Silent and Unseen

by Alfred McLaren

  For days beforehand officers and crewmembers talked about the game, which promised to be a heated contest between the engineers aft, the most vocal of whom were Ronald J. Waldron, Edward Briggs, and Philip Philipps Jr., and those who worked and stood watch forward of Seadragon’s reactor compartment, such as Grady E. “Two-Gun” Roberts, Earl J. Crowley III, and John K. Evans. Boasts and threats were traded as we geared up. The engineering department team was made up of enginemen, machinist’s mates, electricians, and radio chemists. The forward end team was made up mainly of torpedomen, sonar men, radiomen, auxiliary men, yeomen, and cooks. Interspersed throughout both teams were key division officers, department heads, and the captain. The chief hospital corpsman, Richard A. Morin, was to serve as umpire.

  USS Seadragon (SSN 584) scuba divers at North Pole, 25 August 1960. U.S. Navy

  It was an ideal afternoon for baseball. We were blessed with a clear blue sky overhead, warm sunlight, and little or no wind. The large ice floe on which we would be playing contained Al Burkhalter’s best estimate of the closest we could get to the geographic North Pole. This would enable the crew to locate the pitcher’s mound directly over the Pole and orient the baseball diamond such that a straight line from home plate through the pitcher’s mound to second base paralleled longitude 000°, or the Greenwich Meridian. As it continued through center field, it coincided with longitude 180°, or the International Date Line.

  First pitch in historic first baseball game at North Pole, 25 August 1960. U.S. Navy

  The stage was set: If a lucky batter on either side hit a home run, he could circumnavigate the globe and pass through some twenty-four time zones as he circled the bases on the way to home plate. If he hit the ball into right field, he would be hitting it across the International Date Line into tomorrow. If the right fielder caught it as a fly ball, he caught it the next day. Hence the batter could not be considered out for another twenty-four hours. However, if he hit a line drive into right field and the ball was successfully fielded and thrown to either second or third base, it would have been thrown back into the day of play, or yesterday. A ball hit to left field would remain within the same day. If it was caught and then thrown to first base, it could enter tomorrow, depending on just where the first baseman was standing. Double and triple plays could take several days to complete. Base stealing or a slide into base took on a whole new meaning during Seadragon’s contest. Action in the vicinity of second base could again take several days to complete, and a slide into any base could take a runner straight to the ice edge. A second-base slide could be quite hazardous to whoever was playing shortstop. On the other hand, it made the runner easy pickings, because if a baseman with the ball missed him on the first go-around, he would get a second chance. Finally, the batter, catcher, and umpire had best get well out of the way during a slide into home base.

  “Batter up!” Baseball at the North Pole, 25 August 1960. U.S. Navy

  Both teams had great fun with all of this. Disputes over just what day and time anything had occurred contributed to frequent and often utter confusion of the base and field umpires, not to mention the game recorder. No one remembered the final score or even the day on which it ended for sure. We do know the exact date, though, when the umpire yelled, “Play ball!”: 25 August 1960.

  The baseball (really a softball) used during the game was dried out and, following our arrival in Pearl Harbor, presented to the Baseball Hall of Fame on behalf of the U.S. Navy submarine force. What a day!

  Once all hands were confirmed below decks, the maneuvering watch was set. Seadragon made a stationary dive down to two hundred feet, and the boat was slowed and trimmed for neutral buoyancy. Once completed, depth was increased to 350 feet and speed to approximately eighteen knots. The course was set to the southwest for the Bering Strait. An hour later we all sat down to a fabulous celebratory dinner of our best real steaks, baked potatoes, and vegetables—nothing ration-dense here. For dessert, the cooks unveiled a huge, beautifully iced North Pole three-layer cake. It was cut by Captain Steele and Seadragon’s youngest crewmember, and generous pieces were passed out to all hands.

