Although I am not a writer, I would like to join the many others who have expressed their association with Charlie Spritz, Chief of Spritz's Navy.

I arrived at the (Submarine) base on a Sunday in October 1943, and went through the orientation process. I was assigned a bunk in the barracks while waiting to start sub school.

Every morning after breakfast, we would line up for muster, after which the different ratings would be called out and grouped together. The senior-rated man of the group was put in charge of the detail and proceeded to his duty section. As new prospective submen arrived, the man in charge could change.

On this day, the detail called out prior to ours was to be sent to the water tower on the lower base. The young sailor in charge stated that he did not know where the water tower was located, to which Spritz replied, "Go to the lower base and keep walking around until you see the tallest structure. Go to it because that's the tower!"

Next came our assignment. Being a fire control striker, our detail was assigned to the attack teacher. A young second class fire controlman was the last one to join our detail and was experiencing being in charge. Spritz barked out our place of duty: "Take this detail to the roof of Gilmore Hall. Our leader stated that he did not know where the roof of Gilmore " Hall was. But Spritz barked back again: "Do you know where Gilmore HalI is?" "Yes," stated our leader. "Then where is the #?*! do you expect the roof to be?" he shouted and turned away. The old salts of a few days rescued our leader and gave him necessary directions to find our place of duty.

About a month later, we were to line up because it was payday. We were paid in an old gray building. Everyone lined up as they entered the building at one end, going past the paymaster, then out through the front door. This time, there was a lot of chatter, which aggravated the paymaster. He had his assistant pass the word to "knock it off or pay will be suspended."

Next to me were two of Spritz's master at arms (sheriffs as we called them, because they had badges). I made the mistake of telling the master at arms to knock it off. The next thing I knew, I was dragged to Spritz's office and charged with insolence. To this, I chuckled and said that this fellow doesn't know the meaning of the word "insolence." Spritz looked at me and gruffly said to wipe that smile off my face. I put my hand on my forehead and with a downward motion, wiped the smile off my face. Old Spritz was so furious that he could not speak. The master at arms wanted to throw me in the brig, but Spritz took my name and told me to shove off and return to classes. Needless to say, I missed being paid and was to be paid later as a straggler.

About a half hour later, one of Spritz's faithful "Boats" walked into our classroom, called my name and stated that I was to report within the half hour to stand "Captain's Mast" in undressed blues.

I left class, changed uniforms and reported to Commander Palmer. The Commander asked that the charges be read, upon which I said that the master at arms did not know the meaning of the word "insolence" and all I was doing was passing the word as ordered by the paymaster. Commander Palmer was furious, slamming his gavel down and telling me to keep quiet. I reacted by saying, "What is this, a kangaroo court?" The Commander in return ordered me restricted to the base until I finished all the sub school courses.

Off I went to the barracks set aside for discipline. The discipline consisted of about seven dally musters, no liberty, work details every evening and all day on weekends, and hourly bed checks at night. Newcomers were assigned to the last highest numbered bunk and as men finished their detention period, the other men moved up. The man occupying Bunk One was known as the "King." I was King for about one month.

By now I finished sub school and received my transfer orders to Pier 92. Oh, oh, the word going around was that the armed guard shipped out of there. Well I guess that Spritz was kicking my butt out of sub service.

At Pier 92, I was interviewed by a very old officer who stated that I must have done something really bad. After reviewing my record, he said he had confidence in me and that there was an opening at the Brooklyn Arma Corporation in the Torpedo Data Computer School. If I would accept going there, I would be given a months' subsistence pay and I would be on my own. I jumped at the chance, was given subsistence and told to return one month later.

I scored very high at Torpedo Data Computer School and when I reported back to the officer, he said, "I knew you had it in you. What would you like to do next?" I replied that I would like to catch a new sub out of Manitowoc, Wisconsin. The officer said that everybody wanted that but he could assign me to a sub under construction at Electric Boat Company at New London, Connecticut. I said I would take it if Spritz would not have any control over me. Just like that, I was assigned to the USS Bergall (SS-320).

The crew of the Bergall slept in one of the barracks on the sub base, ate supper and breakfast at the base and ate a carry in lunch at noon at Electric Boat Company. The day was spent at Electric Boat Company in a classroom or on the Bergall as she was being fitted.

