USS Barb SS-220 and
Rear Admiral Eugene “Lucky” Fluckey

July 18, 1945 — Patience Bay, off the coast of Karafuto, Japan. It was after 4 A.M. and Commander Fluckey rubbed his eyes as he peered over the map spread before him. It was the twelfth war patrol of the Barb, the fifth under Commander Fluckey. He should have turned command over to another skipper after four patrols, but had managed to strike a deal with Admiral Lockwood to make one more trip with the men he cared for like a father, should his fourth patrol be successful. Of course, no one suspected when he had struck that deal that Commander Fluckey’s success would be so great he would be awarded the Medal of Honor.

Commander Fluckey smiled as he remembered that patrol. “Lucky” Fluckey they called him. On January 8th the Barb had emerged victorious from a running two-hour night battle after sinking a large enemy ammunition ship. Two weeks later in Mamkwan Harbor he found the “mother-lode” — more than 30 enemy ships. In only 5 fathoms (30 feet) of water his crew had unleashed the sub’s forward torpedoes, then turned and fired four from the stern. As he pushed the Barb to the full limit of its speed through the dangerous waters in a daring withdrawal to the open sea, he recorded eight direct hits on six enemy ships.

What could possibly be left for the Commander to accomplish who, just three months earlier, had been in Washington, DC to receive the Medal of Honor? He smiled to himself as he looked again at the map showing the rail line that ran along the enemy coastline. Now his crew was buzzing excitedly about bagging a train.

The rail line itself wouldn’t be a problem. A shore party could go ashore under cover of darkness to plant the explosives — one of the sub’s 55-pound scuttling charges. But Lucky Fluckey and his officers were puzzling over how they could blow not only the rails, but also one of the frequent trains that shuttled supplies to equip the Japanese war machine — without endangering the life of a shore party.

Solutions! Cruising slowly beneath the surface to evade an enemy plane circling overhead, the monotony was broken by an exciting new idea. Instead of having a crewman ashore to trigger the explosives, why not let the train blow itself up? Billy Hatfield was excitedly explaining how he had cracked nuts on the railroad tracks as a kid, placing the nuts between two ties so the sagging of the rail under the weight of a train would break them open. “Just like cracking walnuts,” he explained. “To complete the circuit we hook in a micro switch between two ties. We don’t set it off — the TRAIN does.” Not only did Hatfield have the plan, he wanted to be part of the volunteer shore party.

The solution found, there was no shortage of volunteers. Lucky Fluckey established his own criteria for the party: no married men except for Hatfield; members from each department; opportunity split between regular Navy and Navy Reserve sailors; at least half had to have been Boy Scouts. Finally, “Lucky” Fluckey would lead the saboteurs himself — an offer his officers flatly refused, threatening to send a message to ComSubPac if he attempted it. Even a Japanese POW being held on the Barb wanted to go, promising not to try to escape.

July 22, 1945 — Patience Bay was wearing thin the patience of Commander Fluckey and his crew. Everything was ready. In four days the saboteurs had watched the skies for cloud cover while the inventive crew built their micro switch from scratch, and fabricated a pick and shovel by cutting, bending and welding steel plates from the engine room lower flats. The only things beyond their control were the weather and time. Only five days remained in the Barb’s patrol.

Anxiously watching the skies, Commander Fluckey noticed plumes of cirrus clouds, then white stratus capping the mountain peaks ashore. A cloud cover was building to hide the three-quarters moon. This would be the night.

MIDNIGHT, July 23, 1945. The Barb crept within 950 yards of the shoreline — close enough to be mistaken for a schooner or Japanese patrol boat. Slowly the small boats were lowered and the eight saboteurs began paddling toward the enemy beach. Twenty-five minutes later they pulled the boats ashore and walked on the surface of the Japanese homeland.

Stumbling through waist-high grasses, crossing a highway, then into a 4-foot drainage ditch, the saboteurs made their way to the railroad tracks. Three men were posted as guards. The Barb’s auxiliary man climbed a nearby water tower — and stopped in shock when he realized it was an occupied enemy lookout tower. Fortunately the Japanese sentry was peacefully sleeping and he was able to quietly withdraw.

