Silent and Unseen

by Alfred McLaren

  The sanitary system was one of many essential fluid and air systems maintained by a team of auxiliary men within the engineering department. Other systems for which they were responsible included freshwater, hydraulic, air conditioning, refrigeration, ventilation, and various other equipments associated with atmosphere control such as oxygen generators, carbon dioxide scrubbers, carbon monoxide–hydrogen burners, and percipitrons that removed hydrocarbons from the atmosphere. All were very important for crew comfort, well-being, and morale.

  Several sanitary system drain pipes had gradually become clogged. One of the worst was the pipe from the officers’ head. It was a great source of frustration and grousing, particularly by the captain. This particular head was located at the forward end of the officers’ berthing compartment on Seadragon’s second level.

  Directly below the officers’ head, on Seadragon’s third level, was the miniscule chief petty officers’ lounge area, which consisted of a small table, surrounded on three sides by a banquette. The drain pipe from the officers’ head passed directly through the ceiling or overhead of this area, angled down well above the small table, and then ran down the forward bulkhead en route to one of the sanitary tanks.

  Well into the first week of our upkeep, we tackled the problem of the clogged drain pipes. Uppermost on the list was the pipe from the officers’ head. On this particular day, the entire sanitary system was out of commission, and all hands were instructed to use the nearest facilities off the boat. All the heads throughout the boat were then red tagged to prevent inadvertent operation, all head doors were shut, and “DO NOT USE OR OPERATE” signs were hung on the outside of the doors where they could be clearly seen.

  The section of drain pipe that angled down from directly above the chief petty officers’ table had already been carefully removed and drained midmorning. It was now at the machine shop in the submarine base in Pearl Harbor, where internal scaling was being thoroughly reamed out. Reinstallation was planned for later in the day.

  I happened to have assumed duties as in-port duty officer that morning and had not been told, or had missed the fact, that the forward sanitary system would be out of commission for the rest of the day. Sometime during the late morning a serious call of nature resulted in my mindlessly rushing to the officers’ head. I rejoiced to see the door wide open and dashed right in. Closing and locking the head door after me, I quickly sat down and alleviated my own internal plumbing with a sigh of relief. I even took a few minutes to pick up a handy magazine and begin to read.

  Afterward I filled the toilet bowl with flushing water and opened the large flushing valve at the base of the bowl, using a large lever to its right. Within seconds there was a loud and frantic pounding on the head door before I had finished shutting the valve, much less unlocked the head door to exit. “Bang! Bang! BANG!” The door jerked this way and that as several people outside sputtering loud curses tried to yank it off its hinges. As I fearfully unlocked the door, I came face to face with three infuriated chief petty officers so agitated as to be almost incoherent. Two of them grabbed me by the arms and rushed me aft and down the stairway to the third level where they propelled me into the chief petty officers’ lounge area. A fourth chief petty officer, splattered with toilet paper and much else, met me as I entered.

  An acey-deucy game that had been in progress on the table was covered with water and . . . what looked like . . . “Oh my God,” I exclaimed. The overhead directly above the table and from which the piping that normally angled above the table had been removed was still dripping. My profuse apologies were to no avail. Facing what appeared to be a small lynch mob, I frantically attempted to calm them down, calling for the duty section to bring lots of rags, cleaning gear, and water to the chief petty officers’ quarters pronto.

  Using a scoop, bucket, and soap, I set to work, surrounded by four glowering chief petty officers, and finished up in record time with all as good as new. As a final gesture of appeasement, I emptied my wallet to pay what were certain to be big cleaning bills plus enough for several rounds of beers. Then I made a rapid exit, or rather escape, as far away as was possible on this cramped sub.

  How did this embarrassing incident happen in the first place? And why didn’t I notice the “DO NOT USE” sign located on the front of the officers’ head door? Someone, for his sake never identified, had left the head door all the way open, preventing anyone from seeing the warning sign suspended on the other side. Also, the flushing water valve itself had not been red tagged. Maybe the whole thing was a genuine oversight, or a prank, and most would consider me guiltless. On the other hand, I had assumed duty that day without learning, and carefully observing, all that was going on on board Seadragon. I would not let that happen again.

  It took the four chief petty officers a few weeks to forgive me. Then, during our next lengthy operation, the incident became a source of jokes and took its place in the lore and history of Seadragon.

  An Early Passive Trailing Exercise

  One thing Captain Steele was good about was providing his junior officers with regular opportunities to learn the fine points of operating a nuclear attack submarine—techniques that would be fully required of them as commanding officers one day. He was also always receptive to trying out a new idea or new method of doing something operationally. I was lucky enough to have him as a commanding officer early in my career. What he taught was to stand me in extremely good stead during my remaining years in submarines. This was to be especially true during my subsequent tours of duty on USS Greenling in 1968 and as commanding officer of USS Queenfish from 1969 to 1973.

