Next, the officers’ wardroom, where they ate, held conferences, played cards, lounged—scarcely as large as the dinette of a small apartment; and then a tiny pantry with a serving shelf opening into the wardroom. There’d always be a messboy here to turn out sandwiches and coffee for the officers, day and night.
On the opposite side of the passageway was the yeoman’s or ship’s office, with typewriter, stainless steel file, and cabinets; this would be Sully’s domain. Then came the engineering officer’s stateroom, to be shared by Holden and Mercer. Like a pullman compartment, it had two settees which could be turned into bunks at night. Then the executive officer’s stateroom—and then another head and a shower room. After this, the forward torpedo room. Directly ahead of me were the round brass doors of the four bow torpedo tubes. This forward torpedo room was a large room, at least fifty feet long by fifteen feet wide. Suspended on heavy chains from the ceiling, at least seven feet from the floor, were six bunks, three on either side. Under them were the torpedo racks, now empty, but later to be filled with the burnished bronze-steel torpedoes, two tons each, lying side by side in tiers.
In the center of the room four “jump” bunks—so called because men could jump out of them, dismantle them, and pull them out of the way in a minute or less. I looked this room over carefully.
A face bowl and a towel rack came out of the wall. Here were blowers, ventilators leading from our air-conditioning plant. Large, too. If the size of the blower pipes meant anything, there’d be a lot of air in this room. Well, I thought, I’ll try to get me a bunk here.
I retraced my steps. I ducked back down the passageway, through the control room again, and found myself in the afterpart of the Wolf. First, the after-battery compartment. Here most of the crew would live. The metal clothing lockers were already installed. I pushed on, through a doorway, and was in the mess hall.
Three tables were set, across the width of the boat, each with a rim to keep dishes from sliding off when the Wolf pitched. A bulletin board was already in place on one wall. I opened a door on my left. This was a small provisions room. I passed the refrigerator.
The next doorway I found on one side turned out to be the door to the galley. Four-coil electric stove, with two ovens; a huge coffee urn; a sink; a Mixmaster for pastries; pots and pans neatly packed into shelves; bins for coffee, flour, sugar—the whole thing no larger than a kitchenette, compact and efficient enough! I’d never know how sixty-five men could be served three meals a day, sandwiches and snacks and hot coffee and hot soup day and night—all from this little room.
Next to the galley was the scullery, where the mess cooks would grumble about their low station while doing dishes by the carload. Opposite the scullery, a wash and shower room—two showers, four face bowls, mirrors, lockers for soap and toothpaste. So far, so good. I ducked back further. Now I was in the forward engine room, then the aft engine room, both with their powerful Diesels, like some endless-cylindered motor of some thirtieth-century racing machine; then the after-torpedo room in the stern, a replica of the forward torpedo room. Toilet on the port side of the after engine room, shower on the starboard side. Compactness, utility, efficiency—that was the Seawolf.
For weeks we grew with the Wolf. Captain Warder, his knee better, joined us in Building 150 as we pored over blueprints. With the crew and workmen he crawled all over the Wolf as well. We were proud of our skipper; not every submarine crew could boast that their captain was also a submarine engineer who knew his boat from the keel up. Sometimes, at the end of the day, he came into Building 150 looking like a grease-pit mechanic, but there’d be the light of discovery in his eyes. He’d ask for a cup of coffee. There’d be a silence. He’d stir his coffee slowly. “Well,” he’d say, “I found out something new today.”
“What was that, Captain?” someone would ask.
“You know that fuel line running along the port side of the forward engine room?” he’d say. “It has a flange right at Number 105 bulkhead. I didn’t know that.” He’d sip his coffee thoughtfully. “That might come in useful someday.”
We thrashed over every pipe and line, every induction coil and bulkhead. Afternoons we spent studying the Wolf herself. We went into the ship, and we underwent “dry dives.” The lights would suddenly go out, leaving us in complete blackness; the command would ring out for each of us to take a new station. I might find myself at the Christmas Tree, in the radio shack, at a torpedo tube—anywhere. Each of us had to know as much as possible about every other man’s job. Every submarine man is a specialist, but he must be prepared to take over any other post at a moment’s notice, whether it be frying eggs or firing torpedoes.
We learned to take apart and put together practically everything but the hull of the Wolf. We had to draw thirty-four blueprints of her principal systems. By the time we completed our schoolwork we knew the anatomy of the Wolf as a surgeon knows the muscles and their insertions, the bones and their functions, the arteries and their positions.
We began to move into the submarine. The first thing I did was to paste a photograph of Marjorie on the panel of my sound gear, and fix another above my bunk, which turned out to be No.1 bunk, in the forward torpedo room—just where I wanted it. My locker was built into the bulkhead next to my bunk, and I packed away my clothing: four suits of blue dungarees; four changes of underwear, one set of gray wool, one heavy all-wool with double back and chest; a dozen pair of socks, six wool, six cotton; two pairs of black shoes; dress and undress blues; sandals; six hats (blue and white, and one warm blue knitted watch cap for cold nights on deck).
Throughout the ship my shipmates began to move in, too. Squeaky Langford came aboard with a miniature Chinese carved teakwood chest he’d picked up in Sing Tow. It was a good-luck charm, and in it he had his good conduct medal, a couple of old rings minus stones, and a broken watch. Men came aboard with their St. Christopher’s medals and crucifixes. There was a Bible or two. They came with their pipes and tobacco, their favorite magazines, batches of letters they wanted to show off, photographs, acey-deucy sets, dice, decks of cards. We married men pasted up snapshots of our families inside our locker doors. Neat green curtains were hung in the doorways of the officers’ staterooms. Life jackets and Momsen lungs were stowed into place in the bulkheads. Dishman showed up with a portable phonograph which he gave a place of honor on a workbench in the engine room. Books—Jack London’s sea stories, biographies, Zane Grey’s stories—began to fill the double bookshelf in the mess hall, which for no reason at all suddenly became “Kelly’s Pool Room.” Henry (“Short Pants”) Hershey—“Short Pants” because he was five feet four—a machinist’s mate and a wizard softball player, came in lugging a sackful of bats, balls, and mitts. We were making the Wolf our home.
On a cold February 15, with a chill wind blowing the waters of the bay white and black, Marjorie drove me into the yard and down to the dock. The Wolf was to go out on her first sea dive. Marjorie was to drive me down, then return. From our window she would look out on the entrance channel and lower harbor, and watch the Wolf go out, and go down. We rounded a turn, and the submarine came into sight. Black, shining black, in the cold morning sun, long, sleek, and black—a magnificent engine of destruction. She rode heavy in the water alongside the slate-colored drydock. There was tremendous activity topside, and a crowd of navy yard workmen and navy wives waiting to see us off. The deck force was scampering about, chopping the ice clear from our lines, and even in the distance the orders echoed crisp and clear. I made out Lieutenant Holden at once. He was standing well up on the bow, the wind whipping his heavy submarine coat. The flag was blowing at the stern. I got out of the car.