“Sounding!” I ordered.
The answer came back quickly. “Three hundred feet!”
Tom looked at me but said nothing. I knew what he was thinking.
“All stop!” I said. “All ahead two-thirds.”
But still our speed indicator remained fixed on zero, and still our depth increased. Inexorably, we were approaching the bottom of the ocean.
Our speed was so low that touching bottom would hardly bother Triton’s strong hull, but there was always the danger of our hitting a rock with our vulnerable propellers or the delicate sonar equipment in the bow.
I ordered another sounding. The answer this time was two hundred feet.
“Tom,” I said urgently, “blow all main ballast!”
All of us watched the Ballast Control Panel, and it seemed as if everyone in the control room was also watching me. Fitzjarrald opened the blow valves on the Diving Control Panel, blew the main ballast tanks for a long minute, then stopped on Thamm’s order.
“Blow them again,” I ordered.
But the depth gauges continued to revolve, though more slowly. Triton had not yet reached an even keel and was now down some ten degrees by the bow. If we gathered headway in this attitude, she might ram her nose against the ocean floor.
“All stop!” I snapped a second time, “Sounding!” And for the third time, “Blow main ballast tanks! Again!”
“Forty feet,” called the sailor at the fathometer.
Triton’s angle of inclination reduced, approached zero, and the depth gauge showed that the ship was rising.
“All ahead two-thirds,” I ordered again, and heaved a sigh of relief.
It had been a thrilling moment, one which had come upon us by surprise and which could have done damage to our new ship. Mentally, I kicked myself for not having recognized the signs earlier; we should not have allowed the ship to back for so long or the oscillations to become so severe. But all that really mattered was that damage had been averted, and as we were proceeding back to port on completion of the trials, Admiral Rickover announced to the crew that our tests were among the most successful under-way trials of a nuclear ship yet carried out.
Altogether, there were about five days of initial sea trials before the Bureau of Ships and the Navy Department expressed themselves as satisfied. As always, a number of minor deficiencies were discovered, none of them serious. We went to sea several times more to check out one item or another until, finally, on the thirtieth of October, came what is called the Preliminary Acceptance Trials (PAT). On such occasions, a regularly constituted board of officers comes from Washington, D.C., to see whether the ship conforms to the operational standards specified when the contract was signed. The report of the trial board would decide whether General Dynamics would receive its entire fee for construction, whether any deductions for nonfulfilment of the contract were to be invoked, and whether Triton would be accepted for “unlimited service” or under some temporary restriction.
Naturally, these trials were of considerable concern to Electric Boat, for although it was hardly likely that a ship for which all this labor and expense had been incurred would not be accepted for service, it was quite possible that some inadequacy in its construction might cost the company a great deal to correct or result in a reduction in fee.
The PAT provided us with a welcome opportunity. Triton’s only major fault was that under certain sea conditions, in running on the surface at top speed, she took a perverse delight in driving her bow under. After a great deal of thought and careful perusal of photographs, I was sure I knew what her trouble was. Her extremely slim bow had most of its buoyant volume well aft, at precisely the point where the maximum hollow of her bow wave occurred at high speed. Thus, she lacked buoyancy exactly where needed. This was a serious deficiency, we argued. If we could add a little more buoyancy to the bow, especially in the forward part, we could greatly improve this condition. All we had to do was convince the officers from Washington that the modification was necessary.
The trial board happened to be headed by the tallest Admiral in the Navy, known to his contemporaries and close friends as “Tiny” McCorkle. When I mentioned the problem to him, he agreed that if the situation was as I represented, something indeed should be done. I promised an adequate demonstration.
Several hours later, with Triton making full speed through long seas sweeping from the Atlantic Ocean, I asked Admiral McCorkle if he would care to step up to the bridge. For good measure, I also invited Van Leonard, the highly competent young EB design boss who—in my estimate—could use a practical lesson in how ships behave at sea.
Up to the bridge we went, the six-foot, six-inch Admiral awkwardly ducking his head and hunching his shoulders as he maneuvered between pipes and fittings.
Once there, I told Dick Harris, Officer of the Deck, of my intentions. Both he and the lookouts were already heavily clothed in foul-weather gear—by design I suspect, for Dick, at least, knew what was up—and I noticed that the Quartermaster of the Watch quickly finished his business topside and headed below.
I nodded to Dick. He reached for the bridge microphone and gave the order. “Maneuvering—bridge! Make all available speed!”
Already at “full” speed—about half-power—Triton was riding with her bow still a foot or two out of water. Occasionally, a roll would break over the deck and sweep aft, bursting in a cascade of spray against the bottom of the sail. With the increased power, we would soon be taking considerably more water than before, and it suddenly struck me that perhaps I had not fully briefed Admiral McCorkle on what to expect. Harris and both lookouts were tightening up their parkas as I turned to him.
“Admiral, when she drives under we’re liable to get pretty wet up here.”
McCorkle laughed genially. “You can’t scare me, Ned,” he said. “I had my fanny wet long before you even got in the Navy.”
The Admiral’s belt line was in the approximate vicinity of my chest, and it would have to be a pretty big wave to reach that high, but I resolved that if he could take it, I could, too. The increased drive of the engines began to be noticeable, and in a moment the first really big sea hit us. The bow spray spouted above our heads. Water dashed high over the bridge, pelting down on top of the lookouts and completely inundating Dick Harris, who stood just behind us.
The forward part of Triton’s bridge was fitted with a transparent plastic bubble, and under this Leonard, Admiral McCorkle and I huddled for protection. There was no room for a fourth person, and the Admiral grinned at Dick’s discomfort, as he stood only a foot away. I grinned, too. There was more to come.
The spray increased; soon there was a steady stream of white water squirting high above our heads. Then, with a swoosh, green water swelled up over the sides of the bridge coaming, rising in its bathtublike confines to envelop Admiral McCorkle’s fanny and higher parts of my anatomy. Simultaneously, solid water poured over the top of the bubble like Niagara Falls. I was relieved that Dick had stationed a man to protect the bridge hatch; he now ordered it shut. The lookouts had given up, turning their backs, while Harris gasped for breath, cupping his hands over his eyes in an effort to maintain a lookout ahead. Sputtering, Admiral McCorkle shouted something which I interpreted as indicating that he was satisfied, that the demonstration had been successful, and Dick gratefully relayed the order to slow down. The spouting water ceased, Triton’s bow came up once more, and the world became drier for six thoroughly wet people on the bridge.