Long Run Patrol Chapter 8

 Long Run Patrols       Chapter 8        
               

The late summer of 1967 found “The Skipjack” off the coast of Britain. The boat surfaces at sea, somewhere near a coastal military base. A helicopter approaches, its after midnight. The small spotlight flashes the sail bridge commander. The signal is returned.  The British black navy chopper is hovering over us. Two men in black uniforms, one at a time are lowered to the wet deck.  Skipjack crewmen await and catch each arrival. They are escorted below down the forward hatch. The North Atlantic sea state is confused and cold. This action happens quickly and the boat submerges with two British agents on-board. One man is a left lieutenant officer, the other a technician of some sort. The captain and lookouts come down the bridge tube and the last man shuts the two watertight hatches.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            I'm training on the helm and sail planes. This was so cool, the officer in the conning tower shouts, set your course north 000' compass heading and then make your depth one-hundred and sixty feet. I say, “aye aye sir” make my depth one-hundred and sixty feet and steering compass heading, north 000,' ... "Wuga' Wuga" Dive! Dive!  The boat turns and starts the dive. The course is northward into the cold gray Arctic region.The officer shouts, increase your speed to thirty knots. The rabbit acknowledged the order.  The best news, I wasn't a mess cook anymore. I took over as ship's photographer in training. This trip, I was now qualified to drive the boat. Living the dream and now a part of the crew. These accomplishments earned and signed off by the captain. Wow... this is better than serving coffee.  These first months on patrol are very exciting carrying British agents and special equipment to run the coast near Russia..                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Now eight weeks later and back from our patrol northern run, we will stop in Scotland. There is a real chill in the air as we cruise in. The Skipjack is on the surface, the maneuvering watch is set into Holy Loch, now the middle of October. This is the start of my second year on submarines. The port is appreciated by the crew and officers. The spies leave us here. The crew hit the town in civilian clothes as ordered. Everybody on the sub is sporting a beard, except yours truly. A milk mustache would be my only real try at that. The town of Dunoon was my first experience out of the United States. The Simon Lake submarine tender was now a temporary home, to our boat. Liberty awaited me. New adventures in Scotland and the pubs.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           The best news, did I tell you? I wasn't a mess cook anymore.  Seaman Alley was also an armed topside watch. This sailor now a part of a repel boarder, topside group. Submarine defense in foreign ports. The team is armed with Thompsons, a forty five caliber sub-machine gun. Living the dream and now a part of the crew. The prize was my submarine dolphins' a slow work in progress for me. Now standing in a local Scottish Pub, with my crew letting off some steam. The rabbit is enjoying the moment. A torpedo man has been awarded his dolphins by the captain on this trip north. Now the crew celebrates this honor. We all have a great respect for this achievement. That said, the Chief of the Boat, another qualified torpedo man drops the silver metal emblem into serving pitcher and begins filling it. The different alcohols and all sort of other liquids mixed together. The crew starts the chant as the man picks up this chalice. He drinks this sick brew, spilling much of it down his chest. The prize at the bottom sliding into his lips and teeth, success and applause. This poor guy is  now violently ill and shoots a shower of liquid into a large garbage can. The crew goes insane and hugs the soaked guest of honor. He is now a made man.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Life at sea with my new family, feeling the love. Tom Jones wailing on the jukebox, " I'm coming home". I step up to the bartender and asked for a VO Press. Well son, we serve only one whiskey here, and its scotch. How would you like that?  sailor. I said, straight up of course. This home brew went down with a bite. "Big Problem," the torpedo man wasn't the only one that had to be carried back to the boat. I was singing, I'm coming home, at the top of my lungs. That's the last time, I've ever had scotch, anyway the beer tasted better, life was good. The history is kind of skewed again. I had made multiple runs north on the sub.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                I was in uniform on the train ride to Edinburgh the capital of Scotland. The train ride was not to bad, a two day pass was needed. I was a loner and I liked it that way. Seaman Alley loved the crew but living in close quarters for months got old. Traveling through the green countryside was wonderful. I had ordered a big glass of milk in the club car. I was then sporting a new white mustache. The truth was all dairy was gone after the first week at sea, no green salads, The real eggs disappeared also. Funny what you miss on a long patrol at sea. The family and home were a real issue on these trips too. That said, I was making memories. The train station in this big city was amazing. I carried a small shaving kit and a change of socks. Sub Sailors travel light. The walk through the cobble stone lanes and the old structures was interesting but alas no camera. Downtown onto the main square, it was early afternoon. I was hungry and stepped into a Pub and Restaurant. The place was packed. The crowd feeling no pain and staring at me. Hey "Yank" come have one with us. This lone US Sailor is welcomed into their warmth. Set him up with a Scottish ale. The tankard mug had a glass bottom and the dark liquid was warm and syrupy. I looked through the bottom of the mug at all my new friends. They were watching intently. It was like drinking my dolphins, I thought. Benito had to finish it, thank God it was only a pint. The whole crowd cheered as I sat down the empty Stein. The pats on the back followed. I felt on top of the world. "Yank," you must see the Queen, you must see the Queen. They pushed me out the door into the square. Still shoving the sailor up to the front. Lines of people were gathering on the public parade route. Let the "Yank" through to the front with him.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The tomb of the "Unknown Soldier" was in the foreground.  The crowd hushed as the Royal Entourage came into view.  The Judge Magistrate and his court walked by. They all were wearing long black robes and powdered wigs. The true meaning of a long hair. This Lady was wearing a yellow chiffon hat and dress. The dress was cut at the knee. She was carrying a bunch of yellow flowers. Queen Elizabeth was beautiful and actually waved at me and smiled.  I stood there, the only US soldier present. My heart almost left my chest. She was surrounded by the masses, no real security near. Only fifteen feet from myself and others. She continued up the steps to this monument and bow to the royal kilted, Scottish guard.  Then placed the flowers on the unknown soldier's tomb. The crowd roared. "OMG " I was my country's representative that day. I have no words for that moment. I wasn't hungry anymore. The tears weld up in my eyes. These people loved their soldiers. Life had strange benefits. One day your alone and wondering, why me? The next day your surrounded by the masses and cheering the Queen.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            These American submarines were an important vanguard for these Scottish people too. The smiling faces probably didn't know why we patrolled either, but their Queen did. The twist of events far from home. This sailor welcomed the tap on his back, it's for luck, mate'. The locals said, the stars on the back of your navy uniform, that's for luck. Local superstition or what? They all tap my shoulder. They would smile and grin at the American sailor. The luck was mine. I loved these people and there kindness to this boy from California. The long runs, we patrolled were important to them and us. The British, French, Canadian and American submarines all apart of the cold war effort. Opening the door to others. This sailor was moved that day. "It's for luck mate"

