FIRST PATROL

A Cold War Chronicle at the dawn of Polaris missile

submarine patrols

Michael Pastore
As told to

Philip Munck
Commander, USN (Ret.)
FIRST PATROL
A Cold War Chronicle at the dawn of Polaris missile submarine patrols

Copyright © 2020 Michael J. Pastore & Philip L. Munck

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, taping or any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except
in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews

ISBN: 9798559887654
Independently Published

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020921706

Cover: USS PROTEUS AS-19, 1961 Watercolor by George Gray (Courtesy of U.S. Navy History and Heritage Command) depicts
a submarine of the GEORGE WASHINGTON class preparing for a 60-day patrol from Holy Loch, Scotland.
 Table of Contents
Prologue
Foreword
Preface
Figure 1 – Reactor, Steam and Propulsion Plant Schematic
Figure 2 – Superstructure and Tanks
Figure 3 – Compartments and Equipment
Chapter One – First Day on Patrol
Chapter Two – First Days of Duty in New London
Chapter Three – Refit before Patrol
Chapter Four – First Sea Trial
Chapter Five – Leaving for Patrol
Chapter Six – On Patrol on Single Loop
Chapter Seven – Normal Patrol Routine
Chapter Eight – The Leak—More Reactor Shutdown
Chapter Nine – On Patrol in Sigle-Loop—Again
Chapter Ten – Back to Routine without Trim Pump
Chapter Eleven – Becoming a Blue Nose
Chapter Twelve – Splice the Mainbrace
Chapter Thirteen – The Patrol’s Downhill Legs
Chapter Fourteen – Type 11 and Submarine Encounter
Chapter Fifteen – End of Patrol & Return to Holy Loch
Epilogue-1 – Returning Home Was Tough
Epilogue-2 – The Next Three Patrols
Epilogue-3 – Last Patrol & Ironic Ending
Photographs
Crew Names
Chapter Notes
Glossary
About the Authors
 Dedication
This true story is dedicated to the many, many thousands
of

patriotic men and women

who made and are continuing to make into the 21st Century

these twice-yearly strategic patrols

in

the defense of our nation.

 Prologue
The Cold War took a dramatic turn in the mid1950s when the U.S. and
the Soviet Union developed Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs) that
could carry nuclear weapons. At this point, the Navy decided to build a
strategic ballistic missile weapon system for launching from a nuclear
submarine. The ability to hide in the oceans undetected made the submarine
invulnerable to a first strike attack, a capability lacking in bombers and
land-based ICBMs. This strategic submarine missile system became known
as the Polaris Fleet Ballistic Missile (FBM) Program.
A review is warranted of how, in a few short years, the Polaris FBM
Program turned a concept into a viable operational system. The Navy
created a Special Projects Office led by Rear Admiral William Raborn to
develop a missile and coordinate all the support systems necessary for the
submarine to launch the missile.
A liquid-fueled missile was considered too dangerous for at sea
handling, so the first requirement was to develop a new solid fuel missile—
the Polaris. This required a smaller nuclear warhead which the Atomic
Energy Commission was able to develop. With the new missile in
development testing, submarine designers increased the length of the
SKIPJACK class attack submarine by 130 feet for missiles and new support
systems. A requirement to launch while submerged required development
of a complex launch system. The need to accurately aim the missile from
constantly changing locations required advanced navigational systems such
as the Type11 star periscope. To continuously receive launch orders
required developing new systems to receive radio signals while submerged.
To ensure that all these developments were done on time, RAdm Raborn
developed a new management tool, PERT—Program Evaluation Research
Task.
Competent naval leadership and PERT resulted in the Polaris FBM
Program being completed in an amazingly short period of time. PERT
became a national industry-wide management tool.
To man these unique submarines required the creation of a massive
training program for Navy personnel who would operate them. Patrol
operations required the submarine to remain hidden—it was forbidden to
communicate for assistance during its patrol. Not even a NASA Apollo
moon trip is analogous to a crew’s isolation on early strategic Polaris
patrols. If an FBM submarine was lost at the start of patrol, 60 days could
pass before a search would begin.
Forty-one FBM submarines, each armed with sixteen missiles, were
constructed. The USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (SSBN 598) was
launched in 1959 and went on its first patrol in November 1960. The five
submarines of the GEORGE WASHINGTON Class carried the Polaris A-1
missile having a 1,200 nautical mile range. The last FBM submarine, USS
MARIANO C. VALLEJO (SSBN 645), went into service in 1967 with the
Polaris A-3 missile, with three warheads, having a 2,500 nautical mile
range.
To have the maximum number of submarines at sea, the typical
operating cycle was for each submarine to perform a 30-day refit followed
by 60 days on patrol. To achieve this, each submarine had two complete
crews—designated Blue and Gold—who would change places with each
other at the beginning of the refit period. In the beginning, the off crew had
offices at the Naval Submarine Base New London, in Groton, Connecticut
—with their families living nearby. The submarines were operated from an
overseas floating base in a bay known as Holy Loch in Scotland.
This book chronicles the patrol of one of these first five submarines
which was based on a new hull form, powered by a newly designed reactor
plant, and armed with a missile system never before fielded. This FBM
submarine was intended to operate at sea and underwater without failure—
on a rigid schedule more like that of a railroad or airline than a typical naval
operation.
 Foreword
This is a chronicle of the experiences of a junior naval officer in the
early 1960’s making his first strategic deterrence patrol in one of the earliest
Polaris missile submarines. It is supplemented by some of my own
background serving in a nearly identical vessel.
After four patrols in his boat, as a submarine is referred to by its crew,
Michael Pastore and I served together in another submarine, forming a
lifelong friendship.
It is odd, perhaps, to wax nostalgic of one’s participation in the most
lethal weapon system of mass destruction of its day. Even today, Fleet
Ballistic Missile (FBM) submarines prowl the oceans virtually undetectable
providing the last line of global war deterrence. Our patrols remain among
the most formative experiences of our lives and we would like to share
them with you.
The submarines in which we served are vastly different from those of
today. Controls and computing systems then were almost entirely analog
although they represented state of the art in the late 1950’s. Automatic
controls were minimized and almost every significant evolution required
human decisions and manual actions to carry it out. Many of the things we
did had never been done before. We wrote many of our operating
procedures as we conducted our patrol mission.
In other ways, life in FBM submarines today is much the same as it
was for us. Remain silent and hidden is still the order of the day. Live cheek
to jowl with your fellow man in a steel tube hidden from the sun for months
at a time. Prepare endlessly for the day one prays will never come.
I believe this book to be as correct as human recollection permits. It
should be a great aid to understanding how the present-day Fleet came to be
and what today’s experiences are. It certainly captures the flavor of what
was the seminal impact on our personalities.

Philip L. Munck, Commander USN (Ret.)

Somersworth, New Hampshire
November 2020
 Preface
This chronicle is based on memories from over 50 years ago. While
some things standout in my mind as if they occurred yesterday, I know at
this stage in life that my memory is not infallible. Most of my shipmates
have passed on. So, I have limited capability to verify my memories. I am
confident that all the casualties herein occurred on my first patrol but some
of the day-to-day incidents may be from other patrols. Because I was
inexperienced, I am concerned about misinterpreting a shipmate’s actions.
Therefore, in this chronicle, I have renamed my shipmates, generalized
dates, and obscured the identity of my submarine in order to protect the
dignity of those who so diligently served our nation during the long Cold
War. This true story is dedicated to those many thousands who made and
still make these twice-yearly patrols.
To put flesh and bone on the technical aspects of our activities, I have
interspersed conversational exchanges. The intent is to make the situations
realistic even though there is little likelihood that words from 50 years ago
are verbatim quotations. Also, I have left out typical sailor verbal exchanges
that began and/or ended with swears and/or vulgar expletives. Amazingly to
me, they were used only inside the hull of our submarine.
Because this book is intended for a wide range of readers, we have
included an extensive Glossary and a Notes section to explain the technical
aspects of submarine systems and operations. In our daily activities, words
and phrases are used that had well-known meanings to us but might be
obscure to others. Please consult the Glossary which includes acronyms and
anagrams. Maneuvering, for example, refers to the cubicle in the Engine
Room where four watchstanders controlled the engineering systems.
In the Navy when we refer to a casualty, we are most often talking
about an equipment breaking or system failing to function and not to an
injury of an individual. No one was seriously injured or killed in this
account.
Following this Preface are schematic drawings showing major
engineering systems, compartments, tanks, and critical equipment.
My deepest appreciation and thanks go to those dear friends and family
who did a detailed review of this chronicle.
My hope is that this story enlightens readers about the efforts and
dangers that more than 100 brave souls on each FBM submarine
encountered while conducting strategic nuclear missile patrols that were so
vital to our Nation’s security for four decades of the Cold War and beyond.
Each man in our submarine was dedicated to performing his spoke in the
wheel function for the mission.
My intent is for readers to appreciate that these men were human
beings, each with his individual character and sense of worth. Being mortal
means that each suffered common emotions as anyone does in stressful
situations. Because of his intelligence and training, each was able to
perform at the highest levels during times of crises. However, during daily
mundane submarine routine, basic human nature caused some to regress to
frivolous actions. Daily life is epitomized in the FBM submariner’s mantra
—
Patrol is 99% absolute boredom and 1% sheer terror.

Michael Pastore
SubGuyMS@gmail.c
om
Escondido, CA
Figure 1 Reactor, Steam and Propulsion Plant Schematic
Figure 2 Superstructure and Tanks
Figure 3 Compartments and Equipment
 Chapter One
First Day on Patrol

“Z ero level in the pressurizer!”

The words hit my sleeping brain and woke me. Shaking off
drowsiness, I rolled over in my cramped bunk trying to understand what I’d
just heard.
“Zero level in the pressurizer! Zero level in the pressurizer!” I played
the words over and over until my subconscious responded, "That couldn’t
happen unless we had a catastrophic leak in the reactor primary‑coolant
system. That’s something that could never happen!”
A major leak in the reactor primary-coolant system is impossible
because it is the most meticulously over engineered and thoroughly
inspected part of our nuclear submarine.
“Is this really happening on my first night on patrol? What is going
on?”
The pressurizer is a large tank of water in the Reactor Compartment
using a steam bubble to control reactor coolant pressure (Figure 1). It also
acts as a shock absorber, damping pressure fluctuations when main coolant
pumps startup or shut down. It provides an expansion/contraction reservoir
when coolant water heats up or cools down. The pressurizer always
contains water. It’s emptied only when the two reactor loops are drained for
refueling,
“Zero level in the pressurizer! …no way can that happen!”
Now I was wide awake. “Had I heard correctly?” There was no one
else in the stateroom to confirm or deny what I heard. Our stateroom
passageway was open to the Control Room. “Had I heard something from
the Control Room?”
“Or was this just the worse, most far-fetched nightmare I could dream
about on my first night on patrol?” It was impossible to sit up and reason
my way out of this quandary. I was jammed into the lower bunk of a triple
stack in a junior officers’ stateroom.
We had slowed down. The rhythmic undulations, the compressions and
relaxations that the propeller transmitted to the hull, were absent. We were
coasting. Earlier, when I hit the sack, we were at Flank, maximum speed, in
a deep transit lane racing to our assigned strategic patrol box. “Clearly
something was wrong.”
I rolled onto the deck in the dim red light, grabbed my poopy suit, a
one-piece blue coverall with Velcro fasteners, off the hook on the locker,
and jumped into it. I jammed my naked feet into black boondockers
throwing aside the socks stuffed into them. In ten seconds, I was dressed
and out the door, only to find myself last in a line of officers squeezed in the
passageway to the Control Room.
In the Control Room, I backed up flat against the Sonar Room
bulkhead. The room was a dark hole with only a few gauge lights peeking
out like stars in the night. Even the Control Room red-illumination
nightlights were turned off to enhance night vision, Rig-for-Black (Note 1-
1). I only saw shadowy shapes and couldn’t see who was the Conning
Officer.
“Surface… Surface… Surface….” sounded on speakers throughout the
boat. It was followed by “Ugha…Ugha…Ugha” blasts from the diving
alarm klaxon; the signal for the boat to come to the surface. A staccato set
of commands came from the Diving Officer, first to his planesmen "Full
rise on the planes!” Then, “Chief of the Watch, blow the forward main
ballast tanks, blow the aft main ballast tanks!” I couldn’t recognize any
voices as the commands were given in a deep, professional manner
matching the seriousness of the casualty, a casualty that was a mystery to
me.
A sharp series of monotone “Aye, aye sir!” came in reply. The Chief of
the Watch announced, “All vents shut!” as he pulled down the toggle
switches releasing air, "Blowing the forward group! Blowing the after
group!” There was a great rumbling of air streaming through the overhead
pipes into #3 main ballast tank below the Crew’s Mess and six other main
ballast tanks (Figure 2).
Conn announced “Rig for Reduced Electrical.” Evidently, we lost the
reactor. All nonessential electric loads had to be turned off to conserve
power.
Lacking speed from our giant propeller, the diving‑planes weren’t
effective. The boat only had a small up‑bubble, i.e., up-angle. It would take
lots of air to get us to the surface. Everyone knew something was seriously
wrong. We were going to the surface of the ocean in violation of our patrol
orders. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see a few faces of
those around me. Some were stone serious and others ashen, reflecting the
gravity of this casualty. “This definitely was not a drill!”
At the Conning Station, the special white-rat speaker monitoring the
engineering’s sound-powered-phone circuit, was spitting out frantic
questions and answers about water levels in the steam-generators. “Maybe
the white-rat was the source of the “Zero level in the pressurizer”?”
The messenger of the watch brought jackets to the Control Room for
the Conning Officer and lookout who would be going to the Bridge at the
top of the sail. Gearing up my courage, I nudged Lt(jg) Andy Brennan,
Machinery Division officer.
“What happened?” I whispered. Andy whispered in reply, “We had
some sort of engineering casualty that resulted in an emergency reactor shut
down, an empty pressurizer, and dry steam boilers. Eng is back aft trying to
sort things out."
Just then, XO, the Executive Officer, cleared his throat and
commanded, “All nuke officers back aft immediately!” XO, LCdr
Jankovich, was a large, blond, roly-poly guy with the unenviable duty of
being the visible taskmaster to the crew, a duty which he seemed to relish.
In this instance, however, he looked apprehensive as he led us aft. His
previous duty had been as an engineer in an FBM submarine. We would
need his experience in this emergency.
At his command, our gaggle of officers fell in a line behind him. Last
in the line of the five officers heading aft, I was bewildered. I knew we
were in the midst of a serious casualty but had no idea what it was or what
was needed.
We struggled to grab hold of frames and overhead piping because the
submarine now had a 15˚ up-bubble. We were rushing downhill toward the
Missile Compartment. Suddenly the boat reached the surface. The bow
popped out of the water and came crashing down hard to settle flat on the
sea. I was between hand holds and fell to the deck. The Captain announced
that the Officer of the Deck (OOD) was going to the Bridge.
The OOD opened the upper access trunk hatch to access the interior of
the sail with its two ladders to reach the Bridge. It released the boat’s air
pressure into the dark night.
At the same time, XO was opening the Control Room water-tight-door
(WTD) into the Missile Compartment’s light lock—there were white lights
in the Missile Compartment. We faced a blast of air in our faces as the
pressure in the boat was much greater than the outside air. The volume of
air in the Missile Compartment combined with the Operations
Compartment air would have created a tornado of air whipping by the OOD
in the Bridge trunk.
On the surface we were rolling heavily in storm waves. With the
reactor shutdown and unable to supply steam to our turbines, we were
wallowing in the seas. We would be helpless to seek a safe course until we
got emergency propulsion on line.
In the Missile Compartment, our group raced past the starboard row of
missile tubes and through the Auxiliary Machinery Space to the Tunnel
WTD that allowed access through the Reactor Compartment to the
Auxiliary Machinery Room (AMR) compartment (Figure 3). Once inside
the Tunnel, I spied the universal yellow enameled steel plate with its
magenta-colored radiation symbol. Below it, black-stenciled-letters on the
bulkhead warned, No Loitering during Reactor Operations. With some
irony, I realized that the warning didn’t pertain to us because the reactor
was shutdown.
Peering through a 4'' glass disk in the WTD to the Reactor
Compartment, XO muttered, “Nothing unusual.” Then, he opened the AMR
WTD.
We met a cacophony of roaring voices as the upper level AMR was jam
packed with excited off-watch enlisted engineers. The chatter stopped
abruptly and all eyes turned toward XO. Someone shouted “Make a hole!”
and everyone backed up against the tall electrical breaker cabinets lining
both sides of the center passageway to create a narrow path. The quietness
of the space had an ominous feeling in the absence of the usual din of
whirling motor clatter, sluicing pump rotors, and hissing steam-traps. There
was only the quiet whine of the two AC/DC motor-generators using DC
power from the battery to provide critical AC power to run our boat.
From a general announcing system speaker came the OOD’s 1MC
order (Note 1-2), “Prepare to snorkel.” Now that we were on the surface,
we would run the diesel engine (Note 1-3) just as WWII submarines did.
Ventilation changes were completed quickly. Moments later the OOD
ordered, “Commence snorkeling" on the 1MC. In Maneuvering, Eng on the
2MC—the engineering announcing system—gave his command “Start the
diesel!” We heard the sounds of starting air ramming into the engine’s
cylinders right below us. A sharp wheeze and a cough before it caught was
followed by the rhythmic pulsations of the diesel engine warming up.
XO pushed past the final bunch of humanity entering the Engine Room
(ER), the last compartment in our submarine. XO was going to
Maneuvering, the central control station for engineering, where he and Eng
would discuss the casualty. Many of the officers left behind were pulling
out volumes of the Reactor Plant Manuals (RPMs) from the AMR
watchstation bookshelf.
The diesel engine was now heavily loaded, its DC generator sending
maximum power to the AC/DC motor-generators. Engine noise drowned
out the chaotic mix of voices and forced communication into a pantomime
of hand signs. The boat was no longer dependent on the battery’s limited
capability. The diesel engine’s generator gave us additional emergency
power.
As the junior officer, I could only stand back and soak it in. My best
hope was to seek the quiet of the ER. I might be able to overhear
conversations in Maneuvering. It would be there, in the heart of engineering
operations, that critical decisions would be made.
I drifted away from my fellow officers who were flipping RPM pages
and entered the ER. Maneuvering was on my left, a little cubical for critical
watchstanders. The Engineering Officer of the Watch (EOOW) normally
supervised the operators for the Steam Propulsion Control Panel, Reactor
Plant Control Panel, and Electric Plant Control Panel. These operators, the
midwatch EOOW, Lt(jg) Dave Laughlin, Eng, and XO were all packed
together. As I slid past the wide cubicle opening, no door to limit access, I
got a quick glimpse of Eng.
The snapshot of his face reassured me that things were going to be
okay. Eng’s face didn’t reveal the strain shown on other faces. In the midst
of all this pressure and danger, his face had the calmness of the Buddha. I
now knew that we wouldn’t have to scrub our mission and return to Holy
Loch. The list of casualties that Andy described to me minutes before in the
Control Room was something not covered in either my training or the sea
stories from instructors in two years of nuclear engineering and submarine
schools.
LCdr Scott Townsend was a giant of a man with rugged features and
thick, disheveled black hair. His face normally showed an inscrutable
seriousness, which one would expect of someone responsible for running a
complex nuclear engineering plant and responsible for all the other systems
that provided heat, light, and propulsion power for our submarine. His
tranquil face concealed the brain of a man integrating myriad pieces of
information to formulate a plan of action. Only serious flooding or a raging
fire could be as catastrophic as what we now faced.
Hovering as close as I dared, I overheard Eng asking questions and
giving commands. This was a man leading his men as bravely as any leader
on a battlefield. He was calmly drawing on his technical knowledge and
expertise to return the engineering plant to operation. There was only one
main cooling pump (MCP) running in slow-speed in each of the two loops.
He was taking action in three areas: lining up the Emergency Propulsion
Motor (EPM) to give the boat some speed, assessing the status of the
reactor and steam systems, and restarting the reactor.
He ordered the Machinery Watch Supervisor (MWS) to disengage the
clutch connecting the main turbines to the propeller shaft and to find an
EPM operator. Using the 7MC, the operations announcing system (Note 1-
2), Eng informed the Bridge that the EPM, a DC motor on the main shaft,
was ready to provide propulsion. Immediately the OOD ordered 3 knots, 3
nautical miles per hour. This provided steerage way for the rudder to steer
our submarine into the seas and reduce the wallowing rolls that were
knocking people off balance. This would allow our submarine to avoid
ships that were out tonight in this stormy Irish Sea.
With the boat assured of limited electrical and propulsion power, Eng
turned his attention to the state of the reactor systems and the steam-
generators. Evidently, he had determined what had caused the initial
casualty. All I could figure out was that a reactor Scram, an automatic
shutting down of the reactor (Note 1-4), had caused loss of steam to the
main turbines and the turbine generators that produce our electrical power.
He was correcting reactor plant and steam plant (Note 1-5) problems to
bring the reactor and the steam plant back on line. He had two problems.
The starboard primary-coolant inlet-valve (Figure 1) in one of the two
reactor primary-coolant loops for its steam-generator was not fully open
indicating no water in the port steam-generator that was in the other
primary-coolant loop. These were major problems because the reactor could
not be started if a primary-coolant valve was partially shut. Nor could the
reactor be started if there was no water in a steam-generator.
 The reactor could be restarted with only one primary-coolant loop but
it required a fully functioning steam-generator in the operating loop. Eng
had to either open the starboard-inlet-valve or get water into the port steam-
generator. Until one of these problems was corrected, the reactor could not
be restarted.
Everything was starting to make sense but the rising temperatures were
becoming serious. The air conditioners had been turned off to reduce use of
electrical power. This heat added physical stress to the feeling of doom that
there might not be a way out of this combination of reactor and steam plant
casualties.
Action needed to be taken quickly. Several more attempts to open the
starboard-inlet-valve were made but it still would not indicate being fully
open. Eng made the decision to shut the starboard-inlet-valve and starboard-
outlet-valve to isolate the loop from the reactor. With the starboard loop
isolated, the reactor could be operated with just one primary-coolant loop,
the port-loop.
The problem was that the port steam-generator’s water gauge didn't
show any water, while the offline starboard steam-generator indicated a low
level of water. A feedwater pump, aka feed-pump, would normally supply
water to the steam-generators but its big motor required huge starting
current power. With no steam for the ship service turbine generators, there
wasn’t enough electrical power to start a feed-pump.
The Eng decided to move water from the starboard steam-generator to
the port steam-generator. He ordered a crew in lower level AMR to fit a tee-
connection at the Chemical Injection Station so the generators could be
connected. Once the tee-connection was made and the valves opened, water
could be heard moving between the steam-generators. This would be good
news only if the water was moving from the starboard to the port steam-
generator. There was no way to know by sound which way the water was
moving.
Within a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity, water showed in
the port steam-generator’s gauge. There was elation in Maneuvering and the
tone of Eng’s voice indicated a dramatic relief. There was a way out of this
unprecedented casualty.
Now, the reactor could be restarted. Eng ordered the AMR watch to
generate the Fast-Scram-Recovery paperwork. This was Adm Rickover’s
independent check on our reactor power gauges so that an inaccurate
instrument wouldn’t lead to a serious reactor casualty.
By now, air temperatures in the engineering spaces were above 90˚F
and humidity levels were high even though the diesel engine was sucking in
cold Irish Sea air. Watchstanders’ stress levels were recovering but
physically they were melting from the heat and humidity. It was now a race
to get the power plant back on line before we started to lose the
watchstanders from heat exhaustion. We needed operating air conditioning
units.
Single-Loop Scram Recovery
Eng ordered the Reactor Operator (RO) to start a second MCP in the
port-loop and to withdraw the control rods to bring the reactor critical, i.e.,
generating fissions. Everyone was watching the reactor low power meter
flickering at a low level. It took some time but the reactor was coming
alive. After switching to the intermediate meter, we reached self-sustaining-
criticality (SSC) (Note 1-6). Soon we were in the high power meter range
generating enough excess neutrons to produce heat.
Finally, the reactor was providing enough heat to generate steam, a
critical event for the secondary steam plant. The steam pipes needed to be
heated up before steam could be sent to a Ship Service Turbine Generator
(SSTG) for starting a feed-pump. Within 20 minutes the steam system was
warmed up. Eng ordered MWS to warm up the #2 SSTG. When the MWS
went to the SSTG’s steam-control-valves. I noticed the massive jacking-
hub, used to manually cool down the SSTG, was still attached to its shaft. I
quickly went to the jacking-hub and quietly asked MWS “Do you want me
to remove the jacking-hub?” A startled look crossed his face, then he
nodded, Yes. Finally, I was able to make a small contribution to recovering
from our casualty.
Five minutes later, the SSTG was switched to remote control and a
feed-pump was sending water to the port steam-generator. The ER air
conditioners were turned on which gave instant relief to the engineers. A
single-loop recovery had been achieved. The turbine engines could be
warmed up and engaged (Note 1-7).
With the second SSTG on line, Eng had the RO switch the MCPs to
high-speed. Now, the diesel engine could be secured. Eng told the Bridge
on the 7MC he could secure from reduced electrical and secure the diesel.
On the 1MC the Conn announced “Secure from Reduced Electrical ...
Restart electric loads.” Then he ordered “Secure snorkeling” to shut down
the diesel engine. Restarting electric loads meant turning on the air
conditioning units. It would be a big lift for the whole crew, I bet
everyone’s poopy suit (Note 1-8) had sweaty arm pits.
Because daylight was breaking, the Captain ordered the OOD to secure
the Bridge and dive the submarine. After we submerged, Eng told Conn he
was ready to secure the EPM and switch to the main engines. After the
engines were put back on line, the OOD ordered 10 knots of speed to check
out the turbines. Finally, the OOD ordered Full speed as we went to our
deep transit lane. With only one reactor loop, we couldn’t make Flank
speed.
We were now into our second day of patrol. It was past the time I was
assigned to report for my training watch. Wondering if I should report, I
peered into Maneuvering. I saw a tired, yet satisfied expression, on Eng’s
face. My nuclear power training had included numerous drills at the naval
reactor prototype in Arco, Idaho but none came close to these events.
Casualty Aftermath
XO went forward to confer with the Captain. Eng directed division
officers and chiefs to oversee machinery checks and review pressure and
temperature readings. He ordered checks on every engineering plant pump
and electrical breaker to determine if anything was damaged. He turned off
the pressurizer heaters to run checks that they hadn’t been damaged. He
summoned the oncoming EOOW, Lt(jg) Andy Brennan, into Maneuvering
and briefed him on the status of the plant, particularly on the limitations of
single-loop operations. Eng told Andy to start a battery charge to restore the
battery during his watch.
Andy told Eng that my training watch would be a distraction and asked
that I skip this watch. Eng agreed, much to my regret. Eng went forward to
meet with XO and CO.
With the engineering plant patched back together and watch-reliefs
completed, the rest of us drifted forward, nuke officers returned to the
Wardroom and the enlisted men to the Crew’s Mess. Nuke officers were
ecstatic over Eng's ability to overcome this casualty. Arriving in the
Wardroom, we were pounced on by non-nuke officers for information about
what happened. The nukes were reluctant to talk about it. At this point I
didn't even know the initial cause of the casualty, so I didn't dare open my
mouth.
Ford, the breakfast steward, normally would have been setting up the
Wardroom for two officers coming on-watch and later two coming off-
watch. Now the Wardroom was filled with unrestrained excitement and
bone-tired exhaustion. Excitement from overcoming a devastating casualty.
Exhaustion from six hours of terrible heat and stress. The weariness and
adrenaline highs drained our bodies. We only wanted coffee, the elixir to
counter the stress of the ordeal.
The Captain, XO, and Eng entered the Wardroom in deep conversation.
We all rose to leave. Captain looked up and asked us to stay. He wanted to
immediately reconstruct the casualty for the Nuclear Incident Report (IR)
required by Adm Rickover (Note 1-9). The Captain said that he wanted to
do the IR while the casualty was fresh in everyone’s mind. Also, he wanted
everyone’s input to generate a plan to return to two-loop reactor operations.
It flashed through my mind, "It’s hard to believe that we only have been
on patrol for one day.”
 Chapter Two

First Days of Duty in New London

I t was a beautiful March Wednesday on the Naval Submarine Base New

London in Groton, Connecticut. The Change of Command Programs just
arrived from the printers. I opened the box of 300 programs and grabbed a
white program with its bright gold tassel. This was my first command
assignment, the Change of Command Ceremony (Note 2-1).
Making the arrangements, including printing the programs, was the
only assignment given to me. After college, I had completed four months of
Admiral Rickover's nuclear power school in Vallejo, CA, six months of
hands-on training at a nuclear plant prototype in Arco, Idaho, and six
months of Submarine School. Almost two years in the Navy and being
promoted to Lt(jg), I received orders for sea duty aboard a Fleet Ballistic
Missile (FBM) submarine.
How well I handled this administrative assignment until we relieved
the Blue crew in Holy Loch, Scotland next week would be the first
impression my Commanding Officer (CO) and Executive Officer (XO)
would have of me. Ironically, after two years of tough engineering training,
my first assignment was a mundane administrative task. If everything came
off as planned, it would do little to enhance my stature but if anything went
wrong, it would be a black mark against me.
Nine days ago, I arrived at the Gold crew’s shore offices on the Base up
the hill from Submarine School (Note 2-2), the Blue crew was still on
patrol. This two crew system allowed our FBM submarine to be at sea on
strategic patrol for a maximum time.
The XO, LCdr Maurice Jankovich, had welcomed me onboard. He said
that the crew was finishing in port training and soon would be leaving for
Holy Loch, Scotland, to relieve the Blue Crew. The current Gold skipper,
Capt Michael Donaldson, would be relieved just before we left for patrol by
Cdr Howard Hagar.
Before revealing my job assignment, XO explained that the Navy had
accelerated construction of FBM submarines to counter the Soviet Union’s
missile threat. This caused a shortage of nuclear officers, called nukes. As a
result, FBM officer billets for navigation, supply, operations, missile,
torpedo, radio, and sonar assignments were filled by officers who were not
nuclear trained. Now, the recent large classes of nuclear power officer
trainees allowed Adm Rickover to replace current non-nuke officers with
nuke officers (Note 2-3).
As a result, XO said I would be replacing the current Supply Corps
Officer, Lt Daniel O’Reilly, as head of the Supply Department. Dan would
continue to be Supply Officer until we departed for patrol. I would stand
Engineering Officer of the Watch (EOOW) training watches on patrol. My
main tasks for the next two weeks before Holy Loch were to learn about the
Supply Department from Dan and to get acquainted with the officers in the
Engineering Department. He stressed that I needed to quickly qualify as
EOOW and Conning Officer. Also, I was to complete submarine officer
qualification, i.e. qualify for gold dolphins to wear on my uniform (Note 2-
4).
I was totally deflated. I had just spent the last 20 months in three
engineering schools undergoing rigorous training to become a submarine
nuke engineer. Now my first job was to be a supply officer! I wouldn’t have
an engineering division that allowed me to immerse myself into actual
engineering matters. Not only that, but I would relieve a Supply Corps
officer whose specialty was handling the ins and outs of the supply system.
On patrol, I would be under the gun whenever a piece of machinery failed
and a sparepart was needed. On top of that, I would be subject to all the
complaints from the crew whenever they thought that a meal was lousy.
It wasn’t just not being in engineering. I felt totally unprepared to be
supply officer. Submarine School hardly touched on supply matters. It
covered details on radio, sonar, torpedoes, classified material handling, and
all the systems for operating the boat, but nothing on being a supply officer.
We only spent a few minutes on submitting a requisition for spareparts.
This was not what I imagined when I was interviewed by Adm
Rickover during my last days of college. While I would be a department
head instead of just a division officer, I would be the sole officer in the
department. I would be the division officer for the Supply, Commissary, and
Steward Divisions. My main job would be to qualify as EOOW.
The rest of the morning was a whirlwind of meeting officers and the
Supply Department leading petty officers (LPOs). Our senior steward,
Chief Johnny Jefferson (SDC), was the steward Division LPO and the
Supply Department LPO. Our head cook, Commissaryman 1st class Billy
Joe Williams (CS1), was Commissary Division LPO. He was in charge of
three PO cooks and four messcooks. Storekeeper 2nd class Steven Penny
(SK2) was our only storekeeper and Supply Division LPO. He handled our
sparepart requisitions and storage.
Meeting CS1 Williams was memorable. I said, “Glad to meet you CS1
Williams.” His first words to me were, “I was born and raised in Alabama
and having been Billy Joe all my life. That's what the crew calls me and
that’s what I want you to call me.” I was taken aback by his outburst but his
smiling face and cheerful demeanor won me over. I agreed on the spot to
call him Billy Joe.
Just before lunch, I was coaxing Dan to provide an overview of what
was required of a supply officer on an FBM submarine. He dismissed my
concerns. He stated that there really wasn't much to the job. He said his
Supply Corps training was wasted on our boat because the real work in
naval supply was generating contracts, arranging logistical support, and
ensuring delivery schedules were met. He assured me that I would not be
involved in those things.
Dan O’Reilly was an easy going Irishman out of a 1940's movie. He
had red hair, freckles, and an engaging manner with the social graces of
Boston, his birthplace. He begged off answering any more questions
because he had a luncheon date with a lovely lass from Connecticut College
which was across the river and next to the Coast Guard Academy. When I
protested that I needed more information he replied, "We can't let the
Coasties have all the fun with the lasses." And with that, he was out the
door.
Without supply work to do, I took to heart XO's direction to meet
engineering people. In the engineering office, I found a blond haired, all-
American boy wearing work khakis with Lt(jg) bars on the collars of his
shirt. He was sitting at a desk with a desk plaque identifying him as the
Engineering Duty Officer. After introducing myself, I found that I was
being welcomed by a warm human being who had deep empathy for my
situation. David Laughlin was the Auxiliary Division Officer for our
upcoming patrol. With the office deserted, Dave had time to explain the
EOOW qualification routine.
Dave and two other officers had arrived a year ago, fresh out of
training like me. Their boss had three patrols of experience on our boat and
had been promoted to Chief Engineer. They were assigned Machinery (M)
Division, Electrical (E) Division, and Auxiliary (A) Division Officers. Dave
initially had M‑Division in charge of the main engines, diesel engine, and
ancillary equipment including reactor mechanical systems. Last patrol he
was E‑Division Officer where he had responsibility for electrical systems.
When an officer left, he picked up two other divisions—the Interior
Communications (IC) Division and the Reactor Control (RC) Division.
When I expressed admiration for such a wide range of responsibilities,
he said three divisions were too much for an unqualified junior officer to
handle. He went on to explain that there was an unexplained problem in the
reactor protective devices that his electronic technicians couldn’t solve.
This Phantom Scram problem caused the reactor to shut down without a
cause. Dave said it happened infrequently, about once a patrol. In every
case, no cause could be found. I could tell he deeply regretted not being
able to solve the Phantom Scram problem.
Dave explained in detail what awaited me in training for EOOW and
standing EOOW training watches. He said that while being Supply Officer
was a bummer, it might give me more time for EOOW qualification instead
of dealing with the Chief Engineer every day.
The next day, I was quizzing Dan about the mysterious world of
supply. The boat's yeoman, YN1 Borenski, burst in and told me that XO
wanted me in his office right away.
XO told me that my “House Call” (Note 2-5), an informal get
acquainted visit on the Captain and his wife at their home, was set for 1400
on Saturday. I was not to be late nor be too early.
Then in a confidential manner, he told me that he had a very important
job for me. He wanted me to arrange the Change of Command Ceremony
that was to occur next week. I made the mistake of asking where it was to
be held and what was needed. XO responded, “You are a commissioned
officer in the Navy and that is all the information you need to carry out my
order!”
When I returned to the Supply Office, I informed Dan of my very
important job and that I was dumbfounded on how to carry it out. Dan just
chuckled, saying the junior officers were wondering when XO was going to
assign the Change of Command task and who would get the SLJO task.
Thinking he would be given the job, he made inquiries. Dan gave me names
and phone numbers for people who would assign the site for the ceremony,
arrange for a Navy band, find a guest speaker, arrange for a chaplain, mail
the announcements, and print the Change of Command Program. Dan’s
competence was astounding. His list included several things I hadn't even
considered.
Then I asked about the House Call. Laughing, he said, "Make sure that
you eat before you go or you'll be too drunk to drive home. I swear Mike
and Irene want to see how many drinks each new officer can handle before
he passes out."
I was incredulous. "What do you mean?"
"They mix a double gin martini. I bet their cocktail shaker is bigger
than any bar shaker. If you leave before they mix the third batch you might
not fall down when you leave."
While quite perplexed about being in a drinking match with the CO and
his wife, I asked if I was supposed to wear my uniform. Dan laughed,
saying that only a suit or nice blazer and tie was necessary.
With my House Call concerns under control, I got on the phone to
make arrangements for the ceremony. Everyone I talked with criticized me
for waiting so long. Most said that they needed at least a month’s notice to
reserve space or provide the requested service. I took a lot of verbal
beatings. They ended up providing me all the necessary services.
The Submarine Base's public relations office said that Vice Admiral
Grenfell, Commander of Atlantic Submarine Forces, would be in his office
that day. They gave me the Admiral’s Flag Secretary’s phone number,
suggesting that I invite the Admiral to attend. The only thing the Base
couldn't do was print the Change of Command Programs because their
printing shop was tied up running Submarine School publications. Base
supply provided funds to get the programs printed commercially.
The Admiral’s Flag Secretary informed me that the Admiral would be
pleased to attend and speak. He said he would send a picture of the Admiral
for the Program. I couldn't believe it was going to be this easy. Full of
excitement, I ran to the XO's office and announced that Admiral Grenfell
would give the address at the ceremony. XO grunted and said he would tell
the CO. I wasn’t getting any points for having the Admiral as main speaker.
The next day I used the yellow pages to find a printing shop to do the
programs within budget and time frame. By the end of the day, I put
together an eight page program which included the schedule, speakers,
biographies and pictures of the current and prospective commanding
officers and the Admiral. There was a listing of the officers and crew with a
picture and history of our submarine. It contained the strategic mission of
FBM submarines.
When I took my draft to XO for his review, I received a frosty reply.
"Don't bother me with details. Just get it done." So, I took the draft to the
printers. They seemed competent and promised delivery two days before
the event.
House Call on the Captain
On a cloudy Saturday, I cruised past Captain Donaldson's house in
Gales Ferry. I was 15 minutes early. It was a lovely white shingled cottage,
nestled in oak trees still in their winter dormancy. Down the hill, they had a
distant view of the Thames River. I continued past the house and parked at
the top of their hill. I enjoyed the panorama of a river bend vista, the spring
green of new leafing grass, and the dark buds of the maple trees. With five
minutes to spare, I coasted my Vette down the hill and parked at one minute
before the magic hour of 1400.
At precisely 1400 I used the shiny brass dolphin door knocker.
Moments later, a lovely, smiling, blond lady wearing a tight-waisted wide
skirt opened the door to greet me.
"Hi. I'm Irene and you must be Mike our newest Wardroom officer."
She invited me into the foyer where I placed my calling card on a silver
plate on a little table of inlayed wood containing other officers’ cards. She
led me into the living room where Captain Donaldson was pouring gin into
a gigantic silver shaker.
"How do you like your martini?" he asked. “However, you and your
lovely wife drink yours.” I replied. They were an engaging pair. While the
Captain talked in generalities about the weather, she asked the penetrating
questions as to why I was in submarines and, in particular, why nuclear
submarines. By the end of the first round of martinis they had my full
background, including my short Adm Rickover interview when he kicked
me out of his office because of my “F” in Physical Chemistry.
When the Captain rose to recharge our martini glasses, I changed the
subject. I asked what hobbies they enjoyed. They brightened up, beginning
a rapid exchange about their love of sailing their Zip class boat on the
Thames River every summer (Note 2-6). Then, they asked if I sailed.
Halfway through my second big martini I bragged that I did some bay
sailing in my hometown of San Diego. Irene cut me to the quick on my brag
by asking what class of boat I sailed. After an embarrassing pause, I
stammered that it was a rented small, full keeled sloop.
Captain Donaldson, looking at his watch, remarked how fast the time
had gone. I took the hint and thanked them both for a lovely time. The drive
back to my quarters gave me plenty of time to replay my social ineptness.
Loss of Classified Material
Our final week gave me a chance to interact further with Department
personnel. One morning I was told to report to the Duty Officer's office. At
the desk sat LCdr Harry Walters, the Weapons Officer. Standing in front of
him was a scowling, officious looking lieutenant, not wearing dolphins,
holding my briefcase. He opened it and demanded, "Is this your
Qualification Notebook?" My mouth dropped and the seconds ticked away.
Finally, I answered, "How did you get my briefcase?"
A clerk had found it on a counter at the Navy Exchange. I must have
left it while buying a trinket for my fiancé last evening. The lieutenant,
from Base Security, said this was a major breach of security. He claimed it
showed my complete disregard for security and my incompetence as an
officer. He turned to LCdr Walters and asked what the ship proposed to do
about this flagrant security violation.
I was quaking in my boots. This was my first interaction with LCdr
Walters beyond a quick hello and handshake last week. It seemed that I had
created not only a terrible blunder but a serious security blemish for the
boat.
LCdr Walters was a cool as the proverbial cucumber. He asked whether
Base Security felt there had been a compromise of the classified material.
The lieutenant admitted that the clerk, upon finding CONFIDENTIAL
stamped on its cover, just shut the briefcase and reported it to Base Security.
Because the clerk hadn’t looked at the material in the briefcase, Base
Security wasn't going to generate a Compromise of Classified Material
Report.
“Wow, what a great question!” I thought. LCdr Walters pounced on the
key aspect of the matter with his first question. Walters continued, "So,
Base Security doesn't intend to generate a formal compromise report.”
The lieutenant stammered, "Well, no…but…"
Walters clearly now had the lieutenant backing down in turning this
into a federal case. Then, the lieutenant strongly stated, "Well, what is the
command going to do about this breach of security?”
Walters coolly looked straight into the lieutenant's eyes and said, “First,
we thank you for returning our officer's Qualification Notebook. Second,
the command will take appropriate action in dealing with this potential loss
of classified information. Thank you for your professional work in dealing
with this matter. Have a good day."
The lieutenant's mouth started to move but no words came out. "Good
Day Lieutenant!" Walters repeated in an emphatic tone. The lieutenant
turned toward the door shaking his head.
After the lieutenant left, Walters told me to shut the door and sit down.
He stated that this certainly wasn't a good way to start my career on my first
sea duty tour. He said that since there was no report being made, there was
no need to make a big deal out of this. “The command's interest is that it
shouldn't happen again.”
With me constantly nodding my head in agreement, he continued. He
saw no reason to inform XO or CO. He was convinced that I would not
compromise any other classified data during the rest of my tour. I nodded
agreement.
Relief flooded my soul. Here was the code of the band of submarine
brothers being demonstrated. I had heard how a command takes care of its
own, now I knew what that simple phrase meant. Fortunately for me, LCdr
Walters was a senior officer with a strong submarine background. Even
though he never held command, maybe because of some administrative
incident like mine, he was going an extra mile to protect my career.
Also, he was the Senior Watch Officer (SWO), i.e. he was senior to all
the officers except the XO and CO. Evidently, he felt it was within his
prerogative as the Duty Officer and SWO to deal with this matter without
further involvement up the command chain. A more junior Duty Officer
would feel duty bound to report the incident to XO who would then inform
the CO. Now it would be a matter just between Walters and me. Perhaps he
felt it would be for the good of the service not to jeopardize a new career
because of a minor indiscretion. Whatever his reason, I certainly felt
overwhelmed by the wisdom and compassion of this seasoned officer.
These last few work days before leaving for patrol were hectic— crew
arriving from leave/school periods, packing division cruise-boxes with the
latest publications, and arranging for a dead horse, advanced pay, for the
patrol cycle. I would take enough to pay off the loan on my Vette.
 Later, I met the Assistant Weapons Officer (AWeps), Lt Theodore
Richards, diesel submariner. Ted was Torpedo and Missile Officer and First
Lieutenant in charge of topside maintenance and line-handlers. There were
four new officers. LCdr Charles Donahue, diesel submariner, had been
pulled out of Navy Postgraduate School to be the Navigator. Lt Martin
Webber, diesel submariner, had just finished nuclear power school and was
assigned to head the Operations Department. Lt Roads “Rocky” Rivers,
diesel submariner, was assigned as the Radio/Sonar Division Officer in the
Operations Department. Lt Donald Lindsey was a medical doctor assigned
to head the Medical Department.
For this patrol, out of a Wardroom of 13 officers, we had five officers
who had never been at sea on an FBM. In addition, it would be our
commanding officer’s first command.
Spelling Error in Change of Command Program
Two days before the Change of Command, the newly printed programs
arrived. I carefully examined the printed words and pictures. Thankfully,
names were spelled correctly, no picture was upside down, and all the pages
were in correct sequence. The seventh page contained the boat's history and
how the boat fit into the nation's scheme of the mutual assured destruction
(MAD) strategy. There it was, “The FBM force provides significant benifits
to the Nation's strategic MAD defense.” I had spelled “benefits”
incorrectly!
I was a terrible speller. Even if I had the $100 to reprint the programs,
there wasn't time. I considered letting the error go, hoping it wouldn’t be
noticed. “No, if I saw it everyone would.”
I decided to tell XO. Approaching his door, I saw that the new CO was
with him—Dan had pointed him out to me last week. As I started to back
away, XO glanced up and called out, "You're just the guy we want to see.
Where is the Change of Command Program?"
Hesitantly, I entered the XO's office as he gave the CO my name and
my assignment. XO saw the Program in my hand, "Oh good, you have the
Change of Command Program, we were just talking about it. The CO shook
my hand. I stammered a “Glad to meet you.”
Taking the program, he scanned each page. "It looks very nice." he
commented. Reluctantly I turned to XO and said in a calm voice, “There's a
misspelled word and I'm not sure what to do it. Maybe I can pen and ink
correct it."
XO in a raised voice, "How could this happen? I told you to run it by
me before you sent anything to the printers!" Cdr Hagar looked up from the
Program, “What word is misspelled?” I told him “benefit” at the bottom of
page seven. “Oh, that's not too bad,” he replied.
XO backed off on his tirade. Of course, he hadn't told me to run
everything by him. In fact, he told me to charge off and leave him alone. I
had enough Navy experience to know that a junior officer doesn’t contest a
superior's statement, especially in front of his boss.
Looking out the window, I hoped the whole situation would magically
dissolve into a bad dream. XO finally said, "Why don't you try a pen and
ink correction?"
Heartily agreeing, I left with the CO engrossed in reading the Program.
He probably was looking for other misspelled words.
With the Supply Office empty, I used a black pen to fashion the “i” in
the misspelled “benifit” into a semblance of a printed “e”. I tried to make
the “e” big enough to capture the dot of the “i” but that just seemed to
exaggerate the correction. I tried several other techniques. Finally, on the
fourth Program I used typewriter correction fluid to cover the dot. Then,
make an “e” out of the dot-less “i”. The trick was to use the stick of the “i”
as the back of the “e”.
On my ninth try, I managed to make a correction that didn't leap off the
page. In fact, sometimes the penned “e” looked just like a printer's smudged
letter “e”. With 290 programs to correct, I made two piles, a good edited
pile and a badly edited pile. The bad pile I would put at the bottom of the
distribution boxes for the event and hope not everyone invited showed up.
For the rest of the day and into the evening hours I edited the programs.
I was on my second bottle of correction fluid. It was dark when I finished.
All the programs were excised of their “i” and corrected with a hand
lettered “e”.
Arriving early the next day, I double-checked my boxes of corrected
programs. Dan finally arrived about 0800 and I tossed him one of my best
copies. He immediately turned to page seven and with a big Irish smile
exclaimed, “Is that a pen and ink correction?" He had run into the yeoman
who had gotten the story from XO. Dan laughed and said “If the Admiral
shows up and it doesn’t rain, no one except XO will remember your goof
up.”
Friday arrived. The base theater balcony was decorated in swags of
red-white-blue. The Navy, State of Connecticut, and National flags were on
the stage. The band chairs were setup on stage. There were chairs on the
other side for the guest speakers, chiefs and officers. I met with the
chaplain. I confirmed Admiral Grenfell's arrival with the Flag Lieutenant.
The band played loudly as the guests arrived. Our chiefs with their
medals shining brightly and the Wardroom officers, with fewer medals,
took their seats on stage. In the theater, the front rows were reserved for
guests with the crew seated behind them. The CO and new CO with their
wives arrived and were seated on stage. The Admiral arrived on time and
was seated at center stage. The ceremony went off without a hitch. And it
didn't rain!
Departing for Holy Loch
My fiancée, Ellen, arrived by train on Saturday. The next day she drove
my Vette and belongings back to her home in Pennsylvania. I wouldn’t see
her again until a few days before our wedding.
At 0400 the next morning, a roommate drove me to the departure point,
a large Sub Base parking lot. Two idling commercial buses sat under a
freezing cold winter sky. Under the morbid cast of mercury street lights,
there was a maelstrom of almost two hundred people, the Gold crew, wives,
children, and girlfriends. The area was littered with sea bags, duffle bags,
garment bags, and large aluminum cruise boxes containing division records
and new manuals.
XO divided the crew into two equal parts. This was Adm Rickover’s
policy in the event one bus ran off a bridge. The remaining half-crew would
contain enough experience to meld with hastily recruited replacements
(Note 2-7). The CO and XO were in different buses that drove us to the
naval airfield at Quonset Point, RI. At the airport, the split crew boarded
two Air Force Military Air Transport Service Command (MATS) aircraft.
Flying into the early morning sun, we glanced at our last sights of the USA
for the next three months. The ground and bare limbed trees were all
covered in snow. The next time we would see them, the ground and trees
would be green.
 Because of the slow speed MATS aircraft, it was near midnight when
we arrived at the deserted Glasgow airport at Prestwick, Scotland. A lone,
tired customs official greeted us halfheartedly as he waved us through
customs. The buses waiting for us were super-streamlined, curvy-shaped
vehicles reminiscent of something from a 1940’s Flash Gordon movie. It
took three of them to hold us. Even though we were tired and stiff from the
long flight, XO provided new lists to rebalance the crew among the three
Scottish buses.
Determined to get a glimpse of Scotland before being confined in our
steel tube for the next 90 days, I got a window seat to observe the street life
of Glasgow night life. There were only darkened buildings, not much to see.
Borenski, our 1st class yeoman, was seated next to me. He said the pubs
closed at 2300 on the weekdays, everyone was home in bed. There wasn't a
solitary person on the streets—no cars, no buses, no people. The
architecture was exactly as depicted in English cinema.
The scenery could have been a movie set for an old English movie.
However, there weren't any warm feelings that you would get in a black-
and-white English cinema. The orange sodium street lights cast a
surrealistic gloom on the buildings and streets. Instead of having a nice
cozy English feeling from the scenery, you felt you were in a science-fiction
movie. The stark orange lights cast the scene as reminiscent of us being the
last people on planet earth, pathetically examining the remains of a lost
civilization.
Wandering through the dark rural areas, we arrived at Gourock ferry
landing. The reason for the buses became evident as they gingerly crept
onto a small ferry to take us from Gourock's McInroy Point across the River
Clyde to Dunoon’s Hunter's Quay, at the entrance to Holy Loch. There were
liberty launches to transport us to the submarine tender and a Mike boat, an
LCM, for our luggage. The USS HUNLEY (AS31) was moored to
Sandbank pier.

Personnel from the Squadron and the tender met us on the quarterdeck.
They announced that midrats, midnight rations, were available for the
enlisted men in the Crew’s Mess and for the officers in the Wardroom. They
gave division LPOs berthing instructions.
XO said the Gold crew would assemble topside on our missile deck at
0700. It was almost 0300, a loud groan arose to protest the short sleep we
would receive. The groan ended up into a confused mutter as people drifted
off either to chow or to their bunks.
The officers followed the CO and XO into the tender’s Wardroom. We
stood at attention when Captain Bell, Commodore of Squadron Fourteen,
and the HUNLEY’s Captain arrived to welcome us to Holy Loch.
Commodore assured us that his Squadron and the HUNLEY would do
everything possible to make our upkeep a success. I was impressed that
both senior officers were up to greet us. I was more impressed that the
tender's stewards fed us steak and eggs. It was our first real food in more
than 24 hours.
I had trouble sleeping, thinking that in three hours I would be setting
foot and starting duty on my submarine.
 Chapter Three
Refit before Patrol

O ur 30 day upkeep started with reveille on the tender, only three hours of
bunk time. Dan was off consorting with his Supply friends. Dressing in
a work khaki uniform, I found my way to the tender’s Wardroom. XO was
reminding people to make a thorough review of the watch logs for any
equipment problems. I wondered why he was looking at me during his
spiel.
After breakfast, I joined a group at two large, amidships bulkhead
doors that provided access to the submarines moored on HUNLEY’s port
side. Arriving yesterday, our submarine was moored Chinese outboard
another FBM. In the 15th century, Chinese Junks with narrow bows and
wide sterns, moored head-to-toe. More vessels could squeeze into an area.
Our reason for mooring Chinese was to provide protection for our screw
and stern-planes (Note 3-1).
Just before 0700 I set foot on my home for the next 90 days. On the
missile deck, Dan and Chief Jefferson were in front of our Department
personnel, four cooks, two stewards, a storekeeper, and four seaman
messcooks assigned from four departments. Messcooks were galley-rats
doing cleanup and serving main entrees. Whatever Dan was telling the
department was causing frowns. I joined them waiting for XO to arrive and
muster the crew (Note 3‑2).
We had a good view of Holy Loch's rustic countryside from
HUNLEY's port side. The closest shoreline was north, a mile away. The
hillsides of evergreen trees mixed with a few conifers that were already
leafing out. Their spring season was ahead of Connecticut's. There were a
few Hansel and Gretel houses dotting the hills. A road wound along the
hilly shoreline with little clusters of houses near the shore. Looking west
was the closed end of the little estuary of Holy Loch. Mist covered the
closed end of the Loch and the sparsely populated hillsides. Such a serene
scene was a surrealistic contrast to the mechanical beast that we were
standing on. Our submarine’s innate ability to rain down massive death and
destruction seemed out of place in such pleasant surroundings.
The crew formed lines three deep facing away from the tender using 50
feet of our long missile deck superstructure. Department/division officers
and chief petty officers stood in a fourth line in front of their men. XO
climbed out of the starboard Control Room hatch alongside the sail and
someone called “Attention on Deck!”
XO ordered the Chief of the Boat (COB), Master Chief John
Henderson, an ETCM from the Navigation Department, to call the muster.
Each department head reported his department “Present or accounted for.”
XO emphasized the importance of conducting a thorough turnover. He
directed COB to dismiss the crew to begin the turnover. COB dismissed the
crew with the admonition not to go below decks until they received their
film badges and dosimeters.
At that point, Lt Don Lindsey, our Medical Officer, announced that
Doc Tailor, our hospital corpsman, would give division LPOs envelopes
with film badges and dosimeters (Note 3-3) serialized to each person's
name. He reminded the crew that everyone would receive a film badge and
nukes would also receive a dosimeter, a small cigar size device that
provided instant radiation readings. The film badge had to be developed but
it had a much larger capacity to back up the dosimeter which could be read
by its owner daily.
Change of Plans
After receiving our radiation monitors, Dan said a few words and
dismissed the Supply personnel. Dan drew me aside and said there was a
change in plans about me relieving him at the end of upkeep. Now, I was to
relieve the Blue crew's supply officer at the end of turnover, three days
hence. He had told the department the news just as I was arriving which
caused the frowns. They knew they not only had a turnover, now they
would have to answer lots of questions from a new officer who had no job
experience. This explained XO’s strange stare at me during breakfast.
Dan assured me he would be at my side to ensure a good turnover. This
change of plans shook me up. Now instead of me being at Dan's side, I had
to be sure that he was at my side. There would be no gentle introduction
into the Navy Supply (NavSup) system. It would be a three-day crash
course on NavSup procedures (Note 3-4) during a hectic turnover.
I felt a knot in my stomach. Dan tried to assure me that it was a routine
process that the petty officers know how to conduct. I worried that my three
LPOs were new in their jobs and I had no experience to help them if they
ran into trouble. More distressing was that I had no experience to know if
there was a problem.
I followed Dan down the ladder into the Control Room in the
Operations Compartment (Ops). At Sub School we had one day at sea in
USS SKIPJACK (SSN 575)—our submarine without a Missile
Compartment. That experience didn't prepare me for the sights, sounds, and
smells that greeted me on climbing down the starboard ladder into the
Control Room. Maybe it was knowing this time it was for real, not just a
training evolution, that shocked my senses.
The salty Holy Loch air was replaced by a mysterious metallic,
synthetic smell. I looked at the red, green, yellow indicator lights on the
long Ballast Control Panel (BCP) across the Control Room on the port side.
The long double row of indicators of missile tube hatches caught my eye.
None of the submarines I trained on had this feature. The hum of motors
and ventilation fans was a high background noise level compared to the
quiet of Holy Loch. This was my home.
I didn't have much chance to look around as Dan, with the passageway
to our staterooms just to his right, descended a stairwell. Passing by the
Wardroom door, we went down another stairwell, made two turns in tight
passageways to arrive at the door to the Supply Office. It was next to the
stabilizing gyro and the periscopes/pump room. I marveled at this little
space—a cubbyhole the width of its desk and no more than five feet deep.
Over the desk, jammed against the bulkhead, was a bookcase of supply
regulation manuals and black 3-ring binders. The Blue crew Supply Corps
Officer, Lt Bill Cook, welcomed us as we crowded into his tiny office.
Dan welcomed Bill back from patrol and asked how things had gone.
After a simple “Fine.” answer, Dan asked how many sparepart “Pri-C”
requisitions he had submitted. I was relieved to hear there weren't any Pri-
C's and only a half dozen high priority requisitions.
“Priority C”, “C” for critical, was a priority used only for FBM
submarines. It received command attention throughout the Navy. Pri-C was
only used for spareparts that affected a Polaris strategic mission. This
included not only the missiles and their fire control system but any
equipment that prevented the submarine from doing its strategic mission.
Pri- C designation covered most navigation systems, the nuclear reactor,
and most engineering equipment. All other FBM spareparts requisitions
received supply’s high priority designation which was the top category for
the rest of the Navy.
Bill said all but one of his high priority requisitions were for the
engineering plant to replace onboard spareparts used during last patrol. The
other high priority part was a power isolation transformer for the sonar. The
tender supply people told him all the high priority parts, except for the
transformer, would be in by the end of the week. Bill assured me that he
would be on top of his people to ensure that a satisfactory turnover was
conducted.
Dan suggested that we return to the HUNLEY so he could introduce
me to the supply people. On the tender, the supply officers were a jovial
bunch, inviting us for evening drinks at the Argyll Hotel in Dunoon. A
smiling Dan agreed. I begged off saying I had work to do as I would be
supply officer in three days instead of Dan.
Dan showed me our tender's supply’s binder which contained
requisitions, messages requesting spareparts, messages on the status of our
spareparts, a separate section for our Pri-C requisitions, and the status of
spareparts in transit.
Surprisingly, I found a Pri-C requisition in the folder and I questioned
why Bill said there were no Pri-C requisitions. Dan just laughed, saying, he
had submitted it at the end of Gold’s last patrol. It was a control-gyroscope
for the boat's large stabilizing gyroscope.
Our giant gyro generated forces to counteract the submarine’s rolling
and pitching caused by large sea swells during missile launch. These heavy
sea state effects became more intense as the boat came closer to the surface.
Being shallow for missile launches could affect the missile’s internal
navigation systems.
The Gold crew’s former skipper, Capt Donaldson, felt the gyroscope
was critical for launching missiles. The Blue skipper didn't consider it a
critical system and changed the requisition’s Priority-C date to when the
Gold crew returned. One of the tender's supply officers noted my concern
and informed us that the control-gyroscope would arrive within two weeks.
The Supply Office support and records gave me confidence that I might
learn the supply system.
Dan continued his social updates. Returning to our boat, I found myself
lost in the tender's passageways and decks. I remembered another reason I
had volunteered for submarine duty—not having to worry about getting lost
in a large ship’s maze of compartments and decks. Getting directions to the
egress doors, I finally got back.
A Tour of the Boat
Arriving back in the Control Room, I decided to check out my boat. I
walked up two steps to the Conning platform—the Conning Officer’s
watchstation. Looking out #2 periscope, its crosshairs were trained on the
red door of a little house across the Loch. Stepping down, I walked forward
to the diving controls, aircraft type steering yokes. They operated by
pushing the stick back and forth for rise and dive on the planes and twisting
the wheel to turn the rudder.
The BCP was impressive with its myriad sets of switches and colored
lights. This station controlled the pumps, valves, vents, and air systems that
affected our buoyancy. Thus, the diving controls and the BCP gave our boat
the ability to transverse in 3 dimensions underwater and to surface and dive
across the water/air boundary.
I wandered aft into the Navigation Center. Three giant gray binnacles
hung from the overhead. These were SINS (Ship’s Inertial Navigation
System) with its gyroscopes and accelerometers measuring the boat’s
movements in three dimensions. SINS computers supplied our location and
heading used by the fire control system to aim the missiles. SINS and
Type11 star-scope were developed by Massachusetts Institute of
Technology’s Draper Laboratory.
Heading aft into the Missile Compartment’s upper deck, I gaped in
awe. “Wow!” I thought, “This is the famous Sherwood Forest.” A Sub
School description that our crew never uttered. All those rows of tubes
contained missile warheads with more destructive power than all the bombs
dropped in WW II. The enormity of it finally hit me, I was now part of the
strategic forces that protected the United States from the Soviet Union.
Entering the Auxiliary Machinery Space (AMS) at the end of the
Missile Compartment, I walked through the air-cleansing systems we
studied in Submarine School. AMS was jammed packed with high
technology equipment. Opening the Tunnel-WTD allowed safe passage
through the Reactor Compartment. To my right was the only access into the
Reactor Compartment.
The Auxiliary Machinery Room (AMR) center pathway ran between
massive cabinets of electrical breakers. Even in shutdown conditions it was
much louder than in the Missile and Operations Compartments because of
the continuous running AC/DC motor-generators. Below were the
emergency diesel engine and DC generator along with the four massive
feedwater pumps on the aft bulkhead that fed water to the steam-generators.
The last WTD accessed the Engine Room (ER), the fifth and last
compartment on our submarine. The duty engineering officer in
Maneuvering welcomed me. When I mentioned I was a nuke taking over
the Supply Department, I saw the look in his eyes—the pity. The look one
gives to a friend when he tells you his girlfriend had just dumped him. I
turned away saying I had to get back to work.
Back to being Supply Officer
Returning through the Missile Compartment and Control Room, I went
down a deck and forward to the Crew’s Mess, full of tables with fixed
benches. To the right was the Galley, the cooks’ enclave of cabinets,
counters, ovens, ranges, deep oil-fryer, standing-mixer, and deep/shallow
washing/rinsing sinks. This is where cooks prepared the meals. In the next
bay forward, separating the Galley work spaces from the Mess Decks, was
a long stainless-steel/glass-shield serving counter. At the aft end were two
large coffee urns, a bug-juice (fruit juice) machine, and a soft ice cream
machine—they would operate 24 hours/day. Entering the Galley, I saw a
maze of cracks in the terrazzo deck. These cracks could be germ hideouts.
A source of discrepancies in future inspections, I made a Note in my little
green memo book to ask Dan about it.
My biggest concern was Commissary. The boat’s chief
Commissaryman left for shore duty. Billy Joe, a 1st class with patrol
experience, was now the Division’s LPO for the first time. Dan had assured
me that Billy Joe Williams was a first rate cook. While I wanted a top cook,
I also wanted someone who could help me keep track of the crew’s
Commissary accounts.
The little I knew about Navy Regulations was that the Navy considered
overdrawing mess funds a serious matter. Standard allowance was $4 a day
to feed each crew member. A hungry crew and sloppy food control could
mean trouble for me and the CO.
Dan assured me that using Navy standard recipe cards provided the
exact amount for a meal of a 100 people which made it difficult to overrun
the Commissary funds. Because our crew was 125, I was concerned that the
cooks might round up their preparation number to 150 to make the breakout
calculation easier. This would mean a 20% increase in our consumption
rate. I needed to talk to Billy Joe.
Walking through the Crew’s Mess, I entered the Torpedo Room. It was
much larger than I remembered from the SKIPJACK. I saw a light and
heard conversations coming from the forward torpedo loading/escape trunk.
Approaching, I realized it was Billy Joe. He was up in the escape trunk with
his Blue crew counterpart conducting an inventory. I climbed up the ladder
and stuck my head into the dimly lit, crowded trunk filled with gauges and
valves.
They were inventorying emergency food, a crate of eggs. The issue
label was three years ago. I queried whether the eggs were too old. Both
assured me that the eggs were coated with a potassium permanganate
preservative. Being stored in the escape trunk, they were in a cool
environment ready for emergency use. Seeing he was busy, I asked Billy
Joe to see me later. I wrote a Note in my memo book to ask Dan about the
old emergency eggs.
Retreating through the Crew’s Mess, I went to the Wardroom looking
for Chief Johnny Jefferson. He was in the pantry which contained a small
reefer, coffee maker, grill, toaster, cabinets/drawers of serving
dishes/utensils, cupboards of dishes/cups/bowls, and a small sink. While
main meals for officers came from the Crew’s Mess, the pantry served them
and handled breakfast and midrats meals.
Chief Jefferson was quite bitter about his many past requests to change
his rate from steward to engineman—denied every time. As a result of these
frustrating experiences, he carried an attitude of stoic resignation. When I
tried to engage him in discussions about upcoming patrol matters, he
seemed to stare off into space. He had long experience in diesel boats. This
would be his first duty aboard a nuke boat and as LPO.
Asking Chief about the turnover, he deadpanned a long list of minor
items such as the grill being dirty and that his two stewards didn't have any
submarine experience. I took his comments to mean there weren't any
problems. I was counting on Chief Jefferson to keep us out of trouble with
the CO and XO.
Leaving Chief, I headed to the Supply Office looking for SK2 Steven
Penny, our storekeeper. Penny was also on his first nuclear submarine. He
had been a storekeeper on a diesel boat working for a chief storekeeper—
diesel boats didn’t have Supply Corps officers. I was concerned that all my
senior people were performing their jobs for the first time. With my
experience much less than theirs, I was anticipating problems.
Penny was going over supply records when I arrived. A submarine has
limited space, there is no centralized space for spareparts storage as there is
on surface ships. The parts were distributed in dozens of lockers in every
compartment. Most lockers were fitted in between hull frames to match the
curvature of the hull. Penny said he hadn’t found any problems.
Running into XO, he confirmed that I was in charge of the turnover and
upkeep. I expressed concern that I was not qualified to take on such a task
with so little experience. Unexpectedly, XO showed a soft side, saying that
the CO wanted the supply officer who was going on patrol to answer all his
supply questions during upkeep. While still uptight about it, I couldn't argue
with the CO's logic.
These three days were a whirlwind of activity. The list of concerns in
my green memo book filled six pages. Dan was a fountain of knowledge,
calmly guiding me. On the cracked terrazzo deck, he said the Galley deck
was originally tiled with two inch ceramic tiles. On his first patrol the
caulking cracked resulting in many missing tiles. He discovered that the
deck sat atop #3 main ballast tank and hull flexing during depth changes
caused the tiles to crack. During his next upkeep, he had the tender remove
the tiles and pour a terrazzo mixture on the tank top. He hoped a one-piece
pour would flex with the tank top but it also suffered cracking. He felt it
was a major problem that had no viable solution.
The Eggs that Wouldn’t Go Away
Although some of his answers to my queries seemed reasonable to him,
they seemed fairly dubious to me. Questions about the three year old eggs
exposed an old dispute between the Blue and Gold supply officers. Each
wanting the other to survey them, i.e. to dispose of the crate of old eggs.
The problem was that any survey of foodstuff required a special report
to Washington. Navy oversight for surveying foods required the
involvement of the commanding officer. Dan cautioned me not to make it
an issue because a survey would involve both XOs and COs. I told him I
was concerned that if we needed those eggs it wouldn't help us if they were
rotten. Dan's answer was that in a big emergency, eggs would be our last
concern. I put a Note in my memo book to solve this dilemma before the
change of command.
The next day I approached Blue's supply officer. I asked for
documentation to locate supply lockers and a discussion about the
emergency eggs. Bill was gracious, showing me a binder containing
numbered spareparts locker locations for each compartment.
On my concern about the eggs, he laughed, just as Dan had laughed.
Supply types seemed to do an abnormal amount of laughing. He told me,
"Yes, it is a questionable item. But do you think it’s worth involving XOs
and COs?" He suggested that after the change of command, because I
wasn't a Supply Corps officer, I could ask the tender to survey and replace
the eggs. Not wanting to cause friction, I agreed to Bill's suggestion.
My first official supply work was getting XO’s approval of our first
week’s menu. A law from Revolutionary days ensured soldiers received
their allotted rations. XO noted that ice cream wasn't listed for each lunch
and dinner meal. I whipped out an Italian answer, “The soft ice cream
machine is always in operation for the crew 24/7. It didn’t need to be
included.” XO set me straight, “Ice cream was being provided to the crew
and had to be on the menu. He emphatically told me, once ice cream was
added, he would approve the menu. I hurried off to the supply cubbyhole
and typed in ice cream for each lunch and dinner meal. When I returned
with the changed menu, XO was all smiles and signed my first official
paper work.
Change of Command
The next morning, both crews lined up topside on the missile deck.
Below decks, Blue crew were at their watchstations with Gold crew
alongside to relieve them. It was an overcast and bitter cold spring day. The
weather reflected the mood of our crew (Note 3-5).
Commodore Bell arrived to lend an official air to the ceremony.
HUNLEY's chaplain gave an invocation. Commodore made a short speech
touting that the success of the two-crew policy was the trust that each
submariner had in each other. Our CO, Cdr Hager, thanked Cdr Prendergast
and his crew for an excellent turnover and read his orders. Then, he turned
to Cdr Prendergast, saluted, and said the time honored, "I relieve you sir."
The heavy weight of my responsibility to feed our crew and obtain
spareparts fell upon my shoulders. Oddly, I wasn’t the least bit
apprehensive about handling my engineering and submarine qualifications.
Maybe it was because I had spent two years preparing for them. Now, I was
in a job for which I had no training or experience.
Using the topside 1MC, our XO directed our crew watchstanders to
relieve their Blue counterparts. We were now responsible for the boat.
Ending the ceremony, he dismissed both topside crews and told the Gold
officers to assemble in the Wardroom.
Coming down the stairway from the Control Room, the pantry was on
the left as one entered the port side Wardroom. A long fore-and-aft table
with the CO’s chair at the head of the table at the door. Opposite the CO
was a wide seat at the table—a forward-bulkhead bench-seat that extended
from the port hull to the countertop cabinets. Ten could be seated for meals.
With three now seated on the bench—instead of just one—and eight in side-
chairs, Dan and I were standing. Everyone stood up as the CO entered. CO
told us to sit and that standing at attention when he entered a space was not
required.
The Captain was a thin, short man with closely trimmed black hair. He
remarked on the need to verify that all equipment was operating
satisfactorily. He wanted the sonar isolation transformer and stabilizing-
gyroscope to be ready for the first sea trials. CO stressed the importance of
his Night Orders—they authorized operations while he was sleeping. He
discussed his command philosophy and noted that any equipment failure
was to be reported to him before being reported to a department head or
XO. Eng and XO gave quick glances at each other. I found out later that the
old policy was that the responsible division officer and department head
were the first to be notified. Now, I could see that when CO narrowed his
face that his punctilious mannerisms came forth.
CO's final item was a bombshell for me. He said the policy of officers
switching jobs every patrol limited improvement to division training. His
policy would be that each officer remained in his job for two patrols. While
his policy didn't affect the Weapons Department, Medical Department,
Navigator, XO and the Engineer, it did affect me and Lt Webber. We were
nuke officers in non-engineering jobs. I would be stuck in the Supply
Department for two whole patrols! Another bummer weighed on my beat-
up psyche.
After the meeting, I made my first daily trip to the tender’s Supply
Office. On returning, Dan said I was expected to eat at first-sitting for lunch
and dinner because I was a department head, even though I was the junior
officer in the Wardroom. I was to sit at the end of the table on the bench
seat opposite the CO’s chair at the head of the table. Whenever he looked
up from his soup, he would be staring directly at me.
Dan said that having the department heads at his meals gave CO a
chance to hector them about anything that needed attention, especially the
current meal. Because only ten could be seated at the table, during upkeep
other officers senior to me had to eat at second-sitting which didn’t sit well
with my qualified EOOW peers.
I quickly settled into shipboard living. The poopy suit was great—not
having to worry about having pressed, clean khaki pants and shirt every
day. Because the poopy suit was a dark blue working uniform, dirt-spots
didn't always require a change of clothes.
As Supply Officer I was in charge of the Wardroom stewards. On
surface ships their duties included making officers’ bunks (Note 3‑6). Dan
said that because submarines don’t use sheets and bedspreads on officers’
bunks, the stewards weren't expected to make up bunks each morning,
except for the CO’s. The CO’s couch was a fold-down bed that a steward
converted into a bed each evening. For our bunks, we only used a cotton
mattress cover and a blanket for a top cover. An officer was expected to
fold his blanket at the foot of his rack and place his pillow at the head of the
rack.
Lacking an official barber, the junior stewards were trained to cut hair.
It was common practice to slip them a few dollars for this service. For the
enlisted men, there was some competition from several people who could
cut hair. It provided enough money to cover card game loses.
Taking a Navy shower was serious water conservation—wet down,
shut off the water, soap up, and rinse off. I had not forgotten this from my
first cruise as a midshipman. However, I had forgotten about not showering
until after the daily drill. The third day aboard, I was taking a shower after
dinner to beat the rush that occurred each evening—the officer's head only
had two shower stalls. In the middle of shampooing, the General Alarm
sounded for a fire drill. Before I could get the soap out of my hair, the water
was shut off in keeping with casualty procedures. I quickly toweled down
my soapy body and hair before going to my drill station. From then on, I
only showered after the evening drill.
Wardroom Duties
 The next day XO called me into his stateroom to inform me that the
Squadron Commodore would attend evening meal three days hence. Seeing
my expression of concern, XO said it was routine for the Commodore to
have dinner aboard each boat during upkeep. I inquired what special
preparations were required. XO said Chief Jefferson would handle it. As an
afterthought, he told me to have the Wardroom chairs repainted before the
Commodore’s dinner.
Dropping down to the pantry I found Chief. I told him about the
Commodore's dinner and the fact that our weekly menu listed pork loin and
baked beans for dinner that day. He just smiled, saying not to worry, he had
done Commodore dinners before. He knew where to get some filet mignon.
He added that his youngsters would be trained-up to provide white-glove
service for the Commodore. It never dawned on me to ask how he was able
to obtain choice meat.
When I told Chief that XO wanted the Wardroom chairs repainted, he
gave me an exasperated look. Then he whined that it didn't make any sense
to spend all that time on new paint. The aluminum frames would just get
chipped again during patrol. Trying to put the job in perspective, I
suggested maybe we should remove the paint and buff up the metal.
Knowing this would be twice as much work, I was trying to have him
cheerfully take on the paint job. Chief brightened up, he replied that it was a
good idea. “Then, we would never have to paint those damn chairs again.”
Taken aback by his agreement, I said XO would have to approve it. He
sarcastically continued on that it made more sense than painting them.
On my way back to XO about the chairs, I realized maybe Chief was
setting me up to see if I had the balls to argue with XO. I couldn't back
down now. Surprising enough, XO agreed. Again saying, “The chairs had to
be done before the Commodore's dinner.”
Chief looked surprised that XO agreed to stripping the chairs. Then, he
smiled and muttered "Great!" I smiled back and said they still had to be
done before the Commodore's dinner. He frowned, muttering something but
nodded in agreement. For the rest of that day and the next day, Dodge and
Ford, our junior stewards, were topside stripping paint and buffing the
metal frames of the chairs.
Daily Routine
 Upkeep routine started with a muster topside on the missile deck at
0730. XO would provide updates to his Plan of the Day (POD) distributed
the night before. During inclement weather, occurring frequently in Holy
Loch, the crew mustered on station inside the boat with each man reporting
to his LPO. Then, XO used the 1MC announcing system to inform the crew
about any special events.
XO's POD contained special evolutions such as an engineering training
class on the Mess Decks or medical vaccinations in Sick Bay. Any medical
event resulted in the Ops middle level starboard passageway being filled
with sailors dithering-on-station. Our six day a week topside musters, none
on Sundays, at least gave the crew a chance for some fresh air and change
of scenery.
Our topside view of north Holy Loch was a pretty scene across an
expanse of water that led up to hillsides of green trees and a few little
houses. In the morning, the air was full of cold drifting mist from the closed
west end of the Loch. One wouldn’t have been surprised to see a lapstrake
boat of yelling Vikings rowing madly down on us. If our muster ran long,
we would stand at attention and salute the colors being raised on the aft of
our sail as our national anthem blared from the tender's loudspeakers at
0800. This ceremony always sent proud patriotic chills up my spine—
realizing we were in a foreign land engaging a sinister adversary in a deadly
Cold War duel.
EOOW & Qualification Training
My first weekend duty was spent training as a shutdown Engineering
Duty Officer (EDO). When not following the EDO around, I was checking
the status of our requisitions and doing EOOW qualification. We used
Mickey Mouse books that identified the boat's mechanical and electrical
systems. These booklets provided colorful, stylized schematic
representations of our systems. They were particularly valuable during
casualties and drills (Note 3-7).
The training watch for EDO included hands-on engineering duties.
With the reactor shutdown and electrical power supplied by HUNLEY,
EDO's major responsible was to ensure that the shutdown reactor was safe.
EDO’s other tasks were supervising upkeep repairs and maintenance. One
air conditioner motor was being replaced and another's mechanical
compressor had to be repaired. Tender personnel and the crew worked on
these two projects.
The EDO was Lt(jg) Andy Brennan, Machinery (M) Division Officer.
Andy had the body build, good looks, and dark hair associated with an actor
playing Superman. The Auxiliary (A) Division gang was working on two
Red-Tagged air conditioning units (Note 3-8). Watching Andy interact with
the gang was invaluable to me. He had a light-touch with the men while still
being in charge.
EDO duty was something I needed as I never led men as an officer.
This allowed me to interact with the engineering gangs.
XO gave me the list of officers for the dinner. Surprised to be on the
list, XO said I had to answer to answer food questions. Checking in with
Chief, he had everything under control, even place-cards embellished with a
red and blue commissioning pennant for each officer.
The next evening, we fed the not invited officers early per the POD. A
white table cloth covered the gray Formica-topped table with the overhead
florescent lights turned off. Two 4-candled silver candelabras were
strategically placed to give the room flickering light and shadow warmth as
Mozart played from the tape deck. The brushed metal of the chair frames
provided a raw metal contrast to the highly polished silverware and
candelabras. A bouquet of flowers adorned the table. Glasses of iced water
were in place. I was totally impressed with the ambiance that Chief
Jefferson had created.
Checking the pantry, Chief had terror in his eyes, "My hollandaise
sauce for the asparagus is separating. What should I do?"
After two years of intensive nuclear/submarine training, now I was
confronted with a cooking emergency. Mom taught me to cook, even make
a cake, but I had zero experience with hollandaise sauce. High school
chemistry saved me. The sauce needed to be thickened. I immediately
commanded, "Stir in some corn starch!" (Note 3-9).
It worked! I'll never forget the relief in Chief’s eyes. It was a different
relationship between us from that day forward. We had worked together as
a team to solve a real-time crisis.
The dinner went off without a hitch. The medium-rare fillet mignon
surrounded by a strip of crisp bacon, the baked potato accompanied by sour
cream topped with chives/bacon bits, and the asparagus with hollandaise
sauce were perfectly presented. It was hard to believe that it had been
created in our little pantry.
The conversation was monopolized among the Commodore, CO, XO,
and Eng. The crowning moment for me came when coffee and fresh
strawberries on shortcake with whipped cream were served. The
Commodore looked in my direction asking that I pass on his compliments
to the Wardroom staff for the best submarine dinner he could remember.
The CO beamed and XO nodded in agreement!
After successfully passing the Commodore dinner drill, I was
determined to start my engineering qualifications. Previous discussions with
my peers, Dave, Andy, and Gabe Chadwick, gave me some perspective. All
three had arrived onboard just over a year before me. Only Gabe had
worked hard enough in one year, two patrols, to qualify for his dolphins just
before we left CONUS.
Dave said the problem was trading spare time between home life and
qualifications. Being a bachelor, Gabe was able to devote his New London
time to qualifications. Dave and Andy had wives and family matters which
took away opportunities for riding diesel boats.
During the Commodore's dinner, CO and XO wangled permission to
visit a new British OBERON-class diesel submarine at the British Loch
Long base up river. The day before the outing, XO told me to set-up
breakfast for them at 0400 the next morning.
With my stateroom directly across from XO's, I heard the messenger
bang on XO stateroom door to wake him. I realized that I hadn't told Chief
the CO/XO’s early breakfast plans. Jumping into my poopy suit, I hurried to
the pantry prepared to make coffee and scramble some eggs. To my surprise
Chief was making coffee. In a rush of words, I explained I had forgotten to
tell him the CO/XO needed breakfast in 10 minutes. Chief said the griddle
was lit off and the coffee was hot. He overheard XO last night. It was
payback for my saving his hollandaise sauce.
First Engineering Casualty
That afternoon, while the CO and XO were enjoying British submarine
hospitality, we had our first casualty. The oncoming shutdown Roving
Watch walking between electric panels in AMR, mindlessly skylarking, he
flicked at the electrical circuit breaker handles as he walked by. Just like a
small boy touching the tips of a picket fence. He flicked one breaker handle
to hard tripping off the AC/DC motor generator breaker supplying AC
power to the Vital Bus. Loss of power blinked the lights as the DC-to-AC
Inverters, powered by our battery, kicked in. This sent Eng and EDO
rushing back aft.
Several of us joined the parade. When we got in the Tunnel, Lt Martin
Webber heard air leaking out of a flask. In Maneuvering Eng and EDO put
the off-line AC/DC motor generator back online and restarted the MCP that
was cooling the reactor. Even with the reactor shutdown over ten days,
there still were decay products releasing significant radiation. Martin rushed
to the AMR watch desk and grabbed an RPM. Rapidly turning pages, he
yapped out "Aha!" and ran back to the Tunnel. I followed him into the
tunnel in time to see him turn a valve on a small air flask. "Too late!" he
muttered.
Eng arrived. Martin explained that losing the Vital Bus opened a
solenoid valve releasing flask air pressure holding shut the reactor
emergency coolant valves. This activated emergency cooling to the reactor.
The emergency cooling coils were in a tank of seawater in a ballast tank.
This was a Rickover fail safe system to protect the reactor from a melt
down on loss of electrical power. It provided automatic convection flow to
cool the reactor.
Emptying the air-flask was a time delay in case it wasn't a catastrophic
loss of power—which was our situation. By not shutting the air valve
immediately, reactor coolant was now circulating in the emergency cooling
system. Once activated, the RPM required pressure-testing the emergency
system to determine whether thermal shock from the hot water of the
reactor cracked the cold-welds of the emergency system. Rickover left
nothing to chance!
Returning from the British submarine visit, CO wasn’t pleased that we
had to do a reactor system pressure test. The next morning was a busy time
for Lt(jg) Brennan, M-Division Officer. He had to write up a pressure test
plan. His people had to track our test pump. Eng conducted an Incident
Report (IR) meeting (Note 1-9) which was completed within an hour
(Note 3-10).
Lt(jg) Brennan showed up to inform Eng that he was ready for the test.
The Eng reviewed Andy's test procedure and ordered all the engineering
officers to observe this once in a lifetime test. The test pump had been
rigged in the Tunnel near the entry WTD to the Reactor Compartment (RC).
Andy's valve operator, dressed in decontamination gear, was standing just
inside the RC-WTD. He connected the high pressure line from the pump in
the Tunnel to a valve connection to the emergency cooling system in the
RC. Another man dressed in decontamination gear stood by with a Geiger-
counter in the Tunnel. A little distance away from him was a log-taker with
a stopwatch to track the exposure time of the men inside the RC. Once the
test pressure was reached, the hydro-test was a success.
 Chapter Four
First Sea Trial

