Childhood Chapter 1

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The water is a little murky in this part of my life but what the hell...

I was conceived in the old country. After World War II, Germany was left in bad shape. Needless to say, my mother, Maria, was German by birth. My father, Earl, was an American from Arkansas and a corporal with the occupation forces. Their romance was fruitful and the couple made plans. The marriage was performed in a chapel in Frankfurt, mother's hometown. This was the start of the cold war with Russia. Father was a communications expert and he typed secret code. Dad could type one hundred and forty words a minute on a manual typewriter. He spoke German fluently. 

Dad's tour was over with the US Air Force. We all returned on a ship to New York, that summer of 1948. I had gotten my sea legs early and since I wasn't born yet, that was good.

East Coast to West Coast by train, I still hate trains; no leg room. Their arrival in Stockton, California was met by the Alley family to mixed feelings. "War Brides" had gotten a bad reputation in these years after the war.  Dad's family of three brothers, five sisters and Grandma were no exception. That said, my parents struggled like young couples do with career and life. Dad was offered a job with his oldest sister's husband, a contractor working on a dam project on the "Feather River Canyon in Northern California.     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Life was tough the winter of 1949, living in a "line cabin." Mom was about to deliver a son. The snow was deep in the meadow, around the work camp. Dad had been shooting squirrels for dinner on that day. The trees surrounding the clearing were dark that late afternoon. Disturbed by the cracking of dead wood along the path. Maria not far up the hill behind the cabin was startled. Hearing this noise and thinking that this wasn't her husband, she froze. The truth was a mountain lion sent my mother scrambling down the path toward home. The screams and hollering got my dad's attention. Earl ran down the hill after her.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         This excitement put them both on the road to town. The drive got them to the Orville hospital in time. This being my grand entrance to the clan, it took place very early on a Wednesday morning. I arrived hungry and pissed, Jan. 26, 1949. This was bitter sweet, no pampers and the ward was cold as hell, but, the good news was my parents looked happy to see me.. "A big wildcat got me here", and that seemed only right.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The next few years were foggy because my sisters showed up. They got more attention, of course, but I would punish them on a regular basis. The family had moved to the San Joaquin Valley where Dad had found employment. Life in Stockton improved our family situation. Mom did some work in the carnival for a while...they would put her in a box and saw her in half.  At four years old, this would freak me out a little. Dad drove a taxi. Dad's second job was selling stuffed animals door to door.  Squirrels holding a rose were a "top seller."      Like I said, Mom, being European was always doing some strange things to us. The problem for me was that on a certain Christmas, a special outfit was presented to me. I was so excited thinking it was a brand new Cub Scout uniform. That wasn't it.  Opening the present, in front of the whole family, to my horror appeared this forest green pair of German leather shorts with all the trimmings (Bavarian hat and knee socks). Dad just smiled, he wasn't going to wear it. I was "show and tell" at school for days. Classroom to classroom, they would march me around. Church on Sunday was real special. At least I got to take off the Robin Hood hat with the feather sticking out of it.  I would drag my butt, on the sidewalk, on the way home just to wear a hole in the shorts, but I just managed to give the leather a good shine.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Dad and mom got into the insurance business and the family prospered.  Childhood was challenging. Roy Rogers and a Masked Bandit were my heroes. My sisters always had to play the Indians. We had some strange pets. I wanted a dog so, we got a monkey. Suzy, the spider monkey, was even more cunning than my sisters.  This old circus performer could steal your cookies with her tail using her hands or teeth to distract you. Life was a little scary at our house. Mom would dress Suzy in a pink tutu and walk into Safeway. That was funny except I looked like the organ grinder next to her in my outfit.  I'm changing the names of my sisters to protect myself. They were angry little women with pigtails. I love them still. They were younger and made my life interesting.  I continued to change from wanting to be cowboy to being a pirate. That would move me into my next phase. Sinbad the Sailor; much better than Popeye, the weirdo. I like spinach, but I still have no tattoos.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Growing up Catholic kept my "pirate" subdued and my guilt front and center. The nuns at school had my “curiosity” under control for awhile. My best friend in those days, a German/Italian kid, had the same taste for the female gender. Our problem was they keep you in the dark about that subject way too long. Archie and Jug Head comics were as close as fifth graders had a license to go. The girls in these stories looked "Hot", but the guys always lost interest in the end. I, with this German/Arkansas background was a real skinny kid who wasn't a smooth talker. I relied on "Bean" another name change to keep me safe; he really had the gift of speech.

