Three Knots to Nowhere (32 page)

Once aboard the plane, I settled into a window seat on the left side just forward of the wing. No matter how tired I made myself, sleep was impossible when flying back to Hawaii. Southerland sat in the aisle seat. He was one of the lucky ones and had already fallen asleep.

The airliner began moving. I watched the terminal disappear from view for the last time

Taking off from Guam was always unnerving. The terminus of the runway was a sheer cliff, which dropped several hundred feet to the rocky shoreline.

An eternity seemed to pass as the jetliner lumbered down the runway picking up speed much too slowly for my comfort. Too soon, the edge of the cliff was in view and I felt internal tension mounting. I muttered to myself, “Get this thing in the air. Now!”

We were at the point of no return. There was no longer any room to recover. If something went awry, we would die.

The aircraft lifted off with plenty of room to spare and I laughed at my nervousness. The margin to catastrophe was not much different between this situation and that of a submerged submarine. The only dissimilarity was that I could see the hazards when in the airliner. I was never skittish in the
Clay
.

The in-flight movie did not start until an hour into the flight. To occupy myself in the meantime, I listened to music. There was a choice of classical, popular, or western songs. I selected popular. It allowed me to catch up with some of the tunes I'd missed during the past three months.

Lunch interrupted the continuous rhapsody. A treat complemented the nondescript prepared meal. I savored my first Coca-Cola in over two months. Southerland awoke, ate silently, and effortlessly fell back to sleep.

I envied his ability to perform the feat. As his chest heaved up and down, a peaceful expression adorned his slightly askew head. I was happy for him. After our three-month ordeal, he deserved the rest.

The in-flight movie—
Paint Your Wagon
, starring Lee Marvin—began. As the plane flew over the seemingly endless and empty ocean, the entertainment helped pass the time.

During the flick, the aircraft banked slightly. I looked out the window. At first, the only thing in view was the Pacific's broad expanse and a cloudless sky. A few low-hanging clouds appeared. I looked below them. After many hours aloft, Wake Island, something to measure our progress, came into view.

The jet's change in attitude and the buzz of shipmates' comments circulating through the airliner awakened Southerland.

In a sleep-tainted voice, he asked if we were landing in Hawaii.

“Not quite. We're not even half way. The pilot is treating us to a view of Wake Island.”

He fell back to sleep. This was his first chance to catch up on some rest. His exhaustion was understandable. Between refit, patrol, and the three days of turnover to the Blue Crew, it was impossible to catch up on sleep.

I leaned over to get a better look of the isolated, virtually flat spit of land. The atoll is the remnant of an ancient collapsed volcano. The land barely rose over the sea. It seemed as if a high tide would completely cover the island. Fortunately, for those living there, tides did not rise very high because of the size of the Pacific.

For me, Wake was a welcome landmark on our journey back to civilization. I found the island intriguing. The hope of seeing it one final time was the reason I sat on this side of the plane.

In December 1941, the United States had a small contingent of Marines and some civilian contractors on Wake. The Japanese attacked it four hours after bombing Pearl Harbor. What confuses people is the date of the attack on Wake Island, December 8. Wake is on the other side of the International Date Line.

Wake Island is the Alamo of the Pacific. It has several similarities with the one in San Antonio, Texas. Both were under siege. Each mustered a gallant defense before a superior force overwhelmed them. The defenders of Wake knew they'd be attacked several hours before it happened. They repelled invasions for two weeks. Finally, on December 23, the Japanese mounted an all out-assault and were successful.

This is where similarities end. Santa Anna wiped out everyone at the Alamo. The Japanese captured Wake's defenders. They retained ninety-eight civilians on the island and used them as slave labor. They shipped the rest of the defenders to prisoner of war camps.

The United States forces island-hopped over Wake, leaving the Japanese occupation force stranded. Every so often, the U.S. would harass them with an air raid. The strategy backfired. After a raid in October 1943, the Japanese executed all the prisoners left on Wake. The United States didn't find out until after the war. The men carved “98 U.S. PW 5-10-43” on a rock before being executed. Now the rock is a monument.