A fter the emergency cooling casualty, I tried to put in 16 hour days

toward EOOW qualification and supply duties. This plan took a bad
turn when XO called me into his stateroom and shut the door. As
recreational officer, my collateral duty was to provide entertainment to the
crew in addition to movies. XO wanted some type of game tournament or
series of lotteries that would take the crew's mind off mundane day-to-day
patrol routine. Thinking, “Now I'm a cruise director!” I answered, "Yes,
sir."
Perhaps Dan had some tricks up his sleeve for this SLJO task. I caught
him changing into civvies for a night on the town. Explaining XO's
recreational assignment, I asked if we could discuss some options. Dan
laughed—as usual. He said a tender supply friend had fixed him up for a
weekend date and would be gone until Monday.
A Slot Machine Goes to Sea
When Dan returned Monday, he regaled us at breakfast about his
weekend. When we inquired about the fun he had with the ladies, he steered
the conversation to how much money he made from the slot machines at the
little casino outside Glasgow. I asked him if he had any ideas for
entertaining the crew.
Others joined in, cribbage and chess tournaments were offered.
Someone factiously suggested a book club, inspired by the reading frenzy
that Mary McCarthy's The Group was having on the Wardroom. The book
was being read by most of the Wardroom. I couldn’t fathom why this rough
draft novel about a bunch of 1930's Vassar girls was such a hit. Martin's
wife had received it from a college classmates.
A Monopoly tournament was suggested since it would involve more
luck than card games such as poker, bridge, or double deck pinochle. Some
said that cribbage tournaments were always popular. It was pointed out that
card-games would only involve a limited number of participants and a
tournament wouldn't hold everyone's interest. Dan interjected, "We need
something that gives a quick rush, like pulling down the handle of a slot
machine!"
 We all smiled and suddenly light bulbs popped into many of our heads.
Andy said it first, "Why not get a slot machine for the Crew’s Mess?" Dave
chipped in, “All the winnings could go to the crew's Recreation Fund.” The
idea was an instant hit.
To the best of anyone’s recollection, no boat ever had a slot- machine.
It would break up patrol boredom with the fun that the uncertainty of
gambling provides. Someone said that XO and the CO would never approve
it. I chimed in, “I didn't think I could requisition a slot machine through the
supply system.” Dan said he bet we could get one from the casino he visited
with the Rec Committee buying it. Guys in the Wardroom were enthused
and pushed me to do it.
Later that day, Dan and I broached the idea to XO. He dismissed it as
being against Navy regulations on gambling. Dan countered that bingo was
allowed even on the Submarine Base to generate funds for their Recreation
Fund. XO reminded Dan about the flap the GEORGE WASHINGTON
caused when they requisitioned a roulette wheel for their last patrol. Dan
countered that they got into trouble because they made it a Pri-C requisition
resulting in a special air flight to get that single item shipped to them the
day before patrol.
XO relented after we stressed no Navy funds would be used and it
would make money for the boat's Recreation Fund. He agreed to let us run
it by the CO. I suggested that Dan and XO present it.
Dan was beaming when he found me in the Supply Office. He
recounted their pitch to the CO and mimicked the CO's frown when the slot
machine was mentioned. Dan countered all the CO's concerns—the same
ones XO had raised the day before. The CO finally agreed after XO boasted
we would be the first FBM with a slot machine and how much money it
would raise for the Rec Committee.
Dan wanted me to go immediately to the casino to buy a machine. I
said we needed the Rec Committee approval because it would be their
funds that bought the machine. That evening Dan and I met with the
committee, Chief Kinkaid, Navigation, MT1 Darcy, Missile Division, ST1
Peterson, Sonar, and EN2 Bankership, A-Division. While they liked the slot
machine idea from the start, they asked who would be in charge of its
operations and ensure that no one became addicted. Dan said that it would
be on the Mess Deck and the Supply Officer would be in charge and
responsible for its operations. I said that we should only get a nickel
machine to minimize the impact of anyone losing much money and that the
Rec Committee would have to share the responsibility of operating the
machine, such as disbursing coins to the crew. The final question was what
happens to the machine after the patrol.
Without skipping a beat, Dan said we could ask the Blue crew to buy
half of it. If they didn’t, we could lock it up in the Missile Compartment
during Blue’s patrol because it would be illegal to take it back to the States.
Dan's answers satisfied the committee. They agreed to use their funds to
buy a slot machine for crew entertainment and as a means to increase Rec
Committee funds. Dan wanted me to buy a machine immediately. I said that
because it was Rec funds, Chief Kinkaid and Dan should make the
purchase.
The next day Chief Kinkaid and Dan left to buy the slot machine. That
evening, Dan showed up in the Wardroom excited and exuberant. The
casino couldn't sell a machine. It was regulated by the British government.
They rented machines to churches and didn't see a problem renting one to
Yankee sailors for a submarine patrol. Demanding rent in advance, they
took Chief Kinkaid’s $200 check. The casino's technicians modified a
machine to accept nickels and put it in the supply van that Dan borrowed
for the trip.
Using his influence with the tender, Dan had the slot machine wrapped
in canvas and set down on the missile deck. Chief Kinkaid and Darcy
carried it to the Supply Office. I chained it to a beam. We would install it
once on patrol. The buzz in the boat that night was audible. The slot
machine was already raising crew morale.
Mastering the Supply Department
I soon realized how important food was to crew happiness. Sailors
would approach me and tell me how great a meal was or how much the
chow sucked. I was taken aback by the blandness of the food, especially the
spaghetti meals (Note 4-1). I wrote a letter to my fiancé asking her to buy as
many Italian spices as possible with the $20 bill I enclosed. I told her they
had to be mailed back immediately. I was determined to break the cycle of
bland spaghetti.
The NavSup system was a challenge. FBM crews were accustomed to
putting in requisitions and getting whatever, they ordered. Based on
equipment failures on their last patrols, they ordered extra parts. This
resulted in each boat carrying spareparts above those authorized by the
COSAL (COnsolidated Shipboard Allowance List) (Note 4-2). The urgent
need to keep FBMs at sea had exempted them from the COSAL’s scientific
allocation. FBM's had been operating under COSAL for over a year but
FBM crews felt that they knew better than bean counters ashore as to what
spareparts they needed. NavSup was trying to get the FBM submarines
under COSAL control and I was caught in the middle.
Even under COSAL, FBM submariners were able get around the
COSAL limits. By having submarine Supply Corps Officer as a crew
member, the boat had an officer who knew how to work the system (Note 4-
3). This allowed pack-rats to have extra spareparts.
As line officers, such as myself, began replacing Supply Corps
Officers, this insider's chain was being broken. I had no contacts, much less
longtime friends, in the supply system. Any junior Supply Corps Officer on
the tender could standup to me, quote regulations, and not have to back
down. He knew that I was just a junior officer on board and wouldn't risk
complaining to my XO or CO. I needed Dan to grease the skids before he
left (Note 4-4).
I was heavily dependent on Dan to intercede with the tender's supply to
get requisitions for things not allowed under COSAL. With Dan's
intervention we got all our current questionable requisitions approved
within two weeks.
I assembled the division’s spareparts petty officers. I told them that in
the future the supply system would be holding us to the parts allowances in
COSAL. I said if they needed special parts or more parts than allowed in
the COSAL, we would have to submit paper work to justify a change in
allocation. There is nothing a sailor hates more than paper work and they
complained bitterly. I told them they had a week to make any special
requisitions. I was going to use Dan's special talent until he flew back to
CONUS.
That opened the flood gates. Within two days we had twice the number
of requests than we had submitted in the first few weeks. Once again, I
assembled the spareparts petty officers telling them that we couldn't get
twice the number of parts that were on order. They had to limit the number
of requisitions to one or two critical parts. I cautioned them that I might
only be able to get one extra for each of them. By the groans and moans,
you would have thought that patrol had been extended by ten days.
 Dan chuckled at my using his influence. He did his best to get the extra
requisitions approved. It turned out that we got most of the extra items.
Easter Dinner
During a FBM upkeep, seven days of the week were work days for the
boat and the tender. The only exceptions were Christmas, New Year’s,
Thanksgiving, Easter, Fourth of July, and each Sunday. For these days,
there was holiday routine until noon. This meant no up all bunks reveille at
0600, the crew could sleep until noon. While there was morning breakfast,
there was brunch instead of lunch from 1000 to 1300. On Sundays, there
were Protestant and Catholic services in the Crew’s Mess except when the
tender provided services.
During this upkeep we celebrated Easter. The major event of the day
was Easter dinner. It was my first holiday aboard a Navy ship. To my
surprise, the Navy had a special menu. To make the dinner special, little
pleated paper cups of salted mixed nuts, bowls of olives, and trays of cream
cheese stuffed celery were placed on the tables. The appetizer was cocktail
sauced cold shrimp. The entrées were roast beef with horseradish and honey
glazed baked ham slices with an icky, brown sugar sauce with canned
pineapple bits. Canned carrots/peas, fresh frozen corn, sweet potatoes
topped with marshmallows, and mashed potatoes with beef gravy were
served. There were freshly baked Parker House rolls and the usual coffee,
milk, and bug juice—made from fruit syrup. The meal was topped off with
strawberries on pound cake with whipped cream. There were no complaints
from the crew about the food. I gave Billy Joe and the cooks a Bravo Zulu
—a well-done.
Fast Cruise
Before I knew it, we were preparing for Fast Cruise. Not a rapid cruise
to sea, but rather a cruise with our submarine being held fast to the tender
for 24 hours. It involved sealing up the boat, bringing the reactor critical,
and standing watches just as if we were at sea, (Note 4-5). Nothing would
enter or leave the boat without the CO's explicit permission. Equipment was
exercised and several dozen drills performed. The drills included a reactor
Scram, loss of electrical power, flooding, fire, missile casualty, battle
stations missile, battle station torpedo, toxic gas, and radiation drills.
The crew’s favorite drill was Repel Boarders. It required opening the
small arms locker to issue weapons. I didn’t get a rifle even though I
qualified on the Springfield bolt action rifle in boot camp. There were
repeats of these drills. Simulated equipment failures required supply to
locate actual spareparts. SK2 Penny made the system work and we passed
that test.
It was a stressful time for me because we had to keep the Galley on
schedule even though the Crew’s Mess was a staging area for all
drills/casualties. Before Fast Cruise, daily drills had been run in the evening
after chow. Now we had five drills before lunch. If there was a problem that
caused a delay during a drill, the drill period would run over into chow
time.
XO’s favorite drill was Fire in the Galley. This caused total disruption
as people would troop in with fire hoses and emergency gear that required
the cooks to move food and cooking gear out of the way. This delayed meal
preparations and resulted in chow not being ready on time. XO would rant
and rave at me about not doing a good job supervising my people.
By the end of Fast Cruise there had been several actual equipment
failures repaired with onboard parts which SK2 Penny successfully located.
Afterwards, we processed a rash of requisitions for these parts from the
tender's ready reserve. Two parts not available from the tender had to be
obtained from CONUS. Thankfully, there were no Pri-C requisitions.
The day before sea trials, the isolation transformer for the BQR‑2B, our
short-range sonar, and the monitoring-gyro finally arrived. At dinner the
CO thanked me for getting these critical parts. I don't know whether his
comment was an attempt to build up my confidence or whether he was
subconsciously justifying my first-sitting meal status.
After dinner, my bunkmate Lt Rocky Rivers told me that the new sonar
transformer was causing a major problem. After installation, a test indicated
that the sonar bearings were reversed—transposed 180˚. CO was upset—
going to sonar to participate in solving the problem.
Lt Rocky Rivers was a qualified diesel submariner on his first FBM
patrol. He felt the CO didn't have confidence in his capabilities because he
wasn’t a nuke officer (Note 4-6). The transformer passed all the
voltage/resistance tests. It was not a faulty part. There was no explanation
as to why it didn't operate correctly.
Rocky was upset and decided to take charge of his Sonar gang in fixing
the problem The CO was still going over sonar schematics when Rocky
returned to the sonar. I tagged along because I needed to know if we needed
a Pri-C requisition which might require cannibalizing a part from a sister
submarine (Note 4-7).
Rocky told his chief to reverse the power input and output wiring
connections on the transformer. After a few minutes of testing, sonar passed
the bearing test. Rocky’s solution fixed the error. I felt relieved for Rocky
and happy that I wouldn't have to cut a Pri-C requisition. Reaching across
the space between CO and Rocky, I shook Rocky's hand and gave him a big
congratulation. A non-nuke had solved a critical engineering problem!
Underway for First Sea Trials
Next morning, we got underway for three days of sea trials. Only the
sonar and the stabilizing gyro required special testing. It would be three
days of drills, ship evolutions, shooting an exercise torpedo, and launching
a Sabot—a missile tube partially filled with water.
My 0600 Maneuvering Watch was an EOOW-training-watch for
leaving port. Maneuvering Watches put the most qualified person on each
watchstation for getting underway/returning to port.
When I arrived, there was the hustle of people in the AMS, AMR, the
ER, and Maneuvering going through check lists for starting the reactor and
steam plant.
Eng was EOOW, standing behind the RO. He had me take the EOOW
desk and log each order. I was glad to have a task and a seat. Our S5W
reactor (Note 4-8) was critical before 0700. As the reactor coolant's Tave,
average temperature (Note 4-9), crept past the boiling point of water, the
steam-generators came alive.
Eng ordered the MWS to open the main steam stops and warm up the
steam lines in the engineering spaces. This was a time consuming task of
pinning open the steam-traps (Note 4-10) to drain condensing water out of
the cold pipes. It generated lots of noise, heat, and humidity. The heated
pipes expanding in their support brackets and the watertight collars between
compartments generated loud crackling noises. The heat and humidity came
from open steam-traps shooting bellowing clouds of steam from their drain
pipes. It was a real-time Dante’s inferno.
Warming the steam pipes was a critical process. If water passed into the
main turbines and SSTGs turbines, it would damage their blades! It was a
race to get the steam plant warmed up and a SSTG online before the water
level in the steam-generator dropped to a low level. We needed an SSTG
on-line for starting a big feed-pump. It was a self-imposed training limit, as
tender power allowed starting a feed-pump.
Once the steam lines were operational, the MWS warmed up a SSTG
and switched control to the EO. The EO synchronized our SSTG with
tender’s power (Note 4-11) to pick up the electrical load. Eng ordered the
AMR watch to start a feed-pump. After the second SSTG was on line, the
EO picked up all the boat’s electrical loads and disconnected from the
tender’s power. Then, Eng called the tender’s EDO to have them open their
power breaker to us. Once that occurred, he ordered the Electricians to
remove the tender’s power cables and store the puka (Note 4-12) covering
the ER escape trunk.
Andy and Dave were showing Martin the plant’s start-up procedures in
the engineering spaces. Martin and I would be trading stations for the
second sea trials’ Maneuvering Watch.
Eng ordered the MWS to warm up the main engines. After the turbines
were warmed up, the clutch was closed connecting the main turbines to the
propeller shaft. He called the OOD to request permission to spin the shaft as
necessary to keep it on hot standby.
Then, Eng had the LLAMR watch lower the Secondary Propulsion
Motor (SPM), a gigantic AC electric motor with a propeller on a hydraulic
shaft that was lowed below the keel. The SPM was housed in a recess in a
ballast tank when not in use. The SPM was used to push the stern sideways.
The SPM helped steering the boat in tight turning situations coming into
and out of port (Note 4-13). It was most useful for leaving a mooring.
Because of its high speed and 3-bladed propeller, it was known as the
Outboard.
At 0730, XO ordered the crew to man their Maneuvering watchstations
for getting underway. The engineering spaces were ready to go to sea. The
Duty Officer, Lt(jg) Gabe Chadwick, announced on the 1MC that the OOD
was shifting his watch to the Bridge. Gabe and the Captain would be joined
by the new qualified officers who needed to qualify as OOD on our boat.
Gabe’s next announcement was testing the Collision Alarm.
At 0800 we heard the boat’s whistle in the background when the OOD
announced on the 1MC “Shift Colors.” We were underway (Note 4‑14).
Going down the River Clyde to the Irish Sea was a long Maneuvering
Watch. From the combination of Ahead and Backing speed orders on the
7MC, I could only guess that shipping traffic was being dodged in the River
Clyde. We could hear the swish of water through the hull, especially when a
backing order was left on for more than a few seconds.
At 1100, the Maneuvering Watch was secured. Checking the Galley, I
found Billy Joe doing what he loved, feeding the crew. Watch reliefs were
being feed early. I grabbed a quick bite of watch-relief lunch in the
Wardroom and rushed back to Maneuvering for an EOOW-training-watch, I
was on port-and-starboard noon and midwatches (Note 4-5).
Sea Trials Initial Dive
Leaving the Firth of Clyde, we entered the Irish Sea to operate south of
the Isle of Man. XO directed me to observe our initial dive. By tradition, the
A‑Division Officer makes the initial dive after leaving port, a difficult dive
because of the unknown weight of supplies brought onboard. The Diving
Officer would be stigmatized if the boat was too light to submerge or so
heavy that high speed was needed to maintain depth.
When I arrived in Control, Dave was Diving Officer and Lt Rivers was
Conning Officer under-instruction. The CO, at the Conning stand, told the
Conning Officer to submerge the boat.
Lt Rivers announced on the 1MC "Dive! Dive!" Pressed the diving
klaxon twice. "Ugha, Ugha" sounded in all the compartments. The Chief of
the Watch (COW), the BCP operator, reported, “Straight Board” all the
major hull openings were correctly positioned for a safe dive.
Dave ordered, "Open the forward vents, open the aft vents." Vent-
valves at the top of the main ballast tanks (MBTs) allowed air to escape and
water to fill the MBTs to submerge the boat.
Lt Rivers told the Diving Officer, "Make your depth 68 feet," the depth
of water at the keel that permitted periscope observations. Dave
acknowledged the order and waited as the MBTs slowly filled with water.
The sail-planes would have no effect until they were underwater. At this
moment, they were 20 feet in the air. The stern-planes couldn't help much as
any large down angle would tilt the propeller out of the water. We were
stuck on the surface until the MBTs filled and all the air entrapped by the
missile deck bubbled out of its superstructure.
Unlike the one-minute crash dives we practiced in diesel boats in
Submarine School, this was going to be an agonizingly slow dive. For
nuclear submarines, it was a deliberate process with no need to avoid an
attacking aircraft or a high-speed destroyer with blazing guns. The
scenarios that required crash dives in World War II.
After 10 minutes, the missile deck was submerged, but the sail-planes
were not underwater. There was a following sea causing Dave to worry that
Bernoulli suction effects on the flat missile deck was holding us up. He
ordered a 5˚ down-bubble, a down-angle, to the stern-planesman.
Fifteen minutes after opening the vents to submerge, we still were not
completely underwater (Note 4-15). The sleek attack submarine SKIPJACK
was the basic design for our FBM. The addition of the Missile
Compartment with its superstructure resulted in trapping air between the
missile tubes and the flat missile deck. It and the large sail superstructure
made the FBM a hog to dive. Dave flooded water into Negative tank
(Note 4-16) and we started to sink. Our sink rate increased as we passed
below periscope depth. Lt Rivers lowered his scope. We quickly passed 75
feet, then 95 feet. Dave ordered “Full Rise” for both planes and ordered the
COW to blow water from Negative Tank to sea.
Lt Rivers saved the day by ordering an increase in speed that made the
planes more effective. Dave quickly brought the boat back to 68 feet. Lt
Rivers raised the periscope and returned to slow speed.
I was wide eyed. It was not like my Sub School diving-trainers.
Returning to my EOOW-training-watch, I was thankful I wasn’t the Diving
Officer.
Sea Trials Events
That evening, a Battle Station Torpedo drill for the fire control party,
sonar, and Torpedo Room teams was conducted. It was a dry run for firing
the exercise-fish tomorrow. The fire control drill was exactly like we
practiced in the trainer at Sub School.
Just before the midwatch we came to periscope depth and Nav
conducted Type11 star observations. This million dollar periscope was a
critical new system for FBM subs. While SINS could accept
Latitude/Longitude position information from several sources, the Type11
not only provided position data, it was the only source for providing
accurate true north heading data required by the missiles.
After my midwatch in Maneuvering, I took a short nap until Battle
Stations Torpedo. We had returned to the Clyde estuary to rendezvous with
the tug for the torpedo shoot.
 Manning the periscope, CO said he could see Navy people aboard the
tug and the Squadron’s flashing light code from the tug’s search light to
start the exercise.
This event was only for the torpedomen, the fire control party, and
sonar watch team, it wasn’t an all hands battle stations evolution. The tug
would be the target for our electric Mk37 exercise-fish.
The CO was approach officer, with AWeps, Lt Ted Richards, in charge
of the Mk 112 Torpedo Fire Control System (TFCS). XO was supervising
the target plotting party at the quartermaster’s table next to the periscope
stand. We remained at periscope depth at 10 knots going away from the tug.
The CO kept the tug in sight with the periscope. Sonar could not hear the
tug because it was in our stern area, hidden by our screw and machinery
noises.
Once we reached a moderate range from the tug, the CO reversed
course and provided periscope bearings for the fire control party who
coached sonar onto the target. Confident that sonar had the correct target,
CO left periscope depth and went deep to make a sonar approach.
Rushing to the Torpedo Room, I caught the sights and sounds of water
ejecting the torpedo from its tube. There was much less noise than the air
impulse system used by USS REQUIN (SS481) on my midshipman
summer cruise. CO ordered the torpedo gang to fire a green flare from the
signal ejector to alert the tug we had fired our torpedo. After the exercise-
fish completed its run at the tug, a bright orange inflation bag would pop
out of its nose cone to bring it to the surface for retrieval.
The next event was lighting off the giant stabilizing gyro. The CO was
excited. IC Division had installed the new monitoring-gyro that generated
feedback signals to the giant gyro that counter acted roll and pitch effects
from rough seas. Ordering a Full Bell, CO made full rudder turns during
several high speed runs. It almost felt like being back on SKIPJACK. The
big gyro performed magnificently. CO was very happy.
Battle Stations Missile
In the afternoon, there were fire and flooding drills. Then XO slacked
off with no more drills. So, Billy Joe was able to get the evening meal out
on schedule. After chow, the big drill was Battle Stations Missile. XO put
me in the Control Room to observe this spectacle and to pay attention to
hovering operations. For missile launches, the boat had to hover, i.e. remain
at launch depth at zero speed (Note 4-16).
Unlike the torpedo shoot, Battle Stations Missile was a General
Quarters drill. It would be All hands on deck for a Sabot launch in which a
partially filled launch tube of water equal to the weight of a missile
(Note 4‑17) would be ejected.
The Control Room was Rigged-for-Black. Some unnecessary red lights
had been turned off. It was foreboding to work in darkness. It wasn’t only
the dimness. It was the primeval fear of the dark. The dark phobia in the
recesses of our minds.
XO handed the Conning Officer a simulated radio message directing
the boat to launch missiles. The Conning Officer announced on the 1MC
“Battle Stations Missile for Sabot Launch” and then pushed the lever of the
General Alarm, its Bong…Bong…Bong sounds reverberating throughout the
boat. He ordered the Diving Officer to proceed to launch depth.
There was a mad dash of missile techs and engineers running aft to
their battle stations with people coming from fore, aft, and below to fill the
Control Room. Eng rushed to his EOOW battle station and Weps slid down
the stairway rails heading to Missile Control Center (MCC) in middle level
Ops across from the Radio Room. In the Control Room, people were
exchanging watchstations at the BCP, diving stand, and Conn. Sonar
reported holding no contacts.
The CO arrived with his Permission to Fire key, dangling on a chain
around his neck, for the Launch Control Panel at the Conn (Note 4-18). The
Operations Officer was at the little, black safe, next to the TFCS, which
contained the authentication package. XO joined the CO and Ops officer to
simulate verifying the message for the launch order. The Conning Officer,
Lt Rocky Rivers, ordered Maneuvering to make turns for one knot. This
slow speed allowed the Diving Officer, Lt(jg) Andy Brennan, to adjust the
boat’s trim in preparation for hovering motionless at launch depth.
By the time all stations reported “Manned and Ready,” Andy informed
Conn that he was ready to start hovering. Lt Rivers ordered “All Stop.” The
boat had an automatic hovering system. It wasn’t effective and wasn’t used.
Andy used trim tanks and main ballast tanks (MBTs) with his human senses
to keep us stationary at launch depth. Starting with a good trim, Andy
shouldn’t have needed to add or subtract any water to hover. It was not a
realistic possibility.
 Missiles in tubes #16 and then #7 were simulated being launched one
minute apart. We started to slowly sink even though there had been no
actual weight change. Andy pumped water from amidships trim tank to sea
to counter the sinking. The third missile in tube #14 was simulated being
launched. The next launch in one minute would be a very realistic event—
launching the Sabot water in tube #5.
The boat was sinking to the bottom limit of the launch-depth window.
Suddenly, the Sabot was launched! Sabot water sat atop a fiberglass dome
at the bottom of the missile tube. High pressure ejection gas, 4,500 psi
nitrogen (Note 4-19) came out of ball #5 of the 16 spherical balls in lower
level Missile Compartment. The gas pushed the fiberglass dome upward,
ejecting the Sabot water out of the tube. It was a realistic test of our
launching system.
There was a thunderous roar from #5 missile tube as water movement
and gas expansion interactions shook the whole boat violently while the
gas-driven fiberglass dome forced the slug of water upward. When the slug
of water cleared the lip of the missile tube, the boat underwent a series of
violent bouncing and noisy shaking vibrations. There were chaotic cascades
of seawater rapidly filling the empty launch tube.
Additional noise was generated as the BCP operator commenced
blowing water out of #1 missile compensating tank (MCT). The water
blown from the MCT equaled the difference between the Sabot’s water-
weight and the larger weight of seawater that completely filled the empty
launch tube. While blowing the MCT would counteract this additional
weight, it would take a minute to expel this water.
Andy anticipated this problem but he couldn't overcome the time delay
from blowing the MCT water. Knowing he couldn't catch this sink rate with
pumping action, he ordered a 5 second blow of air into the main ballast
tanks. He stopped pumping trim tank water to sea. We were now 20 feet
below the launch depth deep-limit, still sinking.
CO called out a Hold and turned off his Permission to Fire key which
turned off the Permission to Fire light in MCC. Rocky announced a
“Launch Hold” on the 1MC.
Within 60 seconds the descent stopped. Andy ordered the MBT vents
opened to refill the MBTs with seawater. It took time for the seawater to
push the air out of the ballast tanks through the opened vent valves. While
the MBTs were refilling, we rose quickly. Andy flooded water into
Negative tank. We returned to the lower-limit of launch depth. Rocky
announced “Resume Launch Operations.” Two more missiles were
simulated launched. Then Rocky ordered another “Launch Hold.” We shot
past the upper-limit of launch depth. All eyes were on the digital depth
gauge which was clicking off decreasing depths. Andy requested speed,
Rocky ordered 5 knots. Andy had COW blow Negative to the mark, the
original tank level before flooding in water.
Our screw kicked in quickly. With speed, the planes tilted us into a
shallow angle dive as we neared periscope depth. The tension was high as
our depth slowly increased. The Control Room was now quiet as the Sabot
launch noise and shaking of the hull dissipated. We returned to launch
depth.
At the Conn, Rocky ordered “All Stop.”
Andy regained depth control. As our speed approached one knot,
Rocky announced “Resume Launch Operations.” Captain turned his key to
the Permission to Fire position.
The seventh and eighth missiles were launched. Were we too heavy or
too light? The depth gauge clicked down three feet indicating we were
slightly heavy. Andy pumped water out of the trim tanks. The depth
changes slowed as another two missiles were launched. We were still within
our depth window. Two more missiles were launched. The depth gauge
showed us going deep.
Then two more missiles simulated launched. We were still sinking as
our final missiles in tubes #2 and #9 were simulated away. Fifteen
simulated missiles and a Sabot launched in 25 minutes! Rocky ordered
speed and Andy ordered the planesmen to return to patrol depth.
The CO congratulated the crew for conducting an excellent Battle
Stations Missile. Considering a third of the crew had never done it before
and the others hadn't done it for six months, the CO had a right to be
satisfied. The Sabot shot was the only launch most of the crew would ever
conduct. I never heard anyone say they wanted a 16 missile WWIII
strategic launch.
Andy’s performance under such pressure amazed me. It made me
wonder if I ever would have the wherewithal to perform at the level he just
had demonstrated. Maybe it was the novelty of the dark setting and the
hustle and bustle of the action but I was in awe of the evolution’s drama.
 Later, I asked Andy how he acquired the skill for hovering. He
admitted that the first time he did it last patrol, he wasn't very good. He had
three MBT blows with four holds requiring speed to regain depth. Once he
learned to integrate his own internal sense of acceleration, depth gauge
changes, and the time delays of ballast tank blows and venting, it was just a
matter of getting into a mental zone. It was a clear victory of the human
senses being better than the automatic sensors used in the installed hovering
system.
Later we came to periscope depth for Type11, the star tracking
periscope, ops. It provided navigation fixes for SINS. The snorkel mast was
raised for fresh air needed by the HP air compressors to replenish the air
lost in blowing MBTs. Other housekeeping included blowing sanitary tanks
and shooting the GDU, flushing bags of trash out the Garbage Disposal
Unit (Note 4-20).
The GDU was in an aft corner of the Galley, operated by the cooks. It
was their major submarine evolution. They also were on casualty control
parties. I was on scene to observe the initial use of this dangerous piece of
equipment. The GDU was basically a small, vertical torpedo tube. It was 12
inches in diameter and about 20 feet long with 4 feet inside the hull—the
rest inside #3 MBT. Its manually operated doors interlocked at each end and
there was a backup Teflon ball valve in front of the sea-door.
The GDU had the potential to sink the boat if the interlocked-doors
failed. The Auxiliaryman-of-the-Watch served as instructor to qualify
the cooks/messcooks and acted as safety monitor as each shot the GDU. I
took instruction and made a GDU shoot.
After the midwatch, I slept better knowing that all my personnel were
qualified to operate the GDU. Not one of them showed any hesitancy or
anxiety. The seaman messcooks’ confidence from their hands-on training in
Submarine School was quite evident.
Test Depth Dive and Emergency Surface
Major events for the next day trials were the deep dive and emergency
surfacing from test depth. After the loss of USS THRESHER (SSN 593)
(Note 4-21), a shallower depth limit was set while SUBSAFE
modifications/reactor policy were being investigated.
Something serious was afoot as I listened to the console operators in
Maneuvering on my midwatch. No one expressed fear of test depth but
most felt that they would earn their hazardous duty pay. I had the fatalistic
bravado of the young. I didn't give much thought to the potential danger of
a hull or piping failure, so I didn't join into their discussions.
There is no General Quarters for conducting a test depth dive. It is a
watch-section evolution. The time for the deep dive was listed in the Plan of
the Day, so almost all the crew was up and about. Most off-duty people
distributed themselves throughout the boat as augmenters to the normal
watchstations, the rest were in the Crew’s Mess. I toured the boat before the
dive. I had never seen such a collective seriousness in the crew.
Because we would be suddenly emerging on the surface with an
Emergency Surface drill, we needed to check that there were no contacts
nearby. Our sonar would be useless from the noise of air blowing into the
MBTs. Starting at periscope depth, we searched with periscope, sonar, and
radar to see if our area was clear. We had no contacts. We descended to 300
feet to check our trim and to check for leaks. The MBTs vents were opened
and shut to release any entrapped air. After a course change. Sonar checked
our hidden stern area, there were no contacts. We increased speed and
continued to test depth in 100 foot increments making leak checks at each
increment and changing course to check for contacts. The only leaks were
slight weeps from some threaded fittings and valve stems. The trickles
down the periscope scope cylinders increased with each increase in depth.
Finally, we reached test depth.
The CO gave the quiet order to Emergency Surface. On the 1MC.
Martin, the Conning Officer, announced "Emergency Surface, Emergency
Surface, Emergency Surface!" and then he pushed the diving klaxon lever
three times “Ugha, Ugha, Ugha.” Martin ordered a higher speed.
The Diving Officer ordered full rise to both planesmen and told COW
to blow all main ballast tanks. The COW replied "All Vents Shut!" He
pulled the air switches for both the forward and aft group MBTs while
reporting, “Blowing all main ballast!”
The noise from 3,000 psi air rushing into the ballast tanks rose
throughout the boat. The Control Room returned to a static scene as
everyone watched the digital depth gauge. The diving officer ordered a 25
˚up-bubble which initially slowed our acceleration, the large angle put more
drag on the boat. Depth decreased at a stately pace until the screw overcame
the drag of the up-bubble. As our speed increased and the air in the tanks
expanded with decreasing depth, we rose at a faster pace. Rhythmically at
first, then suddenly the digital depth gauge was tripping out numbers so fast
they couldn't be read. You had to use the analogue dial depth gauge to get
depth.
The sensation was like a fast speed elevator ride to the top floor.
Gravity forces were pushing on my body. Suddenly the Conning Officer
ordered secure blowing air to the ballast tanks, a lower speed, and hold the
25˚ up-bubble. Rising rapidly, seconds later we punched through the surface
of the water. With the large up-bubble, we must have pushed the bow tens
of feet into the air. Quickly losing the large up-bubble, we crashed back
down almost horizontally sinking below the surface before bobbing back to
the surface.
It had taken less than two minutes after initiating the Emergency
Surface for us to porpoise out of the water and crash back down below
periscope depth. Martin and the CO raised both periscopes to look for
contacts. What a ride! Almost everyone was grinning from ear to ear. The
test depth miasma hanging over everyone was replaced by total exuberance.
My immediate thought was for the Galley. I hurried down to see what
the crash damage had been done. A smiling Billy Joe assured me that they
didn't break a thing. He had wedged strips of cardboard between the
dishes/cups and the stainless-steel storage bins. He used folded heavy box
cardboard in the empty space between the tops of the cylindrical metal
dish/cup storage containers so they couldn’t fly out when we bounced on
the surface. I was amazed, we didn't break a dish or mug, not even a cup in
the Wardroom pantry.
After submerging, our next evolution was to verify that our critical
radio links worked properly. The floating-wire was one of two antennae we
used to receive very low frequency (VLF) radio-signals while operating
below periscope depth. The wire was a flexible plastic-coated coax cable.
At slow speeds, the end floated on the surface of the water. On patrol we
continuously monitored NCA VLF frequencies for a launch message. To
receive higher frequency radio-signals, we would had to raise a mast-
antenna at periscope depth.
Over 1,000 feet of floating-wire was pushed through a fitting in the
Bridge access trunk to float to the surface behind us. It took an hour for the
radiomen to unspool the coil and stream the wire. The test was a success.
The wire was retrieved and returned to the Missile Compartment.
 The VLF communications buoy was another towed VLF antenna. The
quad-pole antenna in an airtight buoy was housed in a recess in the deck aft
of the missile tubes. It was tethered to a reel of steel cable containing the
signal wire that connected to Radio. It was a Rube Goldberg device. The
hanger recess was covered by a flat horizontal door which slid aft, over the
turtle back, for launching. Once the buoy was released, the tether wire
would freewheel from its spool allowing the buoy to float near the surface.
A hydraulic motor reeled the cable in and maintained it at a set depth.
I went to the Radio Room to watch. As the buoy neared its operating
depth near the surface, the radiomen could hear the Morse code clickety
clack of the broadcast on their speaker. These radio evolutions were just
two of hundreds of operations that were done during our three days of sea
trials. This sea trip was a blur as I was on port-and-starboard EOOW-
training-watches, six hours on-watch and six hours off-watch. By taking the
noon watch I would eat early lunch for watchstanders and fill-in chow at the
evening meal. This allowed me to escape both formal first-sitting meals.
After a fire drill, I decided to spend an hour in the Sonar Room. It was
on the starboard hull of the Control Room, aft the CO's cabin. I peeked into
Sonar twice at the beginning of sea trials but I wanted to watch the
operators in action.
The Sonar Supervisor muttered a low key greeting as the two console
operators concentrated on their tasks. They were listening to several
contacts. One manned the BQR‑2B, short-range sonar, and the other the
BQR‑7, long-range sonar. Sonars were our submarine's eyes, ears, sense of
touch, and smell when we were submerged. A fourth sonarman was the
relief operator. Sonarmen rotated stations every half hour.
Supervisor said the BQR‑2B operator had a bearing and turn-count on
a fishing boat contact, Sierra-9, i.e. Sonar contact #9. Supervisor said it was
the closest contact that might interfere with the boat coming to periscope
depth. The BQR-7 operator was searching for new contacts.
Earlier in the day I had heard pings from our active sonar, the BQS-4. I
asked Supervisor why we had gone active since we were supposed to be
covert at all times. Smiling he said, “It was just a test. The active sonar is
used only on explicit orders from the Captain.” He explained that they were
testing our rescue signal because our rescue buoys would be welded in
place for the patrol. Time had slipped by and I had to get aft for watch.
 I was concerned about the crew’s complaints about the meals,
especially the beef meals. We were issued a variety of frozen meat which
meant that we couldn't have steak all the time even if the budget allowed. I
didn't know if it was the quality of the food or the way the cooks prepared it
that was causing the problem. Billy Joe explained to me that it took some
time before sailors would forget the taste of fresh meat.
After we stationed the Maneuvering Watch to return to Holy Loch, XO
sent me topside to observe the line-handlers. Ted shared a First Lieutenant
trick with me. After folding the cleats into the deck housing and securing
their nuts, his men would drive wooden wedges in the spaces between the
housing and the cleat to prevent rattling if the nuts loosen. Now, they were
using screw drivers as chisels to remove the wooden wedges to flip the
cleats upright for going into port.
 Chapter Five
Leaving for Patrol

O nce alongside the tender, I participated in shutting down the steam

plant. Then, I rushed our dozen requisitions to the Supply Office. With
no major failures, the requisitions were for commissary and consumable
stocks. The duty supply officer assured me that they would fill these items
and our few outstanding requisitions before our next sea trials.
On returning, the missile techs were busy washing down and cleaning
the interior of the Sabot missile tube. It was a big job. The seawater was
pumped out during the return to Holy Loch on the surface. Now they rinsed
the salt residue with fresh water using LP air to blow out the rinse water.
Working through the night, they wiped down the tube, finishing before
muster. Sealed for a day, the missile tube’s air conditioning sucked out the
remaining moisture. A day later the tube was filled with a strategic warshot,
using a complex checklist procedure.
Dan got CO’s approval to skip the next sea trials to return home early.
Our sister sub agreed to let Dan return to CONUS with them.
This was not good news. While I was growing into the supply job, it
was a great comfort to confide in Dan. His Irish humor and Boston College
classics degree always brightened up a room. He knew the names of the
Greek gods and their respective Roman gods. He could steer these gods into
any conversation. Sadly, I couldn’t go to Dan's party at the Argyll Hotel in
Dunoon as I was duty EDO-in-training.
Three days before final sea trials, a commander in the tender’s Supply
Office grabbed me as I made my daily rounds. He was short one 5 gallon
can of gilly—grain alcohol. He wanted me to increase my requisition from
three cans to four so he could keep one. He had to account for each can in
his stock but it was a no limit consumable item for us. There was no
problem in giving him a can. We used gilly for cleaning missile and
navigation parts, I didn’t know it was 190 proof drinkable alcohol. It wasn’t
the denatured alcohol sold in hardware stores and the pink lady used in our
WWII Mk14 steam torpedo.
Normally, drinkable alcohol required strict control but somehow in the
FBM world this accountability slipped through the cracks. The commander
offered me anything that I wanted in return for fixing his accounting
problem. I asked him about the crate of old emergency eggs that needed
surveying, he laughed when I told him my story. He said my three cans of
gilly would be delivered with an exchange of new emergency eggs.
Seeing how easily he agreed to the deal, I didn't hesitate to add that my
crew was complaining about the frozen beef. I knew the tender had big
reefers holding sides of fresh beef for the tender's crew. He laughed again.
Supply officers seemed to laugh a lot. He agreed to provide us half a cow.
He told me my cooks would have to butcher it.
When I told Billy Joe and his gang that I got a side of fresh beef, they
weren’t happy. They didn't like the idea of spending half a day getting all
bloody carving up a side of beef. Chief Jefferson got involved, agreeing to
assist. Thanks to Chief and the tender's meat bandsaw, the butchering job
didn't get botched up. It took just three hours after breakfast.
The carving operation ended up providing enough meat for one meal of
steaks and grinding everything else into two meals of hamburger. Bursting
with pride, I told the XO that I changed today’s lunch meal to fresh rib-eye
steak and fresh Salisbury steak for the first evening meal at sea. XO was
taken aback. He was pleased and wanted to know how I pulled it off. Scared
to tell him about the gilly trade, I said it was a going away present from
Dan.
No good deed goes unpunished. There was a major problem with
cooking the steaks as each bone in ribeye covered a larger area on the grill
than two of our boneless steaks. The lunch cook had to start an hour early to
get the steaks ready. After lunch, I went down to hear the compliments on
the fresh meat. I was aghast as guys were throwing almost whole steaks into
the garbage can. They ate the eye of the rib and nothing from the bone. I
asked “What was wrong with the meat?” They said it tasted funny.
Billy Joe said they had become used to frozen meat. Fresh meat tasted
different, especially fatty meat like ribeye steak. Our fresh cut meat and the
cooks' hard work didn't buy us any slack from the crew's complaints about
the food!
Man-Overboard Drill—First Bridge Training
The second sea trials were just a shorter version of the first without
torpedo and Sabot launches. When we surfaced for Man-Overboard drills, I
was included this time. On the first sea trials, the new officers needed FBM
OOD qualification. Plus, Dave and Andy had to demonstrate ship handling
skills for the new CO—no time for me. Now I would conn our submarine
on the surface (Note 5-1).
It was a great day to be topside. The sun was occasionally breaking
through the overcast spring sky to throw narrow beams of radiance on
distant patches of water. The seas were moderate with 10 to 12 knots of
wind at our backs forming occasional cat’s paws on the surface. The Bridge
was rigged for surface operations. The cockpit became accessible after the
two clam-shells that covered it for submerged operations were folded down
into the sides of the cockpit. Our bow was underwater when we were
underway. The plastic-windshield, about the size of a 1955 MG sport car
windshield was bolted in place to catch the occasional dash of spray that ran
up the face of the sail when we pitched down into a big swell.
Instruments for conning the submarine were sparse, a mic for
1MC/7MC, a Collision alarm, rudder angle indicator, and a gyro repeater
that could be raised above the lip of the sail. The cockpit, about armpit
height, was comfortable for two people, but cramped with any extra. The
lookout wore a sound-powered-phone headset with breastplate microphone.
LCdr Charles Donahue, Nav, was OOD. We had one shiny cube, a 5 gallon
metal coffee Can, which would serve as the Man-Overboard.
When I admitted that I had only read the Williamson Turn procedure,
Nav went over the basics. He emphasized getting DRT bearing and range
updates from the quartermaster (Note 5-2).
Now, I was ready to put it into practice. Nav had me close my eyes,
then he threw the Can over side. The lookout yelled "Man-Overboard Port
Side."
On the 1MC, I gave my orders, “All Stop, Left Full Rudder, Man-
Overboard, Port Side."
We lost sight of the Can in the boat's wake. I waited too long to give
the Ahead Full speed order. Once we reached 60˚ to the left of the original
course, I ordered the rudder switched to Right Full Rudder. Then I called
the quartermaster for the distance and bearing to the Man-Overboard.
We were, 900 yards from the man in the water—the Can.
I ordered a small left rudder and the quartermaster coaxed me to within
100 yards of the Man-Overboard mark. I ordered All Stop as we coasted to
the estimated spot. There were lots of white caps. Trying to find the Can
was difficult.
 A sun beam pierced the clouds, the lookout spotted sunlight glinting off
the bobbing Can on our port beam. It was about 50 yards away! Now the
task was to maneuver upwind of it and let the sub drift down onto the Can.
With guidance from Nav, I got the sub upwind with the Can just 20 yards
away on our starboard beam.
CO came to the Bridge. He had been watching through the periscope.
He said I wasted a lot of time, that the man would have died of hypothermia
—water temperature was about 40˚F. After all my crazy maneuvers, the
Can was now just 20 yards off our bow.
With a big grin, the CO shook his head and said it was close enough to
put a swimmer in the water to pull the dead body aboard. I felt that it wasn’t
too bad for my first attempt. Maneuvering our submarine on the surface in
open water was the biggest thrill I had since reporting aboard.
Fun time on the Bridge was quickly over and I returned to engineering
training. My last watch was spent checking the readings and logs the
enlisted engineering watchstanders took. It gave me hands-on
understanding of tasks that I would be responsible for when I became an
EOOW.
Loading Out for Patrol
We were heading back to Holy Loch. There hadn’t been any equipment
failures so there weren't any sparepart requisitions to submit. We were good
to go for patrol. All we had to do was top off our food provisions, getting as
much fresh milk and lettuce that we could jam into the reefer plus loads of
store bread. And I had to make our patrol movie loadout.
XO wanted to holdback ten Blue-crew movies for patrol. So, we
received 50 new movies. XO reviewed the list, identifying 18 loser movies
he wanted me to trade. Visiting a sister boat, I asked about exchanging
movies. Because they would be trading in their movies, they agreed to trade
for my 18 losers. XO was upset over four movies I brought back. I figured
getting 14 out of 18 movies accepted by XO was a passing mark.
Everyone was making preparations for leaving for patrol. The Plan of
the Day called for a meeting in the Wardroom for navigation planning for
leaving port. Because I had not attended these meetings for the Sea Trials
and was scheduled to be in Maneuvering for Maneuvering Watch, I
assumed I didn’t need to attend.
 Getting the last provisions onboard turned into a hassle because the
Weapons Department secured the missile deck for last minute missile tube
Mylar diaphragm checks (Note 5-3). This resulted in loading provisions
after dark. Our loading crew was treated to a night filled with dazzling
sparks as a tender welding crew welded two iron straps across our forward
and aft emergency rescue buoys. This would prevent an accidental release
of a buoy while we were on patrol (Note 5-4).
Our working crew consisted of two people from each department and
all the supply people. They all complained about working the night before
patrol and missing their last beers in town. As usual, the loading crew
would open up a can of something that appealed to them—pineapple rings
or nuts or dried fruit. Later, Doc told me one of the work crew complained
of a stomach ache. He had eaten too much dried fruit.
Stowing this glut of provisions was a major problem. There wasn't built
in storage for all the food. We stowed crates of potatoes, carrots, cabbage,
and eggs in the bilge areas of the Torpedo Room and Missile Compartment.
Cases of atmospheric/boiler-water chemicals, lube/hydraulic oil, toilet
paper, rags, and were lashed around the missile tubes on all deck levels. To
my amazement there were great quantities of sliced bread. I found out that
the cooks didn’t like to bake and slice bread. This big order let the cooks
put off these chores for a week.
Last mail call arrived. My package of Italian spices from my fiancée
arrived. She asked why I needed so many spices. I chuckled. Maybe my
laughter meant that I was now a real supply officer. She didn't appreciate
that with 125 people onboard, the spices would only be sufficient for one
spaghetti meal.
Leaving Holy Loch as OOD-in-Training
The next morning, I arrived for my EOOW-training Maneuvering
Watch at 0600. Watching me like a hawk, Eng allowed me to bring the
reactor critical and light off the steam plant. The noise and clamor of the
steam-traps hissing and the expansion noise of the steam pipes were music
to my ears. It felt good to be giving orders, receiving reports, and writing in
the engineering log. We had a quick plant light off and had disconnected
electric power cables to the tender when XO ordered the Maneuvering
Watch stationed at 0700 on the 1MC.
 The phone rang, Eng answered it, "XO says the CO wants you to be
OOD-in-training on the Bridge today. Go forward and get to the Bridge."
This was a complete shock. OOD preparations for leaving port are
extensive. I had skipped the Navigation Brief. I hadn't gone over any charts.
I didn't know what the tides were or how to use the tug. I didn't know our
boat's flashing light Morse Code call sign. Hurrying forward, the OOD
tested the Collision Alarm. It was an audible bolt piercing my soul in the
realization I was going into a situation for which I wasn't prepared.
In the Control Room, Nav and XO were huddled over the Chart Table.
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked. They both chuckled. XO said, "Get to
the Bridge and do whatever CO tells you!"
When I reached the access trunk ladder, Nav yelled at me, "You need a
cover and a jacket before going topside!" Racing to my stateroom, I
retrieved my cap. In the Control Room, the messenger gave me a foul-
weather jacket. Clamoring up the ladder, my hand reached the top rung
when I remembered to ask permission to come to the Bridge. The CO
leaned down and cheerfully granted me permission. Giving me a big smile,
"It's a great day to go to sea!" he exclaimed. Unenthusiastically I answered,
"I am sure it is."
One of the quartermasters was lookout and sound-powered-phone-
talker. He was conducting a flashing light exchange with a signalman on the
tender. I asked him if he had a message for us. Smiling, he said they were
exchanging the number of beers they drank last night.
Maneuvering Watch OOD, Lt Rocky Rivers, was engrossed with the
charts. He looked up and smiled at me, "Well, are you up to it?"
Trying to think of a clever way to say, “I’m not up to it and don’t have
the slightest clue as to what I am supposed to do,” I could only mutter, "I
hope you understand, I wasn’t slated for this today and really don’t know
what to do."
All jammed together, the CO overheard my quiet mutterings and
responded, "Yeah, It was my last minute idea to get you up here. I felt that
you were spending too much time in engineering and needed exposure to
real submarine operations. With our infrequent port trips, I felt this was a
good time for you to experience putting out to sea."
Taken aback that the Captain's heard my mutterings, I stuttered a thank
you and expressed my concern that I wasn't prepared for this watch. He told
me that it was a learning experience and not to worry because he wasn't
going to let anything happen to prevent his first command from going on
patrol. I wasn’t sure how to react to his amiable assertion. Tongue-tied, I
didn’t respond.
Searching the skies for signs of expected weather, it was hard to tell
about Holy Loch. The cloud formations looked ominous, like it was going
to rain. At least there wasn't any wind.
Rocky gave me a clear plastic envelope containing a folded-up chart
with the base course to leave the Loch. On the reverse side was a Clyde
estuary chart leading to the Irish Sea. He handed me a plastic check-off
sheet and grease pencil. He had checked off testing the announcing
circuits/alarms. He had completed the UHF/HF radio checks, radar
operating, main engines ready, shift SPM control to helm, manning the
anchor, and single-up lines items. The tender was hoisting away the brow.
He had the masthead light installed, and the running lights rigged out. The
flag staff had been inserted on the sail with the furled-up ensign ready to be
broken with a tug on its string. Unmarked on the list was testing the boat's
whistle.
Rocky asked me if I had checked if the Control Room valve to the
1500 psi to 100 psi air reducer was open when I climbed the ladder before
entering the access trunk. I hadn’t, I offered to check that the valve was
open (Note 5-5). Smiling, he said that he checked it open on his way up. He
told me to warn the line-handlers and test the whistle. Warning the line-
handlers by megaphone, I stepped on the metal pedal to blow a short toot.
A Scottish tug was waiting to escort us down river, a commercial tug
without a compatible Navy radio and lacking a bow-bumper. It was unlike
our American tugs which could push us through a sharp turn. Now we had
to tie them up to us to get help. We would have to use hand-signals and
megaphone for communication (Note 5-6) for them to toss us a line to
provide any power assistance.
The water, fuel, and power lines from the tender had been removed, the
sanitary barge was disconnected yesterday. The phone line was being tossed
to our sister sub.
Ten minutes before our 0730 departure, the check-off sheet only had
Breast out, Take in All Lines, Sound Whistle on leaving the mooring, and
Shift Colors. Breast out, meant our stern had to be angled away from our
sister sub before backing out into the Loch. The bowline was on the capstan
ready to pull our bow hard against the forward rubber fender between our
two submarines to angle our stern out into the Loch.
Rocky said judicious use of the SPM would relieve the strain on the
capstan. He said the sequence of orders to the line-handlers should be to
keep a strain on the bowline and check all other lines while the stern angled
out. Rocky suggested that I have the helm train the SPM to 270˚ to push our
stern to port. Rocky's guidance was low key and welcomed.
I gave megaphone orders to the line-handlers to hold #1-line and check
all other lines to Breast out. I ordered the helm, “SPM on.” It kicked up a
small swirl between the boats and pushed our stern away from our neighbor.
After a few seconds, I ordered “SPM off.”
After the swing of our stern stabilized, I ordered taking in all lines
except for the bow and stern lines. With the bowline pulling in hard and our
stern angled out, we were ready to depart. The Captain was quiet but
attentive during these actions. I caught him giving nods of agreement when
Rocky advised me.
At 30 seconds before departure Rocky told me to warn the line-
handlers that a backing Bell would be ordered. Although I wasn't sure why,
I did as he suggested.
At the exact minute in our sailing orders, I ordered “All Back 1/3.”
Within seconds our propeller vigorously churned the water. The boat took a
significant port list as it reacted to the sudden torque from our screw. Even
with my warning, a few deck people were thrown off balance and fell
down. I discovered later that the throttleman had opened the throttles too
fast causing the violent torque action. Seeing our backward movement, I
used the megaphone “Take in all lines.” As our last line fell in the water, I
pressed the whistle lever for a long whistle blast and announced on the
1MC “Underway, Shift Colors.” We were underway! The lookout unfurled
the flag on the mast atop our sail. The quarterdeck watch on the missile
deck removed and rolled up the flag on its staff that was posted at the edge
of the sail.
With sternway, I ordered “Right 10˚ Rudder” to swing our bow to the
left, giving us a straight shot to leave the Loch. Rocky silently mouthed “All
Stop” and I ordered "All Stop ... Rudder Amidships"
Bagpipes for Departure
 The wailing sounds of bagpipes rose in the air behind us. CO let out,
“What the hell?" Far back on the missile deck, our Scottish doctor, dressed
in full Scottish kilt, was playing his ancestral bagpipes. The CO smiled and
shook his head. What a sendoff.
We were now well clear of our sister sub almost dead in the water. I
ordered “All Ahead 1/3” as the bagpipes continued to wheeze and squeal.
CO asked what my aim point would be. I said I would set a course
between the drydock, ABDF‑7, and the tender’s port mooring buoy which
jutted out into the Loch.
CO counselled me, “When maneuvering between two objects, allow
more room between the bigger object because hitting the smaller object will
cause less damage.”
Nodding in agreement, I replied, “I will give twice as much distance
between the drydock than the tender’s mooring buoy.” Using the bearing-
ring on the gyro repeater, I found a church steeple on the course I needed to
meet the CO’s advice. Seeing no sternway wake on the water, I ordered.
Right 10˚ Rudder” and the church steeple course to leave Holy Loch.
The navigator sent up his recommended course to enter the Clyde
River. Based on his input, at the turning point I gave the helmsman a right
full rudder order and the new course.
Captain took over giving me advice. The turn into the Clyde was a
sharp right and our course would be south by southwest. I had the SPM at
270˚ in case we needed it but the full rudder order got us safely through the
turn. I ordered the SPM to 180˚ to assist stopping in an emergency.
Fortunately, there wasn't much river traffic. When we did encounter
oncoming traffic, the tug would race ahead to act as a blocker, forcing
oncoming vessels to hug their side of the channel, leaving us a wide
passage. The line-handlers were dragging the mooring lines to the Missile
Compartment trunk where others below were stowing them. The bow
capstan was retracted into its stowed position and mooring cleats were
reversed and housed into the deck. Two on the bow and two on the missile
deck were left in place to receive a line from the tug if needed.
Most line-handlers and our Scottish Doctor were sent below. Three
line-handlers and the First Lieutenant were left topside in case we needed
towline assistance from the tug.
The sights of everyday life along the waterfront was a nice contrast to
the last 30 days of gray-paint interiors of the tender and our boat. While
thankful for this last taste of normalcy before patrol, I was sharply focused
on conning our submarine down the Clyde.
Small craft were crossing the river between Dunoon and Gourock. The
Captain reminded me to look for the change in shore background behind a
contact to determine whether it would be a danger to us. We didn’t
encounter a collision course situation.
On another tight turn, the Captain recommended using the SPM to
swing the sub's stern around more quickly. This allowed us to avoid a
fishing boat and line up on our new course without hitting the channel buoy.
The time of tide change at this buoy was the reason we left a half hour
early. The buoy was nearly perpendicular with the water. It was max high
tide.
It was exciting to be on the Bridge and in control. With little river
traffic, it was just a matter of identifying the channel buoys and keeping in
the center of the channel once we got passed the Dunoon and Gourock
crossing. The rain held off, allowing me to soak in the totality of the lower
River Clyde scenery. It was a wonderful treat to see little Scottish villages
and lush countryside instead of the gray interior of the engineering spaces.
Nav sent up the bearing to Little Cumbrae Lighthouse which would
mark our turning point into the Firth of Clyde. Once past the Isle of Arran
we travelled the commercial shipping channel into the Irish Sea. The tug
turned to return and we waved as they slid past us. The Captain had me
order topside secured for dive. The cleats were reversed and the wooden
wedges driven in to keep them from rattling. A few minutes later, the First
Lieutenant reported from the Control Room that all personnel were below
and that topside, the Control Room trunk, and Missile Compartment trunk
had been rigged for dive.
We were alone on patrol. Moments later the quartermaster reported a
radar contact, a contact lying to, i.e. having no speed. This type of contact
usually meant a fishing trawler pulling in nets of fish. However, as it came
into visual range, we saw it was the Soviet AGI ELINT (ELectronic
INTelligence) trawler (Note 5-7). We immediately changed course and
increased speed to minimize the AGI’s opportunity to collect our acoustic
and electronic signatures.
The winds picked up as we left the protection of the Clyde. But it never
rained even though the skies were heavily overcast. My idyllic time on the
Bridge was interrupted by XO’s 1MC announcement “Secure the
Maneuvering Watch. Section Two on deck.” I turned the Conning watch
over to Rocky, informed the CO that I had been relieved, and requested
permission to lay below.
I smiled as I felt the warmth of the Control Room air rush by me as I
climbed into the access trunk. While my first Maneuvering Watch on the
Bridge had started with trepidation, it had ended with a warm feeling of
accomplishment. I had not only started our nuclear reactor as EOOW-in-
training, I had taken our boat safely out of Holy Loch as Conning Officer-
in-training.
We were on Patrol!
 Chapter Six
On Patrol in Single-Loop

I t flashed through my mind, "It’s hard to believe that we only have been on
patrol for one day.”
The CO, XO, and Eng decided to immediately recover information on
the casualty for Adm Rickover’s Nuclear Incident Report (IR) (Note 1-9).
Also, we needed a test plan to open the reactor’s starboard-inlet-valve to
return to two-loop operations.
All the nuke officers and LCdr Walters, casualty midwatch Conning
Officer, gathered in the Wardroom. Eng was fatigued, but began the
casualty review.
After summarizing what he believed happened, Eng asked Lt(jg) David
Laughlin, casualty EOOW, to comment. There were disagreements over the
sequence of events. CO asked for the watch logs and for the casualty watch
operators. Within 10 minutes the logs and sleepy-eyed operators arrived.
There wasn’t much data logged during the casualty. The EOOW’s log was
written after the reactor and steam plants were returned to operation. An
hour of spirited discussions finally resulted in agreement on the cause of the
casualty.
The casualty began during the midwatch routine of switching running
and backup equipment. The ER training-watch turned off the running main
lube oil pump for the main turbines before starting the standby pump.
Normal procedure is to start the backup machine first. This action caused a
loss of lube oil pressure triggering the SPCP’s “Loss of Main Lube Oil”
alarms.
Loss of main lube oil requires the turbines be stopped before their
bearings are damaged. The throttleman at the SPCP was trained to
immediately spin his astern wheel past the fully open position to engage the
manual backup mechanical-linkage to stop the shaft. Because lube oil is
also the throttle control-oil for the turbines, his normal throttle wheel
operations would be useless. On loss of lube oil, he has to engage the
manual mechanical-linkage to send steam to the astern turbines to stop the
turbines (Note 6-1).
The boat had been at Flank speed. The ahead throttles were fully open.
When the alarms sounded and flashed, the EOOW announced on the 2MC,
“Loss of main lube oil…Machinery Watch Supervisor, trip the main turbine
throttle valves!” Tripping the throttle valves at the turbines ensured that
even low pressure oil would not operate the throttles. Normal throttle wheel
operations at the SPCP were no longer controlling the turbines throttles.
The throttleman now had turned his astern wheel past the fully open
position to engage the astern manual mechanical-linkage to stop the
turbines.
Meanwhile, the training-watchstander started the backup lube oil pump
restoring lubrication and control-oil. On the 2MC, the EOOW announced,
“Main lube oil alarm cleared” and ordered “Machinery Watch Supervisor…
Reset the main turbine throttle valves.”
With the astern throttle wheel, the throttleman was mechanically
opening past the control-oil fully open position. He had not returned the
ahead throttle wheel to the stop/shut position. Both the ahead and astern
control-oil throttles where now fully opened for double steam demand! This
double steam demand was reducing the steam going to the SSTGs.
Starved for steam, the SSTGs slowed down, lowering their frequency.
This caused the frequency sensitive fast-speed MCPs to trip off line, i.e.
shut down. Without primary-coolant flow from the MCPS, an automatic
Scram occurred on a Loss of Coolant Flow.
Eng speculated the entire sequence probably took less than 20 seconds.
He said that on arriving in Maneuvering there were no MCPs running in
either loop. The starboard-inlet-valve was in an intermediate condition, not
fully open or shut. The port steam-generator sight glass showed no water in
it. No feedwater pumps were running. The pressurizer level was low.
Eng believed the “Zero level in the pressurizer!” report was a transient
event. He heard the report from the white rat at the Conning-station as he
passed through Ops. It probably was caused by a combination of coolant
thermal contractions and pressure fluctuations from the MCPs shutting
down. The pressure fluctuations shaking the primary-coolant piping
probably caused the starboard-inlet-valve to unseat. After the recovery,
checks on the starboard-inlet-valve light circuits were in specs.
Eng was totally drained. After getting a cup of coffee, he sank into his
chair. The CO was deep in thought. Finally, CO said the summary was a
good start for the IR. Everyone was stunned. With all system safety
features, the system had been defeated by the ER training-watch switching
off the lube oil pump before starting the standby pump (Note 6-2).
 XO brought us back to business, “We need to generate a test plan to
open the starboard-inlet-valve and return to two-loop operation. Has anyone
seen single-loop operations?”
Without thinking, I raised my hand and saw that no one else had.
Looking at me, XO frowned, “Well, where did you experience single-loop
operations?
I answered that during prototype training in Arco, Idaho, there was a
single-loop situation because of a MCP problem. Eng perked up, asking
what precautions were taken. Mentally thanking Eng for rescuing me from
XO, I said they used the same precautions he had just taken. Red Tagging
all the closed loop valve-controls and running a pump to keep the closed
loop temperature high.
Eng then raised the question of why the starboard-inlet-valve didn’t
open when the RO operated it. Lt Webber said he checked the RPM, the
coolant-valves shut faster than they open because they are pneumatically
operated. He guessed that the RO didn’t hold the opening-switch long
enough for the air pressure to buildup to open the valve. Shutting the value
only requires bleeding off pressure and with the weight of the valve, it
would shut faster than it opens. Eng thought for a moment and agreed.
Eng pressed on, he stated that raising the temperature in the closed
starboard-loop higher than the operating port-loop would prevent a cold-
water insertion that could cause a dangerous power excursion (see Reactor
& Primary Coolant System section in Note 1-6). With no pumps running in
the starboard-loop and with both coolant valves shut, we could test the
starboard-inlet-valve. If the starboard-inlet-valve operated correctly, we
could leave it open, open the starboard-outlet-valve, and start pumps in the
starboard loop for two loop operations with no cold water reactivity danger.
Captain stirred in his seat and disagreed. He believed it would be
prudent to shut down the reactor before opening both valves. Eng was too
tired to argue. Saying he would test opening the starboard-inlet-valve and if
it opened, he would shut the starboard-inlet-valve. Then, he would Scram
the reactor to bring the starboard-loop back on line. He would do it on the
midwatch to give his operators some rest—everyone had been up since
midnight. And he had to raise the temperature in the starboard loop.
Clearing his throat, Weps reminded CO that being at current speed until
midnight required a lower entry point into our patrol box. Six of our
missiles wouldn’t be in range of their targets because the new entry point
was too far south for the six missiles to reach their targets. Weps continued,
after we were in our patrol box at patrol speed, every hour at single-loop
speed instead of two loop Flank speed meant extra hours of no coverage for
these missiles. He recommended we return to two loop ops and Flank speed
right away.
I was wide eyed, Weps had done his homework. While we nukes had
been worrying about our reactor problems, Weps worried about
accomplishing our mission.
CO was caught between the mission’s weapon requirements and
reactor safety. CO didn’t hesitate, he stated that the watchstanders were in
their bunks, so they would be rested. The only question was when would
the starboard loop be at operating temperature. Eng said we could test the
starboard-inlet-valve on the noon watch. If successful we could Scram the
reactor and regain two loop operations without needing the diesel engine.
CO pounded the table with his fist saying “Good, let’s do it.”
Weps gained a better entry point to our assigned patrol box. Eng
assigned me port and starboard EOOW-training-watches starting with the
upcoming midwatch. This would give me interactions with all three
EOOWs and watch-sections. He told me to observe the return to two-loop
operations. I headed to my rack for an hour of sleep.
Up before noon. I checked in with the Galley. Billy Joe complained he
needed a GDU shoot. I told him it would happen on the midwatch after we
entered our patrol box. After slowing, we would do Type11 operations as
we needed a SINS update (Note 6-3).
At the formal sitting for lunch, Eng was absent. He probably was
writing up the test plan for the starboard-inlet-valve test and reactor shut
down. As the CO sat down, the Wardroom clock struck noon. The
quartermaster of the watch was at the doorway, he knocked and stepped
forward.
“Captain, the Officer of the Deck sends his respects and reports the
hour of Twelve O’clock. Chronometers have been wound and compared.
This is our noon position.” He handed the CO a form giving the boat’s
current position, course, and speed. This was a daily time-honored ritual
that fulfilled a formal requirement since the days of wooden ships—
navigators informing their captain of the ship’s position at noon each day
the vessel was underway. It was a nice break in routine to see it performed
on our high technology man-of-war.
 Returning to Two-Loop Operations
After lunch I checked in with Gabe in Maneuvering. He said that the
estimate for starboard-loop temperature would be reached at 1430. He was
going to wake the Eng at 1400. I needed some rack time and put in a
wakeup call for 1400.
Arriving back in Maneuvering after 1400, Eng and Gabe were in
discussion about the test plan. Martin had watch on the Conn so I was the
only training-officer observing the test. There were extra enlisted
watchstanders. Eng told me that they would do the starboard-inlet-valve test
first.
Gabe ordered the RO to secure the running MCP in the starboard-loop.
Then he ordered the RO to open the starboard-inlet-valve and hold the
switch over until the valve open light appeared on the RPCP. Eng had a
stopwatch and clicked it on when the RO turned the switch to open. The
shut light extinguished after he turned the switch. When the open light
appeared, Eng clicked his stopwatch, 10-seconds. Gabe muttered,
“Success.” Then Gabe ordered the RO to shut the starboard-inlet-valve. RO
turned the switch to the shut position and Eng started his stopwatch as the
open light extinguished. When the closed light appeared, Eng clicked his
stopwatch, saying 7-seconds. Martin’s valve explanation was verified.
Eng used the 7MC to inform Conn that the starboard-inlet-valve test
was successful and he was ready to commence returning to two loop
operations with a reactor Scram once the Conn ordered a Rig for Reduced
Electrical and slowed to a 1/3 Bell.
On the 1MC, Conn announced, “Rig for Reduced Electrical.” Then the
throttleman received a speed order for a 1/3 Bell. Then After Rig for
Reduced Electrical had been completed, Gabe told Conn he would Scram
the reactor and return to two loop operations.
On the 2 MC, Gabe deadpanned the words, "Commencing a manual
Scram" to his watchstanders. He twisted the Scram switch sending rods to
the bottom of the reactor. The Scram alarm flashed its blinking red light and
its siren sounded. Gabe silenced the audio alarm and directed ULAMR to
initiate a Fast-Scram-Recovery.
Gabe ordered the RO to open the starboard inlet and outlet valves.
Once they were open, he had the RO start two MCPs in slow speed. Now,
we had the starboard loop back on line. Eng was intently watching the Tave
and power level meters.
 After signing the Fast-Scram-Recovery check-off sheet, Gabe ordered
the RO to withdraw the control rods and bring the reactor critical. We had
been shut down for only a few minutes. We quickly returned to self-
sustaining criticality—producing as many slow neutrons as we were losing.
Minutes later, we started adding heat to the primary-coolant. RO switched
from the intermediate meter to the power-level meter. Its needle flickered at
its lower end. The reactor was adding substantial heat.
Design safety dictated the speed of rod withdrawal. Slow speed control
rod operations were needed near the point of power production because
rapidly adding reactivity could lead to a power surge. The rods only had one
speed—the maximum speed that provided a safe margin for operations at
maximum power.
Tave was below its lower-limit, but was starting to rise. RO continued
to withdraw the control rods. He would stop once Tave was back in its
normal band. Shortly thereafter we gained normal Tave.
We had returned to normal two-loop reactor operations and full
propulsion capability! Conn ordered All Ahead 2/3, 10 knots. Gabe had the
RO shift MCPs to fast-speed in anticipation of a Flank Bell.
In a sequential fashion, Conn progressed to Flank speed.
Subconsciously, operating with only one primary loop created tensions for
everyone. By regaining full redundancy, there was a palpable sense of
relief. While most of the forward-crew didn't fully understand the problem,
they knew it was a serious engineering problem. The whole crew was
relieved by returning to Flank speed.
First EOOW-training-watch on Patrol
Checking at Conn before my midwatch, I saw we were still at deep
depth at Flank speed. SWO said we would enter our patrol box at the stroke
of midnight (Note 6-4). By crossing an imaginary line in the ocean, we
would turn our submarine into an on station strategic threat to the Soviet
Union. SWO said 14 of our missiles would be in range of their assigned
targets. We had to go further north to cover the last two targets. Radiomen
were bringing the floating-wire to the Control Room. Once we were at
patrol speed, they would start streaming it. SWO told me that at midnight
we would come to periscope depth, raise the VLF mast for NCA comms,
stream the wire, take Type11 star fixes, shoot the GDU and blow sanitary
tanks.
 SWO explained our patrol orders. Targets were assigned by the Joint
Strategic Targeting Planning Staff (JSTPS) at the Strategic Air Command
(SAC) headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska, through the Single Integrated
Operational Plan (SIOP).
I asked why the Air Force was involved. SWO said JSTPS was a joint
command but the Air Force controlled the other two prongs of the strategic
nuclear Triad. Ground based nuclear ballistic missiles and manned B-52
nuclear bombers were in existence before Polaris. The JSTPS used the
SIOP to coordinate the arrival times for each bomb on target to prevent
blast interference affecting subsequent deliveries. I was impressed that we
had more than one delivery system for each high value target.
LCdr Walters further explained that our firing orders came from the
President through the National Command Authority (NCA), not the Air
Force. Even regaining Flank speed didn’t get us as far north as the original
ops plan. A plan that CO/XO/Weps/AWeps/Nav/Ops received at a meeting
in the Pentagon two weeks before leaving New London. Our last two
missiles wouldn’t reach their targets until we got further north in our patrol
box.
Once on Alert, our mission was to continually listen to a VLF, Very
Low Frequency, NCA radio broadcast. This limited us to low speeds so the
end-section of the floating-wire antenna remained on the surface to feed our
radios. The complexity of our patrol mission and tactics indicated how
much I needed to learn beyond nuclear power plant operations.
Lower Level Engine Room Watch
Arriving in Maneuvering, the EOOW, Lt(jg) Andy Brennan, M-
Division officer, had already relieved Dave. Lt. Martin Webber was going
off an EOOW-training-watch. He was on a modified port and starboard
watch cycle. Depending on his Ops work load, he was doing EOOW-
training-watches that fit into his work schedule. While training for EOOW,
he was Conning Officer on the noon watch. His schedule allowed him a
regular sleep cycle. Sleeping during the midwatch and skipping breakfast,
he had no drills to interrupt his seven hours of sleep. He had the same sleep
cycle as the CO, XO, Nav, AWeps, our Doctor, Rocky Rivers and Eng.
Andy was a squared away officer. His intellect was as good as his
superman appearance. Andy said that I needed to understand the duties of
each engineering watchstander. He sent me off to learn the duties of the
lower-level ER (LLER) Watch from Machinist Mate 3rd class Adar MM3.
This was the same procedure used at prototype reactor training.
In the ULER, everyone was being extra careful not to duplicate what
had occurred just 24 hours ago. It was midnight as we slowed to come to
periscope depth. We were now in our patrol area On Alert Status. The
missile system was at 2SQ, ready to launch missiles on 15 minutes notice.
Andy ordered his RO to switch the MCPs to slow-speed. We wouldn’t need
fast-speed MCPs for the next 60 days.
In the LLER, Adar was lighting off one of the three engineering air
conditioner units. Two were operating with one of them to be shut down
after he finished bringing the new unit online. I introduced myself, asking
to help light off the new unit.
A small, wiry lad with a head of black, short tight curls, Adar
welcomed me with a big smile. He was from the upper east side of New
York City.
In a no nonsense manner, he told me which seawater cooling valves
and Freon inlet and outlet valves to open. He let me flip the breaker on their
distribution panel to start the unit. We checked that it was operating
properly. Then, he had me reverse the order of operations shutting down the
running unit.
LLER was a special place—noisy and cool. With the main turbines’
whine, the reduction gears’ clashing, and the shaft thrust bearing’s thumps,
it was a cacophony of noise. It was cool because the cold North Atlantic
water was transferred directly to LLER by the bare metal of big seawater
condenser’s 18 inch inlet pipes and steel bilges. The result was a
comfortable little microclimate in the hot engine room.
The focal point of the LLER was the grated pathway between the two
main condensers where spent hot steam from the engines and the SSTGs
blew pass tubes of cold seawater inside the condenser. Condensed steam
became hot water that was returned to the steam-generators by the feed-
pumps via the feed-water surge tanks.
The main task of the LLER watchstander was to maintain proper
vacuum in the condensers. The cold cooling water inside the condenser
removed heat from the steam turning it into water, albeit hot water. This
created a vacuum, the attracting force, that pulled the spent steam from the
turbines to ensure efficient operation.
 Another of the LLER watchstander's tasks was to creep aft into the
shaft alley to check for oil leaks from the reduction gears and the thrust
bearing. While there, he would go further back to check on water leakage
from the wood seal where the shaft went through the center of the pressure
hull's tapered stern.
Laying on the shaft alley grates and looking up at the main shaft going
around and around, it was whimsical to think about the fissions in the
reactor. It was a surrealistic experience, daydreaming about slow neutrons
breaking apart uranium atoms in the fuel cells that heated the primary-
coolant in the reactor vessel that was moved by the MCPs into the steam-
generators through tubes that heated the feedwater hot enough to make
steam that traveled through pipes and throttle valves to push against the
blades of the turbines that made the turbine shafts rotate at high speed
which the reduction gears slowed down to turn the propeller shaft that
twisted the screw around and around to push our submarine quietly through
the water.
Setting up the Slot machine
After watch, Andy and I were the last Wardroom breakfast eaters. Don
and XO were in a discussion over coffee. Because I was in port-and-
starboard watches, I would have the noon watch. I needed to get some sack
time but first I had to check with Billy Joe.
Because of the casualty, we hadn’t installed the slot machine in the
Crew’s Mess hall. It was still chained to a frame in the Supply Office. It
was to be installed in a locker. I needed to see if Billy Joe was ready for its
installation.
The breakfast cook, CS3 Patrick O'Brien, and his messcook were just
cleaning up from breakfast. Billy Joe was breaking out canned goods for his
lunch meal. Asking if he had any problems, he just smiled, saying
everything was fine. Then, he caught himself. Frowning, he said, "When are
we going to shoot the GDU again? We only got rid of the wet-garbage last
night and we’ve still got lots of trash to shoot.”
I assured him that we were now on patrol routine and would be going
to periscope depth every night to do Type11 operations and housekeeping. I
asked him if he had a problem letting the Rec Committee install the slot
machine in a locker on the aft bulkhead. He agreed to have one emptied
within an hour.
 XO still didn't have a stateroom door. During Maneuvering Watch,
someone had unhinged his door and hidden it. Later, XO announced on the
1MC that removing his door was cool but the funny stunt was over. He
wanted his door back, no questions asked. I wondered why we needed a slot
machine to entertain the crew. They were wholly capable of entertaining
themselves.
"Have you seen my door?" XO angrily asked as I stood in his empty
doorway. Shaking my head No, hastily I explained that I had a place for the
slot machine in the Crew’s Mess and asked if we should install it? XO
concurred and scribbled a Note for his POD. The slot machine now had
official approval. I suggested that he add that it was for only off-watch
personnel. It would be locked up during meal hours and other Mess Hall
events. He nodded in agreement as he added it to his note. I quickly backed
out of XO's stateroom and into my stateroom which was across from his.
Five hours later, the messenger woke me for my noon watch. No one
else was in the stateroom, so I turned on the boat's entertainment speaker. It
was playing Petula Clark's Downtown on a continuous loop. It started as a
once or twice a day rendition in upkeep, now it played continuously on one
of the two entertainment channels. I shaved, using our stainless-steel foldup
sink and put on my poopy suit and boondockers.
Leaving my stateroom, I saw a sheet-curtain was strung across XO's
door opening. Smiling to myself, I went to the Ship's Office in the Missile
Compartment to check my in-basket for a POD. Instead of finding just a
POD in my in-basket, I found a thick stack of crinkly brownish paper.
Evidently XO finished reviewing all the official mail that was dumped on
the boat just before we left the USS HUNLEY.
The Ship's Office had a ditto machine and a thermal paper copier. The
POD was printed on the ditto machine giving each purple printed copy the
unmistakable, pungent smell of formaldehyde. When the boat received a
new Navy instruction or correspondence that XO decided was an action
item for a specific officer or just general information for all officers, he
would have the yeoman make thermal copies and place a copy in the
appropriate in-basket.
Besides being yucky in appearance, the crinkly nature of the brown
copy occupied over five times the space of a flat sheet of paper. It was
difficult to read and the rustling noise handling a stack of copies could wake
a bunkmate out of a sound sleep.
 I swung down to the Supply Office to check with SK2 Penny on the
status of any spareparts problems. Looking up from studying his boat's
qualification notebook, as Downtown poured out of the overhead speaker,
Penny reported that no one had asked for parts or consumables. I asked him
what his major tasks were for the day. He said once he finished maintenance
on the two movie projectors, he was planning to go from compartment to
compartment to find each supply locker and ensure that his keys would
open each one. I was impressed with his diligence.
Going up and forward, I found the Crew’s Mess half full of oncoming
watchstanders eating lunch. Billy Joe was slapping slices of ham onto each
sailor's stainless-steel tray and the messcook was dishing out mashed
potatoes with an ice cream scoop. The sailors helped themselves to all the
gravy, carrots and peas, sweet potatoes, and salad that they wanted. I found
CS2 Brooks, with his perpetual scowl, unpacking frozen cod for the
evening’s fish meal.
I told Billy Joe that we had XO’s permission to install the slot machine
and I would have someone from the Rec Committee install it after the
evening meal. I told him Penny would provide a lock and key for the duty
cook to lock it up for meals, church services, meetings, and drills. Billy Joe
nodded, saying that he would have the middle locker cleaned out right
away.
I asked if his meal breakout notebook was handy. He stopped serving,
opened a drawer, and handed it to me. His record keeping was still as neat
as during upkeep. For each daily meal the book recorded the number of
cans, boxes of meat, pounds of butter, sugar, flour, and fresh/frozen
vegetables that had been used. I was completely satisfied that this would
simplify my accounting task. I made a Note in my green memo book to
make an audit at our halfway mark—45 days of deployment.
Then I went to the Wardroom for watchstanders' lunch and to check in
with Chief. He told me XO ordered him and an auxiliaryman to rig up a
curtain to replace his missing door. He used one of the CO’s blue, cotton
sheets. Other officers didn’t have a top sheet, only a gray blanket. He folded
over a flap on the sheet to match the height of the doorway and sewed it up.
Then, the auxiliaryman drilled holes in the door jam, slipped a wire through
the flap in the bedsheet, and used a screw to attach each end to the door
jamb. Presto! XO had an instant door, even if wasn't sound proof. The irony
of the curtain installation was that it was probably guys from A‑Division
who had removed and hidden his door.
Wardroom lunch for watchstanders was not a formal-sitting as was the
CO’s meal. Instead of selecting from individual platters/bowls of food, each
officer chose his food from a small menu inserted in a small brass, slotted
dolphin on the table. Telling a steward which food he wanted, the steward
returned with a plate of food. This suited me perfectly. Not having the CO
and XO at the table lent for more carefree conversations.
Sitting next to Gabe, the oncoming EOOW, I told him about my
midwatch training with an individual watchstander. He agreed to continue
that routine. Eating at my normal frantic Italian pace and skipping dessert, I
finished the meal before the others.
Checking with Rocky at the Conn, I gave him the lunch menu. He said
he was skipping lunches for patrol to keep his weight down. This from an
Oklahoma cowboy who had a slim, rock hard physique. It struck a chord
with me and I resolved to do the same. I had to lose some pounds.
I did the normal EOOW walk through the engineering spaces, greeting
each watchstander and giving each log sheet a once over. Using Andy’s
technique, I asked each watchstander if there were problems with any
machine. Of course, there weren't any.
In Maneuvering I found Gabe had already relieved Andy. Gabe was the
ideal Adm Rickover nuclear officer—a bachelor who lived and breathed
nuclear engineering. He was a crewcut, redhead on a slender five foot, ten
inch frame with a hawkish face outlined with two big wide ears. I'm sure in
his younger days in Missouri, where he grew up, he was a freckled-faced,
fun loving Tom Sawyer. Now, he was a stern, no nonsense nuke. He did
everything by the book— Rickover’s RPM book.
Gabe sent me to MWS Chief Ramsey, an Electrician Mate (EMC), to
tell him I had been assigned to the upper level ER (ULER) watch. Chief
Ramsey told me to check in with Kasbar MM2.
Kasbar was at the lube oil purifier. A fair haired lad from the Nebraska
prairies, he was proud of taking and passing the 2nd class rating Machinist
Mate promotion exam during the last in port.
He showed me the valves and sequence for drawing lubricating oil
from the reduction gear oil sump into the purifier. He showed me the valves
for purifying the main turbine and the SSTGs lubricating oil. Then he
showed me how to maintain the ULER log sheet.
 Lighting-Off the Evaporator
Chief Ramsey told Kasbar to light off the evap, evaporator, and make
water for the feedwater storage tank. The water that would end up in the
steam-generators (Note 6-5). The evap operates on the same principle as a
whiskey still except it makes fresh water instead of alcohol. All steam ships
use pure water in their boilers (Note 6-6). The evap was in the forward port
corner of the ULER.
Successfully operating an evap is like boiling spaghetti in a covered
pot. As the pot heats up, steam collects on the inside of the lid and
condenses into pure water droplets. If the heat isn't turned down, the water
boils vigorously and large steam bubbles entrap foam from the cooking
spaghetti. The inside of the lid is no longer just pure water droplets. Foam
residue is mixed in with the water droplets. Keeping foam off the lid is the
art in running an evaporator.
Kasbar started lighting off the evap. He drained it and opened an
inspection plate. I asked what he was looking for when he stuck his
flashlight inside. I had walked into his favorite sea story.
He claimed that on last patrol’s first sea-trials, he found little fish
skeletons inside the evap. Making an incredulous face, I asked how that was
possible, because there was a strainer on the seawater intake pipe. He said
fish eggs had been sucked through the coarse seaweed strainer just as the
evap was being shut down. They hatched in the inlet water pipe. After the
evap cooled to compartment temperature, they swam into the boiler pot and
grew cannibalistically. My face went blank. I could never tell when a
sincere, well-spoken sailor was pulling my leg. I mean, they had so much
more experience than I did.
Kasbar showed me how to fill the evap with seawater to his mark on
the sight glass—below the half full level. Then, he opened the outlet
condensate water valve and the steam inlet valve. A rumbling noise started
inside as the cold seawater burst the incoming steam bubbles. He told me to
throttle down the steam flow when the water temperature approached
200˚F.
He got the pressure in the boat from Maneuvering and showed me the
brass plate on the evap with a curve of seawater boiling temperatures
plotted against pressure and he added two degrees to run the evap. Kasbar
opened the seawater cooling water to condense the steam, showing me the
gauge to monitor the cooling water outlet temperature. He explained that if
the cooling water temperature gets too high, we would be pushing steam
into the water storage tank. Because the cooling seawater drained to the
bilge, he alerted LLER to watch his bilge by sound-powered-phone.
Kasbar left me in charge as he went off to log lube oil flows and
temperatures. On returning, he cracked opened the seawater flow into the
evap and cracked open the evap drain valve to the bilge. This continuously
added seawater to the evap while draining evap brine. His trick was to
prevent a buildup of concentrated salt brine. This minimized the need to
keep increasing steam heat to the evap as the brine became concentrated.
Adding more steam to boil the brine increased the risk of salt carryover into
the fresh water.
One problem with Kasbar’s technique was accounting for depth
changes which required shutting the seawater intake and drain valves
because of loss of equilibrium among all his cooling, draining, and brine
level variables. Another problem was constantly draining brine to the bilge
which raised the temperature in the ER and required frequent bilge
pumping.
During startup, we sent the potentially salted water forward to the
crew’s potable water tank. Humans can handle slightly salty water better
than steam-generators and the reactor pipes. Plus, pure water tastes flat.
We knew the evap reached equilibrium when the brine water
temperature and the cooling water outlet-temperature remained constant
and the sight-glass brine level remained at his mark.
Kasbar drew a water sample and used a conductivity probe to verify
there was no salt carryover. Then he reset a solenoid conductivity output
valve that would shift the evap output to the bilge if the output was salty.
He told EOOW the evap was ready to send water to the feedwater storage
tanks. On the 2MC, EOOW told LLER to line up to fill the feedwater
storage tank. Within a minute, Kasbar received the LLER’s
acknowledgement that the storage tank was lined up. Kasbar opened the
feedwater tank supply valve and shut the valve sending water forward to a
crew’s potable water tank.
Before I knew it, the watch was over. Time flies when you are busy.
After a quick dinner, I made rounds to the Supply Office and the Galley.
SK2 Penny had given Billy Joe a lock for the cabinet. In the Mess Hall,
EN2 Bankership was installing the slot machine. Finally, I could hit the
sack. It seemed like only minutes later that the Control Room messenger
was waking me for my midwatch.
 Chapter Seven
Normal Patrol Routine

