Three Knots to Nowhere (3 page)

It was the height of the Cold War. Tensions rose and ebbed with unpredictable frequency.

The United States deterred an all-out war by employing a nuclear triad of counterstrike capabilities.

One component was the Air Force Strategic Air Command's (SAC) stable of bombers. Some were always in the air. Others relied on their ability to scramble and strike the perpetrator of an attack.

The second was nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs) hidden throughout the United States in underground silos.

The most important arm of the triad was the existence of 41 American Fleet Ballistic Missile (FBM) submarines, dubbed Forty-one for Freedom. The USS
Henry Clay
was the 22nd FBM built.

The
Clay
carried sixteen nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles. These birds of death had a range of over 2000 miles. Each Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine contained more firepower than all the bombs dropped during World War II. That made the
Henry Clay
the most powerful weapon on Earth. If we had ever been required to launch our nuclear-tipped projectiles, it would have been Armageddon.

Stealth was an FBM's secret to success. A war patrol consisted of cruising submerged at a virtually silent speed of three knots, for at least two months. FBMs did not go anywhere in particular. After randomly roaming the ocean, at the end of a patrol the USS
Henry Clay
returned to her starting point, Apra Harbor, Guam, essentially having gone nowhere.

The Soviets employed every means possible to find America's FBMs. They had aircraft, surface ships, and submarines continually searching the seas. Their huge fleet of nuclear and conventional hunter-killer submarines was my biggest fear. These stealthy compatriots snuck through the seas and hid in underwater sea-lane choke points trying to detect FBMs. If lucky enough to find us, they would try their best to follow. A Soviet attack boat having the
Clay
in its crosshairs would be a no-win situation for us if hostilities broke out. Our 20-knot-plus top speed was no match for a greater than 40-knot torpedo.

The loss of one FBM would not compromise this portion of the triad. Two-thirds of the forty-one were always hiding on station, ready to launch a massive counterstrike.

The United States Navy achieved this remarkable record by staffing every FBM with two complete crews, the Blue and Gold. I was on the
Clay
's Gold Crew.

Each crew rotated on a three-month cycle. When the Gold was on patrol, the Blue underwent refresher training. After the
Clay
returned to port and we conducted a three-day turnover, the Blue Crew relieved us. Then the Gold Crew flew back to Hawaii for 30 days of rest and relaxation (R & R). While the Gold Crew enjoyed their hard-earned rest, the Blue Crew spent the same period performing a refit of the
Clay
. This consisted of making repairs and checks, thus ensuring the submarine could endure the rigors of patrol. Restocking the submarine with a 90-day supply of stores also occurred during refit. When the Blue Crew left on patrol, the Gold Crew commenced refresher training. The cycle repeated itself over and over. This pattern allowed the
Clay
to be on station eight out of every twelve months.

It was a thankless job, but the
Clay
's war patrols were indispensible in maintaining world peace.

The sound of Lewis recording his hourly readings brought me back to the current condition. This meant that the
Clay
had been at battle stations for almost an hour, with no end in sight.

I silently manned the throttleman position. In addition to vigilantly monitoring the steam plant control panel instruments, with senses like hair triggers I tried to pick up the slightest clue of the situation. It was impossible. The
Clay
's hovering system was working flawlessly to keep the FBM at launch depth. The submarine was so motionless, we might as well be home in our living rooms. All other elements of the
Clay
's operation were equally mute.

Lewis broke the tension when he said, “Boy. I'm glad we just push this thing around.”

I responded, “I'd be happier if the pushin' we're doing is for making going home turns.”

Lewis added, “Look at it this way. Maybe we're in the process of earning another Unit Commendation award. They never told us exactly why we merited the last one. We might be doing it again. This must be one of the reasons submarine duty is called the silent service.”

The limited dialogue was enough to ease my tension. Not long afterwards, I rejoiced when hearing the message to secure from battle stations.

Schweikert soon appeared and relieved me as throttleman.

As I was leaving maneuvering, he said with a sly grin, “Looks like we stared down the Russians and
they
blinked. Again.”

I headed forward retracing my previous path, engine room, upper level machinery 2, tunnel, and upper level machinery 1, at a leisurely pace. I sped up when passing through the missile compartment. Mixed feelings swept through me. It was frightening knowing the awesome destructive power the
Clay
was capable of delivering, although that was probably why our missiles were still nestled in their tubes.

I slowed down after entering the middle level operations compartment. My track took me past the mess deck and CPO quarters, then down the stairs into crew's berthing. When I arrived at my rack, I surveyed the surroundings. Berthing's lights were off, as they were when the alarm sounded more than an hour ago. Many men were already lying down with their curtains closed.

Across the passageway, I heard Southerland snoring. His height made him a couple of inches too long for the rack and his feet protruded into the passageway.

I resisted the temptation of tickling his foot. Sleep was a sacred item on a submarine. It was bad enough that Battle Station Missile disturbed our rest.

I took great pride in my ability to arise out of a dead sleep and quickly transition to fully alert, ready to carry out complex and critical actions in a matter of minutes. Then I could go from the pinnacle of vigilance to fast asleep in an equal amount of time. It was a difficult task, but the defense of America was at stake.

The stress of battle stations had a profound effect upon me. It made me reflect about how I ended up in such a bizarre, yet rewarding situation.

I grew up in Hickory Township, a small rural Appalachian community in western Pennsylvania.

Although steel mills in nearby towns fueled the local economy, the area was in chaos. Sporadic family-straining strikes and downsizing work forces ran rampant. The American steel industry was deteriorating.

Given these circumstances, one thing was a certainty. I was determined not to spend my life as an uneducated worker in a dangerous, dirty mill with an unstable future.

