During these initial sea trials I was put to the test as the diving officer. Skipjack had not been to sea in over seven months. In the shipyard, much equipment and many components had been removed, repaired, modified, or replaced as new equipment and components of various weights were added. It was up to shipyard and crew, working together, to keep an accurate accounting of all weights added and removed, their exact location, and the resultant changes in Skipjack’s state of ballast, both overall and fore and aft, once she returned to sea. It was desirable for Skipjack to leave the shipyard in either a neutral or a slightly positive ballast condition. As I indicated above, if the boat was too light, or positively ballasted, it could prove difficult for it to submerge beneath the surface; if the boat was too heavy and thus in a state of negative ballast, depending on depth and degree of control, she could plow into the bottom, or exceed crush depth, with disastrous results. As the boat’s diving officer I ordered that Skipjack be ballasted at least 20,000 pounds light before we made that first dive. During our initial dive to periscope depth, as diving officer I discovered the boat to be too light and ordered the chief of the watch to begin flooding variable ballast tanks from the sea. We reached neutral buoyancy after flooding in approximately 15,000 pounds. As it turned out, the initial ballasting record had been quite accurate—only five thousand to six thousand pounds light. I was thus able to report to the commanding officer, “Six five feet, trim satisfactory!” within ten minutes of proceeding beneath the surface.
Once a satisfactory trim was established, sound-powered phones were manned in all compartments, and we proceeded slowly down to our test depth of seven hundred feet in one-hundred-foot stages, as the crew carefully checked for leaks in all compartments. In that era many seawater systems had sil-brazed (silver soldering or hard soldering) rather than welded joints. Since they were not as strong as welded joints, they sometimes weeped or leaked, and then could rupture at depths of four hundred feet and below, presenting an ever-present danger. It was incumbent on us to keep our eye out, particularly throughout the engineering spaces.5 Upon completion of our dive to test depth, Captain Kelly put Skipjack through her paces. It was during these first sea trials that those of us who were new to the boat gained a full appreciation of Skipjack’s extraordinary maneuverability and speed. We were mighty glad to have those subway straps to hold on to in the control room, as the boat rapidly changed up and down angle and depth, and when she heeled almost 50 degrees in a flank speed, full rudder turn. We confirmed that Skipjack could come very close to turning within her own length should an operational situation demand it.
On the transit back to the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, Captain Kelly demonstrated what Skipjack could do on the surface in calm seas. I was fortunate enough to be officer on the deck on the bridge when Kelly came up to join me. After we had completed a good low-pressure blow of all MBTs, he directed me to order the stern planes put to full rise and speed increased to flank. As we sped through the water, Skipjack begin to squat, or settle, by the stern. The captain then guided me through a process of gingerly decreasing rise on the stern planes until we had only a 3-degree rise. As speed increased, more and more of Skipjack’s hull rose up and out of the water. Upon reaching maximum or flank speed with a slight rise on the stern planes, Skipjack hydroplaned on the water surface at more than twenty-two knots. It was spectacular. The stern planesman below and I had to work very closely together. If the stern planes should suddenly go below 3 degrees, or worse, fail in the full-dive direction, the boat would abruptly “fall off the step” and plunge beneath the surface at high speed. That would be a dangerous situation for those on the bridge and for the control room, particularly if the lower trunk hatch was not shut. Such an event would call for immediately ordering, “All back emergency!” with both sail and stern planes placed on full rise and confirming that the bridge access hatch was shut.
USS Skipjack (SSN 585) under way on surface. Photo courtesy of General Dynamics Corporation
As we continued intensive at-sea operations off New London during the first weeks of October, it became evident that we might be deploying to the eastern Mediterranean rather than to the Caribbean as originally expected. The last few days prior to departure were difficult ones emotionally, for we had to keep our families in the dark, for security reasons, about the direction of our impending deployment. They were not to be told until the last day or so. We knew that, in the event of a nuclear exchange between the Soviet Union and the United States, our families and loved ones would be in mortal danger.