A fter the hectic days of reactor casualty and coolant-loop recovery, we

settled into patrol routine. SWO told me our last two missiles were in
range of their targets. I felt burned out from the casualty and recovery
efforts, standing port-and-starboard watches, and handling supply duties.
Because of my watch schedule, XO excused me from nightly department
heads Eight O’clock Report meetings. This was a big boost for my sleep
time.
Most officers watched nightly movies and were still reading The
Group. I didn't have spare time for either. Listening to Petula Clark's
Downtown was my escape as I read the SSORM or did supply work.
Captain didn't feel he had spare time as he didn’t watch movies or join the
book reading.
Initial training was on the enlisted watchstations. I had a double
rotation of ER, AMR, AMS, and ELT watches. The AMR watches were not
as exciting as ER watches.
ULAMR watchstander was an Electronic Technician (ET). His major
duty was to monitor the reactor control cabinets and log readings. During a
reactor Scram he monitored the reactor protection circuits. After the Scram,
he did the reactivity calculations for Fast-Scram-Recovery and made a few
adjustments. ULAMR was lined with giant electric breaker cabinets. There
was a head with shower in the aft port corner. The shower served as an
emergency decontamination station. There was also a double spouted
fountain for emergency eye washing.
ULAMS had two big AC/DC motor-generators linking the battery to
the AC Vital Bus to feed all reactor systems, except fast-speed MCPs,
lighting, power for missile and Nav systems including missile and Nav 400
cycle sets, electric controls and hydraulic systems for ship control e.g.,
sonar/radio, gyrocompass, masts, planes, rudder, MBT vent/blow valves,
and trim & drain system. LLAMR contained the diesel engine, feed-pumps,
SPM, and test points for boiler-water and reactor primary-coolant. It was
the Pig’s test station.
ULAMR watch consisted of logging readings, monitoring the AC/DC
motor-generators, and checking breakers. One neat thing was the giant
spark occurring on opening/closing a big breaker. The watch pulled out a
MCP breaker showing me the pitted surfaces of the sacrificial carbon-
arcing pads that absorbed the sparking. These pads prolonged the life of the
knife & sleeve contacts that carried the steady state current.
The lower level AMR (LLAMR) watchstander was an Engineman
(EN) who maintained the diesel engine. One of the LLAMR watch duties
was to manually switch on/off the large feedwater pumps.
On this midwatch, we turned on the #2 feedwater pump and shut down
the #3 feedwater pump. It was awesome to watch this massive piece of
machinery come to life. The motor and pump were stacked vertically on big
shock mounts. The motor’s starting torque caused the whole assembly to
jerk at an angle. A sharp surge of water rocked it on its shock mounts. You
could see the assembly shake back and forth as it dramatically roared to
life. Soon, it settled down into a gigantic abstract-art metal statute of
humming vibrations. Shutting the #3 pump was the opposite. The loud,
steady hum of the running pump slowly wound down to a nearly inaudible
sound and then, with just a little shudder, this massive machine stopped.
The Engineering Lab Technician’s (ELT) Test Station was in the
LLAMR forward, starboard corner. Water samples could be taken from the
steam-generators and reactor. The ELT was a senior MM first class petty
officer. He was an on call watchstander, i.e. not in a watch-section. Testing
water samples could detect subtle changes in the reactor or steam-
generators which the ELT called boilers. His record keeping was the
starting point for Eng and Rickover's inspection teams to discover any
primary/secondary anomalies.
During my ELT watch at the Test Station, we drew boiler water
samples to determine salt content. The sample results determined the
amount of chemicals required to put in the boiler at the Injection Station.
Chemicals inhibited the accumulation of calcium deposits on the boiler
tubes/walls. These chemicals caused the scaling to flake off which would be
blown to sea.
Concentrations of salt in the cracks of pipe welds can cause failure of
the primary-coolant tubes. Boiler tube coolant leaks would put radioactive
coolant into the boiler. Boiler water testing, chemical injections, and boiler
blowdowns were critical for maintaining the steam-generators. Boiler water
testing was an intricate procedure. It was a drop-by-drop titration which
changed the clear sample into a purple color. This was the reason two
porotype trainees were doing conductivity experiments on a new way to test
boiler water during our free time in Idaho (Note 7-1) prototype.
On my second watch at the Test Station, we took a sample of primary-
coolant that was split into two parts. One sample was used to measure pH
level, a measure of acidity/alkalinity level. The pH level was maintained in
a tight range. The ELT analyzed the second sample for radioactivity in the
Pig—a spectrograph analyzer. This thick walled, domed lead cylinder was
called the Pig because of its squat shape and the two curly wire ears coming
out its top. The ELT plotted the analyzer's outputs on graph paper to obtain
the energy spectrum of the sample.
Testing results usually indicated radioactivity from metal wear particles
from MCPs. A rapid increase in levels of wear particles could forecast a
pump failure. Another important reason was to detect fuel cell leakage. Our
sample showed a normal spectrum of minutiae wear particles. The primary
plant had a resin demineralizer in the reactor compartment to remove
impurities but we wanted to know the source of each impurity before filter
removal.
Maintaining primary-coolant in a narrow pH range minimized
stainless-steel corrosion. Rickover's engineers found a novel method to
maintain pH with chemical injection. Reactor radiation caused the reaction
to eradicate oxygen and maintain pH (Note 7-2).
Atmosphere Control System
The Auxiliary Machinery Space (AMS) was located in the aft, upper
level Missile Compartment, just before entering the Tunnel. It was a
fascinating space. An old fashion engineering watch, keeping logs and
operating equipment, albeit high technology machines. AMS contained two
air conditioners, O₂ generator, CO₂ scrubbers, CO/H₂ burners, electrostatic
precipitators, and an ultrasonic cleaning sink, other machines were two 400
cycle motor-generators, HP air compressor, and the electric still.
Because a person uses two pounds of oxygen per day and exhales
similar amounts of CO₂ there was a critical requirement to replenish and
refresh the atmosphere. Without adding oxygen and removing CO₂ and
toxic gases, we would need to exchange our old air with outside fresh air
just as WWII diesel/battery submarines had to do each night.
The AMS watchstanders for the atmospheric equipment were non-nuke
electricians and enginemen from A‑Division. The O₂ generator converted
pure water into oxygen and hydrogen by electrolysis. Leaks of hydrogen or
oxygen could result in an explosion or fire (Note 7-3). Generating both
gases in the O₂ generator was an inherent danger. The O₂ generator caused
more injuries than any other machine on board.
Generated oxygen was bled into the boat at a pipe outlet high in the
Torpedo Room and from a pipe outlet just above the ER-WTD below the
surge-tanks. Hydrogen gas byproduct was cleverly eliminated by
compressing it and pumping it overboard. The O₂ generator was so
unreliable that bottles of oxygen were stored onboard.
A cigarette smoking ER watchstander would know when the oxygen
level was too high in the boat. Going through the ER-WTD with a lighted
cigarette in his mouth, the cigarette would rapidly burn down to his lips
before he got through the door.
Our CO₂ and cigarette-smoke were significant atmospheric
contaminants. The scrubbers forced air through Amine spray that absorbed
CO₂ (Note 7-4). WWII lithium hydroxide canisters were provided for
emergency CO₂ scavenging. Incomplete burning from cigarette-smoke and
Galley cooking generated carbon monoxide (CO). It was deadly at high
levels. Methane and sulfur dioxide gases from body functions and sanitary
tank vents, hydrogen from charging the battery, and ozone (O₃) from
electrical equipment sparking and burn-paper-stylus sparking on sonar's
BTRs, were problems. These gases were removed by CO/H₂ burners
producing CO₂, H₂O and other products. The hot gases from the burner,
chilled by water cooling, were filtered by electrostatic precipitators to
remove particulate matter. Leftover gases and cigarette smoke were
absorbed by a large filter bank of activated charcoal in the fan room.
This charcoal filter bank was the main reason smoking was allowed on
our submarine. It was our most effective filter. Fifty 10-pound porous cloth
sacks of activated charcoal, made from coconut shells, were stacked on
shelves in the fan room, located aft starboard corner in the Control Room.
Every Saturday night at periscope depth, we replaced the charcoal
bags. It was called a Pizza Party. The snorkel would be raised allowing the
LP blower to suck in fresh air to dilute the charcoal dust. This dirty job was
assigned to A‑Division.
Why it was called a Pizza Party was a tradition that no one really could
explain. The cooks served pizza every Saturday night and an American
farm tradition was to bathe on Saturday night. Anyone changing charcoal
bags needed a shower afterwards. These seemed logical reasons why the
charcoal exchange was called a Pizza Party.
The boat's Medical Department was responsible for testing the boat's
atmosphere and advising Eng on corrective measures. Doc, HM1 Taylor,
tested the air twice a day. If any gas was detected out of limits, Don would
consult with Eng for corrective action. Most out of spec readings were
either too low O₂ or too high CO₂. Restarting the O₂ generator or placing a
second CO₂ Scrubber on line were the usual remedies.
Supply Department Tasks.
In between my port and starboard watches, my six hours were taken up
with running the Supply Department, working on dolphin qualification, and
sleeping/eating. There weren't any major equipment failures that needed
spareparts. Chief Jefferson ran the Wardroom and didn't broker any
interference. I let it run on auto pilot. The Commissary Division was
another matter.
Running down answers for XO on crew chow complaints took
significant time. Menu generation and getting XO menu approval were
weekly hard spots.
One menu submission received XO’s complaint about its high fat
content. Being Italian, I responded that a person's weight was a matter of
portion control and exercise. XO took my remarks as insinuating that he
just sat in his chair all day. Fuming at me, he bet by just eating ice cream
he’d lose more weight than I could from eating the crappy meals being fed
to the crew. He almost turned purple with rage saying, "Come with me!"
Following him without a clue, I guessed the stress of losing his door
had pushed him past the breaking point. We ended up at Sick Bay. Without
a word to Don, he stepped on the scales and growled, "236 pounds! Don,
record it!"
XO pointed at me. Up I went, weighing 198 pounds. Don logged my
weight. Then XO announced the bet payoff was a six-pack of beer per
pound difference between our recorded weights and the weights at the end
of patrol. He stated that he would only eat ice cream and drink coffee for
the rest of the patrol. After that, he stormed out of Sick Bay.
Don was laughing his head off. Completely dumbfounded, I felt
fortunate he had signed the menu. I asked Don if XO really meant there was
a bet. Don said, “XO wouldn't have logged the weight if he wasn’t serious.”
One thing in my favor was that the ice cream machine was available 24
hours a day. I resolved to only eat two meals a day. XO's crappy meals
comment made it imperative to use my fiancé’s spices for our next spaghetti
meal.
SPCP—Throttleman Watch
XO's three or four casualty drills during the week, usually in the
morning hours, meant loss of sleep. Sleeping in the afternoon limited my
qualifying on the forward end of the boat.
Having completed a double rotation of engineering watches, I switched
to training watches on the Control Panels in Maneuvering. My first session
was throttleman on the SPCP.
He put me on the throttle wheels, instructing me on watch operations.
In the center of the SPCP was the Engine Order Telegraph, EOT, a brass
box with a glass window top, connected to the helmsman’s EOT at the
diving stand (Note 5-1). It received Conn’s speed order, called a Bell
because an EOT speed order would ring an alerting bell. An arrow inside
the box shifted to the new speed order sector at the bottom of the box. He
explained the need to turn the EOT knurled-knob, centered in the glass
window, to match the new speed arrow. This acknowledgement action of
matching the new speed order would ring the helms’ EOT bell and moved
the acknowledgement arrow to line up with the helms’ order arrow.
The EOT was a very effective device that not only transmitted speed
orders, but ensured that the order was correctly received and taken for
action. A metal plate on the SPCP listed shaft turns for each Bell order and
shaft rpms for each knot of speed. Thus, using the new speed order, the
throttleman would turn his wheel to obtain the required shaft rpm. Showing
me the Bell Book for logging each Bell, he added “It’s an official record
required by maritime law.”
He pointed out the yellow lights of the Cavitation Indicator above the
boat’s speed repeater, a row of three bulbs with the left bulb occasionally
flickering. I knew hydrophones on the stern-planes/rudder cruciform was
the source for these signals. He said opening the throttles too quickly
accelerated the screw forming low pressure bubbles on the blades that
collapse to generate cavitation noise.
He explained that a throttleman averted boredom by keeping the shaft
within one rpm of the ordered Bell. It was difficult to do whenever the
planes and rudder were in use. We had no planes/rudder actions at this time.
With a sigh of resignation, I asked the throttleman what other gauges he
watched. He pointed to the Loss of Lube Oil light, boiler water level
gauges, and alarm lights for low levels in the feedwater surge-tanks. He
showed me how to lean one’s head just outside Maneuvering see the surge-
tank water level. Alerting the EOOW on low levels before alarms occurred
was a critical watch task. The SPCP watch was mentally tiring because of
the boredom and physically strenuous because of standing. At patrol speed
and depth there was little action.
EPCP—EO Watch
My next watchstation was as EO, Electrical Plant Control Panel
Operator. It was interesting because the electrical meters were always in
motion. Whenever a large motor, such as the drain pump, was started, the
starting current would send a ripple through the meters. For a DC pump, an
AC/DC motor-generator would convert AC power to provide the DC
power, then both DC and AC voltage meters reacted.
Starting a MCP caused dramatic meter fluctuations. First voltage and
frequency would take a dip as the SSTG slowed from the large start up
load. The ammeters jumped up reflecting the starting current, settling lower
after the motor dropped to its operating current.
The electrical plant operated in split plant with an SSTG on each Ship
Service Bus. An electrical problem on one bus wouldn't affect the other bus.
I was fascinated by the phase meter (Note 4-11). it measured the difference
between the SSTGs and the Ship Service Bus. It allowed synchronizing two
power sources, such as from the tender's generator and our SSTG during
startup or both SSTGs in a cross connect mode to share loads.
Gabe was EOOW and E-Division Officer. He ordered me to
synchronize the SSTGs across the cross connect bus. Using the frequency
phase meter, I put the two SSTGs in synch, i.e. at the same frequency and
phase. I used the breaker switches on the console to connect them.
Suddenly the AC meters oscillated because the SSTGs were not in perfect
synch. They quickly adjusted. Instead of two independent electrical buses,
we were in the hazardous position of our electrical generators and loads tied
together. Gabe directed me to pick up 50 percent of #1 SSTG’s load with #2
SSTG. This was accomplished by using #2 SSTG’s manual speed-control.
Then, I returned us to the safety of split plant operations. It was a very
satisfying watch. It rated with the ELT watches and running the evap.
RPCP—RO Watch
Next day my watch was as RO, the Reactor Operator, on the RPCP.
Andy, EOOW, told me to bump rods to increase Tave by two degrees.
Twisting the rod controller, an ebony 4 inch inverted “L” handle, I
withdrew the rods and Tave increased. As steam temperature increased, the
SPCP operator noticed his frequency slightly increase as higher steam-
pressure increased the SSTG’s rpm.
Then, Andy told me to start the standby MCP in the starboard loop. I
turned the knob switch starting a MCP and watched the meters dance on the
EPCP to my right. Even shutting down the MCP, the meters on the EPCP
oscillated back and forth. The rest of the watch was going over the meters,
alarms and Scram casualties.
RO mentioned spurious Reactor Compartment radiation alarms. Andy
said Eng was concerned about these transient radiation alarm (Note 7-5). It
started each time MCPs were switched to fast-speed for a CRUD run
(Caulk River Unidentified Deposits (Note 7-6)). CRUD runs removed
deposits from primary-coolant pipes. Circuit tests would be run on the next
CRUD run. The problem was possible electrical interference during
switching MCPs to fast-speed.
Now, I graduated to MWS watches, a double round of watches with
three MWS. Each was a chief. Each understood that the MWS was the
EOOW’s eyes and ears in the engineering spaces. The MWS ensured each
watchstander was properly conducting his watch. He was quality control
and the authoritative expert for each watch-station. The MWS had training
on the three panel watches in the event that a RO, EO, or throttleman
suddenly became incapacitated.
The EM chief was the most officious. He left no doubt who was in
charge and each watchstander toed the mark. He was on scene to observe
any equipment startup or shut down, such as starting a feed-pump.
However, he spent most of his time leaning on Maneuver’s entrance post
exchanging sea stories with panel operators.
The ET chief was his antithesis. He had a relaxed manner with each
watchstander asking what kind of problem or symptom his machines had.
He would visit the AMS almost hourly when the Generator was
operating. He was helpful to all watchstanders. The ET chief spend most of
his time in ULAMR checking the reactor instrumentation and protection
cabinets, his area of expertise. He assisted the ELT in testing the boiler
water and primary-coolant water.
The MM chief was the most skilled. When he checked with a
watchstander, he paid more attention to touching and feeling the running
machine rather than looking at the log sheet. He would feel for vibrations,
irregular imbalances, and feel for hot spots. During my two watches with
him, he provided several watchstanders tidbits of information on how a
running machine differed from the standby machine. He was particularly
attuned to the CO₂ scrubbers as they required frequent routine maintenance.
The MWS watches were a nice change of pace. I was in awe of all
three chiefs. They all were conscientious in their duties. Maneuvering had a
coffee pot which it shared with the other watches. All three MWS would
bring their watchstanders a mug of feedwater coffee whenever asked.
Feedwater coffee was made from surge-tank feedwater containing boiler
chemical carryover (Note 7‑7).
Each MWS was unique in his approach to the watch. I learned much
from them and gained a deep appreciation of their engineering expertise. A
four section MWS watch rotation would have benefited all the
watchstanders, especially the EOOWs.
Now, I graduated to standing EOOW training-watches. This was a
major change. Standing was the operative word, all watches in
Maneuvering, except for the throttleman, were seat-watches. Other
engineering watches were roving watches. I would be standing without a
seat, no option to roam. After a double rotation of watches with each
EOOW officer, I was feeling like a bump on a log in Maneuvering, albeit a
standing bump. Whenever a non-routine event such as switching equipment
on midwatches or lighting off the evap occurred, I begged to leave
Maneuvering. I joined the ELT when he did tests and participated in boiler
blowdowns.
After a dozen EOOW-training-watches, I didn't see how this would
qualify me to be an EOOW. There were minimal operations and not much
value received for the questions I asked. Usually, the EOOW was reading
some qualification material or engineering manual while seated at his high
desk in the back corner. My watch consisted of observing the panel
operators. This entailed checking a few gauges and meters. Mostly it was
listening to their sea stories or laments about not being home to go fishing
or play softball/basketball. Sometimes it was about how much they wanted
to get laid.
Then one night, the CO came to my rescue during one of his midwatch
tours of the boat. I was standing in Maneuvering reading an RPM. Asking
what I was doing, I said standing an EOOW-training-watch. He raised his
eyebrows, "You need to stand some watches forward to get an
understanding of submarine operations. I want you to see SWO about
standing some training watches on the Conn."
I was excited to escape Maneuvering’s boredom. At breakfast, I relayed
the CO's direction to Eng. He halfheartedly agreed, telling me to check with
XO. Hurrying through my sunny side eggs, bacon, and toast, I made my
rounds to the Mess Hall and supply office.
Breakfast gear was being cleared away in the Mess Hall. Three guys
were waiting for the slot machine to be opened. It was an instant success
with the crew. In use 18 hours a day, it was making the Rec Committee a
ton of money. I had to empty the nickels twice a day. The Rec Committee
returned the nickels to the crew. Darcy, a torpedoman, was one member
taking on this task.
After I emptied the slot machine, I gave Darcy the nickels. Then,
asking our breakfast cook if there had been any breakfast problems. O'Brien
assured me there weren't any because the night baker’s sticky buns were a
hit. Going to the Supply Office I asked SK2 Penny if he had any problems.
I received a “no problems” answer.
Now I could check with XO about Conning watches. I caught XO
enroute to a surprise space inspection, to ensure cleanliness. At the start of
patrol, XO’s inspections were listed in the POD. Now the inspections were
unannounced and XO spent an inordinate amount of time checking places
in the inspection compartment looking for his door. Once, he spent an hour
having guys unscrew dozens of screws to remove deck plates to look for his
door in the bilges. The crew was unhappy. It meant all spaces had to be
ready for inspection every day instead of every ten days. Obviously, the
intent of XO’s new policy was to put pressure on the crew to return his
door.
I told XO that CO wanted me to stand some Conn-training watches and
Eng agreed. XO wasn't happy but said, "We'll do whatever CO wants. Go
see SWO. Just don't end up with more Conn watches than EOOW
watches.” My heart skipped a beat as I thanked him. Now my boring
EOOW watches would be mixed with something new and exciting. Dead
tired, I headed for my rack.
Ten minutes later the messenger woke me. Billy Joe needed me
because XO was holding a surprise inspection. In the Galley, Billy Joe was
wringing his hands as COB was writing up a discrepancy in XO’s
Inspection Log. XO was castigating Billy Joe about the condition of the
Galley deck in front of the GDU.
The deck was spotless and my Italian couldn't hold back. I interjected
"What's wrong with the deck? It's clean!" Surprised at the interruption, XO
confronted me. "There are cracks in the terrazzo which can hide bacteria."
Recalling Dan’s background about the deck, I explained ballast tank flexing
caused the problem. Saying, there isn't much that can be done about it.
XO said that was no excuse for not fixing the problem during upkeep.
Now it was a major discrepancy in the Supply Department. Knowing XO
would ping on me each week until it was fixed, I whined "Well, there is
nothing we can do about it while we are on patrol."
Not letting a junior officer win an argument, XO retorted, "Well, you're
in hack until I have a plan that fixes this mess!" With that outburst, he
pushed me aside and left with COB.
Billy Joe mumbled that he was sorry that he got me cross-threaded with
XO. I told him not to worry as I was always in XO's doghouse. Billy Joe
asked what I was going to do. “We have to do something. I’ll write up a
work order for sheet linoleum. It will get us out of his doghouse.” Billy Joe
agreed. I typed up a tender work order to remove the terrazzo and lay sheet
linoleum on the tank top. I put the work request in XO's Ship’s Office in-
basket.
SWO arrived as I was leaving. I told him about CO's Conn training
directive for me and Eng/XO’s agreement. He agreed to discuss it on his
midwatch. I tried to catch few hours of sleep.
Checking my in-basket before my noon watch, XO signed the work
order with a note, "Well Done—Discrepancy Corrected."
On midwatch, I told Andy, the EOOW, about meeting with SWO about
Conn-training watches. He released me to talk with SWO. At the Conn,
SWO was telling AWeps, off-going Conning Officer, his concern about two
weeks on patrol without a WSRT, Weapon System Readiness Test, message.
 SWO was very agreeable of the CO's directive for Conn-training. He
suggested that as he had the midwatches, four section rotation, I could have
midwatches on the Conn and noon watches aft. I told him that a 50-50 split
wouldn't satisfy XO as he wanted most of my watches in engineering.
Wanting to get out of port-and-starboard watches, I proposed a watch cycle
of every other day midwatch on the Conn with midwatch and noon watches
for EOOW-training on alternate days. I said having twice as many EOOW
watches should satisfy XO. The new free time could be used for dolphin
training. LCdr Walters agreed.
He started my Conn-training watch immediately. Excited, I called
Andy telling him SWO switched my watch to the Conn and that I would tell
Eng in the morning. It was exciting to be doing real submarining, operating
submerged in the depths of the ocean.
LCdr Walters was old school. He quizzed me on the Captain's Night
Orders. Stammering, I said I hadn't read them. Scowling, SWO handed
them to me, "Read them!" he admonished.
Skimming the half page of Night Orders, it started with carry out the
Standing Orders. Standing Orders are the CO’s command philosophy. A list
of how ship operations are to be conducted in port and underway. Our
underway Standing Orders required maintaining continuous radio contact,
not using any speeds or rudder/planes actions that cause cavitation, making
random sonar baffle sweeps, and conducting POD/Night Order evolutions
(Note 7-8). It covered operational situations requiring reports to the CO on
close sonar contacts, losing radio contact, crew injury, and equipment
failures.
Night Orders were specific operations for the evening watch and
midwatch when the Captain was sleeping. They contained specific
evolutions and weather/intelligence warnings. Tonight’s orders had no
warnings. He directed going to periscope depth between midnight and 0400
to conduct Type11 operations, blowing sanitary tanks and shooting the
GDU—housekeeping operations. Tonight, he authorized running the MCPs
in fast-speed for two hours.
After reading the Night Orders, I remarked that the EOOW would run
the MCPs in fast-speed for a CRUD run. SWO looked at me, "Ok, you’re
the Conning Officer. When EOOW calls, what are you going to tell him?" I
quickly blurted out that I would grant permission since it was in the CO's
night orders. SWO gave me a grave look and shook his head, “No.” I could
see a watch on the Conn was not going to be a fun filled walk in the park.
He said "What’s the impact on patrol operations by running the MCPs
in fast-speed?" Thinking like a nuke, I said “It gives us Flank speed
capability.” SWO shook his head, No again. "Why would we want to go to
Flank speed while we were on patrol? Wouldn't going to Flank speed
require us to go deep to keep from cavitating? Wouldn’t it pull our floating-
wire underwater causing loss of radio contact? Wouldn't going to Flank
speed dramatically increase our acoustic radiated signature allowing an
ASW threat to find us?"
Overcome by his cool logic, I was nodding in agreement. I was stunned
by my lack of knowledge. This kindly, old gentleman believed in the school
of hard knocks.
Once again, he asked, "What does fast-speed MCPs do to our covert
patrol status?" This was not going to be spoon fed training. It was a
learning process. I had to think my way out of each hole I dug. SWO spoke
in soft, low tones. No one at the BCP, diving stand, or Nav Plot overheard
my humiliation. I was in agony over my lack of operational knowledge, but
felt an iota of satisfaction that I was learning my trade from a master.
Racking my brain, I blurted out, “Running MCPs in fast-speed is noisy
and would increase our vulnerability to being detected by passive sonar.”
SWO gave a positive nod. My smile vanished when he said, "How much
does our radiated noise increase by running fast-speed MCPs—how more
detectable are we to Soviet sonars?”
I was stunned. From Sub School, I remembered the importance of low
radiated noise, but couldn't remember calculating detection ranges. In three
minutes SWO exposed a giant hole in my operational background. My
brain was racing a million miles a second, suddenly realizing that being
detected by sonar meant that sonar was a key part of the answer.
Meekly I murmured in a half questioning manner, "I'll have to check
sonar pubs to find the answers to your questions." A smiling SWO
answered, "You do that!”
He continued, “Assume running the MCPs in fast-speed makes us more
vulnerable, when should we authorize running the MCPs in fast-speed?"
The questions were never going to stop. I thought “What had I gotten into
by escaping boring EOOW watches?”
 SWO persisted, "What did the Night Orders tell us to do?" Answering,
“The CO authorized us to run the MCPs in fast-speed but he didn't specify a
time for the test.” This was met with a shrug from the SWO. "Why are you
only thinking about engineering? What else did the Night Orders tell us to
do?"
Now brain dead, I drew a complete blank. "Get the Night Orders
book!" he commanded.
I grabbed the notebook, reading the Night Orders again. We were to go
to periscope depth to conduct a Type11 star shoot, blow the sanitary tanks,
and shoot the GDU. Thinking “We blew sanitary tanks at periscope depth
rather than at deeper depths because lower water pressure at shallow
depths required less air pressure to blow the tanks. We shot the GDU at
periscope depth because it was less dangerous at periscope depth.”
When I recited the Night Orders for Type11 operations, blowing
sanitary tanks, and shooting the GDU, he asked, "What do all those
operations have in common?"
I answered, “They are done at periscope depth where the water
pressure is less than at patrol depth.” SWO shrugged his shoulders, "What
else? How do these operations affect our vulnerability to be detected by
Soviet sonar?"
A light bulb went off in my head, "Blowing sanitary tanks and shooting
the GDU are noisy operations. I don't really know how using the Type11
increases our radiated noise"
"What runs when we operate the periscopes including the Type11?" he
said. A circuit connected in my brain to Sub School. I proudly answered,
"Hydraulic motors and pumps are running during raising periscopes and
operating the planes. This increases our radiated noise just as the other
equipment do.”
SWO had a look of satisfaction on his face, "So, what is the nature of
our operations at periscope depth? And how does it impact on our detection
vulnerability to Soviet sonar?"
My Submarine School sonar work was coming back to me. In a
rambling fashion I said that our operations at periscope depth increased our
radiated noise signature which made us more vulnerable to Soviet ASW.
Still thinking aloud, “An important factor for detection is layer depth
(Note 7-9). If our submarine was on the opposite side of the layer from a
searching sonar, we would be less detectable.” As soon as I made this
statement, I knew I stepped into another big hole.
"Well, what is our layer depth tonight?" SWO smugly asked. It was a
case of escaping from a trap and running into another hole with one simple
statement. Turning, I searched for the yellow grease penciled information
on Conn's Plexiglas status board on the railing. Reading from the reverse
side, a backwards Deep was written on the status board. On our last trip to
periscope depth there wasn’t a negative temperature change. The spring
layer was still below our patrol depth. We couldn't hide from an enemy's
sonar by being on the other side of the layer.
After a long pause, I answered, “Because the layer is deeper than our
patrol depth, we don’t have a tactical layer depth to hide under.” Submarine
School acoustics class saved me!
Smiling broadly, SWO asked, "Well, when should we run the fast-
speed MCPs test?"
SWO's questioning was a vortex, a spider web, a flypaper situation. I
was trapped. I couldn't escape his relentless pursuit to make me think like a
Conning Officer.
Ready to give up, I rambled on, "We have to go to periscope depth and
perform noisy housekeeping evolutions which makes us vulnerable to ASW
sonar detection. Running fast-speed MCPs is a noisy operation that makes
us vulnerable to sonar detection. Because there is no layer, our sonar
vulnerability doesn't change with depth. So, the question is whether we
should run all our noisy evolutions while shallow instead of doing one of
them at a deeper depth?” SWO smiled. I continued “Stringing them
together over a period of two noisy events such as housekeeping followed
by high-speed MCP ops would make us more vulnerable than a single,
shorter period of all noisy events together. It would give a searcher less time
to find us."
Suddenly I realized that stating the problem correctly was 90% of
solving the problem. SWO's big grin made me realize I had stumbled onto
the answer. Instead of just telling me what I needed to know, he showed that
the training I had was valuable if I applied it logically. My spirits soared. In
five minutes, I had gone from feeling worthless to feeling confident that I
could master this complicated watch. A wave of appreciation swept over
me as I understood my mentor’s insights. I could learn from other Conning
Officers but by training under SWO, I would receive a process to guide me
for future situations not covered in training.
Conn’s phone rang, SWO answered. Ending his conversation with,
"After we are at periscope depth, we’ll call you with authorization to run
the MCP test." Smiling broadly, SWO said, "I told Andy you recommended
we not run the MCP test until after we come to periscope depth."
SWO looked at me saying, "Tonight, I want you to watch how petty
officer Groves takes us to periscope depth. You'll be Diving Officer (DO)
soon and I expect you to be able to handle coming to periscope depth.
Groves is one of our best DOs. I want you to learn from him. Split your
time between Groves and Chief Allison on the BCP. You need to learn each
station’s procedures including the diving-planes and helm.
"Aye, aye sir," I answered. Back to training on each watchstation, it
made good sense. I hadn't been a submarine DO on a nuclear sub much less
an FBM sub. Even though it was good logic, I wasn’t thrilled. After two
years of training, there was a twinge of pique that I would be taking orders
from a petty officer when I trained on the diving-planes and helm stations.
Back aft, training on enlisted watches was a one-on-one learning
experience. Here, my conduct would be observed by the entire watch-
section. Any miscue or innocent question would be observed and laughed
at. I gritted my teeth, remembering that training is the glue holding this
dangerous machine together.
At the BCP, I introduced myself to Chief Allison, an Interior
Communications Electrician. I explained I would be picking his brain as
Chief of the Watch (COW) during my training (Note 7-10). Then, I
approached Groves at the diving stand and gave him the same spiel. It was a
ticklish situation. The Chief was senior to Groves but COW worked for the
DO, who in this case was a 1st class Torpedoman (TM1). I was too old-
school to start with Groves and then talk to the Chief. I hadn’t bought into
Adm Rickover's philosophy that only technical smarts, not rank, counted.
Having been an enlisted sailor for a year, a midshipman for three summer
cruises, and four college years of weekly naval drills, the hierarchy of rank
was ingrained into my soul as indelibly as a tattoo on a sailor's arm.
Groves had started in diesel boats and was making his fourth patrol on
our submarine. He had distinguished himself by doing requalification
before his first patrol’s sea trials. On patrol, due to shortage of experienced
people, he volunteered for BCP training. Before his first patrol was over, he
had qualified on the BCP as COW. A lack of qualified chiefs enabled
Groves to qualify as DO on his second patrol (Note 7-11). Groves
performed well. He was a candidate for Battle Stations Missile DO until
Andy demonstrated his talent for the job.
Chief Allison was on his first patrol after being transferred from a
diesel boat. He requalified on our boat and completed qualification as BCP
operator during sea trials. He would start training as DO after I finished my
DO training. The COW and DO watches were in four sections so Allison
and Groves would always be on my midwatch.
Groves explained the diving controls. From Sub School, I knew the
diving console was an adaptation of aircraft-type controls pioneered during
advanced design experiments on ALBACORE (AGSS 569). Sub School
taught us that the critical part in the diving-planes’ hydraulic system was
the dither valve. Instead of open/shut positions, the valve was a top shaped
weight that almost complete shutoff the oil flow. It allowed leakage as it
wobbled in place, dithering, to provide quick reaction for on/off oil flow.
Hence, it provided rapid response for the diving controls.
I had used these controls on SKIPJACK and the Sub School diving
trainers. Rather than interrupt his spiel, I just nodded in agreement as he
explained how each planesman's positions could be used to control all three
control functions of the rudder, stern-planes, and sail-planes.
He explained our standard configuration was to use the outboard
station, closest to the BCP, as stern-planesman to control stern-planes and
helmsman to control the rudder and Engine Order Telegraph, EOT
(Note 5-1). At the inboard station, the sail-planesman controlled the sail-
planes. The sail-planes were used more frequently and required more
attention. That was why stern-planesman got the helmsman job. This meant
the stern-planesman had two bosses. The DO for stern-planes orders and the
Conning Officer for course/speed orders. It was the DO's responsibility to
ensure that the stern-planesman performed the Conn’s orders correctly.
SWO alerted Sonar of a baffle-clearing maneuver (Note 7‑12). Our
BQR‑2B in the bow had sound-absorbing baffles behind its hydrophones to
mitigate our aft engineering noise. It required a large course change to clear
the baffles, exposing the stern area that had been hidden before the course
change.
SWO ordered “Left Standard Rudder”—a 25º rudder order. The
helmsman replied, “Left Standard rudder, aye. The rudder is Left Standard.”
 This large 25˚ rudder angle caused our submarine to heel over three
degrees to port which turned the rudder into an inefficient, but large diving-
plane. Our submarine took a three degree down-bubble losing depth. The
stern-planesman attempted to counter this by applying five degrees rise on
the stern-planes while the sail-planesman put 20˚ rise on his sail-planes.
Groves whispered to me that he had been unsuccessful in training his
planesmen to anticipate the rudder impact on the bubble and depth (Note 7-
13). He scolded his planesmen, "You wouldn't have lost depth and lost the
bubble if you anticipated the impact of the rudder order.”
I was impressed with Grove's melding all the factors affecting the
submarine’s trim into his training techniques. After the boat made the
course change, Sonar reported no new contacts. Conn ordered “Shift your
rudder … to base course zero-one-zero degrees.”
Five minutes later, the helmsman sang out, "Steady on zero-one-zero
degrees.” A few seconds after we steadied up on our course and returned to
zero-bubble and patrol depth. Sonar reported completing its search and not
detecting any contacts.
SWO announced “Diving Officer adjust your trim for coming to
periscope-depth. Sonar estimates Sea State 5 tonight.”
Sea State is a measure of sea turbulence caused by wind. A narrow
band of wind speeds will produce a set-band of wave heights. Sea State 5 is
wave heights of 6 to 8 feet produced by wind speeds of 17 to 21 knots
(Note 7-14).
Groves acknowledged the order, telling me that Sea State 5 would be
tough. Swells rolling over the missile deck at periscope depth could pull the
boat to the surface causing the sail to break the surface of the water, called a
broach (Notes 7-15). He said some DOs trimmed the forward trim tank
heavy and used the stern-planes to generate an up-bubble tilting the
submarine to reduce the suction effect on the flat missile deck forcing the
sail-planesman to use dive on his planes. Others wanted a submarine heavy
overall—negatively buoyant—so the extra weight countered the suction
forces. Groves said he used both techniques.
SWO ordered the DO to make his depth 68 feet, measured from the
boat’s keel. Groves gave his planesmen their orders, “Ten degree up-
bubble” to the stern-planesman and “Make your depth 68 feet” to the sail-
planesman. They both pulled their yokes back to a 20˚ rise angle on their
planes. Groves ordered COW to flood 10,000 pounds into Negative tank.
Our giant submarine smoothly traversed the depths as the digital depth
gauge clicked off decreasing depths. Groves called out each five foot
increment of depth change, until at 80 feet he called out depth at every two
feet. At 85 feet he ordered, “Zero-bubble” to the stern-planesman and
“Don’t over shoot depth” to the sail-planesman.
COW reported “10,000 pounds flooded into Negative.” Groves ordered
10,000 pounds flooded into forward trim tank. Seconds later, SWO
announced, “Raising number two scope… scope in low-power…breaking
water…no close contacts!” At the surface, Groves checked the BQH-1, the
bathythermograph, for temperature changes (Note 7-16). He reported no
layer.
Groves and his planesmen did a superb job getting the boat to
periscope depth. We had seas on the beam, lessening the suction effects, but
causing pronounced 5˚ rolling. Groves whispered how lucky he was that the
seas were on the beam and not from the stern or the bow.
SWO had made a quick 360˚ low powered search for close surface
contacts. He made a rapid second search at a high elevation angle looking
for close in aircraft. Next, he proceeded to commence a more methodical
low power search for shipping and low flying aircraft. Then he conducted a
high power sweep looking for lights from distant contacts. No contacts
were detected on all searches.
SWO told the DO it was a Sea State 5 with the wind coming from the
east. This put the sea swells on our starboard beam. SWO gave Nav
permission to conduct Type11 operations. He told COW to blow sanitary
tanks and to shoot the GDU. SWO told me to call the EOOW on the dial-X
telephone to start the fast-speed MCP operations. Andy gave me a formal
answer that it would be a two hour evolution.
Within an hour, the sanitary tanks were blown. Groves had the COW
flood 3,000 pounds into the forward trim tank and 5,000 pounds into the
amidships tanks to compensate for the sewage blown to sea. GDU
operations were completed. The dive was completely under control. An
hour later the EOOW reported completing the MCP test.
Chief Allison reported that Maneuvering requested the engine room
and AMR bilges be pumped. I went over to the BCP. COW let me take the
BCP watch under training. I lined up the Drain Pump to pump the ER bilges
and used the sound-powered-phone to the LLER watch for his bilge status.
After pumping the ER bilges, I did the same dance with the LLAMR watch.
Groves ordered 2,000 pounds flooded into the aft trim tank. COW showed
me how to flood into a trim tank.
An hour later, Nav reported completions of Type11 ops. He then
lowered and secured the Type11. During our return to patrol depth Groves
had me blow Negative 10,000 pounds to sea and then pump 10,000 pounds
from forward trim. I finished as we returned to patrol depth. I learned a
great deal on the BCP and observing the dive.
SWO ordered a baffle clearing for a sonar search. This was a
precaution to determine whether our noisy evolutions had attracted
unwanted attention from an unknown Soviet submarine in our area. Sonar
reported no contacts.
Back to steady-state patrol operations. Groves started my planesman
training, first he put me on the stern-planes/helm. Stern-planesman
operations at patrol speed didn't require much action. Most of the action
was using the rudder to maintain course. During the hour on the stern-
planes and helm, I relearned the intricacies of the three-dimensional aircraft
yoke. I was paying too much attention to maintaining the bubble and
neglected the helm drifting five degrees off course. Groves told me a “Mind
your helm”, i.e. get back on course. This made me realize that in a stressful
situation the stern-planesman's two function operational tasks could tax his
abilities. Groves had a good trim. I only used the rudder to maintain the
ordered course. Even on a steady course, keeping within two degrees of
ordered course was difficult.
The sail-planesman was busy making frequent adjustments to be within
five feet of the ordered depth. After switching to the sail-planes station, I
found out how difficult it was to maintain depth. It was tough determining
how much plane angle to use. Also, the planes and rudder response weren’t
as instantaneous as the controls in the Submarine Base diving trainer.
My initial sail-planes actions resulted in several long, up and down
porpoise depth excursions. Of course, the duty planesmen got a lot of
chuckles from my inexperienced performance. After experimentation, I
found it best not to wait for a few feet of change to occur. Once a change
started, it was best to immediately use a few degrees of plane angle to
counter the excursion instead of waiting when larger planes angles would
be required. With immediate small angle action, the excursion might
continue for a few feet but it prevented porpoising. I developed deep
appreciation for the planesmen.
 The watch was over. Time does go fast when there is work to do, unlike
most of my EOOW-training-watches. I thanked Groves and the planesmen
for their help and returned to check in with SWO. He told me that I would
take the dive for periscope depth operations on my next watch. I responded
that I was ready and that I would look up the questions he raised about
noise.
Ford was just finishing clearing away the dishes from the watch-reliefs
when I sat down for breakfast. Seeing Chief go into the pantry, I stuck my
head in to ask how things were going. He told me that he was getting a lot
of complaints from the crew about Brooks, the supper cook. I told him I
appreciated the heads-up and would check with Billy Joe.
Then Chief launched into a list of other complaints ranging from the
laziness of his two stewards to the inferior quality of the mattress covers.
Each week the stewards took each officer’s mattress cover and dirty clothes
to the washing/dryer laundry room next to crew’s berthing. Each piece,
stenciled with a name, was kept in a plastic-knitted laundry bag secured
with a big, chrome safety pin. After laundry operations, the junior stewards
would put the mattress cover on the mattress and leave the laundry bag of
clean clothes on the bunk. All new officers had Caribbean-blue skivvies and
mattress covers after being washed with their brand-new blue poopy suits.
Getting used to Chief Jefferson's carping about trivial things, I nodded
sympathetically to his concerns. In a way, it gave me a gauge as to whether
he was staying on top of things. It was a minor irritant. In the spirit of
submarine service, he always completed his work in a timely manner. It just
bothered me that he rarely smiled.
During my usual breakfast of bacon, sunny-side eggs, and toast Andy
came in from the Maneuvering watch. When I greeted him with a “Good
Morning,” he angrily launched a tirade on why the hell I put off the MCP
test until we were at periscope depth. Taken aback at his aggressive stance,
a switch from his usual mild-mannered attitude, I explained that SWO was
testing me on how radiated noise made us vulnerable to sonar detection.
Tripping over the logic of what had transpired, I made a mess of explaining
it. I recovered with, "How did the fast-speed MCP test go? Did we have
another radiation alarm?"
It was like flicking a switch. Andy was once again big brother,
explaining they had a Reactor Compartment radiation alarm when the
MCPs were switched to fast-speed. The implications were serious. The
 CRT voltage measurements indicated it wasn't MCP electrical
oscilloscope
starting interference. The alarms occurred a minute after switching to fast-
speed MCPs and cleared within a minute. The most likely possibility was
that vibrations of the MCPs surging to fast-speed caused air disturbance.
Maybe particulate matter disturbed by the pumps was sucked into the
radiation detector. It was unknown whether it was radioactive particulate
material since the alarm cleared within a minute. Trying to grasp the
implications of the problem, I naively asked, "How do we find out?"
Nonplussed, Andy gave a matter of fact reply, "We shut down the
reactor, enter the Reactor Compartment, examine the MCPs piping, and the
reactor vessel for leaks. We take swipe samples for Pig testing.” I was
dumbfounded. In six months of reactor prototype training, I had never been
in the Reactor Compartment. Our reactor shut downs had always been drills
and the reactor was usually back online within an hour. Now after two
weeks on patrol, we were going to enter the Reactor Compartment! Andy
excused himself, saying he had to wake up Eng and report his MCP test
results. I was stunned that we might be making a Reactor Compartment
entry.
In the Galley, I mentioned scuttlebutt complaints about Brooks' meals
to Billy Joe. He frowned, wanting to know who was complaining. I fibbed,
saying it was some engineers. Billy Joe said no one complained to him but
he would ask around. Then, in an afterthought, he said Brooks complained
about a run in with Chief. In a convoluted story, Billy Joe left me with the
impression that Chief didn't like Brooks' cooking.
“Uh-oh,” I thought, “was I having an intradepartmental riff between
my chief steward and a cook? I had better run this to ground before XO gets
involved.”
I asked Billy Joe if it would be okay for me to talk with Brooks after he
finished the evening meal, he halfheartedly agreed. My little supply world
was coming apart.
Penny wasn't in the Supply Office. Fortunately, XO's light was out. I
wouldn't have to make a report to him.
 Chapter Eight
The Leak—More Reactor Shut Downs

D odge woke me, “Nuke officers report to the Wardroom!” I checked my

watch. 0830, only two hours of sleep. Turning on Petula Clark's
Downtown as I hurriedly dressed. My guess was that the radiation alarm
Andy told me about at breakfast was a big deal.
XO gave me a "Well, it's about time!" as he called the CO. Eng and all
the nukes were there except for EOOW Gabe.
The CO set the tone of the meeting, "Because the Reactor
Compartment radiation alarm goes off when the MCPs shift to fast-speed,
we need to shut down the reactor and make an emergency inspection. He
followed with, “Eng will present an action plan."
Weapon System Readiness Test—WSRT
As Eng turned to speak, the gongs of the General Alarm were followed
by "Man Battle Stations Missile for WSRT…Set Condition 1SQ!" followed
by another series of General Alarm gongs. The CO rose saying, “We’ll
reassemble after the WSRT.”
Everyone scattered to his WSRT position. XO directed me to be an
observer in the Attack Center for WSRTs. All I had to do was go up the
stairs to the Control Room and keep out of the way. Coming out of the
stateroom passageway, LCdr Walters came out of the stateroom passage
way, rushed pass me sliding down the stairs holding the rails as he headed
to MCC. Weps got his WSRT.
Andy had the submarine at missile launch depth at one knot of speed.
He told the Conn he was ready for All Stop. We slowed to zero speed and
hung motionless at launch depth.
It was just as we had practiced during our first sea trials. The message
authentication was performed. The CO and his Permission to Fire lanyard
key went to his Control Panel at the Conn. There was a flurry of activity in
the Missile Compartment as sixteen power supply transformers in the
middle level were switched on. Teams of missile and launcher technicians
raced from tube to tube to simulate arming the warheads in the upper level
and simulated unlocking the launch valves in the lower-level. The optical
trolleys (Note 8‑1) on an I-beam track measured missile’s
heading orientation through an optical window in the launch tube
matched to a window in the missile. Collimated light measured the
missile heading misalignment from the boat’s centerline line. This
correction was used in MCC to update the missile guidance system.
All compartments checked in as manned and ready. On the 21MC in
the MCC, Weps reported, “Weapons System Ready, waiting for permission
to commence simulated missile launches.” The CO had a conversation with
Lt Rivers. Then he announced on the 1MC, "This is the Captain, the
Executive Officer and I have authenticated the exercise message. I
authorize conducting a WSRT." Then, he turned his CO’s key on his
Control Panel to the Permission to Fire position and a Permission to Fire
light went green on Weps’ Missile Fire Control Console in MCC.
Less than a minute later, MCC reported the simulated launching of
missile tube 16 and a minute later missile tube 7. The BCP reported
simulated openings and closings of the missile hatches and water being
blown to sea from the two missile compensating tanks. Two minutes later
two more missiles were simulated being launched. Then another two
missiles.
Andy was having hovering difficulties. He asked for one minute of 5
knots to fix an up-bubble and regain launch depth. Announcing “Ship
Control Hold” Rocky ordered 5 knots and a minute later "All Stop." CO
turned his key off, which turned off the Permission to Fire light in MCC.
Andy regained dive control. The CO announced, "Resume WSRT
Missile Launches" and turned on his Permission to Fire key. Two more
simulated missiles were launched. The digital depth gauge was clicking off
an increasing foot of depth every few seconds and now we had a two degree
down-bubble. Andy had put too much water into the forward trim tank.
Andy ordered a five second blow of the forward MBTs. A muffled rumble
came from the Mess Decks as vibrations shook the Control Room until the
blow was completed.
Our descent slowed immediately. Andy ordered COW to open the
forward MBTs vents and to pump 2,000 pounds from forward trim to sea.
The digital depth gauge stopped clicking out deeper depths. Two more
simulated missiles were launched. Six missiles still had to be launched.
Andy found the perfect trim. Two more missiles were simulated
launched. Two minutes later two more missiles had been launched. The
final two simulated missiles were launched as we were right in the middle
of our launch depth window. Rocky ordered Ahead 1/3 and Andy took us to
patrol depth.
Rocky announced on the 1MC “Secure from Battle Stations Missile.”
We had simulated launching more explosive power than the world had used
in all wars in the history of mankind.
Planning for Reactor Compartment Entry
Eng was the last one back in the Wardroom. Our Medical Doctor, Lt
Don Lindsey, was added to the group for personnel radiation safety. Eng
drew a tree-diagram on XO’s paper tripod easel. Branches identified action
paths depending on what was discovered. Operations would start at sunset
—1830. We would snorkel on the diesel engine to provide DC power to the
EPM and DC power to the AC/DC motor-generators to generate AC power.
The main turbines would be put in hot standby and the SSTGs unloaded to
conserve boiler water. Eng set a 30 minute inspection limit to minimize
entry team radiation exposure.
The entry team would be two officers and two chiefs plus a backup
team. Because we didn’t know what was causing the alarm, we didn't know
what radiation levels to expect. The team would make visual checks, take
swipe samples, and make Geiger-counter checks. There would be dosimeter
checks during the entry. The backup team would be used if radiation
readings exceeded expected levels. This led to reporting dosimeters
readings every 10 minutes which added a sound-powered-phone-talker to
each team.
The team officers were identified, Andy and Gabe on the first team and
Dave and Martin as the backup team. XO would be EOOW with Eng in the
Tunnel directing operations. I would assist Dr. Lindsey and Doc Taylor
monitoring the team for radiation and to oversee decontamination safety
and cleanup. CO would be at the Conn.
Eng wanted preparations started after lunch. As M‑Division Officer,
Andy was responsible for the Geiger-counters, protective equipment, and
decontamination—decon. Eng directed Andy to be in charge with Doc
Lindsey and me as his assistants.
It was now after 1100, stewards were peeking in the doorway hinting it
was lunch time. The CO ended the meeting with, "Okay Eng, get me a
smooth copy of the test plan and I'll sign it."
 Don Lindsey and I checked in with Andy who told us to meet him in
the AMR at 1300. He said Eng had taken me off my noon EOOW-training-
watch to work on decon preparation. I decided to skip lunch for two hours
of rack time. Don promised to wake me.
At 1300 Andy, Don, and I met in the AMR. We checked the decon
equipment and the Geiger-counters. Rolls of plastic sheeting, several sizes
of heavy duty plastic bags, plastic impregnated paper coveralls, elastic head
covers, neoprene gloves, rolls of tape, and slip cover booties for our shoes
were stacked in the AMS near the Tunnel-WTD.
Andy directed his team, led by Doc Taylor, to start laying plastic
sheeting in the Tunnel and the AMR. Don said we needed air breathing
protection because the alarms were caused by airborne particles. We agreed
the teams should use emergency air breathing masks (EAB) (Note 8-2),
rather than the cumbersome Oxygen Breathing Apparatus (OBA) (Note 8-
3). Andy’s chief brought 20 EABs to the AMS. Doc and I tested the decon
shower in the AMR.
The Tunnel was the length of the Reactor Compartment (RC), over 20
feet long, three people wide and 7 feet high. Within an hour, the Tunnel and
AMR were ready. Don and I checked that the taped sheets of plastic
covered every part of the Tunnel. We taped a second layer of sheeting at the
RC-WTD deck entry area, it would likely to be contaminated. After we
finished, I traded evening meal for sleep. Midrats would be my next meal.
Reactor Compartment Entry
Don woke me at 1800. We returned to the Tunnel to help the first team
dress. Don took dosimeter readings, which I entered on the log sheet
(Note 8-4). Don zeroed the dosimeters and checked for film badges. After
the team put on their decon gear, we taped their decon caps to their pulled-
up collars. We taped their gloves and booties to the cuffs of their decon
clothing (Note 8-5). We checked the backup team. XO arrived before 1830
to relieve Andy as EOOW.
Eng, Tunnel phone-talker, Don, Doc, and I donned decon gear. The
Tunnel was crammed with 15 people. The scene looked like something out
of a science fiction movie with team members EAB masks perched on top
of their heads. Eng sent the backup team to AMS in the Missile
Compartment. Don sent Doc to his station in AMR.
 Eng had the entry team check EABs by using the air manifold above
the RC-WTD. Eng gave them last minute instructions
Eng’s phone-talker relayed Conn/EOOW chatter. On the 1MC Conn
announced, "Rig ship for Reduced Electrical" followed by "Prepare to
Snorkel" on the 1MC. Minutes later, the diesel started. We heard the diesel
strain taking the SSTGs loads. The SSTGs were unloaded, the main
engines, in hot standby, were given a shot of steam whenever they came to
a stop. The EPM provided propulsion.
On the 2MC, XO warned his watchstanders of a manual Scram. Then,
the piercing Scram siren sounded. Now a 10-minute wait for fast decaying
isotopes in the fuel cells to release their intense radiation. After five
minutes, Eng ordered Andy to crack open the RC-WTD for a Geiger-
counter reading. It was a 10% reading on high scale and 90% on middle
scale. I logged the times and readings. At the 10-minute mark it was 30%
on middle scale.
Eng ordered the entry team to enter the RC for Inspection. Eng had me
to put the RC-WTD on the latch after they entered.
Primary-Coolant Leak—Back to Single-Loop Operation
Within a minute, the entry party's phone-talker checked in. He reported
that the Geiger-counter reading at the first check point was 40% on the
middle scale. I logged it. XO reported Tave was holding and he was ready
to conduct a Fast-Scram-Recovery.
Two minutes, later the RC phone-talker reported Lt(jg) Chadwick
found a misty, spray leak on the vent pipe of #2 MCP (Note 8-6). My eyes
widened, I sucked in a breath. The worst had occurred. We had a primary-
coolant leak!
Eng ordered Gabe to determine the exact location of the leak and to
minimize getting sprayed. Eng told XO to secure all pumps in the port-loop
and isolate the port-loop by shutting the inlet and outlet valves. XO told
Conn that a primary-coolant leak had been found on a MCP vent-pipe. This
was followed by a report from XO that the port MCPs were secured and the
port coolant valves were shut. Less than 10 minutes had lapsed.
Eng ordered the entry party to quickly complete their visual checks and
swipe sampling. Minutes later, a report that visual inspections had not
found any other leaks or discrepancies and the swiping samples were
completed. Eng ordered the entry team to return to the Tunnel. He ordered
me to fully open the RC-WTD.
Within thirty seconds, two chiefs were climbing through the RC-WTD.
The bags of swipes were put into a radiation sticker bag taped near the
AMR-WTD. Using the Geiger-counter, Don checked the chiefs. They were
clean except for the bottom of their booties and their gloves. We removed
their EABs and put them in a large EAB bag, which would be double-
checked later. Doc read their dosimeters which I logged. They one-footed
their bootie-removals as they stepped into the clean area in front of the
AMR-WTD. Dropping their booties into a radiation sticker bag, they
removed their gloves and dropped them into the bag. Going into AMR, Doc
Taylor would check them clean before and after removing their decon
clothing.
Andy came through the RC-WTD. He checked the same as the chiefs
and was sent to AMR. Then the phone-talker and Gabe appeared at the RC-
WTD and entered the Tunnel. Eng ordered me to shut and dog the RC-
WTD. Eng told XO the entry team was out, the RC-WTD was secured, and
to “Commence a Fast-Scram-Recovery.”
XO reported that Tave was 10° below its lower-limit and the boiler-
water levels were good. He added he was warming up the SSTGs while
restarting the reactor. As soon as the reactor was adding heat, he would off-
load the diesel generator to the SSTGs, start a feed-pump, and shut down
the diesel.
Don cleared the entry’s team phone-talker. He used the Geiger-counter
to check Gabe, who was giving Eng a report on the mist-spray coming off
the vent-pipe. Gabe said the leakage was coming out of a ground-down
weld-bead at the vent-pipe connection on the pump’s vent casing stub—6
inches above the top surface of the MCP.
Gabe had contamination on his EAB, the front of his decon suit,
gloves, decon cap, and on his booties. His EAB went into a special decon
bag. Gabe put all his decon gear in a big radiation sticker bag. Don checked
Gabe again to certify him clean and sent him into the AMR. Then, Don
checked Eng and me. We were clean, even the bottom of our booties and
gloves. Then I checked Don, he was clean.
Eng ordered Don and me not to remove our decon clothing once we got
to AMR, because we would be cleaning the Tunnel. Eng exited to AMR.
Don and I transferred the radiation sticker bags to the AMR.
 In the AMR. Doc Taylor had just finished double checking Gabe. Then,
he checked Don and me. Everyone was clean.
The ELT took the bag of samples for a Pig check. Doc took the bag
with Gabe’s EAB mask and hose for later-decontamination. The bags of
contaminated booties/gloves/clothing would be stored in the LLAMR bilge
area for disposal to the tender. After a radiation check, the other decon
clothing would be reused.
Eng left word that he wanted Don and me to leave the Tunnel plastic in
place because we would have to go back to patch the leak. We were to
decontaminate any Geiger-counter hot areas and remove the doormat in
front of the RC-WTD which we knew was contaminated by the team’s
booties. We were to check the whole tunnel at random spots at the RC-
WTD and AMR-WTD areas. Then clean any areas that had above
background readings. After each area was clean, we were to take swipe
samples for the ELT to do a double check.
Don and I were given swipe kits, spray bottles/decon kits, extra gloves,
and a Geiger-counter before returning to the Tunnel. Back in the Tunnel we
put the spare gloves at the AMR-WTD. We used the Geiger-counter to
check out the whole Tunnel. We found no hot spots except the RC-WTD
doormat. I put the RC-WTD doormat in a radiation sticker bag, then my
gloves.
Using the Geiger-counter Don checked the RC-WTD area again, it was
clean. He checked me again after I removed my gloves. I was clean. Then,
Don took swipes at the RC-WTD and AMR-WTD areas. I wrote down the
swipe numbers and locations. I put on new gloves and checked Don with
the Geiger-counter. He was clean. I checked his booties and mine for
contamination, they were clean. Just as we finished, XO announced the
reactor was critical.
Back in the AMR, Don gave our set of swipes to the waiting ELT to
analyze in the Pig. Then, Doc Taylor checked that Don and I hadn't picked
up any radioactive material—we were clean. Under Doc Tailor's direction
some guys started rolling up the plastic sheeting on the deck in AMR.
As we started to remove our decon coveralls, it struck me, we had had
a primary-coolant leak. I wondered how we would repair such a leak.
Twenty minutes later the ELT told us the Tunnel swipes were clean, the
Tunnel was clean. Also, he told us that all the entry party RC swipes
showed significant contamination. The mist-leak had contaminated the
whole reactor compartment.
The steam plant was returning to normal operations, albeit on single-
loop. Once again, the reactor plant would be able to provide substantial
power, but not Flank speed. Ten minutes later we secured from “Rig for
Reduced Electrical” with the main engines back on line. We secured from
snorkeling and returned to patrol depth.
With the port-loop isolated, there was a rapid pressure drop. Eng
ordered a log be kept on the port-loop pressure and temperature gauges.
This was completely different from our starboard loop isolation. This was
much more serious and complicated.
Port-Loop Temperature Dropping
It was 2030 when I hit my rack, three hours of sleep before my
midwatch. When I showed up in the Wardroom, Gabe, the oncoming
EOOW, was eating midrats. He said the port-loop pressure had stabilized at
a low level. Our watch would be monitoring port-loop pressure and
temperature. Gabe said Eng was working on a plan to patch the leak.
After eating two midrats sandwiches, I checked with Conn. They had
plans for Type11 star operations, shooting the GDU, and blowing sanitary
tanks. I told the Galley to be ready for GDU operations.
In Maneuvering, Gabe had relieved Andy and handed me Eng’s Night
Orders, "Maintain constant vigilance on port-loop's pressure and
temperature gauges.” Gabe explained Eng’s concern over the inlet and
outlet valves leaking. The pressure would only increase if the valves had
substantial leaks. Port-loop’s gauge-needle was steady at low pressure.
Orders were given to wake Eng if there was any increase in port-loop
pressure or temperature.
On this watch I became mesmerized by the port-loop temperature
gauge. Because the port-loop was isolated, its temperature was dropping.
The temperature was about 100 degrees above the RC's air temperature.
The temperature was dropping more slowing as it neared RC air
temperature. Gabe explained that it wouldn’t drop much more because of
the heat transfer across the shut valves and the coolant piping.
Gabe said Eng had the CO's agreement to put a patch on the crack to
provide two barrier protection. The US/UK Holy Loch agreement required
that there be two barriers between the reactor’s coolant and the outside
environment. I said with the outer hull and the isolated port-loop we had
two barriers. Gabe told me that technically the weld crack compromised the
loop piping barrier. We would have to find a way to patch the leak even at
low pressure before we could return to Holy Loch.
I asked if that meant an Argon weld job. We had tanks of Argon gas in
lower level Missile Compartment. He shook his head, “No.” The Argon
was for a tender welding team to board us via the tug with liquid nitrogen to
make a repair at sea. Liquid nitrogen rings on a section of pipe would
provide freeze plugs to isolate the leaking piping from the primary-coolant
loop. If the tender couldn’t fix it, we would have to return to CONUS and
go into a nuclear shipyard.
Eng arrived, asking Gabe to review his Patch Plan. After Eng left,
Gabe eagerly read the plan. Later, Gabe summarized the plan for me. The
procedure required cleaning the vent pipe, applying a neoprene wrap, a thin
lead wrap, and the use of three one inch, steel Band-it metal straps. The
middle strap’s bottom edge was to force the neoprene, protected by the lead
wrap, into the crack to plug the leak. The other two straps, above and below
the weld crack, were to seal the top and bottom from leakage if the middle
strap didn’t completely plug the leak.
With the gloom of the weld crack hanging over us, the midwatch
turned into a Sword of Damocles affair. There wasn't the usual chit-chat
from the control-panel operators about their fishing and love life exploits.
At 0500, Gabe told me that I could go off-watch.
When I checked in with SWO at the Conn, he asked about the Patch
Plan. He quizzed me on what I thought of it. I said it was a novel fix. I
didn’t share my real feelings—"It was similar to something I did to repair a
hole in a Model A Ford muffler in high school. It failed within a week.” I
left to check on the Galley.
Crew Worries about the Reactor Plant
I hadn't checked with supply for 24 hours. I needed to empty the slot
machine. O'Brien, breakfast cook, said the night baker had shot all the GDU
garbage/trash. He said, the scuttlebutt was we would shut down the reactor
and return to Holy Loch on the diesel. In the rush to come up with a
recovery plan, the crew had been left in the dark. Several stories were in
circulation. Returning to Holy Loch was the top one. The crew always was
hoping for a short patrol.
 I replied that there was a problem in the reactor piping that would be
fixed during the evening watch. O'Brien just gave me a blank nod. Not
knowing how to reassure him, I decided I had better not usurp the CO’s
responsibility for crew morale. I pulled away by mumbling that I had to
check the slot machine. The CO had not made an announcement, nor was
anything in the POD.
The slot machine was full of nickels. The crew was using it as a
distraction during our casualty. Fortunately, MT1 Darcy had arrived early
for watch-relief chow. Emptying the machine, we counted the nickels and
he signed my log for the coins. Now, Darcy badgered me for information. I
gave him the same answer I gave O'Brien, adding that I had to get some
sack time. Darcy loudly remarked to those at breakfast, “The crew is being
treated like mushrooms.” The sailors’ lament of being kept in the dark and
fed manure.
In the Wardroom, Chief was setting up for oncoming watch relief
breakfast. Asking how things were going, he replied things were going
great compared to what was going on back aft. “Touché!” I thought. Chief
has a dry sense of humor. At least he wasn't complaining about Brooks. He
also asked what was going. Surprisingly, he accepted my explanation in a
positive manner. Evidently it agreed with what he had heard in the goat
locker (Note 8-7).
Standing in the pantry, I ordered my usual sunny side eggs, bacon and
toast. Eating my bacon and eggs, I tried to overcome my foreboding on
what was to happen next. To me, this patch plan seemed to be a jury-rigged
repair. As I finished, Gabe arrived saying he returned the test plan to Eng
and needed to get some sleep. Fortunately, I was still excused from the noon
watch.
The Patch Plan
The engineers assembled in the Wardroom at 1000 to review the Patch
Plan. XO relieved Dave as EOOW. After explaining the patch repair
technique, Eng reviewed the plan to apply and test the patch. Eng wanted
both teams to practice applying the patch that afternoon on an air
conditioning seawater cooling pipe, about the same size as the MCP vent
pipe. Teams were the same except for Gabe and his phone-talker, they had
received the highest radiation dosages. Gabe and the phone-talker would
swap teams. Dave would replace Gabe.
 Eng stressed that we would be entering unknown territory with the
patch. The patch required a pressure test. Gabe asked how low the loop
temperature had to be before making the repair. Eng said that the current
temperature was now below 200 degrees, well below the melting
temperature of neoprene. Eng said working on the weld crack meant that
decon clothing would be contaminated. Eng asked Don if yesterday’s
radiation dosages changed the team’s time limit in the RC.
Don said that, except for Gabe and his phone-talker, the maximum
exposure of the team during the 15 minutes of entry was about 10% of the
monthly allotment. He expected that the team could remain in the RC for 40
minutes and still receive less than 50% of the monthly dosage allotment, a
very safe margin. Don warned that there would be many more bags of
radioactive contaminated clothing. Captain said everyone should get some
sleep and not to take any risks tomorrow.
The stewards rushed in to setup for lunch. Andy told me that he wanted
me to work with Don to make sure that we had decon clothing and plastic
protection ready for the evening entry. Overhearing Andy, Don suggested
we meet in AMS at 1400.
Skipping lunch gave me a chance to get some sack time. Even if I only
got three hours of sleep, it would be more than what the CO and Eng would
get.
After some rack time, I headed to the Galley to catch Brooks doing
breakout for the evening meal. Trying to be casual, I mentioned that Billy
Joe said there was a problem with Chief Jefferson. It was like a volcano
erupting. Brooks let out a stream of curses and other expletives. When I
asked for specifics, he would only reply with generalities. Probing from
different directions only raised his ire. I was left with the impression that
Brooks and the Chief didn't like the cut of each other’s jib. Telling Brooks
to let Billy Joe and me know about any problems, I didn’t know what else
to do.
Don and Doc Taylor were already in the AMS when I arrived. They
had the Geiger-counters, EABs, stacks of decon clothing, and rolls of
plastic sheeting and bags. We made up many extra radiation sticker bags. It
was a big time repeat of yesterday, except the Tunnel was already protected.
There were five of us at early chow. That meant that Rocky would be
the only one joining CO, XO, Eng, Nav, and Weps for dinner. Our group
was in a pensive, introspective mood. Each was trying to screw up courage
to perform the upcoming tasks. Of course, those going into the RC were
thinking about executing the plan. Actually, the backup entry team had the
tougher problem. If the first team couldn’t make the repair, they had the
uncertainty of not knowing, at this point, what their problem would be.
Patching the Primary-Coolant Leak
Don, Doc Taylor, and I double checked everything in AMR and the
Tunnel. The new plan was for both entry teams to dress and wait in the
AMS. With stoic faces, the teams completed dressing. Don and I did the
dosimeter/film badge checks and taping cuffs.
Just before 1830, Eng arrived and conferred with the teams. XO passed
through the AMS into the Tunnel to relieve the EOOW. Relieved by XO,
Gabe arrived and hurried into his decon gear. We felt the boat take an up
angle and level off at periscope depth. The seas were rough, rolling would
complicate the repair.
"Rig Ship for Reduced Electrical" was followed by "Prepare to
Snorkel." The diesel generator picked up the load and we shifted propulsion
to the EPM. We heard the Scram siren and “Prepare for a Fast-Scram-
Recovery.” from the AMS speakers.
Eng ordered the entry team into the Tunnel. We did the RC-WTD
Geiger-counter checks. The entry team entered the RC. Their Geiger-
counter reading were reported, same as last night. The team was in place to
patch the pipe.
Minutes later, they reported cleaning the crack area. With the reduced
pressure there was only oozing wetness —no spray coming from the
cracked weld. One team member wiped while the repair was being done.
Temporary duct tape held the neoprene while Andy squeezed the lead wrap
in place by tightening the Band-it strap. Minutes later, a report that the
middle Band-it strap at the pipe’s weld was being tightened. Then, the
lower Band-it strap on the vent-pipe was in place. Finally, the upper, third
strap was done. The phone-talker said Lt(jg) Brennan was ready for the
pressure test.
XO ordered the LLAMR watch to start the charging pump and increase
the port-loop pressure by 50 psi. Minutes went by, XO reported that the
port-loop was at test-pressure. Andy reported that there was no bulging of
the patch and no sign of water leakage.
 Eng told Andy that he and one chief should exit and let Dave and the
other chief make the 10-minute leakage inspection. Eng directed Dave to
use cleaning rags to check for traces of moisture at the top and bottom of
the patch.
Eng asked XO to report any drop in port-loop test-pressure. The first
group arrived at the WTD with their tools and Giger-counter. They were
told to wait until there was a final report.
XO reported that the port-loop pressure was holding. Minutes later
Dave said there weren’t any moisture leaks and no sign of bulging in the
bandit gaps. Eng told him to make a final check for tools or other gear and
bring his remaining team to the WTD.
The new decon plan was only one person would enter the Tunnel while
the others waited until the person removed his contaminated clothing and
left into the AMR. This avoided spreading contamination at the entrance
The procedure was efficient. Everyone had contamination on their
suits. The tool bag was assumed be contaminated. The tools, Geiger-
counter, and EABs were separated from the decon clothing. Each person
received a final Geiger-counter check from Doc Taylor in the AMR.
Dave was the last one out. He reported “There absolutely was no
leakage. The isolation patch worked!” Eng gave a rare toothy smile and a
“Well Done.” Eng told me to secure the RC-WTD. Eng told XO that
everyone was out of the RC and to “Commence a Fast-Scram-Recovery.”
Eng had me open the AMS WTD and dismiss the AMS backup team.
Don and I repeated last evening’s cleanup, swipes, and decon doormat
removal. The new decon procedure worked. Pig swipe results showed that
the Tunnel was clean. Andy had his chief oversee removing all the plastic
coverings. Doc Taylor’s team handled all the bags of contaminated clothing
and EABs/tools. Don and I removed our decon clothes.
XO got the reactor critical, the steam plant picked up the electric loads,
and the diesel was shut down. Within minutes the main turbines were on
line and we returned to patrol depth. It was a resounding success. No one
believed this patch had been done before. The patrol was saved. CO
squeezed into Maneuvering. He wanted face-to-face assurance that the
patch had isolated the leak.
Don and I stood outside Maneuvering catching pieces of their
conversations. There would be no MCP run in the port-loop. Subjecting the
patch to transient pressure during a pump startup was too risky. Readings of
the port-loop pressure and temperature were to be logged every 15 minutes
until things stabilized. The pressure might fluctuate some and Eng would be
notified for any change.
Captain congratulated everyone saying “The EOOWs deserved a good
night’s sleep.” XO caught the hint, he announced that he would complete
the current watch and take the first three hours of the midwatch. XO's offer
was met with big grins from Gabe and especially Dave—getting some sleep
before taking the end of his watch.
Someone said they needed a cup of real coffee not feedwater coffee.
With that comment the officers headed forward. Don and I stayed to check
on the cleanup. A short time later we went forward.
Going to the Galley, I found the Mess Hall packed and the engineers
were being quizzed. A crowd surrounded the entry team’s phone-talker, he
was the only guy not wearing khakis (Note 8-8) in the RC for the repair.
The crew was getting the straight scoop from their guy at the center of the
action! It was exciting to see the crew celebrate his success. Billy Joe
decided to add pizzas for midrats. I was pleased at his initiative, telling him
to do a double batch as the whole crew was up and celebrating.
The Wardroom excitement was something I had never seen before.
People were engaged in loud, boisterous conversations. It was a team effort
from the forward and aft end of the boat. Eng and CO deserved a lot of the
credit. It would have been easy to tell Squadron that the boat was returning
as a crippled submarine—not able to perform its mission.
Nav had Gabe in a philosophical discussion on the meaning of life.
Don was needling Eng about his dosimeter. I was happy to have been
involved. It made me feel part of the crew. I debated whether to get a few
hours of rack time before my midwatch on the Conn or just soak in the
comradery. I stayed, not wanting to miss anything. Don and I really bonded
during these evolutions.
The exhilarating discussions carried on for an hour. Chief Jefferson and
Ford brought in two sliced pizzas and a pitcher of lemonade. Once people
got some food and drink to counteract their adrenaline high, things quieted
down. Those who hadn’t slept much for the last 48 hours drifted off to their
bunks. While Taps, Taps, Lights Out wasn’t announced this night, I felt I
needed some rack time before my Conn-training watch.
I showered, but didn’t shave. I hadn’t shaved since the day before the
first RC entry. My beard was starting to show.
 Chapter Nine
On Patrol in Single-Loop—Again

R eporting for midwatch, SWO was in a somber mood. He complained

that no one woke him for the Wardroom celebration, he said he hadn’t
seen Eng for two days. Ted told him, during watch-relief, that the repair was
successful. SWO asked if I was involved. I told him that I assisted Don on
decon and was sorry he missed the Wardroom celebrations. I said “Eng was
watching pressures and temperatures to be sure the patch was holding.”
Then I added, “We will be able to complete our patrol.” SWO
brightened-up and said, “Good that sure makes me feel better. Eng and CO
deserve a lot of credit.”
SWO changed the subject, “Why didn’t you shave?” Still groggy from
lack of sleep, I blurted out, “I think I’ll try to grow a beard.” With a look of
disgust, SWO handed me the Captain’s Night Orders. CO directed us to
conduct Type11 operations and a Sea State 6 warning, a high sea state.
SWO told me to continue Diving Officer (DO) training. Weary from
decon work and missing sleep, I reviewed pumping bilges with COW. With
Chief Allison’s guidance I did it correctly, not opening the valve to sea until
I started the pump.
Then, I told Groves I was ready to continue my DO training. He asked
if I was ready for periscope depth operations. While concerned that my first
excursion to periscope depth would be in heavy seas, I cheerfully said I was
ready. Groves gave me the ordered course and depth. I acknowledged that I
had the Dive and asked Conn for 3 knots to check my trim.
I had COW pump some water to sea and we returned to 5 knots.
Groves said SWO wanted him to surreptitiously move water to test me on
the dive. He went to Chief Allison and whispered in his ear. COW started
turning switches and pushing buttons. Immediately the planesmen began to
react to the trim changes as our bow rose giving us an up-bubble.
We were light forward because the stern-planesman had to use dive on
his planes to keep a zero-bubble while the sail-planesman was using 20˚
dive to maintain ordered depth. I ordered 3,000 pounds flooded into the
forward trim tank. Within a few minutes, the planesmen only needed a few
degrees of planes action to maintain a zero-bubble and ordered depth.
 Ten minutes later we were sinking with a zero-bubble. Evidently
Groves had given the BCP two trim changes. Both planesmen were using
full rise on their planes and we still were losing depth even with a 5˚ up-
bubble. I ordered the Chief to blow 5,000 pounds to sea from Negative. We
were 30 feet below patrol depth with Radio reporting loss of signal. I had
pulled the floating comms wire under water. I asked SWO for 8 knots.
The speed and blowing Negative were effective. We quickly returned
to patrol depth and 5 knots, Radio reported regaining comms. Now we
porpoised around the ordered depth. The planesmen were fighting each
other. I had lost control of the dive. I ordered the stern-planesman to put his
planes at zero. Even when the sail-planes had been on full rise we were
losing depth with a 3˚ up-bubble. I was heavy at the stern. I directed COW
to pump 3,000 pounds to sea from the after trim tank. We finally settled out
at patrol depth with a zero-bubble and minimal planes operations.
Groves smiled and I broke into a grin. I had overcome his diabolical
plots. He asked if I wanted more drills. I nodded Yes. For the next hour
Groves devised more tests for me. I was able to stay within 10 feet of patrol
depth for all of them. After the final exercise, SWO said that he wanted me
to remain on the dive for our ascent to periscope depth.
Broach on My First Diving Officer Watch
SWO told me to trim for a Sea State 6. Sea State 6 scared me— 9 to 12
foot seas. Hopefully the seas would be on our beam to reduce the missile
deck suction effect. Otherwise, I’d be in serious trouble. I needed to flood in
water to be heavy. SWO ordered a course change to conduct a baffle sweep.
Sonar reported no contacts. We returned to base course. SWO ordered
“Make your depth 68 feet.” I replied “Aye, aye Sir.”
I told COW to flood 10,000 pounds into Negative tank. I wanted to be
heavy to prevent broaching. I ordered the stern-planesmen “10º up-bubble”
and sail-planesman “Go to 68 feet smartly.” (Note 9‑1). Both planesmen
went to full rise on their planes. With the up-bubble, I felt the excitement of
our rapid ascent. I counted out the depth changes for SWO just as Groves
taught me.
At 90 feet COW reported 10,000 pounds flooded to Negative. Now I
ordered flooding 5,000 pounds into forward trim. I wanted to force the
stern-planes to use rise to maintain the zero-bubble when we got to 68 feet.
This extra bow weight would help the sail-planesman keep us down.
 At 85 feet I ordered the stern-planesman to a zero-bubble. The sail-
planesman was easing his planes from full rise to 10° rise. At 80 feet our
rate of ascent slowed like an elevator slowing as it came to its ordered floor.
COW reported flooding 5,000 pounds into forward trim tank.
SWO announced “Scope breaking” and commenced his search routine.
We shot past 68 to 64 feet. With quick dive action on the sail-planes, we
returned to 68 feet. The stern-planesman was at 5º rise on his planes to
maintain his zero bubble to counter being heavy in forward trim.
SWO reported no contacts, completely overcast sky. No Type11
operations tonight. I was satisfied with the rapid excursion to periscope
depth. The sail-planesman was using 10º rise to maintain depth. Then, SWO
announced heavy seas from aft.
“Oh no, we’re too light for such big seas from astern!” I exclaimed to
myself. I ordered COW to flood another 10,000 pounds into Negative.
COW started flooding 10,000 pounds into Negative. I congratulated myself
for adding 10,000 more pounds of insurance. Being in a big storm didn't
leave me time to enjoy success. We started to lose depth. The sail-
planesman went to full dive!
“Too late. We Broached!” We were sucked to the surface—depth
jumped to 44 feet. The sail-planes were out of the water!
"Get me down!" SWO announced in a forceful voice. Both planesmen
had full dive on their planes but the sail-planes were ineffective as they now
were pushing against the wind. I turned to Groves expecting him to relieve
me as DO. He looked elsewhere, muttering "Get us down."
COW reported flooding 10,000 pounds into Negative. My mind was
churning. I ordered flooding another 10,000 pounds into Negative to break
the suction. With the heavy bow, the stern-planesman got a quick 10˚ down-
bubble. I ordered "No more than 5˚ down." to the stern-planesman. With a
large down-bubble, we would cut the wire and stick the screw out of the
water.
Turning to SWO I loudly asked, "Request 8 knots!" SWO ordered turns
for 8 knots. Radio reported loss of signal on the wire. SWO ordered COW
to raise the VLF mast. SWO informed Radio that the wire had been cut and
he raised the VLF mast (Note 9‑2)
As speed increased, we passed 66 feet. "Secure from flooding
Negative," I told the COW. COW reported Negative was flooded 5,000
pounds. We passed 75 feet with both planes at full rise with a 10º down-
bubble.
Radio reported not getting a signal on the VLF mast. We lost the radio
signal because the mast was underwater! At 80 feet, SWO lowered his
scope and the VLF mast. We were dropping like a rock. I ordered COW to
blow Negative 10,000 pounds and then added blowing another 10,000
pounds. I tried to recall all my flooding orders.
We shot dove past 110 feet going deeper. At 130 feet, SWO saved me
by ordering an “All Ahead 2/3” giving me 10 knots. COW reported blowing
20,000 pounds from Negative to sea. At 150 feet, with a 10º up-bubble and
10 knots of speed we finally stopped going deeper. The speed made the
planes effective. Back to 130 feet and rising briskly. SWO ordered me back
to periscope depth. We needed the VLF mast antenna to regain the
broadcast.
The messenger called out, "Captain in Control." The CO was talking
with SWO. I had cut the floating-wire, broached, sunk deep pulling away
from the suction effect, and we were still not at periscope depth. Now the
Captain had been roused out of the sack because of my ineptitude as Diving
Officer!
My mind was a jumble of feet and pounds. Wanting to be heavy at
periscope depth, but I wasn’t sure of my tank readings. Swallowing my
pride, I asked COW the tank status. He replied “5,000 pounds heavy in
Negative and 5,000 pounds heavy in forward trim.” I had forgotten stopping
the last 10,000 pounds flood of Negative. My brain was in overload.
We needed trim adjustments to prevent another broach. I flooded
10,000 pounds into Negative and 5,000 pounds into forward trim. After that
was done, I ordered the planes-men, “Make your depth 68 feet, 10º up-
bubble.”
As we got to 110 feet. I had 15,000 pounds in Negative and 10,000 in
forward trim with 10 knots of speed. I started calling out the decreasing
depths. I had COW flood another 5,000 pounds in Negative, reminding
myself that I was now 30,000 pounds heavy.
At 95 feet I realized that the 10 knots had increased my depth
acceleration. I ordered the stern-planesman to a zero bubble to slow down
the depth acceleration. We still zoomed past 85 feet as the sail-planesman
didn’t remove his full rise until we were at 80 feet. He had to go to full dive
on his planes to make us stop at ordered depth. The 10 knots of speed
compared to 5 knots, made the planes much more effective. I was amazed
that we hadn’t overshot the depth order and broached again.
Now with 20,000 pounds in Negative and 10,000 pounds in forward
trim, the sail-planesman had to use 15˚ rise on his planes to hold depth.
Because of the 10,000 pounds in forward trim, the stern-planesman had to
use 5˚ rise angle to maintain a zero-bubble. Even with the extra weight, I
was leery about being sucked to the surface.
Once we stabilized, I double checked our diving status. With 10 knots
of speed, we were in a good trim for these big seas. Twice our original
speed made the planes much more effective in holding periscope depth. Of
course, all three cavitation lights were on now that we were at 68 feet with
10kts of speed. I could only hope that our cavitation noise was being
covered up by the big storm noise.
SWO raised the VLF mast and made his periscope sweeps for contacts.
Radio reported no radio signals on the VLF mast. The mast needed to drain
and dry out after our deep depth excursion. Two sleepy-eyed radiomen
showed up in Ops with a large coil of plastic coated black coaxial antenna
wire. They had been rousted out of their rack to stream a new wire. SWO
gave permission to break rig for dive. They opened the Bridge trunk to
stream the wire.
CO approached me asking if everything was under control. I assured
him that I now had the bubble. I apologized for broaching and cutting the
wire. A dark cloud crossed his eyes. The lost comms would go in his patrol
report as a black mark (Note 9-3). He brightened up saying, “Cutting the
wire is part of training a new Conning Officer.” In his patrol report, he
probably would write up the loss of NCA comms as diving officer training.
The Order of the Broach
Captain asked me to turn around to face him. He held an ugly piece of
cloth and gold insignia with a chrome laundry pin attached horizontally at
the top. It was half an aviator’s wing insignia soldered to a half-dolphin
attached to a piece of blue denim. He looked into my eyes saying, "You are
now the trustee of The Order of the Broach. You will wear this insignia
daily until you qualify as a submarine diving Officer with five consecutive,
successful excursions to periscope depth."
Using the giant safety pin, he affixed this ugly object to the left pocket
of my poopy suit. The same spot where I hoped to wear my gold dolphins
someday. Light laughter tinkled around the Control Room. Out of the
corner of my eye I could see the smirks on the planesmen's faces as they
watched the CO pin this ugly monstrosity on my poopy suit.
From my REQUIN summer cruise, I knew this wasn’t an initiation into
a select group of submariners. The half-wing representing my excursion
into the air-surface interface. It would be a daily reminder of my lack of
submarine diving skills. Not knowing what to say, I mumbled a quiet sorry
and a hope to improve on my next dive.
The CO returned to his stateroom. SWO told Groves to relieve me on
the dive and for me to report to the Conn. He wore a stern face when I
climbed the two steps to the periscope stand. Suddenly we heard the
clickety-clack from the radio monitor. The VLF mast had captured the NCA
broadcast.
"Well, what did you learn tonight?” SWO asked in a cold, hard tone
while conducting scope safety sweeps. Thinking about it since the CO
pinned The Order of the Broach on my chest, I had learned many things
and I was trying to sort them out.
I stammered that cutting the wire with the screw was the worst thing
that occurred. It happened because I used too big a down-bubble recovering
from the broach. I failed to consider that with the sail out of the water the
wire would be drooping down toward the missile deck.
SWO looked at me shaking his head No, no. “There were several things
more important than the bubble. “Why did you wait to flood water into
Negative until after you were at scope depth? Why did you ask for 8 knots
instead of 10 knots? Why did you flood in water after you broached instead
of asking for speed? Didn’t that cause the deep excursion? Why did you
wait to use your team to help solve your tank problems? You put the boat in
jeopardy by not using your team.” I had no good answers for any of his
questions. I felt embarrassed that I had been so unprepared.
Stopping his scope search, he looked at me, “Do understand why you
successfully held depth on your second attempt at periscope depth?”
Returning to his scope search, I hesitated answering.
This was SWO’s most critical question. I had to get it right. Finally, I
said “There were several things, I had 10 knots of speed instead of 5 and 8
knots which dramatically improved the diving-planes’ actions. Also, I
flooded in trim water before I got to periscope depth. This made it easier to
determine whether my stern-planes bubble and sail-planes dive angle would
mitigate the suction effects on the missile deck.”
SWO looked up from the scope and smiled, “Then it wasn’t just luck
that you had a good trim on your second attempt. You actually learned
something from your failure. Just don’t forget what you learned.” I felt
relieved that SWO was satisfied with my answer and that he recognized that
I was able to turn a bad experience into a positive learning experience.
SWO told me to watch how the radiomen launched the wire while we blew
sanitary tanks and shot the GDU.
It was a strenuous physical task turning the line wiper pressure rollers
that pushed the wire out its exit tube. It was a messy task as water was
leaking and spurting all over the place. The guy in the trunk was sweating
profusely. At one point he looked down, saying "Are you the guy who cut
the wire?" Answering yes, I asked if maybe it just broke and wasn’t cut.
Saying he pulled in over 200 feet of wire, he told me to check the wire
laying on the deck at my feet. The black coating had been skinned away
from the last 10 feet. Bright copper wire, mangled stainless-steel sheathing,
and strips of black plastic shone in the trunk light.
With a big smile, he remarked, "You're the guy who got us the slot
machine. I really enjoy playing it—it helps me unwind."
“Wow, the first direct feedback from the crew on the slot machine.”
SWO had me relieve Groves as DO for the rest of the watch. Within 45
minutes, Radio reported a signal on the floating-wire. Finally, the radiomen
in the trunk were finished. Groves rigged the trunk for dive.
When Radio switched to the wire, we heard a new clickety-clack of
Morse code coming from the monitor. SWO lowered the VLF mast. Ten
minutes later we completed the GDU shoot and returned to patrol depth.
Once at patrol depth, the dive turned into a typical routine patrol watch. A
welcome relief from the past two hours.
After watch and breakfast, I emptied the slot machine, and turned the
nickels over to Bankership EN2. There weren't any Wardroom, Galley or
supply department problems. My conning watch schedule left me without a
noon watch. I was physically and mentally beat. I decided to skip lunch and
put in an equalizer (Note 9-4).
I finely woke up at 1600 after 10 hours in the sack. I remembered
SWO’s reaction to my beard. Maybe it was a good idea to grow a beard. No
other officer had a beard. Many in the crew were growing beards. I would
be part of the crew.
Supply Parts Problems
I had finished showering, not shaving, and dressing when Penny
knocked on my stateroom door. He was replacing a circuit board for the
navigation ETs and was having trouble locating its spareparts locker. He
wanted me to check that he was using the supply locker locator system
correctly.
The COSAL system indicated that we had four boards onboard. He
showed me the part number that the ETs submitted and the supply locator
card numbers showing four circuit boards being in a locker in the Torpedo
Room.
Checking the locker, we found only torpedo spareparts. We checked
nearby lockers and they contained only torpedo spareparts. That made good
sense to me. It didn't seem logical that navigation parts would be stored in
the Torpedo Room. Navigation parts should be in the Ops Compartment or
Missile Compartment supply lockers.
By transposing a pair of numbers, we identified a supply locker in the
Ops Compartment. It didn't take long to find the locker and circuit board.
Penny was amazed and thankful. I was happy that the problem was so
easily solved.
By skipping lunch, I now needed a meal but I couldn’t justify using
watch-relief early chow or fill-in dining for those coming off watch
(Note 9-5). I had to take my spot at first-sitting wearing the Broach Pin, a
Scarlet Letter on my chest.
The chit-chat at dinner was even more stilted than usual. The CO, XO,
and Eng weren't saying much and when they did say something it was in
low, muted tones which implied it wasn’t a conversation for the entire table.
It probably was about the new single-loop procedures.
As senior officers, XO, SWO, Eng and Nav were at the CO's end of the
table. SWO's normal social interaction at meals was to sit stiffly and silent
as a totem pole. My guess was that he didn't join in the conversations
because CO's topics were usually about nuclear engineering. In the past,
LCdr Charlie Donahue, Nav, was the social butterfly. He tried to draw
people into discussion about movies, sports, and even taboo subjects of
politics and religion. Now, he was reticent. He didn’t even mention my
Broach Pin.
Rocky and Dave were at my end of the table, along with Don Lindsey.
All congratulated me on receiving The Order of the Broach. I just gave
them a faint smile. No one asked how the broach occurred. Occasionally in
low voices, one of us would make a remark about the patch fix.
All in all, the dinner atmosphere was quiet and somber until Rocky
asked me whether I was trying to grow a beard. I answered “Yes!” Dave
gave me a funny smile remarking, “You’ll need to shave your neck to
ensure your EAB mask makes an airtight fit.” Rocky chipped in that Dave’s
advice was crucial for my own safety. Don asked why I wanted to grow a
beard. Without thinking, “I’m junior onboard, maybe it’s just to show a
little rebellion.”
The whole table chuckled, indicating that the seniors were paying
attention to our end of the table. Rocky added, “Don’t cut off your nose to
spite your face.”
The Chess Game
After lunch as Nav and I were leaving the Wardroom, he asked me to
play chess. I was apprehensive, because XO directed that my spare time
was to be devoted to studying for qualifications. I didn’t even dare think
about seeing a movie. I didn't have another watch until midnight and was
still stressed from my diving broach. I agreed, but adding that we couldn't
play in the Wardroom.
Overhearing our conversation, Don offered us the use of Sick Bay. We
would be out of the main stream. Nav got his chess set and we scurried off
to Sick Bay next to MCC and across from Radio. It had been all work for
me since we arrived in Holy Loch. This would be my first recreation,
except for secretly reading a few snippets from The Group.
It felt good thinking of something besides submarine systems. Don
took an interest in our game. With the door cracked for ventilation, he acted
as a lookout in case XO showed up to catch me goofing-off. It was a tense
game with the surreal contribution of Petula Clark's Downtown blaring out
of the boat's entertainment speaker. Nav insisted that I call him Charlie,
rather than the formal Commander title I used in addressing him. Charlie
was a rotund, fair haired, six-footer with a jovial nature. I asked him how he
enjoyed NPS in lovely Monterey.
 He said he was halfway through the two-year Marine Engineering
curriculum when he was ordered to FBM Navigator School. It was a big
disappointment for him and his family to be pulled out of school and sent
back to sea on a nuke boat. On his diesel boat, he had made several
deployments to the Mediterranean. Each time, his wife met him in ports to
shorten their six-month deployment separation.
Having played chess since grade school, I didn't give it a second
thought on winning the game in 30 moves. It felt good to have mastery of
something.
 Chapter Ten
Back to Routine without Trim Pump

