Around the World Submerged
Page 1
Around the World Submerged
Edward Latimer Beach
When the nuclear-powered submarine USS Triton was commissioned in November 1959, its commanding officer, Captain Edward L. Beach, planned a routine shakedown cruise in the North Atlantic. Two weeks before the scheduled cruise, however, Beach was summoned to Washington and told of the immediate necessity to prove the reliability of the Rickover-conceived submarine. His new secret orders were to take the Triton around the world, entirely submerged the total distance.
This is Beach’s gripping firsthand account of what went on during the 36,000 nautical-mile voyage whose record for speed and endurance still stands today. It brings to life the many tense events in the historic journey: the malfunction of the essential fathometer that indicated the location of undersea mountains and shallow waters, the sudden agonizing illness of a senior petty officer, and the serious problems with the ship’s main hydraulic oil system.
Intensely dramatic, Beach’s chronicle also describes the psychological stresses of the journey and some touching moments shared by the crew. A skillful story teller, he recounts the experience in such detail that readers feel they have been along for the ride of a lifetime.
Edward L. Beach
AROUND THE WORLD SUBMERGED
The Voyage of the Triton
Acknowledgments
The man whose inspiration, genius, and perseverance created the power plant without which Triton’s voyage could not have been conceived has never been categorized as easy to deal with, nor is his high resolve entirely without problems for himself and others. But his single-minded determination, his idealism, his relentless insistence upon the right, and his love for the United States of America distinguish him as one of the great men of our time.
To Vice-Admiral H. G. Rickover, United States Navy, who made Triton possible, and without whom the fantastic power of the nuclear reaction would still, in my opinion, be harnessed only for atomic explosives, this book, without his permission, is very respectfully dedicated.
IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Ship’s Company During Submerged Circumnavigation
OFFICERS
LCDR Will Mont Adams, Jr., Executive Officer
CDR James Ellis Stark, MC, Medical Officer
LCDR Robert Dean Fisher, SC, Supply Officer
LCDR Robert William Bulmer, Operations Officer
LT Donald Gene Fears, Engineer Officer
LT Robert Brodie III, Communications Officer
LT Robert Patrick McDonald, Reactor Control Officer
LT Tom Brobeck Thamm, Auxiliary Division Officer
LT George John Troffer, Electrical Officer
LT Curtis Barnett Shellman, Jr., Machinery Division Officer
LT George Albert Sawyer, Jr., Gunnery Officer
LT Richard Adams Harris, CIC/ECM Officer
LT Milton Robert Rubb, Electronics Officer
LT James Cahill Hay, Assistant A Division
MACH Phillip Brown Kinnie, Jr., Assistant M Division
CHIEF PETTY OFFICERS
Chester Raymond Fitzjarrald, TMC Chief of the Ship
Alfred E. Abel, ENCA
Hugh M. Bennett, Jr., ICC
Joseph H. Blair, Jr., EMCA
James J. DeGange, EMCA
John F. Faerber, ENCA
Loyd [sic] L. Garlock, FTC
William L. Green, SDCA
Harry W. Hampson, ETCA
Herbert F. Hardman, EMCS
William R. Hadley, CTC
Clarence M. Hathaway, Jr., ENCA
Robert L. Jordan, ICC
Jack R. Judd, ETCS
Ralph A. Kennedy, ENCA
James T. Lightner, ENCA
Lynn S. Loveland, MMCA
William J. Marshall, QMC
George W. McDaniel, SOCA
Walter H. O’Dell, EMCA
Mack Parker, EMCA
Richard N. Peterson, ICCA
Bernard E. Pile, RDCS
“L” “E” [sic] Poe, EMC
John R. Poole, RDCA[1]
Edwin C. Rauch, ENCS
Joseph Rosenblum, EMCS
Fred Rotgers, ENC
Frank W. Snyder, ENC
Joseph W. Walker, YNC
Joseph E. Walsh, RMC
