Three Knots to Nowhere (15 page)

When we arrived in Pearl Harbor, the
Clay
became a member of the Pacific Fleet's Submarine Squadron 15. Although the
Clay
's home port was Hawaii, she would actually operate out of Guam.

Apra Harbor, Guam. Late November 1970. The
Henry Clay
was moored on the port side of the submarine tender USS
Proteus
. My first deterrent patrol would begin when the
Clay
got underway the next morning.

I was the 0600 to 1200 shutdown electrical operator. Although a roving watch, the job kept me confined to the submarine's engineering spaces. While in machinery 2 lower level, I heard tapping emanating from the feed station's voice tube. Curiosity overcame me and without thinking, I spoke into the tube's opening. Suddenly, a gusher of cold water hit me in the face.

The voice tube delivered the source. I heard Southerland laughing and saying, “Now we're even.”

He was paying me back for what I had done to him the previous week. Southerland and I were part of an all-hands working party. We were loading a 90-day supply of food and necessary patrol items. Only chiefs and officers were exempt, although some occasionally lent a hand. The
Clay
's sailors formed a human chain stretching from the tender, across a brow aft of the sail, over the missile deck, down the machinery 1 hatch, and through the submarine to the supply's storage locations. Southerland and I were in the middle of the shoulder-to-shoulder men on the missile deck. We passed the items hand to hand. It was tedious hard work, especially in Guam's hot and humid climate. I was handing off to Southerland. While passing heavy boxes of batteries, I noticed a similar-sized but much lighter box of light bulbs coming my way. I gradually drifted away from Southerland, increasing the distance between us. When I received the box of bulbs, I pretended it was heavy and threw it to Southerland. He expected to catch a box of batteries and adjusted his catching technique accordingly. When the super-light box landed in his arms, he flipped it over his head into the water. Very embarrassed, Southerland managed to summon some nearby divers, who rescued the package.

That was the last time I had been outside the submarine.

A need to escape the submarine's confines smoldered inside me. Fueling it was what the next day would bring. Early in the morning, the USS
Henry Clay
would depart Guam and submerge for at least two months.

A two-month submerged patrol. How long was it? Sixty days. One thousand, four hundred forty hours. Eighty-six thousand, four hundred minutes. Five million, one hundred eighty four thousand seconds.

The theory of relativity applies to patrols. Albert Einstein said, “When a man sits with a pretty girl for an hour, it seems like a minute. But let him sit on a hot stove for a minute and it's longer than any hour. That's relativity”
¹

For me, patrol was more like the hot stove than being with the pretty girl.

Additionally, two months was just an approximation. They were normally scheduled to last 60 days, although unforeseen circumstances usually extended them longer. In spite of this, we always considered them two months.

With respect to accumulated time submerged, a Coast Guard admiral told me, “Before being confined to a desk job, I used to fly helicopters. You know, us pilots tend to stick our chests out and brag about how many flight hours we have. You submarine guys measure your time under water in
years
!”

It is true.

Schweikert relieved me as the shutdown electrical operator. I glanced at my watch. There was enough time to go topside without missing lunch. Before I had a chance to escape, a salinity cell caused an alarm. Since I was the nearest qualified electrician, it fell upon me to take initial actions. I gathered the necessary items, went to engine room lower level, and cleaned the cell. This solved the problem. By the time I was done, there was barely enough time to grab lunch before the cooks secured the mess deck. Not being able to go topside was a disappointment, but the day was only half over. There was still time for another opportunity.

After lunch, I had to perform a repair in the battery well. With part and tools in hand, I went to my rack to change into battery well diving dungarees. Battery acid had riddled them with holes. If I had not heeded the advice Davis gave me during my initial tour of the
Clay
, all of my uniforms would be in the same condition. The work went well. As hoped, there was time to make good on my desire to relax topside before supper.

After I exited the battery well, something in the crew's lounge caught my eye. A glance in its overhead, crowded with wires, piping, and fluorescent lights, revealed what was amiss. One of the lights had a greenish-blue tint and did not match the slight yellow glow of the others. Our captain had an idiosyncrasy with the
Clay
's lighting. Every fixture in each compartment had to be functional and the same hue. The color did not matter, as long as all the lights in the compartment matched.

Being a junior electrician, I spent countless hours correcting the issue. The captain of the other crew apparently did not share this opinion. When we assumed possession of the
Clay
from the Blue Crew, there were always many broken, burned-out, and mismatched bulbs. I suspected the Blue Crew left them in that condition on purpose.

There had always been competition between the Blue and Gold Crews of FBMs. The
Clay
was no exception.

The best story I ever read about submarine hi-jinks was “Purdum's Pirates,” John Dudas's submission to
Submarine Skullduggery.
The book was a compilation of pranks, gags, jokes, and tricks, edited by the Submarine Research Center. “Purdum's Pirates” documented how two FBM crews took turns mischievously planting a noisy horn. During several boat turnovers, each crew came up with an unusual place to hide the object and a devious way for it to activate. One crew finally mounted it in the ventilation room across from the mess deck. Whenever the electrical operator, at the other end of the submarine, turned the ground detector switch, noise blasted through the ventilation. Because it seemed to activate at random times and did not stay on long enough, no one could locate the horn. The victimized crew declared the other the winner and a truce ensued.
²

While standing in the crew's lounge, I hoped finding the correct colored bulb would not take too long. Sometimes matching the fluorescent bulb's hue was as simple as swapping a bulb from one compartment to another. The task became more difficult when I needed a new bulb. It was impossible to tell if the replacement matched until it was installed, which could be very time-consuming. This bulb was probably not going to be easy. I did not have any spares marked with their associated shade.

I took a leak in the head and then retrieved a handful of new bulbs. After several attempts, I found a spare of the correct color.

