Final Patrol (23 page)

Of course, if anyone had bothered to read the fine print, he would have seen that the law creating the panel only specifically authorized its members to take custody of the USS
Piranha
(SS-389), the original boat on which the veterans had settled. The legislation purposefully and clearly failed to authorize the board to enter into contracts or spend a penny of the taxpayers' money for anything—not even pencils and paper, much less a World War II diesel boat and all that would be necessary to bring her to Oklahoma.

The board promptly went right out into the world, signing contracts and spending money, but for another submarine, not for the
Piranha
.

When members of the oddly named maritime board went down to New Orleans to arrange for the delivery of the boat they thought they wanted, they spied another vessel that happened to be moored nearby. That submarine was the
Batfish
, and she not only had a more impressive war record, but she was also in better physical shape. The
Piranha
had been raided, stripped, and much of her World War II equipment cannibalized for use on the remaining few active diesel training boats. Even the
Piranha
's conning tower had been removed and hauled off to a museum in Texas, leaving her little more than a headless hulk.

No worries. Like any good sub captains, the board made a midcourse correction to assure the best possible outcome. Protocol and procedure went out the window in the name of expediency. The vets promptly signed up with the navy for delivery of the 310 boat, the
Batfish
, instead. Without hesitation, they also began entertaining bids to prepare her for the long journey to Muskogee.

When those bids arrived, the board met, approved the selections, and signed the contracts, all without asking permission from anyone. They were confident that they would have an actual, historic submarine open to Oklahomans in short order, and they were intent on doing it without any unnecessary red tape or input from anyone back in Oklahoma City.

But bringing the boat upriver turned out to not be that easy. Some of the problems they faced were political. Others were based simply on the fact that the Arkansas River was not deep or wide enough, and that it made several critical bends that a 311-foot boat would have trouble making. The Army Corps of Engineers were busily working on the problem, not specifically for the
Batfish
effort but because they had been authorized to make the Arkansas navigable all the way to the outskirts of Tulsa. That was one of the ways the sub vets group sold their idea in the first place to both the Oklahoma legislature and the U.S. Navy. What better way to show off the advantages of this marvelous new transportation route than to bring a saltwater critter like a submarine all the way to the middle of the Dust Bowl?

Of course, none of them counted on a near catastrophe when a big oil tanker sped by the docked submarine in New Orleans only a day or two before she was to begin the trip upriver. The massive wake kicked up by the tanker sank one of the barges that was to help float the sub. Several others were damaged. So was the
Batfish
, but fortunately not seriously. And it was a miracle that no one was killed or that the
Batfish
did not end up on the muddy Mississippi River bottom alongside the barge.

But if anyone thought the project would be abandoned, he underestimated the determination of the World War II submarine vets.

After several years of delays—in the spring of 1972, about ten years after the idea was first floated among the submarine veterans—they were finally able to begin the
Batfish
's historic journey up the Mississippi River. She pulled away from the Port of New Orleans, propelled by a couple of tugboats, one in front towing, the other behind the submarine, shoving her with its snout. The ingenious method they had devised—a phalanx of barges three to a side and a series of big straps that formed a sling beneath the submarine's belly—worked even better than anticipated. They made good time, their progress followed by local media along the way as well as by news representatives from back in Oklahoma.

Then, through some complicated navigation, they made a left turn and floated her on up the much more narrow and shallow Arkansas River, still pointing toward her new home. There, in a spot donated by the city of Muskogee, Oklahoma, they intended to have her rest, to open her for visitation “by the schoolchildren of Oklahoma,” as their charter stated.

But simply getting there was only the beginning of her long final patrol. Politics, money, squabbling, floods—they all played a role in the delay in getting the old boat into the final resting spot that had been prepared for her. There were points at which the navy threatened to reclaim the boat and send her off to the scrap yard after all. At other times, the Corps of Engineers threatened to declare her a navigation hazard, a threat to their newly navigable waterway, and to tow her away. A promised bond issue to raise money for moving her out of the river into her slip at the proposed park never materialized. Vendors, who had done their jobs but had not been paid a penny, filed lawsuits. The State of Oklahoma backpedaled from the whole mess, claiming they never authorized any of this, and that, on top of it all, the veterans had brought the wrong submarine upriver. What was this
Batfish
vessel, and where was the
Piranha
, the boat specifically named in the authorizing legislation?

The darkest time may have been the winter of 1973. That's when heavy rains swelled the river out of its banks and the submarine almost capsized.

But those stubborn submarine vets never gave up. The minutes of the Maritime Advisory Board meetings are filled with optimistic plans and scant few discussions of all the dire predictions about their boat. Eventually, their perseverance paid off.

Volunteers used a bulldozer to help pull the
Batfish
into a muddy channel that had been scooped out of a former bean field next to the river. With the help of the Corps of Engineers, who closed a floodgate downstream, the level of the Arkansas River was raised so the boat could more easily be nudged into the temporary channel. With that, she began the final three-hundred-yard portion of her journey.

In a park dedicated to veterans of all wars and services, she rests today in a moat of dirt, captured forever by a mound of Dust Bowl soil. Held in place a long, long way from the nearest sea. Half a world away from the site of her three-subs-sunk-in-three-days triumph. At the highest elevation above sea level any submarine had ever been taken.

