Around the World Submerged Page 12

  As I left the control room, with the peak safely astern and its location carefully logged, I noticed that this particular submerged mountain had already received a name.

  Conforming to the tradition that the discoverer of prominent geographical features has the right to name them, Jerry Saunders had neatly inscribed “Saunders Peak” opposite its location on our track chart.

  Saunders Peak will present no hazard to submarines until they travel much deeper than they are yet able to do. But, nevertheless, it had not been marked on any chart before this. We had made a new discovery.

  The twenty-fourth of February was the day we expected to sight St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks. According to navigator Will Adams, we should see the islet dead ahead on the horizon at about noon. Prior to this time we had studied every bit of lore we had on board about the Rocks, but there was very little to be learned. Sailing Directions described it as bare and useless, a one-time guano collecting spot, noting that there had once been a small dock, long since washed away, and that the highest rock had an abandoned lighthouse surmounting it.

  We had been totally submerged for over a week, and as bad luck would have it, for the last thirty-six hours the sky had been overcast. It was consequently impossible for Will to get any sights through our new-fangled periscope. At 4:00 A.M. there was not a star in the sky, and at 0830 we went to periscope depth again in hopes of shooting the morning sun. At this time, as we rose through a temperature layer in the water, the sound of foreign propeller beats suddenly came in loud and clear. It was a striking example of how a temperature or salinity difference in the water will block the sonar return of a ship at relatively close range.

  Carefully, we conned Triton through the evolutions necessary to come safely to periscope depth, and finally got the fragile periscope tube out of water. Our contact was a motor ship of eight thousand or ten thousand tons, with a white hull, buff stack, nice-looking clipper bow, a large deckhouse, many king posts, and apparently considerable deck machinery. She must also have been fitted to carry passengers—an easy deduction from the size of her deckhouse and the number of portholes evident. But we were much too far away to make out her nationality.

  In the meantime, we had been looking for the sun in hopes of getting an observation. No luck. If there were an unexpected current or, during the last thirty-six hours, a slight error in our dead-reckoning position, it would be more than easy to skid right by this tiny island a few miles either way and never see it. My good friend Fred Janney, navigating the Whale during the war, once missed Midway Island in exactly this manner, and had to spend half a day, with his grumbling crew, groping about looking for the tiny atoll. (I have never let him forget the episode, and he will not be happy to read about it here.)

  At 1156, Adams announced St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks should be eleven miles dead ahead. Again we brought Triton to periscope depth, and at 1206 I saw a tiny white spot on the horizon bearing exactly two degrees to the left of dead ahead. For the Rocks to show up so precisely on schedule, from dead-reckoning navigation alone, was an indication of Will’s great ability.

  As we approached the islet, it presented varying shapes. The white spot looked at first like the sail of a ship, then like a sun-kissed minaret, finally like a huge birdcage. At last I recognized it as the structure of the abandoned lighthouse. The upper parts of the rocks were pure white from bird droppings, and the lower levels, as we approached, were a sort of brownish-black, ceaselessly washed by the waves. The sea was relatively smooth, yet there was considerable surf breaking in and among the rocks, foaming madly like a miniature waterfall one minute, stopping abruptly the next and reversing itself. As we came closer, we could distinguish a great number of granitelike outcroppings scattered about everywhere, and there were large numbers of sea birds.

  The whole scene reminded me of a photograph published after the Battle of Midway, which had shown a Japanese cruiser, the Mikuma, after she had received a tremendous drubbing from our carrier-based aircraft. By squinting a little and using a bit of imagination, St. Peter and St. Paul’s Rocks in profile looked exactly like His Imperial Japanese Majesty’s ship, Mikuma.

  We certainly had to agree to one thing: the Sailing Directions description of this place was exactly right. As a matter of fact, its barrenness had been one of the arguments in favor of selecting it for the official terminus of the circumnavigation. German submarines had been in the habit of stopping at the Rocks, during World War II, to exchange mail, supplies, and munitions. For them, as for us, the Rocks were a convenient navigational reference point and also, no doubt, a concealing backdrop should a strange ship unexpectedly appear on the horizon.

