by Larry Bond
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 officers 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.”
“Thank you, Your Officerness,” replied Washburn with an equally exaggerated hand gesture. “You see, while the Captain was busy winding himself into the overhead and yelling at me about how poorly trained my people were, the Commodore stepped out of galley behind him and just stood there listening. When the Captain demanded an explanation for the abysmal performance of my people, what pitiful excuse did I have for my MS2 not activating the fire-suppression system installed in the deep-fat fryer’s exhaust hood, the Commodore butted in and said, ‘Because I told him he was dead.’ Oh Lord!” sputtered Washburn as both he and Berg struggled valiantly not to break out in loud laughter. “The look on CO’s face was absolutely priceless!”
Jerry gasped and winced, “Ouch! Talk about being hoisted on one’s own petard.” The thought of Hardy being publicly embarrassed by his boss was both appalling and delightful. Given Hardy’s predilection for public criticism, the concept of him getting a little dose of his own medicine from the Commodore was very satisfying. And yet, it flew in the face of everything Jerry had been taught at the Academy, and at the squadron, on the basic principles of leadership. Praise in public, correct in private was supposed to be a good officer’s modus operandi. He hadn’t seen too much of that on Memphis.
Still chuckling, Berg kicked off his shoes and climbed into his rack. “I don’t know about you guys, but af
ter thirteen drills in the last day and a half, I’m pooped.”
“Hang in there, Lenny, my sources tell me there is only one drill left,” said Washburn.
“And how would you know this?” asked Berg sarcastically.
“Do not underestimate the power of hot coffee and fresh chocolate chip cookies, young Jedi,” Washburn replied. “The squadron staff has received both in large quantities, which gave my guys a number of opportunities to peek over their shoulder. According to their schedule, there is only one more drill after the interviews.”
“Ah yes, caffeine and sugar, the Dark Side, are they,” rasped Berg in his best Yoda-like voice. “Do you have any idea what the drill will be, Bill?”
“I think it is either a fire in the torpedo room or another approach and attack scenario.”
“Oh boy, Jerry! Another one for you, you lucky dog,” exclaimed Berg. “By the way, have you recovered from that dreadful Otto fuel spill drill they ran yesterday?”
“Yeah, I think so,” said Jerry as he plopped back into his chair. “I just don’t understand how we could have screwed up that casualty drill so badly. It’s not like we haven’t done similar drills before. We just seemed to always be running behind the power curve in responding to the casualty.”
This was a bald-faced lie. Jerry was convinced that Senior Chief Foster had deliberately interfered with the division’s response to the drill. According to TM3 Lee, the torpedo room watchstander, and one of the drill monitors, Foster appeared to have intentionally distracted Lee as the squadron staff member came into the room and dumped liquid orange Jell-O on the deck by the port storage rack. The Jell-O simulated a spill of Otto fuel, the mono-propellant used by Mk48 ADCAP torpedoes.
While Otto fuel in and of itself is chemically hazardous, it is much worse if it catches fire. Because the fuel and oxygen are mixed together in a thick syrup-like fluid, an Otto fuel fire is extremely difficult to extinguish. If a hot fire was allowed to develop in close proximity to warshot torpedoes, it would likely lead to a catastrophic explosion and the loss of the sub. That kind of accident had destroyed the Russian guided-missile submarine Kursk.
Furthermore, the fumes from an Otto fuel fire are extremely toxic. So, even if the torpedo warheads didn’t cook off, a lot of people would still get hurt or killed from the poisonous fumes. Hence, timely response to an Otto fuel spill is absolutely critical. By keeping the watchstander’s attention away from his duties, Foster made sure that there was a significant delay in discovering the problem and getting the word out.
Then, during the actual casualty response, the drill schedule had Foster designated as the sound-powered phone talker for the casualty assistance team. As the man-in-charge at the scene, Jerry recalled all the problems he had communicating with control on the status of the cleanup. On several occasions, he had to repeat his report, two or even three times, before Foster would relay them to the OOD. By delaying the flow of information, the ship’s crew took longer than it should have to respond to the simulated problem and their grade suffered because of it. The chewing out Jerry and his division received from Hardy was very unpleasant and humiliating. Foster’s wicked grin only made it worse.
“Hellooo! Earth to Jerry, come in, please!” shouted Berg.
“Huh? Oh — sorry, Lenny. I was just going over the Otto fuel spill in my head again. I guess I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong.”
“What’s to figure out, you had bad comms with control and that will always screw you during a graded drill. Senior Chief Foster should have known better, but even the best of us have off days. So stop with the self-recriminations and get over it. You’ll do better next time.”
Jerry became a little angry at Berg’s cavalier response. It was clear he had no idea that Foster had almost certainly sabotaged the drill, and it would be hard to do better next time if Foster continued to interfere. As Jerry considered correcting Berg’s ignorance, Bair stuck his head into the room.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I gather you are enjoying yourselves, given all this laughter.”
“No, sir, XO,” said Berg soberly. “We’re just a little punchy after so many drills, and I guess we got a little silly.”