Our hull number of “585” was painted out on both sides of the sail late evening before an early-morning departure in late October. That particular day began very early for all. After kissing their families or loved ones a final goodbye at State Pier, New London, crewmembers proceeded on board and were at their underway stations by 7:00 a.m. Those eating breakfast earlier were greeted with a bizarre sight as they entered the crews mess: scattered across the top of each dining table were what appeared to be thousands of M&M candies. Junior Quartermaster C had left them there, stating that he had always wanted to see what twenty-five pounds of M&Ms looked like. Even after the massive cleanup, we continued to find stray M&Ms all over the mess hall deck for weeks. Thus began of a series of incidents involving this young man that would soon come to the attention of all.
Captain Kelly came on board following a final briefing by the Commander Submarine Squadron Ten, shortly before 8:00 a.m.6 He met briefly with the exec and navigator and then went to the bridge. We took in all lines, backed clear of the pier, and headed down the Thames River. We then transited across Long Island Sound at best speed on the surface. Once in sufficiently deep water, Skipjack submerged and raced across the Atlantic at flank speed, test depth. We were bound for Piraeus, Greece, and duty with the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean. The objective was to protect allied forces from Soviet submarines and surface warships that might be present, including those that might egress from the Black Sea.
The Cuban Missile Crisis was evolving rapidly as we sped across the Atlantic. On Skipjack we expected to be diverted south at any time to take a steadily growing number of Soviet ships and submarines under surveillance and attack them if need be. During the course of each day, we frequently exercised at battle stations, including practicing both single, ready torpedo snapshots at a suddenly detected, simulated Soviet submarine close aboard, and spreads of two and three torpedoes at simulated surfaced Soviet submarines and ships. It was a tense time, especially when we slowed and came to periscope depth to copy our radio broadcasts. On our minds at all times, as we transited east at high speed, was the very real possibility of encountering an enemy submarine that might anticipate the direction of our deployment and be lying in wait for us as we approached the Strait of Gibraltar. We frequently slowed and altered our course at irregular intervals to conduct thorough passive sonar searches for any Soviet submarines that might lie ahead or deep within our port and starboard baffles. All of us believed we might soon be engaged in combat against units of the Soviet navy, or even more horrifically, that we might be engaged in an exchange of nuclear weapons between our two countries
The U.S. Navy had no nuclear submarine opponents at that time. It was known, though, that the Soviet Union was in the process of building and testing a new November class of nuclear attack submarine at sea.7 Our most likely adversaries were certain to be an unknown number of diesel electric-powered Whiskey-, Foxtrot-, and Zulu-class attack submarines, which could have been used to saturate all approaches to Cuba, Murmansk, and the Mediterranean.8 All these submarines were of fairly recent vintage and had been built in quantity. By the fall of 1962 two hundred fifteen Whiskeys, twenty-two Foxtrots, and twenty-six Zulus were in service.9 They had been patterned after the German high-performance Type XXI class, which had first gone to sea during the closing years of World War II. All were snorkel-equipped and very noisy while charging their batteries submerged. They were capable of patrolling in an extremely quiet condition
, however, at all other times. Hence, each could be considered a potentially dangerous adversary, particularly if Skipjack was running at a high speed, since this speed negated our normal acoustic advantage.
An Electro-Hydraulic Failure
It was well into the mid-Atlantic during our transit that I first experienced how Skipjack might respond to a sudden failure of its electro-hydraulically controlled dive planes due to a blown fuse. We knew full well that if the sail planes failed to full dive at high speed and test depth, we would have just nine seconds to bring the boat under control before exceeding crush depth.
