http://home.hamptonroads.com/stories/story.cfm?story=76989&ran=20823


Sub(surface) service from the Virginia

Petty Officer 2nd Class John Selander, a sonar technician, left, is one of more than a dozen men who monitor, in shifts, more than 40 screens of data aboard the Virginia, the Navy's newest nuclear-powered submarine. KATE WILTROUT/THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT.


By KATE WILTROUT, The Virginian-Pilot
 October 20, 2004

ABOARD THE VIRGINIA " It might be nuclear-powered, but make no mistake: the Virginia, the Navy's newest submarine, runs on liquid fuel " strong, hot coffee". Fresh-brewed Folger's is a necessity for the 123 -man crew, most of whom stand six-hour watches twice a day, interrupted with 12 hours to sleep, eat, study, clean and repair machines. 

Because their "days" last 18 hours six on duty, which often means being tethered to a computer screen or a closet-sized room, followed by 12 off , submariners have no rhythm to their days and nights. They know what time and day it is by what food is served: eggs means morning, burgers mean a specific day of the week. Hot meals are served four times a day: 5 a.m., 11 a.m., 5 p.m. and 11 p.m. Throughout it all runs a constant stream of coffee: about 55 pots a day, said Chief Petty Officer Frank Chandler , the boat's head cook.


That is almost five cups per man each day. In the high-tech control room, where sonar technicians decipher sounds from the deep, navigators plot courses and the pilot and co-pilot drive the 377-foot sub, mugs are stowed everywhere: travel mugs are Velcro-strapped to poles; ordinary ceramic mugs are in circular metal frames so coffee doesn't splash.

On Sunday, as the $2.2 billion boat pulsed through the blue-green water , Capt. D.J. Kern stood atop the bridge with two sailors on watch, occasionally sipping coffee to stay warm. When one sailor left the perch more than 30 feet above the sub's hull, he brought an empty white carafe with him on the climb down, along with a request for another pot.

Five years after the Virginia's keel was laid, the sub is finally ready to enter the fleet. It will be commissioned Saturday in Norfolk. Food, and drink are two of the only creature comforts aboard a sub. For all but the top officers, "racks" or bunks, are too cramped for a sailor to sit up in bed.

The capacity to e-mail family is rare. Mail is non-existent. The chief form of entertainment comes from a lengthy list of movies shown each night in the 28-seat crew's mess, called The Blue Ridge Cafe. The space is in use almost all day, whether for meals, coffee breaks, sailors studying or card games.

A cook for 16 years , Chandler has 11 men working for him, all of whom pull 12-hour shifts every day, no days off. Packed to the gills, the sub carries supplies that can feed 125 men for 100 days; 18,000 pounds worth of frozen food.

After three weeks, though, Chandler said, fresh fruits and vegetables give way to canned goods. The eggs and mashed potatoes are dehydrated. That makes pulling into port especially nice: cooks bring aboard local delicacies like tiger prawns and bamboo shoots in Thailand, curry and saffron in the Middle East, crabs and salmon in Alaska.

Chandler said running the kitchen is hard work, but he loves it; especially baking sweets. "I like to cook," he said. "I do it at home. I do it here." Chandler jokes that he likes to fatten up the crew. "The more people that fail the PRT, the happier I am," Chandler said, referring to the physical readiness test "though he knows the captain thinks differently.

Sailors can to gain weight easily because there's so little space to exercise while underway. The Virginia has just two exercise machines aboard. Besides food, some submariners take pleasure in tobacco. Smoking is allowed, albeit with restrictions on the sub. Only two sailors can light up at once, in a tiny spot beside the lone washer and dryer where a fan sucks up the smoke.

 Though sailors can shower every day, they'?re limited to one load of laundry a week. Privacy is almost non-existent for enlisted submariners and all but about a dozen officers, who are accorded more spacious quarters, are enlisted.

Unlike previous submarine classes, the Virginia doesn't have rooms that house 24 or more racks. Some staterooms have three bunks; bigger ones hold 12 . Even so, floor space is so limited that all occupants of a room can't stand at the same time.

