Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

3

One of the curses of the modern Navy is paperwork. Early in their careers, therefore, all officers develop the technique of determining in the shortest possible time which papers require immediate attention and which can be postponed. Consequently, I had no difficulty recognizing that the handwritten note which somehow appeared upon my desk that day was more important than the sacks of carefully mimeographed official mail our “Mail Petty Officer” had laboriously dragged from the dock a few moments before.

The note simply said, “CSL wants to know if you can be in Washington on 4 Feb. Please phone ASAP.”

CSL stood for ComSubLant, the operational boss of all Atlantic Fleet submarines, and ASAP was good old Navy jargon for “as soon as possible.”

Next day, the second of February, I met with Rear Admiral L. R. Daspit, ComSubLant, in his office at the Submarine base. He revealed nothing about the purpose of my trip to Washington, but hinted that it probably involved the shakedown cruise we had been planning for so long, and that there could be some questions relating to how long a cruise we might be able to make.

The following day and a half were full of suspense. Early on the morning of the fourth, I appeared, as directed, in the office of the Deputy Chief of Naval Operations for Fleet Operations. I was wearing a civilian suit, as requested, and was ushered immediately into an inner office.

Conferences with a Deputy Chief of Naval Operations are hardly ever ordinary; but this one, I immediately realized, would be absolutely extraordinary. Maps were spread out on a large table, and besides Admiral Wallace M. Beakley, the Deputy Chief, there were two other admirals and a number of captains and commanders whom I recognized, plus a few whom I did not. Seated at the center of the table, Admiral Beakley was studying one of the charts. He looked up, waiting until the door had closed behind me.

“Beach,” he said, as soon as the door had swung to, “what kind of shape is your ship in?”

I assured him that Triton was in excellent condition and ready to carry out any mission she might be given. The Admiral nodded as though it was what he had expected.

“Sit down,” he said, indicating a chair at the table opposite him. “Beach,” he said again, “you’re about due to start your shakedown cruise. Can Triton go around the world—submerged—instead?”

The room swayed. Since my talk with Admiral Daspit I had tried to imagine the reason for this Washington conference, and I must truthfully admit that the possibility that Triton might be asked to try a round-the-world mission had crossed my mind. I had even considered several full-of-confidence responses with which to answer such a request. But the actual situation hardly seemed appropriate to any of the replies I had thought of, and after a sudden, nervous cough, I said, “Yes, Sir!” That was all I could say.

“When can you get under way?”

Admiral Taussig’s famous response, when asked a similar question in World War I: “We will be ready when fueled,” flashed across my mind, but of course Triton’s dual reactors would not need fuel for two or more years. Mindful that work already in progress was scheduled to be completed on the sixteenth of February, and aware that any change in schedule, even to prepare for a longer trip, would be upsetting, I answered, “We are scheduled to get under way for shakedown on the sixteenth of February, and we will still meet that date!”

The next thing we discussed, as I recall, was the matter of a nonclassified name for the expedition. I was told that henceforth the Triton’s voyage would be called “Operation Sandblast.”

The code name was a logical choice. Our trip was in the nature of a tour de force and would “take a lot of sand” on our part. Hence, “Sandblast.” Hence, also, my own personal code name: Sand, instead of Beach. Most beaches were full of sand, I was informed.

By this time I didn’t care what anyone wanted to call me. Our long and diligently prepared trip to the North Atlantic was being replaced by one infinitely more exciting. But I did have a twinge of regret. The Navy’s need for crews to man still-newer ships had already claimed members of the wonderful crew which first took Triton to sea. Her Chief Engineer, Les Kelly, had received detachment orders which were ultimately to lead him to his own nuclear command. Several other of the ship’s stalwarts—some of them sporting newly won commissions—were about to leave her or had already left. Having given so much to bring Triton this far, what wouldn’t they give to go along on this trip, I thought. But, of course, they could not even be informed of it.

There were other things to think about. One purpose of our trip was to collect oceanographic and gravitational data in one continuous circuit around the world, bringing all our original instrumentation and recorded data back to the starting point and thus establishing a base line. A submerged submarine was the most satisfactory platform for such a survey, and it turned out the Navy Hydrographer, Captain Hank Munson, a submariner of great reputation, had been looking for just such an opportunity.

It was apparent that we would almost automatically follow the track of Magellan’s famous circumnavigation of 1519, but passing through the Strait of Magellan, which we studied carefully on the charts, did not appear feasible. This was not so much a navigational problem as one of security. To pass through the Strait of Magellan, we would need permission from the Republic of Chile. And though our relations with Chile were such that we would undoubtedly be granted this favor, the request itself would violate the Top Secret classification of our cruise. Time was too short to allow the more complicated negotiations which might possibly have been undertaken; so it was decided to side-step the issue by going around Cape Horn.

Considerable discussion arose regarding the site in the Philippines where Magellan met his death, and I advocated Triton should visit it, if only to photograph the area. It was apparent that the length of the voyage would create a morale problem which could be partially solved by adding elements of interest. Psychologically, we needed some halfway objective during the cruise, much as visits to foreign ports are permitted to crews of ordinary ships during long voyages. Since we were to be permitted no visits to any ports, a pilgrimage to the place where Magellan died, I argued, would provide a welcome break to monotony. Permission was finally granted.

