Three Knots to Nowhere

by Ted E. Dubay

  Two days later, the yeoman informed me the arrangements for getting my car shipped to Hawaii were complete. Then he divulged some bad news. My mentor and friend, Bob Davis, jumped at the chance to take the prototype instructor job that I refused. I would sorely miss the man.

  I phoned my parents that evening. Although the government was paying for shipping, I needed someone to transport the car to Bayonne, New Jersey. When I presented the dilemma to Mom and Dad, they were more than happy to help.

  My mother was particularly excited.

  Her reaction took me by surprise. I did not doubt they would help. Mom’s eagerness shocked me.

  I quickly found out she had never flown before. They would drive my car there and fly home.

  They soundly rejected my offers to pay for the airline tickets. The trip would be an adventure and a mini-vacation.

  Knowing my car would eventually arrive in Hawaii was a moral victory. Mom’s being able to experience her first plane ride was icing on the cake.

  Several weeks later, the entire crew assembled in Ford Island’s auditorium for the XO’s weekly presentation. Initially, the effects of stimulation of the local economy the previous evening made it hard for me to stay focused. The cobwebs clouding my mind suddenly cleared when he made an announcement. The crew would receive submarine-escape training the next week. Most of our crew, including myself, had not gone through it. The experience was another difficult rite of passage to becoming a true submariner. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Knowing many others survived the training and took pride in the accomplishment helped calm me. I resolved to do likewise.

  When we were dismissed, groups formed in the hall. As I walked by several, one subject dominated the discussions: the impending submarine-escape tower training.

  I spotted Souder, Southerland, Lewis, Pottenger, and Schweikert.

  Lewis thought it was about time. The ordeal was one of the premier initiation rites of submarine service and he could hardly wait.

  Schweikert was disappointed when we were at submarine school and the escape tower was out of commission. When we got our orders to Charleston, he had given up on experiencing the escape training. Then he found out the Clay was going to Hawaii after the overhaul. The first thing that came to his mind was that Pearl had an escape tower.

  I never felt comfortable going to sea on the Clay without practicing an escape.

  Souder had a different opinion. He felt all of our submarine school training and having demonstrated an intimate knowledge on the escape trunk in order to get our Dolphins was adequate preparation.

  Southerland provided another insight. Even though we didn’t do an actual practice escape, all of us had undergone the fifty-pound pressure test at submarine school. It gave us practice with equalizing our ears.

  Pottenger was silent while we debated our opinions. He appeared deep in thought.

  “Pottenger, you’re awfully quiet. A penny for your thoughts.”

  He paused for a moment, crossed his arms, and reflectively said, “Well, I don’t disagree with anything you guys said. I don’t think there’s a need for escape training. Ninety-nine percent of the time, we’re cruising in water that’s too deep for an escape. If the Clay sinks, we’ll die when the boat goes below crush depth.”

  His pragmatic assessment was the harsh truth. The statement struck each of us like a body shot from a heavyweight boxer. I felt my body slump as its significance sank in. The others in the group had similar reactions. Southerland and Souder had somber demeanors.

  Schweikert composed himself. He was not going to dwell on it. We all knew serving on submarines was dangerous. It didn’t stop any of us from volunteering. Going through the escape trainer would be one more thing to add to his résumé. He was still excited.

  The next Monday, Southerland and I reported to escape training.

  In the classroom, we found tables with two chairs each. On one side of the room, I spied a mock-up of an escape hatch. Above the outside of the opening, someone had painted “Ho-Ho-Ho.” On a table in the back of the room were several Steinke hoods. Southerland and I selected the same table at the front of the room.

  Submarine escape training tower, Pearl Harbor submarine base. From the archives of Ted E. Dubay (August 1972).

  At 0800, an instructor entered the classroom. After introducing himself as a Navy master diver, he presented the day’s schedule. We would spend the morning in the classroom. During that phase, he would cover safety measures, a review of the escape trunk, and escape equipment. After lunch, we would go through the escape tower.

