Gerold Frank - U.S.S. Seawolf: Submarine Raider of the Pacific

I FEEL mighty proud to be honored by an association with submarines even as remote as writing the foreword for this real human interest story which recounts the thrilling performances of the U.S.S. Seawolfone of the outstanding submarines during the early stages of the war.

I have always had a profound respect and unlimited admiration for our people who travel under the sea. They are a rough and hungry lot. They have played a major role in the war in the Pacific by severing the enemys lifeline of shipping and destroying large units of Japans Imperial Fleet.

The incidents related in these pages bring out the traditions and superstitions of submariners, their comradeship and sociability, the making over of a group of men from various and sundry sources into an integral unit, and the give-and-take life they lead.

The successes of the Seawolf bear testimony to the effectiveness of single-purposeness and teamwork. They bore in, were offensive-minded when targets were there, and they called on all their cunning and skill to evade when the Jap was hurt and mad.

This book will impress you with something all Navy people accept as everyday truth. It is the way the captain carries his ship, how his personality and influence make themselves felt on every man-jack in his outfit.

Freddie Warder and his crew can play on my team anytime, anywhere. The people of our country are indeed fortunate to have on their side killers like the Seawolf crowd who have done a magnificent job from the very beginning. Every American can feel intensely proud of our submarines.

THIS BOOK really began one sultry Sunday afternoon in August 1943, on a slow train between New York City and New London, Connecticut. We saw him first. He was big and brawny, his giant frame squeezed into a coach seat; he had the clear blue eyes, the hawk-like gaze of a Viking; and he was the most beribboned figure we had ever seen in a navy uniform. I think we spent all of five minutes in a vain attempt to read his personal history from those colorful decorations over his heart. He was a submarine man, and hed been in combatthat much was clear from the silver submarine pin which led the collection of campaign ribbons. He had been decorated for gallantrythat was the coveted red, white, and blue ribbon of the Silver Star to the left. That orange and blue ribbon below meant action in the Asiatic-Pacific theater; here was the Good Conduct ribbon, the American theater; stars, numerals, one, two, three major battlesbut it was too much of a job. On his left sleeve, near the shoulder, were the enclosed gold chevrons of a chief petty officer and the crossed bolts of lightning which indicated a radioman. Clear enough, so far: he was a chief radioman in the United States submarine service, and he had done things and been places.

We were particularly interested in a submarine man at that time. We were bound for the U.S. Submarine Base in New London to take a training cruise in a submarine. As Navy-accredited correspondents, we had been given a pleasant newspaper assignmentto write a story on submarine training and to describe how it feels to descend fifty or a hundred feet under the sea.

We engaged our submarine man in conversation. His name was EckbergJoseph Melvin Eckberg. Chief radioman. From what submarine? He rubbed his nose and gave us a slow grin.

Well, anyway, we saidand we identified ourselvesif we obtained clearance from the Navy, would he tell us a little about his shipwhere theyd been and what theyd done? Chief Radioman Eckberg, J.M., hemmed and hawed and looked uncomfortable. He wasnt one to talk, but if it would be all right with Washington hed been on one of the greatest sea-raiders of all time, and Lord knows she made submarine history

We followed through and learned in Washington that Eckbergs ship was none other than the U.S.S. Seawolf. The Seawolf? Why, her epic feats against the Japs had already made her almost legendary wherever Navy men gathered. Up to now the Navy had dared only hint at her exploits. She had been identified by name in less than half a dozen cautious news dispatches if her story could be told now, at last all of which explains how it happened that a week later we found ourselves in the cozy parlor of one of the snug little two-story houses the Navy has built for its personnel in Navy Heights, Groton, Connecticut, overlooking the spanking waters of the Thames River, with Eckberg thumbing through clippings of the Seawolf, Mrs. Eckberg busy with the dishes in the kitchen, and the littlest EckbergDavid, called Spike, three years old, a chubby, towheaded candidate for Annapolis, class of 1962laying on the floor with a heavy paperweight made from the same iron-hard teakwood that went into the deck of the Seawolf.

Here was a picture of the Wolfs commissioning on Dec. 1, 1939, her crew stiffly at attention, the flag blowing from the mast, a gray sky overhead. Here was a snapshot of the crew, bearded and grinning, hanging their clothes up to dry on a rope strung from the conning tower to the bow of the Wolf, somewhere between fabled Bali and Borneo; here a photograph of Eckberg himself, thirty pounds thinner, a shadow of the man, as he looked when he returned from the Wolfs most dangerous mission. Here was a clipping about the Seawolf:

the daring raider the U.S. submarine that terrified the Japs in their own waters.

Here was a second:

The submarine U.S.S. Seawolf recent Pacific cruise that will go down in United States naval history as one of the epic stories of submarine warfare.

Here, finally, was a third:

Washington, D.C., April 13.The Navy emblazoned the names of slight, unassuming Lt. Commander Frederick Burdett Warder and his submarine Seawolf today on its mounting roll of honor. It was the 1,450 ton Seawolf, sister ship of the ill-fated Squalus, the Navy disclosed, which sank a

But Eckberg was shaking his head. That doesnt tell the story, he said.

Why? we asked.

He slammed his fist down on the table.

Because, damn it, it doesnt tell the whole story. It doesnt explain why the Seawolf is the best damn submarine in the United States Navy. Why, down in Lombok Straits one night

Look, we said, lets start from the beginning.

Okay, he said. Right from the beginning.

And this is the story.

LETS TAKE the Wolf the first time I saw her. She wasnt any beauty then. They were just completing her at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. She was covered with black scaffolding, workmen were climbing over her sides, and I felt low. You see, they were building the Wolf at Flatiron Pier on the Piscataqua River; and in the drydock, less than three hundred yards away, theyd brought in the ill-fated Squalus. For ten bad minutes before I set eyes on the Wolf, I watched them take the dead from the Squalus. I saw them carrying off the bodies of men I knew, lifeless bodies hidden under gray tarpaulins, carrying them over the gangplank on stretchers; and at the same time I heard the pneumatic hammers working on the hull of the Wolf, just out of sight around the rivers bend. I dont get shaky easy, but, standing there, you couldnt help think a little about life and death.

The Squalus, which hadnt come up from a test dive, a floating tomb for so many men; and the Seawolf, all fresh and new and ready to go out and make a name for herself, as the Squalus had hoped to do

When I finally got away from there and stood in front of the