by Larry Bond
Millunzi acknowledged the Captain’s order and had Stewart relay the order to control for two sailors to come up and disassemble the flying bridge. As Hardy was about to go below, he turned toward Jerry and said, “Don’t let the commodore’s comment go to your head, Mitchell. By my standards, your performance was adequate. Nothing more.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jerry, more surprised than hurt. As soon as Hardy had disappeared into the bridge access trunk, Millunzi shook his head and issued a short snicker.
“Away the morale suppression team,” cried Millunzi. “The floggings will continue until morale improves.”
Both Jerry and Stewart laughed softly at the MPA’s sarcastic comment, and a lot of the tension Jerry had felt seemed to wash away. He was also relieved that the senior officers had departed the bridge. Now he could freely ask Millunzi for an honest critique of his performance.
As if he were reading Jerry’s mind, Millunzi said, “We’ll go over the mistakes the pilot mentioned once we get out of the channel. Then we can open her up and have some real fun.”
“Sounds good to me, sir,” Jerry replied. “For the record, how many did I make?”
“Five minor ones, that’s all. And despite the Captain’s views, you done good for your first time out.”
Five! Thought Jerry. He was having a hard time thinking of more than three. Still, he was pleased with Millunzi’s compliment. The two sailors summoned to the bridge now arrived. They immediately began to take the flying bridge down, handing sections of piping that made up the frame to Stewart, who passed them below. Millunzi urged them to work quickly, but not to skip on safety.
“What’s the rush, sir?” asked Jerry.
Millunzi pointed to two buoy symbols on the map display and then to a pair of red and green flashing buoys a couple of miles in the distance. “Those are buoys two and three. They mark the mouth of the channel. Once we pass them, we can rev this puppy up to flank speed. Provided these turkeys get their act together and get the flying bridge taken apart.” Millunzi grinned while jerking his thumb in the general direction of the two sailors up on the sail.
“In the meantime, Jerry we need to crank up the RCPs soon.”
“Yes, sir!” Jerry looked back and saw that the last of the frame was just about detached from the sail. Reaching down, Jerry picked up the mike and said, “Maneuvering, bridge, shift reactor coolant pumps to fast speed.”
“Shift reactor coolant pumps to fast speed, bridge, maneuvering aye.”
A few moments later the suitcase speaker blared, “Bridge, maneuvering, reactor coolant pumps are in fast speed.”
“Maneuvering, bridge aye.”
The buoys were clearly visible and they would soon be passing them. The two sailors reported that they were done and the flying bridge had been stowed for sea. Millunzi acknowledged their report and the two went below. A few minutes later the suitcase speaker blared again, “Bridge, Navigator, two hundred yards to the turn point. New course, one six five.”
“Navigator, bridge aye,” replied Jerry.
“Okay, Jerry, this is a small course change, so what are you going to do?”
“Just order the helmsman to use ten degrees left rudder and steady on the new course,” answered Jerry confidently.
“Correct.”
“Bridge, Navigator, mark the turn!”
“Helm, bridge, left ten degrees rudder, steady course one six five.”
“Left ten degrees rudder, steady course one six zero, bridge, helm aye.”
As Memphis started turning, Jerry could feel the difference that eight knots of speed made in her response. She quickly came up on her new course and settled in for the long run through the Long Island and Block Island sounds out to the Atlantic Ocean.
“All right, Jerry, let’s pick up the pace, shall we?” said Millunzi with a gleam in his eye.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Keying the mike again, Jerry spoke, “Helm, bridge, all ahead flank!”
“All ahead flank, bridge, helm aye. Sir, maneuvering answers all ahead flank.”
“Very well, helm.”
As Memphis began to surge ahead, the bow wave grew larger and larger until it was crashing against the base of the sail. The roar of the water as it flowed over the hull was deafening. Jerry felt as if he was at the base of Niagara Falls as tons of water came crashing down. The deck trembled as the main propulsion turbines slammed 35,000 shaft horsepower into the screw, which chewed up the water like a blender. Memphis’ wake was frothy and huge and could be seen for miles in the bright sunlight. Salt spray was thrown high into the air as the bow plowed through the slight rolling waves. And even with the protection of the Plexiglas windscreen, Jerry and the others were still occasionally hit in the face with cold seawater.
