Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

15

The sealed-ship test, by design, had been scheduled to terminate on Sunday, the twenty-fourth of April. It would be a good way to finish off the circumnavigation, Will Adams had suggested, to give us something to think about during the last few days.

But on Sunday, as we resumed normal daily ventilation, I, for one, found it hard to keep from feeling a tingling excitement. Tomorrow, Monday, the twenty-fifth of April, we would have completed the first of our missions. With the return to St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks, carefully passing on the western side this time, Triton would become the first ship to accomplish the submariner’s dream of traveling, entirely submerged, completely around the world.

It would be on the sixtieth day of the circumnavigation, by our reckoning, but a man perched on the Rocks would have counted the sunrise sixty-one times; for we had lost a day by making the circuit in a westerly direction, following the sun.

On the other hand, we had been forced to set our ship’s clocks back one hour twenty-three times. Twenty-three of our days had thus been twenty-five hours in length (the shift to daylight saving time had also occurred, and the twenty-fourth extra hour would be returned to us in October).

The last several weeks of our trip had been singularly free from malfunction of any parts of the ship. It seemed as though we had finally shaken most of the bugs out. As events were shortly to prove, however, our travail might have been almost over—but it was not yet, quite.

From the Log:

24 April 1960, Sunday 2001 Serious casualty in the after torpedo room. The manner in which this develops is illustrative of a point many naval officers are fond of making—there is no sudden alarm, no quick scurry of many people carrying out an expected drill. By the time anyone in authority even knew what had happened, the need for alarm was past. There was left only the correction of the trouble and clean up of the mess, which took some time. What took place is instructive:

The torpedoman on “Room Watch” in the after torpedo room, Allen W. Steele, TM3 (who had only last night been notified of his prospective advancement to Second Class), heard a loud report, nearly like an explosion as he later described it, followed by a heavy spraying noise. Turning, he saw clouds of oil vapor issuing from beneath the deck plates forward on the starboard side. Instantly realizing that this was serious trouble, Steele called the control room on the 7MC announcing system and reported a heavy hydraulic oil leak in the stern plane mechanism; then he plunged into the hydrant stream of oil hoping to find the leak and isolate it.

In the control room, Lt. Rubb was starting to make the routine preparations to bring the ship to periscope depth. His first indication of trouble came when Raymond J. Comeau, Electrician’s Mate Second Class, at the stern plane controls, noticed failure to respond to a small movement of his control arm, and called out in a voice edged with concern, “The stern planes are not working right, sir!” At nearly the same moment, the report of a large hydraulic leak in the after torpedo room was received from Steele.

“Whitey” Rubb’s action was the one for which we have trained many times: “Shift to Emergency!” Comeau threw a single toggle switch, tested controls and reported them satisfactory. This restored control of the ship, but it did not solve the basic difficulty [the quickness with which this action was taken is demonstrated by the fact that planes and rudder automatically switch to emergency power if the pressure in the main system falls to 1000 1bs; this had not yet occurred].

In the after torpedo room, Steele determined the leak to be in the stern planes’ normal power-hydraulic system, and correctly diagnosed it as a massive hydraulic failure. His third immediate decision was also a correct one. Diving into the midst of the high-pressure spray, he reached the two quick-closing valves to the supply and return pipes and shut them. One came shut easily but the other, in the center of the 3000 1bs-per-square-inch oil spray, was very difficult to move because of the pressure unbalance across its seat and an extremely slippery handle. Desperately struggling with the valve, and aided by Arlan F. Martin, Engineman Third Class, who ran to his aid, Steele finally got it also shut. By this time, fifteen to thirty seconds after the onset of the leak, the entire after part of the compartment was filled with oil vapor and visibility was reduced to only a few feet. The fumes were choking; an explosive mixture undoubtedly existed.

With the closing of the isolation valves, the oil flow stopped immediately. Estimates later were that approximately 30 gallons of hydraulic oil had been lost into the after torpedo room bilges out of a 120-gallon system pressurized to 3000 1bs per square inch. Had Steele’s action not been so instantaneous and so precisely correct, complete loss of the ship’s main hydraulic system must inevitably have happened within a few seconds more. This would have caused a momentary loss of all diving plane control and steering as well. Even with automatic shift to “emergency control,” the ship’s high speed at the time does not permit this possibility to be viewed other than with deepest concern.

Personnel who behaved with credit were Arlan F. Martin, Engineman Third Class, who ran to Steele’s assistance and participated with him in shutting the last and most difficult of the two hydraulic cutoff valves, and Ronald Dale Kettlehake, who had just entered the compartment in process of tracing some system required for submarine qualification. Realizing the possible danger to personnel from the oil spray which was rapidly fogging the atmosphere, he showed presence of mind by waking the dozen or more sleepers and routing them forward into the after engine room.

