Ever wonder what it feels like to believe you’re about to die?

The first time this happened to me was on a bright Saturday morning in 1978. I was making a jump with the Iowa Parachute Team and I had an equipment malfunction 2,700 feet above the ground. Several of my shroud lines  became caught and tangled over the top of the canopy, causing me to spin and tumble like a falling leaf. The world a blur, I told myself, “You will live through this is you follow the emergency procedures correctly. So keep calm and do it right!” I deployed my reserve chute but, because of my rotation, it twisted around the main and did not deploy fully. But it must have been good enough because a few minutes later I was listening to the ambulance crew tell me how lucky I was.

In truth, it wasn't’t all that scary because I was able to do something. Namely, take action to save my own butt. I've heard people say, “I didn’t have time to be scared.” Well, it’s true. The prospect of impending death can wonderfully focus the mind, which keeps you busy and prevents paralyzing fear.

But what if you believed you were about to die and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, you could do about it?

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A 688-class submarine such as the USS Atlanta has two sets of ballast tanks, fore and aft of the pressure hull. The aft tanks are divided into three sets, the forward into two sets. Each set of tanks is further subdivided by a bulkhead amidships, so there are actually ten separate tanks – six aft and four forward.

Each ballast tank has a pair of remotely activated vent valves at the top, and long, slot like openings at the bottom that cannot be closed. When the submarine is on the surface, all of the ballast tanks are filled almost entirely of air. The air displaces water, which is far heavier per unit of volume, and this creates the buoyancy that floats the submarine.

When the submarine is on the surface, the only thing that prevents the seawater from flooding the tanks is the fact that the vent valves are closed. The air has no place to go, so even though the seawater can always enter the tank through the slots on the bottom, it can only rise a couple of feet or so before the air, now slightly compressed, keeps it out.

When the order is given to dive the boat, the ballast tank vent valves are opened,  which allows the air in the ballast tanks to escape. Since the air was keeping the water out, the tanks now become flooded in a matter of seconds. The buoyancy provided by the air gone, the submarine submerges.

There are two ways to put the air back into the tanks and surface the boat. The usual way is to use a low pressure positive displacement air pump to gradually push the water out. This process takes 30 minutes or so, and it requires that the submarine come to periscope depth so that the air can be drawn in from the surface through a snorkel device. It would not work if the boat were hundreds of feet deep.

So what if the boat was hundreds of feet deep and it had to be surfaced immediately, in an emergency?

In that case, the Emergency Ballast Tank Blow System would be activated. This system consists of many stainless steel high pressure air tanks bolted to the sides of the ballast tanks. The tanks can be opened remotely from inside the pressure hull, both manually and through remote switches. The high pressure air can quickly displace the water in the ballast tanks and drive the sub to the surface from any depth from which it was designed to operate.

Why not use the EBTB system every time? Each time the system is used, tremendous stress is placed on the components. Plus, the tanks have to be re-filled with high pressure air. I remember studying about the EBTB system in order to earn my submarine qualification medal, or dolphins. The manual said that the manufacturer of the EBTB system would guarantee that the system would work for a limited number of times before it would have to be completely replaced. That number was quite small. Therefore, aside from scheduled testing, which was infrequent, the EBTB system was to be used only to prevent a “loss of the ship”.

I remember reading that statement from the manual as a newly reported nuke Machinist Mate. I still had nearly four years to go on my assignment to the USS Atlanta. I said to myself, “Now I know, if they ever use this system and it’s not a test, we must be in big trouble. But it will probably never happen.”

During my three years and ten months aboard the Atlanta, I experienced the Emergency Ballast Tank Blow system being used outside of testing on two separate occasions.

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What an Angle!

One of those occasions is described in the sea story, “The Cleanest Boat on the Bottom of the Sea” (Atlanta runs aground in Gibraltar). This story is about the other occasion.

Unlike the bottoming, I do not remember the date of the event, or even the year, although I believe it was 1985. The Atlanta had spent some time in a Florida port, probably Port Everglades. Before leaving, we had taken on some important riders. If memory serves, they were Norwegian Navy officers. We were taking them on a short “demonstration” trip to strut our stuff and show them what we were made out of.

