Combat Swimmer (3 page)

On our return, Tom tied our reel to the auger stake to let people know we had finished our reconnaissance. Then we started swimming down the base line to check on the rest of the troops. The next pair was just finishing as we passed them. As we swam, I noted that each point on the base line had another line attached, which meant so far all was well.

One of the most difficult aspects of this operation was not knowing how my men were doing. I had the utmost respect for their abilities, and even the weakest swimmer of the bunch was above average. But our diving rigs were somewhat temperamental.

Our Mark 6 semi-closed-circuit, mixed-gas diving rigs could be set to mix gases in different quantities depending on the depth of the dive. On this mission we were using an oxygen/nitrogen mix designed to give us maximum time at the depths we would be swimming—thirty feet to ten feet below the surface. We were using the gear mainly because it gave us the long underwater endurance we needed. As an added benefit, the Mark 6 emitted significantly fewer telltale bubbles than regular civilian scuba.

However, the rigs were old and required careful predive assembly to function properly. For example, if either of the thin rubber non-return valves in the mouthpiece failed to seal, the diver would experience a buildup of carbon dioxide in his system. That, in the worst case, could lead to an oxygen-toxicity seizure and convulsions. By a phenomenon still not completely understood, life-giving oxygen becomes toxic when used to dive deeper than about twenty-five feet. For that reason the Navy allowed us to dive no deeper than twenty-five feet for no longer than seventy-five minutes on pure oxygen. (Since that time we've learned a few lessons from our European friends, and the Navy's oxygen diving rules are much less restrictive.)

I had personally checked that each man had gotten a positive on the dip testing of his rig for bubbles, which would tell of unsuspected leaks. Besides the non-return valve, the CO
₂
scrubber had to be properly sealed, or seawater would soak the barilyme (the scrubbing chemical), rendering it useless. Hose connections had to be tight as well. If bubbles appeared anywhere but the pop-off valve plus a few out of the mouthpiece, you had a problem that had to be fixed. Each diver was responsible for his own rig, but dive buddies helped each other.

My platoon chief and diving supervisor, Chief Petty Officer James “Deacon” Criscoe, kept a close watch on all of us. Deacon, who'd been in UDT for over twelve years and was almost as crusty as Dave Schaible, was the perfect platoon chief petty officer. He always supported me but wouldn't let me get into too much trouble. I trusted his judgment completely. Though his role was to make sure we set up each rig correctly, he could have easily taken my place. He was like a hawk, circling the group as we prepared to go. The rigs had to be perfect to begin with, because during the swim, as a diver twisted and turned doing his job, any loose connection could allow seepage. Deacon paid particular attention to each man's oxygen-scrubber canisters, which were made of a fiberglass that was susceptible to warping. If the cover (or the top part of the canister where it mated with the cover) warped, there would be a microscopic break in the seal between the cover and the canister. A small warp wouldn't be noticeable in the predive testing, but would cause problems later because small pressure differentials that occurred during the dive tended to flex the rig's parts and connections.

At the end of my predive briefing I'd told the men that in an emergency they were to surface as a pair and swim to sea. We'd try to pick them up after the rest of us made it back to the submarine, but we probably couldn't get them until after dark. It was all we could do.

 

Tom and I reached the end of the base line as the last pair was finishing. They gave me a thumbs-up and we headed back to Point Alpha. We passed pair after pair on our way back—no rigs had failed. I was beginning to feel really good, when suddenly I inhaled a mouthful of water—and tasted barilyme.

Had my rig flooded out? Impossible, I thought. I signaled Tom that I had a problem. He gestured toward the surface with a questioning look in his eye. I shook my head no, and signed for him to check my rig. He gave me the once-over and a thumbs-up. That meant he couldn't see any bubbles escaping from my scrubber canister, so if I had a leak it probably wasn't too bad. I swallowed the water and barilyme. We would continue back to Point Alpha to rendezvous.

