Three Knots to Nowhere

by Ted E. Dubay

  As a sidelight, Rickover thought the Comprehensive Exam scores for 67–4 were too low and demanded a re-grade. I believe he liked to show off how smart his people were. He had his standards, because no one who failed the first grading passed after the second review.

  I finished the school with a 3.144 average.

  I spent the last half of Nuclear Power School at the U.S. Naval Nuclear Power Training Unit (NPTU), Windsor, Connecticut. It was a prototype of a submarine nuclear power plant, associated electrical generation, and steam propulsion equipment. Sailors simply called it prototype. It was one of three similar training facilities. The Windsor site was designated S1C. The “S” stood for submarine, the “1” meant it was the first of its type, and the “C” denoted that Combustion Engineering, Incorporated, had built it. Located in Idaho was S5W, the fifth submarine Westinghouse design. Situated in Saratoga Springs, New York, D1G was the initial General Electric reactor design for destroyers.

  I reported to S1C, Windsor, Connecticut, on May 6, 1968. I thought the security was tight at Basic Nuclear Power School, but it was nothing compared to prototype. It bordered on paranoia. Trainees had to live off base. When traveling to and from the site, the Navy required us to wear civilian clothes. This made it more difficult to determine how many men were in training. When onsite, trainees changed into dungaree uniforms with blue ball caps, and wore white pinned-on nametags.

  From the moment we reported, the staff dispersed warnings about Russian spies. They could be anybody. We should be especially suspicious of people who seemed too friendly. One of the examples of subversive activities concerned a sailor from a Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine who sold nuclear technical manuals to the Soviets. I found out much later that he was a crewmember of the USS Henry Clay.

  As in Bainbridge, we studied onsite, because of the classified nature of the training materials.

  The first phase of prototype consisted of 10 weeks of classroom instruction on S1C’s systems and components. There were eight hours of classes followed by four hours of mandatory study, five days a week.

  Saturday study sessions were mandatory when a student could not maintain the proper grades. If this did not improve academic progress, school officials restricted him to the site and he had to live in Quonset huts, nicknamed the Hymie Hilton. Confining students to the site allowed maximizing study by eliminating behaviors that had a negative effect on the learning process, such as drinking and staying out late.

  My determination to complete the training kept my performance at an acceptable level.

  To counteract the intense instruction, I frequented a Hartford nightclub. One night, I met Kathy. We hit it off from the start. Our dates and the time we spent with her family helped ease the stress of the demanding curriculum.

  On May 27, 1968, bad news circulated throughout S1C. The submarine USS Scorpion and her crew of 99 did not arrive in port as scheduled. Rumors of her fate quickly spread. They ranged from a Russian submarine sinking her with a torpedo to an explosion in the Scorpion’s battery.

  Many of the sailors at S1C were destined for submarine duty. We followed the sparse news reports with great interest. The official Navy position was that the submarine was “delayed.” A week later the Navy upgraded Scorpion’s status to missing. After a few more days, the Navy classified her as lost, but without stating a cause.

  I understood submarine duty was dangerous. The incident really brought the danger to the forefront. Many men considered non-volunteering (commonly termed non-volling) from submarines. Only a few actually acted upon it.

  In spite of the tragedy, training proceeded as scheduled. The expectation was that we remain unaffected by the knowledge of one of our submarines being lost with all hands. For me, I summoned the necessary fortitude and did not let the tragedy have a negative effect on my academic performance.

  The school’s staff divided those who made it through the first part of prototype into four operating crews. The trainees worked rotating shifts. The day and evening shifts were 12 hours. Night shift was 10 hours.

  Prototype’s second half consisted of 16 weeks re-studying systems and components, with an emphasis on in-rate areas and more in-depth instruction. Standing instructional watches and accomplishing watch standing practical factors, such as operating equipment and responding to plant casualties, were the bill of fare. Inferior academic achievement of not progressing through qualification cards fast enough carried the same penalty as the classroom portion: a reserved room in the Hymie Hilton.

