This article appeared in the March 1958 issue of Proceedings, published as Deep Battleground by Commander Charles W. Rush, Jr., USN.

May 17, 1942. Somewhere under the long mid-Pacific swells.

The stillness inside the conning tower of the U. S. submarine Tautog muffled the tense excitement of men who knew they were about to battle their most feared enemy—another submarine.

“Bearing—zero-seven-five,” the sound man called.

“Range-two thousand yards,” Lieutenant Jim Barnard read from the dial of the torpedo data computer.

Perspiration glistened on the faces of the men. At that moment, the enemy sub might be aiming a lethal salvo at Tautog.

But Captain J. H. Willingham had the drop on his opponent. His orders followed in rapid succession:

“Make ready all tubes forward. Set depth fifteen feet—speed high.”

“Open the outer doors forward.”

“Fire One! . . . . . . . . . . Fire Two!”

A tremor passed through Tautog as the torpedoes were blown out by high-pressure air. The whine of propellers was tracked on the sound gear. After an interminable minute, a weak explosion was heard—the enemy was hit, damaged, but not killed. Then, like a wounded bull, the damaged sub fought back.

Tautog‘s sound man reported, “Enemy sub is firing torpedoes!”

No time for deliberation. Captain Willingham shouted down to his diving officer, Lieutenant Norman D. Gage, “Take her down, Norm—one hundred and fifty feet!”

In the control room, Lieutenant Gage signalled the manifold operator, the planesmen. Tautog leaned forward, seeking the dark, safe deep.

Thirty seconds later, Gage reported, “One hundred and fifty feet, sir.”

Slowly, he gazed upward. The men’s eyes followed his; their ears caught the buzz-saw  sound of a torpedo getting closer. The sound grew louder—then faded.

“Z . . Z . . Z . . . z . . . . z . . . z . . . “: a second torpedo passed overhead.
­

But Captain Willingham, who had bested the Japanese submarine RO-30 in an under­-sea duel three weeks previously, was not willing to call it quits. He brought Tautog up to periscope depth and sighted the damaged ­sub, bored in to point-blank torpedo range  and aimed another shot at the enemy’s ex­posed underside. This torpedo ran straight  and true, gouged into the vitals of the Japanese submarine I-28 and exploded, sending her to the bottom.

Tautog‘s exploit is a true example of submarine vs. submarine fights-to-the-finish during World War II. Although our sub­marines of the war years were not designed to sink enemy undersea craft and although anti-submarine work was not their main job, they sank 25 enemy submersibles—23 Japanese and two German U-boats—in the Pacific, thus giving a ring of truth to the pre-war prediction, “The best defense against sub­marines is other submarines.”

The blood that pumped through the arteries of the Japanese Empire of 1941 was men, material, and supplies carried on the sea lanes by six million tons of merchant shipping. The primary mission of our wartime undersea force was to cut off this life-giving flow by sinking the ships that carried it. They did a bang-up job of it. Tautog sent 26 enemy ships to the bottom—more than any other submarine in our history. Her sister subs demolished some five million tons of Japanese merchantmen and more than half a million tons of the Imperial Japanese Navy’s warships, including all types: aircraft carriers, battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and submarines.

We can be thankful that many unsung pa­triots of the 1930′s—planners, designers, builders—had the foresight to provide our operators with the proper submersible to fight the war in the Pacific; the fleet-type submarine was long-legged, tough-skinned, and equipped with a double-ended battery of ten torpedo tubes with which it could saturate the water through which enemy ships had to pass. In short, our subs were successful because they were designed to do the job at hand.

In many respects, building a modern navy is like playing a gigantic poker game, in which the chips are billions of dollars (or rubles); the cards are ships, weapons, and trained men; and the stakes are national life or death. The game is not played according to Hoyle. If we are unwilling to risk coming out second best, we must keep a winning hand ready for the showdown at any time—hiding cards up our sleeve whenever possible.

In this game, Red chips have already been spent on making their navy the greatest under-sea power ever known. The 1956-57 edition of Jane’s Fighting Ships reported that the Soviets had over 400 submarines, with another 100 under construction in their dockyards. The Reds now have 450 to 500 undersea craft—most of them modern, ocean-going ships, fitted with snorkels and the latest in equipment and weapons.

In contrast, the German Navy had only 57 U-boats at the outset of World War yet blasted at the outset of World War II; yet they blasted the Allied convoys and came close to winning the Battle of the Atlantic. The U-boats were armed with torpedoes loaded with a few hundred pounds of TNT; the modern submarine may be armed both with torpedoes and with missiles carrying hydrogen warheads the equivalent of millions of tons of TNT.

Admiral Arleigh A. Burke, the Chief of Naval Operations, recently stated that the Soviet Union is building toward a fleet of 1,200 submarines—enough to station a every mile on a line from the northernmost coast of Maine to Miami, Flor­ida. In addition, the Soviets are reported to have an atomic-powered submarine undergoing trials, to be building a number of additional atomic subs, and to have produced a submarine missile which can be fired from underwater at targets 150 miles distant.

In the undersea department, they hold a powerful hand—increasing in strength with every draw of the cards. Unless we meet this threat with sufficient counter-strength in the right places, we could be exposed to annihilation launched from under the sea. That is the main reason we are building nuclear powered submarines—to prevent enemy submarines from attacking and isolating our country.

After World War II, we had about one hundred fleet-type submarines still in service. They had smashed the Japanese right under the shadow of Mount Fuji. Archerfish sank the 59,000-ton monster Shinano, a brand-new aircraft carrier, before the Japanese even completed her sea trials.

But, we are no longer opposed by an island empire; our own life-lines, our own shores are threatened by a power building the world’s largest submarine fleet. Our fleet-type submarines were not equipped to fight other undersea craft—most of the enemy submersibles which they had given a one-way ticket to Davy Jones’ locker had been caught on the surface.

It was apparent that submarine warfare had to undergo a “sea change.” We had to fit our submarines to meet the new threat con­fronting our Navy.

First, our subs were streamlined and given increased storage battery power; then, they were fitted with snorkels to allow them to ex­pose a smaller target when they had to come up to use their diesel engines. These re­modelled fleet-subs were named “Guppies”—because of their higher speed, the men called them “hot rods.” But high speed was only a partial answer to the problem.

The next major improvement was not one of submarine design, but one of equipment. Radars could not find subs hiding hundreds of feet underwater—a better means of detect­ing submerged submarines had to be devised. By 1949 Congress authorized the Navy to build three new craft of a radical type—the first SSKs, “killer” submarines designed to detect and destroy other subs. They were de­signed to carry new sound detection equip­ment unlike any sonar our Navy had ever seen. On the bow of the ship, the builders in­stalled a large, boxy housing for the new
sound equipment’s “ears.” They looked awk­ward, but when the sonarmen first pulled on the earphones and plugged into the new sonars, they were amazed!

Sounds which with the older “hearing aids,” they had been unable to hear from more than a few hundred yards suddenly came in clearly and distinctly from distances of many miles. But these “killer” subs still had an Achilles’ heel—when their storage bat­teries became exhausted, it was necessary to come up from the depths and gasp for air like a spouting whale.

The Navy and the Atomic Energy Com­mission had been working on the solu­tion to this problem for some time. A nuclear reactor already had been built and tested at the AEC’s National Reactor Testing Station at Arco, Idaho, and the development of con­trolled fission power had progressed to the stage where it could safely be installed in a ship. The Navy selected a submarine for the first application of nuclear power. This was not a coincidence—a power plant which is in­dependent of the atmosphere offers greater advantages to an undersea craft than to a sur­face ship. For the first time, a true submarine became possible—one capable of operating fully submerged indefinitely.

The submarine Nautilus, the first applica­tion of nuclear propulsion, was built. Into her blunt nose, streamlined for high underwater speed, electronic detection equipment like that on the killer-subs was carefully installed. Designated SS(N), nuclear, she is the fore­runner of a new breed of submarine—SSK(N), designed to do a new job—hunt down and kill enemy submarines.

With this revolutionary development came the need for a new shape to go with the new power. For years, submarines had been fash­ioned to travel both on the surface of the water and submerged. Now that a true sub­marine was possible, it could be configured for underwater travel only. Because a surface ship kicks up a big wave at high speeds and a submerged submarine doesn’t, designers had long known that with enough power they could make a submarine go faster underwater than on the surface. By testing models in the wind tunnel at the David Taylor Model Basin in Carderock, Maryland, they found the best design for high underwater speed.

Soon, workmen at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard were forming flat plates of heavy steel into curved patterns laid down by the designers. The plates were welded together to form Albacore, the world’s fastest submarine.

All the pieces of the puzzle, nuclear power, tear-drop shape, and electronic sound equip­ment, were now ready to be fitted together.

The Navy plans to build a second Tautog­—one of the new breed. With her nuclear power plant moving her streamlined hull through the depths, the new Tautog will carry her electronic ears down under the cold layers of water where enemy subs lurk. There she will stay as long as her captain wills, hunting the enemy in his own element.

She will be a key fighter on the Navy’s air, surface, and submarine team—ready to meet the enemy in deadly combat where a war need never be fought if we are prepared to fight it—in the deep battleground.

The month of May historically has been an important time for the USS Enterprise. On May 12, 1938 the USS Enterprise CV-6 was commissioned and on May 18, 1775 the Enterprise I was captured from the British Fleet. These historic May events have led us to take a look at the history of the USS Enterprise, which represents a name that has been a continuing symbol of the great struggle to retain American liberty, justice and freedom since the first days of the American Revolutionary War to today. The most recent ENTERPRISE VIII (CVN 65) is the eighth ship of the Fleet to carry this illustrious name. 

USS Enterprise information is brought to you by the official USS ENTERPRISE Website

The Legend of the USS Enterprise

ENTERPRISE I

The first Enterprise originally belonged to the British and cruised on Lake Champlain to supply their posts in Canada. After the capture of Fort Ticonderoga by the Americans on 10 May 1775, it became the object of desire in the mind of Benedict Arnold who realized he would not have control of Lake Champlain until its capture. He learned it was stationed at a small British garrison at St. John’s on the Richelieu in Canada, and set out from Skenesborough (Whitehall, New York) in the commandeered sloop Liberty for that place on 14 May 1775. He surprised and captured the British garrison on 18 May, took possession of the 70-ton sloop, and sailed it south to Crown Point. It was named Enterprise by Arnold and fitted out with twelve long 4-pounder carriage guns and ten swivels. About 1 August 1775, Captain James Smith was sent by the New York Provincial Congress to General Philip Schuyler and ordered to take command of “the sloop Enterprise.”

ENTERPRISE II

The second Enterprise was an eight-gun schooner of 25 tons with a crew of 60 men. Granted a letter of marque commission from the state of Maryland, it made a remarkably successful cruise (June-December 1776) under the command of Captain James Campbell. Enterprise was purchased by the Committee of Secret Correspondence of the Continental Congress 20 December 1776. Under the command of Captain Campbell, Enterprise served chiefly in convoying transports in Chesapeake Bay. It was also active in reconnoitering the enemy’s ships and preventing their tenders and barges from getting supplies from the shores of Maryland and Virginia.  

ENTERPRISE III

The third Enterprise was a twelve-gun schooner built by Henry Spencer at Baltimore, Maryland at a cost of $16,240.00. It had a length of 84 feet, 7 inches; extreme beam of 22 feet, 6 inches; tonnage of 135, depth of hold, 10 feet; and a complement of 70 officers and men. It was originally armed with twelve long 6-pounders and placed under the command of Lieutenant John Shaw. On 1 September 1812, Enterprise got underway in search for British privateers reported off the coast of Maine. After chasing a schooner to the shore on Wood Island, Enterprise discovered what appeared to be a ship of war in the bay near Penequid Point on the coast of Maine. It immediately gave chase and soon found her quarry to be the British brig Boxer, mounting fourteen 18-pounder carronades, and manned by 72 men. When within half a pistol shot, broadsides exchanged by the two brigs brought death to Lieutenant William Burrows as well as to the British commander, Captain Samuel Blyth. Another broadside was exchanged before Enterprise ranged ahead to cross Boxer’s bow and kept up a deadly fire until the enemy hailed and said they had surrendered but could not haul down the colors that were nailed to the mast. The surviving senior officer, Lieutenant Edward R. McCall, took the prize into Portland where a common funeral was held for the two commanders, both well-known and favorites in their respective services.

ENTERPRISE IV

The fourth Enterprise was a schooner built by the New York Navy Yard where it launched on 26 October 1831. Its length between perpendiculars was 83 feet, molded beam 23 feet, 5 inches; depth of hold 10 feet and tonnage 197. It was armed with ten 24 and 9-pounder guns. The schooner was placed in commission on 15 December 1831 when Lieutenant Commander Samuel W. Downing assumed command. Its original complement was nine officers and 63 men.  

ENTERPRISE V

The fifth Enterprise was a steam corvette with auxiliary sail power. Its hull was built of live oak in Portsmouth Naval Yard by John W. Griffith. It was launched 13 June 1874 and placed in commission 16 March 1877, Commander George C. Remey in command. The ship measured 185 feet between perpendiculars, breadth, 35 feet; depth of hold, 16 feet, 2 inches; tonnage 615, and displacement 1,375 tons. It had a speed of 11.4 knots and a complement of 20 officers and 164 men. Its original armament was one 11-inch moth bore, four 9-inch broadside guns, one 60-pounder pivot, and 1 short Gatling gun.

ENTERPRISE VI

The sixth Enterprise was a 66-foot motor patrol craft purchased by the Navy on 6 December 1916. It was placed in the service of the Second Naval District on 25 September 1917 and performed harbor tug duties at Newport, Rhode Island. It shifted to New Bedford, Massachusetts, on 11 December 1917 for operations inside the breakwaters and was transferred to the Bureau of Fisheries on 2 August 1919.  

ENTERPRISE VII (CV 6)

The seventh Enterprise (CV 6) was the first of the Enterprise ships to receive the nickname of Big ‘E’. Other nicknames included the Lucky ‘E’, the ‘Grey Ghost’ and the ‘Galopping Ghost’. CV-6 became the sixth aircraft carrier to join the U.S. Navy fleet upon its commissioning as a Yorktown-class carrier. It had an overall length of 827 feet and displaced more than 32,000 tons of water. Enterprise fought in many of the key Pacific theater battles of World War II, and was one of only three American carriers commissioned prior to World War II to survive the war (along with USS Saratoga and USS Ranger).

Enterprise was ordered to serve in the Pacific fleet in April 1939, and was sent underway to conduct training and transport Marine Fighter Squadron 211 (VMF-211) to Wake Island in November 1941. Big ‘E’ was returning to the Hawaiian island of Oahu on the morning of Dec. 7, 1941 when it received news of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Enterprise became one of the first ships to respond to its nation’s call to war and went on to earn 20 battle stars, the most for any U.S. warship in World War II, for the crucial roles it played in numerous battles including Midway, Guadalcanal, Leyte Gulf, and the ‘Doolittle Raid’ on Tokyo. Japanese forces announced that the Big ‘E’ had been sunk in battle on three separate occasions throughout its Pacific campaign.

After its legendary World War II service, the first Big ‘E’ was decommissioned on Feb. 17, 1947 as the most decorated ship in U.S. naval history.

ENTERPRISE VIII (CVN 65)

In 1954, Congress authorized the construction of the world’s first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, the eighth U.S. ship to bear the name Enterprise.

The giant ship was to be powered by eight nuclear reactors, two for each of its four propeller shafts. This was a daring undertaking. for never before had two nuclear reactors ever been harnessed together. As such, when the engineers first started planning the ship’s propulsion system, they were uncertain how it would work, or even if it would work according to their theories.

Materials used by the shipyard included 60,923 tons of steel; 1507 tons of aluminum; 230 miles of pipe and tubing; and 1700 tons of one-quarter-inch welding rods. The materials were supplied from more than 800 companies. Nine hundred shipyard engineers and designers created the ship on paper, and the millions of blueprints they created, laid end-to-end, would stretch 2400 miles, or from Miami to Los Angeles.

Three years and nine months after construction began, Enterprise was ready to present to the world as “The First, The Finest” super carrier.

The newly-christened Enterprise left the shipyard for six days of builder and Navy pre-acceptance trials. Its escort during the trials, destroyer Laffey, sent this message; “Subject: Speed Trails. 1. You win the race. 2. Our wet hats are off to an area thoroughbred.” When the Big “E” returned to port, the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral George W. Anderson, Jr., stated enthusiastically, “I think we’ve hit the jackpot.”

After years of planning and work by thousands the day finally arrived. At the commissioning of Enterprise, the world’s first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, Secretary of the Navy John B. Connally Jr. called it a worthy successor to the highly decorated seventh USS Enterprise of World War II. “The fighting Gray Lady, as it was called, served in such well-known battles as the raid on Tokyo and the Battle of Midway.” Secretary Connally went on to say, “The new Enterprise will reign a long, long time as queen of the seas.”

In October 1962, Enterprise was dispatched to its first international crisis. Enterprise and other ships in the Second Fleet set up quarantine of all military equipment under shipment to communist Cuba. The blockade was put in place on October 24, and the first Soviet ship was stopped the next day. On October 28, Soviet leader Krushchev agreed to dismantle nuclear missiles and bases in Cuba, concluding the Cuban Missile Crisis, the closest the U.S. and USSR have ever come to nuclear war.

In the Fall of 2001, Enterprise aborted her transit home from a long deployment after the terrorist attacks in New York City and Washington D.C., on Sept. 11, and steamed overnight to the North Arabian Sea. In direct support of Operation Enduring Freedom, Big ‘E’ once again took its place in history by becoming one of the first units to respond in a crisis with its awesome striking power. Enterprise expended more than 800,000 pounds of ordnance during the operation. The ship returned to home port at Naval Station Norfolk November 10, 2001.

Following several more deployments and an extended shipyard period that began in 2008, Enterprise embarked on its 21st deployment in January 2011, during which the carrier supported operations Enduring Freedom, New Dawn and multiple anti-piracy missions. During its six-month tour of duty, Big ‘E’ made port visits to Lisbon, Portugal, Marmaris, Turkey, the Kingdom of Bahrain and Mallorca, Spain.

Big ‘E’ became the fourth aircraft carrier in naval history to record 400,000 arrested landings on May 24, 2011. The milestone landing was made by an F/A-18F Super Hornet piloted by Lt. Matthew L. Enos and Weapon System Officer Lt. Cmdr. Jonathan Welsh from the Red Rippers of Strike Fighter Squadron (VFA) 11.

On November 25, 2011, Big ‘E’ celebrated its 50th birthday, making the carrier the oldest active duty ship in the U.S. Naval fleet. After 25 deployments and 51 years of active service, ENTERPRISE was officially inactivated December 1, 2012 and is currently undergoing an extensive terminal offload program leading up to her eventual decommissioning. For more than two centuries, ENTERPRISE Sailors have set the standard for excellence aboard the eight ships to proudly bear her name, and will continue to do so upon the future commissioning of the ninth ENTERPRISE (CVN 80).

I’m Dave Werner, and earlier this year I joined the Naval History and Heritage Command (NHHC) to help lead the Communication and Outreach efforts. I couldn’t be happier. We have some work to do, but our team is energized and grateful to have the responsibility for sharing the naval history narrative. Learning from the past is important for us as citizens and as a country, but it doesn’t have to be like what you remember from high school history class.

It’s in that spirit that we’re going to put naval history into motion on Twitter, and reprise an old Twitter account I used to author for the Navy (@NavyNews). For a variety of reasons we’re changing the handle to @HistoryNavyNews, but I’ll be at the helm once again (that’s why the account is named “NavyHistoryNewstoMe”). It will serve alongside the NHHC account @NavyHistoryNews for those who prefer their naval history tidbits served in a more traditional style.

Let’s face it: There’re a lot of naval history buffs out there with their own version of how things may have gone down in our past. And, yes, I make more than my fair share of typos. Heck: It’ll be fewer than 140 characters at a time – how far astray can I go? I do plan to challenge your thinking, and, on occasion, try to make you smile.  

History is not – or should not – be found only in a pile of dusty books in the back of a library. It’s a roadmap (err… navigation chart) of where we’ve been. So frequently our Navy – our nation – has sailed in uncharted waters, but always on a course guided by values like freedom, liberty and security. Sure, we’ve made a few course corrections as the times changed, the technology advanced, and the geopolitical backdrop morphed. But what happens on the water still affects us all. To understand the impact the U.S. Navy makes in our daily lives, think of the 70-80-90 rule. Seventy percent of the earth is covered by water, 80 percent of the earth’s population lives near the ocean, and 90 percent of international trade travels by sea.   

It’s time you to get your sea legs. Join me as @HistoryNavyNews gets underway again – with a new set of sails.

So, where is it exactly our nation wants to go? I’m thinking we’ve been there before.

This August 1945 Proceedings article was published by P. H. Magruder, former Secretary of the Naval Academy as “The U.S. Naval Academy and Annapolis During the Civil War 1861-1865: An outline of the conspicuous part displayed by the locality during those tragic days”.

There may be relatively few of this generation who realize what a very in­teresting and important part Annap­olis and the Naval Academy played in the Civil War, particularly in its early stages. Annapolis, on account of its close proximity to Washington, naturally became an impor­tant strategic position for the defense of the Capital, especially as the geographic position of Annapolis on the Chesapeake, with a steam railroad direct to Washington, made it an important focal point in the early stages of that defense. The fact that Maryland was directly adjacent to the Mason and Dixon line caused her population to be very evenly divided in their sympathies between the Union and the Confederacy.

In April of 1861 the secessionist elements of Maryland were rapidly organizing in their strenuous efforts to have Maryland secede, and the situation appeared grave, as it was almost inevitable that the National Government would employ a large force to defeat such a move. Attempts had been made by Southern sympathizers to burn the bridges, over the rivers between Baltimore and the Susquehanna River, of the Philadel­phia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railroad, along which line dangerous rioting was in progress to prevent the passage of troops from the North for the defense of Washing­ton. To lessen this hazard, the Federal troops were diverted to water transport at Perry­ville, on the north bank of the Susquehanna, and brought down the Chesapeake to An­napolis and Baltimore in large numbers to disembark and continue by train for Wash­ington. This soon got the situation in better control. The Naval Academy and Annapolis became the pivotal point of operation for the disembarkation of troops, and vast numbers of transports filled the wharves and harbor, presenting a scene of great activity. This condition not only existed in the early stages of the war, but continued throughout. Large expeditions for the South were fitted out in Annapolis to join other units then organiz­ing. An unusual number of Army transports filled the inner harbor at the time General Burnside’s large expedition was forming. It has been estimated there were between 35,­000 and 40,000 troops in this vicinity at that time, and more than 70,000 troops were in Annapolis at different times during the pe­riod of the war. These troops were quartered within the Naval Academy reservation, which afterwards became an Army post, St. John’s College grounds, and later at Camp Parole and Camp Richmond adjoining, to­gether with other camps on towards South River.

Passing back to the problems confronting this locality, the Federal Government’s at­tention was kept closely fixed on this area, and considerable concern was felt about the events that were occurring here, as will be shown by the following letter of President Lincoln to General Scott, under date of April 25, 1861:

My dear Sir:—The Maryland legislature as­sembles tomorrow at Annapolis, and not improb­ably will take action to arm the people of the State against the United States. The question has been submitted to and considered by me, whether it would not be justifiable upon the grounds of necessary defence, for you, as Commander in Chief of the United States Army, to arrest or dis­perse the members of that body. I think it would not be justifiable nor efficient for the desired object. First, they have a clearly legal right to assemble; and we cannot know in advance that their action will not be lawful and peaceful. And if we wait until they shall have acted, their arrest or dispersion will not lessen the effect of their action. Secondly, we cannot permanently prevent their action. If we arrest them, we cannot long hold them as prisoners; and when liberated, they will immediately reassemble and take their action. And precisely the same if we simply disperse them. They will immediately reassemble in some other place.

I therefore conclude that it is only left to the commanding general to watch and wait their action which, if it shall be to arm their people against the United States, he is to adopt the most prompt and efficient means to counteract, even if necessary to the bombardment of their cities; in the extremest necessity, the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus. (Lincoln to Scott, April 25, 1861. Unpublished MS. See Abraham Lincoln-A History-The Border States, by John Nicolay and John Hay, private Sec. to President Lincoln.)

Thus directed, General Scott wrote to General Butler on the following day:

In the absence of the undersigned, the fore­going instructions are turned over to Brigadier General B. F. Butler of the Massachusetts Volunteers, or other officer commanding at An­napolis, who will carry them out in the right spirit, that is, with moderation and firmness. In case of arrested individuals notorious for their hostility to the United States, the prisoners will be safely kept and duly cared for, but not surrendered except on the order of the commander aforesaid. (Scott to Butler, April 26, 1861, War Records.)

At the last moment, however, realizing what some of their members were meditating against the Government, the Maryland legis­lature abandoned the idea of meeting at Annapolis, and induced the Governor to convene their special session at the town of Frederick. There Governor Hicks sent them his special message of the 27th, reciting the recent occurrences, transmitting his corre­spondence with the various Federal authori­ties, and expressing the conviction “that the only safety of Maryland lies in preserving a neutral position between the brethren of the North and of the South.” At the same time he admitted the right of transit of Federal troops, and counseled “that we shall array ourselves for Union and peace.” (Hicks’ Spe­cial Message, April 27, 1861. Rebellion Rec­ords.) The Federal authorities felt that the lack of coherence and consistency in the message was atoned for by its underlying spirit of loyalty.

Meanwhile the plentiful arrival of volun­teers enabled the Government to strengthen its hold on Annapolis and the railroad. The military “Department of Annapolis” was created, and General Butler assigned to its command. This embraced 20 miles on each side of the railroad from Annapolis to Wash­ington. (Gen. Orders No. 12, War Records of April 27, 1861.)

Prior to the arrival of General Butler’s troops at the Naval Academy on Monday afternoon, April 22, orders had already been received by Captain Blake, then Superin­tendent, from the Navy Department to make immediate preparations for the removal of the Academy from Annapolis. Accordingly, the midshipmen, stores, equipment, and the necessary personnel were hurriedly placed on board the frigate Constitution, then moored to the old Constitution Wharf, named in her honor. At the appointed hour of the sailing of the ship for her unknown destination, the Constitution was found to be aground, as she had been loaded too heavily. The command­ing officer knew that the ship was resting in the mud, but it was expected that she would easily float at high water before the hour set for departure. Unfortunately, the wind had been from the northwest for several days, causing unusually low water, and the ex­pected high water did not appear at the hour of sailing. It was necessary to lighten the ship, and the easiest way was to remove the guns from the gun deck, rather than disturb the cargo stowed below. This delayed the sailing and greatly worried Captain Blake, as it occurred just at the moment when there arose the menace of the serious riots in Mary­land, and the report that the Confederates were about to capture the Naval Academy and Annapolis, together with the famed Con­stitution and her valuable cargo and per­sonnel. Luckily for Captain Blake and the Government, General Butler suddenly ap­peared with the advance troops of his Massa­chusetts Volunteers on board the powerful steamer Maryland, which he had taken at Perryville at the head of the bay.

As preparations had already been well under way for the removal of the Academy to some other point of safety, Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles had telegraphed Superintendent Blake on April 20 the follow­ing historic message: “Defend the Constitu­tion at all hazards; if this cannot be done, destroy her.” From that message and from the letter of President Lincoln to General Scott above cited, it may be seen what very serious apprehension and concern the Federal authorities felt about conditions in Annap­olis.

While General Butler’s troops were the first to arrive at Annapolis, they were not the first to land. That honor was reserved for the Seventh New York Volunteer Regi­ment, commanded by Colonel Lefferts, whose regiment landed on the grounds of the Academy, about five o’clock Monday after­noon, April 22. General Butler’s troops were landed afterwards.

It was immediately decided by General Butler and Captain Blake to start the Con­stitution on her way. So promptly the steamer Maryland with the ship in tow finally made Annapolis Roads, and then the Constitution spread her sails and soon dis­appeared down the Chesapeake, finally reaching New York safely. On April 27, the Academy was ordered to be re-estab­lished at Newport. The liner Baltic, then used as a transport between New York and Annapolis, was ordered to take the officers, professors, and their families, together with the civilian personnel, to the new seat of the Naval Academy. All the remaining furniture, books, models, and apparatus that could be transported were packed and placed aboard the transport, which arrived on May 9 at Newport. The Constitution with the midship­men on board had already arrived just two hours before the Baltic.

The steamer Maryland had towed the Constitution to Annapolis Roads with But­ler’s troops still on board, and in attempting to return to the harbor ran aground on the bar outside of Horn Point. There she lay for more than 30 hours.

While the Maryland was aground with the troops on board, Butler had already deter­mined to land his troops as soon as possible. To the surprise of everyone, and unheralded, the steamer Boston appeared at the harbor entrance with the Seventh New York Vol­unteer Regiment on board. These troops promptly landed at the Academy wharf. Thus Butler’s troops were not the first to land. The Boston then took off the Massachusetts troops from the Maryland. Most of these troops were quartered in the buildings of the Academy, and the rest encamped on the grounds. During the period while the Mary­land was ashore, Butler found it necessary to secure provisions for his troops by pur­chasing them from some of the local sup­pliers. Butler experienced no serious diffi­culty in obtaining all the meat and provisions necessary to feed his troops. He also experi­enced no difficulty in procuring the necessary teams to haul supplies to and from the rail­road depot.

After the departure of the Constitution and Baltic, Annapolis suddenly lost its nautical atmosphere. The familiar figures of naval of­ficers, midshipmen, and sailors on the streets were now replaced by swarms of army officers and soldiers with their unfamiliar uniforms. They also crowded the hotel lobbies and public places. “Ben” Butler was in charge of the town. He was not popular with the Southern sympathizers, who frowned on his usurpation of civil authority. General Butler did not remain long in Annapolis, leaving in early May of that year, but during his brief tenure he did big things in building mam­moth storehouses, hospital buildings, and roads. After seizing the railroad, he immedi­ately extended it to the Naval Academy water front, the line running from West Street Station down West Street to Taber­nacle Street (now College Avenue), through the Academy grounds to the end of a new wharf, afterwards known as the Santee Wharf. Over this road vast masses of army supplies and thousands of troops were hauled, embarking and disembarking in their various swift movements for the protec­tion of Washington and for the Army of the Potomac, and to Fortress Monroe and the South. This important base of operations was established here, for Annapolis was on the great inland waterway, accessible by water to the large eastern coastal ports of Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, and with railroad facilities direct to Washington and the interior. As soon as some of the regi­ments disembarked and entrained for Wash­ington and elsewhere, others replaced them, giving this locality a setting which it had not seen since Rochambeau’s and Lafayette’s troops encamped here in 1781 on their way to Yorktown.

It was decided by Butler to hold the Naval Academy long enough to receive reinforce­ments in order to prevent any efforts of the Confederates to shut off troops from Wash­ington. He also decided to hold Annapolis. And as he said, “From that time forth An­napolis was in the hands of the Union side.” Reinforcements for that purpose were not needed, as it was believed that a single com­pany would be sufficient to preserve order. There were few organized companies of militia in the State, only one in the entire county, and not more than one in the adjoin­ing counties between Annapolis and Wash­ington. If Maryland had not been classed as a border Southern State, and if the Union authorities could have foreseen that the pre­ponderance of her population were opposed to secession, it would have been unnecessary to remove the Naval Academy, certainly at that time.

The fitting out and the embarkation of the expedition of General Burnside’s army from Annapolis to the South added greatly to the already military atmosphere of the vicinity. Over 30,000 troops poured into the town, while the broad harbor of Annapolis was filled with army transports in preparation for the embarking of an invading army. This expedition brought General Grant to Annap­olis, and one of the incidents of the times was the grouping of General Grant, General Burnside, and Admiral Meade in the cor­ridor of the old City Hotel then located on Main Street.

After the mobilization and departure of the expeditions for the South, the buildings of the Naval Academy and St. John’s Col­lege were used as hospitals and camps for the sick and wounded, who were sent here in large numbers from the front, and Camp Parole and Camp Richmond were retained for paroled prisoners of war. These large camps were located about a quarter of a mile beyond the Camp Parole of today. Camp Richmond was on the right side, and Camp Parole on the left side, facing north. The old Annapolis and Elk Ridge Railroad passed between the two camps, which were scenes of vast activity and traffic.

The fine new Naval Academy of its day, just completed with its new buildings and beautifully parked grounds, was turned over to the War Department (the second time the Naval Academy grounds had been used as an army post). It was used as such until the return of the Academy to Annapolis in 1865, Congress having previously passed an act restoring it to its original location, be­ginning with the Academic year 1865-66. Whatever beauty the former Academy pos­sessed had been destroyed. The long row of willow trees that fringed the bay front had been eaten by the cavalry horses, wagon ruts ruined the lawns, sheds had been built on the parade grounds, to serve as beer rooms and sutler’s shops. Even the Colonial Super­intendent’s house had been turned into a billiard saloon. In September, 1865, Captain Blake, afterwards Commodore Blake, was relieved by Admiral Porter, after he had served under the most trying circumstances as Superintendent for eight years, the longest tenure in the history of the Academy.

Probably the most important and exciting event in the military history of Annapolis during the war, after the landing of the troops of the New York and Massachusetts Volunteers, was the alarm caused by the raid into Maryland of General Early in July, 1864, whose Confederate troops nearly reached the environs of Washington. The Federal authorities in Annapolis at once pro­ceeded to fortify the town, constructing en­trenchments from the head of Dorsey Creek to a Cove on Spa Creek, directly across the town. Some of these entrenchments remained until a few years ago, and the partial remains of some can still be identified. To further this work citizens of Annapolis were pressed into service, and marched daily to the breast­works, but the danger of the alarm subsided within three or four days.

