by Larry Bond
“No, we usually flew well above any turbulence,” Jerry answered, “or we were yanking and banking and—” Jerry’s stomach suddenly flipped—or felt like it did. Puzzled, he straightened and tried to continue. “If we did hit turbulence, it was really more like a bumpy road than this pitching or rolling movement.” He had to force the last word out, because as his mind was drawn to the motion, a wave of weakness and nausea passed through him.
“Jerry, what’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet!” Millunzi sounded puzzled and concerned.
Jerry swallowed hard, fighting reflexively to control his rebellious insides. As he struggled, Memphis pitched forward and lurched to the right. His stomach surged upward, and only by a supreme effort did he force its contents back down.
This was impossible. He’d flown all kinds of maneuvers in jet fighters. He couldn’t. ..”
Hot flashes and cold chills ran across his skin. The nausea was overwhelming. His stomach made another attempt to empty itself, and he flung himself to the side of the cockpit and leaned out as far as he could. It wasn’t a conscious decision to throw up, just an automatic reaction to avoid making a mess in the cockpit.
Millunzi and Stewart watched in amazement as Jerry threw up violently, or more correctly, threw out and then back as the wind caught the vile substance and pulled it aft, spreading it along the sail. It was pure luck that he’d chosen the leeward and not the windward side.
As he threw up, Jerry hoped that once his stomach had emptied itself, the nausea would pass. But just as soon as the first spasm stopped, another began. The gut-churning misery continued for several minutes, until his cramping stomach muscles were too exhausted to contract.
Jerry turned back, leaning weakly on the edge, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
Both Millunzi and Stewart looked at him and burst into laughter. “Look at him. He’s actually green!” the enlisted man exclaimed.
“I’m sorry,” Millunzi apologized, but still laughing. “It was your expression.”
Too near death to respond, Jerry struggled with this new affliction. The novelty and surprise of his seasickness were gone, but the weakness and nausea remained. Could he function? He had to, but all he wanted to do was lie down somewhere. Or throw himself over the side. He really didn’t care.
Jerry didn’t know which was worse: the terrible fact that he was seasick or the embarrassment of throwing up. He didn’t have long to reflect on his dilemma as his stomach lurched again and Jerry had to lean over the edge. In tears from his laughter, Millunzi tried to show some sympathy for his pathetically green JOOD.
“Ahh God, Jerry, sniff, I’m truly sorry that you’re sick. Really I am!” said Millunzi apologetically. “But I haven’t seen someone emergency blow his cookies like that for a long time, and while you probably won’t believe this, it is rather humorous.”
Jerry could only moan a response, but his glare made it clear that he was not amused.
Petty Officer Stewart bent down and took something from a sailor below. Rising, he handed Millunzi a can and a small bag.
“Sir, this is from the Doc. He says make sure Mr. Mitchell takes the pills first.”
“Thank you, Petty Officer Stewart. Okay, Jerry, get your sorry green butt over here. The corpsman has sent up some stuff to help relieve your suffering.”
Jerry took the Dramamine tablets and washed them down with sips of Sprite. He then slowly nibbled on some saltine crackers and gradually began to feel somewhat human again. Millunzi watched him for a while and then asked, “Jerry, do you feel up to finishing up the watch or do you want to go below?”
“I finish what I start, sir,” rasped Jerry. “So unless you specifically order me below, I’ll stick it out.”
“That’s the spirit, lad. We’ll make a real submariner out of you yet— even if it kills you!”
Jerry could only manage a feeble smile in response to Millunzi’s remark. But he appreciated the sentiment behind it just the same. The boat rolled again and Jerry’s stomach felt like it had been turned upside down.
“Uugghh, I can’t believe I’m this seasick!” complained Jerry. “I never had any problems when I flew. I mean, I was never airsick!”
“Like I told you earlier: two very different platforms,” said Millunzi as he chomped down on a Slim Jim. Jerry quickly turned away and kept munching his saltines.
