Three Knots to Nowhere

by Ted E. Dubay

  The end of my last patrol was at hand. I felt the built-up tension within me slowly evaporating. Inhaling deeply left my lungs asking for more. I yearned for a breath of real outside air. Swallowing hard, I summoned an untapped reserve of patience. I needed it to endure the remaining time in this hermetically sealed container.

  Satisfied the panel’s indications were normal, I observed the other men in maneuvering. After the explosion of activity, each was sitting stoically at his station. It was as if nothing special had just happened. I was sure they were as internally happy as I was about the significant improvement of our situation.

  The behavior was typical. Although the event was something long-awaited and yearned for, we had to guard our emotions.

  The precarious circumstance of being in our submerged warship was not over until the Clay was safely tied to the submarine tender, USS Proteus, in Apra Harbor. Too many things could delay, or even worse, prevent that ending. The submarine was as tired as the crew. It had been plagued with far too many equipment failures in the past few weeks. With the sea floor 20,000 feet below, a casualty could mean certain destruction. Escalation of the Cold War always had the possibility of extending our secret mission.

  It was time to record the hourly readings. I retrieved my abused pen. The object continued to provide encouragement. It was limping home like the Clay.

  The messenger of the watch awakened me. He was excitedly telling me something. Fatigue prevented me from comprehending his words.

  I shook my head, cleared cobwebs, and said, “What did you say? Tell me again a little slower.”

  He composed himself, “Dubay. We’re almost to Guam. They’re going to set the maneuvering watch after breakfast.”

  I tried getting excited about the impending end to my life under the sea. Strangely, it did not work. It was too much of a demand on my tired mind and I abandoned the attempt. I did not sense channel fever, either. The extra patrol time had worn me out. I lethargically plucked my poopie suit from its hook and got dressed.

  After breakfast, my section was due to be on watch. I was supposed to assume the electrical operator. Since setting the maneuvering watch would happen within the hour, I decided to relieve the throttleman and avoid an extra swap of positions.

  As scripted, we set the maneuvering watch at 0700.

  Fifteen minutes later, a welcome sound issued from the 1MC, “Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Surface! Surface! Surface!”

  As the submarine rose, the effects of surface conditions exerted their effects on the Clay. I glanced at Dianotto. He didn’t look very good. The closer we got to the surface, the more his complexion turned a pallid white. Being on the surface the rough seas had him fiercely fighting his affliction.

  Feeling bad for the man, the EOOW, Mr. Losen, told him the weather forecast was favorable. It wouldn’t be too rough while picking up the Blue Crew officers and leading petty officers. Then we’d dive and show them the condition of the Clay’s equipment. By the time we surfaced, the weather would be nice and the ocean as smooth as glass.

  Dianotto appreciated the moral support.

  To his credit, he managed to maintain his stomach’s contents in their proper location. The rest of us in maneuvering appreciated his effort. If he started puking, we could follow suit.

  Soon, we heard, “Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Dive! Dive!”

  The Blue Crew representatives were aboard.

  It signaled another small step towards returning to Hawaii and my discharge from the United States Navy. Dianotto was also happy. His motion sickness faded away as the boat escaped the surface effects of the mighty Pacific Ocean.

  We put the FBM through her paces. Speed changes, equipment swaps, and angles-and-dangles were part of the exhibition.

  Having to demonstrate the state of the boat’s equipment to the Blue Crew had its pros and cons. My favorite part was that they were aboard and would relieve us in a few days. On the other hand, the trip prolonged our time at sea. It also gave the Bluies, once they understood the Clay’s deplorable condition, the opportunity to rag on us for allowing her to deteriorate so badly. It did not matter that we could not prevent the problems.

  The Blue Crew buffered the joy of having them aboard when they delivered sad news. One of their crewmen had committed suicide. A leap off Diamond Head proved to be as effective as planned. The man was despondent. His wife had had an affair with someone from our crew. The somber incident revealed an insight. Patrols strained loved ones as much as submarine sailors. Both cases required an extreme amount of mental toughness. The weak could not survive and must explore easier roads. It was one reason I was grateful for not having a steady girl of my own.