During the period warships of different nations visited Annapolis at various times; conspicuous among them were the English and Russians, which somewhat complicated the already divided opinion. The English sloop of war Racer arrived in Annapolis Har­bor on September 11, 1862, anchored off the Naval Academy, and remained for some time.

During the entire period of the war there was a fleet of six Russian men-of-war on our Atlantic seaboard. In January, 1864, two of these ships visited Annapolis. The Varaig and Almaz appeared in the harbor and be­came frozen in the ice of that winter. The other four ships visited Washington.

USS Los Angeles (ZR-3), moored to USS Patoka (AO-9), off Panama during Fleet Problem XII, circa February 1931.
Photo #: NH 73285

1931: The USS Los Angeles (ZR-3) was a rigid airship built in 1923–1924 in Friedrichshafen, Germany but was surrendered to the US Navy by the German Government as part of the war reparations from World War I. The ZR-3 went on to log a total of 4,398 hours of flight, covering a distance of 172,400 nautical miles (319,300 km) traveling to places in both the Pacific and the Atlantic. It served as an observatory and experimental platform, as well as a training ship for other airships. The USS Patoka (AO-9) was a fleet oiler named after the Patoka River and was made famous as a tender for airships.

KEY WEST, Florida (April 24, 2013) Military Sealift Command-chartered vessel HSV 2 Swift (HSV 2) with a tethered TIF-25K Aerostat. (U.S. Navy photo by Lt. Cmdr. Corey Barker/Released)

2013: The Military Sealift Command’s high-speed vessel Swift (HSV 2) with a tethered TIF-25K aerostat gets underway from Key West, Florida on 24 April to conduct a series of at-sea capabilities tests to determine if the aerostat can support future operations in the U.S. 4th fleet area of responsibility. The TIF-25K, which can be deployed and operational within a few hours of arrival on site, supports not only communications and intelligence gathering but also surveillance and reconnaissance activities. The HSV 2 is a non-commissioned, hybrid catamaran originally leased by the Navy as a mine countermeasure and sea basing test platform. It is now primarily used for fleet support and humanitarian partnership missions and its home port is Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek in Norfolk, VA.

This article, titled “Manila Bay in 1898″ and written by Captain Edward L. Beach, was published in the April 1920 issue of Proceedings.

Recently I have read journals and letters I wrote in 1898 while attached to the U. S. S. Baltimore in Manila Bay. The events of those stirring days come vividly to mind and are fresh in memory as if they had happened yesterday. What follows is a narrative of those events as they seemed at the time to a participant, so this article is not history. No attempt is made to give a connected account or description of Admiral Dewey’s campaign. A person in a battle, particularly if he plays a subordinate part, sees but a small part of the actual battle, and his mental vision generally is limited. All that is offered in this paper are the views and ideas of a subordinate officer whose own part was not large, and these views are given as they existed at the time, uninfluenced and unmodified by knowledge gained later. Here goes!

Late in April, 1898, the U. S. S. Baltimore, in company with other ships of Commodore Dewey’s squadron, left Mirs Bay, China, bound for Manila.

The captain of the Baltimore was Nehemiah Mayo Dyer, who was then 60 years old. Captain Dyer had entered the navy during the Civil War as a volunteer officer. Previous to this he had seen rough service in whaling ships. I think that by nature he had a vehement temper, and that this had been accentuated by his early training in merchant ships where the crews frequently were rough and disorderly and understood better the meaning of hard knocks than of soft words. Aboard the Baltimore Captain Dyer some­times seemed unnecessarily harsh. His standards of character and duty were high. And when, as happened at times, he believed officers and crew did not measure up to his standards, his re­proofs and reprimands were expressed in violent language. His uncompromising intolerance, his harsh temper, caused us to fear him at all times, and sometimes to carry with us a sense of injury. But in time we came to know he was magnificent in his efforts to keep his ship and his officers and crew high in efficiency and high in morale. Though not gentle in methods he was withal an officer and a gentleman of the highest, truest type; and in remembrance of his sterling character the Navy Department has recently named a new destroyer Dyer.

When we steamed away from Mirs Bay, that April day, we knew but little of the Philippine Islands, not even that Manila was spelled with but one “l.” Rumor, eagerly believed, told us that the narrow entrances leading from the outside to Manila Bay were filled with mines and defended by high-powered modern coast defense cannon, all of which added to the intense interest that was with us.

On the second day out “all hands” were called aft to the quar­terdeck. Here Captain Dyer made a speech to his ship’s company.

“Men of the Baltimore,” he began, ” I will read to you a proc­lamation recently made by the Spanish Governor General at Manila. It is as follows:

Spaniards, the North American people, constituted of all the social ex­crescences, have exhausted our patience and provoked war with their perfidious machinations, with their acts of treachery, with their against the law of nations and international conventions.

The struggle will be short and decisive. The God of victories will give us one as brilliant as the justice of our cause demands. Spain will emerge triumphantly from this new test, humiliating and blasting the adventures from those states that, without cohesion and without a history, offer to humanity only infamous traditions and the ungrateful spectacle of chambers in which appear united insolence and defamation, cowardice and cynicism.

A squadron manned by foreigners, possessing neither instruction nor discipline, is preparing to come to this archipelago with the ruffianly intention of robbing us of all that means life, honor, and liberty. to be inspired by a courage of which they are incapable, the North American seamen undertake as an enterprise capable of realization the substitution of Protestantism for the Catholic religion you possess, to you as tribes refractory to civilization, to take possession of your riches, and to kidnap those persons whom they consider useful to man their or to be exploited in agricultural or industrial labor.

Vain designs! Ridiculous boastings!

Your indomitable bravery will frustrate these attempts. You will not allow the faith you profess to be made a mock of impious hands. The aggressors shall not profane the tombs of your fathers, they shall not gratify their lustful passions at the cost of your wives’ and daughters’ honor, nor appropriate the property that your industry has accumulated. No! They shall not perpetrate any of the crimes inspired by their wicked­ness and covetousness, because your valor and patriotism will suffice to punish them and abase them.

There was more to this proclamation. Captain Dyer’s clear, penetrating voice, rang out with increasing indignation. He also read, though not as part of this proclamation, a Spanish statement which said that “the American President, McKinley, is a natur­alized Chinaman from Canton.”

I laugh now as I recall the picture of Captain Dyer stamping on that paper as if it were a Spaniard, but the effect then was to carry officers and crew headlong with him. We were all as mad as he was.

We now began to make preparation for the battle that we knew awaited us. After the Baltimore had been built particular attention had been called by writers on naval subjects to the fact that in sea battles much damage was always caused by wooden splinters flying about, killing and wounding men, and spreading fires. So one of our drills had been, when the order “Clear ship for action” was given, to tie tags marked “overboard” to all sorts of wooden articles, such as chairs, desks, ladders, tables, etc. So now we were engaged in “clearing ship” in earnest, stripping her, getting her ready for battle, and throwing overboard hundreds of different articles. I’ll always remember the grief displayed by our chap­lain when he saw his pulpit heaved overboard.

At about 1 o’clock Sunday morning, May the first, we slowly steamed into the South Channel entrance to Manila Bay. The night was dark. The sky overcast with clouds. The ships were all completely darkened. We were now but 25 miles from Manila. Everybody except those on duty below was on deck. No one wished to sleep. We all knew that soon we would be in battle and a tense expectancy possessed us. So we gathered in groups about the deck and talked in low tones. Ahead of us could be seen the dim shape of Commodore Dewey’s flagship, the Olympia. Astern of the Baltimore were the other four ships of squadron. I was in the starboard waist, amidships, looking to­wards the shadowy shore, less than a mile distant. Suddenly, in the direction I was looking, there was a vivid streak of fire, the reverberating roar of a great gun, and a violent rush of wind. I was wild with delight. Always had I hoped that some time I might have the sensation of being “under fire.” I had longed to know just how I would feel. Would I be scared or excited? Or would I be “cool, calm, and collected” ? Such had been boyish thoughts, and finally this desired experience had come. Again and again the fort fired at us, at me, I felt in my heart, the shots all missing me by but a narrow margin, passing directly over my head. First I estimated the shots had cleared me by 50 feet. But the more I thought of the distance, the closer I felt each shot had come. So I reduced my first estimate to 40 feet, then to 20, and finally, with further thought, came down to two. I thought of taking off these two feet, but realized that this would have taken off my head, so I felt that two feet was about right. And I had been no more scared than when throwing the chaplain’s pulpit overboard.

While engaged in these delightful, exultant estimates, officer ran up from forward. “Say Beach,” he exclaimed, ” I was on the forecastle, each one of those shots passed right over head, the last one was so close the wind of it blew my cap off.”

I was just about to make an indignant rejoinder when an officer came up from aft. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shouted. “I was on the poop deck, not one of those shots passed 10 feet away from me.” I later quarrelled with officers from the five other ships, each of them foolishly maintaining that each shot had passed close to him. So this question was never settled.

We were now headed for Cavite, which is seven miles by from Manila, 20 miles by land. Here the Spanish Navy Yard was located, and here the Spanish warships were awaiting us.

The Baltimore began to shoot at 20 minutes before 6 that Sunday morning, May 1, 1898. I shall describe only that part of the battle, of which, when it was over, I had intimate, personal knowledge. So I shall not, in learned fashion, describe the tactics employed, because I was in the Baltimore‘s engine room and didn’t see any tactics nor did I know anything about them. Nor will I tell about the relative power of the opposing forces, hits per gun per minute, nor of the thousands of incidents that give life and vividness to a battle and which bring victory or defeat. All that I saw of the battle of Manila Bay was the inside of the Baltimore‘s engine room, with its hot steam valves, and cylinders, and pumps. The oilers and machinists, dripping with perspiration, rushing about. And I saw something else—Irwin’s shoes; and kept on seeing them throughout the fight.

I was at my station in the after engine room, operating the reversing and starting levers and throttle valves of the starboard engine. Assistant Engineer Brice had the same duty for the port engine; Assistant Engineer Cone was in the forward fire­room. Chief Engineer Ford was with me. Captain Dyer was on the bridge. My station was directly under the engine-room hatch. Looking up, through the hatch gratings, I could see the bottoms of the soles of Ensign Irwin’s shoes. Vertically upward from these shoes for a distance of six feet and three inches, extended one hundred and ninety pounds of vibrant Americanism, known as Irwin. He had taken a place which gave him a clear view of the enemy’s ships, and where he could advantageously direct the fire of his four 6-inch guns.

This engine-room hatch was a veritable sounding box. The roars from our own guns came reverberating down this hatch, tre­mendously magnified. Near to one of the Baltimore‘s 8-inch or 6-inch guns the sound of the report was muffled compared with the crashing, smashing, banging reverberations that came blasting down the engine-room hatch. Although our ships were all firing, and were all close to the Baltimore, I never heard a shot from any of them. At the end of the battle my impressions were a dripping, sweating engine room, a series of hundreds of deafening, ear­-bursting explosions, and Irwin’s shoes.

In battle it is only the leaders who have occasion to see things in a big sense. The rest of us are there to obey orders, to shoot and hit what we shoot at, to steer the ship, to work the engines as directed. We are not attending a show as spectators; the vision of each of us is small. And at a battle’s conclusion a man’s mind is too intent on what he is doing to take mental note of matters outside of his own duties. Later, for months, the battle is the chief topic of conversation, it is in the atmosphere he breathes, he absorbs all sorts of information and acquires intimate knowl­edge of the battle, obtains a clear mental picture of all details. I remember that after the battle of Manila Bay I wanted to write home all I saw of the fight, and of how little I had at first to write about. I believe that in the Battle of Manila Bay I made a record never equalled in the history of warfare, that of looking steadily, hour after hour, through the ear-blasting roar of great guns, at the bottom of a man’s shoes. I was constantly interrupted by sig­nals from the bridge, to increase or decrease speed of the star­board engine, to reverse it, and stop it, and occasionally gave
orders to machinists and oilers. But when not so employed, was constantly looking upward and shoeward.

At my station were the speaking tubes connecting with the bridge and with different places, amongst them the fire-rooms. Price and I were the only means of communication between the firerooms, which for protection against bursting shell were down by heavy armored gratings, and the rest of the world.

Some minutes after the shooting began I was called up by forward fireroom.

” What is it?” I shouted through the speaking tube.

“Hello, Beach. This is Cone, speaking. Send me some newsto cheer up my men.”

” No one has sent me any news, Cone, but I’ll bet that Irwin’s shoes—.”

“I’m not interested in Irwin’s shoes nor in excuses. Send me news of the fight right away.”

Down the hatch crashed the language of 8-inch guns, stopping the conversation for the moment. Then I called up the forward fireroom.

“Hello!” I shouted, “report to Mr. Cone that the Olympia has just sunk the Spanish flagship.” I kept my ear to the tube. “Hooray,” was all the answer me. But I heard my message repeated. Then a wild cheer. Then a furnace door slammed shut, and an Irish voice sang out; “Take that, ye damn durrry dago.”

A few minutes later I was again called up.

” Hello, Beach, send me some news of the fight! ”

” Say, Cone. Irwin’s shoes—.”

” Drop that. What other Spanish ships have we sunk.”

I had received no pews of any description, not one word. They were too busy on deck with the guns to bother about news bulletins. And in fact, at the time, the effect of our shots on the Spanish ships was not known. But explanations would not have been interesting in the fireroom. So I shouted: “The Baltimore has just sunk a Spanish cruiser.” Loud hurrahs came back to me through the speaking tube when Cone repeated this.

Five minutes later I was again called by Cone. “The temperature here is 170°,” he said. “Send more news, lots of news, omit all reference to Irwin’s shoes.”

And then I started in in earnest. Every few minutes I sent a bulletin to the forward fireroom. My ferocity was ungovern­able. I sank Spanish battleships, cruisers, gunboats, and torpedo­ boats, without count. For four hours, at from five-to ten-minute intervals, I destroyed Spanish warships. Commodore Dewey that day sank 11 ships. My record was afterward counted up to be 96.

It was boiling hot in the fireroom. We were running slowly, so there was but little to do, and as all three watches were at their stations the firerooms were crowded with men. My bulletins served to keep them interested and contented. I may have, in the excitement of the moment, not sent in accurate bulletins. But it is quite certain that 100 per cent of the Spanish ships that fought us were sunk.

At different times I would ask the chief engineer, Mr. Ford, a fine old veteran of the Civil War, questions. He had been with Farragut in the latter’s battles, and therefore was an authority.

“Chief,” I asked, ” is this a real battle? ”

Mr. Ford smiled. “Yes,” he replied, ” this is a real fight, and a big one, too.” And to accentuate his remark, deafening answers came down the hatch.

” Chief,” I later asked, ” do you think that Irwin’s shoes—.”

But my question was lost in a wild, overwhelming uproar. I knew we had been hit. Right over my head was a terrific crash. The effect was so shattering that I momentarily thought a tre­mendous shell had burst in the hatch. It afterwards developed that a 4.7 solid shot from the Isla de Cuba had pierced the Baltimore‘s starboard bulkhead, the sides of the engine-room hatch, passing 18 inches below Irwin’s shoes; it struck the curved inside of the shield of a port 6-inch gun, carromed as a billiard ball, and at the end of its mad flight lay spinning in the starboard waterway. It had entirely encircled one of Irwin’s gun crews but had hit none of them.

The Baltimore was struck in all seven times and had eight men slightly wounded. Most of the other ships were struck, but none received injuries that were serious. I did not hear of any inci­dents that happened aboard any of the other ships, except the Raleigh. Here, as I was told later, the “powder division officer,” who had charge of supplying all of the guns with ammunition, and whose men were servants, bandsmen, coal passers, and others, had not nearly enough work to do to keep his men busy. It does not take many men to hoist up 5-inch shell and powder charges. So, after using every man he could, he formed the leftovers, colored servants and other colored men, into a dancing party below decks. And while bombs were bursting in air, and the Raleigh‘s guns were vomiting destruction into Spanish ships, deep down in the Raleigh, as fiddles were scraping, it was:

“Balance yo’ pahdnahs,
Dos y dos,
Chassy toe yo’ right,
Gran’ right ‘n left.”

This ends my description of the Battle of Manila Bay. I fear it will never be referred to as an historical document. In vain will one look in it for statistics and ponderous facts, for the number of misses per gun per minute, for the strategy and tactics and for that awful thing, logistics. At the end of the fight all I knew was that we had met the Spaniards and had destroyed them. For further technical information the reader is referred to official reports. For further infonnation concerning Irwin’s shoes, apply to the captain of the super-dreadnaught Oklahoma.

The next day the Baltimore proceeded to Mariveles, a town to the entrance of Manila Bay, where a Spanish fort was located. Captain Dyer demanded the surrender of this fort. The Spanish colonel, whose name was Cáramba, or Miranda, was most anxious to surrender, but in worried tones he informed Captain Dyer that the Baltimore had anchored in the midst of a mine field and was in imminent danger of being blown into the Spanish equivalent of smithereens; he could not be responsible for the safety of the Baltimore, nor, should she be torpedoed, could he bear the
of being accused of treachery by the Americans after he had surrendered. Would Captain Dyer please withdraw to a place not far away, which he would guarantee was free from mines? And, because thousands of hostile natives were gathering around the fort, animated by the purpose of wreaking vengeance against the hated Spanish soldiers, would Captain Dyer please, for pro­tection, allow his wife and daughter, Señora and Señorita Cáramba, to come aboard the Baltimore?

Captain Dyer would. So the Baltimore moved to a place of safety, and Señora Cáramba and her daughter then came on board and were given the admiral’s cabin to live in.

That night Ellicott had the middle watch as officer of the deck. It was a pleasant, peaceful night; the stars were bright, the breezes balmy; but there was a Spanish fort on shore, not far away. True, the colonel commanding had agreed to surrender, but we had not taken possession; and in it were stores of mines and torpedoes. It was conceivable that some fanatic might try to attach a torpedo or mine to the Baltimore and destroy the hated American ship, or gain access to a magazine and there start a fire. Less than three months previously the Maine had been destroyed. Or, under cover of darkness, some desperate Spanish soldiers might man some boats and pull to the Baltimore and attempt to steal aboard, over­whelm the watch on deck, and get possession of the ship.

Ellicott had all of these things in mind, careful officer that he was. He did not propose that any surprise of any nature should be worked off on him that night. So he had armed picket boats constantly steam around the ship, and sentries posted in many places about the decks, all keeping a wary lookout. The exciting and stirring event that occurred that night in no way caught Ellicott off his guard—he was prepared for it.

At 1 o’clock everything seemed peaceful. Far forward on the forecastle, the marine sentry, at the stroke of the bell, called out, in slow, singing tones, “Post number one, and all’s well!” Each sentry, in his turn, passed the hail. It was reassuring. The sentries were wide awake, and on their jobs. Yet Ellicott was not lulled into security. Suddenly he thought he detected a faint but pungent odor of something burning. Ellicott sniffed slowly, care­fully. “That is certainly something burning,” he remarked, “and of a most strange and peculiar flavor.” So quietly he called the quartermaster. The latter sniffed, and smiled in superior dis­belief. Then suddenly exclaimed: “Mr. Ellicott! You’re right! I smell something burning, a most remarkable smell, I never smelled nothin’ like that, sorr, in all me life!”

” Keep quiet,” ordered Ellicott, who was not to be rattled in spite of the hundreds of tons of ammunition in the magazine directly beneath him.

So Ellicott, accompanied by the quartermaster, went to different sentries near by; soon they all smelt this pungent, delicate burning odor; but it was difficult to locate where it came from. Then Ellicott quietly made a careful inspection. The odor grew stronger and stronger. Ellicott awakened Gunner Connelly; the magazines were opened—there was no smell in any of them. Gradually offi­cers and men were awakened and got up; some were worried and begged Ellicott to sound the general alarm, which would have turned everybody out and sent him to his station. “Not yet,” said Ellicott, tersely. He was not to be stampeded and had the situation in hand.

The strength of this burning odor constantly augmented. Finally Ellicott located it in the stairway leading below to the admiral’s cabin. It was unmistakably here. I’ll never forget the excitement that existed amongst us as we saw Ellicott disap­pear down that black hole, nor the calm way in which he said, as he was descending, “Do not sound the general alarm unless something happens below that should make it necessary.” Many of us never expected to see him again, and all 0f us believed the would be blown up within a minute. An intense excitement existed; but not a word was spoken. Complete silence reigned.

Ellicott followed the smell to the door of the room where Señora Cáramba and her daughter were sleeping. He knocked on the door, steadily but gently, and in kindly, rather soft tones said: “Open the door, please.”

“Quien es? Oh, Santa Maria! Quien es? Que quiere? ”

“Only Lieutenant Ellicott, ma’am; something is burning in room. Please open your door.”

“Oh, Dios mio! Maria Santissima! No comprendo! Que quiere? ” came in affrighted exclamation from the inside of the room.

Then Ellicott replied in Spanish, “No tenga miedo, Señora; alga esta quemando en su cuarto. Hagame el favor de abrir la puerta.”

Ellicott spoke so kindly that evidently Señora Cáramba gathered confidence, for here she opened wide the door. But one couldn’t say “Darkness there, and nothing more”; because there was sufficient light in the room clearly to explain (observe the proper use of the unsplit infinitive, please, and the quotation from Poe’s Raven) the terrible, sinister, threatening mystery.

When Señorita Cáramba went to bed she did not know how to turn out the electric light, so, to dim it, she wound her black stocking about it.

The heat of this light scorched and charred the stocking, pro­ducing this strange burning odor. But for Ellicott’s good, clear sense, the general alarm would have been sounded, and every man in the ship would have believed that thousands of Spaniards were attacking us. It was amazing that such a little, innocent, harmless thing as a stocking could have caused such an uproar. I remember the relief we then experienced, as if we had narrowly escaped from a great danger.

But I must proceed with my tale of inconsequential happenings. The unimportant things that occurred at Manila have been too long neglected.

The Baltimore returned to her anchorage off Cavite. In my letters written at the time there is constant reference to the heat. Pitch boiled out of the deck seams. Steam was kept up on all boilers, the engines were kept in constant readiness to move. No awnings were spread. So the ship never had an opportunity to cool off. At night all battle ports were in place, so even then there was no relief below. The days were hot and listless, there was but little work going on, mail seldom came to the ship, so we had but little to do except to think of our physical discomforts, the heat, the uninviting food, the lack of clean linen. At night we would gather in gun sponsons and eagerly discuss rumors, and talk of immediate probabilities.

A few days after the battle, before the 8 a. m. colors were hoisted, a little Spanish gunboat, hardly bigger than a good-sized launch, steamed proudly past our ships towards the Cavite Naval Station; her Spanish ensign dancing gaily to the breeze. A shot across her bow gave her a painful surprise. It was the Callao. She had been amongst the Southern Islands and her captain had brought her to Cavite not knowing that war existed between Spain and the United States. So Admiral Dewey cabled to Washington that the Callao had surrendered to him.

Secretary of the Navy Long had been much interested in col­leges and had evidenced this, when the war broke out, by renaming two merchant ships chartered by the navy as the Yale and the Harvard. So, in response to Admiral Dewey’s report about the Callao, he cabled directions to the Admiral to suggest the name of some American educational institution for the Callao. Admiral Dewey answered, recommending the Callao be renamed The United States Ship Massachusetts Institute of Technology. As the Callao would hardly have been long enough to have painted this name on her side, she remained the Callao.

Soon warships of other nations came to Manila Bay—British, French, German, and Japanese. We felt the Germans did not have good sea manners. When, during war, a blockade is established, foreign warships by international custom and courtesy recognize the authority of the blockading Admiral, and always go the form of asking permission to anchor, and to communicate with the blockaded city. This is granted, because a foreign warship is on honor to observe the rules of the blockade, such as not to take anything in or out of the blockaded city, or to deliver or receive mail. But the German ships were careless of such courtesies. I do not know they ever violated the blockade rules instituted by Admiral Dewey, but they violated the usual courtesies accorded the blockading admiral, by anchoring without permission, by having their officers visit the city of Manila without permission. We knew the Germans sympathized with Spain, and we felt they were insolent. On August 12, in response to Admiral Dewey’s notification that he would summon Manila to surrender the next day, the German Admiral Von Diedrichs sent word to Admiral asking where the latter wished the German ships placed during the expected bombardment.

“Anywhere outside of the reach of my guns,” was the Dewey-esque reply. It was said that von Diedrichs, in true German fashion, scratched his head over this reply and never did understand it.

On Thursday, June 30, the Baltimore, which had left previously to meet transports carrying American soldiers, steamed into Manila Bay, leading these army transports. As we passed Mariveles the German squadron, which had steam up, weighed anchor, tailed on to our line, and followed us into Cavite. This was an instance of the German manners of the time. Considering the tense, strained conditions, these manners were resented by
were considered insolent and unfriendly.

At one time, months later, when the Baltimore was blockading the city of Illailo, the German cruiser Irene sent a large landing force, infantry and artillery both, into the city. On that occasion Captain Dyer’s language to the German captain was so clear and so expressive that the German captain apologized profusely and hurriedly recalled his men.

No one ever had occasion to misunderstand either Captain Dyer’s words or his meaning. There were a number of instances illustrating the bad “sea manners” of the Germans.

On May 19 the Filipino leader, Aguinaldo, had arrived at Cavite. He immediately organized a military force of Filipinos and proceeded to attack the Spanish forts between Cavite and Manila. There were eight of these forts in a distance of 22 miles. One by one they were captured by Aguinaldo, and in a few weeks all eight were in his possession. At this time Aguinaldo was 28 years old. His remarkable victories over the Spaniards were due to his intrepid leadership and the devotion of his Filipino soldiers. Judging the Filipinos by the warfare they conducted against the Spaniards and later against our own forces, with full knowledge of some atrocities committed by them, one may say justly, that on the whole they were and are Christians and gentlemen, true men, and loyal friends.

American soldiers were now arriving in great numbers. It was evident that a campaign was being planned, but no information came to us. And we spent the hot days idly speculating on what was to happen. The Filipinos were now surrounding Manila. Every night we could see the flash of Spanish guns, mounted on the walls of Manila, and hear musketry firing. We were always prepared for an attack on our ships, and had picket boats steaming out, and sentries on board ship on the alert. Every night there were small boats passing about which were frequently fired at.

One night I was sitting in the port after 6-inch gun sponson, talking with Briggs, the executive officer. At about 11 o’clock we heard the reports of several rifle shots.

” Some foolish soldier is loose,” remarked Briggs. And then, in the silence of the night, we heard the dip of oars; and soon, dimly off the port quarter, we could see a small rowboat, headed to pass the Baltimore‘s stern.

“Who goes there?” rang out, in stentorian tones, the hail of the sentry. At the same instant a Baltimore searchlight was turned on the boat, vividly lighting it up, and showing in it an American soldier.

“Ogotoel,” came from the soldier, in tired disgusted tones. Probably he had not enjoyed being fired at.

” Pass, Ogotoel! ” shouted our sentry.

” Sentry,” called out Briggs, “What was the answer to your hail? ”

“He shpoke in Shpanish, sorr,” replied the marine, resuming his watchful beat.

The days were long and hot, and but little news was stirring. But plans were maturing, thousands of soldiers had arrived, and on August 13 Admiral Dewey hoisted orders, and the ships of his squadron got under way and proceeded to attack Manila, follow­ing the flagship Olympia. From the Baltimore we saw American soldiers marching up the beach from the south towards Manila, much of the time wading in water. The monitor Monterey preceded these soldiers, firing occasional shells which landed ahead of them and which would have cleared their path if clearing were needed. From the Baltimore’s deck it looked as if we were to have an interesting day. Slowly we steamed towards the great wall that surrounds Manila. At different parts of this wall were forts armed with modern 9.4-inch Krupp guns of great power. Manned by trained crews these Krupp cannon could easily and with certainty in a few moments, have sunk everyone of Admiral Dewey’s small unarmored ships. So we eagerly watched this wall, expecting each moment to see these big guns begin to fire.

But they never began. Our ships moved slowly, stopping at times. I was upon deck. After I had spent some time in wondering why the big guns defending Manila did not open fire upon the Olympia hoisted a signal; ” surely,” we thought, “this is the order to begin shooting.” But the signal, translated, read: “Do not fire upon walled city unless walled city fires upon us.” We were disappointed and wondered what it meant. Then came another signal from the flagship, reading: “Examine southwest bastion of walled city for a white flag.”

Officers looked’at each other in disgust. “Say,” remarked one to me, “this is a joke, a fake, a put-up job.” We now that the whole thing was a pre-arranged affair; later we learned that the Spanish governor wished to surrender, but insisted on a show of force. At the time we did not appreciate the fact that the victory is greater if it is accomplished without bloodshed or destruction of property.

The interest in this capture of Manila suddenly left us. It was as tame an affair as could be imagined. I walked disconsolately about the decks. I found a gigantic negro coal passer, Higgins by name, sound asleep in a starboard waterway. I aroused him. “What do you mean,” I severely demanded, “by being asleep wben your ship is in battle.”

“Is this a battle, Mistah Beach? Lawd bless yo! Suh, beggin’ yo’ pahdon, suh, I thought I heard taps go some time ago, an’ it was so quiet I thought everybody had done turned in an’ gone to sleep. ‘Scuse me, suh, meanin’ no disrespec’, suh, but I’s losing mah respec’ fo’ Mistah George Dewey. Yes, suh, he suttinly am depreachingating, suh. I kin make mo’ noise in a Baptis’ camp meeting than Mistah George Dewey is amakin’ in this misrable battle. I sholy am dispointed in Mistah Dewey, suh.”

Higgins voiced the feeling in the ship.

The soldiers marched into Manila unopposed; Manila imme­diately surrendered to Admiral Dewey and General Merritt. And the beautiful battle-flag that had been flown from the Olympia’s mainmast was hoisted over the city. There had been some rifle firing at our soldiers as they entered Manila, but it was not learned who did this.

Previous to the surrender of Manila the Filipinos had organized a government and had proclaimed themselves an independent re­public. And they were apparently making good their claim. Fort after fort, city after city, island after island, surrendered to Aguinaldo’s forces. Soon there was no Spanish authority any­where in the Philippine Archipelago.

We ruled and possessed Manila and Cavite with the area of a few square miles, perhaps 50, and a population of 360,000. Aguin­aldo ruled and possessed all the rest of the Philippines, with an area of 50,000 square miles, and a population of 7,000,000. Spain ruled and possessed nothing, neither land nor inhabitants. The United States would not recognize the Républica Filipina, which was a bitter, heart-breaking disappointment to the Filipinos.

I am not intending in any way to criticize our action in assuming title over the Philippine Islands because one who was conversant with all conditions knows our government did what was right and what it had to do. But I am trying to portray the feelings of the Filipinos, as given me in talks by many Filipinos, and by Aguin­aldo, both when we were friends, and later, when, for a day, I was his prisoner at the Filipino capitol, Malolos. At the latter time I was a bit concerned, not knowing whether Aguinaldo would shoot me or hang me. I was suspicious of his attentions because of a good lunch he gave me; and of his kindly, gentle words and manner. And still more so, when, after giving me a warm hand­shake and his autographed photograph, he dismissed me and had me conducted to American lines near Manila. I pondered deeply over this and completely lost my confidence in Aguinaldo and the Filipinos as savages. They weren’t living up to what was expected of them.

We now had to conquer the Philippine Islands from the Fili­pinos, which of course we did. The significant thing that char­acterized those two years of warfare was that the Filipino Gov­ernment maintained its organization, and, in large measure, though not towards the end, its power over its troops. These troops fought earnestly, and bravely, and hopelessly to the end. The course of the short-lived Républica Filipina was creditable honorable, and Filipinos for all time will regard their ancestors of 1898 with pride and affection.

The Filipinos accepted the peace terms laid down by the United States. A most comforting fact is that since then the Filipinos have believed in the beneficent intentions of the United States. They have learned that the rule of the United States is entirely unselfish; there is no underlying purpose to exploit the Philippine Islands for the benefit of the American interests.

Year by year the Filipinos have seen themselves granted more power in self-government. To-day they control theGovernor’s Council, the Senate, the House of Representatives, the courts, practically all details of government administration. They are almost as self-governing as is Canada. They long for complete  independence and are confidently looking forward to that being granted them in the near future.

And when the free and independent Républica Filipina takes an honored place amongst the nations of the earth, the United States of America will have accomplished one of the most unselfish, noble works recorded in history.

On 19 June 1864, Alabama left port in Cherbourg, France to engage the USS Kearsarge. Approximately an hour after the first shot of the battle had been fired Alabama began to sink. The commander of Alabama, Raphael Semmes, then surrendered and the ship’s survivors were rescued by Kearsarge and the British yacht Deerhound.

The wreck site of Alabama was discovered in 1984 by the French Navy mine hunter Circe, and an agreement was created between the French and United States governments to form a committee that would oversee any archaeological work on the site.

Several artifacts were recovered from the wreck site of Alabama, including a wooden box housing a shell which has been of particular interest. This is in part due to the unique nature of this set of artifacts. While it is not unusual to find shells, discovering a box built to house a single shell is not common. The box and shell are both currently being housed and studied at the Naval History and Heritage Command’s (NHHC) Archaeology & Conservation Laboratory.

