Around the World Submerged

by Edward Latimer Beach

  “Starboard side, aye aye,” from Sawyer. The four people with him are Peter P. J. Kollar, Gunner’s Mate First Class; Wilmot A. Jones, Torpedoman’s Mate Second Class and recently King Neptune’s Royal Consort; Thomas J. Schwartz (the profile), Torpedo-man’s Mate Third Class; and David E. Boe, Seaman.

  The noises emanating from the lower bridge indicate that Lt. Sawyer and his men are breaking out the necessary gear, stored there in a watertight tank, to receive the boat alongside. Each man has on an inflatable life jacket with attached flashlight, and a safety belt with traveler.

  The latter device is the result of an accident several years ago in northern latitudes, when the US Submarine Tusk rescued the crew of the sinking submarine Cochino. In preparation for the rescue, Tusk rigged lifelines on deck forward. Nevertheless, a huge sea came aboard, swept the people on deck off their feet against the lifeline and broke it, plunging them all into the sea. Herculean efforts on the part of the Tusk got most of them back aboard, but a number lost their lives in the freezing water.

  As a result of this accident, a safety track similar to a railroad rail was installed on the decks of all submarines. Anyone going topside in bad weather or under hazardous conditions wears a strong canvas belt, with chain and traveler attached. The traveler clamps over and slides along the safety track, and may only be put on or removed from the track at certain places. This arrangement permits a man to move back and forth on deck and still remain firmly attached to the ship by a short length of very strong chain [with a “quick release” snap-hook in case of need].

  When two people want to pass each other, the technique is to seek a safe moment and quickly exchange travelers by unsnapping the chains from one’s own belt and snapping the other man’s into it.

  I am well aware of all of these historical matters as I look over the side and ponder the advisability of letting George and his people go down on deck. Seas are sweeping freely across our deck aft, but that is of no particular importance at the moment. Our bow is staying about a foot out of water, but around the conning tower, where I am looking over the side, the deck is frequently inundated. The night is cold and dark, completely overcast, and a light drizzle is falling. The sea feels warm.

  With a little luck, George and his men will very likely have no difficulty under conditions as they are. But the risk looks a little too great. With a low freeboard the transfer is aided, provided it isn’t so low that there is risk to your deck crew. Besides, even though Poole is at the moment having a remission, partly with the help of morphine, transferring him under any but the best conditions for his health and safety is out of the question.

  Again, there is really no decision to be made at all. Technicalities about staying submerged have got to give way to the realities of the situation; the safety of the people involved in this operation is more important than anything else. We will have to come up a little higher. I push the button energizing the microphone to the control room.

  “Control, Bridge, blow forward group for one second.”

  “Forward group, one second, aye aye,” from control. Almost simultaneously, I hear air whistling into the tanks forward. It blows for a second, stops abruptly.

  The effect is most apparent. The ship having previously been carefully brought to perfect trim, addition of a thousand pounds or so of buoyancy in the forward section lifts her until the displacement [not weight] of Triton’s above-water volume equals that of the water displaced by the air in the tank. The superstructure, being entirely free to flood, displaces very little water, except for the conning tower itself, and the forward section rises several inches. The main deck in the area of conning tower and sail is now fairly clear, only an occasional wave slapping over it.

  Sawyer’s voice from below, “Permission to open the access door and go out on deck, Captain?”

  “Open the door, but do not go out on deck until I give you permission.”

  This is just to keep control to the last before letting him go. I can hear the sound of the fastenings being opened up and the door swinging wide.

  George again: “Looks all clear topside, Captain, permission to go out on deck?”

  “Affirmative!” I yell back.

  In the distance, the lights of the approaching motorboat are visible coming around our stern. Down below, in the flickering semilight cast by their flashlights, the men of the deck force reach through the open access door, affix their travelers to the track, and then, holding their safety chains taut, step swiftly forward on the main deck. Two men quickly turn to on a collapsible cleat just forward of the sail and rotate it upward. This is the point where we plan to take the boat’s bowline. Two other men, carrying paint pots, move aft along the sail and hurriedly commence daubing at our starboard side block numbers.

