Dangerous Ground

by Larry Bond

  Riiiiight, Jerry thought. He’d heard horror stories about line-crossing ceremonies since his Academy days. It could be a grotesque, almost revolting, ordeal. The presence of the ladies would certainly tone it down some, even if they did not participate. Jerry, however, found himself hoping they would, not only because it would make them more a part of the crew, but also because the more “petitioners” there were, the less time “the Royal Court” could spend on each one. Safety lay in numbers.

  “There’s a really nice certificate,” Berg offered helpfully.

  “It’s an idiotic male ritual, and I will take no part in it,” announced Patterson disapprovingly. As she rose to leave, she looked over at Davis, who said, “I guess I’ll pass as well, sir.”

  As the two departed the wardroom, Lenny Berg remarked. “She’d make a fine Queen of the Snows. She already has a chilling personality.” Looking at his watch, he motioned to Jerry and said, “C’mon, Jerry, we need to go and relieve the watch.” Turning toward Hardy, he added “Excuse us, Captain.”

  Hardy nodded stiffly, but said nothing.

  As Jerry and Berg headed up to control, Jerry asked, “Is it my imagination or is the CO more depressed than usual?”

  “Hard to say, Jerry. He has his ups and downs like everyone else. It’s just that his downs tend to significantly outnumber his ups. But if I had to guess, I’d say that the enormity of just how hosed up this mission is might be starting to sink in,” replied Berg. He started climbing the ladder to control.

  Jerry followed him up and went over to Ensign Jim Porter to begin the watch turnover at the Diving Officer station. Looking around, Jerry didn’t see Chief Gilson anywhere in control. This was strange, because Gilson had the watch officially. Jerry was still standing it under instruction.

  “We pumped sanitaries during the last watch, and we’re still making water with the 10K evaporator,” said Porter during turnover. “The trim appears to be good, but at sixteen knots it’s hard to tell. You’ll probably slow down during your watch to make sure that the boat has a satisfactory one-third trim.” Porter was referring to the fact that at higher speeds, a submarine can carry more water in its variable ballast tanks because of the greater hydrodynamic forces generated by the fairwater and stern planes. By slowing down, to ahead one-third, these forces are reduced considerably and Jerry could figure out whether the sub was heavy or light and if the distribution of water among the tanks was correct to maintain a good fore and aft balance.

  “If you don’t have any questions, then I’m ready to be relieved,” stated Porter.

  Jerry looked around the control room again; still no Gilson. “Jim, I’m sorry but I can’t assume the watch without. . . .”

  “Yes you can, Mr. Mitchell,” thundered Reynolds, who appeared suddenly from the navigation equipment space behind control.

  “C-COB?” Jerry stammered, quite confused.

  “I’m taking the watch for Chief Gilson. I want to see how well you can balance this boat,” replied Reynolds firmly. “I’ll be here in case something goes wrong, but you have the watch, sir.”

  Surprised, Jerry just stood there and stared at the huge man. Reynolds waited a moment, then motioned toward Porter and said, “You can relieve Mr. Porter, sir.”

  Jerry turned slowly to Porter and said, “I relieve you.”

  “I stand relieved.”

  As Jim Porter reported to the OOD that he had been properly relieved, Jerry sat down at his station and looked at the indications on the ship control panel. After a few minutes of careful watching, he couldn’t determine if the trim was good or not. Porter was right; they’d have to slow down first. Looking over his shoulder, Jerry saw Master Chief Reynolds leaning up against the bulkhead next to the plotters. He seemed far away, even though it was only about twenty feet.

  After all the stations had changed over, Berg announced, “Attention in control, my intention is to slow to ahead one-third and conduct a baffle clearance maneuver to the right. Once the maneuver is completed, I’ll let the Diving Officer check the boat’s trim before we resume our transit speed. Carry on.”

  Berg then informed the sonar supervisor that they were slowing and coming to the right to check the baffles, the spherical array’s blind zone behind the sub’s propeller. After he had hung up the handset, Berg ordered, “Helm, ahead one-third.”

  “Ahead one-third, helm aye.” Reaching over to the engine order telegraph, the helmsman twisted the dial to ahead 1/3. Almost immediately, a second dial beneath the first moved to the same position. “Sir, maneuvering answers ahead one-third.”

  “Very well, helm,” responded Berg.

  Berg waited for Memphis to slow down a little before starting the turn. Once the speed had dropped to ten knots, he ordered a slow turn to the right to give the sonar shack adequate time to check the baffles. With no signs of any contacts, the boat completed the circle and steadied up on its original course.

  “Okay, Dive, check the boat’s trim. And please be quick. We need to get back on track,” said Lenny, with an unusual amount of sternness.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” responded Jerry. During the turn, it became clear to him that the boat was heavy, but he couldn’t tell by how much or where. Since a submarine heels into a turn, the stern planes and the rudder interfere with each other and it’s really hard to judge just how much influence is being exerted by the stern planes to maintain depth. Once Memphis steadied up on her course, this would no longer a problem.