The box and shell were found in excellent condition and received prompt conservation treatment at the Conservation Research Laboratory at Texas A&M University. A lack of oxygen and cold temperatures both contributed to the exceptional state of preservation of the artifacts.

The 7-inch Britten pattern shell and wooden box recovered from the CSS Alabama.

Research revealed that the shell is a 7-inch Britten pattern shell. Britten projectiles were patented in Great Britain in 1855 by Sir Bashley Britten. Britten’s patent for a new shell also introduced an innovative method for attaching sabots to shells in an attempt to increase the accuracy of the weapon. Both the Union and Confederate forces used Britten shells, however only the Confederate States purchased the shells in large calibers.

Information regarding the box, however, has proven more difficult to uncover. General references to boxes for shell and other ordnance storage have been found in multiple sources. These resources include the ordnance manuals for the Confederate and United States Navies as well as the writings of the chief foreign agent for the Confederate States, James D. Bulloch. However, research about the exact origins and purpose of the Alabama box is ongoing.

Another view of the shell and box displaying the damaged portion of the box.

Specific information about the cargo and equipment aboard Confederate ships is frequently difficult or nearly impossible to find with the current sources available. Precise data was often not recorded for wartime security or has been destroyed over the years. For example, Confederate leaders were careful to not provide specific information regarding the sources of their supplies. In a letter discussing the purchasing of supplies and ships for the Confederate Navy, Bulloch wrote to a colleague, “The fear that this letter may fall into wrong hands induces me to withhold the names of the contractors.”

While the box and shell remain a bit of a mystery, conservation will be the key to uncovering more of their secrets. Only through proper conservation can we continue to research, study, and analyze vital artifacts.

Launching of the Doolittle Raid

        Seventy one years ago, the first American air raid on Japan was made, a little more than four months following the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  The raid, for which Lieutenant Colonel Doolittle earned the Medal of Honor, was instrumental in lifting American morale at the beginning of the United States’ involvement in World War II.  In acknowledgement of the 65th anniversary of the Doolittle Raid, the April 2007 issue of Proceedings included an article by Barrett Tillman, which documented the origins of the raid and its influence on American performance in the war.  As Tillman emphasized in his article, the Doolittle Raid was not simply valuable for increasing American morale, but for uniting the various service branches in joint efforts to make the best possible use of limited resources in a large-scale war.  According to Tillman’s article, the Doolittle Raid was the first of many successful joint efforts, and began a tradition of interservice alliances which continues today.

       Officially it was the First Special Aviation Project, a bold concept devised by a naval officer—a submariner, no less—and executed by Sailors and Airmen.  The timing could not have been better, as it occurred only four-and-a-half months after the debacle at Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941.

  Only two weeks later, President Franklin D. Roosevelt ordered a study to find means of retaliating against Japan, presumably by air.  Since no land-based aircraft were capable of reaching the Home Islands from American bases, the focus quickly narrowed to a naval option.  (Planning had already addressed an Army Air Forces operation in China, but logistics and mission radius posed huge problems.)

The problem was further complicated by the relatively short range of carrier aircraft.  A strike distance of 200 nautical miles was the rule of thumb for tailhook airplanes, but that was perilously close to enemy shores.  Furthermore, the United States had no carriers to spare.

Enter Captain Francis S. Low.  Hailing from the U.S. Naval Academy class of 1915, Low had been a submariner since World War 1.  But he had served on the staff of Admiral Ernest J. King for more than a year and was able to think out of the box.  During a trip to Norfolk, Virginia, he saw Army bombers practicing attacks on the chalked outline of a carrier deck.  It proved an inspiration.

The joint bug bit hard: here was a submariner conceiving the idea of launching Army bombers from a Navy ship to strike the heart of the Japanese Empire.  Low hustled back to Washington, D.C., determined to sell the idea to Admiral King, then-commander-in-chief, U.S. Fleet.

King was a rarity, qualified in both aviation and submarines.  He respected Low’s opinion and said, “You may have something there.”  He instructed the operations officer to discuss the prospect with Captain Donald B. “Wu” Duncan, King’s aviation authority.  Duncan saw prospects as well as problems.  If twin-engine bombers were to launch from a carrier, obviously they could not return to land aboard ship, so the mission would be a one-way trip.  The bombers—Army aircraft—would have to land in friendly or neutral territory or be sacrificed, presumably with the crews rescued.

       Still, the prospects of attacking Japan were exciting.  A successful mission, perhaps against Tokyo itself, would accomplish at least two goals.  It would force Japan to pull back forces from combat zones to defend the homeland, and more important, it would spike American morale at a time when good news was damnably scarce.  Duncan investigated and wrote an analysis, concluding that the job could be done.

Informed of the emerging plan, Admiral King was supportive. He ordered his staffers to approach General Henry H. “Hap” Arnold, inviting the chief of the Army Air Forces to contact King if he wished to pursue the matter.  Amid continuing secrecy, the Navy men briefed General Arnold in mid January, and the Army officer immediately consented.

At that point the First Special Aviation Project officially became a joint operation, equally dependent on the Army and the Navy.

From Plan to Reality

       Events accelerated.  By month’s end General Arnold had detailed three North American B-25 crews to conduct practical experiments, taking off from the USS Hornet (CV-8) based at Norfolk, Virginia.  Her paint was hardly dry: she had only been commissioned in October 1941, and was still working up prior to joining the Atlantic Fleet.

On 2 February, First Lieutenants John Fitzgerald’s and James McCarthy’s bombers were spotted on the Hornet’s deck off the Virginia coast.  They had satisfied themselves in tests ashore that they could get their lightly loaded Mitchells off the ship in the available space.  Needing 70-mile-per-hour airspeed to lift off, the B-25s enjoyed a relative wind equal to 45 mph, and both Mitchells got airborne after short deck runs.  Duncan, who had observed the process, immediately returned to Washington with the good news. Army bombers could take off from a carrier.

A few days previously, General Arnold had tossed the Army football to Lieutenant Colonel James H. Doolittle, a longtime colleague and the general’s chief troubleshooter.  Jimmy Doolittle was arguably the greatest pilot of his generation.  He had done nearly everything possible in aviation, from earning an aeronautics Ph.D. to performing the first outside loop and making the first instrument landing.  Arnold informed Doolittle of the plan, saying that the lieutenant colonel, a champion racer, would coordinate with Captain Duncan as his naval’ counterpart.

Bring on the B-25s

       Independently, Doolittle and Duncan had determined that the B-25 was the best airplane for the mission.  In fact, it was the only airplane.  The Army’s other medium bombers were incapable of getting off the deck in 500 feet or lacked the required 2,000-mile range.

  Doolittle, well known as a master of the calculated risk, applied equal parts of his scientific brain and aviator’s instincts.  After consulting with Air Corps engineers, he provided for 24 B-25Bs to be modified to mission standards—mainly additional fuel tanks.  Meanwhile, Duncan proceeded with coordination of the naval aspects.

Security was tight from the start and remained so. Within a few days of departure, only six officers knew the full plan.  Not even the Hornet‘s skipper, Captain Marc Mitscher, was fully briefed until shortly before deploying.

The Army crews came from the 17th Bomb Group, previously flying out of Pendleton Army Air Field in northeastern Oregon. Most of the pilots were “junior birdmen.”  Of the 16 bombers deployed, 12 were flown by first or second lieutenants.  Doolittle and Major John Hilger were the only fliers with ranks above captain.

Navy Lieutenant Henry Miller instructed the Army fliers in carrier procedures during essential interservice training at Eglin Field, Florida.  On a remote outlying airstrip, the Mitchell crews learned how to coax a B-25 into the air at minimum airspeed, laden with four tons of fuel and ordnance.  After enough crews had performed to Miller’s standards to provide some spares, the entire organization flew cross-country to San Francisco.

The Doolittle Raiders

       Meanwhile, on 4 March the Hornet proceeded to the West Coast to rendezvous with the Army men—the 80 fliers who would forever be known as the Doolittle Raiders.  The carrier arrived at San Francisco on the 20th, with a semi-final briefing held on the 30th.  In the bar of the Fairmont Hotel, Vice Admiral William F. Halsey met with Duncan, Doolittle, and Halsey’s chief of staff, Captain Miles Browning.  As task force commander riding the USS Enterprise (CY-6), Halsey had overall responsibility for the mission.

The 16 B-25s were craned aboard at Alameda, and the ship headed west two days later.  Well into the Pacific on 12 April, the Hornet task group rendezvoused with Halsey’s Enterprise and her screen several hundred miles north of Midway.  ”The Big E’s” aircraft would conduct most of the scouting and combat air patrol until the Army bombers were launched, as the Hornet‘s deck was necessarily locked.

  Approaching Japan on 18 April, Japanese picket boats sighted the American ships, prompting the B-25s to launch 200 miles farther from their targets than planned.  But when Doolittle gunned his Mitchell down the Hornet‘s rain-swept deck, he cleared the bow with room to spare.

       The rest of the story is well known: How the bombers struck Tokyo, Yokohama, Kobe, Nagoya, and Osaka and got away clean.  How they ran out of fuel after 13 hours in the air, one diverting to Soviet territory and the others crashing along the China coast.  How six Raiders perished, including four as prisoners of Japan.  How Doolittle returned to wild acclaim, receiving the Medal of Honor—an award he accepted reluctantly and only then on behalf of his men.

 Though it inflicted minimal damage on Japan, the First Special Aviation Project proved a major success.  It destroyed Tokyo’s aura of invincibility and boosted America’s morale as nothing else could.  It also demonstrated that a healthy relationship was possible between the Army and Navy, despite the services’ often bitter rivalry.

However, the Doolittle raid was not the last such collaboration between the Navy and the Army Air Forces, with the Navy even later working with foreign air arms.

Jointness in the Med

       An even more joint operation occurred in the Mediterranean immediately after the Tokyo raid.  On 20 April 1942, the USS Wasp (CV-7) ferried 47 Royal Air Force Spitfires to Malta, providing badly needed reinforcements for the beleaguered garrison there.  All but one arrived at the island, which was subjected to almost daily attack by Axis bombers.

Among the RAF pilots on board the Wasp was Texan Reade Tilley, a big, strapping Eagle Squadron pilot who would achieve ace-dom on Malta.  When Tilley expressed concern about taking off from a carrier without previous experience, his squadron leader replied, “Laddie, there’s no point practicing that which must be performed perfectly the first time.”

On 9 May, in company with HMS Eagle, the Wasp returned to Malta, embarking 64 Spitfires, 60 of which reached their destination.  But not without some drama: a Canadian, Pilot Officer J. A. Smith, lost his drop tank after takeoff.  Given the choice of bailing out or attempting a landing, he tried for the deck.  The Wasp‘s landing signal officer was Lieutenant David McCampbell, who had briefed the British pilots on carrier procedures.  The first pass looked good, but Smith was too fast and received a wave-off. He went around for another try.

Decades later, McCampbell said, “He was still a little fast on the second pass so I cut him long.”  Giving the “chop” signal sooner than normal, McCampbell judged it nicely.  Smith got his Spitfire on the deck and stood on the brakes.  Incredibly, he lurched to a stop less than 15 feet from the forward deck edge.  Having been carrier qualified, he received naval aviator’s wings that evening.

       More inter-American work was conducted by the USS Ranger (CV-4), which delivered 68 Curtiss P-40s to the Gold Coast of Africa on 10 May.  All the Warhawks got off the deck and set course for the China-Burma-India Theater.  The Ranger continued delivering Army aircraft, with four more trips over the next eight months.

Meanwhile, another Army-Navy exercise attended Operation Torch, the invasion of French Morocco in November 1942.  The ship was the USS Chenango (ACV-28) one of the early escort (then called “auxiliary”) carriers, commissioned only five months before.  The converted oiler ferried the entire 33rd Fighter Group, as the ship’s crew shoehorned all three squadrons—72 P-40Fs—onto the flight and hangar decks.

One of the Army pilots spoke for most when he lauded the Sailors, describing Captain Ben H. Wyatt as “gracious and attentive to our needs.”  Unfortunately, the group commander exhibited little interservice acumen, stating that he could not wait to get ashore “and show the Navy how to fight.”  Colonel William W. Momyer later became a four­star general.

The first fighters were catapulted off the short deck the morning of the 10th, but damage to Port Lyautey’s airfield forced a delay, requiring the ship to keep the Warhawks on board for two days.  Several fighters were damaged in landing amid the shell holes, and none was able to fly combat sorties before the Vichy surrender.

Pacific Reprise

       More than two years after the Doolittle Raid, Army aircraft again launched from carrier decks into Pacific combat.  Close on the heels of the Saipan landing in June 1944 was a joint operation featuring a new generation of flat­tops.  On the 22nd, the escort carrier USS Natoma Bay (CVE-62) catapulted 24 P-47 Thunderbolts of the 19th Fighter Squadron off her 550-foot deck from 60 miles out.  They landed ashore that morning, providing close air support from newly won Aslito airfield.  Four hours after arrival, the squadron was firing rockets at Japanese positions on nearby Tinian.

The next day Japanese aircraft found the escort carrier group.  Two Aichi dive bombers attacked the USS Manila Bay (CVE-61), dropping bombs wide to port.  Lacking naval fighter protection, the Manila Bay launched four P-47s on combat air patrol while the Natoma Bay dispatched 12 more “Jugs” of the 73rd Squadron.  The CAP flight orbited until the radar screens cleared, then followed the dozen other fighters to Saipan.

On the 24th, the Manila Bay sent off her remaining aircraft, shortly followed by the 333rd Squadron from the USS Sargent Bay (CVE-83).  Thus, by month’s end three escort carriers had delivered the entire 318th Fighter Group directly into combat.

Carriers continued delivering Army aircraft to forward areas throughout the war, but seldom if ever again under fire.  However, a unique evolution occurred stateside in November 1944, testing “navalized” Army aircraft.  Ironically—or appropriately—it involved a B-25H (naval designation PBJ-IH) capable of landing on a carrier.  A modified P-51D also was launched and recovered aboard the new Essex-class carrier, the USS Shangri-La (CV-38), determining the feasibility of operating Army fighters and bombers at sea.  The “Seahorse” version of the Mustang was conceived as a long-range escort fighter, but the concept was overtaken by events as land bases were conquered.

       The joint operations of World War II remain an example for current Navy and Air Force units, which are increasingly reliant on one another.  After the premature demise of the A-6 Intruder, long-range carrier strikes now require Air Force tanker support, while SEALs and Marines direct Air Force fighter-bomber pilots.

Ernie King and Hap Arnold would approve.

On 14 April 1988, watchstanders aboard USS Samuel B. Roberts (FFG 58) sighted three mines floating approximately half of a mile from the ship. Twenty minutes after the first sighting, as Samuel B. Roberts was backing clear of the minefield, she struck a submerged mine. The explosive device tore a 21-foot hole in the hull, causing extensive fires and flooding. Ten Sailors were injured in the attack. Only the heroic efforts of the ship’s crew, working feverishly for seven straight hours, saved the vessel from sinking. Four days later, forces of the Joint Task Force Middle East (JTFME) executed the American response to the attack: Operation Praying Mantis. The operation called for the destruction of two oil platforms being used by Iran to coordinate attacks on merchant shipping. On 18 April, the coalition air and surface units not only destroyed the oil rigs but also various Iranian units attempting to counter-attack U.S. forces. By the end of the battle, U.S. air and surface units had sunk or severely damaged half of Iran’s operational fleet. Navy aircraft and the destroyer Joseph Strauss (DDG 16) sank the frigate Sahand (F 74) with harpoon missiles and laser-guided bombs.

The main building of the Iranian Sassan oil platform burns after being hit by a BGM-71 Tube-launched, Optically-guided, Wire-guided (TOW) missile fired from a Marine AH-1 Cobra helicopter

A laser-guided bomb dropped from a Navy A-6 Intruder disabled frigate Sabalan (F 73), and Standard missiles launched from the cruiser Wainwright (CG 28) and frigates Bagley (FF 1069) and Simpson (FFG 56) destroyed the 147-foot missile patrol boat Joshan (P 225). In further combat A-6s sank one Boghammer high-speed patrol boat and neutralized four more of these Swedish-made speedboats. One Marine AH-1T Sea Cobra crashed from undetermined causes, resulting in the loss of two air crew. Operation Praying Mantis proved a milestone in naval history. For the first time since World War II, U.S. naval forces and supporting aircraft fought a major surface action against a determined enemy. The operation also demonstrated America’s unwavering commitment to protecting oil tankers in the Arabian Gulf and the principle of freedom of navigation.

The Iranian frigate Is Sahand (74) burns after being attacked by aircraft of Carrier Air Wing 11 from the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise (CVN-65).

An aerial view of the Iranian frigate Is Alvand (71) burning after being attacked by aircraft of Carrier Air Wing 11 from the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise (CVN-65).

Sources: Edward J. Marolda and Robert J. Schneller Jr., Sword and Shield: The United States Navy and the Persian Gulf War (Washington, DC: GPO, 1998), 37-8; Michael A. Palmer, On Course to Desert Storm: The United States Navy and the Persian Gulf (Washington, DC: GPO, 1992), 141-46; unpublished draft material from Mark Evans’ forthcoming naval aviation chronology.

For more information on Operation Praying Mantis,
visit the NHHC website:
http://www.history.navy.mil/Special%20Highlights/OperationPrayingMantis/index.html

This article was written by Captain Frank T. Cable as The Submarine Torpedo Boat Holland: First Submarine to Become a Part of the United States Navy for the February 1943 issue of Proceedings magazine.

The USS Holland, 1900

My association with the inventor Holland dated from early in 1897. I was living in Philadelphia at the time as a technician connected with the Electro-Dynamic Company of that city. My first acquaintance with the submarine Holland was made through reading a graphic newspaper account of her remark­able features, as they were then regarded. It reminded me of Jules Verne’s Nautilus; one seemed as real as the other. I was asked if I would care to take an undersea trip in the Holland, and my answer was that not for anything would I be tempted to do so. Yet it fell out that in less than six months I found myself in command of this boat, and for twelve years afterward I spent more time under water than on top.

I became the skipper of the Holland through being the accidental means of reconditioning her electrical equipment after she had sunk, when near completion, at the Crescent Shipyard, Elizabethport, New Jersey, then owned by Lewis Nixon. One night, when the boat was lying alongside dock undergoing minor changes, a careless workman left a small valve open. In the night the boat filled and sank. She remained submerged for about eighteen hours, during which her electrical equip­ment and machinery were at the mercy of salt water. At that time motors and gener­ators were not protected from the injurious effect of contact with salt water as they are today. The insulation was ruined and some means had to be found to restore it. To remove the electrical equipment and rebuild the boat meant a large outlay, as the entire upper part of the hull would have to be raised in order to take out the machinery. The Holland Company vainly tried every known method of drying out the motors and generators by applying heat externally. As a last resort the Elec­tro-Dynamic Company was notified, and sent me to investigate. After an examina­tion I decided that there was only one way of remedying the trouble, and if this course was adopted there was a chance of restor­ing the boat. The Holland Company assumed all responsibility, the work was started, and in four days completed and the job pronounced satisfactory.

The Holland was regarded as the most important contribution to naval science so far devised. The submarine problem, which had beset experts for a century, had at last come within the field of practical and successful application. We wonder at the perfection the submersible has reached today, but it was the result of the labors of inventors wrestling with the idea long before the time of Bushnell and Fulton. Holland picked up the threads which others had lost or could not grasp. Thus submarine navigation was no longer the ineffective pursuit of cranks who had not mastered its fundamentals.

No longer a fad or a toy, the submarine became, in the shape of the Holland, a “monster war fish,” a “devil of the deep,” a “hell diver,” as the vessel came to be called. Strictly speaking, the boat was a torpedo, but a torpedo controlled in all its workings by human agency inside the craft, instead of being automatic in its operations. The ordinary torpedo, by an arrangement of springs to counteract the water pressure, was made to go through the water at any depth. It had to follow a path fixed for it beforehand. When it had run its course it came to the surface or sank, in accordance with a predetermined plan. The men inside the Holland con­trolled her at will.

As Lieutenant Commander Kimball put it before the Society of Naval Architects, thousands of submarine boats were ac­tually in use in all parts of the world in the shape of automobile torpedoes, which were nothing more or less than automobile submersibles. The only difference in prin­ciple was that an actual submarine had a controlling brain, while directing automata motivated the torpedo.

The Holland was 53 feet long, and at her widest part 101-feet in diameter. She had a displacement of 74 tons. Her frames were exact circles of steel set a little more than a foot apart. They diminished gradually in diameter from the center of the boat to the bow and stern. On top of the boat was a flat superstructure to afford a walking platform, and under this were spaces for exhaust pipes and for the external outfit of the boat, such as ropes and a small anchor. Her armament consisted of one 18-inch torpedo tube and two 8-inch dynamite guns.

A turret extended upward through the superstructure about 18 inches. It was only about 2 feet in diameter and afforded the only means of entrance. It was also the one place from which the boat could be operated. At the stern was an ordinary 3-bladed propeller and an ordinary rudder; in addition there were two horizontal rudders—”diving rudders” they were called—which looked like the feet of a duck spread out behind as it swam along.

The boat was propelled on the surface by a gasoline engine and under water by electricity. Holland encountered the usual difficulty in obtaining the right engine; he almost despaired of finding one. The in­ternal-combustion gasoline engine giving large power with small space and weight had just been developed, and large storage batteries with corresponding electric mo­tors were available. Chance took the in­ventor to an electrical exhibition at Madison Square Garden, where he noticed the exhibit of an electric-light plant de­signed for a country home. The generator was driven by a 50-hp. Otto gasoline engine. “That is what I want for my boat!” he exclaimed. He promptly bought the engine and installed it on the Holland. But for the development of the gasoline engine, the submarine might never have passed beyond the experimental stage.

From the bow two-thirds of the way to the stern was a flooring, beneath which were the storage batteries, the tank for the gasoline, and the tanks filled with water to submerge the boat. Holland specially showed his genius in his ballast tanks. In later boats he greatly improved their operation. No submarine could be counted a success which did not follow the lines of tank construction that he later devised. In earlier submarines the tanks were con­structed without subdivision, large enough to hold the required maximum of water, and consequently were rarely totally filled. Hence this water flowed freely from one end of the tank to the other as the boat’s angle changed. This prevented the boat from preserving a proper trim. Hol­land realized this defect, and laid down the rule that the main storage tanks should be of such a capacity that when entirely filled the boat would be brought to the awash condition only, and that the final adjusting of the buoyancy of the boat must be made by the use of a small tank with only a small free-water surface if not en­tirely filled. So the main ballast tanks were entirely empty or completely filled.

There were about a dozen openings in the boat, the chief of them three Kingston valves, by means of which the ballast tanks were filled or emptied. Others ad­mitted water to pressure gauges, which regulated or showed the depth of the vessel under water. There were twelve head­lights in the top and sides of the craft.

It could be steered to the surface by the diving rudders, or sent flying to the top by emptying the storage tanks. If it struck bottom or become stuck in the mud, it could blow itself loose by compressed air. It could not be sunk unless pierced above the flooring. It had a speed of 7 knots on the surface and 5 knots submerged.

It could go 1,500 miles on the surface without renewing its supply of gasoline, and fully 40 knots underwater without coming up. There was enough compressed air in the tanks to supply a crew with fresh air for 30 days, if the air was not used for any other purpose, such as emptying the submerging tanks. It could dive to a depth of 20 feet in 8 seconds.

There were no periscopes in those days. The ingenious French, who were to devise this valuable eye for the submarine, had not yet developed it from the sighting contrivance of prisms and lenses which Goubet used about this period. The Hol­land consequently had to be handled by porpoising. This was a simple resort to the movements of the porpoise, which the inventor took as his model for diving. In porpoising the boat ran a short distance submerged and then came to the surface far enough to expose the conning tower, thus getting a chance to look around, and then diving. This bobbing up and disap­pearing was swiftly effected; the boat would rise to the surface from a depth, say, of 30 feet, focus on an imaginary tar­get, if such was the occasion for the maneu­ver, fire its torpedo, and be quickly under water again.

With the turret hatch clamped down be­fore submerging, the operator looked through little plate-glass windows, about an inch wide and 3 inches long, which en­circled the turret. These windows were valuable while the boat was running on the surface; they gave a complete view of the surroundings if the water was smooth. But once under water, the windows were use­less; it was impossible to see through the water. Steering had to be done by compass. A tiny electric light in the turret showed the operator his direction and revealed the markings on the depth gauges. If the boat passed under an object, such as a ship, a perceptible shadow would be noticed through the headlights, but that was all. The ability to see fishes swimming about in the water is a pleasant fiction.

The only clear space in the body of the boat was directly in front of the bench on which stood the operator. It was where the 18-inch torpedo tube was loaded.

Along the sides of this open space were six compressed air tanks, containing 30 cubic feet of air, at a pressure of 2,000 pounds to the square inch. Near by was a smaller tank, containing 3 cubic feet of air, at a 50-pound pressure. A still smaller tank contained 2 cubic feet of air, at a 10-pound pressure.

The machinery was packed away closely behind the turret. Against the roof on the port side was the little engine which steered the vessel by compressed air. On the starboard side was the diving engine, fastened with disks that looked as large as dinner plates standing on edge at each end. These disks were diaphragms on which the water pressure exerted an influence, coun­teracting certain springs which were set to keep the diving rudders at a given pitch, thus insuring an immersion of an exact depth during a run.

At one side was a cubic steel box—the air compressor; and directly in the center of this part of the boat, a long pendulum, as in the ordinary torpedo, swung back­ward and forward as the boat dived or rose, checking a tendency to go too far down or come up at too sharp an angle. On the floor were the levers which, when raised and moved in certain directions, filled or emptied the ballast tanks.

There were also pumps in the boat, a ventilating apparatus, and a sounding con­trivance, by means of which the channel was picked out when running under water. This sounding contrivance consisted of a heavy weight attached to a piano wire passing from a reel out through a stuffing box in the bottom of the boat. There were also valves which released fresh air to the crew when necessary in long runs.

This was the craft whose performances were to attract the eyes of the world and earn for her the credit of being the first submarine boat to achieve real success, to the extent to which practicable under­water navigation was then understood.

Before the boat was completed many of the stockholders were anxious to see a demonstration as they were more or less skeptical. On March 17, 1897, we made our first dive which ended in a mud bank at the lower end of Staten Island.

PART II

Early in 1898 the Holland, virtually completed, was removed from her Eliza­bethport shipyard to Perth Amboy, New Jersey. The journey was merely a change of location to enable her to undergo pre­liminary dives by way of feeling out her mechanism. But the Navy Department attached a dark significance to her move­ments. The Holland was not a government boat and the department had had no hand in her construction. She was produced, as it were, beyond the pale of official recogni­tion. Despite congressional provision for submarine construction, the department’s bureaucratic mind remained coldly skep­tical as to the practical outcome of the projected outlay. The luckless Plunger had failed because of her enormous steam in­stallation and her lack of stability. Why not the Holland, too, if not through these defects, at any rate from others she would be bound to reveal? Outwardly the Navy Department declined to admit that the Holland was a war vessel; it would not concede that the boat promised to be of service. Nevertheless, the department’s action belied its attitude; it nervously watched the Holland.

War with Spain was in immediate pros­pect. Foretokens of that brief conflict were manifest in a rising hostile sentiment against Spain because of the desperate repressive measures to which she had re­sorted in the hopeless attempts to subju­gate the Cubans. The U.S.S. Maine was at Havana, whither she had been sent to safeguard American interests from sup­posed danger through military riots which broke out in that city. As an offset to the Maine’s presence off Havana, the Spanish warship Vizcaya had been sent to New York, and was now anchored in the harbor.

The Navy Department decided that the Holland had designs on the Vizcaya. It wired an order to the commandant of the New York Navy Yard, Admiral Bunce, to watch the vessel and, if neces­sary, seize her. The Holland had in her bow an 8-inch dynamite gun. Just before leaving Elizabethport several wooden pro­jectiles were made to fit this gun, which, at a distance, resembled the real thing. These projectiles were on board. Several hours after we had left Elizabethport for Perth Amboy a tug from the navy yard ap­peared, looking for us. Some workmen in the shipyard informed the tug’s captain that we were loaded with dynamite shells and had gone down the river. This infor­mation, coming on top of the instructions from Washington, started the tug in pur­suit.

Meantime we had reached Perth Amboy and had tied up out of sight in a basin be­hind an old canal boat. The Navy’s tug passed without a suspicion of our presence. After cruising all day in a blind search for us, the tug returned to the navy yard and reported its failure, also, no doubt, that the Vizcaya was unharmed. It was several days before we were located.

Numerous changes in the boat’s mech­anism were found necessary before we made our next test.

In the early days of submarines the compass was one of our most troublesome instruments. Space in our conning tower was limited and we could not use a com­pass with a card of more than 2 inches in diameter. Even such an imperfect guide might have sufficed had it not been neces­sary to place it within a few inches of the steel hull. Owing to its close proximity to the steel, we were obliged to have it heavily compensated with permanent magnets. Accordingly, we had an instru­ment which was very sluggish and not at all accurate. The boat might take a sudden sheer and deviate a considerable distance off the course before the compass would re­gister the change.

We took serious risks in cruising under lower New York Bay. Once the skipper of a lumber schooner called on Holland at his New York office. The inventor remem­bered that in diving the previous day he had almost collided with such a craft, but, seeing his danger, had dropped 15 or 20 feet to clear her.

“I am the captain of that lumber schooner,” his visitor announced. “Your boat dived under my craft as I came up the Narrows and struck her bottom, seri­ously damaging the copper sheathing, and I’ve come to collect damages.”

“If such a thing were so,” retorted Hol­land, “your copper bottom would have ripped off the top of my conning tower and I would not have been here to talk to you.”

The Navy Department took official cognizance of the Holland shortly after she was launched. The officer assigned to in­spect her, Lieutenant Sargent, reported that the boat had “fully proved her ability to propel herself, to dive, come up, admit water to her ballast tanks, and to eject it again without difficulty.” The Holland, he added, appeared to him to be more efficient than he imagined her to be before making the inspection, and promised to be an ultimate success.

Trials followed in Prince’s Bay, Staten Island, before a special board appointed by the Secretary of the Navy to determine whether the government should take over the boat. These trials were very different from the stringent tests the Holland boats had to undergo later. They consisted only of a submerged run of 2 miles, during which we could come to the surface as often as we chose and stay as long as we wanted. In addition we fired a dummy torpedo from our only tube, and a dummy projectile from our dynamite gun.

The trials lasted about two hours. No time was taken by the board; it did not know whether the boat was making 4 knots or 24. Nor was any time taken for the loading of a torpedo; in fact, no mem­ber of the board was in the boat.

During our submerged trial run we came to the surface within a few feet of a fisherman who had evidently never seen a submarine. Just what passed through his mind when he saw this uncanny object come up, evidently from the bottom of the sea, we never knew, but the rapidity with which he hoisted anchor and set sail for home led us to believe that he would tell a remarkable story to his friends ashore. It turned out that he had an eye for business, as we received a bill from him for the breaking of one centerboard. The bill was paid, although we were not responsible.

The report of the board was such that the Navy Department recommended fur­ther trials. To prepare for another board’s inspection, we spent the entire summer making changes and testing improved devices, with our base at South Brooklyn. All our submerged work was done in New York Bay, between Governor’s Island and Fort Hamilton, the worst place we could have selected. When submerged we did not know whether we would come up under a mud scow or an ocean liner. Since this was before the days of periscopes, we had no means of observation except by bringing the boat to the surface.

In November of 1898 we conducted our second set of official trials. They yielded about the same result as the first. The board appointed this time by the Navy Department was headed by Captain Evans, the famous “Fighting Bob” who com­manded the battleship Iowa in the Spanish-­American War. They required us to fire a Whitehead torpedo. We had never before attempted to load the torpedo tube of the Holland with a real charge. A part of the boat’s structure interfered with the opera­tion, and it was necessary to remove the obstacle before the torpedo tube could be loaded.
We did all we were asked to do, but it was not enough. The board reported that the boat steered erratically; this they be­lieved was due to the inexperience of the skipper. As I happened to be the skipper and did not want the boat condemned, I accepted the verdict. I promised myself that the next set of trials would be run by a more experienced man, and I would be the man.

Up to this time Holland had built five boats. All but the Holland had gone into the discard. In each he had placed the rudders forward of the propeller. I have yet to see a boat with the rudder in this position that can be handled satisfactorily. He had always navigated the boats him­self and claimed that their steering quali­ties were good. My first attempt at navi­gating the Holland was during a run made several weeks before the official trials, and I found that steering her was the most un­satisfactory task I had ever undertaken. The criticism annoyed Holland, but he encountered worse from a group of spec­tators who had been watching our maneu­vers from the deck of a small tug. One of them compared the course of the Holland to that of a drunken washerwoman.

On all the earlier runs Holland’s method of trimming the boat for submerging, from the viewpoint of later submarine navi­gators, was exceedingly crude. We were always accompanied by a tug which car­ried several hundred pounds of pig iron, which was utilized as ballast. The boat was carefully ballasted before leaving the dock, but if Holland found that she was too light, when he got out into the bay, with all the tanks full, he would blowout some of the ballast, come alongside the tug, and take on a fresh supply of pig iron. If, on the other hand, he found her too heavy, with tanks all full, he would remove some of the iron. This process would sometimes con­sume two hours.

