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ОглавлениеKEY FACTS
Abbreviation:
CT
Nicknames:
The Constitution State, The Nutmeg State
Capital:
Hartford
Flower:
Mountain laurel
Tree:
Charter white oak
Bird:
American robin
Motto:
Qui transtulit sustinet (‘He who is transplanted, still sustains’ – Hm, loses in translation I suspect)
Well-known residents and natives:
Aaron Burr, Dean Acheson, George W. Bush (43rd President), Benedict Arnold, Ethan Allen, Noah Webster, Samuel Colt, P.T. Barnum, J.P. Morgan, Charles Goodyear, Charles Ives, Al Capp, Benjamin Spock, William Buckley, John Gregory Dunne, Ira Levin, E. Annie Proulx, Rosalind Russell, Katharine Hepburn, Robert Mitchum, Ernest Borgnine, Ed Begley, Paul Newman, Joanne Woodward, Glenn Close, Meg Ryan, Christopher Walken, Christopher Lloyd, Seth McFarlane, Gene Pitney, Dave Brubeck, Karen and Richard Carpenter, Jose Feliciano, Michael Bolton, Moby.
CONNECTICUT
‘My travels so far have already taught me that Nature did not fashion Stephen Fry to serve in submarines …’
Only Delaware and neighbouring Rhode Island are smaller than the Constitution State. As it happens, the seven smallest states in mainland America are all in New England and most, like Connecticut, make up in history, wealth, population density and dazzling scenery what they lack in size.
The name derives from the Mohican word quinnitukqut, which Scrabble-winning entry apparently means ‘place of long tidal river’. This doesn’t quite satisfactorily explain the silent second ‘c’ in my opinion. Never mind. It all adds to the mystique.
The whole of Connecticut’s shoreline faces Long Island and the body of water is therefore Long Island Sound rather than open Atlantic Ocean. This geography leads to a calm and balmy climate and a strategically ideal situation for submarine pens.
My taxi and I are headed for Groton, CT, where on the River Thames in New London can be found the United States Navy’s Submarine Base, ‘the Submarine Capital of the World’.
The Springfield
I am led on board, well, shoved down a tight, clambery hatchway and here I am, in a nuclear submarine, all six foot four and a half of me.
I am shown round by Petty Officer James Poton, a shy, soft-spoken and highly intelligent young man who answers my footling questions with grace and humour.
‘And here, Stephen,’ Americans like to use first names as much as possible, ‘is the control room. This is where we dive and drive the boat from. We have a helmsman and a planesman who controls the rudder and bow planes, then over here you have the stern planes on the back of the ship.’
‘Wow. And this is the weapons station is it?’ I point at a collection of screens and controls.
‘Stephen, this is exactly where the solutions for the weapons are plotted. Fire control takes bearings from Sonar and they plot solutions on the contacts.’
‘It’s like a gaming arcade.’
‘Actually, Stephen, this weapons lodge console is a little more expensive than a typical arcade game.’
I suppose James is used to visitors asking what the various buttons and screens are for and, in particular, he must be accustomed to hearing them beg to be allowed to use the periscope. This is a big moment for me: countless films and TV series can’t prepare one for the actual feeling of that device under one’s control, with its fluid hydraulic hiss and gently insistent physical pull. I spin it around, pulling on its motorcycle throttle zoom and burbling a mixture of Royal Navy (Above Us the Waves) and US (Crimson Tide) Navy jargon. ‘Now hear this. You have the conn, Number One. Steady … steady … up ‘scope, chaps …’ and so on.
We are aboard the Springfield, a hunter-killer nuclear submarine built for the great Cold War game that was played out across the oceans of the world between the US and the USSR for more than forty years. Nowadays the Springfield is mostly deployed for … oh, I am so sorry, I am not allowed to tell you or I would have to hunt you and kill you. Let us just say there are still uses for a nuclear submarine in today’s volatile world.
