In every generation, the navies of the world always seem to find the necessary number of that ‘special breed of man’ needed to man their undersea ships… Those truly magnificent fools with the requisite pride and spirit of adventure needed to voluntarily crawl into an iron cylinder full of similar mental defectives and take the contraptions to sea.
I can’t speak for the rest of the Navy. The only ‘rest of the Navy’ I ever met, were perpetual shore duty shore patrols. Looking back I can’t remember one positive interaction I had with any sonuvabitch sporting an SP armband. The last thing they were interested in, in the old days, was spreading goodwill.
My entire short-lived naval service career was spent with like-minded jaybirds who actually liked going to sea in what closely resembled a sinkable septic tank.
I actually thought that to be a sailor, one had to go to sea. Sailoring had to involve stuff like seagulls, saltwater and large metal objects that were painted gray, displaced tons of water and bounced around a lot in heavy weather.
How guys who interpreted photographs in a windowless building in Omaha, Nebraska called themselves sailors was way beyond the level of comprehension of a seventeen-year-old who cut his teeth on books about Pacific submarine action.
Lads who turned up at New London back in the 1950s weren’t the kind of young men whose sense of naval adventure could be satisfied inventorying jocks and socks in some damn quonset hut in East Rat’s Ass, Minnesota, or typing liberty cards at some shore station where they hot-patched weather balloons.
Submariners had no desire to belong to any organization that issued clothing designed to blend in with poison ivy plants… required you to dig holes and own a personal shovel… or any desire to eat unidentifiable food out of little green cans in the rain.
We liked hydraulic oil-laced coffee, crawling up on a pre-warmed flash pad and freely exchanging insults with men as equally ugly as ourselves. We enjoyed knowing that in any unscheduled altercation, our entire crew would show up to extract our drunken fanny and chastise those we had stirred up.
Back in the old days, (before any of you modern day techno undersea swashbucklers get a twist in your bloomers, I only know about the old days. I never rode anything that was intended to go below 412 feet or stay down for several months at a time.) So, as I started to say…
Back in the old days, the old leather-faced, hardboiled Chiefs used to say,
“#$%&!! sailors belong on ships and ships belong at sea.”
There was some kind of selection process that they put you through at New London that eliminated the fainthearted, the not totally committed, guys lacking desire to engage in intimate cohabitation with members of the opposite gender, communists, bedwetters, whiners, and anyone who entertained the slightest desire to be stationed in Omaha, Nebraska.
The system, God bless it, sorted out the true believers and packed the rest off to the surface fleet, Omaha and God knows where else.
And they put us on boats. A lot of us went to old, late in life, boats with combat histories. They were old World War II boats with racks, that once bunked our heroes… the men we wanted to be accepted by and to be exactly like.
We qualified and in so doing we joined the continuous chain that is and will always be the U.S. Submarine Force.
I don’t know what the dreams and aspirations consist of for the young men of today. Ours was a far simpler time. We grew up chasing fireflies, shooting marbles, spinning tops, teaching each other yo-yo tricks, shooting each other with BB guns, playing two hands below the waist tag football, neighborhood kick the can and pick-up-game after school hardball. Nobody cried, tattle-taled or went home to pee.
Back then, you didn’t have to have made all ‘A’s in diathermic razz-a-ma-tazz physics or have a working understanding of the components in the formulation of the universe, to ride submarines.
You had to have an understanding of honor, loyalty, faithfully performed duty, obedience to command, respect for leadership, and total and absolute faith in your ship and shipmates.
Added to these qualities, a true boatsailor had to have a wide-screen sense of adventure and the same brand of curiosity that has lived in the hearts of those in every generation who ventured beyond known limits.
And you had love dancing with the devil. Somewhere, real major-league devil dancing got shot out the garbage gun.
But some things never change. It’s still pitch black dark below 150 feet, a boat is always no father than 9 miles from land (straight down) and the skipper’s word is law.
And so far, every generation has worn the same insignia and nobody ever forgets the hull number of their qual boat or the name of their first COB.
There are many common denominators among the worldwide community of undersea sailors.
When the Kursk went down, I was struck and frankly dumbfounded by the genuine outpouring of sympathy for the families and loved ones of the lost boat sailors. To me, they had always been our enemy. Up to then, I had given no thought to the similarities found in our manner of service and the commonality of the danger of operating deep within a hostile environment surrounded by potential death on all sides.
Likewise, I never cease to be surprised by the way that submariners embrace their adversarial counterparts. There appears to be a universal acceptance with implied forgiveness of all German U-boat crewmen.
You never hear the term ‘Nazi’ U-boatmen. The term ‘German’ has become substituted for the term ‘Nazi’.
America has a short national memory and everybody gets out of the penalty box in one generation.
I sat in a theater rooting for the former ‘bad guys’ in the film DAS BOOT. What we were seeing on the screen, was a boat full of sons of Hitler sneaking around and sinking our citizens. But the fact that we, having lived a similar life inside a recognizably similar pressure hull, elicited a sympathy and irrational forgiveness. In short, we related to both the characters and their circumstances.
I guess that in the final analysis, all submariners are brothers when you look into the depth of their souls.
That is good. In times of war, nobody who transits the surface of the world’s oceans loves submarines.
Submarines and submariners are viewed as implements and practitioners of the black arts… backstabbing, bushwhacking sonuvabitches. We slip up from hiding below the waves and blow ships to pieces in a totally unfair, unsportsmanlike fashion. Any way you cut it, that’s the way we made our living.
We black sheep… we predatory sharks… we saltwater sneaky Petes stick together.
We are a very small group when you consider the total world population and the percentage that never had any desire to crawl into a steel tank and sink out of sight.
Submariners, when all is said and done, are special unique people who are the only ones who truly understand each other and ever will.
The old warhorses who fought submarine wars are leaving us. These submersible sea dogs passed down the lethal reputation we carried and the awesome respect our boats were given.
I for one have been both honored and extremely proud to have been a part of this fine body of extraordinary adventurers and patriots.