by Ted E. Dubay
The missile deck ended with the turtleback, and the top of the submarine then gently angled down. I recalled hearing the term turtleback in submarine school. The name seemed strange at the time. When the turtleback was seen firsthand, the title made perfect sense.
Several feet further aft of the turtleback was another escape hatch, which was open. A trio of black 3-inch diameter electrical cables snaked from a distribution box and disappeared into the opening. The cables provided electricity to the submarine. When the cables were in service, the Clay did not need her onboard electrical generating equipment.
The round hull of the boat dipped and narrowed as it continued aft. At the end of this span was the rudder. To the left and right of the rudder and a few feet below were the stern planes. They were similar to the sailplanes.
The submarine’s classified propeller was not in place. Even if it were, a tarp would conceal it. The specialized design of the screw was a closely guarded military secret. Taking a photograph of it would incur severe punishment.
The Walker spy ring finally compromised the propeller’s design. Subsequent Russian submarines that used similar style screws earned the informal nickname of Walker-class boats.
Pride welled within me as I walked away from the marvelous wonder. In the six-man barrack room, a surprise awaited me. There was Southerland stowing his gear.
Things got even better the next day. After quarters, Davis introduced me to my Electrical Division (E-Div) peers.
As soon as I met Second-Class Electrician’s Mate Rich Marchbanks, I could tell he was extremely intelligent and driven to excel. Marchbanks was a hot runner and a Super-Nuc. Always striving to finish number one in any training attended, he rarely fell short of his goal. This included Nuclear Power School. He had a mischievous sense of humor and was very personable. Marchbanks would go on to become E-Div’s leading petty officer (LPO). He always treated those under him with respect and did not assign jobs unless they were necessary. He never hesitated to work alongside his subordinates, regardless how unpleasant the task. It was hard to get mad at him even when we were bone-dog-tired and grumpy. Marchbanks eventually shared a Honolulu apartment with Southerland and me.
My other E-Div peers included electricians Rich Lewis, Greg Metzgus, Charlie Ballard, Interior Communication Technicians Charlie Schweikert, and Dick Treptow.
COB Chief Cal Cochran searched me out and issued my submarine qualification card and Henry Clay piping tab. He had good news. The Clay was going to shift from the Atlantic Fleet to the Pacific and be home-ported in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, after her overhaul.
I could hardly believe my good fortune, my first-class shipmates, and Hawaii in my future.
After quarters, Davis offered to give me a tour of the Clay.
Chapter 7
* * *
Inside the Henry Clay
As Davis and I walked to the Clay, I tried to remember what they taught in submarine school. Disjointed facts swirled in my mind as I attempted to form a mental picture of her interior. FBM submarines had six compartments. Each had a plethora of equipment crammed into it. Watertight bulkheads and doors separated the compartments. The largest open area was the crew’s mess, where the crew ate, watched movies, and conducted group activities. If I was standing on the deck of the upper level of any compartment, the top of my head was below the surface of the water.
Although it only took a few minutes to make the walk, by the time we arrived at the Clay, my mind was a jumble of facts.
At the edge of the dry dock, we encountered a thin young sailor dressed in Navy dungarees. He was sporting a third-class crow. His Dixie cup white hat sat on his head at a seasoned salty angle.
Davis introduced us. Tommy Lee Connell was an A-ganger. He was from the South and came to the Clay from the USS Trout, SS 566.
Connell shook my hand and good-naturedly drawled, “By the way, do you know that nuc is only half a word? Heh. Heh.”
His remark made me wonder about submarine crew camaraderie.
Davis and I walked to an open hatch on the port side of the sail. I entered the opening. Inside was a shaft extending up to the bridge, and down into the submarine. While descending the metal ladder into the submarine, I quickly forgot Connell’s words. An unidentifiable unpleasant odor invaded my nose and it wrinkled in defense.
Davis, already at the bottom of the ladder, saw my reaction, laughed, and said, “Welcome to submarines. All submarines smell this way.”
He then related a story about drunken sailors trying to bring a skunk aboard their submarine. The inebriated men came staggering back to their boat. One of them had a live skunk under his arm. After they crossed the gangplank and started bringing the animal below decks, the topside watch confronted them. For every reason to discourage the act, the drunks had a retort. Finally, in exasperation, the topside watch commented on the smell. The drunk with the skunk said that it would get used to it, just as he did!
The nearby periscope stand and seats for driving the submarine meant we were in the attack center. While Davis was leading me towards the front of the boat, the disagreeable odor began fading. Were my olfactory senses adapting?
I gawked around trying to comprehend all the new exotic sights and sounds. What I saw did not match the mental image I had forged at submarine school. The inside of the submarine, in contrast to the impression of the Clay from the outside, was small and crowded with equipment. Southerland, at 6'3", would have a tough time not banging his head.
After traveling through a maze, we reached the watertight door leading into the torpedo room, the most forward section of the Clay.
While negotiating the opening, I banged my head on the upper edge of the frame. Surprisingly, Davis didn’t make fun of me.
