A Full Life: Reflections at Ninety

by Jimmy Carter

  Before returning to Hawaii, our ship was assigned to operate in Puget Sound out of Seattle, and it was here that I found myself in danger again. We were tied up near the seaward end of Pier 61, and I was officer of the deck one night during a heavy fog. The lookout reported that a large ship was approaching quite close, and I went to the stern of the submarine and heard loud voices almost directly over my head. We could not see anything, and the people above me did not acknowledge my shouts as I attempted to let them know of our presence. I quickly realized that they were preparing to drop their huge anchor, believing they were in the middle of the channel. Finally, with the anchor visible just above my head and our ship, I heard the command “Prepare to let go the anchor!” Desperate, I strained my voice to the utmost and was relieved to hear, “Wait, I think there is someone down there.” I was blinded by a spotlight, and the large ship backed its engines. The crisis was over.

  We operated with Canadian and British ships between the fresher water of Puget Sound and the Strait of Juan de Fuca, carefully adjusting the “trim” to accommodate our relatively lighter or heavier ship in water with changing salinity. This required experimenting until we achieved neutral buoyancy during our dives. When we concluded our operations in the area and were preparing to return to Hawaii, officers on the British destroyers invited us to join them for our last night in Victoria, British Columbia, and we went there from Seattle on the surface. Our friends entertained us until dawn, utilizing their freedom to serve alcoholic drinks on their ships, and we accepted their hospitality with enthusiasm. None of us ever reached the shore.

  The next morning we headed west toward Hawaii, and on the first dive one of our more senior officers, who had been drinking all night, made a terrible mistake in preparation. His job was to be sure that all the main valves were rigged to open at the same time, but he checked only those on the starboard side and was then distracted. When the captain gave the order and electrical signals were sent to the valves, the starboard ones opened and water poured into those tanks, while those on the port side remained shut. The ship began to roll over to the right as it was driven downward by our planes at the bow and stern, and we approached the point of capsizing. Only the furious blowing of high-pressure air into the tanks prevented the loss of the Pomfret and its crew. This was the closest our ship ever came to a total disaster. I realized how fragile was my existence, and how fallible were even the most dedicated and experienced seamen.

  Afterward, our return to Hawaii was relatively uneventful, and I spent almost every moment on duty learning as much as possible about my own ship and the submarine force. All my capabilities and energy were focused on this desire to excel in my assignment. I was not motivated by any element of competition, because I was the only officer of my seniority on the ship, but I guess subliminally I realized that I would always be compared with other submariners in my Naval Academy class.

  My ship was moved from Hawaii to San Diego when the Korean War began, in June 1950, and we operated along the California coast, expecting to be deployed to the war zone to conduct surveillance along the coast of Korea or to rescue downed aviators. This was a few months after our second son, James Earl Carter III, was born. He was named after me but branded by navy nurses at Tripler General Hospital in Hawaii on his wristband as Chip, a name we have used ever since. This duty in San Diego was to be our most unpleasant assignment. The navy base was overcrowded, and the only housing we could find was in a decrepit and crime-ridden area of the city. All submarines were prohibited from using the scarce docking spaces along the shore and required to tie up alongside large ships called “submarine tenders” that were anchored in the bay. We had the same delays and uncertainty with small boat travel as in Norfolk, and my time with Rosalynn and our boys was restricted. We lived in something like a garage apartment, and the landlady was intrusive and overbearing. She had a key to our quarters and would enter to go through our belongings when we were away. She criticized Rosalynn’s housekeeping habits, and even expressed her displeasure about what she found discarded in our garbage. We did enjoy going to the superb San Diego Zoo, and also making some infrequent trips to nearby Tijuana, Mexico.

  Lillian Carter and Earl Carter, 1950, San Diego, California.

  All members of the submarine force were informed that the navy was building its first ship of any kind since the end of the Second World War. It would be a new type of submersible, with snorkel air intake and designed to operate with extreme quiet so that it could remain undetected and attack enemy (Soviet) submarines while submerged. One officer would be assigned to Electric Boat Company (later General Dynamics Corporation) in New London to represent the government during the final months of construction. The sub would be called “Killer 1,” or more properly USS K-1.

  I submitted my application for this coveted assignment, and later that year, while my parents were visiting us in San Diego, I received orders to report to New London. I was the only officer on the detail and spent the next few months with two major tasks: helping to monitor the final building and testing of the innovative craft and devising all its future procedures for operating and conducting clandestine warfare, plus incidentals like the inventory of tools, linens, dishes, silverware, and food items. Captain Frank Andrews was chosen as our commanding officer, and he designated me as engineering officer when the other officers and men were assigned to the ship. Collectively, we quickly utilized and improved the voluminous documents I had prepared.