Hosie Washington, ENCA
Roy J. Williams, Jr., HMC
Marion A. Windell, RMCA
ENLISTED
Walter J. Allen, ET1
Ronald Everett Almeida, RM2
Edward G. Arsenault, RM2
Erland N. Alto, EN1
Ramon D. Baney, CS2
Robert F. Barrila, EN3
Horace H. Bates, EN2
Curtis K. Beacham, QM1
Lawrence W. Beckhaus, SO1
James C. Bennett, RM2
Nathan L. Blaede, ET1
George M. Bloomingdale, EM1
David E. Boe, SN
John S. Boreczky, Jr., EN3
Robert U. Boylan, ETNSN
Richard L. Brown, EM1
Earl E. Bruch, Jr., CS2
Franklin D. Caldwell, EMFN
Edward C. Carbullido, SD2
Robert M. Carolus, EN1
Robert C. Carter, MM1
Leslie R. Chamberlin, Jr., CS3
Gerald J. Clark, RD3
Charles E. Cleveland, EM1
Colvin R. Cochrane, MM1
Raymond J. Comeau, Jr., EM2
William E. Constantine, FT1
William J. Crow, CS1
Bertram Cutillo, DK3
Raymond R. Davis, EN1
James Obie Dixon, Jr., YN2
Martin F. Docker, ET1
Gary L. Dowrey, SOSSN
Ralph F. Droster, EN2
Alan T. Ferdinandsen, IC3
Richard R. Fickel, HM1
James A. Flaherty, RM1
Joseph R. Flasco, EN1
Fred J. Foerster, FN
René C. Freeze, RD1
Gerald W. Gallagher, IC1
Bruce F. Gaudet, IC3
Adrian D. Gladd, HM1
Edward R. Hadley, EN3
Carl C. Hall, QM3
Lawrence C. Hankins, Jr., EN1
Carlus G. Harris, EN2
Ralph W. Harris, EN2
David L. Hartman, EN2
Gene R. Hoke, IC1
William C. Holly, RD2
Floyd W. Honeysette, QM2
Berten J. Huselton, IC1
Wilmot A. Jones, TM2
Edward K. Kammer, EM1
Fred Kenst, SN
Ronald D. Kettlehake, EMFN
Peter P. J. Kollar, GM1
Richard R. Knorr, ENFN
John F. Kuester, CS3
Raymond R. Kuhn, Jr., FN
Leonard F. Lehman, EM1
Larry N. Mace, EM1
Ross S. MacGregor, FT2
Edward J. Madden, EN2
Anton F. Madsen, QM3
Robert M. Maerkel, FN
Harry A. Marenbach, MM1
Harold J. Marley, Jr., RM1
Arlan F. Martin, EN3
George W. Mather, ET1
Boyd L. McCombs, EN1
Douglas G. McIntyre, EN1
William A. McKamey, SN
“J” “C” [sic] Meaders, HM1
Charles F. Medrow II, ETN3
Roger A. Miller, QM3
Philip P. Mortimer, Jr., EN2
John Moulton, FA
Larry E. Musselman, MM1
Bruce H. Nelson, FN
Ronald D. Nelson, EN1
Rudolf P. Neustadter, IC3
Raymond J. O’Brien, SK1
Harry Olsen, EN2
Charles S. Pawlowicz, ETRSN
Charles P. Peace, ET2
Robert C. Perkins, Jr., RM2
Richard H. Phenicie, IC3
Russell F. Pion, ET1
George V. Putnam, TM2
Donald R. Quick, EN1
Kenneth J. Remillard, SO1
Max L. Rose, SN
Richard M. Rowlands, TM1
Jerry D. Saunders, RD2
Russell K. Savage, QM2
Paul K. Schulze, EN1
Thomas J. Schwartz, TM3
Stanley L. Sieveking, TM1
Donald P. Singleton, EN3
Gordon E. Simpson, ET1
James H. Smith, Jr., SN
Peter F. Springer, EN1
Allen W. Steele, TM3
Richard W. Steeley, EN3
James A. Steinbauer, EN3
Gerald Royden Stott, ET1
Leonard H. Strang, EN3
Robert R. Tambling, TM1
Joseph W. Tilenda, SN
Jessie L. Vail, EM1
James O. Ward, SD3
William R. Welch, MM1
Henry H. Weygant, EN1
Robert W. Whitehouse, EN1
Lamar “C” Williams, EN2
William Williams, EN1
Audley R. Wilson, RD1
Donald R. Wilson, SD3
John W. Wouldridge, RM1
Gordon W. Yetter, EN1
Raymond F. Young, YNSN
Robert C. Zane, YN2
Herbert J. Zeller, EM1
Ernest O. Zimmerman, RD2
TECHNICAL AND SCIENTIFIC PERSONNEL
CDR Joseph B. Roberts, USNR, Office of Information, Navy Department
Earnest R. Meadows, PH1
Dr. Benjamin B. Weybrew, Psychologist, Naval Medical Research Laboratory, Submarine Base, New London
Mr. Michael Smalet, Geophysicist, USN Hydrographic Office
Mr. Gordon E. Wilkes, Civil Engineer, USN Hydrographic Office
Mr. Nicholas R. Mabry, Oceanographer, USN Hydrographic Office
Mr. Frank E. McConnell, Engineer, General Dynamics
Mr. Eldon E. Good, Inertial Guidance Division, Sperry
