There never was a question of taking any chances with Poole’s life. Both my orders for the trip and the traditions of the US Navy for peacetime operations categorically forbade it. On the other hand, we should not want to turn back and then have Poole’s condition clear up by itself, as about three-quarters of all kidney stone attacks actually do. Yet we had already gone on for three days. No doubt we could still go on and hope the third attack would be the last. The salient point was that Macon could conceivably help us now, and if we passed her up, the nearest available medical help would be at Pearl Harbor, nearly eight thousand miles away.
Adams calculated how far we would have to travel to meet the Macon, and when. Somehow, it was almost as if there were dead silence in the ship. Not many felt like talking. A person becomes attuned to the mood of a ship, after serving in her a while. Our mood was solemn. Everyone realized what we were up against. Poole obviously had to have help, but to get it for him involved jeopardizing our mission. If, for any reason, the Macon had been diverted from Montevideo, were not within reach, if no other US Navy unit could be sent to assist us—and I knew of none anywhere about—we should have to ask for diplomatic clearance for entry into Montevideo. Once the message was sent, we would be powerless to avert public disclosure of our mission. Unless we could carry Poole for two weeks longer, to Pearl, it had to be either Macon—with whose help we might yet salvage our continuously submerged record—or Montevideo. Success in our cruise meant a lot to all of us; only I had an inkling how much it might mean to our country.
Actually, although I technically made the decision and took the responsibility for it, there really was no decision to be made. Circumstances had made it for us. I picked up the wardroom telephone and dialed “O,” which rings the phone at the elbow of the Officer of the Deck.
I held the receiver to my ear, waited until I heard a voice—it was “Whitey” Rubb.
“Officer of the Deck,” he said.
“Reverse course, Whitey,” I said. “Make your course zero zero nine degrees true and increase speed to Flank. Secure the reconnaissance party. We are heading for Montevideo.”
Recessed into one of the wardroom bulkheads are dials showing the ship’s speed, course, and depth. I watched as the gyro repeater rotated swiftly about until it finally settled at a heading just to the right of north. The speed dial also increased, until it indicated the maximum of which Triton was capable.
And then there was a feeling of frustrated despair for which there was no solution, except to carry on with what we were doing. I took a piece of paper and, with Jim Stark’s help, composed a message stating our problem and asking for aid. It was almost as though I were writing finis to our effort and to the high hopes with which we had started the cruise. Finis, all brought to an end, because of a tiny calcified growth smaller than a grain of sand, which had lodged in the wrong place in a man’s body!
It was very hard not to feel bitter against both fate and Poole.
There was a moment of comfort when I looked up the Macon in the Atlantic Fleet Organization pamphlet. I knew she was flagship of the task force in the South Atlantic, and I was pleased to see that the Admiral on board was listed as E. C. Stephan, my one-time Squadron Commander in Key West years ago. Macon’s skipper also was a very familiar officer, having been one of our most renowned and successful submarine commanders during World War II. I had never served with him and had last encountered him some years previously in the Pentagon, but everyone in the Navy knew of Reuben T. Whitaker and his dour, enthusiastic efficiency.
Not that friendship, per se, cuts any ice one way or another. But the tie of shared service certainly feels good when you’re looking for help.
The question at this point was simply whether or not Rear Admiral Ed Stephan and Captain Reuben Whitaker would be able to help us.
Drafting a naval message—condensing it to say all that needs to be said with as few words as possible, and then encoding it—takes time. It was a full two hours before we were ready to transmit a final draft. We briefly described the medical facts, and announced that we were proceeding to the vicinity of Montevideo at maximum speed. We would arrive there by one o’clock in the morning of the fifth of March, we said, and, not knowing how else to state it, we put our plea for help in plain English: “Can Macon meet us and transfer Poole?” the message asked.
As we searched the chart for a suitable rendezvous, I was struck by the fact that not far off Montevideo there is a small relatively shallow spot in an otherwise deep ocean area. Probably merchant ships heading to or from the harbor would avoid it—a desirable factor. Should the weather preclude celestial observations, it also gave both Macon and Triton a fixed point of reference for navigation by fathometer. The spot we selected was smack in the center of the shallow area.
General Dynamics
When we took Triton to sea on its initial run, she was the world’s largest submarine. Her 447½-foot hull was powered by two nuclear reactors which propelled her at record speeds.
Official U.S. Navy Photo
For the long voyage, we stowed 77,613 pounds of provisions, including 1,300 pounds of coffee. Here, Ramon D. Baney, Commissaryman Second Class, and Seaman Joseph W. Tilenda load additional stores into an already jammed compartment.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
At the first of our four crossings of the equator, King Neptune (Chief Firecontrol Technician Loyd L. Garlock) came aboard with his cigar-smoking Queen (Torpedoman Second Class Wilmot A. Jones) and barrel-girthed Royal Baby (Engineman Second Class Harry Olsen); the pollywogs (sailors crossing the equator for the first time) were initiated by the Royal Court of King Neptune and, henceforth, were known as Shellbacks.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
The ceremony initiation included a visit to the Royal Barbers, whose clippers shaved an erratic path across the pollywogs’ scalps. Shortly after this photograph was taken, the Barbers clipped their own heads in self-defense. (Left to right, Chief Engineman Alfred E. Abel; Quartermaster Third Class Carl C. Hall; Lieutenant Tom B. Thamm; Gunners Mate First Class Peter P.J. Kollar; Photographer First Class Earnest R. Meadows.)