  He didn’t sugarcoat the experience. There were dangers associated with going through the tower. Men could rupture an eardrum, get the bends, or even die.

  After getting our attention, he assured us that none of those would happen if we did everything correctly. His job was twofold. After the training, we would have the tools necessary to escape from a downed submarine. He was also tasked with making sure everybody in the room left in the same condition as they arrived. There have been very few injuries and no deaths. As long as we applied the proper techniques, trainees would be all right. If not, there were dire consequences.

  Before starting the training, he had everyone come to the front of the class and state his name and whether he was qualified in submarines.

  We formed a single line as requested. Southerland and I were first. I made my statements and the instructor told me to return to my seat. The same went for Southerland. While observing the procession, I noticed every so often he kept someone at the front of the room. At the end, there were three men standing at the front of the room.

  The instructor said, “Those three will not go through escape training today. One has a cold. He won’t be able to equalize his ears as pressure increases. The other two have alcohol on their breaths and their judgment is suspect.”

  He directed the men to go back to the Clay’s office and reschedule the training. It was up to them to report the reason.

  Then the instructor repeated there was no room for error during this training and wanted to know if anybody had a question.

  Southerland wanted to know the deepest someone could safely blow-and-go.

  The answer surprised me. It was about 600 feet, although it would rupture eardrums.

  I grimaced in reaction to the statement and my hand instinctively stroked my ear. Then I considered the alternative. What was worse? Being deaf or being dead?

  I glanced around the room. The expressions on my fellow crew members’ faces told me they were thinking the same thing.

  The instructor provided more encouragement. Everybody in the room was fully capable of successfully completing the training. All of us passed rigorous physicals, including the fifty-pound pressure test at submarine school. Everyone had completed extensive psychological screening.

  He familiarized us with the escape tower. It was over a hundred feet high and filled with water. Everyone was required to perform the act at the fifty-foot level. If there was enough time, men could volunteer to make an escape from 100 feet.

  The training had several safety measures in case someone had a problem. An instructor would be in the fifty-foot chamber with the trainees. His job was making sure trainees used the proper procedure. He would also monitor everybody. If someone could not equalize his ears, the instructor would stop and let the man out. It wasn’t any different from the pressure test at submarine school. This time, the pressure would only be a little over twenty-one pounds. That was the pressure at fifty feet.

  There would also be divers stationed at different levels in the tower. Their job was continuously monitoring trainees during the ascent. If someone wasn’t exhaling, a diver would assist. He’d jump on the man’s back, pound the trainee’s chest, and make him exhale. There was a safety chamber part way up. If someone was in real trouble, divers pulled the man in and administered medical assistance. There was also a decompression chamber in case somebody got the bends.


  The instructor had us examine an escape hatch mock-up in the classroom.

  In unison, we turned our heads as directed. Above the hatch was “Ho-Ho-Ho” in bold print.

  He explained that saying those words continuously was the key to not being injured. As we left the escape trunk to go up, the air in our lungs would expand. If it wasn’t exhaled, our lungs would explode.

  The statement made my heart skip a beat. Recalling that many others had completed the training without incident helped relieve my tension.

  The remainder of the morning flew by. We familiarized ourselves with the use of the Steinke hood. The hood went over our heads and had a clear plastic viewing window.

  Next, we repeated dry runs through the escape trunk mock-up, until the instructor believed we had the process engrained.

  After eating, we changed into bathing suits. An instructor led us up the spiral staircase on the outside of the tower. Our single-file procession continued until we entered a room at the crown of the structure. Once inside, we saw why the top of the tower was slightly larger than the lower portion. A platform surrounded the water column. Not only did it provide a location for additional safety personnel, but trainees had somewhere to stand when they exited the water.

  I looked into the lighted crystal-clear liquid. Although it was distorted, I saw the bottom of the tank.

  Our convoy reversed direction and we descended to the escape trunk at the fifty-foot level.

