Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

12

During the trip across the Pacific, Triton employed two sets of navigators. The regular team, consisting of Executive Officer Will Adams and Chief Quartermaster William J. Marshall, was backed up by team number two: Operations Officer Bob Bulmer and First Class Quartermaster Curtis K. Beacham. Will, I hoped, would soon have his own command, while Bob was preparing for a chance at nuclear training. We would be bound to lose one of the two officers and possibly one of the quartermasters besides. It was just as well to be ready to make a shift in assignment.

As a consequence, the landfall on Guam was made by the combined efforts of both navigating teams, and at 0726, on the twenty-eighth of March, with the whole day ahead of us for a careful reconnaissance of this once-beleaguered Pacific bastion, Triton came to periscope depth. Guam was dead ahead and Rota lay due north. It was another perfect landfall after sixty-seven hundred miles of submerged travel.

We planned to work our photographic reconnaissance for the northwestern coast of Guam as closely as we could. We would have no problem with the three-mile limit, for Guam was a US possession. Nevertheless, so far as we knew, none of the American authorities on Guam were aware of Triton’s trip, and from our point of view it would be as embarrassing to be detected by our own personnel as by any other nationality.

We had two complete photographic teams. Team One consisted of Commander Joseph Roberts, USNR, helped by Photographer’s Mate First Class Earnest R. Meadows, who were specially attached to Triton for the voyage. Team Two consisted of Lieutenant Dick Harris and Chief William R. Hadley. Though the teams naturally competed with each other, both had full access to the special skills and techniques which Joe Roberts had developed during a lifetime in the business. In addition to everything else, Joe had been assigned as “pool press photographer,” which meant that all his pictures would be equally available to the entire newspaper and magazine media of the country.

As the water shoaled, while we were working into position, we had an opportunity to test our latest, do-it-yourself fathometer in relatively shallow water. By this time we had two homemade fathometer heads, or transducers as they are technically called. One had been built from scratch and very neatly finished off by Phil Kinnie and Chief Engineman Alfred Abel, both of them accomplished stainless-steel welders—which is, by the way, one of the most difficult phases of the welder’s art. Commandeering one of Jim Stark’s stainless-steel medical containers, they had cut it down and welded it around the entire jury-transducer which Electronics Technician’s Mates Docker, Simpson, and Blaede had manufactured under “Whitey” Rubb’s direction; it looked like a most professional job. The second transducer was a conversion from one of our regular announcing-system speakers, waterproofed as well as we were able. While not so rugged as the stainless-steel one just described, it had the theoretical advantage of being superior in frequency response.

But as ingenious as the new heads were, they still could not transmit a signal with enough strength to pierce the outer hull and return to the ship. Our efforts, again, were a complete failure.

However, there was one way, short of cutting a hole through the bottom of the hull of the ship, to project our transducer directly into the sea and by-pass the rugged steel plating. This was through our garbage ejector. If we could operate it with the inner door closed and the outer door open, the signal would at least have an unimpeded path through water. Whether we would be able to hear an answering echo on our sonar receivers, which were located quite some distance forward of the garbage ejector, was a matter for conjecture. And whether we could devise some means of getting electrical energy into the transducer through the closed breech of the garbage ejector was a technical hurdle as yet uncrossed. But the idea was at least worth a try.

From the Log:

During the approach to Guam, we have remained at periscope depth and have observed considerable activity on shore. Several aircraft are landing or taking off and a helicopter can be seen hovering over the airfield. We can see the planes being maneuvered about the hangar and people walking on the roads, cars driving back and forth, and other signs of activity. There is one housing area which is very clear indeed on top of a near hill with slope toward the sea. We can see the green grass plots, and brown areas where walkways and driveways have been carved out. The houses are white or creamed stucco, surrounded in most cases by flowers and shrubs.

As we prepare for our reconnaissance our vision is occasionally obscured by a succession of torrential downpours which come marching in from the north. At times the rain is so heavy that it is impossible to see more than a few hundred yards in any direction. Our photographic efforts therefore are under an unusual difficulty—that of predicting the showers so that the part of the island we wish to photograph is for the time being clear. During one period there were as many as three localized thunderstorms on different bearings, with clear visibility between.

Today is a big day, too, for Edward C. Carbullido, SD2 (SS), USN. Carbullido was born on Guam and has youthful memories of the period of Japanese occupation during the war. Subsequently, when old enough, he enlisted in the US Navy and has been in the Navy for 14 years, during which he has never returned to his home island. Today is, in fact, the closest he has ever been. We wish it were possible to let him go ashore for a few days, and we shall do as much as we can for him.

