Three Knots to Nowhere (4 page)

“The USS
Fulton
.”

“The
Fulton
? The
Fulton
's in Puerto Rico!”

My legs went weak with anguish. It was just before noon and my orders required me to report by 1600 hours (4:00 p.m.). I was worried that I'd be absent without leave (AWOL). The driver realized my predicament and offered to take me to the submarine base or electric boat, both in Groton. Not panicking, I decided to follow my orders as closely as possible, which stated “USS
Fulton
, State Pier, New London.” I told the cabbie to take me to State Pier.

It turned out to be a good decision. The
Fulton
left a skeleton force, called the Yellow Crew. They supported the boats in Submarine Squadron Ten. The squadron was expecting me, much to my relief.

The Yellow Crew's quarters were noninsulated and drafty Quonset huts, with double-deck bunk beds. Since it was late winter, the hut's heaters barely kept the indoor temperature tolerable. I chose a top rack, because heat rises. The provided sheet and Navy wool blanket were so inadequate I slept in my clothes, plus a wool sweater. One morning, we woke up to a snowdrift halfway down the hut. Someone had not shut the back door properly.

One cold gray New England morning, I was with several Yellow Crew sailors tasked with mooring the USS
Nautilus
. She was in the prime of her active duty and setting numerous records. We huddled on the dock waiting for the submarine to come into view. Dressed in bell-bottomed dungarees, work jackets, and black woolen watch caps, we stomped feet and flapped arms attempting to keep warm. Our breath formed clouds of condensation with every exhalation.

The elements were quickly forgotten when the
Nautilus
came into view. The sleek submarine was smoothly slicing through the murky water of the Thames River. Ice from wind-whipped spray almost completely covered her conning tower and those stationed in it. Just as when they were under the icecap on a recent trip to the North Pole, the sailors appeared oblivious to the frosty coating.

I stared silently in awe of these brazen but stoic men. They were submariners, members of an elite force.

About a month later, the
Fulton
returned to New London. I and the other members of the Yellow Crew moved onboard.

Within a few days, the
Fulton
's administration summoned me to the ship's office for a review of my service record.

During the meeting, the personnelman remarked about a three-year enlistment extension.

I shook my head to the negative and related the discussion I had had with the nuclear liaison at electrician's mate school.

Holding up the documents and pointing, he said, “I'm no lawyer, but see this passage? It says: binding upon successful completion of electrician school.”

The man flipped to another page and said, “The grade on this form indicates you passed with flying colors.”

He sent me to the ship's legal officer, who confirmed the conclusion. After they corrected my score, he explained, the extension was valid. I showed the lawyer another statement in the contract that appeared to stipulate that the Navy had to send me to Nuclear Power School.

He responded, “Yep, you're correct.”

Confused, I related what the nuclear liaison officer had told me: “If you don't get back in the program now, you can't ever get back in.”

He said, “I don't know anything about that, but it's easy to get back in the program. You meet all the qualifications. Just submit a chit. Here, take a couple, in case you make a mistake.”

Not long afterwards, I received orders to the fall session of Nuclear Power School. My trust in the Navy's integrity dropped several notches.

I spent the first part of my time on the
Fulton
in the deck division. My duties included cleaning, painting, and handling lines as submarines arrived and departed.

USS
Fulton
, AS 11, State pier, New London, Connecticut. Also pictured are the USS
Triton
SSN 586 (outboard) and USS
Nautilus
SSN 571. From the archives of Ted E. Dubay (August 1967).

One hot muggy June day, I, still an electrician's mate fireman apprentice (EMFA), and several other young inexperienced sailors were waiting on State Pier for the arrival of the USS
Nautilus
. Second Class Boatswain's Mate Vargas, a tall muscular man, was in charge of our small contingent. We were clad in sweat-soaked dungarees and Dixie cup white hats.

Before long, the
Nautilus
came into view. Similar to the last time I helped moor her, she did not have a tug to assist in the docking process.

Curiosity overcame me and I asked why there wasn't a tug, like when the other submarines came in.

Vargas explained that she had twin screws. The others only had one. That made them less maneuverable.

Suddenly a strong gust of wind from up-river almost blew my white hat off.

I heard Vargas comment about the waves hitting her bow. The wind and outgoing tide were magnifying the river's natural current. The
Nautilus
's OOD had his hands full.

Even though I was inexperienced, I could tell the submarine was struggling to reach the pier. The water at the boat's stern was frothing as her screws frantically beat the water. Instead of moving closer to the pier, she was farther out and losing ground.

Vargas quickly coupled two heaving lines back-to-back with a half hitch. Then he let the spiraled double-length of line hang from his left arm as his right whirled the lead-ball monkey's fist in an accelerating circular motion. Like a bola, the weighted end of the clothesline-diameter cotton line pulled the loops out of his hand as it payed out over the water. The astonishing heave easily reached the
Nautilus
. Within moments, there was a two-inch nylon line connecting the
Nautilus
and the pier. It wasn't enough and the taut line began to stretch.

Suddenly Vargas yelled, “Hit the deck!”

Instantly, all of us flattened ourselves to the wooden-planked pier.

A second later, the nylon line broke. It sounded like a gunshot. The white line whipped over our prone bodies. In the blink of an eye, it sliced a huge gash in the dock's metal warehouse. A shiver shot through my spine like an electric pulse. Had I been standing, it would have cut me in half. I silently gave thanks to my Maker for a narrow escape.

