Mutiny: The True Events That Inspired The Hunt for Red October

From 1600 to 1800, more ship cleaning—this time not only the duty stations but every square centimeter of the ship is washed and polished. That includes the crew’s cubricks and the officers’ cabins.

From 1800 to 1900 is dinner, and from 1900 until 2030 is another free period. But this is one of the times when sailors and officers alike are expected to play catch-up with whatever they didn’t have a chance to finish earlier. And there’s always some of that.

A warship at sea, even in time of peace, is an extremely high-maintenance master that demands loving care and attention every minute of every day.

From 2030 until 2100 everyone aboard is served evening tea. The sailors get one slice of bread while the officers get bread, butter, and cookies.

Then until 2200 hours, or 10:00 P.M., it’s time to prepare for bed, when it’s lights-out, except for the officer of the day and his sailor-assistant, the on-duty officers and the sailors in their divisions, and the on-call officers who are expected to take over if the duty officers need to step away from their posts for whatever reasons.

In an emergency, like what happened in the Mediterranean Sea when the Storozhevoy was on the way to Cuba, everyone is on duty; no one rests. At any other given time one-third of the ship’s personnel are on duty, one-third are on call, and one-third are off duty.

When Boris goes on duty just after the morning’s flag ceremony, he collects his crew of seven sailors and one midshipman in the midshipmen’s mess and after a few words leads them down to the machinery spaces. Among his crew are a pair of diesel specialists who watch over the engines that generate the ship’s electricity, one electrician who makes sure the power distribution equipment and panels are maintained in working order, one steam specialist who makes certain that the equipment and piping to create and manage steam for heating water and the ship’s compartments work, one fuel specialist who not only monitors how much fuel the ship is using and how much is left but also makes sure that the fuel pumps are up to par, and one midshipman who is in training for a job like Gindin’s.

The last two of Boris’s crew are the gas turbine specialists whose job is to make sure that the two marching engines and the pair of boost engines are doing what they’re supposed to do. As soon as these two guys get to the engine room and before the old crew is relieved, the specialists check the books. Each of the engines has its own log in which the gas turbine specialists record the oil pressure, temperature, RPMs, air pressure, and a host of other readings, along with any problems that may have cropped up during the shift. Then they physically inspect all four engines, making sure that nothing is wrong, nothing is leaking, and all the gauges are reading what they’re supposed to be reading, and then they finally sign the books. That means these two guys have accepted responsibility for the engines, under Gindin’s supervision, and the old crew can go on standby for the next four hours.

Of course if it’s one of the alternate Mondays the officer will have to take his crew up to their cubrick and teach them about Marx and Lenin and how the great Soviet experiment is a model for all mankind. It doesn’t matter if the men had worked nonstop their entire shift and are filthy dirty, covered in oil and grease, and just want to get a little sleep; Marx and Lenin come first.

The worst part is when Potulniy decides that he wants to conduct a uniform inspection on deck. It’s usually on these occasions when, covered in oil, Boris is rushing to his sailors’ cubricks to make sure that they are cleaned up and their uniforms are in order and ready for inspection that he runs into a fellow officer, all spick-and-span.

“So, Boris, how is it going, then?” the officer asks sarcastically, knowing full well exactly how it’s going. He’s been there himself before and will probably be in the same spot again before long. It’s just a little joke they have with each other. “Poshel na khyi” (go fuck yourself), Boris says tiredly but good-naturedly.