After the maneuvering watch was secured, I had the 12 to 18, which meant I would have the twelve hours between 1730 and 0530 off – an ideal daily schedule almost like shore life. This only happens one day in three while underway, and it allows people to enjoy a “normal” night’s sleep free from the prospect of drills or field days. Usually, that is.

An hour or so after dinner, I was in my rack reading an Ayn Rand novel. Yes, I was in my rack for the bottoming, too. I was probably waiting for the nightly movie to begin. That very morning, I had spent some time on the beach, and I still had a bit of sunburn about the shoulders and nose. The boat was on the surface, probably a few scores of miles off the eastern Florida coast. The sea was calm, and as I lay in my rack, I could feel a gentle sway.

The 1MC just outside my curtain bellowed, “Dive! Dive! Dive!” I hoped that we would not do a deep dive that would require me to go back into the engine room and take my assigned station watching for leaks.

As normal, the boat continued running on the surface for a few seconds, and then the bow began slowly sinking. From the inside, this means that the deck tilts ever so slightly toward the bow. Most of the time, this “angle” during an initial dive from the surface is barely noticeable. Dives are made carefully.

From outside the boat, an observer would have been able to see streams of water shooting upwards from both ends of the boat as the ballast tank vents opened and let the air in the ballast tanks escape. The forward vents are opened a couple of seconds before the after vents, so the forward tanks are just a bit ahead of the aft tanks in filling with water. This helps the boat descend into the depths. If an observer had been watching today, however, he may have noted that there was not as much air gushing out of the aft tanks as the forward tanks.

Laying in my rack, I felt the boat pick up the normal slight “down” angle as we submerged. I subconsciously expected it to stay that way. During my very first dive, I was sort of disappointed about how little you see and hear. It’s less dramatic than, say, taking off in an airplane. You feel the deck tilt a little. If there was any swaying with the waves, it stops. That’s about it.

This time, it was different. The slight down angle began growing steeper.

688 class boats are designed to be “tilted” up or down by as much as 45 degrees. These are called, appropriately enough,  “steep angles” and they are rarely done in peacetime. A normal or typical up or down angle, when the boat is fully submerged, is more like 20 or 30 degrees. Down angles when submerging are probably around 10 or 15 degrees.

Even laying in my rack, I could feel the down angle increasing. Soon it was about 30 degrees, about the maximum it normally is. Since my feet were pointing forwards, this meant I could feel a bit of pressure on the bottoms of my soles as they began to press against the bulkhead at the “foot” of my rack. I was partially “standing up”. My first thought was, “Those show offs! The XO is trying to impress the Norwegians with some sort of steep dive.”

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The angle grew steeper.

Soon it was at 45 degrees, the most I had ever felt. This may not sound like much of an angle, but it means that it’s just as easy to walk down the bulkheads as it is to walk down the decks. Mobility is in fact impossible. All you can do is hang on. The crew needs preparation before such a steep angle, otherwise it can be dangerous.

I heard the expected outcries of surprise, liberally sprinkled with profanities. Shoes and sneakers tumbled across the deck, and I heard loud crashes from the galley.

The angle grew steeper. Now, the bulkheads were more horizontal than the decks. I began to grow anxious. I knew something was wrong. I was basically “standing” on the foot of my rack. I still had my paperback novel in my right hand, my index finger holding my place.

The angle continued to grow steeper, maybe to about 60 degrees. Now I was scared – genuinely scared. I told myself, “If things were really bad, they would use the Emergency Ballast Tank Blow system. It’s there to prevent a loss of the ship”

At that exact moment, I heard the distinctive roar of the Emergency Ballast Tank Block system being activated.

I told myself, “Well, it’s working! The air is pushing the water out, and it should bring us right to the surface.”

Except that it did not.

The angle grew even steeper, right through 70 degrees. For all practical purposes, we were vertical. The sound of the EBTB system air continued unabated. I knew from tests that when the EBTB system was used, it WORKED, it took just a few seconds of air to bring the boat to the surface.

That was not happening.

I heard a very weak voice come from the 1MC: “Loss of depth control.”

