Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

9

The first of March had indeed been a long day, and at two o’clock on the morning of March second I knew that not all our problems had yet been solved. Poole was having a second attack.

As Jim Stark explained it, perhaps he did not pass the stone a few hours before, despite indications that he had. As a matter of fact, Jim wasn’t really sure that the tiny speck we had seen in the bottle Poole had produced for inspection was a kidney stone. It might have been a tiny grain of sand or dust that somehow had gotten into the bottle after it had been carefully washed. There was always the possibility that Poole had not actually passed the stone; another possibility was that more than one kidney stone might have been involved. This second attack was more severe than the first one, and Poole had to be drugged once more.

Under the morphine, Poole was not too uncomfortable. The question again: what to do? According to Stark, kidney stone attacks frequently clear up by themselves—as Poole’s first one did—and then a second stone causes a relapse. In such cases, the discomfort of the second attack is compounded by the lacerations and swollen tissues resulting from the first. After an hour’s earnest consultation with Jim, I decided we could continue running for Cape Horn. In the back of my mind, however, a firmly rooted thought had taken hold: the nearest help was the Macon, if my several-weeks-old information was still accurate. After that, it was Pearl Harbor or a foreign port. The problem would, somehow or other, have to be sorted out before we rounded Cape Horn.

I had hardly got back into my bunk, it seemed, when the Officer of the Deck sent a messenger to call me. There was a possible submarine contact on the sonar. I was on my feet in a moment, heading for the sonar room.

Some three hundred miles to the west of our course, on the coast of Argentina, lay Golfo Nuevo, a large landlocked bay with a small entrance where, within recent weeks, the Argentine Navy had had a first-class flap. According to the press reports, an unknown submarine had been detected in Golfo Nuevo by patrolling Anti-Submarine units of the Argentine Navy, which had subsequently made several attacks. The submarine, so the newspapers said, had once or twice surfaced in the gulf, and by its maneuvers was apparently damaged. Argentina blocked off the exit to the bay, and at about this time there came evidence of the presence of a second submarine in the same area. Shortly afterward, contact on both of them was lost.

The supposition was strongly supported in the South American press that the second submarine had rendezvoused with its damaged fellow, either to render assistance or, as was considered more likely, to divert attention to itself while the damaged one got away. In my own view, having had intimate experience for many years with the difficulty of making and holding contact on submarines I was not completely ready to accept the story at face value. It is an easy thing for inexperienced people to convince themselves they have made a contact and then, in their gradually increasing excitement and interest, to continue to deceive themselves for considerable periods of time. Whether or not there had actually been a foreign submarine in Golfo Nuevo, however, one thing was pretty certain: ASW units of the Argentine Navy had been convinced of it.

Upon initial observation of our own sonar, it was not possible to tell whether the contact we had picked up was on the surface or submerged. Our plot was busy with it, and there was no question that it had movement of its own. It was not bottom effect, that was clear, nor a sharp submerged peak. It was something moving in the water.

I directed the Officer of the Deck to slow down to minimum speed for a sonar investigation. Then, in a few minutes, following standard sonar investigation techniques, we turned Triton’s head around to the north. After a few more minutes of careful checking, it was evident that we had a real contact. The question was, what was it?

It could be a surface ship cruising about, but it was not maintaining a steady course or speed, a fact suggesting that it was not a merchant ship. It might be a vessel of the Argentine Navy, perhaps one of the ASW ships searching offshore. If this were so, her Captain’s probable state of mind was not apt to be relaxed. We certainly did not wish to create another international incident or, worse, have a depth charge or two tossed toward us by some nervous skipper who might not stop to consider that a submarine submerged three hundred miles at sea is not the same thing as an unknown submarine in your inland waters. Triton should be able to evade Argentina’s best ASW ship, but even so, I could well imagine the reports that might reach the US Navy Department and the questions that I would inevitably have to answer.

A second possibility was that this was another submarine. If this were true, it would almost certainly be confirmation of the submarine contacts in Golfo Nuevo. In that case, the matter would be of importance to the US Navy also, and we should probably find it necessary to send a message stating the situation.

A third possibility, one which submariners and ASW people have long since learned to be alert for, was that our contact was not a man-made vessel at all, but a school of fish. Large fish generally separate into several distinct contacts at some moderate range. A number of small fish moving about as a group can sometimes fool the most experienced sonarman.

