by Larry Bond
“Bright enough for you, Petty Officer Stewart?” asked Jerry.
“Certainly is, sir,” said Stewart as he stood there blinking. “Please disregard the dull klunks, sir. It’s only my pupils slamming shut.”
Jerry grinned and maneuvered out of the way as a Plexiglas windscreen appeared from below. Stewart grabbed the screen and set it down on the top of the sail behind him. The cockpit was nothing more than a small opening, four feet by three feet, in the forward part of the sail. Normally, it would be cramped with just three men in the cockpit, but trying to install all the gear with that many people would be very difficult indeed.
“I’ll get out of your way, Petty Officer Stewart. Enjoy the nice weather,” said Jerry.
“Thank you, sir. Hey, Jack, hold on a second, Mr. Mitchell is coming down.”
Jerry ducked under the sail and worked his way around the other sailor, who he could barely see in the dim light. When he got to the top of the bridge access trunk itself, Jerry yelled, “Down ladder.” After making sure no one was below him, he climbed down the ladder into control. Once down, he reported to the duty petty officer that he was no longer on the bridge. The sailor acknowledged the report and wiped Jerry’s grease-penciled name off the status board.
With that taken care of, Jerry headed toward the torpedo room for one final inspection. After that, he would meet with the Navigator and the scheduled Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Millunzi, to go over the boat’s departure route one more time. As Jerry descended the ladder to forward compartment lower level, the IMC crackled to life, “There are men working in the sail. Do not raise or lower any mast or antenna. Do not rotate, radiate, or energize any electronic equipment while men are working in the sail.”
Glancing at his watch, Jerry marked the time and toyed with the idea of testing Stewart’s estimated time to rig the bridge. Anything to get back topside and get underway, eh? Jerry thought. There was no doubt in his mind that he was eager to go to sea. It had been nearly four years since his last Midshipman cruise and that had been on a large-deck amphibious assault ship. His total time underway on a submarine could be measured in hours, single digits at that, and the thought of being at sea for three whole days sounded absolutely wonderful. Jerry recalled hinting at this during Quarters that morning and how most of the division laughed at his naïveté.
“Worst case of Newbeeitis I’ve seen in all my years on subs,” joked Bearden.
“Seems to be resistant to treatment too,” added TM2 Tom Boyd. “You’d think Fast Cruise would have cured him!” This comment brought more laughter, as the counterintuitive three-day, in-port drill period had been grueling and anything but fun.
“Can the levity. We still have work to do before we get underway, so turn to,” barked a scowling Foster.
Jerry remembered the tension that descended immediately on the group and that only TM1 Moran had walked away before Jerry dismissed his division. The glare from Foster was intense, and only hinted at his anger. Jerry ignored it. The senior chief seemed to be angry a lot lately, probably because Foster sensed that Jerry was slowly gaining the trust of his men, and for some reason this threatened him. Work began in the torpedo room in near silence.
Making his way back to the torpedo room, Jerry saw that the atmosphere had improved and that his guys were just finishing up the odds and ends. A number of the TMs and FTs were standing around talking and appeared to have relaxed some. Jerry nodded as they acknowledged his presence and walked over to the Manta control station and looked over the results of the system diagnostics he had started after Quarters. Everything looked good and he powered down the console.
The NUWC reps had worked on the prototype the week before, stripped the vehicle to parade rest, and performed every maintenance procedure known to mankind. After replacing the main and auxiliary batteries and a number of circuit cards, the Manta was issued a clean bill of health. Just as Jerry was pulling the Naugahyde cover over the control console, Richards walked into the room and quickly approached him. The WEPS seemed to be more harried than usual.
“Mr. Mitchell, what is the status of your division?” demanded Richards. Jerry was momentarily confused, as he had already given the WEPS his report earlier. Once again, Cal Richards had his sweat pumps in high speed and anything but a repeat of his earlier report would only add to the WEPS’ consternation.
“Sir, the torpedo room and fire-control system are ready for sea. Repairs to the Mk19 weapons launching console have been completed. We have five Mk48 Mod 5 torpedoes on board; one is loaded in tube two and the remaining four are secured in the port storage racks. Tube one has the NMRS retrieval arm installed and is not capable of firing weapons. The Manta prototype has been cleared for at-sea operations and two runs of the daily diagnostics have been completed satisfactorily.”
“Very well,” responded Richards with a calmer voice. “Has the OOD’s status board been updated?”
“Yes, sir. Senior Chief Foster is doing that as we speak,” answered Jerry confidently.
“Good. Now move along or you’ll be late for the last pre-underway brief with the NAV and MPA.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry with eagerness.
The brief was short, to the point, and very professional. The Navigator went over all the points where course changes were needed to keep Memphis in the center of the channel and all the associated turn bearings and landmarks. He also reviewed the procedures for getting underway. Lieutenant Al Millunzi listened carefully as he studied the projected track on the New London harbor chart and asked questions about which tug they’d have, who was the pilot, and what was the updated weather forecast for the Long Island and Block Island sounds.
