Three Knots to Nowhere (6 page)

I did not find much value in the hands-on training of operating a mock-up of a conventionally powered World War II submarine's rudder and diving planes. In defense of the Navy, the U.S. submarine fleet still had a considerable number of conventional boats. Still, the logic baffled me. Non-nuclear-trained students spent a day at sea in a conventional submarine. School officials waived that requirement for nucs and we missed the experience.

By administrating a thorough medical exam, the school also weeded out those who could not pass the rigorous submarine duty requirements.

Everyone also underwent a pressure test equal to the depth of 100 feet. This was as much a psychological check as physical. In addition to monitoring the trainee's ability to equalize his ears, the instructor watched for signs of claustrophobia. During my test, one sailor kept saying that his ears were not equalizing. The instructor did not take the complaints of pain seriously until the trainee's eardrum burst and blood flowed out his ear. Our instructor calmly returned the chamber's pressure to normal and let the sailor out. We resumed the test and never saw the injured man again. I learned an important lesson from the experience. If stranded in a sunken submarine, it was better to bust an eardrum and escape, than die.

While at submarine school, I took the scheduled semi-annual rating exam for third-class electrician's mate. I had missed my last opportunity to advance from electrician's mate fireman, due to my temporary inferior academic performance at prototype.

Towards the end of submarine school, we took a written psychological test. It was the standard exam with provided responses that ranged from “Sounds like me” to “Does not sound like me.” There were a few special questions thrown in. One, I will never forget. It asked, “How do you relate to the following?—I would launch nuclear weapons.” My wishy-washy response was “Sounds somewhat like me.” It must have been satisfactory, because I qualified for submarine duty.

The last day of class, the instructor stood in front of my class and read everybody's name and next duty station. To my surprise, some men received orders to surface ships. I rejoiced. My next assignment, along with Southerland and Souder, was the USS
Henry Clay
SSBN 625—a real submarine.

Class 67–4's final activity together was a party at the base enlisted men's club. Although the Connecticut drinking age was 21, one of our classmates was at the door checking IDs. Regardless of his age, any member of 67–4 got in. We had a grand and sentimental time saying our goodbyes, not knowing if we would ever see each other again. I left the function highly inebriated. Between the club and my barrack, I encountered a patch of ice. As soon as I stepped on the slick surface, I fell on my butt. Like my determination to make it through Nuclear Power School, I vowed to walk over the icy surface, not walk around or crawl off. It probably took 15 minutes, but I succeeded.

After submarine school, I used a week of leave and returned to Hickory Township to visit my family. It was nice seeing them, especially since I would not have another chance for quite a while. My older brother Frank even came home from college. My younger sister Leona was especially happy. She is 11 years younger than I am, but we have always been close. She is such a pleasant person, my family nicknamed her Sweetie. My brother Curt is two years older than my sister is and involved in the sciences. During my 1969 spring visit, he was into model rockets. Even though it was early March, mild weather prevailed. The four of us had a lot of fun launching the projectiles.

That evening it occurred to me how Curt's rockets were the exact opposite of those carried aboard the USS
Henry Clay
. His were harmless, aimless toys, and those on the
Clay
were accurate weapons of mass destruction.

The excitement of my impending entry into the world of submariners tempered the enjoyment of my family's company and the relaxing environment. After reporting to the
Henry Clay
, I would be protecting the nation aboard the most powerful weapon on Earth and be a member of the elite United States Submarine Service.

I had spent my whole life preparing for that moment. Like a college athlete drafted by a professional team, I was moving up to the big leagues. I would finally put all my training to use at the highest level.

Anxious to begin my new career, I arrived at the Charleston Naval Shipyard, Charleston, South Carolina, on March 13, 1969. I parked outside the
Henry Clay
's administrative office. I felt like my chest would burst from the pride that welled inside. I was about to officially join the ranks of submariners on an awesome wonder.