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks, looming starkly in the mid-Atlantic, marked the official departing and terminating point of the Triton’s circumnavigation of the earth.
Official U.S. Navy Photo
If we were to complete our voyage within the allotted time, keeping on course was essential, and I had frequent navigation conferences with Lieutenant Commander Robert W. Bulmer, Operations Officer (left), and Lieutenant Commander Will M. Adams, Jr., Executive Officer (right).
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
While galelike winds and twelve-foot waves boiled the waters at Cape Horn, we sat safely sixty-five feet below the surface with a barely perceptible roll to hint at the strong currents and high seas.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
The radar in the Combat Information Center, operated by Chief Radar-man Bernard E. Pile, clearly outlines the nodule shape of Cape Horn.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
Hospitalman First Class “J” “C” Meaders checked the film badges of each crewman regularly to determine if anyone had endured excess radiation.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
Part of our mission was a study of ocean currents, so Torpedoman First Class Robert R. Tambling ejected brightly colored bottles along our route. Within each bottle was a message asking the finder to report his discovery to the United States Navy Hydrographic Office in Washington, D.C., indicating the position and date of his find.
Official U.S. Navy Photo
Lieutenant Milton R. (“Whitey”) Rubb was our custodian of sea water. From each of the seven seas we gathered separate samples, and in one bottle we com
bined waters from each of the seas to present to the superintendent of the United States Naval Academy for use at the annual midshipmen’s Ring Dance.
Official U.S. Navy Photo
The nerve center of any ship is its Combat Information Center. Here is where we maintained our contact with the outside world and plotted the track of the Triton.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
With this newly designed control panel, Seaman David E. Boe guides the ship in a manner similar to a pilot flying an airplane, while Chief Radarman Bernard E. Pile observes.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
With precise instruments, such as our fathometer and precision depth recorder, we could chart our track across the ocean floor.
Official U.S. Navy Photo
To relieve the tedium of the three-month voyage, some men played chess, others ate . . . (Left to right, Engineman Third Class Arlan F. Martin, Quartermaster Third Class Anton F. Madsen, Torpedoman First Class Stanley L. Sieveking.) . . . and others formed a band with a makeshift horn, a pair of bongo drums, a guitar, and some willing voices. They might not have qualified for Birdland, but below the decks of the Triton they were a sensation. (Left to right, Chief Engineman Alfred E. Abel, Engineman Third Class James A. Steinbauer, Machinist First Class Colvin R. Cochrane, Fireman Raymond R. Kuhn, Jr.)
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
Dr. Benjamin B. Weybrew at work on his own very special chart, on which he recorded the varying emotions and reactions of the Triton crew members who participated in his psychological study.
Official U.S. Navy Photo
When we reached Guam, at the conclusion of the longest leg of our trip, I invited Steward Second Class Edward C. Carbullido to the conn. He was born on Guam, and through the periscope he saw his home town, Agat, which he had left fourteen years before.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
We spent nearly six hours making a photo reconnaissance of Guam. Undetected, we observed Navy planes landing and taking off.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
In Makassar Strait, this two-masted relic from the age of sail loomed clearly in the periscope lens.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
While traversing Hilutangan Channel, we spotted this Philippine boat with its triangular sail. In the distance are the faint outlines of the mountains of Bohol Island.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
In Magellan Bay I raised the periscope and looked at a young Filipino in an outrigger canoe. He was the only unauthorized person to spot our submarine during the voyage. Later, we were told he was nineteen-year-old Rufino Baring of Mactan Island, and he was still convinced he had seen a sea monster.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
Through the Makassar Strait, across the Java Sea to Lombok Strait, where Mount Agung on the island of Bali rose majestically through the low-lying clouds.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
The city of Santa Cruz on Tenerife Island in the Canaries, one of the most spectacular sights we encountered.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
Wallowing along through the choppy waters of the Indian Ocean, just south of the Cape of Good Hope, this tanker was completely unaware that he had a visitor.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
When we reached the coast of Spain, off Cadiz, the destroyer John W. Weeks sent out a long boat to secure the plaque we had cast for presentation to the Spanish government in commemoration of Magellan’s historic voyage. Coming aboard a partially emerged submarine can be hazardous, as these dunked seamen discovered. It was a good thing we were hove to.
The inscription on the plaque reads:
“Hail, Noble Captain,
It Is Done Again.”
