We had three trial runs for the old battleship in March of 1946 to get ready to deploy from Japan to the South Pacific. On our next trial, it was inevitable that we try the anchor we had just installed, since some of the associated gear was untested. Everything had gone well as we got steam up and performed basic engineering and maneuvering drills in the Sagami-wan in the approaches to Yokosuka Harbor.
Captain Whipple decided to approach the anchorage from seaward in the direction of the breakwater. On the pagoda bridge, a continuous flow of reports was reaching him and his helmsman and navigation team.
“Three thousand yards to the anchorage, Sir,”
“Course to anchorage four degrees to the left, Sir.”
“Estimated speed three knots, Sir.”
“We seem to be set a little to the right, Sir.”
“All engines stop!“
“All engines answer stopped, Sir.”
Glancing over the side I could not see our speed diminishing- we were still moving along at a fair clip, from what I could observe, which is not the place you want to be at sea and anchor detail. I could feel the tension rising on the bridge.
“Distance to anchorage, eleven hundred yards, Sir.”
“Right on course Sir, allowing for the set of the anchor.”
“All engines back one-third!”
Captain Whipple judged that it would not do to hit the breakwater, since a collision at sea is one of those events that can spoil the whole day. The Captain was watching over the side now. We still seemed to be making about three knots speed-of-advance, which is a practical demonstration of just how hard it is to stop a mass of forty-five thousand tons once it is set in motion. I toyed for a moment with the abstractions involved, mentally calculating momentum, mass and kinetic energy. I did not like the answer.
“Seven hundred yards to anchorage, Sir.”
“All engines back full!”
“All engines answer back full, Sir!”
We could feel the deck shudder as the screws took hold. Would she stop in time? There was only one more resource to try. I noticed the cone of Fiji over the harbor, now black and sinister in the gloom. It seems we might be slowing a little, but floating objects continued to drift aft as fast as a man walks.
“Five hundred yards, Sir.”
She wasn’t going to stop in time.
“Two hundred yards, Sir.”
“Drop anchor!”
This is what it had to be, the last chance. The ship-fitter and the boatswain’s mate grappled warily with the brake wheel on the forcastle, opening it. Nothing happened. They spun it to full open. The anchor suddenly went with a rush. Straining now with the terrible intensity of men who fight for their lives, they spun the wheel back, their muscles bulging under torn shirts. No go. The chain roared out ever faster, striking showers of sparks as a red pall of rust rose over the forecastle. The ship was shuddering in every part. Through rifts in the dust I could make out men diving for hatches or crawling for shelter behind solid objects. We did not have much experience in our pirate crew, but they knew that as the end of the chain came thrashing out of the chain locker it would sweep the deck, pulping everything in its path.
The ship-fitter and the boatswain made a final try at the brake-wheel, then dived together headfirst down a hatch. The red pall covered the forecastle; I could get only occasional glimpses of the thumping chain. How long? The rumble of it filled the ship. There was a grunt as the bitter end came up on the chain-locker strongback, then silence. The red cloud drifted off to starboard uncovering the crouching men. No one had been hurt.
Nagato continued to forge ahead at nearly three knots, dragging the anchor and twelve hundred feet of chain with her. But even forty-five thousand tons could not continue to transfer momentum at that rate. She began to slow, and with the breakwater looming, stopped short. The anchor buoy showed only a few yards further in than had been planned in our pre-sail meeting.
I turned to the Captain and we both smiled. “Only 2,400 miles to Bikini,” I said, and remembered to breath again.
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
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