“Droughton, front and center. Everyone else, dismissed.”
“Crap,” I thought to myself, “What did I do this time?”
It was best just to be honest with Queen La Chiefa because he knew everything. Oh yeah, he knew everything about the ship, plus he saw and heard everything going on inside of it too. He could probably pick up someone saying “dude” in the Engine Room from a different compartment. And the one thing about the questions he usually asked you was that most of the time, he already knew the answer. Everyone in the Navy was taught that the coverup is always worse than the crime. So, La Chiefa’s method of questioning was like a little trap because you never knew if he knew. (But he always knew.)
He was definitely one of the more intimidating Chiefs I had come across in the three years I had in the service thus far. But why would he keep me behind? I wasn’t a dink on any of my quals. And also, I wasn’t the source of today’s nostril scorching flatulence during this morning muster. Maybe he was finally tired of my white socks and rolled up sleeves. This ends today. The others dispersed, and La Chiefa began his interrogation.
“How do you think you stand on your qualifications?”
“Uh well, Chief… I think pretty damn good.”
“Pretty damn good?”
“Pretty darn good?”
“Pretty… darn… good…”
“Yes.”
“Okay, in that case, dismissed.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. Why don’t you elaborate on why you think you stand ‘pretty damn good’ on your qualifications?”
“Okay, well… I finished Shutdown Rover and Lower Level way ahead of the schedule. You know that, of course. But I’m also quite far along on Engine Room Forward, and I’m hitting Basic Engineering pretty damn hard too. Pretty darn hard. I’ll be done with those well ahead of schedule, so…”
“And Ships?”
“Uh, yeah… well, honestly I’m just doing the minimum so I’m not delinquent.”
“Just doing the minimum?”
“Well, yeah, I figure that’s a useless qual, so I’ll just do what’s needed to stay a little ahead while concentrating on the important ones.”
“Did you just call the Submarine Warfare qualification useless?”
“Uh… well yeah, Chief, sort of. Or… I guess, yes, actually I did call it that. But I mean, like… it is pretty useless when you think about it. Like maybe back in the day on old diesel boats it had a purpose. But on a modern nuke, it’s just like… symbolic.”
“Symbolic?”
“Yeah. Well, it’s not like I can man any new watch station with it, Chief. It’s just to get a shiny little dolphin pin to put on your uniform.”
“So, do you think knowledge is useless?”
“Well, they always said ‘knowledge is power’ throughout the nuke pipeline, so yeah, it’s somewhat useful, but not too much since it doesn’t get you on a new watch station.”
“Do you apply the same standard for the Basic Engineering Qualification? Do you think that’s mostly useless too? It’s not a qualification for a watch station. There’s not even a shiny little pin involved.”
“Yeah, no pin of course, but BEQ is a prerequisite for some of the watch stations. Ships isn’t. It’s like, the difference between them is that with BEQ I’m learning about the systems that I’ll directly operate. But with Ships, I’m learning about all these coner systems I’ll never touch. I mean, yeah, it’s good to know, knowledge is power and all that, but it’s not like I get my dolphins and then can go stand watch up front and shoot off a torpedo or something.”
“That’s why you’re slacking on Ships? You think it’s useless because you can’t ‘shoot off a torpedo’?”
“Well… maybe I shouldn’t have said it that way, but you know what I mean though, right Chief? It serves no actual purpose. There’s no job attached to it at the end. So, uh… is this why you held me behind? You want me to shift focus from Engine Room Forward to Ships? I can do that if that’s what you want me to do, Chief, no problem.”
“No, keep pushing ahead on Engine Room Forward and Basic Engineering. But do not fall behind on Ships. In fact, pick up the pace to something better than ‘just doing the minimum.’ I don’t ever want to hear you say that you are ‘just doing the minimum’ again. You have to be better than that. Understand me?”
“Yes, Chief. Understood.”
“Moreover, if you find yourself with nothing to do, you work on your watch station quals. And if you can’t find someone to give you a check out for your watch station quals, then you go and work on Ships. Find someone up front to give you a check out. You should never find yourself with nothing to do. Are we clear?”
“Crystal clear, Chief.”
After a little bit of silence with him staring at me uncomfortably, I thought maybe he was fucking with me.
“Uh, so… is that all, Chief?”
“No, Petty Officer Droughton, it isn’t. What else do you have to tell me?”
“I don’t think I have anything else to tell you. Is there something else?”
“Yes. Think hard about all of your qualifications. And I mean all of them.”
“Hmm… Rover, Lower Level, Engine Room Forward, Basic Engineering, Upper Level, Engine Room Supervisor, Ships… yeah okay, I haven’t touched Upper Level or Engine Room Supervisor even one iota yet, but they’re so far out there I thought it doesn’t really make sense to start on them yet. At least I didn’t think it made sense. Does it make sense? Should I be working a little bit on them now too?”
“Are you purposely omitting one of your most important qualifications in accordance with the protocols for safe operation of this nuclear powered vessel?”
“Mmm… safe operation? Is this for inadvertent discharges? I read and signed for that way back when I first got onboard. But that’s not really a qual, so… I dunno. Or… is this something to do with brittle fracture or maybe solid plant pressure control?”
“No.”
“No? Okay, then uh …”
“Let me put it this way. What NEC’s do you hold?”
“Thirty-three fifty-one and thirty-three fifty-five.”
“So you hold thirty-three fifty-one?”
“Oh, my welding qualifications!”
“Finally. The lightbulb is lit.”
“Yeah, but that’s like totally not anything I would have thought of when talking about quals, Chief. Just seems so different that regular quals, you know?”
“Elaborate.”
“Elaborate? Like, what, uh… what do you mean? Elaborate on why I didn’t… Uh, I guess when you say ‘quals,’ I’m thinking of quals on the boat, not from the pipeline schools.”
“By elaborate, I don’t mean on your confusion. I mean, is there anything you want to share with me concerning your welding qualifications?”
“Share? That I want to?”
“Tell me about where you stand with your welding qualifications.”
“Uh, well… I’m qualified to TIG weld nuclear grade stainless steel and Inconel piping butt welds, with insert rings of course. I was also taught SMA welding, and we practiced various types of those welds on carbon steel and Monel, including socket welds on piping, uh… and I can use an oxyacetylene torch for both cutting carbon steel and for silver brazing copper-nickel piping. Hmm, I think that’s everything from welding school… Yeah, that’s it. Those four processes.”
“Don’t play games with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I’m not! I wouldn’t play games with you, Chief. I just thought that—I don’t know what I thought. I was just like, uh… I don’t know what you’re asking me.”
“Okay. Let me explain this to you. I started to prepare for your quarterly test weld eval—”
“Quarterly test weld?”
“Allow me to finish, Petty Officer Droughton.”
“Okay, Chief.”
“Well thank you very much for your permission.”
He glared at me, regained composure, and began speaking again.
“I started to prepare for your quarterly test weld evaluation, and I noticed something extremely disturbing. There is not one documented test weld submission in your record for over a year. You want to tell me why you haven’t been maintaining your proficiency and submitting test welds for evaluation ever since you left welding school?”
“Wow, uh… Yeah, I didn’t even know that I was supposed to being do that.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“No one told me about that, Chief. I swear!”
“That is highly doubtful, but let’s just say you actually are as clueless as you claim to be… Do you expect me to believe that no one in your command found this to be a concern?”
“I don’t know. No one brought it up.”
“I am truly having a hard time believing this. However, I also don’t see how it would be possible for you to ignore orders and avoid maintaining a serious nuclear safety requirement such as this. Can you give me plausible reason why everyone in your command failed to ensure that you maintained your nuclear welding proficiency?”
“Oh! Probably because we didn’t have a welding machine on NR-1.”
“There was no welding machine on NR-1? You can’t be serious.”
“I am, Chief. I’m being serious. They didn’t have one. They didn’t have a lot of things onboard that tiny little boat. No air compressor, no shower, no galley, no welding machine… but you know, at least they had a few windows and this little toaster oven that was just perfect for tater tots. Made ‘em nice and crispy. Everybody loved those tots.”
Chief Queen had to take a minute to process the information. He was still very angry, but needed to figure out just where to redirect it.
“What idiot detailer puts a nuke welder on a boat without a welding machine?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t talk to that particular detailer. They just cut me my orders for both welding school and NR-1 right out of Prototype. The funny thing is that NR-1 had me as a welder but no welding machine, and the support ship had a welding machine, but no welder in their crew.”
“So, they did have a welding machine?”
“Oh! Yeah, but it was just an SMA unit, not a TIG welder. So, while I got to do a lot of stick welding on deployment, like making adapter fittings for charging the scuba tanks and I even made a special tool for the robotic arm to use, but there was absolutely nothing nuclear about it. It’s like, not only did they not have a TIG welder, but there were definitely no scrap Inconel pipes lying around, I’ll tell you that much, Chief.”
“Why didn’t they send you to a shore facility to submit test welds each quarter?”
“I dunno. There were no other welders onboard, so maybe no one in the command knew about these quarterly test pipe submissions.”
“This is unbelievable.”
“Yeah, I am having a hard time believing this whole situation we’re in now too. These things just seem to come out of nowhere all the time. Like, how do they come up with this stuff?”
“Look, this isn’t your fault, but this fuck up means I have to send you to a refresher course immediately. The boat can’t leave port without an emergency nuclear welder onboard. Right now, without you being proficient, it means we only have one welder who’s current, and we have a six-month deployment rapidly approaching. This situation makes me very uncomfortable. So, this is now your top priority. You must regain welding proficiency asap. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Chief. I understand.”
“The refresher course is a week-long. I will get you into the next available one. It is in your best interest to do whatever you deem necessary to pass the course at the end of that week. You will not fail the refresher course, understood?”
“Yes, Chief. Understood.”
“If you don’t pass this refresher and I find out you haven’t been putting in extra effort on your off hours—”
“That’s not going to be a problem, Chief. I was third in my class at welding school. I’ll get it done.”
