Around the World Submerged

by Edward L. Beach

  “But the cruise goes even farther than that,” I said. “For in a sense it will never end. We, in our ship, are here and now endeavoring to accomplish something of importance for the glory of our country and our Navy. From now on we will be bound together by a shared experience which will be with us the rest of our lives. Little though anyone hearing these words may appreciate it now, if we can make this cruise successfully we will carry from now on the knowledge of having recorded one of history’s great voyages. Regardless of what fate has lined up for us after this, we must remain worthy. For whatever we do, now or hereafter, will reflect upon what we are here starting to do today.”

  I paused again, still wondering why the microphone button was so hard to hold down. Both hands were now gripping the mike, thumbs superposed upon each other and squeezing the button as though they could better convey by sheer force the sense of urgency which possessed me. My fingers were trembling slightly and I realized I was perspiring.

  It seemed as though there should have been a lot more to say, but somehow this covered it. I made a couple of false starts, finally put the microphone to my lips again.

  “God bless you all,” I said. “My deep thanks for the work you have already done and for the additional work which I know will be performed by everyone on board. That’s all.”

  The silence lasted nearly a minute. I could sense everyone drawing himself up, furtively eying the men nearby to see whether any of them revealed the emotions he felt. The unofficial code of the sailor requires that he remain outwardly unaffected by words of praise or blame, condemnation or exhortation. Yet I knew, deep inside, the thrill of the adventure must be stirring in their chests as it was in mine, along with fervent determination to see it through.

  It was only a few hours later that my hopes for an uneventful voyage were dashed and my warning premonition of trouble fulfilled. Don Fears, face taut, brought the bad news. “I’m afraid we’ll have to shut down the port engine, Captain. We have a bad leak in one of the condenser circulating pumps—”

  “How much water are we making, Don?” I asked anxiously, after he had given me the details of the problem. “How long will the engine be out of commission?”

  “Can’t tell yet,” said Don. “The leak is on a main condenser circulating water pump, and there are no valves between it and the sea except the main sea valves themselves. To fix it, we have to take sea pressure off. To do that, we have to close the main sea valves, and that shuts down the condenser. That’s why we have to stop the engine.”

  I went back with Don to take a look. It was exactly as he had stated. Although the work was started immediately, the leak was in a very difficult place to reach; several failures were experienced, and it was early morning of the next day before we finally got a patch to hold.

  In the meantime, I had become acutely aware of the great versatility of Triton’s dual-reactor power plant. With the port engine stopped and locked fast, we were dragging our immobile port propeller through the water like a great bronze parachute. But the starboard engine, unaffected by anything that happened to its mate, was driving away with great ease. Although the leaking pipe caused our port engine to be stopped for over five hours, when the job was done, we had virtually maintained our required speed of advance—losing only a few miles which would be easy to regain.

  One of the safety features designed into nuclear ships is a warning siren which sounds piercingly in the engineering spaces when certain important electrical circuits connected with the reactors malfunction. Hardly had the leak been fixed—I seemed to have been asleep less than a minute, though it actually was a couple of hours—when I heard the siren shrieking. Within seconds the engineering messenger had sought me out—as though I needed a special call after that alarm! It could signify only one thing; something was wrong with one of the reactors.

  “What could be the matter?” I worried. The tremendous effort in design and training which had gone into our nuclear ships had produced a record of dependability unparalleled in the history of any Navy. It was unthinkable that the very heart of one of our power plants—the reactor—should have suffered a casualty, and at the very outset of our cruise. Yet this was the significance of the alarm.

  Our casualty control organization was already in action when I arrived. The procedures laid down in the instruction book were meticulously followed. The entire circuitry of the plant was rigorously checked, and we soon found the source of our trouble: a bad electrical connection in the warning circuit itself. Our precautionary moves had been well taken, but the record of reliability of our machinery plant was so far unblemished.

  As we sat down for breakfast, neither Don Fears, nor I, nor any of his engineers wished to go through many nights like the previous one. And yet, with some eighty-one more days to go on our cruise, it was inevitable that this one would not be the last.

  According to Triton’s Log, shortly after completion of the general drills on that same day a message from New London informed us that Richard W. Steeley, Engineman Third Class, had become the father of a baby girl. The message, in duplicate, was brought directly to me from the radio room, but instead of sending immediately for Steeley, I sent instead for Jim Smith, Seaman First Class. Almost every ship has a cartoonist or artist of some kind. Smith was ours. By the time Steeley arrived to get the good news, Smith was gone. One dispatch form, labeled “Mother’s Copy,” was duly decorated with cupids and hearts and flowers. The carbon copy, marked “Father’s,” had two ugly pot-bellied old men.

  Steeley had evidently been on watch in the engineering spaces when the summons for him arrived, but the self-conscious grin of happy relief on his face more than made up for the smudges and perspiration which were also there. Mother and daughter, the message stated, were fine—baby’s name: Bonnie Lynne.