At about 0300, Triton’s periscope broke surface for a cautious search around the horizon, followed by a radar search. Results of both were negative. There was no surface ship around. Back into the depths we went. It was either a submarine or fish. If the former, circumspection was indicated. Slowly and cautiously approaching the contact, we slowly relaxed, for the contact lost its sharp decisive contours, began to fade, and developed wavy outlines. Finally it broke into two parts, and we set Triton once more on the way to Cape Horn. No doubt the school of fish we had so gingerly approached was heartily glad this huge intruder was not hungry.

Some fishermen might have given a lot to have had Triton’s sonar at this point, for shortly after four o’clock that same morning we detected a second school of fish. Since the characteristics were identical, this time there was less difficulty in making a positive identification, and we were quickly rewarded by seeing the contact break up into numerous smaller blips.

Poole’s condition was getting steadily worse, Jim Stark told me, yet there was nothing he could do for him but wait and see. Poole’s senses, at least, were dulled by the morphine.

After seeing the patient at about five o’clock in the morning, my recollection is that I finally was able to get a little sleep. Upon awakening, I was astonished to find Poole dressed and once again on his feet in the radar department. As before, Jim Stark just happened to be only a few feet away, ostensibly looking over some of his medical supplies in the pharmacy. Jim could not be sure that the second stone had safely passed.

The only other event of this day was the receipt of our second babygram, for Chief Electrician James DeGange. Another girl, born March 1, 1960; the message from Admiral Daspit gave the further information that mother and Patricia Ann were both doing well.

The third of March began propitiously. We were still watching Poole carefully, but all looked well for the time being. He had been free of pain for some eighteen hours. Our course for Cape Horn had been laid out to bring us close to the Falkland Islands and permit us to run near Port Stanley, their biggest harbor. For drill purposes, we intended to make a photo reconnaissance; that is, take a series of photographs through our periscope. This was a technique submarines had developed during the war, by which important information was brought back to our Marine and Army landing forces.

The Falkland Islands are famous for the naval battle which took place there on the eighth of December, 1914. A month earlier, on November first, a strong German squadron of cruisers under Admiral von Spee had overwhelmed a weaker British squadron under Admiral Cradock off the cape of Coronel on the coast of Chile. The two biggest British ships, including the flagship, were sunk with all hands. Then Von Spee headed for Cape Horn at a leisurely pace, intending to capture the coaling station at the Falkland Islands, refuel, and head back to Germany. His big mistake was in moving so slowly, for when the English heard of the defeat of Cradock, they sent two of their battle cruisers, under Admiral Sturdee, from England direct to the Falkland Islands, with orders to coal at Port Stanley and then search out Von Spee. It was the ideal mission for a versatile British Navy and its new battle cruisers, as they were fast heavily armed ships which far outclassed Von Spee’s armored cruisers in both speed and gunpower.

After a high-speed run the length of the Atlantic, Sturdee reached the Falkland Islands the day before Von Spee showed up. Von Spee’s second mistake was in making his appearance at about eight o’clock in the morning, with a long summer day ahead of him. The Inflexible and the Invincible were coaling at Port Stanley when the German cruisers appeared on the horizon. Hastily casting off, Sturdee set out in pursuit. When Von Spee realized that the two big ships sortieing from Port Stanley were battle cruisers with twelve-inch guns, he turned and tried to escape. This might be termed his third mistake, for, with a fight inevitable, he should have got his own shorter-range guns into action while he could. Once lost, the opportunity never returned. Inexorably, the British overhauled him sufficiently to open fire—and then, when necessary, used their superior speed to stay out of range of Von Spee’s guns.

One of the stories of that battle is that an old sailing ship which happened to be in the area suddenly found herself directly in the line of fire. Great ripping sounds were heard as the armor-piercing shells whistled overhead, but the extreme range of the British caused all the shells to pass harmlessly thousands of feet above her.

Von Spee’s two bigger ships were the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, both of which had held the Fleet Gunnery Trophy in the German Navy and were known as crack ships. But now the tables were turned, and in a few hours Von Spee, with his two fine cruisers, joined Cradock and his Good Hope and Monmouth at the bottom of the sea.

Scharnhorst and Gneisenau went down fighting; there were no survivors. They had not been able to inflict any damage of any kind on the British ships, any more than Cradock had been able to hurt Von Spee in the first encounter. But there was established a proud tradition in the German Navy, commemorated in World War II by some more recently remembered names of men-of-war.

