To understand this, it must first be appreciated that many of a submarine’s mechanisms are operated by compressed air. After it is used, the air simply passes into the interior of the ship, where it becomes part of the ship’s internal atmosphere. During the first weeks of the cruise, therefore, the pressure built up slowly during the day and was suddenly vented off every night, when we extended our ventilation pipe to the surface and opened its cap. We discovered immediately that running all the air compressors at maximum capacity during the time we were renewing our atmosphere from outside was not enough to recharge as much air into our air banks as had been used. We were, in effect, slowly losing air. To combat this, we resorted to starting the air compressors well before raising our snorkel pipe, thus pumping the precious air back into the high-pressure air banks instead of belching it out when we opened the snorkel-head valve. This had the incidental disadvantage of increasing our “low-oxygen” symptoms and increasing the time we suffered from oxygen deficiency, but, worse, we still were not able to recharge as much air as we had used during the day.
Every night a check of the air banks showed that the maximum air-bank pressure we reached on charge was slightly less than it had been the previous night. Without compressed air a submarine cannot operate, a fact which had lain in my consciousness ever since depth charges had so damaged both of Trigger’s air compressors that it looked as if neither could be made to run again.
In Triton’s case, barring a breakdown of our compressors, we could solve the problem by merely leaving the snorkel up longer and waiting until the compressors had been able to retrieve their position. But to do so would require a sacrifice of speed of advance, since neither periscope nor snorkel tube could withstand cruising speed. And even if we in this manner recovered the air lost, it seemed to me that this would be an admission of our inability to operate our ship properly.
Our real problem lay in the fact that not all the compressed air used during the day was being discharged back into the ship’s interior volume. Some of it, somehow, was escaping to the sea. Even after “pumping down” to atmospheric pressure, there was every day slightly less air in the air banks. Obviously, this had to be resolved before beginning the sealed-ship tests.
If there is no leak in an external air line, the most logical place to lose air in a submarine is in blowing sanitary tanks, and this was where, it turned out, we were losing ours. Sanitary tanks, as their name implies, are the collecting tanks for all the waste products from the ship, human and otherwise. Periodically they must be emptied, which is done with compressed air. Considerable pressure of air is required to overcome the pressure of the sea at depth, and when the blowing is finished, all this air must be vented—released—back into the ship. Despite large canisters of activated carbon filters in the vent line, the odor this air brings back with it is pungently distinguishable and fermentedly corrupt. A “good blow” scours the tank, and carries more of the noxious vapor out with the water, and investigation developed the possibility that a little too much “scouring” was costing us a lot of valuable compressed air—not to mention the betraying bubbles thereby sent to the surface.
During the war, we all preferred a little temporary stink to enemy bombs, and sanitary tanks were therefore never blown completely dry when submerged in enemy waters. In our new and modern submarine, this same old smelly lesson had to be learned again, though for an admittedly different reason. In structions were issued to the tank blowers to keep a sizable water seal in all sanitary tanks at all times and to the rest of the crew to put clothespins on their noses if they were too uncomfortable during the venting periods.
The program was a success. Our air compressors began to gain on the air banks, and every night the final pressure stood a little higher instead of a little lower. And we suffered gamely whenever a sanitary tank was blown.
The man I felt sorriest for was Frank McConnell, the Electric Boat Guarantee Engineer. Good shipmate that he was, Frank never voiced a complaint, but more than once I saw him distractedly jump out of his bunk in the “attic” above the wardroom, unable to stay there longer. It may have been accidental—naturally the sanitary tank vent discharge had to go somewhere—but Will Adams said the vent piping was positively diabolical in its perfect aim at the head of Frank’s bunk.
As we ended the sealed-ship period, our air problems were behind us, but the memory remained. I found myself thinking that our first space travelers would have to solve this same problem in even more rigorous measure. Should they, through maloperation or misfortune, be unable to conserve their air supply, there would be no ready replenishment from an inexhaustible source only a few hundred feet away.
From the Log:
We have learned a lot about Triton during these two weeks of sealed-ship operations and are extremely gratified with the results. Among other things, we have had no difficulty at all in retaining our precious air inside the ship. But it was a good thing that we recognized the problem, or we might have.
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 f
or 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.
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