The USS Guavina had been made ready in Brisbane by the end of July 1944. The submarine repair unit had done their work well, the boat coming out of the hands of the tenders with new IFF radar, frequency modulation gear, engine rings to keep down the smoke, and a coat of light gray paint that looked sharp in the Australian sun. The torpedoes—sixteen steam and eight electric—were all freshly overhauled, and the crew took some pride in how clean they looked in the racks. The men themselves were in good spirits, though weary of the endless cycle of patrols, refits, and training. Still, when the lines came off on August 16, they felt the familiar mix of relief and apprehension. Relief at leaving behind the routine of shore duty, apprehension at what waited for them in enemy waters.
They slipped out of Brisbane in company with an escort, Commander Gordon Campbell riding along as a training officer until they reached Seeadler Harbor. The passage across the Coral Sea was uneventful, long days of drills and equipment checks, nights spent staring at the dark horizon for a hint of trouble. The men fell back into the rhythm of patrol life, the steady watch rotations, the meals of canned food, the cramped bunks that smelled of sweat and oil. The boat was alive with sound: the constant thrum of the diesels, the metallic groan when she dove, the slap of waves against the hull.
At Seeadler they topped off with more than twenty-seven thousand gallons of diesel and a thousand of lube oil. Radar technicians from USS Rigel came aboard to adjust the SJ set, a finicky piece of gear the men knew they’d be relying on once they got close to their station. Campbell left them there, and the crew waved him off without much ceremony. Then it was east into the waters off Mindanao, under the control of Task Force 72, tasked with offensive patrol and lifeguard duty.
The first real action came on August 31. The boat was patrolling near the Sarangani Islands when the lookouts spotted two small freighters plodding along at six knots. At three-thirty in the afternoon, Guavina battle surfaced. The freighters must have thought the submarine was one of their own, for they turned toward her as though looking to form up. The mistake was fatal. At four o’clock, the 4-inch gun opened fire. The crash of the weapon was deafening after days of silence, the smell of powder choking the men at the ready. The first salvo went over, the second fell short, the third struck home, tearing into the stern of the nearest freighter. Machine guns chattered, strafing decks and shoreline as the natives in small boats scrambled back toward the beach.
The freighter lurched, burning, her stern knocked away. The crew tried to beach her, but Guavina stayed close, hammering her with another fifteen rounds. The ship settled and rolled, smoke pouring skyward. The second freighter took hits too, holed and trying desperately for the beach. Guavina closed to nine hundred yards and finished her off with another twenty salvos, ripping her upper works apart. By four-forty, both ships were destroyed. The scene was close enough that men could see figures scrambling ashore from the second ship, their silhouettes sharp against the green jungle. The crew was pleased, though nobody felt much joy at watching men run for their lives. The gun barrels were hot, the lockers lighter by sixty-two rounds of high-capacity shells, but the lesson was clear: Guavina was a fighting boat, and the men knew they could handle themselves topside.
After that, the days settled back into the grind of lifeguard duty. On September 2, orders came to search for downed aviators in Davao Gulf. For two days the submarine prowled the area, surfacing as much as she dared, scanning the waves. The sea was rough, the chop cruel to any man bobbing in it with only a life jacket or a rubber boat. The crew strained their eyes, the lookouts’ voices hoarse from calling sightings, but no fliers were found. When the order ended, the men felt a hollow disappointment. They wanted a rescue, a chance to pull Americans from the jaws of the war. Instead, they had nothing to show but tired eyes and empty hands.
On September 5, they rendezvoused with Basrah to receive new patrol orders. The transfer was simple, a few papers passed, a few signals exchanged, but it reminded the crew that they weren’t out here alone. Then it was on to Molukka Passage.
On September 12, a small sail appeared on the horizon. At first it looked like the mast of another submarine, the men tensing at the possibility of a friend or foe. Closing in, they found instead a tiny native boat with a sampan rig. Nine Filipinos crouched inside, waving a white flag. When it became clear Guavina wasn’t going to fire, the men grew friendly, even jovial. One spoke English well. They had fled Sarangani Bay after hearing distant bombing and were waiting for the Americans to return. They offered coconuts and mats, which the submarine men politely declined, though they did take a few. Guavina gave them salmon in return. For a moment, under the tropical sun, the war seemed to lift. The sailors laughed, shook hands, shared food. The encounter was small, almost trivial in the larger sweep of things, but it lingered with the crew. They even gave the little sailboat a name: Rapella Ann.
