The Pacific, April, 1945.
The Pacific was a brighty lit place just under the surface. At 25 fathoms, the light turned a light green, and at 50 fathoms it was a darker green with the light from the surface fading. At 100 fathoms it was a dark and shadowed world, with poor visibility. But it was alive with predators, that were feared by the fish that inhabited the shallower depths near the surface. A large school of tuna 30 feet down suddenly bolted and darted away in fear as a shadow rose form the depths. A large predator was coming up from the oceans deeper waters, where it had lingered hiding from the daylight. At 311 feet in length, the U.S.S. Torsk was indeed one of the deadliest predators in the sea. Newly commissioned at the end of 1944, the Torsk was the latest evolution in the Trench class of American fleet submarines that had decimated the Japanese Navy. With a crew of 10 officers and 71 enlisted, and 10 torpedo tubes, the Torsk was the latest in ship killing weapons put to sea. In command was Commander Gregory "Wolf" Larsen, a young but veteran officer of the submarine service. He'd been given the Torsk as a reward for his many prior cruises that had sent many tons of Japanese shipping to the bottom. Both loved and feared by his crew, he was capable of prodigious butt chewing's but he was also a fair officer. His loud bellow of anger was known on the Torsk as the "Howl of the wolf" , but with affection. The crew wouldn't trade him for any other skipper in the service. He had taken his previous boat on 4 patrols, and returned to Pearl Harbor each time with a broom taped to the main periscope as sign they had swept their patrol area clean. When he was given command of the Torsk, he requested and got most of his old crew.
Now, they were on a different mission. Lifeguard duty. They had been dispatched to pick up any downed fliers from air operations agains the Japanese Mainland. They were coming up to pick up a navy pilot who had given his position as he was going down, and they hoped to find and rescue him. As the sub made it way to the surface, the crew was ready to man surface stations. One young sailor, Peter Stavros, a Greek kid from Coral Gables Florida and from a sponge diver family, was honing his pocketknife. Peter had already made a name for himself by the doting way he treated his issue TL-29. He had a minor obsession of keeping his knife as sharp as possible, and making sure it was well oiled. The engine room chief had gotten a bit short with him on occasions of Peter stopping by the engine room to get a drop of oil of this knife. His fellow sailors good naturally ribbed him about his knife. Peter took the ribbing good graces.
Now, as the Torsk came to the surface, Peter was one of the look-outs on the bridge. They manned the station with eagle eyes to scan for any hostile planes that could send the Torsk to the bottom. The 4 giant Fairbanks-Morse ten cylinder diesel engines propelled the Torsk forward through the slightly choppy ocean. The Wolf scanned the ocean with powerful binoculars, hating to be on the surface in daylight. Then a voice over the intercom from the contraol room below.
"Sir, the radar has gone off line, I think it's s fuse, shouldn't be but a few minutes to get it going again."
"Very well, get it done like an hour ago. We're a sitting duck up here! Lookouts, keep sharp, you're the only thing we have now."
Peter and the other look-out both gave a loud 'Aye-aye sir', and kept their eye on the sky scanning with the binoculars.
A short time later, a bight yellow life raft was spotted and the Skipper gave order for all engines stop as they coasted up to the lone pilot in the life raft. Some crew members went out on the for deck with a line, ready to haul in the drifting flier. The line was tossed out and the pilot held on as he was pulled in the waiting sub. It was then, at the absolutely worst time luck ran out. The radar dish had just begun to rotate again when the call came up to the bridge.
"Bridge, radar, we have a contact coming in fast at 220 degrees. From the direction I don't think it's one of ours!" the excited voice of the radar operator came through.
"Damm," Larsen exclaimed," Clear the bridge, all hands below. Dive the boat now!"
Like a magic act, the crew disappeared below, leaving the navy flier floating just off the side of the sub. Peter Stavros took one look and tossed his binoculars to his fellow lookout and said "I think that guy is gonna need some help."