“Very well. You’re dismissed.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I high-tailed it away from the starboard Main Engine area. But I suppose that little talking-to went about as well as it could go. I was able to both piss off Queen La Chiefa with just my existence and yet somehow sidestep his ire. That was quite an accomplishment if I do say so myself. He was known to practically confine dinks to the boat until they were all caught up, but I suppose I wasn’t technically supposed to be operating the shipboard TIG welder until being fully qualified, so having to requalify at the land-based welding shop probably kept me from confinement inside our big black sewer tube. Whew!
Queen La Chiefa wasted no time trying to resolve this situation and was able to get my ass into the weeklong welding refresher training course immediately. The best part about the refresher class was that I no longer had duty while I was enrolled. In reality, that meant I only missed one duty day—possibly two, I don’t quite remember—but there was a nice sense of relief. Like I had just been freed from being pinned underneath a car. Of course, I knew the car would soon turn back and run me down again, but the temporary freedom for now sure felt nice.
I figured I’d breeze through this course as I had been one of the better welding students in Nuclear Propulsion Plant Operator (NPPO) Welding School. To regain my proficiency, I’d have to submit two finished test pipe assemblies of different materials and have those two assemblies pass the visual inspection, a dye penetrant test, and finally an ultrasonic test. Any impurities or cracks in the welds were immediate failures.
Say no to crack!
To maintain my proficiency once regained and to prevent any future wrath of Queen, I’d have to complete two test pipe assembles of different materials each quarter, with every other quarter’s test pipes being sent to the land-based maintenance facility for ultrasonic testing. The pipe testing for the quarters in between would only have to pass the visual inspections and dye penetrant tests by someone qualified on the boat. Basically, I had to weld eight test pipe assemblies per year.
No sweat. Welding all these pipes wasn’t alarming. Been there, done that, got the Naval Enlisted Classification 3351 in my record. Yeah, no big deal. Well at least until I found out that in the year since I had left the three-month NPPO Welding School, the standard was completely overhauled. Turns out that I was one of the last classes, if not the exact last class, to be taught to Tungsten-Inert Gas (TIG) weld exotic reactor plant materials in the same manner as how the boat was manufactured.
For whatever reason, perhaps budgetary, the new standard was to concentrate on welding temporary socket weld repairs that would be chopped out and replaced by shipyard workers welding to the manufacturing specs once the boat returned to port. I suppose this was a cost cutting measure. The manufacturer’s standard butt-welds with insert rings required extensive training, so perhaps the Navy could trim a few bucks by teaching us these easier socket welds. Not only that, but they switched up the materials from fairly expensive stainless steel and ultra expensive super alloy Inconel used in the reactor plant, to cheap-as-dirt carbon steel and this somewhat expensive corrosion resistant alloy called Monel, used in the steam plant and seawater systems respectively. I had to weld all four of those materials to pass the NPPO Welding School, so again, no sweat. This was going to be a piece of cake comparatively.
There was, however, just this one thing I would come to find out about concerning this new test pipe standard that the refresher course focused on, but that I wasn’t too familiar with. Since the NPPO Welding School mostly concentrated on the butt-welds of stainless steel and Inconel pipes with the TIG machine for the reactor plant, they didn’t really hold us to as high of a standard when we did SMA welding on those carbon steel and Monel sockets for the steam plant and seawater systems. Our welds didn’t have to be too precise as these materials weren’t for nuclear systems, so I don’t recall them teaching me this “1T/2T” standard that the refresher course instructor kept yammering on about. Maybe they tightened up on the socket welds, as they were now making us use the TIG machine instead of the sloppy SMA unit.
What the hell is one-tee, two-tee?
It really wasn’t a difficult concept in and unto itself. Quite simple really. The cross section of the weld was supposed to have a slope of 0.5 based on thickness of the material. Height of the finished weld, according to the instructor, was 1T and length was 2T with T being thickness. That all made sense.
However, I had one simple question, and yet I also had a lot of difficulty communicating this simple question with the Hull Technician instructor. My question was if the T-thickness was in reference to the socket or the pipe. They were not the same thickness. I thought it was a simple enough question, but he just kept repeating “one-tee, two-tee” every time I asked for clarification.
“No, I get that. The weld height is tee and the length is twice that, two-tee. But what is tee?”
“Tee is the thickness. One-tee. And the length will be twice the thickness. Two-tee. You see, it’s one-tee, two-tee. Okay?”
He responded to me while holding up an unfinished pipe and socket only tack welded together, pointing at the joint with his pen. This did not answer my question.
“I understand one-tee, two-tee. But which tee are you talking about?”
He held the tacked together but not finished pipe and socket back up, pointed with his pen again, and said even less this time, at a faster pace, possibly out of frustration.
“One-tee, two-tee. One-tee, two-tee. See it? Right here. It’s one-tee, two-tee.”
“Yeah, no I get the one-tee, two-tee, but what is tee? The thickness of the socket, or the thickness of the pipe?”
“No, no, no. Look, it’s one-tee, two-tee. One-tee, two-tee. Tee is the thickness, not the length. See? One-tee, two-tee.”
“Yes, I see. But what is tee equal to?”
“Tee is the thickness, and it’s equal to the height, not the length. Okay? One-tee is the thickness. So, one tee is going to be the height of your weld, and two tee is going to be the length. One-tee, two-tee. Got it?”
“Yes, I got the one-tee, two-tee part. That part makes sense. But I just don’t know what the tee is in reference to. Is it the socket thickness or the pipe thickness?”
“Look. One-tee up the socket. Two-tee across the pipe.”
Again, with his fucking pen.
“Yes, I know where the one-tee and the two-tee go, but I’m just trying to figure out what the tee is.”
“It’s the thickness. Tee stands for thickness.”
“Yes. I know that. I know what tee stands for. But which thickness is tee? The socket or the pipe?”
“One-tee is up the socket. Two-tee is across the pipe. Can you see this? Do you normally wear glasses?”
This conversation went on for an absurd amount of time with no resolution. It was almost like he was fucking with me, as if he thought it would be funny to see my reaction if all he did was answer all of my questions with “one-tee, two-tee” until I gave up. Which I did.
“Oh, okay yeah. I get it now. One-tee, two-tee, right?”
“Exactly. See? You got it… eventually.”
If he genuinely wasn’t fucking with me, then I wouldn’t doubt if I was the topic of conversation the next time he got with his Hull Technician welder buddies for some beers.
Man, those fucking submarine welders. For a bunch of kids that are supposed to be so fucking smart, they sure can’t understand shit! Fucking nukes. What a bunch of super smart dumb asses.
I still didn’t know what T was in reference to. It would have been nice if he had a completed assembly to show us. Without an adequate explanation or an example to see, I decided to make T the thickness of the socket. I mean, it’s more conservative and made sense when you think about it. The socket is thicker, so if I was wrong, I was only making it stronger. Plus, you can’t see the thickness of the pipe when it was inserted into the socket. T had to be the socket thickness.
I built my welds all the way up to the surface of the socket (one-tee) maintaining my 0.5 slope with the length across the pipe twice the thickness of the socket (two-tee). It came out beautifully and I eagerly handed in my sample for inspection. He, however, found my pipe unsatisfactory and had a wee bit of a chuckle over it.
“Whoa buddy. Wow, that’s a lot of wasted rod. No, no, no. That’s too much. What were you thinking?”
“I guess too much one-tee, two-tee.”
Once he was done laughing—at me, not with me—I had to do a whole new pipe assembly. Yeah, turns out I was totally wrong and had way too much tee. My “instructor” probably now had another story for his drinking buddies. The T-thickness was in reference to the pipe. I don’t know why he couldn’t simply say “pipe” to me before I wasted all that time welding the pipe and socket together thinking T-thickness was most likely the socket thickness. Like, why the hell couldn’t he just say that tee is the pipe thickness? Really, how hard is that? To just say one word: pipe!
Now I was behind on my test weld assemblies. Something Queen La Chiefa said was most definitely not in my best interest. I asked the instructor if I could stay late to catch up—to avoid the wrath of Queen—but the instructor was on his shore tour and was not enthusiastic about the idea of staying late. He did give me one extra hour that day to finish however.
Whereas my original overly welded pipe had a nice smooth transition from the socket to the pipe, this new assembly using the prescribed method resulted in an ugly unfinished looking weld not quite as high as the socket. There was a noticeable notch when completed as the weld only went partially up the socket. Once my one-tee was sorted out, and therefore also two-tee, the rest of the refresher course progressed smoothly.
Neither of my final test assemblies in the carbon steel or the Monel had any impurities or cracks in them thereby passing all of the visual inspections, dye penetrant tests, and ultrasonic tests. I regained my proficiency as a nuclear propulsion plant emergency welder (aka one of the boat’s designated heroes) and there would be no wrath of Queen upon my return to the San Fran. Well, as long as I didn’t answer all of his questions with “one-tee, two-tee” as I felt I had now been programed to do.
Did you pass your refresher course?
One-tee, two-tee Chief, one-tee, two-tee.
What does that mean?
Do you have a pen? It means one-tee, two-tee. See? One-tee, two-tee. One-tee, two-tee. Right here. One-tee, two-tee.
That wouldn’t be too smart of me. A simple “Yes, Chief, I sure did” was my best bet for a response. And that’s how I responded upon my next morning muster back on the boat. Queen La Chiefa had a slate of announcements upon my return as well. We would be going out to sea for about a week to squeeze just a little more training in for the slew of new guys that had arrived in the last few weeks, then we were to go the Intermediate Maintenance Facility (IMF) pier for several weeks of “upkeep,” then we would be all set for our Operational Reactor Safeguards Examination (ORSE) workup and Tactical Readiness Examination (TRE) workup, and finally we’d go on our six-month Western Pacific (WESTPAC) deployment. In other words, our asses were completely owned by the Navy now.
