Japanese POWs Stunned by America’s Hedgehog Mortars That Erased an Entire Sub Squadron
The Silent Hunters
The Pacific Ocean lay deceptively calm on May 19, 1944, its surface a vast blue expanse under the relentless sun. But for the crew of the USS England, a sleek Buckley-class destroyer escort, calm was an illusion. For months, they had prowled these waters, their sonar pinging through the depths, hunting shadows that lurked beneath. The men aboard were no strangers to danger—farm boys from Ohio, mechanics from California, clerks from New York—all transformed into warriors by the call of duty. They were ordinary Americans, yet their resolve forged them into heroes, their quiet courage the backbone of victory.
David Chund, a young sonar operator with sharp ears and steady nerves, leaned forward in his dimly lit station, headphones clamped tight. The rhythmic pings echoed back, revealing not the scatter of fish or the drift of currents, but the hard, metallic signature of a submarine hull. “Contact!” he barked, his voice cutting through the hum of the ship. Alarms blared, and the bridge sprang to life. Executive Officer Williamson, a seasoned tactician with a mind like a chess master, took command. “All hands, battle stations,” he ordered, his tone calm yet urgent. The crew moved with practiced precision—gunners loading, engineers monitoring engines, sailors scanning the horizon. These were men who had left families behind, who endured the monotony of patrols and the terror of sudden attacks, all for the greater good. Their heroism lay not in grand gestures, but in unwavering discipline.
Below the waves, the Japanese submarine I-16 glided silently, its crew clinging to the myth of invincibility. Lieutenant Commander Teuchi Yoshitaka, a veteran skipper, had drilled his men relentlessly, promising that the ocean was their ally. But sonar pings shattered the illusion. “Dive! Dive!” Teuchi shouted, vents hissing as ballast tanks flooded. The boat angled down, plunging into the abyss, hearts pounding in the cramped confines. They had evaded hunters before, relying on skill and luck. This time, however, fate had aligned against them.
USS England carried a secret weapon: the Hedgehog. Mounted on her bow, it was a forward-throwing mortar system, 24 tubes launching projectiles that sank silently before detonating on contact. No more guessing with depth charges; this was precision warfare. Williamson calculated angles and depths, his mind a whirlwind of mathematics. “Launch salvo one,” he commanded. The projectiles arced into the water, descending like steel rain. The I-16’s crew felt nothing at first—only the eerie quiet of a miss. Hope flickered. But Williamson adjusted, refining his aim. “Salvo two,” he said, voice steady. This time, one Hedgehog struck true. A muffled boom rippled through the hull, compartments groaning as water surged in. Lights flickered, machinery screamed. Men scrambled to damage control, but the sea poured relentlessly. In minutes, the bow dipped, and the Pacific claimed its prize. Ninety-four souls vanished into the depths.
On England’s deck, the crew felt the shock wave. Oil and debris surfaced, a grim testament to their success. “Good work, men,” Williamson said, his praise measured, his eyes reflecting the weight of lives taken. These sailors were not bloodthirsty; they were protectors, fighting to end the war and bring peace. Their compassion shone in quiet moments—sharing stories of home, writing letters to loved ones, honoring the fallen with silent respect. Yet duty called again.
Three days later, on May 22, sonar pinged anew. RO-106 surfaced briefly, its commander overconfident. England closed in, her crew alert. Williamson’s calculations were flawless. Hedgehog salvos rained down, explosions tearing the submarine apart. Fifty-nine men perished. The Americans pressed on, their resolve unbroken. On the 23rd, RO-104 fell, its evasive maneuvers futile against the onslaught. Fifty-eight lives lost. The pattern repeated: RO-1116 on the 24th, RO-108 on the 26th, RO-105 on the 30th. Each time, England’s crew executed with precision, their heroism in the face of relentless duty. These were men who endured sleepless nights, the roar of engines, the constant vigilance. They were fathers, sons, brothers—ordinary Americans elevated by courage, their actions saving countless Allied lives.
For the Japanese survivors, captured and brought aboard, the shock was profound. They had expected brutality, but found order and humanity. Guards offered water, medical aid, even cigarettes. One prisoner, eyes wide with disbelief, muttered thanks in broken English. The Americans, embodying quiet strength, treated them with dignity, a testament to their moral fiber. “We’re not monsters,” a sailor said softly. “We’re just trying to end this.”
As the war wound down, England’s crew reflected on their triumphs. They had not just sunk ships; they had safeguarded convoys, protected freedoms. Their legacy was one of ingenuity and heart—men who turned technology into salvation, their bravery a beacon in the storm. In the end, they returned home as heroes, their stories inspiring generations, proving that American spirit, forged in factories and fields, could conquer any foe.
