Silent and Unseen

by Alfred McLaren

  Commanding officer Shepherd M. Jenks (far left) and officers, USS Skipjack (SSN 585), 1964. U.S. Navy

  The bright idea was hatched of trying to find some way of stealing the photograph without their noticing it. It was not long before we hit on the solution: Captain Jenks and I would respectfully approach their table and ask the Blue Crew officers if they would all please assemble in our room so that we could “take their picture.” Pleased as punch, they dutifully got up and followed us back, where we asked them to line up against the wall “by height and rank.” It was all we could do to keep a straight face when they had more than a little trouble figuring out just how they would do this. In the meantime, one of Skipjack’s officers who had stayed back quickly took down the photo of their FBM, hustled it down the stairs to the club’s storeroom, shoved it in, and locked the door. Another Skipjack officer stepped forward with a camera and asked the FBM officers to adjust their positions, pose, and smile as he pretended to photograph them. After the photos were taken, Captain Jenks and I waved, thanked them in a friendly fashion, and returned to our table. Our coconspirators who had hidden the photograph preceded us to the table, soon followed by our erstwhile cameraman. We carried on as if nothing had happened to disrupt the good time we’d been having.

  We were in the midst of telling jokes, laughing loudly, and making a great deal of noise as the officers of the FBM Blue Crew solemnly filed back into the main dining room and took their seats. They resumed the speechmaking associated with whatever their formal occasion was all about.

  It was at least a half hour before one of them suddenly noticed that their photograph was no longer on the wall. The table broke up as some officers began looking under their own and adjacent tables, while others began frantically searching the room. We feigned indifference to the goings on until their exec approached and asked if we had seen their picture. Our exec, Lt. Cdr. William H. “Bill” Purdum, answered, “Yes, we had seen and admired it earlier. Why are you asking?” The FBM exec, in a high state of agitation, pointed to the wall and said, “It’s gone.” Some of us rose to our feet and, with concerned looks, expressed surprise that the picture was no longer there. Our exec offered to assist in whatever way we could, and with a gruff “thanks” the FBM exec turned on his heel and abruptly departed.

  The FBM officers searched and searched and came up empty handed. We caught them looking at our group suspiciously from time to time, but they never quite got up the nerve to come over and make a direct accusation. They finally called it a night and left in a deflated mood. The club staff kicked us out well after midnight, and that was the last we heard about it until the following week when the club’s cooks discovered the picture in the storeroom. We subsequently heard from our DivCom that the theft was brought up at a high-level staff meeting, mentioning that we were the prime suspects. He didn’t ask us directly, and although we laughed loudly, we didn’t admit to a thing, nor were we ever asked for the photographs that we supposedly took that night.

  We spent the remainder of the month in dry dock at the submarine base in New London. There we accomplished minor repairs following the recent period at sea. The hull was thoroughly cleaned and repainted. The marine growth acquired on the underside of our hull during the brief time in San Juan had been enough to drop Skipjack’s top speed by several knots.

  The month of May was devoted to advanced exercises with U.S. Navy ASW surface forces. Skipjack’s capabilities conclusively demonstrated several crucial combat needs among our surface forces. One was for more-advanced sonar detection and attack systems on all ASW ships. Another was for higher-speed ASW torpedoes capable of acoustically acquiring and destroying high-speed nuclear attack submarines.

  Dropping Off the Step

  It was during this period of ASW exercises that USS Skipjack was visited by a near catastrophe, to be followed by a personnel tragedy of the worst sort.

  Skipjack had been at sea in the North Atlantic for several weeks, participating in a major fleet exercise with surface ships of the U.S. Navy and Royal Navy. We had been tasked with playing the role of an enemy or “red” submarine—a simulated Soviet submarine whose mission was to oppose an allied powers’ fast-carrier task force en route to forward strike positions off the coast of the “red” nation.

  Skipjack had already executed a series of surprise attacks on the Royal Navy aircraft carrier HMS Hermes and evaded detection and counterattack by her ASW destroyer escorts. In May 1964 she broke off contact and headed for her next assigned patrol area at maximum speed. Once there, our plan was to proceed to the surface just after sunset and celestially fix our position. It would be good practice for our navigator, his quartermaster assistants, and various junior officers for their qualification in submarines.

  At the edge of our new patrol area, Skipjack slowed and ascended to periscope depth. We were greeted by a beautifully clear evening twilight with an almost flat, calm sea, which were perfect conditions for the training planned. It was even better for the conduct of an airless surface, another important training evolution for a number of our boat’s officers and crewmembers.

  A normal submarine surfacing involves the simultaneous blowing of seawater from the six soft ballast tanks that surround the submarine’s pressure hull. High-pressure air at three thousand pounds per square inch is stored in banks located within these tanks. A full blow of all tanks using this air is normally ordered in order to expel the water and achieve the requisite positive buoyancy to reach the surface as rapidly as possible. Once on the surface, seawater remaining in the ballast tanks is removed through the continued use of a low-pressure blower, until the boat is riding high and dry on the surface. In the case of Skipjack with its rounded hull, the higher the submarine, the less surface drag and thus the greater speed that she could obtain.