As for the new crew members, we really did get a lot of fresh meat to fuck with—sorry I mean to train—just after I qualified Engine Room Lower Level. For a while, it was like I was the only noob on the entire boat, and then all of the sudden there was this steady deluge of non-useful bodies. New nukes and new coners, new enlisted and new officers, even new Chiefs such as that burly A-Gang Chief with the badass Harley. Within the nuke community, we gained knuckle draggers, squats, wire biters, and twidgets. In M-Div, our new knuckle draggers were Paul Hartman, Simon Anderson, and Carlos Piña.
Paul was a First Class Petty Officer and looked a bit like Tom Cruise. He declined to reenlist for a third time and was due for separation before the end of the year. He had been a recruiter up until a few weeks prior to joining our crew. Speculation was that they transferred him to our boat as punishment for not reenlisting. Yeah, they shipped his ass all the way to Hawaii and gave him one more six-month deployment prior to becoming a civilian. This was instead of letting him ride out the rest of his second enlistment at his shore-based tour location of San Diego where he intended to stay settled after the Navy.
Simon was the most intriguing of the three noobs. He was a big, tall blonde guy of Swedish descent, but most curious was his lack of chevrons on his uniform. Like some coner wandered back to the Engine Room and stuck around during our morning muster huddle by the starboard Main Engine. What’s he doing here? Well, turns out he was a nuke Machinist’s Mate and did in fact belong with us. Why the missing stripes? He was kicked off his last boat and reduced in rank to Fireman, which is the Engineering Dept equivalent of a Seaman. All this was because he beat the everlasting shit out of a guy that made him miss a meal. He seemed nice though.
Note to self: Big guy likes to eat, so don’t stand between him and his scheduled feedings.
Carlos had the expected single chevron of a Third Class Petty Officer noob nuke, was maybe an inch or two taller than my short ass, and was of Mexican descent. He was the quietest of the three noobs so I paid very little attention to him at first. Yet day by day, his unique sense of humor won me over. I thought I was subtle. Not even close compared with him. When Carlos made a comment, you almost had to take his pulse afterwards.
I would take part in training the new guys, albeit only a small part by giving them check outs on systems I had already qualified. Basically, only the systems in Engine Room Lower Level. Since I had just recently qualified that watch, they did not assign any of the new Machinist’s Mates to me for Under Instruction watches. Only two of the new M-Div guys were going to ERLL anyway.
I suppose our command felt bad for what was done to Paul, so they decided to put him U/I in Engine Room Forward as that watch had very little to do. (It was usually stood by the squats because squats are very good at doing very little.) They even gave Paul the abbreviated “re-qual” standard despite him never setting foot on a Los Angeles (688) class fast attack boat before. He qualified all his nuke Machinist’s Mate watches on the Ohio (726) class ballistic missile submarine and then had a two-year break from the fleet during his shore rotation as a recruiter.
Simon and Carlos would begin, like me, in Engine Room Lower Level as that watch had more shit to do than any other watch in the Engine Room. I was told repeatedly that it’s a really big relief when you get bumped out of ERLL by a freshly qualified noob as I had just done to Jay-Jay. He was now standing watches in Engine Room Upper Level. Simon and Carlos would stand U/I watches with the other two ERLL watch standers who were recently qualified ERUL and ready to be bumped up too. And then two ERUL watch standers could be bumped to Engine Room Supervisor. Then two ERS’s would either be bumped to Engineering Watch Supervisor (if they reenlisted) or bumped even higher up to civilian (if they did not reenlist).
This next brief underway for training that La Chiefa had announced was right after I had monetary relations with the plane Jane lady of the night. I had 1094 days to go once stumbling onto the boat the following morning. For the startup, I stood U/I watch in Engine Room Forward with Bruce and was relieved by another squat who was with his higher-ranking U/I watch stander Hartman. After breakfast, I’d return to the Engine Room, but this time as the sole watch stander in Engine Room Lower level. I sat by Jay-Jay on the Mess Deck after start up and was curious about his new watch station.
“How’s Upper Level treating you?”
“Oh my god! It’s so much better than Lower Level. After the startup, and as long as they don’t call up for the evaporator, there’s hardly anything you have to do.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Startups are a bitch though.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s like… so many damn steam traps to line up, and getting the turbine generators online is pretty fucking involved. Then you got seal steam system and shit… yeah, there’s these main air ejector valves you have to open during start up. They’re way down low and on the port side, that valve has a broken reach rod. So, I had to fucking squeeze down between the main air ejector condenser and the hull and operate the busted valve with a wrench. It’s so fucking hot and loud. Real pain in the ass. And it’s been like that a while apparently. Can’t wait until we fix it.”
“What’s the hold up?”
“We don’t have the parts. Queen La Chiefa said he keeps following up on it, but he just can’t seem to get them.”
“That sucks.”
“Well, you only have to fuck with it during startups and shutdowns, so… whatever. Still fucking beats Lower Level.”
After the meal, I returned to my natural habitat of Lower Level to relieve a Third Class named Scott Smith and his U/I noob Carlos. Prior to the turnover, the on-coming watch stander was supposed to perform a thorough inspection of the spaces and then discuss in detail the status of all equipment in said spaces with the person he was about to relieve. Once the on-coming watch stander was satisfied with the conditions of the watch station, he was to tell the person to be relieved to sign over the logs. After signing over the logs, the person assuming the watch would positively identify this by stating,
“I have the watch.”
At that point, the person relieved was allowed to leave the watch station. That’s the procedure in theory at least. (For fucking diggits!) In practice, everyone else reduced it to a discussion of what meal was being served. That was it. That’s all we talked about for turnover if there were no big changes. This was then followed by the off-going watch-stander signing over the logs—without being prompted—and then saying something like,
“I had it, you got it.”
At that point, the watch stander who was just relieved would ordinarily waste no time hustling up to the Mess Deck to chow down. But Scott was different. He was a red-head like me, yet whereas my red hair was naturally wavy yet trimmed neatly into a high and tight “white walls” hairdo, his locks were tightly curled and grown out to maximum bulk allowed by the regulations. He basically had a little red afro. Then here was his physique. I wasn’t by any means a big guy, but I did have this kind of a stockier appearance. Scott was about the same height as me, but he was quite small and thin, almost stick-like, and wore thick lensed glasses. So just by appearance alone, he would make people laugh. You could just immediately tell he was indeed different.
As far as his likes and dislikes, I’d say his most defining personality trait was that he had major “Asian fever” as the guys called his affection for all things Japanese from their culture to their cartoons to their toys to their women… but oddly not extending to their language. He never bothered learning to speak Japanese outside a few minor phrases. I don’t know if it even makes sense, but due to his Asian fever, everyone called him “Scotto.” Maybe that seemed somewhat Japanese? I’m not sure; I didn’t give him his nickname.
Scotto was also the “class clown” of M-Div. Yeah, he definitely had one of the most unique senses of humor in the division. Just prior to my arrival on the San Fran, he was reprimanded for reading Mein Kampf on the Mess Deck. Maybe he wasn’t being intentionally funny at that moment, but holy hell, no one was able to tell this story with a straight face afterwards.
Fucking Scotto. Yeah, they confiscated the book right away and sent him straight to the bilge to clean. That fucking guy. He probably went down there and cracked open a copy of the Communist Manifesto.
It was also well known among the lower ranks of the Engineering Department that Scotto had a goal of masturbating in every compartment on the submarine. Today, he had a new notch in his belt. After Carlos went up to the Mess Deck, Scotto stayed behind to tell me that he just claimed the Ventilation Fan Room before the startup. This was two compartments aft of the Control Room.
“Wow. That’s enemy territory! Very dangerous.”
“Yeah. Impressive, right?”
“So, you’re done with the entire Engine Room, and that’s why you’re venturing into the cone?”
“Yup.”
“Wait. Does this include the Reactor Compartment?”
“Yeah, already got that one.”
“You jerked off in the Reactor Compartment?”
“Yup.”
“Shit. Where the fuck did you do that?”
“Under the DRT.”
“That’s probably the hottest spot in there. Did you spank it all the way to completion?”
“Completion? You mean did I bust a nut?”
“Not that I need that level of detail, but yeah. Like, I just wanted to know what qualifies as jerking off. Was it just a stroke or two, or did you go all the way?”
“I go all the way, baby. Yeah, it was ‘to completion’.”
“Wow.”
“Impressive, huh?”
“I don’t know if that’s impressive or just plain disturbing.”
“Disturbing? Like you don’t jerk off ‘to completion’? Don’t give me that shit.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m just realizing that there might be some radioactive spunk in the Reactor Compartment now. Imagine the squats doing initial sweeps next time they open it up? ‘Sir, you better come take a look at this. We’re getting some unusual readings under the Discharge Retention Tank.’ And then they have to take swabs of your activated spooge and decontaminate the area. Maybe this is how mutants are made.”
“Or superheroes. Sounds like a superhero origin story.”
“No, definitely mutants; I think superheroes have all twenty-three pairs of chromosomes, but activated jizz would only have half of each pair, so… mutants.”
“Whatever. You’re just jealous that I might have a superhero son.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Alright, I’m going to grab some chow.”
“Try not to whack it on the Mess Deck while people are eating.”
Usually, we’d start our hourly rounds and begin taking log readings about ten till. But at the first top of the hour on the watch, I’d have a large amount of space invaders coming back to conduct their one-hour post-watch clean up. So I usually took the little bit of time I had to myself to do absolutely nothing in my nice but short-lived solitude, and then start on my logs as the cleaners filtered in.
The noob Carlos was first to return to the Engine Room for the post-watch clean up, wandering back into Lower Level well ahead of schedule. I was still in Condensate Bay where we had conducted our supposed “turn over” when he ran into me. He seemed to have heard something about me on the Mess Deck and came looking for me.
“Hey dude. I heard you have a motorcycle.”
“There are no dudes in the Engine Room.”
