The latest issue of the American Submariner had an article about emergency appendectomies that were performed at sea on submarines during World War II. While reading, I was reminded of my own appendix which was almost removed on board the USS Drum SSN 677. It’s easy to remember that this all occurred in February 1975. It was just months earlier on Christmas Day that the XO brought me a message that I was a new daddy. In typical submarine fashion, she was two days old when I found out.
We were underway somewhere in the China Sea, doing some top secret stuff. I was the night baker. At around 0300, I started feeling some severe pain in my side. It got so bad that the next morning I went to see the Doc. Of course, he started doing some tests that made me hurt worse. I can still remember him pressing on my abdomen and making me say some sailor like words.
In the next day or two, my symptoms got much worse. I had a fever and no appetite. The worst problem was the constipation. It turned out that my appendix was inflamed.
The Doc was worried that it would rupture. He explained what the consequences could be. Needless to say, it didn’t look good. It was decided that I would immediately be put to bed. If you’re not familiar with bunks on a Sturgeon class fast attack submarine, I’ll just say that they aren’t nearly roomy enough for the corpsman to use as a sick bed.
As I explained earlier, the boat was on a secret operation. It turned out that it was not possible to get me off the boat to a hospital. To this day, I don’t even know if the Captain was able to communicate the problem to SubPac.
They made a rack for me in the Torpedo Room. Stretch, the torpedoman, turned the area into a convincing hospital room. Sheets were hung to make a walled in area. There was a sign that said “Hospital” and another posting visiting hours. It was amusing at first. I didn’t know I would be lying there for ten days.
The Doc was worried that my appendix would rupture. He took as many precautions as possible. I was strapped in the bunk to prevent movement. An IV was inserted in my vein at the elbow. He strapped my arm flat to a board to prevent me bending my arm. My other arm was strapped to my side. I could not move at all.
The worst thing of all was the stomach pump he inserted. This was similar to an aquarium air tube. It was lubricated and stuck in my nose. Until then, I never knew the esophagus was connected to the stomach. The only good thing about the pump was it took my mind off of the other discomforts. About the sixth day, I told Stretch I would give him a hundred dollars if he would pull that damn tube out. He told me he could use the money, but the Doc would only stick it back in.
I spent ten days flat on my back with nothing to eat or drink. One time the Doc did let me have a few ice chips. Its funny how pleasant that memory is 45 years later. For the most part, my memories of this period was pure misery, especially that tube in my nose.
The Doc visited me several times a day. After changing my IV and taking my vital signs, he would tell me how excited he was that I was stable. I’m pretty sure he was happy that he wouldn’t have to operate. He assured me that they were trying to get me to a hospital. All I had to do was “hang in there”. There wasn’t much else I could do.
Finally, the day came. I was going to be evacuated to the hospital in Sasebo, Japan. The plan was for the boat to surface after dark and transfer me to a tugboat. I was going to be moved from the Torpedo Room to the Captain’s Stateroom. From there, I would be moved to the tugboat when it came alongside.
The first problem was how to move me. That was soon solve when the ship was (partially) rigged for loading torpedoes. I got raised up on the skid used for loading torpedoes on the submarine. I think the Doc must have given me a sedative as I have no memory of the actual transfer. I remember being in the Torpedo Room and then I remember being in the stateroom.
It was time to get me ready for transfer to the tug. My IV was removed, but the Doc left that damn stomach pump in. He said they might need to reconnect in on the tugboat. I was happy that I could at least move my arms again.
The China Sea gets pretty cold in the winter. I was dressed in a poopy suit and then my dungarees. had to put on a foul weather jacket and stocking cap. Finally, I got an inflatable life jacket. After I was attired for cold weather, I was strapped in a Stokes stretcher.
For those that don’t know, a Stokes stretcher is a wire basket with metal rods for transferring patients from ship to ship. I remember asking the Doc one important question. If I’m tied down in the stretcher and by bad luck get dropped in the water, how does the life jacket inflate? He put the lanyard in my mouth and said, “jerk your head back.”
The boat was finally surfaced around 2000. The seas were pretty rough. I could hear the dialog between the Drum and the tugboat. It was determined that due to the high seas, I could not be transferred. They were deciding on the best course of action. Finally, it was determined to send a helicopter to pick me up. At least I didn’t need to worry about inflating the life jacket.
I was removed from the stretcher and placed on the CO’s rack to wait for the helicopter. I took a couple of hours and got there around 2200. The worst part of the transfer for me had arrived. I had to climb the ladder to the bridge. I was pretty week from being flat on my back for ten days, but I finally made it.
A man was lowered from the helicopter to the bridge. How he did it, can never know. The boat was making heavy rolls and the target area of the bridge wasn’t all that big. He made it and I was strapped to him with my head at his waistline. The Doc still hadn’t removed the stomach pump and I had a case of the dry heaves. As I was lifted up, I remember him yelling in my ear, “Don’t puke on me!”
The trip to the hospital is mostly a blur. I’m pretty sure I slept for most of it. We got to the hospital in Sasebo around 2300 and I was prepped for immediate surgery. What I remember most is the feeling of relief when they removed that tube from my nose.
The next morning, the surgeon came in and told me the surgery went well. He told me that the corpsman had done a great job of keeping me stable and alive. Then he said, “let’s watch some TV.” He turned on the local Japanese news station. There was coverage of the helicopter landing and me being offloaded. It turned out that the Japanese were worried about me coming from a nuclear submarine. Luckily, I wasn’t contaminated and a threat to the country.