The Hare Chapter 7

Saturday, February 13, 2016

The Hare Chapter 7

          “The Hare”     Chapter 7                      
The next tale is not as easy to tell. There are many twists and turns. I wasn't excited about this new boat at all. This new submarine was the first of her kind. Skipjack was built in 1955 and launched 1959. I was still the youngest on-board and that means starting all over again. The Cubera was my first diesel boat. I really knew my station and place on-board her. The  old crew would be missed. Ten whole months of my life on that old sub and then I'm transferred. I was almost finished qualifying and had found my niche. That meant getting my dolphins and the crew's respect, all out the window. This hit me hard,  "discouraged" was a good word. Back to ground zero, why? The Skipjack was the fastest nuclear submarine in the world. My new crew made me feel uneasy. The guys seemed much more formal and detached. Seaman Alley was changing directions again. Who out there was yanking my chain? I was mess cooking again, not knowing anyone. This unknown had me in a funk.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                       The Interior Communication Electricians gang was my new assignment, totally different for me. I had no idea what they even did. The new guy, was kind of depressed for sure.  The crew made up of real professional men, most we're college educated. The engineering group on-board alone had an extra two years of nuclear training. The school, they attended was ran by Admiral Rickover. He was dean and head master, made Hitler look like a choir boy. Rickover ran a tight ship. This sailor was intimidated by this new company of the navy's elite. I must be intellectually disabled,  Sailor Alley's on this fool's errand, be strong and confident was my new motto, “yeah, right.”  I'm the kid, who made coffee and peeled potatoes. I can think about it later, enough sniveling.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          The cook's name was Waldo, he liked his staff on time and efficient. The crew and officers numbered over a hundred men. I started work at five o'clock in the morning. We would work until the last plate was washed that night. There were three mess cooks. We kept the boat fed. That meant all three sit-down meals served family style. Then everyday ended with a soup down about eleven o'clock at night. Two months of this, you have met the entire crew. These guys were very somber at my arrival. This was misunderstood by yours truly. The truth came out later over coffee and cake. Some of the crew was starting to warm up to me. The problem was I had replaced a great guy. They all loved this man, he was a skilled electrician rated sub sailor. The last long run patrol, this electrician had accidentally been killed. Electrocuted behind the control room areas at the switch panels. The boat was underway in some emergency situation. The crew had to bag his remains and freeze him in the walk-in box. No wonder they weren't to friendly to the new guy. How do you fix that? Lots of time and healing. I wasn't the answer, they were looking for.  I  kept really busy mess cooking. I had no energy to feel sorry for myself or this crew.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Fire drills, wearing gas masks, we had flooding drills. Radiation leak drills and emergency secure compartment drill, I knew that one. Everybody up and clean the boat days. Battle Stations and more safety drills, could keep a guy out of the rack (bed) a lot. Qualifying the boat had to happen, not on duty but off. My own time didn't exist, just having four or five hours of sleep maybe a day. That was broke up into catnaps. Our first patrol for me was two months. The submarine had lots of sea time. The old diesel boat stayed close to shore maybe a two week patrol. This boat could be anywhere and was. The Atlantic was a small place for us. Speedy and not having to come up for air or fuel. That meant the Skipjack was totally independent from the rest of the world. We were on a spaceship in this big blue ocean. Two hundred and fifty foot long fast boat, left the rest of the fleet way behind the curve. We could stay on a patrol as long as it took. Fast Attack Submarines meant hunter killer to enemy subs. This Nuclear Submarine set the standard at that time. A real deep and deadly weapon at sea. Our class of boats numbered six. The boat being the ultimate threat. The next two and a half years, I would sharpen my skills and be an asset to the boat and crew.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        First things first, I was to make coffee taste right. The time is 10:30 pm, I'm getting ready for a soup down and made coffee in the two big urns, forty cups per tank. That said, the control room is rigged for red and they wanted the hot brew. Mess cook Alley takes the orders, two blonde and sweet, 3 black and bitter, 2 blonde and bitter, Officer in the Conn' wants bitter and sweet. This operation center is dark as I take the tray up the ladder one floor. The boat is really vibrating through the seas, thirty two knots at six hundred feet. Headed east to England's coast in a few more days. We are steaming across the Atlantic. These guys would be relieved in an hour. That's a cold black ocean on the other side of the pressure hull with no wave action felt at this depth. My life was moving forward faster. The engineering team sends a guy up forward for their coffee. They are back behind the reactor compartment in the maneuvering control room. The sub is running on maybe eighteen percent power. These numbers are vague of course. The soup down is in the crews dining area. This always involved barking and snarling aimed at the cook. Waldo was a little touchy about the crews complaints. He was known to over-react. That said, he told me once he wanted to poison some of his biggest critics. Waldo continued, I'd have to poison everybody to get away with it. Crazy was alive and well, he was my boss.  Soup down was the only time the crew could talk about him and get away with it. Waldo slept at this meal. Crewman Alley never ate the soup, just saying.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       My old stories of the diesel boat got some smiles and my lost love at Bells Bar got a laugh or two, thanks to Snorkel Patty. The rabbit was moving on, my adventures would get better promise. The crew was liking the new kid, nicknamed rabbit.  

Making Waves

I didn't have white hair back then...my two boys are in the second photo, forward torpedo room on another old diesel boat in San Francisco a few years back. The first photo was  my second boat, I was on The Skipjack SSN. 585 the first nuclear powered fast attack,   These other photo's are of my crew during my four years in the navy...the last one was the USS Cubera SS. 347    my first submarine... luckily it was shooting this fish and not on the receiving end... the cartoon was drawn by a shipmate on a cruise under the ice cap...cold war era..                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