One day, Spritz saw me at the mess hall as I picked up our carry-in lunch. "You aren't supposed to be here. You better come with me" he said. I replied, "I'm assigned to the Bergall now and you have to see the Captain if you want me." These remarks created a feeling with in me that every time Spritz saw me, it would do something to aggravate him.

Finally the Bergall was finished, commissioned and sent out to sea with me still on board!

To make a long story short, I remained aboard the Bergall, made five war patrols and returned late in July, 1945 to Portsmouth, New Hampshire and had the Bergall overhauled. On our fifth war patrol, we were hit by a mine in the Gulf of Siam and sent back to the States for repairs. In December, I945, the Bergall was in the process of returning to the Pacific.

Now that the war was over, I was close to being discharged. I was asked to be transferred off the Bergall. Its last port was to be New London, Connecticut. Upon arrival there, you guessed it! Who was waiting for me there but Spritz himself! My heart sank into my shoes as I thought this guy is really out to make my life miserable. Instead, Spritz extended his hand and gave me a warm welcome. (He never noticed my "bell-bottomed, tailor-mades, white socks or boots!")

After I checked in, Spritz ordered me to his office. There he assigned me as head master at arms of one of the newest and largest barracks.

From that point on, Spritz treated me as a long lost brother. We would visit daily, he made sure that I had all the help I needed and if any men wanted liberty, it was no problem.

I do not know whatever made the change between us, but whatever it was, it made me change my opinion of a Great Chief!!

(The following is dedicated to my Dad and all of his shipmates who sacrificed their lives in United States Navy Submarines during World War II... J.M.A.)

An average of 9 out of every 107 applicants were accepted for two weeks of preliminary testing at the Navy's National SubmarineTraining School in New London, Connecticut. Of that select group of nine, 25 to 30% were rejected before the program began, based upon tests given to determine who was physically and mentally fit for submarine duty. Vision tests (night vision being crucial) were first to be passed. Finally, there were many physically demanding tests. One was enduring 55 pounds of pressure (three times that of sea level) in a tiny chamber designed to simulate a submarine at a depth of 100 feet, amid a sizzling 130 degrees. Glistening with sweat, the men would swallow hard, popping their ears. The heat made breathing difficult, increasing the psychological strain. Any sign of panic or undue stress, led to failure. The last and one of the most rigorously stressful of the physical tests was a 100' ascent from the bottom of the submarine escape tower, (where two volunteers had died) involving the disciplined and proper use of the "Momsen Lung." The "water works tests" caused many not to be selected when they exhibited signs of panic or lack of discipline. Before the war, only 200 were enrolled at the Submarine School at any given time.

The training school master was Chief Torpedoman Charles Spritz, a former Bronx policeman, a veteran master diver and the navy's version of the marine master sergeant. Spritz expected impeccable grooming and regulation clothing at all times. In addition to universal military disciplines while on assignment, no smoking or talking were allowed. There was no standing, sitting, or walking anywhere on the base. Every move was in fast time, and in the words of one of the instructors, "The way he ran that place was like a concentration camp.

He never married, didn't drink, didn't smoke, and he devoted his life to governing the daily routines of the trainees and other CPO instructors ... themselves mostly 20 year veterans of deep sea diving and submarines. Many were convinced that he had gone a little crazy after a deep sea diving accident in the 1930s and it seems he was universally hated for his constant haranguing and punishment dealt for the slightest infractions of rules.

Spritz would blare axioms until they were fixed in the subconscious: "Around here there's only one daily prayer - you'll commit it to memory: "O Lord, help us to keep our big mouths shut until we know what we are talking about!". There is room for anything on a submarine - except a mistake." Learning to use all the complicated equipment is extremely difficult, as is learning to work together, so is the captain's task of welding his 75 man crew into a fighting unit. The successful submarine is one in which teamwork is perfect, and only practice creates this teamwork.

Although most graduated from New London detesting Spritz, the teamwork he achieved was a major factor in the success of submarines in days to come. Said one veteran. "He molded into us the discipline needed", and another, "He instilled fear into those he commanded, but only that fear of making a mistake that could cost not only your life but all the lives of your shipmates."

