Three Knots to Nowhere (20 page)

One day, I made an offhand statement about missing the movie
MASH
. I had a burning desire to see it and made a pessimistic remark about never having an opportunity.

That evening, I settled in the mess deck for the daily movie. Something strange occurred. Crew's mess began filling with nucs. As I looked around, some who were supposed to be sleeping, including Southerland, were present. It did not take long before the small space was overflowing with nucs. There weren't enough seats and many stood. When it came time to vote on the regularly scheduled movie, it was voted down. Then, much to my surprise, Lewis nominated
MASH
. The nucs, as one, voted it in. Metzgus already had the three cans of film ready. He winked at me and placed the first reel on the projector. Not long into the flick, men began trickling out. Soon, the place was devoid of anyone except Metzgus and me. A warm feeling flowed through my body. I recalled what Pottenger said about nucs sticking together. He was right. I had many people to thank.

Another tactic used to keep boredom from setting in was standing different watches when on duty. My watch section had that luxury because all three of the E-Div sailors assigned were qualified on every position—auxiliary electrician aft, throttleman, and electrical operator.

One day, I was the roving electrician during a drill requiring us to wear emergency air breathing (EAB) masks. Making matters worse, the
Clay
was at periscope depth in rough seas. While I was running forward and outboard of the port main engine, the
Clay
took a vicious roll. In spite of the deck dropping from under my feet, my momentum kept me moving forward through the air. A collision between my head and something in the overhead ensued. I continued heading forward, unaware of a gash in my scalp. Southerland noticed the blood running down my neck. It took five stitches to close the cut. The injury had an upside. I did not have to wear a breathing mask for drills until the cut healed.

While the stitches were in, I only stood the throttleman and electrical operator watches. The strategy protected my injured noggin from additional damage.

Not long afterwards, one of our shipmates developed a serious medical problem. Although the man's condition did not warrant aborting our mission, Dr. Smyth kept the sailor comatose in the man's rack until we returned to Guam. The doctor and corpsman took turns continuously monitoring him. Because the man's rack was near mine, a solemn mood permeated our portion of berthing for the patrol's remainder.

While relieving Schweikert as throttleman, I realized the propeller revolution counter would indicate all nines and roll over to zeros during my six hours of watch.

I kept the information to myself. The
Henry Clay
Gold Crew had a tradition. The person standing throttleman the particular moment the counter rolled over and it registered all zeros had to buy sodas for the watch section.

As the counter clicked higher and higher, I was able to estimate when the rollover would happen. Shortly before the event, I feigned a need for a bathroom break. Since all stations in maneuvering must have a qualified individual on station at all times, Mr. Hawthorne summoned the auxiliary electrician aft. The roving electrician and I would swap duties, allowing me to leave maneuvering and take care of my business.

I provided an abbreviated synopsis of the watch station's condition and assured him that I would be right back. I purposely did not mention the counter.

After leaving, and knowing everybody in maneuvering could hear me on the White Rat, I picked up a 2JV handset, “Maneuvering, upper level machinery 2. This is Dubay. What is the value on the shaft counter?”

Metzgus answered, “Upper level machinery 2, maneuvering. We'll check.” It did not take long for a response.

Metzgus was stifling a laugh as he said, “Upper level machinery 2, maneuvering. It is 47 turns from rolling over. Your relief wants to know how much longer you're going to be.”

“Maneuvering, upper level machinery 2. About five minutes.”

The counter would roll over before I returned. In the background, the man who relieved me was cussing up a storm. He knew I got him.

After the requisite time elapsed, I returned to maneuvering. My conscience got the better of me. Feeling bad about tricking him, I offered to pay for the sodas.

To his credit, he decided to ante up. He had the watch when it rolled over and should've checked the counter. Initially, the trick ticked him off. Then he realized if I were not injured, he would have been standing the throttleman and I the AEA. Given those circumstances, he would have tried to suck
me
in. It was his fault. I got him fair and square.

