations. Enemy A.A. was severe. Two of our planes were badly shot up, could not make the carrier, and as a consequence crash-landed alongside the Lifeguard Submarine. Enemy aircraft appeared overhead. Under these conditions the submarine commander would obviously have liked to dive, but he did not. He completed the rescue. Five of his crew were wounded, two seriously, requiring a doctor. He also suffered structural damage to his submarine. To add to the difficulties, two enemy submarines were reported in the immediate area. The problem quickly developed as to how to get our Lifeguard out of the area without her being attacked by foe or friend. A coded message was out because time was of the essence. We resorted to a message of instructions to the Forces concerned in English which defied translation by use of an English-Japanese dictionary. It combined the elements of hillbilly and slang with a generous portion of profanity. (It would not pass the censors.)

We were worried but finally thankful that our unusual message seemed to have accomplished the purpose intended and that our friend the Lifeguard, after effecting a valiant rescue under extreme odds, made safe passage to a spot where adequate medical service was available.

Doubtless this submarine commander thought: A thankless job, a sitting-duck job; it would be simpler to weave the boat submerged through an enemy minefield and whack a big enemy man-of-war with a torpedo for the benefit of Admiral Lockwood’s Scoreboard. Yes, perhaps simpler, but not thankless, no. For proof, ask any Navy combat airman who served in the Pacific war. He will tell you how deeply he appreciated the service rendered by the Lifeguard League.

C. A. Pownall

Vice Admiral, U S Navy (Retired)

AIR FORCE

This story deals with naval gallantry in support of vital air operations against the Japanese in World War II. It chronicles the interesting exploits of the submariners whose selfless courage and devotion to duty saved the lives of many airmen who crashed at sea during combat air operations.

The work of the submarine force Lifeguard League, which Admiral Lockwood and Colonel Adamson recount in this book, stands out as a unique contribution to the American effort in the Pacific. Few books portray in greater detail the vital nature of surface support operations in air campaigns.

As wartime commander of the 20th Air Force, I was unquestionably the greatest beneficiary of the hazardous rescue services undertaken by Admiral Lockwood and his gallant command. His superior leadership and his thorough cooperation, often under most difficult circumstances, resulted in one of the outstanding examples of inter-service teamwork in the Pacific war.

Our pilots gained an extra confidence from the fact that submarine crews were on the alert in enemy waters should their planes be damaged in the air over Japanese territory and forced down at sea. In the face of great dangers, and under conditions which often asked performance beyond the call of duty, the submariners risked their lives in the sole interest of their fellow men in the air.

This is their story.

Curtis E. LeMay

General, USAF

Commander in Chief, Strategic Air Command

Authors’ Foreword

In writing this book, the authors had a triple purpose.

First, to write the superbly human history of the Submarine Lifeguard League while those who participated in its creation and in its splendid work are still among us to tell that story. It is a chapter of Naval and Air Force operations in the Pacific that richly deserves preservation.

Second, to convey to submariners whose vessels took part in the saving of the lives of hundreds of Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps men an essential picture of the overall scope of their activities; as well as to give aviators whose lives were saved by submarines—and their families—a view of the far-flung operations established for snatching airmen from Japs as well as from death at sea.

There remains one more reason for the writing of this book and, perhaps, it is, after all, the most important: namely, to impress upon those who have a voice in such matters at defense and Congressional levels that with new long-range planes and nuclear powered submarines, the lifesaving know-how acquired by submarine and air commanders through bitter and time-consuming experiences should be preserved for future generations of submariners and airmen.

As shown in this book, Lifeguarding was not established and put into smooth operation in one day. Many months were expended in setting up procedures and recognition signals. Submariners had to unlearn the Number One maxim of their operational doctrines: never to expose themselves to enemy air or surface craft. Airmen had to learn to overcome their instinctive preferences for trying to ride their crippled crafts to home-base instead of putting faith in a sub to pick them up after a deliberate ditching in the open sea.

Both procedures were unnatural for the officers and men involved.

