Silent and Unseen

by Alfred McLaren

  I roamed the boat restlessly during the course of the morning until my boredom was suddenly broken up by the topside watch calling, “Officer of watch topside! Officer of watch topside!” over the 1MC system. I rushed up on deck to see what was going on. The topside watch directed my attention to what appeared to be a very high-ranking Italian naval officer on the wharf, walking rapidly toward Skipjack. Fortunately, I was properly attired in a clean, pressed khaki uniform and was wearing my tie.

  As the individual closed the boat, it appeared he must be someone of great importance. He was dressed in a crisp white uniform with a red stripe running down each leg of his trousers, a bright crimson sash wrapped several times around his waist, through which passed an unsheathed saber, and a most impressive hat from which a bright white feather plume projected.

  As it happened, neither the captain nor the exec was on board. It was up to me to offer the official welcome to our unexpected distinguished guest. I called “Attention on deck!” All topside and on the pier saluted as he crossed the gangplank. He returned the salute, taking my extended hand and shaking it warmly as he stepped on board. I greeted him politely in English, signaling him with gestures to follow me below decks. This he did without uttering a word. As we proceeded to the wardroom, everyone we encountered froze to attention against the bulkheads as we passed. At the end of the wardroom table I took the captain’s seat and invited him to sit on my right hand. The duty steward’s mate immediately offered our visitor a cup of coffee, which he accepted with a “grazie” and a broad smile of thanks. I too took a cup of coffee, and as we each stirred in sugar and cream, we looked at each other with friendly expressions. I had no idea who this gentleman was or why he had come, but assumed he intended to meet with the captain.

  Our initial attempts to communicate were an utter failure. I drew on my Naval Academy Spanish, but that only added to the confusion. We continued to gesture and smile, but were obviously getting nowhere. Recognizing the problem, the duty steward’s mate went looking for an Italian speaker among the duty section. He returned with a senior petty officer who spoke fluent Italian. The petty officer politely addressed the gentleman and more or less asked what we could do for him. It turned out our visitor was not a high-ranking Italian naval officer at all, but a senior chief petty officer from our Italian host submarine, the Leonardo da Vinci. He had come to invite our chief petty officers to lunch on board his boat.

  Up to this point, I had thought I was dealing with an Italian admiral. The chief of the boat was summoned to the wardroom and I introduced him to our visitor. Our Italian-speaking petty officer did the interpreting and, following smiles and a departing handshake, escorted our distinguished visitor to the chief petty officers’ quarters. There, with his assistance, an invitation to lunch on the Leonardo da Vinci was extended to all Skipjack’s chief petty officers. At that I shook hands with our departing guest and returned his salute.

  I had done the right thing, of course, but probably left our Italian chief petty officer guest thoroughly confused with regard to U.S. Navy protocol. One can only imagine the stories that his visit must have engendered when he was back on his own submarine.

  Sunday Afternoon at the Opera

  The nuclear standoff between the United States and the Soviet Union was seemingly resolved by early November 1962 after frantic diplomatic negotiations. We on board were only told, however, that the crisis had passed, and Skipjack ended up spending as much time in port as at sea. None of the at-sea periods was particularly memorable, beyond proving once again that current NATO and U.S. surface ASW forces were no match for a high-performance nuclear attack submarine. The Soviet navy had yet to acquire any that were deployable during the present crisis, so we took advantage of the time to make port visits to several cities in Italy and France.

  After a short transit at sea, our next port was Toulon, France, where we moored our boat toward the end of a long mole or pier built up from the bottom of the sea. Our orders were to remain in a state of manning and readiness such that we could deploy on war patrol at a moment’s notice. As at the Italian navy base at La Spezia, this state of readiness required that our nuclear reactor be kept critical. It further required that at least half of the crew and officers to be on board at all times. Since we were not allowed to wander beyond our immediate berth alongside the mole, arrangements were made with port authorities for liberty boat service for the duration of our stay.