Amazingly, I could still think. I wondered if the air was just coming right out of the ballast tanks from the bottom slots, without having any effect. Apparently, the EBTB system doesn't’t work too well when the boat is almost vertical. I believed that we would die within a few seconds. Crush depth for a 688 class is not all that deep. I heard the hull flexing and popping as we went deeper.

Believe it or not, I looked at my watch. I think it was 7:40 pm. I wanted to know what time it was now that I was about to die. The mind begins to work in funny ways under these conditions, I guess. An incredible emotion swept over me. I guess you expect me to say that I felt peaceful, almost relieved. That is not how I felt. The feeling was one of intense despair and sadness. It was an almost indescribably dark and miserable feeling, everything negative that you can think of, all rolled together: anger, disappointment, sorrow and terror. It was beyond a doubt the worse feeling that I have ever had.

I can’t explain it, but I tried to crack a joke. I tried to call out to my ship mates also in their racks a few feet away, “Atlantic Ocean arriving!” but when I opened my mouth only an inaudible murmur escaped.

Suddenly, I wanted it to be over. My fondest hope was that it would be quick. The hull continued to make popping sounds under the stress. When it finally gave in, I wondered, would there be any sensation at all? What does it feel like to be crushed like an ant under a steam roller? Would there be an avalanche of intense, infinite pain just before the abyss of death? Or would my mind just “snap off” like a light, with no final sensation at all? That’s what I was hoping for. My worse fear was that somehow I would survive the implosion for a few seconds and feel the sea water going down my nose and throat, drowning me.

So what will it feel like to die,  I wondered. I honestly believed that I was about to find out. As I waited, the right side of my body began shaking – just the right side.

Gradually, the angle began growing shallower. Soon we were at 60 degrees, 45, 30, horizontal. I don’t remember being “relieved” at all – I was too emotionally exhausted to feel a thing. I just spewed four letter words with my ship mates, and that took off some of the edge. A time tested sailor’s trick.

On the surface again, we took it for granted that we would NOT try the dive again until we knew exactly what went wrong – and it was fixed. Just minutes after we had re-surfaced, word spread that the Executive Officer , Commander Fritchmann   wanted to try to dive again, immediately, before the EBTB tanks were even re-charged with high pressure air. Fortunately, the captain had more sense. He made an announcement to the effect, “The ship will not, I repeat NOT, attempt another dive until the problem is found and rectified and the HP air tanks have been re-charged.”

I think there may have been a genuine mutiny that night.

Apparently, one or more of the after ballast tank vent valves had stuck shut. Because air could not escape from one or more of the after ballast tanks, there was a large bubble of air back there, holding up our back end as the front end submerged deeper and deeper.

What saved us? I don’t know. I suspect that the depth made the bubble smaller (air is compressible, of course) and that decreased it’s effect, enabling us to regain control of the boat.

I have no idea how deep we went. No one really knows how steep the angle was, either. Scuttlebutt says that the Sperry gyroscope in the torpedo room trips at 75 degrees, and it tripped.

And as any sailor can tell you, scuttlebutt is usually correct.

“Commence field day!” roared the 1MC.

Okay, maybe it didn't actually “roar”. But to me, it sure seemed that way. I was annoyed because the person making the announcement ( Chief Vorce? the COB?) sounded like they enjoyed it too much. What kind of sadist would enjoy getting a tired, hardworking nuke out of his rack in order to spend four hours cleaning a cold, oily bilge?

Rubbing my eyes with fatigue, I swung out of my 22-inch wide rack, careful not to crash into some other guy getting out of his own rack across from mine. I pulled on a dirty, dark blue poopy suit and thought about today's schedule. After field day would come lunch, then six hours of watch. Since the POD called for surfacing during the early afternoon, I silently prayed that the seas would be calm so I wouldn't become nauseous in Engine Room Lower Level.

Didn't we just have a field day on Thursday morning? Well, here comes another one, courtesy of the C.O.. Current scuttlebutt was that we would surface briefly in order to pick up riders. Then we would proceed through the Straight of Gibraltar . They were VIP's, probably flag officers with some allied navy. Hence, the intense cleaning regimen. Must show a spotless boat to our visitors!