  Several hours later, the Blue Crew understood the Clay’s tired condition. The Gold Crew was as worn out as the submarine. At least we would get a break in three days.

  I was unable to embrace the full effect of the end of my FBM submarine ordeal. The news about the man who took his life put a damper on our happiness. I had known him since our time in Charleston. During the shipyard, we were quite close. When assigned to different crews, we drifted apart. I never met his wife. Maybe if I had known her, the infidelity would never have happened.

  I forced myself not to dwell on the tragic news. The situation was similar to when the USS Scorpion was lost while I was at prototype. Serving in the submarine service for the past four years had trained me to block out distractions and only concentrate on the present. Getting the submarine back into port safely was the priority. Nothing else mattered.

  The realization we were finally heading back to port, thus ending our patrol, caused subtle changes to those of us in maneuvering. Although no one talked, I sensed an improvement in my crewmates’ mood. Their tension-wracked bodies appeared more relaxed. My breathing was peaceful. I hoped none of my crewmates would let their guard down. I was confident they wouldn’t. We could endure almost any casualty if everyone maintained his professional attitude.

  My dilapidated pen continued to provide inspiration. I buried the pen in my pocket.

  Loudspeakers blared, “Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Surface! Surface! Surface!”

  The run was over. My vow was safe. The pen, although severely wounded, survived.

  As Mr. Losen promised, surface conditions were calm. Dianotto showed no signs of motion sickness.

  The submarine finally entered Apra Harbor, Guam. It was the summer of 1972. The Clay moored next to the submarine tender, USS Proteus. My time at sea on a nuclear submarine was over.

  In three days, the Change of Command ceremony was over. The Blue Crew was aboard the USS Henry Clay and preparing her for the next patrol. I, along with the rest of the Gold Crew, was heading back to Hawaii. I saluted the Clay’s colors and stepped off the FBM for the last time. Before long, I would own a prized possession: an honorable discharge from the United States Navy.

  I walked away from the Clay, sea bag in hand. I was sticky with sweat. Guam’s hot, humid, tropical air was almost smothering.

  In spite of the discomfort, I was enraptured with my surroundings. Blue sky, the surface of the water, and the seemingly boundless expanse soothed me. The freedom of swinging my arms without worrying about smacking them into something was a joy.

  My emancipated soul felt as if it stretched to infinity. Everything around me afforded a sense of freedom, even the aroma of the rotting vegetation of Guam’s jungle. Although pungent, at least it was natural air. It was the opposite of the recycled and reconstituted foul stuff inside the submarine.

  I tried to resist the urge of saying goodbye to the USS Henry Clay. It was impossible.

  Chapter 20

  * * *

  Farewell to the Henry Clay

  I took a final look at the Clay. Realizing I’d probably never see her again, sadness overcame me. Together, we had survived life and death situations. Her HY-80 steel hull protected me from the crushing ocean depths. For the past three years, she had been my home.

  The boat was m
otionless, without any signs of activity. She rested quietly in the placid crystal-clear water.

  The submarine appeared peaceful and serene. It was only an illusion. In reality, the Clay was one of the most powerful weapons on Earth, able to unleash more firepower than that expended by all sides in World War II. On the other hand, her being painted black, without any identifying markings or numbers, were clues to her ominous purpose.

  While taking in the scene, the enormous responsibility of maintaining and operating such a potent weapon floated off my shoulders. A sense of relief swept through me.

  Then I felt ashamed about nicknaming this fine vessel the Henry Lemon Clay. It had happened when the Beatles song Yellow Submarine was popular.

  During one patrol, someone was singing the tune and I said, “We live in a yellow submarine; too bad it’s lemon yellow.”

  After that, Henry Lemon Clay or HLC became standard terminology. At least it was better than calling her the Henry F…… Clay. Referring to her as the HFC wasn’t right. She never failed us. I was proud to serve on the Clay.