New York City Chapter 6

New York City   Chapter 6th

                     
(line handlers on deck) “Cubera arriving”                                      
The boat motoring into New York Harbor.  This navy submarine enters the city's wharf area after passing Ellis Island.  This was the second time by the Statue of Liberty, “the old girl herself,” isn't that right mom? I was standing lookout with a big lump, in my throat. The view was breathtaking in this early morning calm. It was good to be coming into a dock at the Brooklyn Navy Shipyard, especially after that big storm. Three days in this town and old enough to drink, “yahoo”. The crew was ready for liberty. I wanted to see Broadway and Fifth Avenue. That said, Benito was dressed in his regulation blues, my shoes were shined and my white hat was clean. This was not to easy a feat on a diesel boat.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    I strolled through Central Park and some of the other tourist sights. I was headed downtown to a place called “Dempsey's.” Anybody in uniform got a free drink on the house. The restaurant and bar was a museum of bare fist fighters. The full wall murals showing the famous and not so famous. The men battling in the ring. Jack Dempsey was the best of the best. He started fighting in the Colorado mining camps. Three deep to this bar, I finally got a stool. This sailor, being me, ask the barkeeper to give me a VO Press.  I said, that's Canadian VO' Bourbon and a twist of lemon adding seven up and club soda float on top of the ice. He said, I know what it is kid, let me see your ID, sailor? The bartender looked at it a long time, shrugged and then served me. I was really sweating bullets. I saw a picture of this particular mixed drink in a magazine. I wanted that special cocktail at Dempsey's Bar in New York on my birthday.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              I  drank this cocktail way to quickly, but it  was very good. I'll have another one please, this being my second legal drink. New York had an eighteen year old drinking age. This time it cost me three bucks! I slowed way down and sipped it very slowly. Since that was real expensive on my sailor's budget. I've been drinking them over forty years now. I do switch to Crown Royal now and then but still like the taste of  VO' Bourbon.  My wallet said, it was time to be on my way. I left "five bucks" on the bar and got up to go. I accidentally stepped back on this old man's toe. Oh! sorry sir, I didn't see you. He smiled and said, let me buy you one, son. His kind eyes told me, he was alright. Jack Dempsey waved the bartender over and said, Joe, this one is on me. The barman said “yes sir,” that's a  VO  Press, right? That's right,  I sure do thank you, Mr. Dempsey, as he smiled again and disappeared into the crowd. “Kid Blackie” didn't look like his pictures on the wall. There was many years between then and now. These days many people didn't like servicemen. That said, Jack, the heavy weight champion of the world, wasn't one of them.  The guys back on the boat didn't believe it, but so what, I did.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 The city was alive that night. I walked slowly down the boulevard, checking out all the sights. I took the subway to Brooklyn and walked back to the boat to save my bus fare. I had duty the next two days. Our submarine was still in port, that was no problem.  I ran out of cash quickly in those days. What was the reason, the sub was here in New York? It must have been a secret, at least I didn't know why.  The next port was the submarine base at New London. That meant two more days at sea. The sub cruised on the surface this time. Studying the pipe systems had me crawling through the interior of the boat. I was drawing outlines of valves and more pipes. I was getting signed off on this and that system.  This kept me real busy on the boat.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Yogi, my engine room chief was frustrated with me, because mechanical stuff wasn't my strong suit. Those diesel engines hated me. Fireman Alley, it was decided would be an electrician. That would be a little cleaner anyway. I had to turn in my bilge rat hat. The new guy, who got my old job probably loved engines starting with his first lawnmower. I knew every valve in the forward and aft engine rooms, well, that was a good thing. The one engine, the navy had removed was replaced by a secret device. The navy was trying out some new equipment. A master something.... maybe that's why we stopped in New York City. This was an interesting piece of gear.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        The “Silent Service” is just that. We can't talk about it...so be quiet.  Well anyway, we tied up to the submarine docks in Groton.  We were here for special training class. The whole crew has to re-qualify the Steinke hood. Steinke what? Its was a new underwater escape device. Submarine crew safety during the cold war era, required this training.  I had just done this escape training stuff. That was only six months before... right? That was the wrong answer. This sailor, now had to wear a hood with a window in it. No more blowing bubbles. We all yell, ho ho ho! to the surface from the 50 foot level up. This hooded air pocket is connected to the vest. Hey funny, I  might have finally broke my out of the water record. The human rocket launch, that's me. The thing is all of us knew unless you sank in the harbor.  