  Toulon, although a friendly city, still reflected much of the anti-Americanism that prevailed throughout France. We could never be sure when encountering people on shore whether we were going to be smiled at or spit at. Skipjack’s crew was not considered altogether safe anywhere in the city or its suburbs while on liberty or shore leave. We learned, from indirect experience, that an American sailor with a few drinks under his belt was at serious risk of injury if he wandered into the wrong neighborhood. The sum total was that there was a good chance of inadvertently creating an embarrassing international incident at a time when tensions were already high worldwide.

  The French naval authorities consequently requested that Skipjack post a permanent shore patrol. A minimum of one officer and one chief petty officer plus three additional lower-rated petty officers was required. All were to reside on shore at the French naval base. As a senior lieutenant, I was delighted to be designated Skipjack’s senior shore patrol officer for the entire period that we were scheduled to be in port. It meant I would be berthed at the French naval officers club, a not-too-onerous assignment.

  Our primary duty as the U.S. Navy shore patrol was to work closely with both the French navy’s own shore patrol and Toulon’s police force, which was not noted for its gentle treatment of anyone taken into custody. All three entities were divided into teams and charged with keeping the peace. Each team was tasked with patrolling the various areas most likely to be frequented by our sailors from early afternoon until midnight, when all were required to be back on board. Of greatest concern was the prevention of even the most minor incident or disturbance.

  It proved to be a generally uneventful week. No incidents or unpleasantness of any sort occurred, and Skipjack’s crewmembers received high marks for their conduct on shore. I enjoyed repairing to another, nearby French armed forces officers club upon going off duty shortly after midnight each night. Arriving in a crisp tropical white uniform bedecked with ribbons and submarine Gold Dolphins, I was welcomed with open arms by one friendly group after another and treated to all the fine wine and champagne I could possibly drink. It was a lot of fun communicating with brother French naval officers and their more-often-than-not lovely companions. Our lingua franca combined Spanish, English, and French with many gestures and smiles. Amazing how well we understood each other.

  Sunday 18 November was the last complete day of liberty on shore, as Skipjack was scheduled to get under way early the following morning, Monday. Members of the crew were again cautioned to maintain their excellent conduct record on shore and not to drink too much during the last day of our visit to Toulon. Since this had not been a problem so far, we all anticipated a quiet, normal Sunday.

  I had just finished a late lunch at the French naval officers club and was relaxing with a newspaper. It was midafternoon on a perfect and wonderfully pleasant day. This idyllic state of affairs was not to last. Representatives of the French navy and Toulon police suddenly arrived to inform me that one of our crew had just collapsed. It seemed he might be dead. “Good God!” was my reaction. I quickly donned my uniform and rushed with them to the Toulon Opera House.

  The Opera House was a magnificent building not more than a mile away. It was the second largest in France and could seat almost 1,800 people on five levels. It was also a national historic monument of the country. Verdi’s La Traviata was being performed that afternoon. As we rushed into the building, I reflected that this was the last place I would have expected to find any of Skipjack’s crew. Several ambulances pulled up, with paramedic personnel rapidly emerging, carry
ing stretchers and medical emergency equipment of various sorts.

  The auditorium was filled with hundreds of well-dressed opera lovers. To their obvious annoyance, La Traviata had been abruptly stopped in the middle of an act. As medical personnel, uniformed representatives of the French navy, Toulon police, and I tramped down the center aisle, we were met by hostile stares and mutterings. The performers were standing silently on the stage, glaring at us. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach when it became clear that a small group of our sailors, all in uniform, had purchased tickets on the first row.

  As we approached, we could see the supposedly dead sailor sprawled on the floor. A French doctor was kneeling beside him, directly in front of the stage and between the orchestra and the audience. Talk about high visibility! It was evident from the alcoholic fumes emanating from Skipjack’s opera-fan contingent that all were well lubricated. As a uniformed representative of the U.S. Navy, I would have given anything to vanish from sight at that moment.

  A stretcher was quickly placed alongside the sailor, whom I recognized as the notorious petty officer, C, of the twenty-five pounds of M&Ms caper. As he was gently lifted onto the stretcher, the opera house doctor looked at me with concern and whispered in perfect English, “I am very sorry to tell you this. He is alive, but he is in serious condition from drinking and may also have had a heart attack.”