Carbullido’s father is a Chief Quartermaster in the Navy, now retired and living here. He has recently built a new home in the town of Agat, just to the southward of Orote peninsula, around the point of land from Apra Harbor and Agana, the main city of Guam.

Many a father would like to have a son like our Carbullido. During the Japanese Occupation, the father was away. This was good luck, of a sort, but during this period there was no support for his family. Edward Carbullido, the oldest, worked for the Japanese to support his mother and the younger children. After the war, as soon as old enough, he joined the Navy, and during the subsequent 14 years he has sent home every cent he could spare, a total of several thousand dollars, to help pay for a new house and the education of his brothers and sisters. Carbullido’s ambition is to return to Guam after completing 20 years of service, 6 years from now. One can hardly believe that he is actually well into his 30’s; he looks 10 years younger.

We spread a map of Guam on the wardroom table and ask Carbullido to pinpoint, as accurately as he can, the exact spot where his parents’ house is. In “The Skipper’s Corner” I have explained that today, after we have carried out our scheduled drill photographing the Island of Guam, we shall expend a few hours giving Carbullido the best possible look we can through the periscope at his home town. This seems to suit everyone.

After we finish photographing the town of Agana, we go through the same procedure at Apra Harbor. Behind the breakwater we can see a floating dry dock, a Navy barracks ship or barge, and what looks like a small seaplane tender. We then pass close around the tip of Orote peninsula, periscope raised, looking very carefully at the signal station out on the end of the point. We don’t want to be detected; therefore it receives a searching investigation. The place is deserted.

1445 We have rounded Orote Point and changed course toward Agat. The water is deep and the sea calm, although large rollers are sweeping down past Orote Point. They do not affect us in the lee of the land.

Carbullido is ready a full hour early in the Conning Tower, wearing a clean suit of dungarees and grinning self-consciously. As we approach Agat, he gets his turn with the periscope alternately with the Executive Officer and myself. His eagerness is evident as we approach closer and closer, and the objects on shore become clearer to him.

During our times at the periscope Will Adams takes navigational cuts, and I am constantly sweeping the near shore against any possibility that someone might be there by chance looking out to seaward. People ashore rarely look to sea, however, and I doubt, even if there were anyone, that there would be much chance of their seeing our periscope. Nevertheless, we are cautious with it, exposing only a few inches for brief seconds.

It is touching to see the intense eagerness with which Carbullido peers through the periscope, looking for the house he has helped to buy but has never seen. With a big grin, he announces that Agat is very different from the way he remembers it. “Many more people,” he says, “many more houses.” It is, indeed, an attractive modern-looking town. As we draw closer, we insist upon Carbullido identifying his father’s house, which he feels he can do from the descriptions and pictures he has received by mail. Finally, with a wide smile, he has it spotted, and we all eagerly take turns to look it over. Even with the periscope at high power and the ship as close to shore as we can bring her, the house Carbullido has selected is only a tiny spot in the distance. It is situated as he had described it, on a fairly high piece of ground, near the water but high enough to be free of flooding.

We stay a long time at slow speed in Agat Bay, in order to give Carbullido the maximum periscope liberty possible. At one time I draw Carbullido to the periscope with the idea that I can see a person or people near his house. After a long look Carbullido confirms this, but still I am not sure. It would be nice to say that he actually did see some member of his family, but we are too far away to be positive. Whatever it is I saw, it was motionless much too long.

1630 We have been in Agat Bay an hour and ten minutes; it is time to go. Regretfully, I tell Carbullido that we must put the periscope down and get under way for the Philippine Islands. Carbullido’s eyes are shining as he thanks everyone in the conning tower and starts down the ladder into the control room.

One of the things which has impressed me from the beginning of this episode is the consideration and kindness of the rest of the crew and the conning tower personnel for their shipmate. So far, at every landfall we have made, there has always been a number of men wanting to come up for a look; off Cape Horn and Easter Island there had been a determined effort to get as many people as possible to the periscopes so that they could say that they had seen them. In this instance, not a soul has asked for permission to come up and take any of Carbullido’s periscope time; and if he had been the Captain of the ship himself, he could not have received more attention or assistance from the quartermasters with regard to focusing the periscope, aiming it in the right direction, setting his bearings, etc. As Carbullido’s grateful face vanishes below the conning tower hatch to the control room, Chief Quartermaster Bill Marshall puts into words the thought which has occurred to all of us: “Wouldn’t it be great if we could figure out some way to get him to Guam for a real leave? Fourteen years away from home is a long time.” We have already been gone a long time, too; a month and a half. To Marshall’s words, there is general nodding assent.

