It's not even written for us. This is what we derisively call a "vanity publication," overpriced, not meant for any but the rubes who buy it to see. Let's be charitable and call it a "yearbook." It was published in two volumes, wonderful to look at and surely cost a pretty penny in its publication date of 1986.
But, in the tradition of yearbooks, it was the submariners themselves who put the content together. Most of them are gone now, so this book is one of the few places, along with their monthly bulletin, Polaris, that you can get the undiluted dope from the submariners themselves.
Sometimes they know something we absolutely know isn't true. I'll bet they're right most of the time. Most priceless are the memories recorded here, not for us, but for each other: men who were bound together by the loss of 3,505 shipmates during the war. Every man was friends with some of those who died.
Quote:
Memories
by Ernest St. Germain
USS SPEARFISH (SS 190)
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Quote:
I remember:
my invitation into the world of service life by the shearing of my long hair
the icy cold winds walking to and from the lake in Idaho for goat drills,
being stationed in windy downtown Chicago, to learn the inards of diesel engines
the six-high bunks of troop trains criss-crossing the country shuttling servicemen from station to station
my introduction to Spritz's Navy, and the consideration and compassion extended to correct my ways,
the first dive on a school S-boat, and how the dripping oil from the over-hard hydraulic tank vent landed in the salad bowl in the mess hall,
the pride at being assigned a United States Submarine, and of the instruction and guidance by the "old salts" aboard given so willingly to the new arrival,
the fright of the first dive of my new home near the Rafallons at an almost impossible angle, later blamed on ballast that should have been removed during overhaul,
the first sailing into Pearl Harbor and seeing first-hand what I had only picture and print knowledge of,
the warm breezes and soft rains upon my introduction to Hawaii, the anxiety and qualms I felt as we slipped out to sea for my first patrol to the unknown,
the wet forehead and sweaty palms I experienced the moment of my first call to battle stations,
the understanding and compassion of the senior engineman who kept me busy wiping engines as I experienced my first depth charges,
the daylight approaches, within gun range, of islands yet to be invaded,
the joy in rescuing survivors of downed aircraft and giving them a ride back to land,
the small sand spits in the ocean whose names were larger than they were where we spent brief moments of rest and relaxation away from the war,
the startling pink color of the favorite hotel where I shared a room with three shipmates,
the ever-present smell of diesel fuel on the boat as well as me,
the endless nights on lookout during a typhoon, trying to share time between foggy binoculars and grip a lifeline to keep from being washed overboard,
the sighting of an enemy bomber approaching us while on the surface,
the endless repairs of new engines during hot, humid days of submergence patrol,
the peace and security of sailing at night after the war with the muffled engines broken only by the wash of the sea alongside the hull,
the last time I crossed the brow and saluted the flag, concluding my short Navy career,
but most of all I remember —
that there were 52 boats and 3,505 shipmates who didn't return to share their memories with me.
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Yikes! Clay Blair, Jr. Who's he? He never made my cry. Dry facts don't convey a hundredth of this simple list. And the photos! Photos I've never seen before, which are doubtless only available in this publication.
That last shot is of loading torpedoes into the forward torpedo room. It was a nasty, dirty, dangerous job where no mistakes could be made or the consequences were a lot more than a good chewing out by the OOD.
I think I'll use this thread to put some of the contents of these two volumes on record for you to see. There's more to submarines than the cold litany of sinkings. There were people involved. There was Ernest St. Germain aboard the USS Spearfish, collecting his memories and praying he would get to share them with his shipmates. Not us. We only know "Silent Victory" style dry prose. His shipmates shared the truth.