Silent and Unseen

by Alfred McLaren

  Preferences varied on how best to conclude a night on shore in a foreign port. Far and away the wisest and safest was to go for a hot bath and massage at one of the many places just off base, get our clothing cleaned and pressed, and then return to the sanctuary for some sleep and a chance to sober up for the next day.

  During the good old days of WestPac submarining—the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s—the sanctuary remained a real oasis for us all, following stressful Cold War missions. Would such a retreat be considered necessary for much-needed rest and relaxation these days? Would our frequently exuberant behavior as we wound down from missions of that era be considered proper or tolerated now? Probably not. We certainly had fun, though, as our World War II forebears did before us. Having the sanctuary boosted our morale, helped us to bond even more as brother submariners, and definitely contributed to our performance and successes at sea.

  Greenfish finished up a longer-than-expected upkeep in Yokosuka during which time we bade a fond farewell to our commanding officer, Jack Knudsen, and welcomed a new one—hot-running Lt. Cdr. John A. “Al” Davis Jr. on 16 July 1958. We then headed south for Subic Bay in the Philippines following the same routine that we had used to transit from Pearl Harbor to our Cold War mission.

  Toward Subic Bay

  In July 1958 Greenfish was on her way, with a new captain, to the U.S. naval base at Subic Bay. The bay itself is a deep-water harborage on the west coast of the island of Luzon in Zambales, Philippines, about sixty-two miles northwest of Manila Bay. The United States captured the Spanish base in 1899 during the Philippine–American War and controlled the bay until 1991.1 The naval base was a major ship-repair, supply, and rest and recreation facility of the United States Navy and in 1958 could handle multiple ships of any type, up to and including aircraft carriers. After a brief period of upkeep and some liberty in the adjacent town of Olongopo, we would be heading north on another Cold War mission.

  “One Hot Coffee to the Bridge”

  As described, Greenfish, a GUPPY IIA, had been streamlined externally to enable it to attain much greater speeds under water than its World War II predecessors had been capable of. These modifications, particularly to the bow, at the same time significantly degraded this class of submarine’s ability to reach the war-era surfaced speeds or to ride as well as previously in rough or heavy seas. All bridge watches in northern waters became an ordeal that required layers of warm clothing and frequent hot beverages to sustain us during cold, windy, and rainy or sleety nights on the surface.

  One officer who stood these watches, Lieutenant J, was noted for his abrasiveness toward the more junior enlisted personnel. He was especially hard on the Filipino steward’s mates who maintained the officers’ wardroom and berthing areas on board.2 He was definitely a man of many moods, with the most disagreeable coming out at night while he had the watch.

  When Lieutenant J insisted that his mug of coffee was to be delivered to him on the bridge hot and completely filled, heaven help the hapless fellow who delivered anything less. If he did, which happened more often than not in heavy seas, he was apt to be chewed out.

  A short narrow ladder connected the control room to the conning tower above; a much longer but equally narrow ladder connected the after end of the conning tower to the open bridge above. It was, therefore, quite understandable that a mug of coffee carried from the wardroom all the way to the open bridge might lose some of its warmth, not to mention quantity, en route in rough seas. No matter: The nightly less-than-satisfactory coffee deliveries and subsequent fireworks became a regular and anticipated routine providing rich entertainment for those who were bored with the movie or just couldn’t sleep. The best location to take in the latest dressing down was the conning tower area just beneath the bridge.

  In September 1958 several new crewmembers reported on board. Among them was a senior first-class Filipino steward’s mate with many years of service under his belt, including a number of war patrols during World War II. It was instantly apparent to Greenfish’s crew that the petty officer was a well-seasoned hand—not a man to mess with. To Lieutenant J, however, one steward’s mate was like any other. As he put it, “They are all lazy and inefficient and need a frequent jacking up.”

  On the night of the new steward’s mate’s first coffee delivery to Lieutenant J, who had the evening watch on the bridge, a few more crewmembers than normal gathered in the control room to enjoy the fireworks. The sea was extremely choppy once we were well clear of Subic Bay, and the usual dressing down took place. When the new senior petty officer returned from the bridge, there was a perceptible difference in his expression from that of previous steward’s mates, however. He did not descend into the control room crestfallen. On the contrary, he had an enigmatic grin on his face mixed with a solid look of determination.

  A series of miracles occurred during our next three nights on the surface. Completely full, hot mugs of coffee were being regularly delivered to Lieutenant J on the bridge. He sang the praises of the new leading steward’s mate’s all over the boat, citing him to the supply and commissary officer and the other steward’s mates as the example to be followed. The new senior petty officer just nodded, acknowledging the praise with a faint smile. Lieutenant J was happy, and now all the other steward’s mates were making hot coffee deliveries. “Good leadership in action!” pronounced Lieutenant J, and so it seemed.

  Those of the crew who had been treated to the nightly unsatisfactory coffee deliveries throughout Greenfish’s deployment, and their vocal aftermath, grew curious as to how such a chronic problem had been so abruptly solved. They were even more curious to know how the other two steward’s mates had been retrained in such a short time, drawing loud approval from other bridge watch-standing officers as well. Certainly, all agreed that our boat had acquired a much-needed top-notch petty officer at a key time.