  The best thing about assignment on the Clay was the crew. I talked to guys from other submarines and some of them would give their left arm for Clay’s Gold Crew camaraderie. E-Div was an especially close group. The core bunch—Rich Marchbanks, Charlie Ballard, Rich Lewis, Charlie Schweikert, Greg Metzgus and I—were together for four years. We went through an awful lot. The same went for most of the nucs. I had known Southerland and Souder since 1967.

  It didn’t matter if the crewman was a forward puke or a friggin’ nuc. There was a mutual respect between the two groups. That didn’t mean we were shy about trading jabs, barbs, and pings. I don’t know about anybody else, but I really valued the closeness. We laughed, played, and fought like brothers. Men have trouble saying the word love. We submariners are prime examples of that fault. Although unstated and rarely acknowledged, the “L” thing existed between Clay crew members in a brotherly sort of way.

  Hearing a truck behind me, I looked at the Clay one final time. The vehicle stopped and blocked my view of the mighty war machine. Poignant emotions flowed through me as I continued to the bus.

  Metzgus caught up to me and said, “Isn’t it amazing how such a relatively short period of your life can be so significant?”

  His comment made me reach over and touch my silver Dolphins. The medal instilled a sense of pride. I had completed a journey few are willing to start. Knowing that many volunteers for submarine duty were unable to complete the ordeal intensified my pride. Some could not measure up to the stringent medical and intellectual requirements. Others were unable to cope with the emotional aspects. It is no small wonder that the submarine service is an elite fraternity. As these thoughts churned through my mind, I wondered how much truth there was in the saying: Once a submariner, always a submariner.

  Serving on a submarine is a unique experience. The armed forces have many rigid rules and regulations. The submarine service enforced a relaxed version.

  When we were in Charleston, Pottenger went ashore with a uniform deficiency. A surface sailor noticed the imperfection and placed him on report, which could have serious disciplinary consequences.

  When Pottenger returned to the Clay, our captain summoned him to the wardroom. Feeling apprehensive, Pottenger meekly entered the room.

  The captain pointed to a chair and ominously said, “Have a seat. You know why you’re here. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With a stern look on his face the captain asked, “Son, how do you spell submarine?”

  Quizzically, Pottenger responded, “S-U-B-M-A-R-I-N-E.”

  The captain’s face transformed into a fatherly countenance, “No, son. You spell submarine: ‘F-U N.’ Now get out of here and have a nice day.”

  That was the last Pottenger ever heard of the incident.

  Even though episodes like Pottenger’s were the norm, every so often someone enforced the rules to a T. One time, when Schweikert was standing watch in maneuvering, there was a need to manipulate a component outside of the tiny room. While leaning out of the room and keeping one foot firmly planted in maneuvering, he performed the action. An officer saw the incident and had Schweikert relieved from watch for abandoning his post. Schweikert was also told he could expect a court-martial if it ever happened again.

  The crew of the Clay was not the only recipient of similar odd treatment. While the FBM USS Benjamin Franklin was on patrol in the Mediterranean, an electrician had to get up from the middle of his sleep period to repair the captain’s bunk light. The half-asleep man trudged to the captain’s stateroom, fixed the light, and went back to bed. Before long, the captain requested his presence in the wardroom. The electrician thought the captain wanted to thank him for getting up out of a dead sleep and fixing the light so quickly. To his surprise, the captain sternly told him, “You need a haircut. Don’t go back to your rack until you get one!”

  These were just a few examples of why many good men only completed their minimum military obligation.

  I boarded the second bus in line. Southerland had saved me a window seat and I sat beside him. After the typical military hurry-up-and-wait, our buses began trekking to the other end of the island. None of the vehicles had air conditioning. Windows were open in an attempt to provide some relief from the heat and humidity. I was grateful for the lack of air conditioning. Open windows allowed my senses to drink in Guam’s unobstructed sights, smells, and sounds.

