Three Knots to Nowhere (14 page)

Wishon joined us in having a good laugh at the officer's expense.

Our levity ceased when the submarine abruptly developed a severe down-bubble. I quickly grabbed the ahead throttle wheel and kept from falling. Thinking that the captain was executing unannounced angles and dangles, I formed a string of expletives on my tongue. Before I had a chance to utter them, the engine order telegraph demanded a back emergency, and “Jam dive” blasted from the 1MC. Due to the submarine's initial high speed and depth, I realized our dire situation. Survival depended on ending the descent.

My job was stopping the submarine's forward motion. I instinctively acknowledged the bell with my right hand. The left began shutting the ahead throttles by turning its control wheel clockwise.

At the same time, I sang out, “Back emergency!”

In parallel, the reactor operator shifted the reactor coolant pumps to high speed.

Without skipping a beat, my right hand relieved the left and furiously continued shutting the ahead throttles. To save a few seconds, my left shifted to the astern control wheel and simultaneously whipped it in the counterclockwise direction. Although this saved time, it was a dangerous action. Admitting steam through the propulsion turbine's reverse poppets, while the ahead throttles were still open, would catastrophically damage the turbines. The
Clay
needed them to stop her downward momentum and prevent our destruction. Luckily, my experience had taught me exactly how far to turn the astern wheel. After a momentary verification that the shaft was at zero RPM, I rapidly opened the astern throttles. The sudden massive steam demand sucked heat from the nuclear reactor. The reactor operator wore a grim face as he adjusted control rods. Matching reactor power with steam demand without causing a SCRAM was critical for survival.

I tersely barked, “Answering back emergency.”

The boat's down-bubble had gotten worse, and the hull was noisily complaining about the extreme pressure as we went deeper. My hands were locked onto the astern throttle wheel in a death grip. I realized I was fruitlessly pulling on the wheel trying to end our descent, but couldn't resist the urge. Accentuating everything, the throttle wheel was violently moving fore and aft, matching the submarine's throbbing.

My heart pounded while waiting for a sign that my actions were improving our situation.

Then I succumbed to temptation. A check of maneuvering's depth gauge made my heart shudder.

Although the submarine was rising, we were still far below test depth.

The submarine had flirted with crush depth.

After what seemed an eternity, the engine order telegraph signaled all-stop. With the throttles closed, our return to the surface was at the mercy the
Clay
's positive buoyancy. I breathed a sigh of relief as the submarine continued rising and its rate accelerated.

With the submarine finally wallowing on the surface, I felt drained and had to sit. I recalled wondering about my performance during a real crisis. My chest swelled with pride. I had been a major contributor to saving the USS
Henry Clay
and her 125 officers and men.

It did not take long to find out what happened. A hydraulic pipe blew apart. The component supplied the controlling fluid to the planes. It may sound strange, but planes fail full dive on a loss of pressure.

Our incessant training paid off. The crew functioned as a highly skilled team or I would not be here telling this story. Our captain personally awarded each man who carried out corrective actions a much-deserved “Well done.”

Following the event, I recalled how I wondered about my ability to meet the challenge of becoming a submariner and maintaining my poise in a real crisis. The incident proved to me that I had a healthy future in the submarine service.

Although the
Clay
was safe, repairing the broken pipe posed another challenge. We were essentially out in the middle of nowhere and on our own. Submarines carried limited spare parts. Extra pipes and valves were definitely not in the
Clay
's tiny storeroom. This is the sort of risk that had been faced by all submarines since they came into existence. It is one reason why the submarine force only takes volunteers and then selects the best. The crew of the
Clay
was no exception to this tradition.

Our talented and ingenious crewmen quickly repaired the damage.

After the near catastrophe, no one in the crew displayed any outward signs that the event affected him. Maybe it was a form of denial. Regardless of the reason, levity was running rampant.

During this period, someone overheard a greenhorn torpedoman stating he would do anything for a letter from his girlfriend. She had promised to write every day.

Later that day, word spread throughout the FBM that we needed a person to retrieve a bag of letters from a mail buoy. The rookie torpedoman readily volunteered.