                                                                                                                                                                                    He and I did everything together. Our biggest problem was that he was much better at sports and everything else.  His Italian shenanigans and my off-center tempo kept life more challenging. The two of us were all about enterprise, we had figured out how to make a buck. Starting a shoeshine business sounded good. We got a red wagon and pulled it around the block offering to shoe shines for fifty cents a pair. Door to door, just like my old man. Bean and I filled the wagon after three blocks. "Wow," now the problem was we didn't want to shine all those shoes. We were bored after the first pair. The wagon was full. Things didn't go too well. We had no names or addresses to match up the shoes. This lack of ambition meant there was no follow through, a stumbling block for sure. Shoes got lost and more Catholic guilt surfaced.  Mom had said my first word was "shoe". This was very sad. Someday, I've got to get those old shoes back to their owners. I told you, I was a pirate.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                School was tough for a “day dreamer.” It never was my strong suit. Summer school really sucked. After classes, the two of us went down to the river. The Bean and I planned our first Sea voyage that summer of 1961. Took us three days to build the wooden raft and launch it. The damn thing broke apart before she hit the water and not for lack of nails.  That summer's dream turned out bad.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Our friend, Willie, invited us over. His dad's hobby was gun powder and small canon shot, “Pirate Stuff”. Willie's dad was a chemist and would make his own black powder. They, having their own whale harpoon canon, were real cool stuff. They would fire cans of wet sand at the rock on the other side of the water. They lived in a big house on the riverbank. Willie had invited us to come over and watch a new movie with The Three Stooges. His parents were gone, of course. Bean and I showed up that afternoon; our friend was building a serious bomb in his garage using his dad's special stuff. I think we were about thirteen years old. We were pouring black powder into a thread capped pipe and closing one end with a vise. The real dynamite fuse was water proof and a foot long. He wrapped the pipe with electrical tape. Willie said, "Well here you go guys, have fun.... " Years later, the same kid was the head guy of the fireworks display for the city.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        We headed to the lake in the middle of town, lit the fuse and tossed it into the park lake. Bean and I grabbed onto a tree and waited. You could see the bubbles and smoke as they busted on top of the water. The lake was shallow, maybe ten feet deep. The explosion took a minute or two. The geyser that shot straight up was amazing. The ground shook and a dead carp came floating up to the surface. The whole neighborhood came alive and the cops and the fire trucks showed up. Nobody figured out what had happened. The pirates were long gone.  That ended my bomb building days. Junior High had to be better, I had the gangster hairdo down by the ninth grade and was getting girls attention by pouring hot buttered popcorn over their heads at the movies. Well, that sure didn't work out good either.

Captain Benito 

Rebel Days chapter 2

     
    Rebel Days           
Life is on the move,  I was just getting out of private school with all that structure, now to attend a regular Junior High. Starting anew, being a ninth grader. My life would be different in public school. My younger sister was enrolled in the same grade with me. We didn't share any of the same classrooms but I told you, she was smart. The Bean and I were ready for more  crazy adventures. We added a new friend, " Mac"  (another alias, like "Mac the Knife.") He is still a good friend of mine. He showed up at school carrying a chain inside his pant leg. It was a real concealed weapon, we were all afraid of the unknown but this was over kill. His defense against trouble. He moved into my  neighborhood from the south side. Mac being a white boy from Ohio and living in a ethnic gangland part of town the move north was good one. He knew how to win an argument. The fact that he was bigger than Bean and I put together helped us feel safer. The three of us became fast friends, we talked him out of carrying weapons to school. The trio all were facing a new learning curve and environment, It just made more sense to stick together. My sister did the homework for all of us. The classes were fairly easy for me, kind of a repeat of my last year in Catholic school.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Bean and I joined the Sea Scouts around this time. The scouts had this old patrol boat, “The Windy.” She was a real cool looking wood minesweeper. The crew were mostly older guys. The Skipper was hard as nails and let you know the score. He had to deal with this small criminal element, we called the crew. The problem was most of these guys were put there by a juvenile court judge. The boat harbor being in downtown Stockton after all, the Windy was moored in McCloud Lake. That left the new guys, to do all the scraping and rust patrol. That's right, Bean and I were the new guys. We learned a lot about cleaning and bilge diving in our first year. Our white hats had gotten pretty dirty during our indenture. The Windy never left the pier but she was very ship shape thank in part to us. I think probably the rest of the crew couldn't leave the pier either  because of parole issues. I'm just saying, this group was real sorry the day, we moved on or abandon ship. Nobody else was standing in line to chip paint. This crew had other skills, more like pirates. I hadn't encountered this before, most anything kind'a shinny disappeared. We did learn how to “cuss'' like real sailors, the uniforms were very nice. I did have a problem finding a clean white hat. Thank goodness the judge appointed new guys to take our places.                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Tenth grade was more fun. We finally made it to High School. I worked all summer and got my first car, a 55' Chevy Bel-Air. I was almost seventeen with a new drivers license. Being a sophomore at High School was really different. The three amigo's had places to be and it wasn't in class. We started drinking something called Ruby Hill, a homemade wine. We had liberated it from a garage down the street. Two whole cases of eight one-gallon jugs. We weren't bad kids but we had stole this liquor. The three of us we're smart enough to leave the garage looking untouched. Signature red teeth and tongue, I wasn't sober for over a week or two. The morning ride to school was fun. The three young drunks boarding the bus everyday after we all hit the wine. Benito, Mac and Bean were real pirates after all. Dad and Mom split up around this time wonder why?. That was a hard time for my sisters too. The divorce did make it easier for this fool to be swayed.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             The lured to the dark side, I didn't need much of a push to get in trouble.  My showing up for school during my rebel phase was rare. This behavior all ended the following year. Dad tracked me down after getting my report card. I was warned many a time to straighten out. The night the music died and the party ends.  I'm enlisted in the Navy as a "kiddie cruiser." This meant  your parents permission, not being eighteen. The parents had to sign the Navy's contract. My dad's red angry face made a good argument. The year was 1966, sniveling and dragging my butt didn't help either. I had developed cold feet just before the travel day.
                                                                                                                                                                                Dad and I went toe-to-toe. My best, "James Dean" act was not working. Dad slugged me, I went down to the floor like a sack of flour. It wasn't very pretty the second time down either. The circus clown got up slowly, April Fool's Day had arrived. April 1, 1966, I departed for boot camp. Dad had won, he put me on that Greyhound bus, "Go Navy" see the world. That was the end of my rebel period.                                                                             
Tenth grade dropout....great move   

