The Abandoned Submarine

On May 18, 2001, I interviewed Mr. Floyd Curtis about his experiences during World War II, inside the Canton Public Library. Mr. Curtis spoke to me about his journey to Panama on December 7, 1941, immediately following the bombing of Pearl Harbor. He had been among four platoons sent by the US Army to protect the Panama Canal from a similar attack by the Japanese, which fortunately never occurred. Four years of Mr. Curtis? life were spent watching the skies of Panama, and this vignette represents one of his experiences during that period. At the end of his service, he was an Army Staff Sergeant. Currently, Mr. Curtis resides in Collinsville, CT.

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Floyd Curtis stood facing the wind, staring out at the water rushing past him, and reminiscing about real food. He could not remember the last time he had tasted something other than the bland, dried food that he and his platoon had been forcing upon themselves, as it was the only available form of nourishment. Some stuffed turkey, he imagined, would be nice. Perhaps a pot roast, or even a simple hamburger...

How long had it been? A full year? One year since the bombing of Pearl Harbor; one year that he had been stuck in the San Blas Islands, under rather uncomfortable conditions. Floyd sighed, and turned to look at those accompanying him. Familiar faces were scattered around the deck‹the faces of men his age, longing to be home with jobs and families, feeling the nauseating combination of salty air and the aftertaste of dried eggs. Some of the men sat silently by themselves, while others engaged in mundane conversation to pass the time. One fellow played solitaire with a deck of yellowed playing cards and whistled softly to himself.

Turning back toward the sea, Floyd spotted a small island in the

distance, getting closer and closer‹another one of the San Blas Islands, he had been told. He was unable to recall the name, for all these names were becoming one big blur. From what he could tell, it did not look as different from the last island as he had hoped. This was a disappointment, considering it was likely to be his home for at least another year. All he could hope for now was that somebody had set up barracks, so he could be out of those damned tents...

Suddenly, there seemed to be a commotion at the front of the boat. Floyd was hesitant to move, assuming there was probably nothing there at all; but his attention was finally grabbed when a voice said, “Look, it’s Japanese!”

Floyd felt an unexpected rush of adrenaline as he ran across the deck. Had the Japanese attacked Panama? Was he going to have to fight now? Had a Japanese plane flown by, or was there an entire fleet waiting for the Americans’ arrival to the island? He did not know what to expect, and he was not sure what he wanted the answer to be.

Within seconds, he saw it. On the rocks of the island, a small vessel had apparently crashed; a submarine, he supposed it was. A single, two-man submarine. It was an odd location for such a craft, and he was not sure what to make of it. But he could see, as plainly as everyone else, that the flag painted on the outside of the submarine was that of the Japanese Empire.

The mass of anxious soldiers stood there, jaws dropped, without any idea what to do. Floyd found himself unable to move; he stared at the submarine, waiting for some sign of life. Now, he might be able to meet the enemy face-to-face; now he might be able to see the people from whom he was protecting the Panama Canal.

Minutes later, the boat slowed to a halt. Eagerly, the soldiers awaited commands to get their weapons and march over to the submarine; instead, the only orders they received were to gather their bags and prepare to settle into the new barracks. There was no word on the Japanese craft.

“What about that sub?” somebody asked. “Is it empty?”

“I think it was empty...”

“But what happened to the guys inside?”

“Are there Japanese spies on the island now?”

Floyd knew that was unlikely; if the submarine was empty, that meant whatever the problem was, somebody had already taken care of it. The adrenaline rush vanished; that was probably the last he would see of that submarine. He most likely would not ever find out what it was doing there, either. He sighed to himself again, turning his attention to the somewhat crude barracks he would inhabit for some indefinite period of time. He walked over to grab his duffel bag and prepare his stomach for another supper of powdered potatoes.