At length I suggested to Holland that he adjust this trim by putting in or leaving out water in the forward ballast tank, and put enough fixed ballast on board so that this tank would only be partially filled at any time. This method did not appeal to him, as he did not believe at that time—­he did so later—in carrying any tanks only partially filled.

It took considerable argument to con­vince him that the change was practical, but a trial was made and the result proved fully satisfactory. It eliminated the neces­sity of carrying ballast on the tender. Later two trimming tanks were installed to ad­just changes of trim due to variation in the specific gravity of the water or in the weight and number of persons carried from time to time.

So far, Holland himself always handled both steering and diving rudders. As we had never operated in water of great depth, the usual method followed was to put the diving rudder hard down until the boat was running along the bottom, and then leave it there. If the bottom was level, the boat would maintain an even depth; she could not go any deeper, and the down rudder would keep her from coming up, I suggested that I handle the diving rudder, while he steered. This change worked well and henceforth the diving rudder had a separate operator.

Our instruments were more or less crude. We had no regular gauges to tell us how deep we were submerged, nor accurate clinometers recording the boat’s angle when diving, both positions most impor­tant to ascertain. In handling the diving rudder I had to depend on an ordinary steam gauge 6 inches in diameter, cali­brated to 100 pounds. This instrument would register only a small fraction of an inch for each foot in depth, and it was impossible to ascertain from it the actual depth we were submerged by several feet. For a clinometer I used the wooden stool I sat on in handling the diving rudder, and by the “feel” of this stool under me I could tell when the boat changed its angle. Even by this crude arrangement I was able to gauge the boat’s angle quite accurately.

The need of a highly sensitive instrument for this work led me in 1900 to invent and patent a clinometer, which was adopted in almost every submarine in the world.

Running a vessel under water varies greatly from operating on the surface. Above water a man, walking from amid­ships to the bow, will depress the bow, displacing a greater amount of water, but the bow will be able to sustain the in­creased weight. Once submerged, no change of displacement can occur, and therefore such shifting of weight would cause the boat to take a greater angle. As
C. H. Bedell explained it in discussing the later Holland boats,

A weight moved from amidships to one end of the boat would produce a leverage to swing this pendulum from the vertical-in other words, to cause the boat to take an angle by the bow or stern. As a submarine when submerged will go the way she is pointed, it will readily be seen that change of angle will cause her to change her depth. The man at the diving wheel nowadays not only has his wheel and depth gauge before him but also a clinometer, a sort of level by which he can tell the exact angle of the ship and there­fore tell whether the boat will change her depth or not as she goes along. As a matter of fact the boat is swinging up or down a little most of the time, and it is the duty of the man at the diving wheel to check these motions and control the boat so that she will remain at the depth desired.

In operating the Holland great care had to be exercised to obviate a shifting of weight when the boat was running sub­merged. Nowadays, with much larger boats, a man’s weight bears such a small ratio to the total weight that a crew’s ordinary movements are negligible.

PART III

As Holland’s plans now engaged his entire attention, the conduct of further trials was delegated to me. Reconstruction work, necessary to improve the Holland‘s efficiency, occupied us for some months. These changes included cutting part off the stern, putting the propeller forward and the rudders aft. The after dynamite gun was useless and we removed it.

Up to that time no provision had been made for torpedo compensation. In a sub­marine boat of this size compensation for weights was very important. In other words, when the boat was once trimmed for diving, no additional weight could be taken in or expelled without affecting the boat’s trim. When a torpedo was fired the tube instantly filled with water. To main­tain the trim this water had to be kept in the same relative position. Hence it was necessary to install compensation tanks, in which the water from the tube could be blown or pumped in order to load another torpedo. Each compensating tank held a weight of water corresponding to the weight of the torpedo. The steering gear had also to be rebuilt and rearranged.

These changes were completed about April, 1899, and we were again ready to begin our underwater work. While we were passing through this period of rebuilding, many of the people who were financing the enterprise became dissatisfied; they could not understand why a submarine boat, once finished, required improvements. They were told that if they desired the project to proceed to a successful end they must leave the engineering staff alone. This advice was taken.

No satisfactory experiments could be undertaken anywhere around New York, owing to traffic, shoal water, and other obstacles. Searching for a good practice ground, we decided that Peconic Bay, a few miles above Greenport, Long Island, was an ideal spot, with New Suffolk as our location. There, early in June, we removed our entire outfit on a steam lighter with the little Holland in tow.

Our first shop, which we built ourselves, was a one-story building 7 by 9 feet, and cost, when completed, about $35. Before the season was over, we outgrew it and rented another building close by, for which we paid $4.00 a month rent, an excessive sum, but we needed the building.

Our program embraced putting the Holland through her paces to fit her for undergoing a series of further trials the Navy Department had mapped out. The tests were much more elaborate and diffi­cult than any she had so far endured. Between times we would give public ex­hibitions for the benefit of representatives of foreign navies, newspaper men, and some of our friends. Some of these runs were more or less exciting.

On one of these trips we had Clara Bar­ton, founder of the Red Cross, on board as a guest. Perhaps she was the first woman to venture in a submarine. We ran the Holland for several miles on the surface, then submerged her and Miss Barton to a depth of 15 feet on a run of 2 miles. Hol­land explained to her the boat’s mecha­nism, particularly the operation and effect of the torpedo. If he looked for congratula­tions on his ingenuity, he did not get them. On the contrary, she expressed her great surprise that any American citizen should be guilty of inventing such a deadly instru­ment of war. Holland, with his usual Irish good nature, assured her that to take life was not the purpose of the boat, but rather the contrary. He believed that if all the nations of the world were equipped with submarines there would be no war. The World War proved that he erred.

Had Miss Barton been on board on another occasion, her disapproval of the submarine as a deadly weapon even in peace times would have been sustained by experience. We had arranged to give an exhibition for the benefit of U. S. Senator William M. Stewart of Nevada, and Major General M. C. Butler, of South Carolina, together with several representa­tives of foreign governments. The program provided for a surface run of several miles, a submerged run of 2 miles, a torpedo attack on an imaginary enemy, and a flight under sea. The exhibition was intended to prove that if the unsuspecting vessel was anchored she would have gone to the bottom as the Maine did in Havana Harbor.

During the summer of 1899 we made many changes in the operating mechanism of the boat. At the same time we gave a number of exhibition runs to prove that submarines would be a valuable addition to any Navy.

On November 6, 1898, we made our third and last official run of the Holland before a Board appointed by the Navy. As a result of these trials the United States Government purchased the boat and she became the first submarine to be a part of the United States Navy. I had the pleasure of delivering her in April, 1900. Her first Captain, Lieutenant Harry Caldwell, had been Aide to Admiral Dewey. The Ad­miral recognized the potentialities of the type and his testimony before the -House Naval Committee was mainly responsible for the appropriation under which the 7 “A” Class Submarines were built.

This article was published in the May 1964 issue of Proceedings as “Searching for the Thresher” by Frank A. Andrews, Captain, U.S. Navy.

The Thresher search was very much an ad hoc operation. On 10 April 1963, the day of the Thresher‘s loss, there was no real search organization, no search technique, nor specific operating procedures for locating an object lying on the ocean bottom at 8,400 feet. In the first frantic hours after the Thresher‘s loss, a full scale search effort consisting of 13 ships was laid on with the aim of scouring the ocean for possible life or floating signs from the Thresher. Within 20 search hours, all hope for survivors had passed, and the entire Thresher project began to change character from that of a standard Navy search and rescue opera­tion to that of an oceanographic expedition. This special expedition soon consisted of three ad hoc elements, which, as later events were to show, combined in a most successful and harmonious manner in support of searching out the Thresher‘s hull.

Diagram of the search for the lost USS Thresher.

The first was the sea-going element. This group, called Task Group 89.7, was ever changing in number and types of ships. At its maximum at-sea size, it consisted of 13 men-­of-war (including two submarines) and many search aircraft rushed to the disaster scene on the day of the Thresher‘s loss. At its minimum, TG 89.7 consisted of one lone oceanographic vessel—the Conrad on one occasion, the Atlan­tis II on another—left toiling away on station while the task group commander and staff (usually one officer and one chief radioman) were ashore conferring with others in prepa­ration for the commencement of a new phase of the search. In all, 28 naval warships and five oceanographic research, or service, vessels participated in Task Group 89.7 from 10 April 1963 until 6 September 1963, when a substantial portion of the Thresher wreckage was located by the bathyscaph Trieste.

The second of the expedition’s three ele­ments was an 11-man shore-based brain trust called the CNO Technical Advisory Group. Its mission was to provide technical guidance to the at-sea search effort. In actual fact, this Advisory Group did much more than propose ideas. Its members also procured ships and hardware, and, in the case of certain indi­vidual members, came to sea with the ships to assist in searching. The Chairman of the Advisory Group was Dr. Arthur Maxwell, Senior Oceanographer in the Office of Naval Research. Captain Charles Bishop, U.S. Navy, the senior sub­marine officer in the Office of the Deputy CNO for Research and Development (OP-07), served as Co-Chairman and CNO liaison officer. The membership of the committee consisted of senior representatives from the Naval Oceanographic Office, the Lamont Geological Observatory, the Bureau of Ships, the Hudson Laboratories, the Naval Re­search Laboratory, the Oceanographic De­partment of the University of Rhode Island, the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, the Naval Reactors Branch of the AEC, and the Oceanographic Group at the University of Miami.

The third special element was the Thresher Analysis Group which set up operations in the Walsh House at the Woods Hole Oceano­graphic Institution, Woods Hole, Massachu­setts. This Group soon became known as TAG WHOI, pronounced Tag Hooey. Its leader was Mr. Arthur Molloy of the Navy’s Oceanographic Office in Suitland, Maryland. TAG WHOI had a varying complement but, over-all, 15 civilians or naval officers spent three or more weeks with this element. These men represented the Submarine Development Group at New London, NAVOCEANO, NEL, NRL and WHOI; they were all obtained from their many parent organizations simply by asking.

The mission of TAG WHOI was to receive and analyze all data obtained at sea and to prepare appropriate search charts showing the location of pertinent clues previously found by the search group. In addition, this group acted as a source of briefing for senior naval officers or chief scientists of various oceanographic search vessels prior to sea trips. They also carried on a major effort in expediting hardware demands from the Task Group at sea. Their location at Woods Hole permitted direct liaison with WHOI scientific personnel as well as quick radio communica­tion via single side band with the Search Task Group 220 miles to the east of Cape Cod.

The initial plan for locating the Thresher was formulated on Friday 13 April, on board the Atlantis II, in an all-day conference which I, as Search Group Commander, held with Mr. Sidney Knott, Senior WHOI scientist of the Atlantis. This conference also included a lengthy radio telephone conversation with Dr. Brackett Hersey, Chief Physical Ocean­ographer of Woods Hole Oceanographic In­stitution, who confirmed that the basic plan conceived that day was in essential agreement with most of the thoughts then prevalent in the oceanographic scientific community. In the previous 36 hours, apparently, many minds had been thinking about how exactly to locate the Thresher. That night, in a dis­patch to Vice Admiral E. W. Grenfell, Com­mander Submarine Force, U. S. Atlantic Fleet, the following over-all plan was suggested:

Phase I. Search. A fine grain, bathymetric survey would be conducted. The term “bathymetric survey” is used by oceanogra­phers to denote a sonic depth finding study of a given area. “Fine grain” meant that a Fathometer of 300 yards sweep width would have to cover the length of the search area in strips 300 yards wide. The type of Fathom­eter to be used had a precision recorder read out and in theory would show a bottomed submarine as an hyperbolic trace perhaps 200 yards long, and standing at mod point 15 to 30 feet in relief above the ocean floor.

Phase II. Initial Classification. All Fathom­eter echoes classified as “possibles” would be investigated with a deep-towed Geiger counter, or side-looking echo-sounder, or magnetometer.

Phase III. Final Classification. All contacts passing Phase I and Phase II would be photo­graphed by either a deep TV camera, or a still
camera. Hopefully, the Thresher‘s hull or parts thereof, would be in the resulting pictures.

Later, a Phase IV was added to the plan. The title of this phase was “Close Examination and Study of the Thresher Hull”. When positive photographic evidence was found, the bathy­scaph, Trieste, would dive to permit her crew to study the wreckage.

The over-all plan was imaginative and certainly appeared to possess a degree of logic, except for the following:

• No one was quite sure whether or not the Thresher would return an echo from the search Fathometer. In fact, some suspected that the Thresher was buried deeply in the sand, while others suggested that the hull was in many pieces spread over a large area.
• No one was quite sure that the navigation in the disaster area could be carried out accurately enough to insure 100 per cent Fathometer coverage of the ocean bottom with a minimum of duplication. After all, the sweep width of the Fathometer was about 300 yards, whereas the search area had been defined as an area 10 miles by 10 miles (4,000,­000 square yards) with the center at the Thresher‘s most probable location. The datum or most probable position had been chosen as the position of the USS Skylark (ASR-20) at 0917 on 10 April when the Thresher was last heard from on underwater telephone
• No one possessed any real operational ex­perience at towing a magnetometer, Geiger counter, TV camera or a side-looking, echo sounder 15 to 200 feet off the bottom at depths of 8,400 feet. In fact, the design of the various sensors was, in April, merely a topic for discussion, or at most in the preliminary “purchase-of-parts” stage in the various oceanographic laboratories throughout the country. The notable exception to this was the deep camera. There was ample experience in still photography at 8,400 feet and deeper, and all of the oceanographic groups were ex­tremely handy with this technique. Until 10 April, however, most of the bottom photogra­phy work had been concerned only with pic­tures taken wherever the camera happened to chance as it was towed astern on a random wiggling tow cable. The act of selecting an exact geographic position and then placing a camera within 50 yards of this position in a depth of water one and one-half miles deep, with a surface current of one to three knots running, had never before been accomplished successfully.

But all scientists are optimists, and ocean­ographers are super optimists. In any case, the problems listed above certainly provided no discouragement to the various oceano­graphic teams who had to solve them.

The plan was therefore approved by COMSUBLANT and the CNO Technical Ad­visory Group. A program to procure ships, men, and equipment was commenced.

The actual search conducted over the next three months can be divided into five parts.

Part I, conducted from 13 April until 1 May, was originally named a “fine grain” survey. In actual fact, because of fast and varying random surface currents, and poor navigation, this survey using the precision Fathometer was really a very “coarse” grain survey. In the search area, the Labrador Cur­rent, flowing generally southwest, parallels the Gulf Stream, moving generally northeast. The result is a very chaotic surface current situation with flow over 24 hours from any direction around the compass, varying in magnitude between zero and four knots. The major navigation tool which was used in this survey was Loran A which under the best of conditions is probably accurate only to within about 2,000 yards.To overcome these problems, the “cluster” technique familiar to the mine warfare people was tried. All echoes were plotted as reported by the survey ships. A second, third, or even fourth survey ship pass would be ordered over previously reported echo posi­tions, and each time the navigational position of all echoes would be again plotted. If a cluster of echo positions began to develop on the chart within 500 yards of each other, it was assumed that these could have resulted from one and the same object on the bottom. The cluster was therefore worthy of being called a “possible” Thresher hull posit. In this manner, 12 posits were defined named ALFA, BRAVO, CHARLIE, DELTA and so forth.

The major conclusion of Part I of the search, was that some possible “hull posits” had been developed, but the entire survey would have to be redone because of navigational in­accuracy. A “fine grain” survey using Decca and Loran C navigation was soon organized.

Part II, the “fine grain” survey was ac­complished in 13 days. For this work, four ships were made available; the USNS Mission Capistrano (AG-162), a former T-2 oil tanker hull now used by ONR in Project ARTEMIS, the USS Prevail (AGS-20), an ex-fleet mine sweeper, the USS Allegheny (ATA-179), a fleet tug hull used by the Hudson Laboratories as an oceanographic vessel, and the USS Rockville (EPCER-851), a PC used by the Naval Research Laboratory as a research vehicle. Each of these ships was assigned one­-quarter of the 10-mile by 10-mile search area for survey with its precision Fathometer. A NAVOCEANO team-was assembled on board the Mission Capistrano, and boating arrange­ments were made to bring the recording traces of the other three ships to the Mission Capistrano each day.

On the Mission, in a large below-decks laboratory space, the data was screened and all possible echoes or hull posits were plotted and named for subsequent follow-up by the oceanographic vessels used as classifier ships­—the RS Atlantis II, the USNS Conrad (AGOR-3) and the USNS Gilliss (AGOR-4). During this “fine grain” survey, it was clear that the Decca Green Line (from a station in Halifax) was extremely stable and would permit locating a ship within ±100 yards of its actual north-south geographic line of position. There seemed good reason to believe that the four survey ships had indeed placed a Fathometer of 300 yards sweep width over every square yard of the search area.

Unfortunately, the result of the fine grain survey was the definition of 90 “possible” Thresher hull positions instead of the 12 originally defined in Part I of the search. Ap­parently, bottom topography was also re­turning echoes which looked similar to those expected from the Thresher.

During Part II, the classifier ships had not been engaged in the Fathometer sweep. Instead, they had been busily engaged in try­ing to photograph or investigate with a deep magnetometer some of the hull posits defined in Part I. They had no success. Faced with the chaotic surface currents, and with no precise knowledge of the exact location of a sensor on the end of a 9,000-foot wire, the classifier ships were simply unable to pass a camera or magnetometer over or near any of the positions from which echoes had been received. Naturally, the goal of investigating the 90
“possible” Thresher hull positions using the camera or magnetometer seemed unattain­able unless the classifiers could become more
proficient.

A solution had been proposed which would permit the classifiers to become more pro­ficient, and indeed, would check out the en­tire concept of the precision Fathometer as a search tool. We would bottom a World War II submarine hulk north of the search area and give the scientific ships some “Type Training,” as the man-of-war Navy calls it. This proposal was quickly approved by the CNO Advisory Group and by COMSUBLANT. The ex-USS Toro was nominated, procured, sailed to Boston, and readied for sea. Thus, Part II, the fine grain survey ended with the return to port of all units except the Atlantis II, with plans for some of TG 89.7 to return the following week to place the Toro on the bottom.

Part III should properly be called the find­ing of clue No.1. The Atlantis II did not return to port immediately with the other ships, but instead stayed at sea to do more photography work around posit DELTA which the At­lantis II had discovered in the coarse grain sur­vey. DELTA had all the required echo char­acteristics which the Thresher hull theoreti­cally should have produced; proper dimension and proper energy return relative to the energy returned from the surrounding bottom. Hence, the Atlantis II, with great pride of authorship, was determined to place a camera on DELTA and photograph the Thresher. Although the Atlantis II never actually photo­graphed DELTA, she did, on 14 May, obtain photographs of very suspicious looking debris about 700 yards north of DELTA. This debris consisted of paper, wire, and bits of twisted metal, and it is properly called the first clue in the bottom search for the Thresher. DELTA subsequently has turned out to be topography—a little luck doesn’t hurt anyone. In fact, this illustrates the well-known scientific pro­cedure of discovery while carrying out the plan and not as a direct result of the plan. The news of the debris photography caused cancellation of the Toro drop and led directly to the next part of the search.

Part IV should be called “The Classifier Ships Concentrate at DELTA.” A 2-mile by 2­mile area was defined with center at DELTA. The Conrad, the Atlantis II and the Gilliss re­turned immediately to the scene, prepared to survey with camera and magnetometer. About a week to 10 days was spent in this phase with very little more to show than had originally been photographed by the Atlantis II. The Conrad, however, in a fit of experiment and while her camera rig was under repair, did dredge, using a deep scallop rig. The re­sult after a dozen or so attempts, was a packet of 12 0-rings with certain name plate data written on each of the 0-ring envelopes. I twas subsequently determined that these o-rings could have come from the Thresher or certain Navy aircraft. The Atlantis II, spurred on by the Conrad‘s success, also rigged a dredge to be attached to her camera. This home-made de­vice, literally made of baling wire and coat hangers, brought up small rocks, sea life, and finally a section of battery plate six inches in length. The battery plate was later iden­tified as being definitely from a Thresher-class submarine.

All classifier ships except the Conrad re­turned to port about 26 May. On 29 May, the Conrad reported the photographing of definite parts of the Thresher hull. The news was re­leased to the press, and subsequently had to be denied. In actual fact, the Conrad had only photographed a part of her own camera. All faces were red. The Conrad returned to the battle, prepared to do or die, and in the next 10 days, kept camera and magnetometer go­ing in and out of the water around the clock.

Part IV, “Classifiers on Station,” ended about 15 June with the discovery by the Conrad of clue No.2: an oxygen bottle, a sonar hydrophone, and a piece of 10-foot sheet metal which appears to be sonar baffling used on the exterior of a submarine hull. These were the first large pieces of the Thresher‘s hull to be located. In addition, the Conrad located a large magnetometer contact on three sepa­rate occasions.

Part V, the Trieste‘s operations, followed naturally through the positive encouragement of clue No.2. The Trieste, with the USS Fort Snelling (LSD-30) and the USS Preserver (ARS-8), had been standing by in Boston since mid­-May. An operation order to conduct at sea dives with the Trieste had been written and promulgated. Hence, with evidence on which to base the Trieste dives, TG 89.7 sailed on 21 June to exploit the previous search work. Be­tween 21 June and 8 September, TG 89.7 was at sea for two periods of approximately three weeks each. During this period the Trieste made a total of 10 dives, five on each sea trip. The over-all result of these dives was the final discovery on 6 September of a sub­stantial portion of the Thresher‘s wreckage, lo­cated as far as navigational error is known, within yards of the magnetometer contact re­ported by the Conrad. This area contained, amongst many other large pieces of sheet metal, the same piece of 10-foot by 10-foot section photographed previously by the Conrad. The area was described by Lieu­tenant Commander Donald Keach, the Officer in Charge of Trieste, as “a huge auto­mobile junk yard with big pieces of heavy metal all over the place.”

TRIESTE surfaced. Blowing water out of entrance changer to permit observers and pilot to climb out.

The use of the Trieste in the role of deep search and study vehicle is a story in itself. This remarkable and simply constructed vehicle will certainly revolutionize the ex­ploration of the deep-ocean bottom in the years to come. The ability of men to go to the bottom to see for themselves, or to combine visual observation with photography, or sonar detection or magnetometer search, or radi­ation measurement is the most flexible and competent of all oceanographic techniques.

There were, of course, many minor opera­tional problems associated with towing the Trieste to sea and making 10 dives in 8,400 feet of water. The Trieste cannot be rigged for diving in heavy weather; her surfacing opera­tion is dangerous in fog or after dark, her crew up to this time had never made more than one dive per week. In general, the Trieste had never really been used in a search role, but rather had merely investigated any particular area in which she happened to land. The Trieste crew, however, had worked together for some months in the San Diego area, and had good answers for most of the problems which arose.

The wisdom of using a large ship, the Fort Snelling, as a seagoing base of operations, and the salvage ship Preserver as an immediate mother and tow ship became increasingly apparent throughout the operation. The whole operation would have been hopeless without the housekeeping, communications, and re­pair facilities provided by these two ships.

The major problems associated with the actual Trieste dives were two in number. The first, navigation, was finally solved in a reason­ably acceptable manner, although great im­provement is still possible. The second, the slow deterioration of the Trieste‘s topside wiring and hull parts simply by being at sea for a long period of time, was one which we learned to live with, until finally it appeared that the Trieste had to secure and go home. Hopefully, a redesigned Trieste will make this second situation less of a problem.

To place the Trieste in the proper position for diving. The Preserver with the Trieste in tow, was navigated by radar ranges and bear­ings on a “taut wire” buoy planted 1,000 yards north of the magnetometer contact pre­viously reported by the Conrad. After diving, the Trieste was maneuvered on dead reckon­ing for the most part. However, 1,441 colored and numbered markers placed methodically on the bottom in a prearranged grid through­out the area served to tell the Trieste where she had been. Each marker consisted of a window sash weight, as anchor, and a colored plastic sheet attached to the anchor by two to three feet of nylon cord. The markers had been dropped several weeks before by the Allegheny on the basis of Decca navigation and seemed reasonably close (perhaps ±300 yards) to their intended ground position. The markers were called “fortune cookies.”

The Gilliss, also on the scene with the Trieste, had a 3-D tracking system designed by the Applied Physics Laboratory at the Uni­versity of Washington. This system trans­mitted a sonar signal to a transponder located on the Trieste, which in turn re-transmitted a signal to all of three hydrophones located on the Gilliss‘ hull. By measuring the time differ­ence of arrival, the Gilliss could compute a very accurate range and bearing of the Trieste from the Gilliss. Simultaneously, the Gilliss could locate a transponder fixed to the ocean bottom, and thus give an accurate range and bearing of the Trieste from a fixed geographic position. Unfortunately, this system was just beginning to work when the Trieste‘s slow hull deterioration took over, and we all had to go home. The Washington APL System appears to offer the greatest promise for future bathy­scaph work.

In the diagram on page 72 you can see the buoy location, the Atlantis II debris area, the location of the Conrad‘s debris and magne­tometer contact, and the location of the large wreckage area sighted by the Trieste. The brass pipe which is seen in the photograph on page 73 had been marked while the Thresher was under construction with certain drawing and job order numbers, as well as the words “593 boat.” The pipe apparently came from a hot water flushing line.

Two other very valuable contributions to the Thresher operation must be mentioned be­fore closing. One was the weekly or semi­weekly conference held at sea between the Task Group Commander and the various chief scientists on scene. Many a boat trip or high-line transfer was made to carry them out. These get-togethers served as very valuable idea sessions and certainly made the job easier for the Task Group Commander. The second contribution was the information ob­tained from the high-powered receiver and transmitter at the Hudson Laboratories, manned almost continuously night and day by Mr. Gerry Fisher of that laboratory. This un­official communication center operating on 3385 KCS SSB could reach anybody in the search operation at any time, thanks to the faithfulness and efficiency of ROBIN as the Hudson Laboratory voice call was known. There were many moments when all official Navy circuits were down, but the scientific circuit, for which 3385KCS was designated, could put the at-sea group in touch with the CNO Tech Advisory Group in Washington, or the Analysis Group at Woods Hole, or even some member of the Advisory Group who was traveling around the country at the time.

It is my understanding that the Trieste II, a new Trieste superstructure with the old Trieste sphere, will go to sea in April of next year to finish the Thresher search operation. Hopefully, the new WHOI research submarine Alvin will also be available.

The Thresher Search Operation shows that, with patience, the deep search and study problem can be solved. There are major prob­lems yet to be solved, however, if the Navy is to become proficient at this type of an operation, whether it be search for a bottomed submarine, satellite, missile, or any other object. Most important, we must develop im­proved search techniques with the capability to locate the search sensors precisely in a geographic frame of reference.

This article was originally published in the April 1959 issue of Proceedings as “Peary at the North Pole” by Hugh C. Mitchell

On September 5, 1909, the steamer Roosevelt reached Indian Harbor in Labrador, and Robert E. Peary, a com­mander in the Civil Engineer Corps of the U. S. Navy, wired the secretary of the Peary Arctic Club in New York City a cipher message which, being decoded, read, “Pole reached. Roosevelt Safe.” And at the same time a message went to Mrs. Peary: “Have made good. I have the pole. Am well. Love.”

These messages announced the success of Peary, after many years of tireless effort, in reaching the north geographic pole of the earth, the goal of many intrepid explorers in years gone by, possibly the greatest and most sought for geographic prize of all time, and also the most difficult of attainment.

Peary had striven for this prize over many years of heroic effort—years of trials and dis­appointments, but not of failures, for his motto was, “I will find a way or make one!” Peary never quit trying! During all these years of effort he was learning more about the conditions affecting the problem he was seek­ing to solve-the way to the Pole. He was learning more about the Eskimos, about their capabilities in handling dogs and sleds in all kinds of ice and weather conditions, and, even more important, he was winning their affec­tion and loyalty by his own acts of friendliness and humanitarianism. He was learning more about the ways of the weather, overhead and underfoot, for upon such knowledge would depend important decisions which might mean success or failure. Many years later, a naturalist, considering another matter, wrote, “It is useless to blame Nature, it is better to work with her. She will not change.” And Peary, knowing nature to be a capricious mistress, was matching her whims with ex­perience, surer methods of ice travel and im­proved equipment.

All these years Peary was both finding and making a way to the Pole, so that when men and dogs were in readiness, when wind and ice conditions were favorable, and equipment was complete and in the best possible condi­tion, he made the great effort and on April 6, 1909, after five weeks of sledging over the polar ice, he took an observation on the sun which gave him a position line of 89° 57′ north latitude. Supported by similar observations made by other members of his party on the way up, by direction of march obtained from the sun when it was on his meridian of travel, and by estimated distances of travel, this posi­tion line assured Peary that he was quite close to the North Pole, that imaginary point on the earth at latitude 90° north where all meridians meet and all directions are south.

At this point he established his North Pole camp, which he named Camp Jesup in honor of his friend and supporter, Morris K. Jesup, who had died only a year or so previously. He made this camp his base for about thirty hours of what has been described as dynamic activ­ity, during which time he first continued his march without change of direction for a dis­tance of ten miles beyond the camp. Here he took observations on the sun, then returned to camp, where observations were taken on the sun which was then at a direction to the east of his line of march from Cape Columbia and at right angles thereto. These observations showed the camp was between four and five miles from the Pole in the general direction of Alaska—as one prominent man put it, he was “west of the North Pole.”

Acting on this knowledge, Peary made a march in the direction of the sun which, at the time of observation, would be close to the di­rection of the Pole. Going a distance of eight miles, he returned to the camp. It was on this march that he passed close to—possibly within one mile or even closer to the exact position of his goal—the North Pole.

On reaching the camp, Peary took another set of observations on the sun which, now six hours later than the previous observations, would be on or close to the meridian along which he had traveled from his land base to Cape Columbia. In all, Peary took four sets of observations while in the vicinity of the pole—­two at Camp Jesup in the direction of Cape Columbia, one at the camp at right angles to that direction, and one at the end of the 10-­mile march beyond his camp. These four sets of observations provided sufficient data for determining an accurate position of his North Pole camp and also for obtaining a mathe­matical check thereon.

In making these observations Peary used an astronomical sextant and an artificial (mercu­rial) horizon. A more precise determination of position would require the use of delicate in­struments, the transportation of which on sledges over the rough ice and pressure ridges would have been most impracticable and the use of which on the ice floes of the arctic sea would have been impossible.

At Camp Jesup, Peary planted five flags, the first of which was a silk American flag, made by Mrs. Peary and given him fifteen years earlier. He had carried this flag wrapped around his body on every expedition he had made since it had come into his possession. From it he had cut fragments which were left at the farthest north of each expedition. At the North Pole camp he cut from this flag a broad diagonal strip which, with the record of the trip, was placed in a glass bottle and deposited between ice blocks of a pressure ridge.

Almost at the same time that Peary was an­nnouncing by wire his discovery of the North Pole, Dr. Frederick A. Cook was in Copenhagen, Denmark, where, before a dis­tinguished audience, he was being awarded the gold medal of the Royal Danish Geo­graphical Society for his claimed discovery of the North Pole, although neither then nor at any later time did he produce observations or proofs of his claim. When Peary was apprised of this, a few days later, he sent this telegram to the United Press Association: “Cook’s story should not be taken too seriously. Two Eski­mos who accompanied him say he went no distance north and not out of sight of land. Other tribesmen corroborate.” And to the New York Times he sent a fuller dispatch of the same tenor, one sentence of which read: “The Affair will settle itself” and another, “He has simply handed the public a gold brick.”

Peary was quite correct in saying that the affair would settle itself, but many a day was to pass and much false testimony was to be picked to pieces and cast aside before all the public was convinced of the complete falsity of Cook’s claims. The repudiation of Cook’s claims did come in time and it was a complete repudiation—by organizations which had honored him, by geographers who had sup­ported him, and by members of the general public who had believed his story.

These matters were factors in the attempt to cloud the honor which Peary had earned and so highly deserved in securing for his country the greatest geographical prize of all time—the discovery of the North Pole. When a bill was introduced in Congress to recognize Peary’s achievement and reward him with pro­motion to the grade of rear admiral in the U. S. Navy, there had already developed an opposition so strong as to delay for months final action by the House Committee on Naval Affairs.

To some, I am sure, this opposition was a surpise. At least the power of the opposition lobby was greater than could be anticipated. When Peary reached Washington after his re­turn from the Arctic, the National Geographic Society appointed a committee of the most dis­tinguished men in geographic science and art to receive him and examine his evidence of having discovered the North Pole. This com­mittee then selected three of its members to question Peary personally, examine his in­struments, and test the accuracy of his naviga­tional data. These three men were Henry Gannett, a geographer in the service of the U. S. Geological Survey; O. H. Tittmann, Superintendent of the U. S. Coast and Geo­detic Survey; and Rear Admiral C. M. Ches­ter of the U. S. Navy. These three men met with Peary, examined his instruments and his records, and reported that they were “unan­imously of the opinion that Commander Peary reached the North Pole on April 6, 1909.” By training and experience these three men were excellent judges of the case and their determination was correct and was generally accepted in scientific circles as conclusive.