“There aren’t?”
“According to Queen La Cheifa, not a one.”
“So, we’re all ladies then?”
“No, we’re all men. Or Petty Officers. Those are Chief Queen’s words.”
“Ah, good to know. My wife doesn’t believe me when I tell her, but it turns out that I am in fact a Petty Officer and a gentleman.”
“Perhaps.”
“I now believe this to be incontrovertible.”
“You believe it to be what?”
“Incontrovertible.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Okay wise guy with your big brain and your big words, enlighten me. What does that fancy pants word mean?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Really? Then why’d you use it?”
“I just liked the way it sounded.”
“You liked the way it sounded? But you don’t know what it means?”
“Yeah, so it is most unfortunate for me that you don’t know what it means either because I was kinda hoping that maybe you did, in fact, know what it means and could tell me if it did, in fact, fit there.”
“Wow, you’re really out in Kamchatka.”
“Yes, absolutely. But unfortunately, I don’t know what Kam, uh… Cucamonga means either.”
“Kamchatka. It’s this big Russian peninsula near Alaska, but that’s not important right now. If someone says something’s there, especially if they’re Russian, it means it’s way out there, like really fucking far away.”
“I could see someone mixing up Hawaii with Cucamonga.”
“Kamchatka.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Right. Well, the easiest way to tell the difference between Hawaii and Kamchatka is the presence of brown bears.”
“There are brown bears in Hawaii?”
“Yeah, lots of them. And lots of snakes too. Be careful out there.”
“Seems perfidious.”
“Does that mean dangerous?”
“I don’t know. Was hoping you knew what it meant.”
“Right…”
“Right.”
“So…”
“So… What kind of motorcycle do you have?”
“A Suzuki Marauder.”
“Does it look like a wasp?”
“Does it look like a… wasp?”
“Yeah.”
“Not really. It’s red and silver.”
“No, not the color. I mean the shape. I like those bikes that are shaped like wasps.”
“I have no idea what that means. Is there a fancy-pants word to describe it?”
“Not that I can think of, but I mean… I like those bikes that are really fat around the engine but then get really skinny after that, and with a tail that sticks up in the air in the back… like a wasp.”
“You mean like a sport bike?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, my bike’s a cruiser, not a sport bike. It’s kinda Harley-like.”
“That’s unfortunate. I want to get one of those bikes that looks like a wasp.”
“You should talk to the Eng. He’s got a Gixxer.”
“That sounds amazing… What’s a Gixxer?”
“It’s one of your wasp bikes. But it’s like the best wasp you can currently buy.”
“Ah. I should definitely learn to ride a motorcycle now so I can buy the best wasp bike like that, uh… Jizzer.”
“Gixxer. But wait. You want a sport bike but you don’t even know how to ride a motorcycle?”
“Yes. That is most unfortunate… unfortunately.”
“Yeah, maybe walk before trying to run. A sport bike like a Gixxer will bite you in the fucking ass.”
“So, you’re saying they sting like wasps too?”
“Yeah, sure. I guess that’s one way to look at it. It will definitely cause you pain.”
“No need to sell me on them; I was already sold.”
“Right…”
Amidst our motorbike banter, Queen La Chiefa’s right hand man, known as the “Leading First” of Machinery Division, came through Condensate Bay and barked out to Carlos the location he was supposed to meet for the post watch clean up.
“C’mon shitbird, we’re in Shaft Alley, starboard side.”
This guy was Harrison. He was not only a First Class Petty Officer, but as the Leading First in M-Div, he was basically Chief Queen’s consigliere. Leading Firsts usually start taking over more and more of the Chief’s duties as their tour progresses. In many, if not most cases, the division’s Leading First will be selected for Chief before their tour is up. (Chief selection is a rather complicated ritual with an enormous amount of hazing—er I mean tradition involved. If you ever see a First Class Petty Officer carrying a book with highly decorated leather or wooden binding that they won’t let out of their sight… they’ve been selected for Chief and are going through the initiation rituals.)
In this instance however, Harrison collecting Carlos had nothing to do with him being the M-Div Leading First. Harrison had just been the Engineering Watch Supervisor during the watch that had just been relieved, so he would be the one running this particular post-watch clean up. Shaft Alley was for some reason a favorite spot to conduct a post watch clean up. Usually, the space invading cleaners all left about forty-five minutes to an hour into my watch, restoring my coveted solitude.
Solitude is definitely fleeting in a submarine however. Sometime during this little training underway, I had two very unexpected space invaders. They were assigned to me as Under Instruction watch standers for a single watch each. This sort of thing could happen from time to time. For example, squats also had to qualify all the Engine Room watch stations that M-Divvers had to, so it wasn’t uncommon for them to stand a few select U/I watches (instead of standing them full time) in order to qualify, but then only stand that watch on their own once a month once qualified to maintain proficiency. However, my U/I watch standing space invaders were not squats. They were commissioned officers!
We had two brand new “butter bars” onboard, which is the nickname for Ensign (O-1)—the lowest officer rank in the Navy and the equivalent to a Second Lieutenant in the Army and Marines. The nickname was due to their rank insignia of single a golden bar. Note that in the military, if there are two identical officer rank insignias, with one gold and one silver, for some reason, the gold one is lower ranking and the silver one is higher ranking.
These butter bar noobs were qualifying for the Engineering Officer of the Watch (EOOW) position and would be the fourth and main man in the box (aka Maneuvering) when qualified. The EOOW was in charge of the entire Engine Room and Reactor Compartment while the reactor was critical and had ten enlisted watch standers reporting to him (usually through the Engineering Watch Supervisor, who would be a Chief like Queen or a fairly senior First Class like Harrison).
In order for the butter bars to qualify for EOOW, they had to stand at least one watch in each watch station in the Engine Room. For some reason, it was decided that I would train these officers in Engine Room Lower Level despite only being qualified on that watch less than two months. Initially, it was a little bit uncomfortable. The first time I had any authority over anyone in the fleet, and it would be officers? I had to tell officers what to do and make sure they did it to minimum standards? Strange dynamic for sure! Internally I was wondering if should do I do everything by the book, or should I show them little tricks I picked up to make things work a bit more smoothly—despite that technically being in violation of procedures?
For example, there was one particular lube oil purifier that was most notorious during its start up. It would puke oil all over the place every single time if you followed the procedure. I developed a theory as to why this was happening and made my own procedure to prevent such an incredibly messy situation. I never again puked oil. All the other ERLL watch standers heard about my technique and then began copy my method.
This sort of free-styling was not permitted by the Navy. But I suppose the senior people hate wasting lube oil, so I never got into trouble over winging it. But here and now, do I tell these noob officers my trick? Or do I train them to follow the written procedures, puke oil everywhere, and hand them oil rags to clean up their mess? The latter’s really not my style. I showed them all I knew, including my tricks. Besides, they were officers. I’d probably have to clean up their messes anyway.
Fortunately, it turned out that neither officer were by-the-book dicks. They were not US Naval Academy grads and had actual personalities. One in particular, Ensign Henderson, was quite self-deprecating. He would frequently opine that none of the nuclear qualified enlisted crew members actually needed supervision by an officer. It was his opinion that most nukes in the submarine service were smarter than most officers in the Navy. And that many enlisted nukes were as smart or smarter than the average officer nuke.
Admitting such thoughts was very rare in the military and was likely verboten. I think officers are taught to never appear weak or indecisive in front of their men. Just make a decision and right or wrong, stand by it. Apparently showing doubt in battle is detrimental to troop morale and could affect the outcome of said battle. Maybe he didn’t care as we were in the “peace dividend” era and unlikely to go into combat. Or perhaps he was experiencing a major existential crisis right as he hit the fleet. Towards the end of his Under Instruction watch, he let his thoughts out.
“There is absolutely no reason for me to be here.”
“Uh… what do you mean by that, sir? Like you don’t think you should have to stand a Lower Level Under Instruction watch?”
“Yes, but not just Lower Level. All of it. All of the Engine Room.”
“Really? Why not, sir?”
“Because there is absolutely no reason to have officers in the Engine Room.”
“Well, wouldn’t it be kind of hard to man the ‘Engineering Officer of the Watch’ post without an actual officer?”
“Indeed, it would be, but I postulate that the watch itself is superfluous.”
“Then who would tell us what to do?”
“I think you’d be fine with just the Engineering Watch Supervisor back here.”
“That would be pretty radical, sir. What, like give us free reign as long as we answer all bells?”
“More or less.”
“Seems like a recipe for anarchy.”
“No, you enlisted nukes would be just fine without officers back here.”
“You think we’d actually run ourselves just fine without officers back here to keep us honest?”
“Yes, I do. You guys could and would run yourselves just fine. Think about it. Why else is the most junior watch station for officers the Engineering Officer of the Watch? If you guys couldn’t be trusted to properly run the nuclear propulsion plant, they wouldn’t put the lowest ranking, most junior, least experienced, and least knowledgeable officers in charge back here.”
“Well, someone has to, uh… I dunno. Give me a minute here to think of something…”
“Look, the whole point of putting us back here is for us to learn. You guys run yourselves and then we learn how to run things from watching what you guys do and tell us how we should do things. But just before we can be of any actual use back here, they move us up front to stand watches in the Control Room. So, you guys definitely don’t need people like me to tell you what to do.”
“But sir, no. Like, without you, who would tell the Engineering Watch Supervisor what to tell us to clean?”
“I dunno, hear me out here; might sound a little crazy, but maybe… the Engineering Watch Supervisor himself?”
“Okay, yeah, I got nothing else. Maybe we don’t need you after all, sir.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Does this mean I can disobey all your lawful orders now, sir?”
“No.”
“Damn. I was planning on not cleaning after watch, sir. Is that considered disobeying a direct order?”
“There’s one way to find out. But I don’t advise it.”
