“Chief of the Watch,” Jerry said. “Shift four thousand pounds from after trim to forward trim.”
“Shift four thousand pounds from after trim to forward trim, aye, sir.”
“Something wrong, Dive?” inquired Berg.
“Yes, sir, I think I messed up the fore and aft trim a little,” replied Jerry, somewhat embarrassed.
“Very well, fix it so we can get going again.”
“Aye, sir.” He glanced over at the COB, but Reynolds’ face was a mask.
After Anderson had moved the four thousand pounds of water from the aftermost part of the ship to the forward-most part, Jerry looked at the indications to see if he had corrected the problem. At first, it looked like it had indeed done the trick. But within minutes, the stern planes were now holding steady in the rise position and the fairwater planes in the dive position. All this told Jerry that he was now heavy forward, that he must have moved too much water. However, the plane positions were suggesting that he had to move almost as much water back aft as he had just shifted forward. “I don’t understand why this isn’t working,” muttered Jerry to himself as he scratched his head.
“Chief of the Watch, shift three thousand pounds from forward trim to after trim.”
“Shift three thousand pounds from forward trim to after trim, aye, sir.”
“Diiiive, would you please explain what the hell is going on?” Berg demanded, clearly annoyed.
“Uh, sir, I seemed to have overcompensated. I’m working on it now. Please bear with me.”
“Grrrr,” growled Berg.
Jerry felt more and more uncomfortable and stressed. He completely understood Lenny’s irritation, but what bugged Jerry more was his apparent inability to balance the boat. And why was the COB standing back there like a damn statue when he really needed the man’s help?
With Anderson’s report that the pumping was completed, Jerry stood up, leaned forward, and stared at the fairwater and stern planes indications. Standing there, he willed the indicators to zero out, but once again the stern planes went to a modest dive angle, while the fairwater planes drifted upward on the rise side.
“Son of a bitch!” hissed an exasperated Jerry. “What is wrong?” Turning around, Jerry was finally going to ask the COB for help, but he was gone! He was nowhere to be seen! On top of that, Berg was on the periscope stand, arms folded across his chest, glowering at him. Jerry felt helpless and was now uncertain as to what needed to be done to remedy the boat’s trim. He was thinking about being relieved when he heard the noise of people moving.
At first, it was rather subdued, similar to what one would expect at watch changeover, but it grew in volume. Then a long string of men emerged from the navigation equipment space behind him. One by one they walked past him on their way down the ladder to forward compartment middle level. Some of the men waved as they went by. Seaman Jobin said, “Hey, sir!” All were smiling. At that moment, Jerry knew he had been tricked. He had fallen victim to one of the oldest pranks in the submarine force: the Trim Party.
For operational and safety reasons, a submarine’s trim must be finely balanced. Moving a significant amount of weight from one end of the submarine to another will have noticeable affect on the boat’s fore and aft balance. In a trim party, a large number of men cram themselves into a space as far aft or forward as they can get; in this case, in the extreme after end of the engine room or the torpedo room. When the Diving Officer compensates for the extra weight by moving water to the other end, the men start moving to the other end as well. This causes the boat to “see-saw” back and forth, apparently without reason, much to the annoyance of the Diving Officer.
A seasoned Diving Officer would have recognized what was going on and simply used the planes to maintain an even keel and waited for the individuals involved to get bored and quit. But rookie Diving Officers are easier to deceive and so often became the prey of a merry band of mischievous submariners. As the long procession continued, Jerry felt his cheeks ablaze with embarrassment. Sitting down, he watched as the steady stream of men seemed to go on forever. Finally, as the last man walked past, Jerry heard the sound of clapping from behind him.
“Outstanding trim party, Jerry,” Lenny chortled, barely able to contain himself. “That has got to be one of the biggest, longest parties I’ve ever seen. What do you say, COB?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Berg, easily in the top three,” replied Reynolds. The huge grin on his face made it clear to everyone present that he had thoroughly enjoyed Jerry’s initiation.
Getting into the spirit of things, Jerry stood up and bowed. “Thank you, thank you, very much. For my next trick, I’ll go down to the torpedo room and have myself impulsed out of a tube and swim to Keflavik!”
“Nah, that won’t be necessary. We’re getting plenty of entertainment value out of just giving you grief,” responded Berg.
“Heaven forbid that I should deny you your diversion, sir,” Jerry replied sarcastically.
“Quite so,” said Lenny. “Now, why don’t you finish fixing up the trim, huh?”
“Yes, sir, at once, sir.” Before he turned back to the ship’s control panel, Jerry looked at Reynolds and waved an accusing finger at him. Feigning a shocked expression, the COB merely shrugged his shoulders and tried to look innocent. The merry twinkle in his eyes, however, spoke loudly of his guilt.
Without the malicious interference of half the crew, Jerry was able to quickly get a satisfactory trim and
After a quick dinner, Jerry stopped by the ship’s office. He had some paperwork to drop off, but he also had an important question for YN1 Glover.
The yeoman had “Abbey Road” playing when Jerry knocked on the door. It was open, but the ship’s office was Glover’s domain, and Jerry had seen the XO knock before he stepped inside.
Glover thanked him for the paperwork, and then Jerry asked his question. “How many of us will have to go through the Bluenose ceremony?”
The yeoman smiled. “Thirty-one. We’ve actually got forty who haven’t made the trip with us, but nine have entries in their service records. That’s not counting the two ladies, of course.”
“You knew, just like that?” Jerry asked.
“The XO asked for the numbers yesterday.” Glover explained.
Jerry felt relieved. “That’s a quarter of the crew,” he observed.
“Well, we’ve stayed pretty close to home in the past year or so, mostly doing Manta trials.”
“It’ll be nice to get it over with,” remarked Jerry.
“Oh, you’ll do fine, sir. Although I’ve heard that they’re working on a special procedure for new officers that used to be aviators.” He smiled and Jerry couldn’t be sure if he was serious or not.
As the evening wore on, Jerry started to hear Bluenose stories creep into the crew’s casual conversation. Those who had crossed before shared their experiences, suitably embellished to amaze the recipients. The trick was to exaggerate outrageously, but still make it sound plausible. Even if the listeners knew the story had to be untrue, a good storyteller could create uncertainty in their minds.
He heard the story about Boreas and the admiral and several variations on ways to get ice cubes from one end of the boat to the other before they melted. Jerry was advised to pick one and practice, just in case Boreas wanted to test his skill.
The actual preparations were secret, of course, as were the exact trials that the “warm bodies” would have to endure. Jerry figured it wouldn’t do any good to ask, but Ensign Jim Porter, the Electrical Officer and most junior officer aboard, kept on asking. Either out of fear or just plain curiosity, he grilled his division, then the wardroom, trying to find out exactly what would transpire.
Early the next day, Thursday, Porter spotted Frank Lopez and Master Chief Reynolds in the wardroom. They were working on A division paperwork, spread out on the wardroom table, but had paused, and he sat down. Jerry, on his way to see the XO, knew what was coming and stopped to watch.
“Mr. Lopez, Master Chief, how many Bluenose ceremonies have you seen?”
“More than a few,” the COB said vaguely. Lopez simply replied, “Just one, on this boat’s last northern run.”
Porter pressed his point. “Master Chief, are the ceremonies the same on every boat? Who decides what happens?”
“Why, King Boreas, of course,” said Reynolds, laughing.
“Come on, Master Chief,” pleaded the Ensign, “somebody on