According to Will Adams, we should sight the Falkland Islands at about ten o’clock in the morning. A little before this we came to periscope depth, put up the radar, and there, precisely as predicted, was a “pip” on the radar scope obviously made by land. The photographic reconnaissance party under Dick Harris, with cameras and equipment, was standing by in the conning tower ready for the initial approach, when Jim Stark sought me out. His face was like a thundercloud.

“What’s the matter, Jim? Is it Poole?”

“Yes, sir. Worse than ever.”

Thoughts of the impending reconnaissance vanished. “Let’s have it,” I said.

Choosing his words carefully, Jim explained that in his opinion Poole might still be having trouble with the original stone. It might not have passed at all. Temporary remissions of the type Poole had experienced were not unknown in such cases. On the other hand, it was possible that he had been passing a series of kidney stones and that this was the third one. In either case, said Jim, there was no telling how long this would continue, nor to what condition poor Poole might ultimately be reduced. While we had been heretofore running on with the idea that each attack would perhaps be the last, the Doctor felt that he could no longer leave it at that. As we talked, we neared Poole’s bunk.

Poole himself, though obviously in great pain, was not yet completely under the effects of the injection which Jim had been forced to give him. Sensing the reason for my presence, he croaked out a plea that we not turn back. “This is the last time, Captain. I swear it!” he said, but he was in such pain that he could hardly articulate the words.

I could both see and sense everybody staring at me. Their eyes said much, but nobody spoke a word.

A sort of hiatus descended upon the ship. In the conning tower, Dick Harris and his crew were waiting for the word to go ahead, but, having heard of Poole’s new attack, simply stood by quietly.

With Adams and Stark, and Operations Officer Bob Bulmer, I went over the argument again. It was not as though I hadn’t had plenty of opportunity to think it over before this. I had, in fact, already assumed that a decision must be reached one way or the other before we got to Cape Horn.

There never was a question of taking any chances with Poole’s life. Both my orders for the trip and the traditions of the US Navy for peacetime operations categorically forbade it. On the other hand, we should not want to turn back and then have Poole’s condition clear up by itself, as about three-quarters of all kidney stone attacks actually do. Yet we had already gone on for three days. No doubt we could still go on and hope the third attack would be the last. The salient point was that Macon could conceivably help us now, and if we passed her up, the nearest available medical help would be at Pearl Harbor, nearly eight thousand miles away.

Adams calculated how far we would have to travel to meet the Macon, and when. Somehow, it was almost as if there were dead silence in the ship. Not many felt like talking. A person becomes attuned to the mood of a ship, after serving in her a while. Our mood was solemn. Everyone realized what we were up against. Poole obviously had to have help, but to get it for him involved jeopardizing our mission. If, for any reason, the Macon had been diverted from Montevideo, were not within reach, if no other US Navy unit could be sent to assist us—and I knew of none anywhere about—we should have to ask for diplomatic clearance for entry into Montevideo. Once the message was sent, we would be powerless to avert public disclosure of our mission. Unless we could carry Poole for two weeks longer, to Pearl, it had to be either Macon—with whose help we might yet salvage our continuously submerged record—or Montevideo. Success in our cruise meant a lot to all of us; only I had an inkling how much it might mean to our country.

Actually, although I technically made the decision and took the responsibility for it, there really was no decision to be made. Circumstances had made it for us. I picked up the wardroom telephone and dialed “O,” which rings the phone at the elbow of the Officer of the Deck.

I held the receiver to my ear, waited until I heard a voice—it was “Whitey” Rubb.

“Officer of the Deck,” he said.

“Reverse course, Whitey,” I said. “Make your course zero zero nine degrees true and increase speed to Flank. Secure the reconnaissance party. We are heading for Montevideo.”

Recessed into one of the wardroom bulkheads are dials showing the ship’s speed, course, and depth. I watched as the gyro repeater rotated swiftly about until it finally settled at a heading just to the right of north. The speed dial also increased, until it indicated the maximum of which Triton was capable.

And then there was a feeling of frustrated despair for which there was no solution, except to carry on with what we were doing. I took a piece of paper and, with Jim Stark’s help, composed a message stating our problem and asking for aid. It was almost as though I were writing finis to our effort and to the high hopes with which we had started the cruise. Finis, all brought to an end, because of a tiny calcified growth smaller than a grain of sand, which had lodged in the wrong place in a man’s body!

