A Medical Officer would not be expected to know the answers to all these questions, but if he were anything like Jim Stark, who always tried to keep up with everything going on around him, it was a safe bet he could make a pretty good stab at many of them.
Sparing an officer from SubLant’s small staff for a purpose of this nature would be a problem; no doubt the Medical Officer was a compromise, probably sent for the added purpose of giving us all some sort of physical examination as part of the information needed for the cruise evaluation report. There would be many pleasant hours spent in pumping him for information during the Atlantic crossing, I thought, and I felt like thanking the man who had thought of this kindness.
From the Log:
In broaching we have taken care that the same technique as was used to disembark Chief Radarman Poole two months ago is employed again. That is, the ship as a whole will remain submerged; only a few necessary people will come topside to handle the transfer. We shall use the conning tower as an air lock as before.
0554 With air in safety tank and bow buoyancy, broached ship to 38 feet. I went to the bridge and, after seeing that conditions were suitable, directed that Lt. Sawyer come topside with the boat-handling detail.
0617 Weeks had already put her boat in the water and it was alongside almost immediately. As at Montevideo, Triton lay dead in the water, rolling gently with her stern submerged. In both cases a slight swell was running. Off Montevideo, it was in the dead of night with a slight rain and relatively little visibility. Here, it was early morning, broad daylight and no rain. Still, this transfer proved more difficult than the previous one.
The boat approached slowly and very cautiously, but clumsily. Alternately, the coxswain gunned his engine too fast, came ahead too fast, then, uneasy, threw it into reverse and backed away too fast. For a period of several minutes, during which he jockeyed alongside, he never approached our sides close enough for our deck hands to reach his bow painter when it was flung over. Finally, acceding to our shouted encouragement, he swept up abreast our bow a foot or so away, rose on a fairly large swell above our main deck—and forgot to cut his engine, with the result that he swept on by, completely missed his landing, and had to circle around for another try.
From the Log:
The first pass failed. The second try was a little better, though the boat came alongside at the wrong time so far as the action of the sea was concerned and rode high up on our side.
In the boat were Commander A. F. Betzel from Washington and Lieutenant Commander Earl Ninow, Medical Corps, from New London. Seizing the right moment, Commander Betzel made a flying leap across to our deck, landed on all fours, was caught and steadied by Fitzjarrald and Sawyer. A line, easily passed over to the boat, brought back with it a sack with a large bulky circular object outlined against the canvas. The coxswain gunned his boat again, brought it up alongside once more, again overshot as the freshening swells lifted it. The boat rode up on our deck and landed right on it with a crash. A moment of pure fear in my heart. Our men on deck reeled back hastily when it became evident that the boat was coming aboard.
As she touched, Commander Ninow leaped out of the whaleboat, landing like his predecessor on hands and knees on deck. As the sea subsided beneath the boat, it slid off our side and plunged drunkenly back into the sea. Two men on the far side of the boat fell backwards into the water. The wisdom of being stopped was now evident; when the men surfaced, being still right alongside their boat, they quickly hooked their arms over the gunwales and in a moment, with the help of their mates, they were back aboard.
In the boat was some mail and gear destined for us, but the coxswain had evidently had enough. He gathered in bow and stern lines and sped off toward his destroyer.
0631 With passengers and part of the cargo on board, Triton opened vents and went back down to the comfort of the depths. During the ensuing conference, we will investigate how to transfer Commander Betzel back to the destroyer and receive the mail and other parcels they have for us.
With the experience of the boat alongside in mind and evidence that the weather is commencing to kick up, it is obviously impractical to attempt another boat transfer. Helicopters are standing by at Rota; we ask the Weeks to request their assistance.
0800 Commander Betzel has brought our instructions with him. We are to proceed to the area of the Delaware Capes on the eastern seaboard of the United States, where we shall surface and officially terminate our trip. He has also brought with him the plaque we had left behind to be cast and which we had hoped to present at the site of the statue of Magellan reputed to be at Cadiz.