  Later that evening we turned our full attention to safely navigating our way, as sea-ice conditions permitted, to the Bering Strait and Nome, Alaska, via the shallow Beaufort and Chukchi Seas.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Bering Strait and Nome

  On 25 August 1960 we reached the famed Lomonosov Ridge, first discovered by the Soviet high-latitude air expeditions in 1948.1 The ridge was named after Mikhail V. Lomonosov (1711–1765), Russian poet, scientist, and grammarian. He made substantial contributions to the natural sciences, reorganized the St. Petersburg Imperial Academy of Sciences, and established the Imperial Moscow University in 1755, now known as the Lomonosov Moscow State University, whose research priorities are science and the humanities.2

  A steep, sill-like ridge dividing the Arctic Ocean into two major basins, the Lomonosov Ridge extends from Ellesmere Island on the continental shelf of North America, north to a point near the North Pole, and south to a point near the continental shelf of the New Siberian Islands. The basin on the Atlantic side, called the Eurasian Basin, is more than 13,000 feet deep. The adjacent Amerasian Basin is about 11,050 feet deep. Between the two basins the ridge crest at its highest point is at a depth of 3,169 feet from the surface of the ocean.3

  The abrupt decrease in depth was a real shocker, occurring at approximately latitude 88° 50' N, from over 13,000 feet beneath our keel to slightly over 3,250 feet in just a mile or so of forward travel. It was more than sufficient to cause us to abruptly slow, decrease depth, and prepare to reverse course. Once the depth of water beneath our keel appeared to steady, we increased speed and gingerly made our way across the ridge for fifty miles or so.

  Early the next afternoon Seadragon surfaced within a medium-sized polynya and placed Lt. Glenn Brewer and our doctor, Lt. Cdr. Lew Seaton, on the surrounding sea ice. They were tasked with photographing and making a film recording of Seadragon during a subsequent surfacing.

  When all was set, Seadragon submerged and headed a couple of hundred yards away from the polynya. She then made a Williamson Turn and steered course for the center of the polynya that we had just left. She missed the center, probably due to the constant movement of the ice pack above us, forcing us to slowly and carefully attempt to relocate the polynya that we had just left.

  If there was rising anxiety in the three men left on the ice when they heard us repeatedly pass beneath them, it was even more tense in the control room. We relocated the polynya within a half hour, however, and all ended well with no polar bears sighted, to everyone’s relief. Once the photographers and doctor were back on board, we made a stationary dive beneath the ice and resumed our transit south. Captain Steele ordered the main brace spliced with a shot of medicinal brandy to settle the badly frayed nerves of the three who had begun to fear they might be left on the ice. The photographic party brought back some wonderful stills and the first-ever movie footage of Seadragon surfacing in an Arctic Ocean polynya.

  We entered the Beaufort Sea and neared Alaska on 28 August. Seadragon surfaced and tried to visit Ice Island T-3 for scientific operations: Ice Island T-3 is a floating ice island that originates from the Ellesmere Island Ward Hunt Ice Shelf in the Arctic Ocean and on which a permanent campsite was erected in 1952. It was thirty-one miles in circumference and a minimum of five miles across at the narrowest part. The scientists manning the island obtained a tentative ice thickness of about 160 feet through seismic soundings of the ice and the ocean bottom.4 To our disappointment and that of the scientific personnel on the ice island, the island was found to be aground off the north coast of Alaska. The waters around it were too shallow and it would have been hazardous for us to come any closer than a few miles.

  We passed through the Bering Strait on the surface early on the morning of 5 September and by early afternoon reached Nome for a brief port visit. We had been at sea, mostly submerged under the Arctic
pack ice, for over a month and were starved for some diversion. Interestingly, an artist among our crew designed a USS Seadragon First East-West Polar Transit–August 1960 tattoo that proud crewmembers could get inscribed on their bicep at the first opportunity. After mooring alongside the U.S. Coast Guard’s icebreaker Northwind about a mile or so from town, Seadragon’s crewmembers went ashore courtesy of the Northwind’s liberty boats. Captain Steele had encouraged us all to thoroughly enjoy ourselves, but under no circumstances to get drunk or disorderly or in any other way bring discredit to our boat or to the submarine force. Nonetheless, young sailors and officers took their chances. So as we wandered from one bar to another, a good and well-lubricated time was had by all, despite the captain’s warning.