This rather small pool of volunteers who passed the preliminary tests and made it into the program had to meet exceedingly tough criteria. They had to possess a certain work ethic and I.Q. One submariner said, "Two-thirds of my company were college grads or had gone to college for two or three years. The Navy was looking for someone who would study and who was devoted to duty." Each enlistee had to be studious and capable of committing to memory every one of the thousands of valves, gears, pipes, switches, and hatches inside the complex undersea warships. Lectures and assignments kept lights burning into the night, as the men devoured such 200 - page tomes as "Submarine Operations," "Diesel Engines," "Electricity," "Submarine Tactical Instructions," "Storage Batteries," and "Torpedoes." In school laboratories, every man spent exhaustive hours tearing down and putting together practically every item making up a submarine. Each had to draw from memory accurate diagrams of more than thirty electrical, mechanical, and pneumatic systems in the boats. Each also had to train unerringly to perform not only his own specialty aboard but that of every other crewman, with precision. Thus, even the sub's cook had to be able to fire a torpedo, to start an engine, and to dive the submarine. That ability at times could spell the difference between disaster and safety for the vessel. Every Monday morning, each trainee took written tests; any that failed two exams, or showed an inability to learn rapidly enough, were quietly returned to the surface fleet. Every week, someone else would be missing. This mechanical aptitude was only one characteristic of the "typical submariner" being sought by the Navy.

Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, a WWl submariner who rose to commander-in-chief of the Pacific sub fleet during World War Il, said, "The tasks of diving, attack and surfacing take scores of interlocking motions by dozens of crewmen with split second timing, but more is required of submariners. They must be alert without being brittle, interested in their shipmates without being nosy, respect privacy without being reclusive, talk without being gabby, and be friendly without being tail waggers - in short round pegs for very closely machined round holes. The wrong kind of man aboard a sub can be an insufferable thorn in the sides of shipmates. He can, emotionally, cause almost as much damage as an enemy depth bomb. In no other ranch of military service are men required to remain away from normal human contacts as long as submariners assigned to lengthy patrols that demand long hours - sometimes days - at depths far below the least glimmer of sunlight and far away from the natural feel and smell of natural air. Moreover, these conditions must be endured with good cheer in overcrowded, sometimes ill smelling, and dew dripping, steel compartments. Those whose tempers or temperaments cannot stand the strain are soon eliminated." Teamwork was paramount, and a unique camaraderie normally existed within sub crews, as well as a mystique about this elite cadre of men on secret missions, sailors who under no circumstances could discuss their operational orders.

So rigorous was the selection and training process for Submarine School, during the course of World War II, only 2,000 officers and 22,000 enlisted volunteers, highly qualified men, graduated from "Spritz's Navy," out of over 250,000 men who had applied for entry into the Navy's Silent Service.

Just as mysterious as their service, were most of their deaths. Most of the undersea sailors who never came back vanished completely. For the years since WWIl, the nation has known little of the sacrifice of these gallant submariners, including the living and those still Missing in Action. Much of their work remained "classified" until only a few years ago. From a percentage point of view, six submariners died or every non-submariner killed in action, and only a handful of survivors lived to tell about our submariners lost in battle.

In the annals of United States military history, few were more courageous, none took more risk, none suffered a higher casualty rate and none had the devastating effect on the enemy's morale as did the U.S. Navy's Silent Service in World War II. These men were unlike the crews of any other naval vessels. No naval career was as dangerous. For years after the war, the nation knew little of the sacrifice of these men, but they never objected and never claimed to be owed anything. Rather, they remained within the code of their sacrifice long after the war - in silent tribute to their lost shipmates after fighting the greatest undersea war in history.

Lloyd Charles McKenzie, a veteran of the USS Stewart (DD-224) in the Asiatic Navy, graduated third in his class, of 18 men from Chief Spritz's Submarine School in New London, April 15, 1940. He was assigned to the USS Triton, a new class of U.S. submarine with many annotations, becoming a member of her initial crew. After her commissioning in August, 1940, Triton was transferred to the Pacific to be in the forefront of the Navy's defense efforts before the attack on Pearl Harbor. He remained with Triton, part of her battle-wise crew, until she fell to depth charges in combat with three Japanese destroyers on her sixth war patrol, March 15, 1943. Triton and crew rest at a depth of 18,000 feet, in the Pacific, in the Caroline Basin, north of the island of New Guinea.