As we swam I analyzed the situation. I was getting a little water on each inhalation, so there was water in my right breathing hose. It could have a slight leak, which wouldn't be a real big deal, just uncomfortable. I could deal with that. I decided to continue the mission and see what happened. Tom, as he'd been trained, began paying more attention to me to make sure I wasn't exhibiting any of the early signs of CO
₂
buildup, such as erratic behavior or labored breathing.

As we approached the group at Point Alpha, I saw Deacon counting heads. I checked my watch: 0715. We had been gone from the submarine for three hours, fifteen minutes. I wanted to be at the rendezvous point with the sub by 0830.

After we pushed off, my situation got worse. I started sucking more and more water-barilyme mix. “Screw it! If it gets to the point where I can't get any gas, I'll surface,” I said to myself. Incredibly, no one had had to abort yet. I thought that maybe some of the other guys were experiencing the same thing I was, and I wasn't about to quit on them.

I began experimenting as we swam seaward. By swimming with my head up slightly, I could diminish the problem. Gas at the top of my right breathing bag was apparently keeping the water down. I started getting more gas with each breath. I was going to make it! There was no way I was going to pull Tom to the surface with me and jeopardize the mission. The hell with my briefing!

I slowed the group down on the way out because I couldn't swim horizontally. They knew the situation. Tom watched me closely as we made our way to the rendezvous point. With hand signals, I'd briefed John Hennigan on my situation. I wanted him ready to take charge if things got worse.

We swam on. Out of habit, I tilted forward after about every six to eight kicks of my fins and sucked more of the caustic mixture. Then I got back to a more vertical attitude and breathed good gas. I wasn't feeling any symptoms of a carbon dioxide buildup, but it was only a matter of time.

A lot of things were going through my mind. We'd just completed a good reconnaissance, but if we didn't get back aboard the
Sea Lion
as planned, none of what we'd accomplished would matter. I knew Dave considered us his best submerged-reconnaissance group, and I wasn't about to prove him wrong. The farther we were from the island, the better off we were. Even if something went wrong with the rendezvous, I knew we could surface two or three miles out and wait for our alternate rendezvous time, just after dark. Then the submarine could just surface and pick us up.

Finally, I felt the combined motion of the Lizard Line stop. John swam back and signaled me that we were about where we should be for the pickup. We set up in a line and waited for our submarine.

We had been in the water over five hours, submerged the entire time. The sand bottom was visible below as we intermittently kicked our fins to hold depth.

I signaled Tom that I was going to do a “bounce” dive to make sure that we had at least sixty feet of water beneath us. If not, the submarine wouldn't be able to pick us up, because there wouldn't be enough water under its keel for it to maneuver safely. I was responsible for getting us back on board, and I'd planned to do the bounce dive as part of my routine duty on the mission. I guess my brain forgot about my rig's situation—I couldn't have explained my actions then, and I still can't now.

As I flipped to a head-down position, I was rudely reminded of why I had been carefully swimming almost vertically for the last hour or so. My first inhalation was greeted with the acrid taste of caustic barilyme and seawater. I quickly flipped back, shut the mouthpiece flow valve, took the mouthpiece out, and spat out the barilyme. Reversing the procedure, I inhaled tentatively, relieved to feel the cool breathing mixture back in my mouth.

With my feet down, the salty barilyme soup sloshed to the bottoms of my breathing bags, allowing the gas at the top of my right breathing bag to flow easily. I started down again, this time descending carefully erect, using my arms to push deeper. Tom was right beside me, gesturing toward the surface. I kept on descending. As long as I remained upright, I was fine. I had so much confidence in my ability in the water I knew I could detect the symptoms of CO
₂
buildup before it got bad. And I had confidence in my men. If the worst happened, they would pull me up before I drowned.

By the time I arrived at forty feet, about halfway between the surface and the bottom, I could see that we were okay. The sub would have about eighty feet of water depth to maneuver. As I slowly ascended toward the line of frogmen, I signaled the two swimmer pairs with Calypso Sticks. These short lengths of iron pipe were banged together so the submarine's sonar could find us. To the naked ear they sounded too muted to be of any use—merely a faint clicking noise. But to the submarine's sonar operators they sounded like thunderclaps. The submarine would have no problem finding us.

