Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

As we searched the chart for a suitable rendezvous, I was struck by the fact that not far off Montevideo there is a small relatively shallow spot in an otherwise deep ocean area. Probably merchant ships heading to or from the harbor would avoid it—a desirable factor. Should the weather preclude celestial observations, it also gave both Macon and Triton a fixed point of reference for navigation by fathometer. The spot we selected was smack in the center of the shallow area.

Commissaryman Second Class Earl E. Bruch, Jr., sporting a voyage-grown set of handlebars, draws a doubtful twirl from his son after the ship docked at its home station in New London, Connecticut.

Midday is always a bad time to transmit messages, particularly over long distances, for it is well known that much greater range is possible at night. Time, however, was important, for we had no idea what sort of schedule Macon might be trying to keep. As soon as the message was ready, we slowed, came to periscope depth, and transmitted it to, of all places, the U.S. radio station on Guam, some eighty-three hundred miles away straight across the South Pole. Then Triton headed again for the depths and resumed maximum speed.

Our narrative for this period contains the following entries:

Since turning back, except for the time spent transmitting our call for help, Triton has been racing northward, deep beneath the sea, at the maximum speed that her two great propellers can drive her. There is no noticeable motion in the ship, not even vibration. All we note is a slight drumming of the superstructure from her swift passage through the water. Forward she is as steady as a church, as solid, and as quiet. Aft, only the powerful turbine roar gives away the tremendous energy she is putting into the water.

In the control and living spaces, the ship has quieted down, too. Orders are given in low voices; the men speak to each other, carry out their normal duties, in a repressed atmosphere. A regular pall has descended upon us. I know that all hands are aware of the decision and recognize the need for it. Perhaps they are relieved that they did not have to make it. But it is apparent that this unexpected illness, something that could neither have been foreseen nor prevented, may ruin our submerged record. If the Macon cannot meet us, if we have to go into the port of Montevideo to transfer Poole to medical authorities, we shall have to surface. We shall still, in that event, continue the cruise, for this would affect only our incentive factor. But that would be a big loss.

Naturally, there was no mention in the Log of any overriding reason, other than our perfectly understandable desire for the trip to be entirely submerged all the way.

As we raced north, I gave a great deal of thought to what we should do when we reached Montevideo. There was the possibility that Poole would have another remission, and, in fact, there was always the possibility that this third attack would be his last. We would have a day and a half to find out, and it might even be possible, if Macon couldn’t come to the requested rendezvous, to stretch things another few hours and wait and see. But I couldn’t, in my heart, give much for our chances of not having to surface and enter port, if Macon could not get to us.

On the other hand, if Macon did meet us, we had a fighting chance. We could “broach” the ship—that is, get the upper part of the conning tower out of water—and convert the conning tower itself into a big airlock. Triton’s pressure hull and superstructure would remain entirely submerged. Only the upper part of the sail and part of the conning tower would in fact broach the surface—a maneuver submarines have performed for years—and this critical part of the ship would have been previously sealed off from the rest. Poole and the transfer party would be inside the conning tower, would be called to the bridge when Macon’s boat approached, and transfer across with ease.

The big “if” was the Macon. There was no doubt that she could do the job. The question was whether she was where I thought she was.

That night I wrote in the Log:

2300 Periscope depth. Maybe there will be a message for us—there could be, though it is probably too soon….

2325 There is, indeed, a message for us from Admiral Daspit. Admiral Stephan is getting underway in the Macon and will meet us at the time and place we have requested.

For the second time in as many days a lead weight has been rolled off my chest. The news is immediately announced to the entire ship and at the same time we can now announce how we shall handle the rendezvous and transfer. We will not surface, at least, not fully.