  During this portion of the training, my mom’s parents died within weeks of each other. I was very close to them and deeply saddened. Due to the pace of the instruction and the need for nucs in the fleet, school officials would not grant permission to attend my grandparents’ funerals. As with the loss of the Scorpion, the events were not supposed to affect my performance. In spite of the expectations, my grades suffered a severe drop-off. The school imposed two penalties. Officials withdrew the recommendation for me to advance to third-class electrician’s mate. They also sentenced me to the maximum extra mandatory study hours, without having to move into the Hymie Hilton. The worst effect was not having time to spend with Kathy. We maintained our relationship over the phone for a few weeks, but it was not enough and we broke up.

  My resolve to make it through Nuclear Power School carried me through this tough time. I worked hard and my grades rebounded. Before long, school administrators reduced my mandatory study time.

  After completing all qualification requirements, which some did faster than others, each trainee had to pass a final comprehensive written examination. If students overcame that obstacle, a several-hour oral examination awaited them.

  When trainees passed all exams, their qualification was complete and a pink nametag replaced the white one. Earning a pink tag was the source of pride. It essentially became the diploma for completing Nuclear Power School, because there was no certificate. The only ritual conducted was having your pink tag crumpled by those who had already received their own. The order of qualification was evident by the condition of the tag. The first man to qualify had a pristine tag and the last had a mutilated one. I hate to admit it, but mine was very wrinkled. I took it in stride and was proud to complete the demanding program with a final score of 3.035.

  Sans a graduation ceremony, the S1C contingent of 67–4 departed prototype on November 8, 1968. A group of us destined for submarine school engaged in a discussion about our orders.

  Some were confused. The orders said Submarine School, New London–Groton, Connecticut. They wanted to know why there were two towns.

  Having served in the area on the USS Fulton, I had the answer. The submarine base and sub school are located in Groton, across the Thames River from New London.

  In 1915, when the submarine base became an entity, the boats docked in Groton. Due to a lack of buildings in Groton, the administrative offices were in New London. By the time the staff moved and joined the submarines, it was too late. The mailing address in New London was too well established. It was a lot easier to add Groton than eliminate New London. Hence, Submarine School, New London-Groton, Connecticut.

  Southerland shrugged, “Guess I’ll see y’all and the rest of 67–4 in Groton.”

  Holding the submarine school orders ignited excitement and nervousness. I was about to join an elite force, but as the loss of the USS Scorpion drove home, submarine duty is dangerous.

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  Submarine School—The Final Preparation

  Class 67–4 arrived at submarine school in November 1968. The school convened classes every two months and we had just missed the latest class-up. The next class would begin early January 1969.

  In the interim, Class 67–4 performed menial chores. The petty officers stood barrack master-at-arms watches. One day, we loaded several tons of lead ballast into the bowels of the submarine rescue vessel, USS Skylark. It was a somber experience. She was escorting the USS Thresher on the submarin
e’s fateful last dive. I, still an electrician’s mate fireman, mostly swept barrack floors and did groundskeeping tasks. Compared to the rigor of Nuclear Power School, it was like a vacation.

  Southerland and I reunited on the basketball court. We ended up playing for the welding school team in the submarine base league, although neither of were training to be welders. The league’s cream of the crop was the Submarine School Raiders. They won the championship. I think Southerland had enough talent to play for the Raiders, but he chose not to pursue that avenue.

  I began Basic Enlisted Submarine School on January 6, 1969. The curriculum was a combination of classroom instruction and hands-on activities.

  The classroom portion presented the basic operation of the systems in a 640-class Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine. Unlike Nuclear Power School, I found the tests easy and did not have to study.

