Gerold Frank - U.S.S. Seawolf - Submarine Raider of the Pacific

Again the battle alarm. The approach party took over the conning tower and began computing the approach course, the distance of the target, the speed and direction. Ten slow minutes went by. It was “Up periscope” again. “Mark, three five seven,” began the Captain. “Range… wait a minute! Wait… a… minute!” Then, in a disgusted voice, “Secure battle stations.” Pause. “Dick, come over here a minute and take a look at this ship you sighted.”

Then Holden’s voice, crestfallen: “Well, I’ll be damned. A seagull floating on a log!”

The entire ship snickered. For days afterward, the crew greeted each other, “How we going to attack this here seagull? Shoot torpedoes at him or get up and fire a three-inch? Anybody got a slingshot?” And, “Baby, fresh meat—and we let him go!”

Then, hour after hour, no excitement. I caught up on my mending. I sewed up every bit of torn clothing I had. We gave Baby, the washing machine, a good workout. We resorted to all the old time-killing arguments. For three days I called upon heaven to witness that “Give me two spoonsful of sugar,” was correct, and for three days Sully stamped through the Seawolf shaking the bulkheads, roaring that “Give me two spoonfuls” was correct. We held spelling bees as we lay in our bunks, resting our heels on the cases of ammunition.

“O.K., Eck, let’s hear you spell separate, ” Lambertson, a husky fellow from Nebraska, his full beard making him look like a House of David baseball player, would sing out. Sometimes Sully broke the monotony by digging up one of his prized possessions, a dog-eared copy of an old Consumers’ Guide . He swore by it. If Consumers’ Guide failed to give a product a clean bill of health, Sully’d have none of it. We played blackjack, poker, and hearts in the mess hall, and we listened to Tokyo Rose and to ’Frisco. The news wasn’t good. Tokyo Rose always told us we were being pushed back, and ’Frisco had a news commentator whose smooth voice got on our nerves. The only man on the boat who believed him was “Short Pants” Hershey. Hershey came from a farm in Wisconsin. He was thin-faced, slim, and wiry. He’d been wrestling champ of the Navy at 132 pounds, and he believed the best of everyone. Sitting back on a stool with his feet on a bulkhead pipe in the mess hall, he’d say, “You don’t like the sound of his voice, that’s all. That hasn’t got anything to do with the truth of what he’s saying. He’s giving you the news.”

Zerk would snap back, “I don’t like the sound of that news. If what he says is true, why are we rushing this flea powder up to the Rock? Why isn’t the fleet steaming out here and brushing the Nips off like he says they’re about to do?”

“Well, Zerk, give them a little time,” Hershey would say.

“They’ve got to get organized. That takes a lot of planning.”

“Planning, hell!” retorted Zerk. “I’ll tell you why—the Nips have so damned many ships out in this country that our fleet just can’t stand up to them!”

“Hey, Zerk!” I interrupted. “What Navy you in, anyhow?”

That started him off. He pushed back from the table, slammed his fist down until the coffee cups jumped, and shouted: “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch if that isn’t the pay off! I was in this Navy when you all were just a glimmer in your old man’s eye. I’m telling you what I think. I only hope there’s enough land left the Nips haven’t claimed yet so I can get a couple of beers.”

He walked over to Hershey, who sat, mild and uninterested, and stuck his finger almost into his face:

“I’m not much of a flag-waver, squirt. I’ve been out in this country a hell of a lot longer than most of you, and I know those hissers. They’re smart. They’re the best little sneaks in the world. We’ll be fighting these Japs a hell of a long time from now, and when it’s over we’ll know we’ve been in one hell of a fight.”

John Street pushed in. “I got the book here,” he said mildly. “Let’s look at the figures. We’ve sunk…”

“Oh, Jesus,” someone groaned. “Street and his figures!”

“We’ve sunk a hell of a lot of Jap ships,” Street said, unruffled, but Zerk wasn’t listening.

“You know what the Japs sunk?” he demanded.

Sousa, who hadn’t taken any part so far, leaned over. “Hey, Zerk,” he said in that voice of his that sounded like a foghorn, “is it true you put in for a transfer to a Japanese sub?”

Zerk kicked his chair away. “Goddamn if I know why I waste my time talking to you dumb bastards,” he exclaimed and stalked away.

The Seawolf moved steadily north. We were on a time schedule with our valuable cargo. We dared not waste too much time snooping around for trouble. But one night when the periscope was upped for a look, the sudden cry came, “Down periscope. Call the Captain!” Enemy ships had been sighted.

Captain Warder at the periscope described them. “One, two, three, four. It’s a Jap task force: three or four big cruisers, a dozen destroyers, seven transports, a whole fleet of ’em! Here’s a cruiser… Seems to be head man here. He’s using a searchlight. They’re probably heading for a rendezvous… Maybe I could get in and attack here. Must be another invasion force… Well, now, what the hell am I supposed to do here? I’m carrying a whole load of stuff up to the Rock. My orders state that my prime mission is to deliver same. Here are some ships, and I’ve got only four fish forward and four fish aft, and that’s all…”

In the sound room Maley and I looked at each other. If we attacked, a hundred to one we’d be depth-charged, and with these explosives…

Captain Warder finally decided the all-important thing was to get the ammunition through. We moved on. But a few minutes later he came into the sound shack.

“Eck,” he said, “here’s the rough draft of an urgent dispatch. Send it as soon as we surface.”

It was a message to the American Submarine High Command, revealing where we’d seen the Jap ships, their estimated course, their estimated speed. I sent it the moment we surfaced, and felt better thinking that we’d set up a welcome party for the Japs farther down the line.

We were gliding along on the surface that night when, about 2 a.m., off the port beam and not farther away than 1,000 yards, a huge dark shape loomed up making terrific speed. In a minute or two the lookouts yelled, “It’s a Jap destroyer!” She was probably late for the rendezvous to which we saw the others racing. It seemed impossible that she hadn’t seen us. We were already starting a crash dive. In almost less time than it takes to tell, we were down to a safe distance under the water. Only seconds later the destroyer’s propellers roared overhead, but apparently she had not seen us, because nothing happened. After we heard her screws die away, we eased up, looked around, saw the sea was clear, and surfaced and continued on our way. It was one of our narrowest escapes, and we got out of it probably because the destroyer was concentrating so intently upon reaching the rendezvous that she completely overlooked us.

I’ve often thought what would have happened had that destroyer suddenly veered hard left and headed for us. It would have been touch and go. With the ammunition aboard, that might have been the attack and the Seawolf’ s end.

Hour by hour we came nearer beleaguered Corregidor. The Jap blockade was heavier than ever. We left the Sulu Sea, and entered the South China Sea and set our course directly for the Rock. This time the Japs were everywhere. Their planes swarmed over the place. The Skipper saw them, and smiled grimly, and lowered his periscope, and the Wolf moved on, hour after hour, nursing her tons of hot lead waiting to be hurled against the Jap invaders.