A few hours later, I went Marshall one better and categorically promised Carbullido that some way, somehow, we would get him to Guam. It was a reckless promise, but I felt a way would turn up to make it good.

So far as we could tell, we had passed close aboard the island of Guam, had held the periscope up for a lengthy period, and had even spent considerable time in Agat harbor with the periscope going up and down almost continuously without stirring any noticeable reaction on shore. That night, however, I suddenly was not so sure. We had been at periscope depth for a short time, to make our normal celestial observations and ventilate the ship, when flashing red and green lights were detected on a bearing northeast by east, in the general direction of Guam, approximate altitude 30°, closing on us with a steady bearing.

I snatched the periscope when the report was given and made a long, searching inspection. There was no doubt about it. Lights were flashing red and green, and the bearings did not change. It must be an aircraft heading for us.

“Down scope,” I barked. “Secure ventilation. Take her deep.”

If it was indeed an aircraft coming right for us, possibly inspecting the surface of the water for want of anything more interesting to look at, we didn’t want to show the white froth of our propeller wake which would reveal the fact that something unusual had been there in the sea. I waited a perceptible time before giving the next order. “All ahead two-thirds.”

I could feel Triton angle downward gently and our speed begin to increase. Deliberately, I waited until the depth gauges showed there was a concealing cover of water over our screws before ordering, “All ahead full.”

Down we went into the friendly depths, on our way toward the Philippine Islands. I was somewhat disturbed that the aircraft had showed no signs of flying by, instead it had zeroed directly in on us.

From the Log:

Tuesday, 29 March 1943 Coming to periscope depth for routine night evolutions including ventilating and celestial observations.

1946 Aircraft contact bearing 070° true. Flashing red and green lights. Two nights in succession; maybe we have been detected. Who could be so persistent? Has he figured out our routine? Only a submariner could do that—maybe Admiral Benson, my ex-skipper and now ComSubPac, is playing games with us; or maybe the fliers in Guam have some extra gasoline to expend. Possibly they suspect a non-US submarine.

Two weeks before, we had received a message informing us that my old wartime skipper in USS Trigger, Commander (now Rear Admiral) Roy S. Benson, had taken over as ComSubPac. Our acquaintance had dated from my midshipman days, when he had been my instructor in seamanship and navigation, and well did I remember his propensity, as both instructor and skipper, for an occasional witticism at the expense of one of his less alert students or subordinates. There never was a sting to any of Admiral Benson’s humor, and usually there was a lesson to be learned. There was, for example, the day I navigated the old Trigger directly under the sun.

When the sun passes dead overhead, its altitude measures 90° no matter in what direction one looks, and a special type of observation known as a “high-altitude sight” must be worked out for a position. A running fire of semicaustic comment from Benson, to the effect that modern navigators didn’t know how to handle a high-altitude sight, that no Executive Officer of a submarine today, myself included, would know what to do about this situation, had impelled me to a rather searching investigation as to just how the situation was to be handled. When the calculated time came, I stood on the bridge and took shot after shot of the sun as we approached and passed through the subsolar point, finding later, to my astonishment, that I had been there for an hour and a half of continuous observation. Then, still fascinated with the unique navigational problem, I spent another couple of hours computing the results. When I was finished, I had produced a beautiful set of curves showing exactly where we had been during the entire period, all defined by a series of tiny intersecting arcs.

As nearly as I can now remember, Captain Benson’s comment, when I proudly showed him the results of my work, was something to the effect that any navigator worth a damn would have done the same. But the pleased look in his eyes gave my confidence a terrific boost.

In my own mind I knew that if Admiral Benson, ComSubPac, had learned that an unknown periscope had been detected off Guam, his aircraft would be sent out to find us. As officer in charge of all US submarines operating in the Pacific Fleet, he would have our basic itinerary and would know exactly where to send his planes. Their orders, couched in officialese though they might be, would be designed for the express purpose of “teaching that young fellow Beach how to run a submarine.”

Extreme caution with the periscope was thus in order. I recalled all my techniques of the war years, leaving the periscope up for short periods only, crouching as I used it so that only one or two inches of it were exposed. We had Triton making minimum speed, in order to create the smallest possible periscope feather in the dark waters. Under these conditions, even the best antisubmarine radar would have difficulty detecting the tip of our scope, while I looked carefully at the airplane in an effort to learn more about it. Once again, the bearing of the aircraft appeared to be nearly constant, and the thought flashed across my mind that it might be merely a regular commercial airliner flying between Guam and the Philippines. The alternately flashing red and green lights tended to bear out this theory. But after a few careful observations, spaced some time apart, it became apparent that the distance to the flashing lights did not seem to have changed perceptibly. Furthermore, there was something just a little strange about the alternations of the red and green lights….

