Shit-storm 2002
Back in the day, when the San Francisco was heading from Norfolk to our new home in Guam, we had a little mishap. We were a few days out of Hawaii in early December, and I had just hit the rack after some long, hard time of working in the ER, you know, the usual nuke MM's job of doing some random crap that needed to be done (I think it was helping the new "MMC" who was an MM1 ELT because we lost our MMC in San Diego due to kidney stones, get into the job). By the way, being the only one of a few experienced mechanics on a boat first thing out of the yards really sucks, but that is a different story about how half of M-Div deserted us right after the boat left the yards.
So, there I was, in the rack, I had just passed out, when one of the ELT's that slept below me woke me up.
"Ben, get up, they just called away flooding"
I didn't hear the alarm the first time, I was out of it, but the second time, I heard it. I was out of the rack and putting on my poopie suit when the I heard the announcement...
"Flooding in the Galley"
Now, I ask you, how the hell can we have flooding in the galley? I asked the ELT next to me, and he said that it was pretty much impossible (well, it could happen, but that would involve much more than a busted pipe).
Then, this announcement came:
"there is no flooding in the galley"
Whew, what a relief...oh, wait, what is that horrible smell??
The smell had found its way into Fwd Bearthing, and right then I knew, there was no flooding in the galley (I guess the CSC didn't understand the galley as much as he should have). There was just the little issue of one of the Sanitary tanks being blown into the galley...oops, bad valve lineup.
I decided that, since I was oncoming, and I hadn't slept in over 30 hours, that I would let the offgoing watch section handle it and hit the rack (being unqualified, but a fairly new second class on the boat (damn SPUs) gave me some leeway).
Turns out that, while blowing sanitaries, the AOW lined up to blow the tank into the galley San tank, thus blowing two whole sanitary tanks directly into the galley.
When I woke up for watch, there was no chow (several thousands of dollars worth of food were ruined, since the cooks were preparing the meal at the time), but the smell in the Fwd compartment was horrible! I went to the ER, and started hearing all of the reports from my little nuke spies that were there (my U/I in the section had to wake up to help clean because the douchebag had gone to bed right after our last watch while I was busy fixing some stupid bullshit, probably training, or maybe some maintinance that some idiot messed up). Turns out that there was a river of shit, flowing from the galley, down to the AMR and LL head. I could do nothing but laugh my ass off (at him) because he had to help clean the river Styx up!! Ha.
I wrote a little article about it, dubbing it Shit-Storm 2002, in our M-Div Pass Down Log, which I had adopted as a serious form of record keeping for future M-Divers on that beautiful sub, but unfortanuatly, some poodle haired douchebag did away with it while we were in dry-dock after the collision. It had many, many years of entries in it, such as the Shit Storm episode, survival in the strip clubs in Guam, what to do in case some idiot breaks a valve lapping tool in an HPD, and why the hell did I have to fix it...isn't there any other M-Div dude who can lap a freakin' valve? Oh well, I will lament on the loss of that book until the day I die, because it was the recent history of the M-div of the best boat in the fleet, complete with odes and tributes to our lost shipmate.
To whomever took that book, if you still have it, I want it...if you destroyed it because of the things that people wrote in there about you, well, then, all I can say is that I forgive you for taking away a great history, and hopefully, if the San Fran ever goes out to sea again, that M-div will start a new PDL, and keep the tradition going for as long as she is out to sea.
posted by lazlong at 2:22 PM
4 Comments:
another great story to add to the long line of blowing sanitaries tales.
thanks
So now you are blogging huh? That shitstorm, the contamination of the Squadron CMC, and the Commodore onboard were only some of the hilarious parts of the story. ICC and I were up late and oncoming and were some of the first Khaki's on scene, we ran from ASW bay having a smoke and couldn't figure out why they didn't give a 20 degree up after calling away flooding, LOL, until we opened the water tight door....
The craziest thing? The old XO looked at me like I was a dangerous crazy man when I stopped in the middle of cleanup and made a pot of coffee, LOL. I had to get the Doc's "clearance" for that, hehe....He was a unique XO, hahaha....
The Commodore onboard was my ENG on the 755 back in 91, another one of my red headed step children there blew san 1 to san 3 and expelled over 1500 gallons of shyte to lower level, from the port tube nest to the nfo tank bulkhead. 18 hours at pd emergency ventillating and fire hoses for that one.
We had to seperate a MM-nuc first time rider, he was trapped in the lower level head when the shit blew and totally freaked out when he couldn't get out of the stall, hehehe......I guess having 1500 gallons of shyte sprayed on you is a little debillitating.