Suddenly just before noon in late October in a fraction of a second, the sailplanes went to full rise. Skipjack angled sharply upward and went rocketing toward the surface amid a deafening cacophony of crashing, clanging, banging, and breaking noises of mess hall dishes, glasses, cutlery, and everything throughout the boat that wasn’t firmly bolted down. I was officer of the deck or conning officer at the time, and as I fought to remain standing I ordered “All stop, back full!” to reduce our speed as rapidly as possible, and I ordered the stern planesman to go to full dive. The sail planesman shifted to manual control and began frantically cranking the sailplanes to full dive.
Skipjack’s upward ascent was checked in the vicinity of two hundred feet from the surface. I ordered the sail and stern planesmen, “Take charge of your planes and level the boat off at a depth of one five zero feet!” At the same time I ordered, “All stop, ahead two-thirds!” followed by “Ahead one-third!” as we gradually leveled off and brought Skipjack back under control. Whew! I then returned control of the dive to the diving officer of the watch. Even the most experienced on board were shaken at what had just occurred. The unplanned depth excursion also played havoc with the crews mess, the wardroom, and what was to have been our lunch.
What had caused the incident? An electro-hydraulic failure, as I recall—probably a blown fuse.
CHAPTER 15
In the Mediterranean
The remainder of our high-speed transit to the Strait of Gibraltar and the Mediterranean was relatively uneventful. To our disappointment mixed with relief, we didn’t detect or encounter a single Soviet naval vessel or a warship of any nation. During the last week of October we surfaced in the early morning hours under a beautiful star-filled, crystal-clear sky. Skipjack slowly approached and silently glided through the strait just as the sun was rising over the Mediterranean Sea. In almost glass-calm seas, the Rock of Gibraltar to port and the coast of Africa to starboard was a magnificent and unforgettable sight. I remember Captain Kelly excitedly saying that it was a scene he had wanted to see all his life. We on the bridge atop the sail couldn’t help but think of how many mariners, going back to the time of the ancient Phoenicians, Greeks, and Romans, had shared this same sight.
La Spezia
We “chopped” (changed from the operational control) to the Commander Sixth Fleet upon passing through the Strait of Gibraltar and learned that our first port of call had been changed. Instead of Piraeus, Greece, as originally slated, we were to set course for the Italian naval base at La Spezia, Italy. Submerged, we proceeded at a speed of advance that would get us there by late morning the following day. Obvious to us all, both visually on the surface and via passive sonar while submerged, was the tremendous amount of ship traffic in the Mediterranean, the vast majority of it composed of merchant ships of all nationalities and of every size and shape. The risk of collision was high, particularly in conditions of reduced visibility such as in rain, fog, and high sea states. We had to be constantly on our toes whenever we came up to periscope depth to fix our position and copy our radio traffic. When submerged, of course, we remained on the alert for Soviet submarines and ships.
USS Skipjack (SSN 585) moored in the Mediterranean during the Cuban Missile Crisis. U.S. Navy
Skipjack reached La Spezia in the late morning and berthed just down the pier from the Italian diesel attack submarine Leonardo da Vinci, whose brother submariners gave us a rousing welcome. We were no sooner tied up than those officers not on watch were ordered to change into dress whites and hustle over to the Italian naval officers club where we were to be hosted at lunch by the wardroom officers of the Leonardo da Vinci. What an afternoon: copious amounts of fine Italian wines were served before and during a lavish spread of pasta plus many dishes with octopus and squid, which none of us had ever tasted before. None of Skipjack’s officers spoke Italian, nor did any of the Italian submarine officers speak much English, the only exception being the captain who knew a few words of our language, enough to toast Skipjack and the U.S. Navy.
The language barrier made no difference. The more we drank, the better we understood each other. Our own captain, unfortunately, had to make an abrupt departure in order to meet with higher command representatives who had traveled to La Spezia from Sixth Fleet headquarters to brief him on what was planned for an as-yet-indeterminate stay in the Mediterranean. The luncheon rapidly evolved into a riotous affair that lasted well into the afternoon. It was punctuated by numerous exuberant toasts, with enthusiastic gestures and much laughter becoming a universal language that we all understood. Some of us thought later that such an afternoon with our Soviet submariner counterparts might go a long way toward defusing the very serious international situation that had brought us into the Mediterranean.
