U.S.S. Seawolf: Submarine Raider of the Pacific

Prologue

THIS BOOK really began one sultry Sunday afternoon in August 1943, on a slow train between New York City and New London, Connecticut. We saw him first. He was big and brawny, his giant frame squeezed into a coach seat; he had the clear blue eyes, the hawk-like gaze of a Viking; and he was the most beribboned figure we had ever seen in a navy uniform. I think we spent all of five minutes in a vain attempt to read his personal history from those colorful decorations over his heart. He was a submarine man, and he’d been in combat—that much was clear from the silver submarine pin which led the collection of campaign ribbons. He had been decorated for gallantry—that was the coveted red, white, and blue ribbon of the Silver Star to the left. That orange and blue ribbon below meant action in the Asiatic-Pacific theater; here was the Good Conduct ribbon, the American theater; stars, numerals, one, two, three major battles—but it was too much of a job. On his left sleeve, near the shoulder, were the enclosed gold chevrons of a chief petty officer and the crossed bolts of lightning which indicated a radioman. Clear enough, so far: he was a chief radioman in the United States submarine service, and he had done things and been places.

We were particularly interested in a submarine man at that time. We were bound for the U.S. Submarine Base in New London to take a training cruise in a submarine. As Navy-accredited correspondents, we had been given a pleasant newspaper assignment—to write a story on submarine training and to describe how it feels to descend fifty or a hundred feet under the sea.

We engaged our submarine man in conversation. His name was Eckberg—Joseph Melvin Eckberg. Chief radioman. From what submarine? He rubbed his nose and gave us a slow grin.

Well, anyway, we said—and we identified ourselves—if we obtained clearance from the Navy, would he tell us a little about his ship—where they’d been and what they’d done? Chief Radioman Eckberg, J.M., hemmed and hawed and looked uncomfortable. He wasn’t one to talk, but if it would be all right with Washington… he’d been on one of the greatest sea-raiders of all time, and Lord knows she made submarine history…

We followed through and learned in Washington that Eckberg’s ship was none other than the U.S.S. Seawolf. The Seawolf? Why, her epic feats against the Japs had already made her almost legendary wherever Navy men gathered. Up to now the Navy had dared only hint at her exploits. She had been identified by name in less than half a dozen cautious news dispatches… if her story could be told now, at last… all of which explains how it happened that a week later we found ourselves in the cozy parlor of one of the snug little two-story houses the Navy has built for its personnel in Navy Heights, Groton, Connecticut, overlooking the spanking waters of the Thames River, with Eckberg thumbing through clippings of the Seawolf, Mrs. Eckberg busy with the dishes in the kitchen, and the littlest Eckberg—David, called Spike, three years old, a chubby, towheaded candidate for Annapolis, class of 1962—laying on the floor with a heavy paperweight made from the same iron-hard teakwood that went into the deck of the Seawolf.

Here was a picture of the Wolf’s commissioning on Dec. 1, 1939, her crew stiffly at attention, the flag blowing from the mast, a gray sky overhead. Here was a snapshot of the crew, bearded and grinning, hanging their clothes up to dry on a rope strung from the conning tower to the bow of the Wolf, somewhere between fabled Bali and Borneo; here a photograph of Eckberg himself, thirty pounds thinner, a shadow of the man, as he looked when he returned from the Wolf’s most dangerous mission. Here was a clipping about the Seawolf:

Here was a second:

Here, finally, was a third:

But Eckberg was shaking his head. “That doesn’t tell the story,” he said.

“Why?” we asked.

He slammed his fist down on the table.

“Because, damn it, it doesn’t tell the whole story. It doesn’t explain why the Seawolf is the best damn submarine in the United States Navy. Why, down in Lombok Straits one night…”

“Look,” we said, “let’s start from the beginning.”

“Okay,” he said. “Right from the beginning.”

And this is the story.