It was very hard not to feel bitter against both fate and Poole.

There was a moment of comfort when I looked up the Macon in the Atlantic Fleet Organization pamphlet. I knew she was flagship of the task force in the South Atlantic, and I was pleased to see that the Admiral on board was listed as E. C. Stephan, my one-time Squadron Commander in Key West years ago. Macon’s skipper also was a very familiar officer, having been one of our most renowned and successful submarine commanders during World War II. I had never served with him and had last encountered him some years previously in the Pentagon, but everyone in the Navy knew of Reuben T. Whitaker and his dour, enthusiastic efficiency.

Not that friendship, per se, cuts any ice one way or another. But the tie of shared service certainly feels good when you’re looking for help.

The question at this point was simply whether or not Rear Admiral Ed Stephan and Captain Reuben Whitaker would be able to help us.

Drafting a naval message—condensing it to say all that needs to be said with as few words as possible, and then encoding it—takes time. It was a full two hours before we were ready to transmit a final draft. We briefly described the medical facts, and announced that we were proceeding to the vicinity of Montevideo at maximum speed. We would arrive there by one o’clock in the morning of the fifth of March, we said, and, not knowing how else to state it, we put our plea for help in plain English: “Can Macon meet us and transfer Poole?” the message asked.

As we searched the chart for a suitable rendezvous, I was struck by the fact that not far off Montevideo there is a small relatively shallow spot in an otherwise deep ocean area. Probably merchant ships heading to or from the harbor would avoid it—a desirable factor. Should the weather preclude celestial observations, it also gave both Macon and Triton a fixed point of reference for navigation by fathometer. The spot we selected was smack in the center of the shallow area.

Commissaryman Second Class Earl E. Bruch, Jr., sporting a voyage-grown set of handlebars, draws a doubtful twirl from his son after the ship docked at its home station in New London, Connecticut.

Midday is always a bad time to transmit messages, particularly over long distances, for it is well known that much greater range is possible at night. Time, however, was important, for we had no idea what sort of schedule Macon might be trying to keep. As soon as the message was ready, we slowed, came to periscope depth, and transmitted it to, of all places, the U.S. radio station on Guam, some eighty-three hundred miles away straight across the South Pole. Then Triton headed again for the depths and resumed maximum speed.

Our narrative for this period contains the following entries:

Since turning back, except for the time spent transmitting our call for help, Triton has been racing northward, deep beneath the sea, at the maximum speed that her two great propellers can drive her. There is no noticeable motion in the ship, not even vibration. All we note is a slight drumming of the superstructure from her swift passage through the water. Forward she is as steady as a church, as solid, and as quiet. Aft, only the powerful turbine roar gives away the tremendous energy she is putting into the water.

In the control and living spaces, the ship has quieted down, too. Orders are given in low voices; the men speak to each other, carry out their normal duties, in a repressed atmosphere. A regular pall has descended upon us. I know that all hands are aware of the decision and recognize the need for it. Perhaps they are relieved that they did not have to make it. But it is apparent that this unexpected illness, something that could neither have been foreseen nor prevented, may ruin our submerged record. If the Macon cannot meet us, if we have to go into the port of Montevideo to transfer Poole to medical authorities, we shall have to surface. We shall still, in that event, continue the cruise, for this would affect only our incentive factor. But that would be a big loss.

Naturally, there was no mention in the Log of any overriding reason, other than our perfectly understandable desire for the trip to be entirely submerged all the way.

As we raced north, I gave a great deal of thought to what we should do when we reached Montevideo. There was the possibility that Poole would have another remission, and, in fact, there was always the possibility that this third attack would be his last. We would have a day and a half to find out, and it might even be possible, if Macon couldn’t come to the requested rendezvous, to stretch things another few hours and wait and see. But I couldn’t, in my heart, give much for our chances of not having to surface and enter port, if Macon could not get to us.

On the other hand, if Macon did meet us, we had a fighting chance. We could “broach” the ship—that is, get the upper part of the conning tower out of water—and convert the conning tower itself into a big airlock. Triton’s pressure hull and superstructure would remain entirely submerged. Only the upper part of the sail and part of the conning tower would in fact broach the surface—a maneuver submarines have performed for years—and this critical part of the ship would have been previously sealed off from the rest. Poole and the transfer party would be inside the conning tower, would be called to the bridge when Macon’s boat approached, and transfer across with ease.