General Dynamics
To each of the crew members who participated in the Triton’s voyage a commemorative medallion was presented. Here, Engineman First Class Walter J. Allen receives his medal.
Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society
Commissaryman Second Class Earl E. Bruch, Jr., sporting a voyage-grown set of handlebars, draws a doubtful twirl from his son after the ship docked at its home station in New London, Connecticut.
Midday is always a bad time to transmit messages, particularly over long distances, for it is well known that much greater range is possible at night. Time, however, was important, for we had no idea what sort of schedule Macon might be trying to keep. As soon as the message was ready, we slowed, came to periscope depth, and transmitted it to, of all places, the U.S. radio station on Guam, some eighty-three hundred miles away straight across the South Pole. Then Triton headed again for the depths and resumed maximum speed.
Our narrative for this period contains the following entries:
Since turning back, except for the time spent transmitting our call for help, Triton has been racing northward, deep beneath the sea, at the maximum speed that her two great propellers can drive her. There is no noticeable motion in the ship, not even vibration. All we note is a slight drumming of the superstructure from her swift passage through the water. Forward she is as steady as a church, as solid, and as quiet. Aft, only the powerful turbine roar gives away the tremendous energy she is putting into the water.
In the control and living spaces, the ship has quieted down, too. Orders are given in low voices; the men speak to each other, carry out their normal duties, in a repressed atmosphere. A regular pall has descended upon us. I know that all hands are aware of the decision and recognize the need for it. Perhaps they are relieved that they did not have to make it. But it is apparent that this unexpected illness, something that could neither have been foreseen nor prevented, may ruin our submerged record. If the Macon cannot meet us, if we have to go into the port of Montevideo to transfer Poole to medical authorities, we shall have to surface. We shall still, in that event, continue the cruise, for this would affect only our incentive factor. But that would be a big loss.
Naturally, there was no mention in the Log of any overriding reason, other than our perfectly understandable desire for the trip to be entirely submerged all the way.
As we raced north, I gave a great deal of thought to what we should do when we reached Montevideo. There was the possibility that Poole would have another remission, and, in fact, there was always the possibility that this third attack would be his last. We would have a day and a half to find out, and it might even be possible, if Macon couldn’t come to the requested rendezvous, to stretch things another few hours and wait and see. But I couldn’t, in my heart, give much for our chances of not having to surface and enter port, if Macon could not get to us.
On the other hand, if Macon did meet us, we had a fighting chance. We could “broach” the ship—that is, get the upper part of the conning tower out of water—and convert the conning tower itself into a big airlock. Triton’s pressure hull and superstructure would remain entirely submerged. Only the upper part of the sail and part of the conning tower would in fact broach the surface—a maneuver submarines have performed for years—and this critical part of the ship would have been previously sealed off from the rest. Poole and the transfer party would be inside the conning tower, would be called to the bridge when Macon’s boat approached, and transfer across with ease.
The big “if” was the Macon. There was no doubt that she could do the job. The question was whether she was where I thought she was.
That night I wrote in the Log:
2300 Periscope depth. Maybe there will be a message for us—there could be, though it is probably too soon. . . .
2325 There is, indeed, a message for us from Admiral Da
spit. Admiral Stephan is getting underway in the Macon and will meet us at the time and place we have requested.
For the second time in as many days a lead weight has been rolled off my chest. The news is immediately announced to the entire ship and at the same time we can now announce how we shall handle the rendezvous and transfer. We will not surface, at least, not fully.
All during that long day, Jim Stark and his Hospitalmen took turns keeping watch on Poole. His appearance was shocking. His face was swollen, eyes puffed up and half-shut, tears running down his nose and cheeks. He groaned continuously, sometimes in a low whimper, sometimes with startling loudness. From previous experience and Jim Stark’s warnings, I knew that he had been pretty heavily loaded with sedation and was in fact totally out of his head. In a way, I had by now become steeled to Poole’s expression, for apparently he had no recollection of the excruciating pain of his previous two attacks. But I became acutely conscious of the uncomfortable gazes and averted eyes of Poole’s worried shipmates. During his first attack, I had thought of moving him somewhere, and similarly during the second. But Triton had no sick bay; outside of making it easier for Meaders, Fickel, Gladd, and Chief Williams, our four Hospitalmen, plus Jim Stark, all of whom were taking turns watching over Poole, the only other people who would really benefit from our setting up a sick bay would be those men who had to berth in the same area.
There was only one place in the ship which could be used for such a purpose without displacing a number of other people, and where, besides providing room for the medical equipment needed, Poole could be out of sight. The additional privacy would certainly mean nothing to him in his condition, but it would be highly desirable from the point of view of the rest of the men. After thinking it over, I gave orders that this time he be moved into my bunk. It proved to be a good decision, whatever else resulted, for it certainly demonstrated the truth of the adage that “out of sight, out of mind.” Everyone perked up once Poole’s sufferings were removed from public gaze, and we became positively cheerful after receipt of the Force Commander’s encouraging message.
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