AS TIME GOES BY, THERE WILL ALWAYS BE ROOM ON THIS PAGE FOR STORIES, POEMS, PICTURES, OR ANY MEMORABILIA RECEIVED FROM WWII SUB VETS.
THAT'S A PROMISE!!!

Back in June of 2001, I received a email from a USS Charr SS328 crewmember, asking if anyone had this poem.
CDR/CAPT Norman "Buzz" Bessac had requested it.
He could only remember the third verse ... "In the cankerous mind of the devil"....

A request was sent to the Perch Base members and didn't receive an answer.
After two or three weeks had passed, we received a letter from Billy Grives, with a
condensed version of this poem.
We only found out several weeks later it was condensed, as Dale Martin who attended our meeting of
Oct. 13, 2001 gave me the full version.
Both of these men are members of the USSVWWII and the Pigboaters Chapter here in Arizona, and
belong to the USSVI and Arizona Perch Base.

In behalf of both Billy and Dale,
Perch Base is proud to be able to present both versions to the Submariners.

A special Thanks, goes to the late Ed W Oakes CQM/CWW
who gave this poem to Dale Martin and was a Shipmate with the Author
Walter Bishop who went to his death on S-4

Sailors ...... Rest Your Oars

Abridged Poem
presented by
Billy Grieves

LIFE IN A DAMNED OLD SUB – TOLD BY A MAN ON
LOST S-4 IN POEM ABOUT “A PIG BOAT”

 Knowledge that he courted the death that may now be his within the steel confines of the wrecked submarine
S-4 was held by Walter Bishop of Washington, radio man aboard her, but, like his comrades in peril, he was
fascinated by “life in a damned old sub.”
Prophetic in its recital of the dangers braved aboard a “pig boat,” a poem written some time ago by Bishop
has come to light as a selfsung requiem over those who went to their death with the S-4 off Princetmen.


In the cankerous mind of the devil
There festered a fiendish scheme;
He called his cohorts around him
And designed the submarine.
  
We’re bottled up, just like a trap,
With nothing in between,
The sea and death, but a metal cap,
Like the lid on a soup tureen.
They planned and plotted to do their worst,
In perfecting this awful thing;
And since completing their hideous work
Are awaiting what evil it may bring.
  
We get a five dollar bonus,
They call it extra pay;
But it always goes for dungarees,
That the acid eats away.
The torpedo room is a deadly spot,
And we have small choice, we know;
Some sleep there, next the overheat,
With tons of T. N. T. below.
  
The best blood in the service,
Youll find in the old pig boat,
For it takes more than a common mind
To sink, and still to float.
The C. O. C. is a little place,
Just crammed with leavers and tools,
And let me tell you, on a dive,
It’s no place for an old fool.
  
With all this it may seem strange
When you ask a gob off any pig boat,
He’d rather be there than anywhere
As long as there’s a sub afloat.
It takes ten good men to operate,
The diving gear that’s there;
And each man knows that a clear cold brain,
Insures his return to air.
  
There’s a sort of fascination
Attending this job of ours
That could only be duplicated
By a rocket trip to Mars.
Yes daily we make a risky dive,
While Uncle Sam with his brimming cup,
Bets us a dollar while we are alive,
A dollar to nothing we don't come up.
 
We cuss and mutter “never again”
Until we get paid off;
But the blamed old life will drag us back
No matter how we scoff. 
We all come back -- back for more,
And there friends, is the rub;
We like the life beneath the sea ---
Life in a darned old sub.

This poem was first published on March 3, 1928, and the print was reproduced from an original.
from the private collection of Jim Haywood.


