Three Knots to Nowhere

by Ted E. Dubay

  Sound trials determined the Clay’s noise level. A stationary barge packed with sophisticated listening devices recorded our sounds, as the submerged submarine sailed past it. Each pass was carefully scripted. Hundreds of cards delineated every imaginable combination of equipment and speed of the submarine. We aligned the equipment as required and then sailed past the barge. When the sensors captured an adequate recording, we made the next alignment. The process was repeated over and over.

  After experts analyzed each recording, we would know which combination was best for certain situations. One of the more significant conditions was ultra quiet. It was the Clay’s absolute quietest combination. The analysis also determined the Clay’s signature. A signature is like a fingerprint. Every vessel has one; each is unique and is used for identification.

  During sound trials, a strange sensation disturbed my sleep. The submarine was experiencing periodic concussions. They were violent enough to awaken me from a deep sleep. I was groggily aware of each, but could not figure out the cause. Before my mind could clear from its fog, I heard the 1MC announcement to surface. The shuddering ceased. I quickly fell back to sleep. Port and starboard auxiliary electrician aft watches (six hours on watch, six off, then six hours of watch), plus working on submarine qualifications had left me exhausted.

  When I entered the crew’s mess, a loud din of animated conversations filled the area. I sat with Southerland and Lewis.

  They were excitedly talking about depth charges.

  Southerland was performing an equipment shift in the lower level engine room when the first shock wave struck. The EOOW passed the word to cease realigning equipment and determine what was happening. The lower level watch and Southerland inspected everything. Southerland checked the forward end and the LLER did the same back aft. Both determined the source was external to the boat. The shocks continued and increased in intensity. They could not find any abnormalities, so Southerland went to the upper level engine room. Then the boat surfaced.

  Southerland went to maneuvering. He figured the EOOW, Mr. Murphy, might know what was going on. Murphy was the most experienced person in engineering. He was an enlisted man before becoming a limited duty officer (LDO) and had a lot of knowledge. Murphy said he was not positive, but if he did not know better, he would bet they were depth charges.

  My heart skipped a beat at the thought. Without saying anything, I recalled seeing the torpedo coming at the Fulton and remembered how that incident scared me. Fear again permeated my psyche. I was silently grateful for being in a stupor during this incident.

  At the end of the watch, Mr. Murphy came through with the answer. They were live depth charges! He told us an American destroyer was the culprit. It was conducting its own testing. They somehow got out of their sector and into ours. Our captain realized what was happening. Unfortunately, he was sleeping when the action started, and that delayed evasive action. Even though there was enough time to take safety measures before being in immediate danger, it was too close for comfort.

  Captain Montross was furious and we surfaced. He then royally chewed out the destroyer’s commanding officer. I wish I’d been there to hear our captain’s tirade. I heard it left the destroyer’s captain very concerned about his career.

  Luckily, we emerged unscathed and the rest of sound trials were uneventful.

  The Gold Crew’s next assignment was testing our upgraded missile system. The Clay pulled into Port Canaveral, Florida, to conduct the testing.

  To qualify in submarines, submarine sailors study and understand every system and component on a submarine. The Clay’s missile system was the first I mastered. Maybe it was because the “Would you launch nuclear weapons?” question on the psychological test had been haunting my subconscious. In submarine school, the real significance of possessing the knowledge to launch a missile had not sunk in. Now that I was about to participate in an actual launch, the nagging question resurfaced. I reassessed my original answer. As before, it still stood. I’d rather not actuate the launch. On the other hand, given an attack on our nation, there wasn’t any doubt I could carry out the act.

  For our missile launch, the Clay’s crew members were permitted to have guests ride an escort destroyer and view the event. My dad’s brother Harry and his wife Vicky lived not far from Port Canaveral. I invited them. They appreciated the opportunity, especially since Uncle Harry served in submarines during World War II. Harry inspired me to volunteer for submarine duty.