That no one was swimming to the surface and still survive. The mom's out there didn't need to know that. So here we go, ho ho ho!  Up, up and away, the silent service right. Well somebody must have told a mom. The Navy retired the training tank a few years back.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         The boat stayed in New London for a month doing special operations. This new secret system was the master prairie bubblier surrounded the hull.  The hope was to make us invisible to detection. That said, the other navy submarines would try and find us. Then shoot a torpedo at us, “real fun”. These boats were armed with dummy torpedoes but they still could dent your fender. A steam driven slug at  twenty one feet long. That weighted over one thousand pounds running at you over forty miles an hour seemed a little excessive. I hoped this blower system really worked.  We tried hard to evade these guys. I'm just saying, our boat never took a direct hit. The story was another boat came into port with a dummy torpedo stuck through the sail. It’ll keep you on your toes for sure. Almost fifty years later, I'm telling these stories. I hope the navy has better stuff out there these days. I retired a few pairs of shorts, testing that one out. The day came and the Cubera and crew cruise back to Norfolk.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     I was a real crew member now tested under fire, so the guys took me out one night.  Bell's Bar on the strip, just outside the main gate of the navy base. This was a submariner's hangout. Surface guys need not enter, pig boats only. Standing at this bar was a time honored tradition, fried chicken gizzards and beer. This sailor being only eighteen years old in Virginia meant  two percent beer. Sub sailors in here didn't follow many rules like that. The gizzards went down better after about the eighth beer.  Smiling like, I had just drank a lot of Ruby Hill.  The next day, my head couldn't fit down the hatch.  Sub sailors from different boats, we're smiling at the kid from this old diesel boat. Truly fit in with the crew now. This sailor had his sails trimmed that night, just saying.                                
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  The main Norfolk Navy base had barracks for sub sailors with plenty of hot water showers and bunk beds too, life was good. The D&S docks was where the subs docked were more secure and had another outside gate down the other side of the strip. Tattoo parlors, uniform shops, pool halls and at least ten bars including Bells lined both sides of the street for two blocks.  To get from the boat to the barracks meant crossing the red zone. That said, being a new electrician on board. I had stood the equalizer battery charge watch. I was checking specific gravity on both battery banks. This required, one guy, eighteen hours to do this job. It was important that the levels be checked on the hour.   The boat was headed back out to sea, the very next day. I had to complete this charge. Yogi was the engine man running the power for this watch. The batteries reached full charge finally the charge was done at 12:39 am. I was beat just crawling on the top of these 120 battery cells . The battery wells with only had about two an a half foot of clearance. It made for a very long day.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    The problem was the shuttle wasn't running between the two  navy bases after midnight. I decided to walk to the barracks. It was only a mile. That said, I put on my pea coat and my dress blue trousers and an a mostly clean white hat. I needed a shower and some sleep.  I had to be in dress uniform outside the gates. I was halfway to the main gate in the red zone when the shore patrol stopped me. They were stopping sailors and checking uniform dress code. That may be a problem, this pig boat sailor was out of uniform. Seem they found under the pea coat, I was wearing a filthy dirty dungaree work shirt, that smelled real bad. The patty wagon was my new transport to the brig. The good news was I had my own holding cell anyway. They hadn't processed me yet and the chief in charge called for the pig boat sailor. What the hell? boy. Thank God, this guy was a sub sailor. He had dolphins on to prove it. Slowly I explained myself, holding back tears. The old chief said, who's the officer in charge tonight? The phone call was interesting. Shore Patrol and the chief escorted me back to the sub pier. The officer of the deck holding the ransom, it was two boxes of donuts and Richard's best pie. I was returned, the prisoner boarded the boat. The paperwork was lost and the next morning we were out to sea. I got restricted to the boat for two weeks. The exact same period, we were out.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     I told Richard, thanks for helping me out. He laughed out loud.  Richard and I were almost qualified boat sailors by now. Ten months had passed, on-board this great boat and crew. That all changed on July of 67', my new orders came in. I was transfer to a fast attack nuclear submarine. The same damn boat, I had studied in school. I didn't want to go. Richard, my sea dad got his orders that day too. My sea dad went to another nuclear fast attack on that same day. The crew would really miss him. Richard after all was a damn good cook. The good news, we both were staying in Norfolk. The bad news, I was leaving this rag tag family that had my back. The other "Diesel Submarine" stories not written here will live with me forever. Sly Fox, a wild berry wine and Yogi another time & tale.

