Around the World Submerged (21 page)

The Falkland Islands are famous for the naval battle which took place there on the eighth of December, 1914. A month earlier, on November first, a strong German squadron of cruisers under Admiral von Spee had overwhelmed a weaker British squadron under Admiral Cradock off the cape of Coronel on the coast of Chile. The two biggest British ships, including the flagship, were sunk with all hands. Then Von Spee
headed for Cape Horn at a leisurely pace, intending to capture the coaling station at the Falkland Islands, refuel, and head back to Germany. His big mistake was in moving so slowly, for when the English heard of the defeat of Cradock, they sent two of their battle cruisers, under Admiral Sturdee, from England direct to the Falkland Islands, with orders to coal at Port Stanley and then search out Von Spee. It was the ideal mission for a versatile British Navy and its new battle cruisers, as they were fast heavily armed ships which far outclassed Von Spee’s armored cruisers in both speed and gunpower.

After a high-speed run the length of the Atlantic, Sturdee reached the Falkland Islands the day before Von Spee showed up. Von Spee’s second mistake was in making his appearance at about eight o’clock in the morning, with a long summer day ahead of him. The
Inflexible
and the
Invincible
were coaling at Port Stanley when the German cruisers appeared on the horizon. Hastily casting off, Sturdee set out in pursuit. When Von Spee realized that the two big ships sortieing from Port Stanley were battle cruisers with twelve-inch guns, he turned and tried to escape. This might be termed his third mistake, for, with a fight inevitable, he should have got his own shorter-range guns into action while he could. Once lost, the opportunity never returned. Inexorably, the British overhauled him sufficiently to open fire—and then, when necessary, used their superior speed to stay out of range of Von Spee’s guns.

One of the stories of that battle is that an old sailing ship which happened to be in the area suddenly found herself directly in the line of fire. Great ripping sounds were heard as the armor-piercing shells whistled overhead, but the extreme range of the British caused all the shells to pass harmlessly thousands of feet above her.

Von Spee’s two bigger ships were the
Scharnhorst
and
Gneisenau,
both of which had held the Fleet Gunnery Trophy in the German Navy and were known as crack ships. But now the tables were turned, and in a few hours Von Spee, with his
two fine cruisers, joined Cradock and his
Good Hope
and
Monmouth
at the bottom of the sea.

Scharnhorst
and
Gneisenau
went down fighting; there were no survivors. They had not been able to inflict any damage of any kind on the British ships, any more than Cradock had been able to hurt Von Spee in the first encounter. But there was established a proud tradition in the German Navy, commemorated in World War II by some more recently remembered names of men-of-war.

According to Will Adams, we should sight the Falkland Islands at about ten o’clock in the morning. A little before this we came to periscope depth, put up the radar, and there, precisely as predicted, was a “pip” on the radar scope obviously made by land. The photographic reconnaissance party under Dick Harris, with cameras and equipment, was standing by in the conning tower ready for the initial approach, when Jim Stark sought me out. His face was like a thundercloud.

“What’s the matter, Jim? Is it Poole?”

“Yes, sir. Worse than ever.”

Thoughts of the impending reconnaissance vanished. “Let’s have it,” I said.

Choosing his words carefully, Jim explained that in his opinion Poole might still be having trouble with the original stone. It might not have passed at all. Temporary remissions of the type Poole had experienced were not unknown in such cases. On the other hand, it was possible that he had been passing a series of kidney stones and that this was the third one. In either case, said Jim, there was no telling how long this would continue, nor to what condition poor Poole might ultimately be reduced. While we had been heretofore running on with the idea that each attack would perhaps be the last, the Doctor felt that he could no longer leave it at that. As we talked, we neared Poole’s bunk.

Poole himself, though obviously in great pain, was not
yet completely under the effects of the injection which Jim had been forced to give him. Sensing the reason for my presence, he croaked out a plea that we not turn back. “This is the last time, Captain. I swear it!” he said, but he was in such pain that he could hardly articulate the words.

I could both see and sense everybody staring at me. Their eyes said much, but nobody spoke a word.

A sort of hiatus descended upon the ship. In the conning tower, Dick Harris and his crew were waiting for the word to go ahead, but, having heard of Poole’s new attack, simply stood by quietly.

With Adams and Stark, and Operations Officer Bob Bulmer, I went over the argument again. It was not as though I hadn’t had plenty of opportunity to think it over before this. I had, in fact, already assumed that a decision must be reached one way or the other before we got to Cape Horn.