  As a side note, when I was mess cooking on the USS Fulton, a chief petty officer asked if my father was Harry Dubay. I told him he wasn’t, but I had an uncle by that name. It turned out they served on the same submarine during World War II. I put him in touch with my uncle, and he exchanged correspondence with Harry until my uncle passed away. It was gratifying to know I was instrumental in reuniting old buddies.

  On May 22, 1970, the Clay left Port Canaveral early in the morning. Uncle Harry and Aunt Vicky were aboard the escorting destroyer, USS Cone. The surface ship shadowed the Clay and provided the perfect vantage point from which to observe us submerging and firing our missile.

  I was in the engine room as the countdown neared zero. I braced myself. The deck dropped from under my feet when the missile blasted away from the Clay. I grabbed the after-signal ejector to keep my balance. My unbalance was short-lived as the Clay’s hovering system quickly stabilized the FBM. It was a perfect test and our missile struck its intended target.

  Next on the agenda was a simulation of firing all 16 missiles, called a salvo. The Clay did not launch any projectiles. The test only ejected the equivalent of the weight of a missile out of each tube. I was in shaft alley when the shuddering of the submarine announced the event. The Clay’s ability to dispatch more destruction than that deployed by all sides during World War II, and in such a short time, left me shaken. I hoped and prayed our nation never needed to order such an act. There wasn’t much opportunity to dwell on that thought. Work assignments and watch station duties demanded my time and attention.

  After we returned to port, I was in the group of nucs who could leave the FBM for the evening. Uncle Harry, Aunt Vicky, and I made plans for dinner.

  The non-nuclear-trained crewmembers could go on liberty as soon as the boat tied up to the dock. Nucs had to remain onboard until the engineering plant was shut down. Although difficult and time-consuming, shutdown of the plant allowed some of us to have a few hours of free time. Early the next morning, we nucs would awaken before everyone else and start the plant back up again. It was a pain in the butt, although it had advantages.

  Test missile launched by USS Henry Clay. U.S. Navy file photograph (May 1970).

  When my tasks were complete, I changed into a set of rumpled civilian clothes, hoping they did not reek too badly.

  Emerging from the Clay’s hatch, I glanced around. Harry and Vicky were on the far end of the pier. They spied me.

  I apologized for being late and hoped they hadn’t been bored.

  Harry had kept Vicky entertained by telling her some of his submarine service experiences. Harry shook my hand and Vicky gave me a hug. If my submarine smell offended them, they were polite enough to keep it to themselves. I did not press the issue.

  Harry, an ex–World War II submariner, rubbed his chin and said, “I can’t believe how long it took your submarine to submerge. In my day, if we were that slow, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”

  I suspected his World War II–era submarine had larger ballast tank vent valves. There was another difference. Nuclear-powered boats operated completely opposite of his submarine. His submarine ran on the surface most of the time and needed to dive in order to escape from sudden attacks. Nuclear submarines mostly operate undersea and do not surface until returning to port. The Clay was also a lot bigger than his submarine. That made it take longer to get under. Size makes a difference. Nuclear attack submarines are smaller than an FBM. If an attack boat and the Clay started diving at the same time, the fast attack would
be waiting at 150 feet by the time the Clay was at periscope depth.

  As we traveled to the restaurant, Vicky wanted to know what made a submarine dive. I provided the basics. When the Clay is on the surface, it has large ballast tanks full of air. They give the submarine positive buoyancy and she floats. The tanks are open at the bottom and there are valves on top to let the air out. This is similar to submerging an inverted drinking glass in water. The glass stays full of air, making the combination of glass and air less dense than the surrounding water. In other words, it has positive buoyancy and it pops to the surface, when released. Making a hole in the bottom of the inverted submerged glass allows the air to escape as the water pushes it out. Releasing the glass in this condition will let it stay submerged, because it has negative buoyancy. The same things happen in a submarine’s ballast tanks. Opening the tanks’ vent valves allows water to rush in and displace the air. The sub develops negative buoyancy and submerges. Submarines have other tanks to control the amount of negative buoyancy, so it maintains the proper depth. Submarines surface by replacing the water in a ballast tank with air. Submariners do this by blowing air from special bottles into the ballast tanks with the tank’s vent valves closed. The air flows in, water flows out openings at the tank bottoms, the submarine becomes buoyant, and it comes to the surface.

