Lower than Whale Shit

After a few introductory remarks from the diving officer, Lieutenant G.F. Heeger, our orientation was turned over to the training team.

"Gentlemen!"

"My name is Downey ... Chief Downey. Welcome to the Navy's submarine escape training facility, where you will receive the required instruction leading to qualification in scuba. Those of you who graduate will be eligible to wear the pin designating this qualification. You will be as proud to wear this as we are to present it to you. Standing to my right are your instructors, who you will come to love more and more each day."

"During this course, we leave our rank at the door. You will address us as 'Instructor.' The exception to this rule is the one person here who will be your only friend for the duration of your stay at this school."

All of the instructors were dressed in their khakis except for an individual standing at the entrance to the classroom wearing his dress uniform. "This, gentlemen, is Master Diver Einhellig. He will be happy to meet with you if and when you decide to check out and will make that process simple and quick. You will address him as 'Master Diver!!!'"

Chief Downey then set the tone.

"You, however, are lower than whale shit on the bottom of the ocean and will remain that until graduation. I see among you a lieutenant, an ensign, and," Downey looked in my direction, "a civilian retread. I repeat. You are all whale shit! Look at the person on either side of you. History has shown us that at least one of you will not be sitting here by the end of this course." Downey was right. We had a large class—thirty-two of us on day one. Fourteen would graduate. (Figure 4)

Chief Downey then introduced each instructor, who nodded to us as his name was called. The mood was tense. There were no smiles.

"Instructor Simlich ..."

"Instructor Willis ..."

"Instructor Moon ..."

"This is Instructor Schmidt. As your diving med tech, you may address him as 'Instructor' or 'Doc' Schmidt."

"Finally, this is Instructor Clark. He is an instructor in training and will be even more enthusiastic assisting you with your progress."

"Good God," I thought, "what have I gotten myself into ... and for a second time!" Downey referred to me as a "retread." It had been a year since I sat in this same classroom. Scuba training is the first step that all Navy divers must complete before advancing on to other diving specialties. I had lasted only one week in May 1973, when, during a run, I landed in a rain-filled pothole and hyper extended my knee. It would be two months on crutches and physical therapy, and ten months of training. Now I was back for a second try—prepared but fully aware what was coming next, cringing when Chief Downey proclaimed to the class: "The only easy day was yesterday."

But why would any sane, well-educated engineer, working under the guidance of other sane, even better-educated engineers, venture into a world that by its very nature is filled with risk—and for a second time? Dropping out of dive school forced me to face the awful truth that I was not in control of my future. I returned to my cubicle, set the crutches against the wall, and was handed my next design task. A month after dropping out I completed my graduate work, receiving a Masters degree in mechanical engineering from the University of Connecticut. Yet the disappointment at failing to complete the scuba training far exceeded any satisfaction gained from receiving the degree. I knew right then that my career path would have to eventually include diving for the Navy. I was born to be a field engineer—not tied to a cubicle.

The morning I checked out, the Master Diver said I would be welcomed back, but that I would need to be better prepared and in much better physical condition than what he had observed during my short stay. He didn't know if I was mentally up to the task but would be willing to give me another chance. My office overlooked the Thames River, where I could watch the submarine base dive boat carrying my classmates out into Long Island Sound. It was one of those "take a deep breath" moments, and I swore to make it back. While the projects were interesting, and I liked and respected the people around me, they all questioned my sanity. No one understood what I meant when I tried to explain that diving would help me regain my rapidly disappearing sanity. I was losing sight of the reason I joined the Sound Lab in the first place.

A TEENAGER IN THE 1960s

I had been a typical high school kid, stumbling through my early teenage years listening to Elvis and wearing a James Dean haircut. I liked to tinker with a Model A Ford and was curious about everything that crossed my path. On weekends I would join my family hunting for Indian artifacts. When it finally came time to decide what would be next, I was certain I would become Indiana Jones (long before Steven Spielberg and George Lucas invented their fictional character), and by the end of my junior year I had been accepted to Yale University's anthropology department. While my parents were quite proud of me, there was soon to be a reality check. My dad was a postal worker, and we lived comfortably from payday to payday. They encouraged me to be creative, but I knew that I might have to set somewhat less lofty career goals. I was pretty good in math, and liked mechanical things, so as my senior year progressed an engineer I would become—Indiana Jones would have to explore without me.

