This new tactic worked like a charm. “Ah, the devious submariner’s mind,” I thought, congratulating myself over and over as I enjoyed each steak in turn. But I should have expected that someone even more devious than I would come up with an effective check. One night, when I hungrily opened the refrigerator door to retrieve my prize, I discovered that all that was left on the plate was my “bite,” surrounded by a very slim border of steak. One of my shipmates—officer or crewmember—had cut off the rest of the steak for himself and left me with a rim of meat showing my teeth marks. There was nothing more I could do, so I disgustedly gave up the game and worked to get off the 8:00 p.m. to midnight watch.
Reflecting back after all these years, it dawns on me that there was only one officer who had a sense of humor perverse enough to get to me in this way: our skipper, Paul Tomb who, given my own prank, had every reason to come up with a counter.
Le Havre and Paree
In our first ASW exercise with NATO and U.S. forces, Skipjack’s capabilities vastly outmatched the “adversary’s” ability to detect, much less to hold contact on us, sufficiently long to conduct a simulated attack. She was still invulnerable to detection and attack by any navy’s ASW forces, or so we thought at the time. Such, however, was not the case with very quiet diesel attack boats on the battery. Incidentally, during the exercise Skipjack steamed past her 200,000th mile without having required refueling at any time.
Entering the outer harbor of the port of Le Havre at high tide—anywhere from twenty-two to twenty-seven feet—we passed through the series of locks en route to our assigned mooring. This was to be our first European liberty port since the Mediterranean back in 1962. We were somewhat disgruntled to find that reliable electrical shore power would not be available. Instead, we would be allowed to shut down the reactor and, once we had established an in-port condition that minimized electrical demands throughout the boat, use our diesel generator to supply all electrical power needs.
About half the crew and most of the officers took off for a few days’ liberty in Paris. After twenty-four hours of duty, Lt. Howard D. “Joe” Mitchell and I managed to get away from the boat for one night to go revisit a few favorite places we had each, on our own, discovered in Paris during our U.S. Naval Academy midshipman summer cruises a decade earlier. We started by fortuitously discovering casino night at the NATO officers club, coming away with winnings of several hundred dollars’ of francs. The devil in me led to my suggesting that Joe and I fill our pockets with the Monopoly money that was used for playing the various gambling games that night. Who knew what fun we could have with it later?
Off we went to the bars of Paris, one of them called Le Train Bleu that I had discovered back in 1952. We were sparing in what we ate and drank throughout the night and always paid with francs, leaving a generous tip but mischievously augmenting it with a large Monopoly money bill or two. This made us very popular wherever we went, especially with a few Scandinavian blondes of the Naples variety. Without going into self-incriminating detail, Joe and I were like pied pipers attracting new friends as we wound our way from bar to bar. It was a fun-filled night, culminating in the division of our remaining Monopoly money between two attractive waitresses who thought it was real and we were crazy. Although we had done nothing illegal, we said our goodbyes and wisely left the area, taking lodgings in the early morning hours in an entirely different area of Paris.
The next day, nursing colossal hangovers, we managed to combine pleasure with culture by visiting the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Louvre, and the Tuileries Gardens before we caught a train back to Le Havre.
Back on the boat everyone had hilarious stories that they told over and over again. The most curious was that of Captain Tomb and the exec, Bill Purdum, who had accepted the invitation of a local noblewoman, a Madame Joubert, to attend an elegant cocktail party and formal dinner at her home. Neither man made it back to the boat. In the early morning hours in a chair and on a couch, they were awakened by the lapping tongues of two hugely affectionate dogs.
We started up the reactor and later stationed the sea and anchor detail, and crewmembers took their assigned watch stations in preparation for taking in our lines and getting under way. As Skipjack’s engineer officer, I relieved the engineering officer of the watch shortly after the reactor was taken critical. We warmed up our two ships service turbine generators and secured the diesel generator once the former generator had assumed all electrical loads. This was followed by warming up the two main turbines in preparation and answering all bells.
The passage through the locks outbound, with the assistance of a French pilot, seemed slow and laborious. Unknown to me, the previous day’s engineering duty officer had used an excessive amount of reserve feed water to flush another reserve feed tank that had somehow become infiltrated with salt water while we were at sea. Once I found out, the engineering watch and I closely monitored the usage of our remaining pure secondary system reserve feed water used to create the steam in each boiler that drove both ships service turbine generators and main turbines. There was always slight leakage through various valves in the supporting piping systems, so we watched the last remaining pure water level slowly drop with our hearts in our mouths.
We didn’t want to operate either of our fresh-water-making stills because they would need to draw contaminated water from within the locks that we were passing through. The stills would produce water pure enough to use in our secondary water system, but not pure enough to drink safely. Thus, if we were required to operate a still, we would later have to shut the still down and go through an elaborate and lengthy decontamination process. This would be necessary to make absolutely certain that it produced water sufficiently safe to drink. What was our major worry? It was the risk of catching some form of water-borne disease injurious to the health of all on board. A submarine could not afford to have a single man taken seriously ill with a contagious or intestinal disease.