The big “if” was the Macon. There was no doubt that she could do the job. The question was whether she was where I thought she was.

That night I wrote in the Log:

2300 Periscope depth. Maybe there will be a message for us—there could be, though it is probably too soon….

2325 There is, indeed, a message for us from Admiral Daspit. Admiral Stephan is getting underway in the Macon and will meet us at the time and place we have requested.

For the second time in as many days a lead weight has been rolled off my chest. The news is immediately announced to the entire ship and at the same time we can now announce how we shall handle the rendezvous and transfer. We will not surface, at least, not fully.

All during that long day, Jim Stark and his Hospitalmen took turns keeping watch on Poole. His appearance was shocking. His face was swollen, eyes puffed up and half-shut, tears running down his nose and cheeks. He groaned continuously, sometimes in a low whimper, sometimes with startling loudness. From previous experience and Jim Stark’s warnings, I knew that he had been pretty heavily loaded with sedation and was in fact totally out of his head. In a way, I had by now become steeled to Poole’s expression, for apparently he had no recollection of the excruciating pain of his previous two attacks. But I became acutely conscious of the uncomfortable gazes and averted eyes of Poole’s worried shipmates. During his first attack, I had thought of moving him somewhere, and similarly during the second. But Triton had no sick bay; outside of making it easier for Meaders, Fickel, Gladd, and Chief Williams, our four Hospitalmen, plus Jim Stark, all of whom were taking turns watching over Poole, the only other people who would really benefit from our setting up a sick bay would be those men who had to berth in the same area.

There was only one place in the ship which could be used for such a purpose without displacing a number of other people, and where, besides providing room for the medical equipment needed, Poole could be out of sight. The additional privacy would certainly mean nothing to him in his condition, but it would be highly desirable from the point of view of the rest of the men. After thinking it over, I gave orders that this time he be moved into my bunk. It proved to be a good decision, whatever else resulted, for it certainly demonstrated the truth of the adage that “out of sight, out of mind.” Everyone perked up once Poole’s sufferings were removed from public gaze, and we became positively cheerful after receipt of the Force Commander’s encouraging message.

There were a number of preparations we had to make for the rendezvous. It would, for example, be necessary to communicate with Macon by short-range, ultra-high-frequency radio. Should our UHF antennas be out of commission because of their already prolonged submergence, which was a distinct possibility, some sort of stand-by system would be necessary. Years ago, in Amberjack, we had experimented with using the periscope to transmit messages at night by the traditional flashing-light technique. Now, I directed that a flashing light be rigged up for use in the periscope. It would work, I assured the slightly dubious quartermasters. Later on, I happened to overhear the irrepressible Bill Marshall telling his crew, “Listen you guys, did you ever hear of the charge of the light brigade? The old man says we’re going to send blinker signals through the periscope, so we’re going to send blinker signals through the periscope. Don’t waste your time figuring it out!”

The metaphor was not exactly apt, for several obvious reasons, but I knew the gadget would work; so I chuckled inwardly, as I pretended not to have heard.

Another problem was that I did not know what instructions had been given to the Macon, other than to rendezvous with us and pick up a sick man. Her crew would probably be ashore in Montevideo on liberty immediately afterward and might be indiscreet. George Sawyer pointed out that the ship’s identification numbers were painted in big white numerals on the side of our sail and would be visible to the Macon and her boat’s crew when it came alongside. News of Triton’s presence so close to shore was bound to create intense interest in the city, should it become known.

We had no paint below decks, but there was some in a watertight tank in the sail. While we were awaiting the Macon’s boat, it was decided, a crew of men would hastily attempt to blot out the numbers with paint.

And, of course, there was Poole himself. He would have all identification removed and would have all the necessary papers attached to his person in a sealed packet to be delivered only to the Commanding Officer of the Macon. Included among them would be a request that he be segregated from the crew and protected from curious questioners. If he were to have a remission prior to the transfer, we planned also to spend some time briefing him, but if not, these provisions would satisfy the situation.

In describing the transfer of Poole to the Macon, which took place early on the morning of the fifth of March, 1960,1 could not do better than to repeat verbatim the entries I wrote in the ship’s official report of the incident.

Our rendezvous with Macon is for 2 A.M. At 0100 we slowed and came to periscope depth. Macon is out there waiting for us.

The rendezvous is perfect. She is heading south, we north, and the two ships meet at the designated position.

