Dangerous Ground

by Larry Bond

  Foster’s reaction was surprising. In a hurried voice, he replied, “Of course, sir. Torpedo gang and FTs, this is Lieutenant (j.g)”—he paused, glancing at Jerry’s nametag—”Mitchell. He’s the new Torpedo and FT Division Officer.”

  Some of the men near Jerry offered him a quick greeting, while the others moved in closer, surrounding Jerry and Senior Chief Foster. Jerry started to speak. “I’ve got a few things I want to say. . . .”

  Foster interrupted. “Sir, I don’t think we’ve got time for that right now. I’ve got to get these men to work.”

  Nonplussed, Jerry nodded. “All right, Senior Chief.” Disappointed, he tried to look at each of the men now under his command, to memorize their names and faces. “I’ll talk to you all at another time.” He added, “Carry on,” unnecessarily, as Foster had already started leading the division back aboard.

  Jerry hung back as the crew slowly filed on to Memphis. He’d been all primed for “the talk,” his first speech to the men under his command. They’d drummed it into him at the Academy that this was his best, maybe his only chance to make a good first impression, to tell the men what he expected of them, and to start building his own personal command style. All junior officers entertained grandiose hopes of inspiring their men, but would usually settle for not looking like an idiot.

  And Foster had taken that opportunity away by interrupting him, and in general, treating him as irrelevant. Jerry had backed down, automatically avoiding a confrontation with his leading chief in front of the division, but on reflection, he realized that might not have been the best choice.

  As Jerry walked back on to the sub, he tried to put himself in Foster’s place. The senior chief had been the acting division officer and had expected to fulfill that role until Memphis was decommissioned. Now he’d have to step down. It was part of the service’s tradition, but still, it had to grate, at least a little.

  And what kind of a man was Foster? Jerry hadn’t had time to study any of the men’s service records, but he resolved to do it as soon as he could.

  Back aboard, Jerry headed for the torpedo room. It was time to get started in his new job. He found Senior Chief Foster already at work, filling out what appeared to be a new duty schedule. One of the torpedoman’s mates, a second class named Greer, was leaving and nodded politely to his new division officer.

  Foster looked up wordlessly as Jerry maneuvered into the cramped corner in the forward and starboard side of the torpedo room that functioned as the division’s administrative office.

  “Well, Senior Chief, let’s get started on the turnover. What do you recommend we should do first?” Normally, when a new officer arrived, his predecessor would “turn over” materials like paperwork and keys that the new officer would need to do his job. There were classified pubs to inventory, maintenance records to review, and a host of other administrative issues.

  “I don’t think I can do anything with you right now, sir.” Foster’s tone was hurried again, almost dismissive. “The Weapons Officer wants the new duty section done in half an hour, and then I’ve got to supervise a test of the fire-control circuit.” He paused, and looked almost kindly at Jerry. “I’d ask you to do the duty section, but you don’t know any of the men yet.”

  Jerry tried to be positive. “You sound overloaded, Senior. You’re wearing too many hats, and I’m supposed to be wearing one of them. The quicker you turn over the division officer responsibilities to me, the sooner you’ll be able to slow down.”

  “Nobody slows down on Memphis, sir,” Foster responded coldly. “This job has to be done properly, and I can’t take the time to teach you how right now.” He paused, as if thinking, and said, “Perhaps you should get the service records for the TMs and FTs and review them, sir. I’ll try and make some time this afternoon to start the turnover.” Foster said it the way a grown-up might promise to play ball with a small child.

  Reluctantly, Jerry agreed and headed for the ship’s office. Yeoman Glover quickly retrieved an armful of dark brown folders from the filing cabinets, and after signing a form, Jerry took them back to his stateroom. Berg and Washburn were elsewhere, so he had what little space there was to himself, but he felt useless. Studying records wasn’t going to help get Memphis ready.

  An hour and a half later, his head full of names and facts, Jerry threw the pile of folders down in frustration on his bunk. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. There’d be time to look over this stuff later. He’d learn more about his division by working with the men, not by hiding in his stateroom.

  Senior Chief Foster was doing his level best to keep Jerry from taking over as division officer. Jerry could see that now, although he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. It wasn’t logical. This certainly wasn’t the way it was supposed to work.

  It was universally acknowledged that chief petty officers actually ran the Navy. The chiefs largely tolerated officers because they were willing to do paperwork. Like a shop foreman and a factory manager, each had important tasks.

  Junior officers, fresh out of school and new to everything, needed a lot of guidance. It was no accident that the Navy teamed up a green division officer with a much more experienced chief. On the books, the officer had the authority, but only a fool would act without listening to what his chief had to say.

  The division officer had to interpret the orders that came down from his department head and to get his division what it needed, whether it was repair parts, nominations for a school, or annual personnel ratings. If the division officer was good, he could resolve the inevitable conflicts between orders from above and reality impinging from below. Even the mediocre ones did their best to screen their men from the bovine byproducts that often accompanied guidance from above.