 

Suddenly Tom jerked my arm, and right ahead of us I saw the bow of
Sea Lion
emerge out of the haze. I'd been dozing; CO
₂
was building in my system. The bounce dive probably hadn't helped. I looked at my watch—0910. I watched the submarine move slowly past us and felt the welcome pull on the Lizard Line. We had snagged the periscope. The line swung together behind the sail, and we made our way to the cigarette deck.

The swim pair who had locked out first, some seven hours ago, went directly to the trunk and disappeared. The second pair hovered just outside, awaiting their turn. Tom signaled that I ought to go right in the boat on the next cycle. I signaled no. First out, first in.

The rest of us went “off bag” and on boat air, using the manifold on the deck. For the first time in over two hours I was breathing normally. Deacon swam over to check on me. He looked me square in the eye. I felt great—a slight headache, but that was normal with a CO
₂
buildup. I gave him the thumbs-up.

Dave was on the other end of the Bubble. “How'd it go?” he asked.

“Great,” I said, and gave him a quick rundown.

“Did you find any minelike objects?” he asked.

“Not that I know of, but I haven't had a chance to debrief the men.”

“The first lock-in cycle was completed in under nine minutes,” he told me. That was good news. Usually it took longer to lock back into the submarine because the men were cold and tired. Their brains didn't function as well as they had seven hours ago. I wasn't getting any more comfortable, either.

I stayed under the Bubble, and we kept shooting the bull as the cigarette deck slowly emptied of swimmers. Deacon and his buddy left; we were next. I ducked out of the Bubble, put my mouthpiece in my mouth, inhaled, and gagged: no gas, only water. I spat it out again and grabbed a regulator from the manifold to breathe in fresh air.

When Tom looked my way, I passed my hand across my throat and pointed at my rig, then motioned that I was going to “free descend,” holding my breath, to the trunk and lock-in. We argued by sign language, and I motioned to the Bubble.

We both stuck our heads under, nose to nose. “Go to the trunk, wait until the side hatch opens and then motion me down,” I told him.

“Buddy-breathe with me to the trunk,” Tom argued.

“No.” Tom's suggestion made sense, but I just didn't want to admit I couldn't handle the problem. Plus, what I was about to do wasn't a big deal. All of us had made many free descents into submarines before. I told Tom to get moving. He went back on bag and left. I left the Bubble, retrieved one of the regulators attached to the sub's air supply, and watched as Tom took a position outside the trunk. The sub's two safety divers were looking up at me, but they didn't move.

When Tom waved, I took a deep breath, slipped over the railing of the cigarette deck, and headed down for the trunk. No problem! I swam right into the trunk, exhaled, stood up, and started breathing from the air cap at the top of the trunk.

The trunk operator asked, “What took you so long?”

“Get this thing drained,” I responded. I checked my watch again—1045. Almost nine hours had elapsed since the first swim pair had left the sub.

The bottom hatch opened, and Tom and I went down the ladder. When my head cleared the hatch I saw a large, burly figure at the bottom of the ladder, arms folded across his chest. It was Dave, and he looked pissed. I thought one of my guys had screwed up the lock-in, but he was looking right at me. I figured he couldn't have known what I'd done, but he was obviously angry at Lieutenant Junior Grade Gormly and no one else.

I'd known that Dave was going to be really mad when he saw the condition of my rig. Dave Schaible was a World War II submariner who had been in UDT since 1949. He'd taken over UDT-22 about a year and a half before and had begun a rigorous combat-swimming program. Our submerged reconnaissance was the ultimate level of that program. He was a mustang, meaning he'd come through the enlisted ranks to obtain a commission. So he was older than the average navy lieutenant commander and a hell of a lot more crusty. He had fists the size of ham hocks, and I'd already seen him use them in a bar fight. Man-to-man, he was an imposing gent. He was also one hell of a commanding officer—the best I'd ever had.

“Let me help you break down your rig. You look real tired.”