I was pleased to find that our UHF radio worked perfectly, despite the fact that it had been long under water and subjected to high speeds. Since we had built a gadget to signal through the periscope, however, I wanted to test it out. It was a dark night, with rain and poor visibility, but to my smug satisfaction and the expressed surprise of three quartermasters in the conning tower, we found ourselves able to exchange calls perfectly with the Macon. We had rigged a light inside a tin can with a wire and a sending key attached to it. By focusing the periscope directly on the Macon and holding the tin can tightly against the rubber eyeguard, we found it possible to send a perfectly readable signal to the bridge of the other ship.

The only trouble was that it took both of our periscopes to perform this little stunt, inasmuch as one had to be used to receive return signals while the other one was transmitting; and after we had satisfied ourselves that it would work, and had tired of the performance, Macon kept trying to talk to us by flashing her light just when I wanted to use the periscope for other purposes.

0245 Approximately in position for the transfer.

0250 Broached on safety tank. Ship’s depth gauge reduces to 42 feet, indicating that the top of the conning tower should be three feet out of water. All hands are ready; the lower conning tower hatch is shut. I hastily don a jacket and a cap and then direct Curtis K. Beacham, QM1 (SS), to crack open the conning tower upper hatch very cautiously in case the gauges at this shallow depth are not precisely accurate or if there is an inch or two of water above it—which indeed there is. A small cascade pours down through the barely opened hatch, and we jam it shut again. This is remedied by a short blast of high pressure air into our most forward tank, thus lifting the bow a foot or two more and giving a better drainage angle to the bridge.

A second time I direct Beacham to open the hatch, and this time no water comes in. We are out of water. He holds it at a quarter-inch opening for a minute or two to be sure that water is not sweeping over it. None does. It is definitely out. “Open the hatch!” I tell him. He flips it open, jumps out. I am right behind him. As I swing up the ladder to the bridge, one deck above, by prearrangement Beacham jumps below again and slams the hatch nearly closed, ready to shut it instantly the rest of the way should the bridge become swamped.

It is a lonely feeling to be the only man topside in an 8000 ton ship which is 99% under water. We have been very careful with our computations, but there’s always the possibility that some miscalculation somewhere, or a sudden change in water density, might send her suddenly back down again. There is however not much time to dwell upon this, and besides there’s every chance it will not happen. Triton’s crew is too well trained, too intent on doing this thing correctly. Will Adams, Bob Bulmer and Tom Thamm are down below watching over this operation like old mother hens, and nearly everyone else is standing by his station just in case. There won’t be any mistakes down there.

All looks well on the bridge, though I notice that one of the hand rails has been broken loose by the force of the water and will undoubtedly be a source of rattles in the future if it is not already. Otherwise, everything looks about the same as it did three weeks ago when we submerged. It is pretty dark but there seems to be fair visibility, despite a drizzle of rain. I fumble for the bridge command speaker, find the knob just where it is supposed to be. Pressing upon it, I call the conning tower and, to our mutual and infinite pleasure, Will Adams immediately answers from down below. We had pretty well expected this instrument to be grounded out from its prolonged submergence and it is a boon to find it in working order.

With communication once established, things are a great deal easier. I pick up the binoculars, scan the Macon and the water between us. We are lying to, stern into the wind, about five hundred yards downwind from her. She is broadside to us, her decks amidships ablaze with lights where her deck crew is hoisting out a motor whaleboat. All we have to do is receive their boat, when it comes, and keep a careful watch on the other ship to ensure that she does not drift down upon us. This will be easy, since our radar is constantly reporting ranges.

I reach forward, press the 7MC command communication button and call into it, just to make sure: “Control, Bridge; keep and log ranges to the Macon and report immediately when she commences to close.”

The return from Bob Bulmer in the control room is immediate; “Range 600 yards, Bridge, and steady.”—Then a minute later, “Bridge,—from the Macon, their boat is in the water heading toward us.”

I acknowledge over the 7MC and direct my next order to Will Adams in the conning tower. “Conn, Bridge—send George Sawyer and the topside line handling party to the bridge, through the conning tower hatch.” We had already arranged that this group of people under our First Lieutenant and Gunnery Officer would be standing by with all necessary equipment. Upon the order they would proceed up one by one to the bridge and prepare to receive the lines from the Macon’s boat when it comes alongside.