The skipper and most the crew had already disappeared below, and the Torsk leaped forward under power and water already was washing over the rapidly submerging deck. With no thought of his personl safety, Peter made a clean dive off the conning tower of the sub as it disappeared from the surface. Nobody but the lookout and quartermaster saw what happened, and it wasn't until a few moments later down in the control room that the quartermaster made the report to Commander Larson.
"HE WHAT???" yelled the skipper. The howl of the wolf was heard all the way back to the after battery compartment. But it was too late to do anything as the sub was already down under the sea.
Up on the surface, Peter quickly swam over to the bewildered navy pilot, who only had a vague feeling that something was very wrong with his rescue.
"Hey bud, we got a Jap plane closing in on us fast, Gotta get you out of that life jacket so we can go down out of sight."
The quick explanation was all that was needed. The pilot was trying to get the straps of his life jacket off, but the canvas was water logged and he was having trouble. Peter was treading water with one hand and his feet while he reached into his pocket and grabbed the monkey fist at the end of the lanyard of the issue TL-29. Pulling open the blade, he reached in and neatly cut the life jacket straps and pulled the flyboy out of the raft.
"Come on!" Peter yelled at him as he dove down under the surface. By now the howl of the diving zero was clear, and they were seconds away from being strafed. The navy man dove after Peter, and once down several feet, Peter pulled him off to one side and motioned him to swim away from the raft. Just as they did, there was a strange zipping sound in the water, and silvery streamers came down where the zero's rounds hit the water where they just had been. They swam away hoping to get out of the target area. The shadow of the plane flickered overhead, and they came up for air. The life raft was a sagging half deflated blob still floating where the pilot had been. The zero was circling for another pass, and Peter told the pilot what they had to do.
"He's going to use the raft as a marker for the area to strafe. We have to get well off to one side, so we go down again and keep swimming as far as you can go one one breath. Okay, here he comes so lets go!"
Down they went, and swam as far as they could, and again the silver zips came through the water, and again the shadow of the plane flicked by. They came up again. The pilot was gasping for breath.
"I'm not sure i can keep doing this, how long do you think he's going to hang around?"
"Not long," Peter told him, "we're pretty far out from land, and there's no Jap fleet around that I know of, so he won't have a lot of gas to fool around with. And theres the danger of running into any of our places out on patrol."
The pilot seemed to be having trouble treading water and Peter asked him of he was okay.
"No, these damm boots are dragging me down, but I can't reach down and untie them. And I think the laces are jammed up from being wet." He said.
"No problem." said Peter, "Just hold still for a moment"
Peter dug the TL-29 out from where he'd stuck it down in his pocket, and pulled out the blade again. Going down under the water, he quickly cut the boot laces and pulled them off the pilot, and let them sink into the depths. The pilot immediately seemed to be having an easier time of it. The zero had gone off, either thinking them dead or low on fuel as Peter had guessed. Then Peter showed the pilot how to use his shirt as a life vest by blowing air into the neck and holding it closed and the air bubble trapped in the shirt kept the pilot floating with no effort.
"Okay, what happens now?" asked the pilot. "Will we have to wait for another bus? and what are you, half fish? you seem pretty comfortable in the ocean."
Peter laughed. "No, I'm a sponge diver from Florida. I was diving in shallow water by the time I could walk. By my teens I was doing deeper dives with the helmet for sponges. My whole family is in the sponge business. The skipper will be back after us. He's probably pretty close now as we speak. Just look for something that looks like a broomstick with a tin can on top of it sticking out of the water."
"You mean like that?" asked the pilot pointing behind Peter. Peter turned in the water, and there not a hundred yards off was the periscope of the Torsk. A minute later, the sub surfaced almost besides them. Helping hands reached down and pulled them out of the sea, and as the crew hustled the navy pilot below, the crack of doom came over the deck from the conning tower. It was the howl of the wolf, and it was like the sound of the Lord Almighty announcing doomsday.
"SEAMAN STAVROS! MY CABIN, NOW!"
As Peter made his way down the forward hatch, one of his friends patted him on the back, and said, "Don't worry Pete. I'll write your folks."
