James Treadway
The phrase “May you live in interesting times” applied when Biddle’s keel was laid in December 1963. The shock and horror of President Kennedy’s assassination two weeks before had stunned the world and drove this nation into deep mourning. The Cold War was raging; hardly a day passed without another reminder that nuclear war not only possible, but also likely. The Bay of Pigs invasion in April 1961 and Cuban missile crisis in October 1962 pointed to Cuba as a trigger that could start World War III.
At the same time on the other side of the world, the smoldering fire in Vietnam that France could not extinguish was a few months from flashpoint. Elements of the Seventh Fleet were already in the Gulf of Tonkin and U.S. advisors were on the ground in South Vietnam. These events are ancient history now, but they occurred at the zenith of the Cold War and define the time that created a Cold War cruiser, the USS Biddle.
At that time I was a freshman architecture major at a small junior college in San Angelo, Texas. The U.S. Congressman from our district had tried to get me an appointment to the U.S. NavalAcademy, but my grades were not strong enough. So, with more bad grades than good ones on my transcript and the hot breath of the draft on my neck, I decided to follow the advice of my uncle and join the Navy. Uncle Pete, a Navy officer who served in USS Salamonie (AO-26) at the Battle of Leyte Gulf, was a positive influence for me 40 years ago and remains so today at the age of 86. After a few farewells and one last round of partying, I boarded the bus on 21 July 1964 that would take me to San Antonio to be sworn in. I turned to wave to my mom and dad – she was crying and he was smiling. Early in the morning on the next day, San Diego boot camp welcomed its latest batch of raw recruits – I was in the United States Navy!
Soon after arriving at boot camp, an event occurred that would change the lives of millions of Americans and divide this nation as few events have. On 2 August and again on 4 August 1964, the USS Maddox (DD-731) and USS Turner Joy (DD-951), while on patrol in international waters in the Gulf of Tonkin, were allegedly attacked by North Vietnamese naval craft. In retaliation, President Johnson ordered attacks against North Vietnamese naval forces and shore positions. The Vietnam War had begun. Biddle’s hull was less than half complete.
Boot camp recruits couldn’t watch the evening news, but we did get letters from home – we heard rumors that something had happened in a place called Vietnam. Where the hell is Vietnam, anyway? We knew immediately that something important had happened because waves of military aircraft could be seen heading west over the Pacific almost daily. Many wondered if we would actually go to Vietnam.
After scoring high on the battery of tests given to determine job aptitude and then completing boot camp, the Navy sent me to Radarman “A” school at Treasure Island, San Francisco. The first phase of the school was basic electronics – DC and AC circuits, vacuum tubes, and basic radar theory. Deciding that electronics was something that I could use as a civilian, I studied hard and tried to stay out of trouble. The hard work paid off when the Navy offered to send me to Electronics Technician “A” school, also at Treasure Island. Again, I studied hard and applied myself and, again, the Navy made an offer I couldn’t refuse – extend my enlistment for two years and attend Data Systems Technician “A” and “C” schools at MareIsland, just up the road at Vallejo, California.
When I started Data Systems Technician “A” school in the summer of 1965, Biddle had recently launched; her hull and superstructure were virtually complete. Meanwhile, on the opposite coast, I had discovered that the learning environment at Naval School Command, MareIsland, was outstanding. The structured classroom environment, excellent instructors, and fascinating subject matter combined to create an atmosphere that not only piqued my interest, but it also allowed me to achieve levels of learning that far exceeded any previous effort. One instructor, Data Systems Chief (DSC) Eggers I believe, seemed particularly interested that I perform well at school. His encouragement helped to keep me focused on the difficult task of learning about difficult subjects. The result was obvious – I consistently was number one or two in each class.
The basement lab, which was filled with equipment that we had learned about in the classroom, was my home away from home. It was the crucible of the course. After instruction about a particular piece of equipment in the morning, the class would get “hands on” experience on the same equipment in the afternoon. That evening, I would supplement the classroom instruction with many more hours alone in the lab studying schematics, taking measurements, sharpening my troubleshooting skills, and becoming even more familiar with the equipment.
