In his stateroom the captain sat on his bunk, motioning me in to take the one chair available. There he formally welcomed me on board, asked about my family and our trip to Portsmouth, and inquired as to whether we were adequately housed in the local area. I thanked him and told him we were all settled in, all was well, and that I had reported on board the previous night, ready in all respects to go to work. He stated that if there was anything my family and I needed, now or during the few short weeks remaining before we departed for the Arctic and the Pacific, I was to let him or the exec know immediately. He told me to meet with the exec later in the morning to ensure that all necessary arrangements were made for my family, household goods, and automobile to reach Pearl Harbor just before we on Seadragon were scheduled to arrive.
Commander Steele in a few short words conveyed that he was very happy to have “another much-needed professional,” on board in time for the Arctic expedition. He did so in a way that truly made me feel professional. He further stated that, although he was certain from my background, training, and experience that I could immediately stand watch as both an officer of the deck, surfaced or submerged, or as an engineering officer of the watch back aft on the nuclear power plant, he wanted me to feel free to take whatever time I needed to fully acquaint myself and feel comfortable with my knowledge of Seadragon’s characteristics, equipment, systems, and operating procedures before I did so.
I left the captain’s stateroom completely free of the previous night’s anxieties about my new boat’s complexity and highly motivated to really dig in and confirm to my new commanding officer that I was in every way the professional he thought I was. How to sum up what had just occurred? The captain treated me with genuine respect as a fellow professional, even though I was still a relatively inexperienced junior submarine officer. I appreciated and responded to this and felt certain there was no way I was going to disappoint him. It was an important life lesson then and for the remainder of my life: treat those who work for you, and with whom you work, with respect from the beginning, and they will always do their utmost never to let you down.
I was only in my late twenties. During the arduous academic portion of Advanced Nuclear Power School, I discovered, out of absolute necessity, that I could, if needed, function well for months on end with no more than four to five hours of sleep per night. In the weeks to follow, I really poured on the coal to learn my new boat. It took me less than a week to qualify as an in-port duty officer, and I was subsequently able to qualify as a diving officer of the watch during Seadragon’s final at-sea shakedown prior to departing for the Arctic on 1 August 1960.
It was during our at-sea week prior to our departure that I heard about Seadragon’s collision with a whale or possibly a whale shark during sea trials in the fall of 1959, when she was proceeding on the surface on a very dark night. This unfortunate occurrence damaged Seadragon’s port propeller and shaft and her bow sonar dome and made superficial dents in her superstructure, where blubber was found. The whale or shark was never seen, so no one learned what species it was or if it had survived. Seadragon, as a result, had to return to Portsmouth Naval Shipyard to be dry-docked and repaired. Rear Admiral Rickover, who was on board at the time, was heard to remark later, “Seadragon was a whale of a ship.”
It turned out, to my surprise, that Seadragon, in addition to being built to track down and kill other submarines, was fully equipped to steer or guide a Regulus cruise missile to its target, following its launch by another submarine, and I was to be the missile guidance officer. That was interesting, but then I was less than delighted to learn that, as the newest officer, I would be expected to relieve Vince Leahy as supply and commissary officer during the course of our voyage across the Arctic Ocean. As I had previously held this onerous position (onerous to a line officer) on Greenfish, I felt confident I could assume these duties once again. A more agreeable assignment was as an assistant photographic officer to Lt. Glenn Brewer.