I recall that my attempts to pump Buzz Betzel during that quick conference were wholly fruitless. And later, during the entire trip back across the Atlantic, I had no better luck with Dr. Ninow. Ninow, in fact, informed us that he had just reported to New London and knew absolutely nothing about submarines. I worked on him all the way across the ocean, but remained hungry for news until we reached the States.
Our memorial to Ferdinand Magellan is about 23 inches in diameter, cast in shiny brass. It depicts the world by general outline of latitude and longitude lines. Around its circumference, in raised letters, are the words: “AVE NOBILIS DUX—ITERUM SACTUM EST,” which is translated as “Hail, Noble Captain, It Is Done Again.” In the center is an old sailing ship similar to Magellan’s, beneath which is inscribed “1519-1960,” signifying the dates of his voyage and ours. A laurel wreath with the US submarine dolphin insignia in its base surrounds the ship and dates.
The plaque is symbolic of all we have been trying to accomplish. It is hastily photographed on board and packed away for return to the Weeks. It has become an international object. Apparently it is to be presented to Spain by the US ambassador at a formal ceremony!
0807 With helicopters in sight, broached ship once more and commenced preparations for transfer of personnel. By 0900, Commanders Betzel and Roberts had left the ship, accompanied by all the painstakingly-taken photographs of our nearly three months’ journey and the narrative section of our voyage report to date.
Sad to relate, even though there were those who swore there had been several bulging sacks of mail in the Weeks’ whaleboat when it was swept up on our deck, there was an utterly unsatisfying amount of mail delivered by helicopter. Radioed inquiry to Weeks brought the answer that there was no more to be found on board marked for us. Ultimately, it would catch up to us, this we knew, but not until we arrived back home. There is nothing so frustrating in the world as mail which one cannot get one’s hands on.
0919 Changed depth to cruising depth and speed to full. We are on the last leg of our trip enroute to the United States.
Tuesday, 3 May 1960 Enroute the United States. Our estimated time of arrival in New London is 0800 on the morning of 11 May, on the 85th day after our departure.
0824 Sonar contact on a merchantman which passed by to north. Even though there might be plenty of time to investigate the contact further, we decide against it in favor of pursuing our homeward-bound passage. Besides, none of us have any time to spare. Working on the cruise report is taking every free moment.
Wednesday, 4 May 1960 Among the papers brought aboard day before yesterday are promotion papers for Robert L. Jordan and Richard N. Peterson, both Chief Interior Communication Electrician’s Mates, raising them to the rank of Warrant Electrician. Caught somewhat unprepared, neither had the necessary uniforms or insignia with which to transform his normal CPO dress into that of his newly attained Warrant rank. But once again improvisation comes to the fore. At 1840, resplendent in the fully authorized and correct uniform of Warrant Electricians, US Navy [although closer inspection might show that their rank insignia were made of yellow plastic tape instead of gold stripes and colored, where needed, with blue grease pencil], Bob Jordan and Pete Peterson are promoted to Warrant Officer and move into the wardroom.
Friday, 6 May 1960 One of the mysteries of the cruise has been an anonymous character named “Buck” who occasi
onally writes a column for the Triton Eagle. A particular subject of his misguided wit is usually myself, whom he has irreverently named the “O.M.,” and a number of the people on board have wondered who he is and how he can get away with so much. Tomorrow they will find out, as they read the morning edition of the rejuvenated Eagle [by popular demand—and the dearth of mail—it had started publication again], for in “The Skipper’s Corner” it is revealed that “Buck” and I are one and the same.
