Before dawn broke on August 3, 1942, the USS Gudgeon rode low in the Pacific, east of Truk, silent and alert. The day began in darkness, the kind submariners know too well. A world of sweat, tension, and stale air under pressure. At 0440 Kilo time, Gudgeon’s lookouts caught sight of a merchant-type vessel pushing smoke on the horizon, bearing 260 true. She wasn’t moving fast, maybe ten knots, slow enough to tempt a skipper hungry for a clean shot.
The submarine eased forward on the surface, holding a steady track just astern of the target’s line. The goal was to close the gap before sunlight betrayed them. At 0518, just as the eastern sky began to pale, the decision came down. The boat made a quick dive to periscope depth. It was a clean move, practiced, rehearsed, and executed without panic. Gudgeon’s commanding officer, likely still Commander Elton W. “Joe” Grenfell, wanted a submerged approach, using the glare of the brightening sky behind them to mask their silhouette. The submarine continued forward, now running about six knots, keeping on a rough course of 100 degrees.
Time moved like molasses, thick and heavy. Then at 0523, they were in position. The firing sequence began. Three torpedoes left their tubes, one after another, ten seconds apart. The spread covered about a hundred yards, each warhead set to run at thirty feet, which translated to twenty actual feet on the older torpedoes. The range to target was estimated at 3,500 yards. Close enough to be dangerous. Far enough to allow the fish to arm and run true.
They saw two of the torpedoes strike home. The second and third weapons found their mark. From the periscope, the target appeared to lift at the bow and then tilt down sharply. Within five minutes, the vessel was slipping beneath the waves, bow-first, gone.
The crew had little time to celebrate. They spotted Japanese small boats left behind in the wake. Visibility was improving, and the enemy might return. No one spoke above a whisper. The sinking was confirmed visually, but what they couldn’t know in that moment was the identity of their victim.
Postwar analysis filled in the missing pieces. The ship that had taken those two torpedoes and gone down off Truk was the 4,853-ton Naniwa Maru. A large, single-stack transport, she matched recognition profiles distributed to the fleet. Her silhouette was unmistakable, and her loss was recorded by the enemy. For Gudgeon, she was the lone confirmed sinking of the boat’s fourth war patrol.
The war diary noted a third explosion shortly after the ship vanished. It was loud and abrupt, possibly a secondary detonation from the cargo or the hull giving way as it crushed under pressure. That sound echoed through the pressure hull and lingered in the ears of the men who heard it. They had done their job. One more enemy ship gone. One less lifeline for the Imperial war machine.
Gudgeon would remain on patrol through mid-August, later engaging in a bold strike on a Japanese convoy. But the Naniwa Maru marked the high point of the cruise. The kill was clean. The risk was calculated. And the crew of Gudgeon, veterans by now, returned to their routines. Reload. Recharge. Wait.
They didn’t call it heroism. They called it duty. And on that morning, they carried it out with precision, discipline, and a quiet resolve that never made the headlines but shaped the course of the Pacific war.
National Archives and Records Administration. “USS Gudgeon (SS-211) War Patrol Report, August 3, 1942.” National Archives Catalog, Record Group 38, Entry UD-57. Accessed July 30, 2025. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/74819842. Narrative by Davis Ray Bowman FTB1(SS), 07.30.2025
Patrol Reports 
Leave a comment