"Gee, thanks Mike, I appreciate it." Peter told him, as he knew he was going to stand before the Wolf. As he made his way aft to the captains cabin, he ran into master chief Bascomb. Chief Bascomb was the boats C.O.B., the Chief Of the Boat, the most senior enlisted man on the sub, and knew more about the Torsk than the people who built her. It was the COB's job to now every mans job aboard and be able to do it. Bascomb was a south Boston Irishman and a hard core brawler that had a broken nose rough look to him. Built like a beer barrel, his nickname was "Badass Bascomb." As Peter passed him on his was aft, the old chief told him, "Don't worry kid, they can kill ya, but they can't eat ya!" and slapped him on the back.
"Gosh thanks Chief. What the heck does that mean?"
Then Peter was at Commander Larson's cabin. As butt chewings went it was the most prodigious ever heard. From the after torpedo room to the forward battery compartment, it was loud and clear. Finally, Wolf Larson was finishing it up.
'And just what the hades am I suppose to tell your folks, huh? Oh yes, aside from the mountain of paper work you'd cause me, I have to write your folks. I can't imagine that! 'Gee Mr and Mrs. Stavros, I'm sorry I lost Peter in the Pacific ocean when he mad a beautiful swan dive off of my boat never to be seen again'. No! No, don't you even crack a smile, that's not meant as a joke!"
"No sir, no joke. I'm sorry sir." Peter said, keeping a strait face.
"Okay," Larson said, "Don't you ever do anything like that again or I'll feed you to the fish! Now get out of my cabin and go get some dry clothes. You're dripping all over the deck."
With a sharp Aye-Aye, Peter did a perfect about face and left the den of the Wolf. Commander Larson sat for a moment and thought about what young seaman Stavros had done. Then he reached over and pulled open the drawer of the sheet metal desk that was bolted to the bulkhead. He found the form he was looking for and took out a nice tortoise shell fountain pen that had been a gift from his mother when he went to sea for the first time. In a neat hand that his yeoman would have no trouble reading to type up he wrote;
"For action this day, above and beyond the call of duty, and in the finest tradition of the Navy, ."
Tampa Airport, Florida, 1952.
Peter Stavros and his new wife stood on the tarmac and watched the gleaming white Constellation taxi up and stop. One by one, the radial engines ticked to a stop and the ground crew wheeled the metal stairway up the airliners door. It swung open and the passengers came off the place.
"Do you think you'll recognize him?" his wife asked.
"Oh yeah, not many will be a tall skinny fella like this guy. I'll now him." Peter said.
And know him he did. Half the passengers had departed when a tall lanky fella stepped off the plane followed by a young woman and a boy. They met on the tarmac and shook hands and introduced each others wives, and in the case of the boy, the ex navy pilot told peter; "This is my son, his name is Peter."
Peter Stavros was muted by the surprise.
" You named your son after me" he asked.
"What better way to honor the man who saved my life."
"Sir?" the boy asked, looking up at Peter.
"Yes Sir?" Peter replied.
"Did you really save my dad's life in the war? You used a pocket knife to cut him out of his life jacket?"
Peter knelt down to look the boy in the eye.
"Yes sir I did. And I still have that knife. Here." and Peter dug into his pocket and took out the well used TL-29. The years of use had darkened the wood scales to almost an ebony black, and when he pulled open the blade it was almost black with exposure to the salt atmosphere of Florida. But right there along the edge, was a bright ribbon of razor edge, giving testimony to the sharpness of the old knife. The slight sheen of oil down on the blade tang where the stamp 'Camillus' was, gave proof of being well cared for. He handed it to the boy after a glance at the father and receiving a nod yes, and the boy took it transfixed by it. He turned it over in his young hands and examined it with awe.
"Say son, do you like fishing?" Peter asked him.
"Yes sir!" the boy said with enthusiasm.
"Well we have fish down here as big as you. You want to go get one?"
"You bet, sir."
"Well lets go have some lunch, and then we'll take the boat out." Peter told him, "And you keep a hold of that knife, you may need it later."
The new old friends and their families walked off across the airport to the parking lot and a good vacation. The old Camillus TL-29 was gripped tight in the boys young fist like a treasure of immeasurable value.
