Three Knots to Nowhere (33 page)

Costes was completely broke. All his pay from the time we left Hawaii over three months ago was gone. The festive mood evaporated. Players and spectators drifted away. Shinow silently gathered up the pot, devoid of remorse.

Costes sullenly shuffled back to his cube. He had to survive without a penny until the next payday, which was not for another week. He was fortunate to live on base. The Navy did not require sailors to pay rent when living in the barrack. Plus, there was no charge for eating at the chow hall.

Someone clicked the lights off and I settled into my bunk. It had been a very long day. My channel fever subsided and sleep quickly engulfed me.

I awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. My heart soared like a hawk when I realized what had awakened me. Sunlight, mixed gently with bird songs, and the wind rustling through trees. I inhaled deeply. It was as if these sensations were entering me, flushing out the unpleasantness of the last three months.

Even though extremely enjoyable, I did not savor it long. A touch of channel fever re-infected me. There were so many things to look forward to, I hardly knew where to start.

Another long shower continued the process of eliminating
that
smell from my body.

Next was breakfast. As I stepped into the chow hall, the aroma of fresh-baked pastries wafted over me. The additional stimulus of seeing fruit, eggs, and fresh milk made my mouth water. The last time I had eaten anything this fresh was several months ago.

After loading my tray with a plethora of delectable delights, I savored every bite. Several glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice and milk helped wash it down. Southerland appeared and joined me. Piled high on his tray was a similar selection.

Both of us had quit eating eggs the third week of patrol. I stopped after watching Al, the cook, dropping three out of five greenish-black eggs onto the griddle. He just scraped the bad ones into the garbage and continued without skipping a beat. It made me wonder if any of them were any good, even the ones that looked normal. I decided right then and there that eggs were not going to be part of my diet until I got back to Hawaii.

If submariners have the best chow, it made me wonder what skimmers ate.

In contrast to rushing through meals on patrol, we leisurely finished our food and lingered.

I wanted to make a quick phone call to my parents and let them know I was back. Southerland patted his stretched belly and we headed to the barrack. I found a pay phone. After I had deposited a dime and dialed O, the operator came on the line.

I told her I wanted to make a long-distance collect phone call and gave her my parents' number. After a bunch of clicking noises and my dime returning, I heard a phone ring.

A woman answered. The operator asked, “Will you accept a collect call from Ted?”

The voice on the other end enthusiastically accepted.

I blurted, “Hey, Mom, I'm finally back from patrol. I'm safe and sound in the barrack on Ford Island.”

With a distinct New York City accent, her reply was hesitant and confused. A query determined I was talking to someone in area code 212, New York City, instead of 214, western Pennsylvania.

She interrupted my apology for disturbing her. Being a mother, she was happy to hear of a son returning safe and sound from something dangerous.

I repeated the process with the operator and explained about reaching the wrong number. She assured me she would cancel the charges and tried another call.

It was a treat hearing Mom's sweet melodious voice. She had been expecting the call for the past several days.

I heard Mom say, away from the phone's mouthpiece, “Hey, honey. It's Ted. He's finally back.”

Even though Dad was sitting in his easy chair, I could tell he said something about being relieved and glad it was my last secret mission.

As Mom was catching me up with all the news, I heard the voice of my thirteen-year-old sister Leona in the background, “I wanna talk. I wanna talk to him.”

“Hold your horses. Everybody will get a chance. Get Curt. He's working on his bike on the back porch.”

I smiled, hearing Sweetie's footsteps as she rushed off. A picture of her formed in my mind. I could see her hair bouncing and arms swinging as she scurried through the dining room and into the kitchen. The slam of the screen door announced that my sister had gone outside. Soon it banged again as Curt and my sister clamored into the house.

Mom said, “Sweetie's about to explode. Ready to talk to her?”

She had attended the Cathy Rush Basketball Camp while I was on patrol. Sweetie excitedly told me about it. I wondered how much my own interest in basketball had influenced her in the sport. We concluded our conversation with her challenging me to a game of H-O-R-S-E.