Once well clear of Le Havre, Skipjack rendezvoused with surface ASW units of the Royal Navy and commenced joint operations in the rough waters of the Bay of Biscay. The series of ASW exercises, termed Teamwork, that transpired during the week provided further proof that essentially no surface ASW forces of any navy at that time were a match for the modern high-speed, deep-diving nuclear attack submarine. By that time there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that suitable sonar systems that could detect and track, and acoustic weapons that could acquire and hold, such an adversary had to be developed on an urgent basis by both U.S. and NATO navies. We, on the other hand, found we could detect, approach, and attack any surface warship from whatever quarter we chose and then dash away at speeds that neither our target’s sensors nor weapons of that day could match.
CHAPTER 20
England and Then Home
Our last port of call was Portland, England; it was not the easiest for us to reach because local area authorities required us to transit the English Channel in a surfaced condition. The Bay of Biscay had been bad enough with seemingly a major portion of the world’s commercial traffic passing through its turbulent waters, but the narrow English Channel was downright hazardous. I had the officer of the deck watch up on the bridge atop the sail for much of the journey. Skipjack constantly pitched, rolled, and yawed as we ploughed through rough seas and into driving cold rain hour after hour. As we proceeded slowly toward Portland, it was necessary to maneuver constantly as we dodged hundreds of surface contacts, from small fishing boats to huge ocean liners. With a great sigh of relief we eventually found the harbor entrance and proceeded expeditiously to our assigned berth. Mercifully the weather there was much calmer than usual for the season.
A swarm of Royal Navy submariner hosts was there to receive us as we tied up. As soon as a gangway was lowered to connect us with the pier, more than a few of us, officer and enlisted, were escorted ashore to enjoy a fortifying drink on board the nearest submarine. Fellow officers Joe Mitchell and Howard Cornia, Skipjack’s main propulsion assistant
and communications officer, respectively, and I were whisked away to the diesel-attack submarine HMS Odin (S10). Once below decks we were taken to the wardroom and squeezed into its innermost table seats where our hosts plied us with a great number of what they called horse’s necks (cocktails). After much laughter and trading of sea stories, we all went off to a nearby favorite pub for dinner. I vaguely remember eating a kidney pie for the first time, but I don’t remember much else. The long walk back to the boat in the miserable cold rain had a sobering effect on the three of us, however, and we arrived back on board in reasonably good shape.
It rained the entire four days we were in port, but that didn’t dampen anyone’s enthusiasm for this ancient port town, particularly for the fine drink. Most of us had the opportunity to make a quick trip to London via train to shop and/or down a number of “pints of the best” at some of the pubs around Piccadilly for a few hours. I was fortunate enough to be taken to see Stonehenge for the first time. At that time it was still possible to walk right up and closely examine every detail of this renowned megalithic monument.
The four days in port passed all too quickly, but there were no regrets as we were eager to head home in time for the Thanksgiving holidays. With no restrictions on Skipjack’s speed, once submerged we moved quickly across the Atlantic. We arrived back in New London in more than sufficient time to accomplish much-needed repairs and upkeep before we were allowed a generous liberty and leave period.
Caught Napping
I was duty officer for several days after Thanksgiving. Since I was qualified both as an officer of the deck and as engineering officer of the watch, I was the only officer on board during that time. My usual habit while on duty was to inspect the boat topside and from stem to stern at rough intervals of every four hours or so. The reactor was shut down, and Skipjack was on shore power. Qualified crewmembers stood four-hour watches topside, in the control and torpedo rooms, and there were several constantly roving patrols in the engineering spaces. In addition, the reactor and electrical control panels were continuously manned in the maneuvering room where, when Skipjack was under way, the engineering officer of the watch, assisted by a maneuvering room supervisor, stood watch.
On one particular night I walked into the maneuvering room several hours after midnight. My purpose was to confirm that all was well with our shut-down reactor and the electrical distribution system throughout the boat. To my surprise, I found two of Skipjack’s senior petty officers, who were our most experienced engineering department watch standers, sound asleep. I stood there silently for a few more minutes watching them, then woke them up and ordered them to call their reliefs immediately. I also had the control room watch call the senior engineering department’s chief petty officer and request that he come to the maneuvering room immediately. Upon his arrival I explained what I had found and ordered, asking him to ensure that a proper relief of both positions took place. Afterward I resumed my inspection of the boat.
The following morning I wrote both men up for sleeping on watch and deposited the slips in the exec’s incoming box. The exec returned to the boat the Monday following Thanksgiving, found the report slips, and requested that I meet with him. I did so and explained what I had found and done. The exec was as surprised and disappointed in the senior petty officers as I was. After conferring with Captain Tomb several hours later, the exec scheduled a Captain’s Mast the following day to deal with the two watch standers.
A green cloth was spread on the wardroom dining table shortly before 10:00 the next morning for Captain Tomb’s first disciplinary Mast. The captain came in and took his seat at the end of the table, followed by the exec and me. I took a standing position at the opposite end of the table and across from where Skipjack’s chief of the boat ushered in the two accused engineering department petty officers. Their division officers and leading petty officers also filed in.