1900 There is a rather lively discussion in the wardroom over the suggestion that there has been a let-down in general morale during the past several days. Various reasons are advanced to explain this phenomenon, which all agree is present. A most obvious explanation: we have finished our trip. We have gone around the world submerged, but we still have a long way to go before we get home. Morale had been fairly well sustained all the way to St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks, which had been our goal. But though our goal was achieved, it was not the end of the line. There were still 6,000 miles to go. Furthermore, we didn’t get nearly as much mail at Rota as we had hoped, and many have heard nothing at all from their families. Finally, especially as pertains to the officers, the paper-work problem related to the voyage report, preparation of work items for “post-shakedown overhaul,” and necessary revision to ship’s procedures resulting from our voyage, has been extremely heavy. It has been a tough trip; the keyed-up attitude with which everyone went into it has, after some 80 days, worn a little thin.
As Jim Hay and George Troffer point out, however, Triton’s crew is a highly trained, extraordinarily well-motivated outfit. What we are calling “a low state of morale” would, in most places, be considered a very high state indeed. We really have no right to complain. There is no doubt that we have noticed a drop, but maybe it was inevitable, just a return to normal levels.
At about this time, the conversation turned to some of the privileges which we have not been able to enjoy of recent date. “Here it is dinnertime. How I wish I had a martini right now!” someone mumbles.
This was the cue I had been trying for some minutes to plant somewhere. A surreptitious signal to Green brought him back with a tray containing a dozen deliciously frosted sherbert glasses, each one brimming with a clear liquid in which was submerged a green olive impaled on a toothpick. The effect was magical. We could almost smell the tantalizing odor of vermouth. The illusion lasted until somebody finally could stand it no more—and drank his ice water.
Morale in the wardroom, which had previously hit a new high, touched a new low. Psychology being what it is, I was not sure, afterward, that my little joke had quite accomplished its objective.
2300 A message arrives from ComSubLant which ought to change all this talk about low morale. He announces that upon arrival in New London, Triton is to receive the Presidential Unit Citation from the Secretary of the Navy, who will apparently be there in person to present it. Furthermore, although the message itself is received in a highly classified manner, I am specifically authorized to publish the news to the entire crew.
With great pleasure we stop the presses, tear up the front page of the Triton Eagle and write a new one, quoting this section of the dispatch in full.
It does, indeed, have the desired effect.
Sunday, 8 May 1960 This is our last Sunday under way on this cruise and, speaking from experience, the last Sunday this crew will be together as a unit. As soon as we arrive in port there will be a number of transfers, some retirements, and of course the inevitable influx of new men. It is ever thus in the Navy and not something that we can really complain about, except to note with regret the dispersion of a fine crew at its highest state of training.
The only man I know who never had to contend with changes in his ship’s company was Captain Nemo of Jules Verne’s fictional Nautilus. Nemo, having isolated himself from mankind, cruised the seas indefinitely with a crew of similar misogynists. But even he was defeated at the end as, one by one, he buried the members of his crew until finally he alone was left.
Today it is my turn again to lead the services of our little Protestant Sunday meetings. It is a good opportunity to deliver some thoughts on homecoming and to point out that although we may have all sorts of preconceived ideas about this, so will the folks at home; for families too have suffered privation while we have been away. We have had the adventure; they the drudgery. We have had change, and the challenge of new things; they the challenge of the same old thing day after day, without ourselves to help.
I also make an effort to point out some obvious dangers. The chance of slowed reaction while driving a car, for instance, or the probability that strong drink will have a much greater and more immediate effect than before. Some medical opinion holds that, having remained cooped up in close quarters for such a long period, our eyes will now find difficulty in shifting from short distances to long distances; thus, for a few hours, there may be greater danger in driving than ever before.
There are one or two other things I should also mention at this stage: Torpedoman Second Class Jones has on numerous occasions drawn the assignment of running the wardroom movies [this is rotated among various movie operators who alternate between showing movies for the crew in the crew’s mess hall and for the wardroom. Normally, there are two movies shown each day for the crew and one for the wardroom]. Something of a comic, Jones usually takes a good-natured ribbing as he sets up for us, and has given back as good as he gets. Some time ago, however, after a particularly contrived and illogical movie, I dressed him down severely and decreed that if the next movie was no better, I was going to demote him a grade.
