Aboard the USS Silversides
Steve Dennie
October 1990
It's 3:00 in the morning, and I'm patrolling the teak-wood deck of a battle-hardened American Navy submarine. No kidding. The weather is warm, the sky clear and starlit, the water surrounding the boat calm. Directly underneath me, give or take many inches of heavy steel (the actual thickness no doubt classified), about 30 shipmates are sleeping in the crew's quarters. And they are resting peacefully knowing that I, Steve Dennie, American, am on duty.
Actually, there are three of us. No, now there are five. Oh, here come a few more up the narrow tubular hatchway. My goodness, there must be a dozen of us out here on deck now! Are we under attack? Has the "Battle stations!" alarm been sounded?
No, these people have come up for one reason, and one reason only: to use the Porta-Potties on the pier.
This is the U. S. S. Silversides, a World War 2 submarine which sunk 23 ships--the third-highest count of any American submarine. But those days of glory are long gone. Since 1987, the Silversides has been tied to a dock in Muskegon, Mich., it's hull resting (slightly tilted) on the bottom of the small channel connecting Lake Muskegon and Lake Michigan.
The crew is a group, mostly adults, from First UB church in Lansing, Mich. Plus an Indiana journalist and his first mate, Pam. Plus Rev. and Mrs. Robert Stewart of Charlotte, Mich., who once served the Lansing congregation. Bob Stewart toured the Silversides years before. In 1942. During the war, WW2. Two two-month-long cruises through enemy-infested waters. One of 67 crew members. A real live submariner who knew this ship better than any tourguide.
The current pastor at Lansing, Gary Brooks, learned that groups can stay overnight on the Silversides, and he thought it would make a fun church outing. This, keep in mind, is the same Gary Brooks whose idea of A Really Good Time is jumping out of airplanes at high altitudes with a big piece of cloth strapped to his body. I wouldn't be surprised if Gary has already inquired about group rates for the Space Shuttle.
But Gary was right: the overnight stay was fun. And definitely unique.
We boarded at 6:00 Friday evening, which is when regular tours ended. The crew's quarters, where we would all (emphasize all) sleep, is located just behind the conning tower. However, we all entered the sub through a forward hatch, starting from the torpedo room and working our way aft (I think I got those terms right, but please don't ask me where the stern is).
Carrying sleeping bags, pillows, grocery bags of food, and even a coffee pot filled with water, we worked our way down the excruciatingly narrow (suck in that gut!) hallway, through several oval hatchways which looked like they could be plugged with an economy-size cork, back, back, watch that low-hanging pipe (ouch!), past the officers' quarters, past the control room (Up periscope!), past the radio room (Mayday! Mayday!), and into the mess hall.
Just on the other side of the mess hall was the crew's quarters, with the sub's central hallway running right between two rows of bunks. The entire room was about the size of the guest bedroom in the average apartment. But instead of one standard-size double bed, it contained 28 bunks, most of them stacked three high. Imagine unrolling a sleeping bag on a diving board. The top bunk (where I slept) was about shoulder height, the bottom bunk was pretty much level with the floor, and the middle bunk was scrunched in between. Don't even think about reading in bed.
Welcome to the Navy.
The Silversides was commissioned just eight days after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. On April 30, 1942, it made the first of 14 war patrols, each about two months long. The only casualty occurred on the first trip. Before the war ended, the Silversides had sunk 23 ships, most carrying raw materials and supplies to Japan. Only two other American subs recorded more "kills." The ship also did reconnaissance (once close enough to watch a horse race on shore), and rescued two men shot down in air strikes over Japan.
Bob Stewart sailed on the second and third patrols, during which the Silversides sunk eight ships (six on the first patrol). On one of those patrols, the surgically inexperienced Pharmacist's Mate removed a gangrenous appendix with makeshift instruments. Six days later, the crewman was standing regular watch.
Bob recalled sinking a large ship off the New Hebrides on that third tour. It was night, and all they could see through the periscope was a silhouette. "We don't know if it was one of ours or theirs. But according to our information, no friendly ships should have been in the area." Friend or foe, down it went.
He also recalled listening on the radio to Tokyo Rose, whom he said played good American music which helped while away the hours. Sometimes, Tokyo Rose mentioned the Silversides by name as being in the area. She even had them sunk a few times. Bob said they would return from a patrol, and other submariners would say, "We heard you were sunk!"