Diesel Boat Chapter 5

  Diesel Boats Forever was our slogan              
                                                                                                                                                                                  I was still wet as I returned to the galley and the crew's area. The galley had been destroyed. Poor Richard, the food was on the walls. The kitchen was tossed. His vision of  our first dinner at sea, had turned into a nightmare. The dramatic up and down angles were really felt in this space. Richard had grabbed a metal pitcher of milk before it flew off the table. He was holding it in place. The milk hit the wall. The floor had changed to the aft bulkhead wall. This was sure not an aircraft carrier, he said. The two of us put the space back in order and served cold sandwiches instead. I wasn't very hungry that evening.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          The torpedo room flooding was epic, try to imagine a pipe open to sea that's 24 foot long and 3 foot in diameter. Then think what kind'a pressure there is at 300 feet down. Now you got a clue about having ten of these sewer pipes  on a sub. Thank God, the outer door didn't malfunction too. This crew was amazing. They were all qualified fleet boat sailors and proved it. Each man knew his job, their reaction time was instantaneous. The compartment full of water was balanced by forty guys running to the aft torpedo room to offset the weight of sea water flooding the bow. That said, the seven watertight doors throughout the boat were all shut before the incident was controlled. The bilge pumps were running before I fell out of that bunk. The internal salvage air was pumped into the room to pressurize that space. No fear was shown. These sub sailors were like a well oiled machine working together. That was my crew.... I had a lot more to learn.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        That next morning, we returned to the docks in Norfolk and the Yard Birds departed. They some how looked even older. This Destroyer and Submarine dock had a tender ship, Orion and many other boats tied there. Just another day at the office, "yeah right!"  I was starting to meet the crew and hearing their personal stories. Mess cook was more than dish washing and coffee making, I was a sub sailor too.  The galley was my office where all the guys relaxed and shared conversation. These crew men helped me learn my job and theirs. We were a team and  family. The Cubera had sixty-six enlisted men and maybe eight to ten officers. This navy submarine was three hundred and nineteen feet long. She had a beam of twenty eight feet. Her displacement submerged was two thousand four hundred tons. The draft on the surface was sixteen feet deep. Surface speed well over eighteen knots. Underwater she made nine knots.Those kind of things, I had to know by heart and a lot more. She was built and launched June of 1945. The systems and operations must be learn by all.  That's enough technical stuff. The systems and operations took me ten months to know by heart. The rewards meant longer hours and more responsibility. I was part of something bigger than myself.                                                                                                                                                                      