I could not stop thinking of the battle. My decision to join the Navy kept me from fighting in Vietnam. Even though the
Henry Clay
's patrols were combat missions, there was a degree of separation from our enemy. I would never be in a face-to-face confrontation, as my father had experienced in World War II. I wondered about my own behavior in battle. I hoped that I would measure up as well as he did. With any luck, the question would remain unanswered. If my performance during crises on the
Clay
can serve as a measuring stick, I would have been okay. I hope that I will never know for sure.

I distracted myself from the thoughts by returning my attention to the movie.

After the film, I passed the time by staring out the window. In some ways, it was worse than standing watch while on patrol while nothing was changing. At least in the submarine, I had responsibilities. It did not take long to appreciate my current circumstance. I could see clouds forming fascinating and ever-changing shapes. The sun's rays made the vast ocean's surface shimmer and sparkle.

One other item added to the positives of my present circumstance. My confinement inside a submerged metal container, isolated from the world for months at a time, was over.

Eventually, the plane banked and started its descent to Honolulu's airport. Bright city lights flooded the area below. Our imminent return to civilization caused a wave of contagious excitement to ripple through the crew.

Some had loved ones waiting in the terminal. Rich Lewis's wife and son would be there. Pat Schweikert, Charlie's better half, would be anxiously waiting his arrival.

Others like me, without anyone to greet them, were just happy to be back.

The plane touched down with a sharp bump. A roar permeated throughout the cabin as the pilot slowed the aircraft. I felt like it took forever to taxi to the terminal. Many had a tough time containing their anticipation of getting off the jetliner. They prematurely unbuckled seat belts, gathered carry-on belongings, and formed a line in the aisle.

Chomping at the bit to exit the plane, everyone waited for our captain to lead the
Clay
's crew into the terminal. It was his postwar patrol ritual.

The man had the typical submarine captain's cocky maverick attitude. He was clad in a dress white uniform. His hat was perched on his head at a rakish angle. A wig, with hair over his ears and collar, covered his closely cropped hair, giving him a scruffy wild look. Aviator sunglasses were part of the costume, even when arriving at night. He smoked a cigarette in a sterling silver six-inch cigarette holder, which further accentuated the persona.

As we followed the captain, the crew's appearance added to the mystique of submariners. Our rumpled and yellowed uniforms had spent more than three months crammed in a locker and out of the light of day. Bodies and clothes reeked of that submarine smell.

These disgusting traits did not deter loving embraces from family or friends. To my left, Bill Souder engaged in a tearful loving hug with his wife, Barbara. Schweikert and his wife Pat were locked in each other's arms. An excited squeal to my right caught my attention. I turned in its direction. Rusty Wishon's four-year-old daughter and wife were mobbing the irrepressible nuc machinist's mate.

A sense of relief swept over me. Even though no one was waiting for me, it was enough to be back in Hawaii. One more step of my odyssey was over. I would conduct my own reunion in the morning. It would be in the form of a phone call to my family, back in Hickory Township, Pennsylvania.

The ever-faithful phone tree alerted those waiting in the airport of our impending arrival. My parents were not part of the network and the call from me would be a surprise.

It did not take long to retrieve our baggage. This was surprising because of items bought in Guam. In addition to being cheaper than the same product in the USA, as long as the total value was less than $200, they were tax- and duty-free. Many took advantage of the situation. The normal fare was stereo and photographic equipment. I procured a Minolta 35-millimeter camera. Lingle had a new tennis racquet. Another benefit was being able to bring back a gallon of duty-free liquor. Southerland always brought back Jack Daniels Black. Since I was not much of a drinker, Lewis and I arranged an exchange for my gallon. His wife would treat me to a home-cooked meal.

Fatigued and loaded down by sea bags plus an assortment of goodies, we staggered out of the airport. A balmy summer evening greeted me. Compared to the heat and humidity of Guam, it was paradise. A cool breeze blowing off the nearby water kept me comfortable under my heavy load.