2002 Things had been happening so swiftly that the first anyone other than those dealing with it knew of the casualty was when Rubb ordered “Smoking lamp out!” “Rig after torpedo room for emergency ventilation.” There had been no confusion, no warning, not even any raised voices. Tom Thamm, our Damage Control Officer, quickly got to his feet and strode purposefully aft, followed by Jim Hay, his assistant.

2030 This is far from a pleasant casualty to think about. It should never happen. Our preliminary investigation disclosed that the stern plane control valve, located just underneath the floor plates in the after torpedo room, had broken right through its body at one of the flanged joints. There had been no warning of any kind. The cause may possibly stem from excessive flexing and metal fatigue or from a faulty forging. It will undoubtedly be carefully investigated by qualified metallurgists and design personnel. In Triton, this control valve handles hydraulic oil at 3000 1bs pressure in lines 2½ inches in diameter. Steele’s swift and decisive action is living proof that if you train for every possible type of casualty, there is a good chance that you can also control the few impossible ones that happen anyway.

Steele has been recommended to receive the Secretary of the Navy Letter of Commendation with Commendation Ribbon for meritorious service. We are preparing the papers now.

2130 Everything is pretty much back to normal so far as the after torpedo room and the hydraulic system is concerned, except that we are still in “emergency” on the planes and shall have to remain so until a replacement is found for the fractured control valve. It turns out there are no spares in stock, and it will be necessary to steal a valve from another system. After due consideration, even this presents no choice; the only hydraulic system in the ship which has an adequately large control valve is the steering system. Steering from now on will have to be in emergency; but after the exchange has been made, we shall have normal stern plane control.

Monday, 25 April 1960 0432 Normal power is restored to the stern planes. The main hydraulic system is back in full commission with a control valve stolen from the steering system. Steering is permanently in “emergency.”

0754 Crossed equator for the fourth and final time this cruise at longitude 28°—03´ West.

1200 Position 00°—53’ North, 29°—01´ West. We are within a few miles of St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks, at which point we will have completed the first submerged circumnavigation of the world.

1330 St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks in sight, bearing due west.

1500 First submerged circumnavigation of the world is now complete.

We are circling and photographing the islet again, as we did just two months ago. The weather is nice and the sun is shining brightly. Our mileage [Rock to Rock] is 26,723 nautical miles and it has taken us 60 days and 21 hours [days calculated as twenty-four hours each]. Dividing gives an average overall speed of just over 18 knots. No other ship___and no other crew—could have done better. We are proud to have been selected to accomplish this undertaking for our nation.

Our total milage for the trip will be a little more than 36,000 nautical miles [including the two thousand-mile mercy mission for Poole], and it now looks as though our overall time since departure from New London will be 85 days [New London computation]. We have been instructed to proceed to a rendezvous point off Cadiz, Spain, where the destroyer Weeks is to meet us. Weeks will send aboard the completed bronze plaque we designed in tribute to Magellan, but it is our understanding it is to be presented at a later date, possibly by the US ambassador. For the time being we are to avoid detection, making our rendezvous off Cadiz beyond sight of curious onlookers.

We earnestly hope Weeks will bring mail for us, in addition to the plaque. Even though we can depend upon our Squadron organization in New London to do everything in its power to assist our families, there’s nothing [except seeing them] which can substitute for a letter from your loved ones. More than this we neither need nor want. Our provisions are still adequate, though non-scrambled eggs would certainly taste good, and our personal tobacco stocks have lasted surprisingly well, despite demands placed upon them by people like Curtis Beacham, who brought a dozen-and-a-half boxes of cigars with him, then early in the cruise gave most of them away in an effort to break the habit clean; for weeks now he has been abjectly relying on the occasional generosity of the friends to whom he gave them.

We still do not know when—or whether—knowledge of our submerged voyage will be made public. We therefore shall not surface, will only bring our high conning tower hatch clear of the sea to pass the plaque and its custodian through, as we did our sick shipmate nearly two months before.

1645 A congratulatory message has arrived from our Force Commander. It is read to the crew as soon as decoded and everyone aboard very much appreciates his kind and encouraging words.

1700 Prepared a suitable message on our part recommending Steele for official recognition and thanking Admiral Daspit for his thoughtful message.

1700 Set course for Tenerife in the Canary Islands. The city of Santa Cruz was the last city of the Old World seen by Magellan. Provisions and supplies were cheaper there than in Spain, and it was therefore customary for voyagers from Castile to top-off there before making their final departure. We shall be coming at it from a direction opposite to Magellan’s, but it nevertheless will make a good final port of call. If we have time, we shall make our final photographic reconnaissance there.

