Three Knots to Nowhere (30 page)

I joined the rest of the crew as they ran to their battle stations. The event negated any escape from the unnerving stressful conditions of this war patrol.

Thankfully, the
Henry Clay
's missiles remained resting benignly in their tubes. Once again, Armageddon did not happen.

There was only half an hour before the next meal. I was afraid to lie down and read. If I did, the exhaustion from the EAB race and battle stations would most likely cause me to fall asleep and miss eating.

I went to the logroom to take care of paperwork. While seated in the space, I realized I was completely at ease. During my first patrol, the presence of the lethal contents in the missile tubes just outside the logroom sent a chill up and down my spine. In retaliation, I would close the logroom's door and create insulation from the source of my discomfort. Now, the nuclear-tipped missiles didn't bother me. I wondered which state of mind was psychologically healthier. Was it being comfortable or bothered by my situation? I took solace knowing the patrol and my time in this circumstance were nearing their end.

The next week, I decided to stand the roving electrician watch. More and more shipmates were feeling the effects of our extended period sequestered in a metal monster. Their testy behavior was typical for this portion of the patrol. I was probably acting the same way. Minimizing the amount of time spent with anyone in particular became my defense mechanism. Hence, the roving position provided the necessary attribute.

When it was time to record parameters in maneuvering, I reached for my trusty pen. The object was not in my pocket. I sighed. Either I had misplaced it or someone was having fun with the pen.

I was reluctant to query any of my foul-mood fellow crew members. My own disposition may not allow me to ask them without sounding mean.

The author and his much-abused pen in machinery 1 upper level. From the archives of E.K. Lingle (July 1972).

Maybe I had dropped it somewhere. I retraced my path. While passing the after-work bench in machinery 2, I saw something in the vise. A closer look revealed a U.S. Government retractable ballpoint pen crushed in its jaws. A sinking feeling developed in the pit of my stomach. A ray of hope replaced it. The chances were not good, but there was a possibility the entrapped pen was not mine.

I unclamped the vice and inspected the pen for my special mark. The search was difficult due to the pen's severe damage. Then I saw the notch. Although masked by the imprint of the vise's jaws, it was definitely there.

I was crestfallen. The pen had suffered fatal damage. Not only had the vise squashed the pen, it had administered an ugly end to my vow.

On the way to the trash can, I noticed the ink cartridge was sticking out, exposing the business end of the implement. I tried to make a mark on a piece of paper.

I could not believe my eyes. The pen wrote perfectly. It had survived.

After my initial rush of euphoria, I surveyed its wounds. They were substantial. Its ink cartridge no longer retracted. The pen had a slight bend where the top and bottom screwed together.

Its triumph over the assault helped my mood. My tension, which had been slowly building over the past several weeks, was dissipating.

There were parallels between the pen and me. So far, the pen had survived many trials and tribulations. I had done the same throughout my time in the submarine service. A difference also existed. The pen's wounds were clearly visible. I wondered what unrealized damage I had sustained during my naval service. I cast the thought aside. Innumerable wonderful experiences more than compensated for whatever negative effects I suffered. The prospect of a career in the civilian nuclear industry was highly likely. All in all, I had no complaints.

When I placed the pen into my breast pocket, its metal clip fell off. The additional indignity did nothing to deter my upbeat disposition.

I hurried to maneuvering to record the necessary parameters. Very interestingly, nobody in the crowed space made a comment about the condition of the dilapidated pen. There was no way they did not notice. Their lack of saying something told me each was involved or at least knew details of the pen's encounter with the vise.

There was nothing to gain by holding it against them. I had committed the faux pas and had to live with the entertaining consequences. I refused to admit it, but I'd have been disappointed if my fellow crew members hadn't risen to the challenge. Although it was on its last legs, the pen was still in my possession and in working condition. By that account, I was winning the battle.

The sixtieth day of patrol came and went. There was no end in sight. I refused to succumb to the temptation of checking our location on the navigator's chart. I'd rather not know where we were. If we were far from Guam, it'd be depressing. Being too close initiated a case of channel fever. There was a more important reason to remain ignorant of the
Clay
's track. Not knowing our location prevented me from mistakenly divulging classified information to the wrong person.

At the end of every patrol, the crew underwent a debriefing. The most stressed aspect was forbidding us from revealing the
Clay
's route. Disclosing secret information could have severe consequences. In our case, it could lead to neutralizing FBM deterrence. The Soviets were always trying to gain an edge in this arena and supposedly had spies everywhere. Whether Russian secret agents were as omnipresent as feared was irrelevant. The consequences were too great to take the chance of telling anyone classified data. Unlike me, my family and friends didn't have to swear an oath about not divulging secret information. Therefore, even when pressed I was careful with what I told them. Multiple facts deemed small or trivial could be pieced together to become something important. I took pride in my integrity and even when pressured was careful with what I told them.

As the patrol continued, my damaged pen continued to provide inspiration. It was in deplorable condition, but still going strong. There was not a chance it would run out of ink. I replaced the refill shortly before its run-in with the vise. Even when I left the pen unattended, nobody messed with it. I wondered why. Were my shipmates too tired? Were they having mercy on the object? Maybe it provided them with the same psychological support. For whatever reason, it gave new meaning to the saying, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

One day, I was the throttleman. Everyone in maneuvering was quiet. The benign atmosphere in the small space was in sharp contrast to how lively it was at the beginning of the patrol. If my compatriots were like me, they were lost in their own coping mechanisms after such a long time under the sea.

