Three Knots to Nowhere (27 page)

I listen to the restaurant's music. It blended in and was hardly noticeable. That wasn't the case in the
Clay
's mess deck. Somebody was always bitching about the music—it's too loud; it should be louder; I don't like that kind. It didn't help that the only music we had were two homemade reel-to-reel tapes. One was rock-'n'-roll and the other country and western. Whoever was in the missile control center picked the style.

Although there was constant bickering between lovers of shit-kickin' and pop music, it never escalated beyond that. I thought the complaints were a safe outlet for guys to vent frustrations.

Another waitress sauntered by and interrupted our thoughts. The
Clay
's smelly male mess cooks were no match for these perfumed visions of beauty.

We picked up the menus. To our relief, they were devoid of seafood.

The memory of the recent Guam stinky fish episode was still fresh in my mind, if I even caught a whiff of fish, my stomach would rebel.

We put the menus down. Both of us would order steaks.

The menus hardly hit the table before our waitress materialized from the shadows. She was part Oriental and Hawaiian. Her long, straight black hair draped over one shoulder. A plumeria flower adorned her left ear. I could not remember if it signified that she was spoken for or available. The woman sweetly took our order while we soaked up her beauty.

I could not help thinking it was a good thing submarines didn't have mess cooks like that. Some of our shipmates would act like idiots trying to impress her.

Southerland excused himself to hit the head.

While he was gone, I soaked in the peaceful ambiance. Even though the restaurant was nearly full, it was quiet. Unlike submarine sailors, nobody was exhibiting rude, crude, and socially unacceptable behavior. On the boat, the crew's mess was raucous. Someone was always joking around or pinging on somebody. It was pretty entertaining.

Southerland returned before the waitress pleasantly deposited our salads on the table.

After eating frozen vegetables for the past several months, I thought the plates piled high with fresh romaine lettuce, spinach, cucumber, sliced carrots, broccoli, and tomato wedges were more beautiful than our lovely waitress. Spending so long underwater sure had a strange effect on a fellow.

I was crunching a carrot when the peaceful nature of the room drew my attention. The boisterous, fun-spirited behavior demonstrated by my shipmates was infectious. The peaceful atmosphere in this establishment was sterile compared to the
Clay
's mess deck.

I smiled, remembering the foul, sophomoric behavior of sailors while eating at sea. After my time on the
Clay
was over, I knew I would dearly miss the camaraderie.

I was riding in Hercules with Southerland. We were on our way to Ford Island. Since our last off-crew, the Navy had instituted a change to the bi-weekly muster. We had to physically report for roll call instead of just phoning in our status.

While we were traveling along the Kamehameha Highway, I found our surroundings engrossing. It was a beautiful Hawaiian morning. The early morning sun was barely cresting the Koolua Mountains. A faint full moon hung like an aberration in the daylit sky. Palm trees along the thoroughfare cast long shadows across the road. Dewdrops adorned the grass and glistened in the solar rays. Pearl Harbor's wavelets sparkled and shimmered.

The sun was the common thread of all the factors fixating me. I sighed when comparing my current situation with living in a submerged submarine. The prestige of belonging to the elite world of submariners did not negate how much I missed direct contact with the natural elements. After my discharge from the Navy, the sun would become a daily companion. I looked forward to the occasion.

The Volkswagen slowed and turned onto the road to Ford Island Ferry's Halawa Terminal. It was 7:30 a.m. The ferry was approaching on its return trip from the island.

We left early for no reason. Expecting the traffic to be its normal crawl, we were trying to catch the 8:35 ferry. As it was, we would be on the 7:40. It was okay with me. I had some logroom yeoman chores to do. I could get them done before muster and we could leave as soon as we were dismissed.

The incoming ferry bounced off the pilings and rammed the dock.

Bob matter-of-factly remarked, “That was pretty smooth. The ferry boat captain must not be
too
drunk this morning.”

