Three Knots to Nowhere (13 page)

Other than the suitcase, I wondered how much different it was diving a submarine during World War II.

I did not dwell on it. When back in the
Clay
, I immediately hit the rack. In four hours, I had another long day ahead of me.

After returning to Charleston, the
Clay
headed up the Cooper River to the Naval Weapons Station.

Once there, the
Clay
's sixteen missile tubes became hosts to war-shot nuclear-tipped ICBMs.

Shortly after the event, the yeoman gave me bad news. I was not eligible to have the government pay for shipping my belongings to Hawaii.

I said, “Wait a minute. Everybody second-class and above is eligible.”

“There's another requirement. You have to be stationed in Hawaii for twelve months. You're supposed to transfer off the
Clay
after her first patrol.”

I was ticked off and requested a meeting with the executive officer. My argument that the Navy would most likely transfer me to another boat in Hawaii fell on deaf ears. He agreed with the probability of staying in the Pacific Fleet, but there was no guarantee.

I consoled myself by focusing on my immediate future. Transiting from Charleston to Hawaii through the Panama Canal by submarine was an extraordinary event. Then I would be living in Hawaii for an undetermined time. The experience was something to savor. I was determined to make the most of it. I shoved the disappointment aside and was ready to begin my next adventure.

On an unusually cold, rainy, blustery June 1970 morning, the USS
Henry Clay
embarked on her 8,000-mile transit to Hawaii via the Panama Canal. The Blue Crew would be waiting for us.

This was perfect weather to begin a trip to the tropical paradise.

After leaving the Cooper River, the USS
Henry Clay
entered the Atlantic Ocean, passing through a portion of the Bermuda Triangle. Speculation of an unfortunate fate befalling the
Clay
in that notorious area circulated throughout the boat. I doubt if anyone really believed the superstitions. As expected, we passed through the Triangle without incident and proceeded southwest, skirting the east coast of Cuba.

Since I was not qualified in submarines or all of my watch stations, I had no spare time. Connell's long-ago prophecy had come true. The
Clay
's Gold Crew strictly enforced the regulation banning non-quals from enjoying any entertainment, such as movies. My days were an endless series of standing port and starboard watches, performing work, qualifying and trying to get some rest.

Each day rolled into the next, without reprieve. Tasks kept me so busy, I was not aware we were getting close to the Panama Canal.

One day when awakened by the duty messenger, I sensed the gentle rolling of the FBM. I surmised that the boat was at periscope depth. When entering the mess deck, I spied real milk on the tables. There was a buzz of excitement in the air. I sat with Southerland. He told me the submarine was in the Panama Canal. We received a supply of fresh stores, which explained the milk. My exhaustion had kept me in such a deep sleep, I was oblivious to it all. The klaxon sounding three times and the announcement to surface had not awakened me.

I even slept through the
Clay
almost having a collision.

It did not take long to learn the details. The
Clay
was approaching a stopped ship. The OOD signaled for all-stop, but the port and starboard propulsion turbine ahead control valves were stuck. A back one-third, back two-thirds, and finally a back emergency quickly followed all-stop. Wishon had to bang on the poppets with a sledgehammer to free them. When the turbines responded, the prop's wash sent a wave over the turtleback and the after portion of the missile deck. Several crewmen got their feet wet.

After eating lunch, I went back aft and relieved Davis as throttleman. He was still smiling like the Cheshire cat and cackling his typical mischievous laugh.

Everybody liked the man. His infectious good humor, his extreme technical competence, and his excellent athleticism made him one of the more popular members of the crew.

Having recently qualified as throttleman, I hoped my watch went by without a similar near-miss. Luckily, other than some benign speed changes, it did.

Not long afterwards, Southerland stopped by maneuvering to deliver some good news. The captain declared holiday routine while we were in the Canal. This meant the crew did not have to perform any work other than standing watch, unless it was absolutely necessary. Southerland and I decided to spend as much time topside as possible.

Dick Treptow, one of our nuc interior communications technicians (IC-men), relieved me as throttleman. IC-men and electricians were in the electrical division. As such, we shared a special bond. Regardless, it did not stop either group from pinging on the other.

As I was exiting maneuvering and knowing Treptow always checked the condition of the after lighting ground detector, I razzed him about a ground on phase-C, from the main seawater valve's position indicator.

He took it good-naturedly and commented about electricians having their own issues with lighting system grounds. Then he would have the last laugh, while electricians tried to find and fix it.

After leaving maneuvering, I quickly passed through the engine room, machinery 2 upper level and the tunnel, and paused in machinery 1 to gaze out the open hatch to the outside. The faster I ate, the more time I could be topside. I continued through the middle level missile compartment to the mess deck in the operations compartment.

After wolfing down lunch, I hurried through the operations and missile compartments to machinery 1. As I stood at the bottom of the ladder, the welcome odor of our proximity to land permeated my nose. While I was looking up through the hatch, the brilliant sunshine hurt my eyes. I climbed the ladder slowly, allowing my eyes to adapt to the brightness. Nearing the top, I could feel the confined space of the submarine releasing its grip. In its place was a feeling of freedom, and my soul seemed to stretch to infinity. I saw something my consciousness was not aware of having missed. It was distance—space between me and other objects—something most people take for granted.

USS
Henry Clay
passing through the Panama Canal, during her transit from Charleston, South Carolina, to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Individuals are unidentifiable. From the archives of Ted E. Dubay (June 1970).