  We took a lot of photographs and went through a complete photographic reconnaissance drill. For three-and-a-half hours we cruised slowly about at various ranges, conforming to the bottom topography and carefully avoiding shallow spots. Everyone who wanted to do so was permitted to come to the conning tower for a look, and many crew members availed themselves of this opportunity.

  Not a single engineer came forward, however, for Don Fears had taken advantage of our time at reduced speed to make some minor repairs and some low-power checks on various machinery. Mindful of our experience with the condenser, and not one to neglect a chance of this sort anyway, he used every available hand.

  At a few minutes after 1600, we turned Triton south and headed for Cape Horn. The equator was only fifty miles away.

  For the last two or three days, there had been a steady effort by the Shellbacks to exaggerate the various tortures that would be inflicted on the lowly pollywogs when we crossed the equator. Among our pollywogs, who composed most of the crew, were some apparently made of fairly stern stuff. One obnoxious character, calling himself the Little Gray Fox, attempted to foment a rebellion. He posted signs reading “Pollywogs arise” and “shellbacks take heed and surrender while you may.” And King Neptune’s crown, the equipment for the Royal Barbers, and the painstakingly made shillelaghs for the chastisement of the guilty pollywogs mysteriously vanished. A thorough investigation by the Shellbacks uncovered the information that their paraphernalia had disappeared permanently through the garbage ejector.

  I remembered vaguely having given permission to flush the garbage disposer while we were cruising about the Rocks, and I suppose I had been an unwitting accomplice to a foul deed.

  At a few minutes after eight in the evening, we hit the equator. There was a grinding jolt from somewhere forward (which sounded suspiciously like a torpedo tube full of water being fired, which, of course, I knew it was, having given the required permission to shoot it). A confused report, broken off unfinished, came over the ship’s announcing system, and shortly after, I received a note that King Neptune and his Royal Court had arrived on board and desired my presence in the crew’s mess hall.

  Buckling on my sword and putting on my cap for the occasion, since undue informality would, of course, have been unseemly—and possibly would have resulted in even sterner measures being visited upon the unworthy pollywogs, for whom I felt the deepest sympathy indeed—I headed for the appointed place.

  Neptune, when I met him, looked suspiciously like Loyd Garlock, who had crossed the line with me in the Trigger eight years before. The Royal Queen, half a head taller than he, with brilliant red lips, long stringy curly hair (which was not surprising since it came from a floor mop), and smoking at all times a long black cigar, might have been Torpedoman Second Class Wilmot A. Jones.

  The Queen’s bosom (which some of her friends seemed to think ought to be pronounced “buzzoom”) looked to me like a pair of strategically slung grapefruit, but of course my imagination was probably working overtime and I knew I should resolutely put aside such unworthy thoughts. Someone considerately handed me a piece of paper containing a typed and smudged script, with the assistance of which, and with a little ad-libbing, the following colloquy ensued:

  MYSELF: Unless I miss my guess, sir, you and I have had the good fortune of meeting before.

/>   KING NEPTUNE: Many pass through my kingdom, Captain, and I never forget a face, but I’ll be surfaced if I recall yours. Davy Jones, check the records on Captain Beach here to see if he really is one of my own.

  DAVY JONES: Your Majesty, the records show that if you’re a Shellback then so is he. [That Davy Jones is a good man, but this was a low blow on the part of Neptune.]

  NEPTUNE: Ah, quite so, Davy. And now that you mention it, I recall he crossed the equator as if it were yesterday. My, he’s gained a little weight here and there, hasn’t he!

  MYSELF: Speak for yourself, your subnormal Majesty! And now, may I have your Majesty’s permission to introduce you and your royal retinue to those of my crew who have never had the displeasure?

  NEPTUNE: Permission granted, Captain. And by the way, sir, would you mind standing just a bit straighter, and use a little more reverence in my grandiloquent presence?

  MYSELF: A thousand pardons, your Horrific Magnificence. Men, once again it becomes my great privilege to introduce the ruler of the Mangy Mane, I mean Raging Main, Neptunus rex and the members of his Royal Family, including Her Majesty, the Queen, the Royal Babe, the Royal Scribe, the Royal Concubine, the Royal Prosecutor, the Royal Sea Lawyer, the Royal Barbers, Dentist, Baker, High Sheriffs, and their mighty company.

