Dave Eberhart served in the US Navy from 63 through 72. He rode USS Blenny (SS-324), USS Corporal (SS-346) and USS Wahoo (SS-565) and was an ST1 (SS) Puffs Tech.  Dave is a Life Member Submarine Veterans - first joined in 1966 while on the 346 in New London. He was transferred to 565 in August of 67 and didn't renew membership since there was no base in Hawaii. Dave joined again in the 90's after the Topeka-Jefferson City Base was formed. Life Member of VFW because of a Gastronomical Distress Medal (Support of Armed Forces in Korea) received while serving on the 565-but that's another story. Dave usually posts on the bulletin boards as "blenny64."

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The Worlds Greatest C.O.B.

By Dave Eberhart in August, 2005

Attached you’ll find an old story of the COB Posell or Poselt I’m not sure of the spelling.

I would venture to say that anybody that’s ever ridden a boat for more than a summer cruise will tell you that they had the greatest Chief of the Boat and while I won’t call them liars, I’d say they just have misplaced loyalty if they weren’t talking about TMC (SS) Possell.

 I don’t know how long Possell (whom from now on I will refer to as COB-out of respect and the simple fact that it’s easier to spell) had been in the Navy when I met him in the Mid 60’s aboard the 346, but I do know he qualified on the old “S” boats prior to WWII. Damn, over 25 years and he was already an E-7. Yeah-but for how many times. He used to tell us that he’d been up and down the ladder of rank more times than most of us had climbed the After Battery ladder to go on liberty. I believed him. It seems that a year or two earlier (when he was younger) he’d been a steamer and had paid the price for over exuberance on the beach. This was a good thing, as he tended to understand those of his boys that leaned to the same traits. His motto “Bust your ass when something needs to be done and party when you get the chance.” Actually, he had several mottos one of which “ If you give a boat sailor three steel balls and lock him in a room, then check on him a half hour later, he’ll have eaten one, lost one and screwed the other one up” and the always popular gem “If the Navy didn’t issue it to you in your sea bag, it ain’t the Navy’s problem”. The last one was generally aimed at some married maggot the put in a chit to stay in port from daily ops or so because his wife’s back hurt, his tricycle motors had the flu, his dog had worms or his cat had eaten the neighbors canary, all carried the some value to COB. Oh and for those of that have spent a few hours under the sea, it is understood that the afore mentioned mottos were actually equipped with a wide variety of explicit adjectives sprinkled liberally throughout the statement. I’m not leaving these adjectives out from respect to sensitive ears, it’s just that I don’t believe my spell check knows them and I don’t want to pass the afternoon hitting the “accept button”.

 Now COB stood about 5’10” and weighed about 210-but he looked 6’6” to us with his shaved bulldog head, square shoulders and gravely voice that sounded like a combination of mean dog growl and throaty rumble of a running jimmy under a load. His eyes carried that steely “been there-done that-got the T-Shirt” look and his sense of humor was so dry you were never sure if he was kidding or you were getting your ass-chewed. Naturally, the safe thing was to assume you were getting you ass chewed. 

 I mentioned bulldog face because COB had a bulldog named Mike and if you ever happened to see them together you would swear they were both from the same litter. Summer Sunday mornings were spent by COB sitting in his back yard reading the paper and drinking beer with Mike. It seems Mike could match COB beer for beer and that in itself was no mean feat. One Sunday morning the usual ritual was in place when Mike suddenly started barking and ran around to the front of the house. COB could hear Mike barking and growling around front and became mildly curious so he got up to see what Mike’s problem was. As he rounded the corner of the house he saw Mike dragging a squealing, arms flailing, deaf mute around the front yard by his pants leg. Mike didn’t know the man was a deaf mute and like any good dog in his cups, just plain didn’t like to be ignored. COB rescued the man and helped him pick up the pencils that he’d been trying to sell. In COB’s own words “I felt so damn bad I bought two pencils”.

 Like any really good COB, the crew loved him, the XO was afraid of him and the Capt did as he was told. The man was absolutely unflappable in any crisis situation. If a casualty happened when he was in the area he just took charge and got it resolved. If he was somewhere else in the boat he simply sat back, relaxed and drank his coffee. He was always as steady as the helm in a glass sea.

 COB always wore a crumpled up Chiefs hat topside whenever we got underway or pulled into port. It was his good luck hat that had been passed on to him by an old chief the first time COB made E-7. The bill was so cracked that scotch tape held it together and the fouled anchor was an absolute emerald green. He never went to sea without it.

 The COB was scheduled to leave the boat and take over sub school for 2 years before his final retirement when we got back from a trip to San Juan. The crew had been struggling for months on what to get the COB when we got back to New London for a going away gift. He had every plaque, bell, pen and pencil set and trinket you could think of from all the boats he’d been on and he was just too special to us for just another plaque.

 One of the Chiefs got the idea of having his underway hat bronzed and mounted for him since he wouldn’t be getting underway anymore after we got back. Seemed like a good idea at the time-so they stole it and sent it off to New London to have the job done.

 Have you ever heard stories about a mean old grizzly being awakened in the middle of hibernation? When the COB discovered his hat missing the grizzly wouldn’t have stood a chance. He roared through the boat threatening everybody from the Captain on down with keelhauling, disembowelment, gutter stomping and just plain murder if he ever found out who had his hat. The next three weeks were the longest three weeks of the entire crews lives. Trust me, your simply not safe within five feet of a pissed of grizzly bear and there just isn’t anyplace with five feet of space on a Diesel Boat.

