Three Knots to Nowhere

by Ted E. Dubay

“No, but good question. My own submarine sliced my head open, not the enemy.”

  I thought back. After getting five stitches, I returned to my watch station. I was simply grateful for a reprieve from wearing a respirator for a while. The main reason I did not miss a watch was the bind it would put the other two men who stood the same watch station, when I was off. There are only three sailors for each watch. If I were unable to stand watch, the other two would have to change their schedule. Instead of being on watch for six hours and off for 12, they would have to be on watch for six, get the next six hours off, and then have to be back on watch. Sailors call it “port and starboard.” It really stinks and quickly wears someone out. I could not see putting my buddies through that. A small cut on my head was nothing compared to what happened to my dad during the war. Although my head was sore and I did not sleep well, I was proud that I never missed any of my watches.

  We stepped off the porch and headed towards a small pond at the back of my parents’ property. Because of the warm weather, Dad mowed the lawn. The odor of freshly cut grass wafted into my nose. Inhaling deeply, I savored the smell. It was almost intoxicating.

  We walked slowly, with John upwind. To our left was a pasture. Several white cows grazed peacefully. A two-strand electric fence separated them from us. Compared to a submarine’s hull it was not much of a barrier.

  We arrived at the edge of the pond. When on patrol, I tried to imagine this view. What my mind conjured did not hold a candle to the real thing. The cry of a red-winged blackbird from a grove of cattails fell on my ears. A slight breeze carrying the sweet scent of cut grass ruffled my hair. It was not strong enough to disturb the mirror-like surface of the water. The water’s reflection of the blue sky dotted with a few fluffy clouds was so clear it was almost impossible to detect any distortion. Feeling the warmth of the sun gave me a feeling of freedom. Its rays crossed 93 million miles unimpeded to my body. When I was entombed in the Clay, the sun’s emissions could not reach me. After the light had traveled all that way, several hundred feet of water and our HY-80 hull stood between the rays and me. As far as the sunshine was concerned, I might as well be on the edge of the universe.

  I did not notice John and Sweetie leaving my side until the perfect inverted picture on the pond’s surface was distorted when a rock skipped across the pond. My sister was standing at the water’s edge. She was the source of the rings, which were slowly expanding across the water. She was beaming as if she had won an Olympic gold medal.

  “Hey Ted. Can you tell that I’ve been practicing?”

  “That was pretty good. Can you do it again?”

  “I’ll sure try.”

  John handed her a smooth stone. She carefully positioned it in her hand and gave a few practice swings. Her arm drew all the way back and flew forward, parallel to the pond’s surface. The projectile hit the water. After many skips and innumerable pitty-pats, it reached the opposite edge of the small body of water.

  “Whoa. Did you see that? I made it to the other side. I’m glad there are witnesses.”

  John and I joined her in the fun.

  Being able to throw rocks was a treat. If I swung my arm only half as far on the Clay, I’d smack into something.

  When we depleted our supply, we sat on metal milk crates under a maple tree. It was always my favorite spot. When on patrol, I would daydream about sitting there and drinking in the openness and serenity.

  After we sat, I realized how being cooped up in a metal container for more time than I cared to think about had affected me. I really missed being outside and having unlimited space around me. Most people take distance for granted. Living in a submarine made me really appreciate it. Skipping stones was a treat. Throwing something on a submarine is also a no-no. It could generate a transient. A transient is a noise from inside a submarine that travels through the surround water. They traverse great distances and can give away a submarine’s position to lurking Russians. The event could compromise a deterrent patrol.

  Sweetie interjected, “That submarine-shaped medal I saw on your pocket—it’s a patrol pin. Right? Do all submariners get one?”

  “Very good, little sister. You have a good memory. You’re as smart as you are cute.”

  She blushed at the compliment.

  I had to admit that even though it wasn’t fair, they were only awarded to Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine sailors. My experiences were not any more dangerous or demanding than what any submariner endured, regardless of the type of submarine. Somebody important must have decided FBM crewmen deserved a patrol pin. Who was I to argue?

