William Green, our Chief Steward, for some reason known to most of the crew as “Joe,” was standing in the passageway outside my door. Gratefully, I peeled off the uncomfortable heavy garments and passed them to him.
“Dry them out well, Green, and then put them away,” I said. “I won’t be needing them for a while.”
Chief Green, a heavy-set Negro, could upon occasion assume an artless manner calculated to elicit information. It had more than once worked pretty well, but this time I was ready for him.
“It might be cold on the bridge up there in the North Sea, Captain,” he said. “Maybe I’d better just fold these up and keep them where you can get at them.”
Almost, but not quite, his face assumed the expression of solicitous concern he wanted to convey.
“Get out of here, Green,” I said with feigned severity, “and take that gear with you.”
“Aren’t we going up north, sir?” Green’s carefully contrived expression—his big round eyes and innocently questioning face—were too much to hold, and he broke into a broad, white-toothed grin. “Are we going to keep heading down into the warm water, Captain?”
“Green,” I said, lowering my voice to a confidential tone, “I’ll tell you right where you can go in about five seconds. You’re not about to get around me this time!”
Not a whit abashed, Green exited with his arms loaded, chuckling loudly. I sat at my desk and pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward me. A rather comprehensive report of our trip was going to be required of us and we might as well start.
“Dived,” I wrote on the paper. “We shall not surface until May.”
But then, with this bit of incriminating information in black and white before me, I carefully hid the sheet for the time being among the ever-present pile in the basket marked “incoming.”
6
About 2240, traveling deep at high speed, Triton crossed the south boundary of the submarine operating area off Montauk Point. The last statutory restriction on our movements had been satisfied. But instead of changing course from south to east, which would have been in order had we intended only to clear Nantucket before heading into the North Atlantic, we changed half as much, to southeast. Some time would pass before the crew recognized the difference, I felt. It was logical to get well clear of the coast before squaring away on our run to the north. But the big secret could not keep very much longer, for submarine sailors are traditionally alert to their ships’ movements.
We had actually started the first leg of our voyage, a 3,250-mile run to a seldom-visited islet several hundred miles off the Brazilian coast and nearly on the equator.
We had plotted our course to travel the length of the Atlantic Ocean twice: first, on a southerly track; and second, on the return leg, on a northerly course. The shortest route brought us close to South America on our way to Cape Horn; and our return put us on a course for the bulge of Africa after rounding the Cape of Good Hope. From there, we could head for Spain. But following this course had a great disadvantage: though we would two times have traveled the length of the Atlantic, the earth would not be girdled until we closed the gap between our nearly parallel north-south tracks—until arrival home, in other words. Yet by a relatively slight diversion, we could intersect our original track somewhere near the equator. Completing our circumnavigation at the equator made sense, for if our radioed instructions from Washington for the ceremony off Spain called for us to surface the ship, we might be forced to break our submergence record.
Operationally, there was no legitimate reason for a diversion; but morale is most important in ships on long, lonely voyages like ours. It would take us a few extra days—three as I recall—and after urgent argument in Washington it had been agreed that the circumnavigational part of our trip should be completed before any ceremonies, and should have a starting and ending point which could be photographed. A suitable spot was a tiny islet in the mid-Atlantic some fifty miles north of the equator, marked on the chart as “St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks.” And it was there, we decided, we would close our loop around the earth. After that, we could surface if necessary without giving ammunition to some technically-minded heckler. But we hoped to go the entire route submerged anyway, as a submarine should, and we had made preparations to photograph the “Rocks” through the periscope, while submerged.
Before dawn on the morning of the seventeenth of February, we brought Triton to periscope depth for morning star sights and for ventilation. The necessity of doing this was a far greater restriction on our progress than might at first appear, for with periscopes raised the ship had to proceed at slow speed. If Triton were to make all the speed of which she is capable, an extended periscope would be seriously damaged, or possibly snapped off at the base, by the force of driving through the water. In addition, before coming to periscope depth, one must first listen cautiously at slow speed for surface ships in the vicinity. The entire process—slowing down, changing course to listen on various bearings and at various depths, coming up and then remaining at slow speed for a variety of purposes while at periscope depth—takes considerable time. Naturally, the time is programmed for the maximum possible use. Not much can be done with the time spent coming up, but while at periscope depth, in addition to making celestial observations, we can raise our air-induction mast and pump in a good fresh supply of air (thus preserving our precious oxygen supply); we try to pick up a news broadcast on our tape recorder for later rerun; and, since there is less resistance from pressure of the sea at shallow depths, it is easier to eject our garbage and to blow out our refuse from the sanitary tanks.