  The chief was usually the best technical man in the division. He knew his equipment, his troops, and what they were able to do. That knowledge took at least ten years to acquire, and many chief petty officers served more than twenty.

  So why was Foster refusing to even deal with Jerry? Confused and in need of some guidance, Mitchell left his stateroom and took a few steps forward to Lieutenant Richards’ stateroom. The Weapons Officer was inside, searching through a stack of papers. He looked up when Jerry knocked on the doorjamb. “Yes?”

  “Sir, I’d like to talk to you about Senior Chief Foster.”

  “What about him?”

  Jerry wished he’d thought this though a little bit more, but plunged ahead anyway. “He seems reluctant to turn over his division officer duties to me, and I was wondering if you . . .”

  “What?” Richards’ tone was unbelieving, as if he couldn’t understand what Mitchell had told him.

  “I went to see Foster about turning over the division as you instructed, and he said he was too busy, that we’d have to do it later. Sir, he’s deliberately stalling.”

  Richards absorbed Jerry’s statement and sat motionless for a few moments.

  “And why do you need me?” Richards asked curtly. Jerry started to reply, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the lieutenant cut him off.

  “No, wait, I don’t want to know,” the weapons boss told him. “Mister, I’ve got twenty urgent things to do right now. And one of them is not holding your hand while you deal with your senior chief!”

  “Yessir,” Jerry replied quickly.

  “If you’ve got a problem with your leading chief, work it out. I suspect the problem may not be with the Senior Chief, either. I’ve known Foster a lot longer than I’ve known you, and he’s good. In fact, he’s very good at his job. We still don’t know about you.”

  Richards dismissed him. “Now, go make yourself useful. I’m still waiting for that new duty schedule from the Senior Chief, and I want a list of all repair parts the Torpedo and FT division needs on my desk by 1700.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  * * * *

  Jerry half-fled Richards’ stateroom, thinking, Stupid, Jerry, just plain stupid! Originally, he intended to go back to his cabin an
d think, but decided instead to go looking for Foster. He ran into the senior chief by the galley, heading forward with some papers in his hand.

  “Senior Chief, is that the new duty schedule for the division?”

  “Yes, sir.” Foster moved as if to pass him and head forward, but Jerry held out his hand. “I’d like to see it, please.”

  Foster seemed reluctant to hand it over, almost as if it held secret information. “The WEPS wanted to see it right away, sir.”

  “Don’t you think the division officer should see it first?”

  Sensing defeat, Foster wordlessly handed it over. Jerry studied the unfamiliar form for a minute. To his credit, Jerry recognized most of the names from his recent study of the personnel records. It wasn’t terribly complex. Half the division would remain on board each night. Jerry noted that the senior man after Foster, TM1 Moran, also had the two most inexperienced men: TM3 Lee and TMSN Jobin.

  Jerry handed the paper back to Foster. “Thanks, Senior Chief.” He kept his tone casual and stepped out of the way so that Foster could head forward.

  After Foster disappeared, Jerry headed for the torpedo room, to familiarize himself with the spaces if he couldn’t do anything else. As its name implies, the room was designed to store and fire torpedoes and cruise missiles. There was little space for humans to walk around and work in, but to Foster’s credit everything was well organized and properly stowed. The only things out of place were a coffee cup and a beat-up paperback book on the starboard torpedo storage rack.

  Jerry was opening cabinets when Senior Chief Foster returned. The look on his face made Jerry start to feel like a burglar, but then he remembered that this space was his responsibility.

  “Is the WEPS happy with the duty roster?” Again, Jerry kept his tone casual, matter-of-fact.

  “Yes, sir.” Foster replied.

  “You said you were going to test the fire-control circuits next.”

  “Yes, sir, I have to supervise a test of the fire-control circuit interface with the port tube nest.” Foster sounded like he was in a hurry, but Jerry refused to be rushed.

  “Do you have the PMS card for the check, Senior Chief?”

  Foster went over to a card index and removed a stiff 8x10 card. Filled with text and symbols, it was titled FIRE CONTROL CIRCUIT CHECK OF THE mk67 torpedo tube system.

  Jerry had studied the Planned Maintenance System (PMS) at the Academy and at submarine school. It was the Navy’s way of standardizing the routine maintenance work on all the equipment aboard a ship. Before it was installed on any ship, a team of engineers studied each new piece of equipment. How often did a component need to be cleaned or lubricated? When did it need to be checked or replaced? Once the bright boys had listed what checks needed to be done and when, they’d figure out what skills were needed, what tools and materials should be used, and even how long it should take.

  All that information, in excruciating detail, was printed on the card Jerry held in his hand. It was a weekly check that required the following tools, and the following personnel. . . .

  “Senior Chief, you said you were going to supervise the test. According to this card, a first class should be able to perform the check.”

  Foster replied, “Well, yes, but I want to make sure . ..”

  “Is there a problem with Moran? Does he have the skills?” Jerry wasn’t demanding, but he was insistent.

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely,” the senior chief answered firmly.

