SRC recently received a letter from a veteran submarine officer. Its subject is something that may strike a resonant chord in other retired submariners. The letter is as follows:

"I was an officer on a Guppy II in the 1950s. When I reported aboard, the boat was in yard overhaul. Looking at it for the first time, I could not see that it was a submarine. Wires, cables, hoses, tools, compressors, and welding equipment were strewn about the deck and pier so that it more resembled a bowl of spaghetti than a ship. I was assigned as supply officer as all new submarine officers were and I floundered five months with multiple copies of forms and endless lengths of adding machine tape. As the boat ended its stay in the yard the umbilicals began to disappear and it took on the appearance of a real submarine.

"My first year was spent bent over the boat's systems and learning the trade of being a submarine officer. I stood watches under instruction then qualified as OD underway. When the captain said I was competent enough to stand in-port watches as duty officer I was proud. Although not quite, yet qualified in submarines as an officer I knew what I was doing.

"That submarine and I developed a bond. It was personal and I have never talked about it before. Of course, I liked the crew and friendships grew, but I kept quiet about how I felt about that long piece of steel. At sea during the mid-watch I hung my arm over the bridge rim and looked aft at the wake and trace of smoke coming from the exhausts. The sea made a hissing sound as our hull cut through it. The captain was asleep. I was in charge. The boat was mine. The bow deck stretched forward before me. It was a fine feeling. When I was OD and was ordered to dive the boat, I sent the lookouts below, pulled the diving alarm and pushed the 1MC button, saying 'Dive, dive!'. Then I lingered for a bit to watch the bow begin to settle. I was fascinated by this wonderful home which I lived. When the seas were rough and green water came over the bridge I fought the elements. But I never, for one second, had anything but complete confidence in my boat. We often rolled to extreme limits, but I knew the old girl would right herself.

"The best times for me were when I had the duty. At night when charging batteries, an electrician would wake me and tell me we had reached the TVG. I'd awaken and walk through the boat. The duty section crew members were asleep. It was quiet except for the single charging engine and the electricians in maneuvering. The ventilation blowers hummed in the battery compartments, but the torpedo rooms were completely quiet. I could hear the water at the pressure hull. It was a good sound, a peaceful sound. Standing on the fan tail, I looked at the other submarines in the nest. They were like us, spending a quiet night; resting so that in the morning we could all go out all to sea and do our thing. It was good to spend a few minutes talking to the topside watch. I felt secure. I have never had that feeling as a civilian. I loved that old boat. To me she seemed alive. I did my best for her and I knew that she wouldn't let me down.

"This all seems pretty stupid to most readers, but there may be some retired old submariners that felt the same way about their boats. It was a point in time. Perhaps, the nuclear sailors of today with the gold and blue crews miss that special relationship I knew. I hear the words, Subs, Smoke-boats, Pig boats. I still refer to them as submarines. They deserve that much."

The writer of the above letter wishes to remain anonymous.