We followed this basic routine en route to our assigned Cold War mission area during the late spring of 1958. Our basic route took us north of the Hawaiian Island chain and Midway Island. We remained on the surface until well clear of Oahu and then submerged and remained so until several hours after sunset. We then surfaced and commenced a routine of running at best speed commensurate with recharging and keeping our batteries at full capacity. An officer of the deck and two lookouts were on watch in the bridge area at all times. Since we were now charged with remaining completely undetected until our mission had been completed, hull numbers had been painted out, and we no longer flew the American flag. As we gradually approached our assigned area, we also initiated the practice of disposing of all garbage and trash in unmarked hemp gunnysacks and blowing our sanitary tanks using a quieter blow method that stopped short of actually blowing air out of the tank and into the surrounding water.
Crash-Diving the Boat
Probably the most nerve-wracking for each officer of the deck and watch section was having to crash-dive Greenfish upon sighting a surface or air contact or in response to a strong radar contact, well before it was possible for the boat to be detected. This happened all too frequently. The second a visual sighting was made or electronic countermeasures reported a strong radar contact closing or strengthening, the officer of the deck would sound the diving alarm from the bridge, order, “Clear the bridge, clear the bridge!,” then follow the two lookouts as they dropped down the bridge trunk to the conning tower. These three would continue down to the control room where one lookout would man and place the bow planes on full dive, while the other would do the same with the stern planes. The officer of the deck would pull the upper bridge hatch shut and quickly dog it.4 As he dropped down into the conning tower, the quartermaster of the watch would do the same with the lower bridge access hatch. The officer of the deck would continue down to the control room and immediately take control of the boat as the diving officer of the watch.
Hearing the alarm, the chief of the watch, in the meantime, would open all MBT vents, flood negative tank, and take charge of the dive until the diving officer of the watch arrived and relieved him. At the same time, maneuvering—where the engineering plant control watch standers, such as the senior controller man and junior controller man (both electrician’s mates)—would shift propulsion from diesel engine to electrical propulsion in response to the full bell ordered.5
In general, and depending on sea state and water clarity, a crash dive would be to at least 150 feet. If an ASW aircraft had been sighted close aboard, the dive might be to an even greater depth, along with an abrupt course change, the better to prevent detection and ensure that the boat got well beneath the acoustic layer.
The captain would be up in the conning tower by this time, and after ascertaining just what the officer of the deck and lookouts had seen, would decide what to do next. After a thorough sonar search of the baffles and after a sufficient amount of time had passed, in his estimate, the captain would, providing sonar held no close contacts, order the diving officer of the watch to take the boat up to periscope depth where he could make a quick assessment of the situation with just a minimum of Greenfish’s attack periscope above the water surface.6 This search was generally made at minimum speed, or turns, in order to prevent creating any detectable periscope feather, or wake.7 The captain also had to be very careful that there were no obstacles or debris overhead and especially mindful of just where the sun or a bright moon was so that the head window did not reflect or flash light in the direction of a threat contact.
After the captain had determined it was all clear, we would return to the surface using an airless surfacing: high-pressure air was not used to blow the MBTs clear of water in this case. Instead, the boat was driven to the surface at fifteen knots (“All ahead standard”) or more with the MBT vents open. Once the boat broached and was holding on the surface, the MBT vents were shut, and the low pressure blower was used to clear the MBTs of whatever water remained in each. This saved the boat’s high-pressure air for emergencies. It further saved running the two high-pressure air compressors to recharge our high-pressure air banks. The compressors were also very noisy, making Greenfish more detectable acoustically; in addition, running them required a significant amount of electrical power.
Once on the surface, the captain was the first to rush from the conning tower up to the bridge. When the situation was determined to be all clear of contacts and stable, he would call the lookouts and the officer of the deck to the bridge to resume their watch and Greenfish’s surface transit.
There were some watches as we approached and passed by Midway Island where we had to crash-dive three or four times during each four-hour watch in order to avoid detection by U.S. military patrol aircraft. Invariably, also, there were occasions when a rising moon or exceptionally bright star or planet was misclassified as a threat contact by an inexperienced lookout or officer of the deck, and down we dived. These incidents provoked considerable merriment among the crew, and a lookout and officer might, as a result, pick up a new nickname such as Blind Eye or Chicken Eye.
I recall hearing about a submarine school classmate of mine who was standing officer of the deck watches on another boat headed north, when he saw an unidentified flying object. He immediately called “Captain to the bridge, captain to the bridge!” on the 1MC system. This is an emergency call, of course, and any submarine captain would rush to the bridge as fast as possible, with any nearby crewmember nearly trampled in the process. In this case, my classmate suddenly realized that what he actually saw was just a seagull and passed the word, “There’s no hurry, captain, there’s no hurry!” The incident made the rounds of the waterfront in Yokosuka and Pearl Harbor, and it was a long time before he lived it down.
