Silent and Unseen

by Alfred McLaren

  I had become aware during these local operations out of Subic Bay that the morale of Seadragon’s more senior officers who were department heads was low. One incident stands out: We departed for sea one Monday morning without our navigator, Lieutenant M, who was a friend of mine from the days when we both served on diesel boats out of Pearl Harbor. He had gone ashore with us the previous afternoon and spent some time with us at the Subic Bay officers club. On this occasion, however, he was uncharacteristically quiet and uncommunicative. Eventually, after more than a few drinks, he began muttering complaints about our new captain and exec, swearing that he had “to get off this boat.” We tried to talk him into returning on board to get a good night’s sleep. He would have none of it and, saying that he was going to go out in town, left us.

  Lieutenant M did not make it back to the boat, although he was there to meet us when we returned to Subic Bay a day later. He was promptly ushered into a private meeting with the captain and exec. We never learned why he chose to miss the sailing and what might happen in the way of discipline. We did note that he was not allowed to go ashore again in Subic Bay or to join the rest of us in Hong Kong. During his remaining days on board he was rarely seen and left us permanently midway through the deployment. We were never to hear from him again. It was a sad and unnecessary occurrence in my opinion. He had been a good friend and shipmate. I believe strongly that either the captain or the exec should have detected whatever problem he was having and provided the necessary help to him before he ruined his career.

  Although U.S. nuclear submarines were not themselves permitted to visit Hong Kong at that time, Seadragon’s crew became the first to be flown by a naval transport plane to what was then a British Crown Colony for a few days’ liberty. Before departing we were all thoroughly briefed by the U.S. naval attaché, who flew over to brief us in Subic Bay on such cheery subjects as the possibility of getting kidnapped. He even told us what some of us in key jobs would be worth on the open market. I was amused to learn that, as Seadragon’s reactor officer, I might be worth as much as $900. We were instructed to stay in groups no matter where we went and not to strike off on our own under any circumstances. We were also discouraged from crossing over to Kowloon, which was on the Chinese mainland, and forbidden to go to the Portuguese colony of Macao. Finally, we were instructed to wear civilian clothes at all times.

  A number of us had been to Kowloon before. A favorite place for a young officer to spend his time was at the magnificent old Peninsula Hotel, which probably had the most elegant high tea service in the entire world. Several hundred well-heeled Westerners, including a great number of attractive young women, frequented it. Suffice it to say, several of us ignored the instructions and spent most of every liberty hour there. The rest of our time we went shopping for tailor-made clothing for which Hong Kong was famous. We could get a Brooks Brothers–like suit or sports jacket made of the finest British fabrics in twenty-four hours, and at an unbelievably low price.

  We all returned safely to our boat in Subic Bay, and those who had remained on board to stand duty in our absence were then flown over for an equal amount of time. I think most would agree that Hong Kong was every sailor’s favorite liberty port during a lengthy WestPac deployment.

  Seadragon conducted two Cold War missions of approximately eight weeks each during our deployment, one of which resulted in our completing a fifty-eight-day submerged endurance operation. Neither was memorable with regard to reconnaissance or intelligence collection. What does stand out in my memory is that our captain seemed anxious to stay as far as possible away from any Soviet naval units, whether they were submarines or surface ships. One of my primary duties during these missions was that of photographic officer, an assignment that proved unrewarding under this captain because he would never have us approach any vessel closer than 12,000 yards. As a result, my photos revealed nothing more than the basic outline of a particular submarine or surface ship—good enough to determine its class but not hull numbers, armament, antennas, or any other distinctive features. Our sonarmen were equally frustrated, for we never closed any target of significant interest sufficiently to gather acoustic information of intelligence value.

  Both missions, in short, were long and boring. Although crewmembers were careful not to express their disgust out loud, word did leak out that they had given our captain a nickname, not revealed here, that aptly expressed their derision. To the best of my knowledge, neither the captain nor the exec was aware of it.

  Aircraft Reconnaissance Mission

  Between Seadragon’s two Cold War missions, while I was at sea in the Northern Pacific with Seventh Fleet ASW units, I transferred to the aircraft carrier USS Midway (CVA 41) for several days to take part in a flight operation. A helicopter hovered above our sail, lowered a harness, and, once I had secured myself within it, lifted—or rather yanked—me up into the air and reeled me to an open door in the side of the helicopter where several crewmembers grabbed and hauled me inside. We flew to the Midway and landed on her flight deck, and I exited to be met by Cdr. Frank S. Haak who would be my host during my visit. I was quickly shown where I would be berthed and given a brief tour of “officers’ country” and the bridge area, where flight operations were in progress.

  When mealtime came, I was turned over to two junior naval aviators who would take me to dinner in what was called the alligators mess, where all the junior officers—mostly ensigns, lieutenants junior grade, and junior lieutenants—ate their meals. It was well named, because the huge dining area seemed to be packed with ravenous junior officers. One of my escorts was a Lt. Robert J. Craig, a fellow U.S. Naval Academy graduate, class of 1956, with whom I had run the high hurdles on the track team. He was flying the Vought F8U “Crusader” on night missions at the time and confided to me how much he disliked making carrier landings at night with that aircraft. He also expressed his concern that he might not make it one night. Sadly, just three months later, his premonition was to prove true.