“I see. Well, get unsilly, as the inspection interviews will begin shortly. The Commodore has decided to only talk to the younger JOs. That means you and Jerry here. The Chop has been excused.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Berg.
“They’ll call you when it’s your turn,” said Bair. “Oh — and one more thing. Try to be confident when you answer his questions. Nothing is worse than appearing to be uncertain of your answer, and regardless of whether you’re right or wrong, the interview can only go downhill from there. If you are uncertain, stick to the first one. At least be wrong with conviction. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jerry and Berg in unison.
No sooner had the Executive Officer departed than the Dialex in the stateroom rang. Washburn answered the phone, listened for a moment, and said, “Yes, sir, I’ll let him know you’re waiting for him.” Hanging up, Washburn pointed at Berg and motioned toward the passageway. “Your turn, Lenny. The Spanish Inquisition awaits your presence in the wardroom.”
Sighing, Berg once again crawled out of his rack and put on his shoes. “I really didn’t want to take a short nap anyway,” he said as he tied the laces. Berg then stood up, straightened his poopy suit, and marched out of the stateroom, executing a sharp square turn at the passageway. As he departed, Jerry and Washburn heard him utter in an English accent, “Alas, poor Leonard. I knew him well.”
Jerry and Washburn looked at each other as their roommate left, both wondering whether Lenny Berg was slightly insane. Washburn then shrugged his shoulders and said, “Actors. You gotta love ‘em.”
As the Supply Officer settled into his rack, Jerry sincerely asked, “Bill, how did a theater major ever get into the nuclear power pipeline in the first place?”
“Only God and Naval Reactors know, Jerry,” responded Washburn as he reached for the novel he had been reading. “Either Lenny is a really good actor or the Navy was really that desperate. Still, it’s good to have the guy on board.”
“Absolutely,” replied Jerry as he sat down and opened his qual book to the diving officer section. He had just started reviewing some of the casualty procedures when Jerry heard a muffled snore. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Washburn had fallen asleep before he had even finished a single page of the book. I know how you feel, thought Jerry. Stifling a yawn, he returned to his studies.
Jerry must have dozed off as well, for he found himself being lightly shaken by Berg who whispered, “Your turn, old boy.” Jerry rose, stretched and headed for the wardroom. He knocked on the door and then entered. Captain Young was the only other person in the room.
“Reporting as ordered, sir,” said Jerry while standing at attention.
“At ease, Mr. Mitchell. Please sit down,” replied Young. Jerry quickly moved over to a chair and seated himself across from the commodore. “In my discussions with your XO,” Young continued, “he tells me he is very pleased with the progress you’ve made on your qualifications thus far. He also says your pace to date is one of the fastest he’s seen. I don’t know whether you realize it or not, but that is high praise from Bob Bair. Especially since he qualified under me in record time on Batfish back in the mid-nineties.”
“I’ve been fortunate, sir. The XO has been very supportive of my efforts and the Captain has given me numerous opportunities to get my drill requirements completed.” Jerry winced internally and hoped that didn’t sound too much like a backhanded compliment.
“I’m sure he has,” replied Young matter-of-factly. “Still, you had to do the work necessary to capitalize on those opportunities and that is what has impressed your XO.” Leaning back in his chair, Young opened a folder in front of him and examined its contents for a moment.
He then looked up at Jerry and said, “In reviewing your record, Lieutenant, I
have to admit that I’m pleasantly surprised myself. I’ll be frank with you. I was opposed to your transfer from aviation to submarines. I didn’t like how you went about using family political ties to force the issue. But your performance to date has met or exceeded all the requirements placed on you. You graduated in the top twenty-five percent of your class at Nuclear Power School. You were the first officer to qualify as Engineering Officer of the Watch on your crew at prototype, as well as graduating third in your class overall. And you finished fourth in your class at the Officer’s Basic course at Submarine School. I can’t help but draw the conclusion that you are trying to prove a few flag officers wrong.”
Jerry was getting more uncomfortable as Captain Young went on. He had been expecting questions on system specifications and procedures, not an overall evaluation of his past performance coupled with a statement that could be interpreted as an accusation, even if it was an accurate one.
“Sir, I made a promise to do my utmost if they approved my transfer. I’m just trying to hold up my end of the bargain.”
“Relax, Lieutenant. I’m not accusing you of anything. Part of that deal you made required that your progress be reported up the chain at each phase. Since you’ve been assigned to my squadron, you’re my responsibility now. I just thought you’d want to know the gist of my report.”
“My apologies, sir. I guess I misunderstood what you meant by proving senior officers wrong,” replied Jerry sheepishly. “And I do appreciate your comments, sir.”
“Well, I suppose I better ask you at least one question before we move on to the next topic. I can’t let you out of here with just a pep talk, now, can I?”
“Sir?” responded Jerry, curious as to what the commodore meant by the “next topic.”
“How many EAB connections are there on this ship?”
Initially startled by the Commodore’s question, Jerry quickly recovered and answered, “Approximately eight hundred sixty, sir.”
“Really. Are you sure of that, mister?” demanded Young.
