Three Knots to Nowhere

by Ted E. Dubay

  While passing through machinery 1, I could not resist glancing up through the open hatch. The sight of the evening twilit sky transformed my previous desire to go topside into an obsession. The fixation gripped me like a vise. The need to escape the confines of the submarine one final time, to relax and enjoy the world outside, if only briefly, had to be satisfied. There was no way I could to get to sleep unless I quelled the desire. The brief escape had to wait until I delivered the Night Order Book.

  Davis was the shutdown maneuvering area watch. When I delivered the ledger, he was taking his readings. His pen was almost out of ink and he requested I bring a whole box of them because there were not any spares in the engineering spaces.

  I sighed in resignation. One more task to accomplish before I could quench my need to relax outside of the Clay. I placed the book on the EOOW desk.

  With teeth clenched in annoyance, I hurried to the logroom. The task was consuming valuable moments of my time out of the submarine.

  When I returned with the pens, Davis had his back towards the door. He was talking to the shutdown electrical operator on the 2JV. I placed the box on maneuvering’s footlocker and walked away unnoticed. I was grateful he was busy. By this time, I had calmed down a lot, although if we had spoken, I’d have said something regrettable.

  My brief sojourn out of the submarine was almost at hand. I hurried to machinery 1. While climbing the ladder, my tension evaporated.

  Once topside, I slowly made my way forward over the flat missile deck. At the aft end of the sail, my body suddenly felt drained and I slumped to the deck. I summoned the effort to move to the harbor side of the superstructure and sat.

  Even at this hour, it was hot and humid. The temperature and humidity were both in the low nineties. Sweat was flowing freely. The moisture could not evaporate and quickly dampened my clothing. The harbor’s water looked so inviting I contemplated jumping in. It required a lot of willpower, but I exercised better judgment and diverted my attention to the sky. A low-hanging, waning moon in a cloudless sky barely lit the harbor and landscape. Millions of stars punctuated the darkened heavens.

  The scene reminded me of similar sweltering evenings in rural Hickory Township. Back then, my brother Frank and I would politely excuse ourselves, go outside, and lie in the damp grass. Sometimes we would talk. On other occasions, we lay quietly listening to crickets, whippoorwills and far-off train whistles, and stared at the Milky Way. The sharp contrast between then and being a crew member of the most powerful weapon on Earth made my heart ache for those simple carefree times.

  I reminded myself why I was sitting topside and redirected thoughts to my temporary freedom from a steel container crammed with equipment and smelly people. I refused to try to identify the components of the Clay’s interior odor. When in the submarine, I knew it was there and simply got used to it. Outside, the smell was gone and quickly forgotten.

  As I sat on the metal deck, man-made noises quickly faded into oblivion, and I became engrossed in the island’s serenity. Compared to the din of the Clay’s confines, it was almost like being in a vacuum. I inhaled deeply and savored the fragrance of the night air. Wafting into my nose were the jungle’s distinct scent, a sweet perfume of tropical flowers, and the salt mist of the sea. I felt weightless. It almost seemed as if I could float away. I closed my eyes and savored the sensation. Amid the relative silence, the rustling of the wind through palm tree fronds and small wavelets softly lapping the sides of the hull soothed me. Off in the distance, huge Pacific Ocean waves roared like continuous far-off thunder. Every once in a while, the silhouette of a Guam fruit bat crossed in front of the sliver of the crescent moon. Somewhere along the dark shoreline, I heard the dull thump of a falling coconut. Quickly following the noise was the loud scolding of a cardinal honeyeater. I delighted in the magic of the exotic setting. My escape from the inside of the Clay was better than anything I could have imagined.

  The sound of the topside watch turning over to the next shift signaled that my time outside the FBM was over. I grudgingly went below. As I entered the submarine’s interior, colors evaporated, reminding me of Dorothy’s return to Kansas from Oz.