Instead, he said, “That’s something else to get used to. No matter how long you’ve been aboard, it will happen every once in a while.”
I stopped and surveyed the obstacle. The opening in the bulkhead was an oval about three and a half feet high by twenty inches wide. A two-inch thick metal lip encircled the cavity. I had hit my head on its upper edge. The hatch’s lower lip was 18 inches from the deck. To pass through, a person needed to step over the lower lip and duck under the top.
Davis noticed I was not following and came back.
He instructed me to open and close it. The sooner I learned how to seal off a compartment the better. The first rule of damage control was isolating the problem. If there was an uncontrolled fire or flooding, the crew had half a chance of surviving if the casualty was contained to one compartment.
Facing aft, the hatch hinge was on the starboard side. A spring latch held it open. It swung into the torpedo room. I pulled the door towards me. The lip of the opening provided a sealing surface for the closed door. A slightly curved chrome bar with a ball-shaped knob on either end pivoted around the door’s middle and was the operating mechanism. When I rotated the bar in one direction, dogs (clamps) moved to hold the door closed. When shut, it was as strong as the bulkhead. Turning the rotating handle in the opposite direction retracted the dogs. Situated just above the operating mechanism was a small glass viewing port, for observing the adjacent compartment. It did not take long to familiarize myself with the door’s operation. Whenever the Clay was in port, the crew left the hatch open.
There were four torpedo tubes on the compartment’s forward bulkhead. Several empty torpedo racks were on the port and starboard edges of the area. The compartment had one level and there was no room to spare. In addition to equipment, several bunks helped fill the space. Davis pointed out the forward escape trunk in the overhead and a torpedo loading hatch along with its support equipment nestled aft of the trunk.
He mentioned that the cooks stored cases of eggs in the torpedo room’s nooks and crannies. It was one of the cooler parts of the boat and relatively close to the galley.
Reversing direction, I had to pass through the watertight door again. Remembering my last experience passing through the obstacle, I made a special e
ffort to ensure my head did not have another painful encounter. This time my noggin escaped unscathed. Unfortunately, I was paying so much attention to the top of the hatch I ended up barking my shin on the lower lip. After flinging a few well-deserved meaningless intensifiers at the object, I concluded it was much less painful to rap my thick skull than bang my shins.
I didn’t ask what kind of impression I was making. Davis was probably having doubts about my future as a submariner. To his credit, he did not show any outward signs of that opinion.
We continued down the narrow passageway of the middle level of the operations compartment. On the starboard side was the wardroom. I stopped and looked through the open door. Several plaques adorned the wall and a long table was in the middle. The chair at the forward end of the table stood out. It had arms. I deduced it was the captain’s seat.
There was an opening in the forward bulkhead of the wardroom. I saw a small kitchen through the conduit. Davis said it was the officers’ pantry. Stewards obtained a portion of the food prepared in the main galley, added a bit of garnish, and served the officers.
Across the passageway from the wardroom were the junior officer staterooms. Three to four men shared each one. The area had a communal toilet and shower. Stewards took care of officers’ personal needs, like doing their laundry, making beds, cleaning staterooms, serving meals, and shining shoes. The Clay had one Filipino steward. He was a foreign national. That meant he could not go into the engineering spaces, sonar shack, radio room, or any other space with classified equipment. The restriction prevented him from qualifying in submarines.
Farther aft on the port side were the trash disposal unit (TDU), the boat’s walk-in refrigerator and freezer, galley, and the area where the crew ate, called the mess deck.
On the starboard side and across from the forward entrance to the mess deck were the chief’s quarters. Sailors affectionately called it the goat locker. Just aft of the chief’s quarters was a blank wall with a closed door. Davis opened the door, revealing the submarine’s main ventilation room. Filling the space were fans and duct work. Seeing the room’s crowded condition, I asked if the fans were reliable.
He chuckled while giving me a sly look, “You’ll find out soon enough. Some guys can maneuver their way through and work in there much easier than others.”
His indirect reference of my small stature did not give me a very good feeling.
We reversed directions and headed forward. After re-passing the mess deck and galley, we came to a stairway. It led us down to the operations compartment lower level.
Only nuclear submarines had stairways. Conventional boats were too small to have this luxury, and passage between levels was strictly via vertical metal ladders. Even in the Clay, vertical ladders were the predominant means of access from one deck to another.
After descending the stairs, we faced the main berthing area. It accommodated about 80 sailors. Bunks were recessed into the walls and stacked three high, each with its own privacy curtain.
I noticed that the area was devoid of occupants and asked Davis about the circumstance.
He told me the crew was living in barrack until after the overhaul.
Turning around, he led me to the head, which contained toilets, sinks, and showers. A small lounge had shelves crammed with books. The first-class petty officer quarters, a room with two washers and dryers, and missile system’s fire control center were also in this area.
Davis showed me the deck hatch into the Clay’s 126-cell battery well. The battery was the FBM’s emergency electrical power supply. Whenever the reactor was shut down and the emergency diesel generator or shore power was unavailable, the crew pressed it into service.