  NEPTUNE: Thank you, Captain. It’s a pleasure to be aboard your ship and see so many familiar faces again. And Captain, before I forget it, would you do what you can about those blasted propellers of yours? Kept the mermaids up all night last night.

  MYSELF: I shall direct my engineer to attend to it at once, Your Majesty. I know it is hardly an excuse, but we are going pretty fast, and my engineer is a pollywog.

  NEPTUNE: You can be sure that he’s in my book for extraordinary torture. Now, Captain, down to business, if you please. My Royal Prosecutor reports that great crimes and incredible wicked-nesses have been committed by the vast majority of your crew. You know very well that we cannot tolerate such tomfoolery in this domain. Besides, my Prosecutor hasn’t had a case in days and he’s getting a little rusty. As you know, he’s never lost a case.

  MYSELF: Your Majesty, I’ve done my best with the trusty Shellbacks in my command, but these pollywogs are the worst of the lot, and once a pollywog, always a pollywog, until initiated into the mysteries of the deep.

  NEPTUNE: Precisely why we are here, Captain. Now, as is customary, I call upon the assistance of yourself and your honorable Shellbacks in doing the duty of the great waters.

  MYSELF: We are at your command, sir. But before we begin, I feel I must ask mercy for those of my crew who, unworthy characters though they be, have worked hard to make Triton a great ship and, through no fault of their own, come to your domain without credentials and in fear and trembling.

  NEPTUNE: A standard request, Captain, and my answer is as always: “Nonsense!” In my domain, they can always be assured of a fair trial before being convicted. And now, sir, I assume command of this ship and direct that the first guilty pollywog show his unworthy carcass before my Court.

  The little play here recounted did not go quite so smoothly as it might have, since no one had thought to provide extra copies of the script. King Neptune and I had to hand the solitary script back and forth so that each could read his lines.

  Neptunus and his Queen then seated themselves at a long table. The clean-cut, well-combed, blindfolded accused had to kneel before them and present his plea as to the charges. He was legally assisted in his defense by the Royal Sea Lawyer, who unfortunately never won a case. Occasionally, during the trials, the Queen punctuated the learned discourse by drawing a water pistol from her ample bosom and squirting the accused in the face. This always discomfited the unhappy pollywog and caused him to assume a guilty look. The impartial dispensing of justice was thus made easier.

  To the right of the Queen sat the hefty Royal Baby, whose real name was Harry Olsen. Babbling playfully between puffs on a large black cigar which he had bummed from his mother, the baby sat on a stool, with his large round belly completely bare except for a heavy coating of black, sticky grease. All pollywogs received a fair trial, were impartially convicted, and all received the maximum sentence. They were first required, in acknowledgment of their fealty, to kiss the Royal Baby’s greasy belly. Then, in penance for his many crimes, each one got a haircut at the hands of the Royal Barbers, before proceeding through the initiation line. For some reason, more than one seemed reluctant to kiss Olsen’s tummy and had to be assisted by a gentle shove from the Sheriff or sometimes from the Royal Defender and once or twice, it must be admitted, from their skipper.

  The Royal Barbers looked an awful lot like Lieutenant Tom Thamm and Chief Engineman Alfred Abel, and the artistic jobs they did were beyond compare (since Thamm, the head Barber, was normally in charge of Triton’s auxiliary division, all pollywogs belonging to his own outfit came away with a large “A” cut in their heads). But aside from certain special cuts of this nature, ingenuity and esthetics were the order of the day, and many artfully sculptured pates ensued. Once in a while, to be sure, a bald pollywog came by, but this presented no particular problem. In such cases, the most effective way to improve a pollywog’s appearance was to add hair instead of removing what little there was. The Barbers found this easy to do, with plenty of extra hair lying about and black grease to paste it on with.