Just as someone in the darkened conning tower, possibly Will Adams, commented that perhaps it would be a good idea to check the Nautical Almanac or the star charts, my brain which subconsciously had been trying to give me the right information all along, suddenly supplied the answer.

We had been fooled by a star millions of miles away! No wonder both the range and the bearing had seemed so nearly constant! I stood up from my half-crouching position and ran the periscope all the way up to the top.

In a few moments, the confirmation came from Chief Quartermaster Marshall, below in the chart room. Our visitor of two nights in a row was a navigator’s friend, the red star Arcturus, which, according to the Nautical Almanac, should have the altitude and bearing of our supposed aircraft at that very moment. The green light which had apparently alternated with the red was no doubt simply a refraction effect on the damp surface of our periscope lens.

My only comfort, as we laid aside our anxieties and went about the business of the night’s periscope depth routine, was that more than one submarine has dived for a rising star. During the war, three times in a row the ace submarine Tirante had dived when Venus came over the horizon—in one case, according to the excited lookout who saw it, accompanied by whirling propeller, machine-gun bullets, and the leering face of a Japanese pilot.

Thursday, 31 March, 1960, from the Log:

0545 As we cross the Philippine Trench, the bottom rises precipitously to the 100-fathom curve. Our echo-ranging sonar picks it out like a brick wall as we come up on it, and once again the gravity meter indicates a rapidly shoaling bottom.

A glance at any chart of the ocean depths will show that one of the deepest spots in the Pacific Ocean is the so-called Philippine Trench, lying on a north-and-south axis just to the east of the Philippine archipelago. As Triton approached the Trench, I remember looking with interest at the repeater scope of our search sonar. We were in a sea of nothingness. The limits of the huge trench were well beyond the range of sonar, the bottom so far away as to be like a void.

Our objective was Surigao Strait, and according to our chart the depth of water would reduce suddenly from thousands of fathoms to less than one hundred, if we were able to pick the spot accurately where the Strait entered the Philippine archipelago. If we missed the mark, the vertical wall of the Trench implacably stood in our path.

Silently and at reduced speed, our great ship glided toward the barrier, probing for the relatively small notch at the top which would be our entry point. Our navigation was accurate; that we knew. We had learned to have considerable faith in it over the weeks since we had left New London. But even so, there might be some unexpected current, some unexplained drift of the ocean waters which would sweep us a little bit one way or the other and cause us to miss the tiny V-shaped notch in the top of the wall toward which we were bound. Faced with the massiveness of nature, the hundreds and thousands of cubic miles of material deposited here, almost as though by design to bar our way, even the powerful and mighty Triton, the supreme effort thus far of man’s competition with his environment, suddenly appeared insignificant.

As we approached the barrier, my concern rose and little feelings of anxiety pricked at my subconscious. What if the channel we sought were not there? How could we retrieve the shattering catastrophe of striking the barrier, rather than passing over it?

My brain always did have a tendency to be overimaginative, I thought, as I pushed the unbidden doubts to the back of my mind. We had slowed our headlong pace, were cautiously and carefully searching for the passage. It was there, and we would find it.

Again, Will Adams’ navigation held true. The low spot in the massive wall ahead of us which was Surigao Strait showed up beautifully on the sonar, and correlation with our previously calibrated indications showed us a depth, at the entrance, of well over a hundred fathoms. Not much, surely, compared with the nearly six thousand-fathom depth only a mile or two to the east, but more than enough for us.

At 0743 on the morning of March 31st, Triton entered Surigao Strait.

From the Log:

We have been taking water samples of the various bodies of water through which we have passed during this voyage. One of the things for which the water samples can be used is the Naval Academy’s annual Ring Dance. Part of the ceremony for the Ring Dance is to christen the class rings of the new senior midshipmen in the waters of the seven seas. As can be appreciated, getting an authentic sample of water from a remote spot of the world is sometimes difficult. We may, at least, help them out. Additionally, the class of 1945, less than a year ago, donated a small-boat navigational light to the Academy and named it the Triton Light, without realizing, apparently, that their light and our ship have something very much in common. So we shall also send USS Triton’s own unique tribute to the Triton Light.

Here, in Surigao Strait, there is a special reason for collecting water, and a special sample of it is going to be sent to Admiral Jesse P. Oldendorf, USN (ret.). Admiral Oldendorf had command of a squadron of cruisers, destroyers, and elderly battleships, which, it will be remembered, “crossed the T” at the Battle of Surigao Strait. It was here that the repaired and regenerated California, Tennessee, West Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania returned the wounds they had received at Pearl Harbor on the day the war began. It was probably the last time the “T” will be crossed in battle.