Still feeling a bit guilty, I suggested he serve himself first and leave it with me in maneuvering. It assured him of having a cup and prevented anyone from messing with it. The soda machine was dispensing Sprite. There was an occasion when someone did a soda run and missed the lower level machinery 2 watch. The guy serving left his full cup on the AMR-2 workbench. While he was gone, the ticked-off man in lower level drank the Sprite on the bench. Then he refilled the cup with the soap solution used for checking air leaks. When the man came back to enjoy his cold drink, all he got was a mouthful of soapy ice. Since the man I tricked was springing for the cold drinks, the least I could do was make sure his stayed safe.

He turned to the EOOW and said, “Mr. Hawthorne, I'm going forward to pay my penitence and bring back a pitcher of soda.”

Hawthorne smiled and said, “Going forward, aye. Hey, since the soda machine only gives out six ounces of soda for every nickel, do you have enough? I have a stash in case you need some.”

“No thanks, I have plenty.”

When the electrician arrived back at maneuvering, he was holding a stainless steel pitcher filled nearly to the brim with Sprite and chipped ice. Condensation coated the container. After filling his white-with-blue-stripes Navy regulation coffee cup, he placed it in the cup-holder on the wall to the left of the steam plant control panel. I took a long draught of my drink. It tasted especially delicious, because I was able to trick my buddy into having him treat us.

The remainder of the run passed by uneventfully. Watches, electrical work, logroom duties, reading, movies, and drills kept me occupied.

Our sixty days of patrol was almost over. I was looking forward to seeing the sky and green grass, when bad news circulated throughout the boat. Extenuating circumstances were delaying the end of patrol. It initially disheartened the crew. The depressed mood did not last long. The resolute attitude of the
Clay
's Gold Crew came through and extinguished our dispirited disposition. After having survived this far, the extension was a mere bump in the road compared to what we've already endured.

The extra days slowly rolled along. The thought of seeing the sun and something outside the confines of the submarine consumed me. I tried to imagine what fresh air smelled like and could not. Somehow, I pushed the thought from my mind before frustration affected my sanity.

At long last, our time on-station expired. The
Clay
's speed increased from patrol's three-knot pace and we began making going-home turns. It was a joyous occasion.

The next milestone happened at 0700. We stationed the maneuvering watch. I assumed the throttleman. Fifteen minutes later, like music to my ears, the diving alarm sounded three times.

“Surface! Surface! Surface!” blared the 1MC.

The engine order telegraph rang up ahead-two-thirds. I answered the bell. It was not with the same vigor as when we left on patrol. Love, the reactor operator, was easily able to keep the temperature within the green band. Our good-natured game of recognition and reaction was more subdued than it was over two months ago. We did not have the energy to pursue it.

I heard air blowing the water out of the main ballast tanks. Following closely was the submarine's gentle roll on the surface.

My mind was numb from the cumulative effects of spending over two months submerged in a hermetically sealed container. Before I knew it, the Blue Crew relieved us and we were back in Hawaii.

My first act was phoning my brother Frank to apologize about my misreading his son's name. I explained how fatigue contributed to my misunderstanding. He told me not to worry about it. Agonizing about his reaction for the whole patrol was baseless.

Then, I phoned my mom telling her that I'd be leaving the next day for a well-deserved rest in Hickory.

I arrived at the Honolulu airport wearing my Navy dress white uniform. Although I would rather travel in civilian clothes, the attire allowed me to fly “military standby,” which was half the normal fare.

The trip terminated at a small airport in Vienna, Ohio.

As I emerged from the airliner, an unusually warm late winter Saturday afternoon greeted me. The sun's rays comforted my body. Crocuses were sprouting near the terminal. I inhaled deeply. Even though the air had the lingering scent of jet fumes, it was boundless and refreshing.

Mom, Dad, and my sister were waiting. In an effort to portray a self-imposed stoic submariner demeanor, I fought back tears of happiness. Trying to disguise my emotion-filled voice was more difficult. It cracked a bit. I had to clear my throat several times before getting it under control.

My younger brother Curt was not there.

Mom saw my confusion and told me that Curt was at a trombone lesson.

Dad dropped us off at home and went to pick up Curt.

