Born in the shops of the devil, Designed by the brains of a fiend; Filled with acid and crude oil, And christened "A Submarine." The posts send in their ditties Of battleships spick and clean; But never a word in their columns Do you see of a submarine. So I'll endeavour to depict our story In a very laconic way; So please have patience to listen Until I have finished my say. We eat where'er we can find it, And sleep hanging up on hooks; Conditions under which we're existing Are never published in books. Life on these boats is obnoxious And this is using mild terms; We are never bothered by sickness, There isn't any room for germs. We are never troubled with varmints, There are things even a cockroach can't stand; And any self-respecting rodent Quick as possible beats it for land. And that little one dollar per diem We receive to submerge out of sight, Is often earned more than double By charging batteries all night. And that extra compensation We receive on boats like these, We never really get at all. It's spent on soap and dungarees. Machinists get soaked in fuel oil, Electricians in H2SO4, Gunner's mates with 600 W, And torpedo slush galore. When we come into the Navy Yard We are looked upon with disgrace; And they make out some new regulation To fit our particular case. Now all you battleship sailors, When you are feeling disgruntled and mean, Just pack your bag and hammock And go to a submarine. V THE RETURN OF THE CAPTAINS The breakfast hour was drawing to its end, and the very last straggler sat alone at the ward room table. Presently an officer of the mother ship, passing through, called to the lingering group of submarine officers. "The X4 is coming up the bay, and the X12 has been reported from signal station." The news was received with a little hum of friendly interest. "Wonder what Ned will have to say for himself this time." "Must have struck pretty good weather." "Bet you John has been looking for another chance at that Hun of his." The talk drifted away into other channels. A little time passed. Then suddenly a door opened, and one after the other entered the three officers of the first home coming submarine. They were clad in various ancient uniforms which might have been worn by an apprentice lad in a garage, old grey flannel shirts, and stout grease stained shoes; several days had passed since their faces had felt a razor, and all were a little pale from their cruise. But the liveliest of keen eyes burned in each resolute young face, eyes smiling and glad. A friendly hullaballoo broke forth. Chairs scraped, one fell with a crash. "Hello, boys!" "Hi, John!" "For the love of Pete, Joe, shave off those whiskers of yours; they make you look like Trotsky." "See any Germans?" "What's the news?" "What's doing?"