Our Australian port was only a few hours away, and it might mean our first mail since the war began. All the magazines we’d used to get at Manila might be waiting for us. But the mail! Word from home! We relaxed completely. We slept and ate—an orgy of fresh vegetables and milk and butter at the port was wonderful to look forward to—and went on deck every chance we had. We played our phonograph hour after hour. “The Five O’Clock Whistle” and “Melody in F” and swing and boogie-woogie sounded in Kelly’s Pool Room day and night. We began breaking out our shore clothes. Men were pressing their dress blues all day long on the mess table. The ship’s iron was hot twenty-four hours a day. For the first time in months we opened our razor cases. The blades were rusty and green with mold.
Captain Warder relaxed, too. He resumed his setting-up exercises, a slender, bearded figure in shorts and sandals, taking deep breaths, flexing his muscles, counting to himself. In the afternoons he closeted himself in his stateroom and wrote out his reports—his war diary of the Wolf’s activities. Rudy Gervais accosted the Captain with an idea.
“Captain,” he said, “how about us decorating our conning tower with Jap flags? We sunk a lot of ships.”
The Skipper thought it over and said, “No, Rudy, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The Seawolf doesn’t need flags up there. Everybody knows we sink ships. Let’s not brag about it.”
That disappointed some of the men. They liked the idea of having the Wolf come in with a broom upside down sticking out of the tower, or with some silhouettes of Jap men-of-war we’d sent down. But we had to admit that in sub circles everyone knew the Wolf did all right.
Finally the Wolf reached a prearranged rendezvous point, outside the port. Here a pilot came aboard and led us through the mine field guarding the entrance of the harbor. Then luck was with us. What we’d been waiting for—the bag of mail—was brought aboard. I grabbed a thick bundle of letters that bore my name and hurried into the sound room. Maley had his bundle and was reading them in his bunk.
I was so nervous I couldn’t get the first envelope opened. I seemed all thumbs. But from the first one tumbled four snapshots. They were of Spike and Marjorie. I couldn’t tear my eyes from them. I studied them over and over. Here was Spike in his carriage—the same Spike I had left, but much bigger. Here he was laughing in the sun—and behind him, Marjorie, looking the picture of health, smiling and wholesome and waiting for me. I felt like bawling. I read all the letters. Twenty-five of them, two from my brothers, twenty-three from Marjorie. She gave me a detailed picture of Spike. I followed him through each letter. He was a husky kid… he hated that afternoon nap… he was eating like a horse… now he was grabbing the sides of the crib and trying to stand up by himself… That hour made up for many things.
As we were about to glide into the harbor, another American submarine, Lieutenant Commander Lucius H. Chappell commanding, came into view. She had been out on a run and was returning to the dock. Captain Warder, who had never been in the port before, decided it would simplify matters to follow Captain Chappell in. He signaled him, “Go ahead, I’ll follow you in.”
The reply came back: “Congratulations, Seawolf. Proud to be with the record-breaker. After you, sir.”
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.