Being an HT sure ain’t the most glamorous job in the Navy, but it does have its rewards at times. On board the USS Dixon, I became a Nuke Pipefitter in the 56 alpha shop, an insulation specialist in the 57alpha shop, and Nuclear Biological Decon qualified Investigator on the in-port fire party. I could weld, braze, fabricate raw materials into finished products as well as perform vital functions on the best Damage Control team I’d ever seen. Now these are the high points of my accomplishments. The bad part was that I was still a turd chaser.
And turd chasers(as with all sailors) always have to do their part by taking their turn in the barrel. Case in point was the 750 gallon sewage holding tank job order on the USS Sculpin SSN 590. How I can remember the name and numbers after thirtysome long years is beyond me, but here’s how this one episode went.
There were large ball valves that would close the flow off to the holding tank when it became fulls full, then at the opportune moment a sea valve was opened and the tank was filled with compressed air forcing the sewage to be emptied into the sea. Well this tank had become sluggish. The sewage drain pipes leading into the holding tank had nearly closed shut from the heavy accumulation of calcium deposits from seawater flushing, and who knows what else that ran down those pipes. Our job as HTs was to open the pipes up so they were operable again. Drain snakes were useless on this calcium since it was harder than concrete, so we had to cut it out with the high pressure hydro-blaster. The hydro-blaster was similar to a pressurized car washer, but the pressure was much, much greater. I recall the water pressure could be regulated to a maximum 8,500 PSI. This rig had an accessory kit where if applied with the right pressure, tips and abrasives, it could cut through several inches of steel, or lop off your hand/leg without a problem. We're only concerned with cutting a path for extra large turds today though.
Getting to the pipes we had to clean meant crawling right into the sewage holding tank and forcing a charged high pressure hose and cutting nozzle up into these drain pipes. This meant stripping some poor bubblehead’s lower rack down, and removing the high pressure manhole cover beneath his mattress. Fat sailors would not fit, and tall sailors(I’m 6' 4") had a heck of a time snaking down into that hole.
Although the tank was thoroughly flushed out with bleach and detergent, the smell of ammonia was overwhelming to say the least. We wore airline breathers, overalls, rubber boots and gloves, but that was a futile effort at staying clean and didn’t mask the smell one bit. Louisiana Cajun, HT3 Peter Auzenne, was first to take a turn in the barrel. With an air chisel and paint scraper, he knocked out as much of the calcium out of the pipes that he could reach. We’d spare each other every 30 minutes or so. I went next and got to try the hydro nozzle first.
One HT was in the hole, another acted as communicator for the guy in the hole to another guy standing by on the sound powered phone, who in turn was talking to the guys on deck operating the mechanics of the hydro-blaster. There was no safe, fast way to shut this puppy down. Time flys fast when you're having fun and it seemed as soon as I got started, the pressure was cut off and it was someone else’s turn. I managed to get one of the three pipes cleared out.
Then as I started to get out of the tank, a warm stream of liquid substance drizzled all down by back. It was coming out of a pipe behind me. I started screaming an hollering for my buddies to go an get the culprit that was using the SECURED urinals. They just stood there and laughed at me. When I got out of that hole, I was ready to kill someone. The suspect urinal was the one the Chiefs used. When I reached the head no one was to be found, but the plastic SECURED sign was left dangling from its dog chain that once blocked the urinal’s usage. Oh, Well. This guy from Alabama was up next. He gets into the tank. We fire up the blaster, and then after a few minutes he starts hollering too. Now he’s getting a golden shower before he even gets started! Now I can see the humor! Now I'M standing there like a dummy and laughing MY butt off. I went up to the head again and the chain is still swinging, but no culprit again!
The heck with this nonsense. We started the blaster up again and let Alabama finish his pipe out then took a break for lunch. No one appreciated us standing in the Dixon chow line. Even though we cleaned up a little, we still sort of stunk. Our noses were burnt out, so we had no idea how bad we did smell. It was fun in a demented sorta way.
When lunch hour was over, I grabbed a 15# CO2 fire extinguisher that was at the top of the accommodation ladder in the Dixon’s vestibule. Peter asked me, "What you need that for?" "Pay back." was all I said. It was Pete’s turn again. No sooner did he crawl into the hole the familiar warm stream started to flow. We were to late to try my plan out. And Peter was really hot now, he crawled out and refused to go back down into the hole. We stood around arguing, then I said the heck with it and donned my stinky overalls, airline mask and crawled into that stinkin’ hole. This time I took the CO2 bottle with me. To hell with the blaster, I’m gonna get this guy. I just sat there and waited. I didn’t wait too awful long and that all too familiar stream started to flow again. I stuffed the CO2 horn over the offending pipe and squeezed the valve for all it was worth till the bottle emptied out. 45 seconds was all it’d take. The flow of CO2 had stopped. Pretty white snow covered that pipe now. I had ‘em fire up the blaster again and finished clearing out the last pipe.
Meanwhile a mad O.O.D., foaming at the mouth, Chief was running around the Sculpin screaming and hollering all kinds of bloody murder. He was wearing what was once his finest set of polyester dress whites and all of his fruit salad. Now he was covered from kneecaps to cover, in this gritty, green/gray/black, stinky substance. Even his back was covered in the crud as he ran into the bulkhead behind him, in his attempt to flee the space. The Chief went topside and chewed on our hydro-blaster mates, but they just stood there and stared at the lunatic chief. Brave as they were, they in turn sent him our way.
As the stinky chief stood nose to nose with Petty Officer Auzenne, screaming and a hollering, Auzenne, went and checked the head in question. Sure enough, "Chief, I’m so sorry for what happened to you and your uniform. It seems as though somebody played a nasty trick on you and removed the "SECURED" sign from this urinal. I will report this offense to my CPO when I get back up to the shop."