  One night in the spring of 1961, Seadragon spent an entire night with a sister nuclear attack submarine, USS Swordfish (SSN 579), devoted to submarine-versus-submarine tactical exercises. Both commanding officers elected to develop techniques for trailing another nuclear attack submarine—something that had not yet been employed by any nuclear attack submarine during a Cold War operation but that would become necessary and well developed in the U.S. Navy. It would be of importance in keeping close tabs on deployed Soviet ballistic missile submarines, both diesel and nuclear powered, or on nuclear attack submarines that might be searching for one of our own ballistic missile submarines.

  The submarine-versus-submarine exercise began shortly after 8:00 p.m. and lasted until almost sun-up the next day. Each watch-standing team on its respective submarine would attempt to trail the opposing submarine for approximately two hours, with any given session ending earlier if the trailing submarine lost its quarry for longer than thirty minutes. If this occurred, both submarines were to hold their depths and slowly circle on station as they attempted to locate each other via active sonar and underwater telephone. If contact could not be reestablished, they would proceed carefully to periscope depth and establish contact via radio. In either case, when contact was reestablished Seadragon and Swordfish were to position themselves within a thousand yards of each other, with a depth separation of at least one hundred feet, and the next session would commence.

  Each watch section elected to trail the target boat using active sonar, which seemed to work very well. However, the use of active sonar not only made one’s boat detectable to the submarine being trailed, but also, in the event of an active trail, it would most certainly be regarded by the adversary as an overt, aggressive, and threatening action. It might, furthermore, in certain circumstances, result in a torpedo or two coming our way, depending on where we were geographically and the political situation at the time. In addition, the active-ranging trailing submarine would be making itself highly detectable to ASW forces, whether another submarine, surface warship, aircraft, or fixed sonar array might be in the area. It could also make our submarine more vulnerable to any acoustic-triggered mines, including those left over from previous wars, such as the Korean War.

  As the newest officer of the deck on board Seadragon, I was not in line to trail Swordfish until the wee hours of the morning. I asked Captain Steele if I could attemp
t to maintain continuous trail by using passive sonar only, and at the same time attempt to remain undetectable by presenting as little bow aspect as possible to Swordfish. Captain Steele answered, “Sure, go ahead and let’s see what happens.” His only provisos were that I remain at least one hundred feet below Swordfish’s specified depth of two hundred fifty feet and at least one thousand yards from Swordfish at all times. I assumed the conn and briefed all compartments, and in particular the control room, the sonar team, the fire control tracking party, and the maneuvering room on just what we would be doing. Critical to our success would be sonar’s ability to inform me instantly of any changes in Swordfish’s course, speed, and depth. Our success would also depend heavily on the fire control tracking party’s ability to continuously determine the range to Swordfish using passive ranging methods only.

  Swordfish started off at ten knots and I maneuvered Seadragon directly astern of her so that we would be well within her baffles, making us undetectable to her passive sonar. My plan was to increase Seadragon’s speed sufficiently to enable us to maneuver back and forth in Swordfish’s wake so that the fire control party could continuously refine its solution, using passive methods, with regard to Swordfish’s range, course, and speed.

  Swordfish did her best to shake us by using sudden changes in course and speed, including reversing course to better detect and evade us. I soon found that an excellent tactic for combating the latter and staying on her trail was to increase speed sufficiently to remain within her baffles as Swordfish made the turn, so that we could follow her right through the course reversal. As we became more confident in our ability to remain in contact by means of our passive sonar, I found that we could continuously trail at greater and greater ranges without losing contact. This also led to our discovery that, whenever Swordfish made a rapid excursion to either port or starboard, our best tactic was to immediately slow and present minimum aspect toward her, the better to evade detection as she tried to pick us out of her baffles.

  Swordfish maneuvered back and forth during the next hour or so as her efforts to shake us became more violent and unpredictable toward the end of my trailing session. She never succeeded in getting away from us. At the end of the exercise, her skipper, Cdr. Ross S. Leddick, who would later be my first squadron commander during my command of USS Queenfish in 1969–70, sent his congratulations on the underwater telephone to whomever had the conn on Seadragon during the past several hours. Captain Steele immediately informed him, “It was Lt. Fred McLaren trying out a new technique for trailing.” He was later to mention in my Fitness Report of 27 May 1961, “Recently Lieutenant McLaren developed a tactic hitherto believed impossible, by tracking another nuclear submarine submerged without the use of active sonar.”2 This method of trailing another submarine passively was to become, with further refinements, standard practice by the time I reported to USS Greenling for a several-month Cold War operation during the summer of 1968.

  CHAPTER 13

  A New Commanding Officer

  We had completed a historic transpolar voyage and a series of short Cold War missions during a significant portion of the fall of 1960 and winter/spring of 1961 with an exceptional captain, Cdr. George P. Steele, whom we were all very sorry to lose. The change of command was scheduled for 27 May 1961, and officers and crew awaited the approaching date with trepidation. Our new skipper, Lt. Cdr. Charles D. Summitt, seemed pleasant enough, but no one on board had ever served with him or knew much about his reputation. We learned that he had served on the Atlantic diesel boats USS Sea Poacher (SS 406), USS Ray (SSR 271), and USS Tirante (SS 420), and that he had been the exec of a sister boat, USS Sargo, for the past year, although to the best of our knowledge he had never deployed with her or taken part in any Cold War operations.

