by Ted E. Dubay
The storm continued unabated for the next twenty-four hours. Once again, we ascended to periscope depth. With every foot of rise, the submarine’s reaction to the tempest increased.
The captain planned a quick foray near the surface in the uneven seas. Forty-degree rolls caused by the 20- to 30-foot waves battered us. The typhoon bared its teeth and attacked with increased fury.
Conditions were so terrible, cold-cut sandwiches were the only foods the cooks could serve. I was eating when we increased our expected time at periscope depth twofold. Though not feeling hungry, I nibbled on a sandwich. Schweikert staggered into the mess deck and slumped onto the seat beside me. He looked crestfallen.
While caressing my throbbing head, I asked, “Why haven’t we gone back down yet?”
“We cut the floating wire antenna. Can’t go deeper till it’s fixed.”
Schweikert and I commiserated together while hanging on for dear life as the state of the ocean’s surface thrashed the Clay.
I observed the other men populating the area. Some were obviously unaffected by the conditions. Other than swaying in sync with submarine’s motion, they stuffed food into their mouths as if nothing were amiss. A few were miserable. Most were somewhere in the middle, like me.
While walking aft to my watch station, I felt like a pinball as I bounced off the bulkheads.
An hour later, we got word that the repair of the wire was complete. Relief swept through us in maneuvering. I intensely watched the depth gauge. Much to my chagrin, the needle remained static. Not long afterwards, the exhausted voice of the officer of the deck reported the floating wire antenna had sustained more damage.
Mr. Humphreys said, “We’re lucky. We don’t have much to do back here. The guys in control are working their butts off trying to maintain depth.”
I gave up on watching the gauge. We sat at our stations in silence. Each locked himself into his private world of coping with the situation. I continuously monitored the indications on the electrical plant control panel. Sometimes I scanned right to left. Then it was diagonal or up and down. I employed every pattern imaginable to keep my mind off our circumstance.
I noticed a change in the Clay’s motion. A quick look at the depth gauge told me we were getting deeper. I joyously blurted, “Hey! Look at the depth gauge! We’re going down.”
Before long, the submarine settled at a more comfortable depth. Compared to what we endured while near the surface, the Clay’s motions felt almost nonexistent. A glance at a half-filled coffee cup showed we were still in much worse than stable conditions. If the mug had any more liquid, its contents would have sloshed onto the deck.
Throughout the next day, the submarine and typhoon mercifully and gradually parted ways. The pitching and yawing slowly diminished. Eventually, the CO returned the Henry Clay to her normal patrol depth. As we continued our underwater journey, life aboard the submarine went back to normal. After the three-day onslaught of horrible weather, suspended activities resumed.
There was a downside. Dreaded drills for nuclear-trained crewmen returned almost immediately. In order to maintain our finely honed skills, officers threw particularly demanding scenarios at us. For the most part, we performed well.
During one drill, an officer was monitoring Pottenger in the lower level engine room. The officer thought Pottenger was too slow in shutting the half doors at either end of the condenser bay. The normally easy action was complicated by a loss of lighting and having to wear an emergency air breathing mask. Pottenger disagreed with the evaluation but had no official recourse.
A subsequent trip to periscope depth proved we were not free of the typhoon’s grip. Remnants of the tempest still stirred the sea and caused a significant helter-skelter motion of the boat. Most men had acclimated to the erratic motion.
One had not. Dianotto was the lone sufferer.
I tried to help him feel better by telling him he was lucky to have the qualifications for the submarine service. He would really be miserable on a surface ship.
He agreed.
Lewis had some skimmer friends who would rather serve on a surface ship, because they thought submarines are too dangerous.
Dianotto had some buddies serving in Vietnam. They would rather do another tour over there than trade places with him on the Clay. He felt the same about going to Nam and would rather be stationed on a submarine.
