by Larry Bond
“What the hell are you doing down there, Engineer? Why did the pump fail this time?”
“Captain, the motor controller blew about ten minutes ago when we tried to pump the sanitary tanks in preparation for our departure. It will take several hours to make the repairs,” responded Ho nervously.
“If you haven’t noticed, Engineer, we don’t have several hours! The squadron commander will be here any moment now,” exclaimed Hardy shaking his head in disbelief. Getting a hold of himself Hardy asked, “How full are the sanitary tanks?”
“Sir, sanitary tanks number one and number two are about fifty percent, and sanitary tank number three is about twenty-five percent.”
“Very well, have the duty officer get the drydock connections removed and we’ll blow the tanks once we are at sea.”
“Yes, sir, and we’ll begin working on the sewer discharge pump immediately,” replied Ho.
“That would be very wise, Engineer,” responded Hardy sarcastically. “I also want the maintenance logs for that pump, here, in my stateroom, within the hour. I want to know the idiot who performed the last preventative maintenance check and missed such an obvious problem.” With that, Hardy slammed the stateroom door shut in his Engineer’s face. Ho backed away, his face still a little pale, combed his hand through his hair, and trudged down the ladder to forward compartment middle level.
Jerry watched as the tired-looking man disappeared from view. He wasn’t surprised at the CO’s tirade; he’d seen far too many of those over the past weeks. Millunzi walked up behind Jerry and said in a low voice, “I would not want to be Frank Lopez right now. That’s his gear and the Captain will be all over his butt on account of this latest incident. Not that the Captain will bother to remember that we’ve had nothing but trouble from that particular pump for almost two years now and that our requests for a replacement have been repeatedly denied.” The MPA then looked at Jerry and said, “The shit pump has had a bad habit of eating motor controllers. Now, get a move on and I’ll see you up on the bridge.”
Reaching his stateroom, Jerry found Lenny Berg putting his jacket on. A life jacket and safety harness were on the deck by his feet. “Ahh, our intrepid JOOD arrives to mentally prepare for his first underway. Need any Maalox?”
“Ha, ha, very funny, Lenny. I happen to feel just fine, thank you.” A little lie, Jerry thought, because he was a tad nervous and could feel it in his stomach.
Berg was about to fire another round of witticisms when the squawking of the IMC interrupted their exchange, “COMSUBDEVRON TWELVE, arriving.”
“Well, well, the commodore is finally here. I bet the Captain is having a snit fit over something right now, even as his boss is crossing the gangway,” said Berg seriously.
“Yeah, well, he just chewed out the Engineer over the sewer discharge pump. The motor controller was fried.”
“Hmmm, not like that hasn’t happened before.” Then, in a more light-hearted way, Berg remarked, “Maybe the pump just wants a new job, and frying motor controllers is its way of expressing its frustration. I mean, moving human waste around isn’t all that glamorous, you know.”
Jerry laughed as he put on his jacket and ball cap. He then started digging through his desk, looking for his sunglasses. Finding them, he put them in his pocket and turned to face Berg.
“Lenny, is the Captain always this nervous when getting underway?”
Berg laughed. But the laughter was forced mixture of amusement and irony. “It’s because of Captain Young. As long as the squadron commander is on board, everything has to be perfect.”
Berg picked up the life jacket and harness and then looked at Jerry with a smile and said, “Correction, more than perfect.”
Jerry nodded, understanding his friend’s observation, and asked. “This is Hardy’s first boat, isn’t it? Is he all that eager to get promoted?”
“I don’t really know, Jerry,” Berg answered. “But I don’t think it’s all about ambition. Remember, he is a triple A personality control freak.”
“Hey, Lenny,” Jerry called out to his friend as he was leaving. “You be careful out on deck. I really don’t want to get signed off on the man overboard drill today.”
“Yes, sir! Oh Wise and Benevolent Junior Officer of the Deck, sir,” mocked Berg as he bowed and doffed his cap. “Just don’t go and pull any five-gee turns while you’re up there and we’ll be fine.”