As the Main Propulsion Assistant (MPA), Millunzi was responsible for the boat’s main mechanical systems. Tom Holtzmann’s reactor made the steam, but it was Millunzi’s systems that put it to work. Driving not only the main propulsion turbines that turned the screw, but also the ship’s service turbine generators that provided electricity. He was also the next most senior officer in the Engineering Department, after the Engineer himself, and was completely qualified to stand in for him if necessary. Millunzi also had the reputation on the waterfront as being one of the best shiphandlers in the squadron. Hence his pairing with the very inexperienced Jerry Mitchell.
In his late twenties, Millunzi had a big, square face and a nose that could have belonged to Julius Caesar. He had a frame that matched and had to carefully work to fit his way through the many narrow hatches and passageways on Memphis. Although Jerry knew where he stood with many of the ship’s officers, for good or ill, he hadn’t had to deal with Millunzi much during his month and a half aboard. Their respective responsibilities kept them pretty much apart. Fortunately, the MPA was all business, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“Jerry, before you give any order, I want you to tell me what you want to do and what you’re going to say. If I agree, I’ll say so, and you can go ahead. If I’ve got a problem, and there’s time, I’ll give you a chance to rethink your plan. If there isn’t, I’ll take the conn and sort things out. I will also ask you questions during our run to the dive point. And they won’t be academic. Is this all clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Jerry answered. In a way, Jerry felt a little relieved. Millunzi wasn’t going to let him make any big mistakes. And Millunzi wouldn’t take over unless Jerry was really messing up; in which case Jerry wanted the MPA to take over. But that wasn’t going to happen, Jerry thought. Not on his watch.
After the brief, both O’Connell and Millunzi quizzed Jerry on the conning orders he would have to give to get Memphis away from the pier, down the Thames River, and out to the Atlantic Ocean. Jerry answered the questions correctly, but he was not always confident of his response. Despite this, the Navigator seemed satisfied that Jerry had a reasonable idea of what to do and how to do it.
“All right, Mr. Mitchell, report to the bridge in fifteen minutes,” said O’Connell looking at his watch. “I want an on-time depart
ure at 1100.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Jerry. But just as he was about to head down to his stateroom, Captain Hardy came bounding up the ladder screaming at Lieutenant Commander Ho, Memphis’ Engineer.
“What the hell are you doing down there, Engineer? Why did the pump fail this time?”
“Captain, the motor controller blew about ten minutes ago when we tried to pump the sanitary tanks in preparation for our departure. It will take several hours to make the repairs,” responded Ho nervously.
“If you haven’t noticed, Engineer, we don’t have several hours! The squadron commander will be here any moment now,” exclaimed Hardy shaking his head in disbelief. Getting a hold of himself Hardy asked, “How full are the sanitary tanks?”
“Sir, sanitary tanks number one and number two are about fifty percent, and sanitary tank number three is about twenty-five percent.”
“Very well, have the duty officer get the drydock connections removed and we’ll blow the tanks once we are at sea.”
“Yes, sir, and we’ll begin working on the sewer discharge pump immediately,” replied Ho.
“That would be very wise, Engineer,” responded Hardy sarcastically. “I also want the maintenance logs for that pump, here, in my stateroom, within the hour. I want to know the idiot who performed the last preventative maintenance check and missed such an obvious problem.” With that, Hardy slammed the stateroom door shut in his Engineer’s face. Ho backed away, his face still a little pale, combed his hand through his hair, and trudged down the ladder to forward compartment middle level.
Jerry watched as the tired-looking man disappeared from view. He wasn’t surprised at the CO’s tirade; he’d seen far too many of those over the past weeks. Millunzi walked up behind Jerry and said in a low voice, “I would not want to be Frank Lopez right now. That’s his gear and the Captain will be all over his butt on account of this latest incident. Not that the Captain will bother to remember that we’ve had nothing but trouble from that particular pump for almost two years now and that our requests for a replacement have been repeatedly denied.” The MPA then looked at Jerry and said, “The shit pump has had a bad habit of eating motor controllers. Now, get a move on and I’ll see you up on the bridge.”
Reaching his stateroom, Jerry found Lenny Berg putting his jacket on. A life jacket and safety harness were on the deck by his feet. “Ahh, our intrepid JOOD arrives to mentally prepare for his first underway. Need any Maalox?”
“Ha, ha, very funny, Lenny. I happen to feel just fine, thank you.” A little lie, Jerry thought, because he was a tad nervous and could feel it in his stomach.
Berg was about to fire another round of witticisms when the squawking of the IMC interrupted their exchange, “COMSUBDEVRON TWELVE, arriving.”
“Well, well, the commodore is finally here. I bet the Captain is having a snit fit over something right now, even as his boss is crossing the gangway,” said Berg seriously.
“Yeah, well, he just chewed out the Engineer over the sewer discharge pump. The motor controller was fried.”
“Hmmm, not like that hasn’t happened before.” Then, in a more light-hearted way, Berg remarked, “Maybe the pump just wants a new job, and frying motor controllers is its way of expressing its frustration. I mean, moving human waste around isn’t all that glamorous, you know.”