After this, poor Jones had very little luck. Try as he might to tout his movies all were graded “poor,” and he successively descended in rating until finally he had been reduced to seaman recruit, as far down the ladder as he could go. At this point, Jones thought he could go no lower and had me whipped, but I held despotic power in our little world and made the rules myself and Jones continued to progress in a negative direction. As of now, he holds the rate of Negative Chief Torpedoman on board this ship, and it has been so announced in “The Skipper’s Corner.” The crew insists that when we get home he will have to walk down the gangway standing on his hands, wearing a Chiefs hat backwards. Others claim he should pay the Navy for the privilege of being in it.
Now that the cruise is nearing the end, however, my duty has become clear and I must perform it. Jones is today promoted back all the way to his original rating of Torpedoman Second. This amounts to a jump of 11 grades, unprecedented in all naval records.
If there has been a sag in morale, it is no longer evident; everybody is cheerful, now that Jones is back in good graces again. Besides, there are only 2 more days to go.
Monday, 9 May 1960 We are rapidly approaching the Delaware Capes, where we are scheduled to rendezvous with helicopters and a weather boat tomorrow morning shortly after daybreak.
Sometime tomorrow we will hold a short ceremony during which 6 of our crew will be awarded the coveted silver dolphins, signifying that they have “qualified in submarines.” They certainly have been putting in the extra hours and have gained on this account a great amount of approbation among their shipmates. Qualification in submarines is never an easy task, and we do not intend that it shall ever be. The prospective new dolphin wearers are:
WILLIAM A. MCKAMEY, JR., Seaman
FRED KENST, Seaman
JAMES H. SMITH, JR., Seaman
MAX L. ROSE, Seaman
LAWRENCE W. BECKHAUS, Sonarman First Class
WILLIAM R. HADLEY, Chief Communications Technician
We had thought of doing this at quarters, upon arrival in New London, but gave up the idea because there will be too many other things to occupy us.
As Triton enters Thames River, enroute to her berth in New London, we shall man the rail in traditional Navy style. That is, the members of the crew topside will be dressed in the uniform of the day and will form a solid line from bow to stern, thus creating, we hop
e, a sharp and military appearance. We are proud of our ship and want her to look her best, despite the scars from her three months contest with the elements.
Flying from our highest periscope will be a rather old and slightly weather-beaten set of colors, and thereby hangs the very personal story which, already partly told in these pages, must now be completed.
In 1916, my father was Commanding Officer of the armored cruiser Memphis [ex-Tennessee] which, he used to say, was the most responsive ship, the best trained and the easiest handled, of any he had ever served in. On August 29th of that year, lying at anchor at Santo Domingo, capital of the Dominican Republic, while pacing the quarterdeck with the skipper of the tiny gunboat Castine, who had come to call, Father noticed a heavy surf along the shore. A look to seaward brought him up with a start; he ordered Commander Bennett back to his ship and directed that both ships be made immediately ready to go to sea. Hurriedly, he sent a message directing the baseball team, then due to return from practice, to stay ashore. Two of the three boats received the message and did indeed wait, but the third either did not see the signal or failed to understand it, for on it came.
Forty minutes later, a tidal wave swept completely over the top of the Memphis, swamped the bridge, inundated the entire topsides of the ship. Memphis had almost, but not quite, got steam to her engines. [Castine, a much smaller ship, did in fact get up steam in time.] Father’s anchor chains [all three anchors, in desperation, were down] stretched, then snapped; Memphis was swept from her berth, and within half an hour she crashed ashore in 12 feet of water, a total wreck. Until recently, the hulk could still be seen there, placarded with billboard advertisements.
Father survived the catastrophe, although a number of people who were standing on the bridge with him were swept overboard and lost. Several were killed by flying debris below decks, or by burst steam lines; and he watched helplessly as the boat with the baseball party rolled over and over in the gigantic surf. Thirty-three sailors, and a part of Father, died that day.
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