by Ted E. Dubay
The squadron commander interrupted his speech and suspended the Change of Command ceremony. The wives, squadron personnel and our officers went to the tender. The crews went below. After one of the submarine tender’s small boats hauled the fish out to sea, we reconvened for an abbreviated ceremony.
A few weeks into the ensuing R & R period, Southerland and I got into a discussion about food.
We grew up under different circumstances. He was from the city and never even knew a hunter. I grew up in the country where just about everybody went hunting and fishing. That was how many of my neighbors put food on the table. Although my family bought meat from the store, it wasn’t unusual for friends to eat venison, wild fowl, squirrel, or rabbit. My neighborhood friend Jack loved rabbit. One patrol the Clay’s cooks served rabbit. Up to then, I’d never knowingly eaten any. Based on Jack’s opinion, I had to see what I’d been missing. It wasn’t anything special. Southerland refused to eat it. Feeling so bad about the poor bunnies, he avoided the mess deck during that meal and went hungry. He never forgave me for eating the rabbit.
In general, the food on the submarine was good. That changed towards the end of patrols. There was less selection as food ran out. Quality also decreased. At the end of one patrol, the cooks prepared chicken à la king and noodles. They saw the noodles had worms and served it anyway. I ate the stuff just like almost everybody else. At least it was fresh meat. One of the A-Gangers had seconds.
The term for a hot chocolate on the Clay was “lovely.” It was used in the same context as: I’ll have a “black and bitter” or “blonde and sweet.” The hot chocolate came in individualized instant packets that also developed worms. I would dump a packet into hot water and every so often, worms would float to the surface. Initially, I would pour out my cup and try another. Eventually, every packet had them. I would take a spoon, remove the worms, and drink the hot chocolate.
Until joining the Navy, the fanciest seafood I’d ever eaten was my mom’s fish filets. Other than that, it was whatever I caught fishing and cooked over an open campfire.
That all changed when I was on the USS Fulton. After I’d had lobster and shrimp, every kind of seafood appealed to my taste buds. When Southerland, McCann and I were at a Honolulu restaurant, I ordered baked trout. I had no idea its head would still be there. It had an effect on Southerland. He thought the fish was looking at him and begging for help, but it was way too late. After seeing how it affected him, I felt bad. Southerland was grateful when I covered its head with a napkin.
Talking about food made both of us hungry. We decided to walk to the Ala Moana Shopping Center. There was a contemporary restaurant under the stairs. It had good food and a limited seafood selection. The steaks were excellent. What we got on the Clay was OK but nothing special. Both of us were in the mood for a grade-A steak. It was probably due an incident the previous week. A couple of our apartment roommates fell asleep while broiling steaks and cooking corn on the cob. It was the middle of the night. The smoke woke me up. I managed to turn off the stove just in time. The steak and corn were charcoal but there weren’t any flames. I was amazed how such a little bit of food could generate so much smoke.
At the end of Atkinson Drive, we stopped and waited for a break in the traffic. A group of newly arrived tourists was beside us. They smelled of suntan lotion and were as pale as Southerland and me. It was raining on the other side of the street. We were in bright sunshine. It was typical Hawaiian weather.
One of the tourists shouted, “Look, a rainbow!”
We turned our heads. Nestled against the inland hills was a beautiful rainbow. We crossed the street. Before reaching the opposite sidewalk, the shower was over. The rainbow was fading. Its brief appearance was a symbol of hope. Southerland and I had several patrols left. So far, the Clay had escaped some close calls. I prayed our luck continued.
In Ala Moana Shopping Center’s courtyard, the exotic sounds of piped-in Hawaiian music caressed our ears. The open space separating the rows of stores had palm trees and a stream, creating a peaceful ambiance. Many people meandered about. Most had the demeanor of tourists. I thought it was strange that so many people flocked to this artificially created commercialized place. The natural beauty of Hawaii abounded nearly everywhere on the island. When several lovely young ladies in miniskirts walked by, I banished the condemnation from my mind and offered a thank-you to God for the women’s presence. During the past three months, I did not realize how much I missed seeing females up close and personal. We enjoyed the scenery as we made our way to the restaurant.