“Did you know that Admiral Rickover proposed making all nukes warrant officers? At least that’s what I heard.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
“I guess we’d be like the Army helicopter pilots. But the Navy shot his proposal down. I’m thinking it was because then they’d have no one to clean the Engine Room.”
This was the first time during my time in the Navy that I heard an officer talk so candidly about their own perceived value. I didn’t know why he confided in me like that, but part of it might have had to do with the fact that he was soon to become Queen La Chiefa’s direct superior. Imagine being La Chiefa’s boss! That guy knew everything. He had been in the Navy over fifteen years. Now you’re a brand-new butter bar Ensign with less than two years in the Navy, only weeks in the fleet, and maybe twenty-three to twenty-five years old, and you’re going to tell Chief Queen, a guy who joined the Navy when you were in elementary school, what to do? Yeah, good luck with that!
I mean, just the sheer amount of knowledge Queen La Chiefa possessed must have made the officers he worked for walk on eggshells. I had stood before Chief Queen getting absolutely grilled by him during my Engine Room Lower Level watch qualification interview. He was the first of three interviews, and his was the most intense. The next interview was with his boss, a junior officer who “ran” Machinery Division and had the title of Main Propulsion Assistant (MPA). He had just made full Lieutenant (O-3) and was about to transfer to a coner division. (Ensign Henderson would be replacing him.) That second interview was a cake walk compared with Chief Queen’s. The MPA basically just took a few minutes to spot check me, and then he happily signed off on it. As long as they weren’t US Naval Academy graduates, junior officers were usually pretty laid back.
The third interview was with the Engineer, a Lieutenant Commander (O-4) who was third in command of the entire vessel. His interview as a little more detailed than the outgoing MPA’s, but also a cake walk compared to Queen’s. During La Chiefa’s interviews, I just had this sense of total inadequacy in his presence. Failing to feel secure in my level of knowledge, after the interviews, I had these thoughts swirling around my head:
“How the hell does he know so much? When will I ever get the feeling like I know something—or anything? It doesn’t even seem possible to get to his level of just knowing everything.”
From day one of the Peepayleenay, the instructors would beat into our heads the phrase, “Knowledge is power.” It rolls off the tongue so well that it just has be true, and thus we repeated this affirmation throughout training like the good little atom splitting cultists we were. Each nuclear physics fact we were spoon fed and able to get down without burping back up onto our bibs made us more powerful. Or so we newborn nukes hoped and believed.
During the Engine Room Lower Level interview, Queen La Chiefa was checking just exactly how much power I had amassed. Apparently not much. I had quite a messy bib. Each time I answered one of his questions, he immediately hit me with another. This sadistic madman wanted me to extract even more detail about subjects of which I was certain I had already regurgitated all of my knowledge and power. But since he believed this was for the sake of the ship and crew, he was relentless. So, I had pity for Ensign Henderson. I did not particularly enjoy working for Chief Queen, but I’d probably have an even more difficult time if he was the one working for me.
My perceived knowledge shortcomings were not without hope however. There were in fact a couple of positive things that training the two new officer space invaders offered me, both of which were quite unexpected. First was immediate. I had been living with a lot of self-doubt concerning my knowledge aboard the USS San Francisco, comparing myself to someone like Chief Queen. Like I said, I felt inadequate. However, following the two U/I watches with the officers, both had commented that I was the most knowledgeable watch stander that they had stood watch with. This was completely unexpected and quite a boost to my confidence. At the end of this training underway, Ensign Henderson found me on watch and delivered a most flattering assessment of me.
“I’ve stood quite a few Under Instruction watches now, and you by far are the most detailed and knowledgeable watch stander on any watch station I have observed.”
“Uh, sir, that can’t be true.”
“It is.”
“Then that’s actually scary, sir. I’ve only been here a few months.”
“No, it’s not. You just have such a strong grasp on how the machinery works both in theory and in practice that you are able to explain things in very simple terms. The other watch standers obviously know what they are doing and are competent, but they don’t quite have the ability to teach others. You do.”
“This is all quite surprising and flattering, sir.”
“I think you’re just being humble. I think you knew all this already.”
“Well… I have been told I’d make a good instructor before.”
“See?”
“Okay, so does this mean I can finally disobey all your lawful orders now, sir?”
“No, you may not. You still have to clean things.”
“Damn. I should have been a helicopter pilot in the Army. Pretty sure you can’t tell Warrant Officers to clean things.”
The other butter bar had a virtually identical evaluation of me. It was a tremendous boost in confidence, which would then lead to the second positive development. This development wouldn’t be fully realized for a few weeks, but it reinforced the Navy’s “knowledge is power” narrative. Once these two officers were qualified as Engineering Officers of the Watch, their perception of my knowledge gave me great leverage. I soon noticed how differently they treated me as opposed to my fellow enlisted peers. It was some fascinating psychology in action in my opinion.
I definitely didn’t see this leniency around other enlisted personnel below the rank of Petty Officer First Class, even among guys senior to me that they had trained with. I honestly believe it was my teaching technique. It’s not likely I knew much more than the next watch stander, yet I did think I was better at explaining theories, procedures, and most of all, the configuration of equipment better than my peers. Those two officers had said as much. They did in fact say that they learned more from me than anyone else while standing U/I watches. So, I figured my teaching techniques gave the perception of immense knowledge (whether deserved or not), and therefore power.
Indeed, the two new officers showed complete respect for me, and this lasted the duration of my time aboard the San Fran. They always treated me more as a peer than as a boss. It was quite the juxtaposition (and sometimes awkward for me) when they were chummy, lenient, and informal with me while in Maneuvering, yet very formal, exacting, and commanding to other enlisted crewmembers waiting in line after me to get something signed off.
Carlos, for example, would in time tell me that those two officers were not particularly easy to work with. Whereas I was rarely questioned when asking permission to perform a particular maintenance procedure, they would absolutely grill him and often turn Carlos away. And then he’d have to explain to Chief Queen why he was unable to accomplish his maintenance assignment. But I’m getting ahead of myself here. I wouldn’t realize this privilege for a number of weeks. At this point in time trapped in the big black underwater sewer tube, I was very much looking forward to returning to port and making the most of what might be the last relatively free weekend for a number of weeks.
We pulled into port early afternoon on a beautiful sunny Friday where I had 1090 days to go. It was an absolutely glorious day in paradise. Once the shutdown and the trash offload were complete, everyone not on duty was to be cut loose for the weekend. Everyone except me it turns out. Carlos broke the bad news.
“Uh, so like Queen La Chiefa said you’re supposed to take care of the safeties before you take off.”
“Is that a question, or are you telling me this?”
“Uh, I guess I’m kind of telling you this… unfortunately.”
“Wait. What are you talking about? Everyone is leaving. Chief Queen told you that?”
“No. Harrison told me that.”
“Okay, well that’s kinda the same thing… So, what specifically do I have to do with the safeties?”
“Not really sure. He just said you have to take care of them. Figured you’d know what he was talking about so unfortunately, I didn’t ask him anything about it.”
“Take care of them? No, I have no idea what he’s talking about. You’re the first person to tell me anything about the safeties. I have no idea what needs to be done with them.”
“Would you say the information is… parsimonious?”
“Carlos, please. That’s not helping. I wanna go home and have no fucking idea what I have to do before I can go.”
“Yeah, me neither. Which is unfortunate. Guess, you’re gonna have to talk to Queen La Chiefa then.”
“Yeah, guess so. Fuck.”
“Sorry, dude. Err, wait. Are there dudes allowed in the Engine Room now?”
“I really don’t give a fuck about the ‘dudes in the Engine Room’ thing right now.”
“Right… Well, good luck with the safeties.”
The “safeties” are big ass relief valves for the Steam Generating system. In the event of over-pressurization, they dump the excess steam overboard to prevent a boiler explosion. These safeties protect the secondary loop—the non-nuclear side—but they are still considered critical to reactor safety and are classified as “Nuclear Level 1” components. The Steam Generators are the main heat sinks for the Reactor Coolant system after all.
But it was getting late in the afternoon, I wanted to go home, and no one told me what the job preventing me from going home actually was. Do what with the safeties? I looked all over the boat for Queen La Chiefa but couldn’t find him. Oh yes, he most definitely departed before we completed the shutdown. I eventually ran into Harrison, the Leading First, and he was only findable because he thankfully had duty. Harrison confirmed that Queen wanted me to “take care” of the safeties.
“What do you mean ‘take care’ of the safeties? What’s the job?”
“There’s some PMS due. Check the schedule.”
“Ah crap, so I have PMS? Right now? On a Friday afternoon?”
“Yes. Right now, shitbird. Don’t leave until you take care of it.”
On the boat, we all got a lot of monthly PMS. Apparently, mine was due on a Friday afternoon after returning to port. Fucking figures. (I should probably mention that PMS stands for “Preventative Maintenance System.”) As for the safeties, I most likely had to lubricate the springs maybe or something minor shit like that. I dunno, but what else could it possibly be? That’s no big deal. Sucks, but I could bang it out and gain my freedom just a few hours later than I was hoping. I went back aft to the PMS schedule posted near the starboard Main Engine, but the only thing due was the annual pressure tests. This caused quite an uncontained and audible reaction from me while looking at the schedule.
“What the fuck!?! How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
I’ve pressure tested small relief valves by removing them from the system, sticking them in a vise, and then bench testing them with a small hand-held pump. But here we’re talking massive valves installed in a critical system. There’s no way I was supposed to remove two Nuclear Level 1 valves late in the day all by myself without a Quality Assurance Inspector (QAI) present. The mere suggestion to do so should indicate that you should be checked out by a mental health professional. I mean, what the hell would I even pop test them with anyway? Run a line off of one of the high-pressure air compressors?
But even that didn’t make sense to me. These aren’t just relief valves. These are a specific type of relief valve called safety valves. I bet the procedure called for checking not just the set point, but the flow rate too. This is Nuclear Level 1 shit. This is reactor safety. This is pure nonsense. I went back to Harrison and told him the only PMS due was the pressure test, so clearly there had been a mistake, and I should just go out drinking as per original plan instead.