  Following dinner, Commander Haak, who was the squadron commander of VAH-8, a heavy attack squadron, invited me to join him on a night mission in his Douglas A3D-2 Skywarrior, or Whale as it was termed by carrier aircraft handling crews because of its large size compared to other carrier aircraft and its heavy weight of up to 80,000 pounds.2 The aircraft was a four-seat version that normally carried a pilot, copilot/navigator, radio-electronics operator, and a crew chief who handled the tail guns when installed. I would be taking the crew chief’s place. The mission was to be a radar stimulation one off the coast of North Korea, and we would be collecting/recording search and fire control radar emissions plus attendant communications.

  I was provided with proper flight clothing and a parachute. I changed clothes and took part in the preflight briefing, which outlined the route that would be followed, the altitude, and the possible reaction by North Korean forces that we might encounter. The briefing also included the survival procedures we should follow if we went into the water or made an emergency or crash landing somewhere. We all climbed on board the aircraft shortly before 8:00 p.m.. The A3D lacked ejection seats, and as a result A3D had come to mean “All three dead,” since the only exits in the event of an emergency were a laundry chute under the fuselage, the outer door of which required manual pumping of a considerable number of strokes before it opened, and a narrow slot or escape hatch, about three feet by one foot located directly behind the pilot and copilot. I was told not to consider it, because the pilot and copilot would be using it.

  The aircraft had already been preflighted, so once we were all secured in our seats and the pilot, Commander Haak, was ready, we were towed out to a launch position on the flight deck. Once securely positioned on the steam launch and ready, Haak gave a saluting signal and off we went. It was quite a jolt forward and I felt as if my stomach was back on the rudder somewhere. The aircraft took a slight dip toward the water and then began a rapid ascent toward the southeast coast of North Korea. As I recall we were there in about
an hour and then flew steadily northward off the coast as various search and fire control radars acquired and tracked us and we, in turn, recorded their emissions. I have no idea what our altitude or speed was, but we must have been pushing the aircraft’s ceiling of 41,000 feet and flying at something over five hundred knots. I also can’t say with absolute certainty, but it seemed as if several missile batteries were launched at us. Whatever they were, their bright contrails passed well below us. It was pretty exciting as we, at times, rapidly maneuvered this way and that, and I wondered more than once just what I had gotten myself into. I would like to have asked a question or two, but it was not a time to distract any of the flight crew. Interestingly, no North Korean aircraft attempted to intercept us.

  We completed the mission assigned around midnight, and headed back to the Midway. She certainly looked small, especially the flight deck, as we circled in preparation for landing. The sea state was not too bad, but I could see the flight deck pitching up and down. As we approached, Commander Haak, who sat directly in front of me, told me that carrier aircraft make from time to time something called a bolter, which means an aborted landing because the tail hook didn’t catch or the aircraft was too high, or not lined up correctly, for a safe landing, or other scenario. If such occurred, the pilot would give the aircraft full throttle, climb away, and circle for another attempt.

  Then it happened: Our A3D Skywarrior seemed to make a perfect landing, but its tail hook didn’t catch any of the three arresting wires that crossed the flight deck. Commander Haak applied full throttle, and we blasted off and circled for another try.

  Our second landing again seemed perfect, but before the tail hook caught a wire, the copilot yelled, “Power! Power!” to Commander Haak, and we blasted off again. The ensuing discussion between the pilot and copilot indicated serious disagreement over the need to abort the landing.

  I found myself eyeing the escape chute, wondering how it would work under water as the aircraft was slowly sinking. Not very well, I decided. I completely unbuckled my chest-mounted parachute and decided that, if need be, I would follow the pilot and copilot through the escape hatch behind them.

  We lined up for a third try, and Commander Haak made a perfect landing on Midway’s flight deck with the second arresting wire catching the A3D’s tail hook. The sighs of relief within the cockpit were audible. Commander Haak then shared the information that we did not have enough fuel for a fourth try, and a water landing would have been our only option if the tail hook had not engaged. I later learned that a final arresting barrier could have been used, but this was never mentioned.

  We were welcomed back by a crowd of concerned officers and crewmembers, including Midway’s commanding officer and several other senior captains. They soon went off with Commander Haak and the copilot/navigator to talk privately, while the rest of us went down below for something to eat and drink. I was not to see Commander Haak or the copilot again before I left via helicopter the next day to return to Seadragon, but I would have given anything to have attended the debrief of that mission.

  Within minutes of boarding the helicopter next morning, we were hovering above Seadragon’s sail. Returning on board was not as simple as leaving, however, since the seas had picked up and the boat was rolling approximately 10 degrees from port to starboard. As the helicopter continued to hover, I was gradually lowered in a harness to a position just above the bridge cockpit and then suddenly dropped into the arms of several lookouts when the cockpit passed directly beneath me. My harness was quickly removed and reeled back into the helicopter as it gained altitude and moved away. Relieved to be safely back on board, I had no further interest in learning what life on an aircraft carrier was like during that or any future deployment.

