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

CHAPTER VII “For Heroism…”

FOR THE first time now we had a chance to get an overall look at the Wolf. She showed the punishment she had taken. Patches of her black paint had peeled off, and the bottom white showed through. Green moss, like a fantastic beard, flowed from her keel. The starboard side forward was peppered with shrapnel. Paint was chipped off the deck—testimony to the battering-ram action of depth charges. The mooring lines were swollen and rotting as they lay coiled in the sun.

At midday we found ourselves in a large channel clogged with ships. Warehouses flanked the docks, some of them so expertly camouflaged that we couldn’t believe our eyes. We stood on deck and watched, and yearned for cigarettes. Captain Warder flashed a message to shore: “Please send out one case of cigarettes and twenty gallons of fresh milk.” And soon a launch was bobbing alongside and the cigarettes were delivered. “Have at ’em boys,” invited the Captain, and we all lit up. Captain Warder, his patrol report under his arm, left the ship.

Now fresh fruit came aboard, apples and oranges. We grabbed them and began munching, and we talked about liberty. Someone said, “Shall we talk about women now or should we lead up to it gradually?” We were exhilarated. After a little while the Skipper returned, looking pleased.

“Mr. Deragon, get them all to quarters,” he said. “I have something to tell them.”

We lined up in two ranks, still in our working dungarees. We must have been quite a sight: bearded and unkempt, our hair over our ears, some of us wiping grease off our hands with cotton waste.

“I have just come from the squadron commander,” said Captain Warder. “I want to tell all you men that the entire High Command is pleased, exceptionally well pleased, with our performance. Needless to say, I feel the same way.

“I don’t know how long we shall be here. It looks as though we’ll have to undergo an extensive overhaul. That means a good rest for all of us. Now, when you go ashore, don’t discuss any of our operations with anyone, even with your own shipmates. Leave the Seawolf tied down here. Don’t drag her down into the city.” He turned to Deragon. “Willie, anything you’d like to say?”

Deragon smiled. “Yes, sir, we are expecting the paymaster any minute.” We all grinned. “Liberty will start immediately following pay day,” Lieutenant Deragon went on. “It will expire at 7:30 a.m. aboard.”

The paymaster came. We got our money. And as soon as we had the chance, we went over the side and made for a train that would take us into town, about four hours distant. We wanted to relax, take baths, take things easy, do everything we hadn’t been able to do for so long, and to forget depth charges and heat and lack of sun.

Not all of us went off; the Wolf had to undergo extensive repair. The projector at the end of the No. 2 sound shaft had to be repaired. The entire area of the officers’ staterooms, the starboard side and aft batteries, the galley and the scullery, had to be fixed up. But I was among those who went over first.

Among my first assignments to myself was a haircut and shave. I had a good two-inch beard. To my dismay I discovered that in Australia I’d be taken care of, not by a barber, but by a “hair-dresser.” I went in and lay peacefully relaxed, while I was shaved and made presentable again. Suddenly I was slapped in the face with something icy cold. I almost jumped out of the chair. Then I learned that in Australia after a man is shaved a young boy comes about with a contraption which is a cross between an old-fashioned bellows and a fizz bottle. He stands off about four feet from you as you lie there expecting the barber to pat tingling after-shave lotion on your face, draws a bead—and shoots. This, it was explained to me, was a disinfectant.

From the beginning the crew of the Wolf was bath-crazy. Some of the men took three baths in a row. We ate, and washed, and showered and bathed. We couldn’t get clean enough. Our feet pained at first; we had been so accustomed to sandals aboard the Wolf that even loose shoes pinched. The shoes led to a night’s skylarking that almost had some embarrassing consequences. About a dozen of us were in a hotel in Perth one night and, according to custom, left our shoes outside our doors to be shined. The next morning I found a nicely shined pair of shoes outside my door—but instead of my size 12’s, they were 8’s. Then it developed that everyone had someone else’s shoes outside his door. We were due back to the boat: we had to get back there. We dashed about, cursing, trying to match our shoes, and finally we all met in the lobby. Sully took charge, stood up on a desk, and auctioned off shoes according to size. As we were leaving, Sousa, looking pleased with himself, came down the stairs. He was wearing his own shoes. We didn’t have time to cross-examine him then, but later, aboard the Wolf, he admitted all.

We dashed back to the boat. We poured over the gangplank, down into the Wolf, and, following orders, got on our dress blues. We hurried topside wondering what was up. Now it became even more puzzling. Word was passed through the ship that the High Command, headed by Rear Admiral Arthur S. Carpender, COMSUBSSOUWESTPAC—Commander of Submarines in the Southwest Pacific—was coming aboard with his staff. We thought he was coming to look the Wolf over, and we were mortified. She looked like a wreck. Sousa mustered us in forward of the conning tower, for the after-portion of the deck was so ripped up we couldn’t stand there. We lined up, port and starboard side, Captain Warder and his officers directly in front of the conning tower, and in a few minutes the High Command boarded the ship. There was Admiral Carpender, a gray-haired, gimlet-eyed Navy veteran; Captain James Fife, Jr., whom we’d evacuated from Corregidor, now Chief of Staff, Submarines, Asiatic Fleet; Captain S. S. Murray; and other high officers.

Everyone was stiffly at attention.

Admiral Carpender looked us over. “I congratulate you men on your magnificent achievement,” he said. “You are the envy of every submarine in the Fleet. You’ve done a splendid and a memorable job, and we are proud of you. The cruise you have just completed has set a record for every other submarine to aim at.”

We all stood there, glowing.

Then he turned to the Skipper. “Captain Warder,” he said, crisply.

The Skipper took two paces forward.

Admiral Carpender was holding a small leather case in his hand. Suddenly we all got it. They were going to decorate the Skipper! “Captain Warder,” the Admiral was saying, slowly and distinctly, “you have been awarded the Navy Cross”—He paused. In the ranks we had to fight to keep from nudging each other and letting out a yell—“for heroism and especially meritorious conduct in combat with the enemy as Commanding Officer of this submarine in three separate engagements with heavy enemy Japanese Naval forces. Despite the extremely shallow and narrow waters, and the strong currents existing, you successfully attacked a large enemy screened force sinking one transport and one destroyer. Later you made repeated attacks upon heavily screened enemy light cruisers, sinking one cruiser and damaging two others.”

He opened the case, took out the blue and white ribbon with its bronze Navy Cross, and, leaning over, pinned it over the Skipper’s heart.

“I congratulate you, Captain,” he said, and extended his hand. They shook hands warmly.

The crew of the Wolf was as thrilled as their Skipper. After all the congratulations were over and the High Command were gone, the Skipper turned to us.

“This cross is as much yours as it is mine, boys,” he said earnestly. “You have contributed as much as, if not more than I to the earning of it. I’m proud of you all, and I’m proud of the Wolf.”

We stood about deck after he and the officers left, gazing at the torn-up Wolf. We were proud of her, too. She was a damn good boat. We’d a bone to pick with the High Command, though, about crediting us with those few ships. We’d done better than that, but we knew how conservative the Skipper was. Even Zerk, the pessimist, was burned up about that. As he went by the conning tower, he knocked on it with his knuckles three times. “They don’t make ’em better than this baby,” he said. And he said it for all of us.

Before we left there on our next mission of the war, the Wolf threw a party. Everyone was there, the High Command, the High Bishop of that area, who later visited the Wolf and gave the Captain, the ship, and her crew his blessing, and distinguished British, Australian, and American figures.

Then, a brief two-day stay at another Australian port, and the Wolf was off again. She’d only begun to fight!