T he crew seemed to be in a stupor. Was it strain from the reactor

evolutions or foreboding about future casualties? Being my first patrol,
I had no reference to judge the crew's mood. My bunkmates, also on their
first patrol couldn’t enlighten me.
While only on patrol for less than a month, I was beat. To perk things
up, I gave Billy Joe the Italian spices, telling him to shoot the works on our
next spaghetti meal.
On the next Conn midwatch, I was DO and made a successful
excursion to periscope depth. I didn't broach or cut the comms wire as it
was only a Sea State 4—one down, four to go. I needed four more
successes to remove the Broach Pin. It was like wearing a dunce cap.
After returning to patrol depth, I ventured into Sonar to investigate
SWO’s vulnerability question on noisy evolutions. Sonar Room was our
Twilight Zone. Operators were wearing headsets intently listening while
turning their sonar bearing wheels to sweep out search areas around the
boat. Sonar was crammed with exotic displays, devices and noises.
Adding to the visual and aural ambience was an odd metallic smell. It
was ozone from the stylus sparking through the paper rolling across the
metal plate of the bearing time recorder (BTR) one in each sonar. The BTR,
an automatic contact detection system, displayed the bearing/time history of
passive contacts. The BQR‑7’s BTR would usually make the first sonar
detection of merchant ships and noisy contacts using diesel engines. For
contacts like a quiet, drifting fishing boat, the BQR‑2B operator usually
made the initial detection.
High on the forward bulkhead, intriguing sounds and visuals came
from the active sonar intercept receiver—the French DUUG‑1. Its speaker
emitted sharp squeals while flashing an electronic line of bearing on its 10
centimeter CRT. DUUG‑1 would make false alerts from own ship noise
transients caused by rudder/diving-plane actions and pump startups.
Fortunately, these false alarms show up as a scramble of bearing lines
instead of a single bearing line.
The operators were friendly as I intruded on their inner-sanctum. I
recognized the Sonar Supervisor as a frequent slot machine player. I asked
if he had anything describing how vulnerable we were to sonar detection for
different speeds and noisy evolutions. Specifically, ‘How does operating the
GDU and blowing sanitary tanks affected our detectability?”
He said he had a Ship Silencing Report containing the radiated noise
measurements taken after commissioning. Pulling out a drawer of their safe,
he handed me a dog-eared David Taylor Model Basin (DTMB) Secret
report on the boat’s radiated-noise and self-noise (Note 10-1). DTMB was
the Navy's premier naval architecture laboratory responsible for the design
and testing of naval ships.
The report was fascinating. It contained frequency curves of acoustic-
levels for different speeds and equipment operations. It showed noise levels
for MCPs running in slow and high speeds. The report showed noise levels
for blowing sanitary tanks, shooting GDU, rudder/planes operations, and
raising/lowering periscopes/masts. It was a superb report. The only thing
lacking was how the noise levels increased our sonar vulnerability in terms
of detection range.
I asked the Sonar gang how they related the DTMB noise levels to
sonar vulnerability. The consensus of the sonarmen was that any increase in
noise was bad.
After an hour in the Sonar Room, I reported my radiated noise findings
to SWO. As expected, he didn't like the answer that increased noise levels
made us more detectable. He wanted answers in detection range for a Soviet
sonar. Based on my Sub School acoustics and now from sonar, I said that no
one knew. SWO gave me a facial expression of annoyance!
Spicy Spaghetti Meal
Our shipboard routines continued in a methodical, almost somber
manner. People were at their watchstations or doing boat qualifications. But
there wasn't the positive energy I saw during sea trials and on the
Maneuvering Watch leaving for patrol.
Billy Joe dumped all the Italian spices in the evening’s spaghetti sauce.
The feedback was a big letdown. Only one person in the Wardroom noticed
any difference. Charlie remarked how good the sauce was, asking why it
was different. I told him we used new Italian spices my fiancée sent me. He
was genuinely upset when I told him we only had enough for this meal.
There weren't any other comments. I was totally crestfallen.
 In the Galley, I was eager to hear what the crew thought. Billy Joe said
most of the crew remarked that the spaghetti was different. Half saying it
was the best spaghetti they had on the patrol and the other half wanted to
know why the sauce was so yucky. Twenty dollars’ worth of spices down
the drain.
I turned to my submarine qualifications. Completing qualifications was
important to everyone. LPOs could deny unqualified people the privilege of
watching movies. Chief Jefferson made overseeing the Supply Department
qualification his priority task. This would be the main reason Chief
Jefferson would be getting a 4.0 mark on his evaluation report.
Some LPOs denied people behind in quals the privilege of playing the
slot machine. Getting people qualified on watchstations allowed a watch-
section to go into four section watches—reducing the load on everyone.
Plus, getting all his people qualified in submarines was feather in a LPO's
cap. He could brag about it to his peers.
Galley Crisis
Completing a noon EOOW-training-watch on a mundane day, I went to
second-sitting for dinner. I had skipped lunch for sleep. I asked the CO for
permission to join the table and squeezed into a Wardroom chair. Some
first-sitting diners were lingering over their coffee and cake dessert. An
empty ice cream bowl was in front of XO. He was steadfast in weight loss
diet.
The skipper greeted me with a smile, commenting about the excellent
rare roast beef. The CO’s compliment was the first since Commodore Bell's
dinner. When Ford took my plate, I asked for rare roast beef. I got what I
expected. It was brown and well done. The rare beef had been eaten.
After dinner I went to the Galley. Billy Joe was not wearing his usual
smile. He said Brooks was upset with Chief Jefferson. Brooks told Billy Joe
that when his roast beef came out of the ovens, Chief came into the Galley
to fill the Wardroom serving dishes.
He said Chief proceeded to slice up each beef round taking only rare
cuts from the center. Not holding back, Brooks blasted the Chief for not
leaving any rare meat for the crew. Chief took it as an affront that a 2nd class
petty office was criticizing him. He told Brooks that the Wardroom only
wanted rare beef and that it was his duty to supply it.
 There was now a full-blown riff between my chief steward and Brooks.
After relating the story, Billy Joe said he didn't know what to do. He felt
what Chief did wasn’t right and he wanted to stand up for his cook. Yet, he
understood that Chief was senior to Brooks and could do whatever he
wanted. While sympathetic to Billy Joe's plight, I knew from experience
that Brooks was bombastic and rubbed people the wrong way.
In the background, Brooks was banging pots and pans and throwing
them into the deep wash sink. Billy Joe asked me to talk to Brooks. I
agreed. This was not something I could let fester and hope it would go
away.
I didn't have to make the first move. Brooks saw me and came towards
us. Yelling belligerently, he said “It wasn't fair that the Wardroom got the
choice portions of the beef he cooked. He said he was going to complain to
COB and XO that the Wardroom got the best food from the Galley. He
wanted them to know that the Wardroom was stealing the best parts of his
roast beef from the crew.”
“Yipes!” I thought to myself, “This is turning ugly. It could be a big
morale problem for the whole crew.” I needed a way to soothe Brooks who
was becoming more agitated by the minute. As he vented, he reinforced the
righteousness of his cause. “How am I going to turn this off without
conceding to his point and pit me against my Chief? How was I going to
defuse this mess?”
Billy Joe looked on with a hurt and hopeless expression on his face. He
was leaving everything to me. I didn't blame him. For the tenth time Brooks
repeated his assertion that it wasn't fair that only the Wardroom got all the
rare roast beef. A light bulb turned on in my brain.
Staring straight into his face I said, "A good cook should be able to
make all the roast beef rare if that’s how the crew wants it."
Brooks was set back on his heels. His mouth was moving but no words
were forthcoming as his brain tried to counter my comment on his culinary
skills. I was fed up with Brooks' behavior. He had a surly comment every
time I asked him a simple question about the Galley. His ranting and raving
made me realize that a change was needed. Turning from Brooks to Billy
Joe, in a forceful voice I said, "Let's put Brooks on the Breakfast Watch
until he learns how to cook rare roast beef!"
With that, I turned on my heels leaving Brooks sputtering incoherently.
Regret for what I had done poured over me as soon as I turned to leave the
Mess Hall. My Italian temper had gotten the best of me. I had made a rash,
impulsive judgment and, worse yet, had followed up with an impulsive
order. As I rushed away, I realized that I should have met with Chief
Jefferson and Billy Joe but it was too late now. Even though my order was
only a few seconds old, any backtracking would indicate that I lacked the
leadership needed to lead men in a crisis.
This was my first shipboard duty tour, I had little leadership
experience. For my two years of Navy training schools I never had a
leadership position. My limited leadership experiences were as a sailor and
midshipman. Now I had botched it! I was sure that this would be brought to
XO's attention causing a bad mark on my fitness report for leadership.
“No,” I thought, “the worse thing would be Brook’s carping to the crew
and XO on how the Wardroom was usurping the best parts of the Galley's
common food.” Now I was having second thoughts about meeting with the
Chief and Billy Joe to undo my rash order.
Weapon System Readiness Test
The General Alarm gongs sounded, then "Man Battle Stations Missile
for WSRT…1SQ." Excited, I took my usual observation position at the
TFCS (Note 10-2).
I knew the routine. Rocky relieving Ted on the Conn so Ted could go to
his Launch Panel in the Missile Compartment. Andy commencing hovering.
The authentication of the WSRT message and the Captain announcing
authority to proceed. Missiles were being simulated as launched. Holds
were announced when Andy lost hovering control that required blowing of
MBTs. Requesting speed to regain launch depth. Finally, the last simulated
missile was launched.
These were things that mattered to me. The routine of the Battle
Stations Missile was therapy for my addled brain. It put our little human
squabbles into perspective. This was the whole reason for us being in this
empty patch of ocean. No matter what happened between people, as long as
we performed our strategic mission, all other matters were inconsequential.
If we accomplished our mission, the patrol would be a success (Note 10‑3).
This was salve for my bummed out psyche. While I could try to undo
what had occurred, it wasn't worth the anguish to my LPOs if I dragged
them into this Brooks problem.
 The Battle Stations Missile was over. Billy Joe appeared in front of me
full of excited energy, asking, "Can we talk?" Afraid that Brooks had gone
to COB and XO, I was going to suggest we go to the Supply Office.
Suddenly, Billy Joe poured forth what seemed to be a well-rehearsed spiel.
He agreed with me about putting Brooks on breakfast duty. He sat
Brooks down after I left, telling him that he shared his concern about Chief
taking the rare beef. But, by threatening to go directly to XO and not up the
Supply Department’s chain of command, he had violated Navy Regulations.
He told Brooks that my putting him on breakfast duty was minor compared
with my sending him to Captain's Mast for insubordination (Note 10-4).
He told Brooks to use his new assignment to prove his 2nd class rate as
a professional sailor. Billy Joe said that Brooks accepted the
admonishments and his new watch assignment.
Staring at that big lug in front of me, I was awed by the simplicity of
his leadership skills. Billy Joe demonstrated the heart and soul of Navy
training and shipboard life. To my relief, Billy Joe had not disagreed with
my handing of the situation. I discovered that he was more than just a good
cook, Billy Joe was a naval leader. Being Italian I wanted to hug him, being
human I wanted to shake his hand, being a naval officer, I simply thanked
him for taking care of his men. I asked him to keep me informed if there
were any other problems with Brooks. I was sure there might be some
repercussions.
Cloak and Dagger Session
The next morning, I saw a paper sign taped on the closed Wardroom
door which I had never seen shut, not even during movies. The sign said
Cloak and Dagger Session—No Admittance. Under it was an expertly
drawn picture of a Mad Comic Book's Spy vs Spy character holding a
round, lighted-fuse bomb. Chief was in the pantry, I asked why the door
was shut. Not knowing, he said that CO, XO, Weps and other officers were
inside with charts and folders.
On Conn midwatch after my second successful DO excursion to
periscope depth, I asked SWO about the Cloak and Dagger session. He said
we were shifting patrol boxes in a daisy chain looping back to Holy Loch.
In each area, we were assigned a list of targets for our short range, 1,200
nautical mile, Polaris A1 missiles. Because some areas took us into shallow
waters close to the Norwegian coast, TIME magazine dubbed our boats
“Mudsuckers” (Note 10‑5).
SWO said that the Cloak and Dagger meeting was operations planning
to determine where we would depart the current patrol area to enter the next
patrol box to cover our assigned targets. CO, XO, Weps, AWeps, Ops, and
Nav were involved in this planning.
SWO said the Cloak and Dagger label and drawing were used to make
it sound more exotic. He said that I was welcomed to sit in on the next
session. Thinking, “I had better get my dolphins before I started invading
the realm of operational planning.”
Engineering Officer of the Watch Training
It was a treat to stand Conn-training watches. It broke up the routine of
EOOW-training-watches. On the Conn, I discovered aspects of submarine
operations unknown to me. It was invigorating to hunt for information on
new topics and equipment. While doing qualifications in lower level
Missile Compartment, I asked an MT about the demolition charges Sub
School told us were aboard for destroying our submarine if we got into
extremis. He smiled, saying they had been removed after the first few
patrols because of the danger of an accidental detonation.
By comparison, reviewing the reactor plant systems was becoming
tedious. Training was just studying the Reactor Plant Manuals (RPMs) not
observing real evolutions. While we had whole crew submarine casualty
drills on equipment, very few involved the engineering plant—usually it
was the O₂ generator. None required performing actual operations that
affected plant operations.
The RPMs were library dictionary sized volumes that summarized all
aspects of the reactor plant. They contained overview information and
procedures such as reactor startup, casualty responses, and detailed
information on each subsystem in the primary plant. The RPM was the
EOOW’s bible. We were expected to know its contents as thoroughly as any
theology student would know his Scriptures. Even with my six months of
reactor plant training, there were things I was just discovering or beginning
to understand from intensive readings.
For me, it was too abstract. Our plant was operating in low speed,
steady state condition. Shifting equipment on the midwatch, using the lube
oil purifier, and running the evap were the only activities. Shifting to fast-
speed MCPs for the weekly CRUD run was the only non-routine operation
for the reactor plant. There were no more RC airborne radiation alarms,
thankfully. Occasionally, the panel operators lamented about missing the
excitement of the RC entries.
The more I read the RPMs, the more I wanted to have the opportunity
to observe the meters and gauges on the SPCP, RPCP, and EPCP during
reactor shut downs and startups. The drama of our first day casualty and the
experience of patching the vent pipe leak had receded. With my new
knowledge, I wanted to see interactions of operations between the primary
and secondary plants. I wanted the experience of watching the meters and
gauges change during dynamic evolutions.
One break from reading RPMs was reading over a hundred Incident
Report messages that Adm Rickover sent us. His aim for safety was a
proven engineering feat.
Loss of the Trim Pump
On a Conn-training midwatch, I read a Night Orders statement, “For
the rest of the patrol, the standby T&D pump will replace the trim pump
which failed on the evening watch.” I asked the Auxiliaryman-of-the-
Watch what happened, he said the shaft broke.
SWO quizzed me on the ramifications on the loss of the trim pump.
This was one of the major things I learned on REQUIN. I recited from rote,
“The drain and trim pumps are so critical that there is a built-in spare—the
standby T&D pump. The three pumps can be configured to function as
either the drain pump or the trim pump.”
For once, SWO seemed impressed with my answer. Our midwatch
proceeded without any problems as the standby T&D pump functioned
flawlessly. I made my fourth successful periscope ascent. One more to go to
remove my Scarlet Letter!
Later that afternoon, I was in the Ops periscopes and pump room
tracing out trim and drain piping. In a corner Dave and his two A‑Division
chiefs were inspecting the trim pump. Dave asked the chiefs why the shaft
broke. One chief said it just did. Not satisfied, Dave kept pressing for an
explanation. He asked whether the motor and pump were out of alignment
or had a bearing failed. Both chiefs continued to say it just happened.
Dave tried another tack, saying the CO wouldn't be satisfied with it just
broke. He would want to know why the shaft fractured. Both chiefs turned
on Dave cursing him and telling him he was just a dumb junior officer who
didn't know anything about machinery
From across the room, I caught a stunned look on Dave's face. He was
shocked that his chiefs would show such contempt. Embarrassed to be a
witness, I tried to hide behind the stowed periscopes. After a prolong
silence, Dave calmly told the chiefs to determine the reason for the shaft
fracture and he left the space. I was stunned.
Because of the quality of people selected for submarine service, I didn't
expect such a confrontation. I had never experienced trouble between
officers and enlisted during my three midshipman summers and enlisted
year training ashore. During my midshipman cruiser duty, I was told there
was bad blood between members of the deck gang and their warrant officer
but I never witnessed a direct confrontation between enlisted and officers. I
sure didn't expect it on a nuclear submarine.
This had not been griping about an unfair policy such as my experience
with Brooks. This was personal animosity directed at an officer to his face
from his chiefs. I felt badly for Dave. As the junior officer, I didn't discuss it
with Dave. He never acknowledged that I was in the pump room, much less
offered to discuss the matter.
With a heavy heart, I continued my training watches, running the
Supply Department, and doing my submarine qualifications.
Supply Department Business
We were over half way through our 90 day cycle and I hadn't checked
on food expenditures. Using my skipped watch time after Conn-training I
started on the food budget. Billy Joe gave me the food item breakout
notebook listing the items/amounts used for each meal for upkeep and our
first 20 days of patrol. The requisitions for food items with their costs were
on file, as was the inventory of the provisions from the Blue crew.
The Navy, by acts of Congress, allotted a fixed dollar amount per man
for food. There was an additional allowance for submarines. NavSup
provided us a unique product called 6-Way-Beef, actually five different cuts
of frozen meat in a pack of 6 boxes—one of steaks, stew beef, roasts, veal
cutlets, and two of hamburger. It was only available as a 6-box unit to
prevent a thrifty commissary officer from purchasing only hamburger for
his crew.
 Another complication was Wardroom food. Officers received a tax-free
food allowance to purchase their meals. In large ships, the Wardroom had a
full Galley. The Wardroom purchased food and prepared it. They kept their
own accounts with officers billed monthly.
In smaller ships and submarines, there wasn’t space for Wardroom
cooking facilities, much less food storage. The officers received their meals
from the general mess and paid the same rate as the general mess. This had
good and bad results. The good, for me as mess treasurer, was the ease of
accounting for meal expenses. The down side was Wardroom bruhahas with
the general mess such as Brooks’ roast beef.
Another problem that complicated my calculations was that we served
four meals a day. The fourth was midnight rations, midrats were principally
for the oncoming watch. There was no specific cost allotment for midrats.
Our midrats were lunch and dinner leftovers augmented with baloney and
PB&J sandwiches.
If wardroom mess members were paying on a per meal basis and
midrats had no cost, theoretically an officer could eat just midrats and avoid
any meal cost for the entire patrol. This wouldn’t happen but officers who
skipped two meals a day were gaming the system if they ate midrats that
day. Dan O’Reilly had initiated a rule that anyone not taking two meals in a
day would be charged a price of a missed meal for his midrats.
Thus, a record of an officer’s meals had to be kept. Dan tried having
officers initial the daily meal sheet. There were problems of officers not
initialing for a second-sitting meal or when they ate just dessert and coffee.
Dan required the steward to put a check on an officer's meal record when he
had anything besides coffee or tea. Dan had solved these problems. There
was a robust system in place. We used Dan’s rules.
XO's Ice Cream Diet Causes Accounting Problem
While signing a weekly menu, XO harangued me about having too
many vegetables and salads and not enough meat entree choices for lunch
and dinner. Not wanting to back down, I said we had to expend our fresh
vegetables before they went bad. There was some huffing and puffing on
both sides.
XO added, "Why am I being charged for meals when all I eat is ice
cream?" I froze. It hadn't occurred to me what he should be charged for
eating only ice cream. XO’s ice cream diet created a new problem. Feeling
empathy, I uttered a meek, "That's not right."
XO exploded, "What isn’t right? Get the daily meal sheets and I'll show
you!" Now I had done it. I stammered “I mean, it isn’t fair that you are
being charged for three meals a day when you’re eating only a bowl of ice
cream.”
Thinking, “His ice cream comes from a powder that is mixed with
water, not churned cream made into ice cream. His ice cream costs only
pennies.”
Evidently this problem had been bothering XO for some time. I had a
light bulb moment and blurted out, "What do you think you should be
charged for your ice cream diet?"
It was XO's turn to freeze. Putting his hand to his chin, he confirmed
that he hadn't given it much thought. After an awkward pause, he asked me
what I thought would be fair.
Trying to show empathy for the XO was not easy. Trying to be factual,
I asked, "Do you ever eat anything else besides ice cream?" He admitted
that twice a week he would have a fresh baked cinnamon bun, a piece of hot
pie, or an out of the oven oatmeal cookie but usually he only ate ice cream.
The absurdity of my quizzing XO on breaking his diet was an unpleasant
experience for me. It was too much of a father confessor moment. Soon he
was going to realize that he was baring his soul to his most junior officer. I
had to break this before it exploded in my face
When XO started to tell me about his occasional salad at lunch or
dinner a few times a week, I interrupted him with, "How about we charge
you for one breakfast each day? That’s the cheapest meal of the day.”
With a big smile, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his
shoulders, he agreed to my suggestion. I don't know who was more
relieved. I said, “I will have the stewards amend the meal records to show
that you only had breakfast from the day we started our weight loss bet.”
Then, I shoved the weekly menu at him which he signed without protest.
Knowing the Wardroom records were valid I moved on to the
Commissary calculations.
It would take many laborious hours computing columns of entries.
Using our mechanically cranked HP adding machine, I calculated what we
spent on our meals and what the Navy allowance allowed. I had confidence
in my computations.
 Commissary Budget in the Red
Finally, it was done. Over halfway through our 90-day cycle, I knew
where we stood with the Commissary accounts. To my horror, I found that
we had over spent by $1,500—a 6% cost overrun. How did this happen?
What am I going to do?
The CO would have to sign the final accounting at the end of patrol. It
would be a black mark on my record and his. We still had forty days to
make up the overrun but that was of little consolation to me. We had
consumed the cheap local fresh vegetables and fruits the tender bought for
us in Scotland. Now we only had expensive frozen and canned foods left.
Returning to our files, I took out the supply form for our allowance and
expenditure report. Maybe there was a submarine factor or something that
would shift us back into the black?
Scanning the form, I couldn't find anything that either increased our
allowance or reduced our expenditures. Then, I found a place to enter an
allowance for Special Provisions. Not knowing what Special Provisions
meant I could only hope that our special 6-Way-Beef would give us a
discount. It was our most expensive item. I searched the Commissary
Accounts section of the NavSup Manual for information on Special
Provisions.
After a frantic half hour, I found a definition of Special Provisions—
provisions that qualify for a war zone cost discount. My hopes soared.
Maybe our Cold War strategic patrol qualified us for this discount?
Searching through the entire section I couldn't find any more about this
discount. Lamenting, I thought, “Where or where is Dan O’Reilly when I
need him?”
Bookmarking the Special Provision page, I headed off to find Billy Joe.
During turnover, I asked Billy Joe about managing the dollar accounts. He
laughed saying, “The deal is that I take care of the Galley with you handling
the paperwork.” It seemed to be a fair tradeoff. It seems I made a big
assumption on how easy tracking food expenditures would be. It was hubris
at its worse.
Now I was in the middle of the ocean without any recourse. I didn’t
have a chief Commissaryman who had done expenditure reports. I had a 1st
class who was a leading petty office for the first time. It was laughable to
quiz him about Special Provisions.
 Billy Joe was beaming as he oversaw his messcook slinging out beef
stew onto the crew’s metal trays. Pulling him into the corner of the Galley
by the GDU. I told him we were over spent by $1,500. He just smiled at
me. Annoyed, I asked about the Special Provisions discount. I opened the
manual to show him the Special Provisions line. "Do you know if any of
our food qualifies as Special Provisions?”
Billy Joe didn't even look at the manual in front of him. He just shook
his head, “No,” and continued to smile his personable, charming smile. I
realized how irrational this was. There was no escape from this disaster.
With a downcast head, I closed the manual knowing it was a hopeless quest
and started out the Galley.
Then, I felt Billy Joe’s gentle touch on my shoulder. Turning to him, he
cheerfully said, "Don't worry, we can adjust the menus to make up the short
fall before the end of patrol. I don't know nothing about Special Provisions
but I know how to skimp and save."
In disbelief at this simple solution, I stammered out my concerns about
the high cost of frozen and canned foods. “How are we going to afford our
expensive going home dinner of lobster tails for our last meal on patrol?”
Billy Joe shook his head and said, "We'll serve more spaghetti and
macaroni/cheese dinners. We’ll offer just two entrees instead of three. You'll
have to get XO to allow the divisions to pick their favorite meal four times
a week. Most divisions will want pizza or hamburgers which are the
cheapest meals we can serve.”
Skeptically, I said that 6-Way-Beef forces us to use all the different cuts
of meat. Billy Joe countered that he would grind up the stew beef with fat
cut from steak. Mix it with the hamburger and stale bread to augment our
hamburger supply. “We’ll make more popcorn and bug juice for the Sunday
movies to cut down consumption for Sunday’s evening meal. Don't worry,
we'll do it."
"You mean you've run into this problem before?" Smiling broadly Billy
Joe nodded his head Yes. His reassurance that it would work still hadn't won
me over but at least it gave me a lifeline to cling to. I had skipped lunch and
needed the evening meal. Because I wouldn’t be coming off a noon watch, I
would have to join first-sitting in the Wardroom. How could I face the
skipper knowing what I now knew? Suddenly I was feeling nauseous.
Completely spent, I left the Mess Hall. In the pantry I spotted Chief
and told him that I was too tired to make the evening meal. I was looking to
forget my troubles with sleep.
Of course, I couldn't sleep. As soon as Don turned off the Downtown
speaker, rigged our stateroom for red, and shut the door, I was up and about.
I made notes for XO about divisions selecting meals. I worried what would
happen if all the divisions wanted steak instead of pizza and hamburgers.
Somehow, I drifted off to sleep before the messenger woke me for my
midwatch.
 Chapter Eleven
Becoming a Blue Nose

I n the middle of another boring EOOW midwatch, "Fire in the Galley!

Fire in the Galley!" blasted from the speakers, followed by the gongs of
the General Alarm. Fire gets everyone's attention. After flooding, fire is the
most feared casualty, some fear fire more than flooding. Besides heat, fire
turns oxygen into toxic gases and dense smoke obscures vision.
Passing Eng headed aft, I sprinted forward to my damage control
station in Crew’s Mess. In the Control Room, everyone was in Emergency
Air Breathing (EAB) masks. Black smoke was rising up the stairs from
Crew’s Mess. Someone gave me an EAB kit. Putting on the mask, I
struggled from air-manifold to air-manifold working my way down to the
Mess Hall. Lt Martin Webber, wearing an EAB, was directing men with
CO₂ fire extinguishers putting out the fire in a Galley oven. A team member
said bacon grease from cookie sheets spilled onto the oven heating coils. It
generated a massive black smoky blaze. It occurred while leaving periscope
depth.
CO₂ extinguishers are the most effective way to douse a cooking grease
blaze. The cold gas smothers the fire and cools off the pans and oven to
prevent reflash. Everyone had to remain in EAB masks as the Mess Deck
was heavy with smoke even with the fire out.
Martin suggested to Conn that we return to periscope depth and use the
LP blower to evacuate the smoke and replenish the air in the compartment.
Martin sent me into the Galley to check on the situation. In the oven I found
the bacon burned to a crisp with just ashes left on the cookie sheets. I put
my hand on the cookie sheets and they were cold. Reaching into the oven
interior, I gingerly touched the heating coils. They were no longer hot. I told
Martin that everything was body temperature and that there was no chance
for a reflash. It would take a lot of elbow grease to clean up this mess.
Martin sent a status report to Conn and again requested that the LP
blower be used to ventilate the Ops Compartment. Conn said it was too
close to sunrise to exhaust the smoke. The smoke could give away our
presence. The smoke would have to be dispersed throughout the boat using
the LP blower and the activated charcoal filter bags in the fan room to
capture the particles.
 XO, wearing an EAB, appeared on the scene. After speaking with
Martin, he approached me. He wanted me to investigate the fire and to
recommend procedures to prevent its recurrence. I asked to forgo the rest of
my EOOW-training-watch so that I could start while everyone involved was
still on station. XO agreed. This would delay my plan to fix the food
budget. I couldn’t approach XO with our cost reduction plan until I
completed my new task.
Billy Joe was in the damage control party. He had done some leg work
on the fire. Morning cook Brooks caused the fire by using cookie sheets to
cook the bacon instead of deep-sided basting pans.
When Billy Joe and I pressed Brooks about not using basting pans, he
said the bacon cooked faster on the cookie sheets. He added that it had
worked fine yesterday. I was incredulous. I berated him on his lack of
common sense, saying, his laziness had endangered the boat.
Billy Joe pulled me aside to ask for authorization to substitute hot and
cold cereal for breakfast. Approving his request, I told him to put Brooks on
the cleaning crew to clean up the smoke damage.
Going to the Conn, SWO told me that he had conducted an Emergency
Deep drill on returning to patrol depth (Note 11-1). The big down-angle
during the drill caused the bacon grease to spill over the cookie sheets’
shallow lips.
Returning to the Galley, I asked Billy Joe if there were written
procedures requiring basting pans for cooking in the oven. He said that it
was common practice because you never knew when the boat would take a
big angle or large roll. Cookie sheets only were to be used for pastry.
I realized we needed a Galley manual for safe operations of pots and
pans. Cooking shouldn’t be like nuclear reactor operations requiring
detailed written procedures for every operation. But with no written
instructions, there was no way to know if the cooks were working safely
until we had a casualty. We would have to codify common knowledge into a
manual. We needed Galley Safety Instructions to certify the cooks!
Because the fire was caused by human laziness, I would have to
discipline Brooks. I told Billy Joe that Brooks would have to be held
accountable for his unprofessional disregard of cooking safety. I suggested
putting him on report.
Billy Joe frowned and bit his lip, saying he didn't want a malcontent on
his hands for the rest of the patrol. Then, Billy Joe told me that there were
complaints about Brooks' breakfast cooking. The crew weren’t getting their
eggs cooked to order. While we still had fresh eggs, one of the few eating
pleasures left was to have sunny side eggs, eggs flipped, eggs murdered.
But Brooks sometimes was cooking eggs anyway that suited his fancy.
Billy Joe said putting Brooks on report would result in a Captain's Mast
that could cost him a demotion in rate and he didn’t want that harsh of a
penalty. I suggested putting him on GDU duty. Shooting the GDU was a
messy job usually assigned to the junior cook doing midrats. I wished I
hadn't suggested it as soon as the words left my mouth. I realized that if he
screwed up GDU operations, it would be much more serious than the heavy
smoke we were breathing.
Billy Joe brightened up. While I was trying to retract my words, Billy
Joe made a stream of suggestions—putting him on midrats, GDU, and
Night Baker. He would have to be up for midrats, then available for GDU
operations, and then, be Night Baker. Looking into Billy Joe’s eyes, I said,
"Would you feel safe in your bunk knowing Brooks was operating the
GDU?"
It stopped Billy Joe in his tracks. I mentioned Brooks persistent flying
off the handle and lack of focus on his job. I continued with my feeling that
a Captain's Mast might be what he needed. Billy Joe countered, we had to
get Brooks away from direct contact with the crew because he was hurting
morale with his attitude and lack of interest in his work.
I gave in on the condition that Brooks conduct the GDU operations
only when the Auxiliaryman-of-the-Watch was at the GDU to supervise.
I insisted that Billy Joe tell the division that Brooks was to man the GDU by
himself. Even though he was a 2nd class petty officer, he wouldn’t be
allowed to order a messcook to do his GDU shooting tasks.
Midrats required only heating up leftovers, night baking would
minimize his contact with the crew. It was a simple job. Basically, just
baking bread and sometimes making pies and pastries.
Now, I had to get my findings into two reports. Billy Joe gave me a
review of safety topics to cover. At top of his list was the deep fat fryer, a
major fire safety item. This hot-oil cooker was in heavy use as the crew
loved French fries and fried sea gull—the crew’s name for fried chicken. It
had a pulldown fire lid and its own CO₂ extinguishing system.
Within an hour, I had drafts of the Galley Fire Investigation and an
outline for Galley Safety Instructions. Instead of using the old Smith-
Corona in the Supply Office, I begged Borenski, the boat’s yeoman, to let
me use his new IBM Selectric typewriter with its high technology electric
twirling ball. He agreed. By noon I finished typing both reports with two-
carbon copies—something the Smith-Cornea couldn’t have done. I rushed
one copy to Billy Joe for his review.
At the Conn, Rocky, in a light-handed remark, asked whether my fire
was out yet. I asked him to review my Fire Investigation Report and Galley
Safety Instructions drafts. He agreed, saying that he said he would review
the reports as soon as he got off watch.
That evening, after typing Billy Joe’s and Rocky’s inputs, I handed XO
the Galley Fire Investigation Report. I gave him a verbal summary that the
fire was caused by the breakfast cook using cookie sheets instead of the
deep sided oven pans to cook bacon. XO wanted to know if I was putting
the cook on report. I told him the fire was my fault because the Division
didn't have any written safety instructions. Not controlling my Italian
heritage, I told him he could put me on report if he wanted.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted them back. XO thought
about it before saying, “How are you going to ensure that your people don't
do something stupid again?"
After putting my Division on report, I had to turn this catastrophe
around in a positive way. I said my conclusion was that we needed Galley
Safety Instructions. The cooks needed to be certified on safety procedures. I
explained that I generated an outline for Galley Safety Instructions which
included review comments from my LPO and a Conning Officer.
XO skimmed the reports and smiled. “Well done.” were his actual
words. He said he would inform CO that Galley Safety Instructions were
being written to prevent it from happening again. I was taken aback by
XO’s support.
Sonar Watch
Conn-training watch was an escape from my food budget overruns.
SWO wanted me to observe operations in the Sonar Room during
preparations for going to periscope depth. Sonar was the perfect place to
take my mind off my worries. Sonar Supervisor put me on the BQR‑7 to
search for contacts. It was eerie listening to ocean noises and the louder
noises from our engine room.
 The BQR‑2B operator had just identified a new noise off our port bow.
After getting the confirmation of the bearing, Supervisor reported the noise
to Conn and started the task of classifying it as biologics, a ship or
submarine contact.
Supervisor told me to train my sonar on that bearing. I couldn’t find the
noise. The operator reached over my shoulder and showed me how to use
the push-button BDI. The Bearing Deviation Indicator meter was aka the
Null Meter because the signal disappeared on the exact bearing. Once I got
on the bearing using BDI, I listened intently, but couldn’t discern it as really
different from the off-bearing background noise. I turned the bearing wheel
back and forth across the bearing with no luck. My ears weren’t as good as
our sonarman or the BDI signal processing.
The Supervisor told me to switch places with the BQR‑2B operator.
Within a few seconds of putting on the headset, I was able to discern the
noise source without BDI. Supervisor said the BQR‑2B was better for close
in contacts. It used higher frequencies and wider frequency bands. He said
that the noise was not from an underway merchant ship or fishing boat. It
could be a fishing boat drifting with its nets out or a slow speed nuclear
submarine or ocean biologics such as a school of fish.
There was a wide, faint trace on the BTR which meant that it was
probably a school of fish close to us. A narrower trace on the BTR would
probably be man-made noise such as a ship. The Supervisor put the signal
into his spectrum analyzer to check for discrete tonals. He didn't see any
and reported to Conn that the noise source was evaluated as marine
biologics.
As I was returning the BQR-2B to its operator, Conn ordered a sonar
baffle search in preparation for coming to periscope depth. We were turning
to starboard. "Sonar Aye," the Supervisor acknowledged. This brought a
sober demeanor to the operators. They had to verify that it was safe for the
submarine to leave the protection of deep depth. As we started our turn,
both operators trained their bearing wheels to the starboard aft quarter to
search the newly cleared stern areas. They swept their beams back and forth
across that sector that had been hidden by the noise of our machinery.
Supervisor and the relief operator peered at the BTRs looking for new
contacts.
After checking their BTRs to confirm their sweep results, the operators
reported to the Supervisor they didn't have any contacts. Sonar Supervisor
reported to Conn that there were no new contacts. Conn informed Sonar
that he was returning to the original course.
The operators were conducting 360˚ sweeps around the submarine. One
operator searched in a clockwise direction and the other operator conducted
a counterclockwise search. This minimized the possibility of not detecting a
high-speed contact entering a searched area after both sonars had passed the
area. By the time we returned to base course the operators and the
Supervisor were confident that there were no contacts. He reported Sea
State 4 to Conn.
Returning to Conn, SWO had me take the dive. For Sea State 4, I
trimmed heavy in forward trim tank using the stern-planes to counteract the
trim weight. Before going up, I added 10,000 pounds to Negative. I was
ready to request 10 knots to make the diving-planes more effective if
needed. Our excursion to scope depth was classic.
Staying focused as we blew #1 and #2 sanitary tanks, I added water to
forward trim tank and then the amidships trim tank. GDU operations were
completed. Two hours later, Type11 star shots were completed. We returned
to patrol depth. This was my fifth straight, successful assent to scope depth
after broaching. I would finally be rid of this of this infamous Broach Pin.
After SWO was relieved, I followed him into CO’s cabin to report
being relieved. He told CO that I made my fifth successful periscope
excursion. Unpinning my Broach Pin, SWO placed it on CO’s desk. CO’s
eyes remained closed as he muttered “Okay.” A heavy weight was lifted off
my chest.
We found XO at breakfast with a cup of coffee and eating ice cream.
Usually he wasn’t up this early. SWO told him I had just certified as Diving
Officer and returned the Broach Pin to CO.
XO, smiling expansively, asked me how things were going. Caught off
guard, I bragged about my successful excursion to scope depth—I didn't
want to talk about the Commissary budget overrun.
However, XO specifically asked me if I had run budget numbers for the
patrol. Not wanting to give an evasive answer, I told XO about finding a
$1,500 shortfall. I said I had discussed it with my LPO who had a plan to
regain control of our expenditures. Not expressing alarm, XO asked about
the plan. I told him that Billy Joe believed we could make up the shortfall
with menu changes.
 I said the plan was to serve simple, inexpensive meals that offered two
instead of three entree choices at lunch and dinner. XO asked me to explain.
I said our traditional Friday lunch of fish included hot dogs and macaroni &
cheese. Now with the fish, we would offer either macaroni & cheese or hot
dogs—not both.
With XO nodding his approval, I took the opportunity to slip in Billy
Joe's suggestion to give the crew an input on the menu. I said that because
the crew liked simple, inexpensive meals like pizza and hamburgers, we
could let the departments LPOs pick a meal for the menu twice a week. It
would be special by letting them dictate hamburger garnishes and pizza
toppings. Thus, we would have more pizza and hamburger meals each
week. XO nodded, telling me to have Billy Joe talk with COB and the
LPOs. He ventured that it would be good for crew morale.
XO commented that he had positive feedback from the crew on the slot
machine. He ended up telling me what a good job I was doing overall.
Praise from XO raised my spirits immensely. For the first time I felt I was a
full member of the Wardroom and crew.
Finding Billy Joe, I told him XO approved his plan. Billy Joe smiled
widely, saying there wouldn't be any problem getting COB and LPOs
onboard.
Blue Nose Ceremony
Days later, boredom took a backseat. The POD announced that the
Navigator informed the Captain that at noon tomorrow the boat would cross
into the Arctic Circle. The POD Note added that Neptune Rex issued an
order that all Ocean Scum, those who hadn’t crossed the Arctic Circle
before, were to report for initiation into the Royal Order of Blue Nose in the
Mess Hall tomorrow at 1300 (Note 11-2).
Blue Nose initiation was a traditional ritual for all those who had not
crossed the magic latitude of 66˚32"N—the Arctic Circle (Note 11‑3). This
was a ceremony like Crossing the Line, the equator, to become a Shellback
—a ceremony vividly documented in the WWII Victory at Sea TV series.
Noon watch in Maneuvering was full of stories about the vulgarities
and horrors of the initiation rites. This Blue Nose tradition was quite
intriguing. It was not clear to me if officers would be required to undergo
the initiation. It was difficult to imagine officers being subjected to such
indignities.
 Watchstanders discussed retributions to Ocean Scum for frustrations
and past slights. After being confined in close proximity for over 70 days,
where there a buildup of animosities? Would this ceremony be an outlet to
vent these frustrations?
The RO and EO were picking on MM3 Sullivan—the throttleman who
hadn't crossed the Arctic Circle. Nervously Sullivan asked about the
initiation. They explained how the cooks had saved the slimiest garbage to
grow maggots for this festive event. The RO described that blindfolded
Ocean Scum had to crawl through a trough of garbage and kiss Neptune
Rex's belly smeared in whale blubber. The wide eyed throttleman cringed at
hearing these graphic stories.
I commented that I would miss the fun as I had a qualification review
with Eng at 1300 tomorrow. "We'll see about that!" came from Gabe.
Quickly dialing his phone, he had a brief exchange with Eng. Turning to the
faces staring at him, he said Eng had excused the EOOW-trainee from his
review. With a big grin, Gabe said “Eng wants you to report to Neptune Rex
at 1300 tomorrow.”
The operators broke into giggles and grins. Even Sullivan was
grinning, now that he knew he would be in the company of an officer. I was
taken aback at the swift change of events. My hopes that officers won’t be
part of such a ritual had been turned on its head. At least one officer would
definitely be joining in the festivities of the Blue Nose ceremony.
Now, I had to worry about the garbage trough. My thoughts returned to
the A‑Division chiefs' tirade at Dave in the pump room. My only comfort
was knowing that Brooks was Ocean Scum. He wouldn't be dishing out any
initiation rites on my body.
After watch, I headed straight to the Galley where Billy Joe was
overseeing cleanup. After eating, each crew member scraped his stainless-
steel eating tray remains into the garbage can. The tray would be placed on
a counter of the open scullery-window where the mess cook transferred it to
the wash sink for a quick scrub and put it into the dish washer. One chore
was removing the black plastic bag of scraps from this standard, galvanized
trash can at the scullery window. Later, the garbage would be dumped into a
mesh-plastic bag in the trash compactor—ready for the GDU to flush it to
sea.
Trying to be nonchalant, I asked Billy Joe my usual question about how
things were going. Billy Joe gave me his usual-smile and saying “Things
are going good.” as he tied a knot in the garbage bag and pulled it out of the
can.
Trying to be casual, I asked if the Blue Nose ceremony would cause
any Galley problems. He said there wouldn’t be any problems as the
evening-cook would start his meal during the ceremony. Asking him point
blank, "What is the Galley providing for the ceremony?" Smiling broadly,
he said, "Oh, just the usual stuff." "And what is that?" I asked. "Oh, you
know, some putrid garbage, Sperm Whale blood, and stuff like that."
Taken in hook, line, and sinker, I asked, "Don’t you think we need Doc
Lindsey to check this stuff to make sure it isn't toxic?"
Billy Joe couldn't hold it in any longer. He split-up laughing. He told
me not to worry, it wasn't real garbage. He saved leftover spaghetti,
macaroni & cheese, and sloppy green Jell-O for the initiation. He said the
whale blood was ketchup diluted with vinegar and water. “Besides,” he said
while giving me a sly grin, “they take it easy on the officers."
Relieved at finding out what was in the putrid garbage and whale
blood, I was taken aback over Billy Joe’s stringing me along. Then he burst
out laughing, I halfheartedly laughed along with him.
Rocky confirmed that officers were expected to participate. This meant
that Rocky, Don, Martin, and Charlie would also suffer indignities to
become a Blue Nose. It was ironic that the Navigator, who certified
crossing the Arctic Circle, would undergo the rites of passage. Some 30
people, including five officers, had not crossed the Arctic Circle.
There was a buzz throughout the boat. This traditional ceremony was a
welcome change. It allowed everyone escape patrol boredom and focus on
something that wasn’t a dangerous casualty.
Preparations for Blue Nose Intensify
The Control Room was alive with the activity of checking Blue Nose
cards. COB, who would be Neptune Rex at the ceremony, put a crew list at
the BCP during the afternoon watch. COW was responsible for checking
that a person’s Blue Nose card matched his ID card. BCP was a busy place.
Excited sailors were slipping in and out of the Control Room to show their
Blue Nose cards.
From midwatch conversations during Conn-training, I learned that
division LPOs were responsible for providing a certified Blue Nose watch-
relief for each of his Ocean Scum. Leaving nothing to chance, COB
assigned a Blue Nose crew member to personally escort each Ocean Scum
to the Mess Decks. COB was setting the tone for the ceremony. The
scuttlebutt was that COB told XO that each Ocean Scum officer had to
present himself in court at 1300.
Amid these goings-on, the boat was still on strategic patrol. At 0100 on
my midwatch, we started preparations for an excursion to periscope depth.
Chief Allison had qualified a new BCP watchstander and was now in
training as Diving Officer. After arriving at periscope depth, SWO told Nav
that the sky was mostly overcast with a few starlit patches. A broken sky
meant it would be a tedious Type11 operation as Nav hunted for stars in the
cloud free areas. We spent four hours at periscope depth, an inordinate
amount of time.
SWO joined me for breakfast. Even though I had midrats, I was
famished. Knowing we would be out of fresh eggs within a week, I decided
to have some sunny side eggs. Soon, we would have only scrambled eggs
from frozen tins of homogenized eggs—runny eggs. Eng was up and told
me to skip my noon EOOW watch in preparation for the Blue Nose
ceremony.
At 1100 Ford woke me for lunch which I normally skipped. I wasn't
hungry but felt that I needed to make an appearance to show courage about
the pending initiation. Talking with Chief, he said he underwent initiation
on a diesel boat SpecOps northern run deployment. He produced a Blue
Nose card for the BCP check sheet.
Ford was serving the CO when the duty quartermaster appeared at the
Wardroom door to make the noon OOD report. Smiling broadly, he recited
his spiel reporting the boat’s noon position ending with “We are crossing
the Arctic Circle at this moment!” Eng, Nav, and XO gave smiles and a few
claps to reward the quartermaster for his masterful performance.
This kicked off the Blue Nose event in the Wardroom. The other Ocean
Scum at the table were Nav, Doc Lindsey, and Martin, he and Ted had
swapped watches so Martin could attend the ceremony. Rocky was on
watch and was being relieved by Ted.
While the food was being served, XO suggested that we should wear
old skivvies and an old poopy suit—it would be easier to throw them away
rather than washing them. Gabe joined in, saying to put padding in the butt
of the poopy suit to lessen the pain of getting whacked by Neptune's Oar.
Gabe said after his initiation he had two days of pain when sitting down.
 XO and Gabe went on and on at the expense of us Ocean Scum. It was
the most chatter that I ever heard at a meal. We Ocean Scum were quiet, not
knowing what was expected of us. CO, Eng, and Weps just stared at their
plates pretending to be oblivious to all the noisy chatter.
Dodge and Ford were wide eyed catching snatches of the horrors about
the initiation. Every time XO or Gabe made a comment, the stewards' eyes
got wider.
Finally, lunch was over. After the CO, Eng, and Weps departed Rocky,
relieved by Ted, joined us. Gabe started up again for his benefit but Rocky
wasn't having any of it. He said if he had to crawl in any Whale Guts, he
would be throwing some in Gabe’s direction. I wondered if this Blue Nose
ceremony would be a morale booster.
At 1300 a 1MC announcement commanded Ocean Scum to report to
the Neptune Rex’s Court for Blue Nose Indoctrination in the Crew’s Mess.
Nav stood up, "Let's get this over with."
The Ceremony Begins
Our gaggle of officers waddled into the Crew’s Mess. The Mess Hall
was a mad house of deafening noise. People were lined up three deep along
the port side and the aft bulkhead—leaving most of the forward tables near
Neptune Rex open for festivities. The leery eyes of Ocean Scum were
peeking out from the Torpedo Room.
Nav led us to the serving line side of the Mess Deck, we stood in single
file in front of the coffee and bug-juice machines. We faced Neptune Rex’s
empty throne in the forward port corner. The throne was made out of heavy
cardboard boxes covered by a red-dyed mattress-cover. It was placed on a
pallet spanning two dining tables.
Suddenly, there was a blare of trumpets on the entertainment speakers,
a horse racing call to the Post. Four chiefs majestically dressed as Neptune
Rex’s bodyguards, emerged from the Torpedo Room, one being Chief
Allison. They were wearing outrageous attire, blue, yellow, red, and green
tight-satin briefs and black fishnet stockings. Each held a lifeboat paddle
vertically.
Their faces were heavily made up with grotesque black lipstick
markings. Two wore mop-wigs and two had exaggerated chest hair attached
from their necks to the tops of their satin briefs. They stood as honor guard
on each side of the door as Neptune Rex emerged.
 Neptune Rex wore straw colored long-johns with a red sash diagonally
across his chest, decorated with oversized star shaped medals fashioned
from tin-can tops. Atop his head was a crown covered with gold foil and his
bare feet were shod with green shower flipflops. In single file, two guards
in front and two behind Rex, the procession marched to the throne.
Once Neptune Rex settled on his throne, a trumpet blast cued the body
guards to pound their oar handle-ends on the deck with a call for silence.
The Mess Hall went stone quiet. One guard escorted the CO and XO to
their seats—two tables away from Neptune Rex.
On the next trumpet blasts, Chief Allison stepped forward, unrolled a
scroll, and read the Proclamation for Conducting the Blue Nose Ceremony.
The first order was to summon the lowly Ocean Scum to present themselves
to Neptune Rex.
The body guards pounded their oar handle-ends. Two went to the
Torpedo Room to prod a group of six Ocean Scum into crawling over the
hatch coaming on all-fours. They crawled between tables to Neptune Rex.
Chief Allison read the scroll stating the three challenges to be performed for
acceptance into the Fraternal Order of Blue Nose. Each Ocean Scum was to
drink Sperm Whale Blood, kiss Neptune Rex’s whale-blubber smeared
belly, and crawl through the Guts and Piss of a Humpback Whale.
The speakers sounded a flourish of trumpets. One of the body guards
produced a can labeled whale-Blubber. He pulled a spoon full of sticky,
black, gooey stuff out of the can, it looked like axle bearing grease. Another
guard unbuttoned Neptune's long-john’s stomach-buttons exposing his
naked, rotund belly. With dramatic exaggerations the Whale Blubber was
smeared on his belly.
After a second flourish of trumpets, Billy Joe came out of the Galley
with a large metal pitcher labeled Sperm Whale Blood which he placed on
the table near stacks of small pleated paper cups—nut cups leftover from
Easter dinner. On the third flourish of trumpets, Davy Jones guards brought
out an eight foot trough constructed from four 6-Way-Beef boxes.
The trough was placed in the aisle leading back to the Torpedo Room.
Two Blue Nose cooks brought two heaping roasting pans labeled Whale
Guts. A body guard dumped the Whale Guts the length of the trough. It
looked like cold spaghetti and macaroni & cheese. The cooks returned with
four metal pitchers labeled Whale Piss. Guards took the Whale Piss, the
consistency of soupy green Jell-O, and dripped it on top of the Whale Guts.
The buzz in the Mess Hall turned into whoops and hollers.
We Ocean Scum officers stared in trepidation. CO and XO were
chuckling along with all the other Blue Nose members including a few
officers in back. It was top drawer showmanship.
The body guards herded the first group of Ocean Scum to Neptune
Rex. Chief Allison commanded the Ocean Scum to drink Whale Blood, kiss
the belly of Neptune Rex, and crawl through the Whale Guts and Piss. Billy
Joe poured Whale Blood into little paper cups. Each scum drank it and
crawled forward to kiss Neptune Rex's belly. A body guard turned each
kissing Ocean Scum around to show the crowd his black lips and then
forced him down on all fours to crawl through the trough of Whale Guts
and Piss.
Each Ocean Scum had a different reaction. Some made exaggerated
gestures or gagging sounds on drinking the Whale Blood. The crowd really
enjoyed seeing how much black grease was smeared on each face and
watching the crawl through the slimy Whale Guts and Piss. One Ocean
Scum tried to fake kissing Neptune's belly. Rex yelled out; he was caught.
He had his full face and hair jammed into Rex's belly. His whole face was
covered with black grease. Down on all fours, his butt received smacks
from a guard’s oar. After the first dozen men went through the rites, the
smiling CO and XO asked Neptune Rex for permission to leave. While they
were leaving, the cooks brough out more Guts and Piss to fill the trough.
Butt whacking had been limited but increased after CO and XO left.
When Brooks showed up, he got butt oar hits from all four body guards. I
guess they didn't like having their egg orders messed up.
There were just a few instances of oar-whack paybacks from the guards
—most incidents were just good-natured ribbing. Serious paybacks took
place during the trough crawl as oar whacks seemed to be given without
any reason. For the body guards who wanted to give a specific person the
treatment, they made the Ocean Scum get down flat into the muck and slide
through it. Several guys were covered from head to toe.
The ceremony was well scripted and expertly run. I watched with
special interest as Sullivan, in the final group, took the rites. He was brave,
getting through without any fuss.
After the enlisted passed the initiation, Chief Allison invited the Ocean
Scum officers to come forward. Neptune Rex announced that the officers
could choose to complete just one of the rites to become a Blue Nose.
Except for Doc, we all selected drinking Whale Blood. When my turn
came, Billy Joe took a coffee mug and poured it half full. The crew got a
big kick out of the special initiation Billy Joe was giving his boss. Afraid to
make a scene and be forced into something yuckier, I drained the cup in two
big gulps. I could hear Billy Joe laughing his head off as I tilled my head
back to drink it. After getting it down, I hoped I wouldn’t puke before the
end of the ceremony.
Doc got into the spirit of the ceremony saying he wanted to kiss King
Neptune's belly. He did a full face implant into Neptune's belly and got his
nose, lips, and cheeks well blacken. The crew was loud and happy with
their Doctor’s display of comradery.
I felt relieved that I didn't get hit with an oar or get a face full of grease
or having to crawl through the muck. My stomach started churning as
Neptune Rex closed the ceremony with congratulations to each new Blue
Nose. I rushed to the head just in time to make a watery heave that brought
up my lunch. The ketchup and vinegar didn’t sit well on my stressed-out
stomach.
During Maneuvering midwatch, the watchstanders were bubbling with
stories about the happenings. We got the inside stories on those that got
private initiations in the Torpedo Room. Overall, the ceremony for turning
Ocean Scum into Blue Noses was well executed. The Chiefs and LPOs
deserved a lot of credit for carrying out a long held tradition that boosted
crew morale.
 Chapter Twelve
Splice the Mainbrace

A t Conn for a midwatch, SWO told me that we would make an excursion

to periscope depth at 0030. He asked me to review Conning Officer
actions to come to periscope depth. Even though I was expecting this exam,
I felt a knot in my stomach.
SWO wanted more than a list of actions. In a light bulb moment, I
realized that the Conning Officer needed authority to take the boat up. So, I
said, “The Conning Officer needs CO's authorization to go to periscope
depth. This could be in the Night Orders or a verbal command.” SWO
nodded his approval asking, “When would a Conning Officer go up on his
own initiative?” I said, “In the event of a serious casualty such as flooding
or a fire.”
"Ok, what are the operational procedures for coming to periscope
depth?" SWO kept me focused but rephrasing the question had given me
time to recall the procedures.
I said, first, the Conning Officer clears sonar baffles to search for
contacts and returns to course for receiving radio on the wire. Then, he
orders the Diving Officer, DO, to periscope depth. Halfway to ordered
depth, he raises the periscope (Note 12-1). As the periscope nears the
surface, he performs an underwater search for a contact above us. After the
scope breaks water, he makes a rapid search for nearby ships. If no contacts
are found he conducts a 360º air search for aircraft. I ended my spiel with a
smile.
I was shocked seeing SWO sadly shaking his head No. Speaking softly,
he started a long list of items that I had neglected to mention. “You
neglected to alert the DO to check his trim, you didn’t check the status
board Sea State to warn the DO if heavy seas were expected. Nor did you
check our position to determine whether we would remain in our patrol
area. You didn’t raise the volume on Gertrude (Note 12-2) to listen for a
close contact.”
SWO continued to rub salt in my wounded ego. “You didn’t state the
depth that you would bend down to unfold the handles as the scope came
up. Nor did you mention checking that the optics were in low-power and at
zero-elevation. You neglected to shift the optics to high-angle for the
underwater search. Nor did you check that the ECM band-switch was set at
Both with the gain set at High and use the audio test button” (Note 12-3).
SWO summed up my failures with a comment on my lack of attention
to detail and that he would be concerned about the boat’s safety with me at
the Conn for periscope depth operations. Totally deflated, I assured him that
this made a deep impression on me and that I would pay more attention.
Nodding his head, he said he would be quizzing me later on actions
required on detecting close contacts.
With keen interest, I observed SWO preparations during his excursion
to periscope depth. Raising the periscope during the ascent was an intricate
ballet involving bending down and quick hand movements. SWO listened
to the DO calling out changes in depth, every five feet, until reaching 80
feet, then, every two feet. SWO started the underwater search for
shimmering lights well before the scope broke surface, searching back and
forth in the forward quarters. The DO continued announcing depth changes
until he reached ordered depth and then, he announced the ordered depth in
a louder voice.
Once Conn said the magic words, "Scope breaking—no close
contacts." tension in the Control Room abated. Now, SWO was rapidly
sweeping his search arcs around the bow and then, 360° short and long-
range searches for surface and low flying air contacts. Finally, he made a
360° search for high aircraft. With a Sea State 3, Chief Allison had a lock
on maintaining depth.
Type11 operations were out—the sky was completely overcast. After
housekeeping chores, we returned to patrol depth.
Drain Pump Shaft Breaks
At the end of our watch, Maneuvering asked COW to pump the ER
bilges. Minutes later EOOW reported a broken shaft on the drain pump—
same problem as the trim pump. SWO ordered the Auxiliaryman-of-the-
Watch to switch the standby T&D pump to the drain system. SWO called
Eng, Dave, and then the CO and XO to report the casualty. Rocky relieved
SWO on the Conn shortly thereafter.
On reporting watch-relief, CO just brushed SWO aside as he headed aft
to check on the pump. SWO and I arrived in the Wardroom where Eng and
Dave were discussing the broken drain pump. They were in deep
conversation when CO and XO showed up.
 Wearing a stern face, CO immediately asked Eng what happened. Eng
was fingering equipment preventative maintenance (PM) cards (Note 12-4).
In a low voice he said that it appeared the pumps’ bearings hadn't been
greased for over six months.
The CO's jaw dropped. I had never seen Eng so unnerved. Awkwardly,
he said he was at a loss to explain how this had occurred over two patrols
and two different crews. Dave, A‑Division Officer in charge of the pumps,
chipped in that it was a matter of new people coming aboard replacing
experienced people (Note 12-5).
CO exploded in anger. Without using any crude expletives, he sputtered
out a stream of semi-coherent statements that included unmitigated
stupidity, failure to investigate the first pump failure, and lack of command
oversight. Dave recoiled while Eng just bowed his head and accepted the
tirade. Both Eng and Dave knew that they had failed to track down the
cause of the first pump failure.
In a flash, the CO regained his composure. Without a trace of his
venting, he asked, “Is anyone greasing the standby T&D pump?”
Stumbling over each other, Eng and Dave responded that both
A‑Division chiefs were greasing the pump. Eng followed up, saying he had
directed his divisions to pull their PM cards and ensure that all pump and
motor greasing PMs were conducted.
CO slumped his shoulders with an air of resignation. XO looked at me
and said to check that the Galley PM cards were up to-date. With a nod at
the CO, SWO showed he would do the same for the Weps. It was a quiet
breakfast in the Wardroom.
When I arrived in the Galley, Billy Joe still had sleep in his eyes. In his
hands he held the Galley's PM cards. Evidently the news of the PM lapse
had spread throughout the boat. Billy Joe said that the monthly PM cards
hadn't been used since turnover. The requirements were just visual
inspections of the big mixer, ovens, griddles, deep fat fryer, hood fans,
toasters, bug juice machines, and coffee urns. There were no routines such
as greasing bearings or checking belts. I asked him about the GDU which I
knew had several grease fittings. He told me the GDU belonged to
A‑Division. I told him to check with the A‑Division chiefs.
Billy Joe asked me about radioing in some entries on the PM cards,
(Note 12-6). I told him, “Use today's date.” A hit on our PM cards would be
minor compared to the trim and drain pumps.
 The fallout on the PM cards turned into a three day brouhaha. XO
gathered PM compliance statistics for the CO. M‑Division had almost 90%
compliance contrasted to A‑Division's 50%. The other divisions'
compliances were spread in between the two.
Penny's only cards were for the two 16mm movie projectors and our
typewriter. He had duly performed the maintenance. The Supply
Department ended up at 35% compliance. Only Navigation had 100%
compliance.
XO published each departments’ scores in the POD along with an
admonishment to all hands about PMs. XO added that he would include
inspecting equipment and asking PM questions during his space
inspections.
The next day we had our third WSRT for the patrol. Andy performed
magnificently and didn’t have one depth hold, MBT blow, or request for
speed. Patrol settled back to normal routine—boring. Charlie kept pestering
me to play chess and I agreed to a game during the Wardroom's Sunday
movie matinee. Usually every officer attended, sometimes even the CO. So,
Charlie and I snuck off to play chess in Sick Bay.
Charlie was a sharp individual who was halfway through his Marine
Engineering Master's Degree. While he was smart, I had more experience
playing chess and didn't want to get caught playing. Making my moves
quickly, I won in 40 minutes. Charlie was upset at the loss and wanted
another game. I begged off claiming supply work.
Splice the Mainbrace
The next day, the POD announced that tomorrow would mark the
halfway point of the patrol and that the CO had granted permission to
Splice the Mainbrace, (Note 12-7). A party was to be held in the Crew’s
Mess at noon. I had no idea what this party was or what the Galley’s
responsibility was for the party.
Tracking down Billy Joe, I asked him what in the Galley had to provide
for Splice the Mainbrace. He smiled, saying the goat locker (Note 8-7) was
in charge of the proceedings. The cooks would provide party food like
pizza, popcorn, and hot dogs as well as a few tubs of iced grape juice and
lemonade for the punch. Grinning widely, he said the party would keep
down food expenses as he wouldn’t have to serve the veal cutlet menu
meal. Later I found out that the punch would be spiked with missile
cleaning alcohol.
Rocky told me Splice the Mainbrace dated to sailing ships when an
extra ration of grog was granted for doing a major task. To splice the
mainbrace, repairing this large diameter line that controlled the angle of the
main yard that held the largest sail, was a critical repair.
Because the rudder alone couldn’t steer the ship into the wind, there
were lines, called braces, attached to each yard to angle it for sailing into
the wind. For us Boomers, Splice the Mainbrace was a reward to the crew
for surviving half a patrol.
Chief Jefferson said XO told him that most officers would join the
party in the Mess Hall. Those who didn’t would be served party food in the
Wardroom.
Andy was EOOW on our noon watch. When we were checking the
shaft seal in the LLER before relieving the watch, I asked him about the
punch for the Splice the Mainbrace party. Noting my quizzical tone, Andy
nodded, saying that he was surprised on his first patrol when the CO
allowed such a thing—drinking alcohol is forbidden on U.S. Navy ships
(Note 12-8). Evidently it was a special perk on the initial Boomer patrol and
became a tradition for FBM boats.
Andy said the Missile Techs and Nav ETs used alcohol to clean
electronic parts. MTs contributed a gallon of 190 proof for the party. Each
crew member was allowed only one drink.
My thoughts raced back to the 5-gallon can of alcohol I traded to the
tender's supply officer for a case of eggs and a side-of-beef. Maybe he
didn't have an inventory problem. Maybe he was just planning a party! Live
and learn I realized.
On my Conn midwatch, the planesmen and duty watches talked about
past parties. The new members of the crew just heard about it and their
anticipation was high—unlike their trepidation before the Blue Nose
Ceremony.
After a few hours of sleep, I was up before noon. In the Galley,
messmen had placed two metal kettles of ice on a back table and were
emptying pitchers of water and frozen cans of lemonade into one and grape
juice into the other. Guys were streaming twisted toilet paper across the
overhead as Downtown blared from the entertainment speakers.
 A chief Missile Technician arrived with a round, 5-gallon brown tin of
alcohol. Someone did some radioing in the Missile Alcohol Log to account
for the gallon left in the can. Messmen brought out platters of hot dogs,
potato salad, and bowls of popcorn. Pizzas were in the oven.
The cook and messmen started serving the early watch-relievers. Those
going on watch had to wait for their punch until after they completed their
six-hour watch. No one would be going on watch within four hours after
finishing a ration of grog.
Chief Jefferson and Ford showed up with Wardroom serving dishes.
After the watch-reliefs left, COB measured two quarts of gilly and poured it
into the grape juice kettle and the remaining two quarts into the lemonade
kettle. Suddenly the music changed from Downtown to a very loud disco
beat as a line of sailors, each holding a white-glass coffee mug with a
green-strip ½ inch below the lip— formed behind COB. Having his name
checked off the Mainbrace crew list, he was asked whether he wanted red
or white poison.
While the first guys were getting their punch, I grabbed a mess tray and
put a pizza slice and hot dog on it. Joining the punch line, I got a mug of
grape-punch which reminded me of the purple-people-eater Thunderbird
wine and red grape juice concoction we made in college. The music shifted
again to a heavy disco beat.
As I turned around, I almost dropped my tray of food. I had wondered
how some alcohol added to grape juice would turn Splice the Mainbrace
into a party. There it was in front of me.
The chiefs had taken three of the slimmest seamen onboard, dressed
them as Playboy Bunnies, and had them dancing on a table top. Each was in
a shoulderless, one piece, shimmering satin teddy and authentic Bunny ears.
Someone had sketched long whiskers on their faces and applied bright red
lipstick to their lips. Of course, big white-cotton Bunny Tails were attached
to their butts and their tops were stuffed with enough wadding to give them
size 38 fronts. Good naturedly, they were swaying to the beat of the music
and smiling as everyone was clapping to the heavy disco rhythm.
A guy, wearing a NYC sweep-back, black fedora and sunglasses, got
up on an adjoining table. Holding a fake mic, he started crooning to the
disco music. It took several minutes to take in the scene and marvel at it all.
The goat locker had done it again! The Splice the Mainbrace Ceremony
added another four-star event to their list of successes. The planning and
inspiration required to pull off these events was impressive. I could only
imagine how much room it took in cruise-boxes to carry all the
paraphernalia required for these two events.
In awe of it all, I finished my pizza, hot dog, and drank the punch. The
Mess Deck was filled with a noisy crowd. Someone had clamped three
portable work-lights to the edge of the Playboy Bunnies dancing table. With
the Mess Hall’s overhead florescent lights turned off, the smoky haze, loud
music, buzz of conversations, and rhythmic clapping, it was a scene right
out of a cheap night club.
Suddenly the Playboy Bunnies were starting to look like the real thing.
Shocked at how authentic they looked. With a sheepish feeling, I quickly
fled the Mess Hall, happy to hit the sack to charge my battery before my
midwatch. The alcohol shot put me right to sleep.
 Chapter Thirteen
The Patrol’s Downhill Legs

S plice the Mainbrace party was great for crew morale. Unbeknown to me,
there was a beard contest. Categories including beards of different colors
and best officer’s beard. The POD reported I won the blackest beard
category and the best officer’s beard—I was the only bearded officer. It was
a warm feeling. I was part of the crew!
Realizing the patrol was half over was tonic. In fact, our deployment
was two-thirds completed.
From reading Rickover's IRs, it appeared there weren't any primary-
coolant leaks or single-loop reactor operations for a patrol. It didn't seem
that anything more could happen.
Big Rolls & Night Baker
We were in our most northern patrol area. It was late spring and a
major storm was in progress. During the watch, SWO ordered us to
periscope depth in a Sea State Five. Chief Allison was having trouble
keeping us at depth because we were taking 10° rolls. SWO became
irritated when he lost the bubble and dropped below ordered depth. Chief
Allison asked for 10 knots to get the boat back up. We porpoised above and
below periscope depth the entire time.
The Night Orders told us to ventilate, i.e., bring in fresh air through the
snorkel mast and distribute it with the LP blower. Because we had a WSRT
earlier that evening, Andy used air to the MBTs during hovering operations
—we needed outside air for the air compressors to refill the air flasks.
Storm clouds shut out the sky. There would be no Type11 operations
tonight. We completed blowing sanitary tanks and GDU operations but
stayed up until the air compressors fully charged the air flasks.
SWO changed course, something we rarely did at periscope depth, to
determine the storm’s direction. We took even larger rolls. The storm was
coming from the west. Returning to patrol depth, we were still taking large
rolls.
At northern latitudes, radio signals were at lower strength. The
floating-wire was very directional and the weak signals limited the courses
we could steer. We had to zigzag back and forth across a base course to
reach our next patrol area entry point. Ironically, this multimillion-dollar
submarine with the best 20th century technology was restricted to tacking.
We had to steer courses back and forth to attain a desired course, just like a
15th century galleon trying to sail into the wind.
By the end of the watch, the boat was occasionally rolling more than
10º at patrol depth. We could hear and feel the stabilizing gyro slam into its
limit stops. The noise and vibrations were keeping the men in the berthing
awake. SWO had the Auxiliaryman-of the-Watch shut down the gyro.
SWO woke the CO for permission to go deeper. We were able to drop
only 50 feet before losing signal on the wire and it didn’t reduce the rolling.
SWO made his end of watch report telling CO the storm was intensifying.
This was later confirmed in a weather warning.
During my Galley check, Brooks complained that the boat's rolling had
screwed up his bread baking. O'Brien, the breakfast cook, remarked that he
was glad we were out of fresh eggs as he couldn’t fry eggs with the boat’s
excessive rolling. In the pantry, Chief scratched eggs to order off the menu.
I asked where he got the eggs. He said he had stashed several dozen in the
Gyro Room bilge. I told him it wasn’t fair that the Wardroom had fresh eggs
while the crew didn’t. Chief just rolled his eyes, saying, “There aren't
enough eggs to feed the crew one breakfast but enough for the Wardroom to
have a half-dozen eggs to order breakfasts.”
At noon, I woke to discover that the boat was now taking larger rolls,
some reaching 15º. In the Galley, Billy Joe was in bad humor. "What am I
supposed to do with this bread?" he yelled at me. "What are you talking
about?" I answered back. He showed me half-normal height loaves. I
mentioned that Brooks had complained at breakfast that the rolling
interfered with his baking. Billy Joe lost it. I had never seen him so
infuriated. During Billy Joe’s lunch breakout, Brooks told Billy Joe the
same story. But when Billy Joe cut into a loaf while preparing lunch, it was
as dense as pound cake, with a moist center.
Billy Joe rousted the night mess cook out of his rack to find out what
really happened. It seems that Brooks put the dough into proofing/baking
trays to finish rising. Then, from halfway across the Galley, Brooks tossed
the round-bottomed, dough mixing kettle into the deep sink that was full of
water. A thin sheet of water sprayed across most of the rising dough loafs.
The water caused the dough to collapse. Instead of starting a new batch,
Brooks just stuck the loaves in the oven to dry out and bake.
 Undamaged and leftover bread was used for breakfast. Now Billy Joe
only had damaged bread for his lunch of beef stew and grilled cheese
sandwiches. "How does it toast?" I asked.
Billy Joe gave me an incredulous look, yelling, "What the hell are you
talking about?" Taking a low-key approach, I suggested the damp-bread
could be toasted to dry it out and then turned into grilled cheese
sandwiches.
Still hot under the collar, he agreed try it for grilled cheese sandwiches.
“But what am I going to serve with the beef stew?”
Brooks was our poster-boy problem-child. We took him off dinner duty
because he couldn’t do rare roast beef. Then we took him off breakfast duty
because he started an oven fire by using cookie sheets for cooking bacon.
Now as Night Baker, once again he was sabotaging meals. At my wits end,
I suggested Billy Joe get Brooks out of the rack to make Parker House rolls
for the stew.
Adding, "Why not use the collapsed bread as French toast for breakfast
tomorrow?" I left the Galley, before hearing anymore of Billy Joe’s woes. I
left it up to Billy Joe to discipline Brooks. As it turned out, the bad-bread
grilled-cheese sandwiches were a big hit.
Launching the Communications Buoy to Go Deep
The storm increased intensity. By noon-watch we were taking frequent
15˚ rolls. This was extraordinary for a big submarine submerged below 100
feet. There must have been a monster gale atop of us with 45-to-50 foot
waves. The heavy rolling was beginning to bother everyone.
Conning Officers were slipping and sliding. People couldn't sleep, they
were grabbing their bunk edge on every roll. Even those using their safety
rails and straps were grabbing hold. Cooking was an adventure. For cooking
his stew Billy Joe found a metal contraption that locked four pots together
to prevent the pots from sliding off the stove.
Chief Jefferson used a white tablecloth for lunch. He wet a circle in the
tablecloth at each place-setting and pressed a plate into the wet-spot so it
wouldn't slide. He didn't put out water glasses, cups/saucers, or bread
plates. All salt, pepper, and sugar shakers and condiment bottles were
removed. Even so, the silverware slid with each roll. The Wardroom and
Mess Deck tables had an aluminum lip to prevent sliding items from falling
over the edge.
 There weren't too many people interested in eating. On the bright side,
this was going to help our budget shortfall. Billy Joe was in tune with the
crew. He could judge how many people would show up for a meal based on
the menu and the conditions. We had a run on soda crackers. We would run
out in a day or so at this rate.
Most people were taking so much punishment on watch that they just
wanted to get into their racks. The berthing compartment and crew's head
reeked of vomit. XO ordered a complete bleach washdown of the heads and
the berthing compartment bulkheads and decks. This severe rolling would
prevent launching missiles.
The old timers couldn’t remember being buffeted around like this on
any patrol. After lunch, CO ordered streaming the VLF communications
buoy to go deeper. Ordinarily, the VLF mast would be used at periscope
depth while retrieving the wire. Then the buoy would be launched. With
this monster storm we couldn’t go to periscope depth—we would broach.
Launching the buoy while maintaining comms with the NCA
continuous broadcast on the wire was tricky (Note 13-1). The wire could
get tangled with the buoy during launch. CO told Martin that the trick was
to get the buoy past the floating-wire’s unique-catenary without any
entanglement. CO said to make a slow turn to pull the wire away from the
centerline of the boat giving the buoy an open space to rise above the
catenary.
Martin started the turn, telling Radio to alert him when the buoy was
100 feet above the missile deck.” Running to Radio, I was there when they
advised Conn of losing the wire’s signal and that the buoy was 100 feet
above the deck. Conn used full rudder returning to base course to regain
signals on the wire. Depending on the direction and amount of a turn, the
wire occasionally would rub against the buoy’s tow-cable.
As the buoy slowly rose toward the surface, Conn directed Radio to
stop the buoy when they received a signal or it reached operational depth.
At 30 feet below operational depth, one operator heard a weak signal. The
buoy didn’t need to be at the surface—unlike the floating-wire. Radio asked
for a small course change to reorient the buoy’s quad-pole antenna. With a
20º course change, Radio reported readable signals at 20 feet below normal
buoy operational depth but not strong enough for the automatic copying-
device. Conn ordered Radio to retrieve the wire and to raise the buoy
another 10 feet, CO wanted to keep the buoy deep as possible. He was
concerned that large rolling actions would put stress on the buoy. Finally,
the automatic copying-device worked (Note 13-2).
While retrieving the wire, CO directed Martin to go deep to 200 feet.
Conn told Radio to maintain buoy depth while going deep.
At 200 feet, the rolling reduced to 10˚. After the wire was retrieved,
CO ordered the boat to 250 feet. At 250 feet rolling diminished to 3˚with an
occasional 5˚roll. Everyone was amazed that we were still feeling the effect
of this fierce gale. The CO wasn't satisfied. He wanted less than 3˚ rolling.
Finally, at 300 feet we were nearly stable.
With the buoy’s quad-pole antenna, we had more course options than
with the floating-wire. We wouldn’t be able to conduct a WSRT under these
gale conditions. It would take a few days to ride out this storm. Until then
we would be in 4SQ status—unable to launch.
Being at 300 feet, the CO set deep submergence conditions. We needed
to station extra watchstanders and shut the WTDs. Being deep cured the
rolling problem.
XO reminded CO that we didn't want to shoot the GDU at this depth,
CO agreed. We would freeze the garbage—there was plenty of room in the
freezer.
The Torpedo Room
Being deep gave me a reason to check out of the Torpedo Room for my
dolphin qualifications. The Torpedo Room was the only compartment that
looked like a WW II diesel boat. The six bronze torpedo-tubes, double-row
of three-across, sticking out of the forward bulkhead dominated the
compartment.
We had the vintage Mk14 torpedo (Note 13-3) left over from the WWII
inventory after the war was cut short with the use of the atom bomb. It was
a 21 inch diameter fish with an alcohol fueled steam turbine engine. It was a
raw-steel torpedo covered in grease to inhibit rust. It ran a straight,
gyroscope-controlled course. It was similar to the 1896 Whitehead torpedo
used in WWI.
There were two 21 inch Mk14s on storage skids and two were in our
torpedo-tubes. Mk14s were developed in the 1930’s, using massive
explosive power to sink ships with a fire and forget weapon. They stood out
in stark contrast to the smaller, sleeker, green 19 inch diameter Mk37
electric homing, aluminum torpedoes. The Mk37 was a 1950s follow on to
the small Mk27 homing torpedoes developed late in WWII. The Mk27s
were still on REQUIN during my summer cruise.
AWeps was checking out the deep submergence conditions in the
Torpedo Room. He said we carried Mk14 torpedoes to defend ourselves
against aggressive Soviet ASW surface ships. We would not be hunting
merchant shipping as in WW II.
Four tubes were loaded with mid-1950’s Mk37 electric torpedoes
(Note 13-4). These torpedoes had a much smaller warhead than the Mk14.
They were designed to acoustically attack submarines. There were two
modes for searching—passive and active.
The passive mode was designed to attack noisy ships such as
snorkeling diesel subs. The active mode was designed to attack quiet
submarines—slow nuclear or battery boats.
Ted explained that a circle mode allowed us to put the Mk37 behind us
in a circle pattern run. It was a Boomer’s favorite mode to nail someone
trailing us (Note 13-5)
Our Torpedo Room was a link to our submarine past where the torpedo
was the main weapon. Ted explained that while the WWII submarines had a
WRT tank for flooding and draining the torpedo tubes, our WRT tank also
provided water to the ejection system for firing our torpedo out of the tube
—a quieter system than air ejection.
The Torpedo Room served another function besides handling and firing
torpedoes. In the aft end of the room contained the famous Hanging
Gardens, an overhead berthing platform for senior petty officers. The
Chiefs had their goat locker in middle-level Ops, senior petty officers had
the quietness and seclusion of the Hanging Gardens. It was suspended from
supports welded in the overhead. This space allowed 1st class and senior 2nd
class petty officers to get away from the hubbub of the berthing space in
Ops.
By tradition, some torpedomen slept in the Torpedo Room on wooden
box-racks strapped to empty torpedo storage skids. This provided extra
torpedomen in the event of a casualty to a torpedo, such as battery fire in a
Mk37 or an accidental starting of a Mk14. The disadvantage was the
wooden box-rack didn't have a storage bottom section as the racks in crew’s
berthing had. During XO inspections there were many gear-adrift
discrepancies. A disadvantage of Torpedo Room sleeping was that while
there were two wash basins, there was no head or shower. Men had to troop
through the Mess Hall to crew’s berthing for those amenities.
Besides the standard iron-chain-link anchor, there was a second anchor.
It was the FBM Station Keeping Anchor, SKA, (Note 13‑6). The SKA was
designed to anchor quietly in moderately deep water while submerged on
patrol. It was dreamed up by some Pentagon desk-jockeys. A blue-sky
concept that ignored the realities of nuclear submarine operations. I never
heard that is was used on patrol.
On the EOOW-training midwatch, I read Eng’s Night Orders. We were
to be extra vigilant in checking all equipment subjected to sea pressure
leaks. He ordered checking each seawater valve every two hours. In
addition to making a notation in the watchstander's log, EOOW was to keep
a master list of all leaks and repairs. A flooding casualty was in the back of
everyone’s mind. Deep submergence roving watches, forward and aft, were
added to the watch bill. It would be extra sets eyes solely dedicated to check
for leaks.
Up forward, the COW kept a log for their new deep-roving watch. The
major problems were the leaks on the periscope shafts. This new
watchstander was busy with his grease gun stopping periscope trickles
(Note 13-7).
EOOW-training-watch went by quickly as I was busy the entire time.
After watch, I emptied the slot machine. Come hell or high water, or in our
case deep water, people were still playing. It was busier now that the crew
was more introspective and it was making a ton of money for the Rec fund.
I had a surprise at breakfast. Billy Joe had the breakfast cook use the
bad-bread for French toast. It had a pleasing rough-texture feel. The dense
bread made a perfect foil for our watery-frozen eggs.
Fat Checking 6-Way-Beef
Later that morning Billy Joe woke me. He complained that the CO had
the cooks break out boxes of 6-Way-Beef to examine the meat. "It's going
to delay lunch preparations!"
Seeing XO at his desk, I asked if he knew why the CO was bugging the
cooks about 6-Way-Beef. XO, rolling his eyes, said that during one of the
CO's nightly wanderings, someone complained about fatty meat. He said he
repeatedly told CO that he should check with division officers before going
directly to the men.
 Thanking XO, Billy Joe and I hurried to the Galley. Several boxes of
steaks and stew beef were open with CO poking bags of meat with a
wooden spoon as CS2 Harrison and CS3 O'Brien stood by. With a cheery
“Good morning.” I asked what was going on.
CO said he wanted to find out whether the meat being served to the
crew was too fatty, saying, he heard more than one complaint about fatty
meat. While waiting out the storm, he decided to see if NavSup was sending
us meat with excess fat.
Amazingly, he rattled off the proportion of fat for each type of meat.
He said just looking at the meat won't tell us much except how unappetizing
it was before the cooks transformed it into edible food. His comment
brought smiles to all three cooks’ faces.
He wanted to take samples from several boxes, trim the fat from the
lean, and then weight each to determine the average fat content. As CO
described his experiment, I was trying to conjure up some way to move him
out of the Galley so lunch could be prepared.
Billy Joe gave a “Harrumph” and we all turned to him. In a self-
confident manner, he explained that frozen beef when defrosted contained
water and blood which are lost when cutting up the meat. He said that liquid
loss would reduce the nonfat weight.
CO was taken aback by Billy Joe's comment. He put his hand to his
chin and thought for a moment. A smile crossed his face. In a bright voice
he said, "We'll weigh an unopened bag of meat before we do the trimming."
While the CO was resolving Billy Joe's concern, I was forming a plan to get
lunch prepared. I knew that there was no way we were going to dissuade the
CO in his quest to determine the fat content of 6-Way-Beef.
"Why don't Billy Joe and I work out a plan to determine the fat content
of the beef?" CO's face broke out in a big smile, "Yes, yes, please do that!"
Looking at his watch, he said, "Shouldn't you guys be preparing lunch?”
I don't know who was more relieved, CO because we agreed to do his
experiment or Billy Joe because lunch wouldn't be delayed. I wasn't happy.
Now I had to write up a test plan. I still did not appreciate CO’s legitimate
complaint from the crew about fatty meat.
Billy Joe resumed preparing lunch, telling me he didn’t want to do this.
At this point I was certain we were tilting at windmills. I told him that we
had to do something to satisfy the CO. I volunteered to generate a simple
experiment, one easy for the cooks to carry out. Billy Joe gave me a
mournful look and nodded in agreement.
On noon watch back aft, I drafted the Fat-Meat Experiment. I thought
taking random samples of two types of beef, steak and stew meat, from five
different boxes—to make it statistically valid. By weighing one bag of each
meat from the five boxes, we could establish a baseline weight for steak and
stew beef types. The cooks would cut off the visible fat and weigh it. The
water and blood would be counted as fatless meat to provide a conservative
fat value. Now after watch, I had to convince Billy Joe to do it.
Flooding Mystery
Passing through the Control Room there was a fury of activity. Rocky’s
diving officer discovered a mysterious heavy-trim problem which wasn’t
explained by a bathythermograph temperature change for a lighter water
density. CO and Eng were concerned that sanitary tank valves were leaking.
Some were concerned about all the new seawater connections in the Missile
Compartment. It had several 16 sets of sea valves (Note 13-8) for the 16
missile tubes.
An hour into the investigation, Missile Compartment reported water
coming out #2 MCT vent, (Note 13-9). This had to be our leak. The MCT
gauges on the BCP were part of the system used to expel the extra weight of
water in the tube after a missile was launched. BCP gauge for #2 MCT
indicated a normal level.
Ted and his Missile Technicians found the MCT #2 sea-valve was
leaking and that its manual backup valve wasn't fully shut. Shutting the
backup valve stopped the leak. The Missile Technicians found that the #2
MCT water-level sensor was putting out a correct signal indicating a full
tank. On removing the level gauge at the BCP, they found that its needle
was stuck to the gauge face at the normal level mark which was below the
full level. It seems the level-needle was torqued by the storm’s rolls and had
stuck at the normal mark. SK2 Penny located a replacement gauge. After
the gauge was replaced, the tank was blown to its normal level.
This slow developing incident reinforced the crew’s apprehension and
CO’s wisdom in ordering extra watchstanders to monitor the stress on our
systems at deep depth.
Fat Meat Experiment
 Billy Joe wasn’t happy after reviewing my plan. He was upset that
trimming ten bags of meat would take a long time and that he didn’t use
five boxes of meat for one meal. He was right, I agreed to reduce the
sample to two boxes of each meat type with one bag of a meat from each of
the two boxes. He halfheartedly agreed. Then, Billy Joe asked that the fat
weighing and trimming only be done on meat that was going to be used for
a meal scheduled for that day. The menu was for steaks in two days and
beef stew in four days. This greatly simplified things for the cooks.
Adding Billy Joe's changes, I typed up the plan and submitted it to XO.
Shaking his head in concern, XO asked if the cooks checked out the
procedure. I assured him that Billy Joe had reviewed it and made
constructive changes. XO said he would give it to the CO.
During my midwatch aft that night, CO was making one of his
excursions. He liked the plan for the Fat-Meat Experiment and gave the go-
ahead. As he walked away, I was left with mixed feelings. We had approval
but I was upset that I was engaged in a useless task.
 Chapter Fourteen
Type11 Loss & Submarine Encounter