  Submariners sound the diving alarm twice when submerging and three times for surfacing.

  While enjoying a delicious fresh seafood supper, they caught me up on recent family news.

  After dinner, Harry and Vicky dropped me off at the pier. We waved goodbye. It was the last I saw of them until I got out of the Navy.

  While walking back to the Clay, I realized I had missed an opportunity to compare the Clay’s diving procedure with that of Harry’s submarine.

  The Clay’s initial rigging for dive preparations take an hour to an hour and a half.

  She has several positions dedicated to the diving evolution.

  In the control room are the chief of the watch (COW), the diving officer, and the helmsman who controls the rudder, along with a radar operator and the Clay’s executive officer. The XO is in charge of diving.

  There are four men stationed on the bridge at the top of the sail. The officer of the deck guides the surfaced submarine. With him are a junior officer of the deck (JOOD), a lookout, and quartermaster.

  Because the submarine will remain submerged for two months, keeping navigation and communications exposed to the elements is unwise. Modern submarines employ portable equipment to carry out those functions. They are in a special piece of equipment called a suitcase. It’s portable and looks like a silver clothes suitcase.

  When the Clay is rigged for dive, with the exception of the bridge, the officer of the deck ensures the boat is answering ahead one-third—about five knots. Then he formally transfers the deck and the conn to the new officer of the deck—the XO—inside the submarine. When the XO orders, “Rig the bridge for dive and lay below,” the officer in the bridge has the quartermaster disconnect the suitcase. In parallel, the new officer of the deck has the helmsman prepare to take control of the sailplanes, the chief of the watch shifts hydraulic pumps to run, and the forward auxillaryman secures ventilating the submarine with the low pressure blower.

  The lookout takes the suitcase below, becomes the planesman, and controls the stern planes.

  The quartermaster installs watertight caps on the suitcase cable connections in the bridge. The officer in the sail orders: “Clear the bridge.” Everybody goes below. The officer is the last to leave the bridge. While descending, he shuts and dogs the upper bridge watertight hatch. When the officer is in the control room, the quartermaster shuts and dogs the lower hatch. Next, the officer on the bridge says: “Last man down; hatch secured.”

  The chief of the watch and diving officer verify a green board. That is a special status of a panel for detecting major hull penetrations. A lit red circle means open. A green bar indicates closed. When all the green indicators are lit, it’s called a green board.

  The officer of the deck orders: “Submerge the ship; make your depth 60 feet.” Then he sounds the diving alarm twice. For each ah-oooo-gah, simultaneous pre-set actions happen. On the first, the diving officer has the planesman place the stern planes to full dive and maintain a five-degrees-down bubble. The radar operator lowers the radar mast and becomes the sonar operator. Termination of all radio transmissions occurs at this time and the men checking for leaks increase their diligence.

  The officer of the deck sounds the diving alarm a second time and makes a shipwide announcement: “Dive! Dive!” This initiates more scripted actions. The helmsman rings up ahead two-thirds, about ten knots, places the rudder amidships, and operates the sailplanes. He coordinates with the planesman to maintain the five-degrees-down bubble. The chief of the watch opens the forward and then the after ballast tank vents, which makes the submarine gain negative buoyancy.

  As the submarine submerges, the diving officer reports the boat’s depth at ten-foot intervals. When the boat is at 50 feet, the chief of the watch shuts the ballast tank vents. Several things happen at 60 feet, the ordered depth. The helmsman and planesman manipulate their planes to maintain 60 feet. The chief of the watch opens and shuts the ballast tank vents to ensure the tanks are completely full of water. Then he shifts the hydraulic pumps to standby. After trimming the boat for ahead one-third, the diving officer adjusts the boat’s buoyancy for ahead one-third and 60 feet.

