The morning began with overcast skies and a gray sea that rolled beneath USS Gabilan as she resumed her lifeguard station near the mouth of Tokyo Bay. It was 0542. Her role was to watch the skies and be ready to pull Allied airmen from the ocean if their luck ran out over Japan. These assignments could be long, sometimes dull, and always dangerous.
By 1135, weather conditions had started to clear. Enemy coastlines were still visible in the haze, but the skies were opening. Strike aircraft would soon follow. Word filtered through at 1430 that the carriers were sending in another wave. Gabilan surfaced at 1600 and established contact with her fighter cover. From the bridge, the sky seemed alive. Planes moved in every direction. Tokyo’s defenses were under heavy pressure, and the horizon felt full of noise.
At 1700, a distress call came through. A Navy plane was down northwest of Suno Saki Light. Gabilan dispatched an escort to investigate. At 1730, another plane hit the water in the mouth of Tokyo Bay. That one was close. Too close for comfort. The area was mined, and shore batteries kept a constant watch.
Despite that, Gabilan pressed in. At 1753, she recovered Lieutenant (jg) R. L. Paget and ARM2c W. E. Pettner. Two more were located within the next thirty minutes. By 1815, Lieutenant W. R. Eddins and ARM3c N. G. Marten had been brought aboard. Cold, shaken, and lucky, all four aviators were safe below decks. With word from the fighter cover that no further survivors were expected, Gabilan dove at 1852.
She surfaced again at 2035. New orders had come in. A U.S. cruiser and destroyer group was approaching from the south. Gabilan was instructed to remain north of 35 degrees, 15 minutes latitude and stay out of the area. They adjusted course and crept northeast through the night.
At 2300, the radar picked up two destroyers and several larger ships moving at high speed. These were friendly, or so it seemed. Gabilan turned on recognition systems and made preparations to identify herself. But at 2333, the destroyers opened fire.
Shells began falling around her. The first rounds landed at a range of approximately 11,800 meters. Gabilan responded with a signal rocket and flashed recognition lights. It did no good. The incoming fire continued. Commander Parham gave the order to dive. But the sea was heavy. Submergence was slow. At 2336, the bow planes struggled to deploy. The boat broached, her conning tower momentarily exposed. Still the shells fell. Nine green star flares were launched from the submerged signal gun. They hung in the air, pleading for recognition.
At 2345, sonar picked up two sets of screws approaching from the starboard side. Gabilan descended to 300 feet and went silent. The screws passed. The destroyers turned and circled but did not press in further. No pinging was heard. No more shells. The contact drifted off.
The following morning, the ship’s log recorded the scene with chilling honesty. The commanding officer estimated they had been straddled at least ten times before fully submerged. Had any shell found its mark, Gabilan would have had to surface. The destroyers would not have known they had been firing on their own boat. The crew believed, without exaggeration, that only Providence kept them alive.
Other Incidents That Weren’t So Lucky
During the war, there were dozens of friendly fire incidents,1 and several submarines fell to friendly fire. Some never resurfaced. USS Seawolf was lost on 03 October 1944, likely sunk by USS Rowell, a destroyer escort that mistook her for an enemy boat. All 100 souls aboard were lost. USS Dorado disappeared in October 1943, most likely the result of a misidentification by a U.S. patrol aircraft. USS S-26 went down in January 1942 after a nighttime collision with the submarine chaser PC-460 during a training run.
In each of these cases, American weapons struck American steel. Communications failed. Identification was too slow. And the ocean, impartial as ever, kept its secrets.
Was Gabilan’s Equipment to Blame?
The friendly fire that night may not have been entirely a matter of mistaken identity. Gabilan had been fighting internal issues for days. On 16 July, a power surge hit the boat’s internal communications system. Fuses blew from the maneuvering room forward to the radar consoles. The crew managed to patch it up, but the damage suggested deeper problems.
Then, on 19 July at 0137, just a few hours after the shelling incident, another surge took down key systems. The SJ radar went dark. Communications across compartments cut out again. The I.C. switchboard had to be repaired before the boat could continue operations. These weren’t isolated hiccups. Something in the electrical system wasn’t right.
If the signal rocket failed to launch properly, or if it arced late or burned dim, the destroyers may never have seen it. Recognition lights could have glitched. ABK transmissions might not have reached their targets. And radar interference—already noted by the crew—could have led to Gabilan being read as an unidentified or hostile contact.
It’s not hard to imagine the sequence. Gabilan surfaces. She attempts to identify herself, but the rocket doesn’t fire on time. Or it does, but it’s obscured by haze or missed entirely. Her radar signal, flickering or malformed, paints an incomplete picture for the destroyers. The lead gunnery officer, watching his screen in the dark, sees a radar return that shouldn’t be there. With nerves worn thin by weeks of combat, he makes the call to fire.
Gabilan dives, but sluggish controls and heavy seas delay her descent. She broached. That silhouette confirms the worst fear. They believe it’s a Japanese sub trying to crash dive. The next volley comes in tight.
If any shell had hit, it might have sparked a chain reaction through systems already compromised. The sub might never have made it back down.
Not All Heroes Sink the Enemy
What the crew of USS Gabilan accomplished on 18 July was extraordinary, even before the shooting started. Four aviators owed their lives to the sub’s speed, daring, and resolve. What happened after that nearly erased them all.
This wasn’t a victory patrol. No ships were sunk that day. No medals were issued for battle damage. But what Gabilan endured deserves to be remembered. In war, success sometimes means bringing your people home, even when your allies make it harder than your enemies.
Gabilan’s name faded from the Navy rolls in the years after the war. But for those who lived through that night, and for the pilots pulled from the sea, the boat’s story didn’t end quietly. It rose out of the water, took fire from her own side, and disappeared into the deep without firing a shot in return. That kind of discipline, that kind of survival, is its own kind of glory.
United States Navy. War Patrol Report for USS Gabilan (SS-252), Patrols 1–6, 1944–1945. Record Group 38: Records of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, National Archives Identifier 74816200. National Archives at College Park, MD. Accessed [insert access date]. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/74816200
Boyd, William. This Submarine Has No Friends: Friendly Fire Incidents Involving U.S. Submarines During World War II. Lulu Publishing Services, 2019
Patrol Reports 
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