Jerry looked over at Al Millunzi and saw that he had removed his ball cap, his black hair streaming in the stiff wind. Meeting Jerry’s gaze, Millunzi leaned over and yelled, “I defy you to find a better mode of transportation than this!”
“Honestly, sir, I don’t think I can!” Jerry yelled back — and he meant every word. True, flying at supersonic speeds, yanking and banking, was a surefire way to get an incredible rush. But what he was feeling now was even stronger. In fact, he probably had so much adrenaline running in his system right now that it was making his stomach a little bit queasy. As the wind and spray whipped by his face, Jerry was finally able to let go of his precious F-18E Super Hornet. His heart and soul now belonged to another: Memphis.
For the next hour, Jerry reveled in his new love. Millunzi quizzed Jerry on various situations they might encounter and pointed out the major landmarks as they sped past them. Of particular interest was Race Rock, the wave-lashed lighthouse on a bunch of rocks at the westernmost tip of Fishers Island. This lighthouse marked the northern end of the passage known as “The Race,” the boundary between Long Island Sound and Block Island Sound.
Traffic was very light, with only a single contact, a long black barge pushed by a tug. It was coming up from the south and appeared to be heading straight for the entrance to the New London harbor channel. It was several miles distant and drawing away, designated “Master Two” by the Contact Coordinator. Since it was held both visually and on radar, it wasn’t a navigation hazard.
Finally Memphis passed between Block Island and Montauk Point on Long Island and entered the Atlantic Ocean proper. As soon as they cleared Long Island, the seas became rougher and the boat started to pitch and roll a little.
“We are now out of the lee of Long Island, so we are no longer being protected from the wind. This means the ride will be rougher for the rest of our run to the dive point,” commented Millunzi.
Now Memphis was heading for the open sea. Instead of land on both sides of them or filling one side of the horizon, it was just a small dark line behind them, growing thinner with each minute. The broad horizon was as novel to Jerry as everything else, but it was unchanging. Within a few minutes, he’d worked out a routine of checking the compass, the radar repeater, the map display, then scanning the horizon with his binoculars. There was no other surface traffic in sight.
“How much longer?” asked Jerry.
“About three hours until we’re past the hundred-fathom curve. About here.” Millunzi tapped the map display.
As Jerry looked down at the instruments, the bow rose a little more steeply than before and fell back to the sea with a noticeable drop. Jerry automatically tightened his grip on the edge of the cockpit and shifted his weight.
Millunzi grinned. “Nothing like this in a fighter, is there?”
“No, we usually flew well above any turbulence,” Jerry answered, “or we were yanking and banking and—” Jerry’s stomach suddenly flipped — or felt like it did. Puzzled, he straightened and tried to continue. “If we did hit turbulence, it was really more like a bumpy road than this pitching or rolling movement.” He had to force the last word out, because as his mind was drawn to the motion, a wave of weakness and nausea passed through him.
“Jerry, what’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet!” Millunzi sounded puzzled and concerned.
Jerry swallowed hard, fighting reflexively to control his rebellious insides. As he struggled, Memphis pitched forward and lurched to the right. His stomach surged upward, and only by a supreme effort did he force its contents back down.
This was impossible. He’d flown all kinds of maneuvers in jet fighters. He couldn’t…”
Hot flashes and cold chills ran across his skin. The nausea was overwhelming. His stomach made another attempt to empty itself, and he flung himself to the side of the cockpit and leaned out as far as he could. It wasn’t a conscious decision to throw up, just an automatic reaction to avoid making a mess in the cockpit.
Millunzi and Stewart watched in amazement as Jerry threw up violently, or more correctly, threw out and then back as the wind caught the vile substance and pulled it aft, spreading it along the sail. It was pure luck that he’d chosen the leeward and not the windward side.
