Three Knots to Nowhere

by Ted E. Dubay

  In parallel, the EOOW selected the 1MC microphone from an array hanging in the overhead. It allowed him to make an announcement throughout the submarine.

  Jakucyk cleared his throat. He calmly spoke into the microphone, “Reactor SCRAM. Rig ship for reduced electrical.”

  His announcement alerted the entire crew of the casualty. It also set into motion actions to turn off non-essential electrical equipment.

  By the time he finished speaking, I had completed the electrical transition. Until the reactor operator restarted the reactor, my main job was monitoring how long the battery would last. Minimizing the drain on the battery was essential for maintaining the Clay’s silent mode of operation. The submarine’s storage battery was very large but could only last so long. If depleted, it forced us to start our emergency diesel generator. Because the diesel was an internal combustion engine, it needed an air supply to run. To accomplish this, the submarine had to rise to periscope depth. When the snorkel mast was above the surface of the water, it drew in the required air. Although the diesel provided electrical power much longer than the battery, it had its limits. The USS Henry Clay, like her sisters, did not have an inexhaustible supply of fuel oil. Minimizing its use conserved fuel for real emergencies. Additionally, it was very noisy and compromised the silent nature of an FBM.

  By monitoring the amp-hour meter, I saw the drain on the battery slowing down. It told me that rigging the ship for reduced electrical was in progress. Others in maneuvering were aware of the same fact, without being able to see the meter. The temperature in the little space was rising rapidly. The cooling was a non-essential load. Soon we were sweating as much as Southerland and Souder, at the beginning of the watch.

  The condition would continue until the reactor produced enough power to support operation of at least one SSTG. In order to accomplish that, sailors had to find and correct the cause of the SCRAM and loss of vacuum. Watch standers outside maneuvering frantically worked to accomplish this, with the assistance of the casualty assistance team (CAT). One of the CAT members, Marchbanks, was in maneuvering wearing a 2JV headset. It was his job to relay communications between maneuvering and the rest of those in the engineering spaces.

  Before long, we received good news. Southerland had corrected the loss of vacuum.

  The cause of the SCRAM was still unresolved. The amp-hour meter was steadily clicking, as the battery continued to drain. If it depleted much more, we had to commence snorkeling and relieve the battery with the diesel generator. Just in time, sailors corrected the problem that was preventing us from restarting the reactor.

  Mr. Jakucyk ordered, “Dianotto. Commence a fast SCRAM recovery.”

  “Commence fast SCRAM recovery, aye.”

  Before long, the reactor was critical and producing enough heat to support the propulsion turbines and the SSTGs.

  The EOOW ordered me to place the electric plant in a half-power lineup on the #2 turbine generator.

  In parallel, Schweikert answered bells on the main engines.

  When I completed the ordered electrical alignment, Mr. Jakucyk directed restoring to a full-power lineup.

  After I performed the needed actions, the engineer appeared in maneuvering’s doorway. He nodded, smiled, and told me to report to the wardroom for an electrical operator board.

  Davis said, “Good job. Hand me your qual card. I’ll sign it off. Like I said before, you know everything needed to pass with flying colors. Don’t let them rattle you.”

  He was correct. At the completion of the qualification board, the captain deemed me qualified on my last nuclear watch station.

  One milestone completed and one to go. My next goal was earning my Dolphins. Up to this point, I’d been maintaining the minimum allowed progress towards submarine qualification. With qualifying as electrical operator behind me, I no longer had to split my limited spare time between two time-consuming tasks. Becoming a fully accepted submariner was right around the corner.

  About a week later, I walked by the mess deck. Bingo night had just ended. Because I was not qualified in submarines, I couldn’t participate. O’Heiren, the man whose watch broke the evening before we left on patrol, stepped out of crew’s mess. He had a huge grin.

  Spying me, he held up his left arm and showed me the watch he had won playing bingo. He was elated.

  Before I had a chance to respond, he disappeared down the passageway so he could show others.

  When I saw O’Heiren the next day, he was wearing a dejected expression.