  Possibly some unknown vagary in water density or wave action has commenced to affect us as Macon’s boat approaches. Two or three seas roll over the foredeck. George has his men by this time arranged alongside the sail, gripping the handhold bars, and of course holding on to their safety belts. Gazing intently over the side of the bridge in the misty darkness, I am unable to see any evidence of paint pots, a fact which does not surprise me, is on the contrary something of a relief. As I watch them anxiously, a larger than average sea mounts up the side, and all of them are momentarily buried up to the neck. George shouts “hang on” as the water rises about them. All were already pretty well soaked and the danger is more apparent than real, but we can’t let this continue, “Blow the forward group for one second,” I again order the control room, and again there is the welcome blast of high-pressure air into the tanks. This brings the deck up again and we motion the boat alongside.

  In the meantime, Jim Stark and John Poole have been waiting in the conning tower. We have used the last few hours, during which he has been free from discomfort, to brief Poole thoroughly on what he can say and not say, once departed from Triton. His transfer papers and other official documents are made up in waterproof bags and attached firmly to his person. He him self is so bundled up and swathed with protective clothing and life jackets that he can hardly get through the hatch. At the word from Stark that all is ready, I order the two men to the lower bridge. Our good-byes have already been said. There is no time for more than a last hasty “good luck” to Poole.

  The boat is alongside, bow painter around the cleat and held by Wilmot Jones. Two men in the boat hold her off from our side with reversed boat hooks. Chief Fitzjarrald and Sawyer steady Poole and a couple of the men in the boat stand by to catch him. Seizing a moment when the gunwale of the boat is level with the edge of our deck, Poole steps easily and quickly into it. It is a standard Navy motor-whaleboat, evidently Macon’s lifeboat, manned with a crew of about 5 people. It is a pleasure to watch the boat’s coxswain maneuver his frail craft alongside. There is no doubt that he knows his business. Poole hasn’t even gotten wet, and the boat’s gunwale has only once touched our side.

  In a moment, the riding line is cast off. The men with boat hooks push hard, the engineer guns the engine, and they are away. Another moment suffices to get George and company back on the lower bridge.

  “All clear on deck, Captain!” shouts Sawyer. “We didn’t get any painting done though. The first wave flooded the paint pots. Anyway, the paint wouldn’t stick, and the old paint is pretty well stripped off by the water anyhow.” This was a point we should have thought of, but all’s well that ends well. Then they are below, hatch shut behind them.

  While waiting for further word from the Macon, Machinist’s Mate Bob Carter is busy with a hacksaw, taking off the loose bridge guardrail we had noticed. In a few minutes the welcome word comes from our Communications Officer, Lt. Bob Brodie, in Radio: “Bridge, Radio—from the Macon—Poole safely on board.”

  Among the papers Poole has with him are personal letters of appreciation to Admiral Stephan and Captain Reuben Whitaker. More than our thanks for their help, there is little information we can give them about our trip. They must be bursting with
curiosity. We send a final message of thanks and then, with topside clear and hatch shut, I order Dick Harris, Diving Officer of the Watch, to return to periscope depth. The air bubble in our tanks is released, and gently Triton eases her sail into the warm sea. The total time with the bridge above water has been less than an hour. With a deep feeling of gratitude for the way the Navy has come through, we shape our course at maximum speed southward.

  Now that we have successfully solved the difficult problem about Poole, the atmosphere in our ship lightens considerably. With everything wide open, Triton is again heading for Cape Horn. This time we will save time by passing to the west of the Falkland Islands and head for Estrecho de le Maire, a small strait between Staten Island [familiar name] and the main part of Tierra del Fuego.

  We calculate that we will have gone 2,000 miles out of our way on this mercy mission, and it has cost several days. The distance is almost equal to an Atlantic transit.