  Subic Bay and the Long Transit Home

  We made two more brief upkeep and liberty stops in Subic Bay during the late summer and fall. These were interspersed with more ASW services, this time as a submarine target to Seventh Fleet units, before we headed for home and our families and friends after almost six months.

  As we began the long transit to Pearl Harbor, Seadragon’s captain and exec came up with the questionable idea of delaying our return home by upward of three days so that we could undergo some additional training during the long voyage home. The request to our squadron commander and to our overall boss, ComSubPac, was kept secret from the crew and all but the navigator and the engineer. Nonetheless, rumor of what was planned quickly spread through the boat as it invariably does on any submarine. I was shocked that the captain and exec would even contemplate such action, and I asked the exec privately if there was anything to it. He confirmed that the request had been made and further stated that the time would be devoted to the much-needed engineering drills that we had not had time to accomplish during the WestPac deployment. I whistled and shook my head in disbelief. I pointed out the negative impact this was certain to have on the morale of a crew anxious to get home to their wives and families after such a long separation. The exec shrugged and waved me away, signaling that our conversation was at an end. Boy, did that cause my own morale to sink. Our only hope now was that our bosses, World War II submarine aces and veterans who well understood the importance of keeping crew morale high, would say, “Hell no, come home at best speed!” The gods surely smiled on us, because this is exactly what happened several days later. Word leaked out of radio the minute the message came in from ComSubPac, producing universal smiles of relief.

  Several of us surmised that our request was seen as an ill-thought-out attempt on the part of our captain and exec to ingratiate themselves with their superiors, including Admiral Rickover, at the expense of the crew. The whole matter greatly eroded our trust in the captain and exec, who should have had the well-being of the crew and their families foremost in their minds.

  We made it home safe and sound in late November 1961 and had it easy as the boat entered a three-week-long upkeep. I was made acting engineer at this time, while the engineer, Al Burkhalter, went on leave. All hands were allowed some much-needed time off to relax and spend with their families. Following the upkeep, we once again engaged in local submarine-versus-submarine operations and the rendering of target services to ASW units stationed in the area.

  Seadragon’s Officers and Crew Put to the Test

  An unpleasant surprise was to greet us shortly after Thanksgiving when we learned that a group from Naval Reactors in Washington, DC, would be arriving in early December to give Seadragon’s nuclear-trained officers and crewmembers one of the first reactor safety exams by Naval Reactors. All of us were to be subjected to rigorous oral examinations pertaining not only to basic nuclear power plant theory, but also to all aspects of safely operating our S-4-W nuclear reactor. The exercises would cover all supporting systems, such as primary and secondary water, steam generators and turbines, electrical, primary water chemistry, and radiation protection. Our retention of everything we had learned earlier in Nuclear Power School and at the land-based nuclear power plant prototype on which we each trained would be subject to scrutiny. I don’t think any of us would have argued against the exams. The time proved, however, to be difficult and frustrating for all. None of us did very well. The fact that we had forgotten a great deal became obvious to the examining team. No doubt this was quickly relayed back to Admiral Rickover who, I am sure, wasted no time in conveying his displeasure to our captain.

  We learned during the following months that the officers and crews of all fully operational nuclear submarines had undergone similar examinations, with results that were pretty much the same throughout the Atlantic and Pacific. Admiral Rickover and his staff thus rightfully concluded that all nuclear submarine crews should be periodically examined, both with regard to basic theory and in the demonstration of safe nuclear power plant operation in port and at sea, including demonstrated safe response to and recovery from a prescribed series of casualty drills. It would be a number of years before a formal operational reactor safeguards examination was put
into place. Strangely enough, I was not to experience another such examination until early 1970, when I was already in command of USS Queenfish.

  The first months of 1962 kept Seadragon participating in a series of prospective commanding officer exercises during which each group of commanding officer trainees was required to fire a number of exercise torpedoes with plaster/dummy warheads that were not explosive-loaded. Mk-14–5 steam-propelled torpedoes were fired at surface targets, and electrically propelled Mk-37–0 acoustic-homing torpedoes were fired at other submarines during the course of their at-sea training.

  I had just become weapons officer at the time, and I recall that, although the Mk-14–5 torpedoes performed reliably, we seemed to have endless problems with the electrically propelled Mk-37–0 torpedoes. Besides having a relatively slow speed and limited range both geographically and acoustically, this torpedo either failed to start up and swim out of the tube on firing, or failed to acquire the target acoustically during what appeared to be a perfect fire-control solution and torpedo run. This led to frustration and finger pointing: Seadragon was faulted for probable poor torpedo maintenance and checkouts. The prospective commanding officers were criticized for poor target motion analysis and inappropriate torpedo settings.

  We on Seadragon soon discovered, and reported, that the anticircular run shutdown, which is designed to prevent a submarine from being hit by its own torpedo, on many of the Mk-37–0 exercise torpedoes we received activated as soon as the torpedo was powered up. This plus the deficiencies cited earlier were proving to be a major problem in all Pacific and Atlantic submarines. Ours was not the only one reporting. This and many other frustrations, such as slow speed and limited range both geographically and acoustically, were to take another decade to resolve.