On the sun-washed dock that day a knot of tanned, relaxed sailors waited, the bandsmen with their instruments all askew. As the black hull of a submarine appeared across the way they came to attention. The 20-piece band thumped into the Beer Barrel Polka.
On the submarine's black foredeck another knot of men stood. They were pale and bearded. They showed no emotion, only a smile here & there as friends on the dock tossed out coarse, friendly greetings. The submarine's skipper, Lieut. Commander Henry C. Bruton, stood on the bridge, giving quiet orders....
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