Crew members met by wives or girlfriends left with them. I would spend the night in Barrack 55 on Ford Island, Pearl Harbor. Stowing items to their owners' and the bus driver's satisfaction took a lot of time. This more than offset the short wait getting our things from the plane. The delay, channel fever, and fatigue caused some men to fling off-color remarks at no one in particular. My body language gave away how antsy I was to complete the day's journey.

Once underway, the trip to the submarine base did not take long. The bus unloaded near a shuttle boat landing. Water taxis would take us to Ford Island.

Due to their size, the whaleboats required many trips to transport the
Henry Clay
crewmen. We piled as many as possible into each, before the coxswain forbade any more. The heavily loaded boat that I was in sat low in the water. I tried to persuade our coxswain to allow Southerland and Lingle as additional passengers. He agreed to permit one more. Southerland and Lingle had to decide.

After seeing that the next boat would not be as crammed, Lingle surrendered the spot to Southerland. He decided there would be less chance of getting his new tennis racquet wet.

Southerland did not argue and hopped aboard.

The coxswain mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and warned us to sit still or we would capsize the boat.

The launch bounced along as it surged over the choppy water, kicking up salt spray. The moisture was refreshing. It was dampening my body but not my spirits. The irony of the situation amused me. While submerged, saltwater spray was my worst nightmare. On the surface, it was benign. I did not need an escape path to limitless air. I was already in it.

The launch arrived at Ford Island, near the tennis courts. The short walk to Barrack 55 took me past the dispensary. It still had visible damage from the December 7, 1941, attack. I silently bowed my head in respect to those who died that day.

Our portion of Barrack 55 was a huge room with a high ceiling, on the first floor. A solid wall formed the perimeter. Separating the center section into cubicles were six-foot high lockers and the outer wall. Each cubicle had four double-decker metal bunk beds.

After doing minimal unpacking, I craved a shower. It would be a treat to use as much water as I wanted. The
Clay
's main distilling unit, even on its best day, which was not often, converted 8,000 gallons of seawater into freshwater per day. We needed most of its output for other purposes, leaving a limited supply for personal use. Sometimes, there was not enough for showers.

Most men did not shower every day for various reasons. I found it unnerving when the only people I could smell were those who had recently taken a shower. What was I used to? Yuck.

When there was enough water for showers, we took submarine showers. They consisted of turning the water on, getting wet, stopping the water, soaping, restarting the flow to rinse, and shutting off the water as soon as possible.

Even drying had its challenges. Limited storage space meant I could only bring a few small towels. To assist the scrap of material, I used a washcloth to remove most of the wetness. When the washcloth was saturated, I wrung it out and repeated the process until I was just damp. Then I finished with the towel.

Guilt tried to creep in when I kept the water flowing after initially getting wet. I managed to fight it off and spent considerable time simply standing under the spray. Afterwards, I was still stuck with drying with the washcloth and small towel. The two items retained a strong submarine smell. As I dried myself, I realized I was rubbing the odor back onto my body.

The same thought emerged while dressing. My clothes had the foul odor. It also wafted out of my cube-mates' lockers. The stench was permeating back into my body, down to the bone, and re-infecting me.

I had a desire to imbibe in some liquid refreshment and headed towards the Arizona Club. It was directly behind our barrack. I changed my mind when hearing the sounds of a lively poker game.

The stakes were high. There were several hundred dollars in the pot. It was a considerable sum, since most players only earned about $400 per month. The game continued for several hours without a clear winner or loser. Each hand was its own entity. Sometimes it was five-card draw, other times stud, with blackjack thrown in. As players tired, others took their place.

During one hand, the stakes became too rich for most. Only Costes and Ty Shinow remained. They continued to raise each other's wager until Costes had bet all of his pay from the last three months. Shinow called. The tension between them was visible as they showed their hands. After revealing their first two cards, Costes had a pair of eights, compared to Shinow's two sixes. At four cards, it wasn't looking good for Shinow. Both had two pair. Shinow had sixes and nines. Costes had eights and Jacks. Shinow sat stone faced as Costes revealed his last card. It was an ace of spades. When Shinow turned over a third nine, the cards fell from Costes' hand. Shinow's full house beat two pair.