The discussion ended when we realized it was time to take log readings. I reached for my pen and could not find it. A sound emanated from the deck. Looking down, I saw the pen sliding in beat to the rocking and rolling of the boat. I retrieved the pen. While I was writing the first value, the result was surprising. To my dismay, the pen dispensed red instead of black ink. I scanned the faces of my compatriots for a guilty expression. Each had the look of an innocent angel. There wasn’t any use trying to determine the perpetuator. It would only egg them on to more hijinks. All were most likely involved. I was still paying the price for my harebrained statement at the beginning of the patrol.
Schweikert relieved me; he had good news. In celebration of escaping the effects of the storm, the chief of the boat was organizing an emergency air breathing (EAB) race.
The contest required participants to travel along a pre-planned course, while wearing EAB masks.
We used EABs when the atmosphere in the submarine was potentially dangerous to breathe. The Clay had special storage tanks for dispensing clean air, via manifolds located throughout the boat. If the atmosphere became dangerous, we put on a mask, plugged into a manifold, and had safe air to breathe. If someone changed locations, he took a deep breath, because it was impossible to inhale when the EAB was disconnected, moved, plugged in, and resumed breathing.
Southerland and I read the blurb about the race in the POD. Drawing numbers from a hat would determine the starting order. Monitors would disqualify any contestant who removed his mask, cracked its seal, or diverted from the course. Whoever completed the course in the fastest time was the winner. The route started in the attack center, went forward to the torpedo room, headed back aft to shaft-alley, dropped into the lower level engine room, up the ladder by maneuvering, and back to the attack center.
I tried to talk Southerland into entering. He was one of the crew’s better athletes. The trait would help him do well.
He turned the tables and encouraged me to enter.
I admitted I’d been thinking about it. He provided some tips: go the farthest on each breath, use the minimum number of stations, pick target manifolds, select some alternative stops, etc.
I decided to enter and thanked him for his support.
At the appointed time, the competitors assembled in the crew’s mess. Among the twelve entrants were three officers. The officer who had criticized Pottenger was one of them.
The COB conducted the drawing for the starting order. When it was my turn, I shut my eyes and selected one of the folded slips. I gained a measure of hope when seeing the number 5 on my selection. For no particular reason, I was always partial to the number. I hoped it was a good omen.
The competitors staged according to starting order aft of the periscope, making the space extremely crowded. Not only were the racers present, but also five sailors with stopwatches, the COB, and the normal watch standers.
The participants departed at several-minute intervals. When the man before me left, I pulled the mask onto my head and tightened the straps. I attempted to inhale with the hose disconnected. The mask squeezed my face, proving I had a proper seal. I inserted the hose into the EAB manifold. A few deep breaths saturated my lungs. The mask severely limited my field of vision, so I turned my head in the direction of the COB. With eyes locked onto him, I waited for his signal.
When his hand came down, I took a final breath and unplugged the hose. I ran forward until encountering the route’s first obstacle: the descent to the next level. It went as planned. The need for air began to grow while I was sprinting to the hatch into the torpedo room. I passed through the o
pening without incident. My eyes spied the target manifold. I connected the hose and breathed several times. My strategy of only taking one breath was down the drain. Disappointed but refreshed, I continued. I did not make it to the next scheduled stop and resorted to the alternative.
Before arriving in machinery 1 upper level, I had to abandon even the substitute stops. Fortunately, I could find the location of every EAB manifold with my eyes closed. Every stop found me breathing heavily. My poopie suit was damp with sweat and I hadn’t even reached the hottest areas of the Clay.
As I scrambled through the hatch into the engine room, the hot, humid atmosphere made me seek the closest manifold. This was the toughest part of the course. In addition to the heat, I had to navigate several obstacles. While replenishing my lungs, I wondered how far behind me the next person was. The added incentive let me make it to the manifold outboard the port main engine. Fatigue and lack of oxygen were taking their toll. Each stop required more and more breaths. When reaching the ladder at the back of the submarine in shaft alley, I mustered the fortitude to make it into the lower level engine room and pass through the condenser bay before needing to stop. I ascended the ladder in the forward part of LLER and emerged from the hatch outside maneuvering.