  His current mood was a puzzle. The last time I’d seen him, he was in a great mood, so I asked what was wrong.

  He pulled up his sleeve and exposed a bare wrist. His new watch was not there.

  “Where’s your watch?”

  “I’m too ticked-off to talk about it. Not sure how, but I know the nucs are messing with me.”

  I headed back aft and relieved Ballard as the auxiliary electrician aft. Because it was a roving watch, I’d be able to pass through all of the engineering spaces and see if anybody could provide insight about O’Heiren’s missing watch. All encountered watch standers disavowed any knowledge, until I came upon the engineering lab technician (ELT), Walt Pottenger. He was at the sample sink in auxiliary machinery 2 upper level.

  At first, he claimed no knowledge about the subject. A sheepish grin told me otherwise. When pressed, he made me promise not to repeat anything he said, especially to O’Heiren.

  I readily agreed and shook his hand to seal the deal.

  He described how O’Heiren was showing his new watch to some nucs, when one of the ELTs noticed it had a luminous dial. The ELT asked if anyone had checked it for radium, a banned substance. That was O’Heiren’s first clue something was up. Whoever bought the watch would have considered that. When the ELT realized O’Heiren did not know the watch couldn’t contain radium, he saw an opportunity to string him along. They went to the ELT lab to check the watch in the radiation counter. After putting the watch in, the ELT placed the rad monitor’s switch in TEST. It became O’Heiren’s second hint the ELT was up to something. When the switch was in TEST, it inserted a false high radiation signal. O’Heiren was horrified when the indicator needle flew past the alarm setpoint and stopped near the top of the scale.

  At that point, the unnamed ELT knew the ruse could turn into something special. He turned off the counter so the alarm stopped and summoned Dr. Smyth. Somehow, the ELT clued in the doctor, who decided to play along. The doc showed up with a straight face and solemnly confiscated the watch. When he told O’Heiren it had to be kept in the locked medical safe for the rest of the patrol, O’Heiren was crestfallen.

  I recalled hearing him say he knew the nucs were screwing with him. He just could not figure out how.

  It did not matter how long the deception lasted. The nucs were having a lot of fun with it. Every additional day was icing on the cake. The patrol was not even half over. I doubted that any nuc would reveal the truth. There was no reason to feel sorry for him. If there is one subject somebody stationed on a nuclear submarine carrying atomic weapons should understand, it was how a radiation monitor worked. My lips were sealed. It was up to O’Heiren at that point. The material for him to gain the necessary information was easily available. Submariners had no sympathy for anyone not having the proper level of knowledge. This was especially true in this case. O’Heiren was qualified in submarines.

  One day, I was standing throttleman. Metzgus was the electrical operator. Dianotto had responsibility for the reactor plant. Lt. Ward watched over the lot of us as EOOW. Manning the upper level engine room was Souder.

  As always, the engine room was miserably hot. In an effort to get a reprieve from the heat, Souder was standing in maneuvering’s doorway and facing forward, with half his body in maneuvering’s cool air. He suddenly sneezed violently. His forehead smashed into the stainless steel doorframe, generating a loud THUNK.

  Metzgus exclaimed, “What are you trying to do, give away our position to the Russ
ians? That was enough noise to wake the dead. I’ll bet we’re going to hear from sonar any second. They’ll be asking what the heck happened.” Others added their own sarcastic comments.

  Rubbing the red mark on his noggin, Souder was in no mood for our lack of sympathy. Glaring at us, he snapped, “Normal people would ask if I’m okay.”

  I countered, “Hey. What about all the psychological testing we’ve been through? We musta passed or we wouldn’t have made it into the submarine service. Therefore, we have to be normal.”

  Without skipping a beat, he replied, “Not true. The testing just found sailors who are a special kind of crazy and eligible for submarine duty. What’s bizarre is submariners are proud of it!”

  The next week, a few days before Christmas, one of the Clay’s two clothes dryers developed a mechanical problem and emitted a terrible noise. The laundry queen immediately stopped it before any lurking Russians could locate the Clay.