As he threw up, Jerry hoped that once his stomach had emptied itself, the nausea would pass. But just as soon as the first spasm stopped, another began. The gut-churning misery continued for several minutes, until his cramping stomach muscles were too exhausted to contract.
Jerry turned back, leaning weakly on the edge, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
Both Millunzi and Stewart looked at him and burst into laughter. “Look at him. He’s actually green!” the enlisted man exclaimed.
“I’m sorry,” Millunzi apologized, but still laughing. “It was your expression.”
Too near death to respond, Jerry struggled with this new affliction. The novelty and surprise of his seasickness were gone, but the weakness and nausea remained. Could he function? He had to, but all he wanted to do was lie down somewhere. Or throw himself over the side. He really didn’t care.
Jerry didn’t know which was worse: the terrible fact that he was seasick or the embarrassment of throwing up. He didn’t have long to reflect on his dilemma as his stomach lurched again and Jerry had to lean over the edge. In tears from his laughter, Millunzi tried to show some sympathy for his pathetically green JOOD.
“Ahh God, Jerry, sniff, I’m truly sorry that you’re sick. Really I am!” said Millunzi apologetically. “But I haven’t seen someone emergency blow his cookies like that for a long time, and while you probably won’t believe this, it is rather humorous.”
Jerry could only moan a response, but his glare made it clear that he was not amused.
Petty Officer Stewart bent down and took something from a sailor below. Rising, he handed Millunzi a can and a small bag.
“Sir, this is from the Doc. He says make sure Mr. Mitchell takes the pills first.”
“Thank you, Petty Officer Stewart. Okay, Jerry, get your sorry green butt over here. The corpsman has sent up some stuff to help relieve your suffering.”
Jerry took the Dramamine tablets and washed them down with sips of Sprite. He then slowly nibbled on some saltine crackers and gradually began to feel somewhat human again. Millunzi watched him for a while and then asked, “Jerry, do you feel up to finishing up the watch or do you want to go below?”
“I finish what I start, sir,” rasped Jerry. “So unless you specifically order me below, I’ll stick it out.”
“That’s the spirit, lad. We’ll make a real submariner out of you yet— even if it kills you!”
Jerry could only manage a feeble smile in response to Millunzi’s remark. But he appreciated the sentiment behind it just the same. The boat rolled again and Jerry’s stomach felt like it had been turned upside down.
“Uugghh, I can’t believe I’m this seasick!” complained Jerry. “I never had any problems when I flew. I mean, I was never airsick!”
“Like I told you earlier: two very different platforms,” said Millunzi as he chomped down on a Slim Jim. Jerry quickly turned away and kept munching his saltines.
For the next two hours, Jerry fought his queasiness and tried hard to concentrate on his duties. And while the medication reduced the effects of his seasickness, it certainly didn’t get rid of them. Still, he managed to stand the rest of the watch without making a complete fool of himself. Next time, he thought, I’ll get some of those patches that prevent this sort of thing from happening. Mercifully, the nearly six-hour-long surface transit finally drew to a close.
At 1711, control reported that the latest sounding was 115 fathoms, or 690 feet, and that it was almost time to dive the boat. Since Jerry and Millunzi would have to rig the bridge for dive, which would cause them to lose their ability to safely drive the sub, Lenny Berg assumed the deck and the conn down in control.
“Let’s hop to it,” announced Millunzi. “Petty Officer Stewart, you get the sound-powered phones and the colors while Mr. Mitchell and I get the suitcase and the other electronics.”
Stewart acknowledged the order and pulled the sound-powered phones from the jack and screwed the cap over the external connection. Millunzi showed Jerry how the other equipment was removed and the external connections made watertight. Finally, the windscreen and flagpole were unbolted and handed down. Once everything had been removed, Millunzi and Jerry raised the clamshells and locked them into place. These two doors faired the cockpit area into the rest of the sail, presenting a smooth, streamlined surface to the water as it flowed over the sail. By doing this, a significant source of flow noise — like the tone that is made by blowing across an empty Coke bottle — was eliminated.
