His solution is simple. His men will continue to log the engine’s hours in the book as if it were running. That way when they get back to base at Baltiysk diesel number three will have performed up to expectations and can be rebuilt or replaced. This is another system in the Soviet navy that works, despite regulations.
The second problem is Gindin’s sailors. These are the same young boys who steal potatoes so they can have midnight snacks because they’re hungry. The same guys who carry heavy wrenches back and forth so that they can get out of work. The very same kids who won’t get out of bed in the morning because they claim their fathers are alcoholics. They’re country bumpkins, muzhiks, and prostofiljas, but they are as curious and inventive when the need arises as they are usually bored. Just about every minute of every hour of every day and night of their lives is scheduled for them. They have to do something or they’ll go crazy. It’s called ispytyvat’ sud’bu, or, testing fate, pushing the envelope, just to see what happens.
It’s early afternoon of a lovely day. Gindin has gone up to his cabin to get a technical book when Igor Sheskin, one of his sailors, comes rushing up the companionway, all out of breath and red faced, screaming something about diesel number three.
Gindin jumps off his chair. “What are you talking about?” he demands.
“We can’t stop it!” Sheskin shouts. “It’s gone crazy!” He’s a blond kid with broad shoulders, one of Gindin’s best men. Sheskin is one of those born mechanics, a guy who knows how to use his hands.
There’s no time to ask questions. Gindin slams past the sailor and races headlong down the passageway and the stairs to the motor room. When he gets there, diesel number three is working like it’s been invaded by an evil spirit. It’s shaking nearly off its motor mounts, making crazy noises, belching smoke, and the RPMs are steadily increasing. The engine means to tear itself to pieces, and when it blows it will be like a bomb sending a spray of hot oil and jagged metal pieces in all directions. The motor room will be destroyed, and every wide-eyed sailor in the compartment will be cut to shreds. But none of these boys, not even Sheskin, know what to do.
Gindin has no time to think about the consequences. He rushes up to the engine and hits the EMERGENCY STOP button, with absolutely no effect. Diesel number three has a malevolent mind of its own.
He tries closing down the fuel distribution line, but that has no effect, either. Apparently the engine is siphoning fuel from one of the other distribution lines.
Finally Gindin yanks the handle that controls the air intake line, and almost immediately diesel number three begins to sputter and die, its RPMs slowly coming down and stopping.
The relative silence in the compartment is nearly deafening. Gindin is sure that his sailors can hear his heart slamming against his rib cage as he tries to catch his breath. He wants to tear into these guys. He’d given very specific orders that diesel number three was not to be started for any reason. For just this reason. If the engine had blown apart there would have been a lot of casualties down here, and all of them would have been on his shoulders.
At that moment he feels like slamming his fist in someone’s face. But Gindin is an officer and a gentleman.
Gindin has his sailors line up at attention and demands to know who started diesel number three and why. No one speaks up.
Gindin asks again, and still not one of his sailors speaks up.
Gindin has to go down the line, looking each sailor in the eye as he asks the same questions: “Did you start the engine, and if you did, why?”
Finally Andrey Bazhanov looks down and nods. “I did it,” he says.
Gindin holds himself in check. “I gave orders not to start diesel number three. Why did you disobey?”
“I knew something was wrong with the engine. I just wanted to see how it would work if it was started.”
Gindin reads the sailor the riot act. Bazhanov was young, he was bored, and he wanted to do something, anything, to make his day a little more interesting. They’re all warned that if something like this ever happens again, the guilty sailor will be court-martialed. Probably sent to prison!
Everyone learned a lesson that day. Gindin’s sailors learned that they were to obey orders at all times, and Gindin learned that he has to keep his ear to the ground and his eyes open so that he will know what is going on with his crew and his ship.
Another link has been forged in a chain that binds them together. Gindin does not report the incident to the captain. This hiccup in BCH-5 will stay there, and the sailors appreciate it.
The little incident will come back to pay big benefits at the very end of that same rotation when the Storozhevoy returns to his base at
Baltiysk. According to the engine logs, all five diesels have completed their scheduled life spans. They are to be replaced in the fitting-out process. This job, however, has to be done before Gindin or any of his sailors can go on leave. They’ve been on rotation for six months; everyone just wants to get off the ship, no matter how much they may love him, and go home.
Gindin reports to the assistant division commander who is in charge of all mechanical equipment. Replacing the five diesels should take one month, maybe a week or two more. It’s how long other crews have needed to get the job done.
“So, Senior Lieutenant, you may begin scheduling your crew’s leaves in thirty to forty-five days,” the guy says with a smile. “Good luck.”
Back aboard, Gindin calls a meeting with the six sailors responsible for the diesels to tell them that they can go on leave only after the diesels have been replaced. The sooner the job is finished, the sooner they can go home.
Everyone is eager to get started. This is a very well-motivated bunch of young men.
In order to remove a diesel engine from the ship, all of its supporting systems need to be disconnected, which includes the fuel lines, oil lines, air lines, and electrical cables. Gindin organizes a series of wooden crates in which the parts from each support system, for each diesel, will be labeled and stored after they have been thoroughly cleaned and checked.
Once that job is started, Gindin marches over to the building where the replacement diesels are stored and holds out a bag containing three bottles of spirt, the nearly universal Soviet naval scrip, in front of the depot manager.
“I want my five diesel engines delivered without delay,” Gindin says. “Is this possible?” Usually it takes three to four weeks for a delivery.
The manager grabs the bag and nods enthusiastically. “Lieutenant, if you give me twenty-four hours’ notice, you will have your diesels.”
Seven days later, the old diesels have been completely disconnected, and Gindin calls the depot manager, who is as good as his word. The next day his crew shows up with a lifting crane to remove the old engines and deliver the new ones.
Seven days after that, all the supporting systems have been reconnected and the five new diesels have been run up and checked out.
Gindin reports back to the assistant division commander that the work is done, but the guy doesn’t believe it.
“That’s impossible,” he sputters.
“Please, sir,” Gindin says, smiling. “Stop by yourself and check our work.”
Already Gindin has the reputation at Baltiysk as the young senior lieutenant who is almost always walking around with a grin on his face. The assistant division commander doesn’t have to put up with this kind of shit. “In the first place, Lieutenant, it takes twice that long just to get new diesels delivered, let alone installed.”