About mid-morning of December 12, 1944, the PT pulled alongside the tender while my bags were unceremoniously tossed aboard the outboard submarine in the nest. I climbed aboard, crossed two fleet-type submarines, and through the working decks of the USS Pelias. I dropped down to my new home with a minimum of ceremony. She looked her age, old, tired, and small. Despite all of this hassle, I am happy to recall that I was easily the happiest Ensign in the Navy.

The gangway watch, a Motor Machinist Mate 2/C, welcomed me aboard, helped with my luggage, called down to the Executive Officer. He took my orders, noting that I had been expected. At lunch, I met the Commanding Officer. He, was also new, aboard, having just been given his first command. His former assignments included a number of war patrols as executive officer aboard the USS Tautog (SS-199), an older fleet-type submarine. Our Executive Officer was, a reservist Lieutenant, who was a peacetime high school history teacher. He will prove to be my mentor aboard the S-47, and a lifetime friend. I am assigned duties as First Lieutenant and Commissary Officer.

It's obvious what the commissary officer does. Actually, on the S-47 I just stayed out of the way and let the #1 cook and the Yeoman administer the food department. Our meals were never better. We all ate from the same mess, officers in the wardroom in the forward battery compartment, and the crew in the after battery compartment.

The First Lieutenant is the shipboard officer responsible for the maintenance, operation, and record keeping of all electrical and mechanical equipment not located in the engine rooms. My small group of skilled men took care of our air compressors, periscopes, winches, anchor and mooring equipment, rudders diving planes, trim pumps, etc. This was a great job for me and I worked hard to acquire a knowledge of all the gear and men in charge. The icebox and air conditioning equipment were high priority items.

The 47-boat was alongside the tender, on her port side. She had just returned from her last patrol, a special mission that landed and retrieved a small group of Australian Commandos. They landed on an unspecified island in the Borneo area, seeking information about a radar / radio installation. They learned that it had been closed down and the enemy technicians moved elsewhere. The Captain and I reported aboard on the same day. He was as new to the ship as I was.

We provisioned, fueled, and watered from the USS Pelias and had the tender perform some minor repairs and a few alterations. I was busy, busy, busy. I must "learn" the ship from stem to stern and from keel to periscope top. God, how exciting! I spent all my time with the senior ratings, torpedo men, motor machinists, sonar ratings, radiomen, quartermasters, signalmen, cooks, electricians, etc. For the most part, they were pleased and anxious to tell me about their role in the operation of the submarine. It didn't matter whether they liked me or not, I was now a family member and they fully understood my need to know; everything! We all had to know "everything." We had to count on each other to know our own jobs and our neighbor's, too. It was a great feeling for me and I worked like a tiger. The executive officer, and the Chief-of-the-Boat, (our senior enlisted man), made sure I learned correctly. They watched me like a hawk. I must measure up or it would be back to the relief crew.

In order for me to qualify as a true submarine officer and to earn the right to wear the gold dolphin insignia on my uniform coat, I must jump over a number of hurdles. I needed to know every man's job; I must make a diagram of each air, water, hydraulic, drain and flood, mechanical and electrical system in the boat. This was the "Officer's Notebook," and must be submitted to the commanding officer for his approval. I needed to be able to stop and start the main engines and motors. I must be a whiz about charging our two main batteries. I should be familiar with the handling, loading, and firing of our Mark-10 torpedoes. I must be able to take charge of the 3" deck gun during a surface action exercise; I would gain proficiency at mooring, maneuvering, getting underway, and coming alongside. All officers took a turn at these exercises, which were the most fun of all. The requirements were rigorous, as I was performing my officer of the deck (OOD) duties right along with this, my last intensive Navy learning program. My background, experience, and training to date made this task interesting, comprehensible, and easy.

On my third or fourth day aboard, we received our first assignment to train with a Destroyer (DD) and two Destroyer Escorts (DE) for the day. In this exercise we would assume the role of an enemy submarine. Our surface ships were to locate and destroy us. For their attack, they would toss a hand grenade over the side and we could tell with our sound gear (sonar), fairly accurately, just how close to us they were. We could communicate with them using Morse code on our sonar while we also towed a buoy for safety. We always enjoyed these exercises and were able, more often than not, to escape safely from their attack. We were very good at maneuvering the submarine. These exercises were identical to the training I had participated in at Key West on the USS R-4.