                                                                                                                                                                                    Richard and I studied together and learned every valve in the compartment. The food freezer and chill box, both were walk in units. The canned goods and dry storage lockers. The stove and cleaning station. The equipment running on one of these boats was unbelievable. The toilets on the boat came with a manual, any wrong move was not pretty. The back pressure and poop don't play well together. Just saying, the next few months passed. I got qualifying topside watch. Went from mess cook to engine room bilge rat. My fireman rating was in play, I was training for diesel engine oilier and if you know me that's was real funny. Yogi the throttle man kept me busy. Ragging out the bilge and standing still watches. The making of fresh water was also very important and a really hot job. The engines used most of it and the rest was for coffee. Once a day, we got about eight ounces for personal hi-gene. We had a shower stall that was where the potatoes were stored. The sailor caught using more water than allotted, stood still watch for a couple of days. This was not any fun but great if you wanted to sweat off a few pounds. Life was interesting.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         They called us “pig boats.” Two weeks at sea, this odor killed your sense of humor and smell. That said, I loved every minute of it. Cleaning bulk crude oil to make purified engine fuel was another terrific job. This sailor turned eighteen at sea. January of 67,' it was a bitter cold season on the Atlantic seaboard. Traveling up the eastern sea coast, the boat was on its way to New York City. I was standing lookout topside. This was fun, some of the time, got to air out my arm pits. This trip not so much. The boat was running on the surface, it was a lot faster than when we were submerged. The storm came out of nowhere. We had to close the upper conning tower hatch onto the bridge. This to keep the water from coming down into the boat. I was dressed in foul weather gear and armed with my coffee cup. I had to climb the ladder into the sail station and bridge area. This sailor was the lookout on the starboard side. The bridge on topside was a three man watch. The officer of the deck and two lookouts stood a two hour shift in place.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Standing in this open weather. The watch duty had a real bite this morning. The first wave over the bow turned my hot coffee into a bowl of cold sea water.  The sea  tried to toss us three men under its force. Hold on! here comes another one, yelled the officer. This holding your breath as the sea passed over, got old quick. See the fact was this submarine had a South Atlantic sail. It wasn't as much fun on the surface, especially in a storm and rough seas. This step sail section was much lower to the deck. We had a plastic half dome bubble but it wasn't quite over us, it was just a windshield not a watertight space. The decision to keep the three of us up there was based on maritime rules. When any submarine was running on  the surface, they had to set the watch for cruising. one day and night running on top was quite enough.  Captain made the call to submerge the boat.  The storms intensity increased, running slower underwater seemed smarter to me. I got my first hot bath and a shot of brandy at sea. These seas even at a hundred feet deep could rock this old boat. We were moving north slower now.. The relentless sea tossed us around. Who knew the bottom of a wave could be as bad as the top of one.  The Nor' Easter made a big impression. This was my first East Coast winter. Two fishing trawlers were lost in this storm, a father and son had been reported missing. Dead fishermen were a fact of life on the open seas. These seas were treacherous, this time of year.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The first eighteen hours submerged in this storm was the pits.  The problem was now the air was getting bad. The submarine needed to snorkel and exchange air. Our skipper was afraid that might be tricky. See the bottom of the boat is full of flood ports, open to the sea. Saddle tanks with air  captured at the top making the boat float, if a wave turns you upside down the air runs out. The submarine floats no more . These thirty foot waves could make us a sinker instead of a floater, but having a bad atmosphere is not good either. We had to much CO 2 in the boat. Everyone not on watch was ordered to there bunks. Breathing less air was the plan.  Then we lit off  the carbon dioxide scrubber cans forward and aft. We started burning the CO 2 off. The air was getting really stale.  The boat was submerged twenty-one hours or more. We had to come up soon and that was the captain's orders.  The boat is going to the surface, safe or not?  Better than trying to snorkel. The boat was at least higher in the water and we could see the waves approach. Bigger balloons make women float better too. This girl had big ones. Back on watch topside, the three of us went up to ride these seas again. The Atlantic ocean eventually calmed. The third day at sea was much better. The boat had fresh air and a better cruising speed. New York City here we come...