We'd been away from our homeport, Norfolk, Virginia, since mid February – over nine weeks. Even though I was single and had no one “waiting” for me, I sorely missed the routine of life ashore and the little freedoms, conveniences and luxuries that folks who never go to sea on a fast attack submarine don't even notice. The one thing that made me smile to myself that field day morning was the fact that on this deployment I was scheduled to be “augmented” – fly back to the US and attend a school until the boat returned. Of all the other deployments I had made over the past three years (one as long as five months), I was with the Atlanta 100 percent of the way. After Gibraltar, the boat was headed to a naval base in Italy to take on stores, more riders probably, and a partial exchange of crew. That's when I would make my getaway. Good bye boat, see you in July!

As I made my way out of the crew's berthing space, I saw Petty Officer Cunningham getting ready to clean his assigned space by removing his shirt. I couldn't resist commenting,

“Look at this, he takes off his shirt as if he expects to break sweat.”

Cunningham made a face and waved me on. He offered his own good-natured ribbing. “Don't you have a bilge to dive, nuke?” he growled. “Then I suggest you mosey on aft and get to it!”

 It was common knowledge that nukes and A-gangers had the toughest jobs during any field day – particularly the junior Machinist Mates, of which I was one. Instead of four hours of sweeping, dusting, polishing, and other forms of light, “domestic” cleaning, we had to literally crawl through deep, dark labyrinths of oily, greasy pipes, stream traps and valve wheels – and attempt to get it all clean. Not uncommonly, we would spend most of our time covered with a putrid gray slime – an ice cold mix of sea water, old 2190 lube oil, and some of the contents of whatever sanitary tank was last pumped overboard.

As one of the handful of enlisted guys on board with a college degree, I sometimes regretted not becoming an officer. At least it would have saved me from the bilge.

The general mood of the crew back aft was tired and grim. We were sick of cleaning, and it made us a little bitter to think that it was only for the benefit of a small group of temporary visitors who we would likely never see, let alone talk to. Most of us had developed the strong impression that our C.O., Commander Castle , was too zealous about cleaning the boat. Our previous C.O., Commander Lipscombe , was zealous about only one thing: chasing Ruskies. And that was fine by us – that's why we were there. But a submarine Captain who focused on cleanliness? Wasn't that the domain of the XO and the COB?

Not that a clean boat is a bad thing. It was just that the past few weeks of excessive cleaning and two field days per week seemed a bit strange, almost obsessive. I distinctly remember hearing someone making the statement that we were already without a doubt the cleanest boat on the seven seas. I believe it was Petty Officer Nate Hall who added, “One of these days we're going to be the cleanest boat on the bottom of the sea!”

Ominous words.

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The Bottoming

What follows is my account of the events of April 29, 1986 . After sixteen years, I'm the first to admit that some of the details may be mistaken. Moreover, some of the best things that I “know” about The Bottoming I do not in fact literally “know” at all – it's just what I “heard”.

Is what I heard 100 percent correct? Or even reasonably accurate? I don't know. But cut me some slack. This is a sea story, after all.

Field day ended, as all field days must, and then came lunch and an afternoon watch. I honestly do not know if we picked up the riders before or after the Main Event. In any case, later that day, I was in my rack, reading a book, in a clean poopy suit, waiting either for dinner or for the maneuvering watch to be set (this may mean that we did not pick up the riders). We were submerged, but we were scheduled to surface shortly.

I continued to read my paperback, comfortable and secure in my personal 22-inch wide space.

Everything was very quiet.

Out of the blue, there it was: boooooom..! To me, it felt as if a giant hand grabbed the bow and shoved it rudely toward the surface. I never felt the boat move like that. I knew instantly what had happened. Someone cried out, “What the %*#@ !”

Then came the roar of the Emergency Ballast Tank Blow System . Solenoid-actuated valves in the ballast tank popped open, allowing air pressurized to thousands of pounds per square inch to fill the ballast tanks, pushing out tons of sea water, causing the boat to pitch violently upwards.

The manual says that the Emergency Ballast Tank Blow System is to be used ONLY to prevent the loss of the ship.