“So like, can I go? I mean there’s no way Chief Queen wanted me to pop test those valves by myself today.”
“No not yet. I found the note that Queen left. They’re actually supposed to be swapped out with ones tested at the maintenance facility.”
“Swapped out? That’s crazy! I’m supposed to swap these out by myself? I doubt I could even lift one up by myself! And who’ll be the QAI? And where are the new ones?”
Harrison didn’t know where the new ones were. No one actually seemed to know. And he too did find it suspicious that I alone would be assigned such a mammoth job. He decided to look into it for me. A bit of time passed before Harrison finally got back to me saying they were in crates on the pier, and my job was to make sure they were there. That made sense to me. That’s a perfectly acceptable Friday afternoon job. Check some boxes on the pier. This was just job prep. We had berthed at the Intermediate Maintenance Facility (IMF) pier after all.
I went topside looking at all the crates up there. Being at the maintenance dock, there were quite a few pallets and crates of material on the pier, but nothing remotely close to what I was expecting to see. I double and triple checked all the crates, and out of desperation, I even checked the ones that were clearly too small to have those big ass valves in them. No dice. I left the gorgeous sunshine above and went back down below to find Harrison.
“Are you sure they’re on the pier? I can’t find them.”
He told me to stand by. That’s what you mostly do when in the Navy. There is so much waiting for nothing. Always getting ready to prepare to stand by. And you wait inside the stinking pig knowing that the glorious sun is up there waiting for you. But you invariably stand up the poor sun, and then sun usually goes away disappointed. It’s a strained relationship between sun and sailors for sure. After another rather long period standing around with my thumb up my ass, Harrison got back to me. He said the safety reliefs were never delivered. Which to me was a relief.
“Okay, well that’s the end of that. So, if there’s nothing else… I can go, right?”
“Not so fast, shitbird. I got a hold of Queen on the phone. He said we’re doing the swap out early the next week. Your job today is to locate the valves and get them over to the boat.”
“Locate the valves and get them over here? How am I supposed to do that?”
Harrison had enough crap to deal with while on duty and was tired of my whining.
“I don’t know. You’re an adult and a nuke. Go figure it out for yourself. Can’t be that hard to locate them.”
He walked off. I thought this whole situation was totally absurd. First, we were all going home early because we had been out to sea for a week. Then I was given last minute PMS. Then this last-minute PMS turned out not to be a monthly, but an annual. Then the parts for this last-minute annual PMS were missing. Then I was told to find these last-minute annual PMS parts with absolutely no leads. Just “locate” them?
Someone must have set this job up. Why isn’t that person taking care of this? I could be the helper, but now I’m the lead? This is fucking absurd!
I asked some of the senior guys on duty if they had any idea what facility in all of Pearl Harbor usually tests Steam Generator safety valves. Just as I thought all hope was lost, the crusty A-gang Chief gave me a phone number to try. He was that Chief with the big mustache and the most awesome Harley Davidson on the planet. If I was casting a movie, he’d definitely be the Chief. Yeah, all Navy Chiefs should look like someone even a group of Marines wouldn’t tangle with if they knew what was best for them. That was definitely him.
Despite the super Chief’s help, the guy at the end of the phone line had no idea what I was talking about, but at least he suggested I try another number. Again, this new number I was given was not the correct facility, but I was given a third phone number. This happened a few more times, and each time, it at least felt like I was getting just a little bit closer. Finally, after a fuck ton of wrong numbers, someone had a clue.
“Yeah, Steam Generator safety valves? Uh, they’re probably in building 157. Go there and ask for Mr. Kahananui.”
“Mr. Kah-hah-nah, uh… Sorry, what was his name again?”
“Mr. Kahananui.”
“Yeah, I better write this down. That was Kah-hah… NAH-noo-ee?”
“Yeah.”
“Great, thanks! Oh, and uh… where exactly is building 157? Is that in the IMF?”
“No, it’s in the shipyard.”
“The shipyard!?!”
“Yeah.”
“Shit!”
The shipyard was all the way clear on the other side of Pearl Harbor! All the way clear over there, and what was worse, I didn’t even have a vehicle capable of transporting these two big ass valves.
Man, what an afternoon this was turning out to be!
I figured I would never make it home that night. And then I bumped into Carlos, who was about to do just that. He was heading home and asked if I had “taken care” of the safeties. I told him the situation.
“You have to go to the shipyard to get these valves on a Friday afternoon?”
“Yeah”
“Isn’t that out in… where do you say it is?”
“Kamchatka.”
“You have to go all the way out to Kam-chat-ka and you don’t have a vehicle?”
“That’s correct.”
“How are you going to get them back?”
“No idea.”
“Okay, I’m in.”
“You’re in?”
“Yeah. I’m in.”
“Uh… do you like have access to a pickup truck or something?”
“No. I have access to a Honda Accord. Sometimes. Not at this time though. My wife has the access right now. So, I have access to absolutely nothing at the moment actually. Which is unfortunate.”
“And you still want to help me?”
“Yes. I’m in.”
“Okay. And you know something?”
“No, I do not. I know nothing.”
“Well, do you want to know something then?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“I think I actually have a plan.”
“This is most fortunate. I believe everyone should have a plan.”
My plan wasn’t actually a new one. It had worked for me before. I had done this exact same thing back in Groton when Submarine NR-1 pulled in from our five-month Mediterranean deployment. It was late at night, we were all tired, and no one wanted to carry their heavy ass seabags from the river Thames all the way up the steep hill and to the barracks clear on the other side of the base up against Highway 12. It was as far away from the submarine piers as you could possibly build a barracks.
There were a quite few official US Navy vehicles on the pier, so I looked for one that had the keys inside. Just about all the cars and pickups were unlocked, but no keys were left behind. Except for in this huge International-Harvester S1600 flatbed stake truck. The keys were in the ignition. I fired it up and told all the guys to throw their seabags in the back and hop on. A few of them were worried, but I told them it can’t be considered stealing since it’s property of the US Navy, just like our asses were. So that was the idea I figured I’d repeat with these big safety valve crates. I told Carlos the plan, but he had doubts that I was being serious.
“Seriously? That’s your actual plan?”
“Yes, seriously. That’s my actual plan. Worked for me before.”
“Hmph.”
“In my defense, I never said it was a good plan.”
“Well, I’d say your plan seems… incongruous.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I.”
“I think maybe you do.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. I don’t know what I know anymore.”
“Look, don’t worry. I’ll find a vehicle. It will be as easy as one-tee, two-tee.”
“As easy as what?”
“One-tee, two-tee. Right here. One-tee, two tee. See it? One-tee, two-tee.”
“No, I don’t see it. What’s one-tee, two-tee?“
“Okay, don’t worry about one-tee, two-tee right now. We’re just gonna wing it. Trust me. We’ll find something before we even get halfway to the shipyard.”
But damn if security wasn’t tight in Hawaii. Searched every Navy car, truck, and van along the way. Made it all the way to the shipyard without finding an official vehicle with keys in the ignition or up in the sun visor. Took us about an hour to walk to that building way out in Kamchatka. Once there, not finding a vehicle became the secondary problem, however. There would be no need to be in possession of a stolen truck if we were not in possession of the big ass safety relief valves. The immediate problem was obviously to find the guy with the valves. Since this was before cellphones were even remotely common, we had to do this the old-fashioned way.
Carlos and I wandered around the giant warehouse asking any shipyard bubba we ran into if they knew of this Mr. Kahananui dude. This warehouse was so big that I think it was where they stored the Arc of the Covenant, so there were a lot of heads shakes no when asking for one specific person. But just like how I shook loose what my job was, and the eventual success I had with the phone numbers, I also finally found someone who had heard of this Mr. Kahananui guy. The shipyard bubba told us what part of the building to look for him.
We made it to the specified section and went into the office, but he wasn’t there. We wandered around that part of the building asking everyone we ran into if they knew where Mr. Kahananui was. At this point, we were close enough that everyone knew who we were talking about, but they hadn’t seen him for quite some time. In the distance, we saw another shipyard bubba and went up to him. The bubba in the background turned out to be just the shipyard bubba we were looking for. It was Mr. Kahananui himself.
He didn’t know off hand if he had the valves or where they were and started looking through file cabinets once we were back in his office. It took a while, but he eventually he found something in the paperwork and called a couple other bubbas over to look for the crates. We waited for a while as they located them and were then summoned over to inspect the crates. Finally! This made me happy. Now it was down to transportation, something I was sure Mr. Kahananui could take care of.
“Okay, this seems to be exactly what we’re looking for. So, uh… can you send them over to the San Francisco? We’re at the IMF pier.”
Unfortunately, they didn’t do deliveries. It was worth a shot asking though. I told Carlos to sit tight with the crates while I attempt to appropriate transportation. Luck was on my side now. After a very brief search around the warehouse, I found a little white Ford Ranger pickup truck parked outside with the keys in the ignition. I drove it around to the warehouse loading dock. Carlos was worried about the fact that I had just stolen a vehicle, but I repeated the line I used in Groton a few months earlier.
“It’s United States Navy property, just like our asses. How could that be stealing? Besides, we are on a mission.”
“From God?”
“I didn’t know you had such reverence for Queen La Chiefa.”
“I get confused sometimes.”
So, we had found the valves, I had signed for them, and we had secured the transportation. Now we just had to get them onto the truck. We found the bubba who was dispatched by Mr. Kahananui to find the crates and asked him to load it up in “my” truck.
“Oh shoots brah, I go find da forklift.”
So again, we waited. We waited a while. The bubba finally came back with keys, and we walked over to the forklift. He opened the door on it, but immediately turned back around and tried to hand the keys over to me.
“My license done expired, so you gotta drive da forklift, yeah?”
“Whoa, I’m not qualified to operate a forklift! I’ve never operated one before.”