 The morning after our arrival in New London the crew was standing at parade rest, shaking in our boots, not knowing if COB was going to club us with our gift or just toss us all over the side, as the obligatory congratulations and we’re gonna miss ya speech was given by the Capt. When he finished and shook the COBs hand he said “Oh and by the way, the crew got together and got you a little something that we all think shows how we feel about you.” We were ready to duck on the count of three as the Captain handed the COB a box. The COB still had a scowl on his face as he opened the box but when he saw what was inside his face lit up and tears started streaming down his cheeks. We had suffered through hell to give him the one thing that would have lasting meaning to him. Oh yeah, and the deck gang gave him a can of “Neverdull” dull to go with it.

 Possell, where ever you are, we the crew of the 346 and probably half of the submarine force that served in your time salute “The World’s Greatest Chief of The Boat.

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Sea Stories

By Dave Eberhart in March, 2005

Sea stories are, and probably always have been, the fare of men of the sea. I have a picture in my mind of a Viking crew all huddled together in their Long Boat, ducked down low for protection against the cold North Atlantic, chewing on dried Cod and salted meat, chugging mugs of Mead and regaling each other with tales of victorious battle and beautiful Irish maidens they met while pillaging an Irish coastal village. The only difference between the Vikings and sub sailors is that, being none to fond of 28 degree salt spray, we sit around a table munching on Beer Nuts and Pretzels, spinning yards and sipping on a tasty one.

Now everyone knows that the only difference between a sea story and a fairy tale is the introductory clause. Still, our fascination with a good sea story is in the art of the telling, always keeping in mind that there’s a nugget of fact in every good sea story, we listen with rapt attention to every detail. It’s not that the teller is “lying”, simply that time, memory and a few cocktails tend to give a different vision of events, which brings about the evolution of the story. For instance, in the first telling the introductory clause is “I once heard” which soon becomes “I once saw” and eventually, after a few more years of telling and retelling, the bard becomes the bloody hero of an epic tale. Even a premier story teller, like my old friend Art Randal, once confided in me that he couldn’t always recall which boat, what time frame or even if he was actually involved in some of his stories. (Sorry Art if I spilled the beans, but you know there are no secrets on a Smoke Boat.) The reality is that sailors just don’t really care how straight the facts are-it’s the quality of the story that counts.

 I have noted over the years that very few sea stories are tragic. It seems that sub sailors have a way of turning some rather unpleasant situations and conditions into humor. Head doctors be damned-it’s our way of coping.

 For those of you, like me, that enjoy a good stroll down memory lane, might I suggest http://www.olgoat.com/substuff/abr.htm affectionately called the After Battery Rat. This site is Library of Congress for sea stories. The yarn spinning is superb and there is something for smoke boaters and nukes alike. I promise that you will spend hours of chuckles and memories at this site. It’s a wonderful place for reference to bring your own memories into sea story form. (Keep in mind that there is less than six months to convention time and the gathering of story tellers). I’m willing to bet my last pair of clean skivvies that every writer there will swear each word of their story is gospel.

 If you wish to build your repertoire of sea stories, I’m sure they won’t mind if you borrow a story or two as long as your introductory clause is “I read about an event on ol goats site”- at least for the first few tellings, and then carry on from there.

In closing, I would like to propose a toast to the many “brothers of the fin” who are such wonderful writers at that site and mention that I’m looking forward to renewing old acquaintances of mine from the boats I rode. Maybe I’ll find out if there really is any truth in half the stories I tell-just maybe I was actually there.  Shipmates-enjoy.

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My Favorite Boat

By Dave Eberhart in August 13, 2000

The earlier message by "Too Tall" got me to remembering again (This board is good for that). Do any of you guys that rode multiple boats have a favorite? Do you remember why? Maybe some of the men that rode single boats can relate to a favorite car. You know, the old 49' Ford convertible, or 55' Chevy with wide bench seat and the four on the floor that kept poking your girl friend in the back while her shoulder got wedged under the steering wheel (or maybe that's just me). Back to my point.

Of the 324, 346 & 565, my favorite was the 346. Maybe it was mostly crew, we had one of the great COB’s and for some of the time a lousy skipper, but part of it was the old girl herself. She took us to places that I'm sure are on the charts someplace, but I have no idea where. She carried just about enough food for those extended runs up North when your relief didn't show up and almost enough fuel to get us back to a safe haven. She carried us through storms in the North Atlantic and Arctic that movies could be made of. She recovered when a nuke trainee, trying to qualify on the stern planes, threatened to send us to a cold dark grave. She provided me with a bunk that after a three day run of no sleep felt better than the distant arms of a favorite sweetheart. Even when we corralled her into a harbor, her shiny brass valves and gleaming chrome levers contrasting the red naugahyde covers, (hiding just a few of her many secrets) drew OOHs and AAHHs and big round eyes from the hundreds of fortunate people that were invited to take a tour.

Night after night she would welcome her boys back to her womb, somehow making the metal deck plate under the after battery hatch a little softer for those of us that celebrated a wee bit too much. Our legs always seemed to go limp as we dropped (with a resounding thump) into her belly and landed on our pride. The echoing snores coming from Hogan’s alley, the goat locker, as well as the forward and after room meant all was well and we were home.

I saw a picture of the USS Corporal (SS-346) as she now looks, still looking beautiful, her crew, all dressed in whites, standing topside with pride, as she serves, as always, with pride. Only now she is in the Turkish Navy.

Someday I'd like to tour her, just like hundreds of other people have done. Maybe she'd remember me.