The Pacific was a brighty lit place just under the surface. At 25 fathoms, the light turned a light green, and at 50 fathoms it was a darker green with the light from the surface fading. At 100 fathoms it was a dark and shadowed world, with poor visibility. But it was alive with predators, that were feared by the fish that inhabited the shallower depths near the surface. A large school of tuna 30 feet down suddenly bolted and darted away in fear as a shadow rose form the depths. A large predator was coming up from the oceans deeper waters, where it had lingered hiding from the daylight. At 311 feet in length, the U.S.S. Torsk was indeed one of the deadliest predators in the sea. Newly commissioned at the end of 1944, the Torsk was the latest evolution in the Trench class of American fleet submarines that had decimated the Japanese Navy. With a crew of 10 officers and 71 enlisted, and 10 torpedo tubes, the Torsk was the latest in ship killing weapons put to sea. In command was Commander Gregory "Wolf" Larsen, a young but veteran officer of the submarine service. He'd been given the Torsk as a reward for his many prior cruises that had sent many tons of Japanese shipping to the bottom. Both loved and feared by his crew, he was capable of prodigious butt chewing's but he was also a fair officer. His loud bellow of anger was known on the Torsk as the "Howl of the wolf" , but with affection. The crew wouldn't trade him for any other skipper in the service. He had taken his previous boat on 4 patrols, and returned to Pearl Harbor each time with a broom taped to the main periscope as sign they had swept their patrol area clean. When he was given command of the Torsk, he requested and got most of his old crew.
Now, they were on a different mission. Lifeguard duty. They had been dispatched to pick up any downed fliers from air operations agains the Japanese Mainland. They were coming up to pick up a navy pilot who had given his position as he was going down, and they hoped to find and rescue him. As the sub made it way to the surface, the crew was ready to man surface stations. One young sailor, Peter Stavros, a Greek kid from Coral Gables Florida and from a sponge diver family, was honing his pocketknife. Peter had already made a name for himself by the doting way he treated his issue TL-29. He had a minor obsession of keeping his knife as sharp as possible, and making sure it was well oiled. The engine room chief had gotten a bit short with him on occasions of Peter stopping by the engine room to get a drop of oil of this knife. His fellow sailors good naturally ribbed him about his knife. Peter took the ribbing good graces.
Now, as the Torsk came to the surface, Peter was one of the look-outs on the bridge. They manned the station with eagle eyes to scan for any hostile planes that could send the Torsk to the bottom. The 4 giant Fairbanks-Morse ten cylinder diesel engines propelled the Torsk forward through the slightly choppy ocean. The Wolf scanned the ocean with powerful binoculars, hating to be on the surface in daylight. Then a voice over the intercom from the contraol room below.
"Sir, the radar has gone off line, I think it's s fuse, shouldn't be but a few minutes to get it going again."
"Very well, get it done like an hour ago. We're a sitting duck up here! Lookouts, keep sharp, you're the only thing we have now."
Peter and the other look-out both gave a loud 'Aye-aye sir', and kept their eye on the sky scanning with the binoculars.
A short time later, a bight yellow life raft was spotted and the Skipper gave order for all engines stop as they coasted up to the lone pilot in the life raft. Some crew members went out on the for deck with a line, ready to haul in the drifting flier. The line was tossed out and the pilot held on as he was pulled in the waiting sub. It was then, at the absolutely worst time luck ran out. The radar dish had just begun to rotate again when the call came up to the bridge.
"Bridge, radar, we have a contact coming in fast at 220 degrees. From the direction I don't think it's one of ours!" the excited voice of the radar operator came through.
"Damm," Larsen exclaimed," Clear the bridge, all hands below. Dive the boat now!"
Like a magic act, the crew disappeared below, leaving the navy flier floating just off the side of the sub. Peter Stavros took one look and tossed his binoculars to his fellow lookout and said "I think that guy is gonna need some help."
