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.
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 Daspit. 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.
There were a number of preparations we had to make for the rendezvous. It would, for example, be necessary to communicate with Macon by short-range, ultra-high-frequency radio. Should our UHF antennas be out of commission because of their already prolonged submergence, which was a distinct possibility, some sort of stand-by system would be necessary. Years ago, in Amberjack, we had experimented with using the periscope to transmit messages at night by the traditional flashing-light technique. Now, I directed that a flashing light be rigged up for use in the periscope. It would work, I assured the slightly dubious quartermasters. Later on, I happened to overhear the irrepressible Bill Marshall telling his crew, “Listen you guys, did you ever hear of the charge of the light brigade? The old man says we’re going to send blinker signals through the periscope, so we’re going to send blinker signals through the periscope. Don’t waste your time figuring it out!”
The metaphor was not exactly apt, for several obvious reasons, but I knew the gadget would work; so I chuckled inwardly, as I pretended not to have heard.
Another problem was that I did not know what instructions had been given to the Macon, other than to rendezvous with us and pick up a sick man. Her crew would probably be ashore in Montevideo on liberty immediately afterward and might be indiscreet. George Sawyer pointed out that the ship’s identification numbers were painted in big white numerals on the side of our sail and would be visible to the Macon and her boat’s crew when it came alongside. News of Triton’s presence so close to shore was bound to create intense interest in the city, should it become known.
We had no paint below decks, but there was some in a watertight tank in the sail. While we were awaiting the Macon’s boat, it was decided, a crew of men would hastily attempt to blot out the numbers with paint.
And, of course, there was Poole himself. He would have all identification removed and would have all the necessary papers attached to his person in a sealed packet to be delivered only to the Commanding Officer of the Macon. Included among them would be a request that he be segregated from the crew and protected from curious questioners. If he were to have a remission prior to the transfer, we planned also to spend some time briefing him, but if not, these provisions would satisfy the situation.
In describing the transfer of Poole to the Macon, which took place early on the morning of the fifth of March, 1960,1 could not do better than to repeat verbatim the entries I wrote in the ship’s official report of the incident.
Our rendezvous with Macon is for 2 A.M. At 0100 we slowed and came to periscope depth. Macon is out there waiting for us.
The rendezvous is perfect. She is heading south, we north, and the two ships meet at the designated position.
I was pleased to find that our UHF radio worked perfectly, despite the fact that it had been long under water and subjected to high speeds. Since we had built a gadget to signal through the periscope, however, I wanted to test it out. It was a dark night, with rain and poor visibility, but to my smug satisfaction and the expressed surprise of three quartermasters in the conning tower, we found ourselves able to exchange calls perfectly with the Macon. We had rigged a light inside a tin can with a wire and a sending key attached to it. By focusing the periscope directly on the Macon and holding the tin can tightly against the rubber eyeguard, we found it possible to send a perfectly readable signal to the bridge of the other ship.
The only trouble was that it took both of our periscopes to perform this little stunt, inasmuch as one had to be used to receive return signals while the other one was transmitting; and after we had satisfied ourselves that it would work, and had tired of the performance, Macon kept trying to talk to us by flashing her light just when I wanted to use the periscope for other purposes.
0245 Approximately in position for the transfer.
0250 Broached on safety tank. Ship’s depth gauge reduces to 42 feet, indicating that the top of the conning tower should be three feet out of water. All hands are ready; the lower conning tower hatch is shut. I hastily don a jacket and a cap and then direct Curtis K. Beacham, QM1 (SS), to crack open the conning tower upper hatch very cautiously in case the gauges at this shallow depth are not precisely accurate or if there is an inch or two of water above it—which indeed there is. A small cascade pours down through the barely opened hatch, and we jam it shut again. This is remedied by a short blast of high pressure air into our most forward tank, thus lifting the bow a foot or two more and giving a better drainage angle to the bridge.
A second time I direct Beacham to open the hatch, and this time no water comes in. We are out of water. He holds it at a quarter-inch opening for a minute or two to be sure that water is not sweeping over it. None does. It is definitely out. “Open the hatch!” I tell him. He flips it open, jumps out. I am right behind him. As I swing up the ladder to the bridge, one deck above, by prearrangement Beacham jumps below again and slams the hatch nearly closed, ready to shut it instantly the rest of the way should the bridge become swamped.
It is a lonely feeling to be the only man topside in an 8000 ton ship which is 99% under water. We have been very careful with our computations, but there’s always the possibility that some miscalculation somewhere, or a sudden change in water density, might send her suddenly back down again. There is however not much time to dwell upon this, and besides there’s every chance it will not happen. Triton’s crew is too well trained, too intent on doing this thing correctly. Will Adams, Bob Bulmer and Tom Thamm are down below watching over this operation like old mother hens, and nearly everyone else is standing by his station just in case. There won’t be any mistakes down there.
All looks well on the bridge, though I notice that one of the hand rails has been broken loose by the force of the water and will undoubtedly be a source of rattles in the future if it is not already. Otherwise, everything looks about the same as it did three weeks ago when we submerged. It is pretty dark but there seems to be fair visibility, despite a drizzle of rain. I fumble for the bridge command speaker, find the knob just where it is supposed to be. Pressing upon it, I call the conning tower and, to our mutual and infinite pleasure, Will Adams immediately answers from down below. We had pretty well expected this instrument to be grounded out from its prolonged submergence and it is a boon to find it in working order.
With communication once established, things are a great deal easier. I pick up the binoculars, scan the Macon and the water between us. We are lying to, stern into the wind, about five hundred yards downwind from her. She is broadside to us, her decks amidships ablaze with lights where her deck crew is hoisting out a motor whaleboat. All we have to do is receive their boat, when it comes, and keep a careful watch on the other ship to ensure that she does not drift down upon us. This will be easy, since our radar is constantly reporting ranges.
I reach forward, press the 7MC command communication button and call into it, just to make sure: “Control, Bridge; keep and log ranges to the Macon and report immediately when she commences to close.”
The return from Bob Bulmer in the control
room is immediate; “Range 600 yards, Bridge, and steady.”—Then a minute later, “Bridge,—from the Macon, their boat is in the water heading toward us.”
I acknowledge over the 7MC and direct my next order to Will Adams in the conning tower. “Conn, Bridge—send George Sawyer and the topside line handling party to the bridge, through the conning tower hatch.” We had already arranged that this group of people under our First Lieutenant and Gunnery Officer would be standing by with all necessary equipment. Upon the order they would proceed up one by one to the bridge and prepare to receive the lines from the Macon’s boat when it comes alongside.
Two of them had been directed to break out paint pots and brushes and carry them down with them to slosh paint over the number on the side of the sail, after which the brushes and pots would be discarded overboard. I had not been too keen on this idea when it was first suggested, but had allowed myself to be talked into it. It did have merit, of course, but I found myself wondering how these men were going to manage paint can and brush in one hand and hang on to the handrail on the side of the sail with the other.
Will Adams’ answer from Conning Tower comes back immediately. “Line handlers are standing by. We will open the lower conning tower hatch as soon as ready.”
A few minutes later, “Bridge, Conn—request permission to open the bridge hatch and send line handling party topside.” I press the speaker button and respond, “Bridge, aye. Permission granted.”
In a moment George Sawyer’s determined voice resounds from the bridge, “Line handlers on the lower bridge, sir, Sawyer and four men.”
I have been looking over the side to decide which is the better angle for the boat to approach from; the starboard side looks a bit better; besides, the access door from our sail is on that side. “Stand by to take them alongside the starboard side, George,” I call down to him, “I’ll signal the boat to make our starboard side.”
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