The complete story of how a submarine came to rest in a former bean field in the middle of the Dust Bowl and Cherokee Indian territory is far more complicated than that, of course. But the bottom line is that the vets, in true submariner fashion, refused to give up on their dream.

 

 

 

The
Batfish
was
unofficially opened to the public on July 4, 1972, half a decade later than originally planned. Despite some rocky times since, the boat is still a part of Muskogee, Oklahoma's, War Memorial Park, and a fixture alongside the Muskogee Turnpike. More than a few motorists have been startled to glance across the field and see what appears to be a submarine sitting out there in the grass, over a thousand miles from the closest body of salt water. But there she is, where the Verdigris River meets the Arkansas, and she is open much of the year for everyone to see.

The War Memorial Park operates a museum with many
Batfish
and World War II items inside. Out its back door is a series of bronze stands, bearing the names of the fifty-two submarines lost in the war. Their plaques also include the names of each crewman who was lost aboard those sacred boats. The display is similar to the one at the submarine memorial near the USS
Bowfin
at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

Other military items are also on display on the grounds, including several types of armament. Those include actual 20-millimeter, 40-millimeter, three-inch and five-inch guns and a real (though disarmed, obviously) torpedo like the ones the World War II submarines carried and fired. And 20-millimeter and 40-millimeter deck guns have now been mounted on the
Batfish
to make her appear more as she did during the war.

Volunteers are always being sought to help in the upkeep of the submarine. Even though she is surrounded by dirt and not water, there is still plenty of work to do to keep the sub in good shape. Regular annual workdays are scheduled.

There is now an effort to get new wood to replace the
Batfish
's decking. It was hoped that project would be completed in 2006 as well. Word at the time of this writing is that the first bundle of new decking has arrived at the boat.

The
Batfish
Memorial Foundation was created in May 2003 to help support the restoration of the submarine and to raise money for projects such as those mentioned above. Donations to the foundation are tax-deductible.

The foundation has also adopted as a project getting the submarine listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Courtesy of the U.S. Navy

 

Launched:
January 30, 1944

Named for:
the becuna, or great barracuda, a fish that is common in waters around Florida. The becuna has earned a reputation as a ferocious hunter, is willing to attack and able to subdue much larger fish.

Where:
Electric Boat Company, Groton, Connecticut

Sponsor:
Mrs. G. C. Crawford, wife of Navy Commander George C. “Turkey Neck” Crawford, a former sub skipper, head of the submarine school at Groton, Connecticut, and squadron commander at Pearl Harbor

Commissioned:
May 27, 1944

 

Claim to fame:
Known affectionately as “Becky,” the
Becuna
had twenty-five years of service, including five World War II patrols and stints in the Korean and Vietnam wars, as well as service during the Cold War.

L
ieutenant Commander Henry Dixon Sturr and his new submarine, the USS
Becuna
, were perfect examples of how submersible warships were often penalized in their scorekeeping simply because they operated so stealthily. Often patrolling alone in remote waters, attacking enemy vessels that were, themselves, on top secret missions, they usually only had their own reports to back up claims of ships sunk. Admittedly, some skippers, in an effort to impress their bosses or to earn decorations or promotions, did embellish their reports. That's why the official score-keepers relied on other evidence to confirm tonnage sunk. But some of that evidence was questionable as well. After the war, Japanese records were spotty, often not placing key vessels where they actually were when they met their end.

Even when Henry Sturr, Annapolis class of '33, was dead-to-rights certain that he had sunk a ship, he would later learn he had only inflicted damage, that the vessel had survived. That happened on her very first war patrol.

Operating in the Celebes Sea south of the Philippines, the
Becuna
spotted a Japanese tanker carrying precious oil to an enemy outpost somewhere in the South Pacific. That was exactly the kind of target American submarines were having spectacular success in intercepting and sinking, denying the Japanese the valuable petroleum they needed to maintain the war effort.

“Battle stations, submerge!” Sturr ordered, and the dive klaxon sounded throughout the boat.

The crew quickly lined up for an attack and sent four torpedoes hissing off toward the big target. Two of them hit, the explosions close enough to rattle the newly minted submarine hard. They would not be able to stick around to watch the vessel sink, though. One of the tanker's escorts was heading their way in one big hurry. After outlasting a thunderous hailstorm of forty depth charges, Sturr recorded in his deck log and subsequent patrol report that they had definitely sunk one Japanese tanker.

After the war, the “kill” was erased from the
Becuna
's tally. The seven-thousand-ton
Kimikawa Maru
was heavily damaged by Sturr's torpedoes but she survived.

Two weeks later, in October 1944, Sturr and his submarine had another frustrating experience. Patrolling with her sister boats the USS
Baya
(SS-318) and the USS
Hawkbill
(SS-366) south of Formosa, the wolf pack happened upon a twelve-ship enemy convoy full of highly desirable targets. After being chased for several hours, the enemy ships suddenly changed course and headed straight for the
Becuna
. Even though they had been submerged for quite a while already and were running low on both battery power and fresh air, Captain Sturr knew this would be his best opportunity to strike a blow.