In the account of Triton’s voyage which follows, I have drawn freely upon the narrative section of the official report of our trip. When assembled, this report formed a tome about three inches thick. It contained many detailed tabulations and much succinctly presented raw information, and all the officers of the ship participated in its preparation. My contribution was the narrative section, which was made public when we arrived back in the United States.
Here, interspersed between the sections of the “Log” and forming the major portion of this book, are my own personal thoughts and observations as later reconstituted at my typewriter at home after all the excitement had died down.
All portions of this manuscript have been submitted to the Navy Department for clearance, and each chapter bears the stamp “no objection to publication on grounds of military security.” Over and above this, the entire responsibility for everything which appears in these pages obviously must be my own.
—Edward L. Beach
Captain, United States Navy
Mystic, Connecticut
PROLOGUE
As a small boy, I had the good fortune of being a Navy Junior while living a settled life in a small community, without the frenetic shifts of locale inherent in a Service life. My father, as a Captain, after a long and rewarding career in the Navy, retired when I was four years old to accept the post of Professor of Military and Naval History at Stanford University. He had served the Navy thirty-seven-and-a-half years, and his sea duty had culminated with command of the American flagship in the European war zone during World War I.
During the course of his career, Dad had written thirteen books about naval life, most of them for teen-aged youths, plus several others aimed at a more mature audience. He had made a lifetime avocation of the study of history, with a natural inclination, of course, toward naval history; he had fought in three minor and two major wars (and was fond of saying that the minor ones were far more dangerous, so far as he personally was concerned, than the major). He had commanded one repair ship, two armored cruisers, and two battleships; I was born while he skippered the new “superdreadnaught” New York, in 1918.
My formative youth was spent in Palo Alto, California, where, after his years as a professor at Stanford, Father held the combined posts of City Clerk and Assessor. Among my childhood recollections were the stories Father used to tell about his experiences in the Philippines during and after the Spanish-American War, at the Naval Academy as a midshipman and later as an instructor, and particularly about that dreadful day in 1916 when his ship, the armored cruiser Memphis, was engulfed and destroyed by a tidal wave. The latter was my favorite yarn, and I never wearied of forcing my poor father to repeat all the details of the catastrophe which had blighted his career.
Father said that I would do well to study medicine, but I felt his heart wasn’t in it. My only thoughts were of going to the Naval Academy and becoming, like him, an officer in the US Navy.
The long-sought fulfillment of my ambitions came in 1935. So great was my anticipation I couldn’t understand why Mother was crying when my parents took me to the train station, nor the meaning behind Father’s faraway look. I was then just seventeen years old.
Four years at the Naval Academy had more ups than downs and were most satisfying, but when I graduated on the first of June, 1939, it was with the sad knowledge that Father was slipping away from me. His long and interesting letters had become increasingly difficult to read. The thoughts in them of late had begun to wander, and I noticed that more and more he relived the past, particularly the loss of his old Memphis and the crew members he had had to watch drown.
