On any day from 1942 to 1945 a traveler on the railroads between Boston and New York cannot help noticing, during a short stop at New London, Connecticut, the ebb and flow of vigorous young men who are garbed in the blue uniforms long associated with the American sailor—tight bell-bottomed trousers with the traditional thirteen-button flap fly, snug blouses, and dress “flathats” or white sailor’s hats. These are the warriors of the day, and this New England town has become the heart of submarine activity and training.
Excited urgency animates those who are boarding the train. For many who are disembarking, a sort of regret prevails, the excesses of big-city liberty evident in their red-eyed stares. The very youngest, somewhat self-conscious youths—those with the undecorated chests—are obviously recruits for the Submarine School across the Thames River. The experienced men display a swaggering pride in the distinctive silver “dolphins” of the “Silent Service” and the rainbow of campaign ribbons or awards on their chests. Young officers who are “qualified” wear a gold version of the dolphin pin on their uniforms, which are either khaki, grey, or the more traditional Navy blue.
The buzzing chatter of both officers and men touches upon the tattered condition of the wartime “cattle cars” in which they are crowded and the exorbitant though special military price for a round-trip ticket to Washington—a heady $9.35! With little regard for the area’s accorded status as the “submarine capital of the United States,” some of the submariners direct criticism at the “whistle stop” status of New London, Groton, and Norwich, which are their daily liberty sites: “Not enough bars.” “Cops are tough on sailors, but not like Norfolk!” Others laugh uproariously at the foibles of “regulars” at a plethora of Bank Street bars, be it Tiny’s Heat Wave (“Where the elite of the fleet meet!”), Ernie’s, “The Elbo,” or Danny Shea’s Yellow Dog Saloon.
Nonregulation, skin-tight, “tailor-made” blouses disclose brilliantly embroidered inner cuffs when upturned during the relaxation of liberty, and the tattoo needle’s artistry appears as “Mother,” “Love,” “Sally and Pete,” “Guitarro,” or the dolphin emblem. Tax-free “sea stores” cigarettes, bought at the bargain price of seventy cents per carton, soon make their contribution to the already dense fog of heavy smoke in the compartments. A gentleman traveler, far more advanced in years than these submariners and curious about their “silent service,” marvels at the energy and confidence they display and smiles at their bluster. Clearly, it’s a time for youth and a time for challenge, both in abundance in these excited and expectant young warriors.
During the station stop, a veteran sailor offers a cigarette to the gentleman, who takes the opportunity to ask about the ribbon representing the Silver Star Medal. His question brings a grateful nod and a shy smile, but that is all. The sailor, instead, explains that each bronze star adorning his submarine combat pin represents another patrol awarded a “successful” rating, following the initial award of the pin for his first successful patrol. He looks forward to another good patrol, but this one will be on the new boat to which he has just reported—USS Mako. From this exchange, it is very clear to the gentleman what information these Navy men can discuss. People, fine; submarine life, fine; operations, never!
So the gentleman contents himself with asking about the sailor’s motivation for seeking submarine duty, and his friendly probing taps a well of deep feelings. The volunteer has been heart and hallmark of the U.S. submarine force since its beginning. A man has to want to serve in it. However, life in a submarine is not for everyone. Mothers, sisters, sweethearts, and sometimes fathers have questioned the reasoning powers of their young man who contemplates a career in “the boats.” Those who are not called cannot easily understand the desire to live deep within the oceans, not even by appealing to their sense of “adventure” or machismo. Most people would agree that living in vessels referred to variously as “sewer pipes,” “pig- boats,” or “steel coffins” doesn’t quite smack of normalcy—but not a submariner. The gentleman concludes that there is a special satisfaction in facing challenging jobs, like operating a submarine, and mastering them.
A breathless young sailor who literally dived for the departing train’s platform as it pulled away joins the gentleman. Conversation comes easily, and a few simple questions regarding his insignia, his rate, and his shiny dolphins bring a flood of words. A torpedoman third class, he sports a spanking new “crow” (really an eagle) and a single red chevron that marks his status as the most junior of petty officers. He is proud of his wartime service in submarines and grins warmly as he refers to the “chicken” regulations of the surface ships, which he has avoided. He points out the advantages of an additional 50 percent hazardous-duty pay. It will help to save a nest egg for later education or marriage, but he quickly adds that he would be in submarines without the extra money. The important thing drawing him to subs is the early acceptance as a part of a team—being a “player” and having some importance. Like others around the compartment, he refers to a war patrol as a “run.” On his very first run he served as a messcook, the lowest form of life on board, and was responsible for dish washing, spud peeling, and head cleaning, but he had also been placed on lookout and planesman watches. On his second run, he became a battle-stations stern planesman, literally controlling the boat at the most important times. Now, with his new dolphins, he’s assigned to a new-construction boat—USS Mako—being completed at Electric Boat Company in Groton—known throughout the submarine world as EB. He can’t wait to get back to the Pacific war in his “new, seven-million-dollar home.”