W E began the third day still deep. On the Conn midwatch, the boat was
not rolling. The Night Orders were “Check the strength of the storm
at patrol depth. If rolling doesn't exceed 10º, go to periscope depth. If
periscope depth operations are feasible, switch to VLF mast, stow the buoy,
and stream the wire. Do Type11, housekeeping chores, and ventilate the
boat.”
SWO asked me to recommend a plan. I suggested we change depth in
50 foot increments to do a 10° roll evaluation. At patrol depth without 10º
rolling, we could proceed to periscope depth.
SWO smiled, “Let’s do it.” SWO commenced the 50 foot depth
changes. At patrol depth we only had a 1° roll. The storm had abated like a
thief in the night.
SWO ordered a course good for wire reception which allowed Sonar to
clear baffles. Sonar reported no contacts and an estimated Sea State 5—20
knot winds with 6-to-8 foot seas. We proceeded to periscope depth where a
full moon sky of broken clouds welcomed us with only 3° rolling.
The VLF mast was raised. After 10 minutes of drying out, Radio got a
signal. The buoy was stowed and radiomen started streaming the wire. We
started housekeeping by raising the snorkel mast and lining up to ventilate
the boat with the LP blower (Note 14‑1).
Loss of Type11 Periscope
SWO reported magic at the surface. There were 5 foot swells—the
winds had subsided significantly. We were shooting the GDU, blowing
sanitary tanks, ventilating with the LP blower after raising the snorkel mast,
and running the HP air compressors. All were long overdue operations.
Nav was behind his curtain manning the Type11 periscope. All seemed
right with the world. Shortly after the Type11 was raised we heard a stream
of curses. Charlie was venting a blue streak. SWO asked him to calm down
and explain his problem. Charlie shouted that he couldn't stabilize the
scope’s optics. The scope-view was slewing randomly with stars streaking
across his view.
Nav ETs jumped into their quick fix mode—an Easter Egg Hunt
through the Type11 control circuit-boards (Note 14-2). Pulling out boxes of
ready-spares, they methodically swapped boards trying to find the failed
one. Instead of taking time to diagnose the failure, they intended to swap
boards until the system returned to normal (Note 14‑3). Because the Type11
went down, SWO woke the CO. He was out of his stateroom like a shot,
just slippers and night-shirt.
Through the heavy plastic curtain, we heard all of the CO’s
conversation with Nav. He was hectoring Charlie to get the Type11 back on
line. The CO went from questions about the problem to how soon it was
going to be fixed. Nav's Master Chief Henderson told Charlie and CO there
were only three drawers of circuit-boards that affected the control of the
gyroscope in the Type11. He expected to swap out those boards within 20
minutes. A heavy silence emanated from behind the curtain.
SWO whispered to me how important the Type11 was to our mission.
It was the only way to accurately determine true north for our missiles. I
knew we had many systems to determine our position on the globe—
Type11, BQN-3, TRANSIT and LORAN-C. What I hadn’t understood
before was that the Type11 was the only system that could accurately
determine true north. Without Type11 updates to SINS, we couldn’t aim our
missiles (Note 14-4).
At the Conn, we were in the middle of housekeeping and ventilating
the boat replacing the lingering dried-vomit and bleach smells with storm-
fresh sea air. SWO turned the periscope search over to me. Looking straight
into my eyes, he told me to yell out if I saw a contact. He ducked into the
Nav Center to confer with CO.
The moon was beautiful. It lit up the edges of the clouds surrounding it
like a Titian painting. It was my first look at the outside world since leaving
the Bridge at the start of patrol. I was enamored with the moon light
sparkling off the swells. Dead aft was a direct-path of moon light on the
surface of the water to the scope. I forgot that I was conning the most
powerful ship in the world. SWO brought me back to reality, "I'm ready to
take the scope back. Did you hold any contacts?"
Awakened from an intoxicating dream, I uttered a hearty “No” and
reluctantly gave up the scope. Our tranquil interlude of enjoying calm seas
and the pleasant scents of storm-scrubbed air was interrupted by boisterous
discussions.
The Easter Egg Hunt was over. The problem wasn’t a circuit-board. We
heard CO, Charlie, and Master Chief Henderson all talking over each other.
Through the overlapping yapping, Henderson said the problem wasn’t
inside the boat. The tiny gyroscope in the head of the Type11 had gone
bonkers. It controlled the mirror that provided the star’s azimuth-angle.
Once he realized the nature of the situation, CO quieted down like a
wild horse that had just been broken. Charlie said it was a tender repair job.
It only could be repaired back in Holy Loch.
It was easy to imagine the dejection felt by those in the Nav Center.
The reassuring hum of the LP blower and scent of the fresh air were the
only comforts available but they wouldn't salve their souls. The CO started
up again, questioning how positive they were that it wasn't something else.
He made master chief get out the circuit schematics and show him the
signal test points and the voltages the ETs measured at those points.
Nav lowered the Type11. You could tell by the tone of his voice that he
was crestfallen. His whole reason for being on patrol had been removed by
a tiny, failed gyroscope. When Charlie walked over to report the Type11
secured, SWO showed a sympathetic sad face.
The full ramifications didn't hit me until I heard Charlie apologize to
SWO for putting his missiles off line. We were no longer a viable strategic
weapon system!
Thinking, “Would we be returning to Holy Loch early?” An early
return was the top-topic of crew scuttlebutt during our reactor problems. I
had no idea what would happen now and was too afraid to touch raw nerves
by asking questions.
Suddenly CO appeared, looking at Nav he asked, "What do you know
about Alpha-dot rotation of SINS?"—azimuth angle in SINS was
designated Alpha-dot (Note 14-5).
Charlie said it was an experimental procedure to rotate a SINS to an
orthogonal-axis and compare the data to the other SINS to solve for Alpha-
dot. Impatiently, the CO replied, "I heard about Alpha-dot in my PCO
Navigation course, I want to do it."
Nav turned pale in front of us. He tried to explain that it was an
unverified theory and there was no procedure to do it. Nav ended with,
"They’re testing a procedure. We don’t have it onboard." The CO was
clinging to any hope. He pushed into Charlie's face saying, "We need to try
it!"
Charlie said he needed to talk to his master chief. CO replied “I will
work with master chief.” I tried to edge away. I was too close to this drama.
SWO, at the periscope, was perplexed. He started swinging around on the
scope looking for contacts. Excusing himself, he bumped into Nav and then
the CO on his first round. CO got the hint telling Nav that they would finish
their discussion in his stateroom. The CO stormed off with a dejected
Charlie trailing.
We completed housekeeping. After the air compressors filled the air
flasks, SWO secured ventilating and returned to patrol depth. This wasn’t
isolating a primary-coolant leak or recovering from an operator screw up.
This was what the whole patrol was about— keeping our strategic missiles
primed to launch.
The power plant was built with redundancy to recover from casualties.
The Type11 didn't have the robustness of our engineering systems. We had
three SINS, but only one Type11. We could return to Holy Loch on single-
loop and without a Type11. We could perform our mission in single-loop
but we couldn't perform our mission without the Type11.
A half an hour later, a distraught Charlie came back to the conning
station to speak with SWO. Staying out of the way, but close enough to
overhear conversation, I listened with trepidation. Charlie said that CO’s
only concern was to obtain azimuth error.
Replaying his discussions with CO, Charlie said CO pulled out his
PCO Notebook and immediately launched into writing SINS gyro angle
equations on a Note pad. Within 20 minutes, he presented Charlie an
equation to solve for Alpha-dot from a SINS rotated 90º from the other
SINS. Charlie lamented that he couldn't remember from his FBM
navigation classes whether CO’s nomenclature was correct or not. CO said
that he wanted Charlie to rotate one of the SINS. Disconcerted, Charlie
reiterated that he didn't have a procedure for rotating SINS. CO wanted all
the SINS manuals.
SWO interjected, “Aren’t the SINS already out of specs because of the
storm and no recent updates? How can rotating an out of spec SINS to give
you Alpha-dot?” Charlie agreed. Charlie just wanted SWO to know what
CO was attempting to do. He told SWO he couldn’t have any confidence in
a heading update from an unauthorized rotation of a SINS. Looking into
Charlies eyes, SWO said he would raise objections to using unauthorized
data for a launch.
With a sigh of relief, Charlie hurried to the Nav Center. A few minutes
later a Nav ET whizzed by Nav Plot carrying four big volumes to CO's
stateroom. A few minutes later Nav passed by carrying three more volumes.
The drama of this confrontation was too much for me. I could understand
the CO's desire to carry out his mission but I could see Nav's concern that
any jury-rigged procedure to obtain heading would be an unauthorized
procedure.
Nav and Weps were instrumental in carrying out our strategic mission.
They questioned whether there was accurate enough data to carry out a
launch. They were not questioning whether the missiles should be launched,
just whether the missiles should be launched with questionable launching
data.
I was left to wonder if their authority gave them the power to refuse to
launch missiles if navigation inputs were out of specs. I was impressed with
their independence.
With CO taking all the manuals, Charlie had nothing to do. After SWO
was relieved, we made our going-off watch report to the CO. He was
intently reading SINS manuals. He gave SWO a nodding acknowledgement
and didn't look up from his reading.
I headed to the Galley to try to find something that would divert my
attention away from this drama. Billy Joe wasn’t around but the breakfast
cook was making pancakes. There wasn't anyone at breakfast in the
Wardroom when I arrived. I needed some downtime to sort out what had
occurred.
Nothing had prepared me for this turmoil (Note 14-6). Most of my
education had been technical training. I was caught off-guard that even the
job of a junior nuclear engineer had major human nature aspects. I
understood the advantages of social graces from Dan O’Reilly's skills
during upkeep. XO's admonishments on my handling the Change of
Command tasks made me realize that the human nature of a superior’s
power over subordinates was not much different than that in a Charles
Dickens' novel.
Loss of Type11 reinforced the timeless truism of the sea. The Captain
has absolute authority. But there seemed to be a new wrinkle. Department
heads can raise their technical concerns about Captain's orders. It wasn't just
human nature at play. It was something deeper that I couldn't identify. I was
shaken to my core and had no one to talk to about it.
I knew at the start of patrol that my role in the nation's strategic defense
was just as a little cogwheel. Now, I realized that some of the burden of
these strategic decisions fell on our senior officers. It wasn't that they
decided which targets would be targeted or when the missiles would be
launched. It was a technical decision as to whether the critical data used to
direct the missiles to their targets was sufficiently accurate to permit firing.
It seemed to be a moral decision involving general humanity.
All my studies of naval history and indoctrination, three courses at
college, were based on the premise that the Captain was boss and was to be
obeyed except for very special circumstances. One course in general
psychology was also required. It was something I really needed and I
enjoyed it. Now it seemed that disagreeing with the Captain over a technical
matter that affected the ship's mission might be construed as a special
circumstance. I was in awe at Nav's and SWO's confidence in their ability
to stand up to the Captain. I could only wonder if I would ever have their
background and experience to stand up to a strong CO.
Completely absorbed in my thoughts at breakfast, I finished a bowl of
shredded wheat and powdered milk without remembering tasting it. It
probably was tasteless anyway. I was too wound up to hit the sack. I
decided to do some small cogwheel stuff. Thinking, “I’ll see if we’ve made
any headway on our Commissary deficit.”
I found Billy Joe supervising a messman cutting fat from some of the
steaks we would have for dinner that evening. The first part of our Fat-
Meat Experiment was underway. I asked Billy Joe for the breakout
notebook, he reached in a drawer and handed it to me.
By lunch time I had updated the meal figures. We had closed the gap
and were less than $400 in the red. Billy Joe had been right. By serving
more pizza, spaghetti, and augmented-hamburgers we would be in the black
by the end of patrol. I thought about bragging to XO, but decided to wait
until we were in the black. Not having a noon watch, I headed for first-
sitting lunch.
The Wardroom was almost empty. Eng, Gabe, AWeps and Don were
there but no CO, XO, SWO, Nav or Martin who would be relieving Rocky.
CO was working on Nav manuals. Weps and Nav were probably avoiding
CO.
XO arrived, asking Chief for a bowl of ice cream. He said the CO
wasn’t coming to lunch. When the quartermaster arrived to give the noon
report, XO told him the Captain was in his stateroom.
Medical Drama
 Don had an interesting story to tell. An electrician wanted a small mole
on his forehead removed. Don felt he could just slice it off—leaving a small
scar. For such a simple task, he didn't ask for Doc Taylor’s assistance. Don
described laying out his instruments. Both doctor and patient put on surgical
gowns and caps.
Anesthetizing the mole with a shot of Novocain, he surgically removed
it, covering the wound with a cauterizing agent. To his horror, the bleeding
didn’t stop. It was worse than a razor cut. Feeling blood run down his face,
the electrician got agitated. Saying soothing words to calm his patient, Don
stopped the bleeding with his left thumb. With his free hand, he opened a
drawer to look for wet surgical tape, mentally cursing himself for not
having Doc Taylor assist.
His patient became more agitated. Don was afraid he would go into
shock. Somehow, he got a piece of tape onto a wad of gauze and dipped it
in the cauterizing agent. Then, he tightly taped it over the patient's wound.
It stopped the bleeding! Don put the upset electrician into a Sick Bay bunk
to calm down. He released him just before lunch.
Don’s story of medical drama helped me put this loss of the Type11
strategic drama into some real-life context.
EOOW-training-watch
The EOOW-training midwatch was a relief. The shrill screech and
clatter of steam-traps venting and the hum of the rotating pumps calmed my
soul. If someone offered me a choice between being a back-aft engineer or
Conn watches for the rest of my career, I would quickly opt to be an
EOOW. Checking lubricating oil temperatures and monitoring feedwater
levels were a pleasure. Reading RPM procedures was enlightening.
Listening to the idle chatter of the control panel operators was amusing. The
engineers’ mantra that their job was to supply heat, light, and propulsion
suited me. After watch with a calm mind, I went straight to my rack and
slept until lunch.
Refreshed, I skipped lunch and checked with Rocky on the Conn. He
said SINS drifted out of specs. We no longer met the requirements for
launching missiles. We were at 4SQ—unable to launch. Rocky said CO
gave up on the Alpha-dot rotation. Nodding at his words, I was happy to
escape to the nuts-and-bolts world back aft.
 Our casualties gave me valuable experience but they had taken time
away from qualification signoffs. I was behind in submarine qualifications.
Now it was time for me to devote all energies toward dolphin qualifications.
Demise of the Slot machine
After watch and dinner, I emptied the slot machine. Surprisingly it was
paying out more jackpots than usual. Over the last three days, members of
the Recreation Committee had been paying a threefold increase in jackpots
as were normally paid out in a week. Many jackpots were being won by
Brooks. I had two problems to solve—why was the slot machine suddenly
paying out jackpots and why was Brooks collecting most of these jackpots.
Billy Joe was in the Galley. I asked why Brooks was winning so many
jackpots. He said the crew was complaining that Brooks during night
baking and off-watch time was watching people play the machine. He
waited for someone to quit after not getting a payout. Then he played the
machine. His antics spread throughout the crew. The crew didn't think it
was fair for him to use his watch time to observe machine play to milk them
out of their nickels.
The slot machine now was hurting crew morale. Brooks was definitely
busting the rule of not playing while on watch. I still had to solve the
increase in jackpots. The slot machine was now losing money! By the end
of patrol, the recreation fund could be in the red.
After two years of intense training on multimillion-dollar reactors, I
solved both problems with one of our normal procedures. I Red Tagged the
slot machine—I put it out of commission (OOC). In the Red Tag Log, the
OOC reason was ‘Storm-damaged mechanism—possible broken-teeth on
payout-gear.”
Giving XO a Note for his POD, he expressed disappointment on losing
the machine but agreed with shutting it down. Later after I hit the sack, two
Rec Committee members woke me after finding the slot machine Red
Tagged. I apologized for not informing them. My concern about losing
money satisfied them. I never mentioned my concerns about Brooks.
Going off Missile Alert and Whale Encounter
I was at the Conn reading the Night Orders before SWO arrived. In a
terse scribble, CO stated “Upon receiving a WSRT or War message, Conn
was not to station Battle Stations Missile, just inform him of the message.
He added that we were in a 4SQ state of readiness, unable to launch
missiles because Type11 was OOC and SINS were out of specs for missile
requirements.”
It was a subdued SWO who came to the Conn that night. There was
nothing I could do to change his mood. Wanting to get out of his way, I
asked him if I could brush up on sonar. SWO agreed, saying we weren't
going to periscope depth.
Sonar was an Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole escape from reality. At
first glance, it appears that the operators have a tedious and repetitive task
turning their bearing wheels around and around listening for new sounds.
Because of the varying sounds in the ocean, each time an operator executed
a sweep he encountered different sounds which made the repetition
anything but tedious.
On one sweep he might hear some snapping shrimp or a croaker fish or
some new engineering noise back aft. On discovering each sound, he would
sweep back and forth to pinpoint its exact bearing while reporting that he
had detected a new noise. Using his BDI meter to boresight the bearing, he
would switch frequency bands to select which band provided the highest-
level signal.
Having two search sonars provided constant competition between the
operators as to who would make the initial detection. This kept the
operators alert. After a noise source was detected, the competition increased
as the operators strove to correctly classify the noise as a ship or marine
life. Classification of a source was usually done by aural interpretation of
the sound source such as the beats of the screw or clanks of machinery.
If the noise was classified as a ship, the competition was on again to
determine if it was a submarine or a surface ship. If it wasn't a submarine,
then the action was to determine if was a threat, a warship or a non-threat
such as merchant ship or fishing vessel. The referee in all these
competitions was the Sonar Supervisor.
The Supervisor was the senior sonarman. He ensured that the operators
were making their sweeps and that every half hour the standby operator
relieved the longest serving operator to prevent ear fatigue. In addition, he
checked each sonar's BTR, bearing time recorder (Note 14-7), monitored
the DUUG-1 (Note 14-8), operated the EB Demon tonal analyzer (Note 14-
9), and ran the two ½ inch tape recorders.
At the moment, the BQR‑2B operator felt that he heard something in
our stern area. There was a faint trace on his BTR. The BQR‑7 operator
trained on the noise bearing, only hearing ER noises. The Supervisor input
the signal into EB Demon. All the lines printing out were from our
machinery. Sonar Supervisor reported to Conn that the new noise was
probably marine biologics and requested a slight course change to starboard
for the BQR‑7 operator.
Sonarmen loved to drive the boat and used every opportunity to ask for
changes in course/speed/depth. Because sonar was our eyes and ears
submerged, Conn complied with their requests. Next to continuous radio
reception, ensuring no contact came close enough to cut our floating-wire
was a major concern for Conn.
After a small course change, 20° to starboard, the BQR‑7 operator
heard the same noise and joked that it might be a whale. The BQR‑2B
operator agreed with him. The suspicious Supervisor felt they were
spoofing him and grabbed a headset to listen to both sonars and put the
BQR-2B signal on the overhead speaker. He disagreed with them, although
he believed that the noise was some type of marine biologics. He thought it
was a school of chatting fish.
Hooking the BQR‑2B to the EB Demon, the Supervisor couldn’t find
any new tonals. Then a loud moaning sound came out of the speaker. Both
operators shouted, "It’s a whale!" The Supervisor flipped on the standby
tape recorder. He reported to Conn that the noise source appeared to be a
whale. The operators were excited. Then another lower level, longer moan
was heard. Both exclaimed in unison, “We've got whales!" The Supervisor
switched off the backup the tape recorder, saying they had many tapes of
whales from past patrols.
Conn asked Sonar if he could return to base course. Sonar agreed, in
essence giving SWO permission to drive the boat again. I asked if they
could tell from the sounds which type of whales they were and how many
there were. Another loud moan broke out as the Supervisor told me that he
didn't know by sound which type of whales they might be. Because the
sounds are low frequency, they couldn't get good enough bearing
discrimination to sort out the number of whales.
I naively asked, "Can't we analyze for their frequencies on the EB
Demon?" He shook his head No and explained that the signals were too
short in duration to register on the analyzer.
Not giving up, I asked if the sounds was just short active pulses why
didn’t we see the bearing on the DUUG active intercept sonar. Ready for
that one, he said they were low frequencies below DUUG’s cutoff
frequency. He explained that the low frequency cutoff was necessary to
eliminate the interference from the high-level transient noise from our
planes and startup of our motor and pumps.
After we returned to our base course, we didn't hear any more whale
calls. Although we still had a faint trace on the BQR‑2B’s BTR. The
excitement in the sonar room died down as the operators expressed
amazement that the whale seemed to be following us. No one had
experienced anything like that before.
Back at the Conn, everyone was cracking jokes that it was probably a
love-sick female attracted to a big strong brute—our submarine. When we
made a routine baffle sweep, the whale was still there and we heard another
soft moan as she turned to stay behind us. After watch I checked the Galley.
Before going to breakfast, I checked with Sonar and found that our
whale was still with us. In the Wardroom, I was surprised to find the CO
attacking a plate of sunny-side eggs. Chief Jefferson still had eggs stashed
away. They looked good but I didn't want to condone what Chief was doing.
CO smiled a good morning and asked how the watch had gone. Trying to
distract myself from looking at his eggs, I thoughtlessly remarked that all
the discussions were about the whale that was following us.
The CO gave an, "Oh is that so?" remark and then he pushed a full fork
of egg whites dripping with runny yellow yolk into his mouth. After a few
chews he set his fork down and stared at the overhead. Then, he jumped up
and quickly left the table.
Being beat, I decided against breakfast and hit the sack. Just as I was
dozing off, I thought I felt the boat put on speed and make a sharp turn. Too
tired to think about it, I slipped into a deep sleep. Waking up refreshed
around 1100, I checked into the Galley. Billy Joe greeted me with a big
smile, asking how I liked playing attack submarine against the Rusky. I was
caught completely flatfooted.
Billy Joe said the scuttlebutt was that the CO didn't believe the whale
story. He took the Conn to escape from the Russian submarine that had
been tailing us. I blurted out that I had been in the sack and missed the
whole thing. Billy Joe laughed, saying that the crew felt this was the most
fun they had in a long time.
Rocky still had the Conn. He explained that SWO didn’t mention the
whale when he reported his relief to the CO. My comment set CO’s wheels
in motion and he did run to the Attack Center. He took the Conn ordering
the Quartermaster to call, via sound-powered-phones, "Rig for Quiet” and
“Man Battle Stations Torpedo.”
According to Rocky, CO made rapid speed and course changes. Sonar
reported suppressed cavitation, a characteristic sound of a deep submarine
putting on speed, from the contact. It pulled away from us at a high bearing
rate. It was over in just a few minutes.
Rocky said the CO's stock had soared with the crew. Of course, CO
was demanding a full investigation as to how this metamorphosed into a
full-blown trailing operation.
The next day’s POD lead announcement was that our encounter with
the Russian submarine was Secret information and it was not to be
discussed outside of the confines of our hull. This was a great victory for
crew scuttlebutt as some of the crew thought it was a sonarman's fairy tale. I
was surprised XO put the episode in print rather than just make an
announcement or meet with the LPOs and have them conduct the security
warnings.
It hit me. The POD was now a classified Secret document. By spelling
out the Secret in the POD, XO had made the POD a Secret piece of paper.
My Italian genes took control of my better judgment and I rushed off with
my POD to XO's stateroom. Pushing aside his curtain I stood before him, in
an innocent voice I asked, "Can I get a Secret Register Number for my
POD?"
He gave me a look of bewilderment. Then understanding what I said,
his face turned black with distain as he grabbed the POD. Realizing I had
gone too far, I quickly left. I don't know what made me do it. It certainly
wasn’t a class act. I guess deep in my persona there is an evil devil.
The yeoman retrieved all the PODs he could find. Later I talked to
Borenski about the retrieval, he said he got most of the PODs back and put
them in the Secret burn bag. He also confided he made up a new POD for
the files that changed the Secret section to “Any classified events during
patrol are not to be discussed outside the confines of our submarine.”
(Note 14-10).
Fat-Meat Experiment Results
In the rush of excitement over the whale/submarine incident, I forgot
about the Fat-Meat Experiment. CO didn’t forget. He asked me when he
would be getting the data on the fat trimmings. I said I would get back to
him.
I had dropped the ball. I rushed to the Galley hoping that Billy Joe had
stayed on top of it. We had our beef stew meal a few days ago and it didn’t
ring a bell that the experiment was over. Finding Billy Joe, I couldn't hold
back, "You did get the CO's meat/fat weights, didn't you?"
He said he had the numbers, adding that the CO was right. There was a
lot of fat on the meat, especially on the stew beef. Billy Joe gave me the
numbers for the weight of the sealed bags, the weight of the trimmed fat,
and the weight of the trimmed lean meat. I thanked him for saving my hide.
As Billy Joe had said earlier, the fat and meat after trimming didn't
equal the weight of the unopened bags because of the water and blood loss.
We would use the fat weight against the sealed-bag weight. It still showed
excess fat for both stew beef and steaks. I did some calculations to get the
exact percentages. The CO was right!
I scampered to the CO's stateroom to give him the raw bag weight and
fat weight for each beef type. He smiled as he stared intensely at the
numbers. I said that his concern was correct. In the back of my mind, I was
worried about what he wanted me to do.
He looked at me and said that the stew beef had about 15% more fat
than it should have had and even the steaks were over 10% in excess.
Seeing what was coming next, I suggested that I submit a complaint to the
tender's Supply Department.
CO glared at me and emphatically replied, "No! This needs command
attention at the highest levels. I'm going to write a letter to ComSubLant
about this. It's a disgrace that some civilian company is feeding this stuff to
our hard working sailors."
Now, I was really worried. It dawned on me that I didn't oversee the
trimming of the fat from the meat. Thinking, “What if the messcooks had
left meat on the fat?” Trying to play the scientist, I suggested that maybe
we needed to take another sample if we were going to going to the top
command level about this problem. Maybe we needed to be absolutely sure.
The CO wasn't going to be dissuaded, finally he said, "Ok, let's do the
stew beef again and take pictures." With great relief I agreed, saying I
would have COB Henderson take pictures.
Telling Billy Joe what had happened, I said that we needed to do a
double check. We had to do one bag of stew beef tonight after the evening
meal. He wasn't happy about it but when I told him that the CO was going
to the Admiral with his complaint, he agreed.
That night I watched Billy Joe trim a bag of stew beef. It was very
fatty. He wasn't leaving any meat on the trimmed fat. COB took pictures
before we trimmed and after the trimming. The pile of fat was almost as
high as the meat because of fluff during the cutting.
The real data was in the weights. The fat percentage was even higher
than in the original experiment. CO came by as we were finishing. He
beamed when he saw the pile of fat and the weight numbers. I was happy as
a clam that the CO was writing up the complaint letter and I wouldn't even
have to do a draft. I couldn't imagine what the Admiral's staff would think
when they got the letter with pictures of beef fat enclosed.
 Chapter Fifteen
End of Patrol & Return to Holy Loch

T Here was just over a week of patrol left. The Conn-training midwatch
was boring with no Type11 operations. Shipboard life had lost its gusto
for the crew after we went off alert going from 2SQ to 4SQ. Many
questioned why we were staying on patrol without a real mission. My guess
was that we were denying the Soviets knowledge that we were crippled.
The Soviet ELINT trawler would record our return to the River Clyde on
schedule as a successful patrol.
The loss of mission greatly affected CO and Weps. I couldn't tell
whether LCdr Walters or the CO was having the harder time. Both seemed
stoically reserved.
Unlike our first day reactor casualty, the Type11 was equipment failure.
It was a reflection on the Polaris system designers, not on the crew’s
competence. Nav understood this better than SWO and CO. This was not
the same as the loss of the drain and trim pumps.
At the end of my watch, I resolved to get three more systems signed off
for my dolphin qualification. For the next two days, I badgered
watchstanders for help in finding valves in the LP air system—A‑Division
signed me off. AWeps quizzed me on the torpedo-tubes and I got his
signature. On the third day I passed the hardest test. Gabe ran me ragged on
my knowledge on the DC power bus. It was a grueling one-hour ordeal to
get his signature. He had me put my hand on every DC breaker and switch.
No Way to Get Rid of Garbage
During an EOOW-training midwatch, Conn reported to Maneuvering
that seawater was coming from the GDU inner-door vent. SWO informed
Dave, the EOOW, that Eng and CO were on their way to the Galley. Dave
asked SWO to notify his chiefs and that he was sending me to the Galley.
The GDU belonged to Dave’s A‑Division, but was crucial to Galley
operations.
The Galley was crowded with Eng, CO, two A‑Division chiefs, and the
Auxiliaryman-of-the-Watch manning the sound-powered-phones. With
me showing up it was now a five khaki-casualty (Note 8-8). Eng was in
charge. A chief was intensely questioning Brooks who discovered the
problem after he shot the GDU’s first load of trash. It included a bag of
broken metal locker pieces.
The consensus was that the bag of trash containing scrap metal had
nicked both the Teflon ball-valve and the outer-door gasket. After pumping
down the GDU and timing the rate of water rising, Eng and the chiefs had a
lively discussion on what to do next.
CO called me forward and asked what instructions the cooks received
for loading/shooting the GDU. I said there were new Galley Safety
Instructions that were written after the grease fire. Billy Joe reached up into
a locker and handed them to the CO.
With CO absorbed in the Safety Instructions, Eng said fixing the
gaskets was a Holy Loch drydocking repair. Our sub would have to go up
on blocks high and dry out of the water. Eng declared the GDU OOC for
the rest of the patrol. The A‑Division chiefs started writing Red Tags for the
GDU. A-Division would write-up the repair order for the tender.
Standing before the CO, I expected him to point out deficiencies in our
Instructions. Instead, he said, "Except for omitting a caution on disposing of
metal-trash, it’s an excellent instruction. Add a caution on metal disposal
and tell XO to add the GDU operating section to the SSORM.” CO
returned the Safety Instructions, gave a general "Good Night" and shuffled
back to his cabin.
I was flabbergasted, Billy Joe was smiling broadly. I phoned Dave with
the GDU OOC status and A‑Division’s required actions.
Billy Joe said he would store wet garbage in the freezer—not a
problem as it was almost empty. I told him that after reveille, Conn would
announce to Hold trash on station—i.e., no one would bring their trash to
the Galley.
In the Wardroom at breakfast, I explained the GDU status to XO and
handed him a Note for his POD to Hold trash on station until we returned
to Holy Loch. XO told me that the tender's policy was not to accept trash
accumulated on patrol because the local landfill was nearing its capacity.
XO decided that after surfacing, we would toss garbage and trash bags
overboard from the missile deck. I asked that he put a Note in his POD that
each watchstation LPO check with Billy Joe about using the trash-
compactor for bagging their trash to hold on station.
XO bragged that he had lost 17 pounds and asked about my weight
loss. My face registered amazement as I had lost only six pounds. I was
surprised his ice cream diet worked. I was going to owe him several cases
of beer.
Special Showings of the Favorite Patrol Movie
With the patrol-end in sight, I collected another EOOW qualification
signature from M‑Division after a main turbines walk-through before my
midwatch. On watch, the panel operators were chatting away and it turned
to women. They were naming the most beautiful women they had seen in
movies on this patrol. They unanimously agreed that it was the naked gal
who dove off a high diving board.
The RO turned to me, "Did you know your storekeeper is charging 25
cents to show her naked dive with a freeze frame of her great boobs
hanging down perfectly in midair?"
My mouth dropped and they laughed as I thought “Penny’s running a
scam on the side!” I protested that I didn't know he was doing it, while
thinking, “I have to put a stop to this right away!”
I was angry. It constantly amazed me what trouble guys could get into
while stuck inside a steel tube thousands of miles away from temptation.
First my cook was skimming nickels out of the crew’s slot machine, now
my storekeeper is hawking film shots of a naked woman diving into a
swimming pool. I was beginning to suspect that XO's stateroom door was
only the tip of the iceberg.
At the end of the watch I stormed into crew's berthing and rousted
Penny out of the sack. I ordered "Get dressed and report to the Supply
Office!" Minutes later a sleepy-eyed storekeeper stood in the doorway of
the Supply Office. I was livid and blurted out "Where’s that movie?"
Caught off guard, he replied, "What movie?" When I raised an eyebrow, he
knew the jig was up. "Oh, that movie."
I told him to return the money and that I wanted the movie for safe
keeping. Sheepishly, he agreed to my requests and pulled the movie box
from behind the supply desk. To his credit, he didn't make any excuses for
what he had done.
Thinking about it later, I guessed he was avoiding boredom by having
the excitement of doing a little business on the side. One had to marvel at
his ingenuity. With a clear conscience that I had taken care of the problem
before XO caught it, I decided to get some sack time before my EOOW
noon watch.
 Fire in the Laundry
I don't know how long I was asleep when I heard, "Fire! Fire in Crew's
Berthing!" and the gongs of the General Alarm. “Oh no,” I thought, “the
XO is doing his drills again.” Jumping into my poopy suit, I joined the
mass of humanity in the Crew’s Mess which was my emergency muster
station.
It was a madhouse. It was a real fire. Someone had forgotten to clean a
clothes dryer filter screen. A burst from a CO₂ extinguisher took care of the
fire. Everyone was relieved that it was such a small thing. Someone said it
wasn't unusual to have a several dryer fires during a patrol. It seriously cut
into my sleep time before an uneventful noon EOOW-in-training watch.
The midwatch on the Conn was boring. We didn't even come to
periscope depth for housekeeping chores. Only three more midwatches and
we would be safely back in Holy Loch. Thinking about my upcoming
wedding, I couldn’t wait until this patrol was over.
Rattlesnake Meat & Chocolate Covered Ants
That evening, I broke out special treats I bought from a deli where I
worked during college. I had three containers of goodies to surprise the
Wardroom. Chief Jefferson was taken aback when I showed him a can of
rattlesnake meat, a jar of chocolate covered ants, and a bottle of iguana
meat in tomato sauce. I told him I wanted him to serve them for Wardroom
midrats.
With a look of disgust, he said XO wouldn’t think it was funny and it
wasn’t on the menu. Ignoring his caution, I said he could serve the regular
midrats but to put these treats on the table for those who wanted something
different. Shaking his head in disagreement, he verbally agreed to do it.
I regretted missing the Wardrooms reactions as I had to go aft to get a
qualification signature before my midwatch. Later, Dave, the midwatch
EOOW, told me that he and SWO got a big kick out of the exotic food. He
tried the iguana meat but SWO decided on a PB&J sandwich.
Getting off watch in the morning, I was anxious to get Chief Jefferson’s
reactions to the exotic foods. He motioned me into the pantry and regaled
me with stories.
He mixed the rattlesnake meat with mayonnaise/relish and spread it on
crackers. He made a drawing of a rattlesnake and placed the crackers and
empty rattlesnake-can in front of the picture. He put the chocolate covered
ants in a saucer with several spoons in front of the empty jar. He heated the
iguana meat sauce with left over spaghetti. He set out small bowls of the
iguana-spaghetti with the empty iguana jar in front of the bowls.
Chief had gotten into the spirit of things, I urged him to tell me people's
reactions. He said the first officers in the Wardroom were SWO and Lt(jg)
Laughlin. They got a kick from reading labels. He said “Only Mr. Laughlin
ate some iguana spaghetti.”
XO and CO came down and had a good laugh. The CO wouldn't try
anything but XO tasted the chocolate covered ants. He said they were gritty.
Doctor and Lt Rivers showed up. Each tried a rattlesnake cracker and Doc
tried the other foods which amused the CO.
Chief said the word got out. A sleepy-eyed Lt Richards and a tired Eng
came in to check out the spread. Each had some iguana meat spaghetti.
Then Lt(jg) Chadwick arrived and complained that he didn't want any
exotic cocktail food. He just wanted some old fashion cooking. Chief gave
him leftover meatloaf.
The last one in was LCdr Donahue. Chief said the Navigator glanced at
the table and wolfed down the remaining rattlesnake crackers. When Eng
showed him the rattlesnake can, Nav got upset. Chief said, “He started
complaining and threatening to make you eat the can.” Someone said you
were aft on watch. When he started out the door, Eng grabbed him, telling
him “Only nukes were allowed back aft.” Several people tried to calm him
down. He drank two cups of coffee trying to recover.
My glee turned to concern that I had upset Charlie. Minutes ago, I
thought my funny foods had brought a light Note to the end of our patrol.
Now, I found out that it ended up stressing Nav. I didn't know what to do.
Don was up early, I asked him if he had seen the rattlesnake drama. He
said that it was the most exciting midrats of the entire patrol. He
congratulated me for the exotic goodies and marveled at the lack of
curiosity from those not sampling them. He said he tried each and really
liked the iguana meat.
I asked about Charlie and whether I should apologize. Don confirmed
Chief's story that Charlie was upset with me. He thought that Charlie must
have had a rattlesnake encounter in his past as he ate the crackers without
any concern. He only reacted after being told it was rattlesnake meat.
Cutting off Don's comments, I asked whether I should find Charlie and
apologize. He said that he didn't know what should be done but I shouldn't
be alone with Charles. Completely confused, I asked Don if he would come
with me when I offered Charlie my apology.
Then, Charlie walked into the Wardroom and drew a cup of coffee. I
mumbled a “Good Morning.” Charlie turned toward me with a stern look.
Don tensed in his chair. We expected Charlie to return to his excited state
from last night. Instead, Charlie gave me a big smile, saying "Boy, you got
the Wardroom all excited last night and you weren’t even here.”
After Charlie walked out with his cup of coffee, XO showed up
dropping off an empty ice cream bowl. Smiling broadly, he looked at me
and said,” You are going to lose several cases of beer.” Then, he abruptly
left.
Trying to smile, I told Don that this crazy weight bet was going to cost
me. I complained about XO’s bragging about all the beer I would owe him.
Continuing whining, I said that it was going to be expensive. XO’s beer
couldn’t be bought at Officer’s Club. Don said he felt badly that I was
conned into betting with a guy who was 30 pounds overweight.
Looking at me, he asked if I wanted some help. Quizzically, I asked if
he could rig his scales? Replying, “No, but if you have some will power for
the next two days, I can give you some water pills and laxatives to purge
your body and empty your gut.” Desperate, I told him that I willing to do
anything to not lose a few days’ pay and wipe the smile off XO's face.
Saying he only was doing this because I was in good health and he
didn't enjoy seeing XO exploit me. Taking me to Sick Bay, he gave me six
water pills, two laxative pills, and an assortment of vitamin pills to replace
what I would be purging from my body. He said to start the pills
immediately and to only drink coffee with crackers or dry cereal for the
next two days. He warned that it was going to be a grueling until the weigh-
in after the Maneuvering Watch secured in Holy Loch.
First Trip to Periscope Depth as Conning Officer
Tonight was my last training watch on the Conn. The Night Orders
directed us to come to periscope depth, blow sanitary tanks, ventilate the
boat, and top off the HP air flasks in preparation for coming off patrol at
0600—then we could go to high speed. I was starting to feel the effects of
the pills and wasn't sure that I could get through watch without a head call.
After reading the Night Orders, SWO had me recite the procedures for
coming to periscope depth. I complied. SWO smiled, "Get ready to take us
to periscope depth in an hour."
While I fumbled around in the Conning Station storage locker to locate
a set of red goggles, SWO ordered the Control Room to Rig-for-Black
(Note 1-1). I was apprehensive, thinking “Was I really ready? I would be
responsible for the safety of the boat. I would have to take charge.”
SWO turned the Conn over to me. In my best command voice, I
announced that I had the Conn. I directed Chief Allison, the DO, to trim for
Sea State 2 periscope operations. I changed course, ordered Sonar to
conduct a baffle search and I checked the BTR after they reported no
contacts (Note 15-1). I turned up Gertrude’s volume listening for close
contacts.
I ordered the Diving Officer to make his depth 68 feet smartly. Chief
Allison returned a sharp, "Make my depth 68 feet smartly, Aye," He ordered
a 15˚ up-bubble and full rise on the sail-planes.
I watched as decreasing depth numbers peeled off the digital depth
gauge with the Chief calling off every 5 feet of depth change. When the
Chief called out 110 feet, I reached up and twisted the orange ring above
my head counter-clock-wise. Then announced, “Raising #2 periscope.”
(Note 15-2).
When the Chief called out “100 feet” the scope was still rising as I
bend down to unfold the periscope's black-metal handles, selecting low
power and maximum elevation for my underwater search (Note 15-3). On
the ECM package below the handles, I checked the ECM switches and
pushed the test button as the scope came to a stop at 95 feet. Chief Allison
removed his 15º up-bubble and ordered his stern-planesman to a zero
bubble.
Pulling the red goggles down to my neck, I pressed my eyes into the
eyepiece. With the Chief calling out “90 feet” I swept out the port forward
quarter, crossing the bow to search the starboard forward quarter, seeing
only black. I reversed back left as the DO called out “85 feet.” Looking just
off the port bow as we reached 80 feet, I saw a spot of light. "Emergency
Deep!" I yelled out.
Just as I got Deep out of my mouth, SWO shouldered his way onto the
scope edging me out of the way. He announced "I have the Conn!" With his
eyes pressed into the rubber eye piece he asked, "What did you see?" He
was turning the scope back and forth across where I had the scope pointed. I
answered, “A faint shimmering point of light off the port bow.”
 Chief had both planesmen go to full dive and called out 77 feet and
going deep. SWO quickly swung the scope a full 360˚ and ordered "Belay
the Emergency Deep.” Make your depth patrol depth."
As the Diving Officer reported passing 90 feet, SWO lowered the
scope and smiled at me. He said it was a clear night and I had seen a bright
star or Venus shining through the water.
I was downcast, upset at the drastic action I had taken. SWO quickly
assured me that I had taken the correct action. "Better to take safe action in
a questionable situation than lamenting later that you hadn’t taken the safe
action." Feeling relieved, I asked, "You mean I did the right thing?"
SWO smiled broadly and nodded, Yes. He said because I had never
taken a submarine to periscope depth at night, this is the only way I could
experience how stars could be seen underwater. In a stern voice he added,
"Now that you have experienced it, let's not have another false alarm."
At patrol depth, SWO transferred the Conn to me and I ordered a return
to 68 feet. This time, Chief Allison only used a 10˚ bubble going up.
Passing 85 feet I again saw the speck of light which got brighter as we
ascended. I didn't see any large splotches of light that would have been a
close in ship. As the scope broke water, I saw a sky full of stars and started
a quick beam to beam search of the horizon and then a full 360º search. I
announced that there were no close ship contacts. Turning the scope to the
maximum elevation angle I reported no air contacts but a high, beautiful
half-moon.
We started our housekeeping functions. I had COW initiate blowing
sanitary tanks and ventilating the boat with the snorkel mast and LP blower.
This allowed us to run the air compressors without generating a vacuum in
the boat (Note 15-4). I phoned Maneuvering and told Gabe to top off the
HP air flasks. Gabe told me that three compressors would go online and it
would take two hours.
News travels fast in our big steel-tube. Gabe didn't let my foul-up pass
without a cutting comment. "I hear you've got the Conning Officer record
for the longest ascent to periscope depth." I hung up as I didn’t have a
snappy counter.
After swinging on the scope for over an hour looking for ships and
aircraft, I saw how being a Conning Officer could cause eye strain and a
sore back. Even with power assist, it took some effort to make the scope
rotate. When the air charge finished, we secured ventilating and returned to
patrol depth.
Don's pills were working. I asked SWO to relieve me for a head break.
After taking a piss, a cup of hot coffee restored my energy as I took the
Conn again. For the rest of the watch, I sorted out my misadventure. I didn't
have the nerve to ask SWO to sign my qualification card but I was
confident that I could qualify next patrol.
Last Chess Match
After watch I was struggling with hunger pains but heeding Don's
advice, I only had coffee and toast for breakfast. When our speed increased,
I knew that we were now off patrol alert and heading back to Holy Loch as
fast as one reactor loop allowed. I hit the rack to take my mind off my
stomach.
Rocky and Don woke me after lunch to badger me into letting Charlie
win a chess game to boost his morale. I tried to explain that it was difficult
to throw a chess game. Having a watch-free afternoon, I looked for Charlie
—resolving to lose a match. Finding him, I suggested one last game, he
eagerly agreed.
We had Sick Bay’s door open for ventilation as Petula Clark blared
from the speaker. After the first dozen moves, the CO came out of the
Radio Room and walked by. Stopping, he said, "Well, this is where the
unqualified officers hide when they want to have some fun." Then, he
walked on. His remark was so true to the mark that it completely unnerved
me. I didn't have to try to lose. Charlie won his first chess match of the
patrol fair and square.
When I checked on the Galley, the Mess Hall was full of guys playing
card games—Hearts, double-deck Pinochle, and Acey-Deucy. Getting the
Breakout Log, I updated last week’s Commissary tally. It showed us $130
in the black, even taking into account tonight’s expensive lobster-tail dinner.
Billy Joe’s skimping had paid off. It was a good feeling.
Running into XO, he told me he approved COB's request for the crew
to select tonight’s movie. He said COB complained that the crew was
getting tired of spaghetti and never wanted another Italian supply officer.
Also, COB said that first night back, the crew only wanted fresh eggs, milk,
and machine-sliced Dunoon bread.
 In our stateroom, I found Don, anxious to return home, rummaging in
his locker looking for his cap. He cried out in anguish when he saw his
white vinyl cap cover was now a sickly, yellowish tan. Rocky came into the
room and laughed at Dan’s cap. I pulled out my cap. It was the same icky
color as Don's. Rocky was not laughing when he found that his vinyl cover
was the same color. Through our open door, XO, hearing our cries of
anguish, looked in and spied our dirty colored cap covers. Saying, "Guess
you boys displeased Neptune Rex on your first patrol."
He slid open his curtain, opened a drawer and pulled out an immaculate
white cap—sealed in a clear plastic bag. He told us that the Amine in the
scrubbers reacted with chemicals in vinyl. He explained that all vinyl in the
boat was brown to mask the Amine reaction. We would have to buy new
cap covers for the trip home. Suddenly I was thinking “What had Amine
done to our lungs for the last 60 days?”
Chief Jefferson did a superb job steaming the lobster tails in the pantry.
Our last dinner on patrol was well received. It was worth the double cost of
a steak meal. Even XO broke down and had two lobster tails! I had one tail
and some rice—a break in my fast.
Billy Joe told me that the crew ate more hot dogs, the other entree, than
lobster tails. We still couldn’t please the crew even with an expensive meal.
Midrats would be lobster tails in hot dog buns!
High Dive—The Movie
After dinner, COB asked me for the High Dive movie—Penny had told
him I had the movie. This was the movie the crew selected for their last
night at sea. It made sense why the crew wanted to see her again. COB
asked why I had it in my stateroom. Giving him a grin, I said “I was
keeping it safe.”
After taking Don’s pills, I tried to get some sleep before my midwatch.
Around 1700, there was pounding on my door. COB and others wearing
exasperated faces confronted me. "What the hell happened to the movie?"
several of them shouted. Standing in the doorway in my skivvies after being
wakened from a sound sleep, I gave them a quizzical look.
"You know—where she dives naked off the diving board,” someone
yelled from the back of the group. XO pulled back his curtain to join the
brouhaha. COB explained to XO that the best part of the movie the crew
selected was missing and I was the last one who had possession of it. My
first thought was “Penny has sliced out the naked frames of the film and
was selling each frame for a dollar.”
XO promised COB to get to the bottom of it. Not satisfied, but
knowing that they had their day in court, the group turned to leave. In a
mischievous tone, XO yapped to them, "I'll get right on this as soon as I get
my door back!"
XO glared at me as he sat me down in his stateroom. I explained that
Penny had made special showings for 25 cents/person, my restitution order,
and that I now feared he may have done more. XO ranted and raved at the
mess I had made. This was destruction of government property. A Captain's
Mast should be convened. I was quaking in my boondockers—even though
I was barefooted. This was not the way I wanted to end the patrol and my
career. XO told me to get to whole story from Penny and report back.
I had Chief Jefferson track down Penny. Waiting in the Supply Office, I
couldn't fathom how I was going to resolve this mess. A sober faced Penny
mutely stood before me. Remaining calm I asked "What happened to the
missing diving board scene in the movie?"
Reluctantly, he explained that last time he showed it, he left the freeze
frame on too long and about a dozen frames melted. To cover up the mess,
he spliced out the sequence from the bounce on the diving board until the
splash in the water (Note 15-5). I asked where the damaged pieces of the
film were. He said they were in the trash. "I want you to find those pieces
and get them to me." He assured me they were in bags of trash he was
storing in the Ops bilges.
Asking how he was going to replace the damaged film, he admitted
that he didn't have any idea. He hoped that the missing section of the film
wouldn't be noticed by the next boat.
I explained that the COB was irate and XO was claiming a destruction
of government property and threatening a Captain’s Mast. Penny was
visibly shaken. His scheme was endangering his career. Speaking with a
quivering voice he asked, "What can we do?"
I was silent until I realized that he made me part of his problem. I
replied, "It's not what we can do but what are you going to do about it?"
Telling him “This is really a mess and I don't have a clue as to what can be
done.” I ended the meeting with, "Go find the missing film frames!"
With his shoulders hunched, Penny left the Supply Office. I decided to
wait to tell XO.
 Channel Fever before Holy Loch
After taking a water pill, I headed aft for my midwatch. I was surprised
to find off-duty engineers in AMS, in AMR, and in ER. One chief said it
was Channel Fever. He explained that no one slept the night before
returning to port. I was thankful that I had a watch and didn't have to try to
sleep. With my High Dive problems, sleep wouldn’t happen even on a
normal night.
The watch was as slow as maple sap in a New England cold snap. At
0330 XO called. He was up and about—not immune from Channel Fever.
He wanted my Log Req, Logistics Requisition, for the End of Patrol
message. Having it with me, Andy let me go forward.
In the Missile Compartment there were people everywhere. The middle
level was filled with people telling stories and playing cards. Crew's
berthing was empty. White lights were on and the blue bunk-curtains were
pulled back. Petula Clark’s rhythmic chant was blasting from the
entertainment speakers.
XO grumpily accepted my Log Req. He said the trash disposal plan to
use the Missile Compartment trunk access to go topside and throw the trash
overboard wasn't viable. Once we surfaced, we wouldn’t have time to slow
down to dump trash nor would it be safe to put people on deck at high
speed. The trash bags would have to be tossed into the sea from the Bridge
cockpit.
Needing to get the Mess Decks ready for lunch, I suggested we get rid
of the Galley’s trash first. XO told me to inform the morning Conning
Officer. He would have Eng take me off my noon watch because of the
trash removal.
Then, XO sharply asked about the missing film status. His jaw dropped
on hearing about Penny’s shenanigans. He wanted to know what I was
going to do about it. I said I would return the film to the tender and admit
the damage. Then, I would deal with Penny. XO wasn’t happy with me.
Returning aft, the crew was still up. We were making hellbent turns for
Holy Loch. People peeked into Maneuvering telling the throttleman to
make going home turns. The crew knew our submerged speed was higher
than our speed surfaced—the hull was more efficient cutting through the
water submerged than on the surface. They wanted max turns while we
were submerged.
 Hit by a GDU Weight
After my midwatch, I explained the trash-tossing from the Bridge plan
to Rocky at the Conn. He agreed to do it. At 0700, Rocky announced
“Surface...Surface...Surface” then hit the diving klaxon three times. The
three Ughaa’s were greeted with cheers throughout the boat. We were safely
on the surface—80 nautical miles from the tug rendezvous point. Surfacing
was benign in comparison to diving the boat. The trim tank readings would
be given to the Blue crew for their first dive on their sea trials.
Once on the Bridge, Rocky increased speed to maximum. In the Galley,
I told Billy Joe to start the trash removal. His crew went into action. Our
biggest guy was in the cockpit to toss the bags over the side. People were
stationed midway on the two ladders in the sail and the Ops ladder with
someone above and below them. Billy Joe oversaw Penny and two
messmen who took our trash-bags and frozen garbage-bags to the Control
Room. In an hour we were down to our last two bags. COW assembled
line-handlers to relieve the Galley trash-tossing stations. The Hold on
Station trash-bags were brought to Control. I estimated the new work crew
would finish in an hour.
After the stress of the movie-brouhaha, a midwatch meeting with XO,
and trash disposal supervision, I decided to catch a few winks. Channel
Fever or not, I went soundly to sleep.
A 1MC announcement calling for the Doctor and Corpsman woke me.
Don was caring for a line-handler sprawled unconscious at the ladder. My
first thought was “Is he dead?” Don said he felt a pulse. Doc Taylor arrived
and gave the man oxygen. A crowd full of anxious faces assembled.
A bag of compacted paper with a GDU-weight had fallen eight feet
hitting him in the head. Regaining consciousness, he was in a daze. Four
line-handlers carried him to Sick Bay in a wire rescue basket. He was going
to live.
The euphoria of entering port dissipated. The dangerous life of a
submariner was vividly attested to once again. The chain-gang was issued
hardhats. The trash disposal continued.
A somber crew went to lunch. Stories about Jonah and albatross bad
luck flowed freely. Such talk wasn't common on patrol but this catastrophe
opened the flood gates. It was disheartening that we were suffering a
serious problem just hours before Holy Loch.
 A sober Wardroom opined that this incident was just another chapter in
the saga of this patrol. Don reported that the injured line-handler, MT3
Allen, was not in any serious danger. Don reported he suffered a
concussion, but passed all the mental tests. Don said Allen would be
transferred to the tender's Sick Bay for X-rays and observation before he
returned home with us.
The Wardroom didn’t bring up Jonah and albatross stories and there
was no rehash of the casualties we encountered. CO made a little speech
thanking everyone for doing their duty on patrol. Looking straight at Don,
CO suggested that he not play his bagpipes nor go topside today. Maybe
CO didn’t want to explain to the Commodore how our bagpipe-playing
doctor fell overboard after all the other casualties we had on this patrol.
Don sheepishly agreed.
The CO received a reply to our End of Patrol Report message. The
tender was ready to commence work on all our OOC equipment. XO
announced that there would be no liberty the first night in Holy Loch. The
crew wouldn't be happy. XO said that all the officers' 1300 Maneuvering
watches remained the same expect that Martin would be OOD and I would
have the EOOW-training-watch. We would be alongside the tender by 1700.
I asked Billy Joe if the 1700 mooring caused a problem of getting fresh
provisions aboard before dinner. He reminded me that the in-port evening
meal hour was at 1800. He didn't see any problem having a simple meal of
eggs, milk, and bread ready by then. Chief Jefferson was planning to cook
in the pantry. He was preparing a meal of steaks, baked potatoes, fried fresh
green peppers and onions, with tomato/lettuce salad, and fresh milk. My
team was in top form.
Another Phantom Scram
At 1300 the navigation and engineering Maneuvering Watch was set
for entering port, a half hour before we needed line-handlers topside to meet
the tug. We were approaching the Clyde Estuary. In Maneuvering, coolant
pumps were in fast speed in the single-loop for maximum power. We were
at 14 knots. Eng had me relieve him as EOOW. He said there would be a
drill. Eng used the 2MC to inform the watchstanders that I was EOOW. I
realized this was my EOOW qualification test.
Eng didn't waste time, he reached up and twisted the Scram switch on
the RPCP to the Scram position and announced on the 2MC “Reactor
Scram for Training.”
Any qualms about performing a qualifying test disappeared. I toggled
the Scram siren-alarm off and told the RO to switch the MCPs to slow-
speed. As the Scram light kept flashing red on the vertical RPCP panel, I
announced on the 2MC that the Scram was a drill and to initiate a Fast-
Scram-Recovery. I told the Bridge on the 7MC that we had a training Scram
and that I had started a Fast-Scram-Recovery. I requested he slow to 5 knots
but that we could answer a Standard Bell in an emergency. I asked him to
Rig for Reduced Electrical. The OOD responded that the boat was in a safe
position with no close contacts, he rang up Ahead 1/3 on the EOT and
ordered “Rig for Reduced Electrical” on the 1MC.
Minutes later the AMR ET gave me a Fast-Scram-Recovery start-up
check-off sheet to sign. I reviewed and signed the sheet. Then I told the RO
to start withdrawing rods.
It was a classic Scram Recovery, albeit from single-loop. The SSTGs
were running, a feed-pump was running, there was plenty of water in the
boilers, hot steam was still going to the main turbine throttles, and Tave was
just below its lower-limit. Control rod withdrawal was proceeding
smoothly. The RO switched to the intermediate-level reactivity meter as the
reactor went critical. We would be adding heat shortly.
The RO switched to the high power range reactivity meter. The reactor
was adding heat and Tave started to rise. Then out of the blue, a reactor
Scram! I reached up and turned off the Scram siren. Eng muttered, "Damn,
another Phantom Scram!"
I had the 2MC mic in my hand and announced, "Reactor Scram, the
Chief Engineer has the Watch," and dropped the mic into Eng’s hand. I had
no idea what to do next. “Should the AMR ET run checks on the reactor
protective circuits? Should the diesel be started and the SSTGs shut down?
Should the whole steam plant be shut down? Should another Fast-Scram-
Recovery be initiated?”
It was a totally unexpected occurrence and I didn’t have a clear idea
what do or how to proceed.
LCdr Townsend took charge. He started another Fast-Scram-Recovery
while having an ET check all the critical test points in the Reactor Control
Panels. On the 7 MC, Eng told the OOD that he was EOOW with a
Phantom Reactor Scram and that he might need the diesel engine and
switch to the EPM if he ran into other difficulties.
 After the AMR ET told Eng there were no anomalies in the readings,
Eng signed the Fast-Scram-Recovery form. Within minutes the reactor was
critical.
Tave had dropped well below is its lower range limit. But within 15
minutes the reactor was back to the point of adding heat. The RO continued
withdrawing rods. The rest of the watch was a blur of activity. ETs were
double checking wiring and circuit diagrams. It had been a year since the
last Phantom Scram. Somehow, we made it up river and alongside the
tender.
As we tied up, I realized I had failed the EOOW qualification test. The
Phantom Scram demonstrated that I needed more training.
Tied Up Alongside the Tender
The Maneuvering Watch was secured except for line-handlers and
engineers. The tender passed us electric power cables. We made a normal
reactor shut down. The OOD told Eng that he would tell the tender’s divers,
who were ready to do an arrival hull inspection, that the propeller’s jacking
gear was engaged. The Squadron Engineer and the tender’s repair officer
huddled with Eng. I went forward to check on our in-port meal.
To allow interfacing with tender repair parties, XO delayed the
Wardroom meal to 1900. Going to my stateroom for my dingy cap to go
topside to check on supplies, I got a surprise. The XO's stateroom door was
back in place on its hinges! The sheet curtain was neatly folded on the
passageway deck. During the Maneuvering watch, the door must have been
reinstalled while XO was at his watchstation at the Chart Table.
Back in the Control Room, XO grabbed me. "Let's do the final weigh-
in. I want to enjoy a big steak dinner to celebrate my three cases of beer." I
was happy to get it done. The water and laxative pills had sapped my
strength. Fortunately, I just had gone to the head and emptied my bladder.
Don joined us as we headed to Sick Bay. A smiling XO went up on the
scales, 220 pounds, a loss of 16 pounds! He had slipped a pound since his
last weigh-in.
With apprehension I stepped on the scales, 188 pounds, a ten pound
loss. Four pounds under my last weigh-in. It was only a six pound
difference between our losses. I only owed XO six 6-packs of beer. XO
stared in disbelief. Don added an "Incredible!" as a cover up. XO knew
something wasn't right but he smiled saying he was going to enjoy his hard
won beer.
Holes in the Propeller
Returning to the Control Room, Eng was debriefing two dripping-wet
divers. Eng looked at me, sarcastically asking if I knew what caused the
holes in the screw. Dumbfounded, I shook my head, “No, what holes?”
The happiness and relief of returning to Holy Loch had vanished
quickly with a major new problem. Andy filled me in. The divers found
sizable jagged holes in the screw blades. There were many gashes on the
edge of the blades and large dents on every blade of the propeller.
Evidently, tossing weighted trash-bags from the Bridge caused the bags
to be sucked into the fast-flow of water along the hull and into the screw.
Five pounds of cast iron with 14 knots of momentum banging into the
propeller had damaged the blades. Divers found strands of meshed bags
snagged on some holes.
The boat would have to go into dry dock right away to replace the
screw. A FBM submarine had to be prepared to go sea on short notice, even
in upkeep. The news about the screw was totally deflating. I felt that Eng
thought the screw damage was my fault. The end result was that we would
move to drydock tomorrow!
By the time I got topside, all the supplies had already been moved
below. The forward Torpedo Room hatch was open. The loading crew must
have used that entry to avoid the tender’s people coming down the starboard
Control Room trunk. Checking the Galley, I was amazed. The Mess Hall
was full of happy men gobbling down stacks of fresh, machine-sliced bread,
platters of fried/scrambled eggs and grilled bacon/luncheon meat. Pitchers
of fresh milk were being refilled. Billy Joe was beaming.
Our Wardroom in port dinner had the atmosphere of a funeral. The CO
had his head down deep in thought. XO was reticent. SWO was his usual
reserved self. Eng was annoyed. Nav wanted to be social but didn’t dare
challenge the mood of the table. The rest of us just looked at our plates.
By the time everyone had been served a steak, potato, and fried peppers
and onions, the CO returned to the present. He asked Nav the status of the
Type11 repairs and Weps the status of the MCT valve repairs. He approved
a time for the initial survey of the Reactor Compartment for the MCP vent-
pipe repair. He asked Don if there were any X-ray results on MT3 Allen.
Not leaving me out, the CO asked if the Commissary accounts were in the
black. Everyone's answer to the CO had been short and curt. I was able to
say, “Yes they are, Captain.”
Returning the Slot machine
Then, XO piped up, “Have you made arrangements to return the slot
machine?” He had me! I had forgotten to make arrangements. Everyone
stared at me as I hesitated, trying to make up an excuse, “No sir. I’ll ask
Chief Kinkaid to find someone to return it.”
“Sounds good to me,” the CO interjected. Thankfully that ended XO’s
bomb. I escaped without any further damage.
By the time dessert was served, the table had returned to stony silence.
The phone at the right-table leg near the CO rang. He took a short call and
thanked the caller. “We wouldn't be going into the drydock right away,
another boat has a higher priority.” he announced. This brought a smile to
everyone’s face. It would have been a monstrous task. Now it would be a
Blue crew problem.
XO ended the dinner with an announcement that the Eight O'clock
Reports would be at 2030. There would be no liberty for the Gold crew or
officers during turnover because of the complicated repair schedule. There
were no groans at our table but I was sure that there was lots of wailing
from the crew.
Eight O’clock Reports
The purpose of this Eight O'clock Reports session was to generate a
complete list of action items from each department to give to their reliefs
tomorrow. I informed the officers that I would give them their final mess
bill at muster in the morning and I needed checks by the end of the day to
clear our accounts with the tender.
The tender’s Supply Department was deciding which parts should be
ordered from NavSup for the trim and drain pumps and which parts the
tender would manufacture. The tender had spare trim and drain pumps
available but wanted to repair ours. Eng wanted at least one of the tender's
pumps installed right away because he felt the boat was very vulnerable
with only one trim and drain pump.
XO ended the meeting by distributing tomorrow’s POD calling for
reveille at 0600 and muster on the missile deck at 0630. This would allow
the Blue crew to muster at 0700. It was going to be a tough turnover.
Everyone scurried off to brief their LPOs. I went to the tender's Supply
Office to straighten out our Pri-C requisitions.
While there, I discussed the damage to our High Dive film. When the
Supply Corp commander realized which boat I was from, he just smiled. He
said there wouldn't be any problem because he understood we barely made
it back to Holy Loch. He said the tender would duplicate the missing
segment from another copy of the film, splice it back into the reel, and no
fuss would be made.
With that positive response, I had no hesitation asking for a vehicle and
help to return our slot machine. He again smiled, asking how the crew
enjoyed the slot machine. He shook his head in amazement at the storm-
damage story. I thanked him, saying I would return the film in the morning.
Back on the boat, I knocked on XO’s door. XO gave me arousing,
“Come in!” He seemed pleased he had his door back, but made no mention
as to how it was returned. His smile widened when I told him I had
arranged for the damaged High Dive film to be returned without any report
being filed. The XO wanted to know how many 5 gallon cans of gilly it had
cost. Taken aback that he knew about my trade for the side-of-beef, I
weakly smiled back at him and told him that we were living off our boat's
good name.
Later that night, I gave Chief Kinkaid the points of contacts for the
vehicle and for the liftoff of the slot machine. Doc gave Rocky and me new
bright-white cap covers he bought at the tender’s ship’s Exchange. Turnover
was going better than I could have hoped.
Turnover
A wakeup call at 0500 gave me time to talk with Chief Jefferson, Billy
Joe, and Penny before breakfast. I told them we needed a clean turnover and
to let me know their counterparts’ concerns. I emphasized to Billy Joe that
we needed the turnover inventory completed quickly so that I could get my
Commissary paperwork completed.
Turnover was a breeze for me. Lt Bill Cook was almost a twin to Dan
O’Reilly in being laidback. His only sticking point was that he wasn't going
to accept the old crate of emergency eggs. Not sure if he was kidding, I
deadpanned that we got a new case of emergency eggs before we left for
patrol. His mouth dropped. I was pleased to see that he was surprised. After
that, the Supply Department turnover proceeded quickly. Bill was in
complete agreement on the tender work order to remove the terrazzo in the
Galley and lay sheet linoleum on the tank top.
Unfortunately, for the rest of the Wardroom, the turnover was much
harder. Eng felt put upon by the Blue Eng's request for additional details on
the casualties and repairs. Eng gave him copies of all the IRs we sent to
Adm Rickover including the Phantom Scram.
The Blue CO wasn’t pleased that the boat had to go into drydock three
days after change of command. This would mean a Maneuvering Watch
right off the bat. The Blue Navigator was upset that the Type11 repair meant
break-in-testing on sea trials.
Sharing an EDO watch with Dave, he told me that there were
recriminations and animosity in A‑Division's turnover about the trim and
drain pumps’ preventive maintenance fiasco.
The two-crew system was undergoing a strain. Somehow, it all held
together for the three days ending with the formal change of command. I
never felt such relief as when I heard the Blue CO utter the words, "I relieve
you, Sir." and our CO replied, "I stand relieved."
 Epilogue-1
Returning Home Was Tough

N o one had a bigger smile than Eng when Cdr Prendergast, Blue crew
CO, uttered the magic words to our CO, "I relieve you, Sir."
By nature, LCdr Scott Thompson didn't smile much. Our casualties
didn't give him many reasons to smile. Now, he couldn't stop. Completing a
hellish patrol, he had orders to Prospective Executive Officer School. No
one deserved it more.
We lugged our bags to the tender’s stern deck, dumping them into a
cargo net. A crane dropped them into a Mike boat. After mustering on the
pier, we clambered aboard launches that took us to Sandbank and the buses.
The yeoman distributed XO’s lists dividing the crew up for the three
Scottish buses for the trip to Prestwick.
It was a bright and sunny day, the antithesis of the dark and gloomy
night when we arrived. The sunshine on the bright green grass reinforced
our joy of returning to our loved ones. Reaching Prestwick at noon, enlisted
men were dropped at the Air Force Mess Hall and officers at the Officer's
Club. It felt good having a beer after 90 stressful days. Captain made a
toast, thanking the Wardroom for their diligence in overcoming our
adversities.
When we arrived at the departure terminal, the crew was already there.
As Supply Officer, I had the paper work, orders and transportation vouchers
for our flight. XO’s lists split the crew in half for the two planes—strict
adherence to Rickover's worst-case policy.
My group was with CO, Nav, AWeps, Rocky, Don, Dave, and a split of
the enlisted crew in the second aircraft. XO with the remaining Wardroom,
COB, and the other half of the crew were assigned to the first plane. The
transit desk clerk, a staff sergeant, told us to standby. Within an hour, both
groups boarded their aircraft.
The CO’s group aboard their aircraft and received safety instructions.
A typical hurry up and wait routine, we sat in our seats an hour as the Air
Force ran preflight checks. Finally, we took off. Leveling off over Ireland,
the service crew started to load the meal carts with box dinners which
would be our sustenance until we landed tomorrow morning.
Aircraft Engine Shutdown
 Minutes later, the flight deck announced they were shutting down one
of their four engines because of low oil pressure. CO called me to his seat,
he directed me to get the status from the flight deck.
Overcoming resistance from the serving crew’s staff sergeant, I entered
the cockpit. I asked a Lieutenant, seated at an engineering console, whether
we could continue the flight on three engines. The pilot interrupted and
pointed to XO's plane ahead of us, saying “I know that aircraft could do it
because it has bigger engines. I’ve contacted base to see if our plane’s three
smaller engines can do it.”
I was taken aback that the pilot didn't know the capability of the
aircraft he was flying across a big ocean. We were coming off a patrol
where we had overcome myriad casualties without any outside help. Now
the pilot in charge of our aircraft had to ask for help in making a critical
decision whether to proceed or not.
When I returned with the pilot's answer, Captain gave me a dark look
and said that it wasn't a satisfactory answer. Just then, the plane went into a
sweeping turn. In the middle of the turn, the flight deck announced that
because of the lost engine, base operations had ordered the aircraft to return
to Prestwick. The groan from the crew was in contrast to the insensitive
cheers from the Air Force service crew when the sergeant announced that
the box meals would not be served.
By the time we arrived at Prestwick, the mood of the crew was
completely sour. CO had me accompany him to the Operations Office to
determine the status of our plane and a new departure time. The Ops people
gruffly told us that the plane's engine needed to be checked and that no
decision on the aircraft status would be made until morning. The CO was fit
to be tied and asked if there were other aircraft available.
We were told that there was a standby aircraft but it wasn't configured
for personnel transport. The CO requested that the seats from our downed
aircraft be switched to the standby aircraft. The Spec Sergeant told us that it
took 8 hours to switch the seats and they were waiting on the status of
repairing our aircraft's engine tonight. CO suggested that by switching the
seats this evening, we could take off tomorrow morning. He added that our
broken aircraft would require a test flight before carrying passengers and it
wouldn’t be available to us until the afternoon at the earliest.
The Sergeant became indignant and said that the seats could only be
switched during daily working hours which wouldn’t start until 0800 the
next day. The CO almost lost his composure but he recovered as he
understood that there was nothing he could do. He told me to arrange
messing and berthing for the Wardroom and crew for the night.
Overnight in Scotland
Berthing wasn't a problem as Prestwick Air Force Base was a transit
point to Europe. The base was prepared to handle large numbers of
unexpected personnel. The CO and I returned to the waiting area. I
announced that we were to spend a night on base and wouldn't know the
status of the aircraft until morning. A rumble of discontent rose from the
loose collection of men.
The problem was that this unexpected event was something over which
they had no control. There was no stress going to Battle Stations or quickly
reacting to a casualty but this was a very stressful situation. They felt
helpless not being able to rectify this casualty.
Now, they were just bystanders. Some Enginemen shouted that they
wanted to help the mechanics. With no experience on jet engines, they just
wanted to see that the engine was being worked on. All of us were drawn
into the uncertainty of the situation and the helplessness at not being able to
take action.
One chief looked at the CO and shouted, "At least we can go the EM
Club and get a beer!" It was a statement between an affirmation of action
and a rhetorical question. CO made a halfhearted nod. The crew hadn't been
able to blow off steam in Dunoon during turnover. Now that their dream of
being home the next morning was shattered, they could only reach for
something that had been denied them for the last 63 days.
My announcement that the arriving buses would take us to their
barracks and messing was met with stony silence. Eventually, the chiefs
herded the crew onto the buses. We found out later that most skipped the
Mess Hall and went straight to the enlisted men's club or to the PX. It didn't
matter where they went, the end result was the same. Most of the crew was
snockered before sundown.
That didn't mean that they went drunkenly back to their barracks. It just
meant they were ready to drink more or raise some hell. Early the next
morning before breakfast the CO received a phone call ordering him to
report to the Base Commander's office. For some unknown reason the CO
wanted me to accompany him. To this day I can’t figure out why he
selected me. He could have chosen a higher ranking officer like LCdr
Donahue, the Navigator, to accompany him.
The Base Commander was a bird Colonel, four-stripes—out ranking
our CO. The Colonel immediately pushed his rank. He started with the
infractions the Air Force MPs had collected on the crew last night into the
early hours of morning. It was truly amazing.
The MPs received over 30 reported disturbances from about 2000 in
the evening until 0400 in the morning. They augmented the duty MPs to
investigate almost 20 of the disturbances. They apprehended some 35
members of the crew. They locked up four crew members, took two to the
base hospital, and sent the rest to their barracks. The four men in custody
were being held for belligerency toward the MPs including physical
resistance. The two in the base hospital were admitted for alcohol-sickness
and were to be released back to their barracks this morning. The
disturbances included public drunkenness, littering of alcoholic containers,
and trashing the Base Commander's lawn. They had knocked over his name
sign and uprooted some flowers.
CO immediately apologized for the disturbances and problems it
caused the MPs. He explained that the crew had just come off a tough
strategic patrol and was upset about not returning home after a horrendous
90-day deployment. In a belligerent tone, the colonel replied that he didn't
give a damn what the crew had gone through. He was only concerned about
a complete breakdown of military order. The CO again apologized, saying
he would take appropriate action on those that had caused the disturbances.
The Colonel was having none of it. He announced that our aircraft had
a critical engine problem that would take a week to fix. Until another
aircraft was found, the boat's enlisted men and officers were confined to
quarters. Air Force MPs would be assigned to monitor the crew's quarters to
ensure compliance.
The CO inquired about the standby aircraft. The Colonel briskly stated
that the standby aircraft was now undergoing a two day maintenance
inspection. An aircraft from Frankfort would be sent to Prestwick today and
would be ready tomorrow. The CO’s face sagged. Recovering from his
disappointment, the CO requested that the detained men be released to the
boat's own cognizance. The Colonel sullenly agreed. With his head low, the
CO left the meeting a completely dispirited.
 When we returned to our Quarters, CO ordered two senior chiefs to
report to him. He told them about the order confining the crew and officers
to their quarters. He wanted the chiefs to ensure that the four men returning
from the brig were kept under tight surveillance until we boarded an aircraft
to leave Prestwick. The chiefs asked what time we would be departing.
Hesitantly, CO stumbled to explain that the standby aircraft was down
for maintenance and an alternate aircraft was being flown in for us to depart
tomorrow. The chiefs couldn’t restrain themselves. They let the CO know
that the crew would go completely bonkers about this.
At noon, the officers met in the lounge to eat box lunches. The CO said
he had phoned XO at his home in Gales Ferry. XO had already received
word about the crew disturbances in Prestwick from VAdm Grenfell's office
at the Submarine Base. It seems that the Admiral was at sea conducting an
inspection and his Chief of Staff was trying to respond to Air Force's
complaints.
The White House Steps In
CO said that at the end of the call, XO dropped a bomb shell. The wife
of one of the crewmen stuck in Prestwick had called the White House to
complain to the President that her husband was stuck overseas after a 90
day strategic FBM submarine patrol because the Air Force wouldn’t fly the
crew home! The CO halfheartedly laughed when he told the story.
Later that afternoon, the CO assembled the officers and chiefs to tell us
that he had received a call from the Colonel. The news was that a new
aircraft was enroute to arrive this evening to take us back tomorrow
morning. The CO said the Colonel apologized for his treatment of us but he
didn’t lift his orders restricting us to quarters. The apology was of little
consolation, because no matter how you cut it, we would be spending our
second night at Prestwick Air Force Base.
That evening after another phone call to XO, CO told us XO said Adm
Grenfell’s office had informed him that an Air Force SAC four star general
had called the Colonel. Evidently, the general chewed out the Colonel about
the way he was treating warriors who had been carrying the tip-of-the-
sword of nuclear deterrence on a 90-day patrol right to the doorsteps of the
Kremlin while the Colonel was sitting fat, dumb, and happy in a cushy job
going home each evening to his wife and family.
 The story did a lot for crew moral. It was some consolation to the crew
that their sacrifice was recognized at the highest levels of the Air Force.
The scuttlebutt was that the impetus for the plane and the reprimand for the
Colonel actually originated in the White House.
The next morning was the start of our third day in Prestwick. At noon
the crew was stoically grim with tight smiles as we boarded the third
aircraft the Air Force found for us. We had an uneventful flight back home
and the few bottles of booze smuggled aboard didn't result in any obnoxious
behavior.
The highlight of the plane trip was when a group of 1st class and 2nd
class sailors, who had put in their papers to leave the Navy, approached the
CO. The gist of their story to him was that they would consider staying in
the Navy if he could assure them that would have an exciting patrol—like
this last one—every time they went to sea in the future. It was the first time
I saw the CO smile since the Change of Command.
We returned to our offices at the Submarine Base to issue leave chits
and write TAD orders for those going to schools. LCdr Townsend’s
replacement came aboard in time for a going away luncheon at the Officer’s
Club for Eng. There were no repercussions from the Prestwick
disturbances. No action was taken against the four put into custody by the
Air Force MPs. It was almost as if the whole affair had been a bad dream
that disappeared in the light of day.
Our incident with Air Force MATS did have repercussions. Future
FBM patrol flights to/from Prestwick were by chartered civilian airlines and
not by MATS aircraft. DoD seemed to realize that contracted civilian flights
were more reliable than the MATS system.
Back at the Submarine Base Officer’s Club, I discussed our patrol with
some of my past classmates. They hadn’t heard of a more casualty filled
patrol—five non-drill Scrams, operation of emergency cooling, surfacing to
run the diesel, MCP leak, single-loop operations, bacon-grease fire,
flooding in the MCT, loss of the trim and drain pumps, loss of the Type11,
loss of the GDU, and critical damage to the screw were unheard for a single
patrol.
My fiancée had made all the arrangement for our wedding. It
wonderful being surrounded by friends and my family from San Diego and
Pittsfield. Dave and his wife represented the boat at our wedding in Wayne,
Pennsylvania. It was great taking 30 days leave to go west to my home
town for our honeymoon.
It was years later that I discovered that XO had given us 30 days of
basket leave as a honeymoon wedding present.
 Epilogue-2
The Next Three Patrols

F or my second patrol, the CO’s policy of two patrol job rotation, kept me
in Supply. LCdr Townsend’s replacement couldn’t believe our casualty
list. Midway through patrol, I qualified as EOOW and Conning Officer. A
surprise on patrol was receiving a family gram from Ellen. Our only contact
with the outside world was receiving three family grams a patrol—short
crisp notes. I found out later that the grams were in the identical format as
war launch messages!
By the end of patrol, I had completed my dolphin qualification except
for conducting a torpedo attack at sea.
Qualifying to Wear Dolphins
Back in New London, the at-sea torpedo attack requirement was
relaxed to substitute a tactical team trainer canned scenario against
simulated Soviet ASW forces.
On a Saturday, I was one of six candidates at the attack-trainer. The
Evaluator selected me as Attack Officer for the first qualification run. The
other candidates served as members of the tracking party. I was
apprehensive in not having trained in tactics against Soviet ASW forces.
Plus going first would deny me a learning curve.
The scenario was that a Soviet frigate was searching for us with active
sonar. Making an approach below periscope depth using DUUG-1 ping
intercepts and BQR-2B passive bearings, I attacked at long-range using a
Mk37 wire-guided passive torpedo. It blew off the frigate's screw. I closed
the range to him to make a periscope attack to sink him with a Mk14. As I
was making my final periscope observation, the frigate launched a missile-
torpedo that sank us.
Believing I had failed my last test, I was crestfallen. No one critiqued
my performance or explained what new requirements I would have to meet.
Days later, a letter arrived stating I was qualified in submarines—
authorized to wear gold dolphins. There was no ceremony or
acknowledgement from the Wardroom. This impersonal, bureaucratic
process took the joy out of an achievement that I had been working toward
for four years.
 Liaison with USNUSL after Second Patrol
Wearing dolphins allowed me to investigate a tactical concern from last
patrol. On leaving for patrol, the CO had decided to evade the Soviet
ELINT-trawler in the Firth of Clyde. The Commodore authorized him to
leave in the dark of night.
The CO used a dangerous passage east of Great Cumbrae and Little
Cumbrae islands instead of the shipping channel to the west. Because of
darkness and dangerous waters, we used radar to navigate and avoid
shipping. Our radar tipped off the Soviet ELINT trawler and he caught us
emerging from behind Little Cumbrae Island. I made a Note that we needed
a passive way to remain covert and detect surface contacts including
navigation buoys.
Some FBM COs tried using a portable Raytheon small boat radar to
avoid the AGI homing in on their unique AN/BPS-9 radar signal. I wasn’t
privy to their results. In any event it was still an active transmission—not a
good OpSec technique to avoid detection.
From Submarine School, I knew USNUSL, the Navy laboratory down
river in New London, was doing sonar and electro-optics research. I
arranged a visit with Marshal Milligan, the electro-optics department head.
My goal was to find a way to evade the trawler.
I told him of my interest in using new passive solid-state infrared (IR)
technology instead of radar when on the surface. Sonar was ineffective in
inland waterways because of shipping traffic noise, our cavitating screw
noise, and shallow water high propagation loss.
While Mr. Milligan was skeptical of the concept, he arranged for
access to the Lab’s libraries. The head of the library, Ruth Maples, was
solicitous in ensuring that I had access to both the classified and
unclassified sections. After spending several days a week at the library, I
generated a concept proposal for a passive IR detection system for
submarines.
Mr. Milligan questioned who would sponsor this high risk
development. He said, the Lab no longer had money to take on wild
schemes since BuShips had put them on Industrial Funding, i.e., they had to
apply for research dollars just as industry did. He said that the Lab needed a
Washington, DC, sponsor. He recommended getting a Pentagon submarine
command to write a proposal to BuShips or to publish an article in
SUBLANT QUARTERLY magazine. I jumped at the magazine article idea.
It wouldn’t have a long command approval chain.
I worked on the article for two weeks and submitted it to Marshall.
While not enthused, he provided technical and editorial fixes. Our boat
submitted the article before patrol.
E, RC, & IC Division Officer
For my third patrol I was assigned E, RC, & IC Divisions. This
assignment justified my three years of tough training. There were two
changes to our Wardroom. A young, unqualified nuke became Supply
Officer and we had a new doctor. Doctor Don Lindsey had completed his
one-year tour.
RC Division received a Naval Reactors modification kit for the control
rods safety circuits. I directed the RC‑gang to investigate a modification of
the new circuit as a short-cut in the Fast-Scram-Recovery procedure. The
RC‑gang, CO, Eng, and I were proud that our proposal was approved
quickly by Adm Rickover. We were authorized by an Adm Rickover signed
letter to implement the procedure with the proviso to try it on a Scam before
leaving for patrol. We were doing the fleet testing. We wouldn’t have to
wait for the official modification kit.
It was a satisfying feeling to see all the years of training and qualifying
pay off with an accomplishment that would impact the submarine
community. The old procedure was a difficult and hazardous process. This
fix was safer and faster to carry out. My ET gang was amazed that we
received approval to implement the procedure. It meant reduced hazard for
them on this patrol.
While conducting PMs in upkeep, the RC-gang found the Phantom
Scram circuit problem. It was a bad acorn-tube in a reactor protective
drawer. The tube didn’t have a part number nor was the drawer number in
COSAL. We sent a Pri-C requisition message with the drawing-number for
the drawer and the specific location of the acorn-tube we were
requisitioning.
NavSup sent us a complete drawer—a typical bureaucratic foul-up. A
Priority precedence message from Adm Rickover castigated us for
requisitioning the whole drawer instead of finding and ordering just the
failed part. Evidently, Naval Reactors never saw our original requisition
that identified the part we requested.
 The CO was upset! My solution was to remove the acorn-tube from the
drawer they sent and return the drawer with the bad tube to NavSup. Then,
we sent a simple message to Adm Rickover, “It was a NavSup requisition
foul-up. We returned the bad tube and the drawer minus the acorn tube that
we identified in our requisition.”
Evidently, NavSup was having problems getting Naval Reactors into
their COSAL system. Maybe this incident would help Naval Reactors see
the benefits of being in COSAL. We never heard back from Rickover or
NavSup.
The Blue crew had turned the boat over to us with a blown DC motor
for the main lube oil pump (MLOP)—an E Division responsibility. The
tender rewound the motor and installed it before first sea trials. During
installation testing, the motor blew up when it was energized. We had to go
on first sea trials with only one MLOP.
It was my fault. Being qualified, I had taken my first leave in Scotland.
Dave and I spent an overnight in Edinburgh to see a performance of the
Black Watch.
The tender’s motor installation team had been supervised by our duty
EDO. I should have stayed aboard to oversee the installation and testing.
The tender‘s electrical shop worked around the clock to rewind the motor.
At 0200, just before our second sea trials, E-gang and the tender work crew
started installing the motor, I asked the team how the motor was going to be
wired. They said it would be according to the diagram on the panel box just
as they did last time.
I asked if the rotor/stator field resistance readings verified the panel
diagram. My chief gave me lots of flak. I asked for a Simpson Multimeter
to make resistance checks—my enlisted 6 months of ET school in 1957 at
Treasure Island gave me the background I needed for this job. In a huff,
Chief said he knew how to make motor checks. After taking field/stator
readings, we found that they didn’t match the diagram—it was wrong. The
team asked me what to do.
After another measurement with the same results, I told the team to wire the
motor according to our measurements. It operated correctly—it didn’t blow
up. I had my chief change the schematic on the panel. I contacted the
tender’s electric shop warrant officer before we left for sea trials, suggesting
he follow up on our findings. I had to rethink my scorn of the CO’s
micromanaging technical work.
 Four Masted Barque
During sea trials, I had an evening Bridge watch. We had drills
requiring us to be on surface at sunset. It was a pleasant moonless spring
night on the Irish Sea with lots of bright stars.
CO called the Bridge for our contact status and whether I could handle
a loss of main turbines, i.e., was it safe to lose propulsion. Eng wanted to
run some reactor and main turbine drills. I replied that we saw a distant
masthead light to the northeast that radar didn’t hold and it didn’t have any
bearing drift. It might be a fishing boat hauling in nets. The CO gave Eng
permission to hold the drills.
The drills got fouled up. EOOW called me to report that they now had
real reactor and main turbine problems. He offered me the diesel and EPM
if I needed it. The CO, on the periscope, interjected that we wouldn’t need
propulsion as he saw that the contact was still distant. An hour later we still
didn’t have the reactor or any propulsion.
The light was getting brighter. I informed the CO I was starting the
diesel and requesting the EPM before the contact got closer. The diesel
came on line. With a slight breeze from our stern, the exhaust swirled
around the sail. The lookout and I had coughing fits with watery eyes.
Then, EOOW told us that the clutch between the main engines and the
propeller wouldn’t disengage—hence, no EPM. We couldn’t even use the
SPM because the reactor and SSTGs were shutdown. The light kept getting
closer. CO told me to rig our breakdown lights—a vertical three light
arrangement of red over red over red lights. Being IC Officer, I knew we
didn’t have any breakdown lights!
Calling the quartermaster, I told him to disconnect three Control Room
emergency battle lanterns, find a swab handle, a roll of EB green-duct-tape,
and bring them to the Bridge. The Control Room’s red light requirement
meant that the emergency battle lanterns in the Control Room were fitted
with red lens.
The masthead light was just about a mile away and coming straight at
us. They were on a collision course with us! By the time the quartermaster
got everything to the Bridge, the vessel was close enough that I could
discern its port and starboard running lights! It was making about 4 knots,
coming right at us!
We quickly taped the handles of the battle lanterns to the top, middle,
and bottom of the swab handle. We turned them on and held the mop
vertical, ensuring that the lanterns were pointed at the oncoming vessel.
Once we displayed our red over red over red lights, the whole vessel lit up.
It was a magnificent four masted Braque. Their deck lights lit up the
three masts of their square-rigged sails. After a trumpet call, scads of men
were running on deck and up the rigging. We knew that they had seen our
breakdown lights. They called out the whole crew to change course. The
men hauled on braces from the yard of each sail to change its angle. The
main sail required many hands on the mainbrace!
They closed to within a few hundred yards of us. We heard Latino
language and some American curse words drift across the short span of
open waters! Here was a 100-year-old sailing ship, under an internationally
recognized right of way, having to change course to keep from hitting a
high technology, multimillion-dollar nuclear warship that was drifting
haplessly in the currents. The irony of it has stayed with me to this day.
 Four Section EOOW/Conn Watches on Patrol
With a full complement of qualified EOOWs and Conning Officers,
SWO and Eng had a lot of flexibility in setting up four section officer watch
bills for EOOW and the Conn. The CO wanted the EOOWs to have some
Conn watches. After several Wardroom discussions it became clear that it
wasn’t going to be a simple watch bill. With CO’s input, Eng and SWO
created a novel solution.
There had to be at least one nuke as conning officer. For the last two
patrols Martin had stood Conn watches. Now that he was a qualified
EOOW and the senior EOOW watchstander, he selected EOOW watches to
prepare for his chief engineer’s exam. Gabe was next in seniority, by a few
months over Andy and Dave. He used the same reason that Martin used.
Andy and Dave wanted to stand Conn watches, they agreed to switch
alternate days as EOOW and Conning Officer. As the junior qualified
officer, I was left with EOOW watches.
SWO and Eng came to my rescue. They put me on the midwatch for
EOOW. On every third day, I would take SWO’s midwatch to give SWO a
night off and Eng would take my EOOW midwatch.
This agreement was a big plus me. I really enjoyed my past two years
training on the Conn. It gave a change of pace that broke up the monotony
of patrol.
Deep-Discharging the Battery
On patrol, a PM called for a deep discharge of the battery and a lengthy
recharging procedure called an equalizing charge to be performed. It was an
infrequent and potentially dangerous evolution.
Our submarine had a 60-ton lead-acid storage battery made of much
the same materials as an ordinary car battery. It had about half the capacity
of WWII-era submarine batteries and provided emergency power to restart
the reactor. Unlike diesel submarines batteries for underwater propulsion
that required charging almost every day while at sea, our battery was
seldom called upon to be used and recharged.
The battery had 126 cells containing lead and lead oxide plates
immersed in a sulphuric acid solution. As it gave up electricity, the acid
combined with the lead. Recharging involved pushing DC electricity into
the battery to force the sulphur back into solution.
 In order to maintain battery performance, it was periodically necessary
to deeply discharge it and perform the equalizing charge. This hadn’t been
done before by many of my EM’s or by me.
A characteristic of lead-acid batteries is there is a limit on the rate at
which it can be charged. If that rate is exceeded, excess energy will cause
some of the water in the solution to break down (electrolysis) into bubbles
of oxygen and hydrogen gas—an explosive combination if enough
hydrogen is present. The voltage of the input power that would cause this
gassing was a function of the temperature of the battery and was known as
the Temperature-Voltage-Gassing—TVG—point.
By adjusting the charge rate to keep the battery’s voltage just below the
TVG point, the concentration of hydrogen gas in the battery space and
throughout the boat would be limited. The burners converted the hydrogen
with oxygen in the air back into water.
The end of the equalizing charge would require us to deliberately
exceed TVG for several hours—the extended time and the agitation of the
gassing would drive the last bits of sulphur back into solution. We would
have to be careful not to let the hydrogen gas concentration rise to the
explosive point.
Numerous measurements of battery cell voltages and the specific
gravity of the acid solution would be made before and after the charge by
EM’s crawling on hands and knees over the battery cells. They would also
have to replenish the water consumed by electrolysis with very pure water
from the still and demineralizer. Working in the battery well was hard on
clothing as there were always small acid spills and some condensation that
ate holes in fabric. Diesel submarine EM’s got a special clothing allowance
to allow for the now-fashionable holes in their dungarees.
While I had seen a battery discharged equalizing charge on REQUIN, I
was not directly involved. It was a great bonding experience for E-Division.
The youngsters were exposed to an evolution that they and I had never done
before.
Sonar CZ Contacts
Every third day of Conn watches provided me with an exciting tactical
challenge. This patrol we were assigned a few new patrol boxes which were
giving us more sonar contacts. One of our watch requirements was to avoid
contacts within 10,000 yards to avoid having the floating wire cut. Because
we had to maintain continuous radio reception on the wire, we tried to
avoid changing course.
If sonar detected a contact, we tried to determine whether it was a close
or a distant contact. The initial evaluation was to determine bearing rate—
the change of sonar bearings to the contact over time. If there was a bearing
rate, we estimated a speed and put the contact bearings into the TFCS’
target analyzer to obtain a range and CPA. Then we could decide if we
needed to change course.
If the contact had a steady bearing, it meant it was either distant contact
or a contact on a collision course to us. If it was a strong sonar contact, a
trace of dark burn marks would show on the BTR paper. Generally, the
closer the contact the stronger the sonar signal. So, an initial constant
bearing and a strong sonar signal was an alert to the Conning Officer that it
needed to be evaluated more fully.
The evaluation required making a small course change. If the bearing
to the contact remained constant, then the contact was distant and wasn’t a
danger to the boat. A close in contact would have a large bearing change
and TFCS analysis.
In these new areas, there were many contacts with steady bearings and
high level sonar signals that would abruptly drop out within 10 to 20
minutes.
Racking my memory of my acoustics course in Sub School, I suspected
that these contacts were convergence zone, CZ (Note 7‑9), contacts. CZ is a
long-range, low loss acoustic propagation path phenomenon. CZ signals
were rays that went deep and bent upward before hitting the bottom.
Because this bending effect is different for each ray-angle, they merge
together to provide an intense focused energy field of sound at long-ranges.
In the north Atlantic Ocean, the distance to the CZ can vary from 20 to 35
nautical miles. The zone width this energy was about 5 thousand yards.
They were only short duration contacts—albeit, strong contacts.
These possible CZ incidents piqued my interest. I recalled that higher
frequencies had greater attenuation loss at long-ranges. These long-range
contacts should have less high frequency content.
Some of the PMs (Note 12-4) for E Division were to make acoustic 1/3
Octave frequency noise measurements on each side of an equipment’s
sound-isolation mounts to determine the mount’s effectiveness—if it was
brittle and stiff, it needed to be replaced.
 I wondered if there was a way to input sonar signals to E Division’s GR
1/3 Octave paper-strip analyzer to determine if a loud contact was long-
range CZ or a problem short-range contact. This would avoid the tactical
problem of making needless course changes for CZ contacts. This would be
another project to investigate with USNUSL during my next in-port period.
Pressurizer Valve—PS-1
Half way through patrol, the pressurizer valve open-light on the RPCP
went out. This valve, PS-1, is on the pipe connecting the pressurizer to the
reactor primary-coolant system (Figure 1). Because the shut-light didn't
come on and there were no pressure excursions, we assumed PS-1 was
open.
The ETs found that the lights’ power-coil had a wire break. There was
no spare part for it as it required a RC entry to replace it. Knowing that this
critical valve had a secondary-coil for each light, a coil for the open-
position and another coil for the shut-position, gave me an idea. If we could
supply voltage to the shut-coil, we might get voltage in the open-coil. I
directed the RC-gang to power up the shut-coil to function as the power
source. The jury-rigged circuit worked but, didn’t generate enough voltage
to power the open-light on the RPCP. So, we put a voltmeter in the window
of a cabinet in ULAMR and connected it to the PS-1 open-coil. A grease
pencil mark on the meter face indicated PS-1’s open position. This voltage
was now a new reading on the ULAMR watch log sheet.
Not surprisingly, the CO wanted to know the voltage change when PS-
1 was shut. He wanted to shut PS-1! This would remove the steam bubble
pressure regulation and shock-absorbing capability of the pressurizer. It
would make the coolant system a closed hydraulic system, i.e., solid—
subject to dramatic increases or decreases in coolant pressure. I cavalierly
told CO that I wouldn't shut PS-1 if I was EOOW. “If it doesn’t open after
shutting, what are the procedures for operating while solid?” CO dismissed
my concerns.
For the test, Eng was EOOW while I read the meter deflection with PS-
1 shut. The meter dropped to nearly zero voltage when it was shut. The CO
was right, the rapid shutting and opening didn’t cause any pressure
fluctuations. I marked the new PS-1 shut-voltage position on the volt meter.
A Character in IC Division
 We had a Damon Runyan character in the IC Division. He had been a
1 class Boatswain Mate (BM1) on a diesel boat—a rare rate even on diesel
st