The Transpolar Voyage
During final preparations for sea and just days before our departure, I heard by chance that we would need our dress-blue uniform for a short liberty stop in Nome, Alaska, following our exit from the Arctic Ocean. As bad luck would have it, I had already sent all such uniforms off with our household goods to Pearl Harbor, keeping only my khaki uniforms and one dress-white uniform for the summer ahead. If I didn’t have my blues, I would have no liberty on shore in Nome, and I wasn’t going to let that happen. A frantic search among fellow submariners who might be my size in the Portsmouth area turned up a good friend, Lt. John S. Lyman (later lieutenant commander), who had completed Nuclear Power School with me and who had just reported to USS Thresher (SSN 593). Thresher was in the shipyard for a lengthy overhaul. Not expecting to need his blues until the fall, John graciously lent me his best dress-blue uniform, white shirt, and black tie, and a pair of black shoes that fit just right.6
During our final days in Portsmouth we were joined for lunch by the world-famous Arctic explorer and former president of the famed Explorers Club, Vilhjalmur Stefansson, PhD, and his wife Evelyn.7 Stefansson at that time had established the Stefansson Collection on Polar Exploration at Dartmouth College and was teaching a series of courses on the Arctic regions. He was best known for his discovery of several new islands in the Canadian Arctic Archipelago, and for his unsuccessful attempt to establish a colony on Wrangel Island, located on the Siberian continental shelf between the East Siberian and Chukchi Seas, and to take possession of it for the United States.
It was fascinating to listen to Stefansson as he regaled us with stories of his explorations in the Canadian High Arctic. I remember in particular the faraway look in his eyes as he vividly described the environment, the colors, and the obvious love he had for the Far North. Stefansson was kind enough to loan us two extremely valuable volumes from the Stefansson Collection—the expedition journals of British explorers Sir William Edward Parry and Robert John Le Mesurier McClure.8 He thought they might prove of value as we conducted a submerged hydrographic survey of the Northwest Passage for the first time in history. The journals were, in fact, to prove invaluable. We were later to study and read aloud from them as we navigated through the Barrow Strait, Viscount Melville Sound, and the McClure Strait.
The loading of final stores and spare parts was soon completed, and on 1 August 1960 we departed for Baffin Bay and the Northwest Passage. Many a tear was shed on this beautiful day, and as we waved goodbye to family, friends, and Portsmouth Naval Shipyard personnel, Seadragon backed away from the dock. We cleared the channel and headed out into the North Atlantic, submerged, and were on our way to what would prove to be a historic transpolar expedition.
USS Seadragon (SSN 584) under way, 1960. U.S. Navy
The days flew by as we proceeded north up the coast of North America. We practiced emergency drills on a watch-to-watch basis and carried out a host of special operational procedures, such as safely surfacing into and diving from open-water leads and polynyas in preparation for operating beneath the Arctic ice pack. Seadragon would be under thick sea ice for what might well be several months. She would, therefore, not be able to come readily to the surface in the event of a major emergency such as flooding or fire.
I stood watch as diving officer of the watch on a regular four hours on, eight hours off basis, spending every free moment in the control room in order to qualify as officer of the deck (conning officer submerged) as rapidly as possible. There were more opportunities for me to spend in the control room than I would ever have imagined, because I rarely had a bunk to retreat to, much less to call my own, and thus had more time to qualify. Seadragon, like almost all U.S. submarines at that time, had more crewmen than bunks. As many as two rows of six pan bunks were placed side-by-side across the torpedo reloads forward. The most junior enlisted men on board were usually assigned these bunks, with two men sharing in hot-bunking.
To the crew’s everlasting gratitude, Captain Steele decreed that no crewmember would have to g
ive up his regularly assigned bunk to the extra officers and civilian riders, and the officers would do the hot bunking. As one would expect, none of Seadragon’s more senior officers was going to give up his bunk to anyone else. So, as it turned out, I found myself one of three officers assigned to a single bed in officers’ quarters. The other two, Ens. William T. “Bill” Bloodworth and Dr. Lewis H. “Lew” Seaton (also lieutenant commander, and later surgeon general of the U.S. Navy), Seadragon’s medical doctor, having served much longer on board than I, quickly rigged it so that when one of them got out, the other was always ready to jump right in, no matter the hour. Hence, I was more frequently than not left with no place to sleep. As the days passed I got smarter and improvised, starting with sleeping upright in a quiet control room corner and then lining up three armless wardroom chairs and lying across them. I later began finding innumerable devious ways of interfering with the Bloodworth-Seaton turnover, such as getting them called to the control room so I could beat one or the other to our smelly but vacant bunk.
