Spy Sub: A Top Secret Mission to the Bottom of the Pacific

my 6'2' frame around various steel obstructions protruding from the tunnel's overhead, we continued to move aft until we reached the last watertight door and the engine room. The room was hot and filled with the suffocating odor of burning diesel fuel. Surrounded by insulated pipes, gauges, valves, and circuit breakers, I came face to face with the man who was in charge of the Viperfish's nuclear reactor operators.

'Bruce, this is Dunham, fresh from New London, your new reactor operator,' Mathews said. Bruce Rossi was a tough, powerful man with a burr haircut and coal-black eyes that scrutinized me closely. He barked a loud greeting and gave me a tight smile. With his heavily muscled right hand, he reached out and crushed my hand.

'Reactor operator trainee, Paul. Glad you're here, Dunham,' he growled.

'Happy to be on board, Bruce,' I replied. His pulsating jaw muscles suggested a significant measure of controlled anger.

He stared at me. 'Let me get right to the issue at hand because there's a lot of work to be done,' he said. 'The Viperfish is powered by a complex water-cooled S3W nuclear reactor, and our division requires three ROs[2] qualified to control the system. Two of the ROs will be finishing their tour of duty and will be leaving the boat after the sea trials and our shakedown run. The Viperfish will, therefore, need replacement reactor operators. You are one of the replacements, and Petty Officer Richard Daniels will be the second replacement when he arrives in the next few days. Both of you are going to work your tails off to learn every system in the engine room and on the Viperfish. You need to become qualified on this boat. Fall behind on the qualifications schedule, and you will find yourself on the dink list.'

Mathews smiled and turned to leave. 'Don't be too hard on the guy, Bruce,' he said over his shoulder. 'This is his first boat.'

'The dink list?' I asked Bruce.

Rossi's face looked tougher. 'The delinquent list,' he said. 'If s updated every day, posted in the control center near the periscope station, and in plain sight for everyone to see. If you fall behind on qualifications, you will land on the dink list, you will remain on board the Viperfish, and your liberty will be curtailed. That means you can't leave the boat and you don't visit Waikiki. You will eat here and sleep here until you get caught up. I don't want any of my trainees on the goddamn dink list, and I don't want any of my qualified ROs standing goddamn port and starboard watches.'

An old chief told me, a long time ago, that the Submarine Service is unique because the men are pleasant and they get along so well together — I decided that chief had never met Bruce Rossi. Although the dink list program sounded almost like a prison system, I figured it would never become a threat to me; Rossi looked like he would kill, with his own bare hands, anybody who dared to come close to getting on the dink list.

I nodded to Bruce that I understood and then glanced at the engine-room equipment around us. There were thousands of pipes, valves, and large pieces of powerful-looking steel machinery jammed into every available space. To become qualified, I knew I would have to know where each pipe went, what each valve controlled, and how every piece of machinery worked.

I turned back to Bruce. 'Port and starboard watches refers to-?' I asked, trying to remain polite.

His faded blue dungaree shirt tightened across his chest as his muscles tensed with annoyance.

'Six hours on watch, six hours off, six on, six off, over and over again, week after week, month after month' he growled. 'Somebody has to control the nuclear reactor, Dunham, and it can't be a man who isn't qualified. Furthermore, when we leave on our mission, the captain doesn't want his boat filled with non-qual pukes. If you and Daniels are too slow to get there and we end up with only two qualified reactor operators, they are going to be standing port and starboard watches and I am going to be pissed. Get yourself checked into the submarine barracks, pick up your qualification card from the chief of the boat, and start your quals-today. I want those systems signed off; I want you to be well on your way to becoming an RO before the Viperfish leaves the dry dock.'

For the next several weeks, I chased back and forth throughout the boat and learned system after system as if my life depended on it. I quickly discovered that trying to learn about the complex equipment in the engineering spaces of a submarine in dry dock was nearly impossible. Because of the disassembled state of the engine room, I found it difficult just to walk around the passageways, much less to learn anything about the equipment. Parts of motors, pumps, and circuits were strewn everywhere. Just moving across the decking area required great care to avoid stepping on some vital component.

Although I had just completed several years of rigorous nuclear training, I found it even more difficult to figure out the operation of a submarine system that was partially in pieces. Also, the most critical parts always seemed to be missing. I searched through the thick Reactor Plant Manual for pictures of each system that I needed to learn, but finding the essential components in the maze of pipes and meters was a daunting challenge. Often, I had to locate a qualified crew member to tell me what I had missed.

When the qualified man was finished with his instructions, it was quiz time: Did I know everything there was to know about the system? If not, 'Start over again, you non-qual puke, and pay attention this time.' If the quiz went well, the system was signed off, there was one less thing to learn, and I was one tiny notch farther along the tortuous pathway toward submarine qualifications.

The electricity was always turned off when equipment was dis-assembled. To lessen the risk of accidentally energizing a circuit during repair work, red tags were placed all over the circuit breaker and not removed until it was demonstrated that no danger of electric shock or other problems existed. When it was time to turn on the electricity, however, I discovered that things often went very wrong.

'Okay, remove the red tags and turn it on!' the electrician hollered down the passageway to the man standing next to the tagged circuit breaker when a repair was completed.

'Okay, here it goes!' the man hollered back as he removed the red tags and placed his hand on the breaker.

The electrician threw the switch, and there was a brilliant electrical flash with the 'clap' noise of current flowing through the circuit breaker. The men standing around the equipment watched closely as the current raced through repaired circuits and brought the device to life. When equipment did not function properly, which seemed to happen with amazing regularity, a moment of silence was followed by furious arm waving and screaming: 'Turn if off! Turn it off! Turn it off!'

That scenario was followed by a torrent of cursing, which often included phrases unique to the submarine service and words that I had never heard before. When the cursing was over, the circuit breaker was locked open again and the painful process of repairing equipment started again.

Although the crew of the Viperfish appeared to be a single unified group of men, I soon discovered that it was actually an accumulation of 120 volunteers for submarine duty who were in a state of flux. Someone was always coming in or going out. The men on board the boat at any time were significantly different from those who had been there one year before and those who would be there a couple of years later. Members of the crew reported on board or left for reasons of seniority, completion of denned tours of duty, and many other factors. I did not know it at the time, but the personnel turnover was less than was usual in the Navy. Washington's BuPers (Bureau of Personnel) had worked to stabilize the crew of the Viperfish to a relatively fixed complement of men for this mission.

The veteran group was the core of the crew when I reported on board. These men had been qualified on all of the systems for several months or years, and several had been previously qualified on one or more other submarines before reporting to the Viperfish. They were the recognized pros, the men who had their dolphins.

The 'dolphins,' an internationally recognized pin, is worn above the breast pocket of dress uniforms. The pin depicts a pair of dolphins, on either side of a World War II submarine, guiding it to safety. The dolphins represent 'qualified in submarines,' a symbol that is the coveted treasure awaiting non-qual pukes struggling to learn about their submarines. Wearing the dolphins means that the individual has been granted membership in one of the most exclusive clubs in the world.

To me, the qualifications process was almost like a mandate from God: until I earned my dolphins and until the captain certified me to be qualified on all of the Viperfish systems, I could not belong to the club.

The men of the qualified crew on the Viperfish knew exactly what they were doing.