  10

  Sunday, March sixth, was a day of rest, well deserved by all hands, and it was noteworthy for a special reason. Our growing concern over our fathometer had caused us to keep a closer-than-usual watch over it and over our regular search-sonar equipment, too. Searching out ahead, to our great pleasure, the latter at 1610 detected something that looked like a fifty-foot peak, or boulder, on the bottom. A moment later, as Triton herself passed over the spot, the fathometer registered the accuracy of the information. It was a comforting thought to know that our search sonar, designed to detect other ships and submarines, might be depended on to give us adequate warning of the approach of shoal water.

  For two days, Triton roared toward Cape Horn, driving to make up lost time. On Monday, the seventh of March, we reached the storied Land’s End of the western hemisphere.

  I had been giving some thought to how we should make proper observance of our passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific and finally hit upon a simple idea. In the Triton Eagle, I occasionally wrote a column called “The Skipper’s Corner,” to say things which it seemed might best be handled informally. On the seventh of March, therefore, the following entry appeared in “The Skipper’s Corner”:

  As for Cape Horn, Triton will make a photographic reconnaissance on it, and then Mr. Roberts will make a National Geographic reconnaissance. Following this, as we cruise by for the 3rd or 4th time, I intend to require every man on the ship to come to the conning tower for a look. It is not a usual thing for a sailor to round the Horn these days. Many spend a lifetime and never do. By far the majority of US Navy sailors have never done it. Quite obviously, if you ever brag about having been around the Horn, the next question will either be, “Did you see it?” or “What does it look like?”

  We intend to take a picture and I think it will be possible to make enough copies for all hands. But more than this, I want every man aboard to be able to say he’s seen it. Note: there will be no muster taken. If you don’t want to see the Horn, no one will force you. But you’ll wish you did later, because you’ll probably never get the chance again.

  And then, that morning, I let it be known that in the old days, when a sailor went around the Horn, he hoped not to see the fabled Cape. If anyone aboard an old sailing ship, bucking wind and tide to double the Cape, sighted the forbidding promontory looming through the haze, it was considered that bad luck would follow very soon in the form of shipwreck on one of the most inhospitable coasts in the world.

  More modern traditions, I announced, were different. A sailor who gazed upon Cape Horn deliberately would experience good luck for the rest of his seafaring career. Not only that, but all sailors who rounded the Horn automatically attained certain privileges denied ordinary mortals (one I did not recommend was that we might all have a pig tattooed on the calf of the right leg). Tradition has it also that sailors who have rounded the Horn may with impunity throw trash and slops to windward, and because of their great victory over the forces of the wind, none of it will ever be blown back into their faces. They also have the traditional right to wear their hats on the side of their heads instead of square above the eyebrows, as is required by Navy regulations (no one may wear it on the back of his head).

  We made no muster, but we did keep an unofficial count of the persons coming into the conning tower for a look, in some cases to photograph the famous landmark with their own cameras (which they had been permitted to bring provided all film was turned in for checking). Every man wanted a look, and it was necessary to go back and forth five times in front of the Cape before all hands had had their view.

  Triton’s Log for the passage may give some idea of the conditions the old-timers faced in the days of sail.

  Our observations of the conditions make it quite clear why it was such a tremendously difficult thing for old-time seafarers to weather this famous Cape. In the first place, though we are safely submerged and comfortable, Triton is rolling rather heavily. There is an unusually rough sea topside. Lt. James C. Hay, recently reported aboard from West Milton, has already established himself as a most competent diving officer—but he is having difficulty in maintaining ordered depth today. Good practice for young officers, and planesmen, too. We estimate the waves as 10 to 12 feet high and the wind about 25 knots from the west.

  There are occasional rain squalls and the cloud coverage is rather low to the water. It is also noticed, after a few navigational cuts, that we are being set backwards, to the east, by a current of some 3 knots. Under such conditions it is easy to see how an old wind-jammer, trying to beat her way around the Cape, might find it almost impossible. Heavy winds and a strong current were both dead against her. Even a steamer would have her troubles at a time like this.

