by Ted E. Dubay
Dick Treptow, one of our nuc interior communications technicians (IC-men), relieved me as throttleman. IC-men and electricians were in the electrical division. As such, we shared a special bond. Regardless, it did not stop either group from pinging on the other.
As I was exiting maneuvering and knowing Treptow always checked the condition of the after lighting ground detector, I razzed him about a ground on phase-C, from the main seawater valve’s position indicator.
He took it good-naturedly and commented about electricians having their own issues with lighting system grounds. Then he would have the last laugh, while electricians tried to find and fix it.
After leaving maneuvering, I quickly passed through the engine room, machinery 2 upper level and the tunnel, and paused in machinery 1 to gaze out the open hatch to the outside. The faster I ate, the more time I could be topside. I continued through the middle level missile compartment to the mess deck in the operations compartment.
After wolfing down lunch, I hurried through the operations and missile compartments to machinery 1. As I stood at the bottom of the ladder, the welcome odor of our proximity to land permeated my nose. While I was looking up through the hatch, the brilliant sunshine hurt my eyes. I climbed the ladder slowly, allowing my eyes to adapt to the brightness. Nearing the top, I could feel the confined space of the submarine releasing its grip. In its place was a feeling of freedom, and my soul seemed to stretch to infinity. I saw something my consciousness was not aware of having missed. It was distance—space between me and other objects—something most people take for granted.
USS Henry Clay passing through the Panama Canal, during her transit from Charleston, South Carolina, to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Individuals are unidentifiable. From the archives of Ted E. Dubay (June 1970).
Technicolor replaced the Clay’s drab interior. The submarine was in the muddy brown Chagares River. I relished the lush jungle, of every imaginable shade of green punctuated by an abundance of multicolored flowers. It was such a contrast to the black exterior of the Clay. The cloudless sky was a perfect shade of blue.
I noted safety lines along the sides of the missile deck and the edges of the fairwater planes. They were not substantial, but someone had to be very careless to fall overboard. Tempering the freedom and natural beauty was the intensely hot and humid air. Underneath a long-sleeved poopie suit, underclothing, and ball cap, a layer of sweat quickly coated my body. The other crewmen who escaped the confines of the Clay were in the same state and did not seem to care. Being outside the boat, I felt temporarily paroled from my submarine prison. Everyone was enjoying his brief period of freedom. Some were sitting and quietly talking. Others were lost in absorbing the atmosphere. I saw that Southerland was sleeping. There were a number on the fairwater planes enjoying an elevated view. I decided to observe the scenery from the missile deck and snap a few pictures. My Kodak Instamatic camera was not the best, but serviceable and compact. Not long after arriving topside, we passed a waterfall, off the starboard side. It was so beautiful I could not resist capturing the image.
During my time topside, the natural environment fascinated me. The marvelous technologically advanced equipment inside the Clay failed to inspire the same awe. It was probably a subconscious attempt to escape the stark interior of the submarine.
Birds flitted amongst the foliage. Brilliant butterflies fluttered everywhere. Puffs of wind twisted and turned leaves in every direction. I bathed in the wonderful rays of the sun. Even the foam kicked up by the Clay’s wake, as she slowly churned through the muddy water, enthralled me.
Although I marveled at the monumental effort of wresting the canal from the primitive and hostile environment, the result paled in the face of the surrounding natural beauty. It was a shame that the locks replaced such beautiful scenery.
One of the major obstacles the canal builders overcame was malaria-infected mosquitoes. Even my dad had contracted the disease when stationed here during World War II. He suffered all through the war in Europe and several years afterward. On the day the war in Europe ended, he was delirious in a hospital in Germany. Dad did not find out about the declaration of peace for several days.
The lack of mosquitoes while transiting the canal surprised me. Maybe our submarine smell was acting as a repellant.
