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Sea Stories
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Nuke Boats and Smokeboats
by Bob ‘Dex’ Armstrong
Someday I’m gonna go into a bar and some nuke sailor is going to buy me a beer and prove that nukes are actually human beings and I am going to have to knock off this bulllshit. They never did… And that possibility gets more remote with every passing day. So I will continue to tie cans to their tails and paint their fannies with turpentine… That is what smokeboat sailors do.
There is nothing prettier than a fleet snorkel boat slicing through saltwater. Anyone who fails to recognize the sheer beauty of that has a malfunctioning eyeball-to-brain interconnect.
In a flat sea, a fleet bow cuts through the water like a barbers razor… Neat and surgically clean… Leaving a narrow wake. Ships are supposed to do that. It was ordained by God and damn near every naval architect since Noah started collecting lumber to build his ark.
Somewhere some ingenious bastard added diesel smoke to make the picture appealing to ones nose as well as ones eyes. It is very difficult to improve on absolute perfection, but the clown who added the aroma of Fairbanks smoke did it… Kinda makes you wonder what the Mona Lisa would look like if someone turned her loose with the Avon lady.
Fleetboats were a work of sublime beauty. Any man who rode one still gets a lump in his throat when he catches sight of one in a late night T.V. movie… You see one of the old girls and turn on a little Victory at Sea music in your head and wade knee-deep in wonderful memories.
Nuke boats on the other hand, are some of the ugliest stuff ever created in the mind of man. One of the reasons that ‘Hyman The Horrible’ built the damn things to stay under water all the time is that the sonuvabitches are seagoing eyesores. They are fat, black and ugly. They push a bow wave the size of Chicago and leave a Grand Canyon wake.
If you put a toaster on a hippos back and dragged him through the water by his gahdam tail you would have a nuke boat.
Sometimes progress sucks.
The Diving Alarm Ballet
by Mike Hemming
This is the dance on the old diesel boats.
As I pass between the controllermen, the oogah, oogah, Dive!, Dive comes over the speakers and they leap to their sticks and rheostats. The engine shut down air lever is hit, rheostats spun down, sticks are thrown, as the ballet begins. Generator electricity wanes as the huge storage batteries are called on for power. Sticks pulled to new positions and rheostats spun back up to keep the motors turning. The flurry of intense activity over, minor adjustments made and times logged while listening, always for the sound of water doing something it shouldn’t. As I walk forward at the same time into the enginerooms, the two men in each one do the shutdown dance Throttles are slapped down, hydraulic levers pulled to the closed position to shut exhaust valves and drains opened by the throttleman. As his oiler spins the inboard exhaust valves the 32 turns to shut it, either the oiler or the throttleman (depending on who is closer) will have yanked the pin holding the great intake air valve open so it falls shut with a loud clang. His inboard exhaust valves shut, the oiler drops below to secure the sea valves that allow the seawater to cool the engines. Then, the throttleman checks everything secure one more time. In the control room, the other area of great activity on a dive, lookouts almost free fall to their diving stations on the bow and stern planes. Quickly the bow planesman rigs out his planes and both he and the stern planesman set their charges to the prescribed angles for the dive. Arriving soon after the planesmen, the OOD, now the diving officer, gives the ordered depth to reach and the angle to do it. Then he checks that all is well and will watch the planesmen to learn if the trim needs changing. The Chief of the Watch having closed the huge main air induction valve, will watch the Christmas Tree to see that all hull openings are closed. Then he pulls the vents to flood the main ballast tanks and watches the depth to signal the auxillaryman on the air manifold when to blow negative tank to the mark to stop our descent into the depths. The manifold operator will hammer open the valve and then close off the roaring rush of compressed air, as needed. By this time, the trim manifold operator will have arrived from the engine room. After climbing over the stern planesman, he will be ready to pump and flood seawater to the tanks. This will trim up the boat to neutral buoyancy. In the conn, the helmsman will have rung up standard speed so the boat will be driven under by the screws. The QM of the watch will dog the conning tower hatch when the OOD, the last man down from the bridge, pulls the lanyard to close it. There is no music to guide this dance except calm orders given and acknowledged. Started in a flurry of activity, it will end by winding down quietly to a state of relaxed vigilance by men practiced and confident of themselves and each other. They have done this many times, this graceful and awkward descent into the depths. They do it as fast as is safely possible. This is where they belong, with many feet of sea hiding the strong steel of the hull. Men asleep in bunks half-awakened by the raucous alarm and noisy ballet, drift back to deep sleep, confident they are at home where they should be.
