Around the World Submerged

by Edward L. Beach

  On the eastern side of Lombok Strait there is another mountain, even higher than Mt. Bali: Mt. Rindjani. Both shores could be seen clearly. A village was visible at the foot of Mt. Rindjani on Lombok, but none on Bali, which only had terraced hillsides up a goodly portion of the steep sides of the volcano.

  Although there were also many bare spots, Bali was bright with green verdure and held promise of many lovely valleys tucked away here and there amid the crags and outcroppings worn by centuries of weather and covered [in most places] with a skin of fertile soil. One could well believe the many stories told of the delightful living conditions and handsome, friendly inhabitants. It looks like a good life.

  1029 In connection with our hydrographic and oceanographic work, of which very little can be told in this report, we seized the opportunity while in Lombok Strait to obtain deep-water samples, measure the general density, and observe temperature and other characteristics of the water. One of the simplest ways of measuring density is by behavior of the ship herself, since she will be considerably lighter in denser water and heavier in less-dense water. Correlation with known constants can give us a very good measure of the actual water conditions. To this is added careful analysis of the sample itself.

  Upon going deep in Lombok Strait there were two distinct layers where the temperature changed rather rapidly, and at maximum submergence Triton was some 20 tons lighter than at periscope depth. This was easily understood, for directly to the south were the cool, deep waters of the Indian Ocean, while to the north were the warmer, saltier and shallow waters of the Sunda Sea and Flores Sea.

  The heavy currents reported to exist here at various depths we can also well believe, and we have measured them. The existence of these currents bears out theories regarding the meeting of the Indian Ocean and the Flores Sea, and the resulting water density changes.

  1215 Sighted ship bearing 205° true, at 7000 yards. Once again, in tracking the vessel, it proved difficult at first to determine his angle on the bow because he was continually changing course. Finally, he straightened out as the others did earlier today, and came by us at a reasonable range, steady course and speed. The vessel was a small but beautifully maintained trawler type. Probably a fisherman, possibly a government vessel or even a small yacht.

  1300 Through the periscope sighted ahead a ridge of water several feet high, apparently caused by the confluence of the waters sweeping down from the north through Lombok Strait and those of the Indian Ocean coming up from the south. About this time the Diving Officer [Jim Hay] was having difficulty maintaining periscope depth at ⅓ speed. ⅔ speed was ordered to give him a little more control. In spite of this, and with a slight up angle, the ship slowly drifted downward. We thought all the time this would shortly stop, when suddenly the depth gauges began to spin; depth increased to 125 feet in the space of 40 seconds. Standard speed was ordered to pull out of the involuntary dive, and we steadied out at 125 feet, shortly thereafter regaining periscope depth with an entirely new set of trim readings.

  In reconstructing the incident, it would appear that a strong northerly current of less dense Indian Ocean water had been setting in to Lombok Strait for some time, but that a current from the north was also making up. This would account for the apparent ridge or “wall” of water which we had seen ahead, for the variations of the water density when we went deep not long before, and for the erratic courses of the ships we had been watching.

  At the point where we experienced the sudden change in depth, it would appear that there must have been a swirling of water, perhaps a downward current, as the Indian Ocean current met the Lombok Strait current.

  Nick Mabry, the Hydrographic Office representative for oceanography, confirms our hypothesis as being a probable one. It was as though we had hit a hole in the water which acted on us as a down draft would act on an aircraft. Under the circumstances, Triton’s size, tremendously strong hull and great power pretty well eliminated any danger, especially since we had tight control of the ship at all times; but the situation of a wartime submarine with a weaker hull and only battery power must have been less comfortable.

  I had experienced changes in water density many times before, but never one of this magnitude, nor this suddenness. There had been wartime reports of British submarines in the Mediterranean having somewhat the same experience, and some of the hard-to-believe stories of the period laid heavy losses in “the Med” to this phenomenon.

  1313 Sighted an outrigger canoe with a sail bearing 144° true. Approached and photographed same. It appeared to have a whole family aboard.

  1400 With all contacts pretty well out of sight, periscope liberty was announced for those who might be interested. Approximately 75 crew members came into the conning tower to say a fond hello and sad farewell to Bah of the beauteous damsels. They will at least be able to say they have seen it.