Father used to say that the place for a young officer was in a big ship; so upon graduation from Annapolis, I applied for the ten thousand ton cruiser Chester. I had been aboard about two months when the war in Europe broke out. Because of a surname beginning early in the alphabet I found myself transferred to the Lea, destroyer number 118.
The Lea was tiny, one-tenth the displacement of the Chester, and she had been “permanently” retired to mothballs some years before. The brass plate on her varnished wooden mast revealed her age as being the same as my own. There were only five officers in the Lea, and I was the most junior. Later on, when the “Third” was transferred, I automatically rose to the high eminence of Fourth, but this, under the circumstances, had little effect on my unofficial title of “George.”
“George,” the traditional name of the most junior officer on board, always served as the ship’s commissary officer, communications officer, ship’s service officer, torpedo officer, gunnery officer, and first lieutenant. In addition, I had to insert a three-year stack of corrections into the ship’s allotment of classified books and pamphlets—a horrendous job—was in charge of the landing party (luckily it seldom got an opportunity to go ashore), stood two four-hour watches a day on the bridge while under way, and while in port stood a twenty-four-hour “day’s duty” every third day (except for a short period when I had the duty every other day).
There was also a Destroyer Officers Qualification Course of some twenty lengthy assignments, which I was required to complete within a year’s time; and the Bureau of Navigation, evidently afraid that Ensigns might neglect their leisure time reading, had decided that we should submit a two thousand word book report each month.
The ship also had a skipper, an engineer, and an executive officer, but I never had time to discover what any of them did.
After two years on the Lea, in September, 1941, a message arrived directing me to submarine school in New London for instruction in submarine duty. By this time, I loved that slender four-stacked race horse of a destroyer, and didn’t want to leave; but my skipper, an old submariner himself, would not send the protest I drafted, so off I went.
The course of instruction at the submarine school, originally six months long, had been curtailed to three by the war emergency, and on December 20, 1941,1 was one of fifty-one graduates who heard the officer in char
ge of the school deliver a graduation address. In the course of it he said, “Many of you will command your own ships before this war is over.”
None of us believed we could achieve such greatness, but a little later we all noted the other side of the coin, when the first of our group went to eternity in the shattered submarine to which he had reported only a couple of weeks before.
My first submarine was USS Trigger (SS237), then under construction at the Navy Yard, Mare Island, California. During my two years on the Lea, I had finally bequeathed the “George” spot to someone else, but in the Trigger I found myself with that familiar title again. As before, I was greeted by a huge stack of uncorrected confidential and secret publications. The similarity, however, ended here; for Trigger, a first-line ship of war, was designed to operate in an entirely new and unfamiliar medium. The amount of highly technical equipment crammed into her sturdy hull amazed me.
I reported to Trigger on New Year’s Day, 1942, but it wasn’t until May that we arrived at Pearl Harbor. No one in Trigger had ever heard a shot fired in anger. We were all new, green as grass—even the skipper. A feeling of trepidation crept over us as we approached our recently desecrated Pacific bastion.
A short leave during an overhaul period in mid-1943 had great personal significance. I saw Father for the last time, I met Ingrid Schenck, and when I returned to Trigger I became second-in-command.
When I was detached, a year later, Dad had been gone six months and Trigger, now top-ranking submarine in the force, had less than a year to live. With orders to report to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, as Executive Officer of the not-yet-launched submarine Tirante, I used authorized delay time to take a ten-day honeymoon with the girl I had courted during three hectic weeks of leave the year before.
Tirante was a very successful submarine, earning Lieutenant Commander George L. Street, her skipper, a Congressional Medal of Honor. In June of 1945, the prediction of three and one half years was fulfilled when I was given command of my own ship, the Piper. The war, however, was drawing to a close. I strove mightily to get Piper into action, but the bombs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki got there first. Instead of killing and destroying, we rescued six bombed or torpedoed Japanese (we could never determine what had sunk their ship) from the middle of the Sea of Japan, and I have since felt grateful, after all the depth charges and torpedoes, that this, instead of destruction of my fellow man, is my last memory of the war.