Contributed by Alan Smith, USSVI Cod Base
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Once Upon a Time There Was a Sub Base New London
by Bob ‘Dex’ Armstrong
It’s been 45 years since I stepped down from a big gray bus in a parking lot beside Dealey Center… Me and a herd of idiots just like me. I had a fresh green seabag full of what in those days was called ‘original issue’.
Most of it was still covered with little white stickers that read…’Inspected by number 19’… It smelled like I was peddling mothballs and contained two things I never fully understood or appreciated, a flat hat and something that looked like a squirrel lariat … Called ‘clothes stops’.
“OK listen up and when your name is called answer ‘Aye’. In case you haven’t noticed, I ain’t your gahdam mother. I won’t explain stuff to you jaybirds and I’m not in the habit of repeating. If you don’t get it the first time you’ll accept the consequences. When I ask you a question the only proper response will be an affirmative, ‘Aye’. Am I fully understood?”
“Aye.” “Now answer up…” “Murphy, A.C.” “Aye.” “Rubenstein, R.J.” “Aye.” “Cummings, P.J.” “Yo.”
“Cummings, see me after this formation… And consider yourself to be the first idiot bastard in Class 182 to make my Grommet Squad.”
Grommet Squad was a polite inoffensive way of saying anal sphincter detail. In my ten weeks I became the undisputed King of the Grommet Squad.
“OK, let me put you stupid sonuvabitches in tune with your present relationship with the rest of the universe. You dumb bastards have volunteered for service in diesel submarines. You have, of your own stupidity, signed up to become fleas on a dying dog. Volunteering for diesel submarines following the dawn of the age of nuclear power is the same as leaving a Ford dealership with your ass parked in a donkey-powered buckboard.”
“They are turning smokeboats into razor blades and bra hooks as fast as humanly possible. After you toss your gear aboard your first ‘SS’ boat, don’t be surprised if that beady-eyed ferret Rickover doesn’t jerk the sonuvabitch out from under you before you get to Trim and Drain on your qual card.”
Note – This was 1959, prior to Rickover being elevated to sainthood. To the old petroleum burning boat service he was simply ‘Rickover, the beady-eyed ferret.’ The diesel force was never big on proper etiquette, decorum and civil expression.
“Now ladies, pick up your gear and this Second Class skivvy-waver Archer will take you up to Barracks 141 and 142, issue your racks and show you where to stow your gear. Mess deck opens at 1130 hours for noon chow. Be there. Uniform of the day, undress whites. That’ll be it for now. God, you’re a sorry-ass mob.”
Then this red-headed, freckle faced, loudmouth bastard, Second Class Signalman with fresh dolphins, took over.
“My name is Elbert Archer and I will be marching you to all your various assignments. Now sling your gear.”
‘Archer The Marcher’ was a sawed off mental defective with an exceptionally shrill voice who visualized himself with power equivalent to the Emperor of Mongolia… Up until week three, when Jack Banks, a former ‘All Philadelphia’ High School tackle, punched his nasal passages into his colon. After that Archer The Marcher became most polite and deferential.
The old basic Sub School is gone now, victimized by the wrecking ball of ‘time marches on’ progress. That of course is total and absolute horse manure.
There is something called historic preservation. Rich folks are out there standing on top each other to preserve everything from Dolly Madison’s corset to Davy Crockett’s outhouse. That architecturally ugly brick building was the enlisted alma mater of Tom Brokaw’s Greatest Generation of submarine sailor. Graduates of that brick structure went to sea and torpedoed the heart out of Hirohito’s Navy and Merchant Marine. They, and they alone are the principal reason that the floor of the Pacific, looks like Sanford and Son’s front yard. If any structure in this fair land deserved restoration and preservation, it was the Basic Enlisted Submarine School.
When they tore the old girl down, John Wynn… The overgrown shoemakers’ elf of 40 School Street, sent me a brick. On a good night, when you can get good reception from Hell, I can hold that brick up to my ear and hear Chief Bates tell me what a worthless excuse for a bluejacket I am. Makes me feel wanted.
So, Archer The Marcher led us up the five million concrete steps, past the old brick Sub School, past Rock Lake to Barracks 141 and 142.
We got assigned aluminum lockers the size of your mothers’ breadbox, and racks that had “head” and “feet” stenciled on each end. I thought, if this course is geared to the intelligence level of idiots who don’t know that their feet are on the other end of their body from their head…this thing should be a cakewalk for a guy from East Tennessee.
A lot of guys “de-volunteered” a bullshit term for quit. Some lads, who had the heart without the ability to comprehend, flunked out. I had no use for the quitters. They wasted a lot of people’s time before popping out of the weak sisters closet…. but, I bled in my socks for the lads sent packing who truly had their heart set on becoming submariners. I hated to be present when they cleaned out their lockers…turned in their bedding and rolled back their mattresses. Some were good men we never saw again.