  Looking at the positions of the stern and fairwater planes, Jerry deduced that the boat was heavy overall and heavy forward. “Chief of the Watch, when was the last time that a compensation for potable water was done?” asked Jerry.

  “About an hour and a half ago, sir.”

  “Very well. Chief of the Watch, please compensate for one and a half hours of potable water,” ordered Jerry.

  “Compensate for one and a half hours of potable water, aye, sir,” replied MM1 Anderson. Jerry watched as Anderson positioned switches on the ballast control panel that remotely opened valves and created a clear path from the variable ballast tanks inside the submarine, through the trim pump, out to sea. “Pumping, from auxiliaries to sea,” reported Anderson. Jerry acknowledged the report.

  It took a few minutes for Anderson to complete the compensation. As he was repositioning the valves, he said, “Diving Officer, thirty-eight hundred pounds from auxiliaries and twelve hundred pounds from forward trim have been pumped to sea.”

  “Very well, Chief of the Watch,” responded Jerry. After another ten minutes and another four thousand pounds pumped overboard, Jerry was about to announce that he had a satisfactory one-third trim when he noticed something odd. The stern planesman was holding his planes steady at five degrees down. This indicated that the boat was heavy aft and that the planes were trying to hold the stern up. Glancing at the fairwater planes, he saw that they were in the rise position and that the boat was maintaining the ordered depth of two hundred feet. I must have screwed up somewhere, Jerry thought. I’ve made her too heavy aft.

  “Chief of the Watch,” Jerry said. “Shift four thousand pounds from after trim to forward trim.”

  “Shift four thousand pounds from after trim to forward trim, aye, sir.”

  “Something wrong, Dive?” inquired Berg.

  “Yes, sir, I think I messed up the fore and aft trim a little,” replied Jerry, somewhat embarrassed.

  “Very well, fix it so we can get going again.”

  “Aye, sir.” He glanced over at the COB, but Reynolds’ face was a mask.

  After Anderson had moved the four thousand pounds of water from the aftermost part of the ship to the forward-most part, Jerry looked at the indications to see if he had corrected the problem. At first, it looked like it had indeed done the trick. But within minutes, the stern planes were now holding steady in the rise position and the fairwater planes in the dive position. All this told Jerry that he was now heavy forward, that he must have moved too much water. However, the p
lane positions were suggesting that he had to move almost as much water back aft as he had just shifted forward. “I don’t understand why this isn’t working,” muttered Jerry to himself as he scratched his head.

  “Chief of the Watch, shift three thousand pounds from forward trim to after trim.”

  “Shift three thousand pounds from forward trim to after trim, aye, sir.”

  “Diiiive, would you please explain what the hell is going on?” Berg demanded, clearly annoyed.

  “Uh, sir, I seemed to have overcompensated. I’m working on it now. Please bear with me.”

  “Grrrr,” growled Berg.

  Jerry felt more and more uncomfortable and stressed. He completely understood Lenny’s irritation, but what bugged Jerry more was his apparent inability to balance the boat. And why was the COB standing back there like a damn statue when he really needed the man’s help?

  With Anderson’s report that the pumping was completed, Jerry stood up, leaned forward, and stared at the fairwater and stern planes indications. Standing there, he willed the indicators to zero out, but once again the stern planes went to a modest dive angle, while the fairwater planes drifted upward on the rise side.

  “Son of a bitch!” hissed an exasperated Jerry. “What is wrong?” Turning around, Jerry was finally going to ask the COB for help, but he was gone! He was nowhere to be seen! On top of that, Berg was on the periscope stand, arms folded across his chest, glowering at him. Jerry felt helpless and was now uncertain as to what needed to be done to remedy the boat’s trim. He was thinking about being relieved when he heard the noise of people moving.

  At first, it was rather subdued, similar to what one would expect at watch changeover, but it grew in volume. Then a long string of men emerged from the navigation equipment space behind him. One by one they walked past him on their way down the ladder to forward compartment middle level. Some of the men waved as they went by. Seaman Jobin said, “Hey, sir!” All were smiling. At that moment, Jerry knew he had been tricked. He had fallen victim to one of the oldest pranks in the submarine force: the Trim Party.

  For operational and safety reasons, a submarine’s trim must be finely balanced. Moving a significant amount of weight from one end of the submarine to another will have noticeable affect on the boat’s fore and aft balance. In a trim party, a large number of men cram themselves into a space as far aft or forward as they can get; in this case, in the extreme after end of the engine room or the torpedo room. When the Diving Officer compensates for the extra weight by moving water to the other end, the men start moving to the other end as well. This causes the boat to “see-saw” back and forth, apparently without reason, much to the annoyance of the Diving Officer.

  A seasoned Diving Officer would have recognized what was going on and simply used the planes to maintain an even keel and waited for the individuals involved to get bored and quit. But rookie Diving Officers are easier to deceive and so often became the prey of a merry band of mischievous submariners. As the long procession continued, Jerry felt his cheeks ablaze with embarrassment. Sitting down, he watched as the steady stream of men seemed to go on forever. Finally, as the last man walked past, Jerry heard the sound of clapping from behind him.