Several hours later, as I was leaving the Pentagon, my head was buzzing with the thousands of details. But most of all, churning over and over in my brain was an almost off-hand remark made just as the conference broke up. “There’s a lot more riding on this than what you’ve heard today, Ned. We’re depending on you to get back on the tenth of May!” The speaker’s remarks continued to puzzle me. Apparently there was much more to this voyage than even I was to know.

Questions and problems were tumbling through my mind like an avalanche, and try as I might to concentrate on the important details of the planning, the most prominent thought in my mind, the one I could not cast aside, was “what in the world will I tell my wife?” Ingrid was not even in New London, having been called suddenly to California, where her father was again seriously ill. How, in fact, could I even ask her to come home without revealing that something special was going on?

At the conference it had been decided that the voyage would be classified; nothing was to be made known about it until its completion. If we failed for any reason, considerable thought would have to be given to precisely what sort of announcement would be released, if any. Obviously, in this event, our location and the circumstances would influence the decision. As everyone was quite aware, if we were to have an embarrassing failure, the effect would be a serious disservice to our national interests and to the prestige of the Navy. Again I could hear those portentous words: “We’re depending on you!”

“We’ll not fail!” I had told them determinedly. “We will get under way on the sixteenth of February, and return on the tenth of May, as scheduled.” No one volunteered an explanation as to why the timing—and secrecy—were so vital, and I did not ask.

Yet there was so much that my wife—and the other Triton wives—would have to be prepared for, and so little time.

Every man in our crew would have his problems, too, without the consolation of knowing what I knew. Their personal lives, thus, became my responsibility. How could I inform them before departure that we would be away much longer than expected, that no mail could be sent or received during the entire cruise, that they would have to make personal preparations for an unusually long absence, attending to income tax, automobile-license tags, insurance policies, payment of rent, arrangement for financial support—a thousand details?

It was more than a matter of crew morale; all but about forty of our crew were married, and all the officers but one. I had additionally been informed that about half-a-dozen civilian scientists with various specialties would be placed aboard to help us accumulate the desired data. None of them was to be informed of the basic purpose of the cruise or its duration. This was to be left to me, after we had gotten under way. Providing for these men (whom I didn’t know and hadn’t met, and would not meet until the day before we left) and their families was to be my responsibility also.

As the train rattled north toward New York and New London, I mentally discarded one scheme after another. With some misgiving, I finally resolved to announce that an unknown bureaucrat in Washington had so fouled up our shakedown cruise schedule that we would have to proceed directly from the North Atlantic into the Caribbean for special tests requested by the Bureau of Ships. “Unknown bureaucrats” for years have been blamed for things that have gone wrong, especially when the complaining parties do not care to be too specific about placing the blame. For years I had seen this happen and had defended the unknown bureaucrat whenever I had an opportunity. Now, I was about to add to the ridicule heaped on the Washington civil servant, despite the fact that he works harder and gets less thanks than perhaps anyone else in the country.

As a result of this nameless bureaucrat’s inefficiency, we would not be able to send or receive mail at any time, I would tell my people, and hence (here was the kicker) a list of “things to do” (which included all preparations for a long voyage) would be given to all hands. In the name of efficiency, each man would be required to return a signed copy of the list, attesting to his having carried out all the various instructions.

This was, of course, far from my only problem. The idea of diverting slightly from our cruise to visit the place where Magellan died had met with approval, and someone had proposed, in addition, that as Triton passed near Spain she should pause momentarily to render homage to that famous and unfortunate navigator. This, too, had met with favor, as did the idea of a commemorative gift to Spain in his honor.

The Navy, however, has no budget for such commemorations, but I had told the conference that Triton herself would somehow design and finance the casting of an appropriate plaque. It had to be big, as befits a gift from one nation to another, but small enough to fit through our hatches; it had to be memorial in nature, in keeping with the intent; and it had to be something that both Spaniards and Americans could henceforth look at with pride.

Another problem was to obtain adequate charts, in secrecy, and to lay out our course in meticulous detail in advance, so that the Navy would always know precisely where we were. Our track was to be some thirty-four thousand nautical miles, in itself a fantastic plotting job, and this, too, had to be done surreptitiously!

As for the necessary provisions, submarines have had years of experience in preparing for long cruises, though never for one so long as this. Triton had been designed to carry food supplies for seventy-five days, and we knew her huge hull could easily carry more. Arbitrarily, I resolved to increase this by at least a half, and directed that the ship be provisioned for one hundred and twenty days. If worst came to worst, and a long extended cruise became necessary, we could go on half-rations and stretch the voyage to six months.

There was the scientific equipment to get ready, also. Most of it would be sent to us by the Navy, but it was up to Triton to decide where it was to be stowed and to make special arrangements for the installation of whatever foundations, telemetering circuits, and remote controls were needed. A whole package had to be prepared without spilling the beans to anyone.

At 5:45 A.M., when I finally stepped off the train in New London, with sheets of notes in my hand, I realized fully that there were but twelve days left in which to get ready.