2125 William Roy Welch, Machinist’s Mate First Class, is re-enlisted in the service of the United States Navy for a period of six years. Since the Manual of the Bureau of Naval Personnel specifically prohibits re-enlistments at sea, to re-enlist Welch it was necessary to obtain permission in advance from the Assistant Secretary of the Navy for Personnel and Reserve Affairs. Welch’s re-enlistment is a milestone of sorts, inasmuch as it is done at deep depths, at high speed and at the culmination of history’s first submerged circumnavigation of the world. All these things we carefully record in Welch’s service record and in the ship’s Log.

2145 We are not yet home, but we may be considered to have taken a long lead off third base. So tonight, to celebrate completion of the first submerged circumnavigation and our looked-for homecoming, we hold a “third base party” for the crew and officers. There are even several acts of pretty good entertainment. The first is by Fireman Raymond Kuhn, who has been practicing on a homemade French horn. To everyone’s amazement it works, and he plays us several fairly recognizable bugle calls on it. Kuhn will never win any Nobel prizes for music, but the fact that he can play that thing at all is astonishing. He gets cheers of appreciation from his shipmates, many of whom throng around asking to try it themselves, and we may use him on the bridge for rendering passing honors to other naval vessels.

Another act is a barbershop quartet consisting of Herb Zeller, EM1; Chief Steward William “Joe” Green; Richard Brown, EM1; and Wilmot Adair (Mrs. Neptune) Jones, TM2. The quartet are taken aback by their audience’s wild insistence upon an encore, for it turns out they know only one song. They needn’t have worried; it gets as many cheers the second time.

The hit of the evening, from my point of view, is a skit put on by Jim Flaherty, RM1, and Jones. Flaherty plays a TV announcer and Jones acts the part of “Mother Fletcher,” the cooking instructor, who continually samples her sherri-herri [sic] while baking a cake, and slowly drinks herself into a stupor in front of the anguished announcer. Mother Fletcher’s delighted audience was particularly convulsed because someone had doctored up the “sherri-herri” bottle with chili sauce; Jones’ agonized expression throughout the skit was very real indeed.

We also held a “beard contest,” with myself as chief judge. I had already decided who was going to win: he was our ship’s barber, Pete Kollar, whose luxurious facial foliage could have competed with any Hollywood actor’s, but he fell asleep and no one remembered to call him for the contest. Forced, therefore, to judge honestly from among the other candidates, I finally awarded the prize for the “most glorious beard” to James Bennett, RM1.

0230 Finally wrote finis to the World’s First Submerged Circumnavigation Celebration. All hands turned in with the feeling of satisfaction that comes from having finished a big job.

A special Well Done should go to LCDR Bob Fisher, our supply officer, whose cooks kept the party-goers well supplied with a steady flow of pizza, popcorn and punch. Bob also serves as the officer representative on the ship’s recreation council, whose members did the planning for the party.

Thursday and Friday, 28-29 April 1960 With a comfortable speed of advance and our circumnavigation complete, these two days were devoted to engineering drills. Like all nuclear ships, we have rigid qualification requirements for officers and men before they may stand certain main propulsion plant watches.

Saturday, 30 April 1960 This is Will Adams’ birthday. He has announced everybody else’s birthday in his daily “Plan of the Day,” but had hoped to avoid mentioning his own. I out-foxed him, however, and wrote it in just before the Plan of the Day went to press.

As an added birthday present, this morning a message arrived with notification that Will Adams is a Commander, US Navy, with a date of rank from 1 February [that is, he will be as soon as he finishes some correspondence courses which are still dogging him]. The same message states that Don Fears is a Lieutenant Commander, also with a 1 February date. We knew both promotions were due, and it is certainly fine to get the news at last; Will and Don have been congratulated all day long.

0430 Periscope depth for approach on Tenerife, Canary Islands. The spectacle on raising the periscope is remarkable. Although we are still quite distant from land, the lights of the city of Santa Cruz are so high above the horizon as to give the appearance of stars. Tenerife, according to the Sailing Directions, is an extremely high and mountainous island. The highest peak, Pico de Teyde, is more than 12,000 feet. The chart shows that modern Santa Cruz has a large and efficient-looking artificial harbor formed by a long breakwater. Try as we may, we are unable to locate where Magellan’s precipitous cliff-walled harbor could have been.