  “Then you don’t need to be there. We have to start the turnover. You know it, and I know it, so let’s begin. I want to see the division’s spaces.”

  Foster glared at Jerry, “Certainly, Mr. Mitchell, as you wish. Let’s start over here with the starboard tube nest.”

  It was hardly the best tour Jerry had ever had, but he had to concede one thing: Foster knew his stuff and he knew it cold. As they walked around the room, Foster kept pointing to pipes, valves, and other mechanical components, spitting out facts and specifications at a rapid rate. So rapid, in fact, that Jerry couldn’t keep up. He had had some basic instruction on the Mk67 torpedo tubes in submarine school, but everything there had been on paper. Now Jerry was trying to merge some of his basic knowledge with chunks of metal that were all clustered on top of each other and interwoven with piping and electrical cables.

  The four torpedo tubes were nearly identical. Broken out into two nests or groups, tubes one and three were on the starboard side and had been modified for ROY testing back in the late-1990s. Tubes two and four were on the port side and were standard 688-class torpedo tubes. As with every U.S. Navy attack submarine built since the early 1960s, the torpedo tubes were moved aft from their traditional position in the bow, and on 688-class submarines, angled out at seven degrees. This arrangement was necessary because the fifteen-foot bow sonar sphere prevented bow-mounted tubes. Each tube nest had its own ram ejection pump located beneath the torpedo tubes. These pumps used high-pressure air to drive a slug of water into a tube, which would forcefully eject a 3,700-pound Mk48 ADCAP torpedo from the sub.

  In the middle of the torpedo room, directly between the two tube nests, was the Mk19 weapons launching console. From this position, a torpedo-man’s mate could operate all of the four tubes’ various functions. Everything from opening the breech door, flooding a tube, even firing one could be done from this console. Foster pointed out, of course, that all the automatic functions on the console had a manual backup and his torpedomen could work these in their sleep.

  Behind the torpedo tubes, in the middle of the room, were the three two-leveled torpedo stowage racks where up to twenty-two weapons could be stored. Normally, a 688-class boat would leave two slots, or “stows” vacant, so that torpedoes could be removed from the tubes for maintenance. With four weapons in the tubes, a 688 would usually go to sea with a mix of twenty-four torpedoes and Tomahawk cruise missiles. Memphis, however, was not a normal 688. The Manta control station, located at the port, aft end of the centerline stowage rack, reduced the number of weapons that could be stored by four.

  Integral to the outboard torpedo stowage racks was the reloading equipment. Loading trays on the inboard side of the two racks were designed to pivot, so that they could align themselves with the canted tubes. Hydraulic rams would then push the weapons into the tubes. Moving weapons on the racks, or indexing weapons, was also done with a complex system of hydraulically driven gears and linkages. Again, if necessary, loading could be done manually with a block and tackle and lots of manpower.

  Jerry knew Foster was intentionally moving at warp speed, either to show how much he knew about Memphis’ main armament and how little Jerry knew, or to get the tour of the spaces over and done with as soon as possible. Probably both, Jerry thought. Still, he asked his senior chief numerous questions that required Foster to slow down to answer. Most of the questions Jerry asked were honest inquiries for clarification of something that Foster had said or for additional explanation of a system’s function. For some of his questions, however, Jerry already knew the answer and he wanted to compare it to what Foster would tell him.

  After a couple of hours, Jerry allowed his first tour of the torpedo room to come to an end. TM1 Moran and two of the more junior torpedomen were well into their PMS check on tubes two and four. Undoubtedly, Foster would want to look in on them; something Jerry wholeheartedly approved of. Impressed by Foster’s knowledge, Jerry was sincerely appreciative for the tour, even if it was given begrudgingly.

  “Thank you for the tour, Senior Chief. It would seem that I have an awful lot to learn about the systems that are in this room. I trust you won’t mind if I ask you some more questions from time to time.”

  “You’re most welcome, sir,” responded Foster with some sarcasm. “Sir, I would like to go and look in on the maintenance check. Petty Officer Moran has the two most junior torpedomen working with him and I’d like to see how they are doing.” The emphasis on the junior TMs hopefully would free him from this overly inquisitive officer.r />
  “Certainly, Senior, carry on.” Jerry made sure his voice was neutral and polite. Despite Foster’s less than friendly behavior over the last few hours, Jerry knew that he had to work with this man if he was to have a smooth-running division. And he needed that if he was to obtain his ultimate goal: his gold dolphins and a career in submarines.

  Just as Senior Chief Foster was preparing to leave, Lieutenant Richards popped out from behind the starboard tube nest and made his way down to Jerry and Foster.

  “There you are, Mr. Mitchell. I see you and the Senior Chief have begun your turnover.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Jerry. “Senior Chief Foster has just finished giving me a tour of the torpedo room and it is clear that I have much to learn.”

  “Well, that’s a start, at least,” said Richards as he tossed some folded papers into Jerry’s hands. “I need a new watch schedule for your division ASAP, the other one is now OBE.”