I won’t bore you with the details of the training. You were there. It must have been outstanding, because we never forgot it.
There are a few questions I have about New London.
How difficult was moving the base from New London to Groton? And, was that trip absolutely necessary?
Next, why, on the finest Sub Base on the entire planet is a submarine sandwich called a Hoagie or a Grinder?
What ever happened to “Seven Brothers” and Rheingold beer…”My beer is Rheingold the dry beer …think of Rheingold whenever you buy beer.” What in the hell is dry beer?…Do you pee dust”? Who stole the Raghat Club or did it fall off the truck when you nukes moved the base to Groton?
How bout Mrs. Martha’s’ down in Old Saybrook where Mrs. Martha and her girls marketed carnal delight in increments of thirty minutes for damn near a half months’ E-3 pay?
Anyone ever figure out why Yankees put cheddar cheese on apple pie and why a kid from St. Elmo Tennessee couldn’t find grits for breakfast? How ‘bout scrapple? What in the hell is that stuff, possum Spam?
What happened to the Coast Guard Station out on the point? I think it was some kind of shallow water sailors’ boot camp.
In 1959 E-3s made $34.00 every two weeks. That damn near doubled when you were assigned to a boat. At that kind of money you wore out shoes instead of automobile tires. Three Slim Jims and four draft beers was one helluva night on the town.
We were young…bulletproof twenty feet tall. Most of us went on to become qualified submariners. We got no signup bonuses …no prospect of future education benefits…Nobody told us or promised us anything but the opportunity to become submarine sailors…We didn’t get a shoebox load of gedunk ribbons and meaningless badges.
What we got was right to sit in smoky bars drinking beer with our own kind, listening to scratchy juke box music and telling stories about high seas, cold weather and rough times spent inside worn-out boats with the finest men we would ever know.
What we didn’t know at the time was that damn near half a century later, we would return to where it all began…older, hauling a helluva lot more lard…gray…gray haired with the best women ever made by our sides to do what we always did best …drink beer and lie to each other.
We can use terms like MBT, SSR, UQC, ten pound blower, BLR mast, GDU and After Trim knowing that every sonuvabitch in the house knows exactly what we’re talking about.
Proud to be here with my fellow Deepwater U. Alumni here. Here in New London, Groton or somewhere over the rainbow or whatever they call this place now…to share our history and remember, using memories known only to those of us who lived it. When all is said and done we are the only keepers of our history and traditions. With us the history of cold war diesel service will fade into obscurity.
We rode the boats at a time long ago when corpsman cured everything with an APC…. when you could identify boat sailors by the hydraulic oil stains in their raghats…When the old grizzly bastards who won World War II wore nekkit lady tattoo’s, drank cheap whiskey wore bellbottoms with gusset lacing and carried belt knives in working dungarees. Back when the Chief of the Boat sitteth on the right hand of the Father and had been given “walk the plank” authority by the United States Navy. Back when barmaids wore pop-up bras and Radio-Girl dime store perfume and would sell you a twenty-five dollar “welcome home” after a Northern Run.
Back when nobody had to tell us we were the finest damn submarine sailors on the planet…We knew it because we were the direct descendants of the giants who stomped Hirohito flat.
We had survived the fiery sheep dip of the New London School and gone forth to scare hell out of old women and small dogs.
That brings us to tonight’s burning question. There is something we old smokeboat bastards would like to know…you nukes can share your secret with us…we won’t tell. How in the hell did you guys figure out how to burn down a 150 foot steel tank full of water? And now that you have accomplished that…how does a drunken E-3 find his way back to the base? And last what do you tell new guys that contraption on the base insignia is?