The restaurant’s dim lights and soft Hawaiian music greeted us. There were tropical plants strategically situated throughout the room. Ironed tablecloths, candles, and fresh flowers adorned tables. A young vahine dressed in a tight-fitting flowered muumuu welcomed us. She led us to a table. The soft, thick carpet muffled her footsteps. The woman’s hips swayed rhythmically to the beat of the music.
Her perfume wafted into my nose and I savored the smell.
The restaurant’s ambiance sure contrasted the Henry Clay’s mess deck.
I got a cozy feeling from the soft lighting. The Clay’s fluorescent lights created a harsh, sterile setting. Having our tables bolted to the linoleum deck didn’t help. The thin cushions covered in red Naugahyde vinyl on the bench seats were no match for stylish plush chairs. If submarine sailors weren’t such slobs, they would have fine linen tablecloths instead of cheap plastic ones. In our defense, it was hard not to spill food when the submarine was at periscope depth, in rough weather. Because we were crammed so tightly together, stuff ended up on the table when we bumped into each other. Having Formica on the walls made them easy to clean. The plethora of equipment and instruments gracing the mess deck’s bulkheads certainly didn’t contribute to a homey touch. At least we had a velvet painting of a girl.
I listen to the restaurant’s music. It blended in and was hardly noticeable. That wasn’t the case in the Clay’s mess deck. Somebody was always bitching about the music—it’s too loud; it should be louder; I don’t like that kind. It didn’t help that the only music we had were two homemade reel-to-reel tapes. One was rock-’n’-roll and the other country and western. Whoever was in the missile control center picked the style.
Although there was constant bickering between lovers of shit-kickin’ and pop music, it never escalated beyond that. I thought the complaints were a safe outlet for guys to vent frustrations.
Another waitress sauntered by and interrupted our thoughts. The Clay’s smelly male mess cooks were no match for these perfumed visions of beauty.
We picked up the menus. To our relief, they were devoid of seafood.
The memory of the recent Guam stinky fish episode was still fresh in my mind, if I even caught a whiff of fish, my stomach would rebel.
We put the menus down. Both of us would order steaks.
The menus hardly hit the table before our waitress materialized from the shadows. She was part Oriental and Hawaiian. Her long, straight black hair draped over one shoulder. A plumeria flower adorned her left ear. I could not remember if it signified that she was spoken for or available. The woman sweetly took our order while we soaked up her beauty.
I could not help thinking it was a good thing submarines didn’t have mess cooks like that. Some of our shipmates would act like idiots trying to impress her.
Southerland excused himself to hit the head.
While he was gone, I soaked in the peaceful ambiance. Even though the restaurant was nearly full, it was quiet. Unlike submarine sailors, nobody was exhibiting rude, crude, and socially unacceptable behavior. On the boat, the crew’s mess was raucous. Someone was always joking around or pinging on somebody. It was pretty entertaining.
Southerland returned before the waitress pleasantly deposited our salads on the table.
After eating frozen vegetables for the past several months, I thought the plates piled high with fresh romaine lettuce, spinach, cucumber, sliced carrots, broccoli, and tomato
wedges were more beautiful than our lovely waitress. Spending so long underwater sure had a strange effect on a fellow.
I was crunching a carrot when the peaceful nature of the room drew my attention. The boisterous, fun-spirited behavior demonstrated by my shipmates was infectious. The peaceful atmosphere in this establishment was sterile compared to the Clay’s mess deck.
I smiled, remembering the foul, sophomoric behavior of sailors while eating at sea. After my time on the Clay was over, I knew I would dearly miss the camaraderie.
Chapter 18
* * *
Surprise Package from the Blue Crew
I was riding in Hercules with Southerland. We were on our way to Ford Island. Since our last off-crew, the Navy had instituted a change to the bi-weekly muster. We had to physically report for roll call instead of just phoning in our status.