A historical episode in which Santa Cruz figured was the 1798 attack on the city by an English squadron under Horatio Nelson. Nelson was then 39 years old and had held the rank of Rear Admiral in the British Navy for a year. The attack on Tenerife miscarried in the initial stages, mainly because of indecision among the commanders of the assault troops, and Nelson determined to lead the second attack in person. As he landed, a grape-shot shattered his right elbow, and with their leader out of action, this attack also failed. Nelson’s arm was amputated and he was invalided home for several months.

A sketch of the defenses of Santa Cruz and the shore configuration, drawn by Nelson for this campaign, is easily recognized on our chart. The changes wrought by the recent century and a half are not so great, evidently, as those of the previous three.

Apropos of Nelson’s arm, shortly before landfall this morning, Chiefs Bennett and Jordan ganged up on our two most junior Electrician’s Mates, Franklin D. Caldwell and Ronald D. Kettle-hake, with a story to the effect that all ships approaching the Island of Tenerife were required to set a watch for Horatio Nelson’s arm, and that they, being junior, had been designated for the first watch. Having been forewarned by the two perpetrators of the joke, I sent separately for Caldwell and Kettlehake in order to brief them on their duties.

Caldwell appeared first, somewhat nonplused at this unusual summons. I carefully explained to him that Nelson’s arm had become petrified and greatly enlarged after being tossed over the side from his flagship Theseus, and that now, standing vertically in the mud of the channel off Tenerife, it had become a danger to navigation.

Caldwell slowly produced a sheepish grin as I went on with the gag, finally departed to fetch Kettlehake. This engaging young character completely swallowed my long yarn about the huge petrified arm, seemed perfectly willing to believe that it could have become an object able to menace navigation in water many hundreds of fathoms deep. He was, in fact, very interested in all the details of my dissertation of how it came about, and finally blurted out, “It sounds like a grand tradition, sir. How long has it been going on?”

“About an hour,” I told him.

But Kettlehake continued with questions about Nelson, and when he departed, he carried off volume one of my precious set of Mahan’s The Life of Nelson. Now that the fun is over, I am wondering just who was hazing whom, and whether there was a bet in the background involving getting that book away from me.

0830 We are now near enough to begin our “photo-recon” of the outskirts of the city of Santa Cruz on Tenerife island. It is indeed an imposing skyline, though search as we may, we still find no evidence of the harbor supposedly used by Magellan. The scenery is most spectacular, however, far and away the most breathtaking of this cruise.

Behind Santa Cruz towering peaks stretch in both directions. Though vegetation is visible in many places, generally speaking the brown hillsides are similar to the Cape of Good Hope.

The city of Santa Cruz extends back against the hillside in such a way that the whole is laid out before us and presents an extremely imposing view. Many roads can be seen stretching along the hillsides, with automobiles moving back and forth on them. Many new modern buildings, evidently apartments, line the roads and, as at Cebu, march steadily up the hillside and back from the sea. Nearly 300,000 people supposedly live on this island. From the size of Santa Cruz it can be readily believed that about 200,000 of them must live here.

The breakwater is visible. Construction work is going forward to lengthen it and extend the harbor even farther. Sheltered behind are a number of large ships, including some cruise ships. Indeed, Santa Cruz looks like an ideal spot for a vacation.

0933 Departed Tenerife for rendezvous off Cadiz the early morning of Monday, 2 May.

Sunday, 1 May 1960 1330 Our next-to-last church services. Chief Electrician’s Mate Hugh Bennett leads. His talk is titled “Success,” and it has much food for thought.

The Triton Eagle has formally ceased publication, though we shall probably put out one more issue prior to arrival in the United States. The reason is that mail from home will now fill the void the paper has been filling these several months. The entire staff deserve much credit for daily extra duty faithfully performed for the benefit of their shipmates.

Monday, 2 May 1960 0117 Sonar contact identified as USS John W. Weeks (DD-701).

0243 Periscope depth. Weeks in sight bearing 035.5° true.

A blown tube in sonar equipment prevents communication with the destroyer. Most annoying to have it take place at precisely this moment. We are however prepared against this eventuality with our homemade method of signaling by light through the periscope. As with the Macon, we have to use two periscopes and three quartermasters, but the thing works as well as before. We shall design a more refined apparatus for use at future times.

0302 There are lights of entirely too many ships around our present position. Signal from the Weeks: “Follow me.” We head out to sea in the direction we’d most like to head, toward the USA.

0554 The Weeks is to deliver a SubLant Medical Officer to us for transportation back to the United States and take Commander Roberts with his exposed film to Rota for further transfer by air back to the US. She also carries instructions for us regarding the end-of-cruise rendezvous near the United States.