  What an ending to a perfect week, I thought, as we slowly progressed up the aisle with our downed sailor, followed by three of his companions and the hostile stares of the audience as we passed row upon row to the lobby. We were definitely “Ugly Americans” in their eyes.

  Just as we reached the top of the center aisle, our fallen crewmember suddenly sat up. “Hello Mr. McLaren. What are you doing here?” were the first words from this modern-day Lazarus, before he collapsed again. We all realized to our collective chagrin that we were engaged in medically evacuating not a dead sailor, but a dead-drunk one. We picked up the pace and quickly exited the opera house to a chorus of hisses and boos.

  The errant sailor was unceremoniously loaded into one of the waiting ambulances and transported back to Skipjack and the not-so tender mercies of his superiors and the commanding officer. The aftermath from both French naval authorities and our own naval and state department superiors was anything but pleasant. Our opera-loving sailors were permanently restricted to the boat for the remainder of our Mediterranean deployment.

  George’s Excellent Adventure on Shore

  In late November Skipjack departed Toulon for another week of ASW exercises with French and Italian NATO units. The Cuban Missile Crisis had ended on 28 October 1962, to our collective relief, and we expected to be returning home in time for Christmas. Morale was high. We were in an exuberant mood, too, because we had once again proved our virtual invulnerability to both detection and attack by air and surface ASW units. Upon completion of the exercises, we headed for Naples, Italy, and one final liberty over the Thanksgiving holiday before returning to the United States.

  A group of us celebrated with a huge spaghetti dinner and copious amounts of Chianti at a wonderful outdoor restaurant in Pompeii. Only one officer on Skipjack, a Lt. George H, had steadfastly refused to leave the boat to go anywhere during the entire Mediterranean deployment. Being newly married, he had up until that time spent almost all of his in-port time on Skipjack in order to save money.

  It was our final day ashore. We were scheduled to get under way to return to the United States the next morning. All on board were full of excitement at the prospect of returning to our home port in New London.

  The boat had been moored for several days in the sewage-laden Bay of Naples, at the end of a long mole that promised robbery and assault to the unwary soul on foot during the hours of darkness. The U.S. Naval Activities Command in Naples required the crew to use a specially scheduled liberty boat to go to and from the mole. Most off-duty personnel had already left the boat to savor one last time all that the city had to offer a healthy young American sailor.

  The engineering department and all officers had a different duty schedule from that of most of the crew. The nuclear reactor had to be kept critical in order to supply all our electrical power needs, requiring us to maintain a full engineering-spaces watch twenty-four hours a day. Skipjack’s officers, therefore, were filling both in-port officer of the deck and engineering officer of the watch assignments on an eight hours on, sixteen hours off schedule around the clock. We were free to go ashore during normal liberty hours—8:00 a.m. to midnight—when not on watch, however.

  Lt. George H and I had just completed our appointed duty stints. George had been aft in the engineering spaces and I in the forward part of the boat as in-port officer of the deck. Rather than eat supper on board, I was eager to go ashore for one last meal at the excellent NATO officers club. A fabulous full-course dinner with wine could be obtained for a modest price ($5.00, at the time). Although George had brought an expensive new British-tailored wool suit with him for a special occasion or two while in the Mediterranean, such occasions never materialized, and he had never worn it.

  Preferring not to go ashore alone, I spent the better part of an hour in the wardroom trying to convince George to join me at the NATO officers club.

  “Come on, George,” I said to him, “This is our final night in port and your last chance to get away and relax. You owe it to yourself to have an elegant yet inexpensive dinner at the officers club.”

  “George,” I went on, “the floorshows at the club are terrific, and this being Sunday evening, we’re certain to be treated to a colorful evening of Neapolitan song and dance.”

  Finally, I said, “Come on George, you won’t regret it, I promise. I’ll even pay for the taxi there and back.”

  After what seemed an eternity, George reluctantly agreed to accompany me ashore.