Bowing to collegiate peer pressure, I staggered through my early college years (often under the influence of frequent fraternity parties) until once again we all had to face that same question: What's next? Two years of mandatory ROTC immortalized in the 1978 movie Animal House, an all-too-accurate portrayal of 1960s college and fraternity life, convinced me that I wasn't a good candidate for an Army career. I was, however, intrigued by military technology, and that of the Navy's in particular. Raised along the Connecticut shore, being in and around the water was a part of daily life. I lived less than a mile from the homestead of David Bushnell, a local Revolutionary War hero, who invented the world's first submarine used in naval combat. Okay, so to Hell with Indiana Jones! I would become a modern-day David Bushnell. Then I began reading (a risky behavior for those with overactive imaginations) about William Beebe's 1934 descent to 3,028 feet in his bathysphere. Then there was Auguste and Jacques Piccard and their bathyscaphe, reaching a depth of 35,800 feet while exploring the Marianas Trench in 1960. It was during my senior year, in 1967, when I discovered Jacques Cousteau and his "Aqualung."

MENTORS AND ROLE MODELS

As graduation approached, there was a career decision I had to make—one I'm sure that many of my engineer colleagues also faced. Would we take lucrative positions in private industry, or one of those low-paying government jobs? Anyone who has stepped into their twenties with mouth open and glazed-over eyes has an insatiable desire for independence, for a fast car, for booze and babes. It sometimes takes advice from old-timers (like me, now) who had to make similar choices decades earlier.

I met Guy and Jane Williams during my summer job delivering mail from the Old Saybrook Post Office. Guy was a fine gentleman who had a long career in federal service, and had transferred to the Underwater Sound Laboratory from the Naval Electronics Lab (NEL) in San Diego. He was married to a delightful and very unique Southern Belle, Jane, who was determined to save me from a career at the post office. One summer evening they invited me to their home and encouraged me to consider joining the Sound Lab. I explained my interest in oceanographic research and in deep-submergence vehicles in particular. I was stopped cold, not knowing what to say next when Guy responded: "You mean, like the bathyscaphe? I know those guys!" (Figure 5)

Jacques Piccard??!! The bathyscaphe??!! I learned that evening that Guy and Jane were close personal friends with three generations of the Piccard family. While at NEL, Guy had been involved with the Marianas Trench expedition. He had been presented with a piece of the Plexiglas window that cracked when the bathyscaphe Trieste reached the bottom. I held this artifact from a moment in history when Jacques Piccard and Navy Lieutenant Don Walsh dropped to the deepest spot on the Earth, where their fragile sphere and this window had been subjected to pressure of more than 16,000 pounds per square inch, a record that can't be broken.

In my senior year, during one of my visits to the Williamses' home, I told them that I had interviewed with Westinghouse and then at Electric Boat, where a grade school friend's dad was an engineer (I had been invited to see the launch of the second nuclear sub, USS Seawolf (SSN-575), in 1955). Westinghouse was building deep submersibles, including the Deepstar 4000; Electric Boat was working with the Reynolds Company on the Aluminaut, and had launched a series of three of its Submarine Test And Research (Star) submersibles—Star II and Star III were both christened and launched at USN/USL on May 3, 1966—all of which were being used for exactly the type of work I had wanted. I was anxious to graduate and move on.

Guy was very patient and listened with interest, probably to determine if I was sincere or if these were just the ramblings of a confused college student. Nonetheless, he and Jane both encouraged me to consider interviewing at the Sound Lab, which, of course, I did. Guy introduced me to many of his coworkers, all of whom were delighted to talk to a young enthusiastic engineer and expressed interest in having me join the Sound Lab staff. We spoke with Walt Whitaker, a mechanical engineer who had been involved with the installation of the oceanographic research facility Argus Island in 1960. Walt had been responsible for placing the SNAP-7E nuclear-powered acoustic beacon in fifteen thousand feet of water off Bermuda in 1964. I was then introduced to Lou Maples, who had also been a part of the SNAP-7E team and was now the USN/USL program manager for the Deepstar 4000 project.