When all arrangements for the ruse were complete, the captain surfaced the
Clay
. As the torpedoman was about to climb the ladder to go topside and retrieve the mail, catcalls and laughter erupted from the perpetrators in the attack center. The victim's face turned beet-red when he realized it was only a mischievous prank.

All levels of the crew, even the captain, masterfully planned and executed the hoax. Although it was sophomoric, I'm sure it helped relieve any residual tensions from the jam dive.

The remaining trip to Long Beach was uneventful, and we all looked forward to three days in sunny California.

Even though Long Beach was the home of a large naval base, very few submarines visited. The city considered our captain a hometown hero and they rolled out the red carpet.

City officials requested we make a dramatic and grand entrance by performing a super-surface. Prior to emerging from the depths, we were supposed to fire a smoke bomb out of the signal ejector so a helicopter could capture the moment.

At the scripted time, men launched the projectile.

Shortly after we'd surfaced, the captain's angry voice blared over maneuvering's intercom, “What the hell did you shoot?”

Prior to this, the engineering officer of the watch, Lieutenant Robert Hawthorne, one of our more talented young officers, had been relaxed and casual. He was youthful, good-looking, intelligent, hard-working, and personable. In anticipation of getting off the boat as soon as we docked, he was wearing, contrary to regulations, his white dress uniform with a short-sleeved shirt. We good-naturedly chided him about wearing short sleeves in the engineering spaces. In response, he donned paper sleeves, complete with lieutenant bars.

In almost a panic, Hawthorne ripped off the false sleeves and had a very concerned demeanor.

In a more controlled communication, the conn informed us that we had launched a flare instead of a smoke bomb. It detonated very close to the helicopter. The pilot instinctively executed evasive maneuvers, but missed taking photos of our surface. The helicopter's pilot was upset and expressed his displeasure.

From the tone of his voice, we could tell that our captain wasn't happy with the incident either.

Mr. Hawthorne was despondent. There was the potential that the captain would rescind his much-anticipated liberty. Even worse, the captain could document the incident in Hawthorne's service record. Had his promising career come to a screeching halt? It had not, because he went on to an illustrious career and retired as a captain.

He looked so forlorn that we tried to console him. Somehow, our comments about having a future as a junior anti-aircraft gunnery officer on a surface ship did not alleviate his dejected mood.

Because no one was hurt or any real damage inflicted, the crew reveled in the fact we almost shot down a helicopter. It didn't take long before a cartoon of the
Clay
appeared on the maneuvering status board. It depicted an FBM submarine with a helicopter icon on the sail, mimicking how World War II submarines painted symbols on their sails when they sank enemy ships. An added touch to the cartoon was a broom affixed to the periscope, signifying a clean sweep.

Much to the credit of the helicopter pilot, he managed to regain his composure and took pictures of us entering the harbor.

Just after docking, I was still the throttleman. Suddenly, all hell broke loose in maneuvering. The horn for the steam plant control panel, the siren of the reactor plant control panel, and the salinity panel bell started sounding randomly and intermittently. The White Rat emitted a series of clicking noises. Screech. Click. Ding. Ding. Click. Click. Screech. Honk. Ding. Honk. Click. Ding. Screech.

I scanned the alarm section of the steam plant control panel and no alarms were flashing. A check of all other indications showed everything was normal.

Nobody in maneuvering could discover a reason for the noises.

Then they stopped.

Everyone in maneuvering looked at each other with confused expressions.

Before we were able to relax, the commotion began again. Honk. Ding. Click. Screech. Ding.

Again, the cause couldn't be determined, and we expanded our investigation.

Before long, Treptow reported something strange going on with the after lighting ground detector. The lights for all three phases were blinking in a random pattern.

Treptow appeared in the doorway with a devilish grin. His previous curse had befallen us electricians. There was a ground in our equipment.

Electricians worked around the clock trying to discover the culprit. It did not take long to determine that the ground was in the engine room lighting. Finding which fixture was the actual problem proved more difficult. It was a miserable job. The engine room was very hot and humid at deck level. Lights and their wiring were in the overhead, where the conditions were even worse. Adding to our discomfort, machinist's mates hurled complaints when the lights above where they were working went out. Even Southerland became irritated with me.

