Around the World Submerged: The Voyage of the Triton

This period between launching and commissioning is critically important, for this is when the bulk of the crew is assembled and organized into a cohesive ship’s company. In forming a crew, nuclear ships have a special advantage, thanks to Admiral Rickover’s foresight. All our engineering personnel came directly from the Triton’s prototype at West Milton, New York, where they had been put through a rigorous training schedule on the dry-land reactor and engine room the Atomic Energy Commission had built there at the Admiral’s behest. These men were already thoroughly trained and qualified in their primary functions. Nuclear ships are unique—and among the special aspects was that our engineering department, in effect, was handed to us ready-made. Its personnel could not have been better prepared for their duties. Proper preparation to take the ship to sea would have been impossible otherwise.

Some of the men came from other submarines, but most of them were in no way connected with the propulsion plant. One, Chester Raymond Fitzjarrald, a Chief Torpedoman’s Mate with some eighteen years service, had last been in my old ship, Trigger II, where he had held the position of Chief of the Boat. (In submarines, the “Chief of the Boat” is the key enlisted man, direct assistant to the Executive Officer.) Fitzjarrald was a natural for this post, and was so assigned in Triton. In deference to her size, we promoted him a notch and made him “Chief of the Ship.”

Another old shipmate who had been Chief Fire Controlman in Trigger II, Loyd L. Garlock, was given a similar job in Triton. A third, William E. Constantine, had been in the Amberjack in 1948 and ’49.

It was heartening to have these old friends serving with me, but it was not any of my doing; the Navy cannot operate with favoritism and personal interest. The submarine force is so small (it represents only three percent of the entire US Navy—approximately the same size as the WAVES) that after a few years, one may have served with almost everyone in the force at one time or another.

I did assert myself in one case, however: Lawrence W. Beckhaus, the Gunner’s Mate who had dived from Salamonie’s deck into fifty-foot waves to rescue a man swept overboard from another ship, had since become a submariner. He also reported aboard.

Triton’s crew had begun standing watches on our ship before she was launched; and as our personnel increased, we set up additional watches, not to make more work for ourselves, but because they were necessary. There were two officers on duty at all times, one for engineering and one for the rest of the ship. There was a “below-decks” watch whose job was to patrol the interior of the unfinished ship to guard against unexpected hazards, such as flooding, fire, gas, or failing ventilation; and we set up a crew with regular watches, under the Engineering Officer, to carry out those parts of the nuclear test program which were our immediate concern. The watches went on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They are going on still—and will—until Triton is decommissioned.

2

At 4:22 A.M. on the morning of October 1, 1958, we faced our first trial. The nuclear fuel had not been loaded in the ship, but many of the steam-generating components were installed and were being tested. Steam from an Electric Boat boiler was being led into number two reactor compartment to test a stand-by condenser. Lieutenant Commander Leslie B. Kelly, prospective Engineer Officer, was on board and supervising. Engineman First Class John R. Thomas was in immediate operational control, assisted by Engineman First Class James T. Lightner. As is common with ships under construction, the compartment was haphazardly strewn with heavy timbers and other working gear.

In the corner of the compartment, Ralph Harris, Engineman Second Class, Kelly’s telephone talker, wore a telephone headset with earphones. In the center of the compartment stood one or two civilian employees of the Electric Boat testing gang. At this juncture, Thomas instructed Lightner to open one of the valves to the stand-by condenser. After he had done so, Lightner bent over to inspect the indicator at the side of the valve to see whether it was fully open, thus, by great good fortune, removing himself from the direct line of die valve stem. The very moment he did so, without any warning, stem and valve wheel shot out of the valve body and hit the steel overhead of the compartment with such force that the steel valve wheel was bent. Great vapor clouds whistled from what was now a direct opening into the steam line, and within seconds the compartment was full of scalding steam; visibility was zero.