It is therefore the hope of the authors of this book—both of whom, in their own respective fields, had experience with the subjects of directing submarines in the Lifeguard League and in knowing the attitudes of men who go down to the sea from planes into rafts—that those responsible for maintaining and extending air-sea rescue techniques will have the funds, opportunity, and equipment—as well as directives—to indoctrinate the submariners and airmen in the techniques of air-sea rescue.

New techniques, better equipment, and vastly improved recognition procedures will be required for those who fly from land bases or carriers—when and if World ‘War III bursts upon us—as well as for those who would rescue them from the sea.

In the long run, it will cost less to be prepared for this type of operation than will be expended in time, money and lives if the lessons of the Lifeguard League have to be learned all over again in conjunction with all the other demanding pressures of actual combat.

There are sound military reasons for rescues of this type, as well as purely human considerations. Hundreds of the airmen rescued by Lifeguard subs returned to their squadrons for further missions. Thus proving that: He who fights and dives away, will live to fight some other day.

The Authors

ZOOMIES, SUBS AND ZEROS

1 — Hot irons in the fire

Down wheels; down flaps. The Army B-24, packed to the limit with passengers from Australia, Guadalcanal, and New Caledonia, circled for a landing at Hickam Field, the Army Air Base just outside the gates of the U. S. Naval Station at Pearl Harbor.

I stood silently behind the pilots, thrilled anew by the incomparable beauty of Oahu with its blue-green hills in the distance and its vivid checkerboard of cane, pineapple, and taro fields. Dozens of ships lay motionless at the docks in Pearl Harbor. How peaceful it all looked in the clear air of that Sunday morning, February 14, 1943.

Just so peaceful, I thought, it must have looked that Sunday morning in December, 1941, before Japanese bombers and torpedo planes rained death and destruction upon it.

I viewed the scene with conflicting emotions: pleasure at being back at the real headquarters of the Pacific war theater and with my own people after ten months down under; distress at leaving West Australia, thousands of miles closer to the fighting and under constant threat of invasion from the Malay Barrier. I felt almost as though I had deserted in the face of the enemy. I had put thousands of man hours into the job of operating my Submarines Southwest Pacific against advancing enemy forces. Disappointments, progress, tragedy, and triumph had all played their parts, and the going had been tough, but I was loath to leave my hard-fighting submarines while enemy shipping still plied the waters of the East Indian and Philippine seas.

Dispatch orders from Cominch (Commander in Chief U.S. Fleet, Admiral Ernest J. King), directing me to take over the job of Commander Submarines Pacific, had left me no choice. My predecessor in that command, Rear Admiral R. H. Bob English, had been killed on January 21, 1943, with three members of his staff, in a tragic plane crash in the mountains of northern California while en route to a top-level conference of submarine builders and representatives of the Bureaus of the Navy Department.

The wheels of the big plane kissed the concrete, brakes screeched, and we taxied to the disembarkation area. The long two-day flight from Brisbane, Australia, had ended.

It was good to feel solid ground once more beneath my feet and to have a respite from the constant roar of the plane’s powerful engines. As I arrived at the foot of the gangway, the ringing in my ears still made it difficult for me to hear the greetings of Captain John H. Babe Brown, all-American guard and hero of several pre-World War I football games, when beating the Army was one of the most serious problems with which the Navy had to contend. As the senior submarine officer at Pearl Harbor, John had assumed temporary command upon the death of Bob English.

Accompanying him were the Submarine Force Chief of Staff, Captain John Griggs, and the Flag Lieutenant, J. A. Sparky Woodruff. Their grave faces and hushed voices reflected the sorrow and shock which the loss of three messmates and their Force Commander had inflicted. Bob English had fought in submarines in World War I and was admired and respected throughout the Service. The three staff members lost with him, Captain Robert H. Smith and Commanders John Crane and Reilly Coll, were old friends of mine and skilled specialists whom we could ill afford to lose.

I felt the weight of the duties I was about to assume as well as deep sorrow for the fine lads so suddenly taken from us.

Boys, I said, looking from one to another of our little group, Bob English’s shoes will take a lot of filling and I shall need all of your help even to attempt the job.... Let’s get going.