  In the next compartment, the Royal Dentist squirted unmentionable substances into the shorn pollywog’s ears and awful-tasting concoctions into his mouth, accompanied all the while by an insane giggling as though the person administering the treatment were actually enjoying it instead of being engrossed in a most serious and important duty. The next stop was up a deck to the officer’s wardroom, where a lusty gang of Shellbacks with brand new shillelaghs speeded the pollywogs’ passage. Then, they painfully shambled aft to the Royal Bathroom, a canvas-enclosed space beneath a deck hatch, where a bucket of cold salt water cascaded down on each man in turn and ceremoniously removed the last vestiges of his erstwhile status as a pollywog.

  It took some time to initiate all the new men, since there were so many of them. After a while, leaving Neptune and his Royal Party to dispense justice by themselves, I proceeded aft to see how things were faring.

  The ship was a mess, all right. In some dismay, I realized it would take days to repair the mess which the fun-loving Shellbacks and pollywogs had made of our clean decks and immaculate bulkheads. But it was a price worth paying. Chief Electrician’s Mate Herbert Hardman, covered with grease, minus half his hair, dripping water, expressed it. “I’ve waited thirteen years for this,” said he. “Nobody is a real sailor until he’s been across the line!”

  By this standard, the luckiest man on board was John Moulton, Fireman Apprentice, only seventeen years old, who became a Shellback three months after graduation from boot camp.

  During the entire initiation ceremony, the identity of the Little Gray Fox remained a secret, despite occasional attempts by the Shellbacks to elicit information by judiciously applied torture. None, however, would give him away, but I have always personally believed that it was Lieutenant George Sawyer, Triton’s First Lieutenant and the youngest officer on board. He also happened to be an ex-Yale crew man, who looked capable of taking care of himself in almost any kind of situation.

  I missed seeing Sawyer tried, but was later informed by eyewitnesses that when asked whether he pled guilty or not guilty to the charges, he shouted, “Banzai!” at the top of his voice, drew a water pistol of his own, and before anyone could stop him, shot the King, the Queen, and the Royal Prosecutor. He was finally overwhelmed by the Prosecutor, the Attorney for the Defense, and a number of other Shellbacks, who, with a right good will, hurled themselves upon his struggling grease-plastered body.

  The shillelagh-swinging Shellbacks prepared for a tough battle when Sawyer appeared, but he scuttled between them so fast that they did more damage to themselves and the surrounding furniture than they managed to do to the thoroughly guilty Saw
yer.

  Finally, with all pollywogs properly initiated, King Neptune and his Royal Party announced they were cheered by the high caliber of our crew and that they had all been inducted and accepted into the august society of Trusty and Loyal Shellbacks. Promising at all times to be ready to assist his Loyal Shellbacks of the deep against pollywogs of the shallow coastal waters and especially pollywogs found on other ships, Neptune bade Triton farewell and returned to his watery realm.

  Nowhere does it appear on the record, but the day before the ceremony, King Neptune had made a personal advance call on me to ask whether haircuts would be permitted. In 1952, when Trigger II crossed the line, I would not allow hair to be cut because within a few days we would be going ashore in Rio de Janeiro on liberty, and I didn’t want any of Trigger’s sailors wandering around town with zany-looking haircuts.

  But this case, I now told Garlock, was different. There would be plenty of time for the hair to grow back.

  There were, indeed, some dismayed looks, as the new Shellbacks regarded themselves in a mirror after the ceremonies, but all were assured that their hair would regrow by the time we got back to port. And, as a matter of fact, hard though it was to believe at the time, that is what happened.

  It was a mighty funny ship’s company that carried Triton down the eastern coast of South America toward Cape Horn. Some men cut all their hair off; to give it all an even start, as one ex-pollywog expressed it. Others tried by one stratagem or another to make their heads look halfway decent, or at least symmetrical, but most simply didn’t bother, letting them stay the way they’d been trimmed by the Royal Barbers.

  One noticeable thing was that the two Barbers cut each other’s hair some time during the ceremony, apparently to forestall any possible attempt by pollywogs to seek revenge; and at least one Shellback took to wearing a sou’wester cap, strings tied snugly under his chin, whenever he went to sleep. His theory, he explained, was that while awake he was pretty sure he could defend himself; and before anyone could get the sou’wester off his head, he would be pretty sure of being awake.