The remaining portion of the course was a blur. Exhausted, I stumbled across finish line and removed the mask. As usual, some of my hair was stuck in the mask’s straps. Despite the pain of having portions of my mane ripped from my head, it felt good to be free from the vise-like grip of the device. Being able to breathe freely was liberating. With chest heaving, I bent over and placed my hands on my knees. I was satisfied. I did my best.
Competitors assembled in the crew’s mess. Before long, all had returned, except one—Pottenger’s critic.
Someone thought he went directly to his stateroom.
The COB gave our placement in reverse order. Dave Csencsics was the winner. He smashed the existing record of four minutes and five seconds by posting a phenomenal time of three minutes and thirty-four seconds. It was a remarkable achievement and he deserved our enthusiastic congratulations. I placed a respectable seventh.
It didn’t take long before a rumor emerged. Pottenger’s critic had trouble navigating the condenser bay. He found the area dark and the half doors closed. Somehow wearing a respirator severely affected his ability to pass through the obstructions in a timely manner. Although it was never substantiated, I did not doubt the rumor’s validity. If so, Pottenger must have felt deep satisfaction, knowing justice had prevailed.
After the race, I felt the effects of the exertion. Reading in my rack was a good way to recover. It would also temporarily distract me from patrol’s strain. We were finally in cool enough water for the submarine’s air conditioning system to work perfectly. The cold air emanating from my rack’s ventilation duct was the elixir I needed.
With only my shoes removed, I entered the small enclosure. I basked in the peaceful environment. A few contortions later, I retrieved my book.
After reading a few pages, a disheartening sound blasted from the FBM’s PA system, “Whoop. Whoop. Whoop. Whoop. Man battle station missile. Set condition 1SQ. Spin up all missiles. Whoop. Whoop. Whoop. Whoop. Man battle station missile. Set condition 1SQ. Spin up all missiles.”
I joined the rest of the crew as they ran to their battle stations. The event negated any escape from the unnerving stressful conditions of this war patrol.
Thankfully, the Henry Clay’s missiles remained resting benignly in their tubes. Once again, Armageddon did not happen.
There was only half an hour before the next meal. I was afraid to lie down and read. If I did, the exhaustion from the EAB race and battle stations would most likely cause me to fall asleep and miss eating.
I went to the logroom to take care of paperwork. While seated in the space, I realized I was completely at ease. During my first patrol, the presence of the lethal contents in the missile tubes just outside the logroom sent a chill up and down my spine. In retaliation, I would close the logroom’s door and create insulation from the source of my discomfort. Now, the nuclear-tipped missiles didn’t bother me. I wondered which state of mind was psychologically healthier. Was it being comfortable or bothered by my situation? I took solace knowing the patrol and my time in this circumstance were nearing their end.
The next week, I decided to stand the roving electrician watch. More and more shipmates were feeling the effects of our extended period sequestered in a metal monster. Their testy behavior was typical for this portion of the patrol. I was probably acting the same way. Minimizing the amount of time spent with anyone in particular became my defense mechanism. Hence, the roving position provided the necessary attribute.
When it was time to record parameters in maneuvering, I reached for my trusty pen. The object was not in my pocket. I sighed. Either I had misplaced it or someone was having fun with the pen.
I was reluctant to query any of my foul-mood fellow crew members. My own disposition may not allow me to ask them without sounding mean.
The author and his much-abused pen in machinery 1 upper level. From the archives of E.K. Lingle (July 1972).
Maybe I had dropped it somewhere. I retraced my path. While passing the after-work bench in machinery 2, I saw something in the vise. A closer look revealed a U.S. Government retractable ballpoint pen crushed in its jaws. A sinking feeling developed in the pit of my stomach. A ray of hope replaced it. The chances were not good, but there was a possibility the entrapped pen was not mine.