  The hands-on instruction consisted of submarine firefighting strategies and damage control techniques such as stopping leaks using emergency methods. I was particularly interested in learning how to stop piping leaks. Unofficial reports said the initiating event leading to the sinking of the USS Thresher was a leaking seawater pipe.

  I did not find much value in the hands-on training of operating a mock-up of a conventionally powered World War II submarine’s rudder and diving planes. In defense of the Navy, the U.S. submarine fleet still had a considerable number of conventional boats. Still, the logic baffled me. Non-nuclear-trained students spent a day at sea in a conventional submarine. School officials waived that requirement for nucs and we missed the experience.

  By administrating a thorough medical exam, the school also weeded out those who could not pass the rigorous submarine duty requirements.

  Everyone also underwent a pressure test equal to the depth of 100 feet. This was as much a psychological check as physical. In addition to monitoring the trainee’s ability to equalize his ears, the instructor watched for signs of claustrophobia. During my test, one sailor kept saying that his ears were not equalizing. The instructor did not take the complaints of pain seriously until the trainee’s eardrum burst and blood flowed out his ear. Our instructor calmly returned the chamber’s pressure to normal and let the sailor out. We resumed the test and never saw the injured man again. I learned an important lesson from the experience. If stranded in a sunken submarine, it was better to bust an eardrum and escape, than die.

  While at submarine school, I took the scheduled semi-annual rating exam for third-class electrician’s mate. I had missed my last opportunity to advance from electrician’s mate fireman, due to my temporary inferior academic performance at prototype.

  Towards the end of submarine school, we took a written psychological test. It was the standard exam with provided responses that ranged from “Sounds like me” to “Does not sound like me.” There were a few special questions thrown in. One, I will never forget. It asked, “How do you relate to the following?—I would launch nuclear weapons.” My wishy-washy response was “Sounds somewhat like me.” It must have been satisfactory, because I qualified for submarine duty.

  The last day of class, the instructor stood in front of my class and read everybody’s name and next duty station. To my surprise, some men received orders to surface ships. I rejoiced. My next assignment, along with Southerland and Souder, was the USS Henry Clay SSBN 625—a real submarine.

  Class 67–4’s final activity together was a party at the base enlisted men’s club. Although the Connecticut drinking age was 21, one of our classmates was at the door checking IDs. Regardless of his age, any member of 67–4 got in. We had a grand and sentimental time saying our goodbyes, not knowing if we would ever see each other again. I left the function highly inebriated. Between the club and my barrack, I encountered a patch of ice. As soon as I stepped on the slick surface, I fell on my butt. Like my determination to make it through Nuclear Power School, I vowed to walk over the icy surface, not walk around or crawl off. It probably took 15 minutes, but I succeeded.

  After submarine school, I used a week of leave and returned to Hickory Township to visit my family. It was nice seeing them, especially since I would not have another chance for quite a while. My older brother Frank even came home from college. My younger sister Leona was especially happy. She is 11 years younger than I am, but we have always been close. She is such a pleasant person, my family nicknamed her Sweetie. My brother Curt is two years older than my sister is and involved in the sciences. During my 1969 spring visit, he was into model rockets. Even though it was early March, mild weather prevailed. The four of us had a lot of fun launching the projectiles.

  That evening it occurred to me how Curt’s rockets were the exact opposite of those carried aboard the USS Henry Clay. His were harmless, aimless toys, and those on the Clay were accurate weapons of mass destruction.

  The excitement of my impending entry into the world of submariners tempered the enjoyment of my family’s company and the relaxing environment. After reporting to the Henry Clay, I would be protecting the nation aboard the most powerful weapon on Earth and be a member of the elite United States Submarine Service.

  I had spent my whole life preparing for that moment. Like a college athlete drafted by a professional team, I was moving up to the big leagues. I would finally put all my training to use at the highest level.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  Reporting to the USS Henry Clay

  Anxious to begin my new career, I arrived at the Charleston Naval Shipyard, Charleston, South Carolina, on March 13, 1969. I parked outside the Henry Clay’s administrative office. I felt like my chest would burst from the pride that welled inside. I was about to officially join the ranks of submariners on an awesome wonder.