I reported at once to Cincpac (the Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet), Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, in Aiea Naval Hospital, where he was recovering from an attack of malaria evidently contracted in a recent inspection trip to Guadalcanal and the South Pacific. I had never served with the Big Boss before but I knew his reputation for running a taut ship—the type of ship wherein the captain tolerates no slackness, the type of ship most sailormen prefer. You always know just where you stand and just what to expect with a taut skipper; the type known as a popularity Jack is too likely to be unpredictable in his favors and judgments. It required only one glance at the cut of Admiral Nimitz’ jaw and the steel blue of his eyes to confirm what others had told me, but the geniality of his smile also told me of his sense of humor. Here was the ideal leader—one who could lighten the gravity of a tense situation with a witticism; one who could temper justice with mercy and the wind to the shorn lamb. I have yet to find it necessary to revise the opinion I formed that morning.

I delivered a secret personal message to him from General MacArthur, gave him a brief run-down of the situation in Western Australia, and then retired to dig myself into my new job.

Admiral, said John Brown, when he and the Chief of Staff had rejoined me in my new office, we’ve got a hell of a lot of irons in the fire and some quick decisions to make. I’ve held off the top-level stuff until you could get here. When Babe was being official, I was Admiral to him; otherwise I was Charlie, a brother skipper who had grown up as he had, in subs, and shared the heritage of all early submariners—the struggle for better torpedoes, better engines, better boats.

Then followed twenty-four hours in which we hardly left my office. Quarts of hot coffee kept us awake and meals on trays came down from our mess. The time passed all too quickly, for there were king-sized hot irons in the fire and too few asbestos gloves with which to handle them. Time was of the essence.

In spite of titanic efforts in the United States to repair and enlarge our battered fleet, submarines were still the only men-of-war which could carry the battle into enemy waters. Thus, on that small force rested the whole responsibility of stopping the flow of munitions and aircraft to the far-flung Japanese perimeter. On the submarines rested also the equally crushing burden of stopping the flow of oil and strategic materials from the Japanese Co-Prosperity Sphere into the factories and shipyards of the Empire. That was Hot Iron Number One, and pulling it out of the fire required intestinal fortitude—guts—on the part of our submarine skippers and crews, plus fool-proof, dependable torpedoes to do the execution. The first item we had in abundance; in the second we were deplorably lacking. The defects in our Mark XIV torpedoes were serious, but they were corrected in a few months and in a manner which reflected great credit upon the clever, determined youngsters who sweated out the answers.

The second hot iron concerned the development of Midway Islands into a full-scale base where submarines could be completely refitted at the end of their patrols, thus lopping 2400 miles off the round trip to Empire home waters. That problem we also solved with the approval of the Big Boss and the assistance of Admiral Ben Moreel’s miracle-working Sea Bees.

The third hot iron involved operations which were still in the planning stage in my office and in the great, mud-colored, bomb-proof headquarters which flew Admiral Nimitz’ flag and seethed with the activities of the members of Cincpac’s joint Army, Navy, and Marine Staff. Every conceivable phase of naval warfare was represented therein by its paper-working brain-trusters. Operations, Logistics, Intelligence, Planning, Code Breaking—all were housed in close contact and all were working toward a single goal: the winning of World War II.

We did not know it then, but that Iron Number Three contained the germ from which grew our Lifeguard League —a submarine organization dedicated to saving Army, Navy, Marine, and Allied fliers shot down or otherwise forced down at sea. The lives of hundreds of American fighting men, our brothers of the air forces, were destined to be saved by the Lifeguard League.

2 — The Lifeguard League is born

At the time of which I write—February—March, 1943—our naval surface forces in the Central Pacific were at a low ebb. Four carriers—Lexington, Yorktown, Wasp, and Hornet—had been lost to Japanese bombs and torpedoes, three in the South Pacific and one at Midway. The bulk of our available battleships and carriers, under Admiral Halsey, supported Army and Marine forces in the Solomon’s area. The Central Pacific Force, later to become the Fifth Fleet, consisted of several old battleships, two carriers, and a few cruisers and lighter craft. At that time our initial strategy in the reconquest of the Pacific was not even fairly well crystallized.