subs. A BM’s rating is marlinspike, line maintenance, small boat

seamanship, hull/deck painting, and upkeep of the external hull which are
mostly surface ship tasks. His rating changed to IC1 after he graduated from
Interior Communications Electrician (IC) school. He was on his fourth
patrol.
As the roving IC watch, he was responsible for fixing IC problems. He
also maintained the BCP, the diving stand systems, gyro-compass, pit log
and their repeater-displays. His remedy for any display problem was to take
his rubber mallet, carried in his belt holster, and give it a good whack.
Unbelievably, many times the whack corrected the problem. If it didn’t, he
whacked it again, until it worked or was completely busted. Once broken,
he put his mallet back in its holster and took out a large screwdriver and
removed the device which he took to SK2 Penny to obtain a replacement!
He was a diligent watchstander and a good shipmate.
Calorimetric PM—Reactor Power Meter
The RC-Division had to do a unique PM—Preventive Maintenance—a
check on the reactor’s power meter. The power meter on the RCPC was one
of three meters that displayed the radiation level in the reactor vessel—
equivalent to the power output of the reactor. These three different meters
covered the wide range in changes of power levels from shutdown to 100%
power. The low level shutdown meter was used during early rod
withdrawal, the intermediate level meter was used for rod withdrawal to
criticality—SSC point—of adding heat, and the power level meter was used
in the high power (Note 1-6). The high end of the power meter was
particularly important. All three meters were on the RPCP.
If the RPCP power level meter was reading 100% and the actual power
level was over 100%, it could cause temperature hot spots on the core’s
cladding. These hot spots would boil the coolant at that spot which would
increase the cladding temperature leading to a failure of the cladding. This
would leak uranium and fission products into the primary-coolant.
While the protection circuitry in the AMR might develop problems, the
major concern was that the sensors were subjected to intense radiation
which might degrade their output. These signals supplied the meters at the
RPCP and to rod drive alarm systems. Thus, there was a need to provide a
power plant calculation of the power that was being delivered by the reactor
core—a Calorimetric.
The Calorimetric PM was a Adm Rickover safety measure to ensure
that our power level meter reading was accurate. It provided a simple
method to calibrate the meter. The procedure required calculating the
amount of power the reactor was producing based on steam plant and
reactor primary-coolant temperatures and the amount of water being
converted to steam. The amount of steam power produced would correlate
to the power level meter because we knew what the maximum design
power for the core. This was a critical PM to ensure that we didn’t damage
the core’s cladding.
For a Flank Bell, the EOOW and throttleman ensured that we didn’t
exceed the shaft rpm limit for our turbines (see end of Note 1-7). And both
the RO and EOOW ensured that we didn’t exceed 100% reactor power as
the throttleman opened his throttles. Usually, it took less than 100% power
to reach maximum shaft rpm.
We were in high-speed MCPs, on a high speed surface transit back to
Holy Loch at 100% reactor power. My ET1 LPO was double-checking all
my measurement inputs and calculations for determining the power being
produced. If our calculations were different from the power meter on the
RPCP in Maneuvering, he would make adjustments to the reactor protection
circuit card in one of the RPC drawers in AMR.
The calorimetric calculations showed we were at 105% power.
We quickly took a new set of input data and it was still 105%. I told my
first class to reset the meter and I went to Maneuvering to inform the
EOOW. I asked him to cut back power to 95% because the calorimetric
check put us at 105% power. He refused to cutback the power. Instead, he
called Eng.
As he was talking to Eng on the phone, a RPCP alarm sounded—it was
a Power Cutback Alarm. The rods were automatically driven into the core
to reduce power. My ET had adjusted the reactor power circuits just as I
told him to do. The reactor protective circuits had engaged to ensure we
didn’t exceed 100% power. Our speed slowed by a one knot as the shaft
rpm lowered because Tave went down.
Suddenly, Eng and CO showed up. The EOOW complained that my
calorimetric adjustments caused a Power Cutback Alarm that drove the rods
into the core until the meter was at its new 100% reading. Eng and the CO
looked at me, Eng asked whether I was sure that my calculations were
correct. I replied, “I am 100% sure.”
CO told Eng to take a new set of readings to check against the
recalibrated meter. The Eng’s input data was different than mine because we
were at reduced power. When Eng did the calorimetric calculation, he got
100% power which was what the newly re-calibrated power meter was
reading.
CO was satisfied and told Eng to write up an IR because we had a
Power Cutback Alarm. This is why Adm Rickover ensured that there were
checks performed on all critical equipment—particularly anything having to
do with maximum reactor power.
This was not the end of the story. During turnover, the Blue crew CO
and Eng reviewed the IR. Blue CO was emphatic that the speed we were
making should not have required 105% power.
As it turned out, he was the one who ended up solving the problem.
Going to the charts, he found the water depth was shallow enough that our
hull’s wake pressure wave reached the bottom and was reflected back to our
hull before the entire submarine had passed the reflected wave from the
bottom. Thus, more power was required to attain the maximum rpm for the
Flank Bell.
Shocking News after Third Patrol
Back in Holy Loch after a satisfying patrol, I felt like a member of the
crew—that I was contributing to our strategic mission. I found the SubLant
Quarterly in the tender’s Wardroom. The IR article had been published! I
couldn’t wait to follow up with Mr. Milligan.
After the next patrol, the boat was going to overhaul. Before we
boarded the homebound plane, XO informed me I was not selected for the
overhaul crew and that I was being reassigned to the Supply Department for
my 4th patrol.
On returning home on the plane, I was devastated over the news that I
wouldn’t be on the overhaul crew. Months ago, we bought a home in Gales
Ferry knowing that our child was due during my 4th patrol’s upkeep period.
Now, we had the possibility we would be leaving the New London area. To
soften the news to Ellen, I told her “There are plenty of submarine billets in
Groton in new construction and sea duty. We just have to wait to see what
the Navy gives us.”
 Visits to USNUSL
Back in New London, I met with Mr. Milligan to see if the SubLant
Quarterly IR article stirred any interest at BuShips. He was as irascible as
ever. He had shown the IR article to a BuShips sponsor who told him that
he needed an OpNav requirement to initiate funding.
However, Mr. Milligan had a project engineer who wanted to give me
an optics experiment for our next patrol—albeit the engineer was currently
on leave. When I mentioned my interest in CZ contacts, he put me in touch
with Mr. Thaddeus Bell, head of the Lab’s Systems Analysis Group.
Mr. Bell was a college professor type with crewcut hair, tastefully
dressed, and wearing a solid-color bow tie. He and his deputy, Mr. John
Hanrahan, listened to my CZ and high-frequency proposal on whether the
frequency content of a contact’s signature could be used to identify a CZ
contact. They both said that was an interesting question. After examining
some attenuation loss curves of frequency versus ranges, they agreed to
provide their technical guidance for a patrol experiment.
I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. Using the Lab’s classified
library, I investigated the frequency signatures of different vessels classes—
fishing boats, merchant ships, warships, and submarines. After several
weeks of library research, I outlined a patrol experiment. Thad and John
modified it and then approved it.
During that USNUSL visit, I met Lou Free who had returned from
leave. Behind Lou’s eyeglasses was a tall, wild-haired engineer brimming
with enthusiasm. He was investigating night vision technology that was
being used in the Vietnam War. His Night Vision Device (NVD) was a low
light level circuit for vision enhancement. It used the visual and near-IR
parts of the electromagnetic spectrum. It was a battery powered cascade
photo-multiplier-tube with an eyepiece for the operator to view the tube’s
output—a greenish view of the night scene. Lou modified his NVD to fit a
camera attachment to the periscope. He wanted actual fleet input.
I was excited to do his experiment as it was the closest that I would
come to my IR detection system. The excitement of these experiments took
away some of the hurt of being Supply Officer for another patrol.
On this patrol, a senior chief Commissaryman handled the Commissary
budget. Billy Joe had gone to shore duty at ComSubLant. Chief Jefferson
got shore duty in Norfolk and was replaced by a 1st class petty officer.
Penny, advanced to PO 1st class, was still storekeeper. SD3 Ford and SD3
Dodge made 2nd class before patrol.
This patrol wardroom remained the same as last patrol. After six officer
changes on my first patrol, there were only three officer changes for the last
three patrols.
At the start of refit, we went into drydock in the Los Alamos (AFDB-
7). We had to replace a leaky discharge valve for #1 sanitary tank. For some
reason I was given the SLJO task of accompanying the A-Division Officer
into the sanitary tank for a final inspection to ensure that nothing from the
repair job had been left behind.
Pausing for our last breath of fresh air before going down into the
superstructure to enter the tank, Gabe pointed to a hill above the village
across the Loch. “Hey, I think I see our new E/RC/IC-Division officer doing
his mountain hike.” I was incredulous, “Why isn’t he here going into this
dirty tank?” Gabe replied, He’s not submarine qualified yet. The inspection
requires two qualified officers.”
Recalling my lack of leaving the boat until I received my dolphins, I
thought “So, why isn’t he on the boat getting qualified?”
Wearing EAB masks with 25-foot hoses and using an AFDB-7 ladder,
we descended into the tank to do our inspection. This was another first in
my submarine career. The tank was empty except for small puddles of dirty
water.
Later that week the new ship’s doctor and I took a 2-night liberty to
London. My thought process was that “This might be my last patrol out of
Holy Loch. It might be my only chance to see London.” It was a fabulous
trip. I loved Piccadilly Circus and the theater district where we saw a
production with Dame Edith Evans.
The rest of refit was ho-hum except for the last full day before patrol. I
received a surprise phone call from Ellen. She had just delivered us a
beautiful daughter! Asking how she made the call from the Sub Base
hospital, she said she was using a pay phone. When I admonished her that
she should be in bed, she said the nice corpsman had wheeled a pay phone
to her bedside!
After the call, I excitedly went to the CO. Thrusting my half full pint-
bottle of J&B scotch I brought back from London, I asked if I could pour a
wee-bit for everyone at lunch to toast my first-born child—my daughter. It
was the first time I saw the CO shrink back in alarm. He took my bottle, put
in his desk-safe, and said he would return it to me when we got back to the
States.
All was not lost. I was early to lunch and saw that there were glasses
with a few inches of what looked like red wine. I went to the pantry and
asked my new LPO steward “Is that wine in the glasses?” He just laughed
and said “The word got out about your new daughter and the that the CO
wouldn’t let you toast her arrival—it’s only concentrated grape juice from a
half can of frozen juice.”
You should have seen the CO’s face when he arrived late for lunch—a
big scowl. I quickly piped up, “It’s only grape juice!” He recovered and
make a nice toast to Elizabeth Anne.
Patrol settled into a standard format—boredom. CO had Pet Projects
for the officers. My project was to stop the pilfering of tools from
watchstanders’ tool boxes. Sailors felt expropriating hand tools was a patrol
perk. We probably lost one tool box of tools each patrol for every three
watchstations. This would be a tough project.
Standing 4 section watches, I shifted to the noon watch because of my
NVD experiment required me to do my experiment during the midwatch. It
was a double-escape in that I avoided having to eat at first-sitting for lunch
and dinner! My projects kept me busy.
Patrol at this point was like an old shoe—comfortable. Talking to SWO
about my NVD experiment, he said he couldn’t share #2 periscope because
of submarine safety. And I needed CO’s permission to use the attack
periscope—#1 scope.
The CO didn’t want both scopes up at the same time. If we hit
something, it would take out both scopes. Finally, he issued a new standing
night order, #1 scope could be used on the midwatch for NVD testing twice
a week for no longer than 20 minutes/night if there were no close contacts.
The CZ Experiment was more complicated. During upkeep, Rocky and
I sat down with his three Sonar Supervisors. All were enthused but
questioned how to accomplish it. We decided to start with close in, constant
course contacts that could be tracked on the TFCS, e.g., no fishing boat
hauling nets would be used. It required taking a 1/3 octave frequency-
signature measurement initially and then at least three ranges before it
became a CZ contact.
Mr. Podeswa, in Mr. Bell’s group, had developed a simple slide rule for
several ocean areas that only required entering water depth and sound
velocity or temperature to obtain range to the CZ. This was invaluable in
planning when to take our measurements as we would know the range to
the CZ.
After discussing all these things with Rocky and his supervisors, I
appreciated the value of getting them involved.
Two weeks into the patrol, XO gigged for not solving CO’s Pet Project
tool pilfering. On a noon EOOW watch, I checked with the MWS and five
enlisted watchstanders about tool pilfering. They felt that it wasn’t a
problem but if it was, it would be impossible to solve.
Checking with SK1 Penny, he told me that eight tools had already been
replaced in engineering’s tool boxes and six in the forward gangs’ boxes.
He said, “Tool replacement will skyrocket toward the end of patrol when
tools can be packed for going home.
I met with Eng in the Engineering Log Room the next morning. After
explaining CO’s Pet Project, he laughed, saying “What can you do about
it?” I said I was recommending that each oncoming watchstander sign his
log sheet that he inventoried the tool box and no tools were missing. Eng
stopped laughing. I asked what problems he saw. He said it would be a pain.
I said, “Is that what I tell the CO?” Eng backed down.
I wrote up my Tool Box Inventory solution and gave it to XO. It was
implemented the next day. There were no more tool replacement requests
for the rest of the patrol. Of course, the word got out that the Supply Officer
was responsible for the loss of their perk. Guess it was a good thing I wasn’t
going to be part of the overhaul crew. CO escaped cleanly.
Because of the two USNUSL experiments, the patrol passed quickly.
Using #1 scope on the midwatch, we did over a dozen 20 minute
observations. The results for the experiment were that viewing search areas
through the device didn’t enhance visual acuity. Lou Free explained to me
after the patrol that testing on the Lab’s periscope showed there was an f
number disconnect between the aperture of the scope and the NVD!
The CZ Experiment results were equally disappointing. The frequency-
spectrum signatures of each sonar didn’t match. Each sonar had different
gains across the frequency-spectrum. We decided to collect data only from
the BQR-2B with its wide frequency-bands.
We had only obtained one excellent close in contact—a merchant ship.
For this contact, we had six different frequency-spectrum measurements.
Two short-range frequency measurements at three and six nmiles showed
fair agreement with a slightly higher lost at the high frequencies for the
second measurement. The third measurement at 10 nmiles showed a drastic
reduction in the higher frequency-spectrum. However, the next two
measurements at longer ranges of 12 and 17 nmiles showed a rise in the
higher frequencies compared to the 10 nmiles third measurement.
We lost the contact on the BQR-2 at 18 nmi but the BQR-7 was able to
maintain contact. The BQR-7 bearings matched the TFCS generated
bearings to validate that we had the correct contact and valid range values.
When the contact reached the CZ at 22 nmiles, the BQR-2B regained
contact. However, the frequency-spectrum measurements showed dramatic
increases at the high frequencies compared to the third, fourth and fifth
measurements. This indicated that frequency attenuation with range wasn’t
the critical phenomenon for determining whether a contact was CZ contact.
There was a higher order parameter in the propagation path. For
intermediate ranges, it was probably frequency loss from the bottom bounce
path.
We took signatures from over a dozen other contacts but none of the
fishing vessels reached the CZ zone because they stopped to drop their nets.
Only two other merchants were definitely CZ contacts and both showed
more frequency data in the CZ then in the intermediate range (non-CZ)
data. This reinforced the validity of our only multi-range merchant
measurements.
Comparing the frequency-spectrums of the contacts, none had similar
frequency shapes with any of the others. This was a complex problem. I
was anxious to review our data with Thad and John.
No Casualties Until after the Patrol
Patrol ended. Instead of returning to Holy Loch, we set a great circle
course for Charleston, SC. We were to offload our missiles at NAD, Naval
Ammunition Depot, on the Cooper River before returning to our boat’s
home port of New London for an Electric Boat Shipyard overhaul. We set
the MCPs in fast-speed and drove at Flank Speed day after day. We only
slowed to come to periscope depth to check for radio messages. Then, we
went back to Flank speed.
Half way across the Atlantic Ocean—about the 3rd or 4th day— there
was a horrendous superstructure noise on the starboard side of the control
room during an afternoon watch. We could only imagine that part of the sail
was ripped away. As it turned out, the deck superstructure from aft of the
Control Room upper hatch to the main missile deck had been lost. Yep—we
needed an overhaul.
Later toward the end of our Flank speed transit, I had a noon EOOW
watch. We were at periscope depth, checking for the numbers for messages
to us. The throttleman alerted me to low feedwater levels in the surge-tanks.
I ordered LLER to vacuum drag water from #2 storage tank to the port
hotwell to replenish the surge-tanks.
Several minutes later, we had a High Level alarm flashing and sounding
for #2 hotwell. The LLER watch reported the hotwell sight-glass full of
water. This was a serious event, if the water rose high enough it could cause
serious damage to the port turbine blades.
After four years of training, this was a steak and potatoes casualty—it
was a RPM text book casualty. I announced on the 2MC “High Level in #2
hotwell…Machinery Watch Supervisor…Trip the port main turbine.” This
would stop the major steam flow into the hotwell and the turbine blades
wouldn’t be at high speed if water reached their blades. I told the
throttleman to open his throttles to the starboard main turbine to maintain
the 5 knots EOT order.
I ordered the MCPs to slow-speed so I could shut down the port SSTG.
Then I ordered LLAMR watchstander to turn-off #2 main feedwater pump
—#1 feedwater pump could handle the lighter load. I ordered EPCP to
parallel the SSTGs in phase and close the cross-connect breakers between
the two Ship Service Buses.
The boat was at periscope depth with 5 knots rung up, so I didn’t have
to worry about informing Conn since I wouldn’t be affecting his current
operations. I could still provide a Standard Bell with one main turbine and
slow speed MCPs. It only took a minute for the EO to carry out my SSTG
orders. With the electrical loads shared thru the cross-connect bus, I ordered
the EO to put all electric loads on the starboard SSTG. After he did that, I
had him trip off the port SSTG, i.e., disconnect it from the Ship Service
Bus. We dramatically reduced the steam load to #2 condenser. Then, I
ordered the MWS to Maneuvering. I wanted direct eye-to-eye contact with
MWS.
Looking directly into MWS eyes, I told him to trip the port SSTG and
held up two-fingers. I was scared to death if he tripped the starboard SSTG
we would lose the whole engineering plant. After he repeated my order, I
took one step outside Maneuvering to watch him go to the #2 SSTG and
shut it down.
Then I called LLER asking for the vacuum gauge reading for #2
hotwell. He reported it was now holding steady after initially losing several
inches. Now on the 7MC, Conn ordered, “All Ahead 2/3.” Then he alerted
me that he was going deep to order Flank speed.
I didn't stop the throttleman from answering the 10 knots speed order.
But I realized that I had gone through a normal watch worth of orders in
two minutes. And I hadn't taken ten seconds to tell Conn that we had a
hotwell casualty that would limit his high speed. On the 7MC, I told Conn I
couldn't give him a Flank Bell. He would be limited to a Standard Bell
because of a high hotwell level in the port condenser required securing #2
main turbine and the port SSTG.
I called MWS back to Maneuvering, telling him “The LLER probably
shut the hotwell discharge valve instead of shutting the recirculation valve.
Go down and square away those valves.”
With MCPs at slow-speed we could survive a casualty on the Ship
Service Bus without shutting down the reactor. But to provide a Full Bell on
a single turbine, we would have to go to fast-speed MCPs. I decided that
with only one SSTG supplying the boat electrical load, I was better off in
slow-speed MCPs.
Eng appeared in Maneuvering. He calmly asked the status of the plant.
I told him things were under control except for the fouled-up vacuum drag
to #2 hotwell and that I had sent my MWS to fix it.
The phone rang. The Conning Officer told me a relief EOOW was
being sent to relieve me. CO wanted me and Eng in the Wardroom.
In the Wardroom, the CO’s main concern was I didn’t alert Conn when
I ordered refilling the surge-tanks—before the hotwell casualty occurred. I
was livid, saying “I didn’t need to inform Conn about a routine vacuuming
dragging water to the surge-tanks.” Heatedly adding, “There was no surge-
tank low level alarm and we were at 5 knots. Even if we were at Flank
speed, it’s a routine procedure.”
CO stood over me, “If it happens again, what would you do?”
I defiantly stood up—nose-to-nose. I said, “I would do exactly what I
just did. There was no alarm about problem to stop carrying out a routine
engineering procedure.” Eng quickly stepped in between us, saying he
would write up the IR for Rickover. Eng’s action ended the meeting. The
CO, turning on his heels, left the Wardroom.
It turned out that my MWS, the relief EOOW, and the Eng couldn’t
find the valve-lineup problem causing the high hot well level. The boat’s
Master Chief Machinist Mate was COB and on watch at the BCP. After
getting a COW relief, he discovered it was a two-valve lineup mistake.
To compound my misery, one of the messages copied at periscope-
depth was a BuPers order-alert for me to report to the Polaris Missile
Weapons Officer in mid-January. After school, I would report to another
598 class FBM submarine in overhaul at the EB shipyard in Groton, CT.
This was good and bad news.
Good news was returning to New London after school in Virginia.
There would be no need to sell our new home. The bad news was being
shut out of Engineering Department assignments. My hopes to be a chief
engineer were dashed. We would have to rent our home for four months and
find a four-month rental in Dam Neck, VA.
Arriving Charleston to off-load missiles at NAD, XO assigned me
another SLJO task. CO wanted to Wow our families on arrival at State Pier
in New London. The XO gave that task. That night I tried to think what
might thrill the families waiting on the pier when we arrived. In a light-bulb
moment, I ordered a gross of large balloons and a tank of helium. Later
when XO gigged me on my task, I shared my idea to put colored balloons
in a missile tube and release them pier side. XO agreed it was the Wow
factor CO wanted.
We departed Charleston with a hurricane approaching. After leaving
the Cooper River and securing the Maneuvering watch, my lookout and I
had the first watch on the Bridge. The CO wanted to stay on the surface
until the depth of water was 300 feet—the 50 fathom curve. We would run
north at Flank speed to get home and escape the hurricane. It got quite
rough as we left the lee of land.
We had removed the windshield before leaving the River—it would
have been a difficult task in high winds and heavy seas. When we pitched
down in the rough seas, water ran over the forward edge of the sail to fill
the cockpit. My lookout and I were rigged with safety harnesses attached to
the cockpit frames. Once I grabbed the lookout’s harness to pull him back
from floating over the edge of the sail. It was getting worse by the minute.
 Watch reliefs arrived. We gave them the safety straps and went down
ladders to the closed access hatch. After getting the trunk sea hatch opened,
the lookout climbed down into the trunk. The boat took a big down pitch
and the sail started filling with water. While it crossed my mind to slam
down the hatch, I suddenly thought "I don’t have a safety line!” so I jump in
behind him. Grabbing the interior hatch wheel, I pulled it shut just as water
surged in. By procedure, the trunk’s lower hatch into the control room was
shut.
By the time I got the sea hatch shut and dogged, the water was waist
high. Now we had to wait for the one inch drain to empty the trunk. It was
slow going. After half an hour, the water level was calf-high—later we
would find out that the drain was partially clogged.
We could hear 7MC exchanges with the Bridge asking where was the
relieved watch. The Bridge said we left half an hour ago. A debate between
the CO and the Bridge as to whether we had gone overboard was started.
We didn’t have anything to rap on the hatch. I cursed to myself for not
having my First Lieutenant’s knife with me.
When talk began about reversing course to look for us, I decided we
needed to undog the lower hatch in hope that they would see latch
movement. No luck, the 7MC debate still was going on.
I positioned us so we could get maximum leverage on the wheel to try
to crack the hatch. Grunting with strain, we finally were able to raise the
hatch an inch—a cascade of escaping water solved their Man-Overboard
discussions.
With the hatch cracked, the water level quickly dropped sending a
shower of water into the Control Room. The relief that we were okay turned
dark when the radar console—aft of the hatch at the Conn railing—started
shooting sparks and making crackling noises. Then it went silent. It had
shorted out. Now all they had was the A-scope and #2 periscope for radar
search—single bearing search just as in WWII.
With chattering teeth, I reported to CO that I had been relieved and
recommended that he secure the watch on the Bridge and establish it at the
Conn on the periscope stand before someone on the cockpit watch was
seriously injured. While I was taking a hot shower to bring back my core
temperature, the CO took my advice.
"Now, Station the Balloon Inflation Detail”
 Two days later, on a Bridge midwatch off Montauk Point, Long Island,
I announced on the 1MC at 0400, "Now, Station the Balloon Inflation
Detail” It was against protocol to make 1MC non-emergency
announcements after taps. But I knew the whole crew was up and about
with Channel Fever!
In New London harbor, I reported my watch-relief to CO. He invited
me into his stateroom to go over my fitness report. He gave me high marks
in leadership and engineering skills. He specifically mentioned the Fast-
Scram-Recovery modification and the PS-1 jury-rig innovation. He wrote
about my professional handling of our recent engineering casualty that had
averted serious damage to our strategic submarine. I was flabbergasted!
After standing up to CO five days ago, he gave me a super fitness report.
While I was with CO, we made the run through the Race into New
London’s outer harbor—before Point Alpha. With the radar OOC and a
heavy fog, there was confusion between SINS’ position and the buoy
locations. We were lost in our home port’s harbor! We had lots of time to
get corrected as we were three hours ahead of PIM.
A crowd of two hundred was on State Pier with press and TV coverage
when we arrived. After the lines were doubled-up, a missile hatch opened
and 144 multicolored balloons floated skyward. There were cheers and
clapping. To the best of my knowledge, we started the FBM traditional of
missile tube balloon launches.
Families and friends came aboard. Kissing Ellen, she handed me our
precious new born Daughter that I had only seen in photos that I got in
Charleston. In my stateroom, I unbundled Elizabeth Anne to gaze at her
smiling face and rapidly moving little limbs.
The evening local TV News showed not only the balloon release but
my wife handing me, beaming in my black beard, our baby. A fitting way to
end my last patrol on my first boat.
 Epilogue-3
Last Patrol & Ironic Ending

T he highlight of my final day aboard my first submarine was as shipyard

OOD/EDO for New Year’s Eve. Navy tradition requires the duty
officer’s entries into the ship’s log be constrained to the facts and only the
facts. However, on the first day of the year, this tradition is thrown to the
winds. I was expected to wax nostalgically about the past year and offer
great expectations for the coming year.
I spent New Year’s evening drafting possible log entries. Arriving at a
soulful rendition on the past in an abstract soliloquy, I finished in a
crescendo of future sunny days full of hope.
After clinking mugs of cold coffee at midnight at the Conning station
with the forward and aft roving watchstanders, the watchstanders looked for
fireworks through the periscopes while I tucked the draft under my pillow!
On New Year’s morning, I entered my draft into the log and signed it
when my relief appeared. At least I would be home in time to share a full
day of football games with my little baby Daughter.
Renting our home to a young couple and finding a decent place in Dam
Neck were stressful events. My memories of Polaris school are a blur as
was our winter in Virginia Beach. We were a half block from the ocean
rolling up on a beautiful beach—too bad it was winter. I don’t recall
receiving my promotion to full lieutenant—two silver bars. Our joy in
returning to our home was only exceeded by the wonderful news that Ellen
was pregnant again.
Still in the Shipyard
After completing Polaris School, I reported to my shipyard-submarine
—Gold crew. With a new haircut, I reported aboard in work khakis with
silver railroad tracks on my collar, shiny gold dolphins on my chest, full of
piss and vinegar. The XO put me right to work, handing me the work folder
for qualifying the ship to handle and maintain the ASTOR Mk45 torpedo, a
nuclear warhead torpedo. A week later, XO called me into his stateroom
and to review my short and long range training plans. As Assistant
Weapons Officer, I would be Missile and Torpedo Division Officer and
First Lieutenant—responsible for the exterior of the submarine. I had to
requalify on this boat which had major changes to handle the new A3
Polaris missile. I’d have to requalify as OOD and Conning Officer under
the new CO. The only carryover qualification was—of all things—EOOW!
None of these qualification wickets were unexpected. However, for the
long term, XO said I should start qualifying as Weapons Officer, Chief
Engineer, and start the process for Executive Officer. Taken aback, I said it
would be quite an undertaking. His retort was to just do the minimum. I
assured him that I took all qualifications seriously. Out of the blue, I asked,
“What would be my training load if I submitted my letter to leave the
service?”
He paused, finally saying “You wouldn’t stand EOOW watches nor do
the Weps, Eng, and XO qualifications.” Thanking him, I said I would sleep
on it.
That evening Ellen and I again discussed leaving the Navy. Her
concern was my being away while the children grew up. I didn’t want her
being alone bringing up our children. I wanted to help them during their
developmental years.
Falling asleep I mulled over that my current career path wasn’t
technically challenging. It was a work-life of rote qualifications and
repetitive training for casualties. I wanted technical challenges not
administrative accomplishments. Plus, I would never become a chief
engineer—a goal I had since my Rickover interview five years ago.
The next morning, I informed XO I would submit my resignation letter
to BuPers. XO didn’t try to change my mind. His only comment was that he
would inform the Skipper.
Having over a year of obligated service left, I was concerned that my
early resignation letter would affect my shipboard life. Fortunately, I had a
free-spirit for a Weapons boss. My new skipper, a former attack submarine
CO, appreciated my interest in sonar. It turned out that I never encountered
animosity from anyone.
One tough overhaul requirement was the Torpedo Division’s
certification to handle the nuclear-warhead Mk45 ASTOR torpedo. As First
Lieutenant, I led the line-handlers on leaving/entering port and rigging
topside for dive. As Missile Division officer, I was responsible for
maintaining and loading/off-loading the A3 missiles. Because I wouldn’t be
standing watches back aft, I asked for and was assigned Sonar Division for
my sonar experiments.
 Besides these jobs, I was assigned other collateral duties. XO made me
the periscope photography officer. I was assigned responsibility for the CO₂
fire extinguishers and doing the monthly weighting PMs that they weren’t
leaking. Also, I had to sign off on the deep fat-fryer CO2₂ fire system. But
A‑Division was responsible for the fire hoses and testing the fire pumps and
valves.
In overhaul, we outfitted the boat with upgraded equipment including
new mooring lines. Our old lines of twisted nylon had good strength but
could whiplash dangerously if they parted under tension. Polypropylene
(PPP) lines didn’t stretch much and had minimum whiplash. Plus, PPP lines
floated and came in colors—Navy blue and gold. However, I found that
braided nylon lines had 4 times the strength of a PPP line and significantly
more strength than twisted-nylon with much less whiplash. The practical
won over Italian aesthetic. We requisitioned braided nylon lines with their
great strength and their whiplash safety bonus.
We were to undergo two shipyard acceptance trials to certify that our
submarine was functioning properly. On the first yard sea trial, I would
have to re-qualify as Diving Officer, Conning Officer, and OOD. I
completed boat qualifications before sea trials and the XO assigned me as
Qualification Officer. I made casualty-response the cornerstone for dolphin
qualification.
Escape Tank Certification
As Qualification Officer, I was responsible for everyone’s Emergency
Escape Re-certification. This was accomplished in the 110-foot Escape
Tank on the Submarine Base—albeit from a lockout trunk attached to the
tank at the 50 foot level.
Escape is not a matter of swimming to the surface. Ascending through
the water, a lung full of air at depth would expand and rupture one’s lungs.
To expel expanding-air, we used the blow and go technique—forcibly
blowing air from one’s lungs through pursed lips.
During my Sub School certification, I had a bad experience with blow
and go. The procedure was to jam six of us into a standard escape-trunk.
Water pressure raised the water level to cover the escape hatch and
equalized the air pressure to the 50ft level. With the heat, noise, and chest
high water, this confined area was the final claustrophobia-test of submarine
training. When my turn arrived—after having my life jacket filled—I took a
giant gulp of hot, humid tank air, ducked down, and exited through the
escape hatch.
Standing vertically, I looked up in amazement at the water’s brightness
—windows ringed the top of the tank. Blowing forcibly as I rose toward the
surface, I ran out of air and stopped blowing bubbles. A safety-swimmer
grabbed me by my trunks and pulled me into a safety-air-blister at the side
of the tank. Determining that I was ok and just had run out of air, he told me
we were half way to the surface. He had me take a gulp of air and told me
to blow and go while he used his fins to swim us to the surface. I failed the
test.
A week later, I returned for retesting. A kindly warrant officer
counseled me. Asking what happened. I told him I ran out of air. He said
“Look, safety-swimmers are looking for bubbles. They don’t care how big
the bubbles are, they only look for bubbles. Just meter your air-flow so that
you don’t run out of air.” Thanks to his great advice, I passed my Escape
Tank retest.
Apprehensive from my sub school escape training failure, I had put off
my dreaded Escape Tank re-certificated test until I was the last unqualified
crew member. Thanks to the advice of a kindly old warrant officer, I passed
once again!
Black Powder Cannon
We didn’t get blue and gold PPP lines but we did get a black-powder
cannon. It was a NavSup surplus-no-cost WWII line-throwing cannon. The
torpedo and missile gangs were excited when our rusty, cast iron, 36 inch
long, 3 inch bore, 90 pound cannon arrived.
The Coast Guard warrant officer laughed when I phoned asking how to
get black-powder. He said they now used pneumatic air cannons for ship-to-
ship rescue. He warned me that the old cannons were pot-metal cast iron.
Many had inclusion-flaws in the tapered barrel which caused them to blow
apart. He suggested we only use oil and fire-crackers for smoke and noise.
Still wanting to fire the zinc cannon balls we found at EB, I did heed
his advice about the danger. We used two foul-weather jackets to have EB’s
radiological department X‑ray the cannon for any inclusion-flaws. They
found a major flaw in the breach. For another two foul-weather jackets, the
metal-plating department chrome-plated the cannon. Two more foul-
weather jackets got us a great wooden gun-carriage from the carpentry
shop. Finally, our nuclear-weapon missile boat had a good-looking cannon.
In between cannon jobs, we had our first and second acceptance sea
trials. After running engineering tests on the surface in Long Island Sound,
we found a 50-fathom spot to test our anchor. Ten days before, I inspected
the anchor windless before they welded up its inspection plate. During past
patrols, the anchor was only used on sea trials before patrol. So, I was
concerned why there was heavy wear on the nubs of the wildcat-gear which
engages the chain links. I felt we needed a new wildcat-gear-hub and
wouldn’t sign off on the anchor. SupShips said the hub was in specs. I
signed the form under protest, but didn’t involve my boss or the Captain.
Our anchor test required paying out all the anchor chain—all 300 feet
—in water deep enough that the anchor wouldn’t touch bottom. This put all
anchor and chain weight on the wildcat-gear. In the Torpedo Room we
engaged the anchor windless. We heard the wildcat-gear grabbing the chain.
After five minutes, we realized that no chain was dropping into the chain
locker just outside the hull. I called the Skipper. He came to the torpedo
Room, listened, and agreed. CO gave me the order to pull the disconnect
pin—Nav marked the spot. The remaining chain rattled out to join the
anchor on the bottom.
Our last evolution was to take the submarine to periscope depth to
check for water-tight integrity before proceeding to deeper depths for deep
water checks. All hands were stationed in each compartment to check each
hull penetration. I was in the Torpedo Room and Weps was in the Missile
Compartment.
After submerging to periscope depth, my 1st class noticed a small bulge
in the overhead. He climbed up and asked for a pencil to poke at the bulge.
I told him to wait and let me check it. I felt the bulge and saw a strip-layer
of discontinuity about 2” by 6” centered on the bulge. Phoning Conn, I
explained that we had a piece of EB green—Electric Boat duct tape—
covering a hole in the pressure hull that had been painted over. The CO
examined it and agreed. That ended our dive tests and we headed back to
EB.
We never did find out who drilled the half inch hole or why it was
drilled. Someone taped over the hole on both-sides and painters painted
over the tape. Amazingly, it held back 35 ft of water pressure. EB welded
the hole shut. They put in a new anchor wildcat-gear-hub, chain, and
anchor. A submarine rescue ship searched for and failed to retrieve our lost
anchor and chain.
Anchor and diving tests were added to 2nd sea trials—both were
completed satisfactorily. After correcting sea trial discrepancies, our CO
and the Supervisor of Shipbuilding accepted the boat as ready for active
duty. Gold crew was assigned DASO—Demonstration and Shakedown
Operations. It would be a month of sea trials—including missile firing—
and intense watchstation and boat qualifications for the crew. Afterwards,
Blue crew would relive us to load warshot missiles and cross the Atlantic
for the boat’s initial post-shipyard patrol.
Our initial orders were to depart EB’s flooded graving-dock, cross the
Thames River, and load torpedoes from the USS FULTON (AS11). As
OOD that final morning in the shipyard, I saluted the Skipper as he walked
across the gangway and requested permission to fire the cannon on casting
off lines. Smiling he said “Where did you get the cannon? ... I don’t want to
know.”
Leaving the Shipyard to Load Torpedoes
When the last line was tossed to EB workers—they were EB shipyard
lines—our Leading Seaman fired the cannon. A loud boom echoed across
the shipyard and a smoke-ring puffed out of the chrome muzzle—a
concoction of penetrating oil and a block-buster firecracker. Our EB
Supervisor slammed down his safety helmet. He knew some EB workers
had gotten new foul-weather jackets.
The reactor plant was critical and providing steam to get us across the
Thames River to the USS FULTON at State Pier. There would be no last
night at home for me or my torpedo gang as we had to load 13 torpedoes—
12 warshots and one exercise fish. Once alongside FULTON, we broke out
the torpedo loading-skids. The topside skid was forward of the 45˚ torpedo
loading hatch. It required screwing four brackets into the hull—two near the
water line. Positioning the skid was a tough job even with help from the
tender’s crane. It was a Rube Goldberg contraption—each skid-leg slipped
into its bracket-sleeve and secured with a toggle-pin. With the installation
of the interior-skid—it jutted across the escape trunk into the loading-hatch
—we were ready to load.
Our plan was to put the exercise and three warshot Mk37s into the
outboard torpedo-tubes with five Mk37s going into high storage. Two
Mk14s would go into the middle tubes and the third in low storage. The
Mk45 would go into a low, security-storage position.
Loading a torpedo required the tender’s crane to lower the fish onto our
loading skid. By using a strap around a point just forward of its of center of
gravity, it provided a 45º nose-up position. The first fish was the Mk37
exercise torpedo—green with an orange nose-cap. Metal-loading nose/tail
cones had handling-lines to permit guiding the torpedo unto the loading
skid. Once on the loading-skid, nose-up, loading lines were attached. Six
torpedomen below-decks secured the down-haul lines to their cleats.
Topside guys removed the tender’s torpedo-sling and handling-lines. Then,
it was just gravity and muscle power that lowered the torpedo below. It was
slid into the upper port tube—time for lunch.
After lunch we loaded the three bright green Mk37s into the remaining
port and starboard torpedo-tubes. Then we put the other five Mk37s in high
storage racks. A break for supper cost us an hour. After supper, we loaded
the heavier Mk14s into the middle two tubes. The massiveness of these fish
took almost an hour for each. Then, we loaded and stored the final Mk14 on
a lower storage rack.
Finally, we were ready to load the Mk45 nuclear ASTOR. With a step-
by-step security-check list, it was a slow process. When the fish started
down the skid, I slid down the nuke into the torpedo room to maintain
continuous security contact on this nuclear weapon. It took an hour to get
the Mk45 stowed and its security system connected. The tender’s weapons
officer arrived and I signed the nuclear transfer forms.
The Mk45’s security requirements and radiation hazard cost us a few
sleeping-racks. Three torpedomen returned to crew’s berthing. The Mk45
was a novel weapon because it wasn’t every day that one could walk up and
pat a nuclear warhead. Only a few of us were allowed to do that.
Of course, there were complicated procedures for using of the Mk45. It
depended on DEFCON status with specific rules of engagement for
eliminating an ASW threat to our strategic mission. Back of the envelope
calculations indicated a Mk45 warhead would eliminate a threat but the
resultant underwater shockwave would probably knock out our SINS and
other equipment.
It was 2200, the gang had removed the interior skid and closed the
torpedo loading-hatch. The weight of the torpedoes had pushed the bow
about 6 inches deeper into the water. The forward two brackets were now
underwater. We retrieved one bracket and just as we freed the other, it
slipped into the water. Our scuba diving team-leader was in the gang
topside. He volunteered to go down and retrieve it. It was an obvious
solution to a sticky problem but, for once in my life, I overrode my Italian
instincts. I decided to call the XO. Divers started breaking-out wetsuits
while I asked for authority to dive.
XO wouldn’t let me retrieve the bracket or allow me to call the
Captain. The next morning, the CO wasn’t concerned about losing the
bracket. He had the FULTON make us a copy of the bracket’s blueprint.
Once we got to Charleston, the missile facility would make us a
replacement.
DASO and Missile Firing
We left New London for Charleston to load our test missile. Each
empty missile-tubes had been filled with enough water to equal the weight
of a missile. We couldn’t submerge without that weight. We conducted
drills—even a Battle Stations Missile drill in the middle of the night. Once
in Charleston harbor, we meet our tug and took aboard some NAD people
for the trip up the Cooper River to the Naval Ammunition Depot (NAD). It
had originally been a 1940’s Army ammunition depot. We fired our cannon
as we approached NAD. Looking down from the Bridge, our CO frowned
his displeasure.
Missile-loading Pier Bravo jutted perpendicularly into the Cooper
River. Coming in across a moderate-current river is a difficult test of
seamanship. Fortunately, Weps was Conning Officer and had made this
landing during his diesel days. The idea was to be well upriver of the pier
when making a Left Full Rudder to execute the turn as rapidly as possible.
Also, this meant using sufficient speed to make the rudder effective and
then promptly backing down to slow down. This would allow the current to
push the boat sideways into the pier. We made this snap turn getting us
somewhat parallel to the pier. We got the bow line across to the forward
bollard and the spring lines—#2 and #3—across and to their bollards. Then
the Captain megaphoned down, “Hold All Lines!”
I yelled back, “You mean Check All Lines?”
The Captain yelled back, “No! Hold All Lines, we’ve lost the Astern
Turbines!”
 We wrapped #2 spring line to its cleat and took the slack out of #3
which wouldn’t go taunt until we travelled past its bollard. With #2 line
stretching thin, I ordered #1 and #3 wrapped to their cleats and pulled all
topside personnel behind the starboard side of the sail in the event that we
snapped #2 spring line. Even with our braided nylon lines, I was concerned
about stopping our 5,900 ton submarine without parting a line. At this
instant our #2 line was the only thing keeping our bow from hitting the
rocks at the end of the pier as #3 line would not be much help.
The tug finished tying up to our starboard side—Chinese style. Not a
typical tug arrangement but ordered by our Captain. With tug’s bow pointed
toward our stern, the tug now could provide maximum power to stop us.
Our port #2 line had been the only restraint slowing the boat’s momentum
toward the rocks at the head of the pier. With the tug at full power—its
screw spraying water on our bow—the boat crawled to a stop.
There had been a heavy strain on the tug lines tied to us. Because the
tug’s braided lines were doubled up, I wasn’t worried about snapping any of
their lines.
Amazingly, we finally stopped—just a few feet from the rocks. The
tug’s power had made the difference in preventing damage to our bow.
Once the tug took off its power, the boat started to creep back from the
rocks. Our stretched #2 braided-nylon line actually pulled us back a few
feet as line tension relaxed. With the danger point passed, I ordered our
line-handlers to quickly get more lines across to complete the mooring. It
wasn’t until we doubled-up that I realized getting braided nylon lines was
the best decision that I had made in overhaul!
The CO gave a shout-down from the Bridge, “Nice job guys.” We had
saved our boat and the missile test. This was definitely on par with my last
patrol’s high hotwell casualty.
An inspection of our lines showed that #2’s braided nylon line had no
wear or breaks. However, the port #2 cleat had a massive twist and had
been almost yanked out of its housing—it had deformed its housing. The
cleat and housing would have to be replaced. We now had two more items
for the NAD workshops.
After we were tied up, we threw off the tug’s lines. The starboard cleats
used by the tug were no worse for the wear.
Later the Skipper told me that the line-handlers had done a great job.
And he never wanted to see that cannon again. Our missile techs had started
dewatering #3 launcher tube once we surfaced to enter Charleston Harbor.
They would spend several hours blowing it down and getting it ready to
receive our test missile in morning.
After lunch I took the two work requests for the torpedo loading-skid
bracket and #2 folding cleat/housing with a 5-gallon tin of coffee and the
bracket diagram to NAD’s machine shop. They said they would deliver the
skid bracket and install the cleat and housing the next day.
Tomorrow, we would load our DASO test missile. It would be my first
AWeps missile loading. Before missile tube hatches could be opened, an
inspection of their locking rings—which held the hatches shut—had to be
made to ensure there was no foreign matter in them that could cause a jam.
The inspection involved climbing down beneath the topside missile deck,
crawling on the pressure hull, and reaching up over one’s head and blindly
sticking a bare hand into the hatch locking ring groove to locate any debris.
The inspection was my job but Weps said I could do it in the morning
before loadout as we wouldn’t be opening any hatches the first day in port.
The next morning at 0500, I went topside to conduct the inspection
without missile tech support. I talked to the topside watch to tell him that I
would be down in the superstructure. The watch told me he had been
watching water moccasins swim by in the pier lights during the night. He
said one attempted to slither out of the water onto the bow but he fended it
away with his boat hook.
As I went to the access hole, I thought what if my hand were bitten by
a snake when I was sticking it into the locking ring. I yelled to the watch
and asked him to stick close by. At least he could call for the doc while I
was climbing out of the snake pit if I got bit. With trepidation, I made the
inspection. I found nothing dead or alive in the locking rings.
Preparations for missile loading began right after morning muster. This
would be different from torpedo loading where it was our equipment that
was operated by our crew. NAD’s truck carrying the missile in a loading-
container and the loading crane arrived. The crane lifted the canister
containing the missile upright from its horizontal position on the truck.
They were ready to swing it into position on top of our #3 missile tube.
I was topside with members of the MT/TM Launcher gangs to
coordinating with the civilian NAD personnel. Weps was below decks
supervising the activities there. Before giving permission to swing the
canister in place, a special alignment of switches and valves had to be set.
An important check was verifying that the hold-down clamp at the base of
the missile tube was retracted and ready to engage the missile. Finally, we
gave NAD permission to load.
With the canister within a few inches of the lip of #3 missile tube, we
verified that it was oriented correctly by matching a mark on it with a mark
on the missile tube. Then, it was set down and clamped in place. Using the
winch at the top of the canister NAD personnel slowly lowered the missile
into the #3 missile tube.
As soon as the Launcher Control Panel showed the missile was set
down, the upper level access doors were opened and the fire control trolley
was used to see if the missile was accurately set in place. It was within
specs. If it were misaligned, it could have been pulled up a few inches and
rotated with a special wrench. Once the missile was verified as being in
place, the hold-down clamp was engaged, the winch was disconnected, and
the canister removed.
With the missile in place, a flurry of activities began. Topside, the MTs
installed the nose cone fairing where the winch had been fastened and
installed the Mylar diaphragm and its detonators.
Below decks, the umbilical’s providing external power and coolant to
the missile’s guidance system were connected. The motion sensing
component of the guidance system was temperature sensitive. It had been
delivered separately in a special transportation container. We installed it
after the heating and cooling connections were connected and tested.
After the MTs put the guidance system in the missile, fire control and
missile technicians performed acceptance tests. While that was going on, I
went to lower level to check that the serial number of the missile matched
the paperwork. To check the serial number located on the bottom of the
missile I crawled through the bottom hatch of #3 missile tube. I looked up
into one of the big, monster twelve-ton rocket motors above me, then I read
off the numbers to my MT.
Then, I went topside and signed for custody of a multi-million-dollar
missile—the missile we would shoot down range in a few days.
We had a very experienced FT, TM and MT crew who been expertly
trained by Weps and his chiefs. With only one missile to service, the work
went quickly and was done by noon.
That afternoon, the machine shop crew arrived to install the housing
and #2 cleat. The torpedo loading skid bracket we had lost in New London
arrived. We were good to go!
The next morning, we departed for Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale
to prepare for our missile launch. The topside line-handlers—mostly missile
techs and torpedomen—were in high spirits. The exception was that our
Leading Seaman—the enlisted counterpart to the First Lieutenant—was a
2nd class FT.
Immediately after docking in Port Everglades, the Nuclear Weapons
Technical Inspection (NWTI) team came aboard to certify us to
handle/maintain nuclear weapons and for launching nuclear warhead
missiles. The NWTI was a tough exam for our personnel. Weps and his
master chief had trained them well.
It included a drill to list the boat away from the pier—to simulate
ejecting our test missile that was on fire. We were tied up port side to the
pier, to get a starboard list we removed the topside starboard vent covers
and opened the vents at the BCP allowing air to escape and water to fill the
starboard MBTs. This gave us a good starboard list. This list allowed us to
simulate firing tube #3’s gas-generator to toss the missile in the water away
from the pier.
After successfully passing our weapons certification, we met with the
Special Projects Office missile-test-team. They attached a tall tower to the
aft end our sail. The antenna/pole structure reached high enough to put an
antenna and radar reflector above the water at launch depth. This provided
continuous radar/visual position of our location and radio contact. This
would allow range control to stop the launch at any time.
One highlight was a visit from Vice Admiral Schade, COMSUBLANT.
He and I crawled into the bottom of missile-tube three to see the missile-
nozzles and peer at the missile’s solid fuel. The Test Director’s briefing to
us was memorable. He said a successful missile launch would increase A-
3’s success-rate a percentage point but a failure would lower the success-
rate by more than 10%.
The next day we cast off and headed to sea for our launch on the
Atlantic missile test range. No one complained about performing the two
team double-checks on each launching procedure step.
We had a perfect launch. First there was the explosive sound of our
new solid-fuel gas-generator blasting the missile out of #3 launch tube. The
vertical shaking hammered the Missile Compartment. An overhead piping
bracket was ripped from its overhead welds. Then the shaking and noise
from the chaotic rush of water slamming helter-skelter against the sides of
our empty launch tube. Before it subsided, we heard the missile engine
ignition right above us as it cleared the water—something that doesn’t
occur on a Sabot launch. After the missile streaked away and the launch
tube filled with water, we felt and heard the clank of the heavy missile-
hatch slamming shut above us.
Then, the sound of HP air pushing water out the bottom the missile
tube—no more MCTs. The longer length of the A3 missile eliminated the
MCTs. Instead, HP air pushed water weighing the difference between the
weight of a full tube and the weight of a missile through a ball valve at the
bottom of the missile tube.
The new hovering system worked perfectly. The two-tank system and
updated software meant no more blowing MBTs to maintain launch-depth!
For me personally—being in the Missile Compartment—the deafening
noise of the gas generator firing inside the hull and the missile firing above
us added to the hearing damage that four past patrols of ER noise had done.
Eleuthera Island for MONOB Noise Tests
After removal of the test-platform and missile test gear, we left for
noise tests at Eleuthera Island in the Bahamas. On the way, we practiced
surfacing, diving, and Man-Overboard drills.
Among the collateral duties I had were Small Arms Officer and Scuba
Diving Officer. In the shipyard, I did an inventory and inspection of our
small arms locker—Colt 45 cal. pistols, Garand rifles, and Thompson
machine guns. None of our weapons had been fired. This arsenal was used
for topside watch security, shark guard for swimming/scuba dives, and for
Repel Boarders—the crew’s favorite drill which I often ordered when I was
in-port OOD.
During this trip, I prevailed on XO for small arms firing for our rifle-
toting shark guards and our 45 cal. pistol/side-holstered quarterdeck
watchstanders. When XO readily agreed, I threw in an open invitation to all
crew members who wanted to fire small arms. We collected 5‑gallon tins
and cardboard boxes for targets in the water. Missile techs and torpedomen
were instructors and safety enforcers.
The crew really enjoyed it, especially firing the Thompson. I got a thrill
of firing the Thompson while on my noon Bridge watch. The Small-Arms-
PO admonished me that my continuous firing damaged the barrel’s twisting-
lands. I did experience the upward left pull that he warned me about. Live
firing was a big morale booster for the crew. We were now full-pledged
members of the Armed Forces.
Arriving at Eleuthera Island, we rendezvoused by radio with the
MONOB barge for our three days of DTMB noise testing (Eleuthera Island
Noise Trials—bottom of Note 10-1).
Each morning DTMB’s MONOB civilian techs arrived on the Black
Sea—a DTMB-chartered 40-ft covered motor-launch with passenger seats.
Eleuthera Island wasn’t a big tourist spot. It was a narrow island with a
small population—just a little town with a bar that rented rooms.
The CO and XO allowed the crew to take day-liberty using the Black
Sea each morning and returning in the evening when it picked up the test-
team. At the end of the second day of liberty, the CO allowed Eng, Nav, and
Weps to take the Black Sea to spend an overnight in town. They returned
the next morning for the last day of tests.
For MONOB measurements, we navigated submerged to pass 10 feet
from a string of hydrophones hung from a surface buoy. We basically aimed
right at the buoy and hoped to miss either side of it by 10 feet. On one of
my watches, I hit the hydrophones during one of a dozen runs. There was
an hour delay while they rigged a replacement string. Skipper was not
happy with me.
Returning to NAD Charleston, the Blue crew took over the boat. They
would make the loadout of war reserve missiles and depart for their patrol.
We carried the cannon back to New London in our crew’s box. I took the
cannon home where it has been well cared for and fired every 4th of July!
Captain got a phone call from the Blue skipper that a 45 cal. shell
casing had gotten into the Type11 scope bearing in the sail and the scope
had to be pulled to replace the bearing. I made a mental Note not to fire the
Thompson from the Bridge anymore.
NVD USNUSL Experiment
I maintained contract with USNUSL. Before we left for DASO, Lou
Free provided us a new, handheld NVD scope to evaluate during DASO. He
suggested that might be useful for night Bridge watches. Unfortunately, we
had few night surface ops at sea. The one instance we had night surface ops,
I took it to the bridge to evaluate it against the lookout’s performance in the
shipping lanes.
 Only once did I find a contact before the lookout did. In fact, while the
NVD did allow me to make the initial detection, I and the lookout still
could discern the light on the horizon by eyesight. The value of the NVD
was that it made a faint light blossom as a definite light. Its absolute value
was questionable.
We did use it at night while dockside at NAD looking into the weeds
across the river. A better evaluation would have been during my 2nd patrol
night egress down the Clyde River—the time we were trying to avoid being
detected by the Soviet ELINT trawler.
Gold Patrol on a New Boat
Three months later, we flew—via a civilian chartered aircraft—to Holy
Loch to relieve the Blue crew. As AWeps, the pre-sea trial major events
were loading an exercise fish for sea trials and unloading a missile to have
an empty tube for a Sabot launch. After those sea trial water-launch
successes, I had the excitement of loading my first warshot missile. It was
almost identical to loading the test missile for DASO. There was plenty of
extra paper work of signing for a nuclear weapon.
A weird incident occurred after loading the missile. I was carrying the
confidential Weapons Operational Procedures notebook. It was a half-sized
3-ring binder containing the missile loading instructions. I slipped on the
missile deck. The notebook went flying, hitting the hinge of a closed
missile hatch. The binder opened as it bounced up. A brisk wind pulled off
pages like a bent deck of cards. They blew into the space between our hull
and the tender. The pages floated in the air, settling flat on the surface of the
still water between us. I grabbed a 2nd class MT and scurried up to the
tender’s quarterdeck.
I explained to the OOD what happened, saying, “I need a punt to
retrieve my classified instruction!” He ordered the duty boatswain's mate,
standing nearby, to provide us with a punt. We used the punt to retrieve all
the floating pages—which were all the pages in the notebook. The 3-ring
binder sank to the bottom of the Loch without taking one page with it!
During the evening meal, the skipper asked how the warshot load-out
went. I told him it went well until we finished. Looking at me nonplussed,
he waited for me to explain. I said the confidential loading instructions fell
in the water between us and the tender. You couldn’t ruffle this CO—he just
kept staring at me with an unperturbed look on his face. I said that we
fished every page out of the water. We only loss the 3-ring binder. He
smiled and said rhetorically, “How do you intend to replace the classified
binder?”
We completed our upkeep and left for patrol. I wrangled Conn
midwatches which revived happy patrol memories for me. Now that I was
qualified, I had no qualms in having Radio put a Norwegian radio station of
polka music on the Conn speaker as an alert on losing radio signal on the
wire.
We had a WSRT ten days into patrol. My WSRT station was at launch
station in the Missile Compartment. I had a great missile gang who knew
vastly more than I did about missiles and missile tube operations—a
complete switch from being a qualified EOOW.
The USNUSL sonar CZ experiments were not progressing well. We
were not finding cooperative contacts to track and make CZ measurements
for Thad Bell and John Hanrahan. However, we had Dr. Jan Holland’s
prototype Secret passive sonar range prediction slide rule. It was a double-
sided circular wheel device that allowed entering values and noise levels to
predict sonar ranges. By substituting Soviet sonar values, we had a rapid
way to calculate what an increase in our radiated-noise did to our
vulnerability. The sonarmen and CO loved it. I wished I could have shown
it to LCdr Harry Walters—my old SWO.
Third week on patrol, I watched my first patrol movie. Checking with
Sonar afterwards, they mentioned a high speed, two-screw contact. Sonar
Supervisor was suspicious enough to make a tape recording. The signal
from the BQR‑7 to Demon confirmed two screws. The BQR‑2B went to the
tape recorder. We debated whether to send the tape to NISC, Naval
Intelligence Support Center, or to do a post-analyst playing the BQR‑2B
recording into Demon. The Supervisor reminded me that NISC wouldn’t
take a played tape.
Turning the decision over to CO, he said that if we couldn’t classify the
contact as a Soviet nuke, then we wouldn’t submit the tape. He suggested a
one-time-playback into Demon and send the tape if it was a Soviet
submarine.
The BQR‑2B sonar frequencies made all the difference because their
wide bandwidth provided more demodulation signals. My heart stopped for
a few seconds as I realized that sonar had detected a Soviet November class
submarine. There were definitely two screws and the correct blade count
along with several unique tonals. We stopped the tape as soon as we got a
positive confirmation.
We explained in our letter to the NISC that we didn’t replay the whole
tape. We included the copy of our EB Demon analysis with the tape
submission. This reel of tape on a November sub would put our boat on the
map. This was a chance in a lifetime for FBM sonar watchstanders. The
question was whether they would analyze the tape. NISC never provided us
feedback. I didn’t watch another movie for the rest of patrol.
Later—with verification from Demon in real-time—we taped two
Soviet snorkeling diesel submarines. Our attack-submarine Skipper was
keen on catching submarines—he was very happy.
Rest of Patrol Highlights
Unlike my first patrol three years ago, there were no engineering
casualties or Scrams. There were no Reactor Compartment entries! Near the
end of patrol, XO assigned an officer who had failed his Conning Officer
training to my midwatch. He was a destroyer lieutenant who just finished
nuke & submarine schools. He had been on port and starboard rotation with
morning EOOW watches and evening Conn-training watches.
After CO/XO evaluations, they decided not to qualify him in
submarines. To save face, they wanted to stash him on the midwatch. I told
XO I would give him operational things to do. XO gave me free reign. On
our first watch, he had trouble handling myriad simultaneous evolutions. He
couldn’t prioritize tasks.
On the midwatch, there were many events going on at the same time—
Type11 and housekeeping events. However, coming to and being at
periscope depth were our most dangerous evolutions. With only 10 feet of
scope above water there was only a short distance to the horizon to detect
surface contacts, i.e., short reaction time. Submarine safety at periscope
depth was the most critical priority that a Conning Officer had. It demanded
maximum attention.
Ongoing events were inconsequential compared to periscope depth
safety. Other midwatch events like Type11 operations, checking sonar,
looking at Conn’s BTR, maintaining comms on the wire, ECM alerts, and
housekeeping functions were secondary issues. This officer had difficulty
juggling more than one task at a time—maybe because on a surface ship
there is a junior OOD who handled normal ship routine matters.
 However, within ten days, I felt my trainee could handle Conning
Officer functions. I suggested to XO that I swap watches with the other
three Conning Officers so they could evaluate him on a midwatch during
periscope operations and housekeeping distractions.
It worked out. He was given another patrol. I found out many years
later that he qualified for his dolphins as a nuke submariner and eventually
was promoted to captain.
NTPI
Our last significant event occurred on returning to Holy Loch. A
Rickover Navy Technical and Proficiency Inspection, NTPI, team was
doing two days tests on submarine crews on reactor procedures. They
would test our crew immediately and the relieving Blue crew a week later.
I assumed submitting my resignation letter and only standing Conning
Officer watches exempted me from the hassle of being involved in another
NTPI. I couldn’t have been more wrong! Once you qualify as a reactor
EOOW, it’s an indelible mark that makes you subject to all the whims and
vagaries of Adm Rickover’s program.
The NTPI team didn’t allow us to shut down the reactor after we tied
up to the tender. It was needed for hands-on drills. I was picked to be the
first test-EOOW in Maneuvering. I assumed the EOOW watch—a watch I
hadn’t stood for two years and hadn’t looked at an RPM during that time.
With a NTPI inspector right beside me, I was wondering what
engineering casualty he would spring on me. It wasn’t a long wait. The
inspector reached up and tripped the manual Scram switch on the RPCP. On
reflex, I toggled off the piercing Scram siren-alarm, grabbed the 2MC mic,
and announced to the watchstanders—watchstanders that I had never been
on watch with before—“Manual Scram for training, commence a Fast-
Scram-Recovery!” A recovery that was now safer to carry out because of
the innovation that my RC-gang and I sent to Rickover on my 3rd patrol.
After all the Scrams on my first patrol, this was the only nuke drill I
had the most experience in handling. It was a totally ironic and surrealistic
event! I probably could have done it with my eyes closed.
After I returned the reactor and steam plant to normal operations, I was
relieved by the next test-EOOW. XO and CO, who were standing outside
Maneuvering, shook my hand vigorously. I had never discussed my first
patrol with anyone on this boat. They were unaware of my Fast-Scram-
Recovery background. They were just pleased that I had given the boat a
big up-check by handling this Scram drill. It was fitting that my last official
patrol-drill at the end of my naval career would be a Fast-Scram-Recovery!
 Photographs
All the photographs, except for the last, were taken during the DASO
—Demonstration and Shakedown Operation.
The DASO was after completion of the author’s overhaul of his last
submarine at the Electric Boat Company in Groton, CT. The overhaul
provided a new reactor core, conversion to handle the A3 missile, major
hovering system upgrades, missile compensating changes, and the
SUBSAFE package.
The DASO was conducted off the east coast of Florida and in the
Bahamas beginning with a port call to NAD Charleston to load a test
missile. We docked in Port Everglades for weapon’s qualification and then
proceeded to the Cape Canaveral Atlantic Missile Range to fire our A3
missile.
After a successful missile test, there were a series of noise tests in the
Caribbean. All events are more fully described in Epilogue-3.
The author took the last photo in Holy Loch through the boat’s
periscope before his last patrol. He believes it was the red door house he
saw the day he first set foot on his first submarine to start his first patrol
(Chapter Three, A Tour of the Boat p. 29).
Three months after DASO, we relieved the Blue crew in Holy Loch. After
making a periscope check, “Yep, the little house with the red door is still
there!"
 Crew Names
Officers
Commanding Officer--------------------- Cdr Howard ‘Captain’ ‘CO’ Hagar
CO – previous patrol--------------------- Capt Michael Donaldson
Executive Officer XO--------------------- LCdr Maurice ‘XO’ Jankovich
Weapons Officer, Senior Watch Officer--LCdr Harry ‘Weps’ or ‘SWO’ Walters
Navigator------------------------------LCdr Charles ‘Nav’ or ‘Charlie’ Donahue
Chief Engineer------------------------ LCdr Scott ‘Eng’ Townsend
Operations Officer---------------------Lt Martin ‘Ops’ or ‘Marty’ Webber
AWeps—Torpedo/Missile Division Officer/1stLt---Lt Theodore ‘Ted’ Richards
Radio/Sonar Division Officer------------- Lt Roads ‘Rocky’ Rivers
Medical Officer---------------------------- Lt Donald ‘Don’ or ‘Doc’ Lindsey MD
A Division Officer--------------------------Lt(jg) David ‘Dave’ Laughlin
E, RC, & IC Division Officer---------------Lt(jg) Gabriel ‘Gabe’ Chadwick
M Division Officer------------------------- Lt(jg) Andrew ‘Andy’ Brennan
Supply Officer----------------------------- Lt(jg) Michael ‘Mike’ Pastore
Supply Officer – previous patrol----------Lt Daniel ‘Dan’ O’Reilly

Enlisted Crewmen
Adar MM3—M Division, LLER watchstander
Allison ICC—IC Division, LPO, COW, DO
Allen MT3—Missile Division, hit by GDU weight
Bankership EN2—A Division, Rec Committee
Billy Joe Williams CS1—Commissary Division, LPO
Borenski YN1—XO’s Ship’s Office
Brooks CS2—Commissary Division, cook
Darcy MT1—Weapons Department, Missile Division, Rec Committee
Groves TM1—Weapons Department, Torpedo Division. DO
Harrison CS2—Commissary Division, cook
Henderson ETMC—Navigation Department LPO and COB
Jefferson SDC—Supply Department LPO, steward Division LPO
Kasbar MM2—M Division, ULER watch
Kinkaid ETC—Navigation Department, Rec Committee
O'Brian CS3, Patrick—Commissary Division, cook
Penny SK2—Spareparts Division LPO
Peterson ST1—Sonar Division, Rec Committee
Ramsey EMC—E Division, MWS
Sullivan MM3—M Division, SSCP operator, throttleman
Taylor HM1, aka ‘Doc’—Medical Department
 Chapter Notes

N otes are additional background on systems, policy, procedures, history,

nuances, and personal trivia. FIRST PATROL can be read without
consulting the Notes. Notes can be read as standalone background
information. Some duplication from the text is included.
Readers should initially consult the Glossary for basic information.
Many of the Notes are not linked to a Glossary item.
 Chapter One Notes
1-1—Rig-for-Black was a Control Room special night-time condition when
some of the red lighting was turned off when going to periscope depth. Rig-
for-Red was a standard shipboard condition in the Control Room at night
when red lights were used instead of white.
The portion of the eye most sensitive to low light levels is degraded
when exposed to white light, but not to red light. All light switches in the
vicinity of the Control Room, Crew’s Mess, Wardroom, Staterooms, and
berthing, had three positions, Off, White-light-On, and Red-light-On
It takes 15 to 20 minutes for most individuals to reach a high level of
night vision after being exposed to white-light. So, red lights were required
when there was need for night vision at periscope depth and Bridge
operations when surfaced. Watchstanders like the OOD who used the
periscope or the Navigator operating the Type11 wore red-lensed goggles
before going on watch at night.
1-2—Our boat had loudspeaker communication/alarm sound systems in all
five compartments. In addition, there were dial-phone, intercom, and sound-
powered-phone systems tailored to specific operations and work stations
throughout the boat.
1MC, 7MC, 2MC & Alarms Systems
There were three compartment-wide loudspeaker voice announcing
systems and three warning systems that sounded alarms. The 1MC system
was the general announcing system that had loudspeakers in each
compartment. At sea it was only operated from the Conning Station in the
Control Room and from the Bridge cockpit at the top of the sail when on
the surface. In port, a 1MC mic and speaker were available at the brow
watchstation aft of the sail.
The 1MC was used for actions stations such as calls to battle stations,
response to specific casualties such as fire, flooding, collision, etc., and to
provide general announcements to the crew. General Quarters situations,
Collision, Missile Casualty, and Toxic Gas alarms sounded on the 1MC
speakers. Alarms overrode any voice input.
The classical signal for diving/surfacing was the diving/surfacing
klaxon—Ugha, Ugha. Independent from the 1 MC, it sounded in each
compartment with its own speakers. Originally, the klaxon was the only
boat wide system to alert the crew to this critical operation. It remains as a
link to our submarine past. The 1MC announcement was a backup to the
klaxon dive/surface orders. On older submarines, the klaxon was a motor
driven horn that sounded similar to a Ford Model A horn.
The Scram alarm was a third alarm system. It sounded on system-
speakers in the engineering compartments as described below.
The 7MC system was a separate loudspeaker system used for
operational communications between the Conning Station, Bridge,
Maneuvering Room, EPM station, helm station, chart table, diesel engine
station, Sonar Room and at the torpedo tubes. Using the 7MC instead of the
1MC reduced disturbing people who were sleeping or eating and didn't
distract watchstanders not involved with 7 MC operations. The helmsman
used a 7MC mini-mic when the OOD was on the Bridge.
The 2MC was an engineering spaces only loudspeaker system used by
the EOOW in the Maneuvering Room to make emergency, operational, and
general announcements to watchstanders in the ER, AMR, RC, Tunnel, and
AMS. The reactor Scram siren-alarm sounded on the 2MC loudspeakers.
The boat had three other general types of communications systems.
The ubiquitous sound-powered phones that has been the mainstay of the
Navy since WWII, two intercom systems, and a conventional dialup
telephone system.
Sound-Powered-Phone System—JA & JX
Sound-powered-phones are powered by the operator's voice sound
pressure. The voice pressure moves a diaphragm on a magnetic coil that
generates an electrical signal that drives the diaphragm on a receiving coil
at another station. The system consists of either telephone-handsets
containing an ear-piece and speaker-piece or a muff-ear set of headphones
with a push-button voice cylinder mounted on a breastplate hung by a strap
around the user’s neck—as seen in old naval war movies.
There were two sound powered wired circuits, JA and JX circuits. The
operations JA circuit connected every critical station in every compartment.
It was used for battle stations, maneuvering watches, and all casualty
situations. This system connected all watchstations in the Torpedo Room,
Missile Compartment, Missile Control Center, Conning Station, Bridge,
BCP, planes/helm area, and engineering spaces. Plus, it connected general
areas such the Wardroom, Crew’s Mess, and crew's berthing. Each station
contained a hand set and a growler box with a station selection switch and a
crank handle generator. This sent out an announcing signal to a small
speaker on the selected destination box to alert the receiving operator—
rapid cranking signified an emergency call. Each station allowed the option
to plug in an ear muff sound-powered set for use during casualties or
special operational and work situations.
The other sound-powered-phone system was the engineering JX
circuit. The JX circuit connected engineering stations in the ER, MR, AMR,
RC, Tunnel, and AMS in the aft Missile Compartment.
The forward end of the boat had several JA subsystems. A
maneuvering watch subsystem connected stations to backup Bridge orders
to the helmsmen, to the Conning Station, to Maneuvering and to the EPM
station. A missile loading subsystem connected key Missile Compartment
and Missile Command Center stations. There was a subsystem for torpedo
loading. Each of these specialized circuits was independent so that several
operations could be conducted without interfering on the entire JA circuit.
21MC & 27MC Intercom Systems
The 21MC and 27MC were intercom systems that provided electronic
amplified speech between two or more stations. Each box was a gray, cubic
lunch box sized unit that contained a speaker which also was the
microphone. Horizontal rows of slim chrome push buttons were used to
select stations. There was a user-friendly chrome thumb-size flip-switch for
activating the speaker as a microphone. These squawk boxes—bitch boxes
as we called them—provided rapid and good quality communication
between two or more stations because it only required pushing a chrome
button destination station and using the chrome flip-switch to talk. The
receiving operator didn't have to do anything on his end to receive the
transmission, only holding down the flip-switch to reply.
The 21MC was the operational circuit that provided comms to ops
stations—CO’s stateroom, Conning Station, BCP, QM station, MCC,
Maneuvering Room, Sonar Room, Radio Room, Torpedo Room.
The 27MC was an administration circuit for routine business that
connected the XO's stateroom to the Ship's Office, Sick Bay, Radio Room,
Supply Office, and the Engineering and Missile Log rooms.
Dial-X Telephone System
 The dial-X phone system operated like a home dial telephone system,
providing person to person conversation. Phones were located everywhere,
but didn't have as many stations as the ubiquitous sound-powered-phone
system. The dial-X phone was the basic communication between places
such as the Wardroom, crew's berthing, Crew’s Mess, the BCP, and the
staterooms
The biggest difference between the sound-powered-phone and the Dial-
X system was both parties could talk at the same time on the Dial-X
without causing voice-over-garble.
A quirk of the Dial-X system was if both phones didn't hang up at the
end of a call, the circuit wouldn't disconnect. Thus, if Conn was getting
prank calls, the Conning office could leave his phone open, go to another
phone station to dial other stations. If a station had a busy signal, he could
determine the source of the call. This station locating technique was used by
midwatch Conning Officers getting prank calls. The perpetrator usually
was a watchstander bored out of his skull trying to stir the pot.
1-3—Operating our diesel engine on the snorkel was very similar to such
operations on diesel submarines, however, diesel operations occur
infrequently on a nuclear submarine. For both , the evolution required
coordination among the BCP watch in the Control Room, watchstanders in
the engineering spaces, and and the roving Auxiliaryman-of-the-watch
making ventilation lineups in the forward compartments. The OOD
controlled the operation and gave the order for commencing the diesel
evolution. The EOOW ensured the diesel engine operations were executed.
The BCP watch was responsible for maintaining the watertight
integrity of the submarine and ensuring the ventilation line up was correct.
On “Prepare to Snorkel” the BCP operator received all the preparation
reports. He raised the snorkel mast, even in port, as the diesel exhaust was
at the top, rear end of the sail—close to the snorkel head valve air intake.
When the submarine was at periscope depth, he tested the induction head
valve electrodes, opened the main induction valve, and opened the outboard
board exhaust valve. Electrodes, on the head valve of the snorkel mast, shut
the valve automatically if even one electrode was covered with water. To
avoid drawing a large vacuum in the boat and popping ear drums when the
head valve was underwater, there was a low pressure cut off switch which
shut down the diesel engine.
 The diesel engine operator ensured that the main induction and
outboard exhaust valves were open by monitoring his indicator light panel
which also displayed the status of inboard induction and exhaust valves.
The exhaust pipe between the diesel engine and the inboard exhaust valve
was dry while the pipe on the sea side of the inboard exhaust valve was wet
as the exhaust diffuser plate in the sail is underwater when a nuclear boat is
at periscope depth.
On Prepare to Snorkel the diesel operator unlocks the inboard exhaust
valve. Upon starting the diesel engine, he checks that exhaust pressure
opens the inboard exhaust valve. If the exhaust valve is stuck closed, he
would shut down the engine to prevent stressing the engine. The sequence
to secure snorkeling operations was basically a reverse of the starting
operations.
1-4—A Scram was a rapid shut down of the reactor by dropping neutron-
absorbing control rods into the reactor core. In an emergency, safety circuits
which included the manual Scram-switch, interrupted the screw-latching
mechanisms, that held the control rods to the drive motors, dropping the
rods to shut down the reactor.
A Fast-Scram-Recovery (FSR) could be used to bring a reactor back to
power in a short period of time after a Scram shutdown. Besides some
technical adjustments, this procedure required correcting the problem(s)
that caused the Scram and was only used within a short period of time after
a Scram. For safety, a FSR required calculations to determine control rod
position to achieve criticality. This calculation was based on the rods’
position before the Scram and the effective full power hours of operations
since the last shutdown. This provided a check on reactor instrumentation.
The FSR was one of the SUBSAFE items that was initiated after the loss of
the THRESHER (Note 4-21).
The term Scram has famously been attributed, some say inaccurately,
to the first reactor built by a team led by the scientist Enrico Fermi in 1942.
It was a manually assembled pile of uranium and graphite blocks which
slowed down the uranium fast-neutrons. It only operated at a low power
level when critical, i.e. producing enough neutrons to replace those that
escaped, but never generating enough to heat up the graphite and uranium
blocks. There was concern that the reactor might run out of control and
produce excess neutrons that would blow up the reactor pile by thermal
expansion.
 While the reactor pile had mechanically driven graphite rods to provide
control, there was a backup procedure to quickly insert a gigantic neutron
absorbing rod as a safety backup. This safety control rod was dangled by a
rope over a hole in the center of the pile. An operator stood by with an axe
to cut the rope to drop the emergency control rod. This safety-operator was
called the Safety Control Rod Axe Man—nicknamed Scram.
To this day throughout the nuclear reactor industry, the term Scram is
used when an emergency shut down of a reactor is initiated by dropping
control rods. If the rods are driven into the core to shut down the reactor, it
is called a normal reactor shut down.
1-5—Our engineering plant consisted of five major systems: nuclear reactor
and primary-coolant system, the steam generation and secondary system,
the electrical system, the hull, propulsion, and ship control system, and the
atmosphere control system.
The Reactor & Primary-Coolant System
The nuclear reactor system is the heat source for generating steam used
in the secondary plant (Figure 1). It consists of all the equipment required to
operate and control the reactor. All the equipment that contains primary-
coolant is in the Reactor Compartment. Electronic, electrical, pneumatic
and mechanical reactor-controls are in AMR, in the Tunnel, and in
Maneuvering.
The reactor system consists of a large steel vessel and large two piping
loops of primary-coolant—pure water. The reactor vessel contains a fuel
core of highly engineered uranium fuel cells. The fission process consists of
splitting the uranium atoms with slow-neutrons—neutrons slowed by
interacting with the primary-coolant in the reactor vessel. The byproducts of
fission are new elements, fast-neutrons, and radiation—all providing energy
that heats the water to produce steam in the steam-generators. As the fission
atoms decay into stable atoms, they release toxic radiation and particles that
generates additional heat. It takes many days to reach a stable decay level
with little heat production after a reactor shutdown.
When heat is withdrawn from the reactor (see Steam Generators,
below) the primary-coolant gets colder and denser turning more fast
neutrons into slow neutrons which creates more fissions in the reactor core
raising the coolant temperature. As the water gets hotter and less dense, it
allows more fast neutrons to escape, producing fewer slow neutrons which
reduces reactor power. This is water’s negative temperature coefficient that
gives a pressurized water reactor, PWR, an inherent safety advantage to
prevent a run-away reactor.
Control Rods
Sitting atop the reactor vessel are motors that move the neutron
absorbing control rods up and down between fuel cells to control the
number of neutrons available to fission. Rod motors move precisely by
physically latching onto a screw mechanism atop the rods.
When a dangerous condition occurs, a shut down signal or the manual
Scram switch interrupts a circuit to the rods that drops the rods into the
core. A compressed spring gives each rod a push to overcome static inertia.
This dropping of the rods is called a Scram.
Rods are operated in groups so that they can be raised to different
heights during different stages of the reactor core life to ensure even-usage
of the fissionable material in the core. Rods are withdrawn to bring the
reactor critical (Note 1-6) and to control the fission process to provide heat.
When more power (heat) is required, the rods are bumped up to provide
more fissions which generates higher temperatures to provide more power.
Conversely when less power is required, the control rods are bumped in to
slow down the fission rate resulting in lower temperatures and less power.
When a reactor needs to be shut down, the control rods are completely
driven in and the reactor is no longer critical, i.e., able to create self-
sustaining fissions. However, there are radioactive particles decaying that
give off radiation and residual heat. This residual heat must be removed
because high temperatures can damage the reactor. If left unchecked, the
core could undergo a thermal melt down and a radiation release.
Steam-Generators and Main Coolant Pumps
The rest of the primary system is a set of components used to move the
primary-coolant from the core to subsystems that remove the heat (Figure
1). Two large stainless-steel pipe loops are connected to the reactor vessel.
Each loop contains a steam-generator and main coolant pumps (MCP) that
circulate the water through the core. The steam-generator is a large
cylindrical boiler with a set of small sized pipes in the bottom through
which primary coolant flows. Surrounding the tubes is the feedwater of the
steam plant. The steam-generator system transforms the heat in the primary-
coolant into steam for the secondary system. Steam-generators contain part
of the primary system and thus are in the Reactor Compartment.
Pressurizer
The last major component is the pressurizer (Figure 1). It is a large tank
of water and steam that maintains the high pressure in the reactor’s primary-
coolant system, hence PWR. The high pressure prevents formation of
steam-bubbles at the hottest spots in the core which would damage the
cladding resulting in releasing radioactive material into the primary coolant.
The pressurizer also acts as a shock absorber to dampen pressure
fluctuations when pumps are started or shut down. It provides a water
reservoir for temperature expansions or contractions as steam demand heats
up or cools down the primary-coolant.
The tank’s electric heaters generate a steam bubble at the top to
maintain the desired pressure to prevent boiling of the primary coolant at
the hottest spot inside the core. The pressurizer always contains water
during reactor operations.
The primary system isolates the reactor and radioactivity from any
contact with equipment or personnel outside the Reactor Compartment.
There is no human access into the Reactor Compartment during reactor
operations because of life threatening high radiation. Even with the reactor
shutdown, the residual radiation emitted by the uranium fuel cells inside the
reactor vessel are dangerous enough to limit the amount of time a person
can spend inside the Reactor Compartment.
The steam-generators are in the Reactor Compartment primarily for
safety. In the event of a catastrophic coolant piping failure, any released
radioactive water would be contained inside the Reactor Compartment.
The Secondary System—The Steam Plant
The secondary plant system starts with the feedwater and steam in the
steam-generators (Figure 1). The generated steam drives the main engine
turbines and ship service turbine generators—SSTGs. It consists of all the
equipment that conditions the steam and controls the feedwater. The steam
generators are called boilers which is the traditional nomenclature for steam
ships. Both terms were used on our boat. The main engines, SSTGs, and
steam evaporator for making fresh water are subsystems of the secondary
plant system.
 For all the high nuclear technology of our heat source, the secondary
plant produced saturated-steam, a wet-steam containing water—like the
steam used in ships in the late 19th century. The steam is transferred by
pipes out of the Reactor Compartment through the AMR into the Engine
Room for the steam subsystems.
The spent steam from the main engine turbines and two SSTGs is
condensed into hot liquid by cold seawater running through pipes in the
condensers. It is collected in the condenser's hotwells—reservoirs under
each main engine turbine. This feedwater and makeup feedwater are sent to
the feedwater surge tanks that supply large feedwater pumps—aka feed-
pumps—in the AMR. These feed-pumps send water to the steam-
generators. The pumps must be large to generate the high pressure required
to overcome the pressure of the steam in the steam-generators.
To make freshwater for the steam-generators, the crew, and the primary
plant requires frequent operation of the steam powered evaporator. The
evaporator sends water to the feedwater storage tanks, the primary coolant
storage tank, and potable water tanks for crew's use. The purest water is
retained for primary coolant and for feedwater. Water that is slightly salted
is used for the crew's potable water. A little salt in the potable water
removes the flat taste of pure water. The backup electric still makes the
purest water. It was normally used to make water for the oxygen generator
and for the battery. A demineralizer was used to make it pure water.
The Electrical System
The electrical system includes the systems that generate, distribute, and
consume electricity. The SSTGs (Note 1-7) are the main source of A/C
electrical power. The AC/DC motor-generators, battery, and diesel-engine’s
DC generator are the other sources of electrical power. The MCPs,
Secondary Propulsion Motor (SPM) aka the Outboard, EPM, AC/DC
motor-generators, pressurizer heaters, LP blower, and feed-pump motors are
the biggest users of electric power. Other equipment consuming electricity
on the boat includes the air conditioning units, HP air compressors, lube oil
purifier, pump motors, periscope/mast hydraulic motors, trim and drain
pumps, ship's galley stoves/equipment, ventilation fans, compartment
lighting, 400 cycle motor/generator sets, missile/navigation equipment,
clothes washers/dryers, stabilizing gyro, electric still, monitoring
gauges/lights, and radio/sonar equipment. Other big users are the ship's
atmospheric equipment, oxygen generator, the carbon dioxide removal
system, the carbon monoxide/hydrogen removal system, and the
electrostatic precipitators.
The electric distribution system consists of the EPCP console, wiring
throughout the boat, DC to AC inverters, main power breakers,
switchboards, and distribute panels. The Ship Service Bus was supplied by
the SSTGs. The large loads, particularly the fast-speed MCPs and feed-
pumps were not available on loss of the SSTGs. The large load exception
was the DC powered EPM. A special feature of the electrical system was
the Vital Bus and the Inverters. The Vital Bus was supplied by the AC/DC
motor-generators. This powered all reactor systems including slow-speed
MCPs, all internal-communication/alarm systems, critical ship control
system such as BCP, all mast operations, diving-planes/rudder, gyro
compass, SINS, Radio/Sonar, all missile systems, and lighting. Lighting and
reactor controls are such critical items that the Vital Bus has an automatic
backup. A set of DC to AC Inverters, powered from the battery, could come
online to supply lighting, interior-communications, and reactor control
systems. There was even a backup to the Inverters. If lighting failed, there
were individual battle lanterns positioned at strategic locations throughout
the boat. An electric solenoid switch kept them turned off until lighting was
lost.
Hull, Propulsion, & Ship Control Systems
The hull system consists of the porpoise-shaped HY80 steel pressure
hull and the superstructure that covers sections of the pressure hull. The
major superstructure elements are the sail, the bow MBT structure, the
missile deck structure, and the engineering waistband MBTs structure. The
torpedo tubes and missile tubes are intricate parts of the pressure hull
structure. The main anchor and station keeping anchor are part of the hull
subsystems. All piping going thru the hull to sea and the valves that control
the piping are subsystems of the hull integrity.
The propulsion system consists of main turbine engines, reduction
gears, main shaft, propeller, and associated machinery that supports this
equipment (Note 1-7). The EPM and SPM are parts of the propulsion
system. The main propulsion system was very similar to other large ships.
The major differences would be the EPM and SPM, although some large
tankers/cruise-ships have bow-thrusters.
 Ship control includes equipment and devices that control the ship—
rudder and diving-planes, MBTs, MCTs, trim-tanks, and the main vents.
The periscopes and masts/antennae subsystem are part of ship control.
There is overlap in defining systems that fit into the hull, propulsion,
and ship control system and the other systems.
The Atmosphere Control System
The boat’s air quality-control system is the major equipment in the
Auxiliary Equipment Space in the aft Missile Compartment. The oxygen
generator, the carbon dioxide scrubbers, the carbon monoxide/hydrogen
burners, and the electrostatic precipitators are systems that recondition the
air and replace oxygen. An ultrasonic sink is used to maintain the filters and
provide a cleaning area for maintenance on the systems. There were two air
conditioners in the AMS and three in the LLER to maintain air temperature
control.
Another major atmosphere control system was the passive bags of
activated-charcoal in the fan room in the Control Room. The LP blower and
the boat’s ventilation ducts made the system effective.
1-6—The reactor is critical at its self-sustaining-criticality point—SSC.
SSC occurs when there are enough slow-neutrons generated by fissions to
sustain continuous fission of the uranium core. With the control rods
positioned below the SSC point, there wouldn’t be enough slow-neutrons
generated to replace those that escaped the reactor core. To add heat to the
reactor, the reactor’s criticality has to be raised past the SSC point to
produce additional fissions.
As heated water expands, fewer slow-neutrons are produced because
the water is less dense and more neutrons escape. Because hotter water
allows more neutrons to escape, the reactor has a safety factor to prevent a
run-away reactor. This automatic natural limit on the production of slow-
neutrons is called the negative temperature coefficient. It makes the slow-
neutron PWR a safe system.
1-7—The main engine has two separate sets of turbines. Each has an ahead
and a backing section on the same shaft. The amount of steam to the
turbines was regulated by the Ahead/Astern throttles controlled at the SPCP
console by the throttle wheels. Each turbine was connected to the main
reduction gears that reduced the high turbine rpms to the low shaft rpms of
the propeller. The clutch disengages the shaft from the reduction
gears/turbines. On loss of the reactor or on a main propulsion casualty, with
the clutch forward of the EMP—wound around the shaft—provides limited
speed.
Attached to the reduction gear is an electric motor turning gear—the
jacking gear. It was used to slowly turn the main engines and propulsion
shaft for cool down. Hot turbines and a rotating propulsion shaft brought to
a stop would experience shaft sagging. The jacking gear turned the shaft
very slowly for cool down.
After the steam flowed through the turbine blades, it exhausted into the
condenser. Large seawater pumps connected by 18 inch pipes at the hull
pushed cold seawater through smaller pipes in the condenser sending the
heat to sea. Condensed spent-steam became hot water in the condenser's
hotwell. Condensate pumps moved the water from the bottom of the
hotwell to the feedwater surge tanks. Feed-pumps took suction on the
feedwater surge tanks and pumped the water, at high pressure, back into the
steam-generator.
Also, each condenser received the steam exhaust from the SSTGs. This
split system ensures that at least one condenser was available for propulsion
and electrical power.
In the event of a turbine or condenser casualty, a main engine could be
locked out and disconnected from the main reduction gear. This allowed the
boat to continue operations, at reduced speed, with just one main turbine in
service.
There is an interesting limit on maximum shaft rpm. The EPCP’s
reactor power meter was not the only factor controlling Flank speed.
Propeller shaft rpm and the reactor power meter both had to be considered
when answering a Flank Bell. Flank speed was set at a maximum shaft rpm
as determined by the wear on the main turbine bearings and by not
exceeding 100% reactor power. As bearing wear increased, it required
lowering maximum shaft rpm to prevent turbine blade contact which meant
that the EOOW couldn’t always go to 100% reactor power for a Flank Bell.
It also meant that you couldn’t always go to the rpm limit without
exceeding 100% reactor power (see Epilogue-2—Calorimetric PM—
Reactor Power Meter)!
1-8—By the time I made my first patrol, the reason for calling our coveralls
poopy suits had almost disappeared with the introduction of an updated
version that is in existence today. The original poopy suit that went to sea
on the initial GEORGE WASHINGTON patrols and initial patrols of boats
in that class had a different design.
There was a rear butt-flap with three Velcro strips. It made it easier
sitting on the commode for a dump. This feature was eliminated in the
update, leaving us with what we have today, i.e. take your arms out of the
sleeves and pull the whole shebang down to your knees.
It probably was horseplay of sailors relieving patrol boredom by
pulling down their buddy’s dump flap that caused the demise of the flap.
Actually, it probably was more a matter of safety because the 3 Velcro strips
usually left gaps when refastened. Equipment would snag a gap and pull
open the flap—it would be most inconvenient when responding to General
Quarters gongs while rushing to one’s Battle Stations Missile station.
There were a dozen old timers in our crew who still had the old flap
design. Today, sometimes our poopy suit is called a poopie suit.
1-9—IRs, formally Nuclear Incident Reports, were Rickover’s brilliant idea
to receive immediate reports on reactor problems without going through
operational chain of commands. Rickover was dual hatted as head of the
Office of Naval Reactors and as Director of the Naval Reactors Branch for
the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC). This allowed him to use his AEC
hat to use nuclear safety as a legitimate claim for bypassing operational
chains of command.
NIRs were a mainstay of ADM Rickover’s Naval Reactors
organization. The concept was to inform the entire submarine community
immediately of every system failure. It was designed to reduce the
probability that the casualty would occur again.
Years later, ADM Rickover was complaining to one of his Captains in
the Office of Naval Reactors that many old mistakes were being repeated.
The wise old Captain pointed out, “Well Admiral, we are into thousands of
IRs dating from 20 years ago, most of the people who read the original IRs
have long since retired.”
 Chapter Two Notes
2-1—My apprehension about the newly printed Change of Command
booklet was based on my high school newspaper experience as editor in
chief. It is a sad tale that started the evening before our last senior year
edition of the paper was being put to bed.
The evening began when I arrived at the downtown San Diego print
shop. The linotype pressman had just finished setting the four pages of
molten lead-type—from typewritten copy I had left them the day before.
Before the last hot-lead type had time to cool, he pressed me a proof-copy
of each page. I read the proof-pages and made a half dozen corrections. I
left while the pressman was pounding keys for the lead-type correction
lines. Later, he would press a hard-plastic imprint on the lead type, roll the
plastic imprint on a drum, and run off 500 copies of our newspaper.
At noon the next day, I was summoned to the Principal's Office. I
hadn’t seen the paper as I had morning classes. Knowing that the paper had
been distributed, I assumed that Fr. Ahern was going to give me a well done
for my year as editor in chief.
Father Ahern was a fierce looking man, tall and rugged. His face
showed that he had spent time in the boxing ring before becoming an
Augustinian monk. His limp gait walks around the school grounds while
smoking big, black cigars only added to his fierceness. His appearance
belied that he was head of the English Department who wrote our Senior
Class play—Come Slowly Eden.
Brother Albert escorted me into the Principal's Office, Father Ahern
wasted no time. In a gravelly voice he demanded, "Why were students
hosting a cocktail party in the hotel before the Prom? The drinking age in
California is 21! And why is this Prom cocktail party story in the school
newspaper?” Gasping for air, no words came out of my mouth. Finally, I
meekly uttered a weak, "No way."
I hadn't seen the actual printed paper yet and stammered that there
couldn't be such a story. Father Ahern thrust his copy of the paper at me. I
quickly scanned the story. There in the second paragraph, "The social
butterflies of the senior class rented a room and held a cocktail party for a
dozen couples before the Prom." There were the words cocktail party!
"That's not right!" I exclaimed.
 "You bet it's not!" roared Father Ahern. "How do I explain this to
parents and the Alumni?"
His face full of anger. I tried to explain, "It was written up as a coketail
party.” My writing a clever take-off on cocktail had backfired. Father Ahern
suddenly softened a little, "Oh…Well then, how did coketail get switched to
cocktail?" he firmly demanded.
I searched my brain for what could have happened. I explained, “The
small printer’s staff was always solicitous of our attempts at journalism. I
suspect that the linotype operator, making corrections from my correction
proofs, felt that I had just overlooked a misspelled word and changed
coketail into cocktail. Father Ahern let out a deep sigh and agreed to this
plausible explanation.
He ended with a caustic remark, "I should make you answer to each
parent or alumnus who complains about drinking at a school prom. Because
I'm your English teacher, I don't think it would be wise on my part to put
the school's reputation in your hands."
2-2—Assigning orders for officer graduates after completing Submarine
School was a neat process. BuPers, Bureau of Personnel, gave the School
the list of billets to be filled. The School allowed the students to select their
submarines based on class standings. Attack submarines orders were the
most desirable—most of us were young and wanted action. There was only
one attack submarine available and it was selected by our academic leader.
He was captain of our championship Submarine Base flag football team on
which I played defensive-end. I have packed that trophy for many, many
moves.
All the rest of the assignments were for FBM submarine duty, mostly
shipyard new construction. These new construction billets were highly
desirable as they were shore duty and provided tax-free per diem allowance
during construction.
Because of my class standing, I had a choice of many new construction
billets. But I wanted to go to sea and get my dolphins. So, I picked a first-
generation FBM submarine that would be returning to sea shortly. I wanted
action—no more shore duty.
When our class-leader got to his attack submarine, they sent him to
months of SubRoc, Submarine Rocket, school. SubRoc was our latest ASW
weapon that delivered nuclear weapon on a rocket to a threat submarine in
the long-range acoustic convergence zone.
 After completing the school and finally going to sea, it was discovered
he had claustrophobia. His condition had been missed by all the
psychological testing and the escape tank training. He was transferred to a
nuclear cruiser. Thus, he went from being the hunter on a submarine to
being the target on a surface warship.
2-3—From the beginning of Naval nuclear power, Adm Rickover held
absolute control over reactor design and construction. He later parlayed his
influence into controlling the size of the 688 class to hold his new, bigger
reactor. He wanted higher speed to keep up with the Soviets. He also
maintained absolute control over the entire nuclear officer corps. He
insisted that the nuclear personnel qualifications be centered on nuclear
engineering because of the dangers that nuclear reactors posed. This
emphasis on nuclear safety certainly was worthwhile in that it contributed
directly to the Navy’s unequaled safety record in the nuclear reactor field.
At the start of the nuclear power program, basic BuPers regulations
required there be 1.7 officers in the pipeline for each sea-going billet in both
surface ships and submarines. Rickover told the BuPers that his nuclear-
power people were dedicated and that he only needed 1.1 in the pipeline.
However, the rapid buildup of the Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine
program provided a surge which overran even Rickover's ability to train
enough officers.
The solution was to use non-nuclear trained officers, from conventional
submarines, to man the Polaris weapons, navigation, ops, radio, sonar, and
supply officer billets. Once his training cycles were fully established, ADM
Rickover required those non-nuke billets to be filled by nuclear trained
officers.
Putting nuclear officers into non-nuclear jobs relegated them into a
lower-echelon status that limited their experience and hence their future
career opportunities. In Rickover’s eyes, people not serving in engineering
billets would not be in line for chief engineer assignments. Soon, those
officers understood that they were second team players. They knew their
opportunities to progress up the career ladder were limited. Many elected to
leave the Navy.
This exodus of the nukes tossed into non-nuclear jobs caused other
problems. For nuke officers in engineering jobs, it reduced the their
opportunity for shore duty. This meant they would have continuous sea
duty. Thus, you had the second team leaving because they were not on the
first team and some of the first team were leaving because they could not
have shore duty and a family life. As a result, there was a rapid loss of
nuclear trained officers. It put great strains on nuclear submarine manpower.
In the 1960’s, SEADRAGON SSN 584 served two six-month West Pac
deployments—filling in when its relief submarine had a major engineering
casualty. It was rumored that the entire Wardroom ended up divorced by the
end of their back-to-back deployments.
2-4—There was a formal process for becoming designated Qualified in
Submarines. For officers this typically took a year following Submarine
School and required acquiring comprehensive knowledge of one’s
submarine and its operations. A notebook was written and several oral
examinations were held. The whole procedure was laid out in detail in
official Fleet instructions. Once completed, one could wear the submarine
breast insignia—gold for officers and silver for enlisted.