While we were traveling along the Kamehameha Highway, I found our surroundings engrossing. It was a beautiful Hawaiian morning. The early morning sun was barely cresting the Koolua Mountains. A faint full moon hung like an aberration in the daylit sky. Palm trees along the thoroughfare cast long shadows across the road. Dewdrops adorned the grass and glistened in the solar rays. Pearl Harbor’s wavelets sparkled and shimmered.
The sun was the common thread of all the factors fixating me. I sighed when comparing my current situation with living in a submerged submarine. The prestige of belonging to the elite world of submariners did not negate how much I missed direct contact with the natural elements. After my discharge from the Navy, the sun would become a daily companion. I looked forward to the occasion.
The Volkswagen slowed and turned onto the road to Ford Island Ferry’s Halawa Terminal. It was 7:30 a.m. The ferry was approaching on its return trip from the island.
We left early for no reason. Expecting the traffic to be its normal crawl, we were trying to catch the 8:35 ferry. As it was, we would be on the 7:40. It was okay with me. I had some logroom yeoman chores to do. I could get them done before muster and we could leave as soon as we were dismissed.
The incoming ferry bounced off the pilings and rammed the dock.
Bob matter-of-factly remarked, “That was pretty smooth. The ferry boat captain must not be too drunk this morning.”
It did not take long before the ferry was devoid of the cars from Ford Island. Southerland drove the VW aboard. We ended up in the outboard row on the starboard side. I got out and leaned against the rail. Southerland stayed in the still-running car so there was no need to push-start it when the ferry unloaded.
The vessel slowly pulled away from the dock. Gazing at the murky water, I wondered if it had been clear when only Hawaiians lived here. Looking northeast, I saw low-hanging clouds hung over the Koolua Mountain Range. Sheets of rain were drenching the lush jungle’s steep slopes. Slightly above, the sun poured out its life-giving energy. I glanced around, looking for a rainbow.
Before I found one, the USS Arizona Memorial came into view. Even though I passed this scene every time I rode the ferry, the rusting hulk of the USS Arizona under the Memorial always elicited an emotional response. Knowing that the battleship’s decaying carcass was the tomb of thousands of sailors made me glad the Clay had survived her narrow escapes. If we sank, our bodies would be unrecoverable. There would not be a difference between our coffin and that of the battleship. The ferry neared the relic. I saw a slick on the water’s surface as oil slowly emanated from the Arizona.
It was almost as if those inside were saying, “We are still here. Do not forget us.”
I wondered how many people passed by without paying the proper respect. If they did, it was sacrilege.
The stirring of other passengers alerted me that the ferry was approaching the Ford Island slip. I walked to the Beetle and saw a familiar sight. In spite of having to squeeze his 6'3" frame into the little car, Southerland was asleep. He awoke when I opened the door.
As he emerged from his slumber, I warned him, “You better brace yourself. We’re about to dock.”
We assumed our prepare-for-collision poses and hung on tightly. The ferry bounced twice and settled into its berth.
He and I looked at each other and said almost at the same time, “Well, we survived another masterful bit of piloting.”
He parked Hercules and we made our way to the Clay’s office. While walking to the engineering portion of the space, I saw Stan Wryn, the Clay’s yeoman. He handled all of the submarine’s general paperwork. His job equated to that of an executive secretary. Wryn was lanky with sandy-colored curly hair and extremely personable. His path to duty on the Clay was an unusual route. He was one of the few reserves serving full-time in the submarine service.
Word was circulating that Wryn had opened a package and found a very dilapidated Engineer’s Night Order Book. Along with it was a letter from the Blue Crew saying something about the book’s having been found folded into quarters in the upper level machinery 2 vise.