For the next two hours, Jerry fought his queasiness and tried hard to concentrate on his duties. And while the medication reduced the effects of his seasickness, it certainly didn’t get rid of them. Still, he managed to stand the rest of the watch without making a complete fool of himself. Next time, he thought, I’ll get some of those patches that prevent this sort of thing from happening. Mercifully, the nearly six-hour-long surface transit finally drew to a close.
At 1711, control reported that the latest sounding was 115 fathoms, or 690 feet, and that it was almost time to dive the boat. Since Jerry and Millunzi would have to rig the bridge for dive, which would cause them to lose their ability to safely drive the sub, Lenny Berg assumed the deck and the conn down in control.
“Let’s hop to it,” announced Millunzi. “Petty Officer Stewart, you get the sound-powered phones and the colors while Mr. Mitchell and I get the suitcase and the other electronics.”
Stewart acknowledged the order and pulled the sound-powered phones from the jack and screwed the cap over the external connection. Millunzi showed Jerry how the other equipment was removed and the external connections made watertight. Finally, the windscreen and flagpole were unbolted and handed down. Once everything had been removed, Millunzi and Jerry raised the clamshells and locked them into place. These two doors faired the cockpit area into the rest of the sail, presenting a smooth, streamlined surface to the water as it flowed over the sail. By doing this, a significant source of flow noise—like the tone that is made by blowing across an empty Coke bottle—was eliminated.
Jerry and Millunzi then climbed down the ladder, with Millunzi shutting and securing the upper and lower bridge access trunk hatches. After that, Millunzi reported, “Chief of the Watch, the bridge is rigged for dive, last man down, hatch secure.” The Chief of the Watch then reported to Berg that the ship was rigged for dive, that is, all conditions had now been met to allow the submarine to safely submerge.
Millunzi stepped up on to the periscope stand, talked briefly with Berg, and reassumed the watch as Officer of the Deck. Jerry waited until the two were done and then tried to join Millunzi. But before he could a second step, Lenny pulled him aside and said, “Al says you’ve done your job for today. He wants you to sit at POS 1 and carefully watch what goes on as he submerges the ship.” When Jerry tried to resist, Berg grabbed him more firmly by the arm and pulled him over to the first fire-control position.
“Trust me on this, Jerry, Al is doing this for your own good. If the Captain saw you wobbling up there as the conning officer with Captain Young on board, he’d give live birth to a litter of warthogs and then sic them on you! Now sit down.”
Jerry looked up to Millunzi, who drew his right hand rapidly across his throat, meaning stop it, and then forcefully pointed for him to stay put. Recognizing an order when he saw one, Jerry nodded and sat down. No sooner had he done so, Captain Hardy marched into the control room and demanded to know the ship’s status.
“OOD, report,” bellowed Hardy.
Calmly, Millunzi began the lengthy report on the ship’s condition. He provided Hardy with the current course and speed, information on any contacts held, navigation system status, depth of water beneath the keel, and finally, that the ship was rigged for dive. He then took a breath and requested permission to submerge the ship. Hardy paused briefly to check the compass repeater and speed indication on the ship’s control panel. Satisfied with the report, he faced Millunzi and said, “Very well, OOD. Submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”
“Submerge the ship to one five zero feet, aye, sir. Diving Officer, submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”
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As Jerry listened to the exchange and acknowledgment of orders, he realized that the same thing had just been said four times by three different people. To an outsider, this whole idea of repeating the same thing over and over again would seem absurd. However, the principle of repeating back orders was adopted by the Navy to help forge a solid communication chain so that the right people took the right actions at the right time. It wasn’t foolproof, but it did considerably reduce the number of errors that were made.
“Dive! Dive!” announced the Diving Officer over the IMC. Then, reaching for the diving alarm, he pushed the lever twice. WREEEEEE, WREEEEEE reverberated throughout the ship, closely followed by a second announcement, “Dive! Dive!”