As the submarine approached the Bridge of the Americas, an ocean liner was to our left and entering the canal from the Pacific. There were so many people lining our side of their ship, waving and taking pictures, it was actually listing. The Clay’s sailors moved to the port side and enthusiastically returned the gestures. Southerland and I spied several especially attractive young women and tried to get their attention.
Suddenly Southerland shouted, “Snakes!”
He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the hundreds of sea snakes swimming beside the Clay. Almost as one, we retreated from the safety rail to the center of the missile deck. I am not sure about my fellow crewmembers, but even non-venomous snakes give me the heebie-jeebies. Knowing sea snakes are one of the most poisonous species in the world sent a shiver up my spine. In spite of these critters’ surrounding the Clay, it was not enough to drive me back into the confines of the submarine. The feeling of freedom overshadowed all other factors and I did not want to go below until there was no longer a choice.
That moment was not long in coming. The water was deep enough for the Clay to dive. Reluctantly, after giving a final glance around, I entered the boat’s dreary interior. A metal tube of artificial light, navy gray equipment, Formica that barely simulated wood, and cramped quarters replaced the limitless, vibrant-hued and alive world, which for most of my life I had taken for granted.
Although Hawaii lies to the northeast and 4500 miles from the western exit of the Panama Canal, the Clay did not head in that direction. Instead, our course paralleled the coast of Mexico. Prior to arriving in Pearl Harbor, we were going to have a port of call. The crew unanimously voted on stopping in Acapulco. Somehow, that didn’t happen, and we headed to Long Beach, California. Captain Montross was from the area.
Our change in liberty port disappointed us, but we quickly settled into the underway routine. For me, I was condemned to port and starboard throttleman watches, on watch for six hours, off for six, etc. There was one upside. We were not conducting any drills. This allowed me to remain rested, work on qualifications, and stay caught up on my work. Since we were in transit and expected in Long Beach on a certain day, the submarine ran fast and deep.
One day our watch section in maneuvering was talked-out. We had no interest in intellectual discussions about girls, food, or anything that could take minds off our encapsulation in a metal cylinder. After an hour of silence, the numbing atmosphere affected the engineering officer of the watch. His eyes began to droop. Soon his head was nodding as he ineffectively tried to fight off falling asleep. Davis, the electrical operator, noticed the officer’s demeanor.
Wishon, the engine room supervisor, appeared in the door to maneuvering. After a few subtle hand signals from Davis, Wishon left without speaking. Davis placed a forefinger on his lips. The reactor operator and I did not understand, but we got the message to remain quiet. Davis turned around and tied the officer’s shoelaces together.
A few minutes later, we heard a loud crack from beneath the officer. I quickly looked in his direction. Suspended about a foot above his chair, the man had a wide-eyed expression of terror. When settled back in his seat, he realized the state of his shoes. He glared as we erupted in laughter. The man could not reprimand us. If he did, he had to admit to a lapse of attention, which was severe enough to allow someone to violate his footwear and send him flying. Wishon emerged from lower level engine room and walked aft of maneuvering. In his hand was Bruce, the short-handled 12-pound sledgehammer.
The sledge and the officer’s flight made me understand Davis’s amusement during my initial tour of the engine room when he said, “See those three can-looking things? They’re for the bottom posts of maneuvering’s ch
airs.”
Wishon joined us in having a good laugh at the officer’s expense.
Our levity ceased when the submarine abruptly developed a severe down-bubble. I quickly grabbed the ahead throttle wheel and kept from falling. Thinking that the captain was executing unannounced angles and dangles, I formed a string of expletives on my tongue. Before I had a chance to utter them, the engine order telegraph demanded a back emergency, and “Jam dive” blasted from the 1MC. Due to the submarine’s initial high speed and depth, I realized our dire situation. Survival depended on ending the descent.
My job was stopping the submarine’s forward motion. I instinctively acknowledged the bell with my right hand. The left began shutting the ahead throttles by turning its control wheel clockwise.