  1630 Entered the Indian Ocean. Next stop—Cape of Good Hope.

  From the Log, Wednesday, 6 April 1960:

  There is one bit of good news to report today. Using substitute materials exclusively and manufacturing all the special tools needed, Herbert Hardman has rewound the control-air-compressor motor. It became, in fact, a special project, dubbed “practical instructions for electricians.” Under Hardman’s tutelage, George Bloomingdale, Jessie Vail and Herbert Zeller, all Electrician’s Mates First Class, have really turned-to in their off-watch hours, and all four deserve much credit. It was a mean job, the motor being a 10 horsepower 3-phase type. Merely digging out all the ruined windings and cleaning up the stator took over a week. When assembled, the motor ran perfectly the first time it was tried.

  During the past several weeks our urgent need for a fathometer has been somewhat allayed because of the very fine performance of the active ranging sonar equipment; so the complete lack of success of our intensive efforts to devise a new fathometer is philosophically accepted. At this point, my biggest regret is the disappointment the failure must be causing to Simpson, Docker and Blaede, who have put so many hours into the project. When we get back to New London, we’ll give their sound head a thorough evaluation, just for the experience of seeing it work.

  2339 As we make this observation, our sense of well-being is shattered again: the active sonar is reported out of commission; cause not yet determined. It is the report I have been dreading most. We still have thousands of miles to travel through not-too-well-sounded waters. Without a fathometer, it is essential that we keep our active sonar in commission.

  Thursday, 7 April 1960 0050 A thorough check of the active sonar has revealed that a tube has failed from long continuous usage. With a new tube installed, the equipment is functioning as well as ever, and Will Adams, Bob Bulmer and I are greatly relieved. Bob, having officially relieved Will as Navigator when we left Lombok behind, finally feels light hearted enough to accuse his mentor of having deliberately caused the sonar failure to take place at this precise moment. Will grins. “Of course I did,” he says. At which point I don’t know whether to believe these clowns or not.

  Sunday, 10 April 1960 0000 Ventilation secured after a thorough sweep-out of the atmosphere of the ship. One of the requirements of the cruise is to conduct a sealed-ship test under controlled conditions for observation of certain phenomena. Our time with a sealed atmosphere will not approach that of Seawolf in 1958, mainly because of the expense of all that oxygen, nor does it need to, so far as this test is concerned. But since we are a brand-new ship, this is one of the things we need to accomplish merely to develop our own techniques and limiting factors.

  Until now, except for short periods for testing of our equipment, it had been our practice to come to periscope depth every night for about an hour, and run up the ventilation pipe for a sweep-out of the bad air and replacement with fresh sea air. Life under these conditions had its rigorous aspects. Little by little, during the day, the oxygen content of our atmosphere was reduced as the 183 men on board Triton slowly consumed it. Toward the end of the day, it usually had become oppre
ssively low.

  We were not concerned about the accumulation of carbon dioxide, for one or more of the carbon-dioxide-removal apparatuses was run continuously and we had no difficulty in keeping the carbon-dioxide content under control. The average consumption of oxygen by active persons, however, is just under a cubic foot of oxygen per man per hour, and a very close correlation was immediately found to exist between our oxygen consumption and the days of the week. On Sundays, when there was very little going on beyond normal ship cruising routine, the oxygen consumption per man approximated seven-tenths of a cubic foot per hour. Friday was Field Day, with all hands up and turning to, and the average consumption this day was always about one cubic foot per hour. As a consequence, one of the disadvantages of our Friday Field Days was the labored breathing which afflicted all hands the last few hours prior to running up the snorkel pipe.

  We discovered other phenomena, too. For example, increasing the pressure of the ship’s internal atmosphere had no effect upon the percentage of oxygen it contained, but it did have an effect upon the total amount of oxygen in each cubic foot of atmosphere. Thus, deliberately increasing the air pressure in the ship by a pound or so per square inch greatly improved the ability of our laboring lungs to draw in oxygen, and consequently everyone felt better. The difficulty with this scheme was that as soon as we began ventilating to the atmosphere, the pressure would reduce to normal. If we luxuriated in hyper-pressure atmosphere for too long a period, some of us might temporarily be exposed to an atmosphere below the minimum allowed oxygen content before our ventilation blowers had managed to sweep out the bad air.