Finding the office, I walked in, introduced myself, and presented my paperwork to the duty yeoman. A tall lanky man greeted me. His frame did not seem like it would fit into a submarine very well.

The processing went smoothly. The yeoman gave me instructions about when and where to report the next morning. He gave me a map of the base and circled the
Clay
's barrack. As I was about to leave the ship's office, a sailor dressed in dungarees walked past the door.

The yeoman called, “Hey, wheatgerm. Come meet our newest non-qual puke.”

The man entered the office and the yeoman introduced him as second-class electrician Bob Davis.

I sized up the sailor. Davis was large and muscular. I judged him as being six foot tall and 240 pounds. He moved with the power and grace of an athlete. Jet-black hair adorned his head. He had a sinister Fu Manchu moustache, but I detected a friendly twinkle in his eyes. After some small talk, I discovered he was affable and happy to have me as a shipmate. He had been on the
Henry Clay
for a year and was qualified in submarines. He was from Florida, but didn't have a Southern accent. Davis was married and had a young daughter. He was a member of the
Henry Clay
's champion football team. Davis played middle linebacker and running back. He was a devastating blocker in addition to being fast. After leaving the
Clay
, he was a Navy handball champion.

Davis greeted me warmly. He saw the map in my hand and showed where the
Henry Clay
was in dry dock. Before hustling away, he made a comment about probably becoming my sea daddy.

Instead of going directly to the barrack, I went to find the
Clay.

She wasn't far. I stood at the edge of the dry dock.

At first glance, her size impressed me. At 425 feet from bow to stern, she was considerably longer than a football field. The beam, her width at the broadest point, was 33 feet. That is about as wide as a standard two-lane road. These proportions, long and narrow, gave her the gift of speed, a much-needed attribute in the world of submarine warfare.

The
Clay
's top speed is classified information. While she was in service, the Navy forbids us from revealing more than the following statistics: she is faster than 20 knots, dives deeper than 400 feet, and is capable of carrying nuclear weapons.

Due to similar security concerns, the government did not allow taking photos of many areas of her interior. I have to admit the rule was not strictly enforced, and there are some closely guarded contraband pictures floating around.

Pride welled within me. The submarine was a sophisticated marvel of technology and one of the most powerful weapons in the world. Soon I would be learning all her systems and operating those within my area of expertise.

The
Clay
was black, and unlike her surface ship counterparts, did not display a name or hull number. The color helped hide the FBM from aerial surveillance. Not having any distinguishing markings was an attempt to thwart enemy efforts of identifying her, both at sea and in port.

Her rounded bow sloped up in a smooth curve. About one hundred feet from the tip of the submarine was the front of the sail, sometimes called the conning tower or fairwater. It was eighteen feet tall and extended aft for another forty feet. If viewed from above, the sail had the shape of a teardrop, with the fat end forward. It was ten feet wide at its broadest point and acted as a stabilizer. At the top and forward end of the conning tower was the bridge. When the
Clay
was on the surface, officers directed the operation of the FBM from this high point. Aft of the bridge were retractable gray and black camouflage periscopes, antennas, and the snorkel mast. Towards the front and at the bottom of the sail was a round open hatch. It permitted access into a tube, which connected the bridge and submarine.

Towards the leading edge of the conning tower and twelve feet from the deck were the sailplanes. There was one on each side of the sail and each extended out fifteen feet. They functioned much like an airplane's ailerons, by tilting up and down to help the submarine change depth.

Immediately aft of the sail was a long flat surface. It was the missile deck. Along its upper surface, I could see the outline of each launch tube's hatch and a squiggly track imbedded in the center of the deck for attaching safety lines. Towards the end of this area was an open personnel access hatch.

The missile deck ended with the turtleback, and the top of the submarine then gently angled down. I recalled hearing the term turtleback in submarine school. The name seemed strange at the time. When the turtleback was seen firsthand, the title made perfect sense.

Several feet further aft of the turtleback was another escape hatch, which was open. A trio of black 3-inch diameter electrical cables snaked from a distribution box and disappeared into the opening. The cables provided electricity to the submarine. When the cables were in service, the
Clay
did not need her onboard electrical generating equipment.