  Finding the office, I walked in, introduced myself, and presented my paperwork to the duty yeoman. A tall lanky man greeted me. His frame did not seem like it would fit into a submarine very well.

  The processing went smoothly. The yeoman gave me instructions about when and where to report the next morning. He gave me a map of the base and circled the Clay’s barrack. As I was about to leave the ship’s office, a sailor dressed in dungarees walked past the door.

  The yeoman called, “Hey, wheatgerm. Come meet our newest non-qual puke.”

  The man entered the office and the yeoman introduced him as second-class electrician Bob Davis.

  I sized up the sailor. Davis was large and muscular. I judged him as being six foot tall and 240 pounds. He moved with the power and grace of an athlete. Jet-black hair adorned his head. He had a sinister Fu Manchu moustache, but I detected a friendly twinkle in his eyes. After some small talk, I discovered he was affable and happy to have me as a shipmate. He had been on the Henry Clay for a year and was qualified in submarines. He was from Florida, but didn’t have a Southern accent. Davis was married and had a young daughter. He was a member of the Henry Clay’s champion football team. Davis played middle linebacker and running back. He was a devastating blocker in addition to being fast. After leaving the Clay, he was a Navy handball champion.

  Davis greeted me warmly. He saw the map in my hand and showed where the Henry Clay was in dry dock. Before hustling away, he made a comment about probably becoming my sea daddy.

  Instead of going directly to the barrack, I went to find the Clay.

  She wasn’t far. I stood at the edge of the dry dock.

  At first glance, her size impressed me. At 425 feet from bow to stern, she was considerably longer than a football field. The beam, her width at the broadest point, was 33 feet. That is about as wide as a standard two-lane road. These proportions, long and narrow, gave her the gift of speed, a much-needed attribute in the world of submarine warfare.

  The Clay’s top speed is classified information. While she was in service, the Navy forbids us from revealing more than the following statistics: she is faster than 20 knots, dives deeper than 400 feet, and is capable of carrying nuclear weapons.

  Due to similar security concerns, the government did
not allow taking photos of many areas of her interior. I have to admit the rule was not strictly enforced, and there are some closely guarded contraband pictures floating around.

  Pride welled within me. The submarine was a sophisticated marvel of technology and one of the most powerful weapons in the world. Soon I would be learning all her systems and operating those within my area of expertise.

  The Clay was black, and unlike her surface ship counterparts, did not display a name or hull number. The color helped hide the FBM from aerial surveillance. Not having any distinguishing markings was an attempt to thwart enemy efforts of identifying her, both at sea and in port.

  Her rounded bow sloped up in a smooth curve. About one hundred feet from the tip of the submarine was the front of the sail, sometimes called the conning tower or fairwater. It was eighteen feet tall and extended aft for another forty feet. If viewed from above, the sail had the shape of a teardrop, with the fat end forward. It was ten feet wide at its broadest point and acted as a stabilizer. At the top and forward end of the conning tower was the bridge. When the Clay was on the surface, officers directed the operation of the FBM from this high point. Aft of the bridge were retractable gray and black camouflage periscopes, antennas, and the snorkel mast. Towards the front and at the bottom of the sail was a round open hatch. It permitted access into a tube, which connected the bridge and submarine.

  Towards the leading edge of the conning tower and twelve feet from the deck were the sailplanes. There was one on each side of the sail and each extended out fifteen feet. They functioned much like an airplane’s ailerons, by tilting up and down to help the submarine change depth.

  Immediately aft of the sail was a long flat surface. It was the missile deck. Along its upper surface, I could see the outline of each launch tube’s hatch and a squiggly track imbedded in the center of the deck for attaching safety lines. Towards the end of this area was an open personnel access hatch.