Three Knots to Nowhere (2 page)

They know themselves a little better than the next man. This has to be so with men who have a healthy reason to volunteer for a risk. They are generally a cut healthier emotionally than others of a similar age and background because of their willingness to push themselves a little bit further and not settle for an easier kind of existence.

We all have tremendous capabilities but are rarely straining at the upper level of what we can do; these men are
¹
[see end of Introduction].

My experience with the USS
Henry Clay
's sailors matched Dr. Brothers's assessment. I trusted them and they never failed to perform as professionals.

The
Clay
also earned my respect.

I found out about the demise of the USS
Henry Clay
from a one-line sentence buried in a Web site on the Internet. Rumors that her end was near or had already occurred were circulating for some time. Previous attempts to discover the facts were fruitless. A tight-lipped society protected her and those not in the proper circle were not privy to relevant information. When I learned the details, it was comforting to know she succumbed peacefully to old age.

She and I were close, very close. We parted amicably with neither harboring hard feelings.

Given a man's name at birth, she wore it proudly and no one questioned her femininity. I remember her as vibrant, alive, and full of activity. Few would call her beautiful but she was graceful and noble in her own way.

The
Henry Clay
's ability to dispense unimaginable fury made her one of the major players in keeping the peace during the Free World's Cold War with the Soviet Union. This lady and her crew were the quintessential example of speaking softly but carrying a big stick.

Former United States Secretary of State, General Colin Powell, Ret., summed up the importance of the FBM fleet with this tribute:

No one has done more to prevent conflict—no one has made a greater sacrifice for the cause for peace—than you, America's proud missile submarine family. You stand tall among our heroes of the Cold War.

America's leaders place special trust and confidence in the members of their submarine force. You go to sea entrusted with weapons of incredible destructive power. You go to sea propelled by power plants of unbelievable sophistication. You go to sea armed for Armageddon, while charged with the solemn responsibility of preventing it. No other members of America's Armed Forces have been given so great a burden of responsibility as the sailors of the Ballistic Missile Submarine Force. No other members of America's Armed Forces have so earned America's trust.

Our SSBN patrols continued as the Cold War continued. The Berlin Crisis came and went. The Cuban Crisis came and went. The Vietnam War came and went. Through it all, the sailors of the Submarine Force continued to guide their craft far beneath the surface of the ocean, deterring a Third War that so often looked like it was threatening to break out and destroy us all.

You did your job well. The terrible War we feared never came.
²

Commissioned on February 20, 1964, the
Henry Clay
had an active career that lasted 26 years. Her decommissioning occurred on November 5, 1990. She entered the Nuclear Powered Ship and Submarine Recycling program, and her scrapping was complete on September 30, 1997. It was an ignoble end to a grand lady's existence.

One of the last remnants of the USS
Henry Clay.
The author holding a piece of her hull. From the archives of Ted E. Dubay (September 2012).

Now she is resting peacefully in the afterlife. Not enough mourn her passing and, unfortunately, many actually rejoice in her departure into oblivion. How sad. Those who are pleased do not understand her true virtues.

My time in the Navy, especially while assigned to the
Clay
, was a unique experience. I have no regrets. If given a chance to go back in time and do it again, I would.

1.
Dr. Joyce Brothers, “Why They Behave That Way—Risk Is an Inspiration in Submarine Service,”
Milwaukee Journal
, April 20, 1963, 1.

2.
Colin L. Powell, “Remarks by General Colin L. Powell, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, at the Ceremony for the 3000th SSBN Patrol,”
The Submarine Review
, July 1992, 5–8.

Suddenly the submerged submarine's speakers shrieked. Immediately following was a terse announcement: “Man Battle Station Missile. Set condition 1SQ. Spin up all missiles.”

It was midsummer 1971 and three days past Hump Day, the scheduled halfway point of one of my Cold War Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine patrols.

The USS
Henry Clay
, SSBN 625, was patrolling the Cold War's front line beneath the western Pacific. As she maintained a stealthy three-knot pace, her motion through the sea was imperceptible.

Prior to the announcement, tranquility prevailed—humming electronics, droning pumps and electric motors, whooshing ventilation systems, and whining turbines. I, along with one-third of the crew, was sleeping. Another third were performing assigned maintenance, working on qualifications, or finding ways to combat boredom. The remaining men were on watch, diligently operating and monitoring the complex systems needed to keep the FBM functioning.

Awakened by the announcements, I heard the click-click-click of my rack's privacy curtain sliding open as the submarine's bow tilted up during its ascent to launch depth.

I, a twenty-two-year-old nuclear-trained electrician, shook the cobwebs from my head. It only took a moment to realize I was aboard the most powerful weapon on Earth. Protection of the United States of America and the responsibility of safely operating a nuclear powered submarine were in direct contrast with my idyllic youth in rural Hickory Township, Pennsylvania. Back then, I did not have a care in the world. The simple life reflected my behavior. I was shy, naive, and a mediocre student. Joining the Navy transformed me. Admiral Hyman Rickover's highly intensive nuclear propulsion program and qualifying in submarines turned me into an outgoing, confident, and highly respected knowledgeable submariner.

My mind focused on the present. I dove out of my rack, joining the crew's scripted pandemonium. It was a struggle to maintain my balance on the sharply angled deck. Second Class Machinist's Mate Bob “Red” Southerland and I battled for the same portion of the narrow passageway.