Actually, PO Poton does attempt to explain to me what the strategic purpose of the nuclear submarine fleet in the post-Cold-War era is, but it seems all a bit vague and jargon-rich for me to grasp. Either that or I am too obsessed with the quotidian detail of life on one of these cramped tubes. Everywhere I bump my head. Everywhere I am in the way. There is nowhere to sit down unless you are eating or operating some fearsome communication, navigation or weaponry technology. Every single spare inch of wall and ceiling (though where one ends and the other begins is a moot point) is taken up with wiring, ducting, piping, lagging and strange snaking coils of nameless substance that terminate every now and again in a switch or control panel. For all the astounding quantities of money these babies cost, they are severely, but severely functional. Not one penny appears to have been expended in the service of aesthetics or fun. Which is, I suppose, as it should be.
The sleeping quarters or ‘racks’ are cruelly Spartan. The only concession to privacy a thin curtain, the only offering to spare time an LCD screen screwed into the rack above, fed by a Sony PlayStation, so that DVDs and games can be enjoyed lying on one’s back.
On the wall of the mess, which is in reality like a small traditional roadside diner, hangs an original Springfield Rifle, in honour of the town of Springfield, Massachusetts, even though the vessel is in fact named for Springfield, Illinois (it being a naval tradition to name submarines after state capitals) – otherwise, aside from the obligatory ketchup and hot-sauce bottles, there is not much to see. No exterior view of course, no portholes.
It seems to me inconceivable that men (and only men can be submariners in the United States Navy) could spend any length of time in one of these without being sent entirely mad. I cannot imagine myself ‘under way’ for more than two days without screaming to be let off.
‘What’s the longest tour of duty?’ I ask.
‘Stephen, it’s about six months.’
‘Good Lord. Any more and I suppose you’d all go mad?’
‘Actually, Stephen, the only consideration that limits how long we can be under way is the amount of food we can carry. We could stay out indefinitely if we could carry enough provisions.’
James and all the other submariners I speak to say that they cannot wait to be under way again. Aside from missing their families, they love it, life below the waves.
I can’t even console myself with the thought that it is because they are all short enough to nip about without banging their head every five minutes, for I meet an officer who is at least two inches taller than me.
‘What’s your greatest fear when you’re under way?’
James looks at me. ‘In a word, fire, Stephen.’
That was two words, but I let it go.
Fire Training
I say my goodbyes to the crew of the Springfield and am escorted to the fire-drill training centre on the base.
Fire is as great an enemy as the one a submarine crew may be tasked to hunt down. So much so that every submariner who goes to sea must take a fire-fighting course. I am to join a fire crew in the position of rookie submariner and be taught how to put out various different kinds of conflagration.
Once more I am made to look like ten types of doofus: all dressed up in hood, gloves, helmet, boiler suit and goggles, I loom and stagger about the place, a powerful hose in my hands, a liability to all.
Petty Officer McDade has been assigned the dread task of being my mentor for this drill. He recites to me, by heart, an explanation of the ‘Training Time Out’ or TTO which might be called at any time if there is an emergency:
‘A TTO may be called in any training situation when a student or instructor expresses concern for personal safety or need for clarification of procedures or requirements exists. TTO is also an appropriate means for a student experiencing undue pain, heat stress or other serious physical discomfort to obtain relief.’
Mm. Undue pain and heat stress, eh? I begin to sweat under my goggles.
‘TTO shall be called verbally and/or using the hand signal, a raised fist accompanied by a waving motion as necessary to attract attention. The exercise shall be stopped, the situation shall be examined …’
The idea is for me to rush into a replica of the submarine engine rooms which will be on fire. PO McDade will be in front of me and a guy called Ralph behind. Between us we will be carrying the hose.
‘Don’t kneel, make sure you sit on your haunches,’ says Ralph.
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
‘The radiation of heat to the metal deckplates could burn your knees.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I will start,’ says McDade, ‘then, at a signal from me, you will take your right hand to the front of the hose …’
‘Which will be bucking like a bronco,’ adds Ralph, helpfully.
‘You will grab the pistol grip and we will swap places. I go to the back of the line, while you take over fire-fighting duties.’
‘I will be behind you supporting you to make sure you don’t fall over,’ says Ralph.
‘Which way is the pressure of the water likely to impel me, back or forward?’
‘Yes.’
My travels so far have already taught me that nature did not fashion Stephen Fry to serve in submarines, to race yachts, to hunt the wild lobster or to run for political office – to that list I can now confidently add ‘to fight fires’.
I have a feeling, however, as I leave Connecticut and point the taxi back north to the state of Vermont that something awaits me there that will suit me right down to my socks.