The skipper and most the crew had already disappeared below, and the Torsk leaped forward under power and water already was washing over the rapidly submerging deck. With no thought of his personl safety, Peter made a clean dive off the conning tower of the sub as it disappeared from the surface. Nobody but the lookout and quartermaster saw what happened, and it wasn't until a few moments later down in the control room that the quartermaster made the report to Commander Larson.
"HE WHAT???" yelled the skipper. The howl of the wolf was heard all the way back to the after battery compartment. But it was too late to do anything as the sub was already down under the sea.
Up on the surface, Peter quickly swam over to the bewildered navy pilot, who only had a vague feeling that something was very wrong with his rescue.
"Hey bud, we got a Jap plane closing in on us fast, Gotta get you out of that life jacket so we can go down out of sight."
The quick explanation was all that was needed. The pilot was trying to get the straps of his life jacket off, but the canvas was water logged and he was having trouble. Peter was treading water with one hand and his feet while he reached into his pocket and grabbed the monkey fist at the end of the lanyard of the issue TL-29. Pulling open the blade, he reached in and neatly cut the life jacket straps and pulled the flyboy out of the raft.
"Come on!" Peter yelled at him as he dove down under the surface. By now the howl of the diving zero was clear, and they were seconds away from being strafed. The navy man dove after Peter, and once down several feet, Peter pulled him off to one side and motioned him to swim away from the raft. Just as they did, there was a strange zipping sound in the water, and silvery streamers came down where the zero's rounds hit the water where they just had been. They swam away hoping to get out of the target area. The shadow of the plane flickered overhead, and they came up for air. The life raft was a sagging half deflated blob still floating where the pilot had been. The zero was circling for another pass, and Peter told the pilot what they had to do.
"He's going to use the raft as a marker for the area to strafe. We have to get well off to one side, so we go down again and keep swimming as far as you can go one one breath. Okay, here he comes so lets go!"
Down they went, and swam as far as they could, and again the silver zips came through the water, and again the shadow of the plane flicked by. They came up again. The pilot was gasping for breath.
"I'm not sure i can keep doing this, how long do you think he's going to hang around?"
"Not long," Peter told him, "we're pretty far out from land, and there's no Jap fleet around that I know of, so he won't have a lot of gas to fool around with. And theres the danger of running into any of our places out on patrol."
The pilot seemed to be having trouble treading water and Peter asked him of he was okay.
"No, these damm boots are dragging me down, but I can't reach down and untie them. And I think the laces are jammed up from being wet." He said.
"No problem." said Peter, "Just hold still for a moment"
Peter dug the TL-29 out from where he'd stuck it down in his pocket, and pulled out the blade again. Going down under the water, he quickly cut the boot laces and pulled them off the pilot, and let them sink into the depths. The pilot immediately seemed to be having an easier time of it. The zero had gone off, either thinking them dead or low on fuel as Peter had guessed. Then Peter showed the pilot how to use his shirt as a life vest by blowing air into the neck and holding it closed and the air bubble trapped in the shirt kept the pilot floating with no effort.
"Okay, what happens now?" asked the pilot. "Will we have to wait for another bus? and what are you, half fish? you seem pretty comfortable in the ocean."
Peter laughed. "No, I'm a sponge diver from Florida. I was diving in shallow water by the time I could walk. By my teens I was doing deeper dives with the helmet for sponges. My whole family is in the sponge business. The skipper will be back after us. He's probably pretty close now as we speak. Just look for something that looks like a broomstick with a tin can on top of it sticking out of the water."
"You mean like that?" asked the pilot pointing behind Peter. Peter turned in the water, and there not a hundred yards off was the periscope of the Torsk. A minute later, the sub surfaced almost besides them. Helping hands reached down and pulled them out of the sea, and as the crew hustled the navy pilot below, the crack of doom came over the deck from the conning tower. It was the howl of the wolf, and it was like the sound of the Lord Almighty announcing doomsday.
"SEAMAN STAVROS! MY CABIN, NOW!"
As Peter made his way down the forward hatch, one of his friends patted him on the back, and said, "Don't worry Pete. I'll write your folks."