Electrician’s mates spent an abundance of quality time in the space. We usually called it jumping the well. It was no fun. The overhead was too close to the working deck to stand up or even kneel. Men had to either duck-walk scrunched over or crawl to move around. There was no way to avoid getting battery acid on yourself and your clothes.
After cleaning the battery, some electricians asked the cooks to make up a bowl of water and baking soda. Then they used it to neutralize the acid on their hands and arms, which minimized burns. The worst reaction was some redness and a slight stinging sensation. I had so much acid on my hands, the bowl foamed over when I stuck them into it. It sure felt good.
Since acid eventually disintegrates clothing, Davis recommended I designate one set of dungarees for those duties. That way I would only ruin one work uniform.
Next, we went up two sets of stairs to upper level operations compartment.
The forward portion housed the captain and executive officer’s staterooms, radio room, sonar, and the Clay’s office. Aft of these, the Control Room occupied the majority of the level.
I recalled submarine school teaching other monikers for this area, such as conn and attack center. Officers directed all aspects of the submarine from here.
My head was swimming from all the information Davis spewed: navigational equipment, tables for charts, controls for firing missiles and torpedoes, periscopes, communication equipment, alarm consoles, and so on.
We moved to the ballast control panel (BCP). The chief of the watch (COW) manned it under direction of the diving officer. The diving officer was in charge main ballast tank vents, emergency-blow chicken switches, and maintaining the submarine’s overall trim, which meant keeping the boat at a specific fore and aft angle.
Every so often, men played games with the diving officer, especially if he was new. A group of the crew, called a trim party, moved from one end of the boat to the other. This made the submarine tilt off the desired angle. Pumping water from one tank to another re-established the proper trim. Then the trim party raced to the other end of the submarine. They kept it up until the diving officer figured out what was happening.
Davis pointed toward two seats forward of the periscope stand. They faced an indication panel.
A helmsman and planesman physically controlled the submarine’s depth and direction. Each used a control yoke, a device that looks like a small steering wheel. It was similar to that used by an airplane pilot. The helm and planesman took direction from the diving officer. The planesman sat in the outboard seat and operated his yoke to control the stern-planes. These planes have the most influence on a submarine’s depth. The helmsman controlled the rudder and sailplanes. He also manipulated the engine order telegraph. It relayed how fast the officer of the deck (OOD) wanted the submarine to go. When he turned the engine order telegraph’s knob, a similar device in maneuvering, the control station for the reactor and propulsion turbines, mirrored the signal.
At that point, my mind was a convoluted mass of disjointed facts. I refused to tell him I had had enough. This was what being a submariner was about. He must intimately know his boat from end to end and understand how everything worked and interfaced. That was why it took so long to qualify in submarines and why men had so much pride in earning their Dolphins. Although I felt overwhelmed, it spurred my desire to become the best submariner possible.
My mind refocused when I heard Davis say, “That watertight hatch leads you to upper level missile compartment.”
He turned and walked forward. We descended a ladder to the next level. To my amazement, I recognized where we were.
We were a bit forward of the galley and ventilation room. We walked aft to the watertight door separating the operations and missile compartment.
I awkwardly passed through the opening and congratulated myself for not inflicting any pain to my body.
Davis continued with his guided tour.
The missile compartment had three levels. Crewmen fondly called it Sherwood Forest. That was because the two rows of eight missile tubes each were like tree trunks. Other than access to parts of the missile tubes, there was not much in either the upper or the lower levels. The upper level didn’t have a real deck, just deck grating. On patrol, the crew stored supplies in the lower level.
I
t was almost breathtaking the way the missile tubes virtually filled the entire space. Knowing the tube’s purpose made me shudder. To calm my nerves, I reminded myself that the weapons’ purpose was deterrence, not as an offensive strike.
Feeling a bit better, and still in the middle level, we walked to the starboard side. On the outboard and forward end of the compartment was the missile launching control panel. Knobs, switches, and indicators covered it. I saw Davis’s mouth moving as he described the complex station, but he might as well have been talking to a wall. My mind flashed back to the question on the psychological test at submarine school: “Would you launch nuclear weapons?”
As he rambled on, I scanned the panel for the terrible launch mechanism.
It should stand out somehow. Warning signs should flank something that important, and it should have a huge lock. On the contrary, every switch, button, and knob appeared benign. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t find it and was too shy to ask.
We moved to the compartment’s port side and walked down the passageway.
The double row of missile tubes in the compartment’s center was to our left. Several rooms were on the outboard edge. There was a laboratory for performing chemical and radiological analysis by the engineering laboratory technician (ELTs); it was called the Nucleonics Lab. Next was the doctor’s office, office space for the engineering department called the logroom, a lavatory, and another berthing area.
At the aft end of the passageway, we turned left, walked to the starboard side, and came upon another set of stairs.
I was grateful for the short respite from technical jargon and felt ready for him to bombard me with more information.
We climbed the stairs and passed through a doorway.