  Our new snorkel system would permit the submarine, with the hull and conning tower a few feet under the surface, to pipe air down into the ship to be burned in the diesel engines and breathed by the crew. A valve on top of the pipe would snap shut whenever a wave washed over it, and still-running engines would use up the contained air and create an uncomfortable temporary vacuum in the ship. The unique visual feature of the K-1 was a huge bulbous sonar array mounted forward on the main deck, which was capable of detecting the slightest sounds from distant sources in the sea. This meant that our own ship and people within it had to remain as quiet as possible. Every piece of equipment was isolated from the hull by special flexible mounts to minimize noise transmitted through the water. Our total crew was about forty men, compared to seventy-five on the Pomfret, and our ship was about two-fifths as large as a fleet-type submarine. Bunk sizes and food were about the same, but we had an extremely limited supply of fresh water from a small distillery. Other than for cooking and drinking, our individual allotment when at sea for long periods was only a quart per day, and we showered with salt water.

  It was exciting duty because of the new technology and because we were preparing for potential conflict during those Cold War years with Soviet submarines. We could go deep, stop propulsion, turn off all unnecessary equipment, and at these times of silence all of us removed our shoes and walked around—only when necessary—in stocking feet. We learned to hover at a desired depth by changing very slightly the seawater we displaced. When we reached a final trim, we would just elevate or lower our periscope a foot or two, which would cause our boat very slowly to rise or sink. In this condition, our huge listening device could detect ocean sounds from far away, more distant when temperature gradients were perfect and wave action was minimal. I became fascinated with the underwater character of the ocean, and read all the books on the ship about the subject. These factors were important to our survival in combat with other ships, and even during normal peacetime operations. I remember one day when we were cruising at periscope depth east of Newfoundland, in the relatively warm waters of the Gulf Stream. Suddenly, the bow of our submarine entered the much colder (and more dense) Arctic waters, and we were propelled to the surface by the strong upward force. The cold and warm waters had not mixed, even within a distance of less than two hundred feet.

  We officers would sit in with the sonar specialists to become more familiar with the equipment and to monitor the more interesting sounds. In addition to distinctive propeller noises of different ships, we were intere
sted in listening to shrimp and other creatures, especially the remarkable calls of whales. At the same time, we knew that our primary duty was to detect potential enemies before they ever realized that we were present and monitoring their movements. I wrote a poem about this contrast of peace and war.

  Life on a Killer Submarine

  I had a warm, sequestered feeling

  deep beneath the sea,

  moving silently, assessing

  what we could hear from far away

  because we ran so quietly ourselves,

  walking always in our stocking feet.

  We’d listen to the wild sea sounds,

  the scratch of shrimp, the bowhead’s moan,

  the tantalizing songs of humpback whales.

  We strained to hear all other things,

  letting ocean lenses bring to us

  the steady throbbing beat of screws,

  the murmurs of most distant ships,

  or submarines that might be hunting us.

  One time we heard, with perfect clarity,

  a vessel’s pulse four hundred miles away

  and remembered that, in spite of everything

  we did to keep our sounds suppressed,

  the gradient sea could focus, too, our muffled noise,

  could let the other listeners know

  where their torpedoes might be aimed.

  We wanted them to understand

  that we could always hear them first

  and, knowing, be inclined to share

  our love of solitude, our fear

  that one move, threatening or wrong,

  could cost the peace we yearned to keep,

  and kill our hopes that they were thrilled, like us,

  to hear the same whale’s song.

  K-1

  I had qualified as a submariner quite early when serving on the Pomfret, but now I was senior enough to meet the requirements to command a ship. I had already mastered the necessary knowledge about and capabilities for submarine construction and operation, but an original thesis was also required. I reviewed my studies of differential and integral calculus and devised a system for determining the distance to another ship by the beat of its propellers and the rate of change of its direction from us. I was qualified to command when my plan worked in practice.

  The K-1 operated mostly in the Atlantic-Caribbean area and spent as much time at sea as possible. One interesting cruise was in the vicinity of Nassau, in the Bahamas, when we were instructed to remain continually submerged for at least thirty days. Unfortunately, after about twenty days underwater one of my electrician’s mates was afflicted with increasingly severe attacks of claustrophobia. Trying not to violate our orders, Captain Andrews directed that the sailor be strapped to a bunk in the officers’ quarters. But it quickly became apparent that this confinement only exacerbated the sailor’s problem, as he began to thrash violently and foam at the mouth. We had to surface and have him taken to shore by helicopter.

  The inside of a submarine is packed as densely as possible with equipment, leaving limited space to permit personnel to sleep, eat, and move. Even in the more luxurious officers’ quarters, we slept on bunks wedged closely above one another, with a narrow opening on one side through which we folded ourselves before stretching out. When I was lying on my back, there was not enough space for a paperback book to be opened on my chest. The K-1 was especially small, with our advanced sonar equipment making it even more crowded. Air for breathing was either recirculated through filters while we were deeply submerged or replenished while we were cruising on the surface or with our snorkel tube (about twelve inches in diameter) “inhaling” fresh air.

  A fire could be deadly, especially if toxic fumes were generated from plastic or rubber insulation. All submariners had to be trained in fighting fires, and while our ships were undergoing routine maintenance in a dry dock or shipyard, we were sent to special schools to learn how best to combat this ever-present danger. On one occasion we had a fire in our engine room while submerged, and, as engineering officer, I was the leading firefighter. I donned the appropriate clothing and gas mask, discovered the source of the flames in the main motor, and directed the application of carbon dioxide and dry powder, since water or foam could not be used. I was wearing headphones and speaking into a microphone to the captain, and I reported that the fire was under control. The next thing I remember was lying on a table in the crew’s mess room with a hospitalman’s mate trying to get me to breathe oxygen. After a brief spell of vomiting, I was soon back to normal.