The gentleman makes his way to the club car. An empty spot at a table puts him next to a salty character, whose gold hash marks and insignia of twelve years of service and good conduct show just a bit of patina from the sea air. The gentleman’s offer of a drink brings a nod of acceptance, and then a scowl from each as they remark the wartime bottle of Kinsey’s, but the shared disappointment breaks the ice. The submariner is a chief motor machinist’s mate, referred to as a “motor mac,” and he has been a leading “auxiliaryman,” one of those who oversee most of the submarine’s systems—air, hydraulic, air- conditioning and refrigeration, pumps—that keep the sub running but aren’t specifically torpedo, engine room, or electrically related. He explains that he completed five runs on his last boat and was recently assigned as a leading instructor at Submarine School, but now he has been “ripped out” to be the chief auxiliaryman of a new boat—USS Mako.
When queried, he describes a long dissatisfaction with the “spit and polish” battleship Navy—the weekly inspections, the endless hours with no sleep at battle stations when no enemy is around. The happiest day of his life was when he reported to a boat after Sub School. He expresses quiet confidence in his own and his shipmates’ abilities and great pride in his last skipper, whom he quotes, “Submarines might not win this war, but if you didn’t have ‘em, you might lose it!” Without giving details he mentions that his sub sank a sizable number of ships. He enjoyed the closeness of that crew, the frequent beer ball games at the between-patrols “rest camp” on Guam—with officers and chiefs against the “white hats”—-and the hours spent, over beers of course, simply watching the gooney birds crash clumsily into the airplane runways. Though he expresses the wish, heard often on this train, for a quick and successful end to the war, he also acknowledges that the Navy was his life before the war and will continue to be for a twenty- or thirty- year career—so long as it’s “in the boats.”
A young officer in sharply pressed, gabardine khakis enters the car and, on noting an empty spot, asks to join the table. The shiny gold braid of the star and single stripe on his shoulder boards have yet to get the tarnish of the sea. Just one month out of the U.S. Naval Academy, he’s just starting Submarine School, a four-month stint, after which he’ll get orders to a sub. Flushed with the prosperity of his ensign pay, $150 per month—riches when compared with his $12 midshipman’s stipend—he offers to buy drinks and enters the conversation. He had been completely unimpressed with life on board the old battleships Arkansas and New York on midshipman cruises, and a knowing smile passes between the chief and the gentleman traveler. The ensign speaks with enthusiasm about Commander Slade Cutter’s accounts of his submarine patrols. One of the Navy’s top skippers of the war. Cutter was enthusiastic and colorful. His talk highlighted the fantastic success of submarines and sold the ensign and many of his classmates, one hundred of whom entered Submarine School. Expecting to be an important player shortly after Sub School, the ensign looks for confirmation to the chief, who adds that he will have plenty to keep him busy—studying for his qualification, standing officer-of-the-deck and diving-officer watches, working as a department head, and squeezing in three or four hours of sleep a day. (Neither could know at the time that the ensign would be ordered to USS Mako.)
Leaving the train in New York, the gentleman reflects on how little he has actually learned about the lives led by the young sailors as they fight their battles on top of and beneath the oceans. But the time spent in their company has lightened his step and brightened his day. He recalls a photograph passed between several friends—an image of bushy-bearded, grinning men who looked more like buccaneers than Navy sailors. Why the broom tied to the top of the periscope? A youngster had chortled, “Clean sweep! We sank four ships and had a successful patrol!”
In a few weeks these eager young men and some seventy others will come together to form a crew, specifically, the crew of USS Mako. Novice will join veteran in actions that can spell life or death. They will form boarding parties, armed with submachine guns, and pour over the gunwales of damaged enemy ships; will land reconnaissance details in rubber boats or send swimmers ashore with lines to rescue observation “beach watchers”; will respond to the call, “Battle Stations, Gun Action,” spilling from the hatches as soon as the boat has leaped like a cork out of the water, to cover the enemy with a hailstorm of 5-inch, 40-millimeter, 20-millimeter, and .50-caliber machine-gun fire; and will, from the hidden depths, launch torpedoes to destroy the vitals of enemy ships. A hazardous but heady concoction, indeed!
These young men will also dive away from the tracer fire or bombs of attacking aircraft and flee from the depth charges that can shake their boat apart. And when the enemy’s weapons find her, her novices will quickly become veterans, fighting to control the spray from ruptured piping, to catch their breath amidst the acrid smoke from burning panels or motors, to overcome their fear and save their boat. Expecting to be an important player shortly after Sub School, the ensign looks for confirmation to the chief, who adds that he will have plenty to keep him busy.
A bonding experience? Believe it!