Two of them had been directed to break out paint pots and brushes and carry them down with them to slosh paint over the number on the side of the sail, after which the brushes and pots would be discarded overboard. I had not been too keen on this idea when it was first suggested, but had allowed myself to be talked into it. It did have merit, of course, but I found myself wondering how these men were going to manage paint can and brush in one hand and hang on to the handrail on the side of the sail with the other.

Will Adams’ answer from Conning Tower comes back immediately. “Line handlers are standing by. We will open the lower conning tower hatch as soon as ready.”

A few minutes later, “Bridge, Conn—request permission to open the bridge hatch and send line handling party topside.” I press the speaker button and respond, “Bridge, aye. Permission granted.”

In a moment George Sawyer’s determined voice resounds from the bridge, “Line handlers on the lower bridge, sir, Sawyer and four men.”

I have been looking over the side to decide which is the better angle for the boat to approach from; the starboard side looks a bit better; besides, the access door from our sail is on that side. “Stand by to take them alongside the starboard side, George,” I call down to him, “I’ll signal the boat to make our starboard side.”

“Starboard side, aye aye,” from Sawyer. The four people with him are Peter P. J. Kollar, Gunner’s Mate First Class; Wilmot A. Jones, Torpedoman’s Mate Second Class and recently King Neptune’s Royal Consort; Thomas J. Schwartz (the profile), Torpedo-man’s Mate Third Class; and David E. Boe, Seaman.

The noises emanating from the lower bridge indicate that Lt. Sawyer and his men are breaking out the necessary gear, stored there in a watertight tank, to receive the boat alongside. Each man has on an inflatable life jacket with attached flashlight, and a safety belt with traveler.

The latter device is the result of an accident several years ago in northern latitudes, when the US Submarine Tusk rescued the crew of the sinking submarine Cochino. In preparation for the rescue, Tusk rigged lifelines on deck forward. Nevertheless, a huge sea came aboard, swept the people on deck off their feet against the lifeline and broke it, plunging them all into the sea. Herculean efforts on the part of the Tusk got most of them back aboard, but a number lost their lives in the freezing water.

As a result of this accident, a safety track similar to a railroad rail was installed on the decks of all submarines. Anyone going topside in bad weather or under hazardous conditions wears a strong canvas belt, with chain and traveler attached. The traveler clamps over and slides along the safety track, and may only be put on or removed from the track at certain places. This arrangement permits a man to move back and forth on deck and still remain firmly attached to the ship by a short length of very strong chain [with a “quick release” snap-hook in case of need].

When two people want to pass each other, the technique is to seek a safe moment and quickly exchange travelers by unsnapping the chains from one’s own belt and snapping the other man’s into it.

I am well aware of all of these historical matters as I look over the side and ponder the advisability of letting George and his people go down on deck. Seas are sweeping freely across our deck aft, but that is of no particular importance at the moment. Our bow is staying about a foot out of water, but around the conning tower, where I am looking over the side, the deck is frequently inundated. The night is cold and dark, completely overcast, and a light drizzle is falling. The sea feels warm.

With a little luck, George and his men will very likely have no difficulty under conditions as they are. But the risk looks a little too great. With a low freeboard the transfer is aided, provided it isn’t so low that there is risk to your deck crew. Besides, even though Poole is at the moment having a remission, partly with the help of morphine, transferring him under any but the best conditions for his health and safety is out of the question.

Again, there is really no decision to be made at all. Technicalities about staying submerged have got to give way to the realities of the situation; the safety of the people involved in this operation is more important than anything else. We will have to come up a little higher. I push the button energizing the microphone to the control room.

“Control, Bridge, blow forward group for one second.”

“Forward group, one second, aye aye,” from control. Almost simultaneously, I hear air whistling into the tanks forward. It blows for a second, stops abruptly.

The effect is most apparent. The ship having previously been carefully brought to perfect trim, addition of a thousand pounds or so of buoyancy in the forward section lifts her until the displacement [not weight] of Triton’s above-water volume equals that of the water displaced by the air in the tank. The superstructure, being entirely free to flood, displaces very little water, except for the conning tower itself, and the forward section rises several inches. The main deck in the area of conning tower and sail is now fairly clear, only an occasional wave slapping over it.

Sawyer’s voice from below, “Permission to open the access door and go out on deck, Captain?”

“Open the door, but do not go out on deck until I give you permission.”

This is just to keep control to the last before letting him go. I can hear the sound of the fastenings being opened up and the door swinging wide.

