Three Knots to Nowhere (17 page)

Getting underway was a carefully orchestrated production involving all hands.

Unlike surface ships, submarines did not adhere to an 0800-to-1600 workday routine and we never heard reveille or taps.

Once everybody had a chance to eat, the crew manned the maneuvering watch. Submarines station it whenever the boat was leaving or entering port. Akin to battle stations, each sailor had a particular role for which he demonstrated special expertise. I was the throttleman.

While final preparations for casting off all lines were occurring topside, not much action occurred in the engineering spaces. We nucs enjoyed the lull while it lasted. Once the
Clay
started moving, most of the engineering folks were busy operating or monitoring equipment. The throttleman position was no exception. It was one reason I enjoyed the assignment. I liked the challenge.

Along with me in maneuvering were four others. Lewis was at the electric plant control panel. The responsibility for the reactor plant control panel belonged to Dick Love. Love was the consummate professional. Nothing fazed him. Sitting at his elevated chair and desk was the EOOW, Mr. Hawthorne.

The fourth person was Schweikert.

Schweikert had one function. He recorded every speed change, called “bells” (all-stop, ahead one-third, ahead two-thirds, ahead full, ahead flank, back one-third, back two-thirds, back full, and the dreaded back emergency), on the engineer's bell book. Its name was a misnomer. The bell book was really a single sheet of paper with three sets of columns, with 27 rows per column. Each major column had four sub-columns, for recording: the time the bell was received, the bell ordered, the shaft RPMs corresponding to the bell, and shaft counter reading. Schweikert retrieved the shaft counter reading from an indicator, much like the odometer of a car. It tracked the total number of revolutions made by the propeller. During the maneuvering watch, there were so many rapid-succession entries that Charlie initially recorded only the bell, the last three digits of the counter, and the minute. He filled in the remaining data when the action slowed. Every mistake on the log required adding the new correct number, crossing out the error, and initialing the modification. The
Clay
had an unusual rule regarding the bell book, which added another degree of stress to the task. If there were more than three cross-outs on the sheet, the person making the last error had to recopy the data onto another sheet. Consequently, we became masters of the write-over. This was an attempt to disguise the error and make the mistake appear as if it never happened. The EOOW inspected and signed the bell log when he was relieved. On many occasions, the EOOW commented that he knew there were many write-overs, but they were so skillfully done he could not prove it.

After securing the maneuvering watch, there were few speed changes and the throttleman maintained the bell book himself. If there were no bell changes, he logged the current bell, shaft turns, and counter once an hour on the hour.

The officer of the deck stood in the bridge. He was in charge of guiding the
Clay
.

He shouted, “Take in all lines.”

Our life-jacketed line handlers detached the two-inch-diameter nylon lines from the submarine's cleats and threw them into the water. Boatswain's mates on the tender hauled them in.

Without needing orders, our men topside unpinned and rotated the horn-shaped cleats one hundred eighty degrees. The cleat was now upside down and inside the hull. The bottom side of the device was smooth and matched the contours of the hull. This kept the submarine as sleek and quiet as possible.

There were plenty of volunteers for the line handler and lookout positions. I was not sure who chose these men, but they considered themselves lucky. These sailors enjoyed the freedom, sensations, and sights outside the confines of the submarine the longest. Most non-submariners take fresh air, trees, the smell of land, sky and clouds, the feel of wind blowing through their hair, being able to see farther than 50 feet, and most important, sunlight, for granted. Because of our experiences, submariners developed a deep appreciation of these for the rest of our lives. Even to this day, I would rather have car windows open versus using the vehicle's air conditioner.

Each individual had his own emotions about leaving on patrol. For me, I was departing on an adventure, a test of my mental, physical, and psychological capabilities.

When topside preparations were complete, the OOD issued the command, “Back one-third.”

In response, a crewmember with him in the conn repeated the direction, “Back one-third, aye.”

