Three Knots to Nowhere (25 page)

There was an equal amount of time left in my enlistment. Two years of shore duty sounded good. I asked him to tell me more.

During his spiel, he revealed that accepting the job required me to re-enlist for two more years.

I stopped him and said, “In other words, you want me to expose myself to potentially the same kind of treatment I'm all upset about right now.”

“That's one way to look at it.”

Seeing my reluctance for prototype instructor duty, he made another offer. There was an open billet for a nuclear-trained electrician in Antarctica. It didn't require re-enlisting and had a six months on and six months off schedule. If I did not want it, he would keep me with the
Clay
.

I weighed Antarctica duty against my three months on the submarine and three months off in Hawaii. Although I would probably never have another chance of going to Antarctica, bikinis and beaches beat out parkas and snow-covered landscapes. There was no contest. I would stay on the
Clay.
Doing so meant I had fully met the requirements and the government had to ship my car to Hawaii at their expense.

He did not bat an eye and said, “I'll take care of it. If the yeoman doesn't have the necessary paperwork ready before the end of the week, come see me.”

Staying assigned to the
Clay
was not bad. If transferred, I had to leave many friends behind. Who knew if I would bond as well with another group of sailors?

There were other benefits of staying with the
Clay
. Some people only dream about
vacationing
in Hawaii. I lived in the tropical paradise six months out of every year.

The icing on the cake was that I could continue to reside in a luxury downtown Honolulu apartment and use the living expenses as a deduction on my income taxes.

On the surface, that seems odd. It came about due to the government's shortsightedness. Submarine officers had to pay for their own meals when on their submarine. An FBM officer tried to use the cost of his meals as a deduction on his income taxes. The government ruled that he could not, because the submarine was his home. The officer used the government's ruling against them by pointing out that he was then eligible to deduct his living expenses when on off-crew. If the submarine was his home and the Navy ordered him to live somewhere else, then his three months away from the submarine were legal deductions. The government's attempt to save a few dollars from a small population backfired. The ruling meant enlisted FBM sailors were also eligible to deduct off-crew living expenses.

The news of my staying with the
Henry Clay
quickly circulated throughout her crew. Not long after I left the XO's office, Southerland sought me out. He was happy I was staying with the
Clay
, but really wanted to know if Cossey said anything about our getting a new XO. Rumors of Cossey's transfer were spreading like wildfire. I hoped it wasn't true, but it was. He had always been a straight shooter. A good example was how he had just treated me.

Two days later, the yeoman informed me the arrangements for getting my car shipped to Hawaii were complete. Then he divulged some bad news. My mentor and friend, Bob Davis, jumped at the chance to take the prototype instructor job that I refused. I would sorely miss the man.

I phoned my parents that evening. Although the government was paying for shipping, I needed someone to transport the car to Bayonne, New Jersey. When I presented the dilemma to Mom and Dad, they were more than happy to help.

My mother was particularly excited.

Her reaction took me by surprise. I did not doubt they would help. Mom's eagerness shocked me.

I quickly found out she had never flown before. They would drive my car there and fly home.

They soundly rejected my offers to pay for the airline tickets. The trip would be an adventure and a mini-vacation.

Knowing my car would eventually arrive in Hawaii was a moral victory. Mom's being able to experience her first plane ride was icing on the cake.

Several weeks later, the entire crew assembled in Ford Island's auditorium for the XO's weekly presentation. Initially, the effects of stimulation of the local economy the previous evening made it hard for me to stay focused. The cobwebs clouding my mind suddenly cleared when he made an announcement. The crew would receive submarine-escape training the next week. Most of our crew, including myself, had not gone through it. The experience was another difficult rite of passage to becoming a true submariner. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Knowing many others survived the training and took pride in the accomplishment helped calm me. I resolved to do likewise.

When we were dismissed, groups formed in the hall. As I walked by several, one subject dominated the discussions: the impending submarine-escape tower training.

I spotted Souder, Southerland, Lewis, Pottenger, and Schweikert.

Lewis thought it was about time. The ordeal was one of the premier initiation rites of submarine service and he could hardly wait.

Schweikert was disappointed when we were at submarine school and the escape tower was out of commission. When we got our orders to Charleston, he had given up on experiencing the escape training. Then he found out the
Clay
was going to Hawaii after the overhaul. The first thing that came to his mind was that Pearl had an escape tower.

I never felt comfortable going to sea on the
Clay
without practicing an escape.

Souder had a different opinion. He felt all of our submarine school training and having demonstrated an intimate knowledge on the escape trunk in order to get our Dolphins was adequate preparation.

Southerland provided another insight. Even though we didn't do an actual practice escape, all of us had undergone the fifty-pound pressure test at submarine school. It gave us practice with equalizing our ears.

Pottenger was silent while we debated our opinions. He appeared deep in thought.

“Pottenger, you're awfully quiet. A penny for your thoughts.”

He paused for a moment, crossed his arms, and reflectively said, “Well, I don't disagree with anything you guys said. I don't think there's a need for escape training. Ninety-nine percent of the time, we're cruising in water that's too deep for an escape. If the
Clay
sinks, we'll die when the boat goes below crush depth.”