  USS Seadragon as one of the Pacific Fleet’s newest nuclear attack submarines was scheduled to depart for a six-month deployment to the WestPac on 1 June, just four days after the change of command. With the deployment would be sure to come several two-month Cold War missions. How this new commanding officer would handle himself and a presently superb boat and well-trained, high-morale crew was foremost in our minds. I had already taken part in a number of well-conducted missions.

  From waterfront talk in Pearl Harbor and in the Far East while on Greenfish I had learned that attack submarine captains could range from the extremely aggressive to the extremely timid. I had served with the former on Greenfish and with one who was aggressive but prudent on Seadragon. Both captains knew their boats and crews thoroughly and were competent and cool-headed in tight situations. They were skippers in whom the crew could take pride and who were pleasant to work with besides. By contrast, judging from statements by U.S. Naval Academy and Submarine School classmates, there were a few others in the Submarine Force Pacific who were overly cautious and hesitant in almost all operational situations, especially during special operations. The officers and crews of the submarines they commanded would just roll their eyes and shrug when asked, “How did it go?” upon their return to port. It was thus no surprise that both morale and the reenlistment rate were lower on these boats. What would our new commanding officer be like? Only time and events would tell during the coming year.

  Our exec, Jim Strong, also slated to leave, remained on board for several more weeks. His relief, Lt. Cdr. John W. “Wes” Harvey, had just reported and needed some time to get oriented. As I recall, Jim departed during our first stop in Guam. He was another true gentleman and we hated for him to leave.

  We departed for the WestPac at 10:00 a.m. on 1 June 1961. The projected return to our home port was early December, providing there was no national emergency at that time. This was my third six-month deployment in less than six years of married life and, if anything, the most difficult of the three so far. It pained me deeply that I would not only be leaving Mary, but also our five-year-old son, Fred Jr., and our seven-month-old daughter, Margot Anne. The months to come would be precious ones in their growth and development and I would be missing it all.

  Leaving port and home at an unnecessarily slow speed of advance on the first day, to the tune of a Navy band, and at the beginning of another beautiful day in Hawaii, was especially hard. The midmorning hour of departure was more show for our superiors than anything else. The remaining daylight hours would then pass excruciatingly slowly as we watched Oahu and its magical mountains gradually disappear en route to our diving point. It caused me to think about what I might do one day as commanding officer to make this dreaded day somewhat easier for both the crew and their families.1

  There was little change in established routine during the initial transit. Our new commanding officer and exec-to-be appeared to be more than happy with this. The transition from one captain to another therefore appeared seamless to both officers and crew, and we looked forward to a continuation of the partnership that Captain Steele and Exec Strong had forged.

  The Steele-Strong method had been to share all pertinent information with the wardroom, senior chief petty officer, and crew, and to consult with us all when Seadragon was to be tasked with an unusual operation or Cold War mission. The boat was, as a result, always well prepared for the assigned mission each time we departed for sea. This method of communication with the crew was a great learning experience for us all, and especially so for us young officers who aspired to command one day.

  Wes Harvey, a former U.S. Naval Academy football player, at first seemed much more extroverted than his predecessor Jim Strong. Strangely enough, though, this did not convert into improved communication between the commanding and exec and the officers, senior chief petty officers, and crew. A “gotcha” system of interacting with each officer, and with the most senior chief petty officers, came into play. The exec alternated between good guy and bad guy, while the captain became increasingly more remote and inscrutable. The effect was to create anxiety over just where we stood with each as we carried out our respective duties. The fact that there was rarely any positive feedback from the c
aptain was in sharp contrast to what had been routine with our previous captain. I was Seadragon’s electrical and reactor control division officer and assistant engineer officer at the time. Thankfully, my immediate superior, the engineer officer, Lt. Cdr. Al Burkhalter, shielded me from most of the consequences of this decreased communication.

  The long submerged transit to Subic Bay in the Philippines was broken up by a short stop in Guam where a group of Navy nurses hosted us at several parties and seemed to enjoy singing off key together, especially “On the Road to Mandalay.” Noticeable during this time in port was the captain’s congeniality and sociability with all, particularly with the more senior officers. He laughed a lot and in many ways came across as a completely different person.

  On arrival at Subic Bay, Seadragon’s crew had a lengthy upkeep and a most pleasant time on shore, either at the base enlisted club, chief petty officers club, and officers club, or out in the town of Olongopo. Subic Bay was to serve as our initial WestPac home port as we rendered several-day local ASW target services on an almost continuous basis to various units of the Seventh Fleet. I can’t say that we did much for the units’ morale. Rarely did they ever detect us, and even then not until we were in the final stages of a simulated attack on the defended primary target, usually an aircraft carrier. Our speed, maneuverability, and quietness as one of the latest class of nuclear attack submarines were just too much for our own ASW forces of that era.