USS Triton is credited with having destroyed 18 ships of the Japanese Empire and damaging 6 others before her loss. Triton is also credited as being the first United States submarine to sink a Japanese ship by deck gun in World War II. Lloyd McKenzie was "first loader" of that deck gun crew. According to a living surviving Triton shipmate who was not assigned to Triton's final war patrol, Lloyd McKenzie was promoted to Chief Torpedoman, and thrown into the Brisbane River as part of his initiation to TMC, two days before the departure for that fatal sixth war patrol. No official U.S. Navy record of his promotion to TMC has ever been found.

Lloyd McKenzie is one of 3617 submarine shipmates, on 52 U.S. submarines, from World War II, who remain on eternal patrol. They are in the unending line of patriots that have defended our nation with their lives so that we might live in a free country. Americans must always remember that our Freedom has not been established without an extremely high cost.

Their resting-places are known only to the almighty.

One cold, dreary, foggy February morning our diving section was marched down to the lower base, issued sub jackets and assigned to an instructor and a submarine - at least, I think that's what it was! I had to look over the side of the pier and down at it because the tide was out. The whole place smelled awful and the decrepit, rusty old "O"-Boat didn't look too good either! It was nothing like I expected!

It was about 200 feet long, painted black with rust streaks running over the ballast tanks and a big, dirty "O-12" painted on the rusty conning tower. The ensign hung just as lifeless at the stern. It was not a sight with which one could fall in love at first sight - and it might just take years before a marriage occurred! With an ache in m heart, l recalled the spanking - new DE that I had put into commission just two and a half years ago and all her fresh paint and new smells of her and felt a twinge of "homesickness" that I thought I would never feel for a ship.

Our instructor-chief led us aboard and we stood and shivered in our thin, melton cloth, sub jackets on the narrow ice-encrusted forward deck as he told us what to expect on our first visit:

"O"-Boats are the best training a student can get. They are a basic piece of machinery. You will have a tour of the boat and the instructor in each compartment will explain the machinery and its operation. Listen up, and take notes. You will have noon chow on board and then return to the upper base at 1500 hours. Tomorrow you will take your first training dive on an operating submarine. Enter through this hatch and stand fast down below.

I climbed down the long, iron ladder and found myself standing in a gleaming white and gray painted room with polished brass fixtures and four, shining, torpedo tubes! The air was warm and was circulated by electric heater fans. I sniffed the air and smelled a mixture of fuel oil fumes, battery gas and metallic odors of freshly polished brass. I liked it! It smelled warm and homey! I didn't realize it at the time, but I had just been inoculated with a strong dose of sub atmosphere - and it had taken!

During the following two-hour tour of the primitive little submarine I was completely enraptured and fascinated by the lectures, the cleanliness of the compartments and all the wheels, levers and dials. The high point of the tour was when we were allowed to look through one of the periscopes at the sub base. At the end of the tour, I concluded that, in many respects, the little sub was like a cozy, six-room apartment!

On the way back to the after battery compartment from the motor room I received my "booster shot" of submarine atmosphere - the aroma of fried chicken coming from the tiny 6 x 12 foot galley. I could hardly believe my nose but my watering taste buds and the meal, itself, of crispy, golden fried chicken with fresh garden peas, fluffy, whipped potatoes, cold milk, waldorf salad and vanilla ice cream for desert, made me a confirmed believer that submarine crews did eat better than the surface navy! Score one for the little boat! My spirits were soaring and I could hardly wait to take my first ride and experience my first dive on a real submarine - even though it was almost my last!

A few days later our diving group was assigned to one of the operating "R"-Boats on the lower base. This training sub was very much like the "O"-Boat, so our group was not surprised by anything new - except the experience of riding and diving in one. We were all excited at this prospect as we boarded the sub in the near dark, early morning of the usual foggy winter day in New London. We were assigned various positions through out the sub as observers with ship's company manning the maneuvering stations. I was assigned to the torpedo room with three other men.