Mom went into the house to fix dinner. My sister, Sweetie, walked with me. John Wilson, my best friend since junior high, was on the back porch sitting in a folding lawn chair. He stood.

“Hey, Ted. Welcome home.”

As we shook hands, the contrast between our shades of skin was stark. Even though it was late winter, his minimal sun exposure since last summer maintained some of the previous year's tan. Prior to leaving for Guam, I had a deep Hawaiian tan. My tone had faded severely.

“Whoa. You're as white as an albino. How can someone stationed in Hawaii not get any sun?”

“Ha, ha. You know I was stuck underwater on patrol for over sixty days.”

He wrinkled his nose and asked, “What
is
that smell?”

I explained that it was common to all submariners. It was the product of living in a hermitically sealed container. Whatever air was in her when she submerged was the same as when she finally surfaced, plus built-up contaminants.

“If you're sealed in, how come you don't suffocate?”

I gave him the basics. The submarine had equipment to remove CO
₂
and carbon monoxide. The real key was the ability to make oxygen from seawater and store it in high-pressure tanks. As the sub's oxygen depleted, matches barely burned. When it was too low, sailors manually bled O
₂
into a submarine's atmosphere. Then, a match's flame was several inches high and cigarettes burned at a frantic pace.

John's comment about my obnoxious odor made me want to change out of the reeking uniform as soon as possible. I excused myself and told them I'd be right back.

My sister followed me inside. She related her admiration because I was a submariner, even though I stunk. Mom and Dad were also very proud. Dad would brag about it to anyone who would listen.

After hurrying upstairs to my old bedroom, I removed my shirt. Pride welled within me as I carefully unpinned my Dolphins from above the shirt's left pocket. I recalled the effort required to earn them.

Life on a submarine isn't the safest job on the planet. Having a highly qualified crew reduces the risk. Every crewman must be on the alert for potential problems. Understanding how a system works and any nuances is critical to protecting the submarine from destruction. Is that drip of water from condensation or the beginning of a leak? If not sure, crewmen have to figure it out. A submarine hiding in the depths of a huge ocean has no one but her crew to solve problems. That is why there is a comprehensive qualification process. It ensures submarine sailors have the proper level of knowledge.

Besides having shipmates capable of taking the proper actions during emergencies, there are other motivators to become qualified in submarines. When a sailor initially reports to a submarine, his official designation is submarine unqualified (SU). Another term given these individuals is NUB. It is an acronym for non-useful body. The most commonly used phrase is non-qual puke. These men must spend all their spare time devoted to working on submarine qualifications. Non-quals are not allowed to watch movies or play games, like cards, bingo, etc.

Sometimes guys take that protocol to the extreme. There have been occasions when qualified sailors denied access to the mess deck when a movie was showing, even if the non-qual only wanted a drink of bug juice. It doesn't matter if the man outranks the guy who made him leave; Dolphins trump military rank.

A non-qual's first phase of qualifying is demonstrating a basic understanding of every system on the submarine. He studies one system at a time. Then a system expert administers an oral exam. If he is satisfied the man knows enough, the system expert signs the qual card. The process continues until the non-qual masters every system.

If properly prepared, the exams are not hard. It may sound weird, but an easy test is a disservice. The whole idea of the qualification process is to ensure the examinees are proficient. The crushing sea pressure surrounding a submarine is relentless and never takes a day off. If something goes wrong, the crew needs to act correctly and quickly.

Not maintaining the proper pace of qualification advancement turns the non-qual into a dink. The term is short for delinquent about making the proper progress in qualifying. Crewmen treat dinks even worse than standard non-quals. There is also the humiliation of having one's name publicly posted on the dink list.

Once someone exhibits satisfactory systems expertise, the non-qual must show he has a comprehensive knowledge of all six of the submarine's compartments. They are the torpedo room, operations compartment, missile compartment, reactor compartment, machinery room 2, and the engine room. As with system experts, a designated officer or senior enlisted man, usually a chief petty officer, gives the oral checkouts. These exams are more comprehensive. Damage control, which is the ability to respond to an emergency, is a major focus of these verbal examinations.