The sailor turned his knob on the engine order telegraph. The action made an arrow point to the back one-third position. An indicator on my panel responded likewise and rang a bell.

The ding of the engine order telegraph bell broke the tranquility in maneuvering. I reached over and matched my arrow with the other pointer.

Simultaneously, I opened the astern throttles, admitting steam to the main turbines, which made the propeller turn in reverse.

I sang out, “Back one-third.”

We were underway.

Mr. Hawthorn responded, “Back one-third, aye.”

The boat shuddered as it began to move.

Love increased his vigilance on the reactor plant control panel's indications. Because I was demanding more steam from the steam generators, the temperature of the reactor coolant system decreased. The temperature dropped and some complex nuclear physics caused the reactor to produce more power. To minimize how low the temperature went and to speed up the increase in power, Love withdrew the reactor's control rods. The fission rate became faster. When I closed the throttles and sent less steam to the turbines, the result was the opposite. Due to these effects, the throttleman and the reactor operator (RO) work in concert.

A flurry of bell changes quickly followed the back one-third.

The large number of bell changes made it clear who was manning the conn. It was Lt. Fudd. He was legendary for the number of course and, especially, speed changes ordered.

Fudd became a rapid-fire machine of directions. He dispersed almost nonstop course and speed alterations: all-stop, ahead one-third, ahead two-thirds, left full rudder, ahead one-third, all-stop, right full rudder, back one-third, all-stop, ahead one-third. Schweikert furiously recorded his data error-free, which was why he was picked for the task.

In Mr. Fudd's defense, getting underway required complex maneuvers to avoid collisions and running aground, although there was a noticeable difference between him and other officers manning the maneuvering watch officer of the deck.

Every bell required a response by the reactor operator and me, with Schweikert keeping the bell book. I could not see where we were going or what was in our path. Therefore, I had to respond quickly and accurately to the demanded orders. It was much like driving your car with the windows painted black and having someone sitting on the roof giving you directions. Making my job even more difficult was the fact that the throttle wheels did not have indicators, corresponding to the various speeds. It had taken much experience to attain my present level of expertise.

As Love reacted to my actions, he had to keep certain nuclear parameters within predetermined bands. One of the most important was the average temperature of the water transferring the heat from the reactor. The temperature indicator displaying this value contained the green band. The span encompassed only a small portion of the dial's full range. His job was to keep the temperature within that part of the indicator.

It was traditional for throttleman and RO to play a good-natured game of rapid recognition, reflexes, and pride, regarding the temperature band. My goal was to drive him out of the green band. He tried to stay within in it, by manipulating the reactor's control rods. In defense of my actions, I had to have the submarine moving at the proper speed as quickly as possible, and I took great pride in my ability to accomplish the feat. If my actions drove his temperature out of the green band, so be it.

The engine order telegraph signaled ahead two-thirds. I announced the bell and rapidly whipped the throttle wheel in the open direction. A quick glance at Love told me he was struggling to keep pace. With a determined look, his fingers were tense from holding the In-Hold-Out switch hard into the out stop. This made the control rods withdraw from the reactor and raise power. He intently monitored the fission rate. Once he achieved the proper indication, Love made other adjustments and kept parameters from overshooting. These actions tested our proficiency to the maximum. Who had honed his skills the finest? In this instance, the temperature dropped, but he had kept it within the band and breathed a sigh of relief. The round was a draw.

I matched actual propeller RPM with those desired and announced, “Answering ahead two-thirds.”

In addition to testing our abilities, these exertions provided a genuine sense of accomplishment, as we felt the boat react in response to our actions.

Their jobs completed, topside line handlers went below. Before descending into the fluorescent-lit depths of the boat, already filled with stale, foul-smelling air, they took a final glimpse at the sea, sky, horizon, and the island of Guam. Their concluding acts were inhaling deeply and savoring the last breath of fresh air for the next two months.