  It is remarkable how much stability the human body requires within the wide range of the possible conditions of nature. Ideally, man should be in a temperature of around 70°; by various stratagems, he is able to exist over a temperature range of perhaps 120°, centered on the 70° midpoint. But temperatures in nature can go down to a minus 459° F—which it does in outer space—or up into the thousands of degrees.

  Man is acclimated to twenty-one percent of oxygen in the air at normal pressure. He suffers acutely if the oxygen percentage drops only a few points, to seventeen percent, for example, or rises much above twenty-one percent. At the time that we in Triton began to feel distressed, we would have consumed only one-sixth of the available oxygen in the atmosphere of the ship. Were the oxygen percentage to rise above the norm of twenty-one, we should probably experience most of the effects of ordinary intoxication.

  There was really nothing unusual in these “discoveries” which we were making; submariners have known and applied the principles for years. But there is no substitute for experience, which opens many new avenues of inquiry.

  For example, there was the question whether gradual oxygen reduction each day for a prolonged period would have any damaging consequences on us. The effects of depriving the human body of oxygen all at once to an excessive degree are well known. But what about minor deprivation for many days? No observable deleterious effects have been noted, but many highly qualified medical people have recently been devoting considerable research to this question. The problem ranges from the physical to the psychological, from an environment of oxygen deficiency to one in which the entire atmosphere is mechanically controlled and stabilized at some optimum point.

  From the Log:

  The Medical Research Laboratory in New London has been pursuing this particular project for a long time, the first announced test being Operation Hideout in the mothballed submarine Haddock in 1953. Doctors Ben Weybrew and Jim Stark have been discussing the sealed-atmosphere test for several days, and finally have proposed a procedure. We will remain sealed for approximately 2 weeks, running various physical and psychological tests among selected volunteers from the crew. Somewhere during the mid-point of this period we will put out the smoking lamp for an extended time. Careful checking of all factors will continue for several more days before terminating the study.

  The purpose of the no-smoking test was partly psychological, but there was a question of atmospheric research, too. Smoking, nuclear submariners had discovered, was their only source of carbon monoxide. In a completely sealed atmosphere, accumulation of carbon monoxide could not be permitted because of its deadly brain-damaging tendency. Expensive equipment had been devised and installed to convert it into carbon dioxide, so that it might be “scrubbed” from our atmosphere along with the carbon dioxide exhaled from our lungs.

  One of the questions raised was whether or not this equipment was worth the cost; or whether it would be better to prohibit smoking in a completely sealed atmosphere, instead of going to the added expense and trouble of installing the carbon-monoxide removal apparatus purely because of the psychological satisfaction that some men got out of smoking. All this, of course, has a direct bearing on the endurance of submarines at sea—their ability to cope with the various problems they would undoubtedly encounter, and the efficiency with which they might be expected to operate under various severe conditions. The data that we were helping to gather would become available to our first space pioneers also.

  Everyone on board was determined to go through with the test in good heart and spirit, but as the dread day for putting out the smoking lamp approached, various reactions were noticeable among crew members. The nonsmokers were lording it over the others, describing with great relish how the test would have no effect whatsoever on them, and there was an aura of apprehension among the habitual smokers. Even before we put the smoking lamp out, the witticisms had an edge to them, and some of the protestations that “smoking don’t mean that much to me” developed a noticeably defensive tinge.

  One saving feature in the eyes of many was the fact that both doctors on board, Commander Jim Stark, who dabbled in psychology, and Dr. Ben Weybrew, professional psychologist attached to the Medical Research Laboratory, were themselves inveterate smokers. Weybrew created quite a stir, therefore, the evening before the test was scheduled to begin, when he casually tossed his pipe into the garbage ejection chute. He, at least, was ready to make his sacrifice for science, and it was said that he whistled happily as he prepared the charts and the graphs he would draw as a result of our sufferings.