Next, it was Curt's turn. I knew he was dying to ask details about my patrol experiences. He knew it was a forbidden subject. We limited our conversation to a discussion about rebuilding the gears on his ten-speed bike. I promised to help when I arrived back home.

Finally, it was Dad's turn. We mainly talked about fishing. He had stocked our pond with large-mouth bass. My father extolled their virtues as fighters. The call ended with me telling him that I'd see them in about a month. The exact day of my discharge from the Navy was unknown. Treating us like mushrooms, by keeping us in the dark and feeding us poop, was the Navy way.

With much regret, I hung up. We could have talked for hours but a collect phone call from Hawaii was expensive. Although my folks never accepted money from me in compensation, I know it bit into their limited budget.

While walking to Southerland's cube, I realized how much I longed for my family. When on the submarine, I had a defensive mechanism engaged inside me. I knew I missed them but it was an abstract feeling.

Southerland, with eyes closed, was lying in his rack. Seeing his peaceful demeanor almost made me regret disturbing him. I slammed my hand on the side of one of the metal lockers, creating an ear-splitting noise. His eyes popped open.

With sarcastic sweetness dripping from my voice, I asked him if he was ready to pick up our belongings from the warehouse.

His eyes rolled in their sockets and I thought he was going to fling a few well-deserved meaningless intensifiers at me.

As we walked the short distance to the warehouse, I drank in the sensations of my surroundings. The morning sun was warm on my face. Wind rustled through freshly washed hair. The mixed scents of sea and land tickled my nose. I was in bliss.

On the way, we discussed how we didn't see each other very much while on patrol. It was amazing how two guys cooped up in a sardine can for over two months hardly came in contact. He was in the section that was on watch when I was off. When I was sleeping, he was off. Even when manning battle stations, I was in maneuvering and he was stuck in lower level machinery 2. We would catch up while I stayed in the Atkinson Drive apartment. Pavlov was taking my place after my discharge from the Navy.

Since I had shipped my car to the mainland during the last off-crew, I was at the mercy of Southerland's batteryless VW, Hercules. We had to stuff all of our belongings into his Beetle. It was a tight fit, but we were successful. After we'd push-started Hercules, I ended up with a box in my lap. He drove to Ford Island's ferry landing.

The ferry arrived at the landing with its usual amount of crashing and bouncing. I wondered how it remained seaworthy after taking all the abuse. I was not worried about my safety. If the battered ferry sank, we were on the surface and land was less than a quarter mile away.

Residual effects of the last three months tempered the eager anticipation of my discharge from the Navy. A 30-day paid vacation in Oahu was the perfect way to rejuvenate.

The tropical paradise had much to offer and time flew by. Before I knew it, it was my next-to-last day in the Navy. After spending the morning on Ford Island, Southerland and I went to Waikiki Beach. What a way to finish my time in Hawaii! While he dozed, I savored our spectacular surroundings. Beautiful bikini-clad women coated the beach. The water was refreshing. Tourists shrieked during wild dugout canoe rides on the mighty Pacific rollers pounding the seashore.

Then Diamond Head caught my attention. Thoughts of the Blue Crew sailor who committed suicide on its slopes invaded my mind. I wondered if I would ever be able to see the landmark and not associate it with my friend.

His relationship was not the only one which could not survive long patrol separations. Divorce and marital problems ran rampant within the submarine community.

Although single, I was a victim also. Being a submariner partially contributed to my not having a steady girlfriend. When in Guam and on patrol, the crew of the
Henry Clay
was essentially removed from civilization, eliminating any chance of meeting a woman. While in port, most eligible members of the opposite sex ostracized those in the military as warmongers. It was a difficult situation.

