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

“Listen, doctor,” I said. “I came out number two in that conversation and there were only two of us here. You don’t have to worry about any repetition.”

“All right, chief,” he said. “I didn’t pay too much attention to it. Not many of the people here realize that you submarine men hate hospitals.”

“Well, I’m afraid I blew up, but I thought you’d taken my tonsils and I had just finished complimenting myself on how tough a guy I was.”

Dr. Smith burst out laughing. “Well, chief,” he said, still laughing, “you might have to be pretty tough at that, seeing as how we can’t dope you.”

With that, he walked off. I didn’t feel too good the rest of the day, and all the nurses and fellow patients had satisfied smirks on their faces. I read a bit—there were magazines about—and waited. There wasn’t anything else I could do. The next morning I woke up, took another shower, and was sitting on my bunk when word was passed for me to “proceed to the theater.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “No escorts? No wheelchair?” They didn’t think I needed it, they said. That was all right with me. I got up and walked out of the ward, sweating a little, and made my way up to the theater. As luck had it, I met a wheelchair coming back. There was a patient in it. He looked pretty bloody.

“What happened to him?” I asked the orderly wheeling him.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just had ‘is bloomin’ tonsils out.”

A little shaky, I walked into the theater, and there was Doctor Smith.

“Good morning, chief,” he said cheerily. “Are you all set? Here, sit down.”

I sat down.

“Now, Eckberg,” he said, “let me talk to you. You see this big needle? Well, I’m going to put cocaine in and around your tonsils. Then we’re going to wait until you hit the drooling stage before we go to work. Now, these needles are going to hurt more than the actual cutting. I want to tell you that.”

I nodded.

“Now, if you’re ready, here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to sit on this chair directly in front of you. You put your knees inside of mine. Now, when these needles go in, if you feel like fighting them, grab my legs here.” He indicated a point just above his knees. “Grab them and hang on. Are you ready?”

“Let ’er fly, doc,” I quavered.

I opened my mouth and grabbed his legs. He was right. The needles did hurt. I did hang on. It was over in a couple of minutes, though.

“O.K., chief,” he said. “You did fine on that. You really are tough. Now, just try and relax until that cocaine starts working.”

I sat back. I was thinking, Hell, here I’ve faced death so many times that just thinking about it becomes monotonous, and here I am quaking at a minor operation. What’s the matter with me? The crew would be ashamed of me if they could see me this way now. Dr. Smith broke into my thoughts by putting something in my mouth that looked like a cross between a check bit for a horse and a muzzle for a mad dog.

“All right,” he was saying. “You’re drooling. Let’s have at them now.”

All I could do was nod. My tongue was numb. We went into our act again. It couldn’t have taken more than ninety seconds this time. But it was a long minute and a half. It didn’t hurt so much, but what scared me was a long suction hose they had leading from my mouth into a glass jar. I started bleeding. My blood rushed into the jar. As it rose, I became panicky. I didn’t know they had water going in too, to create suction. God, I thought, I’m bleeding to death. I’d heard of grown men bleeding to death in tonsillectomies. I was ready to faint when Dr. Smith pulled off this oral hobble and he was finished, looking at his excavation with a bit of pride. He called another surgeon in, and he complimented him on a neat job. Dr. Smith seemed to remember me then and said:

“Okay, chief. All finished. You can go now. You can expect a very sore throat for a couple of days or so. If you want anything, just yell.”

Yell? I couldn’t even talk. Then I noticed he was grinning. I grinned back. I gave him a wave and shoved off. My “escorts” of battleship size were waiting outside, and they picked me up and dropped me into a wheelchair, and we headed back for the ward, sweeping people and obstacles out of our way as if they didn’t exist, one ahead clearing the path, the other pushing the chair. Then I was in bed.

I lolled on one side and drooled all over a rubber mat provided for that purpose and reflected on my sins. I fell asleep after a little while and must have slept quite some time. When I woke up, I was hungry and my throat was so sore I could have yelled—if it hadn’t been for my throat. It was night. A nurse brought a big glass of cold milk to me.

I got a good part of it down. I was still hungry, but she refused to give me anything else. I went to sleep again and slept like a log until I was rudely awakened about five in the morning by two nurses.

I looked inquiringly up at them.

“We’re here to bathe you,” one said. They were pretty rugged looking nurses. Both must have weighed 180 or better, and both were definitely not the romantic type.

“Give me a what?” I squeaked.

“A bath,” one said. “You must have a bath, you know. Now, lay down there like a good one, and this’ll be over in a moment.”

“Now, just a minute,” I said. “It may be true that I need a bath, but if so, I’ll do the bathing myself. I don’t want any women bathing me.”

The biggest one turned to her fellow conspirator and with a nod said, “I don’t know why, Violet, all these Americans are alike. They don’t want us to bathe them.” She turned back to me.

“Why not, young man? I was bathing patients when you were born.”

“That may be, madam,” I said. “And you might be bathing them after I’ve gone. But you’re not bathing me.”

“Oh, come now. Don’t be difficult. There’s nothing to it, and you’ll feel ever so much more comfortable,” she said.

I shook my head and prepared to repel boarders.

Without another word the bigger one said: “Stay ’ere with ’im, Violet. I’ll fetch ’arold.”

Violet and I eyed each other for about five minutes when the other nurse came back with ’arold. And ’arold was one of the two giants who pushed me around in the wheelchair.

“Now, matey,” he said, “wot’s the trouble ’ere, hey? Look, now lay down there, young man, and let these two ladies bathe you, or I’ll have to.”

I went to sleep after being thoroughly bathed.

I recuperated in the normal period of time and in the normal way. When I was released, I was homesick. I missed my own home, I missed the Wolf. They told me I could have some recuperation leave. I decided I would go to a small town not far away. This was a perfect little town. The food was good, the people friendly, the air marvelous. At the end of the leave I reported back to the submarine tender stationed at the port and was given temporary duty on one of the relief crews—crews that take over a submarine when she comes in from battle and get her ready to go to sea again, when the regular crew rests up.

I was kept busy. One day a rumor spread that the Wolf was reported missing. That was one of the worst days of my life. I dropped everything I was doing and rushed up to the Flag Office, in port, headquarters of the operating staff. I was panicky. I could learn nothing. No news was given out, particularly no news about submarines, and though I was a submarine man and identified, I could get nowhere. When liberty started, I went to the nearest pub and tried to forget all about it.

About 4 a.m. the next morning another submarine man put me in a cab, took me back to the tender, and rolled me in my bunk.