Twenty minutes later the holes had been dug and the explosives and batteries hidden beneath fresh soil. During planning they had been told that once the explosives were placed, all would retreat a safe distance while Hatfield made the final connection alone — if he slipped, his would be the only life lost. On this night it was the only order the saboteurs refused to obey, all of them peering anxiously over Hatfield’s shoulder to make sure he did it right.

On August 2, 1945 the Barb arrived at Midway, her twelfth war patrol concluded. On August 6th the B-29 Enola Gay dropped a single atomic bomb on Hiroshima. A second bomb, unleashed four days later on Nagasaki, caused Japan to agree to surrender terms on August 15th. On September 2, 1945 in Tokyo Harbor the documents ending the war in the Pacific were signed.

The story of the saboteurs of the U.S.S. Barb is one of those unique, little-known stories of World War II. It becomes increasingly important when one realizes that the eight sailors who blew up the train near Kashiho, Japan conducted the only ground combat operation on the Japanese homeland of World War II.

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as commanding officer of the U.S.S. Barb during her 11th war patrol along the east coast of China from 19 December 1944 to 15 February 1945. After sinking a large enemy ammunition ship and damaging additional tonnage during a running 2-hour night battle on 8 January, Comdr. Fluckey, in an exceptional feat of brilliant deduction and bold tracking on 25 January, located a concentration of more than 30 enemy ships in the lower reaches of Nankuan Chiang (Mamkwan Harbor). Fully aware that a safe retirement would necessitate an hour’s run at full speed through the uncharted, mined, and rock-obstructed waters, he bravely ordered, “Battle station — torpedoes!” In a daring penetration of the heavy enemy screen, and riding in 5 fathoms of water, he launched the Barb’s last forward torpedoes at 3,000 yard range. Quickly bringing the ship’s stern tubes to bear, he turned loose 4 more torpedoes into the enemy, obtaining 8 direct hits on 6 of the main targets to explode a large ammunition ship and cause inestimable damage by the resultant flying shells and other pyrotechnics. Clearing the treacherous area at high speed, he brought the Barb through to safety and 4 days later sank a large Japanese freighter to complete a record of heroic combat achievement, reflecting the highest credit upon Comdr. Fluckey, his gallant officers and men, and the U.S. Naval Service.

Eugene Bennett Fluckey retired from the Navy as a Rear Admiral, and wears in addition to his Medal of Honor, four Navy Crosses — a record of awards unmatched by any living American. In 1992 his own history of the U.S.S. Barb was published in the award-winning book Thunder Below. Over the years, proceeds from the sale of this book were used by Admiral Fluckey to provide free reunions for the men who served him aboard the Barb and their wives.

The Admiral graduated from the US Naval Academy in 1935 and lived to age 93, passing in 2007. His obituary follows.

The skipper of the submarine Barb in the Pacific from April 1944 to August 1945, Commander Fluckey was known for innovative tactics. He was the only American submarine skipper to fire rockets at Japanese targets on shore, and he oversaw a sabotage raid in which sailors from his submarine blew up a Japanese train.

In addition to receiving the Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest award for valor, he was awarded four Navy Crosses, his service’s second-highest decoration.

The Joint Army-Navy Assessment Committee credited him with destroying 95,360 tons of Japanese shipping, the highest total for an American submarine commander. According to Admiral Fluckey’s own findings, based on ten years of postwar research, the Barb sank about 145,000 tons under his command. He was credited with sinking 16 Japanese ships and taking part in a 17th sinking — the fourth-highest total among WWII submarine commanders. By his own accounting, he sank 28 ships.

In September 1944, the Barb sank the 20,000-ton Japanese aircraft carrier Unyo and an 11,000-ton Japanese tanker in the same torpedo salvo.

Richard O’Kane, also a Medal of Honor recipient, ranked No. 1 in sinkings with 24, but No. 2 behind Commander Fluckey in tonnage destroyed. Clay Blair Jr. wrote in Silent Victory: The U.S. Submarine War Against Japan that when Commander Fluckey took his submarine back to Pearl Harbor, “he was greeted with a red carpet.”