  Other than the suitcase, I wondered how much different it was diving a submarine during World War II.

  I did not dwell on it. When back in the Clay, I immediately hit the rack. In four hours, I had another long day ahead of me.

  After returning to Charleston, the Clay headed up the Cooper River to the Naval Weapons Station.

  Once there, the Clay’s sixteen missile tubes became hosts to war-shot nuclear-tipped ICBMs.

  Shortly after the event, the yeoman gave me bad news. I was not eligible to have the government pay for shipping my belongings to Hawaii.

  I said, “Wait a minute. Everybody second-class and above is eligible.”

  “There’s another requirement. You have to be stationed in Hawaii for twelve months. You’re supposed to transfer off the Clay after her first patrol.”

  I was ticked off and requested a meeting with the executive officer. My argument that the Navy would most likely transfer me to another boat in Hawaii fell on deaf ears. He agreed with the probability of staying in the Pacific Fleet, but there was no guarantee.

  I consoled myself by focusing on my immediate future. Transiting from Charleston to Hawaii through the Panama Canal by submarine was an extraordinary event. Then I would be living in Hawaii for an undetermined time. The experience was something to savor. I was determined to make the most of it. I shoved the disappointment aside and was ready to begin my next adventure.

  On an unusually cold, rainy, blustery June 1970 morning, the USS Henry Clay embarked on her 8,000-mile transit to Hawaii via the Panama Canal. The Blue Crew would be waiting for us.

  This was perfect weather to begin a trip to the tropical paradise.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  Transit to Hawaii

  After leaving the Cooper River, the USS Henry Clay entered the Atlantic Ocean, passing through a portion of the Bermuda Triangle. Speculation of an unfortunate fate befalling the Clay in that notorious area circulated throughout the boat. I doubt if anyone really believed the superstitions. As expected, we passed through the Triangle without incident and proceeded southwest, skirting the east coast of Cuba.

  Since I was not qualified in submarines or all of my watch stations, I had no spare time. Connell’s long-ago prophecy had come true. The Clay’s Gold Crew strictly enforced the regulation banning non-quals from enjoying any entertainment, such as movies. My days were an endless series of standing port and starboard watches, performing work, qualifying and trying to get some rest.

  Each day rolled
into the next, without reprieve. Tasks kept me so busy, I was not aware we were getting close to the Panama Canal.

  One day when awakened by the duty messenger, I sensed the gentle rolling of the FBM. I surmised that the boat was at periscope depth. When entering the mess deck, I spied real milk on the tables. There was a buzz of excitement in the air. I sat with Southerland. He told me the submarine was in the Panama Canal. We received a supply of fresh stores, which explained the milk. My exhaustion had kept me in such a deep sleep, I was oblivious to it all. The klaxon sounding three times and the announcement to surface had not awakened me.

  I even slept through the Clay almost having a collision.

  It did not take long to learn the details. The Clay was approaching a stopped ship. The OOD signaled for all-stop, but the port and starboard propulsion turbine ahead control valves were stuck. A back one-third, back two-thirds, and finally a back emergency quickly followed all-stop. Wishon had to bang on the poppets with a sledgehammer to free them. When the turbines responded, the prop’s wash sent a wave over the turtleback and the after portion of the missile deck. Several crewmen got their feet wet.

  After eating lunch, I went back aft and relieved Davis as throttleman. He was still smiling like the Cheshire cat and cackling his typical mischievous laugh.

  Everybody liked the man. His infectious good humor, his extreme technical competence, and his excellent athleticism made him one of the more popular members of the crew.

  Having recently qualified as throttleman, I hoped my watch went by without a similar near-miss. Luckily, other than some benign speed changes, it did.

  Not long afterwards, Southerland stopped by maneuvering to deliver some good news. The captain declared holiday routine while we were in the Canal. This meant the crew did not have to perform any work other than standing watch, unless it was absolutely necessary. Southerland and I decided to spend as much time topside as possible.