At the time of this narrative, officers in

the fleet applying for submarine school were required to have served in a
surface ship and had attained Officer of the Deck (OOD) qualification.
Some of those completing Submarine School could volunteer for the
Nuclear Power Program but the rest would go to diesel submarines.
This surface ship experience requirement didn’t pertain to those
officers coming directly from university/Academy graduation into the
nuclear power program. They went to nuclear power schools before going
to submarine school. Thus, their first sea duty as an officer would be as an
officer without officer sea going experience.
Those Sub School officers going to diesel boats would be expected to
quickly become OOD’s and in-port Duty Officers long before completing
the boat’s qualification program. The Duty Officer —who may not have
completed his submarine qualification—would be expected to be able to get
their submarine underway and out to sea with just the duty section aboard,
about a third of the crew. This was possible because of his prior surface ship
OOD duty experience.
Evenings, nights and weekends, the only officer on board a diesel boat
typically would be the Duty Officer and a duty section that had enough
experienced to take the boat to sea in an emergency.
 As a midshipman, one night I observed the duty OOD handle such a
situation on the USS REQUIN SS481. We were tied up at the Norfolk
Naval Station Sub/Des piers. A lend-lease destroyer-escort (DE), with a
crew of Brazilians, lost power and was drifting toward us. The topside
watch raced below decks to breathlessly tell the OOD—in the Crew’s Mess
watching a movie—what was going on.
Without even going topside to check out the situation, the OOD ran to
the Control Room and directed the duty crew to prepare for an emergency
underway and for the line-handles to take fire axes topside to cut the
mooring lines if necessary.
By the time we clambered up to the top of the sail, the diesels were
being warmed up and the chief of the watch had the ship's lines singled up
and ready to cast off. The OOD saw that the DE bearing down on us had
come to a tentative halt. Their crew got one mooring line over to its pier
and was now tethered to it by a long bow line.
We were trapped from moving as the DE's stern was about 30 yards
from our amid-section. Slowly the Brazilian deck gang used its capstan to
drag themselves back to its berth while their engineering gang
unsuccessfully tried to restart the steam plant.
To attain submarine qualification on diesel boats, he was expected to
perform any task on his submarine—from starting and running the diesel
engine to hand-firing a torpedo. All non-nuke line officers were submarine
qualified before reporting to an FBM submarine. They had to qualify as
Diving Officer, Conning Officer, Officer of the Deck, and casualty control
competence in every compartment. Normally, it was done during the sea-
trials before leaving on patrol.
The only line officers reporting aboard FBMs not wearing dolphins
were new nuke trainees coming on board from Sub School.
Operational qualifications for being an OOD and a Conning Officer
were the same for both nuke and non-nuke officers. It required operating
the submarine in a safe manner, conducting submerged operations, and
handling non-engineering casualties—fire/flooding.
In most nuclear submarines, however, junior officers were given
limited opportunities for conning the boat. There would never be a situation
where a junior qualified submariner would be required to Conn an FBM
submarine in or out of port on his own.
 Also, the ability to understand what was required to recover from a
reactor shut down or handle a missile fire was necessarily limited to those
officers who had the background and training in those fields. While non-
nuclear officers didn’t routinely visit the aft engineering spaces. All officers
were trained on control of a radiation spill and how to set up a clean area to
limit radiation spreading. But only nuke officers conduct engineering
operations. Only weapons officers were qualified to conduct missile
operations.
Nuclear powered submarines such as ours were many times more
complex than a WWII diesel boat with only its torpedo weapon delivery
system and deck gun. Trying to meet the qualification standards on a diesel
boat, where an officer could perform any task, couldn't be expected to work
for us because of the complexity and specialization of most officer Battle
Station Missile watchstations.
Any submarine qualified officer was required to operate all vital
submarine systems during a casualty—such as manually opening/closing
vents and securing seawater/electrical systems. Thus, the new philosophy
was that everyone wearing dolphins was qualified to do any casualty
control task in all compartments. Thus, nuke officers were expected to
know all the critical casualty equipment in the forward end of the boat
including the Torpedo Room.
2-5—A House Call is a long-established Navy officer corps tradition. The
custom was for each new officer to meet his commanding officer in an
unofficial setting within a few days of reporting for duty. The meeting
allowed the officer and his commanding officer to get a cut of each other’s
jib without the press of official duties.
2-6—After Capt Donaldson was relieved, he was assigned to the staff of the
FBM squadron, SubGruTwo, at the Submarine Base. A year later, he had
orders to Washington D.C. I had earned my dolphins and was in port
training as E, RC, & IC Division Officer. XO grabbed me and handed me a
phone number, "Captain Donaldson wants you to call him."
The Captain asked if I would be interested in buying their Zip sailboat.
I was surprised he remembered our House Call conversation on sailing. I
explained that I was now married, we were expecting a baby, and had just
bought a house. He pressed his case by saying that he would give me a
good price and asked that I look at it. As a junior submariner, it was
imperative that I extend full courtesy to a superior officer, so I agreed.
 It was a blustery early December day when I met Captain Donaldson to
examine his sailboat moored at the little Sub Base marina just below the
main gate to the Base. The boat was an ark. It had high straight sides with a
boxed stern—nothing like the little sloops I sailed in San Diego. The
Captain proudly touted its value as a classic coastal sailboat. A low
numbered Zip hull, it was built in North Stonington, a little seaside village
just north of the base. This 17 foot boat was built from flat-edged oak
planks made water-tight with linen-caulked joints. It had a flat bottom
because of the shallow estuaries along the Connecticut coast. It had a tall
maple mast and there was a large iron raised-centerboard—to beat to the
wind. It had a long boom for its large mainsail and a good-sized jib for
fluky coastal summer breezes. The Captain quickly pointed out that the
little 5 hp outboard motor was invaluable when the wind quit on some river
bends, especially during the dog-days of summer.
Trying to find a way to decline the offer, I mentioned that I couldn't
afford such a lovely craft at this stage of my life. Captain countered that the
marina had shut down for the winter and had given him a week to remove
his boat. He would let me buy the boat for $200. He assured me that I
would have a spot in the marina in the spring because he had already
reserved it. When I told him that I didn't have a trailer hitch for my Vette, he
said that he didn't have a boat trailer anyway. As part of the deal, he would
have a friend deliver the boat to our new home.
Things weren't good at home that night when I mentioned that I had
bought a sailboat. Fortunately, my neighbor Phil Guiney, an engineer at the
Electric Boat Shipyard, was enthused and gave me a check for $100 for his
share. So, it came to past that I bought my first sailboat from my first
submarine commanding officer.
2-7—The philosophy of preparing for the worst-case scenario was a trait
ingrained in nuclear training. Early in Rickover's nuclear training program
there were just a handful of officers graduating from reactor prototype
every six months or so. The training was so intensive that many officers
were part of the engineering team making design upgrades to the early
reactors, support equipment, and instrumentation systems. The demand for
these officers was high and their numbers were small.
One time, a seriously ill Submarine School officer graduate who
couldn’t report to his submarine. Adm Rickover's office was thrown in
disarray trying to find a replacement. At the height of the search, someone
interjected, "What would we do if the four guys who just finished Arco
prototype training get in a car wreck while driving together across country
to Submarine School this weekend?" It was meant as a light-hearted
comment to put the search for one replacement officer into context. It was
overheard by the Admiral.
The next morning, there was a new nuclear power directive. Until
further notice all nuclear trained officers traveling between training
facilities and new duty stations were to travel separately from all other
nuclear trained officers. Uncharacteristically, the directive explained the
rationale behind the policy, "Because of the limited number of trained
nuclear officers, there is a need to ensure that any transportation accident
doesn’t wipe out a significant part of the nuclear officer corps.” This meant
no traveling together on airplanes much less driving or busing together.
Our crew being separated into two equally experienced sections was a
carryover of Rickover’s policy from the earliest days of the nuclear power
program—always plan for the worst.
 Chapter Three Notes
3-1—An FBM submarine's propeller and stern diving-planes are vulnerable
areas, easily damaged by contact with an adjacent moored submarine or
tender. The policy was to moor bow-to-stern to an adjacent submarine or
ship—Chinese mooring. The curved area from a tender’s or submarine’s
bow provides extra distance for protection from contact with an adjacent
submarine’s stern diving planes.
3-2—The military term muster refers to a crew roll call—usually taken each
morning. There are announcements and, occasionally, an inspection of the
crew. When an individual passes inspection, he was said to have passed
muster. Thus, to pass muster signifies that one has been inspected and found
to meet the expected standards.
It dates back to centuries ago. Commanders were paid by the number
of troops they could provide. The muster was to prove that the commander
could physically produce armed and ready men.
3-3—The film-badge is a small, clip-on medal case with windows that
allow radiation to impact and mark the film strip inside. Radiation marks
the film which related to the amount radiation that an individual has
received. In the forward end of the boat, this large-capacity device would
register very little for the non-nuke crew during upkeep and patrol. Even for
the nukes back aft, the film-badge normally would use little of its capacity
over a 90 day patrol cycle. Because there was a possibility of encountering
radiation leakage, the nuke engineering gangs/officers and the forward non-
nuke officers wore a small-pencil sized dosimeter. It provided a quick, daily
check on whether one had been accidently exposed to radiation.
The dosimeter is a metal tube with glass lens at each end. It houses a
charged indicator needle at one end. Radiation causes the air inside the tube
to ionize moving the needle across a calibrated scale. By holding the
dosimeter up to a light source, the position of the needle will indicate the
level of received radiation. A dosimeter is read daily by the user. If there is
no major increase, he waits for his monthly Sick Bay visit to have his
dosimeter read, recorded, and reset. If the dosimeter has a sudden jump or is
pegged, indicating a sudden large dose of radiation, the film badge is read
immediately to provide an accurate radiation reading.
At the end of patrol all film badges were read by the Medical
Department and the amount of radiation received was entered into the
individual’s personal health record.
In my five patrols I never was aware of anyone having an unexplained
jump in their dosimeter reading.
3-4—The Navy Supply (NavSup) system provides all the items to keep a
ship or station operating. These items were divided into replacement
equipment/spareparts, consumables, i.e. daily usable items such as toilet
paper, oil, etc., and commissary provision items, i.e. foodstuffs. There are
different rules for each different category.
Typically the tender supply department kept enough quantities of
consumables and commissary items in stock so no priority was required to
obtain them. Only non-available spareparts or a complete equipment
required priority designation. Many Pri-C and high priority items were
stocked aboard the tender. A requisition priority level triggers the NavSup
system into action.
3-5—I discovered Holy Loch mornings to be dewy from a constant mist
coming down the closed end of the loch. At such times, I expected to see a
bunch of Viking warriors madly rowing their lapstrake boats towards us.
It was constantly wet in Holy Loch from rain or mist. The Navy had to
develop a special water based, black vinyl-paint for the hull. There weren't
enough periods of dry weather during a 30 day upkeep to paint the hull with
the Navy standard black oil based paint.
3-6—Commodes in the head—naval term for bathroom—have a simple
mechanism for flushing. There is a filling globe valve to swirl seawater
around the commode and a pull lever flapper valve to dump the waste into a
common-pipe that connects to a sanitary tank, (Figure 2). After the basin is
empty, the flapper is closed and a little water is left to cover the flapper to
prevent waste gas from escaping. There was no elbow tube trap as in
civilian commodes—no clogs.
Emptying sanitary tanks requires shutting off the common line drain
valve and vent lines in each head area, putting high air pressure into the
sanitary tank, and opening the sea discharge valves. Pressurized air forced
the contents to sea. When air bubble noise is heard outside the hull, the air
is secured and the drain lines filter vent line is opened before restoring the
head to operation. It was a very noisy evolution.
3-7—Mickey Mouse books was the nickname name for two 5" by 10"
schematic booklets with their colorful and simplified diagrams of all the
ship's systems. They were the basic texts for qualifying and watch training
on our submarine.
One volume contained all the critical pipe/ventilation-duct locations,
connections, and valves numbers for ventilation, high/low pressure air,
steam lines, trim and MBT valves, sanitary drains/vents, seawater,
firefighting water, freshwater, internal hydraulics, external hydraulics,
lubricating oil, ballistic tank air, etc.. The other book contained all the
critical electrical generating and user-equipment. It also showed the bus,
breaker, panel locations and numbers.
For more detailed information on a specific system, the boat's
engineering drawings and equipment manuals were used.
3-8—The Red Tag system provided safeguards for personnel and
equipment when equipment was placed out of commission—OOC. The
system consisted of an Engineering Red Tag Log for equipment in the
engineering spaces and a Forward Red Tag Log for equipment forward of
the AMS in the missile compartment.
A red-paper tag with a string was used. Each OOC item logged had a
Master tag which give a brief summary of the problem. All switches and
valves that affect the item had sister tags. This system ensured that the
equipment and operating personnel were safe.
A Red Tag explained why the equipment was tagged out, when it was
due back in operation, and the name/signature of the person placing the
equipment OOC. The signature of the EOOW/EDO for the Engineering
Log and the signature of the OOD for the Forward Log was required. If the
equipment being tagged prevented the ship from getting underway or
executing its Polaris mission, both the Eng and CO signed the log.
3-9—After patrol, my laughing fiancé told me that vigorously whisking
hollandaise sauce when it separates would have done the trick. Adding corn
starch and stirring solved the problem, but thickening the sauce with a
foreign ingredient probably affected its quality. No one in the Wardroom
complained about the sauce.
3-10—Yes, an operator has to pull the trigger on the breaker handle to trip
the breaker. The full shaggy-dog story is many pages long. The short
version is that the operator denied pulling the trigger and CO conducted a
test which tripped the breaker without the trigger. Nothing could be found
wrong with the breaker mechanism.
 Ignoring Eng’s protest, CO insisted that the operator’s denial and his
tests be included in the IR to Adm Rickover. Of course, there was a blast-
back from Rickover. It included the fact that Rickover designed the breaker
and it was impossible to turn the handle without squeezing the trigger.
Then, CO conducted another test which showed that 7 out of 10 times the
breaker didn’t need the trigger pulled to trip the breaker. He had Eng write
up his new test results to be sent to Rickover. Eng held back the boat’s reply
to send to Rickover until just before we left for patrol.
I don’t know how the matter was finally resolved. There must have
been some hidden problem in the breaker. Our boat had too many other
problems by the end of patrol to dig up this old IR bone!
 Chapter Four Notes
4-1—During nuclear power training, I developed a natural bent for making
tomato sauce spaghetti meals. The greater the number of spices I used, the
increased the raves for the dinner—at least from hungry, drunk guys. At our
rental house in Vallejo during nuclear power academic school, I was the
cook for our gang of three.
Having left my spice bottles at a friend's house, I had to improvise the
next night. To make the tomato sauce, I added a jar of spicy Iguana meat in
tomato sauce left over from my college delicatessen job. The guys were so
hungry, they ate half the meal before asking about the stringy stuff. Tom
stopped eating when told it was Iguana meat but Brad he just scraped each
strand of spaghetti and ate it.
During reactor training in Arco on our shift changes, most of the
trainees lived in Idaho Falls where we had big drinking parties and I cooked
spaghetti for all the drunks. In Groton, just before Submarine School
started, our party got out of hand as more people showed up. I was forced to
use a hundred packets of Army surplus ketchup-powder which I
reconstituted with red wine and spices. People were hungry or drunk
enough to eat it without any complaints.
These experiences made me upset that we only had one spice onboard
—oregano. It was okay for pizza but we needed more spices for our
spaghetti meals.
4-2—The COSAL, COnsolidated Shipboard Allowance List, was both a
technical and a supply document for each class of ship. It was technical in
that it listed all the equipment by nomenclature, spareparts, and technical
manuals. It was a supply document because it provided Allowance Parts
Lists—APLs, Allowance Equipage Lists—AELs, and a complete list of
allowed parts to be maintained onboard each ship or shore activity.
It listed (a) equipment or components required for the ship or activity
to perform its operational assignment, (b) repair parts and special tools
required for the operation, overhaul, and repair of these equipment, and (c)
miscellaneous items needed for the care and upkeep of the ship/activity. The
COSAL was based on equipment configuration data from the ship’s design
shipyard.
4-3—The fact that submarines usually operated independently of other
forces made it imperative that they had onboard all the spareparts to fix any
critical equipment that might fail. Years ago, the submarine community
realized that they needed a direct input into the supply establishment. They
instituted a dolphin qualification program very similar to the medical
doctor's dolphin program. By having submarine qualified Supply Corps
Officers, the submarine force could count on its supply officers having the
contacts to ensure that their needs were addressed.
4-4—Greasing the skids is an old submarine term harking back to the days
of the first steam torpedoes. Today the term means laying the ground work
to ensure that an upcoming decision would be received favorability.
The term came from the old days when block and tackle were used by
the torpedo gang to wrestle monster steam torpedoes from their storage
racks onto the oak torpedo loading skid. Once on the skid, block and tackle
would be attached to the inboard end of the torpedo tube and the nose of the
torpedo. The fish was dragged down the wooden skid into the torpedo tube.
The rusty-metal torpedo would bind-up against the grain of the wood. To
overcome friction, grease was smeared on the wooden skid to ease the
movement of the torpedo. Thus, greasing the skids meant doing
preparations to make a task easier.
For loading a torpedo into a forward tube underway, it helped to have a
friendly Diving Officer who would give you a down-bubble, i.e. tilt the bow
of the sub down for some help from gravity.
4-5—For many years, crews on Navy ships were divided into three sections
of watchstanders. The section on-watch would operate the ship. The Navy's
standard watch rotation was a 4-hour watch with eight hours off. If there
weren't enough qualified people for three watch-sections for a watchstation,
then two people alternated the watch. This was called a port and starboard
watch. It occurred more often on smaller ships such as submarines.
Some ratings such as yeoman, storekeepers, and cooks/stewards didn't
stand daily watches. They worked broken routines of 10 to 12 hours per day
with no watch. Besides watch-standing, a sailor was required to perform
division or ship work between muster in the morning until “Knock off
ship’s work” time in the evening.
The first watch of the day began at midnight. It was customary to start
the watch-relief 15 minutes before the hour. This gave time for full
exchange of watchstation information.
One of the difficulties with the Navy’s traditional 3 sections of 4-hour
watch periods was feeding the 1600-to-2000 watchstanders. Because
evening meal usually occurred between 1700 to 1800. The Navy's way
around the problem was to Dog the Watch. This broke the 1600-to-2000
watch into two watch intervals, 1600 to 1800 and 1800 to 2000. This
allowed the off-going 1600 to 1800 watchstanders to eat chow after their
watch when relieved by the 1800 to 2000 relievers who ate chow before
1800. An additional benefit of Dogging the Watch was it generated a
rotation of the watch cycle. It ensured that one section wouldn't be stuck
with every midwatch.
There were problems with this standard Navy watch-standing
procedure for nuclear submarines. Frequent watch changing was inefficient
because it meant three watch-sections were up together making a watch
turnover during the Dog the Watch period. For those in port-and-starboard
watches, it meant less sleep time. Thus, submarines instituted 6 hour watch
periods which eliminated the need to Dog the Watch.
Also, submarines didn’t have a formal work day like surface ships. If
critical work required repairing an OOC machine, work would be done
around the clock until it was fixed.
4-6—Diesel submarine officers knew that their submarines were being
phased out. There would be only nuclear submarines in the future. The
friction between diesel and nuke submariners reportedly was a difficult
situation for both types of officers. There was never any animosity on either
of the submarines that I served.
For nuke officer students in Submarine School, all instructors were
diesel submarine officers because of the extreme shortage of nuclear
officers. Nuke officers were all at sea or on new construction. Very few
could be spared for shore duty billets, even as instructor.
Even though we had a year of nuclear power training, we were still
lowly ensigns in training when we started Submarine School. Occasionally,
we heard comments from some of our instructors. Not only because we
were green ensigns, but because we were nuke officers. We were part of the
nuke community taking away their chance for advancement in rank and a
chance for command—only nukes could command nuclear submarines.
An instructor would express some resentment, making a comment,
"This the way it’s done on real submarines." This undercurrent of
resentment wasn't constant nor was it wide spread.
This difference was highlighted in the theme for our class skit. It was a
Sub School ritual that the graduating class perform a skit at the Sub Base
Officer's Club on the last Friday evening of the school session. It was
performed by class members for the entertainment of the instructional staff
and their wives. Our skit was a comedy parody between the differences in
nuke and diesel submarines.
Another classmate and I wrote the script. We highlighted this conflict
using a simile of sail-powered submarines being the old past and coal-
powered submarines being the new future. Surprisingly the comedy was
well received by the instructors. It was amateur hour at its worst but there
was only good-natured laughter throughout the evening.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, the British did have coal burning
steam submarines in the early 1900’s. Also, I knew that after a WWII
patrol, a boat running out of diesel fuel rigged a sail on its raised periscope
to limp back toward Pearl Harbor.
4-7—Cannibalizing is the term for removing a part from broken equipment
to fix another. Our boat had built in redundant equipment, e.g., we had five
identical air conditioning units. At sea it was standard practice to take a part
from a broken equipment to repair another if there were no spareparts.
“Priority C”, “C” for critical, was a priority used only for FBM
submarines and was only used for parts that affected the Polaris strategic
mission. All other FBM parts requisitions received supply’s high priority
designation which was the top category for the rest of the Navy.
For FBMs, if a Pri-C part couldn't be obtained a day before a patrol
departure and another boat in Holy Loch had the part or if the only part
available was in that boat’s operating equipment, the tender was authorized
to cannibalize it. We never had to cannibalize a part or were subjected to
cannibalization when I was supply officer.
The FBM program was so important to the Navy that it was not
unusual to have a plane fly to Scotland with a single item on board.
Cannibalization of parts from another ship was unique to the FBM
service. On an aircraft carrier if two aircraft of the same type went down
with each requiring a different part, it was standard policy to wait for the
parts to arrive and not cannibalize from another aircraft. The Hanger Queen
—an aircraft with an unfixable problem was the exception. It would be
cannibalized.
4-8—The designation for naval nuclear reactors is based on a three
character code set of letters and numbers. The first character identified the
type of naval vessel, whether it is a submarine (S) or destroyer/cruiser (D)
or aircraft carrier (A). The next number identifies a sequential design
number, e.g. 1 or 2 or … The last character identifies which manufacturer
built the reactor—W for Westinghouse, G for General Electric, C for
Combustion Engineering. The S1W designation identified it as the first
submarine reactor built by Westinghouse—the initial training prototype in
Arco, Idaho.
The reactor for NAUTILUS SSN571 was S2W—S1W was the reactor
for the training prototype in Arco, Idaho. Our submarine's reactor was a
S5W plant, the fifth submarine reactor designed and built by Westinghouse.
The difference between the S1W/S2W and our S5W was mostly
equipment specs and core design. The basic design of a steel reactor vessel
with a core of enriched uranium with a pressurizer, two primary water loops
and multiple pumps feeding two steam-generators was the same for the
S1W/S2W plants and our S5W reactor plant. A major difference was in the
construction of the S5W reactor core— higher power output and longer
reactor life. The exception was the S2G. It was a sodium-potassium Liquid
Metal Fast Reactor designed to provide superheated steam for USS
SEAWOLF (SSN-575).
Adm Rickover was always striving for reactor enhancements but they
always second place to his priorities for crew safety and engineering
reliability.
4-9—The reactor coolant and steam-generators are a thermodynamic engine
system. As such, the system is designed to operate at specific water
temperatures in the steam-generator as determined by the design
temperature limitations of the reactor core. This was expressed as reactor
coolant average temperature—Tave. Tave was computed during reactor
operations from the inlet primary-coolant temperature and the higher
temperature of the outlet primary-coolant at the reactor vessel’s coolant
nozzles. An increase of Tave provided more energy to the steam-generators
which provided more steam to the propulsion turbines for higher submarine
speeds.
Tave was displayed on a meter on the RPCP's vertical console. One
basic watch-standing duty for the RO was to use the control rods to keep
Tave in its required temperature range.
4-10—Steam-traps were a set of baffles in the steam lines to remove water
from the steam stream. The baffle plates deflected the water in the steam
flow downward into a collection reservoir. When a sufficient weight of
water overcame a spring holding the reservoir outlet valve shut, the water
would be discharged down a pipe to the bilge. Of course, a little steam
escaped before the spring-operated valve re-shut. This not only generated
noise, but the hot escaping water and steam caused the compartment
temperature to rise.
When the cold steam pipes were being warmed up, large quantities of
water had to be removed. The steam trap outlet valves were pinned open to
maximize water removal. During this warm up period, the AMR and the
Engine Room were small versions of Dante's Inferno. Clouds of steam and
loud whistling noises emanated from the steam drain pipes. Loud pops
came from the heated steam pipes expanding in their support mounts and
the watertight collars between compartments.
4-11—One of the neat SSTG procedures I learned in nuclear power
prototype at S1W was how to pick up or shed an electrical load. The key for
putting an oncoming electric-generator online to a live electric bus was to
run the oncoming generator at a slightly higher frequency than the live
electric bus frequency. The EPCP operator had frequency meters showing
just a few Hertz (Hz) centered at 60Hz for each SSTG and for each electric
bus. He used these meters to keep the SSTG suppling stable power. The
frequency meters weren’t good enough to transition loads to an oncoming
SSTG.
For switching generator loads onto an operating bus, a phase
synchronization meter was used to accurately sense the phase difference
between the two systems’ frequencies. This phase meter allowed the new
generator to be a fraction of a cycle higher than the existing bus frequency.
By having the oncoming generator lead in electrical-phase of the bus power,
the new generator would grab the electrical load from the operating
generator. This technique allowed a smooth transition instead of voltage
transients that could trip off sensitive equipment. For me, grabbing or
shedding electrical power was always an exciting operation which
enlivened a boring watch.
4-12—Once the tender de-energized power to our boat, the manual labor
started. An E-Division gang went topside and removed the puka. The puka
was a custom-made stainless-steel housing that kept the rain out of the ER
escape trunk that housed the electrical connections for the tender’s cables. It
unlatched into half-cylinders that were stored outboard the starboard main
condenser in LLER.
 One of the smaller guys would crawl down into the escape trunk and
do a voltmeter check to ensure that the cables were dead. He then
disconnected the three monster supply cables which had been screwed into
sockets in the trunk. Tender personnel winched up the heavy cables using a
davit arrangement on the tender. Once they were free and clear, the escape
trunk would be rigged for dive which required screwing the covers onto the
electrical connection sockets. After the upper hatch was dogged shut, the
escape trunk was ready to be inspected. The EOOW made the inspection,
correcting any deficiencies, and dogged the lower hatch from the ER ladder.
Then, the EOOW would report the trunk rigged for dive to the COW.
4-13—SPM direction orders were given in degrees relative to the ship’s
bow. Thus, 270˚ relative would point the SPM to port, perpendicular to the
bow/stern centerline. The SPM’s screw would push the boat’s stern to port,
just like a right rudder order. The dead forward direction would be 000˚,
dead aft would be 180˚, and starboard would be 090˚. Any 360˚ direction
could be ordered.
4-14—In port, the naval Ensign, i.e. the American flag, flew on a short staff
attached to the back edge of the sail about 5 feet above the deck. The other
in port color was the Union Jack, the dark blue background of 50 white
stars, that was on a flagstaff at the bow.
Once the last line was castoff, we were officially underway. The OOD
made the announcement and the lookout on the Bridge would stick a
flagstaff with the Ensign attached into a socket on the top of the sail behind
the Bridge cockpit. A linehandler on deck would remove the Ensign/staff
attached to the sail. Another linehandler would have removed the Union
Jack and staff from the bow on the order to single up all lines.
On surface ships the Union Jack remains staffed underway.
4-15—Diving training at sea during Submarine School was in diesel boats
in Block Island Sound. Our training was done at night rather than during the
day to avoid conflicts with the daily course-curriculum and shipping traffic.
It was inspiring being on the Bridge of a WWII submarine for a night
cruise on the Thames River in early autumn. After leaving New London
Ledge Light at the mouth of the river, we steered through the Race, the
narrows between Fishers Island and Rhode Island, to the open waters of
Block Island Sound—NE of Long Island.
 Most of the water was barely 100 feet deep. Yet, the training officers
had no qualms about ordering us to make large down-angle crash dives to
periscope depth. Because the boat was over 300 feet long, it bothered my
engineering mind that if something went wrong, if you didn’t take off
down-angle quickly, you would be sticking the bow into the bottom with
the screws out of the water.
It didn't bother the school officers, although the faces of the boat's
OOD indicated that they were concerned about allowing novices make
crash dives with their submarine. The criterion was to get under water in
less than 60 seconds. One instructor dove to periscope depth in 45 seconds.
For nuke officers, it all seems a relic of the past because we knew diving a
nuclear boat would be a slow operation that could take 10 minutes or
longer.
4-16—Instead of using the trim pump, Negative tank was an amidships tank
that admitted water directly from sea or expelled water by blowing
Negative to sea. Negative was used by diesel boats for crash dive
submergence when surprised by an enemy aircraft. The rapid increase of
weight submerged the boat faster than waiting for the air in the MBTs to
vent off. The need for rapid submergence is not a factor for nuclear boats
which are rarely on the surface. However, Negative tank was a useful
carryover from diesel submarines.
Our submarine had multiple ballast tanks and trim tanks that provide
buoyancy and trim-adjustments for diving control. There were fore and aft
tanks to maintain up/down trim angles, i.e. up/down bubbles. There were
trim tanks amidships to fine tune the submarine to a neutral buoyancy, i.e.,
having the mass of the submarine equal to an equal volume of water. The
trim tanks including Negative tank were complicated pieces of mechanical
engineering. Not only were there calculations of weight with respect to
center of displacement to be made, but calculations for center of buoyancy
had to be considered for a myriad of situations because these physical
centers shifted significantly during diving and surfacing.
Added to the complexity was the need to hover, i.e. maintain depth at
zero speed for missile launches. There was a requirement to remove the
weight of extra water rushing into an empty launch tube once the missile
was launched. The missile compensating tanks and the hovering system did
not do these things well. We had to use our trim and ballast tanks to
overcome these system deficiencies.
 Designing and building MBTs and the trim tanks required determining
the volume of the tank, location, piping size for both water and air, moving
water by trim pumps, internal vents, and main vents for MBTs. Trim and
main ballistic tanks are some of the major differences between surface ships
and submarines. Trim tanks provided the Diving Officer the ability to
obtain satisfactory trim. Normally. FBM submarines wanted to be
negatively-trimmed—heavy—when they came to periscope depth in heavy
seas where the boat might be sucked to the surface by the Bernoulli effect.
Diesel boats also had a Safety Tank. WWII-era boats had a conning
tower cylinder atop the main hull. It was the Conning Officer’s periscope
watchstation. Safety Tank held a weight of water equal to the volume of
water of the conning tower. If the conning tower was breached—rammed
by an attacking enemy ship or suffering a fouled conning tower hatch
during a dive—the submarine could survive if the Safety tank water was
expelled. Our boat had no Safety Tank because it didn’t have a conning
tower.
4-17—Historically, Sabot refers to a dummy round used to train artillery
crews. Early artillery Sabots were made of wood. The Dutch word for a
wooden shoe is sabot. Some Sabot rounds had a greatly-reduced powder
charge that allowed it to exit the barrel of the weapon and travel a short
distance.
To exercise our missile launch systems, we fired a water-slug Sabot.
Sabot water equal to the weight of a missile sat atop a fiberglass dome at
the bottom of the tube. This allowed the ejection gas to push the water
straight out the launch tube.
Torpedo tube mechanisms are exercised by firing water-slugs which
didn’t use a disk. It used water from the WRT tanks.
4-18—Three sets of keys were required in our missile control system to
launch of a missile. There was a key for each ejection valve that controlled
4,500 psi nitrogen that pushed the missile out of its tube. Another special
tool-key was required to arm the warhead which was only activated for a
strategic nuclear missile launch. There was a Permission to Fire key for the
Captain. The ejection valve keys were kept by another officer, usually the
XO. For a strategic launch, the Captain had a punch tape program spool for
the fire control system to activate the missiles’ internal power supplies for
flight.
 For a strategic launch, the tactical spool would be sent to the Missile
Control Center and the ejection valve and warhead tool-keys to the Missile
Compartment. A team of Missile Technicians opened the upper missile tube
doors and armed the missiles. The Captain proceeded to his Launch Control
Panel in Conn. When the system was made completely ready, the Weapons
Officer depressed the MCC Ready push button on the master fire control
console. If the Captain was satisfied that the boat was completely ready, he
turned his key to complete his part of the firing circuit.
The Fire Control System had to be completely ready, the missile
properly powered up on its internal batteries, and the launcher system ready
with the missile tube muzzle hatch open to allow the fire command. Each
action turned a light on the MCC control console green. When all the lights
were green for the missile, the Weapons Officer ordered the console
operator, usually a chief, to push the Fire button. The system completed
several internal steps and launched the missile.
Famously, during a joint command inspection, an Air Force officer was
horrified to discover that an enlisted man performed the final push button
action to launch the missile.
4-19—There were two sources of nitrogen gas, in the Missile Compartment
for the A1 missile. The 4,500 psi gas, in 16 spheres, launched the missiles
out of their tubes. The ejection gas pushed the missile out of the launch tube
and formed a gas envelope around the missile which never got wet. The
missile motor ignited just before exiting the water pushing the missile to its
target.
The other nitrogen source—in 3,000 psi flasks—was used by the
missile tube breathing system for strategic launches. This gas pressurized
the missile tube during preparation for launch to equalize the launch tube to
sea pressure that allowed the missile hatch to open against the pressure of
seawater. Nitrogen, an inert gas, reduced the risk that a sparking component
would cause a fire in the missile during launch. As I recall, the nitrogen was
used in case switching to the internal power battery resulted in a short that
caused a fire.
Because there was no way to replace the nitrogen, it was not used to
breath the tubes during a WSRT—air from HP air flasks was used by the
missile breathing system. During a WSRT, four tubes would be breathed
(Note 5-3).
4-20—GDU operations were potentially dangerous. On our first sea trials,
the new cooks and messcooks had to pass a supervised test to qualify for
shooting the GDU. The GDU access door had a geared locking ring. It
required a lug wrench to unlock and rotate to open the breech door.
The GDU was a small, vertical torpedo tube with a 10 inch Teflon
coated ball valve at the bottom of the tube and a flapper outer door. The
flapper outer door was mechanically interlocked to the loading door so both
doors couldn’t be open at the same time.
All the boat's trash and the Galley's garbage were disposed through the
GDU while at sea. During a field day—all hands cleaning day—this meant
that the messcooks had extra work in handing all the trash from the rest of
the ship.
The trash compactor was a three foot long, nine inch cylindrical
stainless-steel tube. A plastic mesh sock was fitted into the tube and a 5
pound iron-weight was added. Then, it would it be filled with trash/garbage.
The compactor rammed the trash tight into the strong mesh-sock, new trash
was added, and the operation was repeated until the sock was full. The
GDU weight ensured the bag of trash sank to the bottom of the ocean and
did not float to the surface to revealing the presence of our submarine. After
filling, the plastic mesh sock was pulled out of the trash compactor and
stacked in a corner of the Galley for disposal. If wet garbage had been
compacted, the plastic-sock was a dripping, smelly, gooey mess leaking all
over the Galley deck. It was not a very sanitary situation. After draining,
garbage-socks were stored in the reefer until GDU ops.
GDU operations were usually conducted at periscope depth to reduce
the effect of sea pressure on the 10 inch ball valve and provide a safety
factor of less sea pressure in the event there was a malfunction. Because we
normally did navigation fixes at night on the midwatch, GDU operations
became another responsibility for the night baker. The Teflon ball valve was
the weak link in the system— it was easily scratched by trash when it was
opened. One of our tricks was to insert a cylinder of ice into the GDU
before putting in the first bag of trash. An empty #10 can filled with water
and frozen made the perfect protective ice slug for the GDU valve. The can
was removed just before the ice slug was inserted into the GDU.
Once the ice-slug and the trash bags were packed into the GDU, the
breech door was locked shut. A valve, connected to fire main water, was
opened and the outer door and ball-valve were opened. Between the weight
of the trash and the push of flushing water, the trash bags were shot out to
drop to the bottom of the sea.
4-21—The loss of THRESHER, in April 1963, during a test-depth dive
after shipyard work was a horrendous blow to the submarine force. To this
day, it is not clear from the official records what caused the initial failure
that led to this catastrophic loss of a submarine and its crew and civilian
riders.
Several investigations of the scattered hull sections on the bottom of
the ocean have not determined the full story of the loss. It was surmised that
a seawater piping failure led to flooding, a reactor Scram, loss of
propulsion, and an inability to blow ballasts tanks from its deep depth.
Intensive reviews of basic submarine design, shipyard test procedures,
reactor operating procedures, and deep operating policies were conducted.
A comprehensive safety program, called SUBSAFE, was instituted to
correct the shortcomings revealed by the investigation.
The initial action was to reduce the test-depth limits of operating
submarines until they could be upgraded with SUBSAFE modifications.
upgrades included new shipyard testing of piping welds, a new design of
the ballast tank blow systems, new policies/procedures for deep operations,
and new reactor operating procedures.
Operational procedures were reviewed. It was realized that a high
speed submarine at a deep depth could easily exceed test-depth if it suffered
a diving-planes casualty. Likewise, a submarine at slow speed while at test-
depth wouldn’t have the kinetic energy to propel itself to the surface if there
was a serious flooding casualty.
SUBSAFE policy restricted our going to our designed test-depth until
we underwent a shipyard overhaul and received the upgraded SUBSAFE
package. As a result, our test-depth dive did not allow us to go to
SKIPJACK's designed test-depth.
Bruce Rule’s book, Why the USS THRESHER SSN 593 Was Lost,
provides SOSUS information on loss of fast-speed MCPs with detailed
hull-compressibility data and MBT air-filters difficulties. The book, ISBN
9778-1-60888-168-0, states that there was no flooding causality. It
unequivocally concludes that THRESHER’s hull was crushed by pressure
and the deaths were instantaneous.
Rest in Peace.
 Chapter Five Notes
5-1—The Conning Officer gives course/rudder and/or speed orders directly
to the helmsman. Helm control was usually at the stern-planesman station.
For rudder orders, the helm uses his yoke stick-wheel and the rudder
indicator dial in the diving display to put the rudder at the ordered angle.
The helm takes the verbal speed order and transmits it to the throttleman in
Maneuvering via the Engine Order Telegraph—EOT—box located between
the two planesmen.
Rudder orders are prefaced with Right or Left followed by the number
of degrees that the rudder is to be moved—such as, Right 20º rudder. It was
common to use Standard rudder and Full rudder orders instead of degrees
—Standard being 25º and Full being 35º. Full rudder orders were only used
for tight turns and in an emergency such as a Man-Overboard situation. The
rudder was such a critical system that banging it into the rudder stops was
minimized to prevent damaging its mechanism. This is especially important
for a backing Bell. An astern order puts additional force—the static wall of
water—on the rudder pushing it hard into the rudder stops when using a
Full rudder command.
The helm’s EOT was a shiny brass box with a round glass window top
that held a knurled knob, centered in the window, that connected to a speed-
order-pointer just below the glass inside the box. There was a speed dial
circle and another arrow-pointer at the bottom of his box. The helmsman’s
box was linked to a similar, but different EOT, at the throttleman’s station in
Maneuvering.
Both EOTs contained a clock-like dial face that was divided into wedge
sectors with STOP at the top, Ahead-speeds were on the right side and
Backing-speeds were on the left side. Both EOTs had a set of two movable
arrow-pointers. When the Conning officer ordered a new speed, the helm
took EOT action that caused the throttleman to receive the new order and
acknowledge that he received it correctly.
On the helm’s EOT, he used his knurled-knob to move his speed-order-
pointer, just below the glass surface, to select the new speed order. Inside
the box, on the dial surface at the bottom of box, was the throttleman’s
acknowledgement-pointer which was positioned at the previous ordered
speed.
 In Maneuvering, the helm’s EOT order rings an alerting bell and moves
the throttleman’s EOT speed-order-pointer, at the bottom of the box, to the
new speed order. The throttleman manually moves his knurl-knob arrow,
the acknowledgement-pointer, at the top of his box to match up with the
new helm ordered speed. Then, he uses his throttle wheel to execute the
order.
The throttleman’s knob twist to match the new order is
acknowledgement of the new speed order. It sends an acknowledgement
signal bell ring to the helm’s EOT and moves the helm’s throttleman
acknowledgement-pointer, at the bottom. It will now match the upper arrow
ordered speed. Thus, the EOTs and manual pointer operations of the helm
and throttleman ensured that the ordered speed was received and
acknowledged correctly.
Our EOT speeds were Ahead 1/3, 2/3, Standard, Full and Flank. Then
on the left side, it was Back 1/3, 2/3 and Full. When on the main engines,
Ahead 1/3 was 5 knots and Ahead 2/3 was 10 knots. Standard was 15 knots.
Full speed was the maximum speed attainable with MCPs in slow speed
and Flank speed was maximum for 100% reactor power with fast-speed
MCPs. Actually, Flank speed was set at a maximum shaft rpm as
determined by the wear on the main turbine bearings. As bearing wear
increased, it required lowering maximum rpm to prevent turbine blade
contact (Note 1-7).
“All Ahead” and “All Stop” are orders used by ships with two
propellers. They also are used on single screw vessels because only using
the single word Ahead or Stop needs an alert-preface to prepare the operator
for the order. Besides, we did have two ahead and two astern turbines, albeit
each turbine operated in unison—unlike the turbines on ships with two
screws.
Speed orders are generically referred as Bells because of the EOT’s
ring noise. But the word Bell was not part of the command to the
helmsman. When the EOOW tells Conn “Ready to answer All Bells” it
meant that the Engineering Department had the main engines ready to
provide propulsion at all speeds.
5-2—DRT is the acronym for Dead Reckoning Table, aka Tracer. It is a
glass topped box containing a XY motor mechanism using gyro compass
and pit log data. These inputs moved a bug projecting a dot of light with
crosshairs, on the table’s glass. It would show through tracing paper or chart
that was on top of the glass. The ship's movements were then indicated by
the light bug. A chart, with matching scale, could be placed over the glass
allowing the boat’s position to be plotted/traced in real time.
In normal practice, a thin layer of tracing paper was taped over the
chart with the quartermaster marking the boat’s position as often as the
operational mission required. The DRT was excellent for tracking ship
maneuvers during navigating into and out of port, for torpedo firings, and
was a required submission at the end of patrol for all WSRTs. It was a
critical tool for returning to the original position where a man fell
overboard.
5-3—A part of the strategic missile launch evolution was opening the
missile hatches. To counter the force of seawater on the missile hatch
required providing gas pressure under the hatch that matched sea pressure.
The missile remained dry after the hatch was opened because a Mylar
plastic disk covering, the diaphragm, that sat atop the missile tube.
To keep the force of the seawater from pressing down on the
diaphragm, the missile tube had a breathing system that supplied constantly
adjusted pressurized gas (Note 4-19), equal to sea pressure. The equalizing
gas went to both sides of the diaphragm— above and below it—while the
muzzle hatch was shut.
When the hatch opened, the under the hatch valve shut off the gas
above the diaphragm while the tube underneath continued to breath until
the missile was launched. The firing command released high pressure inert
nitrogen gas (Note 4-19) from the launch sphere—one sphere for each
missile tube—that pushed the missile upward in an envelope of gas. As the
missile began to move in the tube, a voltage ignited a primer cord X in the
Mylar diaphragm to cut it open. Because of the strength of the Mylar
diaphragm, early Polaris launch tests showed that allowing the missile nose
to break the Mylar diaphragm would both damage the nose cone and throw
the missile off its upward path thru the water. With the diaphragm open, the
missile reached the surface straight up, its solid propellant motor igniting to
carry it into outer space towards its target.
From topside on the tender, it was a grand sight to see all the missile
hatches opened for routine maintenance. On the inside center of each hatch
was the missile tube number. Most FBM missile techs painted colored pool
balls that corresponded to the missile tube numbers with the cue ball being
number 16. One enterprising and talented missile gang painted Playboy
Vargas Ladies on the inside of their hatches. The paintings were expertly
done and were as revealing as any foldout page in a Playboy magazine.
Except, each lady held a numbered card corresponding to her missile tube.
Whenever this boat opened their hatches, the tender's weather decks were
packed with sailors gazing at 8 of the Vargas ladies.
5-4—Every submarine had emergency buoys housed fore and aft in the
superstructure next to two escape trunks. The buoys could be released if the
submarine was stuck on the bottom. This safety feature predated WWII. A
reel of line in the housing attached to the buoy kept it tethered to the
submarine. A sound-powered-phone in the buoy connected to a phone in
the escape trunk. Levers in the Torpedo Room and Engine Room released
the buoy. Our buoys were only operational for our sea trials. Each buoy had
a stainless-steel plate in English and French stating the name of the
submarine and directed the rescuer to use the phone to talk to the
submarine.
The emergency buoys were strap welded to the hull before going on
patrol to prevent inadvertent release. Attack submarines going on
clandestine operations also had their emergency buoys welded before going
on their missions. This removed the possibility that a buoy might break free
to alert a Soviet vessel in the area.
5-5—On GEORGE WASHINGTON’s first patrol, someone forgot to shut
the whistle valve to the 100 psi air system. Halfway across the Atlantic
Ocean, an EAB mask drill gave everyone a face full of seawater. The 100
psi air also supplied the EAB masks. The whistle valve hadn’t been shut on
rig for dive. A rapid change order went out to FBM shipyards for a separate
1,500 psi air connection to the boat’s whistle to prevent seawater intrusion.
5-6—These were the days well before today’s ubiquitous high tech
maritime VHF transceivers and cell phones. Evidently, Walkie Talkies had
been tried in Holy Loch, but they caused interference to home TV reception
around the Loch. Because of the complaints from the Holy Loch residents,
the Navy stopped using the Walkie-Talkies. Thus, we used hand signals and
a megaphone to communicate with the Scottish tugs that didn’t have a bow
bumper.
5-7—Besides collecting photo, radio, radar, and acoustic signature data on
our submarines, the Soviet’s AGI used our comings and goings to
determine our schedule and patrol cycle effectiveness. The ELINT trawler’s
primary purpose was to determine how many nuclear warheads were aimed
at the Soviet heartland at any specific time. But they were effective in
collecting electromagnetic and acoustic characteristics on our FBM
submarines.
 Chapter Six Notes
6-1—The procedure for shifting from an Ahead speed to an Astern speed
had a set routine. The OOD ordered an All Stop, then gave the Astern speed
order. The throttleman at the SPCP used his ahead wheel to completely shut
off steam to the Ahead turbines. Then he used his astern wheel to open the
valves for the Astern turbines—see the EOT section in Note 5-1.
In an operational emergency, such as a fishing boat suddenly turning to
cross in front of the bow, the OOD would order an Astern Bell without an
intermediate All Stop order. For this emergency command, the throttleman
simultaneously, in a rapid manner, would shut the ahead wheel while
opening the astern wheel.
Normal throttle wheel opening rates were made slowly to minimize
cavitation from the screw. If the OOD ordered an increase in speed by
jumping a Bell interval, the throttleman understood it was an emergency
Bell and would rapidly spin his throttle wheel open.
In our casualty, the throttleman knew that the loss of lube oil had shut
the ahead throttles and that manually tripping the turbines control values
negated the need to turn the ahead wheel to a closed position. He had to use
two hands to open the manual direct-link controls to the astern throttle. The
casualty took a drastic turn when the standby lube oil pump came on line
and the throttles at the turbine were reset. The throttleman executed his
actions correctly.
6-2—At the end of Eng’s summary on this horrendous casualty, no one
brought up the obvious observation that if the EOOW had not ordered the
MWS to reset the main throttle controls, the Scram wouldn’t have occurred.
Later in the patrol, I asked Andy about the final IR. He said the
EOOW’s order to reset the turbine control valves was added to the IR as the
reason that the incident turned into a major casualty. He said that a
statement was added that training was updated for the EOOW, MWS, and
throttleman to be aware of all actions that were being taken and that
watchstanders should be ready to issue warnings on orders that don’t reflect
the full operational situation.
6-3—Ship Inertial Navigation System (SINS) and Type11 periscope were
marvels of technology created by Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s
Draper Laboratory. SINS used precision gyroscopes and accelerometers to
measure the boat’s spatial movements to provide current position and
heading based on the last external inputs.
High speed hull stretching/contracting from the action of the thrust
bearing reacting to the propeller and the shudder/shimmy motions whenever
the rudder or planes were used caused sharp acceleration and velocity
changes that were difficult to measure. These transient forces acted on SINS
in a nonlinear manner. Overtime, the accuracy of position and heading data
would be degraded.
The missile fire control system needed to know where the submarine
was and in which direction it was headed in order to provide accurate
heading data to the missile. A position error of a few hundred feet wouldn’t
affect the effectiveness of a missile’s nuclear weapon. But if the direction of
flight was in error by even a fraction of a degree it would miss the target at
the end of a 1,200 mile flight.
The Type11 periscope was the tool designed to provide accurate
heading information by measuring stars . The periscope was a multimillion-
dollar marvel. The optics were internally stabilized with greater precision
that the components in the SINS. It had its own specialized electric,
electronic, hydraulic and compressed air systems to measure angle
accurately to thousandths of a degree.
The Type11 was a giant periscope with a fold down seat for the
Navigator while conducting his lengthy star shoots. Its optics were so high
powered, a pin hole view, and light sensitive that it couldn't be used during
daylight or even to shoot the moon's lower limb.
In the winter time, overcast days were the major problem for shooting
stars in the North Atlantic sky. Even in other seasons, if there was enough
cloud cover, a submarine might remain at periscope depth for hours while
waiting for cloud movement to uncover a full set of stars. The patrol joke
was that the Type11 was a million dollar instrument that told the Navigator
that the sky was too cloudy to shoot stars.
6-4—“Z” or Zulu Time is a universal designation for the time zone, 15-
degrees wide, centered on the Royal Observatory Longitude in Greenwich,
England. It is referred to as Universal or Greenwich Mean Time. The world
is divided into 24 one hour, 15-degree wide zones, labeled alphabetically
starting with A being one hour east of Greenwich, proceeding further east,
to N at the International Date Line. The west coast of the United State is in
Zone U and the east coast is in R. Each message sent in the Navy has an
identifier including the Zulu time and date of its transmission.
Navy communications used Zulu Time. Other ship clocks when in port
are usually set at the local area time. At sea it is the CO's choice as to how
the other clocks are set. But using local time at sea means changing the
ship's clocks every time the ship crosses into another time zone. Fortunately
for us, Holy Loch, Scotland is in the Greenwich time zone. All our clocks
were maintained in Zulu time during our patrol no matter where we
operated.
6-5—Salt in water at high temperatures and pressures is extremely
corrosive to steel—even stainless-steel—and must be kept out of steam-
generators and boilers. While many old Navy boilers used ordinary carbon
steel, nuclear power steam-generators required stainless-steel boiler tubes
because flakes of rust corrosion could get into the primary coolant and
cause problems.
The construction design of a steam-generator for nuclear ships is the
reverse of standard Navy boilers. Standard boiler design is a big fire box for
burning oil to heat the exterior of tubes containing boiler feedwater. In
nuclear power, the tubes carry the heat source—hot primary-coolant—and
the boiler water is outside the tubes.
With the use of expensive stainless-steel, metallurgists didn't believe
the boilers would be affected by salt corrosion as were the carbon steel
boilers. At the start of the nuclear power program, the purity of the water
required for the stainless-steel tube steam-generators was nearly identical
for carbon-steel tube-boilers. After some steam-generator stainless-steel
tube failures, an intense investigation discovered chloride hideout caused
corrosion at the stainless-steel weld sites. This new discovery required
higher purity water than for standard carbon steel boilers.
6-6—Running an evaporator is more art than science. Basically, the
evaporator is a pot of boiling seawater where the steam output, which
theoretically is free of salt, is condensed to provide fresh water. While the
concept is simple, engineering an evaporator that could be operated at sea is
the Holy Grail for naval designers. One of the challenges is to design an
evaporator as small as possible while getting maximum output of water.
The basic trade-offs result in compromises that make the operation of an
evaporator an art rather than just turning on a switch to start a motor.
 The art is in how much heat is used to obtain maximum production of
pure water without salt carryover. Because our evap used steam to heat the
water, it was necessary to constantly monitor that enough steam was being
used to provide a large quantity of salt-free water. The problem was not
simply solved by setting the steam intake valve and letting it run in
automatic. Atmospheric pressure affects the boiling point of the water. The
atmosphere in a submerged submarine usually was increasing because of
LP air used to operate valves, to clean machinery/filters, and the O₂
generator discharging new oxygen. Thus, the boiling point of water was
increasing over time. Plus, as water was boiled off, the remaining brine has
increased salt content requiring higher boiling temperatures. The operator
had to increase the steam flow into the evap which meant that there was a
chance of causing salt carryover.
The temperature of the seawater that cools the steam into condensed
water affects the evaporator. In the summer time, the water at periscope
depth is much warmer than the deeper water. Warmer cooling water means
that less steam is condensed and the evaporator output will be reduced.
Thus, the change from deep running to periscope depth affects the
efficiency of evaporator operations.
As backup to the evaporator, we had an electric still in AMS. This was
a carry-over system from the diesel boats. It was simpler to use and
provided higher quality water than the steam heated evaporator. It was used
to generate high quality water which after going through a demineralizer
was used to refill battery cells and as input water to the O₂ generator.
Obviously, the operation of the evaporator required operators who
understood all these variables. The operator had to constantly adjust the
evaporator’s controls to account for these changes. Our sub didn't use a
dedicated evaporator operator. It was an additional task for the ULER
watch. As a result, if a watchstander got caught up in another task, such as
running the lube oil purifier, the evaporator could run off the road and make
salty water.
Instead of just dumping salty water to the bilge, the salty water output
was sent forward to the potable water tanks for the crew's use. This salty
water would be diluted by the existing water in the crew's potable water
tanks. It was viable for drinking and showers. Once the operator got the
evaporator back to making better water, the output would return the
feedwater reserve-storage tanks.
 Chapter Seven Notes
7-1—During Idaho reactor prototype training a fellow nuke student, a
Princeton chemistry major, and I investigated an alternate procedure for
testing boiler water. The existing test was a titration color determination,
requiring an operator to make a visual decision. It was so sensitive that a
single additional drop of titration solution could skew the test results. The
procedure stated that the initial color change would go from clear to gray,
but the tester was cautioned to continue titrating until a deep purple color
was obtained. Depending on the individual operator’s visual acuity, the
range of drops easily could vary from one to three drops which resulted in a
significant change in the measurement results.
We knew that at the titration point, the boiler water sample changed
from a non-ionic solution to a totally ionic solution, i.e., the water sample
instantly became electrically conductive. Our proposed new technique was
to use the change in conductivity to eliminate dependence on the optical
acuity of the individual doing the test. We wanted a simple process that
determined the titration point with a sudden, large swing of a voltmeter
needle. Our supposition was that measuring the voltage change across the
test solution during titration would provide more accurate test results.
We decided to work on the project during the three-day off-periods
between shift change schedules that occurred every three weeks. After
discussing this with the civilian in charge of S1W boiler water testing, he
gave us lab space. During our first off-period we scrounged for glassware,
chemicals, electric-meters, and a 5 gallon jug of boiler water. On our second
set of days-off, we conducted an unsatisfactory initial test which gave
random voltage fluctuations as we stirred the mixture while adding the
titration test solution. We determined that CO₂ in the air was dissolving into
the mixture to form carbonic acid, a conductive ionic product, as we stirred
the sample during titration. We needed an air tight cover and a magnetic
stirring apparatus. Our goal was to locate this additional equipment which
would be a difficult undertaking.
On our next off-duty period, we returned to find that our test equipment
and experiment notes were gone. On checking with the lab supervisor, we
got the shock of our young lives. One of Rickover's senior civilian staff
engineers made a surprise inspection of the facilities the week before. The
OIC, Officer In Charge, of the porotype gave this visitor a site tour which
included our lab space. The visitor inquired about our experiment. The
supervisor explained our experiment as the OIC was berating him about our
antiquated equipment. We were using old Thomas Edison type wood-
framed voltmeters and chipped glassware. With pride, the supervisor told
the story of two students investigating an electro-ionic test for boiler water
to replace the visual-color titration technique.
Huffily, the senior engineer asked why the students had free time
during training to conduct such an experiment. The supervisor explained we
were using our three-day off-periods. The senior visitor got irate. He stated
that the students were supposed to be getting drunk and laid on their off-
days. He said that Naval Reactors was paying companies millions of dollars
to devise tests and he didn't want students interfering. After the VIP’s
comments, the OIC ordered removal of our equipment and the stopping our
experiment.
The philosophy of us being part of Rickover's engineering development
team had piqued my interest months ago. During our academic nuclear
power school in Vallejo, the instructors told us stories about the initial
classes of students provided graduate type assistance in early reactor design.
They regaled us with stories of the long days and nights that students spent
hand computing complex Bessel function equations to determine the
neutron flux spilling over the lip of the reactor vessel for different reactor
core designs. These stories had inspired us to investigate this new method
for boiler water testing.
In addition, the academic nuke school in Vallejo, CA, had asked me to
join their staff as a chemistry instructor. This occurred after I aced their
chemistry courses. This was a complete turnaround from my inaptitude with
Physical Chemistry at Villanova. I was anxious to go to submarine sea duty,
so, I respectively declined their offer.
This VIP visit completely devastated us. We were crestfallen that the
you are part of the design team philosophy had taken a hard hit from one of
Rickover's staff people. His remarks were a tremendous blow. The energetic
initial support given to us from the Lab Supervisor had reinforced the
feeling that we were part of the team.
After a week of sorting out what had occurred, I decided that I didn't
want to spend my career just reading manuals and pushing buttons. I was
educated as a scientist and wanted to experience innovative activity. I
decided that maybe Rickover's nuclear power field wasn’t for me. I
submitted a request to the training office to withdraw from the nuclear
program and go to diesel submarines.
I was called into the OIC's office the next day. The Commander told
me that the Navy had too much invested in me to release me from the
nuclear program. He offered to transfer me to the surface ship nuclear
power program. I forcefully declined and explained that my original goal
was to go to sea in submarines, even diesel submarines. So, I remained in
the submarine nuke program.
A few weeks later, we received a BuPers’ form, Requests for next duty
assignment. It was called the Dream Sheet because you could state what
duty preferences you wanted. The usual outcome was that you never got
your requested duty. The form asked you to list the top three sea duty
assignments you preferred. I saw this form as a way to express my hurt
about being forced to remain in nuclear power. I listed diesel submarines,
ocean going tugs, and mine sweepers as my choices for sea duty.
The next day I was ordered to report to head of personnel. He berated
me that there were no nuclear power plants on my submitted selections and
I had to change my selections to nuclear power ships. Now, I was really fed
up. I curtly replied that it was my Dream Sheet and those were the types of
duty I wanted. I was oblivious to the fact that my angry attitude would be
reflected in my fitness report at the end of training. I was too Italian to even
consider changing my form. I left my preferences as non-nuke sea duty.
The thing I did not fully appreciate was that I was only a lowly ensign.
I didn't reflect on the big picture of what I was doing. Being a student in the
Navy for almost a year, I had not suffered the indignities that new ensigns
endured aboard a ship in the fleet. And being Italian I did not suffer from a
lack of self-righteousness, nor did I fully appreciate the opportunity and
education I was receiving.
However, I was not a quitter and didn't try to flunk out. I gave my
remaining training all the effort that I did at the start. I really enjoyed
reactor prototype because of the hands-on equipment operations
interspersed with classroom study. I successfully passed the monthly
academic tests, operating qualifications, and final oral board within the
allotted time. I never saw my fitness report at the end of training. I didn’t
even think about it as I drove my Corvette from Idaho to Philadelphia on
leave to visit my girlfriend and future wife. Then, it was on to New London
to start my training at Submarine School.
 Years later, much to my chagrin, I found out that the fitness evaluation
criteria for the BuPers officer responsible for writing duty assignment
orders was determined by the percentage of orders he wrote which matched
the officers’ Dream Sheet requests. I felt badly when I realized that I had
hurt this guy's fitness report. He certainly didn't have anything to do with
Rickover's senior staff member having a lack of appreciation for idealistic
young officers. Nor, did he have an opportunity to reason with me about my
obstinate decision to forsake nuclear power because of a personal pique. Of
course, the irony of the situation was that I successfully continued nuclear
power training and was ordered to a sea going submarine—which was my
original goal.
7-2—Radiation energy in the reactor acted on an injected chemical that
removed oxygen from the primary coolant. In addition, radiation supplied
the energy for the resultant product to react with the micro-salt in the water
to form an acid. This helped to keep the primary coolant in the specific pH
range required to inhibited corrosion of the stainless-steel welds.
7-3—The explosive danger of hydrogen gas is well known. However, the
hazard of pure oxygen is not always fully appreciated. Pure oxygen
accelerates the burning rate of any material and, in some cases, violently
enough to provide a near explosive result. A hydrogen leak in the O2
Generator could lead to a flaming flash or an explosion when an electrical
spark occurs or a flame is present. An oxygen flash fire could occur if there
was a spark near grease or oil at the oxygen leak.
7-4—During the construction of NAUTILUS (SSN 571), the Navy
confined a group of sailors in a simulated hull structure for a 30 day
evaluation on the effectiveness of newly developed atmospheric
conditioning equipment. In addition, medical people were studying the
psychological and physiological impact on the personnel. One result from
the test was the subjects’ strong cravings for cottage cheese.
After investigation, it turned out that while the CO₂ levels in the
simulated atmosphere were within acceptable biological limits, the test
atmosphere was at the high end of the acceptable level. The higher CO₂
levels triggered a craving for cottage cheese which when eaten temporary
satiated the craving. As a result of these cottage cheese findings, the
allowable CO₂ level was set at a lower level for our submarine's
atmosphere.
7-5—There was an atmosphere radiation detector in the Reactor
Compartment that was in continuous operation. Its purpose was to warn of
any unusual levels of radioactivity such as a primary-coolant leak or major
compromise in the reactor core’s metal cladding.
In our situation, we received a radiation alarm when the MCPs were
shifted to fast-speed for the CRUD run (Note 7-6). The alarm sounded only
for a few seconds.
7-6—During early testing of a civilian nuclear reactor at the Caulk River
plant in Savanna, it was discovered that the interior walls of the primary
coolant pipes were coated with an unidentified deposit. The investigation
report identified the deposits as Caulk River Unidentified Deposits—
CRUD. Analysis determined that the deposits were dissolved minerals
plating out on the stainless-steel pipes. Because the deposits were soft, they
could be removed with just a strong surge of water through the pipes.
A maintenance procedure was developed to strip the CRUD off the
pipes by running MCPs at fast-speed. The filtering action of the
demineralizer was used to remove the suspended residue from the primary
coolant.
In practice, the impulse shock wave from the initial surge of water on
switching the MCPs to fast-speed knocked the CRUD from the surface of
the piping. However, running the MCPs in fast-speed for a longer time
period hastened the filtering action of the demineralizer in removing the
CRUD.
7-7—There was a coffee pot in Maneuvering for the watchstanders. Instead
of using the sink in the head/shower in AMR to draw the water for the pot,
the MWS would give the pot a head-start by filling it with hot water from
the feedwater surge-tanks located over the WTD in the ER. Some people,
including me, had a problem with this coffee. With some innovative testing,
we found traces of boiler water chemicals were present. It didn’t stop most
watchstanders from using it. Whenever I was constipated, I would drink
feedwater coffee.
7-8—Generating a POD on a submarine on patrol was a boring and a
questionable chore as there really wasn't much change in day-to-day routine
This was especially true on our patrol after XO stopped listing his
compartment inspection announcements because of his continuing search
for his stateroom door. Publishing a daily POD was a Navy requirement.
Plus, it gave XO a daily task to accomplish.
7-9—Layer depth is a function of the speed of sound in the ocean. It is the
depth were the sound velocity switches direction. Layer depth had impact
on sonar detection ranges. CZ, convergence zone propagation, provides a
way to overcome layer depth impact as described at the end of this Note.
The Submarine School acoustics course taught us a little known fact.
The speed of sound in water is determined by the Bulk Modulus
characteristic of water. Intuitively, I assumed sound energy traveled faster in
higher density water, i.e. cold water rather than warm water. However,
because of water’s Bulk Modulus property of elasticity, temperature is the
controlling factor. Thus, sound energy travels at a higher speed in warm
water than it does in cold water. Another factor affecting sound velocity is
that it increases with pressure, i.e. water depth. However, it has much less
effect than temperature changes, pressure, at tactical depths—it is a minor
factor.
At tactical submarine operational depths, the speed of sound typically
correlates to the temperature of the water as the pressure effect is minimal.
Thus, tactical layer depth can be expressed as a depth inflection point of
either sound velocity or temperature.
In the northern hemisphere, in the summer the sun heats the surface of
the water and there is little wind to mix this hot surface layer with the
deeper colder water. So, the highest temperature is usually at the surface of
the water in summer. This hot surface temperature causes a negative
gradient because the water gets colder with increasing depth. This is what
sonarmen call zero layer-depth.
Decreasing sound velocity with depth causes sound rays—in
accordance with Snell’s Law of wave travel—to bend downward toward the
bottom. Thus, older surface ships had difficulty in detecting submarines at
tactically useful ranges in the summer because the sound energy bends
towards the bottom and doesn’t travel in a straight line to reach longer
ranges. This results in only short-range detections of a few thousand yards.
In the dead of winter, the colder water is at the surface with water
temperature remaining the same, or warmer, as depth increases. Only at
very deep depths does the water become colder than at the surface. This
winter temperature inflection point is the deep depth layer which doesn’t
affect older surface ship sonars detection ranges because it typically was
deeper than a submarine’s operating depth.
Thus, the two extremes in tactical layer depths are zero-layer depth in
the summer and the deep layer in the winter. The other seasons fall in
between these two extremes. However, when a layer does occur at a tactical
depth, a submarine can hide under the layer from a surface ship sonar if the
sonar doesn’t have bottom bounce capability.
Layer depth is only one of many factors that control sonar detection
range. For WWII sonars, the summer zero-layer depth was the critical
factor that limited their sonar detection range.
There is an acoustic propagation phenomenon that avoids the layer
depth problem. The convergence zone (CZ) acoustic path provides long-
range sonar capability the year round in deep water. Before the downward
low angled acoustic rays hit the bottom, they bend upward to form a
focused bundle of acoustic rays at the surface. This is a low loss
propagation zone. In the Atlantic, CZ ranges occur from about 20 to 35
nmiles with about a five thousand yard zone width. The actual range to the
zone and its width depends on the sound speed profile, water depth, and the
tactical depths of the searcher and the contact. While CZ only allows a
narrow detection zone, it provides a low loss path at long-ranges.
7-10—The Chief of the Watch (COW) operated the Ballast Control Panel
(BCP). He was the traffic cop for the submarine while under way,
coordinating a variety of routine events.
In nuclear submarines all the ship’s operational control functions are in
the Control Room. The Conning office, diving officer, and COW interact to
control the submarine. The BCP's indicator lights and gauges showed
whether critical hatches and valves were open or shut. To the uninitiated,
the panel might seem to be a collection of gaily colored lights. For the BCP
operator, they were nerve-ends sending signals to initiate myriad actions
that manipulated equipment throughout the boat. The BCP lights signaled
when valves were lined up correctly for shifting water into or out of the
boat to maintain neutral buoyancy or to move it fore and aft to adjust the
boat’s bubble. These indicators were used to line up the Drain Pump to
pump bilge water to sea. The COW operated the raising/lowering of all the
electronic masts and the snorkel mast with controls on the BCP.
The BCP also controlled the major mechanisms that made a submarine
different from a surface ship—the main ballast tanks and vents. The vent
valves, at the top of the ballast tanks, allowed air to escape so water would
fill the MBTs to submerge the boat. Another critical control system
mechanism at the BCP were the air valves that allowed air to empty the
MBTs to surface the boat.
On our FBM, the BCP was twice as long as on an attack boat because
of a panel for the 16 missile tubes upper hatch status indicators and missile
compensating tanks controls. The BCP contained the controls for the
hovering system required for missile launch. The early version hovering
system on our class submarine didn’t work well because of small pumps
and primitive sensing systems. To hover, we ended up using our basic
submarine systems controlled by a human brain.
In addition to being the central control operator for submarine
mechanical operations, the COW was the social director for the
watchstanders, both fore and aft. Any watchstander—whether he was in the
Torpedo room or Engine Room—could call the COW to ask what was
going down for midrats or the title of the next movie.
7-11—After surfacing in diesel boats, the Diving Officer became the
OOD/Conning Officer on the Bridge. There was no engineering officer
watchstation on a diesel boat. The small officer corps, typically eight or
nine officers including CO and XO. Submerged, there were typically an
OOD/Conning Officer in the conning tower and a Diving Officer in the
Control Room. The OOD/Conning Officer was responsible for operations
and making periscope searches. The Diving Officer controlled the dive
while submerged. The CO and XO didn't stand watches. For an eight-
officer Wardroom, if everyone was qualified, the Conning Officers and
Diving Officers would be in three watch-sections.
In nuclear submarines there was an EOOW position that could be filled
only by a qualified nuclear trained officer. With 13 officers in the
Wardroom, the medical officer, Eng, Nav, XO, and CO didn't stand a watch.
There were officers in a training status—unqualified to stand watches.
Thus, there might be only be six or seven officers for the EOOW,
OOD/Conning Officer, and Diving Officer watchstations. This meant that
two or four of those watchstations would be in a port-and-starboard watch
rotation (Note 4-5). Because there were seldom calls for their services,
doctors and Supply Corps officers, sometimes became qualified Diving
Officers.
 Because of the high tempo construction of FBM and attack boats in the
1960’s there weren’t enough qualified, nuclear trained officers to fill all of
the FBM submarine billets. There were many new young nuclear officers
not qualified in submarines or qualified to stand EOOW watches.
Continuing the diesel boat tradition of assigning officers to be the Diving
Officer would result in port-and-starboard watches for the qualified officers.
Thus, there was a need to train chief petty officers to stand Diving Officer
watches.
Because the Conning Officer was in the same space as the Diving
Officer—instead of being sequestered in the Conning Tower—experienced
chiefs were trained as diving officers. Because FBM patrols consisted of
long periods of cruising at moderate depths at slow speeds, it didn't take
long for a bright enlisted man with ambition to master the techniques
required to be a Diving Officer. This alleviated the shortage of watch
officers.
7-12—Clearing sonar baffles was a standard submarine procedure to check
if anyone was trailing you. During my time at sea, most sonars were located
in the bow area to shield them from the screw and machinery noise. To
further reduce the effect of noise, the BQR-2B sonar, nestled in a quiet area
under the torpedo tubes, was fitted with a baffle composed of sound
absorbing materials behind its array. It provided sound isolation from the aft
boat noise. This resulted in a blind zone for detecting contacts in the stern
area. To determine if another ship or submarine or contact was in our stern
area, a large course change was made to expose the baffle area.
7-13—The bubble on the boat is its pitch angle. A submarine with a 10˚ up-
bubble has its stern deeper than its bow. A submarine with a 10˚ down-
bubble has its bow deeper than its stern. The bubble was measured by a fore
and aft inclinometer—a long sealed curved tube filled with liquid with a
small bubble of air. Basically, it was a long carpenter’s level with the glass
graduated in degrees.
7-14—Wind speed and the associated agitation of the sea surface creates
sea state. The Beaufort Scale for sea states is the Navy’s standard
reference. The Beaufort Sea State number refers to the height of the sea
resulting from an exposure to a band of wind speeds across an expanse of
water for a sustained period of time.
 The classic Sea State 2 is wave heights under one foot caused by 7 to
10 knots of wind with wavelets large enough to occasionally produce
breaking white caps.
Sea State 0 is described as no wind and flat water—as still as a mill
pond on a sultry New England midsummer day.
Sea State 12 is greater than 64 knots of wind, gale force, with the air
filled with foam and spray. The sea is completely confused with wave
heights greater than 46 feet.
We could estimate the Sea State by the amount of sonar acoustic noise
the ocean generated and by periscope observations. Both techniques were
rough estimates, especially periscope observations with little moon light.
The sonarmen used the BQH-8 self-noise monitoring hydrophones along
the outer the pressure hull to make an estimate of Sea State. When the
submarine was at slow speed an increase in noise levels from the hull’s
forward BQH-8 hydrophones indicated ocean surface noise. Because our
submarine was an early noisy submarine, sonar could not overcome boat’s
self-noise until the ocean was at a Sea State 3 or greater.
For a Conning Officer, estimating Sea State through the periscope was
a difficult process, particularly at night. Observing the ocean from a
monocular eyepiece close to the surface of the water at night was only
possible under good moonlight conditions. If clouds obscured the moon or
if there was less than a quarter moon, only the most experienced Conning
Officers could make an intelligent guess of sea state and wind direction.
Making night time weather observations through a periscope was more art
than science.
7-15—Near the surface of the water, swells and waves generate a Bernoulli
suction effect on a submarine's hull that could broach the submarine, i.e.,
pull it to the surface—putting the sail out of the water. This suction effect
was especially pronounced on FBM submarines because of its large flat
missile deck. The missile deck was a significant fraction of the total
external topside surface area and provided a large, flat area for the pressure
effects to act on.
This force could pull an FBM to the surface while it was at periscope
depth. Seas from fore and aft direction generated a greater effect than seas
abeam or off-the-quarter. The greater the sea state the greater the suction
effect. The rounded hull of the SKIPJACK class attack submarines and the
follow-on classes lessened these surface suction effects.
 Countering the near-surface suction effect took a step backwards in the
PERMIT class. Their short sails placed their planes closer to the surface
causing depth keeping problems at periscope-depth. Reducing the
effectiveness of the planes reduced a submarine’s ability to counter the
Bernoulli suction effects.
The SSBN 598 class submarines had a design problem. They had
smaller sized sail-planes than originally designed for the SKIPJACK class.
The planes were located closer to the top of the sail, to give them more
lever-arm capability. However, it reduced the effectiveness of the planes
because it put the planes closer to the sea surface turbulence action. This
turbulence is much greater in high sea states when the submarine required
maximum diving-planes effectiveness.
Even the larger sail-planes on the subsequent classes didn't always
provide enough force to counter this suction effect. USS DANIEL
WEBSTER (SSBN 626), the last ship of the LAFAYETTE class, was fitted
with bow-planes to provide better depth control. Bow-planes put the planes
further from the surface and at a longer fulcrum-lever distance from the
center of buoyancy. This generated more diving-plane force to counter the
missile deck Bernoulli effects.
This location of the diving-planes was a success as it greatly improved
WEBSTER's depth keeping performance and reduced porpoising. However,
the planes on the bow reduced their top speed and the noise generated by
the mechanisms interfered with the bow sonars which was one of the
original reasons for going to sail-planes. After several patrols, the bow-
planes were removed and sail-planes were installed returning WEBSTER to
other forty FBM profile.
7-16—The BQH-1 was a bathythermograph that measured the velocity of
sound in the water. A high frequency—supersonic—sounder in the sail sent
a short-pulse acoustic signal to reflectors directing it back to its transducer
on a continuous basis. By recording water depth, knowing the travel
time/distance of the pulse, and by using the Wilson equation for sound
speed, the BQH-1 would plot speed of sound/temperature versus depth on a
paper chart on a drum.
Temperature versus depth is important to the diving officer because it
indicates a change in water density, i.e., warm water is less dense than cold
water. A submarine in an area of cold water, entering warmer water will be
less buoyant and may even sink rapidly. Thus, the Diving Officer needs to
know when there is a temperature change, i.e., density change in the water.
The sonarmen needed to know sound velocity versus depth profile because
it affects sound propagation in the water (Note 7-9).
The BQH-1 was located at the diving stand with a repeater in Sonar.
An ink-stylus marked a replaceable paper chart. It showed depth on the
vertical axis and sound speed in feet per second on the top axis-scale and
Fahrenheit temperature on the bottom axis-scale.
The BQH-1 was a technical marvel compared to the old diesel
submarine bathy. On REQUIN, my first submarine, the bathy consisted of a
2 inch square piece of smoked-glass inserted into a holder with a spring-
loaded needle-stylus scratching the smoke-side of the glass. The stylus-
vertical-arm was attached to a small tube connected to sea pressure and the
stylus-horizontal-arm was connected by a waterproof wire to a
thermocouple device in the sail providing temperature. The normal
procedure was to put a new smoked glass in the bathy upon surfacing so it
would be primed to work on the next dive. On diving, the stylus would
etch-out a very thin-line that traced out the temperature change versus
depth. This bathythermograph was mainly used to alert the Diving Office to
changes in temperature, i.e., the density that would affect the boat’s trim.
 Chapter Eight Notes
8-1—The two trolleys measured the missile’s axial difference from the
centerline of the boat. Each was a small suitcase-size, odd-looking device.
They hung suspended on rollers riding an oval T-track running fore and aft
between the missile-tubes in the upper level Missile Compartment. Each
missile-tube had a small window in line to a corresponding small window
in the missile. This provided optical access to a mirror in the missile’s
guidance system.
To make the measurement, the trolley was pulled along the T-track
until it reached its assigned missile. Then, it pulled up against a group of
reference pins on the missile tube and locked onto the missile tube. It
shined a beam of collimated-light into the missile. The trolley’s prisms
moved to bring the light beam into correct alignment that provided
alignment data to the MCC.
The trolley was pulled along by a motor-driven metal tape which was
notorious for jumping its track and/or breaking. The system had two speeds,
normal and a slower test-speed. It was common practice to use the lower
speed, even for a WSRT.
There were two trolleys and each could look to port or starboard. If one
failed, the other provided backup. Trolley operators had to be alert as it was
possible for the trolleys to look at each other rather than at a missile.
8-2—The Emergency Air Breathing, EAB, mask was a marvel of
submarine technology. It was a full-face mask, supple rubber that had two
large eye-glasses and thick straps holding the mask to the user's face. Four
simple pull-tabs allowed the user to apply tension to hold the mask tightly
to his face for a tight seal.
The large oval eye-glasses provided excellent vision. The interior of the
mask sealed off the area around the eyes from the nose/mouth area to
prevent fogging of the eye-glasses. A diaphragm at the mouth permitted
voice projection capability. At the bottom of the mask was a female snap-
connection that allowed connecting a 10-foot, ½ inch rubber hose with male
fittings at each end—25-foot hoses were available. The hoses connected to
ubiquitous EAB air manifolds throughout the boat. The manifolds were
connected to the boat’s 100 psi system supplied through reducers from the
HP storage air flasks. This ensured a reliable supply of air. A manifold had
five quick-connection sockets—spring-loaded shutoff-valves. A connection
was forced opened by inserting the hose’s male-fitting.
One of the great design features of the EAB was that the mask had a
demand-regulator—like a scuba diving mask. Air was supplied only when a
person inhaled. This safety feature ensured that if someone removed their
mask there will be no bleed-off of the air supply. The only way manifold-air
could be lost was if the hose was cut or the mask end of the hose was
disconnected from the mask. During work or cleanup ship, many used the
EAB hose connected to a manifold as a simple way to air-blow their
equipment or crevices.
8-3—The OBA, Oxygen Breathing Apparatus, was a self-contained
breathing system that used a hard-canister supply, a breathing bag, face
mask, and two 2 inch ribbed rubber tubes connecting the face mask and
breathing bag. It was a front-pack system that allowed the operator to
replace the chemical-canister without unstrapping the entire assembly from
his body.
One of the mask tubes directed exhaled breath into the bottom section
of the canister. The old-air then traveled up through the chemicals in the
