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!
CHAPTER VIII
Jinxed
WE LEFT port and headed north. A few nights later we pulled into a secret advance base where we fueled to capacity and filled our fresh-water tanks.
We had a guest aboard, a lieutenant commander. As part of his indoctrination period before taking over his own submarine, he was assigned to the Seawolf as an observer. He was pleasant, about thirty-five, kept to the wardroom, and was in no one’s way. Yet a few of the old-timers grumbled. Some submarine men are convinced that strangers jinx a voyage.
This mission was clearly defined: unrestricted submarine warfare to destroy enemy shipping wherever encountered.
We caught our first target just below the port of Koepang, on the coast of Timor. We were heading up toward Dili, Timor, not far from the shore, when suddenly a night lookout spotted a coal-burning tramp steamer, a single-stacker, about 250 feet long, lumbering along at six knots. It was a perfect setup, so perfect we’d make a surface attack. There was a moon out, and the steamer was beautifully silhouetted against it. The sea was smooth. We were almost invisible, the Seawolf’s dark hulk blending into the background of beach, so that the small portion of her above water was almost impossible to detect.
I picked up the tramp’s screws on sound. Now, very carefully, Captain Warder inched the Wolf into a position to fire. The orders came… “Fire!”
I picked up their high whine. I watched the hand of my stopwatch tick away the seconds, waiting for the familiar ka-rumphf of the fish going home, or the muffled blast of the boilers exploding.
Nothing. We’d missed her. Slow and unhurried, the pulse of the tramp’s screws beat steadily on my phones.
“Hear anything on sound?” Captain Warder demanded. “Is she increasing speed?”
“No, Captain. No change at all,” I reported.
We maneuvered for a second attack. Suddenly the diving alarm sounded. “Clear the bridge! Stand by to dive! Take her down!”
The night lookouts scrambled down the conning tower, the hatch slammed shut, the bolts wheeled into place, and the Wolf knifed down into the sea at a terrific angle. I hung onto my seat.
What had gone wrong up there? Had we been strafed by planes?
We leveled off. Now I heard the screws of the tramp grow louder.