  All of my preparations for leaving in the morning were complete. I went to the mess deck for something to eat. Since it was midnight, the meal was mid–rats, short for midnight rations. The fare was typical. There was a selection of cold cuts, peanut butter and jelly, bread, milk, and bug juice. I made myself a small baloney sandwich. A glass of milk from the dispenser, nicknamed the Cow, completed the snack. I chose milk over bug juice, because the transit had taught me how fast we used up our limited supply of the commodity. After running out of the real thing, there was only powdered milk. I did not care for that type; to me, it was watery and tasted like plastic.

  I sat with Ron O’Heiren. He was a fire control technician. Like me, he was making his first patrol. We did not broach this subject. Instead, we talked about his recently broken watch. He was one of those people who could hardly do without one. O’Heiren had the misfortune of breaking his watch without any chance of getting a replacement. He was dejected.

  The Clay, unlike surface ships, did not have a ship’s store where small personal items were available for sale. Once we left port, crewmen must do without anything they ran out of or forgot. It didn’t matter what it was. The only possible relief was finding someone willing to share his supply. The same went for items that broke, as in the case of the watch; O’Heiren had to accept his fate.

  Once finished eating, we headed to berthing to get some shuteye. O’Heiren, a non-nuclear trained sailor, could sleep until 0600. I had to awake at 0400 to disconnect the shore power cables, the Clay’s electrical umbilical cord when she was not making her own electricity.

  I stripped off my dungarees and slid open my rack’s curtain. I stuffed the clothes into the laundry bag, which was hanging off the back bulkhead of my rack.

  A surprise was waiting for me. Lying on my pillow was a letter from my brother Frank, written in his typical cramped scrawl. I was very tired, so it was difficult translating the script. I deduced that his wife Marcia had their baby and they named him Seth. I composed a quick letter expressing my congratulations and expounded on how they picked a wonderful name. I hurried to the attack center and placed the letter in the mailbag. As I scurried back to berthing, a good feeling swept through me. Taking the time and effort was worth it. Frank and Marcia would not have to wait until I returned from patrol to know how proud I was to have a nephew named Seth.

  Lying down with the privacy curtain closed, I surveyed my six-foot-long, two-foot-wide, and 18"-high sanctuary. It was the only space on the submarine I could truly call my own. The sides and overhead had the same style of Formica as the rest of the Clay. A fluorescent light, a small ventilation supply, the little locker, and hooks for hanging a towel and laundry bag were there for my use. Amenities issued by the Navy were a two-inch-thick plastic-covered mattress, a pillow, two sheets, a navy-gray wool blanket, and a thin tan bedspread. To make my haven less stark, I had two quasi-companions. Taped to the space’s overhead was a poster of Raquel Welch. Lying beside me was a small teddy bear. The doll served no purpose other than irritating officers during weekly inspections. Gazing at my Spartan surroundings, I took it in. Although tight quarters, it was surprisingly comfortable and essentially a smaller version of the submarine. The Clay’s hull isolated me from the sea. My rack’s coffin-like enclosure and curtain separated me from the rest of the submarine. I felt serene and protected.

  After turning off my light, I rolled over onto my stomach. My arms were pinned under me. I had them fully extended, with palms against my thighs. This may sound like a strange position, but it was the only pose which allowed me to fall asleep when on the submarine. Sleep quickly and mercifully overcame me. My three and a half hours of slumber would be over too soon.

  Notes

  1. Fred R. Shapiro, ed., The Yale Book of Quotations (London: Yale University Press, 2006), 230.

&
nbsp; 2. Submarine Research Center, Submarine Skullduggery (Silverdale, WA: Submarine Research Center), 2004, 31–3.

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  Getting Underway

  The messenger of the watch jarred me awake by jerking my curtain open and shining a flashlight in my face. While pointing the light at my eyes, he half-shouted, “Hey, Dubay. Wake up. Boy, I love getting nucs up two hours before everybody else.”

  I tried to shield my eyes. Looking past the light, I recognized him. It was one of the sailors fresh from submarine school. So far, he had an over-inflated opinion of himself and tried to take liberties not yet earned. Nuclear-trained personnel were his favorite targets.

