All Hands, Set Condition TINS!
(Inspired by actual events)
About 1970, on a Knox class DE somewhere in the Caribbean......
We were off the shipping lanes, testing our newfangled 26CX sonar on a housebroken
SSN. We were gathering baseline data for the engineers, measuring signal strength and
other esoteric stuff, so these were not tactical exercises. The boat would assume an
assigned depth, course and speed, and we would take station on her and ping away
while roaring along at about 5 knots. After half an hour or so, we would both turn
around and go the other way for a while. This activity was definitely more job than
adventure.
The only excitement had come on the transit to the area, when one of the OPS type
Ensigns urgently reported to the bridge that a fire control radar off the port bow had
locked on to us. Actually, the Bahamas not being known as a hotbed of hostile activity,
nobody got too excited. A few minutes later a set of white sails popped up over the
horizon and a red faced Ensign popped back down to CIC.
I had the midwatch in CIC, and it was about time to make one of the course reversals.
As usual, we worked out a course, speed and time that would hopefully get us to our
assigned bearing and range from the sub. Since we only had a vague idea of what the
sub was doing, the solutions were more guesswork than science. But we dutifully
whipped out the maneuvering board and dividers, and soon I was passing the word up
to the bridge. Just as my fingers left the squawk box, I looked again at the solution and
realized I had laid out the problem backwards. The suggested course and speed made
no sense at all. Quickly analyzing the situation, I made the typical Navy decision to just
ignore the problem.
A few minutes later, at the end of our recommended maneuver, sonar sent off the first
ping on the new run. We were of course dead on in both range and bearing. The
squawk box from the bridge rang out "Nice shooting, Combat!". I casually hit the
switch and replied "That's what we're here for!".
And so it came to pass that we, the fossil fueled part of the equation, slipped below the
LANTFLT standard for dead dinosaurs on board. On the way out to solve this
problem, a sailor on the oiler sent to refuel us let his hand get between a line and a
stanchion, causing a nasty injury and the possibility of losing his thumb.
This mishap caused a great deal of message traffic. Our little engineering project was a
direct CNO endeavor, so the news went very high up the chain of command. Soon the
decision was made. My Navy; our Navy; the country's Navy; the same Navy whose
very reason for existence is to sow death and destruction on demand, essentially said
"Screw the project, save the thumb!"
The oiler sent their man over on a whaleboat, and we headed for Nassau. I'm not sure
what the official orders to the snipes were, but the effect was "Haul ass, I say again,
Haul ass!". I wandered out to the fantail during this evolution, and remember looking
UP at the wake. The PR for the ship said our top speed was "in excess of 26 knots". It
certainly was, at least in this case.
As we moved through the Caribbean, the possibility of a helo pickup was considered.
This was in the dark ages, before manned helos routinely visited small boys, but we
thought about it. We actually had a helo landing team ready for action before a little
arithmetic put the possible landing after dark and a bit iffy even for us.
The same arithmetic put our ETA at Nassau at about midnight. As the bridge crew
began work on the charts, the XO appeared on the bridge. "Captain, we have just been
advised that the range lights and beacons at Nassau are out of service at this time." The
Skipper acknowledged this information and proceeded to ignore it. Nobody on the
Bridge/CIC team had ever been to Nassau before, so this was only a minor annoyance.
Well, we managed to drag out deep-draft sonar dome into Nassau harbor, followed by
the rest of our haze gray home. There was an ambulance on the pier, and I remember
being irritated at how slow the medics seemed to work, compared to our expensive day
and a half dash to get the man there.
My sea detail station was "In charge, Fantail" ( A bizarre misnomer, considering I was a
Supply Corps LT(jg) and my assistant was a BMC, but the that's the way the Navy
works ). After watching the troops clean up the square end, I headed for the rack. As I
walked up the starboard side, at about 0200, I saw a splendid sight. About 50 of Uncle
Sam's finest sailors, resplendent in liberty whites, were ready to hit the beach.
God loves a sailor, and so do I!
They all made it back in time, and we headed back to our submarine games at 0700 the
next morning, although at a much slower pace than our medically inspired arrival.
On the second day of transit, we received word that the man's thumb had been saved. I
guess the Navy spent well over $1 million dollars, counting dead time for the SSN, to
save one thumb. Seems fair to me.
And that's a true story.
Bob McKellar
Secure from condition TINS! Set the normal SMN watch!