Sweating profusely, we disconnected circuits and performed megger checks. Sometimes we thought we found the offending fixture. Then the demon ground raised its ugly head and dashed our hopes.

After we had searched in vain, the problem disappeared without our having found the culprit. Disappointment permeated the electricians. Nevertheless, we were happy it was gone. At least Treptow enjoyed the show.

Of the three days in Long Beach, every crewman got at least one day away from the boat. I spent mine at Disneyland. Because no one had room for civilian clothes, I was condemned to parade around the amusement park in my dress white uniform. Following the excursion, I contributed to the local economy by imbibing excessive liquid refreshments. Other than wearing Mickey Mouse ears instead of my Dixie cup white hat when returning to the
Clay
, I did not remember my evening.

In the middle of the night, a clamor awakened me. Southerland and Souder were returning from another of their legendary escapades.

The public also made it out. The captain opened the submarine for tours. Visitors came in droves. A continuous stream paraded through the boat. They entered through the hatch in ARM 1 and traveled through the missile compartment, the operations compartment, and the torpedo room. At the end of each day, we turned away hundreds of disappointed people.

The naval base in Long Beach was full of surface warships. Many took advantage of having a submarine so close. The
Clay
was a perfect target for their sonar operators and they pinged us unmercifully. Unlike sonar noises heard on TV or the movies, a real ping is more like a high-pitched two-syllable bird's song. They almost drove us crazy with their incessant pinging. Although it was nerve-wracking, at least they were friendly vessels not bent on our destruction. It made me wonder how Uncle Harry had felt.

We elicited some revenge on the surface armada. One of our torpedomen was showing his father how to fire a torpedo. Someone inaccurately labeled the tube as empty. He aligned the torpedo tube to fire a water-slug. When he triggered the firing mechanism, it ejected the projectile, which slammed into the aft end of the destroyer in front of us. As far as I was ever able to determine, the responsible torpedoman never suffered any consequences. Maybe our captain figured this evened the score, after the pinging and our being nearly depth-charged during sea trials.

While we are preparing to get underway, Treptow's curse emerged again. Ding. Screech. Honk. Click. Screech. Honk. Ding. Click.

All available electricians mustered in the engine room as we tried to resolve the issue. The condition lasted a few hours and mysteriously disappeared.

My best hypothesis was a temperature- and humidity-sensitive floating ground. It never returned and I could never figure out why.

Other than a flotilla of small pleasure craft escorting us out the harbor, our exit was without fanfare. Determined to arrive on schedule, the captain had the FBM run fast and deep on the 2,700-mile journey from Long Beach to Pearl.

After the submarine surfaced off the coast of Oahu, I was itching to climb up to the bridge and get my first glimpse of Hawaii. First, I had to complete a couple of tasks. Another hurdle was mustering up enough courage to request permission. I was still transitioning from a quiet, shy bumpkin from Hickory Township to a confident submariner.

I approached the OOD, swallowed hard and tried not to appear nervous. Holding out my Instamatic camera, I said, “Request permission to go to the bridge and take some pictures.”

The OOD replied matter-of-factly, “Sure Dubay, permission granted.”

I placed the camera in a pocket of my poopie suit, grabbed the cold chrome ladder, and started up. While I was climbing the narrow tube leading to the bridge, the sweet smell of the sea replaced the rank odor of the submarine. Every few rungs of the ladder, I had to shove the camera back into my pocket, because it kept threatening to fall.

At the top of the sail, a picture-perfect Hawaiian day greeted me. It was nicer than I imagined. Off the starboard quarter was Diamond Head, one of the most famous landmarks in Hawaii. Shielding the camera from the wind-driven salt spray, I snapped pictures of Diamond Head and Honolulu. I remained on the bridge about 20 minutes, enjoying the soft undulating motion of the submarine as it cut through the crystal-clear water. The submarine forged toward Pearl Harbor, gliding by the beaches of Waikiki, off our starboard side. Breathing in the fresh sea air was like an elixir, cleansing my soul. A glance at my watch told me my time topside was at an end, and I unenthusiastically re-entered the confines of the submarine.