  Truman and Race

  I had been serving on a ship in 1948 when President Harry Truman ordained, as commander in chief, that racial discrimination be ended in the armed forces and in the U.S. Civil Service. This was seven years before Rosa Parks took a front seat on a Montgomery bus and Martin Luther King, Jr., became famous. This change was accepted with equanimity on our ship, and I don’t remember any backlash at all among the other crews with which I was familiar, but there was an outcry from many sources, especially among the members of the U.S. Congress from the South. South Carolina Governor Strom Thurmond was nominated as the “Dixiecrat” candidate in the 1948 presidential election, and his name replaced Truman’s on ballots in Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, and South Carolina.

  On the USS K-1 three years later, I played on a fast-pitch softball team that rarely lost a game, primarily because we had a black sailor named Russell, who was our pitcher and could throw the ball with blinding speed and good control. From just forty-six feet away (twenty feet closer than a baseball mound), the ball would arrive at the batter’s plate in the twinkling of an eye, and even the best batters could only guess ahead of time where the next pitch might be. Any hit was just an accident, and we would quite often win no-hitters. Thanks to a broad smile and a friendly attitude, our pitcher was the most popular man on the ship.

  The USS K-1, 1950s. The K-1 operated mostly in the Atlantic-Caribbean area and spent as much time at sea as possible.

  I was on duty when our submarine went into port in Nassau and tied up at the Prince George Wharf, and I was the officer who accepted an invitation from the governor-general of the Bahamas for our officers and crewmen to attend an official ball to honor the U.S. Navy. There was a more private comment that a number of young ladies would be present with their chaperones. All of us were pleased and excited, and Captain Andrews responded affirmatively. We received a notice the next day that, of course, the nonwhite crewmen would not be included. When I brought this message to the captain, he had the crew assemble in the mess hall and asked for their guidance in drafting a response. After multiple expletives were censored from the message, we unanimously declined to participate. The decision by the crew of the K-1 was an indication of how equal racial treatment had been accepted—and relished. I was very proud of my ship.

  On leave later that year, Rosalynn, our two boys, and I returned to Plains for a visit with our parents. When I was describing this incident, my father quietly left the room, and my mother said, “Jimmy, it’s too soon for our folks here to think about black and white people going to a dance together.” I realized how much difference there was between my life in the U.S. Navy and what it would be if I lived in Southwest Georgia. When we came to live there a few years later, we learned that she was still correct.

  Rickover’s Navy

  After serving on the K-1 for two years, I learned about the planned construction of two submarines that would be propelled by nuclear power. Captain Hyman Rickover was in charge of this highly secret program and was known as the world’s foremost expert on peaceful uses of atomic reactors for generating electricity, providing radioactive material for medical purposes, and now for driving a ship. He would be in personal charge of selecting young submariners to lead each of two precommissioning crews to develop power plants that would be small, safe, and effective enough to be mounted in the hull of a submarine. One reactor would be built by General Electric Corporation in Schenectady, New York, and
the other by Westinghouse Electric Company in Pittsburgh. Like a host of others, I applied for one of these positions, and after a few weeks I was ordered to Washington for an interview with Rickover.

  Captain Rickover was highly controversial, and almost universally condemned by more orthodox senior officers for his radical disregard of navy protocol and procedures. The admirals on the selection board voted repeatedly against his promotion from captain to rear admiral, which had always meant the end of a naval career. It was the personal intervention of President Truman and some of the senior U.S. senators who approved a special law that overrode the admirals’ decision and kept Rickover on duty.

  I approached the interview with a lot of trepidation and had prepared as well as possible by reviewing current events, naval tactics, and other issues that I thought he might wish to discuss. I entered his office and found him sitting behind a large desk, with a single straight chair in front of it. He motioned for me to sit and immediately surprised me by asking what subjects I wished to discuss. One after another, I selected those about which I knew most at the time, including current events, naval history, submarine battle tactics, electronics, and gunnery. In each case, he asked me questions of increasing difficulty until I was unable to answer them. He never smiled, always looked directly into my eyes, and seemed to relish my obvious mental—and physical—discomfort. (I learned later that the front two legs of my chair had been shortened so I felt as if I were sliding off.)

  When I responded that I read a lot of books, he cross-examined me about them. We covered some plays by Shakespeare and Ibsen, novels by William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway, and a few novels recently on the bestseller list, going into detail about The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk. Then he asked what kind of music I preferred, and I responded rather brashly that I enjoyed country music and jazz but knew more about classical compositions. He asked for my favorite form, and I told him that I really liked piano concertos and opera. Rickover leaned forward and asked, “What is your favorite opera?” I blurted out, “Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde,” and he asked, “Which movement do you prefer?” Fortunately, I was able to name the ending, known as “Liebestod,” or “love death.” I was thankful that my roommate and I had known this music and played it often at Annapolis.