Getting Schooled Chapter 3

   The first week of basic training scared the crap out of me. The Mamas and the Papas came out with “Monday, Monday,” a song that hit the music charts that same week.That tune became my marching anthem, my head  shaved, standing tall just like the other guys,  I had just turned seventeen. Life showed up in a big way. I won't bore you with these weeks of training but this young recruit was serious.  Just saying, “yes sir" to everybody in sight, it was real. I was inoculated for every disease known to man. I took tests and more tests. I had to march everywhere or else. Well, it turns out my IQ was higher than my expectations.  Looks like I was volunteering for submarine school. The six other volunteers with me now heading for the East Coast and a place called New London, Connecticut. The rest of my boot camp company headed out to the fleet. The conflict in Vietnam was heating up. The man power was needed. Graduation day in San Diego and who was there? Hell it was my “old man.” The ride back home was good.We were both different than a few months before. Dad laughed and we enjoyed each others company. The two weeks of "Navy Leave" at home was a great. .                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Mac and Bean just stared at this spit-shined guy with no hair. We fell right back into our old ways. I had some coin in my pocket. The summer wind was blowing and "all was good". I went to see my first girlfriend, Shelley Beaver. She was beautiful, I had really missed her. I'd been gone a few months and love was in the air. This new navy guy and his sweetheart. She stood four foot two inches from her head to the ground. She was only fifteen. They called us, Mutt and Jeff. I looked like a long string bean next to her. The old Chevy made the scene, we all piled in. With the motor movies and the girls, I was back into my old gangster ways. We were all together Benito, Mac and Bean.        
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Leaving this world that I knew for my next Navy adventure was exciting. I took the hop from Travis airbase in California to an airbase across country in New Jersey. I had said my goodbyes in Stockton. I had traveling orders to the submarine school. Bean drove me to the airfield, we hugged each other and I departed. Now in uniform, Seaman Apprentice Alley was sitting with other service men on a military  cargo plane. All the passengers were in these net seats hanging from the ceiling. the sides of the interior walls of the plane unfinished. This rust bucket with wings reminded me of an old classic John Wayne movie. We were ready for takeoff. This old transport flew to Texas. after spending the night. The flight continued on to New Jersey the next morning. This trip took a day and a half but it was free. I swear the traffic below on the interstate was moving faster than the aircraft. The guys sitting with me were from different branches of the service. Traveling east, a lot of them were returning from Vietnam. They all seemed glad to be back in the U.S.A.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  This Army guy next to me was very talkative. He told me some of his stories but mostly talked about Texas and home. That said, most of the men thought I was nuts for wanting to be on a submarine. Having mixed but positive feelings, I just smiled. These guys, getting shot at were worried about my choices? They were real heroes in my mind.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     The plane finally landed in New Jersey somewhere. I took a Trailways's bus to New York City.  Grand Central train station was a zoo, people  were traveling in all directions. Public restrooms here were very scary places in uniform. The strange faces all around. I was glad to catch the train out to New London, Connecticut. There was another sailor in uniform on this train as we headed North.  He was much older than me, a first-class petty officer. I sat next to him. His shoulder patch indicated he was a cook. We exchanged names. Richard was also heading to the Submarine Base in New London. I kept calling him “Sir.”  That got a smile. "Listen kid” I know you are new in the navy but I'm enlisted man too. I was sure he could tell how scared I was. This being my second train ride and headed to the unknown.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Richard and I really hit it off. He told me, that he was going to the same place too.  He remarked how lucky I was to be selected for Submarine school. He'd been trying for years to get this chance. The train passed through New Haven as I stared out the window. The East Coast was so different than California. We talked about his family. Richard had been a  navy cook for twelve years.  The island of Guam was his real home. He and his wife, we're raising three kids. Richard had been stationed in Norfolk,Virginia. He had been on an aircraft carrier. Cooking for the officer's mess on-board. Security clearance held him back from submarine service because of his nationality. He told me a rear admiral fixed it for him because the admiral was once a sub sailor.  The admiral told him that they needed good cooks on these fleet submarines.                                                                                                                                                                     Wow! It made me realize how important this chance might be. Did they really need a drop out like me? After we arrived at the train station, the navy bus was waiting and took us to the sub base in Groton across the river. Traveling light, I had my orders and a duffel bag.  Richard went to a different set of barracks because he was a petty officer. We didn't hangout together again. The base was beautiful. It was like an old ivy league college. My room was on the third floor which I shared with three other roommates. This was the end of July and the hot sticky air was heavy that late afternoon.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            I had arrived on a Sunday. The officer of the deck told me to write a letter home and mail it. Then I found the mess hall. The chow was great and I was starving. The next morning, standing in the shower. I was washing the sleep out of my eyes. Some of the guys were smirking at me. I was six foot two inches and weighed one hundred thirty-two pounds. That's because I'd put on some weight in basic training. My Adam’s apple was my most prominent feature. Acne and peach fuzz were battling it out for second place.  I looked like this skinny fourteen year old. I was the youngest student on the base.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     The clerical staff had looked through my military/personal file and sent it upstairs to the old man. The Captain of the submarine base called me in on the carpet, I almost peed my pants. This guy was not happy.  He started by saying, I'm not a babysitter and how the hell did you get on my base? This is a serious program, and half the students don't make the cut.  Do you understand me, “boy?"  