Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

Submarines always have a “backup” for everything, so that a single casualty should not, of itself, spell catastrophe; but one of the reasons why the Squalus sank was that when her hydraulic air valve failed to shut, two hand-operated valves in the same tremendous air pipe also could not be shut. About a third of her crew drowned in the flooded after compartments and the rest were rescued through a newly developed diving rescue chamber. Squalus herself remained on the bottom for months until she could be raised and salvaged. It is perhaps appropriate to note that within a few weeks of the Squalus incident, the British and Japanese navies suffered similar submarine disasters, and in neither of those cases were any personnel rescued.

Triton’s design featured, among other things, a large, heavy steel plate in the overhead of the “officer’s country”—also right outside my room—which could be removed for inspection of the induction piping. The job took several hours, and the men working on the plate were so cramped for space that they could barely swing a wrench. But the plate finally came off and we found a smashed and rusted flashlight which had lodged in the induction valve seat, its crushed case testifying to the strength in “Joe” Green’s arms. Some careless workman had probably left it there months ago.

Who knows but what some other careless workman, or perhaps a survivor of Squalus’ crew, may even today carry in his soul the secret knowledge of why a similar valve could not be shut—or unaccountably swung open again—on that dreadful day?

Shortly before noon, Will Adams sought me out, carefully closing the door behind my stateroom curtain before speaking. “Captain, when do you plan to make the announcement about our trip?” he asked.

“Sometime tomorrow,” I told him. “What’s the hurry?”

“The whole crew is on edge, sir,” Will said. “They know we’re well clear of Nantucket. We should have headed northeast long ago, if we’re really going up north. Continuing on down this way is a giveaway that something is up.” Will paused. “Is there any special reason for not passing the word out now?”

“The only reason left,” I said, “is that if anything were to go wrong we might still have to turn back; and I wouldn’t want to come into port and have the word get out about this operation.”

Will nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, “but that could happen and wreck the trip any time. The crew knows that something is up and are making up all sorts of rumors.”

“There’s more, too,” I said. “For the time being, if we did have to go back, there would still be a chance to fix whatever is wrong and, by speeding up a little, make the trip on schedule anyway.”

Will nodded, not entirely convinced that staying on schedule was a matter of so much importance. He was my right-hand man, but I couldn’t tell him the one thing which I knew would change his mind.

There was a strain among all the officers, too. I felt it the moment Will and I joined them for lunch. In the wardroom, we resolutely kept the conversation away from this subject, but as the afternoon wore on I realized that regard for the feelings of our men required that they be informed earlier than I had originally intended. This being our first complete day at sea, after an extremely strenuous period of preparation, Will had scheduled no drills. Perhaps this was a mistake; it gave everyone more leisure to think about our prospects. In the meantime, our glorious ship was throwing the miles astern in joyous abandon. Shakedown cruise or no, she was on her way, and every mile made me all the more certain that here, at last, was a ship which would repay with interest all the heartbreak and unfulfilled promise of Trigger II.

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, I believe, when I finally decided there was nothing to be gained by delaying the announcement any longer. It was easily done, using the ship’s general announcing microphone in the control room.

Everything seemed to stop when I said, sententiously “Now hear this!”

I could sense conversation stopping, people settling themselves to listen, some of them perhaps adjusting the volume of the speakers in their compartments the better to hear. Even the muted clamor of our pumps and blowers, the whirring hundreds of small motors whose continued performance was essential to Triton’s survival, seemed to hush—and yet they grew more distinct as surrounding noises subsided even more.