  The high-pressure air used to accomplish the initial blow, however, must be fully replenished as soon as possible. With two high-pressure air compressors on line, it was a noisy operation that usually required several hours, making it more detectable to potential adversaries. It should be noted that the air used in any surfacing evolution was an important part of a submarine’s store of emergency breathing air. This was air that would be needed when submerged should a casualty occur to both of the submarine’s oxygen generators. For these reasons, an airless surface was the preferred method of surfacing Skipjack.

  The airless surface procedure consisted of driving the submarine to the surface at full speed at a relatively steep up-angle with all vents atop the six ballast tanks open. This permitted seawater to drain by gravity from the ballast tanks as Skipjack was driven up to the surface and held, using speed and diving planes, at as shallow a depth as possible. All ballast tank vents were then shut, speed reduced, and the low-pressure blower used to remove all residual water, which usually took about ten minutes

  Because of her football- or Albacore-shaped hull and the number of revolutions that her single five-bladed propeller could make, Skipjack could also be driven on to an essentially hydroplaning position once it was high and dry on the surface. We called this “getting on the step.”

  As mentioned earlier, the step was achieved, once the sub was fully surfaced, by placing the after-diving control surfaces or stern planes (already well submerged due to their location) on 3- to 5-degree rise, and then increasing speed to flank or the maximum allowable number of propeller revolutions. As Skipjack’s speed approached maximum, she would begin to squat slightly. The stern planes were then gradually eased to between a 1-degree and 2-degree rise. As she planed up to a more horizontal position on the surface, her speed through, or more properly over, the water surface would dramatically increase to well over twenty knots.

  Extreme care had to be taken to maintain this position or Skipjack would suddenly drop off the step: her bow would nose down dramatically, and the boat would head for deeper depths at high speed. This was a known and ever-present hazard. It was also an inevitable outcome were the sea state or wave heights to rise. The consequ
ences for an officer of the deck, watch section, and the crew as a whole could vary from a thorough drenching of the officer of the deck and bridge watch to catastrophic loss of the submarine if the upper and lower bridge trunk hatches were not immediately shut, speed reduced, and the boat leveled using both stern and sail planes on full rise.

  On this particular evening Skipjack had conducted a flawless airless surfacing. All MBT vents were shut, and the low-pressure blower was hard at work removing the remaining seawater from the ballast tanks. The captain; the officer of the deck, Lt. Ron Eytchison; and a lookout had just ascended the bridge from the control room via the vertical ladder through an approximately twenty-foot steep access trunk and the now fully open lower- and upper-bridge trunk hatches.

  I was senior watch officer as well as engineer officer of Skipjack at the time and had been on board for well over two years. It was, accordingly, my habit to ease into the control room during almost all surfacings and dives to keep an eye on things and to back up the captain while he was on the bridge. On this particular evening I had also just been the command watch officer while we were submerged. From appearances, all was well as both crew and boat operations appeared to have settled into a normal surface operations routine.

  Not more than five minutes had passed when I was startled to hear the captain order, “Ahead flank!” This was soon followed by the order to the helmsman, in the control room, “Position the stern planes on 5 degrees rise!” The helmsman acknowledged both orders, and the remote speed indicator in front of the helmsman confirmed that the engineering officer of the watch in the maneuvering room was answering the flank speed order.

  Skipjack’s speed on the surface rapidly increased to ten knots, then twelve, and finally began to steady at between fifteen and sixteen knots. From the bridge then came the order, “Decrease the stern planes to 3 degrees rise!” The helmsman decreased the planes the ordered amount, and the boat’s speed began to steadily increase to approximately eighteen knots. The bridge then ordered, “Decrease stern planes to 2 degrees rise!” Our speed began to increase again. Suddenly, Skipjack’s bow abruptly dipped downward, and we found ourselves rapidly heading beneath the surface at high speed.

  Without waiting for any order from the bridge or anyone else, I immediately ordered, “All back full! Blow the forward group!” I lunged forward at the same time, grabbed the lanyard to the lower bridge trunk hatch, yanked it shut, and held on tightly as a nearby watch stander dogged it. My orders were paralleled within seconds from the bridge. Nonetheless, during the next few minutes Skipjack, with a hefty down angle, plunged sufficiently beneath the sea surface to bring the captain, officer of the deck, and lookout within a few feet of the surface, ensuring that all were thoroughly drenched.

  Skipjack quickly returned to the surface. I ordered “All stop!,” and a high-pressure blow of the forward ballast tanks was secured.

  Once we had all taken a deep breath, it became obvious to all that we had tried to get the boat on the step prematurely. The MBTs had not been blown sufficiently dry for Skipjack to ride high enough in the water to truly get on the step. We learned consequently that a requisite minimum draft had to be achieved and held before attempting any such maneuver in the future.

  A Tragic Accident

  The near disaster of dropping off the step was followed a few days later by an incident that led to the death of one of Skipjack’s best petty officers. To be electrocuted is the dread of all submariners, but it can only happen if all the required safeguards have been bypassed.

