Three Knots to Nowhere (10 page)

We turned and headed forward to the condenser bay. The aft end of it had an opening the size and shape of a watertight hatch. On the other end of the condenser bay, about ten feet forward of us, was a similar one. Unlike the others, these had half doors and were made of thin metal.

The condensers on either side of the bay converted the steam from the turbines to water. Seawater passed through one side of the heat exchanger. It condensed the steam. Condensate pumps sent the water back to the steam generators.

Davis showed me a salinity cell. It monitored the conductivity of the water returning to the steam generators. Normally, this liquid was very pure and would not conduct electricity. If seawater leaked into the condensate side of the main condenser, it made the water conduct electricity. Salinity cells detected the current. If it went high enough, the cell sent an alarm to a panel on the back edge of maneuvering. Ninety-nine percent of the alarms were false. The remedy was simply cleaning the salinity cell.

Exiting the condenser bay brought us into the forward part of engine room lower level. This section was about the same size as the lube oil and condenser bays combined. My head swam, trying to drink in everything I saw—condensate pumps, main seawater pumps, auxiliary water pumps, chill water pumps, trim and drain pumps, air conditioning units, et cetera, et cetera. There was double of everything.

Davis tapped me on the shoulder, pointed up, laughed, and cryptically stated, “See those three can-looking things? They're for the bottom posts of maneuvering's chairs.”

We climbed up a ladder. To my surprise, we were just port of the
Clay
's centerline and a little aft of maneuvering. A glance revealed Horne sitting and scanning the RPCP. I quickly checked the base of the chair. A single metal pole extended down from the seat. About eight inches from the deck was a foot-ring. The pole disappeared into the deck.

Davis left the engine room. I followed him through the opening. Much to my relief, we silently retraced our path through machinery 2 upper level, the tunnel, and into machinery 1 upper level. I scanned the compartment one final time before climbing the ladder and exiting the submarine.

My first encounter with life on the
Henry Clay
was complete. The demands of submarine duty caused questions to whirl through my mind. Prior to my joining the Navy, outside activities dominated my life. How would I react to confinement in a submarine for months on end? Could I adapt to submarine culture? Even though prototype had exposed me to casualty conditions, would I maintain my composure in actual life-and-death situations when over a hundred other men were depending on me? The
Henry Clay
was capable of annihilating millions of people. How would this awesome level of involvement in the Cold War affect me?

Any doubts of my ability to make it as a submariner were tempered. I was 20 years old with unbridled confidence and determination. My previous prototype success was also comforting. With regards to the dangers, the “can't happen to me” attitude of “indestructible youth” was strong within me and did not allow me to fully comprehend the actual dangers involved. I made a promise to myself that I would measure up and become a top-notch submariner.

Managing to pass through the rigorous gauntlet of qualifying for submarine duty was only the first step of becoming a true submariner. Graduating from Submarine School had earned me the designation of submarine unqualified (SU). Qualified submariners called SUs non-quals. We were considered the next to lowest level in the Navy. In a submariner's eye, the only Navy people lower than submarine unqualified sailors were skimmers. In order to lose the moniker of SU, I needed to learn all of the USS
Henry Clay
's systems and pass extensive examinations.

I developed a plan. The first step was getting a concept of the general layout of the major equipment. Qualifying would be like prototype: I would learn one system at a time. The
Clay
's piping tab, a pocket-sized booklet with one-line drawings of all of the FBM's systems, would be my guide through the journey.

I knew the quest of receiving a submariner's Holy Grail, my Dolphins, would not be easy. When aboard the
Clay
, I'd have to devote all of my spare time towards qualifying.

In spite of the arduous task ahead, pride welled within me. I could visualize Dolphins on my chest and being a member of the elite submarine force.

Since I was still technically a fireman, I spent the first part of the
Clay
's overhaul as a shipyard mess cook. The lowly duty only lasted a few months. When the official results of my third-class electrician's mate test arrived, mess cooking ended and I began performing electrical work.