His pragmatic assessment was the harsh truth. The statement struck each of us like a body shot from a heavyweight boxer. I felt my body slump as its significance sank in. The others in the group had similar reactions. Southerland and Souder had somber demeanors.

Schweikert composed himself. He was not going to dwell on it. We all knew serving on submarines was dangerous. It didn't stop any of us from volunteering. Going through the escape trainer would be one more thing to add to his résumé. He was still excited.

The next Monday, Southerland and I reported to escape training.

In the classroom, we found tables with two chairs each. On one side of the room, I spied a mock-up of an escape hatch. Above the outside of the opening, someone had painted “Ho-Ho-Ho.” On a table in the back of the room were several Steinke hoods. Southerland and I selected the same table at the front of the room.

Submarine escape training tower, Pearl Harbor submarine base. From the archives of Ted E. Dubay (August 1972).

At 0800, an instructor entered the classroom. After introducing himself as a Navy master diver, he presented the day's schedule. We would spend the morning in the classroom. During that phase, he would cover safety measures, a review of the escape trunk, and escape equipment. After lunch, we would go through the escape tower.

He didn't sugarcoat the experience. There were dangers associated with going through the tower. Men could rupture an eardrum, get the bends, or even die.

After getting our attention, he assured us that none of those would happen if we did everything correctly. His job was twofold. After the training, we would have the tools necessary to escape from a downed submarine. He was also tasked with making sure everybody in the room left in the same condition as they arrived. There have been very few injuries and no deaths. As long as we applied the proper techniques, trainees would be all right. If not, there were dire consequences.

Before starting the training, he had everyone come to the front of the class and state his name and whether he was qualified in submarines.

We formed a single line as requested. Southerland and I were first. I made my statements and the instructor told me to return to my seat. The same went for Southerland. While observing the procession, I noticed every so often he kept someone at the front of the room. At the end, there were three men standing at the front of the room.

The instructor said, “Those three will not go through escape training today. One has a cold. He won't be able to equalize his ears as pressure increases. The other two have alcohol on their breaths and their judgment is suspect.”

He directed the men to go back to the
Clay
's office and reschedule the training. It was up to them to report the reason.

Then the instructor repeated there was no room for error during this training and wanted to know if anybody had a question.

Southerland wanted to know the deepest someone could safely blow-and-go.

The answer surprised me. It was about 600 feet, although it would rupture eardrums.

I grimaced in reaction to the statement and my hand instinctively stroked my ear. Then I considered the alternative. What was worse? Being deaf or being dead?

I glanced around the room. The expressions on my fellow crew members' faces told me they were thinking the same thing.

The instructor provided more encouragement. Everybody in the room was fully capable of successfully completing the training. All of us passed rigorous physicals, including the fifty-pound pressure test at submarine school. Everyone had completed extensive psychological screening.

He familiarized us with the escape tower. It was over a hundred feet high and filled with water. Everyone was required to perform the act at the fifty-foot level. If there was enough time, men could volunteer to make an escape from 100 feet.

The training had several safety measures in case someone had a problem. An instructor would be in the fifty-foot chamber with the trainees. His job was making sure trainees used the proper procedure. He would also monitor everybody. If someone could not equalize his ears, the instructor would stop and let the man out. It wasn't any different from the pressure test at submarine school. This time, the pressure would only be a little over twenty-one pounds. That was the pressure at fifty feet.

There would also be divers stationed at different levels in the tower. Their job was continuously monitoring trainees during the ascent. If someone wasn't exhaling, a diver would assist. He'd jump on the man's back, pound the trainee's chest, and make him exhale. There was a safety chamber part way up. If someone was in real trouble, divers pulled the man in and administered medical assistance. There was also a decompression chamber in case somebody got the bends.

The instructor had us examine an escape hatch mock-up in the classroom.

In unison, we turned our heads as directed. Above the hatch was “Ho-Ho-Ho” in bold print.

He explained that saying those words continuously was the key to not being injured. As we left the escape trunk to go up, the air in our lungs would expand. If it wasn't exhaled, our lungs would explode.

The statement made my heart skip a beat. Recalling that many others had completed the training without incident helped relieve my tension.

The remainder of the morning flew by. We familiarized ourselves with the use of the Steinke hood. The hood went over our heads and had a clear plastic viewing window.

Next, we repeated dry runs through the escape trunk mock-up, until the instructor believed we had the process engrained.

After eating, we changed into bathing suits. An instructor led us up the spiral staircase on the outside of the tower. Our single-file procession continued until we entered a room at the crown of the structure. Once inside, we saw why the top of the tower was slightly larger than the lower portion. A platform surrounded the water column. Not only did it provide a location for additional safety personnel, but trainees had somewhere to stand when they exited the water.

I looked into the lighted crystal-clear liquid. Although it was distorted, I saw the bottom of the tank.

Our convoy reversed direction and we descended to the escape trunk at the fifty-foot level.

I donned the Steinke hood and crowded into the trunk with several others. The hatch to the stairs clanged shut and was dogged. Someone unlocked the door to the escape tower. Water pressure on the tower side kept the hatch from leaking.

The instructor admitted water into the chamber and the level rose. The minimum level had to be above the top of the exit hatch. I was the determining factor for the upper limit. By the time the water stopped rising, I was standing on my tippy-toes and had my head tilted backwards to keep my nose in the air space.