Three Knots to Nowhere (21 page)

The next step is undergoing a final comprehensive oral exam. A board composed of several submarine-qualified sailors—an officer, a chief petty officer, and at least two very experienced submariners—administers it. One of the favorite questions is: How can you get fuel oil out of the ship's whistle? It is a complicated question and entails a very tortuous path. It requires knowing cross-connections between many systems. The answer takes quite a while to draw and explain. There is a good side. If you get that question, it is the only one.

Qual boards last several hours. The examiners can only recommend the man become qualified in submarines. Final approval is the responsibility of the captain.

Becoming qualified in submarines is the first step of becoming a true submariner. It is a never-ending process. Although newly qualified Dolphin wearers demonstrate a high level of proficiency, it is the bare minimum. There is always something new to learn or become even more skillful at performing. Even if someone is not self-motivated, continual classes and retraining are mandatory.

Next, I removed my patrol pin from the shirt's left pocket flap. Its actual name is SSBN Deterrent Patrol Insignia. It is the successor to the Submarine Combat Patrol Insignia, an award for World War II submarine patrols.

I earned my patrol pin by being on the
Clay
when she left on patrol and when she got back. FBM sailors are a trapped audience. After leaving on patrol, no one had the option of saying he wanted to go home. Deterrent patrols are so important, there are very few situations that make an FBM captain abort a patrol. One FBM had a sailor commit suicide. Its crew placed him in a body bag and stored him in their freezer until the boat returned to port, as scheduled. During my patrol, one of our men developed a medical problem. Our doctor kept him sedated him in his rack, which was next to mine. The doc and corpsman took turns maintaining a continuous vigil on him. Even though he was oblivious to everything around him, the man got credit for completing a deterrent patrol.

Rifling through my dresser, I found a pair of jeans and a shirt. I had left them behind the last time I was home. Just to be sure, I gave them a quick sniff. They didn't smell musty. Mom must have washed them just before I arrived.

John and Sweetie were waiting on the back porch. He wrinkled his nose, had me bend over, and smelled my head.

“Is that all it takes to be a submariner? Smelling awful?”

His comment made me smile. He could razz me about my military service and not hold it against me. Several of my crewmates from the
Clay
were not so lucky. They had friendships torn apart because of peacenik acquaintances. Antiwar agitators harbored no respect for anyone in the military.

John had his head on straight and really cared about me. I knew he was kidding and did not respond. Then he said, “What's up with your hair? It's ragged, especially above the left ear.”

I explained how I cut my head and received stitches.

Sweetie, always the thinker, said, “Since it was a war patrol and you were wounded, will you get a Purple Heart?”

When I was in high school, I found out my dad had refused several Purple Heart medals while serving in Europe during World War II. I researched the subject and found out there are specific qualifying conditions. Conversely, some nonqualifying criteria exist. In my case, it was an accidental wounding not related to or caused by enemy action.

“No, but good question. My own submarine sliced my head open, not the enemy.”

I thought back. After getting five stitches, I returned to my watch station. I was simply grateful for a reprieve from wearing a respirator for a while. The main reason I did not miss a watch was the bind it would put the other two men who stood the same watch station, when I was off. There are only three sailors for each watch. If I were unable to stand watch, the other two would have to change their schedule. Instead of being on watch for six hours and off for 12, they would have to be on watch for six, get the next six hours off, and then have to be back on watch. Sailors call it “port and starboard.” It really stinks and quickly wears someone out. I could not see putting my buddies through that. A small cut on my head was nothing compared to what happened to my dad during the war. Although my head was sore and I did not sleep well, I was proud that I never missed any of my watches.

We stepped off the porch and headed towards a small pond at the back of my parents' property. Because of the warm weather, Dad mowed the lawn. The odor of freshly cut grass wafted into my nose. Inhaling deeply, I savored the smell. It was almost intoxicating.

We walked slowly, with John upwind. To our left was a pasture. Several white cows grazed peacefully. A two-strand electric fence separated them from us. Compared to a submarine's hull it was not much of a barrier.