It did not take long before the ferry was devoid of the cars from Ford Island. Southerland drove the VW aboard. We ended up in the outboard row on the starboard side. I got out and leaned against the rail. Southerland stayed in the still-running car so there was no need to push-start it when the ferry unloaded.

The vessel slowly pulled away from the dock. Gazing at the murky water, I wondered if it had been clear when only Hawaiians lived here. Looking northeast, I saw low-hanging clouds hung over the Koolua Mountain Range. Sheets of rain were drenching the lush jungle's steep slopes. Slightly above, the sun poured out its life-giving energy. I glanced around, looking for a rainbow.

Before I found one, the USS
Arizona
Memorial came into view. Even though I passed this scene every time I rode the ferry, the rusting hulk of the USS
Arizona
under the Memorial always elicited an emotional response. Knowing that the battleship's decaying carcass was the tomb of thousands of sailors made me glad the
Clay
had survived her narrow escapes. If we sank, our bodies would be unrecoverable. There would not be a difference between our coffin and that of the battleship. The ferry neared the relic. I saw a slick on the water's surface as oil slowly emanated from the
Arizona.

It was almost as if those inside were saying, “We are still here. Do not forget us.”

I wondered how many people passed by without paying the proper respect. If they did, it was sacrilege.

The stirring of other passengers alerted me that the ferry was approaching the Ford Island slip. I walked to the Beetle and saw a familiar sight. In spite of having to squeeze his 6'3" frame into the little car, Southerland was asleep. He awoke when I opened the door.

As he emerged from his slumber, I warned him, “You better brace yourself. We're about to dock.”

We assumed our prepare-for-collision poses and hung on tightly. The ferry bounced twice and settled into its berth.

He and I looked at each other and said almost at the same time, “Well, we survived another masterful bit of piloting.”

He parked Hercules and we made our way to the
Clay
's office. While walking to the engineering portion of the space, I saw Stan Wryn, the
Clay
's yeoman. He handled all of the submarine's general paperwork. His job equated to that of an executive secretary. Wryn was lanky with sandy-colored curly hair and extremely personable. His path to duty on the
Clay
was an unusual route. He was one of the few reserves serving full-time in the submarine service.

Word was circulating that Wryn had opened a package and found a very dilapidated
Engineer's Night Order Book
. Along with it was a letter from the Blue Crew saying something about the book's having been found folded into quarters in the upper level machinery 2 vise.

A group of sailors engaged in a discussion about the damaged
Engineer's Night Order Book
. It is hard-covered, bound, and legal-sized. It's an official record. The engineer uses it to convey special information. Whenever a new entry is made, watch standers have to read it and acknowledge understanding by initialing the respective block for their station. During a normal patrol, we would need one or two. I, being the logroom yeoman, stocked several spares in the Logroom.

Sometime during the last patrol, nucs started desecrating the night order book. We couldn't recall a specific reason. The nucs didn't dislike or disrespect the engineer. There wasn't an organized plan.

It started towards the beginning of the patrol. Most likely, the initial act was someone with dirty hands inadvertently smudging the book. Maybe coffee spilled on it. For whatever reason, the desecration escalated. The nucs are a close-knit and astute bunch. My guess was we all realized how much it irritated the engineer for his precious book to be treated like that: what sacrilege!

It didn't take long before more and more icky things were adorning the pages. At some point, guys were intentionally getting their hands dirty before handling it. Every substance you can imagine appeared on the pages. Eventually, someone bent it down the middle, then into quarters. If you picked it up by a corner, it just sagged. Before long, the book was ready to fall apart.

The engineer didn't appreciate the treatment of his precious possession. After replacing the dilapidated book with a new one, he designated a guardian—the auxiliary electrician aft. It was a logical selection. Someone was accountable, and the roving electrician toured all the engineering spaces. He could stop at each station and have the watch stander initial the book.

It didn't take long for one of the AEAs to relax his guard, and the destruction began again. The engineer realized seasoned nucs could too easily trick an inexperienced roving electrician.

