Three Knots to Nowhere (28 page)

Although I felt badly for him, razzing Dianotto about his affliction helped distract me from my own sensitivity to the submarine's irregular motion. I was fortunate my symptoms didn't equal his. Headaches were my worst malady.

As we snuck away from Guam while rigged for ultra-quiet, it was impossible for any lurking enemy attack boats to pick up our trail.

The auxiliary electrician aft, Second-Class Electrician Ballard, appeared at maneuvering's doorway. He softly requested permission to enter the small space and record his required readings.

Mr. Humphreys, the engineering officer of the watch, responded, “Permission granted. Enter maneuvering.”

Unhooking the chain across the opening, Ballard exerted overt care to ensure the metal restraining device and its sign did not bump against the stainless steel doorframe. He expended the same diligence while reconnecting. A few minutes later, Ballard completed recording the temperature and salinity readings.

Before leaving the tiny crowded space, Ballard told us in a subdued voice that he had made a fresh pot of coffee and asked if anybody wanted some.

Dianotto, feeling better, wanted a blonde-and-sweet. Humphreys requested a black-and-bitter.

Ballard performed his exit with the same meticulousness as entering. He returned shortly and passed the cups in.

Dianotto grabbed his, took a sip, and smacked his lips in satisfaction.

Ballard gave me the other cup and I handed it to Mr. Humphreys.

Humphreys suddenly exploded in a mighty sneeze. The cup slipped out of his hand and seemed to hover in mid–air. Lewis made a futile attempt to grab it. As if in slow motion, the full cup fell to the deck. Everyone in the space helplessly watched it hit with a resounding crash. In spite of our supreme efforts to maintain ultra-quiet, we made a transient noise. We held our breaths and hoped the sound did not compromise the
Clay
's position.

Within moments, the intercom from the conn crackled and the captain said in a terse tone, “Maneuvering. Conn. Sonar detected a transient. What was it?”

Before making his report, Humphreys emitted a string of blasphemies and told me not to feel bad. It was his fault. I had already let go. It slipped out of his hand.

His words of assurance did not make me feel any better. I felt partly to blame. It was my fourth patrol with the man. I should have detected something was awry with Humphrey's demeanor. If I had, the incident would never have happened.

His admission of liability provided me another degree of respect for the lieutenant. It would have been easy for him, an officer, to blame a lowly enlisted man. Fortunately, like most of our officers, he conformed to the submarine code of conduct. Whoever was responsible stepped up and accepted his culpability.

As Mr. Humphreys sheepishly reported to the CO what happened, Lewis started wiping up the coffee.

The tirade from the captain did not last long. When it was over, Humphreys placed the 11MC microphone back into its holder and hopped off his chair. With a sullen expression, he grabbed a rag and finished cleaning the coffee and shards of broken glass. It reinforced my perception of submarine camaraderie. Lewis, even though an enlisted man, did not hesitate to help the officer. Likewise, Lt. Humphreys had no problem with cleaning his own mess.

Dianotto tried to cheer him up. “Hey, Humph. It was only a cup of coffee. That's not much of a transient.”

Dianotto's comment had the desired effect and Humphreys composed himself. It was another example of how the proper attitude created compassion between members of a submarine crew, regardless of status.

Not long afterwards, we secured from ultra-quiet.

Everybody in maneuvering assured Humphrey that the
Clay
escaped undetected. If there were any question about it, the captain would not have secured ultra-quiet.

Lewis thought the Russians probably heard the noise, but we were quiet enough that they couldn't find us after that. On the positive side, it was a boring exit and that provided some excitement.

Dianotto had his own view. He could not understand why countries could not get along. If they did, there wouldn't be a Cold War or FBMs, and all of us would be breathing fresh air.

I agreed with Dianotto, but there was an irony to my situation. If countries coexisted peacefully, I would probably be stuck working in a grimy steel mill. As it was, I received a first-rate education and had the chance of a good career.