As we approached within a hundred miles or so of our assigned area, Greenfish shifted to a routine of running submerged at patrol-quiet during the day and snorkeling at night to recharge her batteries.8 Even stricter rules applied with regard to preventing detection, and each watch had to be especially alert to the possibility of encountering a submarine of another nation at almost any time. A closing air, surface, or subsurface threat contact called for the immediate lowering of all periscopes and radio/electronic countermeasures masts, and for securing snorkeling.
When we were within or near our patrol area, we would also abruptly secure snorkeling at irregular intervals running from every forty-five minutes to every sixty minutes. The officer of the deck would then change course to the right or left at least 60 degrees and order sonar to search for any submerged contacts that might be closing from deep within our stern or baffles area.
Once within our assigned mission area, Greenfish’s crew would quickly go to a watch routine much like that required during a World War II war patrol. Although always in international waters, we were operating in an area where we knew we would not be welcome if detected. All watch stations, particularly the conning tower, control room, and engineering spaces, had to be on high alert. Both torpedo rooms also maintained a full state of readiness, with a self-defense snapshot tube ready forward for immediate action if need be.9
The mission we were on, my first as a new submarine officer, concentrated on the collection of Soviet electronic emissions from fire control, air, and surface search radars. I don’t recall our seeing a single warship of any kind during the entire six weeks, however, due in all probability to our long range from the Soviet coast and major bases during this mission.
Caught in the Net
I stood watch as diving officer of the watch throughout most of the submerged portions of this mission, maintaining precise depth control at all times. The observation periscope and electronic signal collection and countermeasures mast had to be kept sufficiently clear of the water for observation and for electronic emissions collection, yet not so high out of the water as to make Greenfish more easily detected by shore-based and airborne radars.
The most difficult times fo
r all diving station teams were those during which heavy sea states and storm conditions prevailed and those during which tidal conditions and accompanying changes in water density were at work. Both required adroit, timely control planes action as well as clever, anticipatory minor reballasting.
Probably the most interesting challenge I faced about midway through my first patrol was when Greenfish suddenly ran into the remnants of a large fishing net while at periscope depth. Fortunately for us, we were on a steady course and making almost minimum turns. As the exec silently hovered nearby and the captain watched the net through the periscope, I was given full conning authority as diving officer of the watch to back our boat gradually clear of the net.
It wasn’t easy, because everyone in the ship control party had to realize immediately that two key roles would be reversed. The stern planesman became the forward or bow planesman, who was responsible for making the fine adjustments to keep us at ordered depth. The bow planesman, in turn, became the stern planesman who was responsible for maintaining whatever down or up bubble, or longitudinal aspect, that would hold Greenfish at ordered depth. He also assumed duties as helmsman, which meant that he needed to keep the rudder at zero and be alert to make whatever fine adjustments were necessary to ensure that we backed out of the net on the reverse of the course we had entered on. Any sudden up or down angle, abrupt change of course, or even worse, loss of depth could get us even further, if not hopelessly, entangled. As diving officer of the watch in this situation, I also had control of the boat’s speed, which meant that I had to use backing bells judiciously as we worked gradually to clear the fishing net.
In this situation, the first order of business was to achieve and maintain both neutral buoyancy and a zero bubble as we hovered in place, preferably with our gyro heading roughly on the course on which we had first entered the net. The word was passed for all hands to remain in their present positions, unless in an emergency. Then, as soon as things appeared to have settled down, neutral buoyancy was established and the boat was steadied on the desired heading, I ordered, “All back one-third!” soon followed by, “All stop!” as we began to move astern and away from the net. This sequence was repeated a number of times until the captain reported that the net was falling or clearing well astern of us.
Once we determined, to everyone’s great relief, that we had backed completely clear of the net, its position and extent were accurately plotted. We then repositioned ourselves such that we would remain well clear of the general area of this net, which might be one of several, during the remainder of our mission.
The Great Cockroach Race
Like all other Cold War submarine operations, life on board could be boring. Greenfish’s crewmembers, nonetheless, always seemed to find ways to amuse themselves during off-watch hours. We enjoyed a better-than-average selection of movies. Acey-deucey and high-stakes poker games were going on almost continuously in the wardroom and after-torpedo room.
Most diesel boats, particularly those based in tropical Pearl Harbor, were heavily infested with cockroaches of every size and shape. Bugs from the Philippines, Guam, Japan, and Hong Kong later joined cousins that had boarded in Hawaii and every other place we visited in the Pacific. They thrived and mutated throughout the dark, warmer, hard-to-reach nooks and crannies and innumerable areas of old layered, flaked, and peeling paint in the bilges of these grossly unevenly heated and cooled veterans of the war against the Japanese in the Pacific. No surprise that they bred by the thousands in the forward battery compartment where the galley, freeze and chill boxes, crews mess, officers’ wardroom, pantry, and berthing areas were located.
Because of the submarine’s limited interior volume, every accessible space was used—it was completely filled to capacity, in fact, with machinery and equipment, piping, ventilation ducts, valves, electrical wiring, switch boxes, lockers, and temporary stowage of spare parts and stores. Add to this her crew of some seventy-five to eighty men and, as the saying goes, “There was no room left to swing a cat.” For these reasons, it was difficult to keep early submarines clean, especially when we were almost continually at sea on one operation after another in both tropical and northern waters.