  Curt arrived on his bike. It was brand-new. He greeted me warmly and related how he had bought it with his pay for delivering newspapers. He also brought welcome news. Dinner was ready.

  Curt rode proudly away. John raced after him. Sweetie followed.

  I dawdled behind. I felt free to be away from the Clay’s regimented yet discombobulated schedule.

  Life on an FBM submarine is a bizarre experience. A few activities revolve around a 24-hour day. There is a meal every six hours. Breakfast is 5:00 to 6:45 a.m. Lunch is 11:00 a.m. to 12:15 p.m. Supper is 5:00 till 6:45 p.m. Mid-rats, a meal of soup and sandwiches, is between 11:00 p.m. and 12:15 a.m. Movies begin at 7:00 p.m. Sometimes organized activities such as casino or bingo night replaced the daily flick.

  To complicate matters, when the Clay left Guam, the crew changed the clocks to Zulu Time. That is the time in Greenwich, England. Because the Clay’s patrol area was on the opposite side of the world from Greenwich, when her clocks indicated noon, it was midnight. The only way to know when it was really dark outside was when the attack center was rigged-for-red. The space had red tinted lights lit instead of white ones. Red light is special. It allows people to have night vision and still see everything inside the submarine as well as when the normal lights are on. If the conn was rigged-for-red, it was actually night. White lights meant daytime.

  Actual day and night is irrelevant on an FBM submarine. On patrol, every day is divided into four six-hour watch periods: Midnight to 0600, 0600 until noon, 1200 through 1800, and 1800 to midnight.

  During each watch, nuclear-trained sailors record temperatures, pressures and other necessary equipment parameters on pre-printed sheets called logs. At the end of each day, watch standers turn in the old logs and get new ones.

  Even though the boat’s basic schedule is based on a 24-hour time frame, the crew lives an eighteen-hour day. Submariners divide the 18 hours into three six-hour segments. If a sailor is on watch 06:00 a.m. to noon, he then has lunch. His next six hours are devoted to completing work and qualifying. If there is time left over, he can do whatever he pleases. Whichever nuclear-trained watch section was on duty the previous six hours becomes the Casualty Assistance Team (CAT). They help the watch standers deal with engineering drills or real emergencies. When this six-hour segment is over, it’s suppertime.

  The mess deck cannot accommodate the whole crew; each meal has two seatings. The oncoming watch section eats at the first sitting, in this case 5:00 p.m. These men can’t loiter over their meal. After they finish eating, they’re supposed to relieve the people standing watch at 5:45 p.m. This allows 15 minutes to transfer information between the two groups. Then the section which just got off watch has their meal. That’s the second seating. In this example, the section at the end of their non-watch period has to find empty spaces in one of the two seatings. The first is preferable. If someone is stuck with the second, he won’t finish eating until 6:45 p.m. My bedtime routine consisted of brushing my teeth, going to the bathroom, and reading a book for a few minutes. By the time I was finally sleeping, it was probably 7:00 p.m. Eating at the first sitting gave me an extra 20 minutes of sleep.

  At 10:45 p.m. the duty messenger wakes the sleeping watch section, thus giving them four and a half to five hours of sleep. Then these men begin another 18-hour cycle.

  Being tired is a fact of life on a submarine. There is no guaranteed sleep. Battle Station
Missile could happen anytime. That meant somebody’s sleep was interrupted.

  I finally made it to the house and went into the bathroom. The porcelain sink and standard commode were a pleasure to use. They were a far cry from the Clay’s facilities.

  All of the Clay’s wastewater, toilets, showers, and sinks drain into a sanitary tank, which in my mind is an oxymoron. Whenever it was full, we pressurized the tank and blew its contents into the ocean.

  The Clay’s toilets were not like the ones in a house. At the bottom of the sub’s stainless steel toilet bowl there was a valve with a long handle attached. The valve was a ball with a hole through it. When the handle was straight up, the valve was closed. When someone finished his business, he pulled the handle towards the front of the toilet. This aligned the hole in the valve with the tank. As the stuff in the bowl flowed into the sanitary tank, the sailor opened another valve, which rinsed the bowl with seawater. After flushing, he left both valves closed.