Jerry then watched as the Diving Officer, Chief of the Watch, and the planesmen worked together to slowly drive Memphis underwater. Millunzi manned the periscope and kept providing the foursome with important feedback information on how things were going outside. It took several minutes, but Millunzi finally reported, “Scope’s under, lowering number one scope.”
Once Memphis was below one hundred feet, Millunzi called Berg over and said, “Get Jerry to his rack. He puked himself silly on the bridge and he’s dog-tired. Doc Noonan said to give some more Sprite and saltines if he’s hungry, but above all Doc said he needs rest.”
“Aye, aye, Your OODness,” responded Berg.
Jerry stood up, ready to protest, but then realized that he really did feel weak. All the adrenaline had worn off, and all that remained was the fatigue. Berg helped him up and started for the ladder to middle level when Jerry stopped, turned toward Millunzi and said, “Thanks for the sage advice, sir.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Mitchell. But that will cost you a can,” grinned Millunzi.
“Dr Pepper, right? You’ll have it as soon as we get back, sir.”
“Very good. Oh . . . and Jerry, when it’s appropriate, you can call me Al.” With that, Millunzi went back to the business of settling Memphis into her natural element.
“All right, green one, come with me,” nagged Berg. “You’ve had a rough day and the doctor’s orders must be obeyed. It’s off to your rack for a few hours of blissful slumber so that you’ll be well-rested and ready to face that vile creature, the drill monitor.”
Jerry didn’t remember even making it to his stateroom before he fell asleep.
Sea Trials and Errors
April 20, 2005
Atlantic Ocean
“FIRE IN THE GALLEY! CASUALTY ASSISTANCE TEAM LAY TO THE GALLEY! ALL HANDS DON EABS!” screeched the IMC. Immediately after the announcement shattered the evening’s silence, the ship’s general alarm sounded. BONG, BONG, BONG, followed again by “FIRE IN THE GALLEY! CASUALTY ASSISTANCE TEAM LAY TO THE GALLEY! ALL HANDS DON EABS!”
“The man is a sadist!” whined Berg loudly as he tumbled out of his rack. As Jerry, Berg, and Washburn struggled into their poopy suits, Berg continued his lament with: “I might as well not even take the damn thing off at the rate we’re going.”
Reaching into one of the lockers, Jerry pulled out three bags with the Emergency Air Breathing system masks and handed Washburn and Berg one each.
“Come on, Lenny, get a move on. You’re the CAT phone talker. The XO’s going to be pissed as hell if you don’t get to the galley pronto,” warned Washburn.
“I know, I know. I’m going as fast as I can,” replied Berg as he pulled the EAB mask over his face and tightened the straps. Plugging the hose connection into the one hundred pound air manifold, he took a couple of deep breaths, disconnected the hose and quickly moved out of the stateroom. Washburn followed Berg out as they both headed for the scene of the casualty. For the first time in the last two days, Jerry didn’t have to go rushing off immediately, so he had a little more time to get ready before making his way to the wardroom. Normally, he would go to the torpedo room or the crew’s mess during a casualty. But since the “fire” was in the galley across from the crew’s mess, he would only be getting in the way of the casualty assistance team if he tried to go to either location. As the offgoing OOD, Berg was, by procedure, the designated sound-powered phone talker, so he had a reason to be at the scene. So too did Washburn who, as the Supply Officer, was responsible for the galley. Jerry’s job was to stay out of the way and muster in the wardroom, where he would sit quietly breathing dry, metallic-tasting air. How exciting, he thought. Grabbing his qual notes, Jerry took a deep breath, unplugged his EAB, and walked quickly to the wardroom.
In the wardroom, Jerry found Tom Holtzmann already on the sound-powered phones passing reports to and from control. The Navigator was sitting next to him, listening to what was going on. Maneuvering over to the couch, Jerry plugged himself back into the air system and started breathing again. Sitting down, he began going over his notes on casualty procedures and tried to follow the drill through its stages.