Most of these guys had been to college or had enough schooling to pass these physical demands and mental drills. The Captain continued, I need you to dropout of this program. I'll make sure you get a good assignment. I told the Captain, no sir. I'm not dropping this training and my test scores support me. This was not an easy thing for me to say, after all this was a volunteer program. The Captain couldn't kick me out of it, unless I failed. This wet behind the ears kid had a new inspiration, his name was Richard. That cook help me realize how important this chance really was. I had failed on all my past endeavors like school, the sea scouts and the shoe shine business. This was the best school of its kind on earth. I was dismissed. I saluted the Captain and left.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  I started the Submarine School that next week. That was the first and last time I said, “No” to an officer. The class of 1966' was studying  the USS. Skipjack, a fast attack nuclear submarine. The base was amazing and the training center was really high tech. The work was hard but rewarding. The physical exercises were fun. Swimming was one of my strengths and I enjoyed the lake behind the school. The Tower escape was mandatory; submarine escape was an important safety issue. All the boats had escape hatches built in. All submarine sailors had to know how they worked. The museum was also fantastic, it had items and stories from as far back as the Civil War. Submarines had come a long way.  The fleet boats, the older diesel and battery driven subs were still in active service here.  A boy my age was starstruck and I still am. These days seemed to fly by. The eight weeks of school and drills would soon be over.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            New London was a small town with Mom and Pop stores, cafes and bars with blue laws. These blue law's were in place to stop women from entering bars not escorted. Meeting the opposite sex was futile in this town. No women allowed rule kept me on task in school. The sleepy little village was not friendly to navy personnel anyway. Taking the train to New Haven for a weekend was way better. College girls and entertainment were on my radar.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Yale University was a good start. The problem with me in uniform was I looked like I was wearing my older brother's navy duds. College girls didn't care about horny high school age kids. That said, I struck out all the time anyway. There was a nightclub in a church basement on campus. The “Hungry Eye,” they served coffee and espresso and no ID was required.  The big plus was “Peter, Paul and Mary,” were packing the place. Perfect! believe it or not, I met a girl, her name was Ellen. She went to high school and liked my California swagger. Ellen was the second girl, I'd ever dated. The lies, I told her would make a pirate blush. We wrote each other for a year. On my salary, she was a pen pal and not much more, but I got to vent. She was very sympathetic and kept me on an even keel.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Back at the base, I finally got to ride on a submarine for the day. The class got to roam and ask questions. There were maybe ten students and me. To submerge and surface the sub was a thrill. This old diesel boat had a deck gun and a five-man bridge. It smelled bad and creaked a lot but she was a submarine. I crawled all around it.  She saw action in the Pacific and was built in 1942. The crew was real sharp. I really wanted to be on one of the new nuclear subs. I had spent weeks learning about them.  My test scores were great but the time had come, just one more step to complete the program.                                                                                                                                                                            Pass or failure rode on the results. We had lost many already from the program. These training classes and tests were tough. Today was the day for our escape training class. We all knew the drill on paper. They'd scared us to death with what could happen in that tank. Stepping into the small chamber attached to a one hundred nineteen foot water tower. The six inch thick walled tank of water was something. The small area held six guys and an instructor. We were about halfway up the tower's side. It was at the fifty foot level outside of this watertight door. The escape tank, we occupied was similar to one on a submarine. The air valves and water flood pipes were all there. Each man wore an inflatable life vest that vented under pressure. The entry door was closed behind us and dogged. The flooding of the chamber began. All eyes were glued to the rising water. The bubble line was over the top of this small  outer hatch that opened to the big tank. When the water had risen to this line and above the outer hatch. Now the interesting part began. The teacher started bleeding air into the chamber until the pressure equaled the outside pressure at fifty foot level. The rush air built up the pressure, we all held our noses to equalize the inner ear. Bad things could happen under this kind of pressure, like bleeding ear canals and other perils. The instructor watched each man to make sure, we were in compliance.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Now the fun started in alphabetical order. “Alley” meant the first one out the hatch was me, it was unlocked and swung open.  Water did not flood in because of the equalizing air pressure on the water above the line. You could feel the tension among the guys in that small space. I was glad to be the first one leaving the escape pod. After taking a deep breath, I submerged my head under the water and stepped out through the hatch. Now holding the bar over the exit hatch in the outside tank, totally submerged. I was standing on this step. I was looking up to a small surface circle at the top. That was a long way up. The trick was not to panic. Then release your grip, letting the air out of your lungs slowly as you shoot up like a rocket.  Anybody holding their breath on the way up could result in death or worse being drummed out of sub school. Air expands under pressure, so you make air bubbles and go. Its just nineteen seconds to the top. The life vest was blowing bubbles too.                                                                                                                                                                                       The problem in my head was why not blow all the air out of my lungs. Then hold my breath to the top? That will work right? I launched myself to the surface after blowing out all my air. Nineteen seconds no problem. Two scuba divers grabbed me and threw me through another door maybe twelve foot up from my step off. Now in this chamber at the forty foot level. I gasp for air in the pocket above the bubble line. The one diver swims in to check on me. What the hell are you doing? We didn't see your bubbles! Now do it right! With another inhale, I step out and blew little bubbles to the surface. I shot out of the water to my ankles. I swear to God. The bad news was they made me do it, two more times but I passed. I think I left a brown cloud down there somewhere. We pirates are real.  The crazy part of it was I enjoyed the next two trips. I tried to clear the surface with both feet out of the water. Blow and Go was fun! Who knew? The ones who didn't leave the small chamber, went out the door they came in and off to the surface fleet. Submarine school was over.                                                              