"Gee, thanks Mike, I appreciate it." Peter told him, as he knew he was going to stand before the Wolf. As he made his way aft to the captains cabin, he ran into master chief Bascomb. Chief Bascomb was the boats C.O.B., the Chief Of the Boat, the most senior enlisted man on the sub, and knew more about the Torsk than the people who built her. It was the COB's job to now every mans job aboard and be able to do it. Bascomb was a south Boston Irishman and a hard core brawler that had a broken nose rough look to him. Built like a beer barrel, his nickname was "Badass Bascomb." As Peter passed him on his was aft, the old chief told him, "Don't worry kid, they can kill ya, but they can't eat ya!" and slapped him on the back.
"Gosh thanks Chief. What the heck does that mean?"
Then Peter was at Commander Larson's cabin. As butt chewings went it was the most prodigious ever heard. From the after torpedo room to the forward battery compartment, it was loud and clear. Finally, Wolf Larson was finishing it up.
'And just what the hades am I suppose to tell your folks, huh? Oh yes, aside from the mountain of paper work you'd cause me, I have to write your folks. I can't imagine that! 'Gee Mr and Mrs. Stavros, I'm sorry I lost Peter in the Pacific ocean when he mad a beautiful swan dive off of my boat never to be seen again'. No! No, don't you even crack a smile, that's not meant as a joke!"
"No sir, no joke. I'm sorry sir." Peter said, keeping a strait face.
"Okay," Larson said, "Don't you ever do anything like that again or I'll feed you to the fish! Now get out of my cabin and go get some dry clothes. You're dripping all over the deck."
With a sharp Aye-Aye, Peter did a perfect about face and left the den of the Wolf. Commander Larson sat for a moment and thought about what young seaman Stavros had done. Then he reached over and pulled open the drawer of the sheet metal desk that was bolted to the bulkhead. He found the form he was looking for and took out a nice tortoise shell fountain pen that had been a gift from his mother when he went to sea for the first time. In a neat hand that his yeoman would have no trouble reading to type up he wrote;
"For action this day, above and beyond the call of duty, and in the finest tradition of the Navy, ."
Tampa Airport, Florida, 1952.
Peter Stavros and his new wife stood on the tarmac and watched the gleaming white Constellation taxi up and stop. One by one, the radial engines ticked to a stop and the ground crew wheeled the metal stairway up the airliners door. It swung open and the passengers came off the place.
"Do you think you'll recognize him?" his wife asked.
"Oh yeah, not many will be a tall skinny fella like this guy. I'll now him." Peter said.
And know him he did. Half the passengers had departed when a tall lanky fella stepped off the plane followed by a young woman and a boy. They met on the tarmac and shook hands and introduced each others wives, and in the case of the boy, the ex navy pilot told peter; "This is my son, his name is Peter."
Peter Stavros was muted by the surprise.
" You named your son after me" he asked.
"What better way to honor the man who saved my life."
"Sir?" the boy asked, looking up at Peter.
"Yes Sir?" Peter replied.
"Did you really save my dad's life in the war? You used a pocket knife to cut him out of his life jacket?"
Peter knelt down to look the boy in the eye.
"Yes sir I did. And I still have that knife. Here." and Peter dug into his pocket and took out the well used TL-29. The years of use had darkened the wood scales to almost an ebony black, and when he pulled open the blade it was almost black with exposure to the salt atmosphere of Florida. But right there along the edge, was a bright ribbon of razor edge, giving testimony to the sharpness of the old knife. The slight sheen of oil down on the blade tang where the stamp 'Camillus' was, gave proof of being well cared for. He handed it to the boy after a glance at the father and receiving a nod yes, and the boy took it transfixed by it. He turned it over in his young hands and examined it with awe.
"Say son, do you like fishing?" Peter asked him.
"Yes sir!" the boy said with enthusiasm.
"Well we have fish down here as big as you. You want to go get one?"
"You bet, sir."
"Well lets go have some lunch, and then we'll take the boat out." Peter told him, "And you keep a hold of that knife, you may need it later."
The new old friends and their families walked off across the airport to the parking lot and a good vacation. The old Camillus TL-29 was gripped tight in the boys young fist like a treasure of immeasurable value.
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