On the positive side, I survived. There was much to be thankful for, even though I had some narrow escapes. The snapped line, while tying up the
Nautilus
, missed me by a whisker. A torpedo shot at the USS
Fulton
had a dummy warhead. Evasive actions averted being depth-charged during sound trials. The jam dive brought us to within a hair's breadth of destruction. Encounters with typhoons and Soviet hunter-killer submarines left us unscathed. World leaders kept their sensibilities and the Cold War never escalated into an all-out conflict. My training and experience were the foundation for a well-paying career. I met many wonderful people. All of these contributed to my growth from a naive country boy into a confident, mature young man.

I went to bed with a smile on my face. There were so many wonderful memories.

The next day, I donned my dress white uniform for the last time. After attaching my Dolphins to the shirt, I picked up the patrol pin. The emblem was missing the star for my final patrol.

A quick search located the tiny star. I stared at it in my open hand. The ⅛th-inch golden icon was pathetically small when compared to what I had endured to earn it. It was a shame that a certificate, stating in words what the award represented, did not accompany the patrol pin or its stars. I attached the new star to the medal. My finger traced the pin's outline and then gently touched each star.

While staring at the miniature FBM submarine with a missile blasting out, I recalled my feelings when the
Clay
fired its test missile. I still recalled the FBM's reverberations. Would the sensation ever fade from my memory? At the time, the launch was an exciting lark. After too many war patrols, the way the submarine shuddered as the projectile blasted towards its target was matched by a reciprocal shiver within me. Mine was due to comprehending the awful conflagration the
Henry Clay
's lethal weapons would cause if ever dispatched.

Gratefulness quickly replaced the uncomfortable feeling.

I will be thankful forever because we never unleashed the
Henry Clay
's merchants of unimaginable devastation. Although enemies on political and military levels, the Soviet general population was not any different from that of the United States. If the Cold War had escalated into something more terrible, it would have resulted in the annihilation of millions of innocent victims in both countries. My deterrent patrols had come and gone. During those deployments, I manned battle station missile too many times. Thankfully, none resulted in dispatching the
Clay
's birds of death. The pin and its adornments were visual reminders of my contribution to maintaining world peace.

My Dolphins were already pinned onto the left breast of my uniform. I affixed the patrol pin to the pocket flap below my Dolphins. Although earned in different manners, both medals made my chest swell with pride.

Southerland entered the room. “Y'all ready?”

I nodded and we walked through the quiet apartment. McCann and Connell were not home. A final goodbye was not possible. Would I ever see them again?

After depositing my sea-bag inside the VW Beetle, I climbed into the driver's seat. Bob assumed the pushing duties. Our coordinated actions quickly caused Hercules's engine to spring to life. I wondered if my departure would motivate him to replace the battery. I silently shifted to the passenger seat.

Southerland stopped the car in front of the airport terminal. I got out. Neither of us spoke and he drove away.

I did not look back.

after lighting ground detector

Akaka Falls

Ala Moana Hotel

Ala Moana Park

Ala Wai Yacht harbor

Alabama

Aloha Airlines

Andy's Hut

Apollo 13

Apra Harbor

ARI

Arizona
, USS

Arizona Club

Atlantic Ocean

atmosphere analyzer

attack center

auxiliary electrician aft (AEA)

AWOL

B-52 bomber

baby nuc

back emergency

Bainbridge, Md.

Baldwin-Wallace College

Ballard, Charlie

Barrack 55

basic engineering exam (BEQ)

battle station missile

BCP

bell book

Benjamin Franklin
, USS

Bermuda Triangle

Blue Crew

boatswains

bridge

Bridge of the Americas

Brothers, Dr. Joyce

Bruce

Cape Kennedy, Fla.

carbon dioxide scrubber

casualty assistance team (CAT)

Chagaraes River

Chain of Craters Road

channel fever

Charleston S.C.

Charleston Naval Shipyard

chief of the boat (COB)

chief of the watch (COW)

Class 67–4

Clay, Henry (statesman)

Cochran, Cal

Cold War

combustion engineering

Cone
, USS

Conn