  I donned the Steinke hood and crowded into the trunk with several others. The hatch to the stairs clanged shut and was dogged. Someone unlocked the door to the escape tower. Water pressure on the tower side kept the hatch from leaking.

  The instructor admitted water into the chamber and the level rose. The minimum level had to be above the top of the exit hatch. I was the determining factor for the upper limit. By the time the water stopped rising, I was standing on my tippy-toes and had my head tilted backwards to keep my nose in the air space.

  The instructor opened an air valve and increased the chamber’s pressure. To keep the force inside our ears equal to that of the chamber, we held our noses and mouths closed, while blowing mightily. The pressure had to increase quickly. If it took too long, there was more chance of developing decompression sickness (the bends). When the pressure in the escape trunk equalized with the tower, the hatch to the water column easily swung open.

  I volunteered to be the first out. It was a relief to stop worrying about drowning while still in the chamber. I ducked my head beneath the surface and made my way to the opening. I faced the trunk and placed my feet on the bottom of the hatch. With back arched, hands hooked in the top of the opening, and head tilted up, I let out a resounding, “Ho-Ho-Ho.”

  A diver slapped me on the back and I released my grip. The walls of the tower rushed by as I swiftly rose, continuously exhaling. A cloud of bubbles from the air expelled from my lungs kept my face dry. I shot past several rescue men and the safety chamber. When at the surface, I felt like a missile blasting out of the Clay. I made my way to the edge and climbed out. A check by a safety officer completed the ordeal. A deep sense of satisfaction washed over me.

  Football season began during off-crew. The Clay’s flag football team continued its winning ways. We won every game and outscored our opponents 254 to 30.

  McCann was the quarterback and the undisputed star of the team. After graduating from high school in Valdosta, Georgia, he received a full football scholarship to the University of Wyoming. While he was there, Jim Kiick, who went on to star with the Miami Dolphins, was a teammate. McCann could throw with touch or heave a football 75 yards with pinpoint accuracy.

  Southerland’s height, strength, and athleticism made him a natural as a defensive end.

  Connell was a running back. He could stop on a dime, reverse direction, and be back at full speed in a few steps.

  Rich Lewis played on the offensive line. During one game, he lined up as an eligible receiver. McCann faked a throw to the right, while Lewis drifted into the left flat. All the defenders bit, save one. A speedy defensive back shadowed Lewis. The defender made the mistake of letting Lewis get past him, figuring he could easily run down a rotund offensive lineman. McCann wheeled and lofted a perfect pass to Lewis. The defensive back got the surprise of his life. When Lewis scored, the back was unable to close the distance between them.

  The only close game was against the team from the FBM USS Nathan Hale. The star of their team was a nuclear-trained electrician and full-blooded Apache, Harlie Noyvan. The University of Southern California recruited him as a running back, but he broke his ankle. If he had made the team, he would have joined O.J. Simpson. With less than two minutes left in the game between the Clay and Hale, we scored a touchdown and led by a single point. The fleet-footed Noyvan took the kickoff and darted down the left sideline. Bob Davis caught the speeding man seven yards short of scoring a touchdown. The game ended when I dove in front of a receiver and slapped the fourth-down pass to the ground.

  We rebounded from the one-point victory by trouncing the team from the USS John Adams sixty to nothing.

  In celebration of our undefeated season, our coach, Lt. Bill Gruver, hosted a team party at his home. The officer gladly accepted getting in trouble for fraternizing with enlisted men. The act instilled in me a deeper respect for the man.

  Before I was ready, it was almost time to relieve the Clay’s Blue Crew.

  The day before our departure to Guam, Southerland and I moved out of the apartment and placed our extra belongings in storage. Southerland delivered Hercules to a warehouse on Ford Island. I went with him because the car still had a dead battery. After dropping off the vehicle, Southerland and I walked to Barracks 55, where we spent the night.

