Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

Already at “full” speed—about half-power—Triton was riding with her bow still a foot or two out of water. Occasionally, a roll would break over the deck and sweep aft, bursting in a cascade of spray against the bottom of the sail. With the increased power, we would soon be taking considerably more water than before, and it suddenly struck me that perhaps I had not fully briefed Admiral McCorkle on what to expect. Harris and both lookouts were tightening up their parkas as I turned to him.

“Admiral, when she drives under we’re liable to get pretty wet up here.”

McCorkle laughed genially. “You can’t scare me, Ned,” he said. “I had my fanny wet long before you even got in the Navy.”

The Admiral’s belt line was in the approximate vicinity of my chest, and it would have to be a pretty big wave to reach that high, but I resolved that if he could take it, I could, too. The increased drive of the engines began to be noticeable, and in a moment the first really big sea hit us. The bow spray spouted above our heads. Water dashed high over the bridge, pelting down on top of the lookouts and completely inundating Dick Harris, who stood just behind us.

The forward part of Triton’s bridge was fitted with a transparent plastic bubble, and under this Leonard, Admiral McCorkle and I huddled for protection. There was no room for a fourth person, and the Admiral grinned at Dick’s discomfort, as he stood only a foot away. I grinned, too. There was more to come.

The spray increased; soon there was a steady stream of white water squirting high above our heads. Then, with a swoosh, green water swelled up over the sides of the bridge coaming, rising in its bathtublike confines to envelop Admiral McCorkle’s fanny and higher parts of my anatomy. Simultaneously, solid water poured over the top of the bubble like Niagara Falls. I was relieved that Dick had stationed a man to protect the bridge hatch; he now ordered it shut. The lookouts had given up, turning their backs, while Harris gasped for breath, cupping his hands over his eyes in an effort to maintain a lookout ahead. Sputtering, Admiral McCorkle shouted something which I interpreted as indicating that he was satisfied, that the demonstration had been successful, and Dick gratefully relayed the order to slow down. The spouting water ceased, Triton’s bow came up once more, and the world became drier for six thoroughly wet people on the bridge.

About this time I began to feel some trepidation that my august guest’s sense of humor might have been strained farther than the occasion demanded. But the Admiral was game.

“Beach,” he shouted, mopping the salt out of his eyes, “that was one hell of a demonstration!”

I started to apologize for getting the Admiral’s fanny wet, but he would have none of it.

“Sorry, hell!” he roared. “You’ve been planning to wet me down for a week! Anyway, you can’t hurt me; I’ve been dunked in salt water for years!”

As McCorkle bellowed his laughter, Van Leonard, his civilian suit bagging with salt water, could only shrug helplessly.

Needless to say, the repair work was done on Triton’s bow, but poor Van was later heard to grumble that he had already conceded the point and had ordered the work, that no “demonstration” had actually been required, but that Triton’s sadistic skipper, having laid on the “demonstration,” was not to be deprived of his fun.

The next event on Triton’s program was the commissioning, scheduled for the tenth of November. This ceremony is full of meaning for all naval vessels. From this moment, Triton would bear the initials “USS” before her name, become a part of the fleet, and be ready for any kind of service required of her.

The commissioning address was delivered by Vice-Admiral Bernard L. (Count) Austin, and Mrs. Louise Will presented us with a water color painted by the President of the American Water Color Society, Mr. Hans Walleen of New York. It shows a full-length silhouette of the ship, submerged at speed, and superimposed is a lithe, idealized Greek Triton holding in one hand a long trumpet made of a triton shell and in the other the trident of sea power.

When it came time to hoist the national colors on Triton, we used the biggest set we could borrow, and the whole crew together sang the national anthem, as our flag rose to the peak of Triton’s highest periscope.

In keeping with a tradition started at the end of World War II our ship had been named in honor of an older Triton long-buried beneath the waters of the South Pacific, a victim of Japanese depth charges after an outstandingly successful career. But before she experienced that ultimate misfortune, her ship’s bell had been removed. Her first skipper had laid claim to it and had kept it for years after the war. Now he, too, was gone; and so it was that Mrs. W. A. Lent, his widow, was present at the commissioning ceremony to bequeath the first Triton’s old bell to the namesake of that valiant ship.