Weirdburgers for Dinner
The successful final load-out of crew, spare parts, weapons, food, movies, and special mission-related equipment on any submarine is truly an art. Since serving good food on a day-to-day basis is essential for the maintenance of good morale, everyone pays close attention to what is loaded on board: meat, milk and eggs, fresh vegetables and fruit, ice cream, and dry goods such as canned vegetables and fruits, spices and sauces, and coffee, to name just a few. The general feeling is that we can handle or endure any task and operation if we know we will be sitting down to a good meal afterward.
Crews mess, USS Seadragon (SSN 584), Arctic Ocean, 1960. D. Cornell
Not known to the crew of Seadragon, however, the powers that be in Washington had asked that a new type of food be tested on the crew for palatability during the coming transpolar voyage. Specifically, we were encouraged to carry as much ration-dense food as possible—that is, frozen or otherwise dried products that could be reconstituted with water when needed. Powdered milk and eggs, while never popular, had been carried for years by Navy ships and submarines. Suitably packaged for storage and loaded on our particular voyage was a huge amount of dried apples, peaches, pears, apricots, onions, potatoes, carrots, beans, peas, and even cabbage. Unexpectedly, one normally popular food item, hamburger, was also loaded in large quantity in a completely unfamiliar state—canned. The crew’s shock and dismay on discovering this shortly after going to sea was soon to manifest itself.
Few of Seadragon’s officers and crew had any inkling of the substitution made prior to departure for sea, much less the reason for it. Only the captain, exec, and the supply and commissary officer (not me at that time) and a few of his people knew. On the plus side, most crewmembers noted with satisfaction the enormous quantity of steak being loaded into the freeze box. Steak was far and away the most popular food item with any submarine crew, with good hamburger, real bacon, and fresh eggs close behind.
We had been transiting north for almost four days and were now approaching the Davis Strait between Greenland and Newfoundland. A shipboard routine of watch duties, routine maintenance, and under-ice practice operations and emergency drills had been pretty well established by now. We were enjoying a never-ending parade of superb meals as Seadragon’s cooks seemed to be outdoing themselves, whether for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or midnight rations (mid rats). All eagerly looked forward to the next meal. On one particular evening, hamburgers with all the trimmings were on the menu. “Oh, boy,” was the general reaction as we impatiently waited for dinner.
The hamburgers on our plates resembled nothing anyone had ever seen before. Each looked as if a cookie cutter had precisely shaped it, rather than the classic, hand-shaped patty familiar to us. In addition, the burgers were an unappetizing bile color with a strange, rubbery consistency. Worse, they didn’t taste like hamburger. Some wits among both officers and crew wondered aloud if the cooks had mistakenly loaded and cooked dog food. Old hands drew loose comparisons with dubious meats they had eaten during World War II. One thing for sure: there was almost unanimous consensus that it was repulsive. Almost all of it served that evening ended up in the garbage amid grumbles and complaints.
Submarine cooks are a sensitive, prideful lot, and ours, led by Commissaryman 1st Class Orizio Parisi, were no exception. They were extremely upset at the negative reception to their hamburgers, which included a wide variety of gagging noises and catcalls. During the course of dinner they were subjected to pointed questions as to whether any of them had actually tasted the “crap” being served that night. An impromptu competition on what to name the stuff got under way. Terms such as Buffalo Barf, Whale Shit, and Grilled Lungers were among the many ventured before the exec made a sudden appearance, joining the crew for dinner, and calming things down. Seadragon’s head cook pleaded with Vince Leahy, the chief of the boat, Torpedoman CPO Philip Le Clair, the exec, and me to allow him to discontinue the canned hamburger portion of the ration-dense food experiment. No dice. The basic purpose of the project was explained to the officers and crew: to wit, that one day nuclear submarines such as Seadragon might be required to remain at sea for many months at a time. Since the freeze box and the chill box (converted to a freeze box) could not hold much more than sixty-days’ worth of meat at a time, canned meat might of necessity become an important component of a maximum-capacity food stores load-out. Exec Jim Strong directed the cooks, Leahy, and me, as our part of this important experiment, to come up with not just one, but a number of “mouth-watering ways” in which our store of canned hamburger could be served.