  Flushing the toilet was benign as long as someone did not open the ball valve with pressure in the tank.

  Warnings about a pressured tank were signs on each stall’s door stating, “SECURED—BLOWING SANITARY.”

  The most common cause for someone opening the ball valve while the tank was pressurized was fatigue. Sometimes a sailor could not wait until the tank-blowing process was completed. To remind himself about the pressure in the tank, he held the sign in the same hand he would use to pull the handle. Every once in a while, the sailor’s tiredness made him transfer the sign to his other hand and pull the handle. As soon as the valve was open, even a little bit, the contents of the sanitary tank blasted out. The poor smuck got a face full of the tank’s stinky contents. Ventilation systems sent the odor all through the Clay. Although the smell was disgusting, the crew had fun with it.

  When someone opened the valve with pressure in the tank, submarine sailors called it “venting a sanitary inboard.” The poor devil who committed the act was a venter. There was no difference between this and the man who did not understand the radiation monitor. Anyone who vented a sanitary tank inboard should’ve known better. He had to pay the price. In most cases, there was no hiding the infraction. He was covered with the evidence. After discovering who did it, we razzed the culprit unmercifully. He became an official member of the Royal Fraternal Order of the Green Mist and condemned to wear a special red baseball cap, until someone else committed the foul deed. Because several guys performed the vile act each patrol, the crew of the Clay developed the Turd League. We published standings in our newspaper, the Henry Clay Clarion. At the end of last patrol, the final standings were Shitters—3 and Venters—1. The score meant people vented a sanitary tank inboard four times, and on one occasion, we never found the culprit. That was a win for the Venter. I think it was an officer.

  Having finished my business in the bathroom, I went to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator door and scanned the contents. The first thing that caught my eye was a plate piled high with golden cream puffs oozing with Mom’s homemade egg-custard filling. Resisting the urge to eat one then and there, I refocused on what to drink with dinner. A glass of fresh milk with ice cubes was an easy choice.

  John had permission to stay and eat with us.

  Dinner consisted of fried chicken and potato salad. Mom’s homemade cream puffs rounded out the meal. It was John’s and my favorite meal.

  After supper and polishing off two cream puffs, John walked home in the failing light.

  While my dad set up the movie projector and screen, Curt demonstrated his trombone prowess. He had improved greatly and impressed me with his virtuosity. We spent the remainder of the evening watching home movies.

  I went to bed. As I snuggled in freshly laundered sweet-smelling sheets, my mind started organizing some of the things I would share with my family about submarine life.

  Although everyone in the Clay’s crew got grumpy now and then, it was hard to stay that way. The submarine’s crew was great, especially the nucs. They were bright and witty. Somebody was always joking around. It was hard not to be amused with their antics, although a lot of it was sick and sophomoric.

  The secret to survival on a submarine was maintaining the proper attitude. The sooner you learned to take whatever treatment your crewmates dished out, the better. There wasn’t any future for someone who was sensitive. A valid reason existed for the madness. The safety of the submarine is dependent on everyone maintaining his composure. Every so often, we found a chink in someone’s armor. If the man could not adapt to the grueling life style of a submarine sailor, the individual earned a transfer to the surface fleet.

  Regardless of rank, as soon as a new man reported aboard a submarine he was under constant scrutiny. We needed to determine if he was worthy of becoming a submariner. The behavior also diverted our thoughts from the stress of our ominous purpose.

  If someone didn’t stay alert in the engineering spaces, a nuc would try to fill the man’s poopie suit pockets with water. I always had a small plastic bottle filled with warm water. If it wasn’t warm, the person getting his pocket filled would feel the coolness. Warm water lets the pourer sneak away before the victim realizes what happened. We also tried to fill as many of the victim’s pockets as possible. That really increased the chance of being caught. That almost happened to me once. I was the throttleman and a forward non-qual was in the engine room studying a system. We were able to convince him the electrical operator was very good at teaching the system. The electric plant control panel is the furthest into maneuvering. This allowed me to flank the non-qual under the guise of providing useful information. The electrical operator occupied the man’s attention while I did the deed. I had just filled his right back pocket when the non-qual stepped back and bumped into a radiation monitor. He felt the wetness and then saw the radiation sign. The look on his face was sheer terror. We asked him if he touched the radiation monitor and all he could do was nod his head yes. Fortunately for us, he did not understand the monitor could not contaminate him. We had him put on bright yellow anti-contamination clothing. Then we sent him for radiological decontamination.