Pig Boat Chapter 4

            Pig boat  Chapter 4

The day had finally arrived; this young sailor had graduated from sub school. I was proud to get my submarine certification. The captain of the base shook my hand. I had made the grade. The navy hadn't beaten me yet as I walked proudly out of that school.  Seaman Alley caught the train south to New York City. I wasn't afraid of the future anymore. Now to catch the Greyhound bus; I rode it the rest of the way down. Virginia here I come.

                                                                                                                                                                      My orders were to report to the Norfolk's Naval Shipyard. The town of Portsmouth was across the channel. One of the oldest ship repair yards on the East Coast. This place was two hundred and fifty years old and counting. Portsmouth had built "Merrimac" (the iron clad warship) during the civil war. That's where my diesel submarine was berthed. The Cubera was built in 1942. The diesel boat a "guppy- two" class sub was floating on the sea again. The yard had cut her open and removed one engine; that left three others. It was called  a soft patch. They had then welded shut the big hole in the pressure hull. This submarine had been in the same dry dock as the Virginia aka Merrimac in the eighteen-sixties. Some of the yard guys looked old enough; they might have worked on that old relic too. This high tech crew seemed unkempt.  My crew called them “yard birds.” I had made seaman and was ready for my new assignment.   

                                                                                                                                                                                                     That first day of my arrival I walked from the front gate to the old boat yard. This submarine was in the water along a pier, tied up to the work dock. It was early, about ten o'clock in the morning on October 11, 1966. That day, a couple of ambulances were sitting at the dock loading sailors into it. My heart almost stopped. I walked into to the office next to the pier. Seaman Alley reporting for duty, "sir". The office staff looking out the window at the scene unfolding. The Cuberra's captain and the others were real concerned about these guys. They were being taken off the sub, some on stretchers. Things started to settled down; the whole story was eventually told.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          They had this skeleton crew on-board and they were operating a simulated dive. That meant you close all the deck hatches. The light panel shows all green which means good to go. The crew pretends  to submerge. They raised the snorkel mast to take in air and they fire off a single diesel engine. This was a locomotive engine, a big motor with 16 cylinders. The crew was maybe six or eight guys and and duty officer. They simulated charging batteries underway while submerged. The control room cycled the head valve on the snorkel mast. A sub at sea, the waves would regularly cover the snorkel. The air suction to the engine had to be protected.  The head valve sensor would shut the airway until the wave had passed over. Then open again allowing air into the engine. The normal sequence was the engine would draw air from outside or inside the boat when the valve was shut. This would cause a vacuum in the boat.  The engine had an emergency shut down if the vacuum got too high. The magic number was like six inches.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The old pig boat's engine didn't shut down when the head valve failed to open and that was not good. The engine drew almost a perfect, twenty-nine inch vacuum. Like going to twenty-nine thousand feet in a matter of seconds. The engine throttle man passed out over the throttle, shutting this large engine down. The crew's ear drums were bleeding now, some passed out finally the crew recovers. They manage to pump air into the boat with the high pressure air tanks. It took hours to get out of that sub. The boat was sealed like a glass jar. The air inside had to match outside pressure to open the hatches. “Welcome aboard new guy."  That was my first day.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Just saying, none of this crew had ever been to sea on this diesel submarine. The Cuberra was in the shipyard for over two and a half years. None of the original crew was still on-board. Everything was torn out and put back together. The captain didn't seem to be bothered by this. This seaman was real concerned that after a few weeks we were ready for sea trials. The good news: my old friend, Richard, who had graduated sub school was here. We were now shipmates on-board the same sub. He being my main positive influence on that train ride. This first class cook became my sea dad and mentor. The bad thing was neither of us knew squat about this old boat. The captain, however, was smart and took a few “yard birds” with us out to sea since they verified we were ready.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       The submarine left port, the engines smoking black exhaust, that's good right?  Took awhile to get out to the Atlantic Ocean. It seems not all the engines were ready for the trip. I was happy that my job was making coffee and peeling potatoes; “No Problem.”  It was time to dive this smelly old sewer pipe. The soft patch had changed our test depth to three hundred feet or less. I hoped the bubble gum had sealed all the holes.