I remember thinking, at the time, what a good idea this was. All of us were famished for news of New London, not just for personal family news, though that of course figured prominently too, but for general information as well. Occasional news messages had indeed been received, but what I, for one, wanted to know was how Poole had fared, had any of our hydrographic bottle papers been picked up, had there been any repercussions as a result of our encounter with the young man in the dugout canoe in Magellan Bay? Also, I wanted to know which ships were in port and which at sea, what new ships had been launched, which ones completed and commissioned, who had relieved whom in command of what—and a rather considerable list of strictly parochial submariner to submariner professional queries.

A Medical Officer would not be expected to know the answers to all these questions, but if he were anything like Jim Stark, who always tried to keep up with everything going on around him, it was a safe bet he could make a pretty good stab at many of them.

Sparing an officer from SubLant’s small staff for a purpose of this nature would be a problem; no doubt the Medical Officer was a compromise, probably sent for the added purpose of giving us all some sort of physical examination as part of the information needed for the cruise evaluation report. There would be many pleasant hours spent in pumping him for information during the Atlantic crossing, I thought, and I felt like thanking the man who had thought of this kindness.

From the Log:

In broaching we have taken care that the same technique as was used to disembark Chief Radarman Poole two months ago is employed again. That is, the ship as a whole will remain submerged; only a few necessary people will come topside to handle the transfer. We shall use the conning tower as an air lock as before.

0554 With air in safety tank and bow buoyancy, broached ship to 38 feet. I went to the bridge and, after seeing that conditions were suitable, directed that Lt. Sawyer come topside with the boat-handling detail.

0617 Weeks had already put her boat in the water and it was alongside almost immediately. As at Montevideo, Triton lay dead in the water, rolling gently with her stern submerged. In both cases a slight swell was running. Off Montevideo, it was in the dead of night with a slight rain and relatively little visibility. Here, it was early morning, broad daylight and no rain. Still, this transfer proved more difficult than the previous one.

The boat approached slowly and very cautiously, but clumsily. Alternately, the coxswain gunned his engine too fast, came ahead too fast, then, uneasy, threw it into reverse and backed away too fast. For a period of several minutes, during which he jockeyed alongside, he never approached our sides close enough for our deck hands to reach his bow painter when it was flung over. Finally, acceding to our shouted encouragement, he swept up abreast our bow a foot or so away, rose on a fairly large swell above our main deck—and forgot to cut his engine, with the result that he swept on by, completely missed his landing, and had to circle around for another try.

From the Log:

The first pass failed. The second try was a little better, though the boat came alongside at the wrong time so far as the action of the sea was concerned and rode high up on our side.

In the boat were Commander A. F. Betzel from Washington and Lieutenant Commander Earl Ninow, Medical Corps, from New London. Seizing the right moment, Commander Betzel made a flying leap across to our deck, landed on all fours, was caught and steadied by Fitzjarrald and Sawyer. A line, easily passed over to the boat, brought back with it a sack with a large bulky circular object outlined against the canvas. The coxswain gunned his boat again, brought it up alongside once more, again overshot as the freshening swells lifted it. The boat rode up on our deck and landed right on it with a crash. A moment of pure fear in my heart. Our men on deck reeled back hastily when it became evident that the boat was coming aboard.

As she touched, Commander Ninow leaped out of the whaleboat, landing like his predecessor on hands and knees on deck. As the sea subsided beneath the boat, it slid off our side and plunged drunkenly back into the sea. Two men on the far side of the boat fell backwards into the water. The wisdom of being stopped was now evident; when the men surfaced, being still right alongside their boat, they quickly hooked their arms over the gunwales and in a moment, with the help of their mates, they were back aboard.

In the boat was some mail and gear destined for us, but the coxswain had evidently had enough. He gathered in bow and stern lines and sped off toward his destroyer.

0631 With passengers and part of the cargo on board, Triton opened vents and went back down to the comfort of the depths. During the ensuing conference, we will investigate how to transfer Commander Betzel back to the destroyer and receive the mail and other parcels they have for us.

With the experience of the boat alongside in mind and evidence that the weather is commencing to kick up, it is obviously impractical to attempt another boat transfer. Helicopters are standing by at Rota; we ask the Weeks to request their assistance.

0800 Commander Betzel has brought our instructions with him. We are to proceed to the area of the Delaware Capes on the eastern seaboard of the United States, where we shall surface and officially terminate our trip. He has also brought with him the plaque we had left behind to be cast and which we had hoped to present at the site of the statue of Magellan reputed to be at Cadiz.

