Final Patrol by Don Keith Page A

problems with the boat. The screws were turning. The dive planes functioned smoothly.
    Fishing net or not, the attack was still on.
    Their first torpedo hit the freighter amidships and there was a massive, reverberating explosion. Flames and smoke seemed to fill Burlingame’s field of vision. More of their torpedoes damaged another freighter and a tanker before a destroyer appeared in the scope sights and headed their way. That new arrival chased them deep, raining down over a dozen depth charges.
    Thankfully, the fishing net tangled all around her sail did not inhibit the boat’s external systems. She was able to dive to avoid the attack.
    After a while, the Silversides surfaced, then took a long look around to make sure there were no other warships or enemy airplanes about. Then they emerged on deck to cut away the nets and the enemy flag.
    After modest success on her second and third war patrols, the Silversides pulled out on her fourth run from Brisbane, on Australia’s eastern coast, in mid-December 1942. Her crew had long since adopted their skipper’s rather raffish demeanor. As they powered away from the wharf, each man on deck wore nonregulation Aussie “digger” hats. Even their sober XO, Roy Davenport, got into the mood, playing an off-key version of “Waltzing Matilda” on the dented old trombone he always carried with him.
    Such a bizarre beginning foretold one of the most storied events in submarine lore. It was appropriate that it occurred on “the Lucky Boat.”
    About a week into the fourth patrol and after they were well at sea, far from the nearest sizable point of land or civilization, Pharmacist’s Mate Tom Moore went to the captain to report a rather serious development. One of the enlisted men was complaining of a serious stomachache.
    â€œYou don’t guess he’s still feeling the effects of Brisbane, do you?” the skipper asked. He knew the answer already. And though they were rolling a bit on moderate seas, he suspected this was not a case of sea-sickness either.
    â€œNo, sir. I’ve never seen a hangover last a week. And besides, he’s running a fever and his belly is hard as a hatch cover.”
    â€œAppendicitis?”
    â€œYes, sir. I’d bet on it.”
    Burlingame scratched his chin and pondered the options.
    â€œWe’re a hell of a long way from an operating room, Doc.” Pharmacist’s mates were typically called Doc, even though they certainly were not doctors. “Do what you can. We’ll take the boat down to keep her steady while you do whatever you have to.”
    Moore was twenty-two years old and trained to treat blisters, bad colds, carbuncles, and typical, minor shipboard wounds. He had no surgical instruments aboard and no serious anesthesia. His surgical experience consisted of stitching up some gashes from bar fights ashore and the usual lesions caused by bumped heads aboard the submarine. He was still the best they had. Nobody else on board who might be willing to assist in an operation had anywhere near that much medical background.
    â€œI will, sir.”
    The afflicted sailor, George Platter, was in an even worse condition when Moore got back to him. He was wracked with fever, tossing on his bunk. If the appendix ruptured, the sailor would surely die.
    The pharmacist’s mate quickly corralled some volunteers, procured some eating utensils from the enlisted men’s mess, and went to work. They laid the sailor out on the table in the crew’s mess. Others gathered up all the lights they could manage and trained them on the makeshift operating table.
    The medicinal whiskey every submarine carried was used as anesthesia. There, in a submerged submarine at sea, Tom Moore removed George Platter’s gangrenous appendix. All the while, Roy Davenport said prayers and the crew tried to keep the boat as stable as they could manage.
    The operation was a success. Platter would