Bunks have about 18 inches of space between the mattress and the next bunk. Storage consists of a 3-inch-deep tray beneath each bed. So what makes men willing to endure the deprivations of living aboard a submarine, out of contact with loved ones for weeks or months at a time?

Most say one thing: camaraderie. Regardless of rank or job, the men are tight-knit in a way that few Navy crews are. Seaman David Vigil , a California native who enlisted last year, toils each day in the kitchen  an unappreciated job on most boats. But Vigil likes it: cooking gumbo, making gravies, adapting to challenges and serving meals on time. He likes working in the spot where everyone gathers: "I get to see everybody's faces," he said.

Because the mess seats fewer than 30 men at once, and sailors cram in along the benches, a "culinary specialist" fetches drinks and desserts for his colleagues, usually with a smile or a snappy "Sure, chief."

Vigil also likes serving officers in their wardroom, a small room with a large table that is set each meal with cloth napkins and tablecloth, silver utensils and china dishes. The physical and mental health of the crew is Senior Chief Petty Officer Craig Soleim's job. A corpsman, he's the lone medical officer aboard.

Soleim describes himself as a jack-of-all-trades: He inspects sanitation in the kitchen and wash rooms, tests potable water, monitors radiation exposure and gives out medication. More importantly, though, he's a relief valve for sailors who have trouble adjusting. Soleim said that in the nine years he has been assigned to submarines, one sailor was disqualified from service because he learned the hard way that he was claustrophobic.

Those who volunteer for sub duty ? the crew is all volunteer ? are psychologically screened. Still, even those deemed fit for duty sometimes need help coping with the lack of privacy and limited space. "Submarine sailors, from the day they're stuck on board, the stressors on them are just phenomenal," Soleim said.

Sometimes commanders recommend that the doc talk to a specific sailor. Other times, he hangs out in his closet-sized office. located right outside the chow line,  and waits for people to stop by and chat. "As the corpsman on board, I'm the compassionate liberal," Soleim said. "I give them a hug, pat them on the back." Soleim estimated that about 5 percent of the submarine community, mostly junior sailors, washes out each year for mental health reasons .

 The corpsman said the work all submariners do. and the trust they must have in each other cements the crew. Every sailor on board must be qualified for submarine service or working toward it, meaning they pass a battery of tests for how to operate various systems on board. No one specializes in just one thing: On the Virginia, one sailor who works in the torpedo room, two sonar technicians and one nuclear technician are also divers and rescue swimmers; they stand above deck when the sub drops off or picks up visitors.

Others work in force-protection, armed with rifles or sidearms when subs surface and get close to shore. Everyone is taught how to deal with the two most deadly forces on a submarine: fire and flooding. "Every single person aboard this boat, you're putting your life in their hands," Soleim said. "Damage control is the link to camaraderie."

Unique ways to celebrate bond them, too. Once or twice a year, whether in the Bahamas or Alaska, sailors will plunge off one end of the boat for a "swim call." Exactly halfway through a tour, the crew marks the occasion with a meal of prime rib, crabs and seafood. That celebration may include a "Corn on the Cob" ceremony, where sailors pour chilled cans of corn over the Chief of the Boat, or COB, the highest-ranking enlisted sailor on board.

Petty Officer 1st Class Ron Perpetua says he misses his wife and two children most when he's at sea. But the men he serves with are a family, too. 'There's no closer knit group of guys," Perpetua said. "We sleep, eat and work together. No one else in the world knows what you're doing. It's pretty much like I have 138 other brothers."

Reach Kate Wiltrout at 446-2629 or kate.wiltrout@pilotonline.com .

-----------------------------------------------------------------
Contributed,
YNCS Don Harribine, USN(Ret)
 

Shipmates, Veterans & Military Retirees:

My e-mail and newsletters to veterans and military retirees
is a registered high volume mailer with AOL (America Online®.)    Thank you.