I recall that my attempts to pump Buzz Betzel during that quick conference were wholly fruitless. And later, during the entire trip back across the Atlantic, I had no better luck with Dr. Ninow. Ninow, in fact, informed us that he had just reported to New London and knew absolutely nothing about submarines. I worked on him all the way across the ocean, but remained hungry for news until we reached the States.

Our memorial to Ferdinand Magellan is about 23 inches in diameter, cast in shiny brass. It depicts the world by general outline of latitude and longitude lines. Around its circumference, in raised letters, are the words: “AVE NOBILIS DUX—ITERUM SACTUM EST,” which is translated as “Hail, Noble Captain, It Is Done Again.” In the center is an old sailing ship similar to Magellan’s, beneath which is inscribed “1519-1960,” signifying the dates of his voyage and ours. A laurel wreath with the US submarine dolphin insignia in its base surrounds the ship and dates.

The plaque is symbolic of all we have been trying to accomplish. It is hastily photographed on board and packed away for return to the Weeks. It has become an international object. Apparently it is to be presented to Spain by the US ambassador at a formal ceremony!

0807 With helicopters in sight, broached ship once more and commenced preparations for transfer of personnel. By 0900, Commanders Betzel and Roberts had left the ship, accompanied by all the painstakingly-taken photographs of our nearly three months’ journey and the narrative section of our voyage report to date.

Sad to relate, even though there were those who swore there had been several bulging sacks of mail in the Weeks’ whaleboat when it was swept up on our deck, there was an utterly unsatisfying amount of mail delivered by helicopter. Radioed inquiry to Weeks brought the answer that there was no more to be found on board marked for us. Ultimately, it would catch up to us, this we knew, but not until we arrived back home. There is nothing so frustrating in the world as mail which one cannot get one’s hands on.

0919 Changed depth to cruising depth and speed to full. We are on the last leg of our trip enroute to the United States.

Tuesday, 3 May 1960 Enroute the United States. Our estimated time of arrival in New London is 0800 on the morning of 11 May, on the 85th day after our departure.

0824 Sonar contact on a merchantman which passed by to north. Even though there might be plenty of time to investigate the contact further, we decide against it in favor of pursuing our homeward-bound passage. Besides, none of us have any time to spare. Working on the cruise report is taking every free moment.

Wednesday, 4 May 1960 Among the papers brought aboard day before yesterday are promotion papers for Robert L. Jordan and Richard N. Peterson, both Chief Interior Communication Electrician’s Mates, raising them to the rank of Warrant Electrician. Caught somewhat unprepared, neither had the necessary uniforms or insignia with which to transform his normal CPO dress into that of his newly attained Warrant rank. But once again improvisation comes to the fore. At 1840, resplendent in the fully authorized and correct uniform of Warrant Electricians, US Navy [although closer inspection might show that their rank insignia were made of yellow plastic tape instead of gold stripes and colored, where needed, with blue grease pencil], Bob Jordan and Pete Peterson are promoted to Warrant Officer and move into the wardroom.

Friday, 6 May 1960 One of the mysteries of the cruise has been an anonymous character named “Buck” who occasionally writes a column for the Triton Eagle. A particular subject of his misguided wit is usually myself, whom he has irreverently named the “O.M.,” and a number of the people on board have wondered who he is and how he can get away with so much. Tomorrow they will find out, as they read the morning edition of the rejuvenated Eagle [by popular demand—and the dearth of mail—it had started publication again], for in “The Skipper’s Corner” it is revealed that “Buck” and I are one and the same.

1900 There is a rather lively discussion in the wardroom over the suggestion that there has been a let-down in general morale during the past several days. Various reasons are advanced to explain this phenomenon, which all agree is present. A most obvious explanation: we have finished our trip. We have gone around the world submerged, but we still have a long way to go before we get home. Morale had been fairly well sustained all the way to St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks, which had been our goal. But though our goal was achieved, it was not the end of the line. There were still 6,000 miles to go. Furthermore, we didn’t get nearly as much mail at Rota as we had hoped, and many have heard nothing at all from their families. Finally, especially as pertains to the officers, the paper-work problem related to the voyage report, preparation of work items for “post-shakedown overhaul,” and necessary revision to ship’s procedures resulting from our voyage, has been extremely heavy. It has been a tough trip; the keyed-up attitude with which everyone went into it has, after some 80 days, worn a little thin.

As Jim Hay and George Troffer point out, however, Triton’s crew is a highly trained, extraordinarily well-motivated outfit. What we are calling “a low state of morale” would, in most places, be considered a very high state indeed. We really have no right to complain. There is no doubt that we have noticed a drop, but maybe it was inevitable, just a return to normal levels.