  The next morning the Henry Clay Gold Crew boarded buses and made the journey to Honolulu International Airport. A chartered TWA 747 awaited us. When we entered the terminal, officials hustled us onto the aircraft. The plane taxied onto the tarmac and stopped.

  After the aircraft had sat there for over half an hour, upsetting news spread through the plane. We could not take off until the Blue Angel acrobat team completed an air show. Those on the right side of the airliner were able to catch a glimpse of the action. Most sat silently in their seats, stewing over our predicament.

  There were similarities between being on the Clay when she was several hundred feet below the surface and confined in the plane. Our present circumstance was worse. At least when on patrol, there were not tantalizing views of real trees, sky, distance and the like. Additionally, roles and responsibilities occupied us while at sea.

  After what seemed to be an eternity, the airliner began moving. The 3,700-mile flight to Guam had begun.

  Off-crew was enjoyable. Now it was time to get down to business. An inner pride built within me. Soon, we would begin thirty days of ensuring the USS Henry Clay was ready to sustain a long deterrent patrol, as a guardian of peace.

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  Change of Command—The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

  I had mixed experiences with the Change of Command ceremony.

  On the good side, it marked the end of and provided closure to our part of the patrol cycle. When the Blue Crew captain said “I relieve you” to our captain, it was the official passing of responsibilities to the Blue Crew. I particularly liked knowing my being cooped up in an HY-80 prison was over for the next three months. There could not be much of anything better than spending off-crew in Hawaii. Southerland, McCann, Connell, Marchbanks, and I would move into the Honolulu apartment.

  There were also aspects of Change of Command I did not enjoy.

  Nobody got much sleep. Reveille and up all bunks happened at 0230. Breakfast was 0300 to 0330. Clean up ship lasted from 0400 until 0515. The forty-five minutes allotted to change into dress whites and get all our baggage off the boat was barely enough. Then everybody fell in at quarters on the missile deck at 0600. The Clay was usually on the east side of the t
ender and the sun was up already. It’s hot enough on Guam without the sun beating down on us.

  I could do without the ceremony’s pomp and circumstance, especially the speeches. To me, all the stuff they spouted was hollow, insincere rhetorical BS, although some liked it. I eventually avoided the ceremony. Volunteering for standing a watch in parallel with the Blue Crew gave me a valid reason for not participating in them.

  There were also several ugly incidents.

  Most involved hung-over sailors getting sick during Change of Command. On one occasion, a nuc was puking his guts out over the side while the chaplain was giving the benediction. The sailor almost drowned out the poor soft-spoken chaplain. I think he threw up longer than the prayer lasted. I’ll give the chaplain credit. He didn’t miss a beat.

  Although such incidents were bad, they did not hold a candle to the worst.

  The ugliest happened when some of our officers’ wives attended. Since Guam is not too far from Japan, the officers flew their wives to Guam. After the Change of Command ceremony, they would spend a nice vacation in Japan.

  In order to put on a show for the women, Squadron 15 pulled out all the stops on pomp and circumstance. The squadron commander was the premier speaker. He had a ton of medals, gold aiguillettes, and his sword. Two squared-away aides accompanied him. All of our officers’ uniforms were starched and pressed. As usual, chief petty officers made up the front rows of each crew. I think it was to hide the unkempt enlisted men.

  The squadron bigwig was piling it on pretty thick. He was going on and on about the importance of FBMs and how wonderful both crews were. He was quite eloquent. During his speech, we started detecting a foul odor. Of course, everyone started looking around thinking someone had farted. It didn’t take long to figure out that wasn’t the case, but we couldn’t determine the source. As the officer droned on, the smell kept getting stronger and stronger. Pretty soon, hardly anyone was paying attention to the speaker. Finally, someone saw a large dead fish floating in the harbor. It was drifting right towards us. As the carcass got closer, the smell intensified. Eventually, the thing banged against the side of the boat. At that point, the situation got really ugly. The bumping action released even more and stronger vile odors. It wasn’t long before people started puking.