“What’s this?” the President asked, with a slightly puzzled frown.
I froze with the realization of the enormity of my faux pas. “It’s—it’s just a little toilet paper we had to use to keep the ink from smudging,” I blurted out despairingly.
I had worked for the President in the fairly intimate capacity of Naval Aide a few years earlier, but nothing in our relationship had prepared me for this situation. I had never lost my feeling of great awe for him, and I stood rooted to the rug in his office, waiting for I knew not what result of this indignity.
People who knew President Eisenhower longer and better than I might perhaps have been able to predict his reaction. For my part, it was with the greatest relief that I became witness to a magnificent set of Presidential “Ha ha’s” and “Ho ho’s,” delivered as he shook with mirth, steadying himself with one hand braced on the top of his desk.
“What in the world did you say to the Old Man?” the Press Secretary demanded, as officials whisked me away again. I told him, and Jim Hagerty chuckled. “That’s probably the most fun the boss has had all week,” he said. “Good for you!” He said something else, too, and there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his manner which came back to me later, but at the time I was too bemused at all that was going on to catch it.
I had a few minutes chat with Admiral Rickover, and then found myself in yet another room where a large map of our route had been prepared, and several thousand newsmen, it seemed to me, had gathered. Each one had a camera, and each used it constantly. Someone had taken care of Ingrid, I saw with relief when I looked around. There were a lot of pictures and many questions, some humorous and some serious, and after a while the President reappeared to pose with us for a few moments. Then Ingrid stood beside me for more pictures, and a large model of the Triton was handed to the two of us, so that we stood there helplessly with all four arms gripping the six-foot-long gray-and-black replica.
“Kiss your wife!” someone commanded, and we dutifully obliged.
“This way—do it again!” We turned toward the latest importunator, kissed again.
The smile on Ingrid’s face was becoming just a little grim, I thought. She leaned over and whispered, “My heel has come off!” I looked around desperately for a rescuer to take the model. Someone nearby took over Triton, junior, and a White House policeman ran off with the shoe for emergency repairs.
Later, riding in a White House limousine toward the Pentagon to call on Mr. William B. Franke, Secretary of the Navy, I had my first sight of a recent newspaper. It was full of stories about the U-2, the high-flying reconnaissance plane which had in some manner been forced down in Soviet Russia, and I read the reports with growing concern and understanding. Ringing through my ears were the cryptic sentences uttered by Hagerty as he ushered me out of the President’s huge oval office: “Have you heard about the U-2?” he had asked.
“No,” I had answered. “What is it—a new German submarine?”
Hagerty’s laugh had not been one of amusement. “Well, you’ll find out soon enough. Thank God you made it back when you did!”
This, of itself, might have meant little to me, had it not been supplemented by another comment from another source: “You’ve shown the oceans are still free to all. Of all the things we’d planned to prove for the summit conference, you were the only one to come through!”
This was the outcome of the secret we had carried around the world! I had not realized that other efforts were being made at the same time as Triton’s, but it figured. A thing this important would not, logically, have been left to the single exertions of a single agent.
Five hours after leaving the Triton’s deck, I was delivered back aboard in the same manner—full of news, good and bad information, and the plans for the next day’s arrival ceremonies at New London. I took over the ship’s announcing system to pass the word to as many people as possible all at once, and then surrendered to the avid questioners in the wardroom.
Next morning, Wednesday, the eleventh of May, Triton stood up the Thames River a few minutes before our scheduled arrival at the dock in New London. Except for the temperature, which was considerably warmer, we might have been back in February again. A blustery nor’easter greeted us, with overcast skies and drizzling rain. We had intended to make a grand entrance up the river, with the crew standing in ranks in their whites on deck, the whole ship presenting the formal appearance of spit and polish (except for her weather-beaten sides) traditionally expected of naval vessels home from a long voyage. But not this day. It would have taken a lot to dampen our spirits, and if I had wanted it, I knew the whole crew would willingly have stood on deck, rain or no rain. But there was no point to getting more than the minimum possible number of persons bedraggled and wet. The men in the anchor detail had to be on deck, and a few were needed to break out mooring lines; they wore foul-weather gear and were required to stand in a semblance of ranks when not actually working. Everyone else, except the bridge personnel, was allowed to stay below.
The weather was not bad enough to prevent a number of pleasure boats from coming out to welcome us and escort us up-stream, however, and on both banks of the river cars stopped, honked their horns at us, and people got out to wave. The Groton Police barracks must have halted all administration of justice, for the windows of the building were full of people waving and shouting.
The rain was fitful and there was very little wind; so as we came near to the berth which had been assigned to us, we had all the hatches opened and all hands who wanted to, who were not occupied below, came on deck to man the rail. Gently, we eased Triton into her berth, handling her with affectionate care and minimum speed. At the head of the dock, there was a riot of color amid the somber drabness of the New London “State Pier,” and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind what that was.