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For I Am a Submariner
by John Chaffey Powell, Wyoming
DIVE DIVE
I served on the Holland over a century ago. I still serve to this day on the Trident, Los Angeles & Seawolf class boats and look forward to shipping on the Virginia, Texas, and Hawaii. Places like Fremantle, Rota, LaMadd, Chinhae, Pattaya, Sasebo, Chinhae, and Subic stir my soul. For I am a Submariner. I rest in peace beneath many seas across this earth. I was on the Barbel off Palawan, the Scorpion off the Azores and the Bonefish in the Sea of Japan. We gave them hell in the harbors at Wewak and Namkwan. I am a Shellback, a Bluenose, a Plank Owner, a MCPO of the Navy, a CNO, and a President. For I am a Submariner. I heard Howard Gilmore’s final order, “Take Her Down.” I heard the word passed, “Underway on Nuclear Power.” I have done every job asked of me, from Messcook to Torpedoman to Motormac to COB to Skipper. I know “Snorkel Patty” and Admiral Rickover. For I am a Submariner. I have twin Dolphins tattooed on my chest and twin screws tattooed on my ass. I know the difference between a Lady and a Hooker but treat both with equal respect. I know Georgia Street, Texas Street, and Magsaysay drive. And although the Horse & Cow keeps moving I will always find her. I know the meaning of “Hot, Straight, and Normal.” For I am a Submariner. I have stood tall and received the Medal of Honor and been thrown in the Brig for being Drunk & Disorderly. I know the reverent tone of “Diesel Boats Forever” and the Gudgeon’s “Find em, Chase em, Sink em.” I was on the Spearfish evacuating nurses from Corregidor and the Skate when she surfaced at the North Pole. I have spent time in the Royal Hawaiian. For I am a Submariner. I have gone by names like Spritz, Cromwell, O’Kane, Ramage, Breault, “Mush” and Lockwood. I have served on boats like the Nautilus, Providence, Thresher, Parche, Squalus, Wahoo, and Halibut. On December 7th I was onboard the Tautog at Pearl Harbor. I was also on the Tusk in 49 and sacrificed myself for my shipmates on the Cochino. For I am a Submariner. I have stood watches in the cold of Holy Loch and the heat of the South Pacific. I know what the “41 For Freedom” accomplished. I was on the Sealion at Cavite in 41 and the Archerfish in Tokyo Bay in 45. I have endured depth charges and POW camps. I was on the Seafox when we lost five sailors to a Japanese ambush on Guam. For I am a Submariner. I tip beers over sea-stories with my shipmates at yearly conventions. We toll the bell and shed a tear for our buddies who are on eternal patrol. Many pilots have been glad to see me, including a future president. I have completed numerous highly classified missions during the Cold War. Because “Freedom Is Not Free,” be assured that I am out there at this very moment. For I am a Submariner.
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Bunk Bags
Written by Bob ‘Dex’ Armstrong
If you never rode the boats, this is going to sound silly and make absolutely no damn sense to you. If you did, you will remember the damn things and probably smile. The contraptions were simply called bunk bags. Not ‘U.S. Navy Bags, Bunk, Type II Mod 6, Unit of Issue, One Each’. Not ‘Shipboard Personal Gear Storage Pouch (Submarine) with Zipper’… Just gahdam ‘bunk bags’. They were elongated bags, designed specifically for horizontal passageway storage, hung from the tubular bunk frames on diesel boats. They were ugly, a sickening shade of lime-green (which indecently, closely resembled the color of barf after a three-day drunk) and had four snap straps that connected them to the bunk rail. It is my understanding that they were intended to eliminate the noise level created by Gillette safety razors, Zippo lighters, busted Timex watches, dice, flashlights, coins, and shrunken heads, purchased as gifts for wives, from rattling around in an aluminum sidelocker and giving away your position. They were either that lime-green or some kind of gray tweed and they were uglier than a blindman’s bride. But they had many desirable qualities if you were a nomadic resident of a submersible septic tank. First, they increased the allowable storage space and damn near doubled it. In layman’s terms, an E-3 could accumulate worldly goods amounting to those on par with migrating Mongolians and folks doing life on Devil’s Island. Next, and this can only be appreciated by an idiot bastard who never had the wonderful experience of a surface battery charge in a state five sea, the damn things hanging down on the passageway side of a berthing compartment, kept you from being beat to death, bouncing off inanimate objects bolted to the pressure hull. They serve to pad the piping surrounding the bunks known as bunk rails. Your ribs were very grateful. But the best thing about bunk bags was their ability to be converted into instant short-range luggage… Sort of a ‘submariners Samsonite overnight’ bag. By snapping the two center straps ogether, you could create what passed for a luggage handle… A poor excuse for a carrying device, but usable. A bunk bag full of the supplies needed for a 72-hour excursion into the heartland of the civilian population, was the worst of all possible choices. Mentally picture the left leg of a fat woman’s panty hose filled with jello and stitched up at the open end and at midway from thigh to toe, attach a sea bag handle and you have the most unwieldy AWOL bag ever created and the ugliest gahdam contraption ever invented by man… A floppy sausage full of the meager possessions of a long-range boat bum. The damn things had one distinct advantage that no other personal gear conveyance had. If you saw some fleet untouchable standing beside the highway with one of the fool things at his feet, you knew immediately that the hitchhiking sonuvabitch was a boatsailor. A fellow submarine sailor would burn flat spots in a new set of tires, stopping to pick you up. To every old white-haired smokeboat vet, the words ‘bunk bag’ bring a smile to his weather-beaten face. You would find it damn hard to come across an old petroleum-powered submersible resident who didn’t have fond memories of the worthless sonuvabitches.