The captain opened the Mast. He asked for the formal complaint, which the exec stood up and read, and then the captain asked me to elaborate on the circumstances. I repeated that I had discovered both petty officers sound asleep while on watch in the maneuvering room during a routine inspection on my duty day. The captain asked the accused petty officer’s division officers and leading petty officers about their men and their performance of duty. All confirmed that the two men accused had always been responsible watch standers to the best of their knowledge. The captain then asked the two petty officers what they had to say for themselves. To my utter astonishment both vehemently denied they had been asleep at the time I entered Skipjack’s maneuvering room. The captain asked no further questions of the accused or of me, and after considering for a moment, abruptly stated in a loud voice, “Case dismissed.”
As Skipjack’s chief engineer and senior watch officer, I was stunned. The accused were, of course, jubilant and smirked at me in triumph as we all departed the wardroom. I followed the exec into his stateroom, closed the door, and asked in utter outrage, “Exec, what the hell? The captain took their word over mine, his chief engineer and the most experienced officer on board. What was he thinking?”
The exec lowered his eyes and shrugged. He had nothing to say. I stormed out of his stateroom, through the wardroom and into the crews mess, where I heard the two accused holding forth and laughing loudly. There were about twenty men in the crews mess, and there was sudden silence as I entered. I approached both men, ordered them to stand up and, looking them both straight in the eye, called them both liars. I then said, “OK, now let me give you both something more to laugh about. From this point on, you are both completely disqualified from all engineering department watches. You will remain so until you tell the captain the truth.”
I returned to the wardroom and had the control room watch call the two men’s division officers and leading petty officers, telling them to meet me in the control room immediately. As soon as all were assembled, I told them what I had mandated. I also added that this included all forward watches as well, such as topside watch and below deck security watches.
Several days later the exec called me into his stateroom and told me he and the captain had heard about and discussed what I had done. He said, “I am asking you to reconsider, because your decision is causing several of your men to go on port and starboard watches.” I responded, “I am well aware of the situation and not particularly happy about that, either. However, the solution is very simple. As soon as the two men admit to you and the captain they were lying, they will go back on the watch bill.”
I added that we were talking about safety of both the nuclear reactor power plant and the ship, not to mention principle, here. I said further, “I feel sure, as Skipjack’s engineer officer, that Admiral Rickover himself would back me up on this.” The exec shook his head in response. I excused myself and returned to work.
The subject of returning the men to the watch bill came up from time to time. On one occasion both men came to plead with me to relent. My answer was always the same: “Admit you were lying and you go back on the watch bill.” They would not do this, because they were afraid of the most likely punishment that they would receive: reduction in rate with accompanying loss of pay. The situation remained status quo until I was relieved as Skipjack’s engineer officer by Lt. Ralph W. West shortly before the boat entered Charleston Naval Shipyard for overhaul in April 1965. Interestingly, never a word was exchanged between the captain and me on the subject, although I later found, without explanation, that I had been marked down one notch on loyalty on my next fitness report.
I will never understand why Captain Tomb chose to take the word of the two senior petty officers over mine. By doing so he completely undermined his engineer officer with his entire engineering department, and with the rest of the crew, for that matter. Was it just an ill-thought-out impulsive gesture to gain popularity without considering the consequences? I will never know. His next step, logically, should have been to have me immediately relieved as engineer since my word could no longer be trusted. If I h
ad not expected to receive orders to exec to another submarine, I would have demanded to be relieved as engineer officer. I did contact my first commanding officer on Skipjack, Les Kelly, told him the story, and asked his advice. He urged me to “keep calm and sit tight,” since I would soon be receiving orders as prospective exec of a new-construction attack boat.
The lesson here is obvious. A commanding officer should either trust and back up his senior officers or immediately get rid of him if he believes that he cannot trust him.
Final Months on Board
My remaining months on Skipjack were relatively quiet and uneventful. In early January of 1965 members of the crew had an opportunity to take their families out for a daylong Dependents’ Cruise in Long Island Sound. The weather, although cold, was calm and pleasant. It was my first opportunity to take my eldest son, Fred Jr., age eight, to sea on a nuclear submarine. I was very interested in seeing how well he would adapt to the boat’s extreme closeness and to its rolling and pitching motion on the surface, and what his reaction would be to submerging and operating beneath the sea. To my delight he took it completely in stride. He asked all sorts of questions of crewmembers and made me very proud with his obvious interest in what we were doing and why.1
The months of February and part of March were spent taking part in Submarine ASW Exercise 1–65, a part of Submarine Development Group Two’s continuing and very important Big Daddy submarine-versus-submarine series. This exercise proved once again that our submarine force did not have a torpedo that could acquire and close a nuclear attack submarine transiting or evading at high speed. The exercise also demonstrated, conclusively in my opinion, that the next class of nuclear attack submarine had to be infinitely quieter throughout its entire speed range. Ideally, its radiated noise across all frequencies would be considerably lower than that of the surrounding sea state.
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