It had been decided that two roads were to be pushed through toward Tokyo—though just where their junction would be was still under discussion in the top-level councils. As it turned out, several unforeseen and important detours and bypasses, dictated by the turn of events, were to be thrown onto the trestle-boards of the master draftsmen.

Nevertheless the Joint Chiefs of Staff had decreed that the construction gang led by General MacArthur, Admiral Halsey, and Admiral Kinkaid should hew its way up the New Guinea coast and through the Bismarck Barrier with Mindanao as its immediate objective. The bridge builders and island hoppers commanded by Admiral Nimitz and General Holland Smith of the Marines were to push their freeway through the Marshall and Caroline Islands. Their westward goal might be Singapore and it might be Hong Kong.

The objectives contemplated by these early plans were radically altered to northward as our attack gained momentum and the weight of our offensive made itself felt upon the enemy. It was foreseen, in our Navy Planning Sections, that this latter line of advance—westward across the wide, tumbled spaces of the Pacific—would require plenty of air offensives to hunt down and destroy enemy aircraft and air bases which had sprung up like mushrooms upon the islands that dotted the chosen route.

Furthermore, our advancing fleet, while shepherding the amphibious forces, must be prepared at any moment to join battle with the Japanese fleets—fleets which were built around battleship-carrier task forces and which could be expected to vigorously dispute our advance.

The problem of providing adequate air support in the far reaches of the Pacific, beyond the radius of the scant supply of land-based planes then available, could be solved only by pouring aircraft carriers and yet more aircraft carriers into the Pacific Theater.

For the vision and sound judgment of the Navy Department and the Joint Chiefs of Staff which had foreseen this need, our nation may be most fervently thankful. The resultant flood of CV’s (aircraft carriers), CVL’s (light aircraft carrier), and CVE’s (escort aircraft carriers, better known as jeep carriers) produced a naval air arm the like of which had never before been seen in the history of the world. In the ensuing operations the splendid performance of these forces saved the lives of thousands and thousands of American fighting men who stormed the beaches.

Just how my new command, Task Force 7 (later changed to Task Force 17) Submarines Pacific Fleet, was to pioneer, assist, and cooperate with this westward and northward advance was my Hot Iron Number Three—and it was plenty hot.

A big game hunter once said to me, while patting his favorite rifle: She has taken me into many places where I wished I hadn’t gone. I might say the same of that Iron Number Three—and with the same tone of pride—for supporting fleet, air, and amphibious operations introduced to us phases of submarine adaptability and flexibility as yet unexplored; phases fraught with extreme hazard of sudden extinction; phases in which the natural weapon of the submarine, its torpedo, was of no avail; and, last but not least, phases in which the greatest natural defense of the submarine, its ability to disappear beneath the surface, could not be resorted to.

Extra-curricular jobs were not new to the submarine forces. Our primary mission was, of course, to patrol the waters of the Pacific Ocean and its subjoined seas—some eight million square miles of water—and to sink everything which floated and flew an enemy flag. However, since the beginning of the war, submarines had demonstrated their versatility by doing, as Kipling might have said, all sorts and all manner of things. The Trout, under Commander Mike Fenno, ran medical supplies and anti-aircraft ammunition into beleaguered Corregidor and brought out the currency reserve of the Philippines—twenty tons of bullion, coin, and securities—funds that never fell into enemy hands.

The Searaven, under the redoubtable Commander Hiram Cassedy, working out of Perth, West Australia, in early 1942 had rescued thirty-three Australian fliers from the enemy-held island of Timor and thereby won the hearts of our sturdy allies. So dangerous had been this mission that I made my first recommendation of World War II for a personal award—a Navy Cross—for Ensign G. C. Cook, USNR, the Searaven’s boat officer who made the actual landings and rescue.

A dozen or more other submarines—among them the Seawolf, Seadragon, Sargo, Swordfish, Permit, Snapper, Spearfish, Porpoise, Nautilus, Grayback, Gudgeon, and Gato—had won their spurs and had hair-raising adventures in removing refugees from enemy-held territory all the way from the Philippines to the Solomons. Their passengers ranged from service personnel, civilians, nurses, missionaries, and nuns to the U. S. High Commissioner of the Philippines and President