When the men on the bridge descended the ladder and closed the hatch, the submarine was hermetically sealed. Anybody with claustrophobia was long gone.

“Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Dive! Dive!” Then the bell of the engine order telegraph sang its tinny “ding,” as the needle sprang to ahead two-thirds. In concert, I instinctively acknowledged the speed change. With my left hand twirling the ahead throttle-wheel, I increased the steam flow to the propulsion turbines.

I cried out, “Ahead two-thirds.”

The gentle roll of the submarine diminished as we gently slid under the water. Those in areas with low background noise could hear the swishing sound of the sea on the hull slowly disappearing. We reached our predetermined depth and leveled off. There were no leaks. Although we did not expect any, I was always relieved when we confirmed the condition.

The submarine was rigged for ultra quiet. It was the
Clay
's quietest designed equipment configuration. There was a very good reason for operating in that condition. We had to sneak through a gauntlet of Soviet vessels stationed at Apra Harbor's opening to the Pacific Ocean. One was a surface ship thinly disguised as a fishing trawler. It was bristling with electronic listening gear. Accompanying the trawler was at least one Russian fast-attack submarine. The trawler, using its array of sensitive sensing gear, attempted to determine the
Clay
's course and relay the information to the enemy submarine. The attack boat was also listening for the
Clay
. If either vessel detected us, the submarine would attempt to follow.

The Soviets' task was daunting. In addition to rigging for ultra quiet, we employed a few other tactics to elude detection. I will not reveal any, as I am sure the United States Navy still uses some to this day. In spite of these, each crew member felt the pressure of maintaining our silent state and the gravity of the consequences. An inadvertent noise, such as dropping a tool, could compromise efforts by giving away our position.

The effect on the crew was noticeable. My hands were moist from tension-induced sweat. Love had his hands clasped together behind his back. Upon close inspection, his fingers were white from squeezing them tightly. Lewis seemed outwardly unaffected. Then I noticed he was nervously tapping his foot. Grim-faced Southerland silently walked by maneuverfing. The crew's acts were deliberate; a no-nonsense, businesslike expression adorned faces. No one wanted to be the person revealing our location to any Soviet submarine trying to tail us.

Before long, we secured the maneuvering watch. Schweikert relieved me as throttleman. This gave me a few hours before I had to relieve the auxiliary electrician aft. Patrol routine had begun.

I decided to work on my submarine qualifications. In order to perform the task, I needed the
Henry Clay
piping tab. It was in my locker. The book had a one-line drawing and other information of the system I was studying.

I found a pleasant surprise in my rack. It was a letter from Mom, Leona Gus Dubay and Dad, Frank Dubay, Sr.

Some last-minute mail had arrived before the submarine got underway. This also confirmed that my letter to Frank had actually made it off the boat. The patrol was starting out on a good note. I carefully opened the letter. It was my last contact from home for the next two months. My Mom's dainty, smooth script emphasized the loving nature of the composition. As with all last letters, I intended to read it throughout patrol.

My melancholy mood abruptly changed to horror when I read that Frank and Marcia's baby's name was Scott. The thought of my letter, mailed the previous evening, left me aghast.

Scott
?
Scott
? Not Seth?

My letter to Frank and Marcia was unrecoverable, and I could not make a phone call or even write a quick follow-up note to apologize until we returned. Any communication with the outside world from me was on hold for over two months. I had no way of knowing their reaction. Would they think it was funny and chalk it up to Ted being Ted or be insulted? Wasn't patrol bad enough without having something like this in the back of my mind? As with other situations over which I had no control, I resolved to take whatever lumps I deserved and not worry about it until then.

With piping tab in hand, working on the difficult task of qualifying in submarines helped relieve my agony.

I was perched face-down atop an air mattress floating on my parents' pond. The float was gently rocking back and forth. Warm sunshine bathed me. Faint wisps of a cool breeze tickled my head and shoulders.

The sound of something sliding combined with a clicking noise, disrupted the peaceful setting.