We presented, after all, rather a military appearance as our ship inched her way to her mooring. The rain had stopped—or perhaps it was only that we didn’t notice it—and everyone, without orders, stood tall and straight at his post. But it wasn’t quite the Prussian military ideal, either, for there was a certain surreptitious craning of necks, of searching the throng of women and children on the dock for a loved face, and now and then a furtive and thoroughly unmilitary signal of recognition. Studiously, I noticed none of this, kept my attention riveted on getting the ship alongside the dock with the least fuss—except that every now and then I, too, found myself checking over the faces under the rain hats and umbrellas.
Finally, I found those I sought. Ingrid had promised to have our three children out of school for the occasion, and there they were, looking rather unhappy and solemn about the whole thing. Ned, Jr., and Hugh were each dutifully holding one of the large “Welcome Home Triton” signs with which many of those present were provided—no doubt a contribution of Electric Boat’s public-relations outfit.
In a few minutes our visitors were abreast of Triton’s sail, as we warped her slowly in, and I picked up a megaphone and made the shortest speech on record. “Hi!” I bellowed to them.
Not far away the Coast Guard Band played martial music for the occasion, blowing with gusto and not caring, evidently, whether the rain filled their horns with water or not. And as I glanced above me, a gust of wind caught Father’s old flag, flying from the top of our extended periscope, and straightened its ancient folds in reminiscent glory.
Suddenly my eyes smarted, and I deliberately looked down on deck to make sure that number one line had been properly led around a fair-lead cleat to the forward capstan.
A gangway was standing by, ready as soon as our mooring lines were doubled up and secured, and a battery of news cameras was waiting to record the first tender moments of arrival and greeting. Planned for our arrival was a ceremony in which the Secretary of the Navy, having flown from Washington for the purpose, was to award the Presidential Unit Citation to the ship and thereby authorize the entire crew to wear the Citation ribbon on their uniforms. We had designated the
Chief of the Ship, Chief Torpedoman’s Mate Chester R. Fitzjarrald, to receive the award in the name of crew and officers. Then the Secretary was to award Allen Steele the Navy Commendation Ribbon for his inspired action in combating the hydraulic oil leak, which had so nearly caused loss of depth control two-and-a-half weeks before.
But here a contretemps developed—one of those things which make gray hairs grow on the heads of aides and public-relations men. As soon as the ship was secured topside and below, Will ordered the in-port watch to be set and summoned all hands topside to fall in at quarters. They were counted off, sized off, told off by rating—officers in one group, chief petty officers in another, “white hats” in a third—and in a short time Adams reported that we were ready for the ceremony to begin. But there was a strange uneasiness on the canopied presentation platform down on the dock opposite our bridge. So far as I could tell everything was ready there—they, at least, could have very little excuse for not having had the public-address systems and all the other details thoroughly checked out—but instead of going forward with the presentation, there seemed to be some sort of a conference being held instead. There was a certain eagerness on the part of the crew to have the program over with as soon as possible, and the officers and petty officers, for understandable reasons, were impatient, too.
After a short time, the explanation came: the Secretary of the Navy was nowhere to be found!
I had directed that no one was to be allowed aboard or off the ship until the ceremony had been completed; we couldn’t take a chance on lousing things up for the Secretary, I had thought, and this seemed little enough sacrifice at the time. But now Triton’s crew stood eagerly and uncomfortably on deck; our wives and families equally uncomfortably—and no less eager—on the dock. No one knew how long the Secretary would be delayed. Apparently, the plane bringing him had been diverted to the Naval Air Station at Quonset Point because of the bad weather, and he was driving to New London. If so, he should arrive at any moment; but the moments came and the moments went, and the Secretary of the Navy remained absent. As we later found out, fate was not quite through with us even yet. The driver of the lead car of the group assigned to bring the Secretary of the Navy and his party to New London, with Mr. Franke himself riding in the back seat, did not know the way!
I don’t remember anyone putting the idea into my head, but a single wave of thought must have been going full blast that day. When the word arrived that no one knew where the Secretary was, and that for some reason he had entirely missed the police guard waiting for him at the Rhode Island border, I asked Admiral Daspit whether it would be permissible to dismiss the men from their quarters.
“Certainly, send them below,” said the Admiral. But then he had a better idea, and we announced “dockside liberty,” all hands to remain within earshot and get back aboard in a hurry when the Secretary finally showed up. Thus it was that the first reunion of our crew with their loved ones took place before, rather than after, the official reception of our ship. And it’s a pleasure to record that the Secretary of the Navy finally did arrive, and, so far as I knew, not a soul of our crew abused the trust by going AWOL that day!
One man, however, was not affected by any of this protocol; Franklin Caldwell had been expecting a babygram, but none had arrived for him. In vain, he had haunted our radio room those last few days under way, and in vain, he had searched the smiling faces on the dock for that of his wife. She was not to be seen, and when he finally got ashore and to a telephone, it developed that she had one of the best excuses in the world for not being present to welcome her husband. Once informed of the situation, Will had Caldwell off the ship and, legitimate trip or not, into an official car within minutes. An hour or so later, a baby girl named Sandra swelled Triton’s dependent population by one.