Even though I took college preparatory courses, formal education beyond high school was not an option. In addition to the huge financial burden, an English teacher convinced me that I had no chance of handling college courses. In retaliation, I investigated each military service to determine which would provide the best educational opportunity. This approach had the added benefit of being at the government's expense.

After much deliberation on my part, Admiral Hyman Rickover's extremely intensive and secret Naval Nuclear Propulsion Program became my ticket out of that depressed region. The Navy recruiter reinforced the selection by claiming that my scores during the initial screening were very good and I had great intellectual potential. Recruiters across the country fed the same line to thousands of others. We ate it up and felt like geniuses.

The decision gave me four options.

There was the possibility of making the military my career.

Depending on the results of placement and aptitude screening, the Navy would train me as an interior communications technician (IC), machinist's mate (MM), electrician's mate (EM), or electronics technician (ET). All offered potential careers after the Navy.

Third, the twelve months of nuclear training was the equivalent of two years of college. Many considered it the most difficult academic curriculum available. Nuclear Power School could provide the foundation for a career in the civilian nuclear electrical generation industry.

If none of these worked out, I could go to college on the GI Bill.

Joining the Navy had another benefit. I evaded serving in Vietnam.

In addition to academic requirements, the Navy imposed a six-year minimum enlistment obligation for nuclear power program eligibility. Being only seventeen, I was a “kiddy-cruiser.” This meant my base obligation was three years of service. I had to commit to an extra three years to receive the additional education.

I entered the United States Navy in July 1966, a month after graduating from Hickory High School as a naive seventeen-year-old country boy with no marketable skills. A bus transported me to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center, North Chicago, Illinois. Upon the recruits' arrival at boot camp, the Navy subjected us to more testing. For me, the two most important exams were a general knowledge (GCT) and a mathematical test (ARI). I needed a combined score of greater than 120 to ensure my qualification for the Navy nuclear program. Knowing that 115 was the minimum combined score to become an officer added to my stress. To my relief, I easily scored well above the required value.

Typical of the other service boot camps, it taught basic military protocol. Every so often, boot camp subjected us to seemingly absurd situations. These instilled self-control, and weeded out those unable to cope.

Two incidents stood out.

The first was during one of our daily 0600 inspections. Somehow, I got dirt on my left thumb and forefinger. On the way to inspection, those digits brushed against my otherwise immaculate white uniform, smudging it in two places. The pose we assumed for inspection compounded the problem. With fingers pointing up, the thumb of the left hand hooked into the collar of my undershirt, exposed the garment's inner edge. When the inspector stood in front of me, I expected him to slap my hand, signifying I passed inspection. Instead, he pointed out the dirty spots on my uniform.

Then he grabbed my undershirt, pulled it up to my eyes, and screamed, “What the hell is this?”

Seeing the brown smudge and knowing I failed inspection, I felt my heart sink into the pit of my stomach.

The inspector ordered, “Stand over there with the rest of the scrounges.”

An aide marched our ragtag group to the brig and showed us the imprisoned sailors shuffling around in their shackles. Then he told us we would join them if we failed to square ourselves away. I passed the remaining inspections and never experienced the true consequences of being a habitual scrounge.

The second situation actually made me fear for my safety. It happened during Service Week. During the five-day period, I helped staff boot camp's fire training school. Most of the time, my duties consisted of cleaning the school's facilities.

One task was not mundane.

The recruits learning firefighting skills got sweaty and dirty while combating fires. As trainees washed for lunch, my job was ensuring they did not use more than one paper towel. Not knowing this limitation beforehand, many removed shirts and scrubbed everything above their waists. Dripping wet, they stepped over to the dispenser.

Despite being 5'6" and 115 pounds, I told them, “You're only allowed one paper towel.”

Hiding my shaking knees as many men hurled glares, curses, and threats of bodily harm, I repeated the statement again and again. To their credit, I escaped unscathed and no one ever used more than one.

In September of 1966, I reported to electrician's mate “A” school, administered at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. It trained me to be a repair electrician.

Towards the end of the training, we received orders to our next duty stations. For me it would be an interim stop to gain fleet experience prior to attending Nuclear Power School. My orders had me reporting to the submarine tender, USS
Fulton
, AS-11, New London, Connecticut. She was the oldest submarine support ship in the fleet.

Several days later, the nuclear liaison officer summoned me to his office. The man informed me that he had sent a letter to Washington dropping me from the nuclear program and canceling my three-year enlistment extension. When asked why, he told me I could not pass electrician's school, even if I got 100 percent on every remaining test. This did not make any sense because I had never scored lower than 80 percent. He said I was wrong and that my average was 54 percent. After researching the issue, we discovered a transposition error. I was carrying a passing grade.

He then said, “I've already sent off the letter. You can get back in the nuclear program, but you have to do it now.”

I told him I was not going to make a decision right then and there, but would return in the afternoon. After much deliberation, I decided that fate was telling me something. Spending three years on a ship that hardly roamed from her home port of New London was an excellent duty station. This outweighed having one of my potential career options eliminated.

I returned as promised and informed the nuclear liaison officer of my decision.

He strongly reiterated his previous statement, “If you don't get back in the nuclear program now, you can't ever get back in.”

At this point, he was ticking me off. I told him that my decision stood and went back to class.

On February 10, 1967, I graduated from electrician's mate “A” school and earned the designation electrician's mate fireman apprentice (EMFA).

I reported to the
Fulton
on a cold, blustery Saturday in February 1967. After disembarking from the train, bundled in my peacoat, I walked up to one of the taxicabs parked outside Union Station in New London, Connecticut.

The cabbie asked, “Where can I take you, buddy?”