  USS Seadragon “First East–West Polar Transit—August 1960” insignia. U.S. Navy

  Nome at that time was still a picturesque frontier town with board sidewalks, not much changed from the gold rush days of the late nineteenth century. The citizens of Nome in this new forty-ninth state had never before seen a submarine and went all out to welcome Seadragon’s crew. They set up tours, with the most popular being to a working gold mine. Midafternoon Seadragon’s captain and officers gorged at a sumptuous banquet at the old Bering Sea Hotel, hosted by a beautiful Eskimo woman who was the “queen” of Nome, the mayor, and Nome’s other leading lights. In addition to Alaskan king crab, halibut, and Arctic char, we enjoyed such local delicacies as whale steak and seal. The latter were oily and strong-smelling—definitely an acquired taste. Wine and beer in copious amounts were also served, and toasts were exchanged from every direction. The local bakery provided a huge Arctic cake iced in pale shades of blue and white that typified the frozen environment. The banquet ended with Captain Steele and the Eskimo queen cutting and distributing pieces to all present. We each came away with small vials of gold dust as a souvenir of our visit, gifts of our hosts.

  Afterward we repaired to a local Eskimo village for a special ceremony that featured strange and affecting throat singing.5 Our hosts tossed the captain high into the air with a large sealskin as though he were an Eskimo hunter attempting to see as far as possible over the horizon. To his credit and the cheers of the village, the captain remained on his feet throughout a half dozen vigorous tosses.

  Unfortunately I missed all the fun because, following the cutting and distribution of the cake, Captain Steele charged me, as the newest officer, with the responsibility of transporting what was left of the cake out to Seadragon for the duty section still on board. I gave a cheery “Aye, aye, sir!,” and somewhat dejectedly struggled back to Nome’s boat landing with the still-sizable, heavy, and awkwardly shaped remains. My mood rapidly picked up within minutes of leaving the hotel, however, when two attractive Wien Air Alaska flight attendants who had been at the banquet joined me and asked if they could be of help. They could, of course, and the three of us made light work of the task as we talked and laughed and carried our burden a hundred yards to the boat landing, loaded it on one of the Northwind’s liberty boats, and got it on board Seadragon and safely below decks to the crews mess.

  I treated the young ladies to a cup of hot coffee in the wardroom after touring them through the boat. They in turn suggested that the least they could do was take me on a tour of Nome’s nightspots. Naturally I accepted, and we forthwith left the boat and went ashore to the chagrin of Seadragon’s duty section, which had been deprived of female companionship for almost five weeks.

  As the three of us toured the bars, singing and exchanging toasts and generally having a roaring good time, I started to realize that the town’s citizens mainly made their money selling liquor to each other. I had never seen so many saloons, virtually side by side, even in a big Navy town like Norfolk or San Diego. After saying goodbye to the locals, I had the luck to be escorted safely back to the boat landing by one of the flight attendants.

  A Whalebone for the Duty Section

  It was late on our last night of freedom in Nome and turning a numbing cold. As the visit drew to a close, a small group of us rushed to catch the last Coast Guard liberty boat back to the submarine at anchor. Running along a wooden boardwalk to the town wharf, somebody spotted a huge whale rib lying nearby. It was slightly curved and was at least eight feet long—the perfect gift for the forlorn duty section left on board. It took three of us, aided by my Wien Air Alaska friend, to hoist it into the air and onto our shoulders. Once secured, we took off running through the dark toward the boat landing, laughing and yelling like maniacs.

  Arriving at the landing, we overrode the objections of the boat coxswain to gleefully toss our prize on board the small launch. My flight attendant friend presented me with a special Alaskan Statehood Dollar, and we hugged as we said goodbye. After I boarded the boat, we continued waving until we disappeared from each other’s sight.

  As the boat approached Seadragon, we were gratified to find the forward torpedo room hatch open. Pulling alongside the starboard bow, several of us jumped to the main deck and, with the aid of the topside watch and boat coxswain, wrestled the huge whalebone on board. It was much bigger than we had thought! The main access hatch into our boat was located amidships, some fifty feet astern. None of us wanted to carry it back there only to have the topside watch call the duty officer to tell us we had to throw our trophy overboard.