The Univac Digital Trainer (UDT) was one piece of equipment that attracted my attention. A functional, transistorized 8-bit digital computer with memory, arithmetic logic unit, and a Friden Flexowriter for input and output, the UDT was an excellent training device and a crude precursor of today’s personal computer. Many hours were spent writing simple programs, storing them on paper tape, and then reading them back later. Like its much bigger brother the Univac CP-642 computer, the UDT had front panel lights and switches that allowed a programmer to enter a “bootstrap” program which, when executed, allowed more complex programs such as operating systems, to be loaded. We didn’t call them operating systems back then, they were “Executive Routines,” I believe.
The lab was populated with most of the equipment I would see aboard ship – the display consoles and readouts, central pulse amplifier, symbol generator, and radar azimuth converters. I had the most fun was when one of the radars on the roof was turned on and I could chase signals from the input of the radar azimuth converter, through the radar signal distribution switchboard, to a console’s display.
The basement lab also served as a test bed for new equipment. Bob Gerity, while an instructor/division head at DS School, recalled that “Down in the basement some serious testing was taking place on the first generation of a direct digital-to-digital fire control system. Having served in an analog Talos cruiser, I had seen the problems trying to get target data from the radars in CIC to the fire control system. This new system, to be installed in the DLG-28 Class frigates, promised nearly instantaneous transfer of target coordinates from CIC to the Fire Control System.”
Digital logic circuits – simple building blocks connected to perform complex functions – fascinated me. No less fascinating was learning that there were numbering systems other than base ten. The binary and octal systems, which use only the digits zero and one and zero through seven respectively, seemed to be a natural way to count. Today, the hexadecimal system (base 16), which uses zero through nine and the characters A through F to represent numbers, is the most common way to count and address physical memory in the personal computer world. Adding hexadecimal numbers such as BADF00D (yes, BADF00D is a legitimate number) and 4520FF3 in my head and converting some numbers from decimal to hexadecimal is not difficult at all – thanks to my Navy training and almost 40 years in the business.
Life as a student at MareIsland had a limited, lighter side. Other than a data processing course I took at VallejoJunior College at night and playing pool at the barracks, little time was spent off base. MareIsland Shipyard, where nuclear submarines were built, was a large part of the base. I recall strolling by the USS Vallejo (SSBN-658) on the day she was launched. After a tour that included the missile room, I took the opportunity to watch the launching ceremonies with the crowd directly in front of the brand new boat. When the submarine finally and reluctantly slid down the ways, a group of officers stood at attention on both planes and saluted forward, in the direction of the crowd. Just as the boat hit the water, most of the officers lost their balance. Some were precariously hanging on a rope fence, their feet directly over the water. At that moment, a formation of Navy jets that were on the deck, in the middle of the channel, pulled vertical in full afterburner – BAM! BAM! BAM! – directly over the sub and much to the delight of the crowd. It was quite a sight – almost like something out of McHale’s Navy.
At the conclusion of data systems school in the spring of 1966, I had received a first class education courtesy of the United States Navy. I knew as much about electronics, computers, radars, and equipment in the Data Display Group of the Naval Tactical Data System as a young man could. The education not only prepared me for the job to be done aboard ship, but it also became the genesis from which subsequent educational pursuits began, including graduating summa cum laude from college with a degree in computer science. Equally important, my two-year Navy technical education and four years of practical experience aboard Biddle implanted a deep and inextinguishable desire to learn, explore, and excel.
NTDS Data Display Equipment Maintenance
Of the three NTDS hardware groups, the data display group represented the largest group of equipment, which included the display and readout consoles in CIC; auxiliary equipment in equipment rooms below CIC; the Identification Friend or Foe/Selective Identification Feature (IFF/SIF) systems associated with the two air-search radars; and radar signal distribution equipment connected to all search radars including Airborne Early Warning (AEW). IFF/SIF equipment seemed to be the most reliable with an “up-time” approaching 100%. Their dependability was not a surprise considering the liberal use of integrated circuits and the absence of mechanical parts in the primary components of the IFF/SIF system, the BVP (Beacon Video Processor) and digital defruiters.
Interface equipment such as the CPA (Central Pulse Amplifier), RSDS (Radar Signal Distribution Switchboard), and RAC (Radar Azimuth Converter) also enjoyed a respectable MTBF (Mean Time Between Failures). Surprisingly, the RSDS with two motors and mechanical parts that switched radar signals enjoyed a low failure rate – probably due to internal heaters that kept the cabinet’s internal humidity low. The RSDS low failure rate was confirmed in Boslaugh’s When Computers Went to Sea. RACs, with the exception of the all-digital SPS-48 48 RAC, were susceptible to problems with the electromechanical module that converted the analog voltage indicating the radar’s azimuth to digital signals required by NTDS.
