by Ted E. Dubay
Simultaneously, I opened the astern throttles, admitting steam to the main turbines, which made the propeller turn in reverse.
I sang out, “Back one-third.”
We were underway.
Mr. Hawthorn responded, “Back one-third, aye.”
The boat shuddered as it began to move.
Love increased his vigilance on the reactor plant control panel’s indications. Because I was demanding more steam from the steam generators, the temperature of the reactor coolant system decreased. The temperature dropped and some complex nuclear physics caused the reactor to produce more power. To minimize how low the temperature went and to speed up the increase in power, Love withdrew the reactor’s control rods. The fission rate became faster. When I closed the throttles and sent less steam to the turbines, the result was the opposite. Due to these effects, the throttleman and the reactor operator (RO) work in concert.
A flurry of bell changes quickly followed the back one-third.
The large number of bell changes made it clear who was manning the conn. It was Lt. Fudd. He was legendary for the number of course and, especially, speed changes ordered.
Fudd became a rapid-fire machine of directions. He dispersed almost nonstop course and speed alterations: all-stop, ahead one-third, ahead two-thirds, left full rudder, ahead one-third, all-stop, right full rudder, back one-third, all-stop, ahead one-third. Schweikert furiously recorded his data error-free, which was why he was picked for the task.
In Mr. Fudd’s defense, getting underway required complex maneuvers to avoid collisions and running aground, although there was a noticeable difference between him and other officers manning the maneuvering watch officer of the deck.
Every bell required a response by the reactor operator and me, with Schweikert keeping the bell book. I could not see where we were going or what was in our path. Therefore, I had to respond quickly and accurately to the demanded orders. It was much like driving your car with the windows painted black and having someone sitting on the roof giving you directions. Making my job even more difficult was the fact that the throttle wheels did not have indicators, corresponding to the various speeds. It had taken much experience to attain my present level of expertise.
As Love reacted to my actions, he had to keep certain nuclear parameters within predetermined bands. One of the most important was the average temperature of the water transferring the heat from the reactor. The temperature indicator displaying this value contained the green band. The span encompassed only a small portion of the dial’s full range. His job was to keep the temperature within that part of the indicator.
It was traditional for throttleman and RO to play a good-natured game of rapid recognition, reflexes, and pride, regarding the temperature band. My goal was to drive him out of the green band. He tried to stay within in it, by manipulating the reactor’s control rods. In defense of my actions, I had to have the submarine moving at the proper speed as quickly as possible, and I took great pride in my ability to accomplish the feat. If my actions drove his temperature out of the green band, so be it.
The engine order telegraph signaled ahead two-thirds. I announced the bell and rapidly whipped the throttle wheel in the open direction. A quick glance at Love told me he was struggling to keep pace. With a determined look, his fingers were tense from holding the In-Hold-Out switch hard into the out stop. This made the control rods withdraw from the reactor and raise power. He intently monitored the fission rate. Once he achieved the proper indication, Love made other adjustments and kept parameters from overshooting. These actions tested our proficiency to the maximum. Who had honed his skills the finest? In this instance, the temperature dropped, but he had kept it within the band and breathed a sigh of relief. The round was a draw.
I matched actual propeller RPM with those desired and announced, “Answering ahead two-thirds.”
In addition to testing our abilities, these exertions provided a genuine sense of accomplishment, as we felt the boat react in response to our actions.
Their jobs completed, topside line handlers went below. Before descending into the fluorescent-lit depths of the boat, already filled with stale, foul-smelling air, they took a final glimpse at the sea, sky, horizon, and the island of Guam. Their concluding acts were inhaling deeply and savoring the last breath of fresh air for the next two months.
When the men on the bridge descended the ladder and closed the hatch, the submarine was hermetically sealed. Anybody with claustrophobia was long gone.
“Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Dive! Dive!” Then the bell of the engine order telegraph sang its tinny “ding,” as the needle sprang to ahead two-thirds. In concert, I instinctively acknowledged the speed change. With my left hand twirling the ahead throttle-wheel, I increased the steam flow to the propulsion turbines.
I cried out, “Ahead two-thirds.”
The gentle roll of the submarine diminished as we gently slid under the water. Those in areas with low background noise could hear the swishing sound of the sea on the hull slowly disappearing. We reached our predetermined depth and leveled off. There were no leaks. Although we did not expect any, I was always relieved when we confirmed the condition.
The submarine was rigged for ultra quiet. It was the Clay’s quietest designed equipment configuration. There was a very good reason for operating in that condition. We had to sneak through a gauntlet of Soviet vessels stationed at Apra Harbor’s opening to the Pacific Ocean. One was a surface ship thinly disguised as a fishing trawler. It was bristling with electronic listening gear. Accompanying the trawler was at least one Russian fast-attack submarine. The trawler, using its array of sensitive sensing gear, attempted to determine the Clay’s course and relay the information to the enemy submarine. The attack boat was also listening for the Clay. If either vessel detected us, the submarine would attempt to follow.