                                                                                                                                                                      The captain put the crew on alert. Everyone was to go to battle stations. Battle station? Hey, the coffee was ready to be served “sir;” not really.  I had to leave the galley and report to the forward torpedo room, the damage control party. There was myself and this other guy standing ready in a weapons station. The sub starting its way down, a few sailors were running around. How do you spell, woga, woga dive! dive!  My team was suppose to look for problems in a room full of torpedoes. "Hello," what's not a problem, the room is full of torpedoes. Then I see a real issue. I being this steely eyed  sub sailor, spotted a leak in the ceiling just above the beds that hung twelve feet off the deck. I said, "chief' there is a leak from that upper hatch." The two torpedo men wink at each other.  The chief says, "well sailor, you need to monitor that leak. Take a paper cup and count the drips per second and report." I was on it, feeling important now. I climbed onto the bunk and started counting drips. The submarine groaned as we continued our decent. The old boat was at one hundred feet now. The leak was less. I was still monitoring. The down-angle of this submarine meant that we were still diving. Things got real quiet as we passed two hundred feet. The groaning and creaking was still with us. The captain leveled the submarine at three hundred feet. Test depth achieved.  "ahh..shit" was my report, but not out loud. The half full cup was finished, no leaks to report, chief. Little did I know all the hatches in the boat were leaking like that; normal stuff. This crush depth pressure sealed them all. Great.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The captain called on all the boat's compartments to report. Things were good. We were operating on batteries now.  Silent and smooth, down deep. The boat groans had stopped. This sailor starts to relax a little. After all, I was on a bunk. They called this space the hanging gardens. Two bunks side-to-side under the torpedo room weapons loading hatch. Thirty minutes goes by slowly. The captain says over the intercom, "forward torpedo room fire an air slug....torpedo tube number one." We're still at test depth, “Hello!” The soft patch was still holding. Hell, why not shake this thing up a little. That's exactly what happened. The chief barks, "Open the outer door on tube number one." Then the torpedo man shoots this air slug out the damn thing. The whole boat shakes like there's been an earthquake, “OMG,” guess what? Five more tubes to go; my inside voice... calm be calm. I think it was tube number three, when it happened.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Captain says, "Fire air slug, tube number three." The chief says, “Aye aye sir, opening outer door.. firing air slug.... tube number 3."  Cold, rushing water blowing everybody on the deck below me down like bowling pins. The whole front of the torpedo room had white seawater coming in hissing and screaming loudly. Yard birds were running out of the compartment.  They shut the interior watertight door and dogged it down. Wow! We're trapped in here; now that's real nice... The chief screams, "Flooding in the forward torpedo room" into the headset he's wearing. The boat goes to emergency blow. The sub is trying to get to the surface. The torpedo man fights his way forward through the cold, waist deep seawater and closes the outer tube door.  The seawater stops rushing in. That's good, right? We still are very heavy and the boat starts to shudder. Full speed ahead as the three thousand pounds of air is blowing the outside ballast tanks dry.  We slowly start back up to the surface.  The seamen in the control room are driving, the bow and stern planesmen are steering us upward. Somebody turns the air valve on over the compartment door that's dogged shut. The internal salvage air is sending one hundred twenty-five pounds of air blowing up my pant leg in the overhead bunk. That's it! I come flying out of that rack and hit the deck 10 feet below. The two feet of water on the floor cushioning my fall. Wet, but not hurt, I'm laughing out loud. Luckily the pee in my pants is hidden by the cold saltwater bath.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        My adventure over? Not hardly. The boat breaking the surface on a dead run, reminds me of clearing the water like that old Victory at Sea shot or me in the escape training tank. Then the submarine starts slipping back.  The boat is sliding backwards on the way back down. We have no more air to blow. We slip past three hundred feet. The props are full-speed spinning with no effect. A prayer seems in order. We kept sliding back, stern first, past six hundred feet now. The creaking and groaning of the boat is also back. Finally, Cubera starts to slow and finally stops the descent. Even more slowly, we power our way back to the surface. The boat started snorkeling and running the engines. The boat has to charge everything back up. At least the snorkel head valve was working fine. We can't surface yet, till the compressors charge the air banks back up.. The pumps had ran the bilges dry. Well, its back to Norfolk . This sub sailor was surely "initiated" from that point on; nothing much seems to bother me.   A small pirate's laugh, the "Sea Trials" were over. This sailor's blood pressure returns to normal, almost.                                    

                                                                                                                                                                               The interior door gasket blew out under the sea's pressure on tube number three. One guy got hurt, but not too bad. We fixed a few other things and were back in the fleet.  These sub guys had nerves of steel and being crazy helps too.