I didn't even know we were underway until I heard the muted air horn blaring our departure from the dock. Then I felt a shudder run through the boat as the cold diesels rumbled to life and the steel deck plates began to rattle and shake as we started down the icy Thames River to the assigned diving area in Long Island Sound. We settled down there in the torpedo room with cups of hot, steaming coffee that was brewed right there in the compartment. We listened as the chief lectured about the torpedo room. He ended the lecture by saying, "The "O" and "R" boats are great levelers" as he pointed to the ventilation system overhead. "All of us suffer equally. If someone breaks wind in the forward battery room, it is equally distributed to all compartments in the boat! When we dive, they are shut and the compartment is sealed off. Then the air starts to get hot and smelly, so everyone keep their shoes on!"

We all laughed, but then my ears picked up the sound of running water in the bilge below me. I asked, "I hear running water, chief! Do we have a leak?"

He answered with a smile "Yeah it's a riveted hull, but don't worry, when the rust settles she won't leak anymore!" Again we nervously laughed, but became more serious when we felt the room lift and fall as the bow of the sub met the first wave of the Sound. We could clearly hear the waves breaking over the bow as we approached the diving area. The slight pitch and roll started to produce mottled shades of green on some of the students' faces, but I hardly noticed it. They were saved some embarrassment when the chief told us to follow him to the control room so we could observe diving procedures, also so the diving officer could get a good trim on the boat after we dove. We followed him, learning to duck in just the right way to avoid getting a knot on top of our heads as we went through the hatches. They slammed shut behind us as the order went through the boat, "Rig ship for dive! - Rig ship or dive!"

I stood in wonderment in the control room as the pounding diesels were shut down and propulsion was shifted to battery power, ventilation was shifted inboard, valves were opened and pumps were activated with a succession of hisses, thumps, and gurgles amid a torrent of quiet commands and replies ending with the report "All compartments report ship rigged for dive, Captain." Everything became very quiet and the atmosphere was changed from a loose, informal group of men to a tight, professional, well-oiled team. I stood spellbound at this intent concentration by the crew. We observers were forgotten, but the next few minutes were definitely not forgotten by us surface sailors! I was standing to one side of the trim pump with my heart in my mouth when the captain turned to an officer standing beside two large brass wheels and said quietly, "Dive the boat." Hardly had he gotten the words out of his mouth when a horn in the control room blared like an old Model A Ford making me jump: AH - OOGAH! ..AH - OOGAH! .. and the order "Dive! .. Dive!" as men came thumping down the ladder dropping into the control room! Someone across the control room pulled the big levers with a, "Click- clack... Click-clack!" The deck started to slant down and the worst sound that a surface sailor can hear started. Water poured into the ballast tanks with a horrible rushing sound and the air rushed out with a deafening sound that made it seem as if the sub was sinking! I found myself gripping a pipe so hard that my fingers hurt and my mouth was dry and open. I found myself gasping for air.

Amid all the thumps and hisses came the report, "Pressure in the boot!" The hot diesels were secured and a quietness began to settle over the sinking boat as the bow planes began grinding their way out to pull us even deeper into the dark depths. I watched the depth gage climb around the dial toward 40 feet - 50 feet - 55 and then stop on 60 feet. The sub leveled off and the captain ordered the cranky periscope up to take a look. The low whine of the electric motors made a steady unbroken sound as I relaxed a little and massaged my aching hand while managing a nervous smile at the other students who grin nervously back. We just start to relax when the torment starts all over again with the order, "Surface." "AH-OOOGAH, ... AH-OOOGAH, … AH-OOOGAH!" The sound of the klaxon made me jump a little as air was blown whistling and roaring into the ballast tanks and the deck started to slant upward. The "Click-clack" of the Kingston valves being closed signaled that the sub had surfaced. A shower of water cascaded down the ladder as the conning tower hatch was opened. The order, "Secure from dive" started the familiar rumble of the diesels as they are connected to the screws. Soon we were greeted by a rush of clean, cold air as we cruise to a different area for another orientation dive with students at the controls while the crew monitors and instructs them.