Pig boat Chapter 4

            Pig boat  Chapter 4
The day had finally arrived; this young pirate had graduated from sub school. I was proud to get my submarine certification. The captain of the base shook my hand. I had made the grade. The navy hadn't beaten me yet as I walked proudly out of that school.  Seaman Alley caught the train south to New York City. I wasn't afraid of the future anymore.  Now to catch a Greyhound bus, I rode it the rest of the way down. Virginia here I come.
                                                                                                                                                                      My orders, report to the Norfolk's Naval Shipyard. The town of Portsmouth was across the channel. One of the oldest ship repair yards on the East Coast. This place was two hundred and fifty years old and counting. Portsmouth had built "Merrimac" the (iron clad warship) during the civil war. That's where my diesel submarine was berthed. The Cubera was built in 1942. The diesel boat a "guppy- two" class sub was floating on the sea again. The yard had cut her open and removed one engine, that left three others. It was called a soft patch. they then welded up the big hole in the pressure hull. This submarine had been in the same dry dock as the Virginia aka Merrimac in the eighteen-sixties. Some of the yard guys looked old enough, they might have worked on that old relic too. This high tech crew seemed unkempt.  My crew called them “yard birds.” I had made seaman and was ready for my new assignment.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             That first day of my arrival; I walked from the front gate to the old boat yard. This submarine was in the water along a pier, tied up to the work dock. It was early about ten o'clock in the morning, October 11, 1966. That day, a couple of ambulances were sitting at the dock loading sailors into it. My heart almost stopped. I walk into to the office next to the pier. Seaman Alley reporting for duty, "sir". The office staff looking out the window at the scene unfolding. The Cubera's captain and the others were real concerned about these guys. They were being taken off the sub, some on stretchers. Things started to settled down, the whole story was eventually told.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           They had this skeleton crew on-board, they were operating a simulated dive. That meant you close all the deck hatches. The light panel shows all green which means good to go, the crew pretends  to submerge. They raised the snorkel mast to taken in air and they fire off a single diesel engine. This was a locomotive engine, a big motor with 16 cylinders. The crew was maybe six or eight guys and and duty officer. They simulated charging batteries underway while submerged. The control room cycled the head valve on the snorkel mast. A sub at sea, the waves would regularly cover the snorkel. The air suction to the engine had to be protected.  The head valve sensor would shut the airway until the wave had passed over. Then open again allowing air into the engine. The normal sequence was the engine would draw air from outside or inside the boat when the valve was shut. This would caused a vacuum in the boat.  The engine had an emergency shut down if the vacuum got to high. The magic number was like six inches.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       The old pig boat's engine didn't shut down when the head valve failed to open and that was not good. The engine drew almost a perfect, twenty nine inch vacuum. Like going to twenty nine thousand feet in a matter of seconds. The engine throttle man passed out over the throttle, shutting this large engine down. The crews ear drums were bleeding now, some passed out finally the crew recovers. They manage to pump air into the boat with the high pressure air tanks. It took hours to get out of that sub. The boat was sealed like a glass jar. The air inside had to match outside pressure to open the hatches. “Welcome aboard new guy” that was my first day.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Just saying, none of this crew had ever been to sea on this diesel submarine. The Cuberra was in the shipyard for over two and a half years. None of the original crew was still on-board. Everything was torn out and put back together. The captain didn't seem to be bothered by this. This seaman was real concerned, after a few weeks  were ready for sea trials. The good news. my old friend, Richard who had graduated sub school was here. We were now shipmates on-board the same sub. He being my main positive influence on that train ride. This first class cook became my sea dad and mentor. The bad thing was neither of us knew squat about this old boat. The captain however  was smart and took a few “yard birds” with us out to sea since they verified we were ready.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The submarine left port, the engines smoking black exhaust, that's good right?  Took awhile to get out to the Atlantic Ocean. It seems not all the engines were ready for the trip. I was happy, my job was making coffee and peeling potatoes, “No Problem.”  It was time to dive this smelly old sewer pipe. The soft patch had changed our test depth to three hundred feet or less. I hoped the bubble gum had sealed all the holes.