Jerry laughed as he put on his jacket and ball cap. He then started digging through his desk, looking for his sunglasses. Finding them, he put them in his pocket and turned to face Berg.
“Lenny, is the Captain always this nervous when getting underway?”
Berg laughed. But the laughter was forced mixture of amusement and irony. “It’s because of Captain Young. As long as the squadron commander is on board, everything has to be perfect.”
Berg picked up the life jacket and harness and then looked at Jerry with a smile and said, “Correction, more than perfect.”
Jerry nodded, understanding his friend’s observation, and asked. “This is Hardy’s first boat, isn’t it? Is he all that eager to get promoted?”
“I don’t really know, Jerry,” Berg answered. “But I don’t think it’s all about ambition. Remember, he is a triple A personality control freak.”
“Hey, Lenny,” Jerry called out to his friend as he was leaving. “You be careful out on deck. I really don’t want to get signed off on the man overboard drill today.”
“Yes, sir! Oh Wise and Benevolent Junior Officer of the Deck, sir,” mocked Berg as he bowed and doffed his cap. “Just don’t go and pull any five-gee turns while you’re up there and we’ll be fine.”
Jerry rolled his eyes at Berg’s last comment and followed him out of the stateroom. As Jerry entered control, he saw the XO getting ready to set the maneuvering watch. A bit early, given the schedule in the plan of the day, but not unexpected, given Hardy’s nervous state. Looking up from the navigation plotting tables, Bair saw Jerry over by the duty petty officer reporting in. As Jerry made his way to the ladder, the XO called over, “Mr. Mitchell, good luck on your first underway.” Winking, he added, “Just keep her between the buoys and you’ll do fine.”
“Aye, sir, I’ll do my best,” Jerry replied as he gave his XO an informal salute. Lifting his head to the bridge access trunk, Jerry yelled, “Up ladder,” and started climbing.
The bridge was prepared for sea with an assortment of electronic gadgets installed in the cockpit. The portable “bridge suitcase” with the communications gear and navigation instruments had been installed and tested. Since anything left on the bridge would be exposed to extreme water pressure when the boat submerged, the instruments used to conn Memphis were built into a removable case that could be quickly detached when the boat was ready to submerge. Next to the suitcase were an electronic chart plotter and a GPS receiver. A satchel bag lashed to the side contained paper charts, a flashlight, and a bullhorn. The Plexiglas windscreen had been secured in front of the cockpit, along with a grease pencil on a string. Behind Jerry was the “flying bridge,” an area atop the sail where an installed steel frame allowed additional people to stand safely while the ship made its surface transit.
Jerry checked the pier. The boat was divorced from shore power and the sanitary and potable water connections had also been removed. A small crane was working its way down the pier; it would be needed to lift the gangplank off the sub’s hull. Down on the deck, Jerry could see the line handlers mustering with the COB and Lenny Berg. Undoubtedly, the COB was reminding everyone about the proper safety precautions when handling the bulky mooring lines.
He looked at his pocket checklist to make sure he had gone over everything he would have to do to get the sub underway. He was thankful he had spent some extra time studying, even though he had fallen asleep the night before while reviewing Dutton’s Naval Shiphandling. But not all knowledge can be gained through an intensive book study effort. Theoretically, he knew what to do. Now it was time to put that theory into practice.
Noises from below told Jerry that others were coming up. Within a few seconds, a familiar voice spoke, “Permission to come up to the bridge.”
“Granted,” replied Jerry.
Petty Officer Stewart climbed into the cockpit with a pair of binoculars and a sound-powered phone headset. “Here you go, sir,” said Stewart as he handed the binoculars to Jerry. Jerry took them and thanked Stewart, who was busily putting on the sound-powered phones. Soon thereafter, Lieutenant Millunzi climbed up the ladder and joined Jerry in the cockpit. Millunzi had barely straightened up when he began bombarding Jerry with questions on the status of the bridge equipment and the topside area below. Jerry answered them quickly and concisely. Satisfied, Millunzi turned to Jerry and said, “Jerry, this is the one time that I will give you free advice. After this I charge a can of soda for every problem you want me to help you with.” The smirky grin on Millunzi’s face told Jerry that the MPA was quite serious.
“In that case, sir, what is your favorite liquid refreshment? Because I’m going to ne
ed a couple of six-packs to get me through our upcoming deployment.”
“Dr Pepper, of course. And you’d better make it three.”
Both men chuckled a bit and Jerry started feeling a little less tense. He didn’t realize just how anxious he was as he waited for things to get started.
“The secret of being a good shiphandler, Jerry, is to be able to manage inertia and momentum,” said Millunzi in a more sober tone. “You are used to driving a fighter that doesn’t weigh a lot but goes really fast. Memphis weighs several thousand tons and moves at a snail’s pace, by comparison.” He then pointed aft and asked, “What do you see back there, Jerry?”
Jerry faced aft and after a moment turned back toward the MPA, looking confused. “I don’t understand, sir.”
Millunzi pointed toward Memphis’ stern and said. “What do you see?”