  One of the advantages of our new Kollmorgen celestial navigation periscope was the elimination of the need for a horizon. The periscope computes its own horizon; thus observations of sun, stars, or the moon can be made at any time the celestial bodies can be seen. Just after midnight, on the morning of the nineteenth of February, we had Triton back at periscope depth for a fix and ventilation. This fix, when computed, showed us to be short of our PIM (position of intended movement). In preparation for the voyage, a detailed track chart with our exact routing and the times we were supposed to pass through each point had been left with ComSubLant, so he would always know our exact position. Loss of time getting the feel of our ship, learning the techniques of getting some of the observations expected of us, and the somewhat reduced speed necessary for recent repairs had caused us to fall behind schedule. But for Triton, this was no serious problem. With a slight increase in power, our submarine cruiser began to tear through the water at a speed few ships could match, even on the surface. And but for the roar of steam passing through her turbines, there was no sensation of speed at all.

  On this day, also, we released our first hydrographic bottle, a procedure we would carry out twice a day throughout the remainder of the trip. The United States Hydrographic Office has a standard form, available to all US merchant and naval vessels, which requests that at appropriate times the form be filled out, sealed in a bottle, and dropped over the side. The so called “bottle paper,” printed in several languages, simply asks the finder to note the time and place it was found, in the blanks provided, and to forward the paper to the nearest US government authority. We could not, of course, surface to put the bottles into the water, but this turned out to be a very easy problem to solve. A standard medical bottle easily fitted into our submerged signal ejector (we had previously tested one to full submergence pressure with no apparent bad effects), and to release it we had only to shut the inner cap, equalize to sea pressure by opening a valve in an equalizer line, then open the outer cap. The bottle floated out on its own buoyancy and within a short time reached the surface.

  Concern over possible premature discovery of one of these bottles, however, had prompted a certain amount of circumspection in
Washington. We had been directed not to fill out the bottle papers completely and under no circumstances to put the name, Triton, anywhere on them. They were, as a consequence, filled out in a simple code. To assure authenticity, each was written in duplicate, with the carbon copy preserved for later transmittal to the Hydrographic Office.

  Another important event of this portion of our cruise was recorded when the Triton Eagle began publication with a four-page issue of fifteen copies. The stated objectives of this daily newspaper were to publish news (received by the editor on our radio and transcribed directly by typewriter to the master copy), editorials (conceived by the editor and typed then and there on the master copy), jokes (thought up by the editor or possibly handed in by someone else and transcribed directly on the master copy), humorous happenings on board (related to the editor and likewise taken down verbatim), and cartoons (drawn by the originator directly on the master copy). In an attempt to be useful to all hands, the first issue contained the following sample letter home, recommended to everyone as a start:

  LETTER HOME

  We dove to a depth of (classified) and turned the ship toward (classified). We rang up speed for (classified) while the pressure on the hull was (classified). I went aft to check our (classified) and passed a civilian from (classified) who was riding us to check on (classified). About this time Dr. (classified) from (classified) asked me to step into the (classified) to fill out a form concerning (classified). Hope to see you in about (classified) days.

  Love to you and the kids,

  (Classified)

  As in most naval ships, for fairly obvious reasons, the editor of the newspaper was a radioman; in our case, Radioman First Class Harold J. Marley, Jr. His assistant and general factotum was Audley R. Wilson, Radarman First. A third member of the staff occasionally contributed a column and rendered assistance in certain important ways, such as selection of periscope depth periods to coincide with the best news broadcasts, but refused the honor of being listed as a contributor because of his official position as Commanding Officer.

  We had only been at sea a few days when a serious deficiency in the ship’s ventilation system came to light. Our SINS had been installed in a compartment which used to be a provisions storeroom, and unfortunately the addition of a considerable amount of high-powered electrical equipment had not been accompanied by enough air-conditioning. As a consequence of the slowly increasing warmth of the sea on our way south, the ex-storeroom had kept creeping up in temperature. George Troffer, who as Electrical Officer had responsibility for the SINS, became increasingly concerned as the temperature increased, rose in rebellion when it reached 105° F. Something had to be done, he said, to protect the precious equipment. Specifically, some auxiliary ventilation had to be provided quickly. It wasn’t the discomfort of the Electrician’s Mates keeping watch on the SINS that bothered us, for our men could stand that with never a complaint. The problem was that the tubes and circuitry of the equipment were not built to withstand continual high temperatures.

  Several alternative ideas were discussed, and then Triton’s submarine jury-riggers turned to with a will. After several hours of cutting and bending sheet metal and squeezing a collapsible duct into a confined space alongside one of our radar masts, a cool air supply was channeled into the compartment, reducing the ambient temperature in the vicinity of the SINS to 90° F.

  The problem was by no means a new one to submarines, nor was the solution; and I was in the end glad it happened. Nothing is better for the crew of a ship, particularly a new ship, than to have a difficult problem to solve, and to solve it efficiently.