  Several days later, during a particularly rough evening transit on the surface, I happened to be in the control room conducting a submarine hydraulic systems qualification exam of several young crewmembers. Lieutenant J was officer of the deck on the bridge. The leading steward’s mate passed quickly through, with a brimming mug of hot coffee, en route to the bridge. On the spur of the moment I decided to follow him to see if I could learn something about the miracle he had effected.

  The leading steward’s mate climbed the short ladder to the conning tower with no difficulty and, as best as I could determine, merely held the hot mug of coffee firmly and carefully. I followed him up the ladder and watched him proceed aft to the first or bottom rungs of the very long ladder up to the bridge and the foul weather that enveloped us.

  Greenfish was wallowing like a hog as she proceeded through the rough seas at twelve knots. The navigator, Lieutenant D, a quartermaster assistant, and the helmsman were on watch in the conning tower. All were extremely busy and took little notice of the steward’s mate, even when he called out, “Permission to come to the bridge?”

  “Permission granted,” was Lieutenant J’s prompt response. The leading steward’s mate stole a quick glance at the conning tower watch standers and, not seeing me at the top of the ladder, quickly bent over and took a large draft from the coffee mug that caused his cheeks to puff out like a chipmunk’s. He then scampered rapidly up the ladder. “Wow,” I first thought, “Lieutenant J is really going to be ticked off to discover so much coffee missing” and then, “Why would the new leading steward’s mate be risking Lieutenant J’s anger after receiving so much praise during the last several weeks?”

  “Well, let’s see what happens next,” I said to myself as I climbed into the conning tower and hurried to the foot of the ladder leading to the bridge. Peering up the ladder, I observed the leading steward’s mate at the top, and then, after raising the coffee mug to his lips, discharge the contents of his pouched cheeks into the cup. “Good grief,” I whispered. “So that’s how the problem was solved.” The steward’s mate thrust the mug upward and yelled, “Hot coffee, Mr. J!” “Fine job,” was
Lieutenant J’s response as he reached down and accepted the mug from the outstretched hand and took a big gulp. “Keep up the good work.” “Thank you, sir,” replied the steward’s mate, who started back down the ladder. I quickly withdrew and rushed down the ladder to the control room. The leading steward’s mate stopped to visit with the conning tower watch for a minute and then descended into the control room. He greeted me with his slow smile as he saw me standing there. I had to turn my head to keep from laughing.

  I shared with no one what I had seen as the remaining weeks of the deployment dragged by. It goes with saying that I never ordered “coffee to the bridge” or anything else while on watch, either above or below decks, during the remainder of my twenty-four years in submarines.

  Two Blankets and a Pillow

  A follow-on to “one hot coffee to the bridge” took place several nights later during a nighttime transit on the surface. The seas were chaotic and choppy, with wind in excess of thirty knots, and it was very cold. As one of the bridge lookouts passed through the control room on his way to assume the watch, he was so heavily encased in foul weather gear that we called him the Abdominal Snowman.

  A submarine crew can always be counted on to give nicknames, not usually flattering, to their fellow crewmembers, both officer and enlisted. All that was needed was for the unfortunate sailor to have a noticeable physical characteristic, unusual or abnormal habits, or be involved in a memorable incident either on shore or afloat. The name Abdomen-able Snowman was certain to stick with this fellow the rest of his submarine career, since he was constantly battling weight gain. Several other memorable names on board Greenfish were No Ass, Horse, Dog Breath, The Unwashable, and The Animal.

  About midway through the midnight to 4:00 a.m. watch, our most junior Filipino steward’s mate was observed entering the control room with his arms around two thick blankets and a large pillow. This sight provoked considerable hilarity, followed by ribald questions from watch personnel and bystanders in the area. When questioned just where he was going and why, the steward’s mate replied that the bridge had called for the blankets and a pillow to be sent up. Hearing that, the chief of the watch stationed on the hydraulic manifold immediately called up to the bridge on the 1MC, “Bridge, control, what is going on up there? We have a steward’s mate down here with two blankets and a pillow that he says you wanted delivered to the bridge.” The bridge clicked the 1MC several times as if the officer of the deck was on the verge of saying something, but there was nothing but silence. The officer of the deck finally responded with “Control, bridge, chief, what on earth are you talking about?” The chief of the watch answered by repeating his earlier message. I doubt if anyone on the bridge could have missed hearing the accompanying loud laughter, whistles, and catcalls in the background. The next 1MC transmission that came from the bridge was a very emphatic “Hell, no! We asked for two black and bitters to the bridge.” The chief of the watch replied, “On the way,” and the control room again erupted into guffaws. The steward’s mate, who was soon to acquire the nickname Tin Ear, was directed to return to the wardroom, unload the bedding he was carrying, and return with the two black coffees for the bridge as originally ordered. Forget the bitters.