  We quickly donned our best suits, George in his new one, and took the next liberty boat ashore. Upon landing, we hailed a taxicab and headed for the officers club. Entering the spacious and beautiful dining room, we were seated at a perfect table for viewing the scheduled floorshow.

  The menu of Italian cuisine was fabulous, as were the low prices. We each ordered multiple-course, typical Neapolitan dinners with accompanying wines and settled down to relish dinner and the evening. After several glasses of wine, George was completely relaxed. He thanked me profusely for persuading him to join me on shore. The more we ate and drank, the more ebullient we became. The superb floorshow put us in even higher spirits.

  Around 10:00 p.m. we decided to head back to the submarine for a good night’s sleep. In the vicinity of the mole where we were moored, we stepped out of the taxi into a clear, star-filled night. I spotted a small, inviting-looking waterfront taverna and suggested we stroll over. We could check it out for a few minutes, take in some local color, and then head for the boat. As we walked, George kept thanking me for convincing him to join me on shore. He even told me he wished he’d had the good sense to join us at the other ports Skipjack had visited.

  The closer we got to the little taverna, the more interesting it appeared. At the entrance we heard lively Italian popular music and noted more than a few attractive young women seated, without escorts, at various tables inside. “Let’s go in for a quick drink,” George suggested, to my surprise.

  We found ourselves ushered to a cozy little booth where we ordered two of what we thought were the least expensive white wines. Our drinks arrived and we settled back, taking in the picturesque scene and its inhabitants.

  Within minutes two tall, stunning Scandinavian young women had joined us. Drinks in hand, they told us they were tourists as well. We soon got into animated conversation since they spoke English very well. We asked what they wanted to drink. They answered champagne. By then in an expansive mood, George said, “Why not?” to my inquiring glance. He ordered champagne for us all. We danced, talked some more, danced, and soon finished the bottle. Well after 11:00 p.m. I suddenly remembered we had to be at the boat
landing at the foot of the mole by 11:30. If not, we would miss the last boat to our submarine. “We better get going,” I said, starting to get up. But George wasn’t ready to leave. “Come on,” he begged. “We’ve got time for one more,” and he ordered our glasses refilled.

  We were running out of time. If we missed the last liberty boat, we would have to walk the entire length of the unlighted mole, risking God knows what dangers to life and limb. We gulped down the last of our champagne and called for il conto (the bill). Our new friends with sweet words and caresses, however, urged us to stay, “Just a little longer . . . please!”

  The bill arrived and George and I went into shock: in U.S. dollars the bill amounted to over $70, more than $500 today.2 We protested angrily, arguing with the waiter, then with the manager. Meantime, our companions had abandoned us without as much as a goodbye or word of thanks. As the discussion, or rather confrontation, got more heated, other waiters approached. Among them were two that could only be described as thugs. We quickly realized that it would be wise to shut up, pay the bill, and get the hell out of there. Emptying both wallets and pockets of everything we had, we still came up a few dollars short. The manager snatched the money away from us, pointing to the door.

  Once outside with our hides intact, we raced back to the boat landing, only to find the last boat had already left and was almost halfway to our submarine.

  George’s previously near-euphoric mood evaporated. He was not only drunk, as was I, but angry about all the money he had thrown away in the last five minutes. “I wish to hell I had never listened to you,” he railed at me. “You purposely led me astray.” As his litany of complaints continued, I was busily trying to decide just where we entered the mole and what route to our boat might be the best lighted and safest.

  Suddenly a large naval motor launch appeared, from a U.S. aircraft carrier anchored out in the bay. It pulled alongside the boat landing and discharged a sizable group of shore patrol. They were rounding up the last group of American sailors still on the beach. If history was any guide, this was bad luck for anyone still on shore from any vessel, including Skipjack. We could be taken back to the aircraft carrier and forced to stay there until it returned to the States. Those of us not belonging to the aircraft carrier would be considered deserters from our own ships. There was a time in French ports, following World War II, that the healthiest of these late hell raisers, both officer and enlisted, might well have found themselves taken into custody by the Foreign Legion, which was always on the lookout for recruits.