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The Thinning Ranks of Lockwood’s Iron Men
by Bob ‘Dex’ Armstrong
Do you remember them? The old rascals with the red hash marks and rate chevrons? Five or six rows of damn meaningful ribbons… Dolphins and a Combat Patrol pin? Back in the days when those forged in combat, case-hardened bastards roamed the piers of submarine bases and butt-buffed barstools in establishments throughout the world no self-respecting devil would be caught dead in… We called them simply… the World War II guys. They had not only ‘seen the elephant’, they saddle broke him and rode him all the way to Tokyo. If you melted down all the gold hash marks and rates in their submarine service, you wouldn’t have had enough material to have hammered out a Birmingham bus token. Gold geedunk and good conduct medals were not a big defining area of consideration in the world of these red blooded American giants… Men, who had gone to sea in iron sharks and chewed the heart out of the Japanese naval war machine, didn’t require any additional credentials to reinforce their personal reputations.
The rollicking bastards had written their saga in a trail of rusting hulks and busted bar furniture from Hell to Hokkaido… And had sent an endless stream of oriental miscreants off to Buddha amid fire and the smell of burning Torpex. In 1945, they were the unquestioned hairy- chested jungle kings of the Pacific…’Uncle Charlie’s, get the hell out of my way’ card-carrying rascals… Admiral Charles Lockwood’s iron men. In my day, they were the men who held the senior leadership positions… The proven and seasoned leadership of the submarine service. They were the ‘old men of the sea’ to us. And all we wanted… All we aspired to be, was to be like them and worthy of their acceptance. As we grew old… They grew even older. I am not sure they mellowed, just grew long in the tooth and spent more and more time burying each other and cussing hearing loss and the pros and cons of Polygrip, Viagra and Metamucil. Every year, some idiot jaybird would show up on their TV tube and tell about this wonderful World War II Memorial, that was to be built in their nations capital. Then, mister TV man would disappear until next Groundhog Day. There was the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and the World War II Memorial. The ‘eternal patrol’ sailing list grew longer and longer and no national recognition for the “Greatest Generation”. We built monuments to honor the participants of lesser ‘wars’, conflicts… Conflicts that never really ended… Ones we lost… But we just never got around to honoring the ‘quiet generation’ that fought and won a world-wide hell raiser and handed this nation its last two fully Unconditional Surrenders against two of the most insidious regimes Satin ever gave birth to. Old Gringo, Capt. Ned Beach & Capt. George Street are numbered among those who got their final orders and couldn’t wait. They are numbered among those who will never see the Memorial built to honor them… Every day the list of eligible and deserving wearers of the combat pin, shrinks. Of the sins of man, indifference and ingratitude are the most difficult to survive. Bureaucratic indifference compounds the shameful nature of our national failure to extend to these very non-demanding warrior giants a long overdue national handshake. Shame on us… Shame on us all. What we do or not do, will not change the record they wrote in valorous deeds and sublime self-sacrifice so many years ago. They will always be the men who went to sea and stuck their blows for freedom, liberty and our American way of life from beneath the sea. Men who shared bad air, depleted rations, and the deafening sounds of enemy depth charges, together. Men who wore sweat-soaked dungaree shirts and repeatedly pinned the tail on Hirohito’s donkey. No, they created their own memorial… The one signed by the little grinning buck-toothed monkeys on the deck of the USS Missouri in Tokyo Harbor… A harbor totally absent of Nip war vessels that missed the terminal festivities because of U.S. Submarine prearranged dates with Pacific Ocean floor oxidation. Many of the still remaining World War II boat sailors will miss the ceremonies and hoopla attending what effetist artists and fawning politicians have created as a national thank you. Again…
Shame on us. Your true ‘thank you’ will rest with history’s accounting of what you did, why you did it and the magnificent legacy you passed to the down line members of the United States Submarine Service, and the appreciation of the yet unborn, who will mature in free air without the weight of the despot’s heel on their necks. You were iron men who took iron ships to sea and left an unparalleled record of courage and duty, faithfully performed. A record that should serve to inspire every lad who enters his country’s Navy in search of adventure in a service with an extremely proud heritage. What you did makes what came before and since pale to bullshit by comparison. Somebody needed to say that… Somebody who wore Dolphins and simply wanted to drink beer in your company, listen to your history, ride your boats and feel your handshake of acceptance… You were, are and ever will be, heroes in every sense of the term, to that lad. Your self-sacrifice was unparalleled in the annals of naval history. So thanks from an old gray haired sonuvabitch who danced with the Goddess of The Main Induction, long after you left her to us. She had holes in her stockings, strands of white hair and sagging tits, but she could still do that North Atlantic saltwater fandango and bounce around like a twenty-year-old fan dancer. God bless anyone who slammed hatches on the iron monsters that went to periscope depth and sent the saltwater valentines that kept me from ending up eating fish heads and rice, listening to Tokyo Rose bring me the news and saying the pledge of allegiance to that goofy-looking meatball flag.
