The Sinking of the Skate Part I on August 6, 1945, USS
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The Sinking of the Skate Part I On August 6, 1945, USS SKATE was on its way back to the Tsushima minefields when the radio operator received a message: “Today, the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Japan equal to 20,000 tons of TNT.” The submarine continued westward. A few days later, word of a second atomic bomb drop was received. Somewhere beyond the International Date Line on August 15th, the crew heard by the news on the radio that the war was over and that Pacific combat operations were to be suspended. The Skipper quickly approved a “man overboard” drill and all topside who cared to be so, jumped in and became so. The boat moved on away from the happy swimmers to make a loop and return upwind, as training protocols required. Although the men in the water were always under the watchful eye of SKATE’s periscope, they lost sight of the boat. It occurred to some of them that there might also be an uninformed or noncompliant Japanese submarine captain looking at them. (SKATE had destroyed an unsuspecting Japanese submarine on the surface only two months earlier.) They were all glad to scramble back aboard. The actual timeline of these days is disturbing. President Truman announced Japan’s agreement to surrender and ordered the cessation of all American military operations in the Pacific at 7:00PM on August 14th (that was 9:00AM, August 15th for SKATE.) The Japanese Emperor first ordered his armed forces to cease all military operations later that afternoon. Safely at the forward base at Guam a few days later, the crew learned that this eighth war patrol had ended and would be their last. They were to return to Pearl Harbor, where the celebration was well underway. One officer wrote home to his wife: “Another fasty before shoving off, and dearest, how happy I am! Build your hopes up sky high, honey, because they are going to be fulfilled. I’m so excited, I can hardly stand it. This is the great day we have been waiting for. Oh great day – our reunion is near!” About two weeks later, the men of SKATE were on the beach of Honolulu’s Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Many had begun to reflect on what had happened in the recent months of their lives: the vastness of the Pacific theater, the ferocity of the enemy resistance, the power that was necessary for victory, the meaning of the atomic bomb, and their own contribution to ending the war. After almost two years of anonymity, they were ready to toot their own whistle. American submarines were deliberately kept anonymous beyond official circles. During wartime, they were painted to look like the Pacific and had virtually no identifying insignia to distinguish them from other subs. In 1944, boats berthed at the Pearl Harbor base began to fly homemade “house flags.” These usually featured colorful cartoon renderings by crew members of sea creatures and often included symbolic representations of the ship’s combat history. Japanese navy and merchant ships damaged or sunk were represented by silhouettes or small enemy flags. These distinctive designs of folk art identified individual boats moored beside a tender in port and were considered good for crew morale. Later that year, Walt Disney Studios was producing art for submarine banners. During war patrols, men in the torpedo rooms of SKATE decorated the hatches of tubes which had scored against Japanese shipping with painted enemy flags. The boat also had a belligerent but humble house flag in 1944. It was featured in a set of crew photographs still treasured by families of crew members today. Several crude images of similar SKATE logos survived among the memorabilia from the boat but the originals are gone, along with the wartime house flag. When the boat was in California for an overhaul in 1945, a SKATE sailor requested that an artist at the Disney Studios produce cartoon art for the crew to use. The studio supplied a professional, classic Disney warrior-fish wearing a sailor’s hat and roller skates. He was carrying a torpedo like a football and defiantly thumbing his nose, presumably at Admiral Yamamoto’s ghost. The work was donated without charge and copyright permission was granted for crew members to use a template of the cartoon as they wished. The Disney art first appeared on the ship’s stationery and foul weather coats that spring as they headed for the Sea of Japan. In the summer of 1945 the war was over and, among the historic ships of the Pacific Fleet anchored at Pearl, SKATE had her own story to tell. There was no longer worry of an enemy spotting the boat, so some of the men painted the colorful Disney design on the fairwater of the conning tower, along with the combat score in Japanese flags and seven stars for the successful patrols. The men of SKATE took pride in her accomplishments. She had damaged or sunk one of each of the major types of warships in the Imperial Navy – a battleship, a carrier, a cruiser (both light and heavy), a destroyer and a submarine. She had sent more than a half a dozen merchantmen under, brought home eight POWs and rescued six Navy aviators. She had been one of the nine Hellcats which penetrated the Japanese minefields, an operation often framed in history as the most audacious submarine attack of the war. Her combat skippers had each been awarded the Navy Cross for their accomplishments with SKATE. A sailor wrote home: “We have had a satisfactory record in the war and I feel no shame in being attached to this boat. We have the conning tower decorated with flags now and other doo-gadgets indicating what the ship has done. I have been aboard her for every war-shot torpedo she has fired…and although we have missed much, we have scored well too, on occasion.” The remainder of that August was spent by many of the men calculating “points” which would lead to discharge and returning home. Points were based on length of time in service and the number of dependent children at home. More points were added for months overseas and for valor awards. Almost immediately, pressure both from the troops and the loved ones at home became a public clamor to liberalize the point system. The Navy’s response was to fast-track separations and convert warships into transports. The effort was named “Operation Magic Carpet” and soon, carriers and battleships were “bringing the boys home.” The Navy set a goal of reducing the number of wartime commissioned ships from more than 1,200 to 400. Over the next two years, several million sailors on active duty were reduced to only a few hundred thousand still in uniform. Commander Ozzie Lynch, SKATE’s last wartime Skipper, was relieved by Lieutenant Commander John Dudley, and veterans of the boat began to slip away. The formal surrender of Japan occurred in the first week of September. SKATE was home in California by the end of the month. The boat was in its finest state of formal attire for the celebration of “Navy Day” at the Los Angeles port of Wilmington on October 27th. This all day event benefitted a war bonds drive and included a massive military parade, warships open to the public, movie stars and flyovers. The war pageant – “A Tribute to Victory” - at the Los Angeles Coliseum drew 100,000 people that evening and was broadcast live to the nation. The pageant concluded with a simulated “atomic bomb” mushroom-shaped fireworks and the surrender of Japan on the deck of the Battleship Missouri at the fifty-yard line. A number of photographs survive depicting dowdy Navy Day guests on the deck of SKATE that day, encountering the chicken mascot. They were told that the bird was an authentic sailor who had endured the mines of Tsushima with the rest of the crew. The visitors in the old images appear bemused, if not offended, and the chicken looks like a disturbed bird. The chicken had endured a hard war and was in need of R&R. He had very few feathers, smelled like lube oil, and crowed randomly, day and night. This sleep disturbance was apparently the result of prolonged life below decks without a sunrise for his biological clock. On Navy Day, he wore his award ribbon at his craw with a submarine combat patrol pin. He was introduced to the visitors and a CBS news reporter as “Little George,” which was his polite name. It wasn’t long after this that Little George lost his balance (as he usually did when the crew was celebrating which, by this time, was almost daily) and fell down a deck hatch. The Pharmacist’s Mate attempted emergency surgery but was unsuccessful. No one seemed to remember the funeral arrangements but it would not have been proper for his remains to be committed to the deep while dockside in California. If Chad McCracken were still cook, chicken would have been on the officer’s menu for the wake that evening. By the end of 1945, “Magic Carpet” was significantly reducing the crew size in many ships and many ships were being decommissioned. It was the time of Army-Navy surplus stores when every kid had a sailor’s hat, a canteen and an olive drab backpack stamped “U.S.” for schoolbooks. With so much gear available, an enterprising SKATE officer easily obtained a cruiser whistle by just signing a requisition. Crew members integrated it into the periscope shears and devised the connections which would bring it to life.