Iron Men for the Iron Sharks

SUBMARINES

The bluejacket was sweating a little in his clean and faded dungarees. His answers came jerkily and he was nervous. He was being tested for admission to the U.S. Navy's corps d' elite, the submarine service.

Said the psychiatrist in lieutenant commander's uniform: "Stand here, son. Put your arms out like this." A pause. "How old were you when you stopped wetting the bed? How much do you drink? Now wiggle your wrists like this." The answers came at first reluctantly, then freely. The questioner went on. "What does your mother think about your being in the subs, son? Ever have any trouble with the polite? How often have you been drunk?"

Subtly the doctor probed and searched. The bluejacket wondered what was wrong, why he had been called to the "nut factory." His service record in the surface ships was clean. The psychiatrist's questions gave him no clues. But his answers and his scores in the preliminary written tests told the tale. The sailor was healthy, intelligent and eager for sub duty, but he was not the type. Within the hour, he was off the Base, his papers marked "immediate sea duty."

Search for Men. At New London's sprawling Submarine Base the most searching tests in the Navy go on. In submarines, every man is his brother's keeper. Submariners must be healthy and intelligent, but, more important than everything else, they must be emotionally well-balanced. The strain of a war patrol is too great for the man with quirks, for sourpusses or incurable practical jokers. Thus sub men have an air of pipe-smoking imperturbability and quiet good humor that no other group of fighting men can match.

Submariners jokingly point to the 50% extra pay as their reason for volunteering. But they don't do what they do for money. Pride in their hard service is a big factor. So is plain patriotism--the subs promise quick action. Quicker command for young officers, quicker advancement for enlisted men, are other reasons.

Once admitted to this select company, a submariner rarely leaves voluntarily (though he may if he likes). He must be pushed out by age (40 is old) or disability or promotion. Many a sub captain (usually a lieutenant commander) regrets the third full stripe which costs him his ship and sends him to a more comfortable billet afloat or ashore.

They Like the Life, There is no spit & polish for men on a sub. At sea the bluejackets wear what they please, usually dungarees, sometimes only skivies and sandals. Officers shuck their neckties and open their shirt collars. Everybody smokes almost everywhere. There is an old-shoe ease about the whole ship's company, but there is no infringement of dignity or discipline.

All this could be seen last week on the U.S.S. Blank as she prepared to put out to sea. No pigboat (a word no modern submariner likes), she is as long as a destroyer. She has room for such comforts as shower baths, several "heads" (toilets), hot & cold fresh water in the crew's quarters and officers' staterooms--even a washing machine. Below decks, there is not an idle inch. Dials, switchboards or shining torpedo tubes seem to cover all vertical space. It looks like a mechanical museum jammed into a baggage car. Overhead runs a plumber's nightmare of pipes and ducts. Fore & aft the extra torpedoes lie sleek and savage in their cradles, the men sleeping or lounging around them. There is no smell of hot metal or hot men --these ships are air-conditioned.

From the moment she left the pier she was rigged for diving. Presently the klaxon howled--two beeps for "dive." The men moved smoothly, unhurriedly to their jobs.

There was no shouting of orders, only a sudden quiet as the power was switched from the big diesels to the motors. The deck sloped. Then came a slight sensation of pressure as the air was built up to test the hull. With a wet and gusty sigh, the big iron shark slid under.

The steady bongbong of "battle stations" brought all hands to their posts. The torpedomen stood ready in their compartment, a watchman on the watertight door. In the control room, the men watched the myriad dials.

In the crowded conning tower the captain waited for the ship to level off at periscope depth. Veteran of many a war patrol (Navy Cross for one action), he was on this training cruise to seed his experience into a new crew. "Up periscope," he ordered. The long steel tube whined upward. He got in a quick look for the target ship before vapor fogged the lens, said: "Wash her off," as the tube slid down.

Closing in on the target, the captain moved to the thinner battle 'scope, which leaves less of a feather of foam for enemy eyes. "Up periscope," he ordered again. "Mark!" For the first time he spoke sharply. The man called their bearings smartly. Then: "Fire One!" and with a jolt the deadly long fish was on its way.

They Have to Be Good. This was the moment toward which all the selection and training was aimed. The one end purpose of a submarine is to shoot its fish. And a sub is more than a steel hull: it is mostly men, must be run by men who work so closely together that they create a higher kind of machine, part metal and part flesh. Every man is a specialist, but he must be able to do more than his own job.

Justification of all the tests and training at New London, comes in the war patrols. Then the men who have been picked for their ability to get along with other men, and trained to do each other's jobs, show up steady in the pinch. A sub is on its own for months.

Patrolling submerged by day, charging their batteries on the surface at night, submen never see the sun. Life is tense, but no man may get tense, even when his boat lies silent in hiding and the air-conditioning must be shut off. Then, as in the old subs, temperatures shoot to the top of the thermometer and the air gets foul. Depth charges may boom. When they come close the ship shudders and submen feel fear. All but the liars admit it, and there are few liars in the subs.

Men who have struck at the Jap within sight of Fujiyama and lain doggo for hours while the enemy's "cans" hunted and depth-charged, who have surfaced at night so close to the Japs that Tokyo Rose* came on the radio like a performer on a local station at home, have no need to lie. The truth of their work is enough.

* A Jap Lady Haw-Haw who broadcasts in Eng lish on Radio Tokyo. One U.S. sub crew which had just sunk two Jap transports' liked her pro gram the night they left for home. Said Tokyo Rose:"You build 'em, we sink 'em!"

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