Heart pounding, I jumped out of my rack. I was glad for two things. One, that my ears were not popping from a sudden increase in pressure. This would have happened if there had been massive flooding in the forward compartment. I could not tell what was going on aft, of course. The other thing that I was happy about was that the Emergency Blow system was working.

For a minute or two, we confused, shocked sailors milled about and offered each other profane descriptions of how we felt. There was no 1MC announcement. There was no collision alarm. I noticed that my hands were shaking. I put them in the pockets of my poopy suit, so no one would see. I noticed that lots of other guys had their hands in their pockets too.

After what seemed like a long time, I could feel the boat gently swaying side to side. As if on cue, a voice on the 1MC finally gave a terse announcement: “Ship is surfaced.” It sounded like the voice of the Engineering Officer, Bob Holland . The voice also sounded rather piqued, like a guy who had bet his paycheck on a “sure fire” horse race tip and lost every cent.

Word gradually came out. I forget if there ever was a detailed announcement or not, but before dinner we all knew that the boat had bottomed, and that we would not be continuing into the Med as planned, at least for the time being. Fortunately, we were close to an acceptable docking facility within walking distance of Gibraltar. The maneuvering watch was set; we docked the boat, and our ship's divers prepared to access the damage from up close. I learned directly from a diver, Dan Turkasz , that many of the bolts that fasted the forward ballast tank to the main pressure hull were gone, and that fiberglass was “hanging in strips.”

For a while, the boat was in limbo. It was clear that our Med cruise had come to an abrupt halt. Scuttlebutt ran rampant. We heard that it came down to a choice of getting the boat fixed here, in Spain, or going back to Norfolk. Whatever the case, we definitely needed a dry dock. For the time being, we would wait until word came back to us from the Navy higher-ups what they wanted us to do.

Meanwhile, it was beautiful day topside. Spring in the Mediterranean! As soon as I could, I went up the forward escape trunk to find a breathtaking landscape of rocky peaks and cobalt blue water. Down the shore, within walking distance, was a bustling town.

The word went out: No liberty for the crew.

We were appalled at the injustice of it all. It was clear that we would be in Gibraltar for a while. After being cooped up in the boat for eons, why were they doing this to us? More accurately, why was the C.O. doing it? The day after the grounding, I crossed paths with Commander Castle and I offered a polite hello. He turned his face without a word.

Less than a year earlier, Commander Castle had “busted” me (reduced one pay grade, effective immediately, not suspended) for failing to follow a written procedure. This was not an UCMJ thing, mind you, it was failing to follow a procedure to read a tank level even though the printed method was known to be unworkable and inaccurate. I guess he was getting a taste now.

A short time latter, our new C.O. arrived and the crew was granted liberty. Gibraltar was great – there is a lot of Moroccan influence, so it was almost like being in North Africa.

Eventually, the powers that be decided to bring the Atlanta back home immediately for a stint in a Portsmouth, Virginia dry dock. After spending days not knowing what would happen to us, we were overjoyed. I remember dancing under the after escape trunk with fellow nuke Machinist Mate Woody. “Home!” we shouted over and over, “Home! Home! We're going HOME!”

But there was an ocean to cross first. And we had to do it slowly. After all, the forward ballast tank was hanging off the boat. It looked fine from the top, of course, but in fact the underside was badly damaged and we knew that many of the connecting bolts were severed. We traveled on the surface, at a very, very slow speed. It took us three weeks to get back to Norfolk. Luckily, the North Atlantic was calm throughout the trip. Typical Atlanta black humor shortly arose as the crew got up a “bow dome pool” to bet on when (not if) the bow would fall off the boat.

In mid ocean, while on watch, I thought about what would happen if the forward ballast tank did give way to the stress and break off. How much reserve buoyancy was in the aft ballast tank? Enough to keep the pressure hull on the surface? With the prop sticking up in the air? The Engineering Watch Supervisor, Chief Wichmann , can by to review my logs, and I asked for his opinion.

The Chief took a long drag on his cigarette. “Damato,” he finally said, “If that happens, the only thing you could do is follow standard procedure. Sit down. Spread your legs. Bend over. And kiss your….”

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What Happened?

My personal recollections are over. Here's the hearsay and innuendo part.