Jerry and Millunzi then climbed down the ladder, with Millunzi shutting and securing the upper and lower bridge access trunk hatches. After that, Millunzi reported, “Chief of the Watch, the bridge is rigged for dive, last man down, hatch secure.” The Chief of the Watch then reported to Berg that the ship was rigged for dive, that is, all conditions had now been met to allow the submarine to safely submerge.
Millunzi stepped up on to the periscope stand, talked briefly with Berg, and reassumed the watch as Officer of the Deck. Jerry waited until the two were done and then tried to join Millunzi. But before he could a second step, Lenny pulled him aside and said, “Al says you’ve done your job for today. He wants you to sit at POS 1 and carefully watch what goes on as he submerges the ship.” When Jerry tried to resist, Berg grabbed him more firmly by the arm and pulled him over to the first fire-control position.
“Trust me on this, Jerry, Al is doing this for your own good. If the Captain saw you wobbling up there as the conning officer with Captain Young on board, he’d give live birth to a litter of warthogs and then sic them on you! Now sit down.”
Jerry looked up to Millunzi, who drew his right hand rapidly across his throat, meaning stop it, and then forcefully pointed for him to stay put. Recognizing an order when he saw one, Jerry nodded and sat down. No sooner had he done so, Captain Hardy marched into the control room and demanded to know the ship’s status.
“OOD, report,” bellowed Hardy.
Calmly, Millunzi began the lengthy report on the ship’s condition. He provided Hardy with the current course and speed, information on any contacts held, navigation system status, depth of water beneath the keel, and finally, that the ship was rigged for dive. He then took a breath and requested permission to submerge the ship. Hardy paused briefly to check the compass repeater and speed indication on the ship’s control panel. Satisfied with the report, he faced Millunzi and said, “Very well, OOD. Submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”
“Submerge the ship to one five zero feet, aye, sir. Diving Officer, submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”
As Jerry listened to the exchange and acknowledgment of orders, he realized that the same thing had just been said four times by three different people. To an outsider, this whole idea of repeating the same thing over and over again would seem absurd. However, the principle of repeating back orders was adopted by the Navy to help forge a solid communication chain so that the right people took the right actions at the right time. It wasn’t foolproof, but it d
id considerably reduce the number of errors that were made.
“Dive! Dive!” announced the Diving Officer over the IMC. Then, reaching for the diving alarm, he pushed the lever twice. WREEEEEE, WREEEEEE reverberated throughout the ship, closely followed by a second announcement, “Dive! Dive!”
Jerry then watched as the Diving Officer, Chief of the Watch, and the planesmen worked together to slowly drive Memphis underwater. Millunzi manned the periscope and kept providing the foursome with important feedback information on how things were going outside. It took several minutes, but Millunzi finally reported, “Scope’s under, lowering number one scope.”
Once Memphis was below one hundred feet, Millunzi called Berg over and said, “Get Jerry to his rack. He puked himself silly on the bridge and he’s dog-tired. Doc Noonan said to give some more Sprite and saltines if he’s hungry, but above all Doc said he needs rest.”
“Aye, aye, Your OODness,” responded Berg.
Jerry stood up, ready to protest, but then realized that he really did feel weak. All the adrenaline had worn off, and all that remained was the fatigue. Berg helped him up and started for the ladder to middle level when Jerry stopped, turned toward Millunzi and said, “Thanks for the sage advice, sir.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Mitchell. But that will cost you a can,” grinned Millunzi.
“Dr Pepper, right? You’ll have it as soon as we get back, sir.”
“Very good. Oh. and Jerry, when it’s appropriate, you can call me Al.” With that, Millunzi went back to the business of settling Memphis into her natural element.
“All right, green one, come with me,” nagged Berg. “You’ve had a rough day and the doctor’s orders must be obeyed. It’s off to your rack for a few hours of blissful slumber so that you’ll be well-rested and ready to face that vile creature, the drill monitor.”
Jerry didn’t remember even making it to his stateroom before he fell asleep.
6. SEA TRIALS AND ERRORS