Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

Located on the BCP are the controls for diving and surfacing, blowing tanks, closing or opening vents. Variable tanks and trim pump are regulated, as are the hydraulic systems and the high-pressure air systems. The post is the charge of the senior enlisted man on watch in the control room, the Chief Petty Officer of the Watch, and it is located so that he can control the dive and give instructions to the planesmen should the OOD be slow in arriving from the bridge.

Lining either side of the narrow and cluttered passageway aft of the Ballast Control Panel are interior communication switchboards and various electric panels. Still farther aft, occupying the entire port after corner of the control room and protected by a soundproofed bulkhead and door is the chart room, ample in its original design but, like all other space in the ship, now crammed with assorted equipment mostly relating to radar.

Immediately forward of where I now stood in the control room, beyond a pressure-proof bulkhead and its watertight door, is a big compartment devoted entirely to crew’s berthing, accommodating a total of ninety-five men on two deck levels. Each man has a locker, an aluminum bunk, a foam-rubber mattress, individual ventilation controllable by a louver near his head, and an overhead fluorescent light for reading. Lest the provision for reading in bed seem unwarranted luxury, it must be realized that it is hardly possible—in fact undesirable—for all hands in a submarine to be up and about at the same time, except for certain general duties such as battle stations or emergency drills. The more people in their bunks at other times, the more room for those who must be up.

Still farther forward, the foremost compartment in the ship, is the forward torpedo room, containing four standard-size torpedo tubes, considerable high-powered sonar equipment, and, as always, berthing for as many persons as can be accommodated.

I still had on the blues and bridge coat I had worn as we got underway; so now my immediate destination was in the other direction, aft to the officer’s berthing compartment where I had my tiny stateroom. I glanced swiftly at the Rigged for Dive Panel, which showed that all compartments in the ship had been rigged and checked in the condition of “readiness for diving,” and at the Hull Opening Indicators, which showed that the only hull openings not closed were the bridge hatch and the main air intake valve, and stepped aft.

Triton’s cruiser size did not extend to the Commanding Officer’s quarters. My stateroom in Triton was about a five-foot capital “T,” with a pull-down bunk filling the entire crossbar of the letter. By stretching out one arm and pivoting, I could touch all four walls. But I couldn’t complain very loudly. Thamm’s room, for example, was the same size as mine, but he shared it with two others. Will Adams’ room was also the same size. He had one roommate and the mechanism of one of the ship’s main vent valves, which took as much space as a man. Normally, these days, the Executive Officer is so besotted with paper work that whenever possible he has no roommate, so that the vacant bunk can be used as an adjunct to his tiny fold-down desk. But there were no spare bunks anywhere in Triton on this cruise, and the extra bunk in Will’s room was assigned to Joe Roberts.

I drew the curtain on my stateroom, in which I was to spend a good part of my time for the next three months. Electric Boat had hopefully painted it a so-called “beach sand” color, thus, perhaps, attempting to apologize for its lack of size. It contained a standard fold-down desk, several drawers for linen and personal belongings, a large safe which Bob Brodie had appropriated for his classified publications, a folding wash stand, a medicine cabinet, a one-foot-wide clothes closet, a convertible bunk—cushioned on the bottom to form an uncomfortable settee when raised—and a single straight-backed chair. Under the folding wash stand, at my request—since I needed a place to have at least one other person in for a conference—had been built a small circular folding stool about eight inches in diameter (dubbed the “hot seat” by irreverent members of the ship’s company). And in every conceivable nook, not occupied by some other equipment, there were lockers.

At the foot of my bunk were depth gauge, speed indicator, and gyro repeater, and when I counted them I discovered that the room contained five telephones and two loudspeaking attachments with which, after learning which buttons to press and which dials to turn, I could talk to anyone in the ship.