Suddenly, the engine order telegraph sprang to life. I smartly answered the bell. A flurry of activities ensued. Watch standers performed necessary actions. When the organized chaos ended, we were making going-home turns.

The end of my last patrol was at hand. I felt the built-up tension within me slowly evaporating. Inhaling deeply left my lungs asking for more. I yearned for a breath of real outside air. Swallowing hard, I summoned an untapped reserve of patience. I needed it to endure the remaining time in this hermetically sealed container.

Satisfied the panel's indications were normal, I observed the other men in maneuvering. After the explosion of activity, each was sitting stoically at his station. It was as if nothing special had just happened. I was sure they were as internally happy as I was about the significant improvement of our situation.

The behavior was typical. Although the event was something long-awaited and yearned for, we had to guard our emotions.

The precarious circumstance of being in our submerged warship was not over until the
Clay
was safely tied to the submarine tender, USS
Proteus
, in Apra Harbor. Too many things could delay, or even worse, prevent that ending. The submarine was as tired as the crew. It had been plagued with far too many equipment failures in the past few weeks. With the sea floor 20,000 feet below, a casualty could mean certain destruction. Escalation of the Cold War always had the possibility of extending our secret mission.

It was time to record the hourly readings. I retrieved my abused pen. The object continued to provide encouragement. It was limping home like the
Clay
.

The messenger of the watch awakened me. He was excitedly telling me something. Fatigue prevented me from comprehending his words.

I shook my head, cleared cobwebs, and said, “What did you say? Tell me again a little slower.”

He composed himself, “Dubay. We're almost to Guam. They're going to set the maneuvering watch after breakfast.”

I tried getting excited about the impending end to my life under the sea. Strangely, it did not work. It was too much of a demand on my tired mind and I abandoned the attempt. I did not sense channel fever, either. The extra patrol time had worn me out. I lethargically plucked my poopie suit from its hook and got dressed.

After breakfast, my section was due to be on watch. I was supposed to assume the electrical operator. Since setting the maneuvering watch would happen within the hour, I decided to relieve the throttleman and avoid an extra swap of positions.

As scripted, we set the maneuvering watch at 0700.

Fifteen minutes later, a welcome sound issued from the 1MC, “Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Surface! Surface! Surface!”

As the submarine rose, the effects of surface conditions exerted their effects on the
Clay
. I glanced at Dianotto. He didn't look very good. The closer we got to the surface, the more his complexion turned a pallid white. Being on the surface the rough seas had him fiercely fighting his affliction.

Feeling bad for the man, the EOOW, Mr. Losen, told him the weather forecast was favorable. It wouldn't be too rough while picking up the Blue Crew officers and leading petty officers. Then we'd dive and show them the condition of the
Clay
's equipment. By the time we surfaced, the weather would be nice and the ocean as smooth as glass.

Dianotto appreciated the moral support.

To his credit, he managed to maintain his stomach's contents in their proper location. The rest of us in maneuvering appreciated his effort. If he started puking, we could follow suit.

Soon, we heard, “Ah-oooo-gah! Ah-oooo-gah! Dive! Dive!”

The Blue Crew representatives were aboard.

It signaled another small step towards returning to Hawaii and my discharge from the United States Navy. Dianotto was also happy. His motion sickness faded away as the boat escaped the surface effects of the mighty Pacific Ocean.

We put the FBM through her paces. Speed changes, equipment swaps, and angles-and-dangles were part of the exhibition.

Having to demonstrate the state of the boat's equipment to the Blue Crew had its pros and cons. My favorite part was that they were aboard and would relieve us in a few days. On the other hand, the trip prolonged our time at sea. It also gave the Bluies, once they understood the
Clay
's deplorable condition, the opportunity to rag on us for allowing her to deteriorate so badly. It did not matter that we could not prevent the problems.

The Blue Crew buffered the joy of having them aboard when they delivered sad news. One of their crewmen had committed suicide. A leap off Diamond Head proved to be as effective as planned. The man was despondent. His wife had had an affair with someone from our crew. The somber incident revealed an insight. Patrols strained loved ones as much as submarine sailors. Both cases required an extreme amount of mental toughness. The weak could not survive and must explore easier roads. It was one reason I was grateful for not having a steady girl of my own.

Several hours later, the Blue Crew understood the
Clay
's tired condition. The Gold Crew was as worn out as the submarine. At least we would get a break in three days.

I was unable to embrace the full effect of the end of my FBM submarine ordeal. The news about the man who took his life put a damper on our happiness. I had known him since our time in Charleston. During the shipyard, we were quite close. When assigned to different crews, we drifted apart. I never met his wife. Maybe if I had known her, the infidelity would never have happened.

I forced myself not to dwell on the tragic news. The situation was similar to when the USS
Scorpion
was lost while I was at prototype. Serving in the submarine service for the past four years had trained me to block out distractions and only concentrate on the present. Getting the submarine back into port safely was the priority. Nothing else mattered.

The realization we were finally heading back to port, thus ending our patrol, caused subtle changes to those of us in maneuvering. Although no one talked, I sensed an improvement in my crewmates' mood. Their tension-wracked bodies appeared more relaxed. My breathing was peaceful. I hoped none of my crewmates would let their guard down. I was confident they wouldn't. We could endure almost any casualty if everyone maintained his professional attitude.