I paused for a moment to assess the crew's lounge ambiance. The small area had the same linoleum deck and tan simulated wood-grained Formica bulkheads as the rest of the submarine. The yellow-hued fixtures provided ample light for anyone sitting at the table in the center of the lounge. There were shelves packed with an assortment of books. Mounted on a bulkhead was a fold-down ironing board. Other than stewards ironing officer uniforms, I never saw anyone use it. The
Clay
's designers had attempted to create a homey atmosphere in the lounge, but to me it felt sterile and impersonal.

I examined the old light. It was not only the wrong hue; the bulb was nearing the end of its life. There was severe discoloration on both ends. I deposited the spent 12-inch bulb in the lounge trash can. Before going too far, I returned to the trash can and smashed the bulb to smithereens. There was a chance that the lounge's garbage would not make it off the submarine before the
Clay
left on patrol. If that happened, the unbroken light bulb would be discharged out of the trash disposal unit (TDU). Then, as the weighted garbage sank to the sea floor, the bulb would implode, causing a distinct pop. The noise was a transient, made only by a submarine. Transients travel great distances. Other submarine-generated transients were items falling to the deck and doors slamming.

Although submarines have weapons to protect themselves, being able to remain as quiet as possible is their first line of defense. Silence was a major aspect of American FBM design. While on patrol, it was the crew's responsibility to prevent compromising the designers' efforts. The last thing an FBM needed while sneaking around the ocean was a careless act causing a transient. Russian hunter-killer submarines were constantly on the prowl searching for American missile boats. There were a few documented instances of Soviet Fast Attacks trailing FBMs for short periods. These did not last long. The quiet nature of the FBM allowed it to slip away into the ocean's shadows, leaving the Soviet skipper exasperated. There were many other occasions when a Russian submarine was near the
Clay
and not even aware of our presence. Minimizing extraneous noises was crucial. A transient could totally negate the
Clay
's silent design. The Soviets' detecting one of these from the
Clay
would allow them to pinpoint our position. An FBM's mission was dangerous enough without being in the cross hairs of an enemy hunter-killer attack boat. Giving away our location had the potential of jeopardizing not only our lives, but also national security. If the Russians could destroy the
Clay
, her counterattack deterrence no longer existed. The Soviets' gaining the upper hand was one of the major fears of the Western nations.

Resolving the lounge's bulb problem had erased another chance to escape the confines of the metal cylinder. My hoped-for respite outside the submarine would have to wait until after supper. I rationalized away the disappointment. The only things left on my agenda were rearranging my locker and a few logroom yeoman activities. They would not take long. The evening was a better time to go topside. It would be cooler and more peaceful.

I went back to my rack to change into non-tattered clothes, and then scurried to the mess deck for a quick supper.

After dinner, I decided to rearrange my locker and then perform my final logroom chores. The plan provided ample opportunity for a leisurely topside sojourn.

The locker was directly aft of my rack. It had two shelves, and was 24" tall by 18" wide and 24" deep. Other than a small storage compartment attached to the overhead of my rack, the locker was the sole storage space for my belongings. Not only did the locker contain everything needed for the next two months, it had to store items not needed until after patrol. Already stowed in the back was the canvas duffle bag I used as luggage. It took up a significant portion of the locker. Crammed on top of the bag was my dress white uniform. These articles were only needed when arriving and departing Guam. The uniform ended up a dingy yellow and very wrinkled after three months of not seeing the light of day. When it was needed for the trip back to Hawaii, I would retrieve the uniform and wear it as-is. In front of these items were my poopie suits. They got their name from the original version, which had a flap in their seat. I removed the coveralls and replaced them with my dungarees. In the morning, the uniform of the day shifted to poopie suits. They were lint-free, which helped maintain the cleanliness of the
Clay
's atmosphere.

After the locker was ready for patrol, I headed to the logroom. I climbed the stairs and entered middle level operations. A short walk brought me to the open watertight hatch into the missile compartment. Marchbanks was exiting the opening from back aft.

He said, “Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you. The below decks watch overflowed the potable water tanks. The water grounded a motor in the valve pit. We have to dry it out.”

I suppressed the urge to protest the task and tell him how it was jeopardizing the sating of my urge to escape the boat. Realizing he was in the same situation helped quell my frustration.

Marchbanks and I arrived at the stairs to lower level operations. He was ahead of me. Upon reaching them, he placed one hand on each of the chrome handrails and deftly slid down, without his feet touching any of the steps. I followed in the same manner. This worked well, as long as one rail or hand was not wet. The moisture created a much lower coefficient of friction and the individual had all he could do to avoid crashing. As long as the out-of-control slide was happening to someone else, it was very entertaining.

It took several hours to dry the motor and reinstall it. The task had eaten a big chunk out of my spare time. I climbed the stairs to middle level operations, walked aft to middle level missile, went halfway down the port passageway, and arrived at the logroom.

After making the transit, I noted that not more than an hour ago, the submarine was a beehive of activity. Now, most of the crew was sleeping, in an effort to get some extra rest prior to commencing patrol routine. The few still awake moved slowly and talked in muffled tones.

One of my ancillary duties was logroom yeoman. I was responsible for all the engineering department paperwork. Being logroom yeoman, like any other assignment, had its positives and negatives. A plus was having a workspace I could call my own, a submarine rarity.

The logroom's condition was my responsibility. I was making sure everything was secured for sea.

My experience as logroom yeoman taught me to stow things properly as soon as they entered the closet-sized space. This evening, I was making a final inspection to ensure everything was in order. Even though the check delayed my going topside, I was determined the logroom would not be the source of a transient.

The room contained several bookshelves. Each had a restraining device, a metal bar that kept materials from falling onto the deck. One was ajar. A quick tug seated it. I checked each, one more time.