  I did not appreciate his actions and said, “Get that light out of my face, you non-qual puke. Keep harassing us nucs and your engineering checkouts will be pure hell.”

  He left, although his demeanor did not show he took my warning seriously. If his attitude did not change, he would soon discover the consequences.

  Giving every unqualified crewmember a fair chance was the normal submarine culture. They were volunteers and had made it through submarine school. As long as the non-quals had a good attitude, the qualified men would bend over backwards helping them with their quals. On the other hand, the wrong approach brought about a miserable time. It was their choice.

  I rolled out of my rack, irritated by the combination of too little sleep and the treatment of the messenger. Shaking my head cleared the cobwebs. I slowly counted to ten. At seven, the irritation was subsiding. By the number ten, I felt much better.

  A few moments of bewilderment ensued. I could not find my dungarees. Then I remembered the uniform of the day was poopie suits.

  I chuckled at my confusion. From now on, we did everything in our power to preserve the Clay’s atmosphere as clean as possible although, the submarine produced various contaminants and crewmen could smoke. The FBM had an atmosphere analyzer. It sampled every compartment and analyzed them for freon, carbon monoxide, oxygen, carbon dioxide, and hydrogen concentration. As precious as we considered our air, its potential to become foul was far from being the limiting factor of how long we could stay submerged. Filters in the ventilation systems and the carbon dioxide scrubbers purified the atmosphere. Oxygen generators produced more O2 than we consumed. Even so, our equipment could not remove some pollutants. We either minimized their production or restricted potential sources. Personal items such as radium dial watches that emitted radioactive isotopes and aerosol cans were of particular concern.

  While I was asleep, another group of nucs had started up the reactor and the Clay was self-sustaining on nuclear power. Our boat no longer needed electricity from the shore power cables and my job was disconnecting them. Detaching the cables was not a difficult task. My main concern was making sure things were de-energized before sticking my grubby mitts on them. Coming in contact with an energized shore power cable meant certain death. My electrical training had ingrained a deep respect for electricity and I refused to take any shortcuts. I located the tagout log and checked the proper sheet. The paperwork was in order. Even so, I physically checked each component. The verification revealed that the electrical breakers were in the correct position and associated safety tags were in place. Not leaving anything to chance, I entered maneuvering and confirmed the proper meters on the electrical plant control panel indicated zero volts and no amps.

  When connecting the cables, I used a multimeter to verify no electricity was present. During the disconnecting process, this was not possible. With the cables connected, the situation was similar to a household extension cord plugged into a wall socket. The prongs of the plug were not accessible. That was why I took the extra safety precautions.

  I obtained a spanner wrench and climbed the ladder just forward of maneuvering leading to the after-escape trunk.

  Although designed to hold several sailors for an emergency escape, the cavity was not large. In my situation, the cables nestled on the side of the trunk occupied much of the void. They severely limited the available working room. My miniature stature was an advantage in the confined space.

  Each end of the three shore power cables had a bronze female threaded connector with a rubber gasket. I used the spanner to loosen the female end from the male connection at the side of the escape trunk and unscrewed them by hand. When they were disconnected, I placed the cables on the FBM’s hull. Once there, workers from the sub tender hauled the heavy wires to their ship. I was sweating liberally due to a combination of exertion and Guam’s climate. Next, I attached threaded watertight caps onto each connection inside the trunk. Lastly, I removed the safety tags. The engineering spaces of the USS Henry Clay were ready to go to sea.

  In parallel, topside preparations were in their final stages. Anything which may rattle was tack-welded. These included covers for the anchor and our emergency buoy. This may sound unsafe but it really was not. We never used the anchor during my time on the Clay. The emergency buoy deployed and emitted a signal if the submarine sank. Because the portion of the ocean in which we operated was so deep, the buoy’s cable was not long enough to reach the surface in case the worst happened.

  Getting underway was a carefully orchestrated production involving all hands.

  Unlike surface ships, submarines did not adhere to an 0800-to-1600 workday routine and we never heard reveille or taps.