George again: “Looks all clear topside, Captain, permission to go out on deck?”

“Affirmative!” I yell back.

In the distance, the lights of the approaching motorboat are visible coming around our stern. Down below, in the flickering semilight cast by their flashlights, the men of the deck force reach through the open access door, affix their travelers to the track, and then, holding their safety chains taut, step swiftly forward on the main deck. Two men quickly turn to on a collapsible cleat just forward of the sail and rotate it upward. This is the point where we plan to take the boat’s bowline. Two other men, carrying paint pots, move aft along the sail and hurriedly commence daubing at our starboard side block numbers.

Possibly some unknown vagary in water density or wave action has commenced to affect us as Macon’s boat approaches. Two or three seas roll over the foredeck. George has his men by this time arranged alongside the sail, gripping the handhold bars, and of course holding on to their safety belts. Gazing intently over the side of the bridge in the misty darkness, I am unable to see any evidence of paint pots, a fact which does not surprise me, is on the contrary something of a relief. As I watch them anxiously, a larger than average sea mounts up the side, and all of them are momentarily buried up to the neck. George shouts “hang on” as the water rises about them. All were already pretty well soaked and the danger is more apparent than real, but we can’t let this continue, “Blow the forward group for one second,” I again order the control room, and again there is the welcome blast of high-pressure air into the tanks. This brings the deck up again and we motion the boat alongside.

In the meantime, Jim Stark and John Poole have been waiting in the conning tower. We have used the last few hours, during which he has been free from discomfort, to brief Poole thoroughly on what he can say and not say, once departed from Triton. His transfer papers and other official documents are made up in waterproof bags and attached firmly to his person. He him self is so bundled up and swathed with protective clothing and life jackets that he can hardly get through the hatch. At the word from Stark that all is ready, I order the two men to the lower bridge. Our good-byes have already been said. There is no time for more than a last hasty “good luck” to Poole.

The boat is alongside, bow painter around the cleat and held by Wilmot Jones. Two men in the boat hold her off from our side with reversed boat hooks. Chief Fitzjarrald and Sawyer steady Poole and a couple of the men in the boat stand by to catch him. Seizing a moment when the gunwale of the boat is level with the edge of our deck, Poole steps easily and quickly into it. It is a standard Navy motor-whaleboat, evidently Macon’s lifeboat, manned with a crew of about 5 people. It is a pleasure to watch the boat’s coxswain maneuver his frail craft alongside. There is no doubt that he knows his business. Poole hasn’t even gotten wet, and the boat’s gunwale has only once touched our side.

In a moment, the riding line is cast off. The men with boat hooks push hard, the engineer guns the engine, and they are away. Another moment suffices to get George and company back on the lower bridge.

“All clear on deck, Captain!” shouts Sawyer. “We didn’t get any painting done though. The first wave flooded the paint pots. Anyway, the paint wouldn’t stick, and the old paint is pretty well stripped off by the water anyhow.” This was a point we should have thought of, but all’s well that ends well. Then they are below, hatch shut behind them.

While waiting for further word from the Macon, Machinist’s Mate Bob Carter is busy with a hacksaw, taking off the loose bridge guardrail we had noticed. In a few minutes the welcome word comes from our Communications Officer, Lt. Bob Brodie, in Radio: “Bridge, Radio—from the Macon—Poole safely on board.”

Among the papers Poole has with him are personal letters of appreciation to Admiral Stephan and Captain Reuben Whitaker. More than our thanks for their help, there is little information we can give them about our trip. They must be bursting with curiosity. We send a final message of thanks and then, with topside clear and hatch shut, I order Dick Harris, Diving Officer of the Watch, to return to periscope depth. The air bubble in our tanks is released, and gently Triton eases her sail into the warm sea. The total time with the bridge above water has been less than an hour. With a deep feeling of gratitude for the way the Navy has come through, we shape our course at maximum speed southward.

Now that we have successfully solved the difficult problem about Poole, the atmosphere in our ship lightens considerably. With everything wide open, Triton is again heading for Cape Horn. This time we will save time by passing to the west of the Falkland Islands and head for Estrecho de le Maire, a small strait between Staten Island [familiar name] and the main part of Tierra del Fuego.

We calculate that we will have gone 2,000 miles out of our way on this mercy mission, and it has cost several days. The distance is almost equal to an Atlantic transit.