  I laughed to myself. The engineering officer of the watch, Mr. Hawthorne, let us pull off the ruse. He was as amused as we were. Besides, the non-qual was not in jeopardy. Understanding all aspects of the submarine or having to pay the consequence is part of submarine culture. We felt he was taught a valuable lesson.

  Mr. Hawthorne’s behavior during this bit of fun inspired additional respect for him. Although exceptionally competent, he was very youthful-looking and had earned the nickname of Baby Bobby.

  Nicknames were commonplace. Any anomaly associated with body shape, physical characteristics, mannerisms, or attitude would inspire a nickname. Some were benign. Greg Metzgus is from California and good-looking, so we called him Hollywood. My best friend on the boat, Bob Southerland, has red hair. We nicknamed him Red. Another man is Payload, because he is really a hard worker. An additional category is a nonsensical play on a person’s name. Rich Treptow became Tree Toad. Some are derogatory. One of our heavier electricians is Hogbody. Another guy, who is Italian and gets easily seasick, earned the moniker Green Ginny.

  Anyone acquiring a nickname has to accept it. He does not have a choice in the matter. How someone reacts is the most important. If the sailor embraces the name, there’s hope of acceptance. Guys called me Eaglebeak. Up to that point in my life, I’d always been self-conscious about my oversized snout. Initially I really hated the nickname. Regardless of how much it originally hurt, I refused to display my feelings and accepted my fate. There was an upside. I learned that attitude is more important than any self-perceived physical fault.

  I rolled over in the bed. The action sent a wave of sweet-scented clean bedding up my nose. I inhaled deeply. Compared to upper level engine room’s harsh steamy smell and lower level engine room’s distinct lubricating-oil aroma, it was like breathing in Heaven. There was one favorite smell when I was on the submarine. Occ
asionally, one of our cooks made donuts. They were just like my mom’s. Their scent was heavenly. When he cooked them, the Clay’s ventilation system distributed their fragrance throughout the boat. The engine room was one of the first places it reached. We were mesmerized by the thought of eating them and couldn’t wait to get off watch.

  I awoke the next morning refreshed. The rest of the week flew by. I filled it with regaling my family with stories of our submarine exploits, having fun, and mostly relaxing.

  The restful visit with my family ended with them seeing me off at the airport. In contrast to the day I arrived, it was cold and overcast. Snowflakes fluttered in the air.

  The destination awaiting me tempered the sadness of the emotional farewell. My clothing was a reminder that I was heading to a tropical paradise. The standard Navy dress white uniform with short sleeves did not afford much protection from the bitter winter elements. At least it didn’t have that submarine smell. Several trips through the washing machine had removed it. Mom, bless her heart, insisted I wear one of Dad’s winter coats, even though it was a couple sizes too large. I was grateful. Without the garment, the walk to the terminal would’ve been miserable.

  When it was time to board the plane, I handed the coat to Mom and winked. We hugged.

  Dad and I exchanged a warm hearty handshake.

  Curt, in transition between boy and man, acted as if he wanted to hug, but stood awkwardly off to the side, waved, and simply said, “Bye, Ted.”

  My sister couldn’t contain herself and ran to me. She wrapped her arms around my waist like a vise. With a tear-streaked face, she sobbed, “I wish you could stay.”

  I tousled her hair and reciprocated the hug. Fighting back my emotions, I said, “Hey, if I don’t go, how am I going to find exotic sea shells for you in Hawaii and Guam?”

  Teary-eyed, she relaxed her grip. I maintained my composure by quickly exiting the building.

  A snow squall was in progress. Glancing to my right, I saw the crocuses, which were reaching for the sun when I arrived, were now drooping as flakes accumulated. It was eerie how the flowers mimicked my mood on my arrival and while leaving my family.