There never was a question of taking any chances with Poole’s life. Both my orders for the trip and the traditions of the US Navy for peacetime operations categorically forbade it. On the other hand, we should not want to turn back and then have Poole’s condition clear up by itself, as about three-quarters of all kidney stone attacks actually do. Yet we had already gone on for three days. No doubt we could still go on and hope the third attack would be the last. The salient point was that
Macon
could conceivably help us now, and if we passed her up, the nearest available medical help would be at Pearl Harbor, nearly eight thousand miles away.

Adams calculated how far we would have to travel to meet the
Macon,
and when. Somehow, it was almost as if there were dead silence in the ship. Not many felt like talking. A person becomes attuned to the mood of a ship, after serving in her a while. Our mood was solemn. Everyone realized what we were up against. Poole obviously had to have help, but to get it for him involved jeopardizing our mission. If, for any reason, the
Macon
had been diverted from Montevideo, were not within reach, if no other US Navy unit could be sent to assist us—and I knew of none anywhere about—we should have to ask for diplomatic clearance for entry into Montevideo. Once the message was sent, we would be powerless to avert public disclosure of our mission. Unless we could carry Poole for two weeks longer, to Pearl, it had to be either
Macon
—with whose help we might yet salvage our continuously submerged record—or Montevideo. Success in our cruise meant a lot to all of us; only I had an inkling how much it might mean to our country.

Actually, although I technically made the decision and took the responsibility for it, there really was no decision to be made. Circumstances had made it for us. I picked up the wardroom telephone and dialed “O,” which rings the phone at the elbow of the Officer of the Deck.

I held the receiver to my ear, waited until I heard a voice—it was “Whitey” Rubb.

“Officer of the Deck,” he said.

“Reverse course, Whitey,” I said. “Make your course zero zero nine degrees true and increase speed to Flank. Secure the reconnaissance party. We are heading for Montevideo.”

Recessed into one of the wardroom bulkheads are dials showing the ship’s speed, course, and depth. I watched as the gyro repeater rotated swiftly about until it finally settled at a heading just to the right of north. The speed dial also increased, until it indicated the maximum of which
Triton
was capable.

And then there was a feeling of frustrated despair for which there was no solution, except to carry on with what we were doing. I took a piece of paper and, with Jim Stark’s help, composed a message stating our problem and asking for aid. It was almost as though I were writing finis to our effort and to the high hopes with which we had started the cruise. Finis, all brought to an end, because of a tiny calcified growth smaller
than a grain of sand, which had lodged in the wrong place in a man’s body!

It was very hard not to feel bitter against both fate and Poole.

There was a moment of comfort when I looked up the
Macon
in the Atlantic Fleet Organization pamphlet. I knew she was flagship of the task force in the South Atlantic, and I was pleased to see that the Admiral on board was listed as E. C. Stephan, my one-time Squadron Commander in Key West years ago.
Macon’
s skipper also was a very familiar officer, having been one of our most renowned and successful submarine commanders during World War II. I had never served with him and had last encountered him some years previously in the Pentagon, but everyone in the Navy knew of Reuben T. Whitaker and his dour, enthusiastic efficiency.

Not that friendship, per se, cuts any ice one way or another. But the tie of shared service certainly feels good when you’re looking for help.

The question at this point was simply whether or not Rear Admiral Ed Stephan and Captain Reuben Whitaker would be able to help us.

Drafting a naval message—condensing it to say all that needs to be said with as few words as possible, and then encoding it—takes time. It was a full two hours before we were ready to transmit a final draft. We briefly described the medical facts, and announced that we were proceeding to the vicinity of Montevideo at maximum speed. We would arrive there by one o’clock in the morning of the fifth of March, we said, and, not knowing how else to state it, we put our plea for help in plain English: “Can
Macon
meet us and transfer Poole?” the message asked.

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.

General Dynamics

When we took
Triton
to sea on its initial run, she was the world’s largest submarine. Her 447½-foot hull was powered by two nuclear reactors which propelled her at record speeds.

Official U.S. Navy Photo

For the long voyage, we stowed 77,613 pounds of provisions, including 1,300 pounds of coffee. Here, Ramon D. Baney, Commissaryman Second Class, and Seaman Joseph W. Tilenda load additional stores into an already jammed compartment.

Photo by J. Baylor Roberts, © National Geographic Society

At the first of our four crossings of the equator, King Neptune (Chief Firecontrol Technician Loyd L. Garlock) came aboard with his cigar-smoking Queen (Torpedoman Second Class Wilmot A. Jones) and barrel-girthed Royal Baby (Engineman Second Class Harry Olsen); the pollywogs (sailors crossing the equator for the first time) were initiated by the Royal Court of King Neptune and, henceforth, were known as Shellbacks.