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“DBF” Pin
Proud to have been a “smoke boat” submariner….
Patrick Meagher TMC(SS) USN RET.
Probably none of today’s submariners know the origin or the significance of the Diesel Boats Forever (DBF) pin. Most former Diesel boat sailors are also ignorant of its origins even though it is worn with pride on many SubVets vests. The last diesel attack boat built for the US Navy was commissioned in October 1959 (1). At that time, there were five classes of nuke boats along with two “one off” designs in various stages of construction and pre commissioning trials along with USS Nautilus SSN-571, and the four Skate class boats in operational status (2). The diesel boat force made up predominantly of modernized fleet boats (Fleet Snorkels, Guppy 1A’s, Guppy 2’s, Guppy 2A’s, Radar picket, Regulus missile, troop carrier, and hunter-killer conversions), six Tang’s plus Darter, Growler, Greyback, the two Salmon’s and the three “B” girls had become the source of pre-commissioning crews for the nuke boats.
There was a steady stream of 9901’s passing through the diesel boat force, spending seven months onboard learning the boat and earning their dolphins before departing for nuke school. A smaller number of career enlisted electricians, machinist mates, enginemen, and electronic technicians also volunteered for the nuke program. Admiral Hyman Rickover personally interviewed all officers applying for the nuclear power program as well as many of the senior enlisted submariners. Tales of Rickover’s interviews consistently reported on his efforts to intimidate and discredit the accomplishments of the officer interviewee’s, alienating many who interviewed with him. Disturbing reports from senior enlisted veterans of the nuke boat navy in favorite submarine “watering holes” ashore indicated Rickover’s new operating philosophy was at work in the engineering spaces. “Don’t trust enlisted engineers”. Nuke trained officers consistently checked, double checked, and triple checked the work and system lineups of the enlisted engineers, a major change to the long standing professional relationship between enlisted and officer submariners. In addition, “front-enders” the non-nukes, were reporting excessive wardroom focus on the engineering plant at the expense of the historic mission of the submarine. They were also describing the “no-touch” rule from the reactor compartment aft. If you were not a nuke, you couldn’t touch any part of the engineering plant-period. You could learn it in theory, identify major components, valves and panels, but that was it. Gone was the traditional submarine qualification program that demanded standing all watches under instruction as well as rigging all compartments for all evolutions. Lost on most submariners was the reason Rickover imposed the new operational Philosophy which is best summarized by Gary E. Weir (3) “The potential for major disaster in the nuclear propulsion program caused him (Rickover) to elevate professional competence, discipline, and responsibility to the rank of absolute virtues required of every naval and private participant….Unfortunately for a great many people, Rickover’s personal and professional manner made the lesson difficult to learn. ” (pg. 168) By early 1967 total nuclear submarine crews numbered in excess of one hundred counting blue and gold SSBN crews with sixty-four nuke boats (forty one of which were SSBN’s) in commission. The thirty-seven Sturgeon class nuke boats would start to commission with the lead ship in March of that year. The Diesel boat fleet in contrast numbered slightly over one hundred in commission with most of the modernized fleet type boats nearing the end of their useful lives. Former SSR’s, SSK’s, and Fleet Snorkels would start to decommission within eighteen months to be followed shortly by the guppy conversions. More and more Rickover trained officers were appearing on squadron and force staffs bringing with them Rickover’s operational philosophy.
It was apparent to all that the diesel boat navy were dinosaurs soon to be extinct along with their officer community who were either unwilling to become nukes or passed over by Rickover as unfit to become nuke boat engineers in order to ascend to command of a nuke boat (4). Diesel
boats were still conducting most of the non-deterrent submarine operations including “special missions”. Nuke attack boats were “wowing” many with their performance and potential along with occasional contributions such as “a mission of great value to the government of the United States of America”.