We staggered back to our boat just before sunset, most of us too wiped out to do much more than collapse into our bunks. Any rest was cut short, however, as we were soon unceremoniously rousted out and handed a cup of hot black coffee. Our skipper, Cdr. Les Kelly, mustered us in the wardroom for dinner on board and an important briefing on what he had learned that afternoon.
The captain, seated at the head of the wardroom table, regarded us sternly, making it unmistakably clear that we’d better sober up and pay close attention. He told us that we were there because of the fear that the Soviet Union might deploy its Black Sea surface and submarine forces if the Cuban Missile Crisis escalated into a full-blown conflict. Our primary mission would then be to interdict and destroy them. He also told us we had not been routed to Greece because our deployment that far in the eastern Mediterranean might be considered provocative by our adversary and its Eastern bloc allies—not a wise thing to do in the midst of an already severely tense situation. The latest development was that at least three Soviet submarines had been detected some hundred miles to the east of Cuba.1 What their interaction might subsequently be with our blockading naval forces already in place was anyone’s guess.
Until then, we could expect to be employed in various exercises with NATO and U.S. surface forces in order to peak up and maintain our overall readiness for combat in the event that units of the Soviet Black Sea Fleet suddenly deployed. When deemed necessary, we might also be assigned to patrol certain critical choke points in the eastern Mediterranean.
In the middle of this meeting we learned that the wife of one of our officers had just arrived in Naples, and he would be granted leave beginning that evening to join her. Unusual, to put it mildly, and not well received by his brother officers. There must have been some prearranged senior officer pressure on our captain to grant the leave. The effect was to increase the at-sea and in-port watch-standing load on us all significantly. We would also be minus a key division and battle stations officer at a time when there was a very real possibility we might soon be involved in combat action. I scratch my head to this day in wonderment as to what that officer and his wife must have been thinking of.
Finally, the captain made clear that if we were to be routed to another port for a short upkeep and liberty, we were not to go on shore power, even if available. We would, rather, maintain the engineering plant on line with the reactor critical and ships service turbine generators providing all electrical power. Skipjack was to remain capable of getting under way in less than an hour. This meant, of course, that at least two-thirds of the officers and crew would have to be on board at all times. So much for whatever we envisio
ned in the way of liberty. The captain then went to the control room, had all hatches shut and secured and telephone lines disconnected and, using the 1MC system, informed the crew of what we in the wardroom had been told earlier.
No further shore liberty being granted, those not on watch retired for the night to see what the next day might bring. To the great credit of Skipjack’s wardroom and crew, there was no grumbling. We were all professionals, and understood why we were in the Mediterranean. We knew what might be required of us in the U.S. national interest as a well-trained and combat-ready team.
An Unexpected Distinguished Visitor
I took over as duty officer in port at 8:00 the following morning, with one of my fellow officers as engineering officer of the watch. We learned at breakfast that the crisis remained stable, with no new developments of any significance. It was expected, therefore, that we might remain in port for only several days more. A liberty routine was established for all hands such that we were placed on an eight hours on, sixteen hours off duty routine. Along with it came the strict requirement that whatever our rank or rate, we arrived on our assigned watch rested and sober, or else. I was elated, because it meant I would be able to leave the boat shortly after 4:00 p.m. and have the entire evening, up to midnight, to enjoy myself on shore. What there was to do beyond visiting the elegant Italian naval officers club, I had no clue.
The morning was routine. Those on board stood normal in-port watches topside and below decks. The engineering department stood their watches as if we were at sea. Since the reactor was critical, all engineering plants systems were fully operational, and our ships service turbine generators were supplying all of Skipjack’s electrical power needs.
Silent and Unseen Page 18