“Whitey” Rubb [additional duty as water collector] assures me that there are indeed great streaks of rust to be found in the Surigao Strait water—and that, upon close inspection, it is indubitably identified as rust from old and long-sunk Japanese warship hulls. We think Admiral Oldendorf will appreciate a sample of this body of water, and though he may not have the precise instruments Whitey and I do for detection of the rust streaks, I am sure he can devise an adequate test of his own.

At this point, with the opportunity before me to write a fuller history of Triton’s pilgrimage, it must be admitted that our tests for rust in the Surigao Strait water would hardly stand up against careful laboratory examination. As a matter of candid fact, they existed only in Whitey Rubb’s and my minds, for the entire episode was one of sentiment, not science.

1105 Came to periscope depth for an observation and sighted a small fishing boat under sail on our port bow. We watched with interest as the fishing craft passed along our port side about a mile away and disappeared astern. No indication that anyone on board saw us, though we took a number of photographs with the consequent necessity of leaving the periscope up too long.

1300 Have passed through Surigao Strait and entered Mindanao Sea. As we enter Mindanao Sea, we pick up a sonar contact bearing 345° true, which upon careful checking is classified as a medium-to-heavy single-crew ship.

1307 Sonar contact in sight bearing 347° true—a moderate-size freighter, single stack, two masts. This is an opportunity we have been looking for. We have been drilling our approach party but have not had a moving ship to actually work with. As a matter of fact, even if we had, we would not have been able to play with any ship, until today, long enough to get much good out of the exercise. Now the situation is different. We are not in so much hurry, and here is a nice big ship heading our way.

1308 Manned tracking stations. We need not approach the target very closely, and we shall be particularly careful to give no indication that we are present. Submerged submarines are always the burdened vessels in such cases. They must never annoy other ships, and they must never forget that no one can identify the nationality of a periscope at sea.

1332 We have had an excellent drill. The ship has gone by at a good range, identified as a World War II Liberty ship in excellent condition. She is nicely painted with black hull, white stripe and white superstructure. No colors visible, and we were much too far to read the name. But she gave us a fine workout; and we are much the better for it.

One unusual thing developed in that the ship’s actual course never did check with my observations. Through years of practice I knew my angles were not that far off, and as a matter of fact, when they were exactly 90°—which is easy to tell because the front and rear sides of the bridge line up exactly—they did not check at all with our plot of her track. We think we know the reason for this phenomenon, and at 1417, obtaining an accurate position from bearings and ranges on land, our suspicions are confirmed. We have been subject to a rather strong current, apparently well over 2 knots. Our friend has been steering a course deliberately calculated to allow for the drift.

Our track leads us down Surigao Strait, across the Mindanao Sea and around Bohol Island to the west and into Bohol Strait; thence northward to Mactan Island. This is not the same track followed by Magellan, who went east of Bohol Island to the Camotes Sea and thence southward to Cebu. That route is much too shallow for us. Mactan is a very small island, lying close to the much larger Cebu and terminating Bohol Strait. On the western side of Mactan is Cebu Harbor, with north and south approaches through the channel between Cebu and Mactan. To the east of Mactan lies deep and straight Hilutangan Channel, joining Bohol Strait and the Camotes Sea.

The place we have come to see is Magellan Bay, on the north shore of Mactan Island. Having survived the most extreme privation, not to mention the mutinous acts of a disloyal fleet, Magellan had brought his three remaining ships through unknown and uncharted waters to the Far East. He had achieved his objective—of this there was confirmation in the chance encounter with a Malay trading vessel. The fabulous Spice Islands, at most, could be but a few more days’ sail away! Parr’s book, So Noble a Captain, well describes the exaltation and religious fervor which filled Magellan’s soul. He died in the shallows of the bay now bearing his name, having landed with only forty-eight men to bring Christianity to fifteen hundred hostile warriors by force of arms, trusting in a divine miracle the equal of the one which had brought him there in the first place.

The Sailing Directions and the chart of the area show a spot on the north shore of Mactan, in Magellan Bay, which is marked “Magellan Monument.” To traverse these historic waters and sight this monument constitutes a high point in our cruise, already 19,700 miles long.

Tonight we received our sixth babygram: a girl for Chief Engineman Clarence M. Hathaway, Jr.—the only man small enough to crawl outboard of our starboard propeller shaft—Inge Mae, born March twenty-fifth. Mother and child are well.