“THE CAUSE OF THE FIRE IN THE GALLEY IS A FIRE IN THE DEEP-FAT FRYER,” shouted Holtzmann loudly and slowly through his mask. Even so, he was barely understandable. Talking through an EAB mask is like trying to talk with your hand over your mouth. With every word muffled, any extraneous noise made verbal communication difficult at best. And with six guys breathing like Darth Vader, it was hard to hear what was going on.
“THE FIRE IS OUT,” reported Holtzmann. “PREPARING TO EMERGENCY VENTILATE THE FORWARD COMPARTMENT WITH THE DIESEL.”
Jerry sat back, closed his eyes, and tried to visualize what was going on in control. The small up angle indicated that the boat was already coming up to periscope depth. From the compass repeater on the bulkhead, Jerry saw that Memphis was turning slowly to the left. This would be the baffle-clearing maneuver, checking the area immediately behind the submarine where the hull arrays couldn’t hear, to make sure there were no contacts behind them as they came shallow. After verifying the baffles were clear, the OOD would raise the periscope to visually check that the area was free of any close contacts. Sometimes it was difficult to hear even a large merchant ship on sonar if its bow was pointed right at the sub. The worst were Very Large Crude Carriers, or supertankers. They were amazingly quiet bow-on and had fully-loaded drafts of up to seventy-five feet. Memphis would be nothing more than a speed bump to one of those behemoths if she came up in front of one.
Once the OOD announced, “No close contacts,” the Chief of the Watch would be ordered to raise the snorkel mast and test the head valve at the top of the mast. This verified that the head valve would close automatically when it got wet and would prevent seawater from rushing down into the boat and make things much worse. After opening the induction and diesel exhaust valves and clearing the lines of seawater, the emergency diesel could be started.
While the OOD and the rest of the ship’s control party got Memphis positioned to snorkel, watchstanders in the various spaces would be placing dampers and vent valves in the correct position for the diesel to suck the air and smoke from the affected compartment and discharge it overboard. Fresh air would then be sucked down through the induction valves and replace the toxic atmosphere. After about thirty minutes, the air in the forward compartment would be breathable again. No sooner had Jerry finished his mental walk-through of the procedure when he heard “COMMENCE SNORKELING” over the IMC. About a minute later, he could feel the vibration of the diesel running. The slight rolling of the boat told him that the sea state was pretty mild. Jerry allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he realized that he was becoming more confident of his ability to read the feel of the boat and his knowledge of emergency procedures.
“Secure snorkeling. Recirculate,” spoke a clear voice over the IMC a few minutes later. “Secure from drill. Drill monitors muster in the wardroom for the critique.”
Jerry removed his EAB, unplugged it, gathered his notes, and headed back to his stateroom. He’d seen a number of these drill critiques and none were pretty. The Captain never seemed to be satisfied with the crew’s performance and he would use these critique sessions to berate the officer
s and senior enlisted involved. Nobody left one of these meetings happy, so Jerry decided to clear datum before the Commodore and the Captain arrived.
Twenty minutes later, Berg and Washburn stumbled backed into the stateroom. Both were chortling and having a hard time restraining their glee. This was a very unusual outcome from a Memphis drill critique. The perplexed look on Jerry’s face only made the two laugh some more.
“Oh man, Jerry, you missed a good one,” said Berg with his usual pixielike grin. “The Captain didn’t even wait for the critique before he started chewing out the Chop here for having incompetent people in the galley. He was sooooo pissed off, I thought that he was going to lift a relief right then and there.”
“Forgive my ignorance, Lenny, but why would this be funny?” replied a very confused Jerry. “It sounds like Bill here got his butt reamed in a major league way.”
Berg was about to respond, when he stopped, waved flamboyantly at Washburn, and said, “Bill, this is your coup. Please enlighten Mr. Jerry here on the outcome of said ass-chewing.”