canister to remove the CO2 and generate oxygen that came out the top of
the canister into the breathing bag. Upon inhaling, the diaphragm valve to
the canister's bottom section shut and a valve opened to allow fresh oxygen
from the breathing bag into the mask.
The active chemical ingredient was potassium superoxide that
generated oxygen when wetted with vapor from exhaled breaths. Other
chemicals remove the CO2 from the exhaled air.
The OBA was developed in the 1930’s and is a mainstay of shipboard
firefighting. It allowed safe entry into areas devoid of oxygen or
contaminated with smoke or other toxic gases. However, the chemical
canister only provided 30-to-60 minute supply of air, depending on the
exertion of the user. The OBA was usually started with deep breaths in a
safe environment so that the sodium chlorate initiation-candle could be
saved for a few minutes of emergency oxygen after the canister chemicals
were exhausted.
One drawback of the OBA was that the chemicals in the expended
canister reacted strongly with water. This danger required careful handling
and disposal of used canisters, esp. changing a canister during a firefighting
situation. The OBA was heavy and bulky.
8-4—Monitoring personnel for radiation exposure was a continuous process
on nuclear submarines. All personnel wore a film badge, a piece of
unexposed film in a metal clip-case. It was designed to record high levels of
radiation.
The dosimeter was a small metal cylinder, shorter than a pen and
thicker. Each end had a glass-lens to admit light for viewing. One end had
marked divisions that allowed reading a needle that moved proportionally
to the amount of ionizing radiation received.
The dosimeter recorded low levels of radiation and was used by
personnel in engineering-spaces. It provided a simple, rapid check on an
unexpected exposure to radiation. Each engineering member checked his
dosimeter daily to ensure that he hadn't accidentally been exposed to
excessive radiation. It was a short-term warning device. The film badge
provided a more accurate measure of accumulated radiation.
The Medical Department took a monthly reading of the dosimeter and
reset it back to zero. If for some reason a person's dosimeter maxed out
before the monthly reading, the Medical department would develop the
person's radiation film to determine the actual amount of radiation exposure
he had received.
Adm Rickover's Naval Reactors had stringent health standards that set
monthly, quarterly, and yearly radiation exposure limits that naval personnel
were not to exceed. Annual reports were made to each person and placed in
his health record. An immediate report of any personal exceeding a
monthly/quarterly/yearly exposure was made to Naval Reactors.
8-5—Radiation protective clothing was a misnomer. It didn't stop radiation.
It just provided a layer of disposable clothing that stopped material/water
containing radioactive particles from being deposited on the person's
clothing or skin. The coveralls were lightweight, plastic-paper, similar to
clothing used in surgery. The difference was that much more attention was
given to seal openings. While there were elastic cuffs for the wrists and
ankles, masking tape was used to ensure an airtight fitting at the closure
areas.
8-6—Filling the reactor and primary-coolant loops required vents that
allowed air to escape as water entered. Draining the water from the reactor
and the primary-coolant loops required vents to break the vacuum suction
during draining. The top of the MCPs were the high point in the primary
coolant loops, a vent pipe was attached to each stub connection atop each
MCP—the high point in the system.
The MCP was an amazing piece of machinery, a completely sealed unit
using primary-coolant in the space between the motor's rotor-and-stator as
lubrication.
8-7—The goat locker is a nickname for the Chief Petty Officers' quarters.
In the days of sailing ships chickens and, sometimes, cows were kept
aboard for fresh eggs and milk. One nineteenth century historical account
mentions that a goat was kept in the chiefs’ quarters. Some thought this was
the origin of the term goat locker. Others say it resulted from an XO
inspection that stated the chiefs’ quarters smelled like an old goat. Many
use the term goat locker as a collective reference to all the chiefs on the
boat. Just as Wardroom can mean dining area for officers or all the officers
onboard
8-8—Aboard Navy ships the working uniform for both officers and chiefs
was khaki-colored twill pants and cotton shirts. For Boomers at sea,
everyone wore the same style FBM submarine blue coveralls. A measure of
the seriousness of a casualty was to count the number of khaki people that
showed up, i.e., officers and chiefs.
On my second submarine during patrol, the CO wore a winter black
work uniform, buttoned up, long sleeved shirt and black trousers. The crew
called it the Johnny Cash uniform—the “Man in Black” album. I was told
that on later patrols this CO switched to Aviation Greens and he was known
as Romeo Alpha of Ranger Andy fame.
 Chapter Nine Notes
9-1—"Make your depth smartly!” Smartly means to do something swiftly
but under control, i.e., reaching the ordered depth quickly without any
violent maneuvers. For other nautical usage, handsomely means to do
something carefully and deliberately.
Coming to periscope depth puts a submarine in a vulnerable position
between being safe at patrol depth, where not even a deep draft ocean
tanker could scrape the sail, and being in the blind zone—unable to see
contacts before the periscope breaks the surface. It was impressed on
Diving Officers to make the transition to periscope depth as rapidly as
possible, i.e., smartly.
9-2—When storm surf tossed long coils of black plastic, coax-copper wire
on their beaches, coastal Norwegian wondered where all this stuff was
coming from.
9-3—The basic patrol metric for successfully receiving radio comms was
how many WSRT messages were missed or received late. There were
secondary metrics to assess the proficiency of the crew, particularly the
Conning Officers and Radio. They were based on how many times
continuous VLF transmissions were lost and the period of time for each
lost.
All FBM boats prided themselves in achieving greater than 99% of
continuous NCA radio reception. No boat wanted long periods of lost
comms coverage.
Because my broach cut the wire and we had trouble in getting a signal
on the VLF mast antenna, this loss time was a black mark for the CO and
the boat.
9-4—An equaling charge was a long battery charge frequently after a deep
discharge. It was lengthy charge that cleaned the cell plates and returned the
battery to a fully charged state. Submarine sailors used equalizer to describe
a long period of sleep. Another term used was “I've recharged my
batteries” after awaking from a long sleep.
9-5—For watchstanders at sea, early chow was for feeding those going on-
watch. After early chow for lunch and dinner in the Wardroom, there was a
first-sitting. It was a formal affair of sharing a meal with the Captain at a
designated meal time. Once the CO arrived, the stewards would offer
individual food items to each person. Usually, the CO was offered the first
choice from each serving dish and no one started eating until all were
served. By the time all courses were served, the food was cold except if
there was a soup course. Soup would be consumed before food choices
were offered. If there was a salad, it was placed on a salad plate before the
dinners arrived. The normal custom was that the salad could be eaten while
the food was being served. But no served food could be attacked until the
CO picked up his fork to eat.
With 13 officers, at sea, there would be at least four officers who were
either on-watch or going-on-watch. Thus, there was a maximum of nine
officers available for the ten spaces for lunch and dinner first-sitting. There
was no first-sitting for breakfast or midrats.
Those coming off-watch or missing first-sitting would be fed at
second-sitting. It started as soon as someone left the table from first-sitting.
Second-sitting was not a course served sitting. Whenever someone showed
up, he perused a small menu on a slotted dolphin place-card holder and
made a verbal request to the steward who brought a plate of the requested-
food. It was bad form to eat early chow with the going on-watch officers or
to eat at second-sitting by skipping the formal first-sitting. However, it did
happen.
In port, lunch and dinner started with first-sitting because there was not
a section watch rotation. There was a second-sitting for the three or four
junior officers who couldn’t be accommodated at first-siting. Most of the
time it was just fill-in. After someone finished their first-sitting meal, he
asked to be excused, left the table, and a waiting officer could request
permission to join the mess, and, then, take the empty chair. He would
inform the steward what he wanted and a plate of food would be brought to
him.
On our submarine the first-sittings were at noon and 1800, but the food
was served only after the Captain arrived or when he sent word that he
would not be at the meal. I can’t recall anyone asking for a second-helping
at a first-sitting.
 Chapter Ten Notes
10-1—MONOB was the MObile NOise Barge operated by David Taylor
Model Basin, DTMB, a Navy laboratory.
Early in the nuclear power program, the need for stealth, i.e., quietness,
was recognized as an important attribute for nuclear powered submarines.
The NAUTILUS and other first-generation nuclear submarines were so
noisy that SOSUS, SOund SUrveillance System—a system of listening
arrays on ocean bottoms—could track them across the Atlantic. It was
equally important for a submarine to have low self-noise so sonar could
search for targets. Submarine silencing was a high priority requirement for
submarines.
MONOB’s was full of analysis and tape recording equipment. It was
towed to Eleuthera Caribbean whenever a submarine needed to be
measured. After anchoring, a suspended vertical line of hydrophones
received the subs radiated noise. It was part of a shakedown cruise on
leaving a shipyard from new construction or a protracted overhaul. A
submarine would visit Eleuthera to make submerged passes near MONOB’s
vertical string of hydrophones. The submarine had to pass within ten feet of
the hydrophones. It was not unusual for the submarine to hit the
hydrophones.
DTMB personnel could accurately determine the absolute noise level
of the submarine's radiated-noise for each operating situation. During these
noise runs, DTMB personnel also recorded the self-noise of the submarine
to monitor the effectiveness of quieting techniques to reduce sonar-
interfering self-noise.
The Navy’s Sound Lab, USNUSL, developed a tactical sonar detection
model that used radiated noise, self-noise, sonar characteristics, and
propagation loss to determine a tactical range for detection of a specific
threat. Thus, if one had an estimate of a threat’s sonar capability, a
submarine’s vulnerability could be determined in range for the threat’s
sonar.
Eleuthera Island Noise Trials
As First Lieutenant at the end of overhaul—Epilogue-3—on my second
submarine, I knew that we were going on DASO which would involve
many operations with personnel topside. There would be days of personnel
transfers when operating with MONOB. Because it is easier to transfer
personnel at sea forward of the sail—missile deck is too high above the
water—I felt that we needed a sail-safety-rail. We had Sup Ships authorize
EB to install a temporary DASO safety-rail—½” steel-rod welded to ½”
studs—around the sail.
It was of great benefit to us for doing at sea personnel transfers
including one for NAD personnel. Also, it was of benefit to our own
personnel during port visits. But it had unforeseen consequences.
On our arrival radio check-in with the MONOB team, their first
question was “What hull modifications were done in the shipyard?”
Evidently ComSubLant got an alert from SOSUS that we had been tracked
by a unique new tonal that was speed dependent. ComSubLant contacted
DTMB to investigate this tonal during our noise trials. No other FBM had
our safety-rail. It also caused some interference with some of DTMB
measurements. It was a priority job for NAD to remove the safety-rail
before Blue crew left for patrol.
10-2—There were four states of weapons system preparedness. 4SQ was
when the weapon system was not ready to launch missiles, typically during
refit. 3SQ was when the system was able to launch, but there were no
assigned targets or targets were out of range. Such were the cases when we
were on sea trials or in transit to/from Holy Loch. 2SQ was normal patrol
condition when the missiles could be launched within 15 minutes. 1SQ was
when the submarine was at launch speed and depth or on the surface ready
to launch missiles. There were several critical differences in launch tube
operations and missile fire control conditions at 1SQ for strategic launches
and 1SQ for WSRTs. The WSRT constraints ensured the missiles couldn’t
be accidentally launched.
10-3—As part of the final POLARIS certification tests, the GEORGE
WASHINGTON (SSBN 598) fired two missiles. The launches were two
hours apart. There was a great deal of speculation on how depth control
could be maintained when missiles were launched a minute apart—the
requirement for the first ten FBMs. Later boats with a more powerful digital
fire control system and new hovering system were designed to launch at 15-
second intervals.
The ETHAN ALLEN SSBN 608 fired a strategic nuclear A1 missile
whose warhead detonated over a Pacific test range in 1962. It is the only
actual launch of a U.S. nuclear warhead missile.
10-4—A Captain's Mast (Non-judicial Punishment) conducted by the
Commanding Officer is a one-man judge and jury system. It is conducted
formally with all participants wearing their service dress uniforms. The
Commanding Officer reviews the charges, decides the culpability of the
defendant, and administers punishment. The punishment can be as slight as
dismissal of the charge(s)/restriction to quarters or as harsh as docking of
pay and/or reduction to a lower rate. The Uniform Code of Military Justice
guidelines puts limits on the punishments that can be awarded at Captain's
Mast.
In all my patrols, I remember only one Captain's Mast during
deployment. He was for a new arrival in the Torpedo Division who had a
rough attitude from the day he arrived. His offense was being returned to
the boat by the Dunoon constabulary for public drunken behavior. His Chief
took away his liberty and movie privileges. XO wrote him up for a
Captain's Mast. At Mast, the CO reduced him in rate which returned him to
seaman rate, E-3. This was a pay reduction and required him to be
recommended for and to pass a rating exam to regain his third class stripe.
Most Captain's Masts were held by FBM skippers during off-crew
periods in CONUS. The offenses were usually for overstaying a leave
period. The usual penalty was being denied liberty for a month. Actually,
the real penalty of going to Captain's Mast for minor mishaps was that an
entry was made in the man’s service record. This disqualified him for an
award of a good conduct medal and took away points he needed for his next
rate promotion.
10-5—TIME magazine used public information about A1 missile range
and the geographic location of nominal strategic targets in the Soviet Union
to determine possible launch areas that FBMs could use in the Norwegian
Sea. Not surprisingly, TIME determined that to cover targets deep into
Soviet strategic areas required a submarine to operate close to shore. The
magazine article called the GEORGE WASHINGTON submarines carrying
the A1 missiles “Mudsuckers” because we had to go into shallow water
close to shore for our short-range missile—1,200 nautical mile—to reach
Soviet targets.
 Chapter Eleven Notes
11-1—Emergency Deep is a dreaded command to dive the submarine deep
as rapidly as possible to escape impending danger of a nearby vessel. It
required immediate, drastic action to return the boat to a deeper depth,
usually patrol depth.
On receiving the verbal command, the DO immediately gives the order
“Full dive on your planes” to the planesmen and possibly “Flood negative
and/or forward trim 10,000 pounds to the COW.
Depending on the situation, the Conn would order a Full Rudder
command and/or high speed to make the planes more effective unless the
speed and/or rudder would make the collision situation worse. The Conn’s
next action would be to sound the collision alarm which would result in all
the WTDs being dogged shut and the ventilation flappers between each
compartment closed. Then, the 1MC would be used to apprise the crew of
the situation such as “Close surface contact, prepare for contact on the
bow.” Or Conn would describe another situation.
When Emergency Deep was initiated as a watch drill, it was prefaced
with “This is a drill” to negate using the Collision Alarm, 1MC
announcement, and an extreme down angle that would cut the comms wire.
The emergency deep situation can occur while coming to periscope
depth when a surface contact was suddenly detected nearby. It could be a
drifting fishing boat or sailboat or large tanker whose screw noise had been
hidden by its massive hull. These types of contacts are difficult for sonar to
detect during baffle sweeps.
Other situations for using Emergency Deep occur when encountering a
closing threat or friendly submarine that appears to be at one’s own depth.
When encountering a close-aboard submarine, the other possible command
is Emergency Rise.
11-2—Both Shellback and Blue Nose ceremonies have been practiced by
seamen for hundreds of years. Pollywog is the name for a sailor who has
never crossed the Equator and we used Ocean Scum for those who have
never crossed the Arctic Circle. Both types of sailor were held in low
esteem as inexperienced low life.
The ceremony conducted by King Neptune turned a Pollywog into a
Shellback, a hardened sailor of the Raging Main. The ceremony conducted
by Neptune Rex turned an Ocean Scum into a Blue Nose, a fearsome sailor
from the waters of the Arctic Circle. Sometimes these initiations were quite
elaborate and, in some cases, quite harsh on those being initiated.
11-3—The Arctic Circle is the Latitude at which, because of the tilt of the
earth’s axis, the center of the sun is visible throughout the day—the longest
day of the year. The Arctic Circle for most naval charts used 66˚ 32' N
Latitude—it was what we used.
The obliquity of ecliptic, the tilt of the Earth's axis as it orbits the sun,
has a defined wobble. This wobble is caused by the moon's tidal influence
on the Earth's waters and on the Earth’s deep, molten metal layers. Thus, a
periodic correction to the Arctic Circle Latitude is required. In the year
2000, a corrected-Latitude for the Arctic Circle was defined as 66˚ 33' 39''
N. The July 2020 Arctic Circle update was 66º 33’ 47.2'' N.
 Chapter Twelve Notes
12-1—Most submarines have two periscopes. Our number one scope was
longer—for use at a deeper depth—and had a smaller head to make its wake
more difficult to detect. This Type2B scope was called the attack scope as it
was used for torpedo attacks.
The search periscope, our number two scope, was the Type8B. It had a
much larger head which included a radar antenna/waveguide, an UHF stub-
antenna, an ECM receiver antenna that fed its ECM receiver. It had larger
optical lens making it more effective for night operations.
American periscopes are monocular devices. However, the observer’s
eyepiece of supple rubber covered both eyes. The eyepiece fit around both
eye sockets to block out all external light. Physiological laboratory testing
determined that if the non-periscope-eye wasn’t covered, light/images seen
by the non-observation-eye distracted the brain’s assessment of the scene
being observed through the periscope-eye.
Which eye the Conning Officer used depended on his preference. Most
Conning Officers had excellent vision. There was no need to pick one eye
over the other. By convention, the right eye was used for periscope
observation. If an officer desired to use his left eye, he rotated the eyepiece
attachment as the scope rose from the storage well—before grabbing the
periscope handles. If the eyepiece was rotated for the left-eye, the left-eyed
Conning Officer was obliged to rotate the eye-piece back when lowering
the scope.
Both the attack and search scopes permit removing the eyepiece so that
a film pack with a back-plane view-window could be attached for taking
periscope pictures—see Photo 8.
12-2—The UQC-1 was an underwater telephone for communicating
between other submarines or surface ships. It was call Gertrude—a name
attributed to the inventor’s daughter. The control box with a speaker and
microphone was located at the Conning Station. Gertrude was a simple
device consisting of a single hydrophone in a small dome on the upper-bow
that housed the transmitting/receiving transducer.
While its primary purpose was underwater communication, it had a
limited capability to detect close, noisy contacts. As SWO pointed out, it
was invaluable in picking up contacts near us that our primary sonar might
not detect because of sound layer conditions.
12-3—Our submarine had an Electronic Counter Measures (ECM) mast
that fed the AN-WLR-1 ECM receiver/analyzer. Our ECM didn't have the
bells and whistles of attack boats systems but it was sufficient for our
mission. We never raised the ECM mast on patrol.
The ECM mast and antennae were the biggest radar target we could
poke above the water. It towered over the snorkel head valve which was
close to the water. Because it was such a big radar target, we used our
Type8B periscope stub-antennae to feed ECM detection system housed
below the training handles.
12-4—Prior to the early 1960’s, individual ship’s crew developed, with
guidance from the shipyard, preventive maintenance plans for their
equipment. These were procedures taken from the technical manuals
provided with each equipment and from technical school knowledge gained
by the crew. These plans specified action and frequency requirements for
maintenance. They were printed on large index cards which were used to
log each preform maintenance.
The preventative maintenance cards were to ensure that equipment was
being properly maintained. At the time of our patrol, there was no system
set up to ensure that the preventative maintenance was being performed.
This oversight was fixed with the introduction of a formal preventive
maintenance master plan for the entire Navy. It started in 1963 and was
Navy wide by 1967. The final system was known as the Material and
Maintenance Management (3M) program.
12-5—One of the problems with the Blue and Gold crew rotations every
three months was the infusion of new crew members. Anywhere from one-
quarter to one-third of the crew hadn't been on the last patrol. Also, it had
been three months since crew members from the last patrol had been on the
boat.
This meant that every three months a new crew had to learn to work
together. Once they were back in a groove of watch-standing, they were
looking forward to returning to CONUS.
12-6—A name for backdating a log or maintenance entry was called
radioing in the entry. Possibly referring to an old method of logging receipt
of radio messages. Surface sailors used the term gundecking from keeping
gun deck logs back in the days of sailing ships and cannons.
12-7—Splice the Mainbrace is a naval tradition going back to the days of
square-rigged sailing. The sails were hung on yards, horizontal wooden
spars attached at the middle to a mast. There were three or more yards on
each mast. The largest sail on a yard was called the main.
Square rigged sailing ships, had a serious problem sailing a course
when the wind was coming from that direction. These sailing ships had to
tack, i.e., zig-zag back and forth across the desired course. Because the
rudder wasn't strong enough to overcome strong winds, each sail had to be
trimmed, i.e., turned to catch the wind. Thus, to steer a tack course required
angling the yards to catch the wind. To angle the yard a line was attached to
each end of a yard. This line was called a brace.
Because of the force of the wind on the sail, it took force—supplied by
the sailors—on a brace to turn the yard. The main yard required the most
force. The line to change the direction of the mainyard was called the
mainbrace. This large diameter line was fed through blocks, i.e., pulleys, to
multiply the crew's manual pulling effort on the mainbrace. Also, a block
was attached to the deck beside the main mast that changed the direction of
the mainbrace attached to the mainyard. This allowed the crew to pull the
mainbrace straight down the deck rather than at a slant-angle coming off
the mainyard high up on the mast.
The mainbrace was the largest line. When it parted—due to wear or
shot away in battle—it was a crucial repair. Because the brace had to be run
through blocks, a repair couldn't be just tying a knot in the line. The
mainbrace had to be spliced! Any seaman will tell you, splicing a line is
many times more difficult than tying a knot in a line. Splicing a big line is
many times harder than splicing a small line.
Thus, when a mainbrace parted, it was necessary to repair it quickly
because the ship's direction was now limited by the direction of the wind.
Because of the size of the mainbrace, it took many members of the crew to
splice it.
It became a custom in the Royal Navy that after such a horrendous
repair, the Captain would order up a ration of grog for those involved in
splicing the mainbrace. This custom of a special ration of alcohol for the
crew became known as Splice the Mainbrace.
The FBM submariners’ connection to sailing ships continued with a
Splice the Mainbrace party once a patrol. For FBM crews, the party was to
celebrate reaching the halfway point of the 60 day patrol.
12-8—An ancient tradition in many navies was the daily grog ration—rum
cut with water. One of the strictest rules in the modern U.S. Navy is no
alcohol aboard ship and no drinking during duty days on shore stations. The
U.S. Navy abolished issuing alcohol rations to its men on the order of
Abraham Lincoln in 1862.
In 1914, the Secretary of the Navy, Josephus Daniels a teetotaler,
banned the crew from drinking their own alcohol aboard ship. Navy men
have been strict abstainers since. As a result of the alcohol ban, the
strongest drink served on U.S. Navy ships since then has been coffee. Some
say this was the origin of the term cup of Joe, re Josephus Daniel, which
replaced the stimulant of alcohol.
 Chapter Thirteen Notes
13-1—On my first patrol, messages to Navy ships were transmitted from
broadcasting stations by Morse Code, packaged in uniform-sized-segments.
Only later was teletype employed. Some messages were general messages
to all ships and some were to specific ships.
There was a special transmitting system for submarines. Each two-hour
long broadcast started with a list of message addressees so that a submarine
could copy the start of the broadcast, i.e., copy the numbers, to determine
whether there was a message for them. A message was repeated in a series
of broadcasts—typically four times. Thus, a submarine didn’t have to come
to periscope depth for every broadcast.
FBM submarines were required to continuously monitor the NCA
broadcast to receive strategic-launch and WSRT messages.
13-2—One of the surprising things I observed on patrol was the high-
performance level of human operators. Many times, the human
outperformed high technology monitoring and alarm equipment.
Andy's manual hovering capability outperformed the built-in hovering
system. The sonarmen had the ability to discern propeller shaft and blade
count that the EB Demod analyzer couldn't detect. Engineers could hear a
different noise from an electric motor or pump and know that something
was wrong before any gauge or temperature monitor provided an alert. The
radio operators had the ability to read weak Morse code at a lower signal
level than the automatic code receiving-machine. It was human nature’s
ability to adapt to the environment confronting them.
13-3—The Mk14 was the torpedo I fired in Long Island Sound was my
qualification torpedo shot from the USS CLAMAGORE (SS343). I was
ecstatic when the tug skipper radioed that they held bubbles aft. The
exhaust bubbles from the combustion of the alcohol-fuel and air-supply in
the torpedo was what the tug saw. Because the torpedo was set to run under
the tug, the time it took for the bubbles to rise to the surface meant that my
shot was dead-on. The tug had crossed right over my torpedo as it passed
below them. The torpedo’s exhaust bubbles that came to the surface behind
them was because of the time to rise to the surface. If my torpedo had a
shallow running depth, it would have banged a big dent in their steel hull.
A key step in my loading the Mk14 into CLAMAGORE’s torpedo tube
was to remove the transportation pin. I still carry that Monel transportation
pin in my Dopp-kit. It was a specially shaped screw with a pointy end that
caged the gyro during land transport and loading into the submarine to
prevent damaging the torpedo’s gyro.
Our missile boat carried the Mk14 for defense against Soviet ASW
ships. I found out later that there was a plan that once we launched all our
missiles, we were to hunt and attack Soviet submarines, warships, and
merchant ships.
13-4—The earliest Mk37 was a fire and forget weapon, just like the Mk14.
However, it not only had preset course/speed/depth options, it had many
other mode operations that could be set. It had an active or passive search
mode or combination. It was a completely different torpedo than the Mk14.
The Mk37 had so many features that it was difficult to keep them
straight. The acoustic sensor on the torpedo had a narrow sonar search beam
so there were modes for selecting search in azimuth as well as search in
depth. For azimuth search, the torpedo would turn back-and-forth across its
set course during its run to the target. For depth search, the torpedo would
change depths like a porpoise going up-and-down continuously during its
run to the target's calculated position. The Mk37 had a circle mode sending
it to a position to make circles while waiting for a target to cross its circle
search pattern.
Sub School instructors told us that wire guided modifications were
being tested that would allow sending course/speed correction updates to a
Mk37 torpedo in the water. This torpedo would NOT be a fire and forget
weapon. Spools of wire in the torpedo and the torpedo tube connected it to
the sub’s fire control system. This allowed the torpedo to receive
course/speed corrections during its run.
After the Mk37 was fired, if a target made a zig, changing its course
and/or speed, it would be possible to provide course/speed corrections to
the torpedo via the slender-copper-wire paying out from inside the torpedo.
This wire was connected via an umbilical cord on the torpedo inner door to
the Torpedo Fire Control System.
13-5—During Sub School, instructors told us that there was a debate among
Navy acousticians as to how effective a passive Mk37 would be against a
quiet Soviet nuclear submarine. The term quiet Soviet nuclear submarine
meant a slow speed Soviet submarine as Soviet subs were inherently much
noisier than U.S. nuclear subs.
 An FBM’s favorite mode was the circle search. If there was a threat
submarine behind us, we could select the Mk37 torpedo to go aft of us and
begin a circle search waiting for the trailing submarine to cross its path.
13-6—The Station Keeping Anchor, SKA, was a new concept that grew out
of blue-sky brain-storming for the FBM mission. The concept of a
submarine that could launch missiles while submerged was a blank sheet on
designers' drawing boards. Blue-sky concepts ran wild because there was no
operational experience to set the limits for submerged FBM operations.
One Department of Defense, DoD, concern was that the Soviets would
unleash their massive surface ship and submarine ASW forces to hunt us
down, harass, and maybe even attack our FBM subs. In fact, one DoD study
—based on USNUSL sonar modeling—concluded that GEORGE
WASHINGTON (SSBN) only had a 50-50 chance of returning from patrol.
Even though U.S. latest submarines were much quieter than U.S. first
generation and very much quieter than the Soviets first and second-
generation subs, DoD had concerns.
Because FBM subs would patrol at slow speeds to minimize their
radiated noise signature, DoD and the Navy concluded that the Soviets
would use active sonar to search for FBM submarines on patrol.
In the Pentagon, most of the expertise on active sonar resided with
WW II surface ship captains. They knew that the most telling alert for
classifying a sonar ping’s echo as a submarine was its Doppler
characteristic. A Doppler change of frequency was caused by the
submarine's speed through the water. Because the FBM was a monster
submarine, it was more vulnerable to active sonar.
This FBM vulnerability to active sonar suggested a blue-sky concept
solution that wouldn't require armed escorts for FBMs. The initial subs
were carrying medium range ballistic missiles which required them to
operate in shallower waters to be close to their Soviet targets. This also
increased their active sonar vulnerability.
Then, an analyst used a marketing trick that turned a vulnerability into
an asset. He reasoned that if the FBMs had to operate in shallow water with
a concern about Doppler echoes from active sonar, just take away the
Doppler echoes. One way to eliminate the Doppler echoes was for the
submarine to remain stationary.
Because some of the operational areas would be in shallow waters, it
was proposed that a long-line anchoring system would allow the submarine
to shut down its noisy steam turbines, reduction gears, and propeller
system. It would not only reduce noise against a threat’s passive ASW sonar
detection, but by remaining stationary, it would eliminate ASW active
sonars’ Doppler echoes.
It was a logical analysis that didn’t take critical operational factors into
account. In the rarified world of desk jockeys who probably never had been
to sea on a submarine, a long-line anchoring system solved the FBM's
active sonar vulnerability problem at a low cost.
So, the SKA was born. The design used braided-nylon line that would
replace the rattle and clang of a conventional anchor system. The high
strength and small diameter braid-nylon line allowed storing more anchor
line than steel-link, noisy anchor chain. The SKA would allow a FBM to
anchor in moderate depth waters. While at anchor the submarine could be
rigged for quiet running without main turbines, reduction gears, and
propeller noise. Nor would there be any diving plane or rudder noise.
It was a throwback to the old days when a battery submarine could sit
on the bottom to evade sonar searchers. While a nuclear submarine couldn't
bottom—it had too many seawater systems drawing water from areas near
the keel—the SKA would essentially allow the FBM to be a quiet and zero-
Doppler target.
Like many blue-sky concepts, the SKA didn’t hold water. Once nuclear
submariners took the 598 class to sea, skippers immediately found many
reasons why no one wanted to be tethered to a SKA. First, the lightweight
anchor line wouldn’t hold a buoyant submarine in place. Most anchor
support comes from the weight of the lengthy segment of chain on the
bottom that allows the anchor’s mushroom-lip to dig into bottom. Also,
tethered-submerged at zero-speed is an unsafe condition. There is no water
movement over the planes to help maintain depth. An ocean current could
bring in different density water that would cause the submarine to either
sink to the bottom or rise to the surface because of buoyancy changes.
The most critical operational concern was that being stationary meant
that the submarine could not act as a submarine. It couldn’t get out of the
way of fishing boat dragging nets or a Soviet ASW ship searching nearby
waters. There were too many down sides to using the SKA. To my
knowledge, it was never used on FBM patrols.
13-7—There were no water seal-leak problems with the radio masts and
snorkel mast because the masts were outside the pressure hull in the sail.
 The periscopes were different in that they had to penetrate the pressure
hull. They required mechanical seals at the hull.
13-8—One of the key parts of the missile tube’s pressurization system was
the Mylar diaphragm cover installed at the top of the missile tube—below
the outer-hatch. This ingenious system allowed the missile to stay dry when
the outer-hatch was opened during the final launch sequence. The
breathing-system injected gas into the launch tube to equalize the pressure
with seawater pressure. Also, this gas went into the space under the outer-
hatch that was above the Mylar cover. The under the hatch gas pressure
allowed opening the heavy missile hatch without requiring additional force
to overcome seawater pressure on the outer-hatch.
This equalization process required sending seawater pressure to the
gas-breathing (Note 4-19) controls for each missile tube. There were 16
seawater pressure sensing lines with 32 valves, a main shut off valve and a
backup valve for each tube.
Once the missile tube hatch was ordered open, seawater would flood
into the space under the outer-hatch. The Mylar diaphragm prevented
flooding seawater into the missile tube. An under-the-hatch valve shut off
the breathing gas to prevent bleeding off breathing gas or sucking in sea
water after the outer-hatch was open.
For the contingency that the countdown did not lead to a missile/Sabot
launch and the outer-hatch was closed, there was a drain line to remove the
seawater from under the outer-hatch space. Thus, there were another 32
values that could be potential sources of a seawater leak. These drain lines
and valves had to be checked to determine if missile hatch seals were
leaking.
The two missile compensating tanks allowed expelling the weight
difference between the weight of the missile that was launched and the
greater amount of water-weight that filled the empty launch tube after the
missile was launched. These tanks had two sets of connections to sea.
13-9—A launch tube full of water has significantly more weight than the
missile. The water stored in the two missile compensating tanks (MCTs)
equaled the difference between the weight of 16 missiles and the much
larger weight of the water that filled 16 empty launch tubes. This MCT
system was a unique system on the earliest FBM submarines that allowed
maintaining neutral buoyancy after the launch tube filled with water after a
missile launch.
 On launching a missile, the BCP operator threw a switch on the Missile
Section of the BCP that activated the system to blow this weight differential
from the MCT.
The other sea connections in the lower level Missile Compartment
were for the automatic hovering system. Even though this system wasn't
used the potential for water leakage into their tanks at deep depths still
existed.
 Chapter Fourteen Notes
14-1—The 1MC would be used to direct watchstanders in the
compartments to prepare to ventilate with the LP blower. Because it was
after Taps and before Reveille, Conn had the option of not disturbing the
sleeping crew. SWO had COW call each compartment's watchstander to
make the ventilation lineup.
14-2—Having had Navy school Electronics Technician—ET—training, I
was initially disdainful of the Easter Egg Hunt technique of fixing
equipment. My ET training in the 1950’s occurred even before transistor
theory was taught in basic ET school. The repair technique we learned was
to identify the symptoms of the problem, get out the circuit schematics, and
identify which component—usually a vacuum tube—was causing the
problem by measuring voltages and currents. Only then was a sparepart
drawn and a repair attempted.
Those were the days of drawers full of vacuum tubes, resistors,
inductors, and capacitors. Wire leads were twisted around metal posts on a
circuit board before they were soldered in place to prevent cold solder
joints. The boards were then mechanically fastened to the drawer's sheet
metal. This ensured the boards would survive a shock situation—weather or
explosion.
With the advent of solid-state circuit board technology, several drawers
full of the old components could be replaced by just changing one circuit
board.
It took most of the patrol before I appreciated the value of Navigation
ETs' and Fire Control Technicians' repair technique. It was a quick and
efficient method. It ran into difficulties only when there was a failure on
more than one board.
14-3—When a circuit-board failed and a ready-spare Easter-Egg board
fixed the problem, Nav-techs would requisition a new board from onboard
supplies. The boat's Supply Department would order a new board to replace
the one issued from spares. Later, by fixing the failed component on the
bad-board, the techs would have an extra circuit-board in their repair locker.
In theory, the bad board was supposed to have been turned into the
tender. Because there was no tit-for-tat system in the tender's Supply
Department that required an exchange, only a few bad boards were returned
to Supply.
 It took me the whole patrol to figured out what the ETs were doing. It
took the NavSup system a few years before they figured out that the techs
had twice as many spare circuit-boards than they were allowed. It wasn't
until NavSup required the boat to turn in the failed board when they
received the new board that the ratio of spare-boards onboard and number
of spare boards authorized remained constant.
14-4—The Type11 Star-Tracker System depended on a unique stabilization
mechanism for observing stars. An integral part of the calculations
determined the actual bearing to true north which was compared to the
SINS-bearing to find the azimuth error of the reference SINS.
The BQN-3 was a covert fathometer for position fixing by matching
bottom contours on the ocean floor against precision depth charts. LORAN-
C was a navigation system using shore stations low frequency radio signals
from multiple transmitters for position fixing by measuring the time delays
of the various transmissions. TRANSIT—aka NavSat—was the Navy's first
satellite navigation system using Doppler-shift radio signals.
14-5—During early patrols, there was cross-fertilization between the
Weapons and Navigation officers because navigation information was so
critical for the missile fire control system. An Assistant Weapons Officer, a
mathematics major, made a study of SINS inputs and outputs during one of
his patrols. He determined that if one SINS was rotated to a new frame of
reference 90˚ from its normal axis, comparisons between Longitude and
Latitude error rates would provide azimuth error. It was called Alpha-dot
rotation because azimuth angle in SINS was designated Alpha-dot.
At the time of our patrol, there was no approved method to implement
the procedure much less authorizing it to be used during a patrol. This
technique had been turned over to the MIT scientists ashore to validate the
procedure. The technique was so successful that it became the primary, and
eventually the sole, means of azimuth determination. The last class of FBM
submarines was constructed without Type11 periscopes.
There was a strict order not to break radio silence expect for a few
exceptions which I wasn’t privy to and will not hazard a guess as to what
they might have been. The CO couldn’t send a radio message that he lost
his Type11 and ask for the Alpha-dot procedure.
In actual fact, coming out of the storm with SINS not having an update
for several days, it’s unlikely that even having the Alpha-dot procedure
would have provided a viable result. The point is that the CO and our crew
were literally on their own. Just as any wooden ship crew would have been
crossing the Atlantic in the 16th century.
14-6—My favorite high school subjects were math and science in an all-
boys high school. I had difficulty with English, Latin, and French. I joined
the Navy as a nuclear field Electronic Technician striker. After boot camp, I
went to electronics school at Treasure Island, then on to Submarine School
at New London, and after passing the fleet NROTC exam, finally onto the
Navy Prep School in Bainbridge, MD.
With my NROTC college scholarship, I majored in physics at
Villanova University. After a year and half of nuclear power and submarine
schools, I was assigned to a high technology submarine as Supply Officer, a
non-engineering department where I was a fish out of water.
My whole life to that point had revolved around mathematics,
chemistry, physics, equations, and technical equipment. Very little of my
life depended on reading other people's attitudes or feelings. I was naive in
the art of dealing with people. While I was exposed to many different social
interactions on my patrols, SWO was the closest I had for a mentor. My
social skills still are a lifelong deficiency.
14-7—The BTR housed a roll of paper that slowly rolled down a vertical
metal-plate with a take-up reel at the bottom. There was a set of metal-
stylus signal-pins on a ribbon cycling horizontally across the top of the
paper/metal-plate so that one pin was always on the paper. In an equipment
cabinet, a sonar array beam-compensator slowly rotated 360° to provide a
pair of split-beam-outputs. These signals were processed by a correlation
signal-processor to detect a coherent signal in the random noise-field that
caused an output signal. An amplified voltage output of this correlation
signal was fed to the metal-stylus signal-pin on the paper. When a contact
signal-strength was high, a higher voltage on the stylus-pin would
overcome the resistance of the paper to burn a black mark in the slow
moving-paper. This spot was read as the bearing of the contact from a
horizontal-scale at the top of the BTR.
 The paper rolled vertically down the display and after several cycles of
the stylus-pens, black marks formed a bearing-time-line of the contact.
Thus, the contact would not only be detected, but its bearing and bearing
rate could be determined. Also, the darker the black mark, the higher the
signal-strength which meant a high-noise contact usually was a close-
contact. A close-contact would have a high bearing rate unless it was on a
collision course with us which would have a constant bearing. For the
collision case, a small turn would cause a high bearing rate signifying a
close-contact.
14-8—The DUUG-1 was French sonar equipment. The system consisted of
sets of hydrophones enclosed in and above a dome which also housed
Gertrude. This dome was on the upper port bow. It was connected to
equipment attached snuggly high on the forward bulkhead of the Sonar
Room. No one could explain why we didn't have a USA sonar-intercept-
system.
14-9—The EB Demon, demodulation, used broadband noise to analyze for
the tonal signature radiated by a target. Radiated noise generated by all
contacts is composed of broadband noise across a wide range of frequencies
and tonals at discrete frequencies.
The broadband noise is generated by water flowing across the hull,
through the blades of a propeller, and an amalgamation of machinery
noises, especially the combustion exhaust of diesel engines. Cavitation
noise is a broadband noise generated from collapsing low-pressure bubbles
from the blades of a propeller. Cavitation noises occur across a wide range
of frequencies based on the speed of the propeller and because the bubble
size changes along the length of each blade as blade segments travel at
different speeds through the water. Steam noise and pump flow noise
transmitted to the hull are broadband noise across a constant band of
frequencies.
Narrowband tonal noise is associated with a cyclic frequency of an
operating piece of machinery. The rotation of a propeller or the firing rate of
a diesel engine or the frequency of an electric generator generate discrete
tonal frequencies. Many of these frequencies are low frequency sounds
which travel great distances in water—lower frequencies being less
attenuated in water than higher frequencies. Discrete frequencies
identifying specific types of submarines and the lower propagation loss
allowed long-range detection and classification. This was the basis for the
Navy's SOSUS network of underwater arrays on the bottom of the world's
oceans.
U.S. nuclear submarine hull sonars had serious low frequency self-
noise problems that precluded developing low frequency hull sonars to
detect the discrete frequencies used by SOSUS.
Rather than directly detecting these low frequency tonals, the EB
Demon used the fact that discrete tonal frequencies modulated the
broadband portion of the target's radiated noise signature. By demodulating,
hence the name Demon. Thus, the discrete tonals at low frequency could be
stripped off the higher frequency broadband signature and used for
classification.
It is the same principle used in AM, amplitude modulation, radio. The
low frequency audio signals modulate the much higher frequency radio
signals.
By using the higher frequency broadband to overcome the submarine's
low frequency noise problems, the EB Demon provided the low frequency
tonals to classifying a contact. The analysis equipment was called EB
Demon because it was built by the electronics shop at the Electric Boat
Shipyard in Groton, CT.
Thus, our long-range sonar, the BQR-7, was able to classify quiet
convergence zone long-range contacts (Note 7-9) that our short-range sonar,
the BQR-2, could not.
14-10—I was not involved in official discussions of the submarine
encounter. In a casual manner, I mentioned the incident to Rocky. He told
me he didn't know the status of any report being generated. My curiosity
was growing, but I was afraid to bring it up with other officers because of
the trouble I had caused XO over my Secret POD.
Finally, I ask my friendly Sonar Supervisor about the encounter. He
divided his answer into two parts. It started with the whale phase during his
watch-section. When they put Demon on the steady bearing on the stern, he
had “All the lines printing out were from our machinery.” It didn’t show
any Soviet submarine lines.
On the next watch, his counterpart assured him that the low frequency
BQR-7 sonar operator heard suppressed cavitation—strong evidence that
the contact was a submarine.
I asked him if they got any signature on the EB Demon from the
contact or from replaying the tape on the contact. He explained that because
of the rapid bearing change they couldn't hold constant contact on the target
long enough for the EB Demon to conduct an analysis. And they couldn't
playback the tape of the incident because it was to be submitted to NISC,
Naval Intelligence Support Center for ACINT—ACoustic
INTelligence. NISC’s ACINT policy was that they only accepted tapes that
hadn't been played.
Hearing suppressed cavitation was the only real evidence. We had no
recordings of the whale calls because the tapes had been overwritten. The
best I could figure out was that it was an encounter with a Soviet submarine
that had been trailing us. It was such a sensitive matter that the Captain
probably had special instructions for dealing with it.
A few years later, I discovered that USNUSL had worked on a project
to allow a submarine to transmit biological sounds. The concept was to
disguise a submarine's radiated noise as marine life. The system was called
BATS, Biological Active Transmission System. This program led me to
consider maybe one of our own nuclear submarines was testing BATS
capabilities. Maybe, they had been searching for us at the end of our patrol
with orders to trail us if they detected us. The fact that sonar input to the
Demon found that “All the lines printing out were from our machinery”
would be what one would see on EB Demon for a US submarine trailing us.
It added credence that it wasn’t a Russian submarine.
It made sense that the Navy would want to find out how vulnerable our
FBMs were. It seemed logical to intercept us at the end of a patrol when it
wouldn't disrupt the patrol mission. If this was the case, I’m sure that the
CO would have been informed to take evasive action and NOT to fire a
weapon unless he was sure it was a Soviet with aggressive intent.
Still years later, I discovered that the Soviets had been using a program
like our BATS program. So maybe it was a Russian submarine? Or maybe it
was real whales?
It’s also possible that the suppressed cavitation heard by the BQR-7
was from the BQR-7’s side lobes—minor beams on each side of the main
sonar beam. Because the BQR-7’s hydrophones were on the hull with no
baffle to shield out aft noises, its side lobes could pick-up our screw noise.
With the BQR-7 looking into the aft-quarter area for the contact, the
BQR-7’s main beam could have been looking at open water with its side
lobes looking aft and receiving our boat’s suppressed cavitation. Our CO’s
high-speed maneuvering would have caused suppresses cavitation at patrol
depth. Also, the fact that the BQR-2B didn’t hear the suppressed cavitation
might have been because of its baffle. The baffle would have shielded its
stern side lobes from our screw noise when searching the aft quarter. It’s
difficult to perform an acoustic autopsy on a sonar event from over 50 years
ago!
 Chapter Fifteen Notes
15-1—The BTR displayed true bearings—not relative bearings (Note 4‑13).
BTR self-noise-spokes are own boat’s correlated-noise interference, i.e.,
contact type signal noise. The source of own ship noise-traces was from the
aft engineering areas. Some noise travels in the hull and escaped at structure
points which are not dead-aft bearings. This family of contact-like traces
are always at a constant true bearing. Thus, own ship traces on the BTR
would change bearing during a course change and the change would be the
same number of degrees as our course change.
So, during a baffle clearing turn, our boat’s burn-marks on the BTR
shift across the BTR. If a close contact had been closing on us on a collision
course, i.e. constant true bearing, it could have been hidden by one of our
noise-spokes. If there was a close contact, there now would be a new single
bearing line that moved rapidly across the BTR paper at a different bearing
rate from own boat’s noise-spokes. This was why baffle clearing was done
on a random basis.
If a hidden contact was a long-range contact, it remained at its original
true bearing during a course change and would stand out from the moving
family of own noise-spoke burn-marks.
These correlated self-noise phenomena were just another tactical
complication in conducting baffle sweeps.
15-2—When lowered, the periscope rested inside an 18 inch diameter
cylinder which extended to the bottom of the hull. There was a collar-yoke
section of the scope above the eyepiece area. The -yoke was attached to two
long rods attached to pistons inside two cylinders in the sail.
The periscope was raised by porting high pressure hydraulic fluid into
these cylinders below the piston heads to push them to the top of the
cylinders which pulled the scope to its raised position.
Turbulence around the scope’s tube moving through the water caused it
to shake and shimmy which distorted the view through the optics. To reduce
this, a fairing surrounded the scope-tube as it left the protection of the sail
to mitigate the turbulent flow of water. This reduced vibrations and the
feather-wake on the surface that made the scope more detectable.
15-3—Raising the scope and using high elevation angles searches before it
breaks the surface of the water provided valuable safety information.
During the day, the Conning Officer looked for a hull or the shadow of a
ship's hull that might be nearby.
At night, the underwater search was for a ship's deck lights and
navigation lights.
15-4—Ventilating the boat brought fresh air in through the snorkel mast
using the LP blower. It was a normal ventilation procedure when charging
HP air flasks.
If we charged the air flasks without equalizing to outside air pressure
we would end up with a vacuum in the boat. The OOD would have
difficulty in opening the Bridge hatch when we surfaced. By equalizing
pressure, we ensured that the boat would have a positive air pressure to
assist in opening the hatch.
On our next patrol we added an extra step in the SSORM to equalize
pressure through the snorkel mast before opening the Bridge hatch. This
would eliminate the situation of a high inside pressure blowing the hatch
open.
15-5–16mm film breakage was a normal occurrence. Several people were
trained to splice film. Because Penny did projector maintenance, he was
trained to splice film. Navy movie projectors of the era had metal cases and
if improperly maintained could short circuit, sometimes fatally. An engineer
and missile tech were also trained for their departments’ use of training
films.
 Glossary
1MC/2MC/7MC/21MC/27MC—announcing & alarms systems—Note 1-2
1SQ, 2SQ, 3SQ, 4SQ—Missile readiness conditions, 1SQ is the highest—
Ready to launch, 2SQ—Launch in 15 minutes, 3SQ—No targets, 4SQ
—Unable to launch
1/3-octave band—3 bands in each octave band where an octave band has
the high frequency twice that of the low frequency
3rd, 2nd, 1st class, Chief (C), Senior Chief (CS), Master Chief (CM), Petty
Officers—enlisted rate hierarchy. We had a half-dozen non-petty officer
seaman in the crew—see rate & rating
4.0—Navy grading/evaluation system, 4.0 was highest mark, 2.5 was a
passing grade
400~—400 cycles, refers to the 400 Hz M/G, sets in AMS—Figure 3
A-Division—Auxiliary Division, Lt(jg) David ‘Dave’ Laughlin
AC—Alternating Current, electricity—Note 1-5
AC/DC—Alternating Current/Direct Current M/G sets in AMR
A/C—Air Conditioner, three in ER and two in AMS—Figure 3
ACINT—ACoustic INTelligence—Note 14-10
active sonar—AN/BQS-4, active sonar located in the bow
Adm—admiral, generic-term for a Rear Admiral 1 or 2 stars, Vice Admiral
3 stars, Admiral 4 stars, Fleet Admiral 5 stars was a war time rank—see
rank
Adm—admiral, officer rank O-10—four stars; generic for addressing any
admiral rank
aft—stern sections of the boat, engineering compartments
after trim (tank)—located in the stern, counterpart of the forward trim
tank to balance the fore and aft trim of the boat—Figure 2
A-gang—name for group of A-Division non-nuke EN and MM rates, they
maintained the auxiliary systems—see auxiliary systems
AGI—Auxiliary, General Intelligence ship, a Soviet modified fishing
trawler filled with intelligence collection devices—Note 5‑7
albatross—superstitious symbol of persistent bad luck
Alpha-dot rotation—procedure for determining heading error by use of two
SINS at orthogonal axes—Note 14-5
Amine—liquid chemical used in scrubber equipment to absorb CO₂
ampere/amperage—measure of the amount of electricity flowing in a
circuit such as a light bulb or motor circuit
AMR—Auxiliary Machinery Room, between ER & RC—Figure 3
AMS—Auxiliary Machinery Space, for atmospheric systems—Figure 3
AN/—an equipment designation prefix denoting designed to joint
Army/Navy specs, initiated in WWII
ASTOR—Anti-Submarine TORpedo, nuclear Mk45 torpedo
ASUW—Anti-SUrface ship Warfare
ASW—Anti-Submarine Warfare
auxiliary tank(s)—adjusts overall buoyancy—Figure 2 & Note 4-16
Auxiliaryman-of-the-Watch—Auxiliary Division roving watch-station in
the non-engineering spaces, works for Conning Officer, reports to the
COW
auxiliary systems—collective name for non-propulsion mechanical
systems, e.g., trim & drain, hydraulics, air compressors, plumbing,
ventilation, & atmospheric equipment—see A-gang
AWeps—Asst. Weapons Officer, Torpedo/Missile Divisions and First
Lieutenant, Lt Theodore ‘Ted’ Richards
baffles—a sonar blind area of sound shielding behind the sonar to absorb
machinery noise—Note 7-12
baffle clearing—changing course so the bow sonar can search for contacts
in the baffles—Note 7-12
ballast tank(s)—7 tanks, when filled with water, makes boat neutrally
buoyant allowing the boat to submerge—Figure 2 & Note 4-16
basket leave—free-leave, chit held in ship’s office until the signee returns
and then was destroyed—in the event he’s injured or dies on leave—
having the leave chit provided legality of his absence
bathythermograph—aka s a bathy,AN/BQH-1, sound-velocity/temp vs
depth measuring system—Note 7-16
BATS—Biological Active Transmission System—Note 14‑10
BCP—Ballast Control Panel, watchstation, controls buoyancy & hull
integrity; BCP operator called COW—see COW & Notes 7-10 & 4-16
BDI—Bearing Deviation Indicator, accurate target bearing device nulls two
sonar correlated-signals from split-beams—aka Null Meter
bearing—direction in degrees true or relative to bow—Note 4-1
Beaufort Scale—wind speed/wave height categories—Note 7-14
belay my last—ignore/cancel the last order
Bell—EOT speed order, Ahead—1/3, 2/3, Standard, Full, Flank, Backing—
1/3, 2/3, Full—Note 5-1
bilge—lowest point in a compartment which collects water to be removed
by the pump and drain system, controlled at the BCP
Bkrs—breakers, large electrical breakers, e.g., MCPs, SPM, EPM
Black Watch—Scottish infantry battalion of bagpipers & drummers who
performed at the Military Tattoo held at Edinburgh Castle
Blue Nose Ceremony—naval ritual to initiate those who have never crossed
the Arctic Circle—Notes 11-2 & -3
BM—Boatswain Mate rating, hull painting, marlinespike, small boats
boat—submarine, submariners called their ship a boat, first subs were size
of large boats & called pig boats referring to their odors
Boomer(s)—FBM submarine(s) or crew member(s)
BPS-9—AN/BPS-9, X-band, surface search radar system
BQH-1—AN/BQH-1, bathythermograph, measures and records sound-
velocity vs depth system—Note 7-16
BQH-8—AN/BQH-8, system of hydrophones on the hull system that
measures the submarine’s self-noise
BQN-3—AN/BQN-3, secure-fathometer system, used with precise depth
contour charts to determine position—Note 14-4
BQR-2B—AN/BQR-2B, short-range, passive sonar—Note 7-9
BQR-7—AN/BQR-7 long-range, passive sonar—Note 7-9 & Note 14-10
BQS-4—AN/BQS-4 high-frequency, active (echo-ranging) sonar
BRA-10—AN/BRA-10 VLF buoy quad-pole antenna—see quad-pole
Bravo Zulu—BZ phonetics, ATP-1 signal code for Well Done
broach—putting the sail above the surface of the water accidently or
purposefully without intending to fully surface—Note 7-15
brow—boat’s access ramp over the water to a pier or other vessel
BSM—Battle Station Missile, command for the entire crew to go to General
Quarters for launching missiles—see WSRT
BTR—Bearing Time Recorder, auto-detection of contacts on sonar paper
recorder—Notes 14-7 & 15-1
bubble—boat’s pitch angle, up/down/zero-bubble—Note 7-13
bulkhead—an interior wall, bulkhead between compartments that has a
WTD & strength to isolate it from adjacent compartment
buoy—floating-anchored marker, navigation aid in coastal waters
buoy—AN/BRA-10 tethered floating VLF quad-pole antenna used to
receive radio signals while at deep depths
buoy, messenger—emergency rescue buoys—Note 5-4
BuPers—Bureau of Naval Personnel, human resources department
bus—major electrical wiring system that provided electrical power to
specific equipment, e.g., Ship Service Bus
cal—caliber, gun barrel inside diameter (bullet) in mm or inches e.g., .45
cal. gun is barrel diameter in inches
Capt—Captain rank, O-6, or a ship’s commanding officer who is addressed
as Captain regardless of his/her rank
Captain’s Mast—Lowest Navy judiciary of the UCMJ—Note 10-4
cavitation—rotating screw blades generate low pressure bubbles, when they
collapse it creates noise—Notes 14-9 & -10
Cdr—Commander rank, O-5
channel fever—night before entering port, crew doesn’t sleep
Chinese style—see moored Chinese & Note 3-1
chevron packing gland—pressure sealing multiple W-lip gaskets
civvies—civilian clothes
CO—Commanding Officer, called Captain no matter what his rank; Skipper
is a non-formal usage. Our CO was Cdr Howard Hagar
CO—carbon monoxide, converted to CO₂ by the CO/H₂ burners
CO₂—carbon dioxide, gas removed by Amine in the scrubbers—see Amine
& Note 7-4
CO/H₂ burners—removes CO/H₂ and other toxic gases—Atmosphere
Control System section in Note 1-5
Coasties—slang for men/women of the US Coast Guard
COB—Chief Of the Boat, senior enlisted, semi-formal link between CO/XO
and crew on matters beyond division/department
collimated-light, light beam of parallel rays focused to infinity
collision-course—two ships or a ship and an object which will intercept at
the same point—see CPA
compartment—spaces with WTD(s), one compartment could be isolated
from adjacent compartment(s)
comms—radio communications
ComSubLant—Commander Submarines Atlantic, VAdm Elton W. “Joe”
Grenfell and later VAdm Arnold F. Schade
Conn—(n.) Conning Officer, the officer on watch conning the boat or the
physical watchstation at the periscope stand—Note 2-4
conning—(v.) directing course/speed and depth of boat—Note 2-4
CONUS—CONtinental United States
convergence zone—low-loss acoustic propagation path—Note 7-9
COSAL—COnsolidated Shipboard Allowance List, NavSup Publication—
Note 4-2
COW—Chief of the Watch, BCP watchstation—see BCP & Note 7-10
CPA—Closest Point of Approach, minimum range/time that a vessel or
object will be to our boat based on current course(s) and speed(s)
CPO—Chief Petty Officer—see 3rd, 2nd, 1st class, Chief . . .
Crew’s Mess—crew’s dining area, Mess Hall and Galley
critical(ity)—term for reactor status for producing slow neutrons—see
reactivity
cross-threaded—having someone upset with you, not a correct fit
CRT—cathode ray tube, electronic display tube
CRUD—Chalk River Unidentified Deposits, scale formation on primary-
coolant pipes—Notes 7-5 & -6
CS—Commissaryman rating, makes meals for crew in the Galley
cut of his jib—a person’s character, jib-sail shapes the main-sail
CZ—see convergence zone & Note 7-9
DASO—Demonstration and Shakedown Operations, at-sea operations after
shipyard for testing the boat and for crew training
datum—geographic lat/long point at a specific time
DC—Direct Current electricity, e.g. the battery—Note 1-5
dead horse—advance pay, used to pay bills before patrol
decon—decontamination, decon clothing—Note 8-5
DEFCON—DEFense readiness CONdition, five levels: 1—at war, 2—high
alert, 3—increased readiness, 4—increased intelligence, 5—peace time
demineralizer—tank of chemicals in RC used to trap primary-coolant
radioactive and non-radioactive particles; in AMS, a smaller one used
with electric still to make battery & O₂ generator water
Demon—Demodulation analyzer, system to classify/identify sonar contacts
—see EB Demon & Note 14-9
Department—or Department Head, e.g., Operations Department, Ops as the
Department Head
Dial-X—Dial-X phone, boat’s telephone system—Note 1-2
dither valve—hydraulic top-shaped valve, constantly titillating to provide
hydraulic oil rapid response for diving-planes and rudder
dithering-on-station—a hyperactive sailor waiting-in-line or muster
DO—Diving Officer, controls planesmen, helmsman, and COW for
depth/course/speed/trim orders—Note 7-11
Doc—usually refers to corpsman, Randy Taylor HM1
DoD—Department of Defense, aka the Pentagon
dolphins—chest insignia of pair of dolphins between bow of WWII
submarine, gold for officer and silver for enlisted; signifies being
qualified in submarines—Note 2-4 & for real dolphin, see Photo #1
Dopp-kit—a small zipper-case for toilet-articles
dosimeter—pocket radiation monitoring device—Note 8-4
doubled-up—three lines across for mooring, mooring starts with one line—
a loop adds two lines for mooring strength of three lines
DRT—Dead Reckoning Table, used to plot boat’s position over time—see
Nav Plot & Note 5-2
DTMB—David Taylor Model Basin, Navy Lab that designs/tests ship and
submarine hulls and measures radiated/self-noise—Note 10-1
DUUG-1—intercept-sonar for detecting active sonar and torpedo pings, a
French NATO system—Note 14-8 & see Photo #1
E-Division—Electrical Division Lt(jg) Gabriel ‘Gabe’ Chadwick
EAB—Emergency Air Breathing mask, uses 100 psi air—Note 8-2
EB—Electric Boat shipyard—also made special equipment for boats
EB Demon—EB Demodulation analyzer—Note 14-9
ECM—Electronic Counter-Measures, i.e., Type8B scope receiver and
WLR‑1—Notes 12-1 & -3
EDO—Engineering Duty Officer, in port 24hr engineering plant watch
Eight O’clock Reports—daily XO led meeting of department heads
elbow-grease—applying effort, bearing down harder on a task
ELINT—ELectronic INTelligence—Note 5-7
ELT—Engineering Laboratory Technician, usually a nuke 1st class MM
EM—Electrician’s Mate rating, duties in E and A Divisions
Emergency Deep—order to dive deep to avoid vessel—Note 11-1
emergency rescue (aka messenger) buoy(s)—cabled-buoys forward/aft in
topside hull—Note 5-4
EN—Engineman rating, LLAMR watchstander/diesel engine operator
Eng—Chief Engineer, Department Head, LCdr Scott ‘Eng’ Townsend
EO—Electrical Operator, Electric Plant Control Panel Operator, EM
EOOW—Engineering Officer of (the) Watch, watch in Maneuvering
EOT—Engine Order Telegraph, device at helm and SPCP for
transmitting/receiving boat speed orders—Note 5-1
EPCP—Electric Plant Control Panel, controls SSTGs/bus breakers
EPM—Electric Propulsion Motor, DC motor on the propeller shaft for
emergencies during reactor shutdown or damage to the turbines
equalizer—long battery charge, term for long sleep—Note 9-4
ER—Engine Room, last compartment in our boat, aft of AMR—Figure 2
ESM—Electronic Support Measures, detect/analyze signals
ET—Electronics Technician rating, nuke for RC Division watches and non-
nuke for Nav/Ops—SINS/Type11/radar/radio systems
evap/evaporator—uses steam to make fresh water from salt water, in AMS
the smaller electric-still was called the still—Note 6-6
f-number—aperture, measurement of brightness through a lens
fairwater-planes—control boat’s depth, one plane located on each side of
the sail—sail-planesman is operator
Fast-Scram-Recovery—quick reactor restart. aka FSR—Note 1-4
Fathom—length of six feet, used on charts for deep water
FBM—Fleet Ballistic Missile, strategic submarine
FCS—Fire Control System, system that aims ordinance/missiles
feedwater coffee—coffee made with hot water from the feedwater surge-
tanks—Note 7-7
field day—clean up ship day for entire crew, rarely used on our boat
film badge—small metal clip-on case containing film for personal radiation
monitoring—Note 8-4 & see Photo #7
First Lieutenant—line-handlers boss, rigs hull for dive—see AWeps
five-khaki-casualty—naval officers/chiefs wore khaki work clothes, a
cluster of officers/chiefs focused on a problem—Note 8-8
Flank—Flank Bell, highest speed on EOT—see Bell
floating-wire—see wire
forward—toward the bow or all compartments forward of the RC
forward trim (tank)—located in the bow, used in conjunction with the
after trim tank to balance the fore and aft trim of the boat
FT—Fire Control Technician rating, FTG for TFCS & FTB for msl FCS
G force—force of Earth’s gravity
Galley—meal preparation area in Crew’s Mess forward starboard board
side, also contained the GDU—Figure 3
gear-adrift—item not properly stowed, usually personal items/clothing in
berthing area
Geiger-counter—portable radiation measuring device, for alpha, beta, and
gamma radiation
Gertrude—name for AN/UQC-1 underwater telephone—Note 12-2
GDU—Garbage Disposal Unit, vertical tube, torpedo type system, for
ejecting trash, in Galley—Note 4-20
General Quarters—requiring every member of the crew to be at an
assigned station for an event or casualty
gigged—action-notation of an inspection discrepancy
gilly—190-proof grain alcohol, missile gilly pure alcohol; denatured,
torpedo gilly was dyed as a warning—see pink-lady
goat locker—CPO Quarters and collective term for all the boat’s chiefs—2nd
level Ops forward of Radio Room—Figure 3 & Note 8-7
GR—General Radio, 1/3 Octave Analyzer—see 1/3 octave band
greasing the skids—social skills to make a task easier—Note 4-4
grog—1700’s British naval ration of half-pint rum in quart of water per
man/per day—Note 12-8
H₂—hydrogen gas, emitted gas during battery charging and a by-product of
O₂ generator which was discharged to sea—Note 7-3
hack—in hack, to be confined to ship, punishment for junior officers
head—commode space, aka toilet/bathroom to civilians—Note 3-6
helm—the wheel or tiller that controls the rudder, a watch station
helmsman—planesman operated a half-wheel to control the rudder
HM—Hospital Corpsman rating, Medical Department
holiday—a missed a spot after painting decks, bulkheads, hull, etc.
hot standby—turbines ready to return to operations, given a shot of steam
when stop spinning, slang for being ready to take action
HP—high pressure, usually for air systems, e.g. HP air compressors
HP adding machine—Hewett Packard manually cranked machine
HPAC—HP Air Compressors—Figure 3
HPE—reactor High-Power-Excursion condition, automatically drives rods
into reactor on exceeding power allowed by MCP configuration
IC—Interior Communications Electrician rating, duties—intra-ship comms,
BCP, EOT, gyro/Pit-Log & repeaters, planes/helm console, and lighting
IC-Division—Interior Communications, Lt(jg) Gabriel Chadwick
ICBM—InterContinental Ballistic Missile—minimum range of 3,400 nmi;
Polaris missiles were MRBMs—Medium Range Ballistic Missile —
1,200 nm for A1, 1,500 nm for A2, and 2,500 nm for A3
Injection Station—set of valves and containers for injecting chemicals into
reactor and boilers; forward starboard side of LLAMR
IR—(Nuclear) Incident Report—radio message to Rickover for any
engineering casualty that affected the reactor—Note 1-9
IR—infrared, electromagnetic spectrum below visual range
Irish pennant—frayed rope ends or threads on a uniform
JA—sound-powered-phone circuit, stations throughout the boat—Note 1-2
jacking hub—massive disk-weight put on shaft-end of shutdown SSTG,
manually rotated with a rod to cool down SSTG
jig—jig is up, dishonesty that would not be allowed to be continued
JSTPS—Joint Strategic Targeting Planning Staff for SIOP
jury-rigged—a makeshift repair using available materials
JX—engineering sound-powered-phone circuit—Note 1-2
klaxon—diving/surfacing alarm, sounded in all compartments, motor driven
horn in earlier submarines, similar to Ford Model A horn—Note 1-2
knot(s)—nautical mile(s) per hour, 1 knot is 1.15 mph
lat/long—latitude, longitude, earth position system in degrees
layer depth—depth at which a negative change in sound velocity/ocean
temperature occurs—Note 7-9
LCdr—Lieutenant Commander rank, O-4
LCM—Landing Craft Mechanized—see Mike boat
line of bearing—direction to contact/object from own ship, in true north or
relative degrees—Note 4-13
line officers—general service naval officers nominally eligible to command
at sea, vice specialty officers of the medical corps, supply corps, etc.
LLAMR—Lower Level Auxiliary Machinery Room
LLER—Lower Level Engine Room
long-range sonar—BQR-7 low-frequency hull sonar—Note 14-10
LP—low pressure, usually a prefix for air, e.g., low pressure air
LP blower—Low Pressure ventilation blower, in fan room-starboard aft in
upper level Control Room—Note 15-4
LPO—Leading Petty Officer, senior enlisted in division or department
LORAN-C—LOng RAnge Navigation, third version system using shore
based low frequency, LF, radio-signals to provide a position fix
Lt(jg)—Lieutenant junior grade rank, O-2
lube oil—lubricating oil—turbines, reduction gears, shaft bearings
M-Division—Machinery Division, Lt(jg) Andrew ‘Andy’ Brennan
M/G—Motor-Generator, devices to covert AC to DC or DC to AC; also,
M/G devices to convert 60 cycle AC to 400 cycle AC
Machinery Watch Supervisor (MWS)—senior enlisted engineering
watchstander reporting to the EOOW, roving supervisor for all
engineering watchstanders outside Maneuvering
MAD—Mutual Assured Destruction, Cold War doctrine that with sufficient
nuclear weapons striking first would not win a nuclear war
mainbrace—line on mainyard used to angle its square sail for steering into
the wind—Note 12-7
Maneuvering—Maneuvering Room, engineering control-cubical
watchstation for four watchstanders in ULER
MBT(s)—Main Ballast Tank(s), filled with water submerges the boat, filled
with air surfaces the boat—Figure 2 & Note 4-16
MC—Main Communication, announcing systems, e.g., 1MC and 2MC—
Note 1-2
MCC—Missile Control Center, missile FCS space, port side, middle level
Ops just aft of Sick Bay/Wardroom & across passageway from the
Radio Room
MCP(s)—Main Coolant Pump(s), circulates reactor primary-coolant water
through steam-generators—Figure 1, MCP vents—Note 8-6
MCT(s)—Missile Compensating Tank(s), two tanks of water—containing
the difference between tubes full of water and the lighter weight of the
missiles—Note 13-9
Mess Hall—Crew’s Mess dining facility—Figure 3
mic—microphone
Mickey Mouse book(s)—training booklets of piping and electrical
schematics—Note 3-7
midwatch—first watch after midnight, 0000-0600, other watches are
morning 0600-1200, noon 12-1800, evening 1800-2400—Note 4-5
midrats—midnight rations, results in 4 meals a day
midshipman—uncommissioned officer, usually in training, ranked between
senior PO and lowest commissioned officer
Mike boat—flat-bow-ramp craft, Navy phonetic word for M is Mike, last
letter in LCM—see LCM
mind your helm—admonition to helmsman to stay on course
MIT—Massachusetts Institute of Technology, their Draper Laboratory
developed SINS and Type11 system
Mk14—WWII-era ASUW 21” dia. torpedo, alcohol fueled steam turbine
engine—large warhead to sink large surface ships—Note 13-3
Mk37—post WWII ASW 19” diameter homing torpedo, quiet battery motor
for use against submarines—Notes 13-4 & -5
Mk45—ASW/ASUW nuclear warhead torpedo, electric battery motor
Mk 112—Torpedo Fire Control System, see TFCS
MLOP—Main Lube Oil Pump, one DC motor and one AC motor, for main
turbines, reduction gears, and SSTGs
MM—Machinist Mate rating, nukes maintain steam and propulsion systems,
non-nukes the auxiliary systems
moored Chinese—ships/boats moored bow-to-stern—Note 3-1
MP—Military Police, in all branches of the Armed Forces
MRBM—Medium Range Ballistic Missile out to 3,400 nmi—see ICBM
Msl (msl)—missile
MT—Missile Technician rating, loading/off-loading and maintain missiles
and missile launch preparation systems; also used for missile tech
division/gang
muster—roll call or inspection, to pass muster is to be held to a set of
standards—Note 3-2
MWS—see Machinery Watch Supervisor
N₂—nitrogen, an inert gas; breathing-gas for war launch of missiles and for
launching the A-1 missile out of the launch tube
nautical mile—1.15 times a statute mile, 1/60th of a degree of lat
NAD Charleston—Naval Ammunition Depot, Charleston, SC
NASA—National Aeronautics and Space Administration
Nav—Navigation Department or Navigator and Navigation Department
Head, LCdr Charles “Charlie” Donahue
Nav Plot—quartermaster’s DRT/Chart Table—Note 5-2
NavSup—Naval Supply system—Note 3-4
NCA—National Command Authority, sends strategic nuclear weapons
launch and test VLF messages, e.g., WSRT—Note 13-1
Negative—Negative tank, flooded-from/blown-to sea—Note 4-16
negative-temperature-coefficient—hot water is less effective in producing
neutrons, superior safety feature of PWR—Note 1-6
Night Orders—specific orders for operations on the evening-
watch/midwatch/morning watches when CO may be sleeping
NIR—Nuclear Incident Report, message to Rickover for casualty affecting
the reactor, aka IR or Incident Report—see IR & Note 1-9
NISC—Naval Intelligence Support Center, Suitland, MD
nmile or nmi—see nautical mile
NPS—Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, CA
NRTB—Naval Reactors Technical Bulletin—see NIR
NTPI—Navy Technical and Proficiency Inspection, Naval Reactors
inspectors certify operators with reactor drills & RPM oral exams
Nuclear Incident Report—see above NIR
NTPU—Nuclear Training Prototype Unit, land-based nuclear plant
nuke—person or unit involved with nuclear reactors
Nuke Lab—ELT’s nuclear Pig laboratory, LLAMR stbd side—Figure 3
NVD—Night Vision Device, low-light vision enhancement device
NWAI—Nuclear Weapons Acceptance Inspection team, certified operators
and boat for handling nuclear missiles and torpedoes
O₂—oxygen gas, 2 atom molecule, O₂ generator—Note 7-3
O₃—ozone, 3 atom molecule variant of oxygen, toxic gas hazard
OBA—Oxygen Breathing Apparatus, for firefighting—Note 8-3
off the quarter—45° direction either side of the bow or stern
OIC—Officer In Charge, commanding officer but with less authority
OOC—Out Of Commission, equipment broken or off-line for safety
OOD—Officer Of the Deck, watch officer acting for the CO
Ops—Operations Department, Ops Officer Lt ‘Marty’ Webber
ops—operations, operational
Ops Compartment—Operations Compartment—Control Room, Berthing,
Crew’s Mess, Galley, Sonar, Radio Room, Goat Locker, Sick Bay,
MCC, Wardroom, Staterooms, etc.—Figure 3
OpSec—Operations Security, basically shutting off all active emitters
ORSE—Operational Reactor Safeguard Examination, replaced NTPI
Ozone—O₃—3 molecule oxygen variant and toxic gas hazard
pack-rat(s)—personnel who hoarded things, usually spareparts
PCO—Prospective Commanding Officer, an officer with orders to assume
command
periscope—mast lens system in a hoisted tube inside the sub to view the
surface while submerged—Note 12-1, 15-2 & -3
periscope depth—submarine depth that permits periscope ops, Type11 ops,
snorkel mast/diesel ops, radio masts ops, and ECM mast/ELINT ops
petty officer—enlisted rates, E-4 to E-9—see 3rd, 2nd, 1st class...
pH—exponential measure of the number of hydrogen ions in a water
solution, measure of acidity and alkalinity—Note 7-2
Phantom Scram—random reactor Scram from an unknown cause
phase—AC is a negative/positive voltage wave-cycle, to merge two electric
sources requires them to be in phase, i.e., near the same point on the
wave-cycle
Pig—pair of coiled wires on domed-top lead container, located in the Nuke
Lab—used to make a spectrograph of a radioactive sample
PIM—Plan of Intended Movement, expected track of a vessel
pink-lady—denatured alcohol fuel in Mk14 torpedo, it is dyed pink as a
warning not to drink it—it contains methanol and ethanol
pit log—pitometer log, system that measures ship’s speed
PM—Preventative Maintenance, a system for routine service on equipment
to mitigate failures—Note 12-4
POD—Plan Of the Day, command’s events for the day—Note 7-8
Polaris missile—family of MRBM’s—see ICBM & Notes 10-3 & -5
poopy suit—blue, one-piece synthetic-fiber coveralls—Note 1-8
port‑left side of a ship when facing forward
port-and-starboard—standing alternating watches every 6 hours, normal 3
section 6-hour watches are 12-hours apart—Note 4-5
potable water—crew water safe to drink, even if slightly salty
PPP—Polypropylene line, plastic rope, large sizes for mooring lines
pressurizer—tank of water/steam in RC to control reactor coolant pressure,
acts as shock absorber and water reservoir—Note 1-5
Pri-C—Priority-C, NavSup Polaris priority requisition, Navy’s highest-level
priority at the that time—Note 4-7
PS-1—pressurizer valve to/from reactor’s primary-coolant—Figure 1
psi—pounds square inch pressure, for liquid or gas
pub(s)—publication(s)
puka—stainless-steel shelter covering ER escape trunk, protects
tender/shore power electrical connections from weather—Note 4-12
PWR—Pressurized Water Reactor, water used as coolant, isolates the
radioactive coolant from the steam cycle—Figure 1 & Note 1-5
PX—Post eXchange, store on military bases for personal and consumable
items, best deals were on cigarettes and alcohol
PXO—Prospective eXecutive Officer, orders to become XO
QM—Quartermaster rating, a navigation specialist
qual/quals—qualification(s), for certifying an individual’s ability to perform
specific watch tasks and submarine expertise for dolphins
quad-pole—directional antenna in BRA-10 VLF towed comms buoy
R&R—Rest & Relaxation, WWII—Rest & Recuperation
rack—bunk for sleeping, aka sack
radio—used for radiomen or radio equipment or radio signals
Radio—Radio Room—Figure 3 or Radio Division
Radio/Sonar Division Officer—Lt Roads ‘Rocky’ Rivers
radioing—backdating/making bogus entry in a log—Note 12-6
RAdm—rear admiral, officer rank O-7 lower-half one star, O‑8 upper-half
two stars
Ranger Andy—ranger-hatted, banjo player TV show in ‘50s/‘60s
rank—officer, Ensign O1, Lt(jg) O2, Lt O3, LCdr O4, Cdr O5, Capt O6,
RAdm O7/O8, VAdm O9, Adm O10, Fleet Adm O11 (war rank)
rate—enlisted military hierarchy, seaman—E-1 recruit, E-2 apprentice, E-3
seaman; petty officers—E-4 to E-9 —3rd class 2nd class, 1st class, chief,
senior chief, master chief—see 3rd, 2nd, 1st class, …
rating—enlisted occupational specialty, e.g. MM, IC, YN, TM, FT, QM
RC—Reactor Compartment, reactor vessel, reactor core, steam-generator,
MCPs, pressurizer, & control-devices—Figure 1 & 3 & Note 1-5
RC-Division, Reactor Control Division, Lt(jg) ‘Gabe’ Chadwick
RCPs—rod control panels in ULAMR
reactivity—status of reactor production of neutrons, at zero SSC no
gain/loss of slow neutrons in the reactor—see SSC & Note 1-6
reactor—the nuclear core that produces fission heat—Note 1-5
Rec—Recreation Committee, arranged social events for crew, provided
emergency aid, announced births/marriage, etc.
red-lead—WWII Navy slang for ketchup, a red-colored, lead based primer
paint for steel used until the 1960’s
Red Tag(ing)—system for tracking OOC equipment and for protecting the
crew and the equipment during maintenance—Note 3-8
reefer—refrigerator
refit—for FBM’s, 30 day upkeep of repair/training with two sea trials
regs—regulations
relative bearings—bearings relative to bow of the boat—Note 4-13
Rickover, Hyman G.—father of nuclear submarines, Director of Naval
Reactors; RAdm-1953, VAdm-1959, Admiral-1973
Rig-for-Red Rig-for-Black—red-light illumination instead of white, some
red lights turned off on Rig-for-Black—Note 1‑1
rigged—as in rigged for dive, a list of switch/valve alignments in correct
positions that allowed the boat to safely submerged
RM—Radioman rating, specializes in radio communications systems
RO—Reactor Operator, RPCP Operator, controls reactor, ET rating
Romeo Alpha—Navy phonetics for RA—see Ranger Andy
RPCs—reactor protection cabinets in ULAMR
RPCP—Reactor Plant Control Panel, RO controls reactor power by use of
MCPs, control rods, Scram switch, and meters on the RPCP
RPM—Reactor Plant Manuals, manuals for primary plant operations
rpm—revolutions per minute, shaft rpm meter used by throttleman to
answer speed orders, i.e., Bells on EOT
S5W—5th Submarine reactor made by Westinghouse—Note 4‑8
Sabot—launch tube filled with water-weight of a missile, launch test—
Note 4-17
SAC—Strategic Air Command, U.S. Air Force command, Omaha, NE
sack—bunk for sleeping, aka rack
scope—periscope—Note 12-1 & Note 12-3
Scram—Safety control rod axe man, safety action to shut down a reactor;
incorrectly attributed to Fermi’s first reactor—Note 1-4
screw—the propeller
scrubber—removes CO₂ from boat’s atmosphere—see Amine
scuttlebutt—water fountain, naval slang for gossip
SD—steward rating, duties for Wardroom meals, officer’s laundry
seagull—naval slang for fried chicken dinner
sea state—numerical quantification, of wind speeds and resulting level of
the agitated sea surface—see Beaufort Scale & Note 7-14
short-range sonar—BQR-2B short-range sonar in bow—Note 7-9
single-up—single line to mooring point—see doubled-up
SINS—Ship’s Inertial Navigation System, gyroscopes/accelerometers to
measure ship’s movements to provide continuous position and heading
data to missile fire control in MCC—Note-6-3
SIOP—Single Integrated Operating Plan, nuclear weapons coordination
plan for land missiles, bombers, and FBM submarines
sitting—Wardroom dining, 1st sitting was formally served courses for lunch
and dinner, usually with CO present—Note 9-5
SK—Storekeeper rating, duties of requisitioning/storing/providing
spareparts, SK2 Penny was our only storekeeper
SKA—Station Keeping Anchor, special long-line anchor for anchoring on
patrol, to my knowledge ours was never used —Note 13-6
SLJO—S----y Little Job Officer (task), slang name for a mundane task
given to a junior officer by the XO
smartly—perform evolution swiftly but under control—Note 9-1
SO—SPCP Operator, controls main propulsion turbines, usually called the
throttleman, junior MM or EM would be the watchstander
sonar—SOund Navigation And Ranging equipment/equipment/equipment
Sonar—Sonar Division, Sonar Division Officer, Sonar Room
SOS—S _ _ t On a Shingle—Navy breakfast entree of ground beef in
tomato sauce on toast or creamed chipped-beef on toast
SOSUS—SOund SUrveillance System—shore-based sonar for detecting
subs from arrays of hydrophones on the ocean bottom
sound-powered-phone(s)— voice power communication system to talk
between stations, JA & JX, and subsystems—Note 1-2
SPCP—Steam Propulsion Control Panel, throttleman’s watchstation
SpecOps—Special Operations
specs—specifications, machine/system tolerances/requirements
splice—join two lines together with same diameter/strength of the original
lines—Note 12-7
Splice the Mainbrace—celebration after difficult task—Note 12-7
SPM—Secondary Propulsion Motor, aka the Outboard—Figure 2
spring-lines—crossed lines from two cleats to pier/adjacent boat, counters
winds/current that could move a ship fore and aft
SSC—self-sustaining-criticality, neutron breakeven point—Note 1-6
SSORM—Standard Ship Operations and Regulation Manual, instructions
for the boat’s operations and control of casualties
SSTG—Ship Service Turbine Generator, large steam turbine AC generator
—Note 1-5 & Note 1-7
ST—Sonar Technician rating, STS Sonar Technician Submarines
starboard/stbd—right side of a ship facing forward
stateroom—officers berthing, included cabinets, desk, sink, & door
steam-generator—boiler that uses primary-coolant running through tubes to
turn feedwater surrounding the tubes into steam
steerage way—enough speed thru the water that allows rudder to steer a
course, term is used for very slow speeds
stern—aft end of the boat
stern-planes—forward of the screw forming cruciform with rudder, controls
the bubble, stern-planesman watchstation & also helmsman
still—see evap
SubGruTwo—Submarine Group Two, New London administration;
counterpart to SubRon 14’s operational control during refit/patrol
Sub/Des Piers—Submarine/Destroyer Piers, at Norfolk Naval Base
SubRoc—Submarine Rocket, CZ range ASW tactical nuclear missile
SubRon 14—Submarine Squadron 14, Holy Loch, Scotland, operational
control of FBM submarines & submarine tender—the flag ship
SUBSAFE—Specifications/Policy/Regulations/Procedures to ensure
submarine safety after loss of USS THRESHER SSN 593—Note 4-21
Supervisor—Sonar Supervisor or Machinery Watch Supervisor
supersonic—frequencies above human hearing, greater than 20kHz
Supply—Supply Department
suppressed cavitation—high frequency cavitation from a deep submarine
screw at speed, i.e., small bubbles—Notes 14-9 & 14-10
SupShips—Supervisor of Shipbuilding, Navy and government civilians
overseeing shipyard work
swab—a mop
SWO—Senior Watch Officer, LCdr Harry Walters, Weps/SWO
tack—sailing a course off of desired course because of head winds
TAD—Temporary Additional Duty, orders to another command; typically
for a short period of time—typically to school
Taps, Taps, Lights Out—1MC evening announcement to turn out the lights
in berthing spaces, typically 2200 hours
Tave—reactor coolant average temperature, average of the reactor’s inlet
and outlet coolant temperatures—Note 4‑9
tender—repair ship, USS HUNLEY (AS31) and USS PROTEUS (AS19)
TFCS—Torpedo Fire Control System, Mk 112, stbd side Control Rm
titration— chemistry testing technique of drop by drop test agent into a
sample, used for boiler water testing—Note 7-1
trim tanks—seawater tanks adjusting buoyancy/pitch-angle of boat—Figure
2 & Note 4-16
Tk—tank, e.g., Sanitary Tk#2—Figure 2
TM—Torpedoman rating, duties maintenance of torpedoes/torpedo tubes
and launching torpedoes
TMA—Target Motion Analysis, determining a contact’s course/speed/range
TRANSIT—early Navy satellite navigation system
Triad—strategic nuclear Triad, nuclear delivery systems, Air Force
bombers, land-missiles and Navy’s at sea FBM submarine missiles
Trk—trunk, e.g., Bridge access trunk—Bridge Trk—Figure 2
Trolley(s)—mobile tracked device, determines missile’s orientation relative
to boat’s centerline; for fire control launch data—Note 8-1
true bearing(s)—direction to a contact/object in degrees true north
turn-count—sonarman’s aural classification of contact’s screw rpm
TVG—Temperature-Voltage-Gassing curves of battery charge limits on
production of hydrogen gas by electrolysis of the battery water
Twilight Zone—TV psychic thriller, normal events turning abnormal
Type11—periscope for precision star measurements—Note 6-3
UCMJ—Uniform Code of Military Justice, legal basis of military’s justice,
authorization for Captain’s Mast—Note 10-4
ULAMR—Upper Level Auxiliary Machinery Room—Figure 3
ULCER—Underwater Launch Condition EvaluatoR, system for wave
height and distance between peaks, ultra high frequency sound device
ULER—Upper Level Engine Room—Figure 3
unique-catenary—special curve of the floating-wire where each end is at
different heights and forces that changes with sub speed/depth &
amount of wire paid-out
UQC-1—Underwater telephone, designated AN/UQC-1, for boat to boat or
boat to surface ship—see Gertrude—Note 12-2
USNUSL—United States Navy/Underwater Sound Laboratory
VAdm—Vice Admiral, officer rank O-9—three stars
Vette—Corvette, General Motors sports car—aka a Vet in the 1950’s
VLF—Very Low Frequency, VLF Mast, VLF floating-wire, VLF comms
buoy; NCA VLF broadcast messages—see NCA, wire & quad-pole
Wardroom—officers’ dining room, generic name for ship’s officers
Weps—Weapons Officer/Department Head, LCdr Harry Walters
white rat—a jury rig amplifier/speaker tap at Conn of the JX circuit
Williamson Turn—ship maneuver for rescuing man-overboard
wire—long buoyant wire antenna with a length floating on the surface, used
to receive VLF radio messages and LF Loran-C signals
WLR-1—ELINT analyzer for radio/radar signals—Note 12-3
WRT—Water (a)Round Torpedo, tank for flooding tubes, for water ejection
system, and collecting water drained from the torpedo tubes
WSRT—Weapon Systems Readiness Test—missile launching test in
response to a NCA WSRT message—Note 10-2
WTD—water-tight-door, hull strength door between compartments
WWII (III)—World War II (III)
XO—eXecutive Officer, LCdr Maurice ‘XO’ Jankovich
yard—horizontal wooden spar on sailing ship mast, top of sail is tied to the
yard and braces are tied at each end for steering control—Note 12-7
YN—Yeoman rating, XO’s administrative assistant for boat’s official
correspondence and crew records
zig—torpedo fire control term for target course and/or speed change
Zulu time—Navy’s designation for Greenwich Mean Time—Note 6-4
About the Authors
Michael J. Pastore, graduated Villanova University with a B.S. in Physics
and NROTC commission as a Naval Officer, was immediately ordered to
nuclear power and submarine officer training schools. He then reported to
his submarines completing five patrol cycles.
After naval service, he had a civil service career as an operations
research analyst at USN/USL. Lab sent him to University of Pennsylvania
for Systems Engineering master degree. He made hundreds of sea trips
around the globe in submarines, destroyers, cruisers, carriers, P-3s and the
battleship USS IOWA (BB 61). Major projects were on the fleet’s first
modern towed array sonar, demonstration of a commercial tonal analyzer in
submarine exercises that resulted in the BQR-20 series, first use of a
DeskTop Computer (DTC) for fleet active/passive sonar range predictions,
building an ASW DTC Combat System for FFs (FFISTS) and a DTC
interim ASW tactical trainer—TASWIT. He was Science Advisor to the
Commander, Second Fleet (C2F) where he led a C2F team in developing
the Fleet DTC Program.
He is the author/co-author of more than 150 technical reports and
magazine/national symposium articles. At the end of his career, he served as
Technical Assistant to the Director of Anti-submarine Warfare Op-71 and,
later, to the Oceanographer of the Navy Op-96.
He is retired in Escondido, CA, with his black-powder cannon.

Philip L. Munck is a retired Navy commander who joined the Navy after
graduation from the University of Michigan. His sea duty included service
in a WWII era destroyer, a post-war diesel submarine and four patrols on a
Polaris missile submarine. He served with Mr. Pastore at the end of a
shipyard overhaul, a long shakedown cruise that included an A3 missile
launch, and for one patrol as Weapons Department Head and Mr. Pastore as
Assistant Weapons Officer.
His work after the Navy included being a newspaper reporter, a
professional city/town manager, a defense contractor program engineering
administrator, and a property value analyst of civilian nuclear power plants.
Fully retired, he and his wife, Nan, live in Somersworth, New
Hampshire near their children and grandchildren. He is deeply engaged in
the activities of the organization preserving and displaying the historic,
experimental submarine USS ALBACORE.