The National Geographic Society approved the findings of its committee and awarded Peary a special great gold medal “for the dis­covery of the North Pole, April 6, 1909.” But the subcommittee of the Committee on Naval Affairs of the House of Representatives was more demanding in its hearings when it met early in March, 1910. The first witness before it was Superintendent O. H. Tittmann of the U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey, to whom Peary had reported for instructions regarding tidal and other observations to be made dur­ing the projected cruise of the ship Roosevelt. This was by order of President Theodore Roosevelt and was transmitted through the Secretary of Commerce and Labor. Dr. Titt­mann’s testimony related to the work done under those orders: tidal and other data which were transmitted by Peary to the Coast and Geodetic Survey, where they were studied and officially reported on by Dr. R. A. Harris, tidal expert in that bureau. It is of consider­able interest that Peary’s first connection with the government at Washington was with the Coast and Geodetic Survey where he served as a draftsman from July, 1879, until the fall of 1881 when he received his commission as a civil engineer in the Navy.

Dr. Tittmann was followed in the witness chair by Mr. Gannett, who was questioned at considerable length by various members of the subcommittee on different phases of the Peary expedition, after which the subcommittee ad­journed to meet briefly on March 7, when it received a report that contracts with pub­lishers signed some months earlier would pre­vent the placing of all the North Pole naviga­tional data before it at the time, as that would amount to a publication of those data and a breaking of faith with the publishers. These data had, however, been seen and examined by the National Geographic Society’s subcom­mittee and were the basis for its favorable re­port, but this in no way amounted to publica­tion thereof.

The Naval Affairs subcommittee did not meet again until January 7, 1911, when Peary appeared before it in person and on that day and on subsequent days, January 10 and 11, there developed under the severe questioning by its members, the great story of the dis­covery of the North Pole. It was a magnificent story told in person by the discoverer. The co­operation between Peary and a majority of the members of the subcommittee was complete and satisfactory. No questions were dodged. All were met squarely and answered honestly, though some questions seemed directed away from the truth rather than toward it. One member of the subcommittee undertook to discredit Peary’s story with questioning and innuendoes which may have been based on ignorance or dictated by instructions from lobbyists. This member later made a speech when the bill reached the floor of the House for consideration which would amaze even a grade-school student of geography.

It was at the session of January 10 that copies of letters to and from the Coast and Geodetic Survey were introduced into the record. These included orders and instruc­tions under which Peary had carried on tidal, hydrographic, and other work in the Arctic, and reports relating to that work.

I was present at this last session (January 11) and was so fascinated by the unfailing courtesy and frankness of Peary’s answers un­der all conditions of questioning that I hardly noticed the passing of time. Consequently, I was somewhat taken by surprise when I found myself seated in the chair which had just been vacated by Peary, and being introduced to the subcommittee by my bureau chief, Super­intendent O. H. Tittmann of the U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey.

The discovery of the North Pole was a sub­ject on which I had been engaged for some months. To Peary and his friends, it had for some time been evident that the Congres­sional committee desired something more tan­gible than the examination given his records and instruments by representatives of the Na­tional Geographic Society—something more than the personal faith of his friends and sup­porters in his integrity and ability.

Accordingly, one day in the fall of 1910, Dr. Tittmann asked me to make a mathematical analysis of Peary’s navigational data taken at the North Pole. A junior member of a small group of mathematicians in the U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey who were engaged in discussions of astronomic and geodetic survey data, I had seen service in the field work of the Bureau, including an astronomical survey of the Philippine Islands, earlier in my career.

Like many other Americans I was aware of the bitter contest then being waged in private and in public to obtain recognition of Cook and to discredit Peary, but my interest in the matter was small, possibly leaning a little to­ward the Cook claims, but only in a senti­mental way. Neither man was known to me personally. Had I known Peary then as I was to know him later, as a man not only incapa­ble of falsehood himself, but intolerant offalse­hood in others, I would have been eager to accede to Dr. Tittmann’s request. However, I did agree to undertake a critical analysis of Peary’s North Pole observations and at once made arrangements to do so.

The exact date of my first meeting with Peary has slipped my mind. No diary was kept of our meetings—a fact that I have sometimes regretted, though, except to recall dates, a diary was hardly needed. The man—his rugged personality, his tremendous mental and physical strength, his searching gaze—made a deep impression on me. That winter of 1910-11, Peary was living at the Dresden, an apartment house in Washington, on Con­necticut Avenue, just south of the Taft Memo­rial Bridge which spans Rock Creek Valley. Dr. Tittmann had advised Peary of my com­ing and he was expecting me. From the first moment when his piercing eye surveyed me as if it would search out my innermost thought, the one dominant trait of the man which im­pressed me was his unfaltering honesty coupled with a spirit of utter abomination of dishonesty in others. From that meeting we were friends; in fact, it was the beginning of a friendship which I have always prized.

Following this first meeting with Peary, there were others, most of them at his apart­ment in the Dresden. At that first meeting he placed in my hands the original records of his observations in the vicinity of the North Pole and those taken by his aides en route to the Pole. I spread them out on the piano bench in the reception room and made copies of them. With these basic data I at once undertook to comply with Dr. Tittmann’s request to make the mathematical analysis of those observa­tions. Associated with me in this work was a fellow member of the Coast and Geodet­ic Survey’s astronomic-geodetic computing force, Charles R. Duvall—one of the most dependable computers I have ever known. Duvall was my associate in a number of in­teresting problems which came to us in the Survey and I had learned in our years of association that complete dependence could always be placed on his work. Of course, we always insisted on one full check of the solu­tion to any problem, but Duvall seemed al­most unhappy if he could not secure two in­dependent checks and such was his ability that he nearly always did have two checks.

Peary was keen to see that I had every op­portunity to obtain all the facts; he was eager at all times to place himself at my disposal and answer frankly and fully every question. Knowing well the value of truth and the danger of inexact statements, and not know­ing what turn questioning might take in fu­ture hearings before the Congressional sub­committee, he would sometimes at the end of a conference caution me to think carefully over the facts of our visit and establish a clear mental record thereof.

Peary would sometimes talk about his arctic work in a reminiscent way after the particular purpose of the conference had been con­sidered. It was on one such occasion that he spoke of the various developments in equip­ment which had helped him to the Pole, and he gave some credit to the cooker which con­verted snow into hot water in ten minutes and gave them hot tea as soon as camp had been made.

It was on Thursday, January 12, 1911, that I appeared before the subcommittee of the House Committee on Naval Affairs to present the results of Duvall’s and my reduction of Peary’s North Pole navigational observations. Duvall had prepared a chart of the immediate vicinity of the Pole on which he had shown the position of the North Pole camp and the lines of march to that camp the extension of that march a distance of ten miles beyond the camp and the eight-mile march of April 7 which took Peary quite close to the pole—­possibly directly over it. It was a graphic illustration of good navigation and was evi­dence of the skill acquired by Peary on his many expeditions into the trackless areas of the frozen north.

As I took the witness chair which Peary had just vacated, Dr. Tittmann vouched for me as a competent member of his Bureau. Looking back over the years, I note with interest that the opposition tried to make something of the fact that Dr. Tittmann vouched for Duvall and me as professional computers of the Coast and Geodetic Survey, proficient in this kind of work; that he considered us unsurpassed in ability and experience in this kind of work not only in his own organization, but in such work anywhere. He did not vouch for the results of our computations officially. These we had to prove mathematically correct and this we did.

My appearance before the committee was quite short and most satisfactory to me and, as shown by its report, to the subcommittee also. Later in the day, Peary called my home by phone and expressed his thanks. Under the clear and direct questioning by members of the subcommittee, the report prepared by Duvall and me became a matter of official record.

Our computations were basic and were intended to determine whether Peary had reached the North Pole in April, 1909, as claimed. They definitely did determine such to be a fact: that on April 6, 1909, Peary had made camp within five miles of the north geographic pole and that on the following day he had made a march which had brought him very close to the exact location of the Pole, well inside the limits of position determination by competent mariners at sea.

In presenting its findings to the Committee on Naval Affairs, the subcommittee having the Peary bill in charge made two separate reports, both of which were favorable to the passage of the bill, recommending that Peary be recognized and honored for having reached the North Pole. The majority report of the subcommittee was fairly comprehensive, em­phasizing the evidence which I had presented and also listing the many honors and recogni­tions which Peary had received at home and abroad for his discovery of the North Pole. But the minority report was based wholly on the chart and on my testimony relating to the chart.

In one of its concluding paragraphs, the minority report makes the following comment on the chart:

“Had such a chart been worked out by members of the Geographic Society (and there is no reason why it should not have been done, for that com­mittee had before it the same astronomical obser­vations that were before Mr. Mitchell) and had the chart been given to the world by that com­mittee of the Geographic Society, undoubtedly the controversy would have ended then and there.”

The House Committee on Naval Affairs accepted the reports of its subcommittee and made favorable report on the Bill (Senate Bill 6104-Hale) and recommended its passage. That Bill would authorize the President of the United States to “place Civil Engineer Robert E. Peary, United States Navy, on the retired list of the Corps of Civil Engineers with the rank of rear admiral, …” and also rec­ommended that “the thanks of Congress be,
and the same are hereby, tendered to Robert E. Peary, United States Navy for his arctic explorations resulting in reaching the North Pole.”

On March 3, 1911, after a number of speeches on the floor of the House, all of which with one exception gave unstinted praise and appreciation to Peary for his great achievement, the Bill was passed and Peary thereby received the highest possible official recognition for having discovered the North Pole.

It was then proposed by the Peary Arctic Club to present a report of Peary’s journey to the North Pole, including the reduction of Peary’s navigational data made by Duvall and me, to the Tenth International Congress of Geography which was scheduled to meet in Rome, Italy, in 1913. This inspired us to re­view our earlier computations to see what re­finements, if any, could be introduced therein. We also proposed to investigate the accuracy of sextant and artificial horizon observations on the sun such as Peary had made at the North Pole.

But Peary’s observations were so strong in their arrangement and of such observational excellence that refinements of computation satisfactorily checked the earlier results, giving the geographic position of the North Pole camp (Camp Jesup) as follows: latitude 89° 55′.4: longitude 137° West. In Washington, at the Office of the Coast and Geodetic Survey, members of that Bureau made observations on the elevation of the sun when close to the horizon, using sextant and artificial horizon, and obtained results which fully justified the claim that the geographic position of Camp Jesup, Peary’s North Pole camp, as deter­mined by him on April 6-7, 1909, could not be in error by as much as 2′ of latitude.

This result had already been accepted by the scientific world. The Rome paper was simply a carefully prepared exposition of the closeness of the approach to the Pole. It was presented to the International Congress of Geography (Rome, 1913) by Thomas H. Hubbard of the Peary Arctic Club and was published in the Acts of the Congress. Many years later it was republished by the National Geographic Society in Washington, D. C.

Although Peary’s having reached the North Pole was now fully established as an historic fact, there were still occasional claims made by Dr. Cook’s friends that in employing the word reach instead of discover, Congress had in­tended to deny that Peary was the first man to reach the Pole. This was nonsense, for Congress had not considered the question of priority, but had based its investigation and made its award wholly on the question of whether Peary had been successful in reaching the Pole. But it was well known at that time and convincing evidence has accumulated through the years that Dr. Cook had not been near the North Pole. Peary was fully rec­ognized as the first man to reach the Pole and therefore to discover it. As has already been noted in this paper, the gold medal awarded Peary by the National Geographic Society employs the word discovery.

Some time in the 1930′s there was a revival of interest in North Pole matters. Pro­fessor William H. Hobbs of the University of Michigan, a geologist who had made explora­tions in the interest of his own science, was preparing a biography of Peary which ap­peared in 1936. While doing this he con­tacted Duvall and me and at the same time engaged the interest of Heber D. Curtis, Direc­tor of the Ann Arbor observatory, in Peary’s
astronomical work. Dr. Curtis was experi­enced in field operations, having directed a number of expeditions for observing eclipses. Both Hobbs and Curtis were members of the National Academy of Sciences.

Curtis undertook a thorough study of Peary’s North Pole data, in which Duvall and I were naturally quite interested, and letters discussing Curtis’s approach to the problem passed between Ann Arbor and Washington. Duvall and I undertook a recomputation of Peary’s observations, this time giving weights to the various sets, and making a least-squares adjustment and determining a probable error for the result.

The latitude of Peary’s North Pole camp (Camp Jesup) as reported to Congress in 1911, to the 10th International Congress of Geog­raphy in Rome in 1913, as computed by Heber D. Curtis and published by him in 1939, and as computed by Duvall and me in a least-squares adjustment, gave values with a spread of 0.’2 or about 1200 feet. The prob­able error of our least-squares determination was ±0.’6. The longitude derived in these various computations had a spread of 130 which at this latitude represents a distance of about one mile.

Dr. Curtis published the results of his study of Peary’s discovery of the North Pole in the January, 1939 Proceedings, under the title Navigation Near the Pole. In this paper he in­cluded the results of computations made by Duvall and me. Because of its completeness and soundness, Dr. Curtis’s paper is strongly rec­ommended by anyone who may be interested in the subject.

While the results of our latest computations of Peary’s North Pole data were incorporated in Curtis’s paper, Navigation Near the Pole, they were given no other general publication. But the manuscript copies of our study (computa­tions and notes) were assembled with printed copies of the Rome paper and of Dr. Curtis’s paper, and these were bound together in book form and copies presented to the National Geographic Society, to the Library of Con­gress (Rare Book Section) and to the Univer­sity of Notre Dame. A copy was also presented to Mrs. Edward Stafford, daughter of Admiral Peary.

The conclusions given by Dr. Curtis in his paper are of considerable importance, coming from a man who was director of a great state university observatory, a member of the Na­tional Academy of Sciences, and an explorer who organized and led parties on field trips to observe eclipses which were visible over very limited areas. His final paragraph is most interesting:

“All in all, the writer, as a result of his examina­tion of Peary’s work near the pole, is far more im­pressed with what Peary did than with what he left out. His journey north and his dynamic ac­tivity in the 30 hours spent near the pole form a tour de force with few if any parallels in the annals of exploration. It seems impossible to plan any procedure more adequate than that actually used by Peary, and it is the measured judgement of the writer that Peary sledged within about three-­quarters of a mile of the earth’s true pole, and perhaps even actually over that unmarked and quasi-imaginary point on the shifting ice floes of the Arctic Sea.”

The above may well be taken as the epi­logue of the great drama based on the dis­covery of the North Pole by Robert E. Peary in April, 1909, the prelude being the computa­tions and chart prepared by Charles R. Du­vall and me, both members of the U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey, which were accepted by the U. S. Congress as complete evidence of Peary’s great achievement and formed the basis on which Congress honored him with promotion to the grade of Rear Admiral in the U. S. Navy.

The USS Thresher (SSN-593) is shown before her loss, underway in the North Atlantic in this painting by Carl Evers.

by E. W. Grenfell, Vice Admiral, USN & published in the March, 1964 issue of Proceedings magazine:

On 10 April 1963, the U. S. Navy suffered the loss of the nuclear submarine Thresher, the nation’s third peacetime sub­marine loss since World War II, and by far the United States’ greatest single submarine disaster in terms of loss of life. The public, both in the United States and abroad, reacted with compassion for the fam­ilies of these men who gave their lives in the cause of freedom and pioneering. Seamen the world over have expressed reverent respect for these gallant men who paid part of the eternal tribute demanded by the sea from those who dare to venture on, or beneath, the trackless waters.

From our very beginnings, our country, like other leading maritime nations, has relied upon the sea to carry arms as well as commerce. In the process of maintaining our maritime skills in the naval profession, the United States has become a foremost sub­marine power; this happened almost by de­fault. After Pearl Harbor, our submarine forces were elevated to an unexpectedly im­portant place in our Fleet because of the initial destruction wrought on U. S. surface warships. In fact, only the submarine forces retained the full capability to carry the war back to the Japanese immediately.

The highly successful submarine campaign during World War II was, of course, based on the efforts of brave and intelligent men. But it was also based on the peacetime work of other men equally brave and competent, for, in 1941, the United States possessed the finest submarines in the world and the men who knew how to sail them. Many of our present diesel submarines are modernized first generation descendants of these World War II Fleet Boats.

The U. S. Navy, during the years from 1920 to 1939, constructed a series of classes of submarines, each of which was operated by our Fleet until its characteristics were known and evaluated. The knowledge thus gained was used to improve succeeding classes.

In the process of building up this superior submarine force which broke the back of the Japanese merchant marine and contributed so much to the defeat of her fleet, approxi­mately 150 men gave their lives in peacetime submarine accidents. The S-51 was rammed and sunk by the steamer City of Rome in September 1925 with the loss of 33 lives; in December 1927, the S-4 was rammed and sunk by the Coast Guard destroyer Pauling with the loss of 40 lives; the Squalus flooded and sank in May 1939 with the loss of 26 men; and the 0-9 was crushed while exceeding test depth in June 1941, taking 33 lives. Though their former shipmates mourned these losses, U. S. submariners returned to sea determined to build better submarines and to operate them more effectively and safely. It was the dedicated efforts of these men that gave us the ships and know-how we needed so desper­ately on 8 December 1941.

The recent tragic loss of the Thresher is a sad but gallant extension of the tradition of duty, professional competence, and self-­sacrifice which has always been the hallmark of the submarine forces of our Navy. Just as surely as in any combat casualty, the ship’s company, and the military and civilian ob­servers and technicians embarked in the Thresher on her last dive, gave their lives to insure the survival of our way of life. These men were lost testing a class of submarine which fits into the spectrum of submarines available to the world’s navies today exactly as did the marvelous Fleet type of the last generation. The outstanding safety record of our submarines in recent years, along with our own demonstrated confidence, had led those who did not fully understand submarine operations to forget that such operations are still hazardous duty and involve a certain amount of calculated risk. When sailormen of the United States no longer choose to face the dangers of the seas, our nation will cease to exist.

Just what kind of a ship was the Thresher? She was the result of the quantum techno­logical advances coming from the technologi­cal revolution of the past decade. The Thresher was without question the most ad­vanced operational attack submarine in the world. She was the fastest, deepest-diving, quietest, and best-armed submarine ever de­livered as an operating warship to any fleet. She had been with the Fleet from her com­missioning on 3 August 1961 until she entered Portsmouth Naval Shipyard on 16 July 1962 for post-shakedown availability. Her performance at sea fully confirmed the anticipated quantum advance in attack sub­marine capabilities which the designers had promised. The Navy had depended upon this performance to the extent that it had asked for and received authority to build 14 of these ships, as well as an additional 11 SSNs with very much the same characteristics. This was the first time since World War II that we had considered our design sufficiently advanced to embark upon construction of a large class of general-purpose attack sub­marines. The Thresher showed us during her year in the Fleet that she could surpass the best we had hoped for when we placed her in the hands of our submarine sailors. She could and did shoot the most advanced torpedoes. She was also fitted out to launch the new anti­submarine missile SUBROC which is now under development. She could make high speed with very little noise. Her sonar, both active and passive, was extremely impressive, and this vastly improved detection capability was further enhanced by her ability to oper­ate at great depths over a much wider range than heretofore. She was shock tested—and withstood this depth-charging in a manner far superior to that of any submarine the U. S. Navy had previously tested. This was the most severe shock test we have ever conducted on a submarine in service, and the Thresher suffered only minor equipment fail­ures—in other words, she was not only a fancy performer, she had more built-in damage protection than we had ever before achieved. She had been at or near her test depth at least 40 times. In all, she was a marvelous submarine. She had been worked out by a blue ribbon crew, and she had estab­lished our confidence in the soundness of her basic design. This confidence was reaffirmed by the Court of Inquiry after her loss.

As do all Navy ships after their shakedown, the Thresher returned to a naval shipyard for necessary repairs, corrections, and alterations after having been operated long enough to check the systems out thoroughly. She had performed beautifully, and her anticipated repairs were in no way cause for particular concern. Conjectures in the press concerning damage to a ballast tank by a tug and her failure to complete her initial deep dive dur­ing builder’s trials because of faulty instru­mentation cannot be tied to her later loss, by either scientific or rational means. She went into the yard a fine ship sailed by a ship’s company which represented the best talent in the Navy, and she put to sea later under the same circumstances.

The Thresher arrived in the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard at Kittery, Maine, on 16 July 1962 and was expected to depart on about 18 January 1963. Her availability was later extended, primarily to permit additional modifications for silencing machinery. This extension of an availability is not unusual. It is considerably less expensive to accomplish all applicable modifications while inter­ference in the way of such work is already removed, rather than to postpone these modifications until a later availability.

This is the same decision many of us have made in having mechanical work done on our automobile. Once the engine is taken apart for some reason, it is frequently the econom­ically sound decision to replace piston rings or bearings or to regrind valves at the same time. So it is with work inside a submarine where access to machinery and equipment under normal conditions is difficult. When the decision to delay is made, how­ever, we are always faced with the possible effect this will have on the crew’s morale. These men are seamen who want the best of everything for their ship, but most of all they want to sail her. The Thresher’s crew must certainly have been eager to take their fine ship to sea after having spent so much time getting her ready. As is usual with the first ship of a class, her long stay in the Yard was in large part the result of the Navy’s policy, of incorporating all possible advances in equipment and technology expected to be built into later ships of the class. This gives us the ability to evaluate the results of ad­vances in new equipment in an operating ship at the earliest possible date. If we were to wait for a later ship, she would have to go through shakedown in order to achieve the degree of crew proficiency which would then permit her use for evaluation in an opera­tional environment.

On 4 April, the Thresher was drydocked to permit final work on hull fittings, and on the 8th, she was undocked and moored to a pier while her crew completed final adjustments and tests with the shipyard personnel in preparation for sea trials. Prior to this time, the crew had ” operated” the ship alongside the pier to test all equipment. These tests, the dock trials, include what is known as the “fast cruise,” a trial period during which the crew buttons up the ship and goes through virtually all the routine concerned with taking the ship to sea and operating her. This testing is done on an around-the-clock basis and may consist of several days of uninterrupted “steaming.” No access or egress is permitted. This is the final extensive testing of all the ship’s equipment before going to sea. Addi­tionally, the ship’s company gets its first chance to operate as a team complete with the new men who have joined the ship in the shipyard and those who have been advanced to more demanding duties. Thus, prior to leaving port, the men are integrated and trained, and they become the closely co­ordinated group which the crew of an operat­ing man-of-war must be.

On 8 April, the Thresher, under the com­mand of Lieutenant Commander John W. Harvey, U. S. Navy, had all of this behind her. At about 0200 on the 9th, her engineers com­menced bringing her nuclear plant critical. By 0700, the plant was warmed up and ready to go, and the word was passed on the ship’s general announcing system to “station the maneuvering watch.”

At 0805, after having completed all of the checks of communications, instrumentation and ship control equipment, the Thresher got underway and headed for sea for the first time after nearly nine months of overhaul. Surely the men on board were in a relieved and happy mood to have arrived at this milestone in the process of getting their superb ship back in operation. Undoubtedly, they had at all control stations, and on the crew’s bulletin board, copies of the Sea Trial Agenda promul­gated by the Thresher Notice 9080 of 2 April. This was an integrated schedule for each test required on sea trials. Satisfactory accomplishment of the events on this agenda would put the ship well on her way to rejoin­ing the Fleet.

The submarine rescue ship USS Skylark (ASR-20) from Submarine Squadron TEN in New London had been ordered to rendezvous with the Thresher at 41 °42′ North, 62°27′ West at 1100. From this position, the two ships proceeded in company to an operating area off Boston where the Thresher was to conduct her initial trim dive and her half-test-depth dive. The initial dive is made deliberately and slowly, and the diving officer pumps, floods, or transfers water ballast based upon the be­havior of the ship as she submerges. Once he has made his adjustments, ship control is normal and not difficult. The next event, a deeper dive to less than test depth, is made in salvageable waters—waters in which the sub­marine can be reached by rescue equipment and possibly salvage equipment in the event of a major casualty with resultant bottoming.

Before putting to sea, every piece of pipe or machinery which must carry sea pressure has been hydrostatically tested to a pressure equal to that to be found at at least one-and-a-­half times test depth. The hull of the ship has been tested for leaks, compartment by com­partment, using internal air pressure. All welds and hull fittings have been inspected scientifically for strength and integrity.

But it is only during the first sea trials that the submarine is tested under external pressure as a complete ship for the first time. During these trials following construction or overhaul, machinery and piping systems must adjust to hull compression, but of course the systems and equipment are designed to ac­commodate these additional stresses which are difficult indeed to compute. When making the first test dives after extensive repairs or work, the submarine will descend in stages of 50 to 100 feet with most internal piping secured from sea pressure or with valves throttled and the water-tight doors shut and ready to be dogged. At each stage, sea pres­sure will be cut into sea-water systems se­quentially and the piping and machinery carefully inspected. If any system is found to be defective, the defect or leakage will either be corrected or the system or equipment secured and not subjected to further tests until repairs can be completed. In the case of vital systems or equipment, the finding of defects may result in discontinuance of the trials. Under this procedure the chance of an abrupt failure occurring is minimized. Sub­mariners learn to live with water under pres­sure from the beginning of their training, but the threat of serious flooding is never taken lightly. The pressure of the sea increases alta rate of .44 pounds per square inch for each foot of submergence. This means that at 100 feet, the pressure of the sea is 44 psi and at 400 feet, it is 176 psi. City water systems usu­ally deliver water at approximately 15 psi at the faucet. Large fire hoses deliver water normally at approximately 50 psi. A quarter­-inch gauge line at 400-foot depths delivers a stream of water that looks like a stream from a fire hose. The rate of flooding, along with accompanying noise and fog or mist resulting from a one-inch opening at the depths at which the Thresher was capable of operating, is something beyond the imagination of most of us. The Thresher’s experienced personnel, however, were well aware of the factors in­volved in flooding and other casualties at deep depth and were trained to respond rapidly to emergency situations.

The Thresher successfully completed her initial submerged tests on 9 April in salvage­able waters and released the Skylark with in­structions to rendezvous in the morning for the conduct of the test-depth dive. The Sky­lark proceeded to the morning rendezvous point and the Thresher continued to follow her Sea Trial Agenda, conducting various tests en route to the deep-dive position. At approxi­mately 0635, the Thresher joined the Skylark at a position about 220 miles east of Cape Cod. The Thresher was still submerged. The two ships exchanged calls by radio and under­water telephone, and the Thresher reported her range and bearing from the Skylark, as well as her course. She then commenced her dive to test depth, using the standard practice of stopping at intervals to check carefully the integrity of sea-water systems. The depth of water at the deep-dive position was approxi­mately 8,400 feet.

At about 0917, communications with the Thresher were lost. The last transmission was garbled when received by the Skylark. While it is now believed that this garbling could have been caused by the Thresher blowing air into her ballast tanks, the same phenomenon can be observed when the submarine is passing through a thermal layer, or when there is turbulence around the receiving ship. The interruption of communications by itself was not necessarily cause for alarm.

Outside of submarine circles there, has been some question as to why the Thresher was making her dive in such deep water. The answer to this question involves both safety and geography. The modern deep-diving submarine has advanced so fast that our rescue and salvage capability has dropped far behind, and it will probably be some years before we have even a rescue capability at the crush depths of the new submarine hulls. We therefore must do the best we can to insure the submarine’s ability to save herself.

At deep depth, the most effective first step to combat continuous flooding is to reduce quickly the sea pressure on the leak and also the sea pressure opposing the ejection of water from ballast tanks. This is done, of course, by changing to shallower depths as rapidly as possible. This change of depth re­quires speed, either residual after a loss of power, or powered speed to drive the ship upward where her ballast-tank blow system and her pumps will be more effective. Since one of the greatest needs is for speed, we must be sure that we give the submarine ample opportunity to use it. In other words, we must assure that at test depth—the maximum intended depth in a test dive—there remains sufficient water under the submarine so that she will be free to use speed to return from any depth at which she can survive. If the ship were to run into the bottom at medium or high speed well below test depth, with the hull under severe compression, a collision with the bottom could very likely be dis­astrous, while the ship might very well sur­vive the excursion otherwise. Therefore, our effort, since we must operate beyond the reach of rescue equipment, is to insure that the submarine operates in a depth of water sufficient to preclude a bottom collision at any depth in which she could otherwise recover and survive.

As is well known to all seafaring men, the geography of this continent features a plateau on the sea bottom, which extends 50 to 300 miles from the East Coast and then drops off abruptly in underwater cliffs more than a mile high. For deep dives with modern sub­marines, we need depths which are generally greater than those encountered on the Con­tinental Shelf. For these reasons, then, we are required to conduct deep trials in the waters beyond the Continental Shelf. Otherwise, we must make very long transits to dive in the small depressions of the Shelf in water which is shallower, but still beyond our rescue or salvage capabilities. When our rescue capabil­ity is developed to match the depths required for deep tests of our new submarines, then surely, we will make our deep test dives in waters where salvage operations could be conducted. It should be made clear, how­ever, that the development of a deeper rescue capability will provide a greater measure of safety only in certain narrowly defined situa­tions. The very large majority of a nuclear submarine’s normal operating time still will be spent in water depths where the possibility of salvage and rescue is non-existent. This is a calculated risk which submariners have always taken, and it is no greater than the risks taken by aviators the world over or by men in countless other professions.

But at 0917 on 10 April 1963, there was very little that the submarine rescue ship Skylark could do beyond hoping that the loss of communications was a temporary condi­tion, owing to a temperature gradient, or that, if a serious casualty had occurred, the Thresher would be able to emergency surface so that the Skylark, with her towing, fire fighting, and special damage control talents, could assist. The submarine rescue ship pro­vides a reservoir of talent able to assist a ship in distress. The deep sea divers and other personnel—machinists, welders, burners, rig­gers, torpedomen, boatswains, metalsmiths, etc.—are masters of a number of trades, and many are so technically capable that they are able to use their skills in the murky depths, guided by touch alone.

The last message, though garbled, had indicated that the Thresher was having prob­lems and was trying to blow ballast, either to surface or to rise to a shallower depth while correcting her problems. The Skylark immedi­ately informed the Thresher that the area was clear of shipping so that she would feel free to come all the way to the surface if she desired. The procedures to this point were quite nor­mal in sea trials. A primary duty of the escort is to keep the area of the dive clear in order that the submarine may broach or surface safely without prior notice and so that the submarine can be informed of surface condi­tions in the event of an emergency.

This time, however, the Thresher was not seen to surface, and as concern mounted, the Skylark’s commanding officer commenced sending emergency signals and started a close area search. As the Skylark failed to regain contact with the Thresher, a message was sent indicating that contact with the Thresher had been lost and that a search was underway.

This message was received by Commander Submarine Flotilla Two, in New London, in the early afternoon. Naval commands up and down the East Coast were ordered to move forces into position to assist in search and rescue. The USS Seawolf (SSN-575) and the USS Sunbird (ASR-15), were diverted from normal operations to the Thresher area. Commander Submarine Force, U. S. Atlantic Fleet was given a list of all ships within 100 miles of the Thresher area from the Atlantic Fleet Movement Report Center. Messages requesting the Thresher to report were placed on the submarine fleet broadcast, which is copied by all submarines at sea. Naval Air Station Quonset Point, Rhode Island, sent a helicopter to New London to transport Captain Frank A. Andrews, U. S. Navy, Commander Submarine Development Group Two—the Thresher’s Squadron Commander—­to the USS Norfolk (DL-1). Captain Andrews boarded the Norfolk at sea at approximately 1700 and headed toward the search area. The Thresher still had not been contacted. At 1840, Rear Admiral Lawson P. Ramage, U. S. Navy, Deputy Commander, Submarine Force, U. S. Atlantic Fleet embarked in a helicopter at New London for transfer to Newport, Rhode Island, where he embarked in the USS Blandy (DD-943) which was in port, fueling. At 2030, the Blandy sailed for the search area.

By the time Admiral Ramage departed Newport in the Blandy, there were 15 ships en route to the Thresher’s last position, or making preparations to sail. These ships in­cluded destroyers, submarines, seagoing tugs, submarine rescue vessels, frigates, one Navy oceanographic research ship and the civilian research vessel Atlantis II, from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. The fleet oiler USS Waccamaw (AO-109) was preparing to sail from Newport on 11 April to refuel search units on the scene. Aircraft from naval patrol squadrons on the East Coast were assisting in the search. Families of the next of kin of those on board the Thresher were being notified that the ship was overdue.

As the Thresher failed to respond to all sig­nals and the time for sending the normal sur­facing report elapsed, the hope that she had broken contact by inadvertently moving beyond visual and communications range from the Skylark faded. At 1700, when the USS Recovery (ARS-43) arrived on the scene, she discovered an oil slick very near the Thresher datum. At 1830, Commander Sub­marine Force, Atlantic Fleet notified the wife of the Thresher’s Commanding Officer and commenced notifying the other next of kin that the Thresher still had not been heard from and had been officially declared missing.

At this time, the search group being assem­bled at the area was designated Task Group 89.7 by Commander in Chief, U. S. Atlantic Fleet.  Rear Admiral Ramage assumed the duties of Task Group Commander. By ap­proximately 2100, it became apparent that there were no survivors and that the Thresher had indeed been lost in more than 1,300 fathoms of water. Enough debris had been recovered to indicate a major casualty, and the surface area had been searched sufficiently to insure that there had been no survivors. To wait longer in declaring the ship lost would have been cruel to those who were waiting and praying for her safe return.

Task Group 89.7 now had the tremendous challenge of locating a sunken submarine at great depth so that, if possible, the hull could be examined by underwater photography and other means in an effort to determine what had caused the loss. The rescue force that was fast assembling had a search capability unsur­passed by other than special oceanographic research ships.
This search consisted of a careful, visual, Fathometer and sonar examination of the area around Thresher’s last-known position. Destroyers carried debris ashore to various laboratories for analysis and resupplied the search force with equipment and scientific personnel. About 39 hours after the last mes­sage from Thresher, Rear Admiral Ramage, embarked in the USS Blandy (DD-943), was in the search area with five additional de­stroyers, two submarine rescue vessels, one salvage ship, two submarines, the research ship Atlantis II, and patrol aircraft from two Navy patrol squadrons.

