One fateful mistake will dog the Greeneville crew for life

By Christopher Lehman

As soon as I read about the USS Greeneville sinking the Japanese fishing boat Ehime Maru, killing nine people, I knew what was in store for the sub's crew. I don't mean just the Navy inquiry into the accident, the possible courts-martial of the top officers, or even the hours of retraining and recertification everyone will have to undergo.

The Escape Training Tank at the Naval Submarine Base at Pearl Harbor helps train sailors on submarine escape strategies. However, there's little that can prepare one for the of coping with the close quarters, feelings of blindness and the fear that characterizes submarine tours of duty. Advertiser library photo • April 3, 1997

Submarine life, under any circumstances, means high pressure and constant stress. It demands excellence; mistakes can be fatal. And the Greeneville made a huge mistake. So every last man aboard will take a beating, mentally and emotionally, from himself and from his comrades. He'll have the feeling of being associated with a marked ship, which can lead to further error and the potential for more catastrophe.

I've seen it happen firsthand.

On July 1, 1989, I reported for duty aboard the USS Houston, a Los Angeles-class attack submarine like the Greeneville. This was my third sub tour, but the truth was, I didn't much like submarines — I'd never gotten used to the close quarters, the feeling of blindness, the undeniable fear. I'd just been made chief of the auxiliary division, responsible for about 70 percent of the ship's mechanical workings. And I'd heard the talk about the Houston around the piers.

The word was it was a bad-luck boat. Its number was SSN-713, and guys referred to it as the Lucky 7 with an unlucky 13 on its back. A few weeks earlier, during filming of the movie "The Hunt for Red October" off the California coast, it snagged the towline of a tugboat and sank it, drowning a member of the tugboat's crew. Two days later, the Houston got entangled in a fishing boat's net — no injuries, but another mistake. By the time I came aboard, the boat had a reputation for serious material and morale problems. Still, I thought, how bad could it be?

My first day, I met with the chief of the boat. He had his head in his hands as if he were deep in thought, or pain. He told me my whole division was in disarray. Then I met the commanding officer. I'll never forget the first words out of his mouth: "Chief," he said, "your division is crippling my ship." All I could say was "Yes, sir, that's why I'm here — to fix all of that."

As we headed out to sea for a training run, I had a bad feeling. Soon after we submerged, I met the chief engineer in the torpedo room. As we talked, I glanced behind his shoulder. I couldn't believe my eyes. Across the room, in a scene that looked like something out of an animated cartoon, sea water was gushing through a main air vent.

"Is this some weird joke to test my reactions?" I thought. I turned to the chief engineer, who stood frozen, staring at the water with a look that said it all: This was not a drill.

The flooding alarm sounded, signaling one of a submariner's worst fears: uncontrolled water rushing in. This was what all the training had been about. If the men in control of the ship failed now in any way, we all were simply doomed.

The chief engineer and I ran toward the air vent to investigate but were nearly thrown off our feet as the sub's nose turned upward and it drove hard toward the surface. But the weight of the water we were taking on abruptly halted our forward motion. We began an eerie slide backward for what seemed like an eternity. All about the sub, silence set in; the only sound seemed to be that of our main engines, fighting to overcome the massive water drag.

Then, slowly, we started moving upward again, at an angle so steep we were forced nearly parallel to the deck. Those of us in the torpedo room clung to the stowage racks. Letting go meant a possible 40-foot free-fall, or sliding down the length of the deck like a cue ball heading for a pocket. We could only pray that the torpedo shackles would hold the 3,000-pound beasts that lay beside us. If one broke loose, it could have smashed us, or caused an explosion on impact.

A second alarm sounded. The word was passed: "Toxic gas!" Sea water had apparently entered the battery area. It was time to don an oxygen mask, but I couldn't let go to get to one.

Suddenly, the sub pierced the ocean surface and leveled off. I let go, grabbed a mask and headed for the emergency damage control gear. "The worst is over," I thought.

Then the sub pitched sharply forward. It was obvious that the thousands of gallons of sea water we'd taken on, equaling tons of negative weight, had shifted toward the front of the sub, forcing us back into the ocean depths.

The crew of the USS Columbia shows a sub's work space is tight. A mistake like the Greeneville's can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Advertiser library photo • Feb. 25, 2001

My thoughts became trance-like. I don't remember seeing a soul or hearing any more sounds. I remember thinking, "Today I'll die." I remember thinking that my fear of submarines had finally caught up with me and that there's no death worse than dying in the way you most fear. As I listened to the walls crack, my mind's eye began to see them closing in. I didn't think of anyone or anything in particular; I was ready to accept my fate.

I don't know what was going on in the control room that day, nor did I really know the men on duty. But I do know their courage saved us. Their hours of critical training and their steadfastness came together, and somehow the descent slowed, stopped, and we began to rise. This time, the crew managed an emergency blow — the same maneuver the Greeneville was performing on its fateful day. It forces a massive amount of air into the main ballast tanks, rapidly expelling the ballast water in them, so the ship quickly achieves positive buoyancy and rises like a cork. Our speed overcame the weight of the water, and we shot out of the ocean like a breaching whale.

As we stabilized, I began to check for damage. I moved about the ship, coming upon grown men crying in corners, curled up in shock. Later, we learned the ventilation system's main snorkel valve had malfunctioned. We'd been unaware of this because someone had turned off the audible signal of the valve's rhythmic opening and closing.

Back in port, the crew was assembled on the pier, where we were told we could be evaluated to determine our further suitability for submarine duty. Those who exhibited signs of real mental trauma were either individually escorted to family services or encouraged to go. But I felt the higher-ups hoped most of us would shake it off and go on as though nothing much had happened.

Many of us did, but the sad reality is that some of my shipmates never mentally made it back up that day. They were lost emotionally and are still out there, somewhere, trying to get back home. I know at least eight men never returned to duty. Over the following months, more would leave, virtually all citing that terrifying incident.

There was another barrage of training cycles, with inspectors and certifiers descending upon the ship to assess the entire crew again. We got lots of help, but probably not the kind we really needed. We were labeled as the boat that couldn't do anything right. That tag became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Exactly one month later, we had an electrical fire. A navigation error soon after caused a close call with a torpedo deployed from a helicopter in a training exercise. Another caused us to lose an expensive sonar device. When we returned to home port after that one, our CO was relieved of his post. Several months later, the Houston was put into dry dock for repairs, and that's where she was when I left submarine duty.

I wasn't sorry to leave the pressures of submarine life: the isolation, the separation from family and loved ones for up to 90 days in a constantly hostile environment; the grueling training; the necessity of 150 minds pulling together in perfect sync; the need not to think about the living ocean that waits mere inches from your head.

But when I read about a submarine disaster — like last summer's sinking of the Russian sub Kursk, or the Greeneville's collision — they all come back.

I hope the Navy is thinking about the Greeneville crew's reaction and feelings. I hope it will do more than send in inspectors and certifiers, and change the rules about civilian guests aboard submarines. I hope it will understand the crew needs more than a token offer of evaluation and counseling.

Most of all, I hope the Navy will realize it's not enough to make the top officers pay for the Greeneville's mistake, then let the ship slide back into the water with a crew carrying on as though nothing had ever happened. I hope it will give the Greeneville's men the help they really need — and the attention they deserve.

Lehman served in the Navy for 21 years, 10 of them as a submariner; he works for a Department of Defense contractor.