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 de
speration, 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.
EPILOGUE
Our Log ended at sea, ready for pickup on the morning of the tenth of May, its last entry written several hours in advance of the event in order to have it properly typed and ready upon arrival. Tying up loose ends took until the small hours of the morning, and I finally turned in, exhausted, to get a few hours of sleep before the rendezvous. It fell to Will Adams, therefore, to have the honor of bringing Triton back to the surface just before dawn. I was awakened by the jolt of high-pressure air roaring into her twenty-two main ballast tanks.
As we slowly steered toward the appointed place off Rehoboth Beach, leaden gray skies gradually replaced the dark overcast of night. With the day came our first visitor, a curious sea bird winging in graceful circles and figure eights overhead, swooping in civilized instinct low over our wake for the bits of garbage which he and his fellows have long learned to associate with ships at sea. Land itself was not to be seen, and we might as well have been in the middle of the Atlantic, or in the Pacific, half a world away. But this romantic notion lasted only a short time. Soon our sea bird was joined by another type of bird, a land variety with wheels, a fixed wing, and a propeller glinting light from its nose. Behaving like its handsome wild cousin, the small plane flew low to pass by our side at close range. We waved vigorously at its occupants, who could clearly be seen waving in return. One of them, holding a large camera, appeared to be taking pictures.
Soon, another small plane joined the first one, and then a third. And speeding out of the west, where the shadows of early morning were yet visible in the horizon haze, the bows of a speedboat pushed a white mustache of water in front of it. It looked familiar as it came closer, and in a few minutes, as it turned broadside, I remembered where I had last seen this powerful craft, or one like it. An experimental postwar PT boat, it had been based at the old Washington Navy Yard for the past several years. The Officer-in-Charge was known as a person whose knowledge of the Potomac River and ability to handle small craft were second to none in the Navy. I wondered if it was indeed the same boat, if Walter Slye had been sent to meet us, and indeed whether or not he still held the post. Binocular inspection brought no answer while the boat was still bows on, but when it sheared off and presented its silhouette, the interior of the cockpit became visible and revealed Slye himself, uniform cap, as always, perched squarely on the top of his head. With delight, I waved my cap to him, and he waved back.
It seemed only a few minutes, though it must have been some time later, that one of the lookouts reported the approach of two helicopters lumbering toward us from the hidden continent to the west. Radioed instructions had prepared us; I went on deck with George Sawyer and the helicopter landing party. When one of the machines hovered over our deck aft to lower a strange inverted mushroom-shaped object to us, I set my hat firmly on my head, ignored the fluttering roar and wind from the whirling blades, and seated myself on it, straddling the center stalk and wrapping my arms around it. To my surprise, the mushroom, which had looked like metal of some kind, felt like foam rubber and was not a bit uncomfortable. I looked down. George was already many feet below me, holding up a signal flag, and Triton was receding at a rapid pace. There was suddenly something alongside me—the fuselage of the helicopter and a yawning door into the interior. Friendly faces stared at me and friendly arms reached out to steady the mushroom seat.
Dismounting, I pressed my face against the Plexiglass window of the passenger compartment to see the ship in which I had spent nearly a quarter of a year under water. She looked small, out of her element on the surface. Her sturdy sides were mottled where the paint had been stripped away, and they were speckled here and there with discolorations of rust. A small knot of men stood on her deck—the helicopter handling party whom I had just left—and a group of heads were clustered on her bridge. Slowly, under the command of Will Adams, she gathered way on the leisurely course toward New London which had been directed, holding her speed unaccustomedly low and making only a tiny bow wave. Quickly, she vanished in the distance.
The clattering of the helicopter engine made conversation practically impossible in the passenger compartment, and someone handed me a piece of paper on which was written, “What was your first impression of the world after returning to it?” I wrote back, “It smells fishy!” This was the most immediate sensation, a fishlike odor which had seemed to permeate the entire superstructure of the ship. A number of suckerlike organisms had attached themselves to the bridge area, and there were no doubt many more of them throughout the ship’s immense superstructure. There would have to be a pretty thorough scraping, scaling, and repainting job done during our “post-shakedown” overhaul, I reflected.
The grinding beat of the rotating blades brought us over a sandy beach, then some green and plowed farm fields. Here and th
ere were houses. We passed one moderate-sized city, then suddenly were over a bigger one. The helicopter dipped lower. I could see streets and automobiles, and people walking on the sidewalks. There was a surprising number of trees, in many cases almost entirely concealing the streets beneath them. Then we were over a large muddy river. A tall stone obelisk, standing in the midst of a great expanse of grass, reached almost up to us. The helicopter ceased its forward motion, swayed gently fore and aft, swung completely around once or twice, slowly settled. Below us was more grass, a carefully kept lawn dominated by a large building. With a thrill I recognized the White House. The plane landed gently just a few yards in front of the South Portico.
The next two hours were, to say the least, kaleidoscopic. Scores of well-wishers greeted me. I shook hands a hundred times, and suddenly a pair of arms went around my neck from behind and a familiar kiss landed on my ear. There stood Ingrid, looking somewhat breathless but otherwise exactly as I had remembered her these three months.
“How is everybody?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said.
“Come along,” someone else said—and the next thing I knew I was talking to the President.
In my hand I carried a letter and envelope addressed to President Eisenhower, carefully cacheted with a replica of our circumnavigation plaque which we had printed with homemade ink. There had been a number of experimental inks concocted, but the most successful one—hydraulic oil, ground charcoal, and insulating paint, as I recall—was extremely slow in drying. To protect the envelope from being smudged, I had wrapped it, along with others for Mrs. Eisenhower, the Secretary of Defense, and the Secretary of the Navy, in the only readily available highly absorbent paper we had. Now, standing before the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, I shook his proffered hand, reported successful completion of our mission, and handed him the letter we had so painstakingly prepared for him. Only then, to my horror, did I realize that I had neglected to remove the protective paper covering.
Around the World Submerged Page 29