I told them my time in the Navy hadn't always been a barrel of monkeys, but the experience was worth it.

Lewis dryly remarked, “If it was a barrel of monkeys, there'd be a
football
involved.”

After being relieved from my maneuvering watch duties, I withdrew a standard U.S. government black ballpoint pen from the breast pocket of my poopie suit. I was always losing my pen and they knew it. Using them as witnesses, I guaranteed I'd still have it when the run was over.

They wanted to know how I could prove it was the same one.

I removed a TL-29 electrician knife from my pocket. I scribed a notch into the pen and displayed the mark to everyone in maneuvering. Without letting it show, I realized my faux pas. Guaranteeing that I would have the pen at the end of the patrol was the same as issuing a challenge to these men. I would have to maintain my guard the remainder of the run. Repeating past episodes of carelessness could no longer occur. I had to keep an eye on my shipmates. They would do their best to sabotage my effort to keep my vow.

When I reached berthing, I suddenly felt very fatigued. I didn't get much sleep the previous night, because I helped prepare the FBM for sea. Hitting the rack right away allowed me to catch a couple hours of sleep before having to go back on watch. Another long patrol had begun. I was grateful it was my last.

While standing beside my rack, I stripped off my poopie suit and hung it on a hook in the darkened area. I climbed into the cave-like space and switched on the small fluorescent bunk light. I closed the rack's curtain and covered myself with the sheet. The tan bedspread and gray wool blanket remained at the foot of the mattress. I would not need them until the boat's air conditioning system was operating more effectively. That wouldn't happen until the
Henry Clay
entered cooler ocean water north of Guam. Reaching under the sheet, I removed my sweat-soaked smelly socks. In the cramped space, I had to contort my body in order to stuff the socks into the laundry bag hanging from the back of the enclosure. Rolling over in the other direction, I scrunched my shoulders to prevent them from being wedged between the top and bottom of my private sanctuary. The maneuver allowed me to retrieve a book stowed under the corner of the mattress by my head. After reading a couple of pages, I returned it to its spot. A few moments later, I was oblivious to the world.

Several weeks later, I was in the logroom replacing the ink cartridge of my pen. So far, shipmates had inflicted several indignities upon the pen. On one occasion, a person removed the spring. Another time, someone inverted the insides. In the current instance, the tip of the cartridge was missing after the pen had an encounter with a pair of wire cutters. I was not upset because it was still in my possession. Even though shipmates managed to get their hands on the pen, I had recovered it. I chuckled at my shipmates' cleverness. In retrospect, my promise had developed into a game, which helped everyone while away the time.

After restoring the ballpoint pen to an operating condition, I worked on several items for the crew's newspaper, the
Henry Clay Clarion
. While hunched over the desk, I heard a commotion in the passageway outside of the tiny office. Someone loudly whispered, “Hey. Keep it quiet.”

The sounds intrigued me. By the time I managed to free myself from the confines of the cramped space, nobody was in sight. The only evidence of anybody's presence was the muffled shuffling of feet at the aft end of the missile compartment. Although it was a curious situation, I shrugged my shoulders and returned to my previous task.

An hour later, another disturbance occurred outside the logroom. This time, I saw the perpetrators. A group of junior officers armed with flashlights was slowly moving through the compartment. They seemed to be searching for something. One of them saw me. We made eye contact but didn't speak. Without appearing obvious, I blocked the doorway into the room. Officers shouldn't see an item for the paper until publication. It was for an advice column. Someone wrote, “I heard the pistachios have worms. What should I do?” The soon-to-be printed response was, “Give them to the officers. They eat them in the dark while watching movies.”

One of the officers mysteriously stated, “The logroom's too small.”

After returning to my task, the officers' fading voices told me they were moving aft.

Later, the sound of the oncoming engineering watch section heading aft alerted me that it was time for the evening meal. I had been engrossed in formatting an entertaining article written by one of the officers, Mr. Losen. It was his latest story in the continuing saga of Super-Nuc, Ronnie Scrambreaker. Mr. Losen had come a long way since our first encounter. It seemed like eons ago that he proctored our first basic engineering exam in Hawaii. Now he was one of the crew's favorites.