The promotion to petty officer third-class was effective from the date of the exam. I received the back pay in a lump sum. Southerland, Souder, and I used some of it for a nice celebration at a notorious local establishment.

The overhaul would convert the
Clay
's missile system from the shorter-range Polaris A-2 to the much longer-range A-3. I found one modification comforting. Workers were repairing a design flaw in the emergency blow system. The same flaw had prevented the USS
Thresher
from reaching the surface and condemned her to doom.

As the overhaul progressed, I gained the ancillary assignment of logroom yeoman. I was responsible for all the engineering department paperwork and technical manuals.

Just as Davis suspected, he became my mentor. I was happy with the arrangement. The man was a wealth of knowledge, a patient teacher, and a good friend. As workers slowly reassembled the
Clay
and in between my logroom tasks, there were more opportunities for him to impart his experience.

By the end of the overhaul, I was performing electrical duties on my own, such as taking battery gravities, operating and monitoring equipment, cleaning salinity cells, and making minor repairs. I also became an expert on the lube oil sumps' electrostatic precipitators.

Davis encouraged Lewis and me to join him on the
Henry Clay
flag football team. We went undefeated, won the Charleston area championship, and played in the Naval District playoffs in Memphis, Tennessee. True to traditional submarine camaraderie, the team unanimously voted to stay intact and not replace anyone with stars from other teams. We did not advance far, but we were competitive against Naval Air Base teams, which had more than 50,000 potential players. The team unity made me proud of being in the submarine service.

In August of 1969, I took and passed the rating advancement test for second-class electrician's mate. The result surprised me, because 75 percent of the test was on electrical elevators, an item foreign to submarines.

In March 1970, the
Clay
's overhaul was complete. The officers and men assigned to the
Clay
during her refurbishment were divided into the Blue and Gold Crews. I became a member of the Gold Crew, under the command of Commander Robert Montross.

The Gold Crew's first evolution was performing a fast cruise. The name is a misnomer; the submarine didn't travel anywhere. Fast had nothing to do with speed. The submarine remained tied fast to a pier.

Under these conditions, we could safely test almost all of the
Clay
's systems. If something went wrong, plenty of assistance was readily available and the boat could only sink a few feet before settling to the bottom.

It was a grueling test of the crew and submarine. The
Clay
's complement had to react to normal and casualty situations. Not meeting established standards required repeating the evolution until we were judged satisfactory.

The fast cruise revealed a problem with one feedwater surge tank's level indicators. With a smile on his face and reminding me of his prediction, Davis assigned me to make the repair. After giving me some pointers, he obtained the new level column, a wrench, a drop light, and an air hose. I shoved the wrench into my pocket. We walked to the tank, which was located forward of maneuvering. The tank's manway was near the bottom. Davis put the hose into the tank and initiated ventilation. Feeling nervous, I lay on my back and stuck my head into the opening. Davis handed me the drop light and level column. My feet pushed against the back of the SPCP and propelled me into the tank. As soon as my head touched the side of the tank, I angled it up, until my back was against the side. With feet continuing to push, my back slid up the tank, until I was standing. There was barely enough room to move my arms. I told Davis to push the hose further into the tank so it was close to my face. I took a couple of deep breaths and let the butterflies in my stomach settle. Feeling secure about my air supply calmed me and I quickly replaced the level detector. Exiting was the reverse of entering, although gravity assisted my descent. My feet exited first and I hoped they were not going to slip and make my back slide down too fast. Leaving the tank went smoothly, and other than being covered in black corrosion products, which took weeks to disappear, I suffered no ill effects. The task proved I was not the least bit claustrophobic.

The Gold Crew completed fast cruise with flying colors. I felt good about my contribution to the success.

Next were sea trials. The most serious test was actually submerging the submarine.