I unclamped the vice and inspected the pen for my special mark. The search was difficult due to the pen’s severe damage. Then I saw the notch. Although masked by the imprint of the vise’s jaws, it was definitely there.
I was crestfallen. The pen had suffered fatal damage. Not only had the vise squashed the pen, it had administered an ugly end to my vow.
On the way to the trash can, I noticed the ink cartridge was sticking out, exposing the business end of the implement. I tried to make a mark on a piece of paper.
I could not believe my eyes. The pen wrote perfectly. It had survived.
After my initial rush of euphoria, I surveyed its wounds. They were substantial. Its ink cartridge no longer retracted. The pen had a slight bend where the top and bottom screwed together.
Its triumph over the assault helped my mood. My tension, which had been slowly building over the past several weeks, was dissipating.
There were parallels between the pen and me. So far, the pen had survived many trials and tribulations. I had done the same throughout my time in the submarine service. A difference also existed. The pen’s wounds were clearly visible. I wondered what unrealized damage I had sustained during my naval service. I cast the thought aside. Innumerable wonderful experiences more than compensated for whatever negative effects I suffered. The prospect of a career in the civilian nuclear industry was highly likely. All in all, I had no complaints.
When I placed the pen into my breast pocket, its metal clip fell off. The additional indignity did nothing to deter my upbeat disposition.
I hurried to maneuvering to record the necessary parameters. Very interestingly, nobody in the crowed space made a comment about the condition of the dilapidated pen. There was no way they did not notice. Their lack of saying something told me each was involved or at least knew details of the pen’s encounter with the vise.
There was nothing to gain by holding it against them. I had committed the faux pas and had to live with the entertaining consequences. I refused to admit it, but I’d have been disappointed if my fellow crew members hadn’t risen to the challenge. Although it was on its last legs, the pen was still in my possession and in working condition. By that account, I was winning the battle.
The sixtieth day of patrol came and went. There was no end in sight. I refused to succumb to the temptation of checking our location on the navigator’s chart. I’d rather not know where we were. If we were far from Guam, it’d be depressing. Being too close initia
ted a case of channel fever. There was a more important reason to remain ignorant of the Clay’s track. Not knowing our location prevented me from mistakenly divulging classified information to the wrong person.
At the end of every patrol, the crew underwent a debriefing. The most stressed aspect was forbidding us from revealing the Clay’s route. Disclosing secret information could have severe consequences. In our case, it could lead to neutralizing FBM deterrence. The Soviets were always trying to gain an edge in this arena and supposedly had spies everywhere. Whether Russian secret agents were as omnipresent as feared was irrelevant. The consequences were too great to take the chance of telling anyone classified data. Unlike me, my family and friends didn’t have to swear an oath about not divulging secret information. Therefore, even when pressed I was careful with what I told them. Multiple facts deemed small or trivial could be pieced together to become something important. I took pride in my integrity and even when pressured was careful with what I told them.
As the patrol continued, my damaged pen continued to provide inspiration. It was in deplorable condition, but still going strong. There was not a chance it would run out of ink. I replaced the refill shortly before its run-in with the vise. Even when I left the pen unattended, nobody messed with it. I wondered why. Were my shipmates too tired? Were they having mercy on the object? Maybe it provided them with the same psychological support. For whatever reason, it gave new meaning to the saying, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
One day, I was the throttleman. Everyone in maneuvering was quiet. The benign atmosphere in the small space was in sharp contrast to how lively it was at the beginning of the patrol. If my compatriots were like me, they were lost in their own coping mechanisms after such a long time under the sea.
Suddenly, the engine order telegraph sprang to life. I smartly answered the bell. A flurry of activities ensued. Watch standers performed necessary actions. When the organized chaos ended, we were making going-home turns.