  Knowing it was my last time on the island, I saw Guam with new eyes. Its beauty was striking. The road ran along a pristine shoreline. The absence of civilization’s normal din, telephone poles, and signs accentuated the island’s primitiveness. I saw the beautiful translucent turquoise ocean. Huge waves roared like continuous distant thunder. The empty non-littered sandy beaches, dotted with coconut trees, were devoid of human presence. An occasional dugout canoe was nestled under the palm trees. Every so often, the jungle’s smell mixed with the perfume of tropical flowers.

  While staring at the ocean, I recalled an adventure with Metzgus. We were at the beach near Andy’s Hut, a small cinder-block establishment that served burgers, hot dogs, soda, and beer. They were within walking distance from the Clay. It was a picture-perfect afternoon—brilliant sunshine, cloudless sky, and a cool sea breeze. The lagoon’s water was flat as a pancake. He rented a small sailboat and invited me to accompany him. After we set sail, it made me forget I was in the Navy. We were having a great time until I slipped off the back. He heard the splash and came back for me. Metzgus couldn’t believe how fast I got back aboard. What I didn’t tell him was all I could think about was the movie they showed us when we first got to Guam. Its title was something about the 101 things in Guam’s water that can kill you. That inspired me to get back on the slippery deck with ease.

  I looked in the opposite direction. Towering lush green volcanic mountains came into view. We used to joke that there were World War II Japanese soldiers still hiding in them. When we returned to Hawaii after one patrol, there was a Honolulu newspaper article about the capture of a Japanese soldier. He claimed to be the last one. The others had either surrendered or died. The man knew the war was over but felt it was disgraceful to surrender. That sense of honor seemed inconsistent with his actions. He was stealing food. What was the honor in that? The natives got tired of his thieving. They set a trap and caught him. He was lucky. When he returned to Japan, his countrymen treated him as a hero for hiding for almost thirty years.

  I silently reflected on my own return to the USA. A similar greeting would probably not be waiting for me. The Vietnam War was in progress. The conflict stirred extreme antiwar sentiments in many people. Protests, long hair, and nonconformity were the credo for many young adults. While they participated in their antiwar games, we in FBM submarines were playing our own games, albeit deadly ones of hide and seek. The Russians were constantly trying to neutralize our deterrent advantage. If given the order, any Soviet skipper would not bat an eye a
bout sending us to a horrible death.

  What peaceniks failed to realize was they had the same agenda as most of us in the military: peace. Each went about it differently. Antiwar activists attacked their country and fellow citizens. We in the military stood our ground on the frontlines and maintained peace by presenting a strong defense.

  Antiwar activists treated those in the military, regardless of role, with disrespect. It did not matter that we defended their right to act any way they pleased. A nervous anticipation stirred in my gut. I wondered about my own greeting and treatment.

  As the bus approached the airport, a squadron of B-52 bombers was leaving on a sortie to Vietnam. The scene made me recall peaceniks’ accusations that military personnel were baby killers. I shuddered. How many babies would die if the Clay ever launched her missiles?

  Amid the jets’ roar, the Henry Clay Gold Crew filed into the airport.

  One time, a pleasant surprise greeted us in the terminal. Emanating from the loudspeaker system was a live broadcast of the Super Bowl. After isolation from the outside world for the past three months, even those not interested in sports were enraptured.

  I had forgotten all about the game because Guam is on the other side of the International Date Line. For us, it was Monday. This reinforced the significance of the statement emblazoned on Guam’s license plates: America’s day begins in Guam. When our plane landed in Honolulu that evening, it was Sunday, again. It was strange to arrive somewhere the day before we left. It all evened out. When flying to Guam, we had lost a day.

  As I sat in the airport for the final time, my mind dwelt on the isolation that submariners endured while at sea. This seclusion was one of the most significant downsides to serving in the submarine service. When a momentous event occurred, such as the assassination of President Kennedy, people associated with the event with where they were and what they were doing.