  CHAPTER 5

  Off the Soviet Far East Coast

  During the summer of 1958 Greenfish was on a Cold War surveillance and intelligence-gathering mission to the Soviet Far East. It was my second special operation as an unseasoned young submarine officer and the first with our new commanding officer, Al Davis. Just where we were cannot be revealed even today, some fifty-seven years later. How long we would be gone and where we would return was never known for sure as we departed. It depended on such things as the state of the Cold War at the time, what (if any) specific objectives were assigned, what we might encounter while on patrol, and whether we were scheduled to be relieved by another submarine. We prepared and armed for and conducted each mission as if we were on an actual war patrol, because relations were such between the United States and its allies and the Soviet bloc that the steady tension and friction could erupt into an unexpected attack and exchange of weapons at any time.

  Riding Out a Typhoon

  En route to a subsequent Cold War mission during late September 1958, we had the bad luck to run into Super Typhoon Ida, one of the strongest typhoons in history. Covering a span of several hundred miles, it had formed in the Western Pacific near Guam about 20 September. Initially it headed west and then curved to the north toward Japan.1 The sequence that overtook us began with long swells from the southeast, under a canopy of darkening cirrus clouds and a steadily decreasing barometer. Winds increased from less than twenty knots to near forty knots and then from sixty to eighty knots, as the seas rose high over the next several days. After determining the direction of the typhoon’s center, we maneuvered to remain to the left or west of its track and stayed in the less dangerous or so-called navigable semicircle.

  As the sea state increased, all but the oldest hands became seasick, and wondered aloud why Greenfish couldn’t just submerge under the storm. In the meantime the watch was brought down from the bridge and into the conning tower and control room, and the bridge trunk hatches were shut and dogged tight. The captain picked up the 1MC and explained to all hands that Greenfish would be riding out the typhoon on the surface, on two engines, because the boat did not have the battery capacity to remain submerged long enough to weather the duration of the typhoon’s passage. In the meantime, every effort must be made to secure all loose gear and supplies, and all hands not actually on watch were ordered to take to their bunks. Were we ever a sorry lot!

  Greenfish continued a four hours on, eight hours off watch rotation, except that bridge watches were stood in the conning tower. The larger barrel, number two, periscope was up at all times, continually searching for surface contacts. It was manned on a fifteen-minutes on, thirty-minutes off rotation schedule by two officers—the officer of the deck and the junior officer of the deck—and the quartermaster of the watch. Also in the conning tower were two of the lookouts who shared helmsman duties. Also present was either the navigator or the exec as the command watch.

  We were all desperately seasick as Greenfish pitched, rolled, and yawed in the unbelievably high waves generated by the typhoon. Those not actually on the periscope or helm were constantly barfing into the tops of the two periscope wells or on the conning tower deck around or on which they were sprawled. We soon learned what it was to go way beyond normal seasickness. As the old saying goes, “At first we were afraid we were going to die, and then we were afraid we weren’t.” If we ever ate or drank, I don’t remember where, when, or what. I do have a vague memory of eating a sandwich while I lay on my side, but not much more. Just what we actually did to relieve the call of nature has also faded from my memory. A trip to the nearest head would have been pretty hazardous at any time in such rough seas.

  Of constant concern was the danger of capsizing if the boat rolled past 50 degrees. The officer of the deck was always quick to order a low-pressure blow on the boats downside when a roll approached the extreme. As I recall, the decision was soon made to snorkel, since we were constantly cycling between the surface and our normal periscope depth of fifty-eight to sixty-two feet. The snorkel mast and head valve through which air for the engines and ships ventilation was obtained also gained us some additional height above a heavily spray-covered sea surface gone absolutely wild.

  The typhoon eventually blew past us and into northern Japan where it finally dissipated. We resumed our transit to our Cold War mission station, but the typhoon had had its effect. Greenfish did not observe as high a level of Soviet naval activity as originally hoped for or expected. To his credit our commanding officer, Al Davis, did aggressively pursue and take maximum advantage of what activity there was. We completed the operation with an interesting collection of sonar tapes that included broadband and transient noises from a number of submarines of interest.2 We then headed south for Yokosuka for one fi
nal upkeep before departing for Pearl Harbor, home, and Thanksgiving with our families and friends.

  As an interesting side note, during our stay in Yokosuka while we were the outboard boat in a nest of five, and thus the most vulnerable, another typhoon of lesser strength approached. In addition to putting wire ropes over to better secure each boat to the wharf, the four inner boats all called back their officers and most of their crew, who with their captains rode out the storm. On Greenfish, where I had the bad luck to be the duty officer, Captain Davis merely confirmed that we were well secured to the wharf itself with wire ropes and then took the rest of the officers ashore to the officers club, where they rode out the storm in comfort. The captain’s parting words to me were a jesting, “You got yourself into this, now get yourself out.”

  Some Sunday Brunch

  The boats at Yokosuka were generally moored in nests of four or five alongside a pier or wharf when in port, and traffic across the interconnecting gangplanks was always heavy during the early morning hours. The on-coming duty section had to be all on board by 7:00 in the morning, and liberty didn’t start for the off-going section until about midday. Mornings, therefore, could be somewhat chaotic with at least a third of the crew stumbling and lurching about as they tried simultaneously to sober up and functionally carry out their watch standing, repair, and routine maintenance duties. The cooks were no exception.