Two days later, on September 13, they caught sight of masts—three ships, running fast through Sarangani Strait. The crew’s hearts quickened. But the current was against them, just as it so often was in that cursed strait. They ran the engines hard, the hull shivering with speed, but the distance didn’t close. After an hour of grinding effort, they were a mile further behind. The frustration was bitter. They had seen prey but couldn’t reach it.
The fifteenth of September started like so many others had on lifeguard duty. The boat had been circling her station for days, tracing loops on the sea off Mindanao, waiting for downed fliers that never came. The air in the control room was already sticky and stale, a cocktail of sweat, oil, and battery fumes. A thousand small noises carried through the boat: the steady rumble of machinery, the squeak of shoes on steel, the low murmur of tired voices.
At seven-thirty in the morning the quiet snapped.
Log entry, 0730: Sighted smoke, 15 miles, bearing 075T.
The call rippled through the boat. A smudge on the horizon, faint against the gray sky, curling upward in a thin, dirty column. A ship, maybe. A chance, finally. Commander Tiedeman climbed to the periscope. The cool brass pressed against his forehead as he studied the distant smoke. Around him, the crew strained, the tension humming like a live wire.
At eight-thirty, the shape sharpened.
Log entry, 0830: Sighted masts, large ship anchored in Sarangani Strait.
The words were flat, but the truth behind them jolted every man. The ship wasn’t moving. It was anchored tight against the shore, stern to the beach. Through the glass, the captain saw her clearly now. Masts, stack, turrets, all in place. A light cruiser. Katori class*.
The sight was breathtaking. A warship meant danger, her decks crawling with crew, her guns manned, boats buzzing around her hull. But a warship also meant glory, the kind of target submariners dreamed of. The men pressed for turns at the periscope, each glimpse confirming what they’d heard whispered in the control room: this was no freighter, no trawler. This was the real thing.
At nine-twenty, the dive was ordered.
Log entry, 0920: Submerged for approach. Range 15,000 yards.
The boat slid beneath the surface, the hull groaning softly as the pressure grew. Below, the air grew hotter, denser, metallic on the tongue. The crew fell into their stations, every man alert. Slowly, painfully, the boat crept forward. Every half hour, bearings were checked against the islands. “Slow but sure,” the captain muttered, echoing what the log would later say. But inside, each man felt the crawl of time and the weight of silence.
By twelve-twenty-five they were in position.
Log entry, 1225: Range 2000 yards. Fired four bow torpedoes, gyro zero.
The words gave nothing away of what it felt like in the control room. Four torpedoes shot from the tubes, eight seconds apart, each leaving the boat with a violent jolt that rattled the decks. The forward torpedo room shuddered with each blast of compressed air. The men clenched their jaws, gripping steel handles, counting off seconds in their heads.
Then the explosions came.
Two detonated aft, the sound pounding through the steel hull, gauges quivering, lights trembling. Fire and smoke erupted from the cruiser, boiling skyward in black and red, thick with the stench of burning oil and paint. The crew let out ragged cheers that died just as fast, eyes darting back to the captain for the next command. The first and last torpedoes missed, smashing into the beach in geysers of spray.
At twelve-twenty-seven, two more were fired.
Log entry, 1227: Fired two torpedoes, hits aft and amidships. Tremendous explosions. Target burning furiously.
The cruiser staggered under the blows, her midsection engulfed in fire. But she did not sink. Japanese gunners, desperate, fired their anti-aircraft guns at the water, tracers stitching uselessly across the sea. In the boat, the men watched, sweat running down their faces, breaths coming quick. A ship that should have been broken still clung to life.
By one-thirty, the current had dragged them away.
Log entry, 1330: Current set to westward, carried us 8000 yards from target.
The men cursed under their breath. The batteries were bleeding low. At sixteen hundred hours, the gravity reading was 1.140. By seventeen hundred, it had dipped to 1.120. The boat was tired. The men were tired. But the captain wasn’t ready to quit.