  A day or two later, as Triton’s mighty engines drove her deep under the ever-warming sea, trouble of another kind arose. This time it was a jammed outer door on our garbage ejector. During the war, it was customary to bag the garbage in weighted sacks and carry it to the bridge right after surfacing every night (one submarine early in 1942 did not do this, instead kept all of it on board during an entire patrol—and raised an unholy stink in Pearl Harbor when the hatches were opened upon her return). The problem created by the continuous submergence of our new submarines had been solved by a small-diameter torpedo tube, mounted vertically, with a watertight and pressure-proof closure or “door” at each end. All garbage and trash was packed into the ejection tube through the open breech door, while an interlock system made it theoretically impossible to open the outer door until the inner one was properly locked shut, and then the positions of the doors were reversed for flushing.

  The garbage ejector is a large potential hazard to submarines because of the frequency with which it must be used and the fact that the men handling trash and garbage are generally the least experienced on board. It is so vitally important that at least one ejector door be kept closed at all times that these mechanisms may only be operated by a fully qualified auxiliaryman. Maloperation could result in uncontrolled flooding of the ship.

  Despite our careful handling of the garbage ejection system, a problem arose; after the garbage was flushed out, the outer door could not be closed. Full sea pressure, consequently, was riding against the breech door of the ejector—a door built to close against sea pressure instead of with it. The situation was highly undesirable. No one knew how much pressure the hinge of the inner door could stand.

  Fortunately, my worries were short-lived. About an hour’s work by Chief Engineman Edwin Rauch, Machinist’s Mate First Class Bob Carter, and Engineman Third Class John Boreczky restored the door to normal operation. Tom Thamm, whose responsibility this was, looked a little sheepish when I asked him what had caused the trouble. This day happened to be the day the garbage ejector was supposed to be greased; so much grease had been rammed into its operating mechanism, and under such force, that a pressure lock was created and the gears had jammed.

  During this portion of our trip, we began our weekly divine services. These were held every Sunday in the crew’s mess hall, the only suitable compartment in the ship (where forty-six persons could be accommodated at a single sitting). The first turnout was disappointing; possibly the fact that there was no ordained minister of any faith on board reduced the appeal of the service, but we resolved, nevertheless, to keep up the practice whenever Triton happened to be at sea on a Sunday. Will Adams and I discussed the matter at some length, and finally decided that we should not attempt in any way to pressure our shipmates to attend. Despite our own feelings, attendance, we decided, should always remain entirely voluntary.

  On any map where the contour of the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean is shown, an elongated shallow area passing through the Azores can be seen; it curves approximately in the center of the ocean as it crosses the equator and heads into the South Atlantic, where it finally disappears. This area is known to oceanographers as the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. The Azores are mountain peaks, where the Mid-Atlantic Ridge projects above the surface of the water, as are St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks.

  The Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a pressure ridge created as the earth’s mass cooled millions of years ago, has never presented a hazard to mariners. Only the Azores themselves, or certain other islands, are surrounded by water shallow enough to be of any concern. Much of the Ridge, therefore is not even well charted. Deep traveling submarines are not at all like other ships, however, for they require much more depth. This was another reason for our voyage, to make a world-girdling recording of the bottom contour. One of the special devices with which Triton had been fitted during the hectic two weeks before she sailed was for this purpose. Outfitted with many miles of expensive, sensitized paper, the device operated from our fathometer, taking many soundings per minute and recording them graphically so as to show a virtual photograph of the shape of the bottom of the ocean over which we had just passed. It was with justice officially called the “Precision Depth Recorder (PDR).”

  As is well known, the ocean is full of mountains, just as is the land, but very few of the ocean’s mountains have ever been mapped. As Triton approached the vicinity of St. Pete
r and St. Paul’s Rocks, we expected to notice a gradual shoaling of water, and the PDR was carefully watched.

  Civil Engineer Gordon E. Wilkes was aboard to monitor the equipment. In addition, in order to obtain immediate value from anything the PDR might detect, a special watch was detailed to observe it. During the early morning of the twenty-third of February, more than twenty-four hours before we should reach St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks, sudden and very rapid shoaling was recorded on the PDR. This was immediately brought to the attention of the Officer of the Deck by Jerry Saunders, Radarman Second Class, who at the moment was on PDR watch. We were still quite some distance from where we expected to find the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, and soundings recorded but a few moments earlier indicated a depth of roughly two thousand fathoms.

  This “seamount” must have been of extremely solid structure, for it towered over the relatively flat sea bottom to a height of nearly nine thousand feet. Its sides were precipitous and its craggy form, profiled on the PDR, resembled the spires of a medieval cathedral. We slowed to creeping speed as we came up on the mount, for we had to be able to avoid it should it extend to our depth level. Slowly, we crept over the area, recording a minimum sounding of nine hundred and thirty fathoms, and then reversed course and ran over the same track. Criss-crossing, we pinpointed the peak’s location and traced an outline of it from all sides.

  It must be admitted that coming as it did without warning, the abrupt decrease in soundings startled me. We could not see ahead, of course, except by sonar, and until we actually had passed over it and determined the minimum distance between the top of the seamount and the surface, there was no way to guess how high the peak might actually reach. Had it reached higher, had we been traveling much deeper than we were, and had we not been keeping the careful watch that we were keeping, we might have struck it in the manner of an aircraft striking a mountain. The results would have been equally calamitous.