  Although the conditions we have observed could hardly be called a storm, there is no doubt that any ship riding around Cape Horn on the surface today would be having a rough and uncomfortable trip. By contrast we are comfortable and snug.

  Joe Roberts had spent practically his entire life as a photographer, and was one of the National Geographie’s best. He also happened to be endowed with a genial personality which generated real affection on the part of officers and crew alike. An illustration of this was an incident that occurred in the conning tower as we passed Cape Horn. After taking his National Geographic pictures with half-a-dozen expensive cameras which he had slung around his neck, Joe had been about to make room for others by going below, when a sailor with a box camera appeared in the conning tower. Photographing through the periscope is by no means a simple procedure and Joe put down his cameras and other paraphernalia and turned back to help.

  Sailor after sailor—and some officers, too—came to the conning tower with cameras, and to each one Commander Roberts patiently showed the tricks of the game, helped calculate and adjust the periscope diopter setting for the particular camera, plus the camera settings for the type of film and the outside light. Money could not have purchased the instruction and assistance these men were getting for nothing, and I wished I had had the sense to bring my own camera.

  We had hoped the passage to Easter Island would be uneventful, after the rather strenuous navigation around the Falkland Islands and Cape Horn. I looked forward to a twenty-five-hundred-mile run through deep water, few problems, and a chance to read Thor Heyerdahl’s book, Aku-Aku, in which he describes his search for the origin of the Easter Islanders and his re-erection of one of the stone monoliths. It was, unfortunately, not to be so.

  The tremendous capability of the nuclear power plant and the many changes in submarine operating procedures which it requires were brought firmly home the day after we passed Cape Horn, when we held a “loss of all main power” drill. All naval ships are required to carry out such exercises, for the obvious reasons that they develop the crew’s ability to cope with the problem should it occur in battle or as a result of some mishap.

  Triton had, however, traveled some two thousand miles at great speed since she had last “gotten a good trim,” as submariners say. She had, moreover, changed from Atlantic waters off the Ri
ver Plate to Pacific waters on the far side of Cape Horn, and was well on her way toward Easter Island. Our instruments, and those of Nick Mabry from the Hydro-graphic Office in Washington, gave us some idea of the change in salinity of the sea water—generally speaking, the Atlantic side of South America was saltier. We had taken aboard a good deal of water for various purposes, including running our evaporators and keeping our fresh water tanks full, and we had pumped varying amounts of water overboard to compensate for our computed decreased buoyancy.

  Prior to the test, Tom Thamm sought me out.

  “Captain,” he said, “my calculations show us to be pretty heavy by the time you consider the reduced salinity and the changes which have taken place in our internal weights.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “According to these figures we ought to pump out about seventy thousand pounds before we have the drill …”

  “Tom,” I interrupted, “aren’t your Diving Officers and Diving Chiefs keeping up with the trim as we go along?”

  “Yes, sir, but I made a special computation because of this drill coming off, and that is what the figures show.”

  This would be an opportunity for a good lesson, I thought. “Permission not granted, Tom,” I said. “The sort of casualty that we’re simulating might happen at any time, and we would have to face it with the conditions existing at that time. Suppose we really were to lose all power right now, rather than an hour from now after you get all this water pumped out?”

  I had Tom there and he knew it, though I could see that he did not fully approve. “Aye aye, sir,” he said. “I’ll stand by in the control room just in case.”

  I grinned at him. Tom was a perfectionist who didn’t want to have anything go wrong in his department. If the ship were too badly out of trim, a short blast of high-pressure air in the main ballast tanks was the quickest way of expelling a lot of water and stopping her descent. Then, the air in the tanks would have to be vented off—partly, at least—as we came up. Otherwise, with reduced external pressure as the ship rose to shallower depths, the air in the tanks would expand even more, thus still further lightening her. Blowing precisely the right amount to balance exactly could not be guaranteed, and several blowings and ventings would undoubtedly be required before the trim pump could get rid of enough water. And later, Curt Shellman’s carefully tended air compressors would have to perform considerable extra work to recharge the air banks.