The nukes were not without their teething problems however. It was not uncommon for a nuke boat to be unable to get underway as scheduled due to an “engineering problem”. A refueling every three to four years also required a shipyard stay of from eighteen months to two years again reducing the number of nuke boats available for operations. So it was left to the diesel boats to pick up the slack. ‘D ex’ Armstrong (5) describes the thinking of the enlisted smokeboat sailor during these years. “We were it…One crew. Nobody took over our boats when we came in. When the old girl went to sea, we were there. The same names, same faces, same officers forward. If someone failed to maintain a system or piece of equipment, the Chief of the Boat knew precisely what butt to put his boot into when ass-kicking time rolled around. Those were great days… Didn’t know it then, that came later…much later. We knew nuclear boats represented progress but we didn’t think much about it……We could see the future of submarining floating in the after nest. The big, fat, black monsters getting all the attention. High speed, deep-diving ugliness rapidly sending our smokeboat fleet up the river to the scrapyard. To us nuke boats were like elephants… They were big as hell, uglier than sin and none of us had any idea what went on inside of the damn things. They were just there” (pg.5). This brings us to the DBF pin.
In 1969 USS Barbel SS-580, the lead ship of the last class of diesel boats built for the US Navy was deployed to WesPac. While on a “special mission” in early 1970 the control room gang got into one of those nuke boat vs. diesel boat discussions. It was pointed out during the discussion that on a number of occasions a diesel boat would have to get underway for a “broke-down” nuke boat again proving the superiority of smokeboats over unreliable nuke boats. Someone suggested there ought to be a pin for smokeboat sailors, something like the new Polaris Deterrent Patrol Pin for “boomer” sailors, for the times you had to take a nuke boat commitment because they were broke- down. A contest was commissioned to design the pin. ETR3(SS) Leon Figurido’s winning design was a broadside view of a guppy boat with SS superimposed on the North Atlantic sail. There were two bare breasted mermaids, one on the bow and one on the stern facing in with arms extended. Completing the design was a ribbon underneath the boat with holes for stars, and centered on the ribbon the letters “DBF”. ETR3(SS) Figurido received appropriate recognition for his winning design along with a prize of some sort, now long forgotten. Upon Barbel’s return to Yokosuka the design of the DBF pin was hand carried to a local manufacturer of nautical gewgaws where a batch were cast and brought back to the ship and sold at cost to Barbel crewmembers that began to wear them ashore.
As the DBF pin grew in popularity within the diesel boat community it continued to be cast and sold in shops around Yokosuka eventually making its way to Pearl Harbor, San Diego, and on to the east coast. Most “smokeboat” sailors assumed a gold star would be placed in the ribbon for each diesel boat served on. However, it was confirmed to the author years later by Capt. John Renard, USN RET. Skipper of Barbel at that time, a star was to be placed on the ribbon for each time a diesel boat you served on had to get underway for a broke-down nuke. The DBF pin continued to gain in popularity among current and former smokeboat sailors who wore them with pride as either a pin or on a belt buckle, all the while collecting the ire of the senior nuke officer community. As the wholesale decommissioning of the fleet type boats occurred during the early 70’s scores of career electricians and enginemen were forced to “surface” as there was no room for them on Rickover’s boats. Their designation was changed by BUPERS from “SS” to “SQ” indicating they were excess to submarine force manning requirements although they were still allowed to wear their dolphins. Soon they too would be gone along with their collective histories.
In 1973 Rickover issued an edict that Midshipmen would no longer go on summer cruises on diesel boats. Rumor had it that too many were showing up at his interviews with “bad attitudes” about nuke boats picked up on their summer cruise on the smokeboats. It was reported in favorite submarine hangouts ashore that on more than one occasion nuke boat skippers banned the wearing of DBF pins by their crew members, typically “front enders” the non-nukes, implying that to do so would indicate disloyalty to the nuke submarine force. In the mid 70’s the DBF pin went into the display of submarine insignia maintained at the Pacific Submarine Museum then located at the Submarine Base, Pearl Harbor. The caption alluded to an “unofficial” insignia worn by a disappearing breed of submariner nostalgic for the days of diesel boats.
In July 1975 the last guppy submarine in US service, USS Tiru SS-416, decommissioned in Charleston SC. A handful of the guppies sailed on in foreign service into the late 90’s with two, ex-USS Cutlass SS-478, and ex-USS Tusk SS-426 continuing to serve today in the Republic of China (Taiwan) navy as training boats. The last diesel attack boats in US service were USS Darter SS-576, USS Barbel SS-580, USS Blueback SS-581,
and USS Bonefish SS-582. They decommissioned between 1988 and 1990. Two Tang class boats, ex-USS Tang SS-563, and ex-USS Gudgeon SS-567, recently decommissioned in the Turkish Navy with ex-Gudgeon slated to be Turkey’s museum submarine. The Turkish skipper of ex-Tang when asked about the difference between the German designed and built replacement boats for their retiring ex-US boats is reported to have said, “American submarines are built for war, German submarines are built for export.” (6). It’s ironic that 15 years after decommissioning of USS Blueback SS-581 at the Submarine Base in San Diego, a Swedish Navy Type A-19 Gotland Class Air Independent Diesel Boat is conducting weekly ops there to “familiarize” US Navy ASW forces with the operating characteristics of advanced non-nuclear submarines. When the Swedish crew comes ashore on Friday after a week at sea they still look and smell like the smokeboat sailors of old. Our current crop of submariners avoids them.