A group of sailors engaged in a discussion about the damaged Engineer’s Night Order Book. It is hard-covered, bound, and legal-sized. It’s an official record. The engineer uses it to convey special information. Whenever a new entry is made, watch standers have to read it and acknowledge understanding by initialing the respective block for their station. During a normal patrol, we would need one or two. I, being the logroom yeoman, stocked several spares in the Logroom.
Sometime during the last patrol, nucs started desecrating the night order book. We couldn’t recall a specific reason. The nucs didn’t dislike or disrespect the engineer. There wasn’t an organized plan.
It started towards the beginning of the patrol. Most likely, the initial act was someone with dirty hands inadvertently smudging the book. Maybe coffee spilled on it. For whatever reason, the desecration escalated. The nucs are a close-knit and astute bunch. My guess was we all realized how much it irritated the engineer for his precious book to be treated like that: what sacrilege!
It didn’t take long before more and more icky things were adorning the pages. At some point, guys were intentionally getting their hands dirty before handling it. Every substance you can imagine appeared on the pages. Eventually, someone bent it down the middle, then into quarters. If you picked it up by a corner, it just sagged. Before long, the book was ready to fall apart.
The engineer didn’t appreciate the treatment of his precious possession. After replacing the dilapidated book with a new one, he designated a guardian—the auxiliary electrician aft. It was a logical selection. Someone was accountable, and the roving electrician toured all the engineering spaces. He could stop at each station and have the watch stander initial the book.
It didn’t take long for one of the AEAs to relax his guard, and the destruction began again. The engineer realized seasoned nucs could too easily trick an inexperienced roving electrician.
He refused to be defeated. I provided a new book and it became the responsibility of a senior watch position. It didn’t matter. The new one didn’t last a week. Another round went to the crew.
With only one spare remaining and the patrol barely half over, the engineer faced a real dilemma. Again, he dug into his persistence and ingenuity. He was determined to prevail. The engineer turned a three-ring binder with loose-leaf pages into the night order log. It was a stroke of genius. After the patrol was over, the engineer would recopy everything into the last ledger and everyone would re-initial the entries, under the engineer’s direct supervision. As an additional precaution, the EOOW became the caretaker.
My section was the first to encounter the new logbook. For some reason, the EOOW wasn’t thrilled with the responsibility and slammed the binder down on his desk. Everyone in maneuvering turned and looked in the sound’s direction. What happened next was like slow motion. After hitting the desktop, the book flew up and to the right. The binder didn’t come back down on the desk. The officer made a vain attempt to catch it, while everyone in maneuvering watched incredulously. The book hit the deck directly on the binder’
s corner. The middle ring flew out and ricocheted along the deck. The poor officer slumped in his chair as the binder joined the ranks of the other damaged logbooks. To make matters worse, it happened in the first hour of the first shift the new log was in existence. The EOOW couldn’t claim innocence, but was lucky in one way. I liked him and had mercy on his poor soul. I managed to find a duplicate binder before our shift was over and made the swap.
The binder went unscathed the remainder of the patrol. During the three days of turnover to the Blue Crew, the engineer copied the entries into the last remaining legal hard-bound logbook, just as he had planned.
Southerland recalled seeing the book undamaged on the ULMR2 workbench. It was towards the end of his 1800–2400 shutdown roving watch. That meant the foul deed happened during the mid-watch or after the Blue Crew assumed possession of the Clay. If it was unprotected, anyone could be guilty. The group speculated about potential culprits. Although no agreement was reached, everyone was amused about the book’s condition.
I looked at my watch, hurriedly excused myself, and went off to complete my tasks.
While scurrying away, I glanced backwards. The XO and several junior officers were staring quizzically at the mangled book.
I quickly completed my tasks and joined the crew for muster. We gathered loosely in several rows. The CO and XO stood facing us. After roll call and several announcements, the officers conducted the ceremony of acknowledging the successful completion of our FBM deterrent patrol. Each gave a short speech about the significance of patrols. Then crew members came forward one at a time, each to receive his patrol pin for the initial patrol or a gold star signifying an additional patrol. A silver star equated to five patrols.