One thing seemed to be clear. The importance of our voyage, the responsibility which the Navy had placed on us to complete it—for its stated and unstated purposes—justified every reasonable effort to continue. Serious though the loss of the fathometer might be, if this were our only debility, we could and would keep on. Will Adams, I knew, could be depended on to take all reasonable and possible precautions to compensate for the lack of this vitally important navigation aid.
Poole’s problem was considerably more difficult, and I had much less experience to guide me. Jim Stark’s medical book detailed the treatment for a kidney stone, which involves an extremely complicated operation, and I found myself reading the book quite carefully in order to understand the problem. I read and reread the description of what would happen in the event proper treatment could not be given. As Stark had already said, there would be a backing up of the normal flow; swelling of the tiny ureter tubes; dreadful pain, less and less controllable by opiates; serious illness, possibly involving both kidneys; ultimately, permanent injury to the kidneys; possibly death.
Unlike most complaints, however, kidney stones can suddenly and dramatically cease to be troublesome. If Poole passed the stone, and there were no others, he might well make a complete recovery in a few hours. This, Jim had assured me, was the normal experience. Or, should the stone not pass, it might not create a complete blockage. If this were the case, Poole might become a sort of arrested case which could be “held”—Jim’s expression—under careful surveillance until our return home.
A third possibility was that there was not one but a number of stones, any one of which could hang up in an already irritated and inflamed urinary passage. A “remission” could occur, after which Poole might well experience more attacks. There was no possible way, short of X-raying him, to find this out.
Fourth was the possibility that a complete and permanent blockage had already occurred; that Poole was fated to become progressively worse until he received proper medical attention.
With a sigh, I recognized that this problem was entirely out of our hands. It was a question of whether Poole got better or worse.
But suppose Poole recovered for a day or two, or even for weeks, and then had another attack? Suppose by then we were well out into the Pacific? What would we do then? Where could we take him, how get him the medical help he needed? On the other side of South America there was Chile, with its lovely port city of Valparaiso, where surely there was competent medical care to be found. Farther along our route—many thousands of miles farther—lay Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands. Here, we would be among friends and be able to get all the assistance necessary.
But either Valparaiso or Pearl Harbor would be well out of our way, far enough to cost us many days of travel.
In the meantime, we were passing two of the largest cities in South America, Montevideo and Buenos Aires, both bordering on that enormous Rio de la Plata which Magellan had first joyously assumed to be the long-sought south passage to the Pacific. Entering Montevideo, Buenos Aires, or Valparaiso would all be about one and the same, so far as the effect on our intended submerged circumnavigation. But the USS Macon was scheduled to visit Montevideo in a few days. This was an important consideration. On this side of South America, help from the US Navy could best be received from the Macon. On the far side, we would have to wait to reach Pearl Harbor, a matter of about three weeks.
It would be unfortunate to be forced to surface and wreck our submerged record, but doing so to enter a foreign port was not to be thought of, unless there were no other alternative. Here was a dilemma!
Fortunately for my peace of mind at that moment, Macon was not due to arrive at Montevideo for a few more days. Besides, Jim Stark had impressed upon me that Poole’s condition, although serious, was still promising. The stone or stones might clear up at any time. We could afford to let events move along at their own speed for a little while longer.
Feeling depressed, I decided that the first of March was certainly not “our day,” and that troubles came in twos. The only cheery note was that both of our problems had a common quality: we could allow them to develop a little farther.
This was a far from satisfactory way to handle either, but it did have the virtue of postponing the real decision.
I think it was about seven o’clock that same night when Jim Stark and Don Fears came to see me together. I immediately sensed that something else was wrong.
Stark spoke first. “You’ll be glad to know that Poole has been asymptomatic for some time now, sir. The morphine is wearing off and he’s up and around. Apparently, he’s in no pain.”
“Good,” I said. “Have you found the stone?”
“No, but that’s not surprising. Sometimes these things are very hard to find.” Jim’s report came in a rush, as though he were anxious to get it over with.
“Well,” I said, unable to shake off the foreboding in my subconscious, “that’s good. What’s the new problem?”
Don deliberately shut the metal door behind the curtained entrance to my room, then, very quietly, informed me that something might be seriously wrong with one of our reactors. So far as Triton and the first of March were concerned, it seemed that troubles were not to be confined to pairs. On that day we were to have them in threes.
Naval reactors, let it be understood, are constructed and inspected with the most extraordinary care. Very precise operating instructions are prepared before anyone is permitted to use them, and the most careful training is given all hands. The remarkable record of dependability which Admiral Rickover’s fantastic new machinery has established is only one of that gentleman’s great gifts to the Navy and our country.
Among the operating instructions are a carefully calculated set of allowed operating parameters. Should any of these parameters be exceeded, there are in addition precise instructions as to what is to be done next. In some cases, all that is necessary is to change certain operating criteria. In others, we are required to shut the reactor down to find out what is wrong and are not permitted to start it again until the difficulty is resolved. In still other situations, there are automatic safety circuits which, when triggered, instantaneously shut the reactor down without further action by any person. This is called a “scram.” It is accompanied by a deafening siren and all sorts of whirring, grinding, and pumping of automatic machinery.
The trouble in our case came under the second heading. Les Kelly had instituted a system to log all the readings on the instruments in the machinery spaces periodically, and then the readings were carefully compared to detect changes. Several of the ship’s officers willingly participated in this check, and it so happened that Jim Stark, in poring over the batch of forms consigned to him, had noticed a slow but steady change in certain entries.
“So, what do you think it is?” I asked.
Jim and Don both started to talk at once.
“Don,” I said.
“Well, I can’t be sure, Captain,” said Don. “But here’s what the book says about it.” He showed me one of the manuals, his finger marking the place.
I read the paragraph carefully. It applied specifically to our situation, described what we were then experiencing, and stated in clear language the several possible causes. Two of the possibilities we could immediately dismiss. Two others, after some discussion, we were satisfied did not apply. But one, very clearly, applied only too well.
My stateroom was barely big enough for the three of us, and our impromptu conference became a rather packed affair when Pat McDonald unceremoniously opened the door and entered. I slid over on the padded bench beneath my folded-up bunk and motioned Stark to sit beside me.