At the same time, I sang out, “Back emergency!”
In parallel, the reactor operator shifted the reactor coolant pumps to high speed.
Without skipping a beat, my right hand relieved the left and furiously continued shutting the ahead throttles. To save a few seconds, my left shifted to the astern control wheel and simultaneously whipped it in the counterclockwise direction. Although this saved time, it was a dangerous action. Admitting steam through the propulsion turbine’s reverse poppets, while the ahead throttles were still open, would catastrophically damage the turbines. The Clay needed them to stop her downward momentum and prevent our destruction. Luckily, my experience had taught me exactly how far to turn the astern wheel. After a momentary verification that the shaft was at zero RPM, I rapidly opened the astern throttles. The sudden massive steam demand sucked heat from the nuclear reactor. The reactor operator wore a grim face as he adjusted control rods. Matching reactor power with steam demand without causing a SCRAM was critical for survival.
I tersely barked, “Answering back emergency.”
The boat’s down-bubble had gotten worse, and the hull was noisily complaining about the extreme pressure as we went deeper. My hands were locked onto the astern throttle wheel in a death grip. I realized I was fruitlessly pulling on the wheel trying to end our descent, but couldn’t resist the urge. Accentuating everything, the throttle wheel was violently moving fore and aft, matching the submarine’s throbbing.
My heart pounded while waiting for a sign that my actions were improving our situation.
Then I succumbed to temptation. A check of maneuvering’s depth gauge made my heart shudder.
Although the submarine was rising, we were still far below test depth.
The submarine had flirted with crush depth.
After what seemed an eternity, the engine order telegraph signaled all-stop. With the throttles closed, our return to the surface was at the mercy the Clay’s positive buoyancy. I breathed a sigh of relief as the submarine continued rising and its rate accelerated.
With the submarine finally wallowing on the surface, I felt drained and had to sit. I recalled wondering about my performance during a real crisis. My chest swelled with pride. I had been a major contributor to saving the USS Henry Clay and her 125 officers and men.
It did not take long to find out what happened. A hydraulic pipe blew apart. The component supplied the controlling fluid to the planes. It may sound strange, but planes fail full dive on a loss of pressure.
Our incessant training paid off. The crew functioned as a highly skilled team or I would not be here telling this story. Our captain personally awarded each man who carried out corrective actions a much-deserved “Well done.”
Following the event, I recalled how I wondered about my ability to meet the challenge of becoming a submariner and maintaining my poise in a real crisis. The incident proved to me that I had a healthy future in the submarine service.
Although the Clay was safe, repairing the broken pipe posed another challenge. We were essentially out in the middle of nowhere and on our own. Submarines carried limited spare parts. Extra pipes and valves were definitely not in the Clay’s tiny storeroom. This is the sort of risk that had been faced by all submarines since they came into existence. It is one reason why the submarine force only takes volunteers and then selects the best. The crew of the Clay was no exception to this tradition.
Our talented and ingenious crewmen quickly repaired the damage.
After the near catastrophe, no one in the crew displayed any outward signs that the event affected him. Maybe it was a form of denial. Regardless of the reason, levity was running rampant.
During this period, someone overheard a greenhorn torpedoman stating he would do anything for a letter from his girlfriend. She had promised to write every day.
Later that day, word spread throughout the FBM that we needed a person to retrieve a bag of letters from a mail buoy. The rookie torpedoman readily volunteered.
When all arrangements for the ruse were complete, the captain surfaced the Clay. As the torpedoman was about to climb the ladder to go topside and retrieve the mail, catcalls and laughter erupted from the perpetrators in the attack center. The victim’s face turned beet-red when he realized it was only a mischievous prank.
All levels of the crew, even the captain, masterfully planned and executed the hoax. Although it was sophomoric, I’m sure it helped relieve any residual tensions from the jam dive.
The remaining trip to Long Beach was uneventful, and we all looked forward to three days in sunny California.