Well not the fork part at least. My entire forklift experience up to that point was minimal. When I was eleven years old, my father let me drive him around Kennedy Airport from the international terminal to a hanger where he had finished repairing an Air China 747. The return ride was more fun however; he taxied that 747 back to the terminal while I ran all up and down the cabin. He was the Aircraft Maintenance Manager for Aer Lingus, which at the time had a side gig maintaining many other airline’s planes that only flew to JFK once a day. But I digress.
The second forklift experience in my life was simply starting a supposedly temperamental one inside the Submarine NR-1 compound. It was carbureted, so as a motorhead, I was the only one capable of getting it started in the sub-freezing wintertime. The guys would either try to start it without pumping a few squirts of fuel with the gas pedal, or would flood it out by pumping far too many times.
All I had to do is ask how many times they hit the gas pedal. If not enough, I’d give it two or three squirts before starting it to richen it up. If too many, particularly if all I could smell was gas around the forklift, I would hold the pedal floored while starting it to lean it out. I was the designated starter, but I never actually played with all the levers or picked something up with it.
So now in the shipyard warehouse, so close to completing my Friday night mission, there were three dudes standing by the crates debating who is the least worst forklift operator. Carlos immediately bowed out citing incompetence. I turned to the shipyard bubba.
“Ok, so it’s either you or me, and since you said your forklift operator license is expired, that implies at one point you did know what you were doing well enough to obtain said license. Me? Not at all. Of course I could wing it, but if I fuck up, we’re all stuck here on a Friday night trying to explain to the bosses what the hell just happened.”
The shipyard bubba thought about it for a few seconds, hopped into the forklift, and loaded the crates into my stolen pickup truck. Off we went. Pier-side adjacent to the San Fran, we just slid the big heavy crates off the back of the truck with the help of a couple of guys on duty.
“Careful, shipmates. One-tee, two-tee on the slope!”
I didn’t bother driving the little Navy pickup back to the shipyard. To hell with that! I just left it on the IMF pier with the keys in it for the next poor sailor given a bag job. I was extremely grateful that Carlos gave up some of his liberty to help me. I was impressed. After Carlos called his wife for his ride home, I hopped on my motorcycle and went to my Ala Napunani apartment.
The way Carlos stuck around to help me get out of that pickle of a situation stuck in my head. He quickly shot up to the top of the pack in my opinion, and I began to hang out with him more than the other guys on the boat. It was a lot of little things too. Like this time the two of us went to the movies one night. I forget what flick we caught, but the theater was absolutely packed, and the only two seats together was all the way up in the back row off to the side.
“Wow,” Carlos interjected, “We’re really out in Kamchatka here.”
This other weekend, after meeting his wife and two adorable two-year-old twin daughters for the first time, and I was about to leave, he came out to inspect my motorcycle. He had renewed interest in learning how to ride one. We walked up to the Marauder from behind. My motorbike had a big fat teardrop shaped fuel tank, low seat, and a thin upswept “chopper-style” rear fender. That rear three-quarter view was my favorite angle to look at my Marauder.
“You know what?” Carlos contemplated, “Your bike kinda looks like a wasp.”
It was comments like these which he peppered into all our conversations that cemented my friendship with him. He became my best bud on the boat. By the time the four weeks at the IMF pier were over, he was my go-to friend to grab a beer with after work. We came from different backgrounds and didn’t really have a lot in common come to think about it, but there was never a shortage of topics to talk about with Carlos. Even if I didn’t want to talk about a particular topic with him.
“Jesus Carlos, stop telling me about that shit.”
“You should really give it a shot.”
“I’m not going to, alright? That’s it. Discussion over.”
“I don’t know… It’s really nice. Like a baby’s bottom.”
“Okay, now that’s just fucking weird. Why would you—no, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“I’m telling you; you’re missing out. I think you’re really going to love it.”
“No way dude. And I don’t want to talk this shit. It’s fucking gay.”
“What’s gay?”
Charlie asked that as she walked up to us. Carlos and I were at the bar inside Déjà Vu after work a few days before our next underway.
“Carlos keeps telling me I need to shave my balls.”
“That’s hot.”
“That’s gay.”
“One might even say it’s glabrous.” Carlos added.
“What does that even mean? Does that mean gay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, neither do I, but it should. Because that shit is totally gay.”
“It’s not gay,” Charlie responded, “I would never suck a guy off unless he’s nice and groomed down there.”
Carlos looked satisfied and nodded in agreement. I sighed and took another gulp of my Double Black Stout. At that exact moment, I knew what had to be done. Fucking Charlie. I didn’t stay long at Déjà Vu though. Carlos drove me back to my Ala Napunani place. He didn’t drink to black out when out drinking like I usually did. I had duty in the morning and therefore took advantage of his moderation and transportation.
At the closing of our maintenance period, we were on something called “solid plant pressure controls.” We had three methods of maintaining reactor coolant pressure: the pressurizer (which I described in an earlier chapter), a cross-connected pneumatic system (that I probably can’t write about as I don’t think civilian nuclear plants have a similar system—so best to be vague despite it being pretty damn elegant engineering, another system the US Navy should brag about like how cool the control rod drive mechanisms are), and solid plant control (which is basically dumping coolant to the Discharge Retention Tank or squeezing more coolant into the system with the Reactor Coolant Charging Pumps).
When on solid plant controls, another watch was stationed in Engine Room Forward. Instead of having four hours on, four hours off for the twenty-four hours of duty, they’d use the off-duty Shutdown Roving Watch stand that additional watch. I brought a razor with me on that watch to pass the time. Without the razor, I’d be thinking of the US Navy’s slogan when I enlisted:
It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.
The commercials showed a bunch of cool shit like Tomcat fighter jets catapulting off of carriers, destroyers shooting off missiles, submarines submerging, and Seal teams sliding down ropes from helicopters into the sea. All the cool shit.
The US Air Force’s slogan was I think still Aim high at the time. Make of those what you will, psychologically speaking. The USAF seemed to be trying to motivate you to do your best and not settle on mediocrity. I was much better at failing to live up to expectations so perhaps my best was that I didn’t follow in my father’s and grandfather’s footsteps by joining the Air Force.
The Navy appeared to me to appeal to thrill seekers, and they didn’t seem to place any sort of expectations on you. Yeah, it’s a job, and you have to work it and all, but at the same time there will be thrills and adventures. Just do your job, don’t work too hard, and when you get off, have some fun. Yeah, I liked that implied mentality. I definitely wanted some adventure.
But there I was staring at a single gauge for four straight hours. It was the reactor coolant pressure while in solid plant controls. Very important. Nobody likes a broken coolant pipe and reactor meltdown. So, if the needle moved down, I’d press a button. If the needle moved up, I’d open a valve.
Yeah well, the needle so very rarely moved. Just four hours of leaning against hard and bumpy metal objects, wearing a clunky headset that had this big mouthpiece with a button to talk that hung off your head as well, staring at this little needle that stayed right where it was supposed to stay. For four hours. It’s surprising how much your ears can sweat in that time. I don’t recommend smelling the headsets afterwards.
Staring at the gauge, I’d wonder where my adventure went. I think only one time in all the times I watched that damn needle did I ever get to press the button. And then I had to like notify everyone and their brother and wait for someone to come down and watch me press the button.
“See look at the needle. It was right there when I put on this headset. But now it’s a little bit to the left, so I called you guys. Can I press the button now?”
That damn slogan was some real false fucking advertising. The Navy should have considered the slogan “Aim low.” At least in the submarine service. But I didn’t have to worry about slogans this time. I had something to do. Since I knew I’d have a shit ton of time on my hands, I brought a battery-operated shaver with me on this watch. as I didn’t find the idea of an actual razor blade against my testis particularly appealing.
Think about it. Think about how thin the sack skin is. One little slip? Exposed testicles. Shivers! So, yeah, I brought my electric shaver to do the job. But all that ended up doing is pinching the shit out of me. I suppose it would work if you pulled the ball skin tight, but holy fuck after the four or five times it pinched me, that was enough. Felt like my little bean bag was a pin cushion, and the poor thing was getting needles stabbed into it indiscriminately. My eyes began tearing up a bit. Couldn’t have that as I had a needle to watch not move.
I still didn’t like the idea of a sharp ass razor blade against my nads, but there were those words that Charlie had spoken dancing around in my head. “I would never suck a guy off unless he’s nice and groomed down there.” So, this had to be done. Sharp ass razor blade it was. I brought my standard razor blade type shaver for my next watch and went to town hidden behind the Reactor Coolant Charging Pumps in Engine Room Forward. Worked like a champ. And Carlos was right. They were so unbelievably smooth.
“Like a baby’s bottom.”
He was telling the truth. But what he failed to mention was all the itching I would experience when the hairs tried to grow back. It was incessant and unbearable. A few days later when we returned out to sea for a mini post-maintenance shake-down, I could not stop scratching my nut sack. Just scratching them for hours, rubbing them up against railings, pulling my boxers tight up against them. There was no relief. Even on watch.
I’d do my hourly rounds then go up to Shaft Alley to hide behind the massive air conditioning units that we called the “R114’s” after the type of refrigerant used, pull my junk out to stretch my ball sack, and just scratch like mad. Because it was out of the way and a dead end, no one went behind those R114’s.
Well, no one except for now Lieutenant Junior Grade (O-2) Henderson, who was the Engineering Officer of the Watch. He was doing his once per shift log review but having a hard time finding his Engine Room Lower Level watch-stander. I saw him out of the corner of my eye and immediately whipped it all back into my poopysuit.
“What are you doing back here?”
“Just hanging out.”
“I saw that.”
He quickly flipped through my logs, signed them, and handed the clipboard back to me without saying anything else. At least not to me. He must have told someone though, probably all the guys in Maneuvering. After my watch was over when we were eating up at the Mess Deck, a few people chided me for getting caught masturbating on watch by an officer. I protested.