  One thing we did notice as soon as we sealed up the ship: maintaining our atmosphere at a common standard level of oxygen content was a far more comfortable way to exist. Among other things, the air conditioners had less work to do; once the humidity was brought to the optimum level, it was easy to maintain. Previously, and by contrast, the fresh air drawn in from just a foot or two above the surface of the tropical seas was extremely humid and salty, dampening the entire ship for a few hours until the air-conditioning machinery had caught up with it again. To illustrate a second advantage: perhaps I personally had become accustomed to the daily deprivation of oxygen, or perhaps I had simply been unaware of my reduced efficiency. At any rate, I found myself more alert, more alive, and less tired when breathing the artificial atmosphere than when we were taking daily snorts of fresh air.

  Everyone on board, I believe, had a somewhat similar reaction. We settled down quickly to the pleasantest period of the entire trip and, deeply submerged, crossed the Indian Ocean without physical contact with the outside in any way.

  The Indian Ocean, by the way, is to the US sailor one of the least-known oceans. Yet it was one of the better-known waters of Renaissance days. According to the chart, it is uniformly deep, its bottom scarred by relatively few of the peaks and valleys familiar to the Atlantic and Pacific. In color, the water seems somewhat bluer, more transparent, with less marine life and less natural or artificial flotsam and jetsam.

  During the war, the southern part of the Indian Ocean was especially active with German surface raiders and the British task forces set out to intercept them; and there were German, Japanese, British, and Dutch submarines on patrol in the area as well. So far as America is concerned, however, it is one of the oceans we still have to discover. Now that knowledge of the sea is of greater importance to our coun
try than ever before, it is probably time we learned some of the intimate details of this great and unexplored body of water.

  Monday, 11 April 1960 A message from ComSubPac relays information from ComSubLant announcing prospective promotion of Chief Petty Officers Bennett, Blair, Hampson, Hardman and Loveland to the rank of Ensign, and of the following First-Class Petty Officers to the rate of Chief Petty Officer: Hoke, Meaders, Lehman, Mather, Pion, Stott, Bloomingdale, Flasco, Fickel and Tambling. There is jubilation among the lucky advancement winners and good sportsmanship among the others. But this can’t be the entire promotion list, since examinations for all rates down to Third Class were held before departure. More information should be forthcoming soon. Five Ensigns and ten Chief Petty Officers is a tremendous haul for any single ship, particularly one with a crew of only 159 enlisted men. It is a tribute to the overall capability of our crew, and to the hard effort of the men themselves. The fact that their tests were taken during an extremely heavy watch-standing schedule, to which was added strenuous overtime preparation for an unusual cruise, adds to the accomplishment.

  The opportunity for hazing some of the lucky ones is too good to be missed. One by one they are called before me to be asked, in a grave voice, “What have you done to cause ComSubLant to send a message to us about your actions?” The look of incredulity on the faces of the first ones to arrive was real enough, but all ships have a sort of extra-sensory communication among the crew, and I doubt if the last few were particularly perturbed by my feigned severity.

  Tuesday, 12 April 1960 Seventh babygram—sixth girl, 9 1bs., born 8 April; father, Bruce F. Gaudet, IC3. Both mother and baby fine. Poor Gaudet had been getting a little worried, but he feels fine now.

  Six days a week all during our cruise, the Triton Eagle had faithfully come out in the early morning hours, composed directly on the duplicating machine paper by editor in chief Harold J. Marley and laboriously run off on the printing machine, with the ship’s office swept up afterward, by Audley R. Wilson, Radarman First Class, who comprised the entire staff of the paper outside of the editor. Except for one memorable day when Editor Marley took all his news from a three-year-old edition of the New York Times (detected by very few people, surprisingly), we had managed to get up-to-date news. Every day or so I managed to come up with a column of some kind for the paper—either “The Skipper’s Corner” or another, which I fondly hoped was a humor column, supposedly written by an unidentified person named Buck. Buck was an unregenerated sailor, butt of all jokes, apt only in hiding from work and the “OM” (myself, the “Old Man”). Theoretically, nobody knew that Buck was the “OM” himself.