  The captain wanted the dryer returned to operation promptly. He was a stickler for trying to keep the crew as comfortable as possible. This was especially important to the nucs. We could almost wring sweat out of our garments after spending time in the engine room.

  The electricians had to perform the repairs. We quickly determined the problem. A snap spring, holding the dryer’s fan on its shaft, was broken. The repair proved to be more difficult. We did not have a spare in our limited supply of replacement parts.

  Every available electrician worked on the issue. The situation was especially arduous on me. I had to spend all of my six hours after watch working on repairing the dryer. That only left my rest period to make progress on submarine qualifications. I was down to two and a half hours of sleep in the 18-hour workday. Being able to earn my Dolphins in the next few weeks made the sacrifice worth it.

  On Christmas Eve, in a state of exhaustion, I descended the stairs to berthing. A mixture of an off-key rendition of “Jingle Bells” and a plethora of foul language greeted my ears. The normally dark area was alit with the overhead fluorescent lights. In spite of my diminished senses, I realized what was happening. A group of crew members filled with the Christmas spirit was serenading those occupying the berthing area. The sleeping individuals failed to appreciate the carolers’ efforts, hence the verbal intensifiers flung unmercifully. Threats of severe bodily harm convinced the revelers to retreat and find a more appreciative audience. I was secretly glad they had not disturbed my abbreviated sleep. If I had been sleeping, Mom would not have been proud of my behavior.

  Late Christmas eve, I suggested an innovative repair of the dryer. The baling-wire jury-rig worked like a charm. E-Div considered it the best Christmas gift ever.

  Because of missing so much rest, I decided to celebrate the success by catching up on sleep. Hitting the rack as soon as possible allowed me to snooze for seven glorious hours.

  I quickly fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

  The next thing I knew, the curtain to my lair opened and someone softly called my name. I saw Metzgus.

  “Are you getting up for Christmas dinner? There’re serving turkey, prime rib and lobster.” Responding in a drowsy stupor, I said, “No, man. I’m too tired. Thanks anyway.”

  Gratefully, he did not persist and was kind enough to slide the curtain shut. I rolled over onto my stomach and dropped off into slumberland. The curtain reopened. This time it was Souder. He asked the same question. Again, I politely refused the invitation. Before I had a chance to fall asleep, Lewis appeared. Like the other two, he did not want me to miss the best meal of the patrol. Once more, I declined the offer, although my response was less courteous.

  A few minutes after he departed, Mike Pavlov repeated the scenario. When he asked if I was going to get up for Christmas dinner, I couldn’t contain myself and snapped, “Yeah I’m gitt’n up. Damn it. Nobody’s going to leave me alone anyway. Geez. Too many people disturbed me. It doesn’t matter how tired I am. There isn’t any way I can fall back to sleep now. Geez.”

  Pavlov was startled by my tirade. I realized he was not aware of the others’ efforts and apologized.

  “Aw, don’t worry about it. I’ve been that tired myself. Just go, enjoy the meal, and hit the skid again.”

  I sat with Southerland. He told me he had initially refused to get up for the meal, also. We agreed the food was excellent and worth the loss of sleep. I departed the mess deck resolved to apologize for my rude behavior to Metzgus, Lewis, and Souder. It would also be good practice for apologizing to Frank.

  My head hardly hit the pillow and sleep engulfed me.

  Before I knew it, the messenger of the watch woke me along with the rest of the oncoming watch section. Supper consisted of Christmas dinner leftovers and hamburgers cooked to order. It was another great meal.

  While my section was standing watch, the remainder of the crew celebrated Christmas in the mess deck. In an effort to generate the holiday spirit, one of the more rotund members of the crew dressed as Santa. A small artificial tree resided by the bug juice machine. Although my watch section wasn’t there to witness the festivities, reports trickled in. Santa handed out gifts. Most were from the sailors’ families and friends. Some were gag gifts between crew members. Our section had presents waiting under the tree.