“Actually, it’s not what you guys think…”
I started saying this, intending to fully explain that I wasn’t actually masturbating, but that I had simply shaved my balls because Carlos wanted me to, and now they were extremely itchy. Suddenly I realized that maybe it would be worse to admit the truth to these guys and paused mid-sentence.
“What do you mean it’s not what we think? You were jerking off, and Henderson caught you. Period. End of sentence. End of story.”
“Okay yeah, it is what you guys think. That’s exactly what you guys should think. Yeah, Henderson sure got me.”
“He sure did.”
“Busted.”
“It’s alright,” Scotto added, “That’s the first place I rubbed one out in the Engine Room too. It’s a good spot.”
“Which set? Port or Starboard?”
“Both.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, I’m done with the Engine Room and Reactor Compartment.”
“You mentioned that.”
“And I got the Fan Room just before the last underway.”
“Yeah, you told me that already too.”
“I’m going for the Torpedo Room next. That should be an easy target.”
“I see what you did there.”
“You guys are nasty,” Jay-Jay interrupted us with, “Can we change the subject?”
“Please do.” I responded.
“It’s perfectly normal to jerk off on watch.” Scotto declared.
“No, it’s not.” Jay-Jay assured us.
“What’s the harm? Besides, Brendan had time to fix that busted reach-rod on the air ejector valve between busting nuts.”
“That was you?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t actually fix it. I just got the parts for it. I don’t know who La Chiefa assigned to it after that.”
“Well fixing it wasn’t the problem. It was getting the parts. That valve was such a pain in the ass to crawl down to and operate while we were waiting for those damn reach-rod parts. Where did you get them?”
“I stole them.”
“What?”
“I stole them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“From where?”
“Off another boat.”
“No fucking way.”
“No, seriously. I stole the parts off the Indianapolis.”
“You’re fucking crazy, dude.”
That was actually a true story. One weekend while parked at the IMF pier for our intense maintenance period, I woke up Saturday morning on the boat. Duty was over! Time to go home! But, “Not so fast!” I was told. I had been selected for a special assignment to the shipyard before being cut loose, once again. That’s some shitty news to hear on a Saturday morning, but it turned out to be a lot better than my last-minute safety valve fetching mission from the week before.
Ensign Henderson, who had already procured an official US Navy vehicle, requested that I accompany him to receive parts from the USS Indianapolis (SSN-697). She was the tenth Los Angeles (688) class boat built, and her reactor core was now nearly spent. Instead of being refueled, she was being decommissioned and scrapped 18 years into her 30-year projected lifespan on account of this peace dividend.
The Indy was in a Pearl Harbor dry dock being prepared to enter the Submarine Recycling Program. She would be towed across the Eastern Pacific to Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, located in Bremerton, Washington, where they would defuel the nuclear reactor, cut out her whole reactor compartment, seal the ends, bury that big ass button capsule, and then turn the rest of the submarine into razor blades. (Thus completing the circle of life to presumably shave other submarine sailors’ sacks). But while still in Pearl Harbor, many Indy parts were up for grabs.
This parts-fetching assignment sounded like fun to me, as I have heard stories about being an unofficial RPPO, or “Repair Parts Petty Officer.” I am not sure if that is or was ever a real title, but back in the Peepayleenay, some of the enlisted instructors spoke fondly of their days as RPPO’s. Basically, they saw their job as stealing parts from other boats. It involved treachery, deceit, and often a bit of running. But they never called it stealing. No, no, no. They called it appropriating. Sneaking onto other ships and stealing—err appropriating—parts for your ship? That sounded exciting. I wanted to be one of those repair parts pirates and therefore responded to Ensign Henderson enthusiastically.
“Sweet! I know a few parts Chief Queen needs.”
“Petty Officer Droughton, you can’t just take parts off the Indianapolis without a thorough review and permission in writing.”
“Sir, it’s for the good of the San Francisco. Besides, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“I’ve heard that statement so many times, sir, that I swear it must be true.”
“Well, I don’t really care. I just had to tell you that you are not allowed to take anything off of the Indianapolis that hasn’t already been approved.”
“You don’t really care? So, you’re saying I can finally disobey a lawful order now, sir?”
“No, I’m not saying that. But what I don’t know won’t hurt me, right?”
“Right.”
“I won’t know anything about this, right?”
“Right.”
“Yeah, okay. You can pretty much ignore me and do whatever you want as long as the shipyard workers don’t catch you, and more importantly, I don’t see it.”
“Don’t worry, sir, you won’t see a thing. But if you hear anything about it later, just know it’s for the good of the USS San Francisco, for the good of the United States Navy, and for the good of the American people. So, that kind of makes you a hero when you think about it.”
“Go get your tools,” Ensign Henderson said while shaking his head, “Meet me topside at the truck.”
We drove over to the shipyard, parked outside the gate, and entered the nearly desolate facility through a turnstile with badges he had already picked up. Not much action inside there on a Saturday, I’ll tell you that much. It was like a ghost town. Ensign Henderson walked along silently and seemed deep in thought as we made our way to the Indy. Perhaps he was still contemplating all that existential crisis business he had mentioned to me during his Under Instruction watch.
Why am I even here? The crew doesn’t need me. They’re just as smart as me, if not smarter, and they have much more experience. They don’t need me; I need them!
I could tell he was quite distracted. So much so that I had to yank him back when he stepped into the street without looking. At the exact moment he stepped into the street, there was this speeding car that appeared out of nowhere right in front of us like a movie jump scare. It was a really close call. Absolutely no one around, then bam! Speeding car! But Ensign Henderson thought I had been paying attention and saved him.
“See? I need the enlisted crewmen more than you need the officers.”
“No, sir. Pure luck. I barely saw him. Came out of friggen nowhere. Like it fell out of the sky!”
Oddly that near miss didn’t faze him or even anger him. Maybe just depressed him a little bit more, adding to his existential crisis, but we continued on and never spoke of the speeding demon car again. There were no other signs of life in the shipyard until we got to the Indy. She was in a dry dock with a tall bit of scaffolding for a gangplank, and a couple of civilian shipyard bubbas waiting there for us. They gave us hardhats, escorted us onto the Mess Deck of the boat, and then scattered to get the parts and paperwork.
The Mess Deck was an absolute mess. Hoses, cables, and large collapsible bellows tubes for ventilation ran everywhere. The best way to describe it was like the boat was in a hospital ICU. I told Ensign Henderson that I’d be right back. He looked somewhat apprehensive.
“Good of the Navy. I promise. We’re heroes, sir.”
The hatch to the Engine Room was open, and I immediately saw this boat had some personality. The reactor tunnel on our San Fran had plain white vinyl tiling. The Indy had alternating black and white tiles like a checkered flag.
They allowed that shit on a fucking nuclear submarine? I thought we had to maintain decorum!
So, I thought their tiles were pretty sweet. Then I saw a motto painted in an inappropriate area of Engine Room Mid Level stating (without decorum), “The fastest in the fleet.” Uh, why was that? Because that boat was named after a town with a racetrack?
The Indy was the same class (688), same flight (I), with the same reactor (S6G), and same core (D1G) as the San Fran. I suppose using their rules, that would make my boat “The gayest in the fleet.” Hmm. Well, rainbow tiles in the reactor tunnel would actually be kind of neat though. I was in.
Once in Engine Room Upper Level, I climbed down onto the port side main air ejector and gland exhaust condenser. Like Jay-Jay, I was slender enough to do that. On our boat, some of the guys couldn’t. We had that valve down there with the disconnected stem extension. The coupling on ours had sheered so you could turn the handwheel from up on the catwalk all day long, but you wouldn’t be turning the actual valve one bit.
La Chiefa was having trouble obtaining this replacement part for some reason, necessitating Jay-Jay and or other slim guys to shimmy down to operate the valve during startups and shutdowns. I didn’t have the appropriate tools to remove just the coupling, so I removed four bolts and pulled off the entire valve bonnet, coupling and extension rod from the Indy. Along with a few other appropriated parts, I stashed the long ass reach-rod in the bucket of parts the bubbas left for Ensign Henderson on the messy Mess Deck. He reiterated that I wasn’t supposed to do that.
“You didn’t see anything.”
“I can literally see the extra parts sticking out of the bucket you’re carrying back to the boat for me.”
“These are not the parts you are looking for.”
“Your Jedi mind tricks won’t work on me. I can still see them.”
“So are you saying they are in fact the parts you’re looking for?”
“Damn. Okay, you’re good. I just hope this isn’t going to cause a problem.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I don’t foresee any problems.”
“I have a feeling you say that a lot before going out to the bars.”
“Each and every time.”
“See? That’s what worries me.”
“It’ll be fine. It’s not like they’ll ever start up again. Gonna scrap that sewer tube. Besides, this is for the good of the—”
“San Fran, Navy, American people, yeah, yeah, we’re heroes and all. I got it.”
Back on the San Fran, Queen La Chiefa was also apprehensive about the parts that I had unexpectedly handed him after the morning muster on Monday.
“Where did you obtain these parts?”
“I took them off the In—”
“Stop!”
“—diana—”
“STOP TALKING!”
I stopped yapping before completing the last “polis” part to comply with his demands. Chief Queen stared me down as he was wont to do and then addressed me again.
“I don’t want to know where you stole these parts from. Unders—”
“Well first of all Chief, it’s not stealing. It’s appropriation. Because it’s for the good of the United States Navy. Secondly, since the San Francisco needs these parts, and since they’re about to scrap the In—”
“Uh-uh-uh! I don’t want to know. Understand me? I do not want to know.”
“Yes, Chief. Understood.”
Well, you know something else I immediately understood? And this something was about fucking time! This something was a really good moment in my professional development. You see, I finally knew something that Queen La Chiefa did not. And I gotta say, I felt pretty damn powerful at that moment.
Practicing patience-ish.
Finally finished! Sorry for testing your patience!