After we finished the job, we cleaned up our work area as best we could and knocked off ship’s work. We let the night's duty section get rid of the offending CO2 bottle. It just goes to show, that sometimes stuff 'CAN' flow uphill!
dz
And turd chasers(as with all sailors) always have to do their part by taking their turn in the barrel. Case in point was the 750 gallon sewage holding tank job order on the USS Sculpin SSN 590. How I can remember the name and numbers after thirtysome long years is beyond me, but here’s how this one episode went.
There were large ball valves that would close the flow off to the holding tank when it became fulls full, then at the opportune moment a sea valve was opened and the tank was filled with compressed air forcing the sewage to be emptied into the sea. Well this tank had become sluggish. The sewage drain pipes leading into the holding tank had nearly closed shut from the heavy accumulation of calcium deposits from seawater flushing, and who knows what else that ran down those pipes. Our job as HTs was to open the pipes up so they were operable again. Drain snakes were useless on this calcium since it was harder than concrete, so we had to cut it out with the high pressure hydro-blaster. The hydro-blaster was similar to a pressurized car washer, but the pressure was much, much greater. I recall the water pressure could be regulated to a maximum 8,500 PSI. This rig had an accessory kit where if applied with the right pressure, tips and abrasives, it could cut through several inches of steel, or lop off your hand/leg without a problem. We're only concerned with cutting a path for extra large turds today though.
Getting to the pipes we had to clean meant crawling right into the sewage holding tank and forcing a charged high pressure hose and cutting nozzle up into these drain pipes. This meant stripping some poor bubblehead’s lower rack down, and removing the high pressure manhole cover beneath his mattress. Fat sailors would not fit, and tall sailors(I’m 6' 4") had a heck of a time snaking down into that hole.
Although the tank was thoroughly flushed out with bleach and detergent, the smell of ammonia was overwhelming to say the least. We wore airline breathers, overalls, rubber boots and gloves, but that was a futile effort at staying clean and didn’t mask the smell one bit. Louisiana Cajun, HT3 Peter Auzenne, was first to take a turn in the barrel. With an air chisel and paint scraper, he knocked out as much of the calcium out of the pipes that he could reach. We’d spare each other every 30 minutes or so. I went next and got to try the hydro nozzle first.
One HT was in the hole, another acted as communicator for the guy in the hole to another guy standing by on the sound powered phone, who in turn was talking to the guys on deck operating the mechanics of the hydro-blaster. There was no safe, fast way to shut this puppy down. Time flys fast when you're having fun and it seemed as soon as I got started, the pressure was cut off and it was someone else’s turn. I managed to get one of the three pipes cleared out.
Then as I started to get out of the tank, a warm stream of liquid substance drizzled all down by back. It was coming out of a pipe behind me. I started screaming an hollering for my buddies to go an get the culprit that was using the SECURED urinals. They just stood there and laughed at me. When I got out of that hole, I was ready to kill someone. The suspect urinal was the one the Chiefs used. When I reached the head no one was to be found, but the plastic SECURED sign was left dangling from its dog chain that once blocked the urinal’s usage. Oh, Well. This guy from Alabama was up next. He gets into the tank. We fire up the blaster, and then after a few minutes he starts hollering too. Now he’s getting a golden shower before he even gets started! Now I can see the humor! Now I'M standing there like a dummy and laughing MY butt off. I went up to the head again and the chain is still swinging, but no culprit again!
The heck with this nonsense. We started the blaster up again and let Alabama finish his pipe out then took a break for lunch. No one appreciated us standing in the Dixon chow line. Even though we cleaned up a little, we still sort of stunk. Our noses were burnt out, so we had no idea how bad we did smell. It was fun in a demented sorta way.
When lunch hour was over, I grabbed a 15# CO2 fire extinguisher that was at the top of the accommodation ladder in the Dixon’s vestibule. Peter asked me, "What you need that for?" "Pay back." was all I said. It was Pete’s turn again. No sooner did he crawl into the hole the familiar warm stream started to flow. We were to late to try my plan out. And Peter was really hot now, he crawled out and refused to go back down into the hole. We stood around arguing, then I said the heck with it and donned my stinky overalls, airline mask and crawled into that stinkin’ hole. This time I took the CO2 bottle with me. To hell with the blaster, I’m gonna get this guy. I just sat there and waited. I didn’t wait too awful long and that all too familiar stream started to flow again. I stuffed the CO2 horn over the offending pipe and squeezed the valve for all it was worth till the bottle emptied out. 45 seconds was all it’d take. The flow of CO2 had stopped. Pretty white snow covered that pipe now. I had ‘em fire up the blaster again and finished clearing out the last pipe.
Meanwhile a mad O.O.D., foaming at the mouth, Chief was running around the Sculpin screaming and hollering all kinds of bloody murder. He was wearing what was once his finest set of polyester dress whites and all of his fruit salad. Now he was covered from kneecaps to cover, in this gritty, green/gray/black, stinky substance. Even his back was covered in the crud as he ran into the bulkhead behind him, in his attempt to flee the space. The Chief went topside and chewed on our hydro-blaster mates, but they just stood there and stared at the lunatic chief. Brave as they were, they in turn sent him our way.
As the stinky chief stood nose to nose with Petty Officer Auzenne, screaming and a hollering, Auzenne, went and checked the head in question. Sure enough, "Chief, I’m so sorry for what happened to you and your uniform. It seems as though somebody played a nasty trick on you and removed the "SECURED" sign from this urinal. I will report this offense to my CPO when I get back up to the shop."
After we finished the job, we cleaned up our work area as best we could and knocked off ship’s work. We let the night's duty section get rid of the offending CO2 bottle. It just goes to show, that sometimes stuff 'CAN' flow uphill!
dz
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