The round hull of the boat dipped and narrowed as it continued aft. At the end of this span was the rudder. To the left and right of the rudder and a few feet below were the stern planes. They were similar to the sailplanes.

The submarine's classified propeller was not in place. Even if it were, a tarp would conceal it. The specialized design of the screw was a closely guarded military secret. Taking a photograph of it would incur severe punishment.

The Walker spy ring finally compromised the propeller's design. Subsequent Russian submarines that used similar style screws earned the informal nickname of Walker-class boats.

Pride welled within me as I walked away from the marvelous wonder. In the six-man barrack room, a surprise awaited me. There was Southerland stowing his gear.

Things got even better the next day. After quarters, Davis introduced me to my Electrical Division (E-Div) peers.

As soon as I met Second-Class Electrician's Mate Rich Marchbanks, I could tell he was extremely intelligent and driven to excel. Marchbanks was a hot runner and a Super-Nuc. Always striving to finish number one in any training attended, he rarely fell short of his goal. This included Nuclear Power School. He had a mischievous sense of humor and was very personable. Marchbanks would go on to become E-Div's leading petty officer (LPO). He always treated those under him with respect and did not assign jobs unless they were necessary. He never hesitated to work alongside his subordinates, regardless how unpleasant the task. It was hard to get mad at him even when we were bone-dog-tired and grumpy. Marchbanks eventually shared a Honolulu apartment with Southerland and me.

My other E-Div peers included electricians Rich Lewis, Greg Metzgus, Charlie Ballard, Interior Communication Technicians Charlie Schweikert, and Dick Treptow.

COB Chief Cal Cochran searched me out and issued my submarine qualification card and
Henry Clay
piping tab. He had good news. The
Clay
was going to shift from the Atlantic Fleet to the Pacific and be home-ported in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, after her overhaul.

I could hardly believe my good fortune, my first-class shipmates, and Hawaii in my future.

After quarters, Davis offered to give me a tour of the
Clay.

As Davis and I walked to the
Clay
, I tried to remember what they taught in submarine school. Disjointed facts swirled in my mind as I attempted to form a mental picture of her interior. FBM submarines had six compartments. Each had a plethora of equipment crammed into it. Watertight bulkheads and doors separated the compartments. The largest open area was the crew's mess, where the crew ate, watched movies, and conducted group activities. If I was standing on the deck of the upper level of any compartment, the top of my head was below the surface of the water.

Although it only took a few minutes to make the walk, by the time we arrived at the
Clay
, my mind was a jumble of facts.

At the edge of the dry dock, we encountered a thin young sailor dressed in Navy dungarees. He was sporting a third-class crow. His Dixie cup white hat sat on his head at a seasoned salty angle.

Davis introduced us. Tommy Lee Connell was an A-ganger. He was from the South and came to the
Clay
from the USS
Trout
, SS 566.

Connell shook my hand and good-naturedly drawled, “By the way, do you know that nuc is only half a word? Heh. Heh.”

His remark made me wonder about submarine crew camaraderie.

Davis and I walked to an open hatch on the port side of the sail. I entered the opening. Inside was a shaft extending up to the bridge, and down into the submarine. While descending the metal ladder into the submarine, I quickly forgot Connell's words. An unidentifiable unpleasant odor invaded my nose and it wrinkled in defense.

Davis, already at the bottom of the ladder, saw my reaction, laughed, and said, “Welcome to submarines. All submarines smell this way.”

He then related a story about drunken sailors trying to bring a skunk aboard their submarine. The inebriated men came staggering back to their boat. One of them had a live skunk under his arm. After they crossed the gangplank and started bringing the animal below decks, the topside watch confronted them. For every reason to discourage the act, the drunks had a retort. Finally, in exasperation, the topside watch commented on the smell. The drunk with the skunk said that it would get used to it, just as he did!