As in most naval ships, for fairly obvious reasons, the editor of the newspaper was a radioman; in our case, Radioman First Class Harold J. Marley, Jr. His assistant and general factotum was Audley R. Wilson, Radarman First. A third member of the staff occasionally contributed a column and rendered assistance in certain important ways, such as selection of periscope depth periods to coincide with the best news broadcasts, but refused the honor of being listed as a contributor because of his official position as Commanding Officer.
We had only been at sea a few days when a serious deficiency in the ship’s ventilation system came to light. Our SINS had been installed in a compartment which used to be a provisions storeroom, and unfortunately the addition of a considerable amount of high-powered electrical equipment had not been accompanied by enough air-conditioning. As a consequence of the slowly increasing warmth of the sea on our way south, the ex-storeroom had kept creeping up in temperature. George Troffer, who as Electrical Officer had responsibility for the SINS, became increasingly concerned as the temperature increased, rose in rebellion when it reached 105° F. Something had to be done, he said, to protect the precious equipment. Specifically, some auxiliary ventilation had to be provided quickly. It wasn’t the discomfort of the Electrician’s Mates keeping watch on the SINS that bothered us, for our men could stand that with never a complaint. The problem was that the tubes and circuitry of the equipment were not built to withstand continual high temperatures.
Several alternative ideas were discussed, and then Triton’s submarine jury-riggers turned to with a will. After several hours of cutting and bending sheet metal and squeezing a collapsible duct into a confined space alongside one of our radar masts, a cool air supply was channeled into the compartment, reducing the ambient temperature in the vicinity of the SINS to 90° F.
The problem was by no means a new one to submarines, nor was the solution; and I was in the end glad it happened. Nothing is better for the crew of a ship, particularly a new ship, than to have a difficult problem to solve, and to solve it efficiently.
A day or two later, as Triton’s mighty engines drove her deep under the ever-warming sea, trouble of another kind arose. This time it was a jammed outer door on our garbage ejector. During the war, it was customary to bag the garbage in weighted sacks and carry it to the bridge right after surfacing every night (one submarine early in 1942 did not do this, instead kept all of it on board during an entire patrol—and raised an unholy stink in Pearl Harbor when the hatches were opened upon her return). The problem created by the continuous submergence of our new submarines had been solved by a small-diameter torpedo tube, mounted vertically, with a watertight and pressure-proof closure or “door” at each end. All garbage and trash was packed into the ejection tube through the open breech door, while an interlock system made it theoretically impossible to open the outer door until the inner one was properly locked shut, and then the positions of the doors were reversed for flushing.
The garbage ejector is a large potential hazard to submarines because of the frequency with which it must be used and the fact that the men handling trash and garbage are generally the least experienced on board. It is so vitally important that at least one ejector door be kept closed at all times that these mechanisms may only be operated by a fully qualified auxiliaryman. Maloperation could result in uncontrolled flooding of the ship.
Despite our careful handling of the garbage ejection system, a problem arose; after the garbage was flushed out, the outer door could not be closed. Full sea pressure, consequently, was riding against the breech door of the ejector—a door built to close against sea pressure instead of with it. The situation was highly undesirable. No one knew how much pressure the hinge of the inner door could stand.
Fortunately, my worries were short-lived. About an hour’s work by Chief Engineman Edwin Rauch, Machinist’s Mate First Class Bob Carter, and Engineman Third Class John Boreczky restored the door to normal operation. Tom Thamm, whose responsibility this was, looked a little sheepish when I asked him what had caused the trouble. This day happened to be the day the garbage ejector was supposed to be greased; so much grease had been rammed into its operating mechanism, and under such force, that a pressure lock was created and the gears had jammed.
During this portion of our trip, we began our weekly divine services. These were held every Sunday in the crew’s mess hall, the only suitable compartment in the ship (where forty-six persons could be accommodated at a single sitting). The first turnout was disappointing; possibly the fact that there was no ordained minister of any faith on board reduced the appeal of the service, but we resolved, nevertheless, to keep up the practice whenever Triton happened to be at sea on a Sunday. Will Adams and I discussed the matter at some length, and finally decided that we should not attempt in any way to pressure our shipmates to attend. Despite our own feelings, attendance, we decided, should always remain entirely voluntary.
On any map where the contour of the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean is shown, an elongated shallow area passing through the Azores can be seen; it curves approximately in the center of the ocean as it crosses the equator and heads into the South Atlantic, where it finally disappears. This area is known to oceanographers as the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. The Azores are mountain peaks, where the Mid-Atlantic Ridge projects above the surface of the water, as are St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks.
The Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a pressure ridge created as the earth’s mass cooled millions of years ago, has never presented a hazard to mariners. Only the Azores themselves, or certain other islands, are surrounded by water shallow enough to be of any concern. Much of the Ridge, therefore is not even well charted. Deep traveling submarines are not at all like other ships, however, for they require much more depth. This was another reason for our voyage, to make a world-girdling recording of the bottom contour. One of the special devices with which Triton had been fitted during the hectic two weeks before she sailed was for this purpose. Outfitted with many miles of expensive, sensitized paper, the device operated from our fathometer, taking many soundings per minute and recording them graphically so as to show a virtual photograph of the shape of the bottom of the ocean over which we had just passed. It was with justice officially called the “Precision Depth Recorder (PDR).”
As is well known, the ocean is full of mountains, just as is the land, but very few of the ocean’s mountains have ever been mapped. As Triton approached the vicinity of St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks, we expected to notice a gradual shoaling of water, and the PDR was carefully watched.
Civil Engineer Gordon E. Wilkes was aboard to monitor the equipment. In addition, in order to obtain immediate value from anything the PDR might detect, a special watch was detailed to observe it. During the early morning of the twenty-third of February, more than twenty-four hours before we should reach St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks, sudden and very rapid shoaling was recorded on the PDR. This was immediately brought to the attention of the Officer of the Deck by Jerry Saunders, Radarman Second Class, who at the moment was on PDR watch. We were still quite some distance from where we expected to find the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, and soundings recorded but a few moments earlier indicated a depth of roughly two thousand fathoms.