Jerry rolled his eyes at Berg’s last comment and followed him out of the stateroom. As Jerry entered control, he saw the XO getting ready to set the maneuvering watch. A bit early, given the schedule in the plan of the day, but not unexpected, given Hardy’s nervous state. Looking up from the navigation plotting tables, Bair saw Jerry over by the duty petty officer reporting in. As Jerry made his way to the ladder, the XO called over, “Mr. Mitchell, good luck on your first underway.” Winking, he added, “Just keep her between the buoys and you’ll do fine.”
“Aye, sir, I’ll do my best,” Jerry replied as he gave his XO an informal salute. Lifting his head to the bridge access trunk, Jerry yelled, “Up ladder,” and started climbing.
The bridge was prepared for sea with an assortment of electronic gadgets installed in the cockpit. The portable “bridge suitcase” with the communications gear and navigation instruments had been installed and tested. Since anything left on the bridge would be exposed to extreme water pressure when the boat submerged, the instruments used to conn Memphis were built into a removable case that could be quickly detached when the boat was ready to submerge. Next to the suitcase were an electronic chart plotter and a GPS receiver. A satchel bag lashed to the side contained paper charts, a flashlight, and a bullhorn. The Plexiglas windscreen had been secured in front of the cockpit, along with a grease pencil on a string. Behind Jerry was the “flying bridge,” an area atop the sail where an installed steel frame allowed additional people to stand safely while the ship made its surface transit.
Jerry checked the pier. The boat was divorced from shore power and the sanitary and potable water connections had also been removed. A small crane was working its way down the pier; it would be needed to lift the gangplank off the sub’s hull. Down on the deck, Jerry could see the line handlers mustering with the COB and Lenny Berg. Undoubtedly, the COB was reminding everyone about the proper safety precautions when handling the bulky mooring lines.
He looked at his pocket checklist to make sure he had gone over everything he would have to do to get the sub underway. He was thankful he had spent some extra time studying, even though he had fallen asleep the night before while reviewing Dutton’s Naval Shiphandling. But not all knowledge can be gained through an intensive book study effort. Theoretically, he knew what to do. Now it was time to put that theory into practice.
Noises from below told Jerry that others were coming up. Within a few seconds, a familiar voice spoke, “Permission to come up to the bridge.”
“Granted,” replied Jerry.
Petty Officer Stewart climbed into the cockpit with a pair of binoculars and a sound-powered phone headset. “Here you go, sir,” said Stewart as he handed the binoculars to Jerry. Jerry took them and thanked Stewart, who was busily putting on the sound-powered phones. Soon thereafter, Lieutenant Millunzi climbed up the ladder and joined Jerry in the cockpit. Millunzi had barely straightened up when he began bombarding Jerry with questions on the status of the bridge equipment and the topside area below. Jerry answered them quickly and concisely. Satisfied, Millunzi turned to Jerry and said, “Jerry, this is the one time that I will give you free advice. After this I charge a can of soda for every problem you want me to help you with.” The smirky grin on Millunzi’s face told Jerry that the MPA was quite serious.
“In that case, sir, what is your favorite liquid refreshment? Because I’m going to need a couple of six-packs to get me through our upcoming deployment.”
“Dr Pepper, of course. And you’d better make it three.”
Both men chuckled a bit and Jerry started feeling a little
less tense. He didn’t realize just how anxious he was as he waited for things to get started.
“The secret of being a good shiphandler, Jerry, is to be able to manage inertia and momentum,” said Millunzi in a more sober tone. “You are used to driving a fighter that doesn’t weigh a lot but goes really fast. Memphis weighs several thousand tons and moves at a snail’s pace, by comparison.” He then pointed aft and asked, “What do you see back there, Jerry?”
Jerry faced aft and after a moment turned back toward the MPA, looking confused. “I don’t understand, sir.”
Millunzi pointed toward Memphis’ stern and said. “What do you see?”
Jerry looked again. “The rudder, sir?”