Cockroaches could thus be encountered everywhere and at any time during the day and night, including in one’s bunk. There were times when we would grab a snack or sandwich, sit down to enjoy it, and suddenly be joined by myriad hungry roaches drawn by the tantalizing smells. Roaches occasionally showed up in our coffee or juice if we were careless enough to leave it unattended for a few moments. A constant refrain of life on a diesel submarine was the sound of crunching and squishing as phalanxes of roaches met their demise underfoot or -hand.
From time to time while in port, Greenfish would have to be sealed up and thoroughly fumigated, and millions of lifeless carcasses would be scooped up and disposed of. Fumigation generally was conducted before we departed on a major deployment. After that, intense efforts were made to keep these pests from coming back during the loading of food stores and spare parts. Nevertheless, they always managed to return, often within just a day or two.
In the end, we all had to learn to live with our cockroach shipmates. They obviously enjoyed submarine duty as much as we did, and they weren’t going away. Some crewmembers barely noticed them after a while. Others not only noticed them but found novel ways of putting them to use for the amusement of the crew.
One weekend afternoon midway through the first lengthy submerged patrol of our deployment in an area of high intelligence interest, I was sitting in the wardroom reading when I heard bursts of laughter coming from the adjacent control room. Curiosity overcame me, and I got up to see what was going on.
Dominating the center of every diesel submarine control room was the binnacle that housed the primary gyrocompass, the Mk-19. Its flat top also served as a convenient table and was in constant use. This afternoon it was serving a novel function: Surrounding the binnacle were several members of the control room watch and a half-dozen visitors from other compartments. The top of the binnacle had been cleared off and a green felt cloth, like that used for card games, laid over it. Each of those encircling the impromptu green table had piles of coins stacked in front of them. It looked like a typical table in a gambling casino.
“What is everyone enjoying so much?” I asked myself as I edged between two onlookers to get a closer view. Immediately noticeable was a long clipboard, ordinarily used to hold watch-stander equipment recording sheets, centered on the green cloth. On its surface there had been painted five longitudinal, evenly spaced white lines with the lanes numbered from “One” to “Six.” Like a racetrack of some sort, I mused.
The next thing I knew, a crewmember on my left placed a small box near the clip end of the clipboard. He inserted his thumb and forefinger into the box and extracted a struggling cockroach. Several men on either side did the same. Then, as another crewmember raised the large metal clip at the board’s end, each handler gently placed the tail of his own race entrant directly beneath the clip near the center of each lane and held it there as he simultaneously gently lowered the clip onto the roach.
After bets were made on each entrant, to the accompaniment of loud laughter and shouts, the starter hit the end of the clip with his fist, raising the blade portion, which released the cockroaches, and the race was on. Those cockroaches still alive bolted forward. Cockroaches, even submarine ones, couldn’t be expected to run directly down their assigned lanes, and none did. Hence, the winner was the first one to escape to the edge of the green-covered binnacle and disappear.
All good things end, and in this case they ended abruptly. Captain Knudsen awoke from a nap and walked into the control room. His loud “What the hell?” caused the impromptu race participants to scatter almost as fast as the cockroaches. As would be expected, the watch section was in for a colossal ass chewing, as was the exec and chief of the boat.
Was such a race ever repeated? Of course it was, but certainly never as well organized
or as public as this first one.
The days dragged by, as they always do on a mission of this type, probably because there was nothing much of interest to observe or record in the vast reaches of the Northwestern Pacific. The day of departure arrived at long last when it was time for us to pull well clear of our assigned patrol area and allow another boat to ease in and take our place.
We were ordered to head for the Yokosuka, a good week away to the south. The routine would be pretty much as it had been on our way to station—periscope depth during the day and transiting on the surface during the hours of darkness.
Mine Close Aboard!
One of the more harrowing experiences of my life, and probably everyone else’s at the time, occurred several days later while proceeding south, at periscope depth and minimum turns, a few miles to the east of the Kurile Islands. The morning brought dense fog; visibility in any direction could not have been more than fifty feet or so. I was on watch in the conning tower, manning the periscope and rapidly rotating it through 360 degrees about once every two to three minutes as I searched for fishing boats that might detect us as well as buoys, logs, and other obstacles that might lie in our path.
It was early summer. We had just finished our Cold War mission of some forty days in the Northwestern Pacific as part of our WestPac deployment. Greenfish had departed our assigned area the night before last and was en route to the U.S. naval base at Yokosuka, Japan, for what we hoped might be at least a week of rest and recreation. The mission had been quiet, without any event of significance throughout our entire time on station. The requirement to remain completely undetected still applied, however, and would continue until we surfaced just off the entrance to Sugami Wan, or Tokyo Bay. The routine was the usual one of transiting fully submerged during daylight hours and on the surface at night, as we charged batteries and made as much speed as we could toward our destination.
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