Few things affected crew morale more than the ice cream machine. In the cramped confines of a submarine there was little space to be given over for crew comfort. What little there was meant that much more to the crew. The ice cream machine, with its continuous supply of cold treats, was a mainstay. A supply officer or head cook who allowed the vital machine to fail would be at the receiving end of crew and wardroom hostility.
Fagan completed his brief inspection of the deceased machine. Turning to the dejected young officer, he said, “Well, Mr. Green, I suggest that you get that machine fixed. I gather that the Eng is not enthused about working on it.”
“XO, it’s not quite that simple,” Ensign Green began to explain, reluctantly. “You remember we replaced the ice cream machine a few weeks before we left. The new one was completely different from the old one. Different maker, model and all.”
“Let me guess,” the XO interjected. “You forgot to put in a COSAL Change Request so you don’t have any spare parts.”
The crest fallen look on the Chop’s face told the XO that his guess was right on target. He continued with a notably sharper tone to his voice, “Mr. Green, didn’t they teach you anything at Athens besides golf? You, of all people onboard, should know that to get spare parts you have to tell the system what equipment you have. Let me make this perfectly clear to you. I don’t really give a damn if you and Petty Officer Swain have to sit in the freeze box and stir bowls of ice cream mix with a spoon, but the crew will have ice cream. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the supply officer stammered as the XO stalked off.
A few minutes later, Chief Turston and two of his electricians emerged from the engine-room, each carrying a bag of tools and test equipment
“Mr. Green, the Eng told us that you might have a problem. Don’t know if we can help, but we’ll give it a shot,” the Chief said.
Glancing in the innards of the machine and noticing the trail of blackened ooze leading from the leaky seal to the motor, he muttered, “Looks like a real mess. Sure would have been easier to fix before you gave that motor a taste of ice cream.”
“Thanks for the advice, Chief,” the supply officer said dryly. “Do you think that you can fix it?”
“Well, Mr. Green, don’t know yet,” the leading electrician said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “The wiring will take a little time, but we can fix that here. The motor and compressor are an integral unit and the motor wiring is shot. We’ll have to try rewinding it on the lathe. Haven’t used that jig, don’t know if it'll work. I’m guessing two days, if everything works. Better break out a parka and find a comfortable seat in the freeze box.”
07 Jun 2000, 2000LT (1000Z)
The chiefs nervously chattered as they assembled in the chief’s quarters small smoke-filled lounge. The COB had not told them why when he called this unusual meeting. But, they could sense something important was afoot.
The group gathered most evenings to “smoke and joke” with a camaraderie developed from years of shared experiences.
The chiefs provided a vital “deck-plate” level of leadership and technical experience, bridging the difference from the bright young college kids in the wardroom and the equally bright Navy-trained enlisted crewmen. They were the father figures to the crew and the mentors for the younger officers. Because of their unique position and history, they had achieved a special status and privilege, which included their own berthing space, the chief’s quarters, the “goat locker”.
The goat locker was the only living area onboard where the smoking lamp was lighted. Everyone else who wanted to smoke was relegated to a short, cramped passageway on the lower level, served by large ventilation fans.
“Guys, we’ve got a problem,” Master Chief Hancock started.
“We’ve been steaming West for a week now. I think we've all figured out that this isn’t some exercise up North putting a bunch of SEALs ashore in Alaska,” the COB continued. “Does anyone have any idea of where we are going or what we are going to do there? Can’t do much to help the Skipper if we’re in the dark.”
“COB, what did you guys talk about in that hush-hush meeting you had in the wardroom?" Chief Richey, the leading machinist mate asked.
There was no way to keep a secret on the boat, but no one had even spoken about that briefing.
“I think that’s what we are here to discuss,” Master Chief Holmstad interjected. “Am I right COB?”
“Exactly,” Master Chief Hancock replied. “Let me start by saying that what was discussed in that meeting was very highly classified. Most of you don’t have the clearance to even know the meeting even happened. This one tonight didn’t happen.”
“OK, COB, are you going to have to shoot us after you tell us this stuff?" Chief Jones jokingly chimed in.
“Jones, you keep mouthing off like that, the XO may find out how “Snow White Does the Seven Dwarfs” ended up in the VCR for the dependents cruise. His wife was not happy.” the COB replied.
“OK, OK! It was only a joke,” Chief Jones responded, raising his hands defensively.
Jones was an inveterate practical joker. His attempts were not always in good taste or well received. A few months ago he had switched a pornographic video tape for a fairy tale that was to be used to entertain the children during a dependents cruise.
“If we can be serious for a