Good luck on your education shipmate, I enjoyed serving with you onboard.
Aah, I'm glad you found this Danny, it is great to hear from you. Keep in touch!
Your post, "Shit-storm 2002", Reminded me of a story back when I was a young Nub back in the 90's and standing the mid-watch in ERLL on SSBN 728 (second patrol I think). For all you coners and non-submariners, ERLL is Engine Room Lower Level, one of the darkest, oiliest, loudest places in the engine room. A friend once created the saying "Oiliens - in Engine Room Lower Level, no one can hear you scream." So naturally, that is where they put the newest of the new nukes when they first qualify to stand watch.
Twas the night before field day, and all through the boat, not a creature was stirring, not even a relief for a sh*t break . . . . After all, I did miss Christmas, New Years, and my 21st Birthday on this patrol.
I don't know if it was the fine example of Navy cuisine that is Pork Adobo or what, but I had to go like nobody's business. And being that it was field day the next day, everyone was sleeping peacefully in their racks. I was in pain - sweating, maybe. I called around to all the usual places to try and get a relief, but to no avail. A more daring and experienced sailor might have just left and done his business like a civilized man - on a Trident, nothing every changes while your on patrol, so you could take 8 hours of logs from the mess decks and be within about +/- 1 unit on every parameter. But because I was dutiful (or naive) I felt I shouldn't leave my post. So like any enterprising young sailor, I double bagged a heap of Kem-Wipes, took a few for personal use, and headed outboard the starboard main condenser to do my nasty sinful business. Without going into too much detail, it was a bad one, and I was glad I had a bunch of extra Kem-Wipes - not very constituted.
Ahh! Much better!
I finished up my business - Kem-Wipes are surprisingly soft - I wrapped the package for disposal using industrially-strength materials supplied (duct tape, more bags and Kem-Wipes) and deposited it in the sack of oily Kem-Wipes from my hourly rounds. All well and good unless you can see into the future as to what happens to such trash on a submarine.
Typically, trash is taken forward to the TDU (trash disposal unit) at the end of the watch. but since field-day was imminent, I left it to be taken forward at the end of field day. Later that morning, I was relieved, had breakfast, put on my greenie and dutifully field dayed, showered, and hit the rack. A few hours into my somber, my chief came and woke me up to inquire if I was the phantom sh*tter. I can only imagine what ensued as I was peacefully sleeping at the time.
You see after field day, all the trash generated goes to the TDU to be disposed of by the lowest of the low on the boat (strikers, NQP, nubs, non-rates, whatever). It is genuinely a sh*t-job. For those not in the know, the disposal process on a submarine consists of placing the trash in essentially a large soup (TDU can) can with holes perforated all around the can. The trash is placed in the can with weight on the top and bottom and it is sent overboard. Now typically the wet trash (oil, water, food waste) loaded in cans separately from the dry trash (papers and other solid stuff). The dry trash is compacted with a hydraulic ram with a pressure of like a bazillion pounds. It's kind of like your kitchen trash compactor on crack. That way, you can fit more dry trash per can - smashing wet trash would make an awful mess.
See where I am going with this.
I guess the TDU operator mistook my carefully wrapped parcel as dry trash - Santa would have been proud - and proceeded to apply the requisite force to smash my little care package. What must have ensued was a little fountain of gawd-awful stench and mess out of every little hole in the TDU can as it was compacted. Then, everyone that was not on watch was tasked to clean, disinfect, and bless the entire area.
Enter me and my chief discussing with the off-going chief of the watch (some Fire-Control weenie) whether I was the one responsible for the mayhem. In the end, because I was honest about it, had the integrity (naivety?) in standing my post instead of leaving it in my agony, and because it appeared to be an honest mistake (it was), I just got sent up to help finish cleaning up the area. The FC weenie was pretty pissed and wanted to damn me to hell, but my chief went to bat for me (he was such a great guy that we would do anything for him). Even better still is that when I got to the area to clean, everyone was disbanding because it was all cleaned up.
That night at mid-rats (midnight meal before the mid-watch), the reactions ranged from "If I ever find out who dunnit, I'll X . . . " to people seeing the humor in it. My friends of course were laughing their asses off.
To my knowledge, it never got out who was the phantom sh*tter, except probably to the management of course, and to the few close friends that I had entrusted the secret to. Of all the stories that I will take to my grave, this is one of the few that I don't mind retelling.
Ahh the memories . . . .
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