the door.
“It’s all right!” he called. “They’re just isolating some of the electrical circuits to keep them from shorting out.”
Davis froze, either because of Jerry’s explanation or because the path before her was dark as well. “It’s just part of the drill.” It was hard to sound soothing without also patronizing her, but she was probably too scared to notice. She held her place between the racks, undecided about which darkness was less threatening. Finally she turned and felt her way back toward Jerry.
TM1 Moran brought over a sound-powered phone headset. “Here, ma’am. Maybe you’d like to listen in on the DC circuit.” He helped her with the headphones and the unfamiliar microphone. Moran then explained how the phones worked; that the energy of her voice created the current that powered the circuit. She grasped the principle instantly and was also interested in the activity on the circuit. “Just don’t press the ‘Talk’ button on top of the mouthpiece,” Moran instructed.
Just as Davis started to calm down, the lights came on, and the IMC announced, “Secure from drill.”
Another voice, the Captain’s, came on the IMC. “That was disgraceful. It took eight minutes for the Casualty Assistance Team to get on scene and twelve minutes to secure the flooding and begin dewatering. Do I have to remind everyone that there is only one watertight bulkhead inside the pressure hull?” It was one of the first things any submariner learned about the
“This was a simple one. In a real flooding casualty, we would have lost vital systems, and the accumulating seawater would have taken out others. But if you prefer standing hip-deep in cold salt water, we’ll let you try it.
“So far, this crew has not demonstrated it is ready to respond to an emergency properly. Until it is, expect more drills. That is all.”
Hardy gave them forty-five minutes before hitting them again. This time it was the general alarm klaxon, followed by “FIRE. FIRE IN THE PORT AC SWITCHBOARD. ALL HANDS DON EABS!” The ventilation fans and lights died immediately, and Jerry had to fumble for a flashlight he kept by his bunk. Berg and Washburn also used them in what now seemed to be an even smaller stateroom.
Slowed by the darkness and the need to plug into an EAB manifold to breathe, Jerry found his division already mustered in the torpedo room. Larsen had the phones on again and Foster had started a training session on the emergency air breathing system. Jerry stood and listened carefully. Foster knew the ropes, and while he might hate Jerry, he took care of his men.
Emily came down the aisle again, carefully holding a flashlight so that it pointed at the deck immediately in front of her. “I asked Lieutenant Commander Bair,” she announced, “and he says I should report here, since this is where my…ROVs…are…located.” Her words trailed off as the light showed nearly a dozen men standing around with masks on. Her puzzled look told Jerry that she didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. Walking over to her, Jerry removed his mask and said, “Good morning again, Dr. Davis. If I may be so blunt, where is your EAB mask?”
“My what?”
“Your emergency air breathing mask, like this one.” Jerry held up his mask so that Emily could see it clearly. “There are two such masks in your stateroom: one for you and another for Dr. Patterson. If you hear the IMC announce ‘Don EABs,’ please take the mask out of the bag, put it on, and make sure you have a good seal. You then plug the mask into an air manifold that looks like this.” Jerry pointed up into the overhead at a red-colored pipe with four plugs protruding from it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was to participate that much in the drills,” Emily apologized.
“The EAB system’s purpose is to enable you to continue breathing in a toxic atmosphere. That usually happens when there’s a fire on a submarine. You need to learn how to use the EAB mask properly so that you are prepared in case something does go wrong,” Jerry explained firmly. “In fact, why don’t you sit in on Senior Chief Foster’s training? He’s going over the basics right now.” Just as he was about to lead Emily over, it finally struck him that Dr. Patterson wasn’t here with her.
“Where is Dr. Patterson? What’s her emergency station?” asked Jerry.
“She’s still in bed,” answered Davis. “She says these drills are silly and refuses to have anything to do with them.”
“What?” exclaimed Jerry.
Everyone looked at Emily with as much surprise as their division officer. Even Foster stopped his instructions in mid-sentence. Nobody on a sub ignored casualty drills.
Hardy’s voice over the IMC announced: “Secure from drill. All hands remove EABs. If that had been a real fire, I’d be heading for the nearest port and hoping we’d make it. It took too long to isolate the circuit and once again the Casualty Assistance Team was too slow. Count on doing this again until you do it right.” The lights came on and Jerry wearily headed back to bed.
Hardy hit them with a reactor scram at five, and then an engineering casualty during breakfast. As that drill ended, Jerry heard the General Alarm and the IMC announcement, “MAN BATTLE STATIONS TORPEDO.” Jerry was the Officer of the Deck under instruction for this drill, so he hurried to the control room.
He came into the space on the tail end of yet another argument between Hardy and Patterson. “… tired of these games. I’ve got work to do, and these drills keep slowing us down.”
“Doctor, I will drill this crew until I am satisfied with their performance. If our only job is to get you north, then how I run my boat is none of your business.” He spoke calmly, almost casually.
“Captain Hardy, you will stop these pointless drills!” Patterson’s voice was more than firm.
Hardy paused before answering. For a moment, Jerry thought he was going to comply. Then his expression hardened. “Respectfully, ma’am, I refuse.” As Patterson started to protest, he cut her off. “And in the future, Doctor, for the safety of this boat, you will participate in any casualty drills.” She didn’t answer him immediately and he continued. “Do not mistake me, Doctor. It truly is the safety of the boat — and the mission — that is at stake here.”
Patterson, almost expressionless, looked at Hardy for a moment, then nodded silently in agreement. She turned and left the control room.
Jerry realized he’d been holding his breath. So there were limits, things even Hardy couldn’t be bullied into doing. It made Jerry a little more hopeful, but he wondered what price they’d pay for Hardy’s defiance.
The drills continued throughout the day, with Hardy mixing accidents, engineering casualties, and battle drills almost continuously.
Drills are a normal part of submarine life, but Hardy was merciless in his pace, as well as in his critique of the crew’s actions. Even the smallest infraction brought blistering condemnation. The best the crew could hope for was a plain: “Secure from drill.” If Hardy didn’t have anything bad to say, he wouldn’t say anything at all.
Jerry watched as the crew took grim satisfaction in the lack of praise. During one of the engineering drills, he overheard one of the nuke electronics technicians say proudly, “Even the old man can’t find anything wrong with that one.”
But if there was any criticism from Hardy, the department head and division officers echoed it, passing it down the chain of command. When the machinist mates didn’t deal with a feed pump casualty quickly enough, Hardy held a “washup” in the wardroom — for all the officers. After reviewing the casualty in detail and pointing out each and every thing that had gone wrong, Hardy laid into Lieutenant Commander Ho, the Engineer.
“Your people aren’t properly trained or supervised. You tell Jackson, Hughes, Train, and even Chief Barber that their performance is not satisfactory, nor is yours for letting it happen.”
Ho stood at attention in front of the entire wardroom while the Captain lambasted him for several more minutes. He managed to work in an “Aye, aye” or “Yes, sir” where appropriate, but Hardy never gave him the chance to explain or even apologize.
Jerry listened to it with the rest of the wardroom, embarrassed for Ho, and remembered how different his old squadron commander had been. He suspected that the difference in command styles was not because one was an aviator and the other a submariner.
After Hardy left the wardroom, Jerry watched as Ho turned on Al Millunzi, the Main Propulsion Assistant. His division maintained and operated the feed pump in question and had muffed the drill. “What were your people