Why did the boat bottom? Not being in the control room, or party to the official investigation, I'll probably never know. But I know what I heard.

Our assignment was to transit the Straight unobserved. The hills surrounding the area could harbor Libyan spies recording the passage of all American war craft, particularly 688 class submarines. We could be assigned to take up a position off the coast of Libya and lob cruise missiles at them whenever our Commander in Chief so chooses. Secrecy was vital, so we would have to focus on remaining undetected, at least until we had to pick up the riders.

Because the Straight was rather deep, we could remain submerged. We could even use the Ship's Inertial Navigation System (SINS) to tell us where we are and which way to steer in order to remain on a desired course. The SINS was an extremely sensitive system that measured our acceleration and attitude along every possible three-dimensional axis. From these measurements the SINS could calculate our location and velocity without any outside reference. In order to maintain accuracy over time, the SINS required periodic “resetting” to a known position. If this was not done, errors would accumulate to the point where the calculated position was unreliable and the possible error quite large.

Trouble was, the bottom was rocky and uneven, and this decreased the allowable margin for error. To make matters worse, underwater mountains and ridges create their own gravity field that is strong enough to fool the SINS and confuse our calculated position. To combat this, it was decided that we would periodically come to periscope depth and takes bearings as necessary to re-set the SINS position. However, since it was possible for our periscope to be sited by the enemy, this was to be minimized.

We were in excess of 400 feet deep and moving at six or seven knots. This may seem like a slow speed, but 6900 tons (almost fourteen million pounds) means a lot of inertia even at “human running speed”.

Since we had passed near several underwater mountains and ridges, the Quartermaster of the Watch (who's name escapes me) made the judgment that the SINS error was large enough to justify coming to periscope depth and take new bearings. He gave this recommendation to the Officer of the Deck (whose name escapes me) and the OOD did not act on it. I also remember that the OOD was a young, relatively inexperienced Lieutenant, not one of the department heads.

Time passed. We continued at 800 feet, seven knots.

The QMOW again made his recommendation to come to PD. Again, for whatever reason, the OOD decided not to do so.

The Quartermaster knew that at this point the SIMS error was so large that he could no longer guarantee that the boat would not crash into an underwater ridge. The OOD declined to give the order to go to PD. The QMOW asked the messenger of the watch to get the Captain and bring him to Control immediately. This made the OOD very upset. He told the messenger to stay put and commenced to brawl out the QMOW.

Now in fear, the QMOW ignored the OOD and literally screamed at the messenger to go get the CO . The argument quickly became moot, because the CO overheard the ruckus from his cabin and emerged to demand what all the shouting was about.

The QMOW quickly explained. The CO looked at the chart, the depth, and the speed. He immediately barked the order, “Back emergency! Full up planes…”

Then we hit.

No one said a word in Control. No orders were give, no alarm sounded. The only thing that happened after the impact was the Diving Officer of the Watch, a CPO at the Ballast Tank Control Panel, immediately pushed up on the levers that activated the Emergency Ballast Tank Blow system. He did not receive an order to do it. In fact, only the Captain or the OOD can give such an order. He just did it.

Thank God the pressure hull did not breach at that depth. We were all very lucky that day. Seconds later, we were on the surface, swaying gently. Everything was left for the lawyers to straighten out.

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Repercussions

What happened to the Main Players who were present in Control? The OOD did not have the conn at the time of the impact. When the CO enters Control and gives an order, the CO now has the conn. Commander Castle gave his order a few seconds before the crash. The OOD was not held responsible, and as far as I know, no action was taken against him.

The QMOW received a letter of reprimand in his service jacket. He had knowingly ignored the OOD's wishes by telling the messenger to get the Captain.

And the Captain, Commander Castle? As dictated by Naval law, he grounded (bottomed) his ship, so he lost his command. Was he at fault? Prudence dictates that the CO should have been in Control, if not actually conning the ship, during such a risky maneuver. Scuttlebutt was that he had retired to his stateroom in order to work on a new cleaning bill on his laptop computer. That's only scuttlebutt, though.

So what did happen to Commander Castle? He became an instructor at the Prospective Commanding Officer's School, and taught other men how to be the Captain of a submarine.