I didn’t know a thing about food except how to eat it, but as the newest officer and as prospective supply and commissary officer I was pressed into service so that the new ideas I might contribute could be worked into solving the problem. My heart sank as I realized I was about to become the most unpopular man on board.
In the days that followed, the cooks, Vince Leahy, and I pored over every available cookbook to come up with a variety of recipes for what might just as well have been canned possum as far as any of the crew knew. Hamburgers with tomato sauce, hamburgers with mustard and horseradish sauce, curried hamburgers, hamburgers scrambled with eggs, and hamburgers as a stew base were all eventually to appear on the menu. Each was greeted with the usual groans, gagging sounds, and other graphic outbursts.
One change in the crew’s general eating behavior had already been noted: whenever hamburger was on the menu, attendance at that meal dropped significantly, and the demand for midnight rations increased dramatically, as did the amount of in-between meal snacking by the crew. The commissary department resorted to subterfuge and no longer identified hamburger as such. Instead, tempting meal descriptions such as Savory Brunswick Stew, Texas Chili Ragout, and Arkansas Chili (whoever heard of that?) became standard menu entries. I contributed my own share of novel names for the main course of the day, such as Arctic Ocean Scramble.
No matter how it was disguised, though, the basic taste, smell, and consistency of canned hamburger were robust, for lack of a better term. At first bite the crew could always tell what was once again being foisted off on them. “Oh yuck, weirdburgers again,” protested one of the crew. The name stuck.
Near the end of our transpolar voyage, permission was finally granted to discontinue serving weirdburgers, leaving us with several hundred pounds of canned hamburgers to create space-filling ballast throughout the boat. Our supply and commissary officer managed to trade a few cases of this “exotic, under-ice submarine food” with the Coast Guard for more palatable items during our brief stop in Nome. Even more cases were off-loaded and traded in a similar fashion to the unwary and gullible shortly after our arrival at home port in Pearl Harbor. I have often thought of the fun we could have had if eBay had existed back in those days.
The ration-dense food experiment was never repeated to the best of my knowledge, although I did hear years later that the U.S. government had several million pounds of
canned hamburger stored away for military emergencies.
CHAPTER 8
Into Davis Strait and Baffin Bay
As we approached Davis Strait, our imaginations, thoughts, discussions, and even our dreams turned more and more to those who had preceded us, the Proto-Eskimos who first sighted these waters over five thousand years ago and the Dorset and Thule Inuit who followed, and first navigated, these waters en route to the western Greenland coast. We thought also of the early Vikings: Erik the Red, in the course of his historic exploration of the Greenlandic coast from 982 to 985 AD, may have been the first to reach Disko Island, the largest island in Baffin Bay. Soon following him were an untold number of Viking explorers and hunters, who during the next three centuries pushed farther and farther north along the western coast of Greenland. We now know they reached Melville Bay in the northeastern corner of Baffin Bay, Ellesmere, Skraeling, and Rune Islands to the north, and Devon and Baffin Islands to the northwest.1
More relevant were our studies and discussions about the British Northwest Passage expeditions commanded by John Davis who, in 1585 and 1587, charted Davis Strait. He was followed by Robert Bylot, with William Baffin as pilot, who in 1616 charted all the coasts of Baffin Bay and discovered the three major outlets from Baffin Bay: Smith, Jones, and Lancaster Sounds. Renowned British explorers William Edward Parry, commander of HMS Hecla, during a British Northwest Passage expedition from May 1819 through November 1820, and Sir John Franklin and Francis Crozier, commanders of HMS Erebus and HMS Terror, respectively, during the period 1845 to 1848, determined Lancaster Sound to be the main entrance to the Northwest Passage.2 Once we had finished our work in Baffin Bay we would begin our survey of the Northwest Passage at the mouth of Lancaster Sound and follow the routes of those who had gone before.
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