But every minute spent at reduced speed requires many times that minute to recover the distance lost. Every hour was precious, because the high “speed of advance” (SOA) required to complete the trip within the allotted time did not give even Triton’s fabulous power plant much leeway. One of our objectives was to determine the limiting factors of sustained high speed, and there was little doubt that the test would be pretty conclusive.
A recently developed device was being tried out this morning. One of our periscopes featured a new development of the Kollmorgen Optical Company by which the altitude of celestial bodies could be observed as accurately through a periscope as with the trusted sextant. Until recent years, submarines were navigated in the same manner as any other ship, and to get their sights they had to be on the surface. Since nonnuclear subs have to be on the surface every day for long periods anyway, either to charge their batteries or to run at the high speeds which they can’t make while submerged, taking a sight presented no special problem—although I can recall several times during the war when I had to lash myself to a heaving, wet bridge and protect my sextant between sights with a sou’wester hat. The snorkel did not completely release the submarine from the surface, since air was still needed for the diesel engines, but it enabled the engines to be run at periscope depth, and this in turn focused attention upon the need for a new way of shooting stars. With the nuclear submarine’s greatly increased radius of action, taking sights through a periscope became a necessity. Many special periscopes have been built for the purpose, mainly by the Kollmorgen Optical Company, and perhaps a certain Lieutenant Fred Kollmorgen’s tour in the USS Skate has had something to do with this.
Two of the latest devices under development we did not yet have in full measure: a really effective way of generating oxygen from the sea, and a dependable means of determining position by gyroscopic instrumentation without celestial observations. Intensive effort had gone into the research and design necessary for a workable and safe oxygen generator for submarine use, and pilot models destined for the Polaris submarines were already being produced. All nuclear submarines carry stored oxygen, compressed in huge steel bottles. Having been completed too soon to have an oxygen generator, Triton also carried an extra supply of large “oxygen candles,” similar to those used by miners in some of our country’s deep pits. When ignited, these compounds of sodium, barium, and iron give off intense hea
t, some smoke, and lots of oxygen over and above that needed to support their own combustion. Appropriately, they must be set off in an “oxygen furnace,” and lest anyone see in them an answer to some personal or industrial need for oxygen, let him be warned that they are tricky and difficult to handle safely.
As for the gyroscopic navigation system, we had a pilot model for evaluation. Called “ship inertial navigation system,” or SINS, it was designed to measure earth rotation and other normally undetectable forces by means of extra-precise gyroscopes. Automatically it calculates latitude and longitude, and the results appear on dials on the face of a black box. Many a navigator, plagued by fog and bad weather, has thought of inventing such a gadget. As a midshipman at the Naval Academy, I had designed one, too, and, theoretically speaking, it might have worked. Now, many years later, similar computers are used in our ballistic missiles and two of them, “robbed” from missiles, had been placed aboard Nautilus and Skate for their polar explorations. One of our missions on this cruise was to give our SINS a thorough checkout, continually comparing its computed positions to our own best-determined fixes. When SINS is perfected, the only use a navigator will have for the stars will be for an occasional check—and to preserve one of the ancient and romantic arts of the seaman. This device will someday spell the end of that respected professional, the navigator of the open sea.
After exactly an hour of ventilating the ship, we pulled down the periscopes, shut the induction valves, and went deep again. In Triton, the “inboard hull ventilation valve”—our back-up in case the hydraulically operated outboard valve fails—is right outside the Captain’s stateroom, and is shut on diving by the duty wardroom steward. But despite Chief Steward William (“Joe”) Green’s extreme brawn, he could not shut the inboard hull ventilation valve. When I came aft from the conning tower, I found him grunting and heaving, tugging with bulging muscles at the long-handled operating mechanism. Before going deep, the ship had been checked tight with hydraulic and electric outboard valves both properly shut; thus, there was never any danger of flooding, but this critically important valve could not be closed no matter how hard we tried.
Submarines always have a “backup” for everything, so that a single casualty should not, of itself, spell catastrophe; but one of the reasons why the Squalus sank was that when her hydraulic air valve failed to shut, two hand-operated valves in the same tremendous air pipe also could not be shut. About a third of her crew drowned in the flooded after compartments and the rest were rescued through a newly developed diving rescue chamber. Squalus herself remained on the bottom for months until she could be raised and salvaged. It is perhaps appropriate to note that within a few weeks of the Squalus incident, the British and Japanese navies suffered similar submarine disasters, and in neither of those cases were any personnel rescued.
