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Authors: Jon Stafford
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Mojarra labored against the
choppy waves, spray splashed onto the bridge and froze almost on contact. It was
caked two or three inches thick on everything, from the two periscopes to the safety
railings that held in the lookouts. Fostel ordered the boat submerged, but the twenty-four
inch wide air intake vent, which had to be closed to make the boat watertight, had frozen solid in the open position. The bridge personnel, busy trying to keep from
freezing, had not noticed the open hatch.
As diving officer, when the light on the Green Board showed “red” for the intake,
Forbes had cancelled the dive and blown the ballast tanks. This quick action had
saved the boat. Had she submerged, it would have been only a matter of minutes before
the ice on top of the open valve melted, water poured in by the ton, and the boat
went down, carrying the entire crew to their deaths.
Fostel had yelled, “This is the end! My God, we can’t even submerge this goddamn
boat!”
That was a bad thing to say on a submarine. The men in the conning tower had looked
askance at the captain, not wanting their submarine to be the object of scorn.
Fostel went on. “What will happen next? Mr. Forbes,” he said, his voice rising, his
head nodding as he walked toward the young officer. “You are the diving officer.
I have made SOO-perhuman efforts to give all of you people a chance to learn the
difficult, difficult job of commanding a warship. I would think that you could respond
by arranging it so we could SUBMERGE! After all, what are we?”
No one dared speak or even look directly at the captain. Fostel went on anyway, speaking
even louder, spittle flying from his mouth.
“We are a submarine! S-U-B-M-A-R-I-N-E!”
He did not seem to notice or care when it took three men with hatchets twenty minutes
to chip the solid block of ice from the air intake so Mojarra could indeed dive.
Forbes hadn’t dared say anything to Fostel, then or now, but Harry knew he was still
pretty upset about the whole mess.
Forbes was hardly the only one Fostel bullied. The result was an inefficient boat
on which men squabbled with each other over nothing, and no one wished to take responsibility.
In its five war patrols, all under Fostel, the submarine only sank three ships. Fostel
always blamed the poor record on “bad luck.”
Younger, more aggressive men were gradually replacing the older commanders. But that
took time, months even. When Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood, better known as “Uncle
Charlie,” took over the submarine command in May of 1942, everyone on Mojarra hoped
he’d remove Fostel. No such luck. Hostile Fostel was still in command. In the meantime,
competent officers that came to Mojarra had unsavory experiences and so transferred
out as quickly as they could, in a continual revolving door of personnel.
Harry had come to the boat as executive officer. Due to a curious incident, he was
the only officer of the nine aboard who became exempt to Fostel’s continuous barrage.
Harry had actually upstaged the captain in firing two torpedoes at a freighter at
the last second. With Fostel on the scope in the conning tower, all of the preparations
for firing had been completed. The enemy ship was just seconds away from an optimum
firing setup when the captain began to berate one of the crew! Harry never knew who
it was. He had been watching the Combat Data Computer, a very complicated calculating
machine, as the diatribe began. It became obvious to Harry that they had to fire
immediately or the torpedoes would miss.
The captain was still turned away, oblivious to Harry’s signaling. Harry had then
violated the oldest protocol in Navy regulations by taking over from a captain without
permission. He just couldn’t help himself. Everyone on board wanted so much to sink
enemy ships, to get revenge for Pearl Harbor, to be in the war! Determinedly, he’d
shouted, “Fire one, fire two.”
If those things had missed, his career would have ended right there
choppy waves, spray splashed onto the bridge and froze almost on contact. It was
caked two or three inches thick on everything, from the two periscopes to the safety
railings that held in the lookouts. Fostel ordered the boat submerged, but the twenty-four
inch wide air intake vent, which had to be closed to make the boat watertight, had frozen solid in the open position. The bridge personnel, busy trying to keep from
freezing, had not noticed the open hatch.
As diving officer, when the light on the Green Board showed “red” for the intake,
Forbes had cancelled the dive and blown the ballast tanks. This quick action had
saved the boat. Had she submerged, it would have been only a matter of minutes before
the ice on top of the open valve melted, water poured in by the ton, and the boat
went down, carrying the entire crew to their deaths.
Fostel had yelled, “This is the end! My God, we can’t even submerge this goddamn
boat!”
That was a bad thing to say on a submarine. The men in the conning tower had looked
askance at the captain, not wanting their submarine to be the object of scorn.
Fostel went on. “What will happen next? Mr. Forbes,” he said, his voice rising, his
head nodding as he walked toward the young officer. “You are the diving officer.
I have made SOO-perhuman efforts to give all of you people a chance to learn the
difficult, difficult job of commanding a warship. I would think that you could respond
by arranging it so we could SUBMERGE! After all, what are we?”
No one dared speak or even look directly at the captain. Fostel went on anyway, speaking
even louder, spittle flying from his mouth.
“We are a submarine! S-U-B-M-A-R-I-N-E!”
He did not seem to notice or care when it took three men with hatchets twenty minutes
to chip the solid block of ice from the air intake so Mojarra could indeed dive.
Forbes hadn’t dared say anything to Fostel, then or now, but Harry knew he was still
pretty upset about the whole mess.
Forbes was hardly the only one Fostel bullied. The result was an inefficient boat
on which men squabbled with each other over nothing, and no one wished to take responsibility.
In its five war patrols, all under Fostel, the submarine only sank three ships. Fostel
always blamed the poor record on “bad luck.”
Younger, more aggressive men were gradually replacing the older commanders. But that
took time, months even. When Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood, better known as “Uncle
Charlie,” took over the submarine command in May of 1942, everyone on Mojarra hoped
he’d remove Fostel. No such luck. Hostile Fostel was still in command. In the meantime,
competent officers that came to Mojarra had unsavory experiences and so transferred
out as quickly as they could, in a continual revolving door of personnel.
Harry had come to the boat as executive officer. Due to a curious incident, he was
the only officer of the nine aboard who became exempt to Fostel’s continuous barrage.
Harry had actually upstaged the captain in firing two torpedoes at a freighter at
the last second. With Fostel on the scope in the conning tower, all of the preparations
for firing had been completed. The enemy ship was just seconds away from an optimum
firing setup when the captain began to berate one of the crew! Harry never knew who
it was. He had been watching the Combat Data Computer, a very complicated calculating
machine, as the diatribe began. It became obvious to Harry that they had to fire
immediately or the torpedoes would miss.
The captain was still turned away, oblivious to Harry’s signaling. Harry had then
violated the oldest protocol in Navy regulations by taking over from a captain without
permission. He just couldn’t help himself. Everyone on board wanted so much to sink
enemy ships, to get revenge for Pearl Harbor, to be in the war! Determinedly, he’d
shouted, “Fire one, fire two.”
If those things had missed, his career would have ended right there
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