12/19/2025
May 1943, off the Oregon coast.
A newly commissioned submarine chaser designated USS PC-815 received its commander: 32-year-old L. Ron Hubbard, an aspiring science fiction writer who'd joined the Navy after Pearl Harbor.
This would be Hubbard's first—and last—independent command.
On May 19, 1943, Hubbard's crew detected what they believed were Japanese submarines lurking in American waters. Hubbard immediately went to battle stations. He ordered depth charges deployed. He radioed for reinforcements.
For the next 68 hours, USS PC-815 and supporting vessels pursued the enemy contacts. Hubbard's reports described multiple submarine encounters. He claimed his depth charges had damaged at least two enemy vessels.
The Navy took the threat seriously. They diverted ships and aircraft to the area. A full anti-submarine operation unfolded off the Oregon coast.
But there was a problem.
There were no Japanese submarines.
Post-action analysis revealed Hubbard had been attacking phantom targets. No submarines were detected by other vessels. No wreckage was recovered. No oil slicks appeared. No evidence of any kind supported his claims.
What Hubbard's crew had likely detected was a magnetic deposit on the ocean floor—a geological formation, not an enemy vessel.
The "Battle of the Oregon Coast" had been fought entirely against rocks.
The Navy was not amused. But before any formal consequences could be determined, Hubbard created a second problem.
In June 1943, Hubbard took PC-815 near the Coronado Islands off Baja California for what he described as "training exercises." He ordered his crew to conduct live-fire gunnery practice.
The shells began landing on Mexican territory.
The Coronado Islands belonged to Mexico, a neutral country. Hubbard had just initiated an unauthorized military action against a foreign nation's sovereign territory.
The Mexican government immediately filed a diplomatic protest. The incident required State Department intervention. The Navy was, once again, deeply embarrassed.
This time, there would be consequences.
A Board of Investigation was convened to examine Hubbard's command performance. The board's conclusions were damning:
They criticized his judgment. They questioned his leadership. They noted his tendency to perceive threats that didn't exist and take action without proper authorization.
The recommendation was clear: L. Ron Hubbard should not command ships.
After approximately 80 days—less than three months—Hubbard was relieved of command of USS PC-815.
His naval career never recovered. He spent the remainder of World War II in administrative positions, never receiving another ship command. His service record documented repeated disciplinary issues, performance problems, and what the Navy assessed as poor leadership.
This should be where the story ends: an unremarkable tale of a junior officer who proved unsuitable for command during wartime—something that happened to many men who simply weren't cut out for military leadership.
But L. Ron Hubbard had other plans.
In the decades after the war, Hubbard began reinventing his military service. In his telling, he became a decorated war hero. He claimed he'd been awarded numerous medals. He described himself as a combat veteran wounded in action. He said he'd commanded multiple vessels in critical battles.
None of this was true.
When he founded the Church of Scientology in the 1950s, this manufactured war record became part of his biography. Official church materials described him as a "combat veteran" and "highly decorated officer."
The truth remained buried in Navy archives—classified or simply ignored—for decades.
It wasn't until the 1980s and 1990s, when journalists and researchers obtained Hubbard's actual naval records through Freedom of Information Act requests, that the full picture emerged.
The records told a different story than the legend.
They showed an officer who'd spent 68 hours hunting imaginary submarines. Who'd shelled Mexican territory and sparked an international incident. Who'd been relieved of command after less than three months for poor performance.
His service record contained no combat awards. No purple hearts. No commendations for heroism under fire.
What it did contain was the Board of Investigation's conclusion that he should not be given command responsibilities.
The man who would go on to create one of the 20th century's most controversial religious movements had started by creating a personal mythology that bore almost no resemblance to documented reality.
There's something darkly ironic about it all.
Hubbard spent 68 hours pursuing submarines that didn't exist, filed reports about damage he never inflicted, and fought a battle that never happened.
Then he spent the next forty years convincing people it had all been real—and that he'd been a hero.
The Navy knew the truth. The records existed. But for decades, while Hubbard built an empire on his manufactured identity, those records gathered dust in archives.
By the time the truth fully emerged, millions of people had already accepted the mythology.
L. Ron Hubbard died in 1986, having never publicly acknowledged the gap between his war stories and his actual service record.
The Church of Scientology still describes him as having had a distinguished military career.
The U.S. Navy records tell a different story: a junior officer who hunted phantom submarines, accidentally attacked Mexico, and was removed from command for poor judgment.
Sometimes the difference between mythology and reality comes down to who controls the narrative.
Hubbard controlled his narrative for forty years.
The Navy files just sat there, waiting for someone to request them.
Now you know what they said.