  Once everybody had a chance to eat, the crew manned the maneuvering watch. Submarines station it whenever the boat was leaving or entering port. Akin to battle stations, each sailor had a particular role for which he demonstrated special expertise. I was the throttleman.

  While final preparations for casting off all lines were occurring topside, not much action occurred in the engineering spaces. We nucs enjoyed the lull while it lasted. Once the Clay started moving, most of the engineering folks were busy operating or monitoring equipment. The throttleman position was no exception. It was one reason I enjoyed the assignment. I liked the challenge.

  Along with me in maneuvering were four others. Lewis was at the electric plant control panel. The responsibility for the reactor plant control panel belonged to Dick Love. Love was the consummate professional. Nothing fazed him. Sitting at his elevated chair and desk was the EOOW, Mr. Hawthorne.

  The fourth person was Schweikert.

  Schweikert had one function. He recorded every speed change, called “bells” (all-stop, ahead one-third, ahead two-thirds, ahead full, ahead flank, back one-third, back two-thirds, back full, and the dreaded back emergency), on the engineer’s bell book. Its name was a misnomer. The bell book was really a single sheet of paper with three sets of columns, with 27 rows per column. Each major column had four sub-columns, for recording: the time the bell was received, the bell ordered, the shaft RPMs corresponding to the bell, and shaft counter reading. Schweikert retrieved the shaft counter reading from an indicator, much like the odometer of a car. It tracked the total number of revolutions made by the propeller. During the maneuvering watch, there were so many rapid-succession entries that Charlie initially recorded only the bell, the last three digits of the counter, and the minute. He filled in the remaining data when the action slowed. Every mistake on the log required adding the new correct number, crossing out the error, and initialing the modification. The Clay had an unusual rule regarding the bell book, which added another degree of stress to the task. If there were more than three cross-outs on the sheet, the person making the last error had to recopy the data onto another sheet. Consequently, we became masters of the write-over. This was an attempt to disguise the error and make the mistake appear as if it never happened. The EOOW inspected and signed the bell log when he was relieved. On many occasions, the EOOW commented that he knew there were many write-overs, but they were so skillfully done he could not prove it.

  After securing the maneuvering watch, there were few speed changes and the throttleman maintained the bell book himself. If there were no bell changes, he logged the current bell, shaft turns,
and counter once an hour on the hour.

  The officer of the deck stood in the bridge. He was in charge of guiding the Clay.

  He shouted, “Take in all lines.”

  Our life-jacketed line handlers detached the two-inch-diameter nylon lines from the submarine’s cleats and threw them into the water. Boatswain’s mates on the tender hauled them in.

  Without needing orders, our men topside unpinned and rotated the horn-shaped cleats one hundred eighty degrees. The cleat was now upside down and inside the hull. The bottom side of the device was smooth and matched the contours of the hull. This kept the submarine as sleek and quiet as possible.

  There were plenty of volunteers for the line handler and lookout positions. I was not sure who chose these men, but they considered themselves lucky. These sailors enjoyed the freedom, sensations, and sights outside the confines of the submarine the longest. Most non-submariners take fresh air, trees, the smell of land, sky and clouds, the feel of wind blowing through their hair, being able to see farther than 50 feet, and most important, sunlight, for granted. Because of our experiences, submariners developed a deep appreciation of these for the rest of our lives. Even to this day, I would rather have car windows open versus using the vehicle’s air conditioner.

  Each individual had his own emotions about leaving on patrol. For me, I was departing on an adventure, a test of my mental, physical, and psychological capabilities.

  When topside preparations were complete, the OOD issued the command, “Back one-third.”

  In response, a crewmember with him in the conn repeated the direction, “Back one-third, aye.”

  The sailor turned his knob on the engine order telegraph. The action made an arrow point to the back one-third position. An indicator on my panel responded likewise and rang a bell.

  The ding of the engine order telegraph bell broke the tranquility in maneuvering. I reached over and matched my arrow with the other pointer.