Southerland was slim, smooth-talking, red-haired, fair-skinned, and from Alabama. In the glow of the dimmed compartment lighting, I could see he was sporting sleep-rumpled hair and a day's growth of stubble. His six-foot-three-inch frame was a distinct disadvantage for maneuvering in a confined space. After bumping his head on a light in the overhead, he muttered a few choice expletives and moved. I, at 5'6", occupied the vacated space.

Southerland and I met late fall 1967 while students of U.S. Naval Nuclear Power School, Bainbridge, Maryland. He was a typical selectee: highly intelligent, looking for his life's direction, and not afraid of a challenge. We were both single and lived on the base. Pickup basketball was our common thread. Even though we went to the same nuclear power school prototype, the long hours and rotating shift schedule prevented our socializing. While we were attending submarine school, New London/Groton, Connecticut, basketball brought us back together. When we were assigned to the same crew of the USS
Henry Clay
, our camaraderie grew into something special and we became lifelong friends. As individuals, we were professionally and socially Yin/Yang. This worked well for us. He was a machinist's mate, making him an expert in mechanical systems. I was an electrician and had expertise in different technology. Southerland had a partying nature. My subdued demeanor created a good balance.

The battle station announcement made adrenaline rush through me. After grabbing lint-free coveralls, I quickly threw them over tee shirt and skivvies. Slipping on shoes,
sans
socks to save time, I ran to my battle station. Hot on my heels was Southerland.

As the FBM rose to launch depth, I was running aft and downhill through the middle level operations compartment. I encountered Auxillaryman Tommy Lee Connell, who was rushing forward. Even though both of us were thin, we had to squeeze past each other in the narrow passageway.

I reached the hatch between the operations and missile compartments. Grasping the bar over the opening, I swung my body feet-first through the hole, much like a trapeze artist. I landed on my feet, and continued at a rapid pace down the submarine's port walkway. Southerland followed suit. At the aft end of the middle level missile compartment, I bounded up the stairs and ran through upper level machinery 1. The short distance through the reactor compartment tunnel only took a few seconds.

At the hatch between the tunnel and machinery 2 upper level, I met one of the forward non-quals. He was in the engineering spaces working on his submarine qualifications. Because of the hatch's small size, only one person can pass through. The man was a higher military rank, but deferred to me because I was qualified in submarines, a procedure that adhered to submarine protocol.

Within a minute of awakening, I was in maneuvering, the control room for the reactor and engineering equipment. My clothes were damp with sweat. It was a combination of exertion and the engine room's extreme heat and humidity.

I relieved Second Class Interior Communications Technician Charlie Schweikert. He was manning the Steam Plant Control Panel (SPCP) as the throttleman. Although Schweikert grew up mainly in the South, he did not associate with any particular part of the United States. His father was in the Air Force and continually moved the family around the country. Schweikert had blond hair and a wiry five-foot-seven-inch frame, and was as good-natured as anybody I have known. He had a passion for periscope liberty and partook in the activity whenever possible. His craving was so strong, he sometimes had the messenger of the watch wake him just for the possibility of seeing beyond the submarine's confines. Schweikert's most enduring traits were an excellent dry wit and a great sense of humor. In this instance, due to the gravity of Battle Station Missile, he was all business. After he gave me a rundown of the watch station's status, I controlled the speed of the submarine, as directed by an officer located in the boat's control room.

Schweikert hustled to his own battle station.

Southerland relieved Bill “Willy Tat” Souder as the upper level engine room (ULER) watch. Souder, a short man with a buzz haircut, hated the nickname, but endured it without complaint. As with Southerland, we became acquainted at Bainbridge. Souder was a pleasant and fun companion.

Also in maneuvering was Electrician's Mate First Class Rich Lewis. He manned the electric plant control panel (EPCP). A native of Buffalo, New York, Lewis was 5'10" and a paunchy 250 pounds. His nickname was “Hogbody.” Unlike Souder, Lewis embraced the moniker. Beneath the plump exterior and round face, he was a mass of muscle. There was not an ounce of fat on his legs. Adonis would have been proud of them. Physique-wise, Lewis and I were opposites. I was 140 pounds; in other words, a runt. My pre–Navy athletic experience consisted of being the manager of my high school football and basketball teams. I also participated in intramural track and briefly held Hickory High School's high-jump record. Lewis was an excellent athlete. He was a nose tackle and middle linebacker when attending Baldwin-Wallace College. Lewis was a top-notch electrical operator and had a subtle sense of humor. I spent many nice times socializing with him, his wife and young son.

The submarine was hovering at launch depth and poised to fire her lethal projectiles. All hands were ready to carry out their particular duty. The outward appearance of Lewis and Southerland was amazingly calm, a true testament to their professionalism and training. Like me, were they successfully suppressing feelings of anxiety?

Was this just a drill? We did not know. Sometimes the announcement to man battle stations included the phrase “for WSRT” (Weapons Systems Readiness Test). In those cases, we knew it was not a prelude to war. This time the statement was not included. Because we set Condition 1SQ (the
Clay
's highest level of preparedness and having the missiles ready for launch), I could not discount the possibility that a nuclear confrontation was about to begin. The prospect weighed heavily on my mind.

Passing minutes seemed like hours as I waited in limbo. My worst fear was having the deck drop out from under me as the
Clay
dispatched her deadly missiles. I hoped and prayed battle stations would end with our merchants of destruction still nestled in their tubes.

As the minutes crept along, I could not help thinking about why the crew of the USS
Henry Clay
was in this unenviable situation. I normally suppressed the thought, but Battle Station Missile brought it into the forefront.