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 myse
lf 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 the
y 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.
Around the World Submerged Page 17