                                                                                                                                                                      The captain put the crew on alert, everyone was to go to battle stations. Battle station ? hey the coffee was ready to be served “sir,” not really.  I had to leave the galley and report to the forward torpedo room, the damage control party. There was me and this other guy standing ready in this weapons station. The sub starting it way down, a few sailors were running around. How do you spell, woga, woga dive! dive!  My team was suppose to look for problems in this room full of torpedoes. "Hello", what's not a problem, the room is full of torpedoes. Then I see a real issue, I being this steely eyed  sub sailor, spotted a leak in the ceiling. Just above the beds that hung twelve foot off the deck. I said, chief there a leak from that upper hatch. The two torpedo men wink at each other.  The chief say, well sailor you need to monitor that leak.  Take a paper cup and count the drips per second and report. I was on it, feeling important now. I climb into the bunk and started counting drips. The submarine groaned as we continued our decent. The old boat was at one hundred feet now the leak was less. I was still monitoring. The down angle of this submarine meant that we were still diving. Things got real quiet as we passed two hundred feet. The groaning and creaking was still with us. The captain leveled the submarine at three hundred feet. Test depth achieved, ahh..shit was my report but not out loud. The half full cup was finished, no leaks to report, chief. Little did I know all the hatches in the boat were leaking like that, normal stuff. This crush depth pressure sealed them all. Great.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             The captain, called on all the boats compartments to report, things were good. We were operating on batteries now silent and smooth down deep. The boat groans had stopped. This sailor starts to relax a little. After all, I was in a bunk. They called this space, the hanging gardens. Two bunks side to side under the torpedo room weapons loading hatch. Thirty minutes goes by slowly. The captain says over the intercom, forward torpedo room. Fire an air slug....torpedo tube number one. We're still at test depth, “hello!” the soft patch was still holding. Hello, why not shake this thing up a little. That's exactly what happened. The chief barks; open the outer door on tube number one. Then the torpedo man shoots this air slug out the damn thing. The whole boat shakes like there's been an earthquake, “OMG,” guess what ? five more tubes to go, my inside voice... calm be calm. I think it was tube number three, when it happened.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Captain says, fire air slug, tube number three. the chief says, “aye aye sir” opening outer door.. firing air slug.... tube number 3.  Cold rushing water blowing everybody on the deck below me down like bowling pins. The whole front of the torpedo room had white seawater coming in hissing and screaming loudly. Yard birds were running out of the compartment.  They shut the interior watertight door and dog it down. Wow! we're trapped in here, now that's real nice.. The chief screams flooding in the forward torpedo room into the headset, he's wearing. The boat goes to emergency blow. The sub is trying to get to the surface. The torpedo man fights his way forward through the cold waist deep seawater and closes the outer tube door.  The seawater stops rushing in.. that's good right? We still are very heavy and the boat starts to shudder. Full speed ahead as the three thousand pounds of air is blowing the outside ballast tanks dry.  We slowly start back up to the surface.  The seamen in the control room are driving, the bow and stern planesmen steering us upward. Somebody turns the air valve on over the compartment door that's dogged shut. The internal salvage air sending one hundred twenty-five pounds of air blowing up my pant leg in the overhead bunk. That's it, I come flying out of that rack and hit the deck 10 foot below. The two foot of water on the floor cushioning the fall. Wet but not hurt, I'm laughing out loud. Luckily the pee in my pants is hidden by the saltwater bath.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        My adventure over? Not hardly. The boat breaks the surface on a dead run, reminds me of clearing the water in a "victory at sea" episode or the escape training tank. Then the submarine starts slipping back.  The boat is sliding backwards on the way back down. We got no more air to blow. We slip passed three hundred feet. The props are full speed spinning with no effect. A prayer seems in order. We kept sliding back, stern first passed six hundred feet now. The creaking and groaning of the boat is back also. Finally Cubera starts to slow and finally stops the descent. Even more slowly, we power are way back to the surface. The boat start snorkeling and running the engines. The boat has got to charge everything back up. At least the snorkel head valve was working fine. We can't surface yet, till the compressors charged the air banks back up.. The pumps had ran the bilges dry. Well, its back to Norfolk . This sub sailor was surely "initiated" from that point on nothing much seems to bother me.   A small pirate's laugh, the "Sea trials" were over. This sailor's blood pressure returns to normal almost.                                      
                                                                                                                                                                               The interior door gasket blew out under the sea's pressure on tube number three. One guy got hurt but not to bad. We fixed a few other things and were back in the fleet.  These sub guys had nerves of steel and being crazy helps too.                                                                              