Most of the crew never saw the sky during the whole patrol; they remained in the stuffy confines below deck for two months straight. Bob was one of the few (and highly-envied) men allowed topside. He had the 4:00 to 8:00 a.m. watch, during which the ship went up to charge its batteries and went back down (the sub could stay submerged a maximum of 72 hours). Five of them stood watch at the same time. If someone sounded the "Dive!" command, within a minute not only would all five be below deck with the hatch secured, but the sub would be 100 feet underwater. No dawdling allowed. If your shoe's untied, don't stop to tie it, because you'll quickly have a much greater problem, something called the Pacific Ocean.
At one point, Japanese destroyers besieged the Silversides, rudely dropping depth charges in the sub's general vicinity and breaking all local noise ordinances. It lasted a long time--silence, silence, KABOOM!, silence, silence, KABOOM! One crew member went berserk. How did you quiet him down? "Somebody hit him," Bob said.
The mess hall--probably big enough to hold a pool table, as long as you don't need to walk around it--contained four bolted-to-the-wall tables with benches. The only electrical outlet available to us was located there, and that's where the coffee pot went. A VCR and TV (probably made in Japan) sat on a ledge against one wall. After a topside devotional message by Bob Stewart, we crammed around the tables and on the floor to watch a documentary about submarines. And then came the feature attraction: "Hellcats of the Navy," the only film in which our former First Couple, Ron and Nancy, appeared together. And weren't they a cute couple indeed. That submarine (Ronald Reagan was the skipper) bore an amazing resemblance to the Silversides.
By the time the movie ended, it was 11:00, which meant "Lights Out." First, everyone--and I mean everyone--made a trip topside to the pier. Then we all returned to the hot, muggy, claustrophobic crew's quarters and climbed into our bunks. Which is easier written than done. I made several aborted attempts to get into my top bunk without clanging into the low-hanging pipes and valves, but I finally made it without any injuries requiring multiple stitches.
Bob Gibbs occupied the bunk right below me. I could feel him banging around trying to squeeze in.
"Pretty tight, isn't it?" I commented.
"Oh, this is plenty of room," he replied. During World War 2, Bob rode a troop ship around Australia and up to China. The beds on that ship were stacked four high. You couldn't turn over without hitting the bunk overhead.
I hung my glasses on a pipe, pushed my shoes and flashlight toward the bottom of the bunk, and told myself, "In two hours, you have to get up again."
Throughout the night, we had to have people on fire patrol. I drew the 1:30-3:30 watch. I got probably an hour's worth of sleep, and woke up a little after 1:00. I stayed awake until someone came at 1:30 and said, "It's time."
The two of us downed some coffee and then began our rounds, walking the length of the ship to make sure all was well. All was. Then we returned to the moonlit deck, enjoying the near-perfect summer night.
About an hour later, other people gradually began emerging from the various hatchways. Most of them lingered topside to enjoy the fresh air and good fellowship. It seemed strange, so many adults up talking at 3:00 in the morning. If we were kids, grumpy adults would have ordered, "Get to bed right this instant!" But we were adults, and we could make our own rules. For this night, this occasion, this setting, this stationary cruise, it was okay not to sleep.
Around 3:30, my watch over, I returned to the bunkroom. Pam was awake. "Come on up," I whispered. "A lot of people are out on deck. It's really nice."
So we both climbed up the ladder through the tubular hatch and emerged into the night air. We stood at the railing, watching the gently-lapping water, a lone duck, a few distant fishing boats, and gracefully swooping gulls.
The Silversides had probably killed hundreds of people, real people with faces and names and families--fathers, husbands, sons, brothers. This night, though, as we stood atop that battle-scarred, but stilled, weapon of destruction, all was peaceful and quiet in our corner of the world. The Silversides had fought to make that possible.
But somewhere far away, people on other submarines--and destroyers and frigates and carriers and guided-missile cruisers--were heading to the Persian Gulf, a corner of the world which was not peaceful and quiet. Young men and women no doubt stood at ship railings beneath the same twinkling stars which adorned our sky. But their minds were filled with entirely different thoughts, and they wouldn't be going home anytime soon.
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