Around the World Submerged (9 page)

Questions and problems were tumbling through my mind like an avalanche, and try as I might to concentrate on the important details of the planning, the most prominent thought in my mind, the one I could not cast aside, was “what in the world will I tell my wife?” Ingrid was not even in New London, having been called suddenly to California, where her father was again seriously ill. How, in fact, could I even ask her to come home without revealing that something special was going on?

At the conference it had been decided that the voyage would be classified; nothing was to be made known about it until its completion. If we failed for any reason, considerable thought would have to be given to precisely what sort of announcement would be released, if any. Obviously, in this event, our location and the circumstances would influence the decision. As everyone was quite aware, if we were to have an embarrassing failure, the effect would be a serious disservice to our national interests and to the prestige of the Navy. Again I could hear those portentous words: “We’re depending on you!”

“We’ll not fail!” I had told them determinedly. “We will get under way on the sixteenth of February, and return on the tenth of May, as scheduled.” No one volunteered an explanation as to why the timing—and secrecy—were so vital, and I did not ask.

Yet there was so much that my wife—and the other
Triton
wives—would have to be prepared for, and so little time.

Every man in our crew would have his problems, too, without the consolation of knowing what I knew. Their personal lives, thus, became my responsibility. How could I inform them before departure that we would be away much longer than expected, that no mail could be sent or received during the entire cruise, that they would have to make personal preparations for an unusually long absence, attending to income tax, automobile-license tags, insurance policies, payment of rent, arrangement for financial support—a thousand details?

It was more than a matter of crew morale; all but about forty of our crew were married, and all the officers but one. I had additionally been informed that about half-a-dozen civilian scientists with various specialties would be placed aboard to help us accumulate the desired data. None of them was to be informed of the basic purpose of the cruise or its duration. This was to be left to me, after we had gotten under way. Providing for these men (whom I didn’t know and hadn’t met, and would not meet until the day before we left) and their families was to be my responsibility also.

As the train rattled north toward New York and New London, I mentally discarded one scheme after another. With some misgiving, I finally resolved to announce that an unknown bureaucrat in Washington had so fouled up our shakedown cruise schedule that we would have to proceed directly from the North Atlantic into the Caribbean for special tests requested by the Bureau of Ships. “Unknown bureaucrats” for years have been blamed for things that have gone wrong, especially when the complaining parties do not care to be too specific about placing the blame. For years I had seen this happen and had defended the unknown bureaucrat whenever I had an opportunity. Now, I was about to add to the ridicule heaped on the Washington civil servant, despite the fact that he works harder and gets less thanks than perhaps anyone else in the country.

As a result of this nameless bureaucrat’s inefficiency, we
would not be able to send or receive mail at any time, I would tell my people, and hence (here was the kicker) a list of “things to do” (which included all preparations for a long voyage) would be given to all hands. In the name of efficiency, each man would be required to return a signed copy of the list, attesting to his having carried out all the various instructions.

This was, of course, far from my only problem. The idea of diverting slightly from our cruise to visit the place where Magellan died had met with approval, and someone had proposed, in addition, that as
Triton
passed near Spain she should pause momentarily to render homage to that famous and unfortunate navigator. This, too, had met with favor, as did the idea of a commemorative gift to Spain in his honor.

The Navy, however, has no budget for such commemorations, but I had told the conference that
Triton
herself would somehow design and finance the casting of an appropriate plaque. It had to be big, as befits a gift from one nation to another, but small enough to fit through our hatches; it had to be memorial in nature, in keeping with the intent; and it had to be something that both Spaniards and Americans could henceforth look at with pride.

Another problem was to obtain adequate charts, in secrecy, and to lay out our course in meticulous detail in advance, so that the Navy would always know precisely where we were. Our track was to be some thirty-four thousand nautical miles, in itself a fantastic plotting job, and this, too, had to be done surreptitiously!

As for the necessary provisions, submarines have had years of experience in preparing for long cruises, though never for one so long as this.
Triton
had been designed to carry food supplies for seventy-five days, and we knew her huge hull could easily carry more. Arbitrarily, I resolved to increase this by at least a half, and directed that the ship be provisioned for one hundred and twenty days. If worst came to worst, and a long
extended cruise became necessary, we could go on half-rations and stretch the voyage to six months.

There was the scientific equipment to get ready, also. Most of it would be sent to us by the Navy, but it was up to
Triton
to decide where it was to be stowed and to make special arrangements for the installation of whatever foundations, telemetering circuits, and remote controls were needed. A whole package had to be prepared without spilling the beans to anyone.

At 5:45
A.M
., when I finally stepped off the train in New London, with sheets of notes in my hand, I realized fully that there were but twelve days left in which to get ready.

By the fifteenth of February, most of the problems had been solved, and we were nearly ready to begin the voyage. The last eleven days had been crammed with work. Les Kelly, our inspired engineer who had put the ship through her trials, had made his envious good-byes. Commander Will Adams and Lieutenant Commander Bob Buhner, Executive Officer and Operations Officer respectively, had spent most of their time in ComSubLant’s locked chart room plotting our course. With them was the only enlisted man to be informed of the real nature of our trip, Chief Quartermaster William J. Marshall, Adams’ navigational assistant.