At about this time, the conversation turned to some of the privileges which we have not been able to enjoy of recent date. “Here it is dinnertime. How I wish I had a martini right now!” someone mumbles.

This was the cue I had been trying for some minutes to plant somewhere. A surreptitious signal to Green brought him back with a tray containing a dozen deliciously frosted sherbert glasses, each one brimming with a clear liquid in which was submerged a green olive impaled on a toothpick. The effect was magical. We could almost smell the tantalizing odor of vermouth. The illusion lasted until somebody finally could stand it no more—and drank his ice water.

Morale in the wardroom, which had previously hit a new high, touched a new low. Psychology being what it is, I was not sure, afterward, that my little joke had quite accomplished its objective.

2300 A message arrives from ComSubLant which ought to change all this talk about low morale. He announces that upon arrival in New London, Triton is to receive the Presidential Unit Citation from the Secretary of the Navy, who will apparently be there in person to present it. Furthermore, although the message itself is received in a highly classified manner, I am specifically authorized to publish the news to the entire crew.

With great pleasure we stop the presses, tear up the front page of the Triton Eagle and write a new one, quoting this section of the dispatch in full.

It does, indeed, have the desired effect.

Sunday, 8 May 1960 This is our last Sunday under way on this cruise and, speaking from experience, the last Sunday this crew will be together as a unit. As soon as we arrive in port there will be a number of transfers, some retirements, and of course the inevitable influx of new men. It is ever thus in the Navy and not something that we can really complain about, except to note with regret the dispersion of a fine crew at its highest state of training.

The only man I know who never had to contend with changes in his ship’s company was Captain Nemo of Jules Verne’s fictional Nautilus. Nemo, having isolated himself from mankind, cruised the seas indefinitely with a crew of similar misogynists. But even he was defeated at the end as, one by one, he buried the members of his crew until finally he alone was left.

Today it is my turn again to lead the services of our little Protestant Sunday meetings. It is a good opportunity to deliver some thoughts on homecoming and to point out that although we may have all sorts of preconceived ideas about this, so will the folks at home; for families too have suffered privation while we have been away. We have had the adventure; they the drudgery. We have had change, and the challenge of new things; they the challenge of the same old thing day after day, without ourselves to help.

I also make an effort to point out some obvious dangers. The chance of slowed reaction while driving a car, for instance, or the probability that strong drink will have a much greater and more immediate effect than before. Some medical opinion holds that, having remained cooped up in close quarters for such a long period, our eyes will now find difficulty in shifting from short distances to long distances; thus, for a few hours, there may be greater danger in driving than ever before.

There are one or two other things I should also mention at this stage: Torpedoman Second Class Jones has on numerous occasions drawn the assignment of running the wardroom movies [this is rotated among various movie operators who alternate between showing movies for the crew in the crew’s mess hall and for the wardroom. Normally, there are two movies shown each day for the crew and one for the wardroom]. Something of a comic, Jones usually takes a good-natured ribbing as he sets up for us, and has given back as good as he gets. Some time ago, however, after a particularly contrived and illogical movie, I dressed him down severely and decreed that if the next movie was no better, I was going to demote him a grade.

After this, poor Jones had very little luck. Try as he might to tout his movies all were graded “poor,” and he successively descended in rating until finally he had been reduced to seaman recruit, as far down the ladder as he could go. At this point, Jones thought he could go no lower and had me whipped, but I held despotic power in our little world and made the rules myself and Jones continued to progress in a negative direction. As of now, he holds the rate of Negative Chief Torpedoman on board this ship, and it has been so announced in “The Skipper’s Corner.” The crew insists that when we get home he will have to walk down the gangway standing on his hands, wearing a Chiefs hat backwards. Others claim he should pay the Navy for the privilege of being in it.

Now that the cruise is nearing the end, however, my duty has become clear and I must perform it. Jones is today promoted back all the way to his original rating of Torpedoman Second. This amounts to a jump of 11 grades, unprecedented in all naval records.

If there has been a sag in morale, it is no longer evident; everybody is cheerful, now that Jones is back in good graces again. Besides, there are only 2 more days to go.

Monday, 9 May 1960 We are rapidly approaching the Delaware Capes, where we are scheduled to rendezvous with helicopters and a weather boat tomorrow morning shortly after daybreak.

Sometime tomorrow we will hold a short ceremony during which 6 of our crew will be awarded the coveted silver dolphins, signifying that they have “qualified in submarines.” They certainly have been putting in the extra hours and have gained on this account a great amount of approbation among their shipmates. Qualification in submarines is never an easy task, and we do not intend that it shall ever be. The prospective new dolphin wearers are:

WILLIAM A. MCKAMEY, JR., Seaman

FRED KENST, Seaman

JAMES H. SMITH, JR., Seaman

MAX L. ROSE, Seaman

LAWRENCE W. BECKHAUS, Sonarman First Class

WILLIAM R. HADLEY, Chief Communications Technician

We had thought of doing this at quarters, upon arrival in New London, but gave up the idea because there will be too many other things to occupy us.