“Exactly!” shouted Millunzi happily. “Half of the rudder, your control surface, is out of the water flapping in the breeze, where it doesn’t do a damn thing for you. She’s great underwater, but on the surface and at slow speed, Memphis is a pig. She won’t respond quickly to rudder orders, so you have to think way ahead if you are going to effectively maneuver her. That’s the deceptive part of conning a sub on the surface: They move slow enough so that you think you have plenty of time to get out of trouble. In fact, if you don’t react in time, which means early, inertia will take over and ruin your entire day.”
“Mr. Millunzi, sir,” interrupted Stewart. “The XO reports that the maneuvering watch is set and that the Captain, the Commodore, and the pilot will be up shortly.”
“Very well,” responded Millunzi. Picking up the microphone and handing it to Jerry, he added, “Okay, Jerry, time to take the conn. You know what needs to be said. Just take a deep breath and let the maneuvering party know who is giving the rudder orders.”
Reaching for the mike, Jerry actually felt his hand shake a little. “Attention in the maneuvering party. This is Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell; I have the conn. Lieutenant Millunzi retains the deck.”
One by one, the various positions acknowledged the announcement.
“Helm aye.”
“Nav aye.”
“Radio aye.”
“Contact coordinator aye.”
“Maneuvering aye.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard. Ahh, here is our friendly tug to assist us,” said Millunzi.
Jerry looked up and saw a small red and black tug, with a great big yellow capital T on its black stack, maneuvering into position on Memphis’ port quarter. The handheld radio crackled to life and Millunzi exchanged a communications check and greetings with the master of the tug Paul A. Wronowski—or “Tug Paul” for short. Once Memphis was firmly secured to Tug Paul, Millunzi grabbed the bullhorn and shouted, “On deck, single up all lines!” The linehandlers quickly moved to reduce the number of lines between Memphis’ cleats and the pier’s bollards from two to one.
Millunzi was getting ready to say something when Hardy, climbing up the ladder, interrupted him. “Captain to the bridge.”
Both junior officers crammed themselves to one side to make room for Hardy, the commodore, and the pilot to come up from the bridge access trunk. After the three of them were situated on the flying bridge, Hardy asked, “Mr. Millunzi, are we ready?”
“Just finishing the final arrangements topside, sir.” He nodded to Jerry. “I was instructing Mr. Mitchell on some of the trickier parts of conning a submarine on the surface.”
“Hmpf,” replied Hardy, turning to face Jerry. “Mr. Mitchell, I agreed with the XO’s recommendation that we make you the conning officer for the maneuvering watch, in spite of the fact that you have only been a member of my crew for a short period of time. This is a required assignment for all junior officers and you need the experience. I wish your first time underway was under different circumstances, but there are no easy underways on my boat.”
Jerry could only nod. “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”
“What’s the hand signal for a tug to make half speed?”
“Point with your index finger in the direction you want the tug to push, either ahead or astern.”
It was the correct answer, but Hardy only frowned. “Will you be using hand signals today?”
“No, sir. With Tug Paul’s bridge facing aft, it would be better to use the handheld radio to reduce the chance of a misunderstanding.”
Again, Jerry gave the correct answer. Hardy looked unimpressed. “Very well, make your report.”
Jerry looked at Millunzi, who nodded slightly, and then began the long and detailed report on the status of Memphis’ preparation for getting underway. This formal, almost ritualistic, approach ensured that the Captain and the Officer of the Deck were both working with the same information. And while a good CO probably already knew everything his OOD was reporting, double checks were never wasted.
Completing his report, Jerry requested permission to get underway. Hardy took a quick look around, and once satisfied that his JOOD had made an accurate report, said, “Permission granted.”
Picking up the radio, Jerry called over to the tug, “Tug Paul, this is U.S. Navy submarine, stand by for tug orders.”
“Roger,” squawked the radio.
“On deck,” Jerry yelled through the bullhorn. “Take in all lines!” The line handlers below started pulling frantically on the mooring lines to get them all on board as quickly as possible. As the last line came over, Jerry pulled the lever for the ship’s horn and let loose a prolonged blast. This told everyone in the harbor that a boat was getting underway. At the same time, Stewart hoisted a large U.S. flag on a pole behind the flying bridge.