We visited several of Guy's colleagues, who were all involved in an impressive assortment of projects. What also caught my attention was how happy everyone seemed to be. Morale was high, and everyone took pride in the organization. No one complained or warned me about underlying issues at the Lab or with the "bureaucrats" that ran the place, who, I would later learn, had all begun their careers with "real jobs," ones that sent them into the field and off-shore.

Later, Guy left me with a final thought. "We've been working with EB and Westinghouse for several years, and have used their submersibles. Consider this, however. If you join, for example, Westinghouse, where they are building a submersible that can go much deeper than their Deepstar 4000, you will find that a great challenge. But—," Guy paused briefly to emphasize the point "—I guarantee that their oceanography program will be short lived, and you will soon be designing refrigerators instead of submarines." He was even less enthusiastic about working at Electric Boat.

Guy, and Jane as well, had been simply offering their perspective based on a personally satisfying, life-long career. If, they worried, I bought into the enthusiastic and lucrative proposal from Westinghouse, where I salivated at the sight of their submersibles, instant gratification could quickly turn into buyer's remorse. So I thanked Guy and Jane, sent letters of appreciation to Westinghouse and Electric Boat, contacted the Sound Lab, and bid farewell to college life.

The Sound Lab provided a remarkable assemblage of dedicated individuals, whom I looked to as role models and from which I found a few who became true mentors. I remained friends with Guy and Jane throughout their lives, and deep inside will always remember and appreciate their interest in some young clueless kid. I hope this book will "pay it forward."

U.S. NAVY UNDERWATER SOUND LABORATORY

A few days after graduation in June 1967, I checked in at the U.S. Navy Underwater Sound Lab (figure 6), visiting the security and personnel offices in Building 41 just inside the gate. The process was efficient. The people I met while signing in were welcoming and friendly, but were also professional with little time allotted for idle conversation. Within minutes, all of your physical senses engaged at once to inform your intellect that the wheels of a complex military machine within the chain-link fence were turning at a fast pace; and you knew, as the personnel representative handed each document to you for your perusal and signature, that civilian life was about to change.

The most memorable document, one that has long since been eliminated, was a simple statement that as a condition of employment at the Underwater Sound Lab, I would agree to go to sea if the need arose. "Go to sea if there was a need? My God," I thought, "that's why I was there!" It didn't take long for me to read, swear to, and sign everything in sight.

Here was an organization that understood its existence was predicated on the ability of its staff to charge ahead. Management, as I would learn, thrived on the accomplishments of risk takers with scientific curiosity and engineering insights—traits that could also be found in the machinists and technicians, who were an integral part of the technological machine. I was joining a unique staff numbering about twelve hundred, and I was surrounded by role models. Whether I was in the shop bouncing ideas off a lathe operator or in a meeting with PhDs, everyone had a back story. It was intimidating, yet exhilarating to a fledgling engineer—but could I keep up? One thing I quickly learned was that the Underwater Sound Lab thrived on a culture based on the team concept. You were expected to carry your share of the weight, but everyone was committed to the end result, and the organization was designed to bend to facilitate, rather than hinder, progress toward its mission. Yes, over the years I would encounter individuals, grumpy and obstinate, who lived and loved the bureaucratic life and would toss administrative process into the path of progress. But at USN/USL, risk takers—young and old—were welcomed!

With that final signature, I was now on the staff of the Underwater Sound Lab, a rather unassuming title for an organization whose mission was to provide the Navy with technology designed to detect and destroy enemy submarines. But the mission had evolved from Harvard and Columbia, two academic institutions tasked during the early days of World War II to develop the sonar needed to permanently neutralize German and Japanese submarines threatening Allied fleets in the Atlantic and Pacific. After the war, when the Navy took on the direction of the New London facilities, the laboratory spirit of the staff remained embodied in the name "Underwater Sound Laboratory."

There was a new threat now. Soviet and American nuclear submarines competed for strategic advantage across the globe. To keep one step ahead in the technological war, the Navy depended on their civilian laboratories for that "slide rule strategy." What I began to learn, however, was that there was nothing new about the concept of submarine warfare—the technology had changed, but these "infernal machines" had a long history, and I was about to become a participant.