With all the goings on, it was quite a while before I was able to have that quiet communion with my own wife and family which is the traditionally most cherished reward for the sailor home from a long voyage. There were a hundred things to talk to her and the children about, and a number which had to wait until the youngsters had said their prayers and gone to sleep.
“Sounds to me,” I said, when we were at last alone, “that you make out better when I’m not here than when I am.”
Ingrid sighed and put her head on my shoulder. “You’d better not put me to another test for a while,” she said. “The children kept me pretty busy, and I got quite a few calls toward the end from some of die wives who were getting rather anxious. . . . The worst time was when Admiral Rickover called on the telephone.”
“What’s this?” I asked. “Nobody told me about that.”
“Well, I’ve not had a chance to until now, sweetie. I had a party for all the officers’ wives, and right in the middle of it the phone rang. It was long distance. So I said yes, this was Mrs. Beach on the phone, and then a voice said, This is Admiral Rickover. I want you to know privately that your husband is all right. Everything is fine. Don’t worry about him.’
“I must have let out a yelp or something, and I said, ‘That’s wonderful!’ and I could hear all the conversation in the living room suddenly stop dead. Everybody was listening, and everybody was hoping it was some kind of news about the ship.
“I thanked the Admiral, and he said good-bye and hung up. Then I remembered that in the past you had cautioned me against passing on information from calls such as this, and I had missed my chance to ask the Admiral if it was all right to tell the other wives. You said I could never know what might be behind the call, so I was never to let anyone even know that I had been called.
“There wasn’t a word I could say, but still I had to go back into the living room and face all those girls. They all just looked at me, and I thought fast and said, ‘That was my father’s doctor calling from Washington, where he’s had to come from California for a meeting, and he said that Father has been much better recently.’ I really felt terrible, lying to them like that. They all looked so dreadfully disappointed, and I wanted so much to tell them.”
I hugged her. “Good girl,” I said. “It was a lot tougher on you than on them. Anything else happen?”
She chuckled. “You had said that you didn’t know when you’d be able to get mail, so I didn’t write this time, except a little while ago, when I thought maybe I should have at least one letter in the mail for you just in case—did you get it, by the way?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I suppose it will catch up to you here at home. Anyway, one of your crew didn’t get the word to his wife. A couple of weeks ago, this girl called up, and she was nearly in tears. She had written seventeen letters to her husband, and he hadn’t answered a single one!”
“Why did she call you?” I asked. “We had put out the dope that anyone with a problem should call up the Squadron. . . .”
“I’m glad she did, of course,” Ingrid interrupted. “Women understand these things better than men do. She knew I couldn’t write the letters for her husband. All she wanted was some womanly comfort. Besides, I told them all to call up if they felt like it.”
“You what? How did you do that?”
Ingrid smiled. “I forgot that my letter never reached you. It tells about it. I gave a coffee for all of them—it was a lovely warm day, and we had it outside, and that’s when I told them. Mrs. Poole came, too, and she never said a word about her husband being home.”
“You had 183 women, here?” My voice must have had an incredulous tinge.
“All your crew isn’t married, silly! Besides, some couldn’t come. But the garden is big enough, and all the officers’ wives helped.”
Ingrid sighed again. “They were all extremely nice. The only bad time was just before they came, when the telephone operator got me all excited about a long-distance call coming in, and I waited around thinking it must be about your arrival at last. But when the call finally came through, it was just a polite girl’s voice saying she was sorry she couldn’t come.”
We ha
d been home for two days, when all at once I had occasion to recall the intuitive warning I had ignored when we designed and ordered our commemorative plaque. Lieutenant John Laboon, Chaplain Corps—a 1943 Naval Academy graduate who had resigned to enter the Jesuit priesthood after the war and had subsequently re-entered the Service as a Chaplain—was responsible. This onetime All-American lacrosse player and decorated submarine combat veteran, now the Catholic Chaplain for our nuclear submarine unit in New London, had come aboard to see if there were anything he could do for us. Over a cup of coffee, he confessed that although he could translate most of the words in our plaque’s Latin inscription, one of them was too much for him.
“What word?” I asked, my stomach experiencing a precipitant sinking feeling.
“Sactum,” said Laboon. “If it were ‘Factum,’ now, the phrase would literally mean ‘It is again a fact.’ But I don’t know the word ‘Sactum.’ ”
Hasty investigation restored Father Laboon’s faith in his preordainment schooling. There simply was no such word as “Sactum”! It turned out that in receiving and reading back the Latin inscription over the telephone, the letter “F” in the word “Factum” had been erroneously taken down as “S,” and the plaque as delivered to the US ambassador had therefore contained a misspelled word!
The hopelessness of the situation was enough to make one despair, but there was one thing we could do: we could get a new plaque—with the word “FACTUM” spelled correctly—over to Spain immediately; even though the original one might have contained an error, at least all posterity would not have the opportunity to criticize America’s lack of erudition.
Around the World Submerged Page 30