Display consoles in CIC required regular attention, however. The electromechanical track ball that radarmen used to position the screen’s cursor required frequent cleaning due to cigarette smoke contaminants (smoking was permitted in most parts of the ship, including CIC in those days), spilled drinks (soda and coffee) and dirt contamination. High-voltage components in the focus and astigmatism programmer and the high voltage power supplies failed regularly and required periodic adjustment. Fluctuations in the ship’s 400 cycle generators occasionally blew out the less-than-robust power supplies in display consoles.
AN/SYA-4 consoles were strange beasts – half analog and half digital. The high voltage components that drove the CRT with video, sweep, and symbols could knock a technician across the room if he were not careful. I vividly (and painfully) recall when that happened to me while troubleshooting a Focus and Astigmatism Programmer during heavy seas. Luckily, the 5,000 volts of direct current went only through a fingertip to ground. The spark sounded like a rifle shot, tripped several circuit breakers, and left a pin-sized hole in my right index finger. The consoles opened with a hand crank and would open up like huge jaws for the technician to gain access. We often joked that we would use an RD (later the rate was changed to OS) for our shorting probe before touching anything on the inside to troubleshoot.
The display console’s digital logic boards were housed in two slide-out drawers in the bottom of the unit. Each drawer had two rows of identical logic cards, which were populated with an array of NOR gates. The NOR gates were simple resistors and discreet transistors epoxy-encapsulated in a carrier that was soldered to the printed circuit board. Back panel wiring connected NOR gates together to form flip-flops, counters, and other logic functions.
The height-size console, which allowed operators to determine the altitude of a target and estimate the size of a group of aircraft, was a difficult piece of equipment to maintain. Radarmen did not like them because they were difficult to use, while technicians did not like them because they were difficult to adjust and troubleshoot. It was rumored that height-size consoles on some ships were so unreliable that they were turned off and left off. That was not the case on Biddle.
Michael Daugherty, a fellow data systems technician who was onboard Biddle from 1985 to 1989 and participated in the installation of the New Threat Upgrade (NTU), remembered the height-size console: “We had the height-size console from 1985 until 1987. It was removed as part of the NTU. I cannot recollect ever seeing it turned on during the final two years of AN/SYA-4 displays existence. The radarmen used to hang their gas mask all over it and it made for a great bookshelf.”
Biddle was equipped with a top-secret black box, now declassified, called Seesaw. Seesaw was MiG IFF, which enabled Biddle to positively identify a target as a MiG – if the MiG’s transponder was on and working. During “tight” situations when MiGs were in a threatening posture or mixing it up with friendlies, a half-second interrogation would help sort out the good guys from the bad guys in the crowded skies over North Vietnam. Seesaw was installed just before Biddle’s first WESTPAC deployment without the benefit of factory training on the device. Nevertheless, my instructions were to “Keep it working, no matter what.” I cannot recall one Seesaw failure during Biddle’s first two deployments. Seesaw would be an important asset during Biddle’s third Gulf deployment.
The majority of the work performed as a Display technician was on equipment within the Display group itself. Occasionally, it was necessary to work directly with technicians in other groups to pinpoint the source of a problem in a tightly integrated electronic environment. A problem with the intermittent drop in quantity of IFF/SIF returns, which was described in the previous chapter, is a good example.
Solving the problem required the combined talents of both a Data Systems technician and a radar specialist in the Electronics Technician rating – an ETR. Difficult to diagnose problems with the all-digital AN/SPS-48 radar often required talking technical with a 48 radar Fire Control Technician or one of the on-board Gilfillan engineers. Missile Fire Control Technicians (FTMs) were called when there was a problem with the NTDS/Weapons interface. Power fluctuations, voltage spikes, and “losing the load” were problems resolved by working closely with the Engineering Department. (A close working relationship with the Engineering Department persisted until Biddle’s last years. Michael Daughety remembered that “Engineering was also very good about maintaining our chilled water systems by keeping the filters changes and the pumps operating. About once a month we would have to lug 5 gallon cans of distilled water from #1 Engine Room to the 05 level, which is where the expansion tank was located to replace any lost water.”) It was clear from the top of the Biddle organization down to my level that we were a professional team and highly competent in our respective areas. It was a great working environment.
Hard Charger! 