En route to the area at this time were the SS Rockville (EPCER-851) with a special precision Fathometer, USS Redfin (SS-272), a specially fitted submarine, and the USS Hazel­wood (DD-531) carrying special, deep-mooring buoys as well as personnel and instruments from Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, to be transferred to Atlantis II.

The result of this initial search effort was as follows:

• The USS Recovery obtained bits of white plastic and samples of oil slick.
• The USS Skylark recovered several pieces of cork, one piece of yellow plastic, and a small tube of “Bakers Flavor.”
• The USS Blandy sighted several pairs of rubber gloves, and pieces of yellow plastic material-one piece of which was recovered for analysis.
• The USS Sunbird recovered several pieces of plastic and two rubber gloves.
• The USS Warrington picked up one rubber glove.
• The RS Atlantis II obtained water and bot­tom samples from the vicinity of datum. These were tested for radioactivity. There was none above normal background radia­tion.

The results of this initial effort confirmed that the search forces were in the vicinity of the Thresher.

At 1520 on 12 April, since Thresher had not been located, it was decided to reorient the search to a more-detailed scientific effort with precision equipment and special ships. The warships in the area had exhausted their capabilities without having been able to pin­point the hulk. Rear Admiral Ramage was ordered to turn over the search force to Captain Andrews in the destroyer Warrington for the longer-term effort. Warships were released, and research ships began to assemble in the search area. The operations for nearly two months thereafter followed a pattern which was about as follows: the datum area of approximately 100 square miles was divided into sectors which could be surveyed ac­curately by the ships present. These ships, using precision navigation, surveyed the designated sectors employing all available sensors, i.e., Fathometer, magnetometer, TV camera, etc. The information obtained was relayed to the search group commander and then to Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute where it was analyzed by scientific personnel gathered there by the Chief of Naval Opera­tions’ technical advisory group under Captain C. B. Bishop, U. S. Navy. These scientific and technical personnel represented the best talent in the country in their fields of en­deavor, and they had been assembled from both military and civilian laboratories across the country. During the survey phase, re­search ships were fitted with successively more sophisticated equipment, as the scien­tific community responded with all-out effort.

By June, the area had been thoroughly charted, the datum had been buoyed, ships were navigating with Loran “C” and Decca, and a cartographic and photographic labora­tory was in operation on board the USNS Mission Capistrano (AG-162), a specially fitted oceanographic research ship. Photographs of the bottom had been taken showing widely scattered debris which was almost certainly from the Thresher, although the only positively identified object was a high-pressure air flask.

Throughout the long search, the destroyers from Newport, Norfolk, and Charleston pro­vided required transportation to and from the search area, carrying equipment, mail, and personnel. These destroyers also provided the major communications link between the Task Group Commander and Commander Submarine Force, U. S. Atlantic Fleet.

On 11 April, the Bathyscaph Trieste had been ordered made ready for the Thresher search operations. This research vehicle, which holds the world’s record for deep sub­mergence, was at that time located at the Navy Electronics Laboratory in San Diego. She was quickly prepared for the move and was brought to Boston in the USS Point Defiance (LSD-31). Several factors had to be carefully considered before committing the Trieste to the search. A primary consideration was the Trieste’s operational limitations—her slow submergence speed of less than two knots, her endurance on the bottom of ap­proximately four hours, an expected search width of only 100 feet, and the requirement for examination and refurbishment after each series of dives. It was apparent that the Thresher’s location should be fixed as accu­rately as possible before committing the Trieste to the search, if there was to be reasonable hope of success.

As the public is aware, the Trieste was finally committed to the search, but was un­able in the initial series of dives to develop much more definite information than our research vessels had already obtained. The Trieste’s observations and photographs, how­ever, confirmed that the position of the hull or hull sections was probably very near the heaviest debris area, which was now accurately fixed.

The Trieste’s return to port signalled a renewal of effort on the part of the oceano­graphic research vessels. Each type of sensor employed, photographic, magnetic, ionic potential, radiation, TV, and drag lines gave some encouragement. None pinpointed the main wreckage. One of the major prob­lems was that of maneuvering sensors at the far end of a mile and half of wire beneath a ship—very similar to flying a kite to an exact point in space while blindfolded. It took as long as two hours to get a ship’s motion stopped sufficiently to get a clear camera picture. Since the photo width coverage was only 30 feet, it was necessary to navigate accurately to within a 10-yard radius in the open sea in order to return to a desired spot. Such an operation weeds the men from the boys, among the seamen as well as the scien­tists.

During the search, the Navy was assisted by nearly every oceanographic laboratory on the East Coast, as well as by every major Navy scientific facility in the country. Most of the hydrographic ships in the Atlantic were em­ployed at one time or another, and their dedicated crews and the scientific personnel aboard compiled a proud record of perform­ance. The Atlantis II from Woods Hole, an old-timer in this oceanography game, played a key role from the very beginning when she headed for datum upon intercepting a news­cast and volunteered to assist. She remained almost continuously at sea in the search area for the first two months. Also participating with distinction were the USNS Gibbs (AGOR­1), the USNS Conrad (AGOR-3), the USNS Gilliss (AGOR-4), the USNS Mission Capistrano (AG-1 62), the USS Prevail (AGS-20), the USS Rockville (EPCER-851), the USS Allegheny (ATA­179), the USS Preserver (ARS-8) and the USS Fort Snelling (LSD-30). The work of these ships under the operational control and command of Captain Andrews, and the work of many of the nation’s foremost oceanographic re­search experts which was co-ordinated by Dr. Arthur Maxwell of the Office of Naval Research, has been publicly recognized as it well should have been.

The search was officially terminated, at least for 1963, on 7 September following the Trieste’s second series of dives during which photographs were taken of large, heavy pieces of debris which were positively identi­fied as having been part of the Thresher. Included were clear photographs of part of the bow section showing the submarine’s draft marks. It was obvious from this evidence that the Thresher was not intact and that no hope remained of gaining a clue as to what caused the Thresher to sink below her collapse depth. The Trieste’s efforts during this and the previous series of dives is certainly in the category of a modern saga of the sea. Lieu­tenant Commander Don Keach, U. S. Navy, the Trieste’s Officer in Charge, the other operators, and the maintenance crew safely operated this fragile research vessel often under the most adverse conditions, to perform a task for which the vessel was not designed. The award of the Navy Commendation Medal to Lieutenant Commander Keach and the Navy Unit Citation, to the Trieste is but a small measure of the courage and persist­ence of the recipients of these awards.

The public is well aware that a Court of Inquiry was convened as soon as the Thresher was known to have been lost. A distinguished Flag Officer, Vice Admiral Bernard L. Austin, U. S. Navy, President of the Naval War College and a submariner, was named President of the Court. He was assisted by Rear Admiral L. R. Daspit, U. S. Navy, Commandant of the Sixth Naval District and formerly Commander and Deputy Com­mander Submarine Force, U. S. Atlantic Fleet; Captain W. C. Hushing, U. S. Navy, Superintendent of Shipbuilding at Groton, Connecticut, an Engineering Duty Officer with extensive experience in the design, con­struction and repair of nuclear submarines; Captain J. B. Osborn, U. S. Navy, Joint Strategic Target Planning Staff, and the first Commanding Officer of the USS George Washington (SSRN-598); and Captain N. C. Nash, U . S. Navy, Commander Service Squadron Eight and now Assistant Chiefof Staff of Commander Submarine Force, U. S. Atlantic Fleet. Captain S. Katz, U. S. Navy, was Counsel for the Court. This Board repre­sented probably the best combination of tech­nical qualifications, operational skills, stabil­ity of temperaments, and intellectual ob­jectivities that could have been assembled for this investigation. Their mission was to fix, if possible, the cause for the loss of the Thresher.

We now know with almost absolute cer­tainty that this will never be done. However, the Court was able from the evidence avail­able to arrive at a reasonable and convincing rationalization of probable events leading to the loss of the Thresher. It is believed that a piping system failure occurred in one of the Thresher’s salt-water systems, probably in the engine room. The casualty must have oc­curred when the ship was at or near test depth, which subjected the interior to a vio­lent spray of water and progressive flooding. In all probability, water and spray shorted out vital electrical circuits causing a loss of propulsion power. The Thresher presumably blew main ballast, started to rise, then slowed, and began to sink. Shortly thereafter, she un­doubtedly exceeded her collapse depth and plunged to the bottom.

The Court heard testimony from 120 wit­nesses, both military and civilian, during the eight weeks it was in session at the Naval Shipyard, Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It recorded 1,700 pages of testimony and gathered for the record some 255 charts, drawings, letters, photographs, directives, debris, and other exhibits bearing on the sinking. The Court’s examination extended into every minute detail of design and con­struction of this class ship, her post-commis­sioning operations, and post-shakedown yard availability. After this examination, the Court declared that, in its opinion, “the basic design of the Thresher-class submarine is good, and its implementation has resulted in the development of a high performance sub­marine.”

The majority of the Court’s recommenda­tions, however, stated the need for careful review of the design, construction, and inspec­tion of vital submarine systems such as sea­water systems and air systems, and a reyiew of operating procedures to improve damage control capability under casualty conditions such as flooding. The Navy took immediate steps to implement these recommendations; one of the most important of which included the development of an inspection technique to assure the integrity of high-pressure piping systems. Silver-braze joints are extensively used in sea-water piping systems in all U. S. Navy submarines. In the past, these joints have been subjected to visual examinations, mallet tests, chemical material re-identifica­tion tests and hydrostatic tests. All of these tests were satisfactorily conducted on the Thresher prior to her sea trials; yet, one of these tested joints probably caused her loss.

It was immediately apparent that a testing technique must be developed which will ab­solutely assure the integrity of these critical systems. One technique which shows great promise is based on ultrasonic principles. This method, which has been employed in sub­marine inspection during the past few years, will now be used more extensively on all sub­marines. Additional personnel training and ultrasonic equipment familiarization are necessary, so some delays in construction dates and overhaul intervals will be inevitable.
The quality assurance programs at the naval and private shipyards which build or overhaul submarines have been re-empha­sized and improved in scope. A system will be established whereby the quality assurance division will be empowered to disqualify workers observed to be violating process con­trols and normal operating instructions. Audits will be conducted on a regular basis and reported to management. With BuShips overseeing the entire program, substantial improvements are expected.

Main-ballast tank-blow systems have been modified, and at sea, submerged tests have been conducted to assure performance of this vital recovery system. Computer studies on the effect of flooding at deep depths have been completed and sent out to most classes of nuclear submarines. Procedures for deep submergence operations for all submarines have been thoroughly reviewed and, where needed, improved operating techniques have been established. Increased emphasis has been placed on damage control and sub­marine recoverability training conducted at the U. S. Naval Submarine School and within the Submarine Force.

Improved communications and recording equipment has been ordered for our sub­marine rescue ships. These and many more improvements have been, or will be, imple­mented during the next few months.

Sea-water system-design studies which were started some time ago have been greatly ac­celerated. These studies will undoubtedly permit a substantial reduction in the amount of sea-water piping required in new construc­tion submarines. It is hoped that eventually our submarines will be built with little or no sea-water piping inside the hull.

Additionally, the establishment of a Sub­marine Safety Center has been proposed. Such a group would represent experts in all technical fields associated with submarines and would be supported by the necessary analytical and statistical equipment. From the center’s studies, we would expect to fore­cast more of our potential operational and equipment trouble spots earlier in the game. Furthermore, these studies will assist us in improving our rescue capabilities. The com­plexity of our ships and the size of our present submarine force makes such an organization a must if our Navy is to continue its outstand­ing record for safe submarine operation.

While vitally interested in the submarine of tomorrow, our major concern is the sub­marine of today. In the years to come, we shall continue to concern ourselves with the design, development, and operation of our submarine weapon systems and with the men who operate them. Those of us who go to sea in submarines in the future will be indebted to the Thresher for the invaluable knowledge gained from her tragic loss.

It is true that the sea has always taken its toll of seamen. But it is also true that no maritime power has survived unless her men have been willing to fight back with succes­sively better ships manned by seamen who have profited by the lessons learned from past mistakes. Our Submarine Force will not fail the heritage we have assumed from the Thresher. We shall continue to inhabit the depths of the sea and to expand our domain there in support of the interests of our proud nation and those of the Free World.

Recently, the Archaeology & Conservation Lab has been treating a group of Enfield rifle barrels from the wreck site of USS Tulip. Purchased by the Union Navy during the Civil War, Tulip, a steam-screw gunboat, joined the Potomac River Flotilla in 1863. Tulip was tasked with towing, transporting and landing soldiers, supporting Union communication, and maintaining the Union blockade of Confederate ports.  The vessel later sank off of Ragged Point, Virginia on 11 November 1864 after her defective starboard boiler exploded. The sinking claimed the lives of 49 of the 57 sailors on board.

USS Tulip Rifle Barrel Before Conservation Treatment

USS Tulip and her associated contents, like all US Navy sunken military craft, remain property of the US government regardless of the passage of time or location, and are further protected from unauthorized disturbance or artifact removal by the Sunken Military Craft Act (SMCA).  Many of the artifacts from Tulip are a painful reminder of the importance of protecting and preserving these archaeological sites. The Tulip artifacts were removed without permission in an unmethodical manner and did not receive conservation treatment after recovery. Because of this, many artifacts which were likely very well preserved at the time of recovery became seriously deteriorated due to unmitigated corrosion and dry storage in a non-climate controlled environment. Archaeologists have also lost the valuable information that is conveyed by documented artifact provenance on an underwater site.

After a two year effort by the Maryland Maritime Archaeology Program, over 1,500 artifacts, previously removed from the wreck site of USS Tulip in the late 1960s, were returned to the US Navy and sent to NHHC for conservation.  The artifact collection includes military uniform components, navigation equipment, ceramics, personal items, medical items, ship’s hardware, tools, ordnance and artillery including the Enfield rifles. These particular rifles were manufactured by the Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield (London), which was owned by the British government and produced weaponry such as rifles, muskets, and swords. The rifles were a popular weapon with both Confederate and Union soldiers during the Civil War for their accuracy and reliability. Both the Union and the Confederate armies purchased Enfield rifles from the British to outfit their troops.

USS Tulip Rifle Barrel and Ramrod After Conservation Treatment

The Archaeology & Conservation Lab has been able to conserve and preserve several of the USS Tulip Enfield rifle barrels. To prevent further corrosion on the barrels, conservators used a process called Electrolytic Reduction (ER) to remove the corrosion-causing compounds from the artifacts, effectively stabilizing them. The barrels were then carefully cleaned and coated with a solution which bonds to the iron and creates a protective film on the surface of the barrels. After all the barrels have received conservation treatment, they will be temporarily stored in the curation spaces in the Archaeology & Conservation Lab with the hope to eventually place them on exhibit.

A Japanese Judy burning after being shot down by anti-aircraft fire from the USS Wasp (CV-18) off the Ryukyus on 18 March 1945.

This article was published in the May 1954 issue of Proceedings magazine as “Kamikazes and the Okinawa Campaign” by Rear Admiral Toshiyuki Yokoi, former Imperial Japanese Navy, with the assistance of Roger Pineau.

Japan’s special air attack units (Kamikaze) were initially organized under very particular circumstances and with limited operational objectives in the Philippines late in 1944. In the first stage Admiral Ohnishi certainly did not conceive of either allocating more than 24 planes for such suicide attacks or continuing this type of operation indefinitely, because there are serious basic defects in this type of attack. First, the expenditure of life and materiel is great. It takes several years to train one good pilot, yet in Kamikaze operations, he, as well as his plane, will be expended in a single sortie. This runs counter to the most important problem of an operation staff, which is to attain objectives with the least possible expenditure of life and materiel. Second, the striking velocity of a plane is not great enough to penetrate the decks of fleet carriers or battleships and cause critical damage below. A suicide attack on a carrier deck will not strike a vital blow unless the deck is full of planes. Third, operational command of Kamikaze planes is difficult because results cannot be evaluated with any accuracy. When his subordinates’ lives are sacrificed, a commander will naturally tend to overestimate the results achieved. When such overestimates are compounded, a totally erroneous picture will be presented to the high com­mand, whose judgment and decisions in turn will be falsely influenced.

These factors provide substantial reason why wise commanders were opposed to suicide air attacks, and yet the early reports of the Kamikazes’ amazing success caught the fancy of military leaders as well as the public—and the craze was on. The fact that sunken U. S. escort carriers were reported as standard fleet carriers was completely unknown and unrecognized in the surge of enthusiasm which overrode all defects of the Kamikaze attacks.

             Another factor contributing to the situation was the vanity of heroism.

             Thus came the age of suicide air attacks.

Imperial General Headquarters was so fully convinced that it issued an outrageous and unprecedented order to the effect that all armed forces should resort to suicide attack. This proved that the High Command, utterly confused by a succession of defeats, had lost all wisdom of cool judgment and had degenerated to the point of indulging in wild gambling. The order was nothing less than a national death sentence. Like every military order, it was issued in the name of the Emperor and was, therefore, no matter how outrageous, not open to question or criticism. Obedience was imperative; there was no alternative. Critics of the Kamikaze attacks should distinguish the completely volunteer flights of October, 1944, from those made after this Imperial order.

THE FIFTH AIR FLEET

Once the Philippines were lost the Japanese Navy expected the next enemy thrust to be made at Okinawa. Here there were anchorages adequate for a large fleet and sites to accommodate a group of large airfields.

Okinawa is 1,000 miles from Leyte and 1,200 miles from the Marianas, too great a range for land planes to operate, so the United States Navy would probably have to commit all of its carrier striking force in order to cover the landings. On the other hand, it should be comparatively easy for the defending Japanese to maintain supply lines to the Japanese mainland, only 350 miles distant, especially since there were operational airfields on the intervening islands of Kikai and Minami Daito. These circumstances promised a good opportunity to bring air power to bear in striking a serious blow at the enemy task forces.

In early November of 1944 I was given command of the 25th Air Flotilla, which was based at Kanoya in southern Kyushu. A study of recent Japanese defeats had convinced me that the ineffectiveness of our land-based air strength was attributable, in the main, to poor defense measures and the inexperience of the pilots. I felt firmly that carrier-based aircraft were no match for land-based planes properly employed. In the Marianas, the Philippines, and Formosa, our planes had been defeated easily because of inadequate patrol systems and improper defensive tactics generally. Successful operation of land bases demanded improved patrol methods, elimination of surprise by the enemy, and effective measures to protect ground installations so that fighting strength would not be interrupted. If these could be achieved, our shorter lines of communication would provide a supply advantage which would enable us to await an enemy blunder that might lay him open to a fatal blow.

In anticipation of the enemy attack on Okinawa, I concentrated on building up airfield defenses in southern Kyushu. It was fortunate that most of these bases were located on tablelands where tunnels could easily be dug in the sandy earth. Materials and manpower were insufficient for the preparation of underground hangars, but most of the other important installations, such as the command communications system, telegraph stations, ammunition dumps, repair shops, and living quarters, were dug in. The planes were to be concealed in the surrounding forests and hills. Terrain permitting, runways were to be camouflaged to resemble ordinary roads. Emptied barracks and hangars were left above ground as a decoy to absorb enemy attacks. In carrying out these plans I encouraged and supervised the construction crews and also urged off-duty aviation personnel to assist them, so that by early February of 1945 great progress had been made in the earthworks and I felt confidence in our position.

On February 9 I received orders to report to the Naval General Staff as soon as possible. I left Kanoya immediately in a bomber plane which took me to Atsugi, but it was dark when I reached the residence of the Chief of Naval General Staff. There Vice­Admiral Seiichi Ito, the Vice-Chief, greeted me with the information that I was to be appointed Chief of Staff to the Fifth Air Fleet Commander, Vice-Admiral Matome Ugaki, the man who had been Chief of Staff of the Combined Fleet under the famous Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto at the time of Pearl Harbor.

“What is the mission of this Command?” I asked.

“The Fifth Air Fleet will be composed of approximately 600 planes comprising the eight elite aviation units remaining in the Japanese Navy. Its area of operation will extend from Okinawa eastward to a north­south line through the middle of the Japanese home islands. Your mission will be to break up enemy carrier striking forces by concentrating all power in suicide air attacks.”

Since I had never believed in the soundness of such tactics, the words “concentrating all power in suicide air attacks” were especially disagreeable to me. Accordingly, I frankly expressed my opinions concerning air operations and asked permission to decline this post which would call for carrying out assignments in which I did not believe. Admiral Ito went to consult with his Chief and returned shortly to say that I was still requested to take the post. Thereupon I accepted with the understanding that implementation of the attacks should be left to the decision of the Fifth Air Fleet commander. I insisted on this condition to insure that the Fifth Air Fleet could determine how and when each of its units would be employed. I knew that two of the eight units were practically untrained and so were not fit for anything but suicide duty. The others, capable of any kind of operation, should be kept flexible as to their employment as long as possible. The airfields of northern Kyushu and Shikoku were designated for training or rear area purposes, while the ones in southern Kyushu were to be operational bases.

Our new headquarters were established at Kanoya on February 13, and the direction of operations was begun. The headquarters office was located in a new barrack building set unobtrusively beside the airfield. This temporary structure was not even adequate to keep out the cold winter wind, and charcoal braziers were our only form of heating apparatus. But the approach of spring was soon heralded by white plum blossoms in the trees, delicate violets peeking from the weeds, and nightingales warbling in bushes outside the barrack windows.

THE KYUSHU AIR-SEA BATTLE

On March 14 a reconnaissance plane from Truk reported the departure of an enemy task force from Ulithi. On March 17 at 2300 the alarm in the headquarters of the Fifth Air Fleet rang loudly to announce a report from one of our planes patrolling in waters to the south. It had made radar contact with a northbound fleet of enemy ships. Our planes, alerted since early afternoon, were ready and waiting to launch an attack on any enemy ships that might appear in our area of operations. This was the golden opportunity.

At 0350 next morning fifty torpedo planes took off from fields at Miyazaki and Kanoya, the night attack units followed directly by dawn attack units, in accordance with Battle Plan No. 1. And most of the night attack units succeeded in locating the enemy and launching their torpedoes.

Enemy planes in turn struck the Kanoya base at about 0500 and maintained incessant attacks for almost five hours, but these raids were so weak and disordered that it appeared we might have upset their assault plan. From dawn reconnaissance reports it was estimated that the enemy force was built around fifteen carriers, one of which had been set afire. Starting at 0600 our fighters and bombers took advantage of every interval between enemy attacks on the field to get into the air and assault the enemy ships.

From a hill-top vantage point I observed that most of the enemy attacks concen­trated on empty hangar and barrack buildings from which our colors waved enticingly in the breeze. There was no real damage done at Kanoya during the first day except for a few men injured by bomb fragments, but the battle raged day and night.

Reconnaissance planes sent out in the morning of the 19th reported that the enemy had only eleven carriers. This was encouraging, but communication wires at our land bases had now been severed by the bombardment, and radio channels were so crowded and confused that planes returning from combat were landing everywhere on Kyushu, Shikoku, and Chugoku. It was impossible for commanders to know how many planes they had or where they were, and direction of operations became extremely difficult.

On the 19th there were no enemy attacks in southern Kyushu, and at 1030 next morning the enemy task force was found to be withdrawing to the east. An immediate order for all units to pursue brought out more planes than I had counted on to continue the attack, and the day’s reports indicated that three more enemy carriers had been bombed.3 Following night and dawn sorties by our planes on the 21st, the enemy was spotted about 300 miles southeast of Kanoya. In an effort to take advantage of this opportunity eighteen bombers were ordered to take off at 1330, each bomber loaded with a 4,700-­pound Oka (cherry blossom) bomb.

This cumbersome cargo deprived a bomber of all maneuverability and made it a sitting duck for enemy fighter planes. Hence these bombers should have had plenty of escort planes for such a mission, but the fatigue after several successive days of battle left only thirty fighters to accompany the bombers. This force approached to within some sixty miles from the enemy fleet when it was intercepted and engaged by about fifty Grumman fighters. In ten minutes of combat the entire Japanese force was destroyed.

In three days of battle the Fifth Air Fleet lost 161 planes. Aerial reconnaissance indicated that five enemy carriers had been withdrawn from the battle line because of damage. These results were less than had been anticipated, but I was satisfied that the fighting flexibility of the Fifth Air Fleet had been maintained.

THE OKINAWA CAMPAIGN

It did not seem that the enemy had even had time enough to regroup his fleet for another offensive, when, on March 23, raids were made on Okinawa and Minami Daito Islands, followed by naval shellings the next day. On the 25th the enemy landed on the nearby Kerama Islands as a preliminary to invading Okinawa. Having earlier placed the Third and Tenth Air Fleets under the Fifth Air Fleet, the Commander in Chief Combined Fleet now ordered that the combined force attack enemy forces around Okinawa. Our combined naval air strength amounted to about 1,815 planes, including 540 special attack planes, and the Sixth Army Air Force had been ordered to cooperate with us. Preparations were being made for this all-out effort when the enemy, on the first day of April, made their first landings on Okinawa. It had been settled with the Army that their planes would attack transports while our Navy planes would be responsible for the warships. Thus, target allocations had been made, but the only planes and pilots capable of attacking anything stronger than a trans­port were those of the original Fifth Air Fleet and a few elements of the Third.

Full preparations were completed and our first general attack was launched on April 6. In the early morning reconnaissance planes had spotted four U. S. task forces in the water south of Amami Oshima. From surrounding air bases we sent thirty dive bombers, forty fighter bombers, and fifty fighters to lassault “this enemy.” The only indication of results came from the intelligence section at Kanoya which judged, from enemy radio interceptions, that at least four carriers had been hit by bombs. Another thirty fighters from Kanoya took off at noon and flew directly to Okinawa. Their approach was coordinated with planes from other bases, all timed to catch the enemy fighters just after they had landed. A total of about a hundred of our fighters charged upon Okinawa in this effort to gain control of the air. Paced with their approach, three reconnaissance planes scattered counter-radar “window” to the east of Okinawa, successfully deceiving the enemy who took Minami Daito Island to be our main base and attacked it with most of his force. Seizing this opportunity some 110 naval suicide planes and ninety Army planes pulled a surprise attack from the west on U. S. warships and transports in the vicinity of Okinawa. The First Air Fleet and the Eighth Air Division from Formosa also contributed to this assault, which set fire to many ships and so filled the sky with smoke that reconnaissance planes could not see enough to make a clear report of the situation. The 32nd Army, which was defending Okinawa, reported that more than thirty ships were observed sinking, and more than twenty burning.

In the early morning of the 7th a scout plane found three carriers moving southeast­ward at slow speed and trailing oil. Of thirty planes dispatched promptly to attack them, 19 were reported to have plunged into the carriers. This same day saw seventy planes crash into enemy transports. And again in­tercepted enemy radio messages indicated that a great deal of damage had been done.

This day saw another form of suicide venture by the Japanese Navy that failed completely. Battleship Yamato was sunk, along with the light cruiser and three destroyers of her nine escorting warships, by enemy air attack. This force had sortied from the homeland the day before, heading for Okinawa. Its mission was to approach the enemy­besieged island and shell the landing areas with Yamato’s long-range, 18.1-inch guns. It was felt that the massed fire power of these ten ships could wreak profitable damage on the enemy aircraft they were bound to attract, and that at the same time Japanese suicide planes would have increased success in striking their targets without aerial competition, as a result of the American fighter protection being lured to the Yamato. Japanese resignation to the sacrifice of Yamato in this mission was apparent from the fact that on her departure from Japan she was provided with only enough fuel for a one-way run to Okinawa. As it turned out this was more than enough, for after two hours of intense air attack she sank at 1430 of the day following her sortie, and a full day before reaching her bombardment position off Okinawa.

However, we at Fifth Air Fleet headquarters received an encouraging message on the 9th, as follows: “In view of the impact your heavy assaults are having on the enemy, the Naval General Staff expects you to continue general attacks at all cost.” Accordingly, a second general attack consisting of a hundred suicide planes and 150 fighters was launched on April 12. On the same day another detachment of twenty planes attacked an enemy task force cruising in the waters east of Okinawa, and that night 45 torpedo planes made still another attack in which five warships were reported set afire.

A report from our naval attache in Portugal announced the serious losses sustained by the United States Navy and indicated that if the rate of attrition continued, the operation would result in disaster for the enemy. This inspired a third general attack by 220 Army and Navy planes on the night of April 15-16, while a separate detachment of 110 planes assaulted enemy task groups southeast of Kikai Island.

By this time it was obvious that our operations were making some progress, but, as might be expected of such tactics, they were also taking a terrific toll of our own air strength. It was estimated that 2,000 naval planes were involved in combat operations between March 23 and April 16, and some 600 of these were destroyed. As aircraft complements became depleted and replacements were not immediately available we were compelled to suspend operations for a short time. While the Navy took the attitude that these were last-ditch operations and devoted its entire energy to them, the Army regarded the Okinawa campaign as a mere preliminary to decisive battles in Japan proper, and so kept most of its strength in reserve. There was little, if any, unity of idea between the two services on this point.

On April 17 the Tenth Air Fleet was withdrawn from our command, leaving us only 610 planes, of which a mere 370 were operational. In addition our forces had been fighting day and night and everyone was beginning to show signs of fatigue. Under such circumstances, despite the urgency and our own eagerness, we were unable to launch continuous and successive attacks as before, but had to be content with sporadic air actions. A fourth general attack was finally launched on the 28th, but fewer than sixty planes could be mustered for the event.

Meanwhile the Army’s situation on Okinawa was in serious jeopardy under the enemy’s overwhelming fire power. The fresh green of the mountains north of Shuri had been transformed into a scorched brown. The 32nd Army’s elaborately worked out positions were reduced one after the other as the enemy moved steadily southward. This irritated the Army command into pressing a courageous and determined offensive on May 4 in which the Navy joined by carrying out a fifth general attack with 280 planes. As a result we were pleased to receive a message of thanks from the 32nd Army which reported that the offensive had made good progress. But our joy was fleeting, as the Army called off the offensive after suffering almost 7,000 casualties.

Our sixth general attack was executed on May 11 and the 240 participating planes achieved some results. A night patrol plane spotted an approaching enemy task force at 0300 on the 14th, but its report was delayed owing to a communication failure, and no planes were sent to intercept. From early morning until mid-afternoon, therefore, the air bases of southern Kyushu were raided by about 450 planes, but again our casualties were insignificant. With great patience our air units bided their time throughout the day and made preparations for a night attack. In our midnight attack a carrier was set on fire, but a sudden rain prevented our following up this opportunity.

On the night of May 24 a seventh general attack was made in cooperation with the Army, who had decided to make air attacks on Allied airfields on Okinawa. By this time we had been forced to include Shiragiku (white chrysanthemum) units in our operations. These units were made up of old training planes whose combat capabilities were practically nil, but they were used anyhow to fill the many gaps in our decimated organization. I had to smile, therefore, on reading an intercepted message from an enemy destroyer, “We are being pursued by a Jap plane making 85 knots.”

Two final efforts were made on May 27 and June 7 when we executed our eighth and ninth general attacks, but so few planes were available each time that we were obliged to acknowledge the failure of these attempts. The 32nd Army continued its reluctant southward retreat in the latter part of May, withdrawing from the Shuri redoubt to the Kibuya peninsula at the southern tip of Okinawa. It was greatly hampered by the seasonal rains, which also interrupted our feeble efforts to help. Rejecting an enemy order to surrender, the Commander, Lieutenant General Ushizima, and his Chief of Staff committed suicide at their command post on June 23, and eighty days of fierce battle on Okinawa came to an end.

In these operations, in which a total of 3,000 planes took part and more than 700 were lost, the Japanese Navy utterly exhausted itself. The battle for Okinawa proved conclusively the defects of suicide air attacks. Such operations cannot be successful where materiel and trained manpower is limited. It would have been far wiser for the sadly depleted Japanese military to have conserved its manpower instead of squander­ing it as was done. It is not strange that this unrealistic aerial tactic ended in failure. Even the physical destructive power of the weapon itself was not sufficient for the task for which it had been designed. While it might deal a fatal blow to small warships or transports, the enemy aircraft carriers, which were meant to be primary targets, were sometimes able to survive attacks in which they were hit several times. Setting aside Admiral Ohnishi’s original concept of adopting suicide attacks for the limited purpose of inactivating carrier decks for a week, the whole concept of suicide attacks to annihilate enemy task forces was more than unreasonable, it was sheer lunacy. Once the order had been issued by Headquarters for these suicide attacks, they lost their volunteer aspect and became, instead, “murder attacks,” and humanity was lost sight of.

