By The Continuous News Desk

Published: March 1, 2010

Following are excerpts from a journal written by Josh Smith, 11 Connects news anchor, during his recent assignment on the U.S.S. Greeneville based at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

Tuesday, January 12th
4 p.m.
On board the U.S.S. Greeneville

Who needs an alarm clock?  Far before the 5:30 a.m. blast of the hotel alarm clock, my eyes were wide open.  So were Phillip’s. 

We’d heard that this would happen, that our body clocks would wake long before the alarm clocks because of the five-hour time difference.

After a hotel breakfast on pineapple (delicious as promised) and coffee (ditto), we were off to meet Lt. Cmdr. Dave Benham at Pearl Harbor Naval Station. 

He and I had spoken and emailed dozens of times over the past several months, so it was great to finally meet him in person.  As promised, he was waiting alongside a white 12-passenger van, our transit around Pearl Harbor Naval Station and the Navy’s Training Center on Ford Island.
First stop: the Navy’s submarine fire training facility.  On the way across the bridge spanning Pearl Harbor to Ford Island, we spotted the USS Arizona Memorial, the place were so many Americans died and the country was staggered by the reality of a coming war.  A stunning sight, really.  I found myself wishing my dad could be here.  The son of a World War II vet, he has a real interest and reverence for the people and events that defined his father’s prime years. 

At the training center (wait until you see this video), we watched submariners run through a drill simulating a fire emergency in the sub’s engine room.  We interviewed a trainer from Knoxville, Tennessee, and he took us to the flood training center next door where we watched a group of submariners frantically trying to stop water gushing out of pipes in a 3 story tall room.

Off to the Pearl Harbor Naval Station for interviews with the Navy’s Chief of Staff for the Submarine Force in the Pacific Fleet as well as the Commodore of Submarine Squadron ONE.  Then, we hurriedly dumped our luggage out of the van and onto a small boat, made our last cell phone calls home for the next two days, and boarded a BSP, a transport from shore to ocean on small boat called the Harrier. 

On our left were Navy ships secured at their docks.  On our right were Navy subs, only their ominous black hulls visible above the water line.  Ahead, I saw the USS Missouri, the massive ship on which the U.S. and Japan signed the armistice ending World War II.  Next to the Missouri, we caught another glimpse of the Arizona Memorial.  Side by side.  The beginning and the end.

Turn left and we were on our way through Pearl Harbor’s main channel.  Phillip and I took the opportunity to shoot a stand-up.  That’s TV talk for a segment featuring me reporting on camera.  Just as we finished, I saw it - the U.S.S. Greeneville waiting to take us to sea.

On the top to boat, we saw a line of men standing at attention.  All but two were in uniform.  The remaining two were in swim gear, apparently ready to dive in after us if we tripped in the transfer from our boat to the sub.

Good thinking, I muttered to myself.

A metal walkway dropped and we scrambled to gather our mountain of TV equipment and small carry-on luggage.  But a man said not to worry - the gear would be moved for us.  What a relief!  How we were going to hoist the footlocker-sized metal camera carrying case from boat to sub and down the hole WHILE holding onto a ladder was beyond me.

An email sent a few weeks back prepared us for the carefully worded protocol that came next.

The COB, or Chief of the Boat, would salute.  Do no salute back, we were told.  Respond to the salute with a “Good morning, sir.“  We did.  And then, as instructed, we each blurted, “Permission to come aboard, sir.“ 

“Permission granted,“ the COB said with a broad and winning smile.

Down the ladder, through a passage, and into a small room we later learned was “Crew’s Mess” also known as “The Davy Crockett Lounge.“  The pioneer-statesman born in Greeneville could never have dreamed of the day when nuclear subs would lurk in the sea.  That one would have a dining room named in his honor?.... forgetaboutit.

Waiting for us was a small group of smiling men in blue, and we soon learned they’d be our designated escorts for the duration of our stay.  They led us to the nearby ward room, the dining room for Commander A.C. Carullo, the 9th Captain of the U.S.S. Greeneville, Tennessee.  Soon, Captain Carullo and other members joined us at the table for ten.  Lunch was served, a spicy bean soup follow by bowls of beef and chicken, flour tortillas (it was Taco Tuesday on the Greeneville), corn, and rice.  Drinks in big pitchers with bowls of taco toppings filled the center of the table. 

Delicious.

Our escorts led us to our berthing; pockets of space stacked three high. 

Mine is in the middle.

Our tour of the Greeneville began immediately with interviews, demonstrations, and an intense visit in the Control Room where men crowded around equipment as the USS Greeneville made her initial dive.

I’m now 3 levels below the Control Room in an out-of-the way space right next to one of the torpedo tubes.  More later.

Tuesday, January 12th
10 p.m.
On board the U.S.S. Greeneville

From lunch with the Captain to dinner in the crew’s mess.  Lots more people.  Lots more laughter.  Options:  BBQ Chicken or Baked Halibut.  With very limited seating, meals are taken in shifts on this boat.  So the urge to enjoy a leisurely meal is dashed by the knowledge that your buddies are waiting for a place to sit.

After the last bite, I was ready for bed.  But our schedule included more shoots, more interviews, and more of an understanding about this amazing boat and the men who make it work. 

Some, like a torpedo man named Anthony, are barely 20 years old.  It’s his first sub, he told me, and he’s excited about the upcoming deployment.

Time to hit the rack.  My trip to the shower was a hoot.  You’ll actually get to see “the head” in the TV show, an all stainless steel bathroom that requires coordination and an all-business abandonment of personal modesty.

Me.  Typing on a laptop in a submarine.  Go figure.