  “Outstanding trim party, Jerry,” Lenny chortled, barely able to contain himself. “That has got to be one of the biggest, longest parties I’ve ever seen. What do you say, COB?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Berg, easily in the top three,” replied Reynolds. The huge grin on his face made it clear to everyone present that he had thoroughly enjoyed Jerry’s initiation.

  Getting into the spirit of things, Jerry stood up and bowed. “Thank you, thank you, very much. For my next trick, I’ll go down to the torpedo room and have myself impulsed out of a tube and swim to Keflavik!”

  “Nah, that won’t be necessary. We’re getting plenty of entertainment value out of just giving you grief,” responded Berg.

  “Heaven forbid that I should deny you your diversion, sir,” Jerry replied sarcastically.

  “Quite so,” said Lenny. “Now, why don’t you finish fixing up the trim, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, at once, sir.” Before he turned back to the ship’s control panel, Jerry looked at Reynolds and waved an accusing finger at him. Feigning a shocked expression, the COB merely shrugged his shoulders and tried to look innocent. The merry twinkle in his eyes, however, spoke loudly of his guilt.

  Without the malicious interference of half the crew, Jerry was able to quickly get a satisfactory trim and Memphis increased speed to sixteen knots. Except for a single fire drill, the remainder of the watch was quiet and Jerry and Reynolds went over a number of the finer points of being a good Diving Officer.

  After a quick dinner, Jerry stopped by the ship’s office. He had some paperwork to drop off, but he also had an important question for YN1 Glover.

  The yeoman had “Abbey Road” playing when Jerry knocked on the door. It was open, but the ship’s office was Glover’s domain, and Jerry had seen the XO knock before he stepped inside.

  Glover thanked him for the paperwork, and then Jerry asked his question. “How many of us will have to go through the Bluenose ceremony?”

  The yeoman smiled. “Thirty-one. We’ve actually got forty who haven’t made the trip with us, but nine have entries in their service records. That’s not counting the two ladies, of course.”

  “You knew, just like that?” Jerry asked.

  “The XO asked for the numbers yesterday.” Glover explained.

  Jerry felt relieved. “That’s a quarter of the crew,” he observed.

  “Well, we’ve stayed pretty close to home in the past year or so, mostly doing Manta trials.”

  “It’ll be nice to get it over with,” remarked Jerry.

  “Oh, you’ll do fine, sir. Although I’ve heard that they’re working on a special procedure for new officers that used to be aviators.” He smiled and Jerry couldn’t be sure if he was serious or not.

  As the evening wore on, Jerry started to hear Bluenose stories creep into the crew’s casual conversation. Those who had crossed before shared their experiences, suitably embellished to amaze the recipients. The trick was to exaggerate outrageously, but still make it sound plausible. Even if the listeners knew the story had to be untrue, a good storyteller could create uncertainty in their minds.

  He heard the story about Boreas and the admiral and several variations on ways to get ice cubes from one end of the boat to the other before they melted. Jerry was advised to pick one and practice, just in case Boreas wanted to test his skill.

  The actual preparations were secret, of course, as were the exact trials that the “warm bodies” would have to endure. Jerry figured it wouldn’t do any good to ask, but Ensign Jim Porter, the Electrical Officer and most junior officer aboard, kept on asking. Either out of fear or just plain curiosity, he grilled his division, then the wardroom, trying to find out exactly what would transpire.

  Early the next day, Thursday, Porter spotted Frank Lopez and Master Chief Reynolds in the wardroom. They were working on A division paperwork, spread out on the wardroom table, but had paused, and he sat down. Jerry, on his way to see the XO, knew what was coming and stopped to watch.

  “Mr. Lopez, Master Chief, how many Bluenose ceremonies have you seen?”

  “More than a few,” the COB said vaguely. Lopez simply replied, “Just one, on this boat’s last northern run.”

  Porter pressed his point. “Master Chief, are the ceremonies the same on every boat? Who decides what happens?”

  “Why, King Boreas, of course,” said Reynolds, laughing.

  “Come on, Master Chief,” pleaded the Ensign, “somebody on Memphis must be in charge of organizing the Bluenose ceremony this evening. Who is it?”

  “Son,” growled Reynolds menacingly, “talk like that will get back to Boreas. And if he doesn’t find you pure of heart, he may not let you in, and then you’ll have to swim home.”

  Jerry was startled by a harsh voice almost directl
y behind him. “How much of this foolishness do I have to put up with?” Patterson exclaimed. “ ‘King Boreas,’ my foot.”

  Jerry quickly stepped out of the way, almost physically pushed aside by the force of her words.

  “We have more important things to worry about than some male bonding ritual. All I hear about is how much work it takes to run one of these things, and if you don’t do everything exactly right, someone—probably all of us—will die.”

  As Patterson talked, she poured herself a cup of coffee. When she paused to drink, though, it set her off again. “And the food on this ship! Hasn’t the Navy ever heard of low-fat cooking? And this coffee tastes like it came out of a paint can. In fact, this whole boat smells like the inside of a paint can!”