Technicolor replaced the
Clay
's drab interior. The submarine was in the muddy brown Chagares River. I relished the lush jungle, of every imaginable shade of green punctuated by an abundance of multicolored flowers. It was such a contrast to the black exterior of the
Clay
. The cloudless sky was a perfect shade of blue.

I noted safety lines along the sides of the missile deck and the edges of the fairwater planes. They were not substantial, but someone had to be very careless to fall overboard. Tempering the freedom and natural beauty was the intensely hot and humid air. Underneath a long-sleeved poopie suit, underclothing, and ball cap, a layer of sweat quickly coated my body. The other crewmen who escaped the confines of the
Clay
were in the same state and did not seem to care. Being outside the boat, I felt temporarily paroled from my submarine prison. Everyone was enjoying his brief period of freedom. Some were sitting and quietly talking. Others were lost in absorbing the atmosphere. I saw that Southerland was sleeping. There were a number on the fairwater planes enjoying an elevated view. I decided to observe the scenery from the missile deck and snap a few pictures. My Kodak Instamatic camera was not the best, but serviceable and compact. Not long after arriving topside, we passed a waterfall, off the starboard side. It was so beautiful I could not resist capturing the image.

During my time topside, the natural environment fascinated me. The marvelous technologically advanced equipment inside the
Clay
failed to inspire the same awe. It was probably a subconscious attempt to escape the stark interior of the submarine.

Birds flitted amongst the foliage. Brilliant butterflies fluttered everywhere. Puffs of wind twisted and turned leaves in every direction. I bathed in the wonderful rays of the sun. Even the foam kicked up by the
Clay
's wake, as she slowly churned through the muddy water, enthralled me.

Although I marveled at the monumental effort of wresting the canal from the primitive and hostile environment, the result paled in the face of the surrounding natural beauty. It was a shame that the locks replaced such beautiful scenery.

One of the major obstacles the canal builders overcame was malaria-infected mosquitoes. Even my dad had contracted the disease when stationed here during World War II. He suffered all through the war in Europe and several years afterward. On the day the war in Europe ended, he was delirious in a hospital in Germany. Dad did not find out about the declaration of peace for several days.

The lack of mosquitoes while transiting the canal surprised me. Maybe our submarine smell was acting as a repellant.

As the submarine approached the Bridge of the Americas, an ocean liner was to our left and entering the canal from the Pacific. There were so many people lining our side of their ship, waving and taking pictures, it was actually listing. The
Clay
's sailors moved to the port side and enthusiastically returned the gestures. Southerland and I spied several especially attractive young women and tried to get their attention.

Suddenly Southerland shouted, “Snakes!”

He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the hundreds of sea snakes swimming beside the
Clay
. Almost as one, we retreated from the safety rail to the center of the missile deck. I am not sure about my fellow crewmembers, but even non-venomous snakes give me the heebie-jeebies. Knowing sea snakes are one of the most poisonous species in the world sent a shiver up my spine. In spite of these critters' surrounding the
Clay
, it was not enough to drive me back into the confines of the submarine. The feeling of freedom overshadowed all other factors and I did not want to go below until there was no longer a choice.

That moment was not long in coming. The water was deep enough for the
Clay
to dive. Reluctantly, after giving a final glance around, I entered the boat's dreary interior. A metal tube of artificial light, navy gray equipment, Formica that barely simulated wood, and cramped quarters replaced the limitless, vibrant-hued and alive world, which for most of my life I had taken for granted.

Although Hawaii lies to the northeast and 4500 miles from the western exit of the Panama Canal, the
Clay
did not head in that direction. Instead, our course paralleled the coast of Mexico. Prior to arriving in Pearl Harbor, we were going to have a port of call. The crew unanimously voted on stopping in Acapulco. Somehow, that didn't happen, and we headed to Long Beach, California. Captain Montross was from the area.

Our change in liberty port disappointed us, but we quickly settled into the underway routine. For me, I was condemned to port and starboard throttleman watches, on watch for six hours, off for six, etc. There was one upside. We were not conducting any drills. This allowed me to remain rested, work on qualifications, and stay caught up on my work. Since we were in transit and expected in Long Beach on a certain day, the submarine ran fast and deep.

One day our watch section in maneuvering was talked-out. We had no interest in intellectual discussions about girls, food, or anything that could take minds off our encapsulation in a metal cylinder. After an hour of silence, the numbing atmosphere affected the engineering officer of the watch. His eyes began to droop. Soon his head was nodding as he ineffectively tried to fight off falling asleep. Davis, the electrical operator, noticed the officer's demeanor.

Wishon, the engine room supervisor, appeared in the door to maneuvering. After a few subtle hand signals from Davis, Wishon left without speaking. Davis placed a forefinger on his lips. The reactor operator and I did not understand, but we got the message to remain quiet. Davis turned around and tied the officer's shoelaces together.

A few minutes later, we heard a loud crack from beneath the officer. I quickly looked in his direction. Suspended about a foot above his chair, the man had a wide-eyed expression of terror. When settled back in his seat, he realized the state of his shoes. He glared as we erupted in laughter. The man could not reprimand us. If he did, he had to admit to a lapse of attention, which was severe enough to allow someone to violate his footwear and send him flying. Wishon emerged from lower level engine room and walked aft of maneuvering. In his hand was Bruce, the short-handled 12-pound sledgehammer.

The sledge and the officer's flight made me understand Davis's amusement during my initial tour of the engine room when he said, “See those three can-looking things? They're for the bottom posts of maneuvering's chairs.”