Triton’s design featured, among other things, a large, heavy steel plate in the overhead of the “officer’s country”—also right outside my room—which could be removed for inspection of the induction piping. The job took several hours, and the men working on the plate were so cramped for space that they could barely swing a wrench. But the plate finally came off and we found a smashed and rusted flashlight which had lodged in the induction valve seat, its crushed case testifying to the strength in “Joe” Green’s arms. Some careless workman had probably left it there months ago.
Who knows but what some other careless workman, or perhaps a survivor of Squalus’ crew, may even today carry in his soul the secret knowledge of why a similar valve could not be shut—or unaccountably swung open again—on that dreadful day?
Shortly before noon, Will Adams sought me out, carefully closing the door behind my stateroom curtain before speaking. “Captain, when do you plan to make the announcement about our trip?” he asked.
“Sometime tomorrow,” I told him. “What’s the hurry?”
“The whole crew is on edge, sir,” Will said. “They know we’re well clear of Nantucket. We should have headed northeast long ago, if we’re really going up north. Continuing on down this way is a giveaway that something is up.” Will paused. “Is there any special reason for not passing the word out now?”
“The only reason left,” I said, “is that if anything were to go wrong we might still have to turn back; and I wouldn’t want to come into port and have the word get out about this operation.”
Will nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, “but that could happen and wreck the trip any time. The crew knows that something is up and are making up all sorts of rumors.”
“There’s more, too,” I said. “For the time being, if we did have to go back, there would still be a chance to fix whatever is wrong and, by speeding up a little, make the trip on schedule anyway.”
Will nodded, not entirely convinced that staying on schedule was a matter of so much importance. He was my right-hand man, but I couldn’t tell him the one thing which I knew would change his mind.
There was a strain among all the officers, too. I felt it the moment Will and I joined them for lunch. In the wardroom, we resolutely kept the conversation away from this subject, but as the afternoon wore on I realized that regard for the feelings of our men required that they be informed earlier than I had originally intended. This being our first complete day at sea, after an extremely strenuous period of preparation, Will had scheduled no drills. Perhaps this was a mistake; it gave everyone more leisure to think about our prospects. In the meantime, our glorious ship was throwing the miles astern in joyous abandon. Shakedown cruise or no, she was on her way, and every mile made me all the more certain that here, at last, was a ship which would repay with interest all the heartbreak and unfulfilled promise of Trigger II.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, I believe, when I finally decided there was nothing to be gained by delaying the announcement any longer. It was easily done, using the ship’s general announcing microphone in the control room.
Everything seemed to stop when I said, sententiously “Now hear this!”
I could sense conversation stopping, people settling themselves to listen, some of them perhaps adjusting the volume of the speakers in their compartments the better to hear. Even the muted clamor of our pumps and blowers, the whirring hundreds of small motors whose continued performance was essential to Triton’s survival, seemed to hush—and yet they grew more distinct as surrounding noises subsided even more.
“Men,” I said, “I know you’ve all been waiting to learn what this cruise is about and why we’re still headed southeast. A number of you may have guessed before this that something special is taking place. The amount of provisions we have loaded aboard and the special preparations we’ve had to make have been a tip-off. I know also that you can guess why we have had to keep the real objectives of this cruise concealed until we were well on our way. Now, at last, I can tell you that we are going on the voyage which all submariners have dreamed of ever since they possessed the means of doing so. We have the ship and we have the crew. We are going to go around the world, nonstop. And we’re going to do it entirely submerged!”
If someone had dropped a wrench at that moment it would have sounded like a depth charge. There was absolute silence throughout the ship. My thumb, holding down the microphone button, was aching. I shifted hands, put the microphone to my lips again.
“I know you all realize what a test this is going to be of our new ship, and of ourselves,” I said. “No ship in the world, so far as I know, has ever made a voyage of such magnitude at the speed of advance which we shall have to maintain. There are many missions to accomplish. We have a regular schedule to meet. There are a lot of experiments to perform, a lot of readings to make, a lot of recordings and data to take. When we get back to the United States, we will be expected to turn in the most complete set of scientific data ever taken by a submarine.” I paused again, wondered why my hands were paining me so, shifted them for the second time, and went on.
“I know I don’t have to remind you of the importance th
at every man do his duty properly and exactly as required. I know you’ll all do that, for you all realize that upon each and every one of us depends the success of this cruise. I know that no one aboard would like to be the cause of our failure.
“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.
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