I sat back. I was thinking, Hell, here I’ve faced death so many times that just thinking about it becomes monotonous, and here I am quaking at a minor operation. What’s the matter with me? The crew would be ashamed of me if they could see me this way now. Dr. Smith broke into my thoughts by putting something in my mouth that looked like a cross between a check bit for a horse and a muzzle for a mad dog.
“All right,” he was saying. “You’re drooling. Let’s have at them now.”
All I could do was nod. My tongue was numb. We went into our act again. It couldn’t have taken more than ninety seconds this time. But it was a long minute and a half. It didn’t hurt so much, but what scared me was a long suction hose they had leading from my mouth into a glass jar. I started bleeding. My blood rushed into the jar. As it rose, I became panicky. I didn’t know they had water going in too, to create suction. God, I thought, I’m bleeding to death. I’d heard of grown men bleeding to death in tonsillectomies. I was ready to faint when Dr. Smith pulled off this oral hobble and he was finished, looking at his excavation with a bit of pride. He called another surgeon in, and he complimented him on a neat job. Dr. Smith seemed to remember me then and said:
“Okay, chief. All finished. You can go now. You can expect a very sore throat for a couple of days or so. If you want anything, just yell.”
Yell? I couldn’t even talk. Then I noticed he was grinning. I grinned back. I gave him a wave and shoved off. My “escorts” of battleship size were waiting outside, and they picked me up and dropped me into a wheelchair, and we headed back for the ward, sweeping people and obstacles out of our way as if they didn’t exist, one ahead clearing the path, the other pushing the chair. Then I was in bed.
I lolled on one side and drooled all over a rubber mat provided for that purpose and reflected on my sins. I fell asleep after a little while and must have slept quite some time. When I woke up, I was hungry and my throat was so sore I could have yelled—if it hadn’t been for my throat. It was night. A nurse brought a big glass of cold milk to me.
I got a good part of it down. I was still hungry, but she refused to give me anything else. I went to sleep again and slept like a log until I was rudely awakened about five in the morning by two nurses.
I looked inquiringly up at them.
“We’re here to bathe you,” one said. They were pretty rugged looking nurses. Both must have weighed 180 or better, and both were definitely not the romantic type.
“Give me a what?” I squeaked.
“A bath,” one said. “You must have a bath, you know. Now, lay down there like a good one, and this’ll be over in a moment.”
“Now, just a minute,” I said. “It may be true that I need a bath, but if so, I’ll do the bathing myself. I don’t want any women bathing me.”
The biggest one turned to her fellow conspirator and with a nod said, “I don’t know why, Violet, all these Americans are alike. They don’t want us to bathe them.” She turned back to me.
“Why not, young man? I was bathing patients when you were born.”
“That may be, madam,” I said. “And you might be bathing them after I’ve gone. But you’re not bathing me.”
“Oh, come now. Don’t be difficult. There’s nothing to it, and you’ll feel ever so much more comfortable,” she said.
I shook my head and prepared to repel boarders.
Without another word the bigger one said: “Stay ’ere with ’im, Violet. I’ll fetch ’arold.”
Violet and I eyed each other for about five minutes when the other nurse came back with ’arold. And ’arold was one of the two giants who pushed me around in the wheelchair.
“Now, matey,” he said, “wot’s the trouble ’ere, hey? Look, now lay down there, young man, and let these two ladies bathe you, or I’ll have to.”
I went to sleep after being thoroughly bathed.
I recuperated in the normal period of time and in the normal way. When I was released, I was homesick. I missed my own home, I missed the Wolf. They told me I could have some recuperation leave. I decided I would go to a small town not far away. This was a perfect little town. The food was good, the people friendly, the air marvelous. At the end of the leave I reported back to the submarine tender stationed at the port and was given temporary duty on one of the relief crews—crews that take over a submarine when she comes in from battle and get her ready to go to sea again, when the regular crew rests up.
I was kept busy. One day a rumor spread that the Wolf was reported missing. That was one of the worst days of my life. I dropped everything I was doing and rushed up to the Flag Office, in port, headquarters of the operating staff. I was panicky. I could learn nothing. No news was given out, particularly no news about submarines, and though I was a submarine man and identified, I could get nowhere. When liberty started, I went to the nearest pub and tried to forget all about it.
About 4 a.m. the next morning another submarine man put me in a cab, took me back to the tender, and rolled me in my bunk.
When I woke, I still had no news.
Then, one morning, news did come. The Seawolf was coming in. She was O.K. I remember I had a handful of tools when I got the word. I turned and ran for the dock, tools in hand, and then I saw the black shape of the Wolf coming in. I’d recognize her in a thousand, and, seeing her, I knew that never again in my life would I be as happy as I was in those few dragging minutes as the Wolf decreased distance, and slowly came into full, clear focus from the beach. I looked at her, and then I dashed madly up to the Flag Office and asked a yeoman for my transfer papers.
“What transfer papers?” the yeoman wanted to know.
“My orders to go back to the Wolf,” I said.
He shook his head. “I don’t know about that, Eckberg,” he said. “I heard some talk a while ago that you were headed for the Skipjack.”
I stared at him. Go to another ship? I had been waiting all this time for the Wolf, I didn’t want any part of the Skipjack or any other boat. I wanted the Wolf. I wanted home. I tore out of the Flag Office and headed for the gangway. I was going to find my captain and tell him my story.
One of the first persons I saw was Captain Warder walking with several other officers up the dock. I disregarded naval etiquette, traditions, and everything else and rushed up to him.
“What’s the matter, Eckberg?” he greeted me. “You look upset.”
“I am upset, Captain,” I said. “They’re going to transfer me to the Skipjack.”
“Well.” He looked at me. “Well?”
“Well, hell, Captain,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for the Wolf, and it seems unfair that I go on another boat now.”
“So you really want to come home, eh, Eckberg?” he said with a smile. “Well, move your clothes aboard and forget about it.” With that he nodded pleasantly to me and walked on.
Did I want to come home? I could have thrown my arms around him.
“Yes, sir, Captain. Thank you, sir,” I said. And I was off for the Wolf like an Indian runner.
It was good climbing down the conning-tower ladder, into the control room, smelling the familiar odor of warm oil, digging through the boat and seeing all the boys again. It was Sully who finally corralled me and told me about the mission of the Wolf.
Evidently it was an easy one.
“You sure missed out on a good one,” he said. “We went through a couple of practice runs when we left port, and the old man took her up the coast heading north. We had a rendezvous there, topped off the fuel tanks, and headed for sea.