A tug finally came to the rescue and the
Nautilus
easily docked.

Mess cooking in the chief petty officer quarters was my final assignment on the
Fulton
. Being a mess cook is one of the early initiation rites that just about every sailor of my day endured. It consisted of working 16-hour days serving food, cleaning the eating area and galley, and washing all the paraphernalia associated with meals.

The same duty in the chief quarters galley was not as demanding. We had shorter hours, more responsibility, and the chiefs paid us a stipend.

While I was mess cooking, the
Fulton
provided my first time at sea. She went out for a six-day exercise. The weather during the cruise was beautiful. The Atlantic Ocean was sparkling clear and calm, even though we had transited several hundred miles south of Long Island. Most evenings, a few of us gathered on the main deck and watched the bow slice through the water. On several occasions, we saw flying fish. One day a dolphin—not a porpoise, but the fish of the same name—kept pace with the ship. At night, the sea shimmered with an eerie iridescence.

One day, another sailor and I were leaning on the port side rail looking out over the ocean.

All of a sudden, he pointed and excitedly said, “Hey, Ted. What's that over there?”

I strained my eyes, trying to determine the source of the water's disturbance.

My jaw dropped when I realized it was a torpedo and headed straight towards the
Fulton
. We were overwhelmed with shock.

A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. Had the Cold War with the Soviet Union turned into a shooting war? It was August of 1967 and tensions between both sides were high. Had the animosity finally reached a breaking point? Was a Russian submarine attacking us? Was the much-feared World War III commencing?

I watched in horror as the torpedo came closer and closer.

Alarms sang out, ordering us to battle stations. The ship heeled over as the men on the bridge tried to turn the ship out of the torpedo's path. It was too late. The torpedo was headed slightly aft of where I was standing.

Cringing and staring in disbelief, I braced myself for the explosion.

Much to my surprise and relief, it mercifully passed under the
Fulton
, without detonating.

Unbeknownst to most of the crew, we were conducting exercises with one of own submarines. It surfaced not far away. Figures emerged in the bridge of its conning tower. I saw the men waving, laughing at us, and basking in the glory of their successful attack. As much as they enjoyed themselves at our expense, the razzing was a welcome substitute for the alternative.

The next day someone spotted an object floating in the ocean. Crewmen lowered a sixteen-foot longboat into the water. It carried several of our boatswain's mates. With much bravado, one of them sat amidships armed with a carbine. As the small craft headed towards the object, the
Fulton
followed. When the ship closed in, I could tell that it was a container from a cargo ship. There were three dark shadows circling it.

Sharks.

They were huge. Each shark was longer than the boat manned by the
Fulton
's sailors.

Our people quickly high-tailed it back to the ship. When the boatswains clamored back aboard the
Fulton
, everyone could tell the experience had shaken them to the core. Replacing their previous boldness were ashen complexions, animated gestures, and spirited comments. I overheard the armed sailor muttering that he should have had a real gun instead of a peashooter.

What happened to the container was a mystery. Scuttlebutt circulated that it was a navigational hazard and used as target practice by a destroyer.

That evening, several buddies and I gathered in the crew's lounge. Our shoot-the-shit evolved into a discussion about the contents of the container. Each had an opinion of what had attracted the sharks. We agreed that the sharks' senses had detected something they considered edible. The most disturbing theory was a botched attempt to smuggle illegal aliens into the United States. I will never know the truth, but cannot dismiss that disconcerting possibility.

A little over a month later, I walked down the USS
Fulton
's brow for the last time.

My first year in the Navy was fraught with challenges. Each made me maturate in different ways. Some were enjoyable. Others, such as a snapped mooring line almost ending my life and seeing a torpedo headed towards the
Fulton
, made me grateful to be alive.

I was embarking on another leg of my military journey. What did the future hold? Not knowing made me excited, yet nervous.

I reported to Basic Nuclear Power School, Bainbridge, Maryland, in the fall of 1967. It was the first phase of Rickover's Nuclear Power Program. Those reporting with me were designated class 67–4. That meant we were the fourth and last Nuclear Power School class convening in 1967. Attendees and graduates of the program earned the nickname “nuc,” pronounced nuke. An unofficial nickname for the school was Nukie-Pu-U.

Battery upon battery of tests measured our aptitude. They served two purposes: eliminating those who had a low probability of completing the demanding program, and splitting the remainder into eight sections, or levels. Although all those making it through the final screening met the threshold requirements, those in section eight were the elite and delved a little more deeply into the subjects. Conversely, those in section one were on the other end of the spectrum. Regardless of the group, we all conformed to the same curriculum.

Some classes were purely preparatory, such as a several-week course on becoming proficient in the use of the slide rule. This instrument was the calculator of its time. It looks like a complex foot-long ruler, inscribed on both sides with numerous scales. A slide rule has three parallel sections. Making a calculation consisted of moving the middle section so the appropriate number aligned with a value on the desired scale of one of the stationary outer sections. There was also a clear sliding window with a single thin line perpendicular to the length of the slide rule. It aided in aligning numbers from one scale to another.

Another class was a six-week mathematics course that started with basic algebra and ended with calculus. This was a particular challenge for individuals like me. I had never studied anything more complex than trigonometry. In spite of such a handicap, I only got two questions wrong the entire course. One incorrect answer was a simple transcription error. I performed the calculations in my head instead of systematically on paper. Those classes and making that type of error taught me how to study and methodically work through problems.