Diesel Boat Chapter 5

                   
   
  Diesel Boats Forever was our slogan            
                                                                                                                                                                            I was still wet as I returned to the galley and the crew's area. The galley had been destroyed. Poor Richard, the food was on the walls. The kitchen was tossed. His vision of  our first dinner at sea, had turned into a nightmare. The dramatic up and down angles were really felt in this space. Richard had grabbed a metal pitcher of milk before it flew off the table. He was holding it in place. The milk hit the wall. The floor had changed to the aft bulkhead wall. This was sure not an aircraft carrier, he said. The two of us put the space back in order and served cold sandwiches instead. I wasn't very hungry that evening.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 The torpedo room flooding was epic, try to imagine a pipe open to sea that's 24 foot long and 3 foot in diameter. Then think what kind'a pressure there is at 300 feet down. Now you got a clue about having ten of these sewer pipes  on a sub. Thank God, the outer door didn't malfunction too. This crew was amazing. They were all qualified fleet boat sailors and proved it. Each man knew his job, their reaction time was instantaneous. The compartment full of water was balanced by forty guys running to the aft torpedo room to offset the weight of sea water flooding the bow. That said, the seven watertight doors throughout the boat were all shut before the incident was controlled. The bilge pumps were running before I fell out of that bunk. The internal salvage air was pumped into the room to pressurize that space. No fear was shown. These sub sailors were like a well oiled machine working together. That was my crew.... I had a lot more to learn.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               That next morning, we returned to the docks in Norfolk and the Yard Birds departed. They some how looked even older. This Destroyer and Submarine dock had a tender ship, Orion and many other boats tied there. Just another day at the office, "yeah right!"  I was starting to meet the crew and hearing their personal stories. Mess cook was more than dish washing and coffee making, I was a sub sailor too.  The galley was my office where all the guys relaxed and shared conversation. These crew men helped me learn my job and theirs. We were a team and  family. The Cubera had sixty-six enlisted men and maybe eight to ten officers. This navy submarine was three hundred and nineteen feet long. She had a beam of twenty eight feet. Her displacement submerged was two thousand four hundred tons. The draft on the surface was sixteen feet deep. Surface speed well over eighteen knots. Underwater she made nine knots.Those kind of things, I had to know by heart and a lot more. She was built and launched June of 1945. The systems and operations must be learn by all.  That's enough technical stuff. The systems and operations took me ten months to know by heart. The rewards meant longer hours and more responsibility. I was part of something bigger than myself.                                                                                                                                                                    