  Skipjack was between exercises and proceeding at slow speed several hundred feet beneath the surface. An experienced internal communications and senior petty officer, James F. Twyford, decided on his own to crawl behind the fire-control display panels on the starboard side of the control room to repair something. Twyford was a fine young man with a nice family, and was much liked across the crew. He was working by himself. He had not informed anyone, including the chief of the watch, the conning officer, or his senior petty officer, where he would be working and what he would be doing. In addition, no electrical power of any sort had been secured and red tagged anywhere that might have been associated with Twyford’s normal fire-control system responsibilities.

  The first indication that something was seriously amiss was a very loud pop or explosion followed by a low agonized groan and then frantic thrashing from behind the forward fire-control display panel. The sounds abruptly ceased, and all became deathly quiet. A senior firecontrolman who happened to be sitting on a bench in front of the panel jumped up and went forward to check. As soon as he looked behind the forward panel, he yelled, “It’s Twyford and he’s badly hurt! Call the corpsman!” He proceeded, with assistance from an off watch stander, to untangle and drag an unconscious Twyford, heavily bleeding from the leg, from behind the panel and into the control room. The hospital corpsman who had been called over the 1MC arrived within minutes and checked him over. A large hole had burned through Twyford’s right trouser leg and deep into his thigh.

  We couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that Twyford had somehow managed to electrocute himself by creating a massive electrical short with his leg. Across what and just how, we didn’t know. The corpsman thumped Twyford’s heart forcefully and began artificial resuscitation while continuing to apply pressure at regular intervals to the area just above his heart. I alternated with the corpsman, and we succeeded in getting Twyford to resume breathing on three occasions. Each time he would struggle very hard to sit up, but then collapse on the deck and cease to breathe.

  The captain brought Skipjack to the surface and called for emergency medical assistance from one of the nearby surface ships that we had been operating with. The aircraft carrier helicoptered a doctor. In the meantime, Twyford revived yet one more time. He sat up, looked very intensely at something above him, and then with a loud gasp suddenly fell backward. He again ceased breathing, and it now appeared that his heart had stopped. The corpsman and I frantically resumed our efforts to revive him, but this time we knew that Twyford had departed this life for good and all.

  The doctor arrived within ten minutes. He rushed below into the control room and had us stand aside so that he could examine Twyford. He put his ear to Twyford’s chest and confirmed that he was no longer breathing and that his heart had stopped. The doctor removed a small flashlight from his pocket and peered deeply into Twyford’s throat. After a few minutes, he removed the flashlight and slowly stood up. Shaking his head, he sadly told us that Twyford had drowned in his own vomit. He added that this must have begun almost immediately following his electrocution.

  The hospital corpsman and I were at first thunderstruck, then overcome with grief. We both began weeping bitterly. How could we have missed seeing this? The hospital corpsman had in fact visually checked Twyford’s airways before we commenced efforts to revive him and had not seen any obstruction and so reported. The doctor tried to explain that Twyford had probably vomited immediately after he had been electrocuted. He had then ingested most of the vomit into his lungs while he was still gasping behind the fire-control display panels. In this case it would have been very hard to detect. He repeatedly assured us that we had taken all the right steps in our efforts to revive Twyford. Even so, we could not be consoled, then or at any time in the future. We felt strongly that we had failed a shipmate in his time of greatest need. I am filled with remorse every time I think about this dark, ill-fated day.

  Skipjack was detached from the exercise while petty officer Twyford’s body was reverently wrapped with blankets and placed in the freeze box until we reached port. Returning home to New London, Twyford’s mortal remains were off-loaded with full-military honors. All but the duty section left the boat several days later to attend our former shipmate’s funeral service and interment at a large cemetery just north of New York City. He could not have received a more fitting tribute, but the occasion was terrible for us all. It was hard to believe that we would never again see Jim Twyford or enjoy his ch
eery disposition and comradeship during the long watch hours at sea.

  A subsequent formal investigation confirmed that Twyford’s death was accidental and not due to anyone’s neglect or misconduct. He had apparently been working on something relatively minor and nonelectrical and had accidentally bumped or placed his leg across a hot, high-voltage circuit associated with the fire-control display panels.

  In the wake of Twyford’s death, Skipjack’s greatly shaken crew went through retraining in all aspects and requirements of onboard electrical safety. This included making sure that there was always a backup person standing by who fully understood what was being done by anyone working on an electrical circuit or any equipment connected to one. The backup had to be capable of both preventing an unsafe action by that person, or taking whatever emergency first aid action was necessary should something unexpected occur.

  We subsequently remained in port several weeks for upkeep and for intensive preparations for a second Cold War mission to the Barents Sea under Cdr. Shep Jenks.

  CHAPTER 19

  One More Cold War Mission and a Change of Command

  Skipjack’s mission to the Barents Sea to collect intelligence during most of June and July 1964 was very much like the one we had conducted the previous summer. The Barents is a shallow continental shelf sea portion of the Arctic Ocean. It is 800 miles long and 650 miles wide. It covers some 542,000 square miles. The climate is subarctic, with summer air temperatures averaging 32° Fahrenheit in the north and 50° in the southwest. Branches of the Norway Current bring warm currents into the sea, but this heat is soon lost through mixing with colder waters from the north.1