The Soviets’ task was daunting. In addition to rigging for ultra quiet, we employed a few other tactics to elude detection. I will not reveal any, as I am sure the United States Navy still uses some to this day. In spite of these, each crew member felt the pressure of maintaining our silent state and the gravity of the consequences. An inadvertent noise, such as dropping a tool, could compromise efforts by giving away our position.
The effect on the crew was noticeable. My hands were moist from tension-induced sweat. Love had his hands clasped together behind his back. Upon close inspection, his fingers were white from squeezing them tightly. Lewis seemed outwardly unaffected. Then I noticed he was nervously tapping his foot. Grim-faced Southerland silently walked by maneuverfing. The crew’s acts were deliberate; a no-nonsense, businesslike expression adorned faces. No one wanted to be the person revealing our location to any Soviet submarine trying to tail us.
Before long, we secured the maneuvering watch. Schweikert relieved me as throttleman. This gave me a few hours before I had to relieve the auxiliary electrician aft. Patrol routine had begun.
I decided to work on my submarine qualifications. In order to perform the task, I needed the Henry Clay piping tab. It was in my locker. The book had a one-line drawing and other information of the system I was studying.
I found a pleasant surprise in my rack. It was a letter from Mom, Leona Gus Dubay and Dad, Frank Dubay, Sr.
Some last-minute mail had arrived before the submarine got underway. This also confirmed that my letter to Frank had actually made it off the boat. The patrol was starting out on a good note. I carefully opened the letter. It was my last contact from home for the next two months. My Mom’s dainty, smooth script emphasized the loving nature of the composition. As with all last letters, I intended to read it throughout patrol.
My melancholy mood abruptly changed to horror when I read that Frank and Marcia’s baby’s name was Scott. The thought of my letter, mailed the previous evening, left me aghast.
Scott? Scott? Not Seth?
My letter to Frank and Marcia was unrecoverable, and I could not make a phone call or even write a quick follo
w-up note to apologize until we returned. Any communication with the outside world from me was on hold for over two months. I had no way of knowing their reaction. Would they think it was funny and chalk it up to Ted being Ted or be insulted? Wasn’t patrol bad enough without having something like this in the back of my mind? As with other situations over which I had no control, I resolved to take whatever lumps I deserved and not worry about it until then.
With piping tab in hand, working on the difficult task of qualifying in submarines helped relieve my agony.
Chapter 13
* * *
Christmas on Patrol
I was perched face-down atop an air mattress floating on my parents’ pond. The float was gently rocking back and forth. Warm sunshine bathed me. Faint wisps of a cool breeze tickled my head and shoulders.
The sound of something sliding combined with a clicking noise, disrupted the peaceful setting.
My brain tried to connect these particular noises with a summertime foray on the small body of water.
I opened my eyes. Darkness surrounded me. Confusion swirled in my mind. A perplexing dim light was nearby.
I heard someone softly saying, “Dubay, Dubay. Hey, Ted.”
My fog-enshrouded head turned towards the sound. With eyes slowly focusing, I tried to comprehend the source.
They encountered the kind face of Third-Class Sonar Technician E.K. Lingle, the messenger of the watch. I checked my watch. He had let me sleep as long as possible. If I wanted breakfast before relieving the watch, I had to hurry.
Reality gradually dawned on me.
I had been dreaming.
In actuality, I was aboard the nuclear-powered submarine USS Henry Clay. She was somewhere in the Pacific. It was several weeks into my first patrol. Her slow rolling motion told me she was at periscope depth. Connections evolved between my dream and present situation. Both involved an association with water. The cool air emanating from my rack’s air conditioning vent equated to the wisps of a cool breeze. Sun-warmed air surrounding me matched the tepid atmosphere in the submarine. We were still cruising in tropical water and the Clay’s air conditioning system barely kept the inside of the boat cool. While getting dressed, I assessed the disparities of the conditions between my actual circumstance and those in the dream. I was not surprised about having such an apparition; it was wishful thinking.
I found no novelty in my first patrol, having already experienced extended time submerged during shipyard testing and the transit to Hawaii. Like the other two occurrences, electrical maintenance and pursuing qualification in submarines and nuclear watch stations filled my off-watch time.
My current circumstance had a difference: the end of my qualification process was in sight.
I had one more under-instruction (UI) electric plant control panel watch. I would be standing it under the tutelage of Davis. His presence was a mere formality. After many hours of study and practice, I knew all of the necessary procedures and was proficient at operating the electric plant control panel’s touchy controls.
In a few weeks, I would complete the progression through submarine qualification and earn my coveted set of Dolphins.
These tasks helped suppress the agony of not knowing Frank’s reaction to my unrecoverable letter.
I entered crew’s mess. It was breakfast time. Eggs were not rotten yet, so I ordered two over-easy, bacon, and toast. A glass of tomato juice completed the meal.
Davis was already eating and I sat with him. Between mouthfuls of steak, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and grits, he asked if I was well rested.
I told him I was and wondered why he asked.
He put on his most innocent expression and explained that it was my last Under Instruction (UI) watch and he would not be surprised if the engineer threw some interesting casualties at me. He’d want to make sure I was ready to go solo as electrical operator.