                                                                                                                                                                                                  Richard and I studied together and learned every valve in the compartment. The food freezer and chill box, both were walk-in units. The canned goods and dry storage lockers. The stove and cleaning station. The equipment running on one of these boats was unbelievable. The toilets on the boat came with a manual, any wrong move was not pretty. The back pressure and poop don't play well together. Just saying, the next few months passed. I got qualifying topside watch. Went from mess cook to engine room bilge rat. My fireman rating was in play, I was training for diesel engine oilier and if you know me that's was real funny. Yogi the throttle man kept me busy. Ragging out the bilge and standing still watches. The making of fresh water was also very important and a really hot job. The engines used most of it and the rest was for coffee. Once a day, we got about eight ounces for personal hi-gene. We had a shower stall that was where the potatoes were stored. The sailor caught using more water than allotted, stood still watch for a couple of days. This was not any fun but great if you wanted to sweat off a few pounds. Life was interesting.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   They called us “pig boats.” Two weeks at sea, this odor killed your sense of humor and smell. That said, I loved every minute of it. Cleaning bulk crude oil to make purified engine fuel was another terrific job. This sailor turned eighteen at sea. January of 67,' it was a bitter cold season on the Atlantic seaboard. Traveling up the eastern sea coast, the boat was on its way to New York City. I was standing lookout topside. This was fun, some of the time, got to air out my arm pits. This trip not so much. The boat was running on the surface, it was a lot faster than when we were submerged. The storm came out of nowhere. We had to close the upper conning tower hatch onto the bridge. This to keep the water from coming down into the boat. I was dressed in foul weather gear and armed with my coffee cup. I had to climb the ladder into the sail station and bridge area. This sailor was the lookout on the starboard side. The bridge on topside was a three man watch. The officer of the deck and two lookouts stood a two hour shift in place.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Standing in this open weather. The watch duty had a real bite this morning. The first wave over the bow turned my hot coffee into a bowl of cold sea water.  The sea  tried to toss us three men under its force. Hold on! here comes another one, yelled the officer. This holding your breath as the sea passed over, got old quick. See the fact was this submarine had a South Atlantic sail. It wasn't as much fun on the surface, especially in a storm and rough seas. This step sail section was much lower to the deck. We had a plastic half dome bubble but it wasn't quite over us, it was just a windshield not a watertight space. The decision to keep the three of us up there was based on maritime rules. When any submarine was running on  the surface, they had to set the watch for cruising. one day and night running on top was quite enough.  Captain made the call to submerge the boat.  The storms intensity increased, running slower underwater seemed smarter to me. I got my first hot bath and a shot of brandy at sea. These seas even at a hundred feet deep could rock this old boat. We were moving north slower now.. The relentless sea tossed us around. Who knew the bottom of a wave could be as bad as the top of one.  The Nor' Easter made a big impression. This was my first East Coast winter. Two fishing trawlers were lost in this storm, a father and son had been reported missing. Dead fishermen were a fact of life on the open seas. These seas were treacherous, this time of year.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              The first eighteen hours submerged in this storm was the pits.  The problem was now the air was getting bad. The submarine needed to snorkel and exchange air. Our skipper was afraid that might be tricky. See the bottom of the boat is full of flood ports, open to the sea. Saddle tanks with air  captured at the top making the boat float, if a wave turns you upside down the air runs out. The submarine floats no more . These thirty foot waves could make us a sinker instead of a floater, but having a bad atmosphere is not good either. We had to much CO 2 in the boat. Everyone not on watch was ordered to there bunks. Breathing less air was the plan.  Then we lit off  the carbon dioxide scrubber cans forward and aft. We started burning the CO 2 off. The air was getting really stale.  The boat was submerged twenty-one hours or more. We had to come up soon and that was the captain's orders.  The boat is going to the surface, safe or not?  Better than trying to snorkel. The boat was at least higher in the water and we could see the waves approach. Bigger balloons make women float better too. This girl had big ones. Back on watch topside, the three of us went up to ride these seas again. The Atlantic ocean eventually calmed. The third day at sea was much better. The boat had fresh air and a better cruising speed. New York City here we come...