As might have been expected, these attacks created many command problems. Early in the Okinawa campaign pilots could go to their death with some hope that their country might realize some benefit from their sacrifice. But toward the last, the doomed pilots had good reason for doubting the validity of the cause in which they were told to die. The difficulties became especially apparent when men in aviation training were peremptorily ordered to the front and to death. When it came time for their take off, the pilots’ attitudes ranged from the despair of sheep headed for slaughter to open expressions of contempt for their superior officers. There were frequent and obvious cases of pilots returning from sorties claiming that they could not locate any enemy ships, and one pilot even strafed his commanding officer’s quarters as he took off. When planes did not return there was seldom any way of knowing the results of their sacrifice. There was no conclusive means of determining if they had crashed into a target. Even with reconnaissance planes accompanying, there was no assurance of a valid report because observers were usually kept too busy avoiding enemy fighters. After a careful examination of all reports I estimated that only a total of five enemy carriers had been damaged by Kyushu-based planes. Yet a single unit commander gave me absolute assurance that his men alone had damaged eight carriers, and he continued, “If the results achieved are going to be so underestimated, there is no justification for the deaths of my men. If Headquarters will not acknowledge these achievements at full value I must commit harakiri as an expression of my disapproval and by way of apology.”

PLANS FOR HOMELAND DEFENSE

Upon conclusion of the Okinawa campaign the Japanese Naval General Staff produced an estimate of the situation which summed up prospective moves of the enemy.

First, Allied forces would attempt to seize the southwestern home islands of Tokunoshima, Kikaigashima, and Amami Oshima. At the same time his air forces at Okinawa, Iwo Jima, and in the Marianas would increase their bombing operations against Japan so as to lower morale, destroy airfields, and disrupt land and sea communications.

Second, just before invading the homeland, Allied task forces would concentrate on smashing the Japanese fleet and air bases. The most likely points of invasion are in southern Kyushu and in the Kanto Plain area which surrounds Tokyo, but there is a strong probability that landings may also be made at Saishuto, south of Korea, in order to sever communications between Korea, Manchuria, and Japan. Landings in southern Kyushu would take place after August and would be attempted by 15-20 divisions. When a foothold had been established there, an invasion of the Kanto Plain by some 30­40 divisions would follow, some time after September.

A further breakdown of enemy capabilities and intentions was made with predictions that one division would hit the Koshiki Islands, off Kyushu, to set up a base; no fewer than six divisions would assault the western coast, north of Cape Noma; and when a bridgehead was established there the main force of at least eight divisions would land at Ariake Bay, on the eastern coast of Miyazaki. In the east a minimum of eight divisions would lead off by striking at Oshima, Kujukurihama, and Kashimanada, followed by about twelve divisions on the Bozo Peninsula, and then the main force would land at Sagami Bay and sweep over the Kanto Plain.

It was indicated that the Allies would have the following naval forces available to carry out these operations:

To oppose these forces, in August, 1945, Japan’s principal strength lay in its four Naval Air Fleets which contained a total of 5,044 planes, in categories as follow:

Of ships and naval craft Japan had the following:

Statistics of Pocket Submarines and Manned Torpedoes

For the benefit of readers unfamiliar with craft of the last three categories, salient specifications of each are given.

The charge-laden motorboats (Shinyo) were 16 1⁄2 feet in length, weighed 2,800 pounds, had a top speed of 23 knots, a cruising radius of 250 miles, and carried a 550-pound explosive charge in the bow.

A careful study of the situation led the Naval General Staff to conclude that all Japanese surface forces should be meticulously conserved until the enemy actually began landing. To this end all warships were ordered into concealment at various Inland Sea islands north of Iyonada. And, following the pattern I had established earlier in southern Kyushu, a system of airfield defense was instituted throughout the country.

It was determined that special attack units, both air and submarine, should seize every opportunity to hit enemy ships at advanced bases before their task forces sortied. Careful and thorough patrols were flown day and night by some 140 planes which covered the sea to a distance of 600 miles from each of the anticipated landing points. Coastal waters were patrolled by small and medium submarines.

As soon as the enemy’s intended landing points were indicated, almost all Japanese air and sea forces would immediately be concentrated in the battle area. There were 150 specially equipped torpedo planes set up in night attack groups to strike warships bombarding our coast, and 330 top-notch planes and pilots constituted elite units which were assigned to engage approaching enemy task forces. Another group of planes-a hundred transports-were designated to carry 1,200 airborne troops to Okinawa airfields where they would destroy planes and fuel dumps at the critical moment. Most of the air forces were disposed in the southwestern part of the homeland, while the surface and underwater suicide units were distributed about equally between the eastern and western areas as follows:

As enemy convoys finally approached their assault destinations, all suicide forces were to launch day and night attacks which would be sustained for at least ten days. It was expected that 3,725 naval planes (more than half of them trainers), and 2,500 army planes would be available to carry out these attacks. At the same time a squadron composed of one cruiser and nineteen destroyers was to make night attacks on the ships once they had anchored. It was calculated that these combined efforts would succeed in sinking half of the anticipated ships in the enemy invasion fleet.

But this whole scheme was conceived in futility and prepared for in despair. So critical was the situation by August, 1945, that Japan’s shortage of fuel alone was enough to banish confidence. The contemplated ten­day aerial effort would have drained every drop of fuel from every plane and storage tank in Japan. The only commodity to survive the pinch of Japan’s wartime economy was hope, and that was rapidly disappearing.

IN CONCLUSION

An official announcement by Combined Fleet Headquarters said that 2,409 Kamikaze pilots were killed in performance of their duty during World War II. It was a real scourge of Japan’s military forces that permitted human life to be treated so lightly through a misinterpretation of the true spirit of Bushido.

Japan’s suicide air operations mark the Pacific War with two scars that will remain forever in the annals of battle: one, of shame at the mistaken way of command; the other, one of valor at the self-sacrificing spirit of young men who died for their beloved country.

Pensacola, Florida: The first four women chosen to undergo flight training. From left, LTJG. Barbara Allen of Chula Vista, California; ENS. Jane M. Skiles of Des Moines, Iowa; LTJG. Judith A. Neuffer of Wooster, Ohio; and ENS. Kathleen L. McNary of Plainfield, Illinois.

The first four women chosen to undergo aviation training report for their flight physical exams at the Naval Aerospace Medical Institute and Research Laboratory at the Naval Air Station.

Lt. Pat McNulty, right, an instructor at Naval Air Station Saufley Field, gives women officer candidates their first explanation of the parachute they will be using when they commence their flight training. Lieutenants Junior Grade Judith Neuffer, left, and Barbara Allen stand on the wing of a T-34 mentor trainer aircraft.

This article was published in the December 1927 issue of Proceedings magazine as “A New Job for the Supply Corps” by Lieutenant T. E. Hipp, (SC), U.S. Navy.

The Naval aircraft factory at the Navy Yard, Philadelphia, was organized during the stress of the World War when naval officers were not available to recruit the organization and the work of airplane manufacture was a new departure for the Navy. The engineers and executives for the factory were procured almost entirely from civil life and the organization was so drawn as best to handle the factory’s peculiar mission. Naval precedent and tradition had little place in the structure of the organization and the selection of personnel. The present structure of the organization, although in some particulars similar to that of the standard Navy industrial organization, presents certain salient and unusual features which may be of interest to students of naval industrial management. The following organization chart shows the Naval aircraft factory lines of authority and the relations existing among the different offices and sub-divisions of the main departments. Special attention is invited to the position of inside superintendent, to which a member of the supply corps was assigned May 15, 1923.

The two outstanding features of this organization are the centralization of engineering responsibility and the close interlocking of the functions of procurement, production and accounting. It is this second feature, of particular interest to supply officers and production superintendents, that this article will describe. The cooperation of the supply department is essential to economical and expeditious production. Although, on account of desirable central control, available space and favorable location, the supply department of the naval aircraft factory functions as a general storehouse for aeronautical supplies for the entire naval service, its prime and vital duty in the production system is the procurement and storage of raw materials and shipment of completed aeronautical equipment.

To perform such duties it is necessary to maintain an organization capable of secur­ing the most satisfactory material required in the manufacturing processes, equipment and general supplies; to secure the most de­sirable delivery of material, keeping com­plete and accurate record of all unfilled pur­chase orders. Navy Regulations and orders provide for the manner of purchase, terms of payment and the recording and classify­ing of material after receipt. There are slight changes and modifications in the usual methods of storekeeping and record­ing at the naval aircraft factory in order to meet the needs of this particular in­dustry.

All production work, however authorized, is originated in the supply department by the means of a “Supply Officer’s Request,” which briefly outlines that which is to be done, and either makes references to, or encloses, specifications therefor, furnished by the engineering department. This work is assigned a specific priority in relation to other work in the plant, and in cases where it is necessary to make use of material or tools other than those which have been es­tablished as standard stock, the supply de­partment is required to become a part of the production schedule by furnishing esti­mated date of receipt of such items with subsequent revision’s when the necessity arises. To do this it is necessary for the supply department to maintain a definite follow-up on all material expected from sources outside of the factory. Therefore, in being charged with the duties of initiating all requests for production, the provision of specified material on scheduled dates, and the ultimate shipment of the completed prod­uct, the supply department does perform a function which is essential to and closely interlocked with production.

Another department which is closely allied with and essential to the production organization is the accounting office. In the civilian industrial field, the manufacturer is dependent upon records of past perform­ances and accurate cost records to enable him intelligently to operate his establishment to meet the keen competition encountered in making bids and estimates, and in providing a safe return and profit on the capital invested. Similarly in naval industrial organizations, and especially at the present time, due to the limited money allowances granted the bureaus to maintain and operate the fleet, it is necessary that intelligent cost data be furnished for the purpose of making estimates which will be useful in acquainting the department with the amounts that have been and will be obligated.

Taking into consideration this close interlocking of procurement, production and accounting, it was decided to request the assignment of an officer of the supply corps to the position of inside superintendent in the works department of the naval aircraft factory. The inside superintendent is the coordinator of the planning office, the schedule office, and the preparation division. His three principal assistants are the planning superintendent, the schedule superintendent, and the preparation superintendent.

The planning superintendent, under the general supervision of the inside superintendent, is in charge of the making of all estimates of the cost of work, the issuance of job orders for work, however authorized, with the responsibility for charging work to the proper appropriation title and account, and the checking of the authenticity of the authority. He is charged with the issuance of manufacturing orders or detailed work orders to shops for their portions of the work covered by the job order as a whole; and for the supply of plans, or other working data, to shops for work manufacturing orders. He is responsible for the drawing up or checking of bills of material, and the transmission of them to the Preparation Division.

The preparation superintendent, under the general supervision of the inside superintendent, is responsible for the stubbing from store of all material for authorized work; for the submission of purchase requests to the supply officer for material not in stores, which is required for authorized work; for the maintenance of shortage lists of material for authorized work; for the operation of sub-storerooms, or material depots for raw material or work in progress, in the custody of the works department, which is not being worked upon; for the operation of shop store rooms or material depots containing small amounts of material located within the shop areas, but which has not yet been stubbed from the supply officer’s books. He is responsible for the operation of the salvage section, handling rejected material; he is in charge of the
operation and maintenance of the factory transportation system, including operation of overhead cranes.

The schedule superintendent, under the general supervision of the inside superin­tendent, is responsible for the preparation and issuance of all works department sched­ules; for the maintenance of status reports on all work in progress; for the preparation of the weekly progress report, which is for­warded to the Bureau of Aeronautics; for the preparation of the monthly factory mas­ter schedule, which shows the general time-planning of work ahead of the factory, and for the maintenance of the work load on the various shops.

After analyzing these duties, it is appar­ent that the position of inside superintend­ent, which embraces these functions, is a central office, making intimate contact, not only with all of the shops, but also with the engineering department, the supply depart­ment and the accounting department. In requesting the assignment of an officer of the supply corps to this duty, it was believed that a supply officer, with his knowledge of accounting and material sup­ply, could as quickly acquaint himself with those phases of this position usually not within the scope of a supply officer, as a line officer, or naval constructor, who is more familiar with the manufacturing problem; could acquaint himself with those phrases related to supply and accounting, and furthermore, the experience to be gained in such a position should prove of great value professionally, in the future.

Due to the rapid growth and recognized necessity of aviation throughout the naval service, it is desirable that officers of the supply corps become familiar with the needs and requirements of this important branch of the nation’s first line of defense, and it is believed that the naval aircraft factory, for the time being at least, is the best aviation school for supply officers in existence.

Having in mind a more far-reaching ef­fect and influence, it is believed, that, not only will the duties described be of great benefit to an officer who might at some time or other be concerned with aviation account­ing and supply, but surely a certain period of service within the organization of any industrial department will better fit him for the position of supply officer of a yard or vessel. Through such service, he has been able to observe the problems encount­ered; the cause and effect of the different policies, systems and requirements, all tending to make of him an abler executive with a larger and more cooperative spirit.

Why not then, assign junior officers in the supply corps to duty in industrial or­ganizations for training and experience? Even further, carrying this idea to its logical conclusion, there is no apparent reason why a supply officer, with such experience and training, should not be eminently capable of assuming the responsibilities of directing any Navy industrial establishment. It is to the best interest of each corps to take ad­vantage of any opportunity afforded to enlarge its field of activities, and especially, if by so doing, it arrives at a broader view­point, which tends to promote a greater spirit of harmony and efficiency in the or­ganization of the Navy as a whole.

This article, written by Naval Constructor C. W. Fisher, U. S. Navy was published in the February 1917 issue of Proceedings magazine, entitled “The Log of the Constitution, Feb. 21-24, 1815: The Capture of the Cyane and the Levant“ .

The Capture of the Cyane and Levant by U.S. frigate Constitution

Enclosed herewith is a blueprint of an extract from the log of the U. S. frigate Constitution, dated February 21 to February 24, 1815. This brief extract includes a description of the action between the Constitution and British vessels Cyane and Levant. As an example of most admirable seamanship, excellent control, fine tactics, and a happy as well as forceful style of recording important events, I consider this brief extract to be of sufficient value to warrant its being published for the “information and guidance” of the navy to-day. It would be hard to find a better model than this modest record of a most unusual and courageous action.

Remarks &c. on board U. S. frigate Constitution, Charles Stewart Esq., Commander on a Cruise, Tuesday February 21, 1815

Remarks &c. continued, Tuesday February 21, 1815

Remarks &c. on board U. S. frigate Constitution, Charles Stewart Esq. Commander on a Cruise, Wednesday February 22, 1815

Remarks &c. on board U. S. frigate Constitution, Charles Stewart Esq., Commander on a Cruise, Thursday February 23, 1815

Remarks &c. on board U. S. frigate Constitution, Charles Stewart Esq. Commander on a Cruise, Friday, February 24, 1815

A Marine Sea Stallion helicopter with a magnetic orange pipe in tow sweeps the Bay in Hon Gay, North Vietnam during Operation End Sweep.

This article was originally published in the March 1974 issue of Proceedings magazine by Rear Admiral Brian McCauley, U. S. Navy

Western strategists of every stripe had grown hoarse calling for the mining of Haiphong Harbor and, at last, it was done. Now, with the ceasefire signed, the mines had to be retrieved or destroyed and, as surface ships of Task Force 58 trailed a sweeping heli­copter into Haiphong on 17 June 1973, the end of “End Sweep”—a tedious, lengthy, and totally unglamorous job—was in sight.

Operation End Sweep had its beginning in early 1972. Commander Mine Warfare Force as the major, and almost only, source of mining expertise was asked to assist in the planning of the mine fields to be laid by the Seventh Fleet in North Vietnamese waters. From the beginning, the possibility of U. S. forces having to sweep the mines was a factor which influenced the types of mines used, their settings, and to a lesser degree their locations. As a result, when it came time to sweep, we knew everything about the mines and had purposely planted mines which could be swept easily and effec­tively by our mine countermeasures forces. The mines in the North Vietnamese fields were of the type actu­ated by either magnetic or acoustic influences, or by a combination of the two. Sensitivity was varied in both types. The vast majority of the mines were programmed to self-destruct and the remainder to go inert after a given time. Thus, even as the mines were dropped, the process of mine removal had been started.

Actual preparation for the mine sweeping operation began in July 1972 when it first became apparent that mine sweeping would, as expected, be an important part of the peace negotiations. By this time, the Navy’s Airborne Mine Countermeasures (AMCM) program was underway. Helicopter Mine Countermeasure Squadron 12 (HM-12) was operational with 13 Sikorsky Sea Stal­lions (CH-53). Basic training with towed sweep gear was underway. Initial deployments of units of four helicop­ters by C-5 aircraft to the Mediterranean and by cross country to the west coast had been made. In October, a mine field simulating those off the Haiphong Channel was planted off Panama City, Florida. Together with the Naval Coastal Systems Laboratory (NCSL), a detach­ment of HM-12, controlled by Commander Mobile Mine Countermeasures Command, began developing tactics, equipment, and experience in how best to counter the mines.

In the year or so since the helo minesweepers had been activated, a great deal had been accomplished. In the pre-End Sweep exercises, considerable knowledge was acquired on countering the simulators which used the detection devices of the actual mines laid in North Vietnam. This was accomplished under controlled con­ditions, but it provided a basis to start the future operation. There was and is much more to be learned. The mine countermeasures used in the operation were developed or improved upon in this period. The basic magnetic mine countermeasures device was the MK-105 sled manufactured by the Edo Corporation. Towed at speeds to 25 knots, this foil-supported generator streams a standard magnetic tail astern. In addition, NCSL de­veloped a 33-foot iron pipe which was permed with a DC coil to give it an increased magnetic signature. This was filled with styrofoam to keep it afloat and towed at speeds of 10 to 25 knots. Painted orange, it was commonly known as the MOP (magnetic orange pipe). Against certain settings, three MOPs were towed in tandem. Noise makers could be towed independently or astern of either the MK-105 sled or the MOP.
While the operational training was proceeding, members of the CoMineWarFor staff were visiting Washington and Hawaii to firm up requirements, force levels, organizational structure, chain of command, and the myriad of details involved in establishing for the first time a major task force to support a combined surface and airborne sweep in North Vietnamese waters. After much discussion and many changes, the size of the force was fixed.

The airborne sweep was carried out by four Airborne Mine Countermeasures (AMCM) sweeping units. Two of these were made up of the 13 Navy HM-12 helos augmented by three Marine CH-S3 helos provided by HMM-16s. These two units towed the MK-105 magnetic sled, the MK-104 and the AMK-2 G acoustic devices, the MOP or the triple MOP (three in tandem). To support the sweeping helos and other administrative helos were an LPH and two LPDs. Each AMCM unit operated from an LPD. The well deck and open stern ramp were necessary to launch the MK-105 magnetic sled. The LPH provided maintenance support to the helicopters and was the task force commander’s flagship. The two additional AMCM units were made up of 15 Marine CH-S3 helicopters from HMH-463. As the Marines had had no AMCM training prior to joining Task Force 78, their training was limited to the MOP and the acoustic devices. These two units operated from an LPH and an LPD. As there was no requirement for the well deck (to launch the MK-105), an LPH was used as an AMCM launch platform. The LPH also provided maintenance for the Marine helicopters. Other helos, which provided control platforms as well as transportation ashore and between ships, were divided between the two LPHs according to maintenance spaces and work shop avail­ability.

The surface mine sweeping force was made up of ten ocean minesweepers (MSOS). These were used prin­cipally in the deep water approaches and as helicopter control ships. In addition, a surface support force was made up of two destroyers, two fleet tugs (later reduced to one), a submarine rescue ship, an LST for MSO sup­port, and a specially configured LST to transit the Haiphong channel after sweeping had been completed in order to demonstrate confidence in the thoroughness of the sweep.

The Commander in Chief Pacific Fleet made the decision that Commander Mine Warfare Force was to be the task force commander. This was unique in that a type commander is seldom an operational com­mander. Type commander functions for both Fleets were left to the residual staff in Charleston. The operational chain of command was from the JCS through CincPac, CinCPacFlt, ComSeventhFlt to CTF 78. This proved cumbersome at times because most vital de­cisions were made in Washington, often with a short time fuze.

Task Force 78 was made up of the following Task Groups:

• CTG 78.o Commander Amphibious Squadron One was responsible for all major surface movement and the seaborne logistic support of the Task Force.
•CTG 78.1 Commander Mobile Mine Countermeasures Command directed operational control of all sweeping helicopters through AMCM units on each of the helo­capable amphibious ships. In addition, he had overall control of all coastal harbor and port mine sweeping, both surface and air.
•CTG 78.2 Commander Mine Flotilla One maintained operational and support control for the ocean mine­sweepers.
•CTG 78.3 Supervised and provided base support from Subic Bay, P.I.
•CTG 78.4 A command established later in the opera­tion which was responsible for all MCM and other activities in inland waterways.
• A diving and salvage expert, responsible for any contingencies and for mine hunting if necessary.

The order to deploy was received on 4 November 1972. For all but a few planners this was the first indication that the MCM force would actually deploy. Within two days Helicopter Mine Countermeasures Squadron Twelve (HM-12) was ready to deploy from Norfolk, Virginia with 13 helicopters and about 450 men. From Charleston, S.C. more than 100 officers and men from Mine Warfare Force and Mobile Mine Coun­termeasures Command, together with all necessary mine sweeping gear, were ready in an equally short time. Ten C-5s were used to transport the east coast MCM force to Subic Bay. Soon after, three ocean minesweepers sailed from Long Beach and two Reserve minesweepers were readied to sail from Pearl Harbor. The crews of the latter two were augmented by volunteers from the active MSOs in Charleston. These minesweepers, together with five Guam-based ships, completed the sur­face mine sweeping force.

After arrival in the Philippines, the peace negotia­tions in Paris collapsed. That left the deployed east coast units in Subic with no indication of when the MCM operation would be undertaken. By this time it was apparent to all that the mine sweeping task was directly related to the progress of the negotiations. The period was used to identify Seventh Fleet ships, equip­ment, and personnel needed to round out the task force. Both CinCPacFlt and ComSeventhFlt were most effective in understanding and implementing the priority which had been assigned to Operation End Sweep. At this time, and understandably so, it was often difficult to convince the operators that the conflict was nearly over and that mine sweeping would then have as high a priority as current (Decem­ber 1972) operations. Conferences were held with ComSeventhFlt, the Marine helo commanders, the amphibious commanders, and various support com­manders for the purpose of establishing roles, missions, and lines of authority.

Finally, on 27 January 1973, the ceasefire agreement was signed in Paris. The Protocol on mine sweeping became the Bible of Operation End Sweep. The Proto­col was much broader and more demanding than ex­pected.

Among other things it stated:

•The United States will clear all the mines it has placed in the territorial waters, ports, harbors and waterways of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (D.R.V.). This … shall be accomplished by rendering the mines harmless through removal, permanent deacti­vation or destruction.
• Mines shall, on request of the D.R.V., be removed or destroyed in the indicated areas; and wherever their removal or destruction is impossible, mines shall be permanently deactivated and their emplacement clearly marked.
• Start, completion dates, priorities, timing and methods of sweeping would be accomplished by a mutual exchange of information.
•The United States shall be responsible for mine clear­ance in the inland waterways of the D.R.V. The D.R.V. shall, to the full extent of its capabilities, actively participate in the mine clearance with the means of surveying, removal, and destruction, and technical ad­vice supplied by the United States.

The general nature of these words made them subject to any number of interpretations. And the resolution of their exact meaning was the subject of almost daily negotiations for the entire time the Task Force was in North Vietnamese waters.

The Protocol called for an initial meeting between the North Vietnamese and the United States to arrange procedures for the mine sweeping operation. After some negotiations both in Paris and through the Four Party Joint Military Committee then meeting in Sai­gon, it was agreed that meetings would be held alter­nately in Haiphong and on board a U. S. warship. On 5 February, CTF 78 flew from Saigon to Hanoi in an Air Force C-130, along with a 14-man staff. The group was flown from Hanoi to Haiphong in a Russian IL-14. The baggage and a communication jeep were taken to Haiphong in an MI-6 Russian helicopter.

Engage (MSO-433), Force (MSO-445), Fortify (MSO-446) and Impervious (MSO-449) had been sailed from Subic for the Tonkin Gulf on 27 January, coincident with the signing of the agreement. After assurance from the North Vietnamese that U. S. minesweepers would not be molested, they were ordered into North Vietnamese waters off Haiphong. Operation End Sweep actually commenced on 6 February with the four MSOs sweep­ing the areas in which the LPHs and LPDs were to anchor. In the meantime, the amphibious ships and Marine helos were assembling in Subic Bay. There the Marine CH-53S were modified to enable them to tow. Navy pilots from HM-12 together with personnel from the Mobile Mine Countermeasures Command com­menced training the Marines to tow the MOP. The individual aircraft training was topped off by an eight-day exercise where conditions simulating the conditions expected off Haiphong were set up. Search and Rescue procedures were developed, aircraft and personnel were trained. Normal SAR procedures could not be used because of the difficulties involved in rescuing person­nel from a live minefield. During the period in which the heavy ships were in Subic, the USS Worden (DLG 18) acted as flagship for CTF 78 and as an alternate site for meeting the North Vietnamese.

The first two of the AMCM units arrived in Haiphong on 23 February. This force consisted of the Navy Heli­copter Squadron HM-12 augmented by three Marine CH-53S and other Marine support helos on board New Orleans (LPH-11), Dubuque (LPD-8), and Ogden (LPD-S). Actual airborne mine sweeping began on the afternoon of 27 February when two missions were flown in the Haiphong main shipping channel. That night, because of difficulties over the second pow exchange, the force was withdrawn. Within 12 hours of the withdrawal, the issues were resolved and TF 78 was ordered back into North Vietnamese waters. By this time the two Marine AMCM units had joined in Inchon (LPH-12) and Cleveland (LPD 7) and TF 78 was ready to sweep with all four AMCM units. Sweeping in the Haiphong area was resumed on 6 March. Because of difficulty with the North Vietnamese, who wanted all four units to sweep the Haiphong main channel, sweeping in the two other northern international ports of Hon Gai and Cam Pha was not started until two weeks later. From then until 17 April, all four AMCM units swept daily in Haiphong, Hon Gai, and Cam Pha. The MSOs con­tinued to sweep in the deep water approaches to these three ports.

On 17 April, because of difficulties in Laos and Cambodia, it was decided to again withdraw the force. The period of inactivity lasted until 13 June when the Paris Joint Communique was signed. The time was used for additional training, upkeep, and liberty. It was, again, a difficult time because there was no indication when, or even if, the Task Force would go back and complete the operation. The 13 June communique was specific for the first time. It stated that the United States would resume the sweeping within five days of the signing and would complete the operation 30 days after that. It would have been possible to do this because by June all of the mines were well past their self-destruct date. There was considerable statistical evidence to ensure that the vast majority of the mines would self-destruct and that any left would be inert and totally deactivated. Because of this, all sweeping after 18 June was exploratory sweeping. This is consid­erably less time consuming than full sweeping.
Prior to leaving Haiphong on 17 April, the sweep in the Haiphong main channel had been completed. The demonstration ship, a modified LST (MSS-2), had made a number of runs through the channel, but not enough to declare it open. On 20 June, the remainder of the runs were completed and the North Vietnamese were handed a signed memorandum stating that the United States had completed the sweep in the Hai­phong main channel. Hon Gai and Cam Pha were completed on 27 June. Plans were to systematically sweep the remainder of the coast. There remained Vinh, Quang Khe, Dong Hoi, Than Hoa, and about a dozen small fields. The North Vietnamese, however, wanted the Task Force to go directly to Vinh, Quang Khe, and a section known as the Hon La coastal area. We agreed to move the force south and commenced sweep­ing again. Coastal negotiation sites were shifted from Haiphong to Vinh. These areas were completed on 5 July, and again, memorandums of completion were handed to the North Vietnamese. Attempts were then made to obtain agreement to sweep the remainder of the fields. The North Vietnamese refused and the result was a stalemate which lasted until the Task Force left Vietnamese waters at the expiration of the 30 days on 18 July. Each day, U. S. negotiators would ask to sweep other areas and each day they were refused.

The inland waterways sweep was also frustrated by the North Vietnamese. The U. S. Navy had actually not expected to be charged with the mine sweeping responsibility inland. When the Protocol so dictated, a great amount of talent was put to work to devise ways and means of sweeping these rivers and channels. Both acoustic and magnetic devices were made by the Naval Coastal Systems Laboratory in Panama City, Florida. These were tested there and under field condi­tions in a river at Subic Bay. Non-magnetic radio­controlled boats and motors were purchased to tow the various devices. A force of 50 two-man teams was assembled to supervise and instruct in the inland water­ways. After much tedious and difficult negotiation, a school was set up near Haiphong. Here about 40 young North Vietnamese were taught how to use the various equipments, how to maintain the motors, and the fun­damentals of the MK-36 destructor. When this was completed in about three weeks, the North Vietnamese said they had enough training and what they wanted was more equipment. About this time it became appar­ent that the D.R.V. did not want any U. S. military personnel to help them inland. As a result, the United States did no sweeping or supervising of sweeping in the inland waterways. Upon Task Force 78′s return the second time in June, all of the mines had passed their self-destruct date. To our knowledge no sweeping was done in inland waterways. Negotiations continued to the end. The North Vietnamese continually asked for additional equipment. The United States provided a reasonable amount on loan to sweep the inland water­ways, but no more. The equipment was brought into Cat Bi airfield by C-130 aircraft, certainly the first U. S.­operated airfield in North Vietnam.

It would be a mistake to attempt to devise general, long-standing mine warfare conclusions from the spe­cific operational and political arena in which End Sweep was conducted. End Sweep was a unique solution to a unique problem and did not present a challenge of nearly the magnitude that can be expected in the fu­ture. The location, type, and settings of all mines were known. The vast majority of mines were the DST-36, a very sensitive magnetic or acoustic fuze placed on a 500 pound aircraft bomb. The magnetized pipe (MOP) was effective against this mine. It will not counter properly designed sophisticated mines. Much of the sweeping was done in very shallow water, often as shallow as three feet. Additionally, Operation End Sweep had the highest priority in the Pacific Fleet. It commenced with the ceasefire and, as a result, people, ships, and aircraft, which in a wartime scenario would have been otherwise occupied, were made available. The objective of the sweeping was largely accomplished prior to laying the mines when the self-destruct time was set into the fuze.

The helicopter proved ideal for the operation. With little training and minor modifications the Marine pilots and helos were taught to pull the light MOP and to be controlled either by a surface ship radar or the Raydist Precision Navigation System. Had the mines been more sophisticated, training would have been a much more complicated task. The time needed to train the Marine pilots and crews to stream and tow the more complicated MK-103 moored mine sweep gear or the MK-105 magnetic sled would have been much greater. The Marines did a magnificent job in the task assigned. The dedicated Navy mine sweeping helo squadron, however, was available to tow the more complex gear.

Flying a helicopter low and slow towing a heavy load is a most demanding task. The skill necessary to do this can only be obtained and maintained through constant practice. To have a helicopter mine sweeping force ready at all times it will be necessary to maintain specialist crews flying special aircraft. Larger and more powerful helos will in the future most certainly become more specialized. It may, for instance, be possible to devote one of the three engines of future aircraft to generating power for a magnetic tail. This will obviate the need for a complex sled carrying a sensitive turbine and generator at sea level where it is subject to a constant shower of salt water.

Operation End Sweep demonstrated that the helo, with certain limitations, is here to stay as a mine­sweeper. HM-12 had been commissioned two years when the operation commenced. The time had been totally devoted to mine sweeping. Four plane deployments had been made previously. When called upon, HM-12 and the Mobile Mine Countermeasures Command were able to deploy their entire force within two days and could have been sweeping anywhere in the world within four or five days after that. The mobility of the helo force, airborne in C-5s, is staggering to one who has been hampered by the slow SOA of the surface minesweeper. The helicopter in Operation End Sweep proved itself against magnetic and acoustic mines. Its speed both for transit and for towing is a tremendous asset. Be­cause it is airborne it can safely punch through a known mine field. A surface ship to survive must approach a mine field cautiously from the side, hoping to sweep the area prior to entering. The helicopter, however, suffers from the limitations of all aircraft. It is handi­capped in mine sweeping by extreme weather and darkness. Fuel-limited mission time reduces the flexi­bility and increases the requirement for numbers of helicopters. This is especially true when cumbersome equipment such as the MK-103 moored mine sweep gear must be streamed. Streaming and recovery may well take up half the mission time. In order to operate for any sustained period, a good maintenance facility must be provided. The LPH is ideally suited for this. Her shops, equipment, and personnel have been especially prepared for the role. The LPD was an excellent launch platform for the helicopters and MK-105 sled. It could not, however, do other than the most minor mainte­nance. Without adequate support, the helicopters could not have been kept flying.

The helicopter must have some sort of control and a record of where it has been. In End Sweep, both the Raydist Precision Navigation System and surface ships were used. The Raydist system requires antennae ashore or on ships in a four-point moor. Surface ship control requires a ship close to the mine field. The entire mine sweeping operation thus is vulnerable to any enemy opposition. This is a lesson we learned in Korea and it still applies. The helicopter based ashore is an attrac­tive proposition. Almost all ports in the world have a site large enough to operate helos. Thus, in any controlled port using the Raydist or similar system, the helo could operate with a shore based control and support system.

Even with the success of the helicopter sweeping, End Sweep demonstrated again the need for surface minesweepers. The MSOs were used for sweeping and for helicopter control. In large area sweeps in deep water, their more powerful magnetic gear and their ability to sweep around the clock proved invaluable. Since the MSO has a very small magnetic signature, it proved an ideal helicopter control vessel as it could move in close to the field. Six to eight MSOs were kept on the line for the entire sweeping period. Their total support consisted of one LST, an obvious plus on the side of economy. The MSO, however, is very limited by its speed. The sweeping is done at four to seven knots and transits are made at about ten knots. It is unable to go directly into a mine field as can a helo. The MSO can sweep to much greater depths than the helo. It currently has the only useful system against a pressure mine, the mine hunting sonar. Pressure mines must be found-and then destroyed or avoided.