Even though Long Beach was the home of a large naval base, very few submarines visited. The city considered our captain a hometown hero and they rolled out the red carpet.
City officials requested we make a dramatic and grand entrance by performing a super-surface. Prior to emerging from the depths, we were supposed to fire a smoke bomb out of the signal ejector so a helicopter could capture the moment.
At the scripted time, men launched the projectile.
Shortly after we’d surfaced, the captain’s angry voice blared over maneuvering’s intercom, “What the hell did you shoot?”
Prior to this, the engineering officer of the watch, Lieutenant Robert Hawthorne, one of our more talented young officers, had been relaxed and casual. He was youthful, good-looking, intelligent, hard-working, and personable. In anticipation of getting off the boat as soon as we docked, he was wearing, contrary to regulations, his white dress uniform with a short-sleeved shirt. We good-naturedly chided him about wearing short sleeves in the engineering spaces. In response, he donned paper sleeves, complete with lieutenant bars.
In almost a panic, Hawthorne ripped off the false sleeves and had a very concerned demeanor.
In a more controlled communication, the conn informed us that we had launched a flare instead of a smoke bomb. It detonated very close to the helicopter. The pilot instinctively executed evasive maneuvers, but missed taking photos of our surface. The helicopter’s pilot was upset and expressed his displeasure.
From the tone of his voice, we could tell that our captain wasn’t happy with the incident either.
Mr. Hawthorne was despondent. There was the potential that the captain would rescind his much-anticipated liberty. Even worse, the captain could document the incident in Hawthorne’s service record. Had his promising career come to a screeching halt? It had not, because he went on to an illustrious career and retired as a captain.
He looked so forlorn that we tried to console him. Somehow, our comments about having a future as a junior anti-aircraft gunnery officer on a surface ship did not alleviate his dejected mood.
Because no one was hurt or any real damage inflicted, the crew reveled in the fact we almost shot down a helicopter. It didn’t take long before a cartoon of the Clay appeared on the maneuvering status board. It depicted an FBM submarine with a helicopter icon on the sail, mimicking how World War II submarines painted symbols on their sails when they sank enemy ships. An added touch to the cartoon was a broom affixed to the periscope, signifying a clean sweep.
Much to the credit of the helicopter pilot, he managed to regain his composure and took pictures of us entering the harbor.
&
nbsp; Just after docking, I was still the throttleman. Suddenly, all hell broke loose in maneuvering. The horn for the steam plant control panel, the siren of the reactor plant control panel, and the salinity panel bell started sounding randomly and intermittently. The White Rat emitted a series of clicking noises. Screech. Click. Ding. Ding. Click. Click. Screech. Honk. Ding. Honk. Click. Ding. Screech.
I scanned the alarm section of the steam plant control panel and no alarms were flashing. A check of all other indications showed everything was normal.
Nobody in maneuvering could discover a reason for the noises.
Then they stopped.
Everyone in maneuvering looked at each other with confused expressions.
Before we were able to relax, the commotion began again. Honk. Ding. Click. Screech. Ding.
Again, the cause couldn’t be determined, and we expanded our investigation.
Before long, Treptow reported something strange going on with the after lighting ground detector. The lights for all three phases were blinking in a random pattern.
Treptow appeared in the doorway with a devilish grin. His previous curse had befallen us electricians. There was a ground in our equipment.
Electricians worked around the clock trying to discover the culprit. It did not take long to determine that the ground was in the engine room lighting. Finding which fixture was the actual problem proved more difficult. It was a miserable job. The engine room was very hot and humid at deck level. Lights and their wiring were in the overhead, where the conditions were even worse. Adding to our discomfort, machinist’s mates hurled complaints when the lights above where they were working went out. Even Southerland became irritated with me.
Sweating profusely, we disconnected circuits and performed megger checks. Sometimes we thought we found the offending fixture. Then the demon ground raised its ugly head and dashed our hopes.