We arrived at the edge of the pond. When on patrol, I tried to imagine this view. What my mind conjured did not hold a candle to the real thing. The cry of a red-winged blackbird from a grove of cattails fell on my ears. A slight breeze carrying the sweet scent of cut grass ruffled my hair. It was not strong enough to disturb the mirror-like surface of the water. The water's reflection of the blue sky dotted with a few fluffy clouds was so clear it was almost impossible to detect any distortion. Feeling the warmth of the sun gave me a feeling of freedom. Its rays crossed 93 million miles unimpeded to my body. When I was entombed in the
Clay
, the sun's emissions could not reach me. After the light had traveled all that way, several hundred feet of water and our HY-80 hull stood between the rays and me. As far as the sunshine was concerned, I might as well be on the edge of the universe.

I did not notice John and Sweetie leaving my side until the perfect inverted picture on the pond's surface was distorted when a rock skipped across the pond. My sister was standing at the water's edge. She was the source of the rings, which were slowly expanding across the water. She was beaming as if she had won an Olympic gold medal.

“Hey Ted. Can you tell that I've been practicing?”

“That was pretty good. Can you do it again?”

“I'll sure try.”

John handed her a smooth stone. She carefully positioned it in her hand and gave a few practice swings. Her arm drew all the way back and flew forward, parallel to the pond's surface. The projectile hit the water. After many skips and innumerable pitty-pats, it reached the opposite edge of the small body of water.

“Whoa. Did you see that? I made it to the other side. I'm glad there are witnesses.”

John and I joined her in the fun.

Being able to throw rocks was a treat. If I swung my arm only half as far on the
Clay
, I'd smack into something.

When we depleted our supply, we sat on metal milk crates under a maple tree. It was always my favorite spot. When on patrol, I would daydream about sitting there and drinking in the openness and serenity.

After we sat, I realized how being cooped up in a metal container for more time than I cared to think about had affected me. I really missed being outside and having unlimited space around me. Most people take distance for granted. Living in a submarine made me really appreciate it. Skipping stones was a treat. Throwing something on a submarine is also a no-no. It could generate a transient. A transient is a noise from inside a submarine that travels through the surround water. They traverse great distances and can give away a submarine's position to lurking Russians. The event could compromise a deterrent patrol.

Sweetie interjected, “That submarine-shaped medal I saw on your pocket—it's a patrol pin. Right? Do all submariners get one?”

“Very good, little sister. You have a good memory. You're as smart as you are cute.”

She blushed at the compliment.

I had to admit that even though it wasn't fair, they were only awarded to Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine sailors. My experiences were not any more dangerous or demanding than what any submariner endured, regardless of the type of submarine. Somebody important must have decided FBM crewmen deserved a patrol pin. Who was I to argue?

Curt arrived on his bike. It was brand-new. He greeted me warmly and related how he had bought it with his pay for delivering newspapers. He also brought welcome news. Dinner was ready.

Curt rode proudly away. John raced after him. Sweetie followed.

I dawdled behind. I felt free to be away from the
Clay
's regimented yet discombobulated schedule.

Life on an FBM submarine is a bizarre experience. A few activities revolve around a 24-hour day. There is a meal every six hours. Breakfast is 5:00 to 6:45 a.m. Lunch is 11:00 a.m. to 12:15 p.m. Supper is 5:00 till 6:45 p.m. Mid-rats, a meal of soup and sandwiches, is between 11:00 p.m. and 12:15 a.m. Movies begin at 7:00 p.m. Sometimes organized activities such as casino or bingo night replaced the daily flick.

To complicate matters, when the
Clay
left Guam, the crew changed the clocks to Zulu Time. That is the time in Greenwich, England. Because the
Clay
's patrol area was on the opposite side of the world from Greenwich, when her clocks indicated noon, it was midnight. The only way to know when it was really dark outside was when the attack center was rigged-for-red. The space had red tinted lights lit instead of white ones. Red light is special. It allows people to have night vision and still see everything inside the submarine as well as when the normal lights are on. If the conn was rigged-for-red, it was actually night. White lights meant daytime.

Actual day and night is irrelevant on an FBM submarine. On patrol, every day is divided into four six-hour watch periods: Midnight to 0600, 0600 until noon, 1200 through 1800, and 1800 to midnight.