The forseeable future will require both helos and surface ships: the helos for rapid deployment to any part of the world; the ships for use closer to home or their bases where speed is not a handicap. Both the helicopters and the surface ship will require future development. A shift to hydrofoil or hovercraft can offset to some degree the speed limitations and vulner­ability of the present surface ships. Helos should be provided with all-weather capabilities, high resolution sonar for mine hunting, and a submerged mine attack capability. More powerful helos should carry more fuel for increased mission time. The complex moored gear can be simplified to reduce streaming and recovery time. The current helicopter has no capability against deep moored mines. The MSO is also limited in its capability against these mines. A larger ship with higher transit speeds will have to be provided if this threat is to be met.

Perhaps the most important lesson learned in End Sweep was one that we must continually relearn. Mine sweeping of any sort is difficult, tedious, lengthy, and and we were totally devoid of glamour. Even if with the “cooperation” of the D.R.V.and knowledge of types, location, setting, and expiration dates of the mines, we were com­pelled to devote a large force and exercise great caution to ensure that the seas and the ports were clear. With­out this information the task would have been infin­itely more difficult.

The most obvious conclusion one reaches in review­ing  Operation End Sweep is the effectiveness, relative ease of laying, and the economy of the coastal mine campaign. It was an impressive sight on flying over Haiphong in the early days of End Sweep to see all 26 merchant ships at anchor behind the mine field. None had moved since May when the first mines where dropped. Few aircraft were lost during their emplacement. The effectiveness of this demonstrates once again the vulnerability of a country which has little or no mine sweeping capability to mining. The North Vietnamese ocean shipping was paralyzed until we arrived with the technical knowledge to clear their main channels. Thus, the mining campaign provided a potent lever to U.S. negotiators both before and after the Peace Agreement. When he commended the Navy for outstanding performance during End Sweep, Admiral T.H. Moorer, Chairmain of the Joint Cheifs of Staff, stated: “The efforts of the Navy in Operation End Sweep contributed significantly to the timely release of U.S. prinosers of war, and that is to the attainment of the nation’s objectives in Southeast Asia.”

U. S. ports on both coasts are particularly susceptible to covert or overt mining. Because of lack of glamour and parochial support there has
been a tendency to let the mine warfare community force wither away for lack of funds. We must not allow this to in the future.

Rarely will anyone in today’s Navy argue against the effectiveness of mine warfare nor our vulnerability as a nation to its use by other powers. Yet the practical demise of the Mine Force in the U.S. Navy is already planned—a victim of other more sophisticated, higher priority programs. We ahve relegated the Mine Force to a miniscule size and are even now considering some assets for other roles. There is no new surface minesweeper on the boards and none is now contemplated when the wooden-hulled MSOs—newest age 15—finally expire.

The Mine Force has been compared to the Phoenix, that mythical bird which rises out of its own ashes to live and fly again. With the loss of experienced and interested officers and the erosion of its few remaining assets with no replacement, the ashes may already be too few and too scattered to the Phoenix to rise and conduct another End Sweep.

A Dog Team Trail Party leaves the unloading area at McMurdo Sound for a reconnaissance trip.

This article was written by Rear Admiral George J. Dufek, USN (retired) with Joseph E. Oglesby, JOC, USN. It was originally published as “Operation Deepfreeze Fits Out” in the March 1956 issue of Proceedings magazine.

When President Eisenhower an­nounced a renewal of American in­terest in the Antarctic early last year, he gave the Department of Defense the responsibility for supporting American sci­entists in the greatest American undertaking in the barren history of the Antarctic.

Considering the complexities involved, it immediately became apparent that the Navy would draw the bid as the Defense agency best qualified to undertake the four-year task. At a point some eleven thousand miles south of Boston, the Navy had to build three permanent bases (one of them by air­drop at the South Pole) and an air operating facility big enough to handle four-engine planes. It had to ferry thousands of tons of scientific supplies, countless gallons of gaso­line and other fuels, plus construction equip­ment including thirty-ton tractors, and a bewildering variety of equipment and pro­visions to aid the scientists during the Inter­national Geophysical Year (IGY) from July, 1957, through December, 1958.

The Navy had to begin moving early in 1955 to be prepared for the great scientific venture. Task Force 43 was formed under the Commander in Chief, U. S. Atlantic Fleet, as the support force for American participation in the year of science.

THE MISSION AND THE GOALS

The Chief Executive’s original statement outlined the scope of Antarctic activity dur­ing the IGY. American scientists would work in the Antarctic with scientists from almost a dozen nations, studying meteorology, cos­mic rays, solar activity, ionospheric physics, geomagnetism, oceanography, and glaciology.

Other nations that would build one or more bases in the Antarctic in support of the IGY included England, France, Belgium, Norway, South Africa, Australia, New Zea­land, Argentina, Chile, Japan, and Russia.

A reporter looked at an early chart show­ing the base camp activity markers and im­mediately asked: “Who’s going to erect the traffic lights to control all this activity?”

Our role in the International Geophysical Year was limited to the Antarctic region. Our studies would be tied in with the world­wide study of the earth sciences to be con­ducted by some forty nations ranging from the North Pole to the South Pole, including all the major land and sea masses in between. Observations would be taken from the bot­tom of the oceans to a hundred and more miles into the atmosphere. All scientific ob­servations would be correlated during and after the studies.

These scientific studies will benefit the nation and the world in many ways. For ex­ample, a thorough knowledge of the weather originating over the Antarctic ice mass will greatly aid world meteorologists in deter­mining basic air-mass circulation patterns which are so essential for long-range fore­casting. The biggest chance factor of flying will be overcome if, through this study, we can observe and record the behavior of weather and later can take steps to predict it more accurately.

Geologists will round out their knowledge of minerals in the Antarctic. We know that many millions of years ago the Antarctic continent was tropical. We know that other similarly-formed pressure masses now pro­duce valuable minerals and petroleums. Our mission is not a “treasure hunt,” but if such minerals as uranium or gold, or even iron ore are found in abundance, it will be good in­formation for the future when peacetime nuclear development and improved air and surface transportation might make Ant­arctic mining feasible and economical. What with progress made in atomic reactors, that day might be just around the corner.

Admiral Byrd’s previous expeditions have discovered coal and copper in the Antarctic. It is true that the minerals found were not of sufficient value for commercial purposes. However, we have merely scratched the sur­face of this vast continent. Besides, there is still a virgin area in the Antarctic as large as the United States that has never been seen by man. This area may abound in rich resources.

One of the principal reasons for choosing the period from 1957 to the end of 1958 for the IGY was that during this period there will occur maximum sun-spot activity.

Most readers are aware of the radio “black-outs” caused by sunspots, or by other irregularities in the earth’s ionosphere. We have studied the ionosphere of the Ant­arctic and the aurora australis on previous expeditions, but each time these studies have been independent ventures from one location. This time simultaneous studies will be made from various points on the con­tinent and revolutionary new devices and techniques will be used that didn’t exist when the earlier studies were made.

So far as dollars-and-cents justification for the expedition is concerned, a leading American scientist has estimated that the IGY studies will be worth a billion dollars in the development of the U. S. rocket pro­gram. (No rockets will be launched during Operation Deepfreeze I, but the scientific data obtained could be applied to the rocket program elsewhere.)

Science-wise, these factors merely scratch the surface of why we are going to explore the Antarctic, but there are other con­siderations.
By operating large and small aircraft in the Antarctic during a series of expeditions we can amass knowledge on improvements that must be built into planes of the future for cold weather operations. We can deter­mine the best methods of runway construc­tion, both on frozen ground and snow com­pacted airstrips. There is a practical limit to the size of aircraft skis; therefore, if we wish to use large aircraft on wheels in the Polar regions, we must develop the runways to accommodate them. It is reasonable to expect that within the near future we will be flying aircraft to and from the Antarctic continent with ease.

Militarily, over 1800 men will be trained in cold-weather operations and environ­mental living during the first of the four years the task force will be there in support of the scientists. Nobody can guess when or where the next war will be fought, but we can ill afford not to be as aware of cold weather survival as we are aware of the latest de­velopments in other military matters. Nor can we afford to miss an opportunity to evaluate the Antarctic continent as a stra­tegic outpost in time of war. From the southern tip of South America to the north­ern tip of the Antarctic continent, the 600­mile distance is less than an hour’s flight for a modern jet bomber.

It is practicable to operate seaplanes and land planes from bases in the Antarctic. The availability of weather information from the Antarctic and the denial of it to the enemy would be a tremendous advantage in predicting weather conditions throughout the world for military operations.

Finally, there is the mystery of riches which the Antarctic continent may conceal be­neath her veil of snow and ice. Geologists have made but very meager investigations and only in the more accessible places, yet their reports, sketchy as they are, point strongly to a wealth of economic potential. Today’s desert wastes are tomorrow’s oases. In 1803 men prominent in public life branded the Louisiana Purchase as a waste of public funds. Again in 1867 Alaska was referred to as “Seward’s icebox.” In 1913, the United States relinquished her claim to the north coast of Greenland as part of the purchase price of the Virgin Islands.

America’s ramparts of hemisphere de­fense, her store-house of resources in the world of tomorrow, may lie at the ends of the earth. Science is certain to find the key by which to unlock a wealthy Antarctic econ­omy as it did in Louisiana, California, Ore­gon, and Alaska. Surely the price we pay for scientific enterprise in a land now trackless and remote will be an investment in the fu­ture of our country and that of the free world.

THE STAFF

Task Force 43 was commissioned on Feb­ruary 1, 1955, and assigned the responsibil­ity for planning and executing Operation Deepfreeze. Early staff work centered around these problems: We learned the requirements of the scientists and started to place orders for the supplies and equipment they would need. Many of the items were of such unusual construction and had to be made to such rigid specifications that they required an extremely long “lead time” for procure­ment. Among these items were the perma­nent houses that would be required by the construction crews and by the scientists. Materials had to be strong enough to with­stand minus 100-degree temperatures and plus 100-knot winds. They had to be pre­fabricated into sections small enough to fit the cargo hatch of a ship after crating, and, in the case of materials for the base at the South Pole, they had to be crated into sec­tions small enough to fit the cargo hatch of an airplane.

It was established early in the planning that the faithful Eskimo Husky, work horse of earlier expeditions, could not keep pace in this expedition. As a matter of fact, the only reason for taking them along would be to have teams ready at the air base to fly out and be parachuted to a party in dis­tress in an area inaccessible by tractor train or unsuitable for landing aircraft or heli­copters. Instead of huskies to haul the freight, we planned to use tractors. Just plain tractors were impractical because they sank into the snow. What we needed for the heavy work was a thirty-ton tractor that could pull a payload of 100 tons over the snow, yet it had to have less ground pres­sure per square inch than a man on skis.

To carry out the full scientific mission it was felt that three bases would be needed. The first one was to be established at the site of Admiral Byrd’s former base camp at Little America on the Bay of Whales. The second one would be in Marie Byrd Land, some 600 miles away at Latitude 80 degrees South, Longitude 120 degrees West. The third station would be established at the South Pole itself. Since the latter would be built 10,000 feet above sea level and since the distance factor for overland transpor­tation of materials seemed prohibitive, it was considered necessary to air-drop the 500 tons of materials required to build and furnish the South Pole station. To support these bases and to perform the South Pole air drop an air field would be required. It was decided to establish an Air Operating Facility at McMurdo Sound.

THE UNITS

With the staff shaping up and with the needs of the scientists being provided, the first estimate for the surface units required was five ships: two cargo ships, two ice­breakers, and a tanker. These units were re­quested and made available by CinCLant­FIt. The cargo ships would be the USS Arneb (flagship), and the USS Wyandot. The tanker USS Nespelem, bumper of many ice floes in the past, was assigned to the paper task force. A smaller tanker, YOG-70, was as­signed when it became apparent that it would be desirable to freeze such a portable fuel farm into the ice for use during the operation.

Icebreakers named to clear the way and to carry the overflow of men and supplies were the USS Edisto, a veteran at this unique occupation, and the USS Glacier, barely off the building ways in Pascagoula, Mississippi. Everyone wanted to sail in the Glacier. She was the most powerful ice­breaker ever constructed and the largest one outside the Iron Curtain. She had a modern hospital, an insulated hull, and ultra-modern living accommodations. In addition, she was a floating laboratory. With these ships ear­marked, the next consideration was for con­struction experts to build Little America Station and the Air Operating Facility at McMurdo Sound during the first Antarctic summer (American winter), and the remain­ing bases a year later. Mobile Construction Battalion (Special) was authorized and be­gan to form at Davisville, Rhode Island. This SeaBee outfit was an all-volunteer unit under command of Commander Herbert W. Whitney (CEC), USN.

Since extensive aerial photography was contemplated during the various phases of the opera tion and since planes would be used in support of the building program, an aircraft squadron was requested and as­signed. Air Development Squadron SIX (VX-6) went into commission at the Naval Air Station, Patuxent River, Maryland. Com­mander G. K. Ebbe, USN, took command of the squadron which was originally com­posed of two ski-rigged R4Ds, two R5Ds, two ski-rigged P2Vs, and two ski-rigged UF-1s. Three HO4S-3 helicopters and four ski-rigged UC-1s rounded out the squadron. Freight planes were to be provided and flown by the U. S. Air Force for the South Pole air lift.

Commander William M. Hawkes, USN, staff adviser to VX-6, was of tremendous help with his wealth of past experience in fly­ing over the Antarctic. It was he who led the flight of R4Ds off the aircraft carrier Philip­pine Sea and landed at Little America during Operation Highjump in 1946-47.

OPERATIONS TIMETABLE

So with the staff shaping up, with long lead-time items ordered, and with the sur­face, construction, and air units in the mak­ing, an operations schedule was next on the agenda. When formulated it was divided into four basic phases as follows:

Phase One (1955-56): The task force ships would put to sea in November, 1955, with an icebreaker towing the YOG, about two weeks in the van of the cargo ships and tanker. All ships would steam from East Coast ports via Panama and New Zealand to the Antarctic. When the icebreakers reached New Zealand about December 1, they would drop off the YOG and head into the pack ice. Once there they would dis­charge site survey parties at the proposed sites of Little America Station and the Mc­Murdo Sound Air Operating Facility. The icebreaker assigned to scout the Little America site would also put Coast Guard Lieutenant Commander J. Jack Bursey ashore with a nine-man tractor party which would set out on the 600-mile overland jaunt to the site of Marie Byrd Station. Their job was reconnaissance, and they would mark a safe trail, using orange flags moored in the ice by bamboo sticks at 1/3 mile intervals on straightaways and at closer intervals in treacherous areas where the trail changed swiftly to a void dangers. They would bury fuel and provision caches at 50-mile inter­vals to be used later, then head back for Little America.

Meantime the remainder of the task force ships would sail from America to reach New Zealand about December 10. The cargo ships and tanker would take the YOG in tow and leave New Zealand about Decem­ber 13 to take ocean stations at 250-mile intervals from New Zealand. Simultaneous­ly the icebreakers would be taking stations in the pack ice from Little America in the direction of New Zealand. Thus a stationary radio “picket line” of ships would be on sta­tion from New Zealand to Antarctica by mid-December so a flight of ski-rigged Navy planes could depart New Zealand and fly non-stop to Antarctica, adding another page to the annals of naval aviation. The site sur­vey party would have ascertained earlier that a safe landing site existed in the Antarctic.

Once this pioneer flight was completed, the ships would rendezvous at Scott Island on Christmas, the traditional “jumping-off” date for expeditions to buck the pack-ice which can be penetrated by surface ships during only about two or three months of the year. After the rendezvous, where infor­mation gained from the icebreakers could be pooled and passed along to ship commanders, the task force would sail into the Antarctic with icebreakers out front to clear the way.

On arrival the force would again split, with half the ships going to Little America and half going to McMurdo Sound to dis­charge cargo. The YOG would be frozen in on arrival at McMurdo Sound. Even as the cargo was unloaded the SeaBees would be working around the clock to erect the two bases. In that season there is no darkness in the Antarctic, just as later there is no day­light between April 21 and August 21, when the Antarctic winter sets in.

In the two months the task force ships could spend in the Antarctic before becom­ing frozen in at the end of February, the men had to build permanent bases, install complete radio facilities, lay in supplies for two years, compact airstrips for non-ski landings by planes, and have all construc­tion completed so sixty men could winter over at Little America and sixty at Mc­Murdo Sound when the surface ships left.

While construction was in progress at Little America and McMurdo Sound, a small Otter airplane would make a test land­ing on the 10,000-foot-high plateau at the South Pole. If this test was successful, a ski­rigged R4D would land a force of fifteen men to build a skeleton camp at the South Pole in preparation for the construction of that base in Phase Two. These men would winter over at McMurdo Sound between phases and be ready to build the base when daylight returned in October and materials were air-dropped during the second phase. When the ships pulled out in February, the wintering-over parties were slated to work as long as possible before the April 21 dead­line when complete darkness and severe temperatures would prevent any further effort until October, 1956.

All the while, during the Antarctic sum­mer construction effort, planes would be flying aerial photo reconnaissance at every opportunity. While the initial flight of air­craft from New Zealand had made ski­-landings, a construction crew would work diligently to compact runways hard enough to accommodate R5Ds on wheels. Aircraft crews would also be left behind when the surface ships weighed anchor in February to return to America in April, 1956.

At this point an incident typical of Ant­arctic planning occurred. USS Atka returned from the Antarctic in April, 1955, to report that ice conditions in the Bay of Whales had changed radically. Part of Admiral Byrd’s Little America IV camp site on the Bay of Whales had broken off and been car­ried away to sea as an iceberg. The staff had planned to build the main base in this vicinity, but the break-off left sheer ice cliffs, too high to moor a ship alongside. Fortunately the Atka had surveyed Kainan Bay thirty miles to the eastward and re­ported it suitable for the main base. A pre­liminary reconnaissance by icebreakers in December, 1955, would be required to locate the best site.
The planning continued in spite of this in­telligence, the first of many similar findings anticipated as the plan unfolded under prac­tice.

Phase Two (1956-57): In October, 1956, the start of the Antarctic spring, the win­tering-over crews would come out of their long night’s rest geared for more heavy work. Before the surface ships would even leave the United States, plans called for an overland tractor team to put out from Little America, follow the trail laid down by Bur­sey’s reconnaissance party in Phase One and proceed to the site of Byrd Station to begin construction.

Concurrently, a flight of Air Force cargo planes would depart McMurdo Sound and drop the 500 tons of equipment required for the construction of South Pole Station. The small band of men who had wintered over would then erect South Pole Station during the Antarctic summer. Meanwhile, a smail auxiliary air station would be built in the Beardmore Glacier area to support flights in the South Pole area.

Back in the States the same timetable would be followed by the surface ships as in Phase One, i.e., the ships would leave Amer­ica in November to arrive in Antarctica in late December. On arrival, the wintering-­over construction crews would be resupplied and again a heavy construction schedule would prevail. This was necessary because all construction had to be completed and all stations manned by scientists before the task force was forced to pullout in February.

Thus, when the ships left Antarctica in February, 1957, the construction crews who had wintered over between Phases One and Two would be returned to the United States and the stations would be manned by sci­entists who would begin making obser­vations. The task force would return to the United States in April as before.

Phase Three (1957-58): Ships would leave America in November as before; resupply the bases, relieve the scientists who had win­tered-over, and return to America in April.

Phase Four (1958-59): The last phase was simply a matter of picking up the scientists and returning them with their findings to the United States where their studies would be evaluated. Thus the curtain would come down on Operation Deepfreeze.

LOGISTICS

The operations schedule spelled out, the staff concentrated on the unique problems of Antarctic Logistics. Ships were to be com­pletely self-sustaining from the time of de­parture until their return to the United States. The Air and Construction units were to be completely supplied until next year’s re-supply trip by ships. The only anticipated replenishments would be provisions, fuel, and emergency supplies at ports outside the United States. Ship units would be to provide logistic support to the air and con­struction units at Antarctica where no supermarkets or Navy warehouses existed.

The Air unit, which would fly via New Zealand, was authorized to replenish from established supply activities en route wher­ever possible. On arrival in New Zealand they would be able to draw from Task Force after supply ships arrived. The first flight of aircraft would be self-sustaining until the ships arrived. An extra year’s supply of provisions was to be cached for the wintering-over parties of about 135 men in the Antarctic in the event ships were unable to penetrate the ice for next year. Past had taught that in the Ant­arctic a man eats twice as much as normal, bu t can be counted on for three times his normal work output.

All supplies, materials, and equipment for building the bases and the Air Facility in the Antarctic, even to fitting out the dog teams with special parachutes, were to be delivered to Davisville where they would be inspected, and stacked prior to September 30, 1955 for loading aboard ship during October.

RESPONSIBILITIES

The Task Force Commander had been authorized to deal directly with the various Navy bureaus in procuring all necessary supplies and equipment. The Bureau of Yards and Docks was to provide technical assistance for planning the building and maintenance of bases, for preparing base layout plans, for designing, testing, and procuring all structures required.

Bids were extended and contracts were let for the strange assortment of equipment needed. Heavy tractors would come from Illinois, cargo sleds and toboggans from Wisconsin and Canada, bamboo from Pana­ma, ice augers from California, small trac­tors from California and Oregon, building panels from Connecticut, welded steel tanks from Chicago, skis from Michigan, stoves from Washington, D. C., Weasel engines from Indiana, trail food from Baltimore, clothing from Brooklyn, and dog teams from New Hampshire.

Task Force and Bureau of Yards and Docks engineering experts relied on every principle they knew and on every report available from past Arctic and Antarctic expeditions for guidance in drawing plans for the camp buildings, storage facilities, and fuel dumps. Drivers and mechanics from the SeaBee battalion took extensive lessons in the operation and upkeep of the radical new equipment, like the D-8 Cater­pillar tractor which weighed thirty tons yet stood lighter on its 54-inch treads than an average man on skis.

A team of SeaBees was ordered to Camp Lejeune, N. C., to learn the Marine Corps method of running cold weather fuel farms, and a six-man team of Marine Corps en­listed fuel experts received orders to the task force.

A group of staff officers flew to Greenland to observe at first hand the Air Force’s snow-compaction technique on airstrips. Another team went to Rhode Island to ob­serve an actual air-drop of materials, pack­aged, as similar materials would be pack­aged for air-drop at the South Pole. The role of the Bureau of Aeronautics was to provide winterized aircraft for the air unit; to pro­vide photographic and aerological equip­ment for task force operations; to provide navigational aids, ground support, and ground handling equipment for the opera­tion of aircraft in the Antarctic. The Jack­sonville newspapers had a field day one week in the spring. Here were airplanes in this balmy southern city being equipped with skis for landings on snow, being insulated for 75-below-zero weather, having their bot­toms literally removed to accommodate bulky trimetrigon mapping cameras which would be used to make third-dimensional photographs of areas never before mapped. Besides providing the planes and configur­ing them for cold weather and photo mis­sions, BuAer provided mountainous stocks of photographic materials-enough to photo­graph the entire expedition for use by later planners. The staff aerological officer had considerable traffic with BuAer, lining up myriad supplies and equipment that would be needed to cope with a major weather problem during the expedition.

The Naval Research Laboratory came to the aid of the task force by providing auto­matic weather stations aptly named “Grass­hoppers.” These unusual automatons were so named because of their characteristIcs. On the wing of an airplane one looks like a bomb. When parachuted to earth from the plane it begins to grunt, extend its legs, stand upright like a grasshopper, then chirp away until its antenna (resembling a pro­boscis) extends into the air. In this position the device records its own readings of wind force, wind direction, barometric pressure, and temperature, then transmits this in­formation automatically for distances of 800 miles. It runs six weeks without servicing.

The Chief of Naval Operations directed the Bureau of Ships to collaborate with the Task Force staff to determine requirements for and provide the communications equip­ment required to establish military com­munications facilities in the Antarctic. This meant extra circuits on ships, equipping radio stations and aircraft beacon stations in the Antarctic, establishing a weather net­work of communications complete enough to share weather information with every nation which had a representative in the Antarctic, and even providing gear for two-way com­munications between the bases and the trail parties, as well as air-to-air, air-to-base, and air-to-ship channels.

The Bureau of Supplies and Accounts pro­vided everything required from standard stock plus many items of special order, rang­ing from fuels to clothing and from lensless goggles to knitting needles.

CLOTHING

Unit commanding officers were directed to determine clothing needs for their men. These recommendations were turned over to the Task Force staff, who obtained CNO authorization to make purchases. There was the standard shipboard allowance for men who wouldn’t leave the ships. There was extra clothing required for the Air Unit. The construction crews had special clothing needs. The wintering-over parties had dif­
ferent requirements, and the trail parties had even further needs.

In general, the theory on clothing was this: Use basic clothing for a start (red flan­nels recommended); put on extra layers as required. By the time the process had evolved, the man on a trail, party had on as many as six layers of clothing. His outer parka and trouser combination ranged from brilliant scarlet to solid black. There were two basic schools of thought on the colors that could be seen best on the snow—orange or black. We provided both, and added red, blue, and green. The idea was to a void the drab monotony and add color, lifting morale. They would look good in colored photogra­phy, but more important, the men could be spotted more easily from the air.

The staff logistics officer, Commander Donald F. Kent (SC), USN, had processed some strange requirements in his time, but never any like the ones which came from staff department heads now. There were gas-­pressure trail stoves that would turn out thousands of BTU’s in thirty seconds, yet use a minimum of fuel. There was pemmican, the old staple food for trail parties, made from meats, fats, berries, cereal, fruits, and added vitamins, all concentrated into de­hydrated miniature packages that could be eaten as is or brewed into broth over a trail fire. There was lumber required to construct “dead men” for mooring ships to ice. These instruments are so named because a coffin-­appearing box is buried in a hole dug into the ice with a strap leading outward from it. The ice hole is flooded and frozen, making a permanent ice-anchor for ships to secure their hawsers to. There were telegraph poles for use as fenders. Experience had proven that a hemp fender is useless in ice mooring. There were two teams of trail dogs to order. These animals had to be of good tempera­ment and hardy muscle. They had to be matched for size and free of the blood strains of the wolf, lest one of them go berserk.

Throughout the siege of ordering, the staff was amazed by the extreme eagerness of both military and civilian agencies to co­operate. Perhaps a Philadelphia publisher best displayed the attitude of cooperation. When it came time to place an order for a cruise book which the men of the Task Force would purchase as a memento of the expe­dition, the publisher was so carried away by our mission that he wanted to make the best cruise book on record—the fanciest cover, the best enameled paper stock, the most four-color pictures ever used in a cruise book—all at a loss to his firm, if necessary. He said it would serve as a prototype for other cruise books and would enhance his prestige. Similar cooperation brought results in opera­tional equipment as well.

By late April the materials ordered were balanced against the shipping space that had been allocated. Earlier estimates had been in the right direction, but the scien­tists’ requirements at each of the stations had grown by leaps and bounds. Our inven­tory showed we had more freight than we had ships’ bottoms to handle it with. We asked for another AKA and got the MSTS cargo ship USNS Greenville Victory. Later the Coast Guard icebreaker East Wind joined the task force, and still later we had to ask for an additional YOG to accommo­date additional fuel needs.

It was necessary at that time to order a paring down of expenses and tonnage, which the staff took in stride. The aviators, or­dered to prepare for two years sustained operations in the Antarctic, could have or­dered practically everything in the stock catalog, but they didn’t. Instead they took a realistic view of the problem, then some cal­culated risks, and pared their requisitions down to a fraction of what they could have stockpiled. Their interest in flight safety was real, but their decision to pare down was commendable.

As supplies had exceeded early expec­tations, so had costs approached the point where they were about to exceed our funds in June. So a half-dozen department heads sat with me around a conference table, and we collectively tightened our already tight operational belts by several notches. After a few hours, more than a half-million dollars had been cut from our expected expenditures. Some entire buildings were eliminated from the plans. Others were seriously modified. Every plush aspect was lopped from every item on the blueprints. Our decision to do with less fancy equipment wherever possible meant modifying some contracts already in the mill, and it meant “roughing it” to a greater degree by our wintering-over parties, but no objections were raised at the follow­ing weekly staff conference. At that staff conference, Lieutenant Commander Jack Bursey, who remembered hunger and pri­vation from an 83-day trail trip on an earlier expedition, summarized the feelings of the staff when he said, “Take away everything else, Admiral, but don’t forget our pemmi­can!”

Now that the whole staff appreciated how we had trimmed our budget, more evi­dence of ingenuity came to light. A Chief Pay Clerk located canvas needed for pro­tecting the roofs of the houses. This canvas had been declared surplus by another gov­ernment agency, and we could buy it at a saving of a dollar per yard. A Chief Photog­rapher checked the revised building blue­prints and reported: “The building re­designated as photo lab at McMurdo Sound has windows in it. How about just plain bulkheads? We’d have to cover up the win­dows anyway.” This meant more money left in the till. A chief in PIO reported he had arranged with BuShips for the Task Force to borrow four new tape recorders that were needed for hometown radio interviews. The recorders would normally cost around $300 each. The cost to us was simply an eval­uation report on how they worked under cold weather conditions.

CARGO CHECKS

By late May many supplies were ready, and others were shaping up. The staff Cargo officer was at Davisville, and he had set up a schedule for inspecting material as it ar­rived and for marking it for loading. His help came from VX-6 and the SeaBee staff. As materials started to roll in, he and his men worked well into the night to keep up with it.

Materials were segregated and checked. Colors, employing separate and distinctive patterns for specific destinations, were to be applied to the outer boxes or containers of all materials: Blue indicated all cargo to be used at Little America Station; Yellow for Air Operating Facility; Brown for Byrd Station; Orange for South Pole Station; Green for Beardmore Glacier auxiliary base; Red for tractor-route and reconnaissance party use in December, 1955; and Black for all cargo to be used by the Construction Battalion Survey party and by a via tion personnel arriving at the site for the air base in December, 1955.

In addition to the destination code, there was a priority code marking to be applied. Thus, the materials which would be needed first would be loaded last. Priorities were as­signed, and materials would be loaded so they would come off the ships in this order:

Materials for unloading ships first; fuels and lubricants required to place materials­handling and transportation in operation second. Third was equipment and materials required to transport cargo from the un­loading area to the site for each base. Next came equipment and materials required to construct bridges or other crossings over crevasses in the ice.

These were followed by base construction equipment. Building materials required in the construction of bases came next and were followed by communication equipment re­quired to establish radio stations or com­munications facilities.

Next came auxiliary equipment required for the establishment and operation of each base; then equipment required for the con­struction of aircraft runways. Aircraft ground control and ground handling equip­ment was next, followed by fuels and lubri­cants in drums for operation of ground equipment. Heating fuels in drums followed.

Next in priorities were provisions, trail ra­tions, ship’s store stock, clothing and small stores, and general stores for shore-based parties.
While normal supplies arrived at Davis­ville and were marked and stacked for load­ing, a progress check was continued for those materials which required longer lead times. There were trips to Wisconsin to in­spect sledge construction and trips to Peoria to check tractor treads, among others. Air and construction personnel took advantage of every opportunity to observe air-drops of equipment, ice reconnaissance, and other re­lated problems which might arise in the Ant­arctic. The staff tried to profit from the mistakes of others. Training had progressed smoothly with the SeaBees and aviators. The trail reconnaissance party had practical and classroom training at Davisville. MCB Special, active these many months, officially went into commission in August. Dogs were trained to work with sailors (or vice versa, if you wish) in New Hampshire. The pieces were fit snugly in to the overall plan.

MORALE

Despite the fact that the expedition was comprised largely of volunteers, every ef­fort was made to maintain morale. We checked for ample food-ships were author­ized to stock up to capacity on dry, frozen, and fresh provisions. Records and extra movies were ordered. Commanding officers of various surface, air, and construction units were encouraged to use all facilities avail­able, including press schedules, to publish unit newspapers and keep their men abreast of events in the world. Extra supplies of ship’s store items were authorized, especially photographic materials, because we had learned earlier that the Antarctic offers the amateur photographer a bonanza rarely found in a lifetime of shutter clicking.

Chaplains, Protestant and Catholic, re­quested and got heavy supplies of craft ma­terials for the wintering-over parties who would spend four long months in complete darkness at Little America and McMurdo Sound and six months of darkness at the South Pole. Earlier, grown men had taken up knitting to pass the long night hours. The chaplains outlined other monotony­-relieving plans. They would have book clubs, discussion groups, card game tournaments, do-it-yourself kits, and would even encour­age the men to keep diaries for the day they might want to publish their experiences.

The Federal Communications Commission was asked to authorize four amateur radio stations: one at Little America Station, one at Air Operating Facility, McMurdo Sound, one at Byrd Station, and one at South Pole Station. FCC came through with the four stations, plus authorization to establish twenty-two other stations if that became practicable.

Ample stocks of medical supplies were or­dered and the medics were set for any fore­seeable emergency. The staff supply officer assisted the men in getting squared away with their income taxes before departure. Liberty information for Panama and Port Lyttleton, New Zealand, was available, and the charts were corrected to date. Philatelic mail was arriving at Norfolk for mailing from the Antarctic, and news correspondents were accredited and billeted. Morale was tip­top, as evidenced by the many requests from staff members who wanted to winter-over but couldn’t. Supplies were stockpiling smoothly. The aviators and construction men were showing the results of a rigorous training schedule. About the only thing left before departure was to correct any earlier oversights.

We were ready for sea at last.