As Triton enters Thames River, enroute to her berth in New London, we shall man the rail in traditional Navy style. That is, the members of the crew topside will be dressed in the uniform of the day and will form a solid line from bow to stern, thus creating, we hope, a sharp and military appearance. We are proud of our ship and want her to look her best, despite the scars from her three months contest with the elements.

Flying from our highest periscope will be a rather old and slightly weather-beaten set of colors, and thereby hangs the very personal story which, already partly told in these pages, must now be completed.

In 1916, my father was Commanding Officer of the armored cruiser Memphis [ex-Tennessee] which, he used to say, was the most responsive ship, the best trained and the easiest handled, of any he had ever served in. On August 29th of that year, lying at anchor at Santo Domingo, capital of the Dominican Republic, while pacing the quarterdeck with the skipper of the tiny gunboat Castine, who had come to call, Father noticed a heavy surf along the shore. A look to seaward brought him up with a start; he ordered Commander Bennett back to his ship and directed that both ships be made immediately ready to go to sea. Hurriedly, he sent a message directing the baseball team, then due to return from practice, to stay ashore. Two of the three boats received the message and did indeed wait, but the third either did not see the signal or failed to understand it, for on it came.

Forty minutes later, a tidal wave swept completely over the top of the Memphis, swamped the bridge, inundated the entire topsides of the ship. Memphis had almost, but not quite, got steam to her engines. [Castine, a much smaller ship, did in fact get up steam in time.] Father’s anchor chains [all three anchors, in desperation, were down] stretched, then snapped; Memphis was swept from her berth, and within half an hour she crashed ashore in 12 feet of water, a total wreck. Until recently, the hulk could still be seen there, placarded with billboard advertisements.

Father survived the catastrophe, although a number of people who were standing on the bridge with him were swept overboard and lost. Several were killed by flying debris below decks, or by burst steam lines; and he watched helplessly as the boat with the baseball party rolled over and over in the gigantic surf. Thirty-three sailors, and a part of Father, died that day.

Not long ago I received a letter from an ex-Navy man who wanted to know, since I bore the same name, if I were related to his old skipper in the Memphis. I responded that I was indeed—and after some additional correspondence it developed that Stanley P. Moran of Wilmington, Delaware, one of Memphis’ quartermasters, had rescued the ensign which flew over Memphis that disastrous day.

Sam Worth of Cleveland, Ohio, its present guardian, had no idea, last February, why I suddenly had such need of his cherished flag, but he sent it to me by special delivery immediately upon receipt of my urgent letter. Soon he and Stanley Moran and all the remaining survivors of the Memphis catastrophe will know why I wanted it; for when Triton enters the Thames River on May 11, next, this same flag will be flying once again, probably for the last time, over a mighty US man-of-war.

The Navy is composed of ships, and men, and long-held traditions—all melded together in dedicated service to their country. It is more fitting that the last sight graced by this old flag should be one of gladness and success, rather than disaster and death.

Father has been gone more than 16 years, but this is something I’ve always wanted to do for him.

Still from the Log:

Tuesday, 10 May 1960 0430 Surfaced, having been submerged exactly 83 days and 10 hours [figured on twenty-four-hour days], and travelled 36,014 miles.

The rendezvous is still several hours hence, but we are now approaching the shallow water off the east coast of the United States, where Triton cannot venture without her fathometer. The long voyage is over.

The men of the Triton believe her long undersea voyage has accomplished something of value for our country. The sea may yet hold the key to the salvation of man and of his civilization, for it is the connecting link between all the diverse parts of the world. The sea has given us a means of waging war, but even more, it has given us an avenue to hold the peace. Never have wars been fought for the sole purpose of controlling or annexing the sea. The limitless sea, like the air and space above the air, is free to all who would use it peacefully, in consonance with the principles of international humanity.

That the world may better understand this, the Navy directed a submerged retrace of Ferdinand Magellan’s historic circumnavigation. The honor of doing it fell to Triton, but it has been a national accomplishment; for the power which propels our ship, the genius which designed her, the thousands and hundreds of thousands who labored, each at his own métier, in all parts of the country, to build her safe, strong, self-reliant, are America. Triton, a unit of their Navy, pridefully and respectfully dedicates this voyage to the people of the United States.