  So, peering down the forward torpedo room hatch into the compartment below and noting that all lights were out in what also served as a major berthing area during the voyage, we decided to dump the whalebone straight down the hatch. Three of us lifted it off the deck, and carefully positioned it on the edge of the hatch so that when released it would slide straight down and into the center of the torpedo room. When all was ready, we let go. The whalebone slid, scraped, and banged its way to a resting position exactly where we wanted it, amid sleeping crewmembers and spare torpedoes. As the lights came on, accompanied by shouts of alarm, we fled aft, laughing hysterically, and made good our escape down the midships compartment hatch.

  To the men below the racket must have sounded like a depth charge as the huge artifact bounced and rolled around, until one man more sensible than the others discovered the cause of it all. An informal investigation by the exec Jim Strong the next day, after Seadragon was submerged and many miles south of Nome, failed to discover the guilty parties. A command decision was eventually made to take it to Pearl Harbor and present it to the Submarine Force Museum. Meanwhile it was stowed beneath one of the torpedoes.

  CHAPTER 12

  Pearl Harbor at Last

  We transited through the Bering Sea, the Aleutians, and the Pacific north of the Hawaiian Islands without incident. After a long final week at sea, we entered the Pearl Harbor Channel on the morning of 14 September 1960. Water-spouting tugboats filled the channel; helicopters dropped orchids, and one lowered a huge flowered lei directly over Seadragon’s sail. It seemed as if every ship in port was welcoming us by sounding its whistles. As we proceeded to our berth in front of ComSubPac’s headquarters, a U.S. Marine Corps band played lively marches, and family members who had been waving from the banks earlier excitedly rushed forward.

  USS Seadragon (SSN 584) arrives in Pearl Harbor following historic transit from the Atlantic to the Pacific via the North Pole, September 1960. U.S. Navy

  We had no sooner moored than all hands not on watch were mustered on the pier alongside. CincPac Adm. John H. Sides and ComSubPac Rear Adm. Roy S. Benson stepped forward to greet and congratulate us all on our successful passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific via the North Pole. ComSubPac read a formal citation from the U.S. Secretary of the Navy and presented Captain Steele with the Legion of Merit and USS Seadragon with its first Navy Unit Commendation. Admiral Benson announced that we were now ComSubPac’s new flagship, his lead ship in the Submarine Force Pacific. It was a proud moment for us all. Liberty immediately commenced for all hands not on duty, and we eagerly embraced our family members whom we had not seen in almost two months.

  Seadr
agon, the fourth nuclear submarine to join the Pacific Fleet, had logged 8,800 nautical miles since leaving Portsmouth, New Hampshire, on 1 August 1960.1 She now entered a much-needed, extended in-port upkeep of almost three weeks. Not only did we have many important voyage repairs to accomplish, but we also had to prepare for what would prove to be an intensive local operations schedule, providing services for the rest of the year to a wide variety of ASW units as one of the Pacific Fleet’s first nuclear attack submarines.

  Getting Wasted

  We prepared for the ASW services, but then were diverted to conduct what turned out to be a series of Cold War operations that took a great deal out of both boat and crew. The latter had to do primarily with monitoring Soviet long-range ballistic missile tests. We were operating during an era when, as one of the few nuclear attack submarines then in existence, we were subject to being ordered off on missions of indeterminate length, often at a moment’s notice, not having enough time to complete routine upkeep. As a result, both officers and crew were frantically busy throughout the boat whenever we were in port. Since we might have to live with whatever didn’t get fixed for extended periods of time at sea, we worked hard to ensure that all equipment and systems were, or would be, up and running 100 percent of the time before we were next scheduled to get under way.

  Seadragon’s sanitary system was a case in point: She was equipped with two sanitary tanks to receive waste from the galley, sinks and showers, and the laundry room, and all discharge, liquid and solid, from the heads (toilets). One tank was located forward and the other aft. Both filled fairly rapidly during the course of any given day and had to be evacuated by being blown to sea, using low-pressure air, at least once every twenty-four hours. This was an essential system, and had to be fully operational at all times. A clogged drain pipe or jammed valve from sink, shower, or commode could be hugely inconvenient because our crew of more than one hundred members already had to stand in line to use the few we had. The heads, moreover, required copious amounts of salt water from sea to flush each time they were used, which could be thirty or forty times a day each.