During each watch, nuclear-trained sailors record temperatures, pressures and other necessary equipment parameters on pre-printed sheets called logs. At the end of each day, watch standers turn in the old logs and get new ones.

Even though the boat's basic schedule is based on a 24-hour time frame, the crew lives an eighteen-hour day. Submariners divide the 18 hours into three six-hour segments. If a sailor is on watch 06:00 a.m. to noon, he then has lunch. His next six hours are devoted to completing work and qualifying. If there is time left over, he can do whatever he pleases. Whichever nuclear-trained watch section was on duty the previous six hours becomes the Casualty Assistance Team (CAT). They help the watch standers deal with engineering drills or real emergencies. When this six-hour segment is over, it's suppertime.

The mess deck cannot accommodate the whole crew; each meal has two seatings. The oncoming watch section eats at the first sitting, in this case 5:00 p.m. These men can't loiter over their meal. After they finish eating, they're supposed to relieve the people standing watch at 5:45 p.m. This allows 15 minutes to transfer information between the two groups. Then the section which just got off watch has their meal. That's the second seating. In this example, the section at the end of their non-watch period has to find empty spaces in one of the two seatings. The first is preferable. If someone is stuck with the second, he won't finish eating until 6:45 p.m. My bedtime routine consisted of brushing my teeth, going to the bathroom, and reading a book for a few minutes. By the time I was finally sleeping, it was probably 7:00 p.m. Eating at the first sitting gave me an extra 20 minutes of sleep.

At 10:45 p.m. the duty messenger wakes the sleeping watch section, thus giving them four and a half to five hours of sleep. Then these men begin another 18-hour cycle.

Being tired is a fact of life on a submarine. There is no guaranteed sleep. Battle Station Missile could happen anytime. That meant somebody's sleep was interrupted.

I finally made it to the house and went into the bathroom. The porcelain sink and standard commode were a pleasure to use. They were a far cry from the
Clay
's facilities.

All of the
Clay
's wastewater, toilets, showers, and sinks drain into a sanitary tank, which in my mind is an oxymoron. Whenever it was full, we pressurized the tank and blew its contents into the ocean.

The
Clay
's toilets were not like the ones in a house. At the bottom of the sub's stainless steel toilet bowl there was a valve with a long handle attached. The valve was a ball with a hole through it. When the handle was straight up, the valve was closed. When someone finished his business, he pulled the handle towards the front of the toilet. This aligned the hole in the valve with the tank. As the stuff in the bowl flowed into the sanitary tank, the sailor opened another valve, which rinsed the bowl with seawater. After flushing, he left both valves closed.

Flushing the toilet was benign as long as someone did not open the ball valve with pressure in the tank.

Warnings about a pressured tank were signs on each stall's door stating, “SECURED—BLOWING SANITARY.”

The most common cause for someone opening the ball valve while the tank was pressurized was fatigue. Sometimes a sailor could not wait until the tank-blowing process was completed. To remind himself about the pressure in the tank, he held the sign in the same hand he would use to pull the handle. Every once in a while, the sailor's tiredness made him transfer the sign to his other hand and pull the handle. As soon as the valve was open, even a little bit, the contents of the sanitary tank blasted out. The poor smuck got a face full of the tank's stinky contents. Ventilation systems sent the odor all through the
Clay
. Although the smell was disgusting, the crew had fun with it.

When someone opened the valve with pressure in the tank, submarine sailors called it “venting a sanitary inboard.” The poor devil who committed the act was a venter. There was no difference between this and the man who did not understand the radiation monitor. Anyone who vented a sanitary tank inboard should've known better. He had to pay the price. In most cases, there was no hiding the infraction. He was covered with the evidence. After discovering who did it, we razzed the culprit unmercifully. He became an official member of the Royal Fraternal Order of the Green Mist and condemned to wear a special red baseball cap, until someone else committed the foul deed. Because several guys performed the vile act each patrol, the crew of the
Clay
developed the Turd League. We published standings in our newspaper, the
Henry Clay
Clarion
. At the end of last patrol, the final standings were Shitters—3 and Venters—1. The score meant people vented a sanitary tank inboard four times, and on one occasion, we never found the culprit. That was a win for the Venter. I think it was an officer.