"Okay, remove the red tags and turn it on!" the electrician hollered down the passageway to the man standing next to the tagged circuit breaker when a repair was completed.
"Okay, here it goes!" the man hollered back as he removed the red tags and placed his hand on the breaker.
The electrician threw the switch, and there was a brilliant electrical flash with the "clap" noise of current flowing through the circuit breaker. The men standing around the equipment watched closely as the current raced through repaired circuits and brought the device to life. When equipment did not function properly, which seemed to happen with amazing regularity, a moment of silence was followed by furious arm waving and screaming: "Turn if off! Turn it off! Turn it off!"
That scenario was followed by a torrent of cursing, which often included phrases unique to the submarine service and words that I had never heard before. When the cursing was over, the circuit breaker was locked open again and the painful process of repairing equipment started again.
Although the crew of the Viperfish appeared to be a single unified group of men, I soon discovered that it was actually an accumulation of 120 volunteers for submarine duty who were in a state of flux. Someone was always coming in or going out. The men on board the boat at any time were significantly different from those who had been there one year before and those who would be there a couple of years later. Members of the crew reported on board or left for reasons of seniority, completion of denned tours of duty, and many other factors. I did not know it at the time, but the personnel turnover was less than was usual in the Navy. Washington's BuPers (Bureau of Personnel) had worked to stabilize the crew of the Viperfish to a relatively fixed complement of men for this mission.
The veteran group was the core of the crew when I reported on board. These men had been qualified on all of the systems for several months or years, and several had been previously qualified on one or more other submarines before reporting to the Viperfish. They were the recognized pros, the men who had their dolphins.
The "dolphins," an internationally recognized pin, is worn above the breast pocket of dress uniforms. The pin depicts a pair of dolphins, on either side of a World War II submarine, guiding it to safety. The dolphins represent "qualified in submarines," a symbol that is the coveted treasure awaiting non-qual pukes struggling to learn about their submarines. Wearing the dolphins means that the individual has been granted membership in one of the most exclusive clubs in the world.
To me, the qualifications process was almost like a mandate from God: until I earned my dolphins and until the captain certified me to be qualified on all of the Viperfish systems, I could not belong to the club.
The men of the qualified crew on the Viperfish knew exactly what they were doing. They knew which valves should be shut and which should be open; they knew which electrical and mechanical systems should be on and operating and which should be in standby. The man sitting in front of the ballast control panel knew how to maintain neutral buoyancy, important for proper depth control. The men controlling the reactor systems, those high above us in the cramped cockpit of the sail, and those who would later prepare our food and tend to our medical needs were all skilled in their areas of expertise, thus allowing the crew of the Viperfish to function as one cohesive unit of qualified men. The confidence that the qualified men had in each other was the force behind the enduring shipmate camaraderie, the essence of life for the men serving on board the Viperfish.
Those who were not yet qualified in submarines were treated as if they knew nothing, regardless of their rank or intelligence. Officers often needed instruction and signatures from enlisted men, while enlisted men frequently turned to officers for information. If a man was not qualified and was on the dink list, he was at the absolute bottom of the pecking order.
The civilian scientists in the bow compartment (also called the hangar compartment) where the mysterious Fish was supposed to be, were not involved in the qualifications process, and their interaction with the crew was minimal. They were on the Viperfish to accomplish a mission. Clearly, they did not want to talk about their work to any of us, so we simply treated them, in a polite manner, as civilian outsiders and left them to their own work on the Special Project.
The heart of the Special Project operation was in the forward third of the submarine, in the cavernous hangar compartment that formerly contained the Regulus missiles. With no understanding of what the project was about and with nobody inclined to say anything specific about it, I simply added Special Project to the vast number of mysteries on board the Viperfish.
Whenever I went through the bow compartment as I studied the location of various cables and valves, I moved past the cluster of civilians looking down into a huge hole that penetrated the decking of the compartment. Walking around the men gathered above the hole and ignoring their hushed conversations, I continued forward until I either bumped into the torpedo tubes or identified the location of the equipment I was studying. With the wrath of Bruce hanging over my head if I didn't move ahead with qualifications at full speed, I felt that civilian scientists looking down big holes were of little importance.
Richard Daniels reported on board within a week of my arrival, and now two potential reactor operators studied Viperfish tech manuals, searched for crewmen who knew the systems, and struggled to show progress with qualifications. In his early twenties, Richard was a tall, intelligent man with a Georgia accent. He immediately developed a respect for Bruce Rossi's grinding jaw muscles and scowling looks. Early in the qualifications process, he informed me that he had little inclination to die at the hands of Rossi, especially before getting qualified. Richard also had never been on a submarine before. Inside this gigantic steel vessel, we both felt an equal sense of anticipation as we prepared for our secret mission below the surface of the Pacific Ocean.
After a couple of weeks, Chief Mathews handed out the rack assignments to the berthing area. Located in the center of the ship, the racks (bunks) were stacked in columns of three. Each rack included a pillow, a thin mattress, a blanket stretched over cotton sheets, an air conditioning vent, a tiny neon light, and a locker under the mattress for personal belongings. Opened by pulling up on the hinged mattress support, the locker was about six inches high and spanned the length of the bunk. Most important, there was actually a curtain that could be pulled across the rack's opening-privacy on a submarine, a luxury previously unheard of.
My rack was far more than just a place to sleep. When we left dry dock, it would become my sanctuary from the rest of the submarine world. I was assigned the middle rack; by lifting myself up and squeezing sideways into the coffinlike opening and then reaching out and pulling my curtain shut, I was suddenly enclosed in a world of privacy that was unavailable anywhere else on the boat. The mattress, although comfortable, was very narrow and barely six feet long (requiring a slight bending of my knees if I kept my neck straight). In the event of a sneeze, I had to quickly turn my head to keep from crashing into the steel underside of the rack above me. Otherwise, the enclosure offered most of the comforts of a good bed at home.