He saw my crestfallen reaction. “Don’t worry. You know how to handle anything they can come up with. After all, I trained you!”
He erupted with his typical good-natured laugh.
After eating, we headed aft to maneuvering.
On the way, thoughts of drills (responding to planned plant casualties and abnormal transients) swirled through my mind.
Being able to handle all aspects of the operation of the submarine, both good and bad, was paramount. Drills kept the crew trained to the highest levels.
Nucs maintained their expertise several ways. For an FBM, when one crew was on patrol, the other underwent countless hours of instruction. Unfortunately, the nuclear-trained sailors could not receive practical training on equipment associated with the nuclear reactor. We could only practice when on the submarine, via drills.
Ninety percent of the time, submarines operated where the ocean bottom was well below crush depth, a precarious position. Even though conducted in a controlled environment, drills put a submarine in an even more perilous situation. If the nuclear-trained operators did not take the proper measures, it would spell doom.
We initiated most engineering drills by physically operating a component. Sometimes it was a valve. On other occasions, someone manipulated an electrical switch. In either case, they negatively affected actual equipment. Even though I was competent and had confidence in the abilities of my shipmates, drills made me uncomfortable. Unfortunately, they were a necessary evil. There was no other way the Navy could train us to react to real problems.
Upon reaching the watertight door between machinery 2 and the engine room, I deftly passed through the opening. The performance was a far cry from my first futile attempt many months ago. The hot, humid air of the space made me catch my breath. Sweat quickly coated my body. Standing between the ships service turbine generators were Southerland and Souder. Southerland was relieving Souder as the upper level engine room watch. Both their faces had rivulets of sweat. I was grateful my watch station was in maneuvering, where it was much cooler.
Davis and I stopped at the doorway to the control room.
I said to the engineering officer of the watch, Mr. Jakucyk, who had already relieved his predecessor, “Permission to enter maneuvering and relieve the electrical operator.”
“Permission granted.”
Soon eight people filled the tiny space. Joining the three original watch standers (throttleman, reactor operator, and electrical operator) were their reliefs, plus the EOOW and me.
Davis and I were relieving Marchbanks. He gave Davis a quizzical look.
Davis said, “Pretend I’m not here. This is Eaglebeak’s final UI.”
Marchbanks provided an update on the electric plant’s status. “The electric plant is in a normal full-power lineup, with a trickle charge on the battery.”
A quick glance at the panel verified his statement.
He informed me about a small electrical ground. After he checked the usual culprits—galley range, deep sink, and clothes dryer—it went away on its own.
“I relieve you.”
Davis nodded in agreement.
Marchbanks turned to Jakucyk and said, “Davis, with Dubay as UI, has relieved me as the electrical operator.”
“Very well.”
It did not take long before all engineering spaces reported that the new section was on duty.
Davis settled into the space between the electric plant control panel and the Clay’s curved hull. I sat on the panel’s designated stool. Vince Dianotto was the reactor operator. Schweikert was the throttleman.
Anticipating the drills, I intently scanned the panel’s indications. Dianotto and Schweikert were nonchalant, lapsing into a conversation about Dianotto’s pet dog, Dino.
I was not paying attention to their discussion, until Dianotto said, “Dino acts almost human.”
While turning my head to comment on the statement, my eyes passed over the electric plant panel’s instruments.
A slight deviation on one of the meters for the port ships service turbine generator caught my attention.
My body
stiffened and senses sprang to full alert. The load carried by the #1 SSTG had decreased slightly. I held my tongue and performed a meticulous inspection of the rest of the panel. The initially identified parameter was the only one amiss.
Trying to maintain my most composed intonation, I reported to the EOOW, “Load on number one SSTG is decreasing. I suspect a loss of vacuum in the starboard condenser. All other indications are normal.”
The report caused everyone in maneuvering to focus more intently on the operation of the engineering plant.
Jakucyk contacted the engineering watch supervisor to investigate the condition locally.
He had barely completed directing the needed instructions when the effects of the loss of vacuum suddenly became more severe. It had worsened to the point where the change was noticeable on the steam plant control panel’s indications.
Schweikert reported, “Vacuum getting worse in the starboard condenser. Shaft turns are decreasing.”
While the EOOW was responding to Schweikert’s statement, I rose from the seat, preparing to take action.
I stated, “Recommend shifting the electric plant to a half-power lineup, on the number two turbine generator.”
Mr. Jakucyk responded, “Shift the electric plant to a half-power lineup on the number two TG.”
As soon as my steps were completed, the reactor plant control panel siren wailed and the steam plant control panel’s horn honked.
Dianotto immediately flicked the required switches and simultaneously announced, “Reactor SCRAM.”
The reactor was now shut down and not producing enough heat to make the needed steam for driving the propulsion turbines. Schweikert shut the throttles and rang up all-stop on the engine order telegraph.
As Charlie had done with the propulsion turbines, I had to secure the remaining turbine generator to keep from removing too much heat from the reactor. I twisted the proper knobs and operated switches. This shifted the source of the Clay’s electrical power from the remaining turbine generator to the Clay’s main storage battery.