On this first occasion, almost the last dive for all of us, the Captain had invited several young officers from the Torpedo Boat Squadron, stationed at Mios Woendi, for the daylong exercise. We had been alongside the tender for some days, and weights had changed significantly. Food and fuel coming aboard, torpedoes sent over to the tender torpedo shop for testing and charging. One of the officers had the job to calculate and compensate the boat for all of these weight changes. Seawater would be flooded or pumped from the trim tanks at either end of the boat, plus a big tank in the middle of the S-47. These were our variable ballast or trim tanks and were used during every dive to maintain a neutral buoyancy condition. The Chief-of-the-Boat was instructed to order flooding and pumping to trim the boats various tanks to the calculated values.

Soon, in the middle of a beautiful morning, we were ready and backed away from the tender, USS Pelias. Along with our escort, we headed for the designated practice area, I would guess some 15-20 miles south of Mios Woendi. On station, we rigged the buoy and prepared to dive. The Captain ordered a running dive rather than a standing dive, indicating complete confidence in the trim calculations. As the klaxon horn sounded two blasts, and the OOD shouted, "Dive, Dive, Dive!", it became immediately apparent to our Executive Officer and our Chief-of-the-Boat that something was terribly wrong. The S-47 was heading for the bottom of the Pacific Ocean like an old fire engine horse would head for the barn, fast! Our PT-boat officers and I had no previous experience with S-boat diving characteristics, so we were fascinated and happy. Not so with the Chief and the Exec. They immediately took command. Orders and actions in the control room proceeded at a frenzied pitch. "Surface, Surface, Surface!", screamed the Exec, as he sounded the alarm three times. "Blow all main Ballast." "Blow Safety." "Blow Negative." "Hard rise on the bow planes." "Hard rise on the stern planes." "Both motors ahead full." The orders and the instant reactions were fast and exact. All eyes were on the Exec. The Chief pushed me away from the ballast tank air manifold and quickly opened the high-pressure air blow valves to all our main ballast tanks. Suddenly, I realized the severity of the situation. We had a large, down angle on the boat and she was sinking like a rock. We passed 90 feet (our normal operating depth) like a runaway train going down a steep hill. 100 feet; 125 feet; 150 feet; 175 feet (test depth); 200 feet; HEY, THIS IS IT!!

Almost imperceptibly, our descent slowed. We poured air into our bow buoyancy tank; we opened our 2,000 psi air valves to the main ballast tanks, all the way. We engaged the trim pump to pump from the amidships trim tank to sea. Main propulsion motors were put on emergency" as the dive slowed and the bow began to rise. We prayed silently.

The torpedo boat officers continued to show great interest, thinking we did this all the time, or that we were putting on a show just for them.

When the dive started, the Captain knew we were experiencing a problem, as he manned the periscope, his normal position on a dive. It "dunked" almost before we could close the hatch and report, "green board, pressure in the boat." This was a routine report early in the dive to let the diving officer know that all the hull openings were closed and, to prove it, a little air was let into the boat. A manometer in the control room would indicate small fluctuations in internal pressure.

All of a sudden our old girl, built just a little too late for WW-l, shuddered and slowly, ever so slowly, began to rise. The depth gauges told the story. We had stopped our mad dive to the bottom! She shot up, some 200 feet like a dolphin playing in the sun. Perhaps only a minute or so were we subjected to a maximum stressful situation. Our leaders, particularly our executive officer and our Chief-of-the-Boat, actually saved the submarine and all our lives by being cool, experienced, and taking the correct action with not a second to spare. Hallelujah! Hatch open, surfacing to the curious eyes of our escort, we all drew a deep breath.

Upon review of the calculations, an error was found and this caused the boat to be overcompensated with the weight of too much sea water. The crew settled down, along with our guests. The PT officers were white-faced when they learned how close we came to visiting the bottom of the Pacific forever.

We pumped much ballast over the side and made a slow, standing dive with negative tank and safety tank flooded. We obtained a good trim fore and aft with overall neutral buoyancy. Our exercises proceeded normally that day, with our submarine escaping ram our enemy about half of the time. I don't think anyone on the tender ever formally knew what had occurred that day.

We continued to operate our training program on a daily basis through Christmas. During one of our practice sessions we lost our "hunters" and enjoyed a peaceful lunch and afternoon, submerged. When it came time to surface and return to base, we were unable to communicate with our surface comrades. We surfaced and, finding our horizon clear, proceeded to return to the tender. Enroute we learned over our radio that the ships that we were exercising with were very concerned because they would detect us, but could not communicate with us using sonar. It soon became evident that a Japanese submarine had passed through our operating area, submerged, and was detected by our surface ships. As we returned to Mios Woendi, every available DD and DE was heading out of the harbor to join our friends with a bone in their teeth and high hopes of sinking one mare Japanese undersea vessel. I never did hear the outcome of this "Chinese fire drill" affair, but I'm sure they got their target.