  After watch, our section enjoyed the holiday festivities. Chief Cochran, sans the red suit, aptly filled in for the original Santa. The presents were small simple items, because they arrived prior to the Clay’s embarking on patrol and we had limited storage space. Two of my gifts were a Swingline Tot Stapler and a pocket dictionary. What the actual presents were did not matter. Knowing that someone outside the confines of our metal cylinder sent them was comforting.

  Two days later, I received another treat. It was the third of my five allotted family-grams. Like the others, there was no mention of Frank’s reaction to my letter, but that was normal. Three officers screened each family-gram to ensure it did not contain coded expressions, riddles, profanity, risqué items, or sad or depressing news. Another restriction was a family-gram could be no longer than 40 words, which included the recipient’s and senders’ names. Given those limitations, the messages did not contain much information. They were no less valued—family-grams were our only conduit from our loved ones. I kept mine under the mattress at the head of my rack, where they were easily accessible.

  The next week, New Year’s Eve came and went without any fanfare. It was a moot point. Our timepieces were set to Greenwich Mean Time. When the Clay’s clocks said midnight and we rolled into a new year, the sun was shining brightly above our portion of the ocean.

  A few weeks later, I earned the last signature on my submarine qualification card. There was only one more hurdle to overcome. I had to pass a final oral examination by a group of senior qualified submariners. The board was led by the navigation officer and COB Cochran. Three other qualified submariners assisted. They grilled me for over three hours. I was well prepared. They commended me on my performance and the officer signed my qualification card.

  The next day, January 15, 1971, the captain designated me qualified in submarines. He conducted a ceremony in the passageway outside of his stateroom. It happened in front of our original oil painting of Henry Clay, the statesman. Also in attendance was the yeoman. The captain pinned the Dolphins on my poopie suit and presented me with a “Qualified in Submarines” certificate. After saying a few words about the significance of being qualified, he had the yeoman take a Polaroid picture of us in front of the painting.

  When the ritual was over, I walked down the narrow passageway clutching the picture and certificate. After letting out a sigh of relief, I rubbed the coveted silver Dolphins. My quest for the Holy Grail of submarines was finally over. I was accepted into an elite group of individuals. I vowed to uphold the traditions of previous generations of that select society. Pride flowed through my soul. While heading to my locker to stow the newly acquired prizes, I saw First-Class Missile Technician Earl Lusaini. He saw the Dolphins on my chest and ga
ve me a thumbs-up. His right hand moved towards me. I thought he was going to shake my hand and started raising mine in return. Suddenly, pain shot through my chest as his fist slammed into my Dolphins. My eyes shut in reaction to the throbbing. They reopened to his grinning face. His arm came up again and I flinched. This time he grabbed my hand and shook it enthusiastically.

  “Congratulations, Dubay.”

  He slapped me on the back and nonchalantly continued down the passageway.

  Tacking on my Dolphins continued for the next several days. Some sailors gave a little tap. Others were less gentle. After the rite, I wore the bruises as proudly as the silver Dolphins.

  When someone on the Clay qualified in submarines, he could purchase a special chrome buckle for his web belt. A set of Dolphins adorned it along with the inscription: USS Henry Clay, SSBN 625. I gladly paid the five dollars and like most of the qualified submariners on the Clay, wore it instead of the pin.

  It took less than a week before the novelty of being fully qualified wore off. Before earning Dolphins, I never had a moment to spare. Working on electrical tasks, logroom duties, studying, and sleeping filled every bit of my off-watch time. Afterward, I was amazed about how much spare time I had, and boredom set in.

  Helping to fill the void was hanging out in the sonar shack with E.K. Lingle. Every so often, we heard the songs of porpoises and whales. Mostly the chatter of shrimp permeated the earphones. Every so often, a civilian ship passed by with its propellers going whomp—whomp—whomp. Sometimes Lingle played tapes of Russian attack submarines. Although he heard numerous enemy boats, I was happy my only encounters were via recordings.

  I began helping with the crew’s newspaper. Being logroom yeoman, I had access to clerical supplies and a typewriter.

  Some books in the Clay’s small library stirred my interest. Reading them in the solitude of my rack also helped pass the time.