I was too preoccupied with my assignment at the bow plane controls and listening to my instructor to notice the hustle and bustle and noise of the second dive. I followed instructions and turned the wheel at the command, "ten degrees down bubble." I guess I was used to turning the wheel of the DE, because I turned it too much. It moved so easily under hydraulic power! The deck slanted down steeper and steeper as my instructor whispered, "Too much! - Too much! Up ten degrees!" I did so, but the deck still slanted down. Someone called out, "Passing ninety feet!" A deep voice behind me said, "Bow planes - Up fifteen degrees! Stern planes - down fifteen degrees. Hold her, mister!" Another voice sounded out loud and clear, "Passing one-hundred feet!" I began to feel rather helpless and my heart started to pound faster and faster as we headed deeper and deeper - seemingly unable to stop our descent! Was this some kind of drill to test us to see if we would crack under pressure? I figured that it was, so I relaxed and put the planes on full rise when that order came. When I looked at my instructor for further orders, I noticed he had broken out in a sweat and I heard him say, "Damn!" just as the order came, "Give her a shot of air. "Shorty," she's not coming up! She must be taking more water than I figured."

There was a wild roaring of high pressure air as it rumbled into #1 ballast tank - just as we hit bottom at 125 feet with a soft thud that sent everyone not holding on to something sprawling amid coffee cups, charts, wrenches and anything else not lashed down. I sat transfixed, griping the bow plane wheel with white knuckles. It was then that I knew that this was no drill when my instructor said, "Son-of-bitch!" I looked at him and tried to remain calm as I asked in a meek voice, "Did I do something wrong?" He sat down next to me and explained, "Well, you did put on too much down angle at first, but we should have been able to catch her with the increased up angle. The old bitch is leaking so bad that all the bilge water ran forward and made us bow heavy and we couldn't stop her in time before she hit bottom. Now we're stuck in the mud like an old farmer's boot!"

I asked the question that I had hope that I would never have to ask, "Can we get out of the mud and surface?" He cursed again more richly and said, "We'd better or some little redhead is going to be mighty disappointed this evening!"

I guess the rust didn't settle fast enough to stop the leaks," I thought to myself as I got up out of the bow planesman's seat and walked uphill to the back of the control room as orders were given to, "Pump that damn bilge again! All back full! Blow #2 ballast! Pump from forward to aft!" to try and break the suction that held us in its deadly grip.

The trim pump rattled and banged, air blew until the ballast tank was dry and bubbles roared around the bull and the electric motors whined and smoked as they strained to pull the sub back out of the tenacious mud! Nothing happened - we didn't budge an inch! II grew quiet as the smoking motors were stopped. The air was hot and blue with smoke as one of the electricians came into the control room wiping his sweaty brow with a dirty rag complaining, "There's good luck and there's bad luck - and then there's no luck at all! We just burned out a clutch, captain!"

Well, I wanted some excitement, but now that I had some I wasn't really sure that I wanted this much! The air smelled of burned rubber insulation and asbestos, sour body odor, diesel fumes and battery gas - and it was getting worse. That was bad, but with all the excitement I felt my bowels start to loosen and I couldn't wait any longer. I hurried to the forward battery room and the head....... and to another problem! I found the tiny compartment just in time and relaxed - until the time came to flush it. Cold reality stared me in the face as I looked at the maze of plumbing and realized that I didn't know the first thing about flushing it, but modesty demanded that I try, so I read the instructions. The flapper valve was closed, good! Open valve in discharge line...good! Open sea valve to supply line got it! Open valve next to bowl to admit water to bowl ... good! Now, shut the valve. So far, so good! Now shut the valve. So far, so good! I squinted closely at the next instruction ... " pull flapper lever up-ok... now let go of flapper lever and hold down; rock air valve to charge ten pounds over sea pressure. Air hissed and hissed until the gauge registered ten pounds above sea pressure. Next, rock air valve to "blow" and position seacock to "overboard." Understood. I pushed the lever to "blow" ... the air hissed ... the boat shifted her position slightly in the mud at the same time... and the contents of the bowl blew all over me and the compartment! I was too stunned to even curse as I stumbled out of that torture chamber to the hilarious laughter of the students and ship's crew in the torpedo room. I was dripping with seawater and fecal matter. I quickly washed and dried off as the Iaughter died down to a low roar. It was explained to me that the mud must have blocked the discharge line when the boat (started to break loose, she) shifted her position just as I rocked the air valve. I was immediately inducted into the exclusive order of the "Freckled Sitter" as a full-fledged member. It helped me regain my composure somewhat, but did nothing to free us from the sticky mud.