They clawed their way back against the current, a grinding battle of engines and nerves. The air was heavy with sweat and oil, sour on the tongue. Nobody talked much. The minutes stretched like hours.
At five o’clock, they tried again.
Log entry, 1707: Fired one electric torpedo, missed ahead of bow.
Log entry, 1710: Fired one electric, miss, detonated just off bow. Reignited flames.
Through the periscope, the men saw a lone figure in a white shirt walking the beach near the burning cruiser. A second later the blast engulfed him. When the smoke cleared, he was gone.
Frustration crackled in the boat. Two more wasted shots. The cruiser still burned but still floated. The captain lined up again.
At 1755 the final attack began.
Log entry, 1755: Fired torpedo. Hit bow. Bow blown off.
Log entry, 1756: Fired torpedo. Hit bridge. Bridge demolished.
Log entry, 1758: Fired torpedo. Hit midships. Tremendous explosion.
Log entry, 1759: Fired torpedo. Hit stern. Stern demolished.
Four hits. Four devastating blows. The cruiser was broken apart. Bow, bridge, midships, stern—all gone. The sea boiled with fire and wreckage, smoke blotting the sky.
At 1804, the boat scraped bottom.
Log entry, 1804: Carried across bow. Struck bottom at 65 feet.
The jolt rattled every man, the sound heads crunching into the seabed. Fear surged sharp and bitter. But the grounding stopped their swing, steadied the boat.
At 1805, Guavina surfaced.
Log entry, 1805: Surfaced 300 yards from target. Target burning furiously. No survivors observed.
The men climbed topside into the evening air, smoke thick and bitter in their lungs, the heat of the fire rolling over the water. The wreck was a twisted mass, flames clawing skyward, black smoke blotting out the fading light. No men swam in the water. No figures moved on the beach. The cruiser had died hard, and she had died alone.
They watched in silence until half past six.
Log entry, 1830: Tremendous explosion. Target disintegrated. Remains blown into three burning masses.
The thunder rolled across the strait, echoing against the hills. Fire and steel rained into the sea. The cruiser was gone, erased in a final blast.
At 1900, the message was sent.
Log entry, 1900: Sent message to Task Force 72. Twelve torpedoes fired. Eight hits. Target destroyed.
The words were clean, cold, factual. They didn’t mention the sweat dripping into men’s eyes, the stench of oil and cordite that clung to the air, the sound of hearts hammering when the boat struck bottom. They didn’t mention the fleeting glimpse of a man in a white shirt, alive one second, gone the next. They didn’t mention the ragged cheers that broke and died after each explosion, or the long, bitter hours fighting the current.
For the men of Guavina, September 15 wasn’t just a line in a log. It was the day they fought the sea, the current, and their own fear to take down a Japanese cruiser at anchor. It was the day the war stopped being patrol lines and circles on a chart and became fire, thunder, and smoke in Sarangani Strait.
When the patrol ended later that month, the log would note the sinking as a success, the patrol itself designated worthy of combat insignia. But for the men who had sweated and cursed and prayed inside that steel hull, September 15 was more than an entry in a report. It was the day they clawed a cruiser out from its hiding place and tore it to pieces, the day they proved to themselves what patience and grit could achieve, even in a strait that seemed determined to hold them back.
*Postlude – While the crew of Guavina identified the target of September 15, 1944 as a “Katori Class Cruiser,” postwar analysis identified the vessel as “Transport #3, a Transport/Landing Craft that was approximately 1500 tons.
SS-362_GUAVINA 3rd War Patrol: U.S.S. Guavina (SS-362). “Report of War Patrol No. Three.” Serial (022). To The Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Fleet; Commander Task Force SEVENTY-TWO; and Commander SEVENTH FLEET. 20 September 1944. First Endorsement: Commander Task Force SEVENTY-TWO, Serial 0374, 24 October 1944. Second Endorsement: Commander Seventh Fleet, Serial 11-01492, 2 November 1944.
U.S. Naval Historical Center. Japanese Naval and Merchant Shipping Losses, Chapter 6. HyperWar: The Official U.S. Navy History of WWII and the Korean War. Accessed September 13, 2025. https://www.ibiblio.org/hyperwar/Japan/IJN/JANAC-Losses/JANAC-Losses-6.html
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