Submerging a submarine is always dangerous. Due to the comprehensive work completed during her two-year overhaul, the
Clay
's first dive involved additional risk. We employed several safety precautions. For one, the first dive took place over the continental shelf, where the water depth was only about 500 feet. As an added safeguard, the submarine rescue vessel USS
Falcon
escorted us. If we sank, the
Falcon
could extract us with a rescue bell. Knowing the rescue vessel could save us provided some relief from apprehensions.

A submariner's first dive is a significant event. Mine was no exception, although for a different reason: I was sleeping. The diving klaxon sounding its mournful ah-oooo-gahs and the 1MC blaring, “Dive! Dive!” brought me to the edge of consciousness. I was barely aware of the boat's diminishing sporadic reaction to the surface conditions and the subsiding sound of the sea swishing over the hull. When I awoke, we were uneventfully submerged. During my next watch, I checked the status of the main propulsion shaft seal. It had a small steady trickle. Machinist's Mate Rusty Wishon happened by and saw me staring at the leak. He adjusted the packing and assured me that it would not be a problem. The remaining testing went without incident.

A few days later, the
Clay
headed out to sea for her next major event—diving to test depth.

Beyond the continental shelf, the ocean is deep enough to accommodate diving to test depth. It is also far deeper than
Clay
's crush depth, a potentially negative aspect. At the appointed time, we rendezvoused with the submarine rescue vessel USS
Falcon
. She would monitor our dangerous excursion.

I checked the newly posted watch, quarter, and station bill. My station was the reactor compartment tunnel. I was responsible for monitoring the tunnel and poorly lit reactor compartment. Unlike my first tour of the
Clay
, I was very familiar with these areas and was trusted to detect the slightest problem.

Before manning the station, I decided to check the shaft seal. Verbal reports of its status hadn't relieved my fears and I wanted to see it for myself. A quick trip to the lower level engine room revealed it was merely a trickle, just as Wishon predicted. Although it made me feel better, I wondered how it would behave during our descent to test depth. I shuddered at the thought of it catastrophically failing.

As I turned to head back to the tunnel, Southerland arrived and donned an engineering communications headset, designated the 2JV. Because of engine room noise, he nodded at me, winked, and gave a thumbs-up. Seeing his calmness had a comforting effect.

Everybody monitoring for leaks, including myself, would wear a 2JV headset. The device permitted quick communication when reporting status and abnormal conditions. The 2JV circuit also allowed anyone wearing a headset to hear everybody else. There was also a special loudspeaker in maneuvering. We called it the White Rat. It repeated all 2JV communications.

I climbed the ladder from shaft alley to the upper level engine room and walked forward,

While passing through machinery 2 upper level, I saw Schweikert sitting on the after workbench and talking to Lewis.

I heard Lewis say, “
Thresher
sank doing the same thing.”

Schweikert scrunched his face. “Thanks for reminding me. I was already nervous about going so deep.”

I reminded myself of the facts. Many submarines had done such a dive. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I could brag about to my grandchildren. Our shipyard overhaul corrected the problem with the emergency blow system.

I continued to the tunnel. Once there I donned my headset and established communications. Rushing was a waste of time. Metzgus, the maneuvering phone talker, informed us the test's start would not begin for at least half an hour. It was typical Navy protocol—hurry up and wait.

I sat on the linoleum deck and leaned against the bulkhead. Waiting with nothing to keep me occupied was not good for my psyche. Things better suppressed swirled through my mind.

During the overhaul, workers had cut two large holes in the
Clay
's High Yield 80 (HY-80) hull—a special grade of steel. Since the hull protected us from the crushing pressure of the sea, only specially qualified welders could repair the openings.

One of the holes was directly above where I was sitting. Workers had used it to refuel the nuclear reactor. The other was larger and above maneuvering. Perfect repairs were crucial. Inspectors had checked the welders' work with the most sophisticated methods available. There wasn't any room for error. Our lives depended on their soundness.