The DBF pin, originally designed by a USS Barbel SS-580 crewmember as an unofficial insignia to recognize the diesel boats ability to fill-in on very short notice for broke-down nuke boats, now resides with pride on the blue vests of Submarine Veterans who qualified and served on smokeboats. Today the DBF pin is the unique symbol of the professionalism, discipline, and maraderie of American smokeboat sailors who sailed on, unloved, unwashed, and underpaid as their era was coming to a close. DBF!
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From American Submariner Magazine
Submitted by Lamar S. Taylor
In June 1948, E.C. (Spud) Lindon, USNA Class of 1939 and I reported aboard the Sea Leopard (SS483) with Spud as the CO and I as the XO in Key West, Florida. Within a few weeks of our reporting, we took the boat to the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard for a major conversion to a “GUPPY” configuration. This alteration included streamlining the hull, installing a snorkeling system, and other major repairs.
While at Pier D for six or eight months we took advantage of innumerable schools for both officers and crew. I attended Perspective Commanding Officer course in New London, and we sent four or six electrician strikers to Class A Electrician School. When we completed the overhaul, three of strikers were promoted to 3rd Class Electrician.
After the overhaul, we took the boat to Squadron Six, Norfolk Virginia. At that time, we were the only GUPPY in Norfolk. I am firmly convinced that we were overworked. For several months, we started out with getting underway on Monday morning at 05 or 0600 to arrive at a position to oppose the sortie of a carrier group departing Norfolk. After opposing the sortie, we would proceed to an operating area to render ASW services for the destroyers in the afternoon. After dinner, we would make screen penetrations of the Carrier Task Force until 23 or 2400. Most of our week consisted of five-days plus a conference on Saturday morning.
The Sea Leopard participated in 1949 PORTREX exercises off the Southern coast of Puerto Rico. I believe this was, and has been the largest number of ships, marines, soldiers, etc. which has participated in a peacetime exercise. This group of mixed forces was to practice a primary task of warfare, which is to bombard and otherwise prepare the landing area, and then make the landing. The Sea Leopard and another submarine with COMSUBLANT aboard were assigned to attack the landing forces.
From 1300 to about 2100 we snorkeled near the shoreline and remained undetected by any of the task forces’ surface or ASW aircraft. About 2100 we began our penetration through two or three screens of destroyers, etc., and arrived undetected at the landing force. We simulated firing 24 or 28 torpedoes, shooting a green flare after each firing. The other submarine was also successful in completing several simulated attacks. After the exercise was over, we surfaced near the force flagship, USS Missouri (BB63), and COMSUBLANT broke off his flag.
The Sea Leopard departed undetected and we received a message – “Well done. Return to San Juan”. We were the last boat to arrive in port. Five submarines were moored at the dock, astern the ASR which had COMSUBLANT aboard. We moored alongside the last boat in the nest, which made us the boat nearest the mouth of the harbor.
The officers and crew had bragging rights due to our resounding success. The Hilton had just opened with a casino, and I had to tryout the crap table. I lost all of my money and had to borrow taxi fare from the Duty Officer when I got back to the boat.
About 0100, I heard the Captain passing orders for “Emergency Underway” over the 1-MC. I arrived on the bridge in about one-minute. Maneuvering reported “Ready to Get Underway on Batteries”, so we took in the brow, cast off all lines, and backed out after sounding a long blast on the whistle.
About this time, Spud told me that he and our officers had met a group of civilians who were guests of the Secretary of Defense. They had been guests of the Army for a few days before becoming guests of the Navy. The dignitaries complained that the Army had served them drinks but the Navy had not.
When they asked Spud who he was, he replied that he was the “Skipper of a Sub”. They said that they did not believe he could get his boat underway. Spud answered, “If I had permission, I could get in underway in five-minutes”. They replied that’s no excuse “if I had permission”. Duly challenged, Spud said “Come on with us to the boat and I will show you that we can get underway in five-minutes”. They all got into taxies and drove to the boat.
After we backed out, Spud yelled to our guests, “Do you believe we can get underway, and do you want us to dive?” In a loud, unison voice, they replied, “You have convinced us.”
Later the cooks broke out steak and eggs, and all of us had a great meal. When those civilians departed, they were thoroughly convinced that the Navy, and especially the Submarine Force was ready, willing, and able. In 1949, the Sea Leopard won the “E” for the Atlantic Fleet. It was a great boat with an outstanding crew.
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