 


The following is the complete poem.
Once again, a special Thanks, goes to the late Ed W Oakes CQM/CWW
who gave this poem to Dale Martin and was a Shipmate with the Author
Walter Bishop who went to his death on S-4
Sailors ...... Rest Your Oars


No doubt you've heard the people rave,
Of battleships spotless and clean,
But stop! Ha`ve you ever heard a word,
Of life on a Submarine?		 The C. O. C. is a little place,
Just crammed with leavers and tools,
And let me tell you, on a dive,
It’s no place for an old fool.		 They must be democratic,
Broadminded men and strong,
Capable of quick decision,
Should anything go wrong.
I shall try and tell you the story,
Now that I think I may,
And I'm hoping you'll hesitate ere,
Going your busy way.		 It takes ten good men to operate,
The diving gear that’s there;
And each man knows that a clear cold brain,
Insures his return to air.		 Yes daily we make a risky dive,
While Uncle Sam with his brimming cup,
Bets us a dollar while we are alive,
A dollar to nothing we don't come up.
In the cankerous mind of the devil
There festered a fiendish scheme;
He called his cohorts around him
And designed the submarine.		 When the diving siren sounds,
There's action never seen,
At any place on earth,
But in a submarine.		 The electricians mate has a rather hard lot,
For labor as much as he might,
He returns from a dive only to find
He has to charge batteries all night.
They planned and plotted to do their worst,
In perfecting this awful thing;
And since completing their hideous work
Are awaiting what evil it may bring.		 Hatches are closed and engines secured,
All openings are closed up tight,
For it takes less than a minute,
To submerge clear out of sight.		 The radioman has his troubles too,
Cooped up in a little shack,
With an Underwood milling against his chest,
And a bulkhead against his back.
I'll try and describe this monster,
That the imps of hell have wrought,
And when I'm through there's still the fact,
That I'll have left out a lot.		 Main moters are started, periscopes raised,
Bow diving planes rigged out,
All done in very few seconds,
And you've never heard a shout.		 Seamen, torpedomen, and gunners mates,
Have their share of woe,
They must take care of the upper deck,
And the armament below.
And all the time I'll tell about,
The officers and the crew,
Some of the hardships we must stand,
And some of the things we do.		 Everything silent, everything calm,
Not a sound is heard,
But the orders of the captain,
Given by a quiet word.		 You've seen those bronco busters,
Suffer while doing their stuff,
They don't hold a candle to what we stand,
When the Gods of the Sea get rough.
The engine room when underway,
Is a place of torture for the brain,
With two big diesel engines,
Roaring as though in pain.		 We know it's a serious business,
You never hear laugh or quip,
Efficiency reigns surpreme,
Our lives are forfeited for a slip.		 She rolls and pitches and squirms,
With the devils own curse upon her,
With movements like that of a mighty spoon,
Cause all to suffer from Fal-de-Mer.
Throttle men and lonely oiler,
Striving to stand the pace,
While with a rag half soaked in fule oil,
They wipe the sweat from their face.		 We’re bottled up, just like a trap,
With nothing in between,
The sea and death, but a metal cap,
Like the lid on a soup tureen.		 With all this it may seem strange
When you ask a tar of any pig boat,
He’d rather be there than anywhere
As long as there’s a sub afloat.
The moter room is another hot place,
Just motors and pumps and things,
But none-the-less a busy place,
When the diving signal rings.		 We get a five dollar bonus,
They call it extra pay;
But it always goes for dungarees,
That the acid eats away.		 There’s a sort of fascination
Attending this job of ours
That could only be duplicated
By a rocket trip to Mars.
Most of us in the boiling room,
Close to a lurking death,
With the storage cells giving off gas,
That smothers our every breath.		 The best blood in the service,
Youll find in the old pig boat,
For it takes more than a common mind
To sink, and still to float.		 We cuss and mutter “never again”
Until we get paid off;
But the blamed old life will drag us back
No matter how we scoff. 
The torpedo room is a deadly spot,
And we have small choice, we know;
Some sleep there, next the overheat,
With tons of T. N. T. below.		 The officers are real men
Of character and nerve supreme,
For it takes the keenest intelligence,
To command a submarine.		 We all come back -- back for more,
And there friends, is the rub;
We like the life beneath the sea ---
Life in a darned old sub.

 
 
Just talked with my minister friend, Pat Butler, 
(ex-cook on the Sea Devil in 1945), 
and he IS pleased that Arizona Sub Vets, Perch Base
want to use his version of the 
23rd Psalm.
Read Stevens (served on the Blenny '44 & '45)