He refused to be defeated. I provided a new book and it became the responsibility of a senior watch position. It didn't matter. The new one didn't last a week. Another round went to the crew.

With only one spare remaining and the patrol barely half over, the engineer faced a real dilemma. Again, he dug into his persistence and ingenuity. He was determined to prevail. The engineer turned a three-ring binder with loose-leaf pages into the night order log. It was a stroke of genius. After the patrol was over, the engineer would recopy everything into the last ledger and everyone would re-initial the entries, under the engineer's direct supervision. As an additional precaution, the EOOW became the caretaker.

My section was the first to encounter the new logbook. For some reason, the EOOW wasn't thrilled with the responsibility and slammed the binder down on his desk. Everyone in maneuvering turned and looked in the sound's direction. What happened next was like slow motion. After hitting the desktop, the book flew up and to the right. The binder didn't come back down on the desk. The officer made a vain attempt to catch it, while everyone in maneuvering watched incredulously. The book hit the deck directly on the binder's corner. The middle ring flew out and ricocheted along the deck. The poor officer slumped in his chair as the binder joined the ranks of the other damaged logbooks. To make matters worse, it happened in the first hour of the first shift the new log was in existence. The EOOW couldn't claim innocence, but was lucky in one way. I liked him and had mercy on his poor soul. I managed to find a duplicate binder before our shift was over and made the swap.

The binder went unscathed the remainder of the patrol. During the three days of turnover to the Blue Crew, the engineer copied the entries into the last remaining legal hard-bound logbook, just as he had planned.

Southerland recalled seeing the book undamaged on the ULMR2 workbench. It was towards the end of his 1800–2400 shutdown roving watch. That meant the foul deed happened during the mid-watch or after the Blue Crew assumed possession of the
Clay.
If it was unprotected, anyone could be guilty. The group speculated about potential culprits. Although no agreement was reached, everyone was amused about the book's condition.

I looked at my watch, hurriedly excused myself, and went off to complete my tasks.

While scurrying away, I glanced backwards. The XO and several junior officers were staring quizzically at the mangled book.

I quickly completed my tasks and joined the crew for muster. We gathered loosely in several rows. The CO and XO stood facing us. After roll call and several announcements, the officers conducted the ceremony of acknowledging the successful completion of our FBM deterrent patrol. Each gave a short speech about the significance of patrols. Then crew members came forward one at a time, each to receive his patrol pin for the initial patrol or a gold star signifying an additional patrol. A silver star equated to five patrols.

I paid particular attention to each crew member's reaction as he went through the process. The ceremony had an emotional affect on some. Others appear unaffected. Most of those who displayed pride were the first-timers. The veterans leaned towards impassive. I acted as if receiving the pin was matter-of-fact. My insides told me differently.

No mention was made of the recently received night order book. Muster took less than an hour and we were dismissed.

Southerland and I walked to his car and he got in. It was my turn to push while he popped the clutch. After three months of not exercising, I had to push it more than 15 feet before getting it going fast enough. Prior to patrol, I could do it in five feet. He stopped Hercules while I caught up. I was panting from the exertion.

As the 12:30 ferry passed the USS
Arizona
, the site of the sunken battleship had a somber affect on me. My heart caught in my throat and I bowed my head in reverence while passing by. Thoughts of the sailors' families and friends haunted me. Even after all these years I was sure they still grieved.

“Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Dive! Dive!” The bell of the engine order telegraph sang its tinny “ding” as the needle sprang to ahead two-thirds. In concert, I instinctively acknowledged the speed change. With my left hand twirling the ahead throttle-wheel to admit more steam to the propulsion turbines, I cried out, “Ahead two-thirds.”

The submarine descended into the ocean's depths.

It was early June 1972. I was the maneuvering watch throttleman. My final war patrol had begun.

The submarine's sporadic motion slowly subsided as she descended into the ocean's depths. At several hundred feet, Vince Dianotto, the reactor operator, let out a sigh of relief. He was susceptible to motion sickness. Unlike several instances with similar conditions, he was not puking his guts out.