“Be No” finished his eight-hour watch commanding the nuclear missile submarine USS Simon Bolivar, returned to his stateroom, and prepared to take a quick shower before going down to the wardroom for supper, when he sensed something was amiss. He pondered the situation for several minutes before realizing what it was. He had not opened the stateroom door. It was not that he had forgotten about opening the door, or that he had left it open earlier.

It was missing.

We had been at sea, submerged, for the past 135 days and were in transit back home. For the last 120 days we had been “on alert,” ready to shoot one, some, or all our 16 ICBMs on a moment’s notice. It would take another two to three weeks to get home. We never went straight from home port to our first alert area, and always took a circuitous route from our last alert area to home. During the transit home we sometimes pulled pranks to break the relative boredom. None of these would diminish our operational readiness, but they could irritate some crew members. The missing door was one of these hijinks.

“Be No,” the second in command of the boat (the Executive Officer, or XO), had earned the sobriquet because he was sometimes called upon to be the chief disciplinarian (or “hard ass’). He seemed to relish this role, and was noted for saying “There will be no (something) until ...”

Anxious to regain the privilege of privacy due his position, Be No started searching nearby areas for his door. This was a standard size door, 30 inches wide and 74 inches high, so it would be hard to hide. It could not have been simply ejected overboard with the trash because (1) it would have to be broken into small pieces to fit in the Trash Disposal Unit, and (2) there had been no TDU operations since he last seen his door. It must be somewhere onboard the submarine, and he was determined to find it. 

On the general announcing system he called, “All hands to their battle stations until further notice. All hands to their battle stations until further notice.”

This meant every individual would be accounted for in a specific location and they could not move about the boat. He was taking no chances that as he searched the boat his door would be moved as well. He commandeered the Chief of the Boat (the senior enlisted person) to accompany him and do the dirty work during the search. Starting forward in the torpedo room, they even checked inside the torpedo tubes, although the door would have to have been broken in half lengthwise to fit into the 19-inch tubes. They proceeded aft compartment by compartment, room by room, and bilge by bilge looking for the door. Ceiling to floor. Behind equipment bolted to the decks. Between the frames that make the ribs of the boat. They checked under the mattress in every crewman’s and officer’s bunk. They checked to see if it was attached to another door of the same size. They even checked the captain’s stateroom. 

It could not be in the reactor compartment because that was kept sealed whenever the reactor was operating, but they looked through the viewing windows and cameras anyways. They checked the spaces behind the panels of gauges and switches that control the steam plant, the reactor, and the electrical distribution. They got all the way aft where the driveshaft exits the boat … and found no door.

Be No was furious. It had to be somewhere onboard, but where? No one knew anything about the missing door, even though he asked everyone as he searched each area. He suspected that it was one of the “A-gangers.” These are the men who maintain and operate the auxiliary equipment such as the scrubbers that remove CO2 from the air, the burners that remove volatile hydrocarbons from the air, the oxygen generators, and such. The A-gangers had a bit of a reputation for parties and pranks, especially Machinist’s Mate First Class Wilbur “Brownie” Brown.

“Secure from battle stations. Secure from battle stations. Return to normal operations,” Be No announced, and most of the crew returned to their off-duty activities: sleeping, eating, watching movies, reading, exercising, or playing games, while the remainder operated the ship.

Not one to be easily defeated, Be No established a special watch. In shifts, 24 hours a day, one of the A-gang acted as his stateroom door. When Be No approached the doorway, either leaving or entering, the doorman would hold out his arms in front of him, one over the other, and rotate as an opening and then a closing door.

They kept this up for the three weeks it took to return to home port. No one complained. No one confessed.

When we arrived in port and had tied up to the pier, the XO announced, “There will be no liberty until my door is returned and in place.”

Three seconds later we heard, “This is the captain. Liberty goes down for the liberty section NOW.”

Be No returned to his stateroom with the human door and found a typed note on his desk. “There is indoor dining and outdoor dining. You have had the unique experience of over-door dining for three weeks.”

Rushing down to the wardroom, he looked in the one place on the entire boat that he had not looked. There, neatly and securely duct-taped, and exactly filling the gap in the C-shaped metal reinforcing bar under the dining table, was his door.

Many of us heard Be No call out from the wardroom even without the aid of the announcing system, “Brownie!!!”

Copyright 2023 by Parker G. Emerson