The secret of our voyage was not, in the end, kept from
Triton
’s officers. After much thought, I got them together and told them, holding back only the indicated super-importance of
getting back on time. There was simply too much to be done for them to be kept in the dark; we had to spread our work in too many different directions at once. Except for Marshall, neither
Triton
’s crew nor the passengers who came aboard a day or so before our departure could be told anything. An announcement had been made that we would be under way for a much longer time than originally scheduled, using my bureaucrat as an excuse. All hands had been advised that our Squadron office—the headquarters of Submarine Squadron 10, to which
Triton
belonged—would be glad to assist in all personal emergencies, and men expecting additions to their families were especially told to notify the Squadron. A broad hint was given out that strictly personal information pertaining to family increases might find its way into official radio traffic, as it had during the war.

All hands were advised to lay in a private supply of tobacco, chewing gum, toothpaste, soap, and other personal necessities, for submarines carry no ship’s store where these items may be purchased. (Quartermaster First Class Curtis Beacham was, as a result, observed trying to stow eighteen boxes of cigars, which he figured would just about last him the trip.)

There was one other person, I realized in a few days, who apparently knew of the real nature of our projected voyage. About midway during our period of preparation, a telephone call came for me. I took it on the private line which had been connected to my stateroom.

A female voice said, “Captain Beach? Admiral Rickover calling.” I recognized Dixie Davis, the Admiral’s secretary for many years.

“Beach here,” I said.

“Beach”—this, after a moment and without preamble, was Rickover’s soft tone—”I’m sending you some changes in your power-plant settings. You may need them. Have them put in immediately. Will you do this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They will increase the safety and dependability of your plant. We’re doing this ahead of time because I want to do everything I can to help you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I did, indeed. “Yes, sir,” I said again.

“Leighton is putting them in the mail this afternoon. Let me know personally if there is anything else we can do. I’ll be watching your progress. Good luck!”

I started to say, “Thank you,” but the receiver clicked before I was able to say a word.

Next day, as promised, a thick special-delivery envelope arrived for me. Its contents were confidential and must remain so, but perusing them before passing them on to Don Fears, who had taken over Les Kelly’s duties as Engineer, I recognized them as following a pattern already established in earlier nuclear plants. After a period of running in, certain changes, essentially a relaxation of initial operating plant conditions, had been made in both
Nautilus
and
Skate.
Dennis Wilkinson and Jim Calvert had had, as a consequence, greater flexibility and a higher safety factor during their subsequent operations, and Bill Anderson, when he took over
Nautilus
from Wilkinson, had similarly profited. I could imagine the special work it must have taken to get a similar change ready on such short notice for us, and I wondered whether Dave Leigh-ton had had any knowledge of why the extra labor had been so suddenly demanded. I doubted it.

Triton
’s supply officer, Lieutenant Commander Bob Fisher, Supply Corps, USN, was an especially busy man. In response to the order to load the ship for 120 days, he crammed aboard 16,487 pounds of frozen food, 6,631 pounds of canned meat, and 12,130 pounds of canned vegetables. With interest, I noted that he had taken more coffee (1,300 pounds) than potatoes (1,285 pounds). He also stowed as much fresh stuff as he dared, considering spoilage. In all, we carried 77,613 pounds of food.

In addition, Bob secretly laid in a large store of candy. His reason for this, when I asked him what in thunder he was thinking about, was that he had noted, among the tests planned for the cruise, a period of several days when smoking would be prohibited throughout the ship. In his experience, an extra supply of candy in such cases always proved of value. It was something I hadn’t thought of; I wondered what Beacham would say when he found out.

There were, indeed, several tests to be carried out during this abstinence-from-smoking period, in addition to those planned for the cruise as a whole. Among them was a test to determine the psychological effects of the smoking ban, and a purely mechanical test to discover the percentage of contaminated aerosols which the smoking ban might remove from the atmosphere inside the ship. With these tests, the Navy’s Medical Research Laboratory hoped to learn whether smoking should be restricted in nuclear submarines during long-submerged cruises, whether the crews of such ships should comprise only nonsmokers, or whether special equipment should be devised and installed to remove the aerosols to allow smoking.

Fisher exercised great ingenuity in placing his supplies. Submariners have always taken pride in their ability to do this in these cramped vessels, and Bob proved himself adept despite the fact that, before
Triton,
he had never been to sea in a submarine. Our wartime submarines, designed for crews of sixty-five men, sometimes went to sea with as many as eighty-five and still maintained their sixty-days-provisions capability.
Triton,
designed for a crew of 171 and endurance of seventy-five days, was to make the world cruise with 183 persons; but we loaded her for 120 days nonetheless.

Our crew stowed away the increased amounts of foodstuffs, even when the stacks of supplies threatened to usurp their bunk spaces. Since the increased supplies were compatible with our cover story of a lengthened cruise, we did not concern ourselves about crew reactions, but I did worry considerably
about Electric Boat workers, many of them experienced, though retired, submarine Chief Petty Officers, who might draw conclusions pretty close to the truth we were so carefully concealing.

Adequate sleeping space for our expanded complement was also a problem. True, submariners have for years been accustomed to “hot-bunking”—the term used to describe the system in which three men, one in each of the three watch sections, occupy only two bunks in rotation. For a cruise as long as ours, however, I thought individual bunks should be provided for all. But even
Triton
’s huge size could not comfortably accommodate all of the men. We crammed extra bunks into every conceivable spot, including the atticlike space above the false ceiling in the wardroom and the yeoman’s office, but we were still short.