I walked towards the crew's mess, and saw Southerland coming from the other direction. He had an impish countenance.

I asked, “What's up?”

“Haven't you heard? The door to the executive officer's stateroom is missing. All of the junior officers are out searching for it. So far they've come up empty-handed.”

I did not mention the odd commotion I detected when working in the logroom, and told him I saw the officers in the missile compartment. It seemed as if they were looking for something. It was strange at the time, but after hearing Southerland's comment, it made sense. I figured the XO forbade them to get help from the crew, because the officers saw me in the logroom and didn't ask anything about it. I wondered how long the executive office would tolerate the shenanigans.

The next day, the XO's loss of patience began to emerge. He stretched a blanket across his doorway. At least it shut out the passageway's light. The XO intensified the search. All available officers joined the hunt. Like before, no one could find the elusive quarry.

I overheard one of the searchers complimenting whoever hid the door: “I've looked in every nook and cranny I can imagine a door can fit into. Whoever stashed it, really knows this submarine. It'll be a feather in the cap of the man who finds it.”

After the third day of fruitless searching, the exasperated executive officer took drastic action. An announcement in the Plan of the Day (POD) essentially said: If the door isn't returned, people will start losing sleep.

The notice had the desired effect. His door magically reappeared. Much to the dismay of the officer, the perpetrators of the hijacking sent their own message. The absent object was resting peacefully in the XO's rack, but his mattress was missing.

The executive officer's shoulders sagged in dismay. He went to the wardroom for a cup of coffee. Caffeine would help sharpen his mind in this match of wits. The substance had the desired effect. He formulated another announcement for inclusion into the next POD. As the XO passed his stateroom while on his way to drop off the message in the ship's office, a pleasant surprise greeted him.

The mattress was back in its rightful location and his door was back on its hinges.

Once again, the unknown sly devils performed their feats of prestidigitation without anyone catching them.

I never discovered who stole the XO's door. On the other hand, anybody knowing the identity of the thieves protected the information as if it were top-secret military data. They may need the same consideration later.

After the door episode, the days droned on. Our humdrum sequestered life in a metal container wandering through the ocean depths, at a measly three knots, was like the doldrums. Day after day of repetitive activities followed the same. It was one reason submarine sailors resort to hijinks, such as swiping doors. The antics helped divert our minds from the monotony of the extended foray under the sea. More important, the same went for the constant stress of our dangerous life. The relief was only temporary. Manning battle station missile at random times, and the groaning of the submarine's hull while it changed depth, brought the realization of our hazardous predicament into the forefront.

One day an unusual motion of the submarine awakened me. A check of my watch verified it was not time for the
Clay
to be at periscope depth. In spite of my confusion, getting rest was more important than figuring out the curious situation.

The submarine's motion rolled me forcibly into the backside of my sleeping quarters and interrupted my sleep again. Before I had a chance to understand what happened, the submarine flung me in the opposite direction. I rolled out of my rack and stood. The deck was pitching and rolling under my feet. The previous confusion returned. The
Clay
should not be at periscope depth and
should
be oblivious to the ocean's surface conditions.

Southerland emerged from the shadows and we came face to face. While maintaining my balance, I asked, “What the heck is going on? Are we on the surface?”

“I wish it was that. We're in a typhoon. The boat's at patrol depth.”

Usually, when the
Clay
was this deep she was stable as a rock while gliding silently through the mighty Pacific, for mile upon mile upon mile. With closed eyes, it normally was impossible to tell whether I was in a submarine or at home on dry land. The typically benign conditions spoiled submarine sailors. Dianotto and I thought it made submarine duty more appealing.

Whenever the
Clay
rose to periscope depth, it provided a brief taste of more animated elements of nature. Time near the surface rarely lasted long. Nor were they very dramatic. As a result, we never developed sea legs.