“Tug Paul, back one third,” Jerry commanded. As the diesel engines on the tug roared to life, Memphis began to slowly pull away from the pier. Jerry watched as the distance between them increased. Turing toward Millunzi, Jerry asked, “Enough?”
“Wait. Give it a few more seconds,” replied Millunzi. “Okay, now.”
“Tug Paul, all stop.” Picking up the mike, Jerry issued his first conning order. “Helm, bridge, back one third, left full rudder.”
“Bridge, helm, maneuvering answers back one third, my rudder is left full with no ordered course.”
“Very well, helm.”
Jerry immediately looked aft to make sure the rudder had been turned in the correct direction, but with so many people on the bridge he had a hard time seeing the rudder. When it took him a little too long to do this, Millunzi prompted him, “Don’t forget the tug, Jerry. You need her horsepower to get us out properly.”
Fumbling for the radio, Jerry ordered the tug ahead one third. As Memphis moved slowly into the Thames River, Millunzi leaned over and said, “Watch the stern and make sure it swings to port. A submarine with stern way on is very unpredictable. It’s easier with a tug, but you still need to keep a close eye on it. There! Do you see it? The stern is starting to swing.”
Jerry didn’t see it at first, but after a moment, he also spotted the slight swing to the left. Millunzi is very good at this, thought Jerry. As the sub continued its slow arc into the river, Jerry watched the compass repeater on the suitcase and digital map display. Once Memphis came within thirty degrees of the channel course, Millunzi whispered, “Let inertia work for you now.” Jerry ordered the rudder amidships and all stop. He then ordered Tug Paul to answer all stop, and then to take in all lines. Jerry politely thanked the tug master over the radio for his services.
Once the tug was clear, Memphis was free to begin moving downriver. Jerry felt the deck begin to vibrate as Memphis’ screw bit into the river. It felt a little like his fighter at full military power, but once the sub’s backward motion was countered, and she started moving forward, the vibrations subsided.
As they left the area of the sub base, Jerry Mitchell, an aviator by first choice, was now finally on his way to becoming a submariner. The sounds and smells of the river and especially the sights of the historic Thames filled his senses. The well-settled, cluttered shoreline testified to how long men and ships had been here. As they passed the Submarine Museum, Jerry saw the Nautilus moored to her quay. A little o
ver fifty years ago, he thought, she would have taken this same route out to sea. Memphis passed under the 1-95 and railroad bridges within two minutes of the planned time. The initial part of Jerry’s underway had gone remarkably smoothly. The Navigator would be pleased.
As they came up on the Electric Boat construction yard, the boat for the pilot pulled alongside and he bid farewell to the Captain and expressed his best wishes for a successful sea trial.
But before he went below, the pilot slapped Jerry on the back and said, “That was a very reasonable underway, Lieutenant. You made a few minor mistakes here and there, of which I’m sure Mr. Millunzi here will tell you all about in fine detail. However, for a first time out you did well. Good luck on the rest of your qualifications.” A few minutes later, with the pilot gone, the topside rigged for dive, and the last man down, Jerry increased speed to eight knots.
After another fifteen minutes, Memphis passed New London Ledge Light, the square redbricked lighthouse that marked the mouth of the Thames River. As Jerry ordered the speed increased to ahead standard, about twelve knots, the commodore climbed down from the flying bridge. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m going below.” Turning toward Jerry, Captain Young said, “Mr. Mitchell, my compliments on a fine first underway. Keep up the good work.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Jerry.
The commodore then looked up at Hardy, “Captain, I suggest we meet in your stateroom to go over the drill schedule for the next two days. Say, in fifteen minutes?”
Hardy looked pained by the commodore’s “suggestion,” but acknowledged the order with a perfunctory “Aye, aye, sir.”
For the next ten minutes, all that could be heard on the bridge was the wind and waves flowing past the submarine’s hull. Visibly disgusted that he had to leave the bridge, Hardy climbed down into the cockpit and addressed Millunzi. “MPA, strike down and stow the flying bridge and then get us to the dive point as quickly as you can. If you need me, I’ll be in my stateroom.”