Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“All right, listen up.” Hardy’s tone matched his expression — both were stern, almost angry. “The CNO has given us one more patrol to do, one that will be more difficult than the last few we’ve done. We’ll be getting underway on May 13th, about sixty days from now. I can’t tell you our destination or what our mission is until we’re underway, but I can tell you that we will have guests aboard.” That started a chorus of whispers in the ranks, but that stopped as the Captain continued.

“This boat not only has to be made ready for patrol, but all the preparations made for the decommissioning have to be turned around. And there are a lot of deficiencies that have to be corrected.” This earned the crew a hard glare from Hardy.

“Anyone who was scheduled to transfer off Memphis will have their orders deferred until we finish this patrol. All leaves are canceled, and until this boat is completely ready for sea, the crew will go to port and starboard duty sections.”

That raised a real murmur, almost a groan. “Port and starboard” meant that half the crew would stay aboard after the working day was finished. On Navy subs in port, part of the crew always stayed aboard each night to deal with emergencies and monitor the reactor, which was never left unattended, but those tasks didn’t take half the crew.

“Understand, this patrol is not my idea, but come mid-May, we will get underway and this boat will be ready in all respects for its mission. Executive Officer, take charge and carry out the plan of the day.”

The XO called out as Hardy quickly walked up the gangplank and disappeared below. “All right, people, we have a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in, so let’s get moving. There will be a department head meeting immediately after lunch. Dismissed!”

Jerry looked over at Foster, who seemed preoccupied with the news. Several of the torpedo gang approached the senior chief, ready to protest or ask him questions, but Jerry spoke up. “Senior Chief Foster, I’d like to meet the division.”

Foster’s reaction was surprising. In a hurried voice, he replied, “Of course, sir. Torpedo gang and FTs, this is Lieutenant (j.g)”—he paused, glancing at Jerry’s nametag—”Mitchell. He’s the new Torpedo and FT Division Officer.”

Some of the men near Jerry offered him a quick greeting, while the others moved in closer, surrounding Jerry and Senior Chief Foster. Jerry started to speak. “I’ve got a few things I want to say. ”

Foster interrupted. “Sir, I don’t think we’ve got time for that right now. I’ve got to get these men to work.”

Nonplussed, Jerry nodded. “All right, Senior Chief.” Disappointed, he tried to look at each of the men now under his command, to memorize their names and faces. “I’ll talk to you all at another time.” He added, “Carry on,” unnecessarily, as Foster had already started leading the division back aboard.

Jerry hung back as the crew slowly filed on to Memphis. He’d been all primed for “the talk,” his first speech to the men under his command. They’d drummed it into him at the Academy that this was his best, maybe his only chance to make a good first impression, to tell the men what he expected of them, and to start building his own personal command style. All junior officers entertained grandiose hopes of inspiring their men, but would usually settle for not looking like an idiot.

And Foster had taken that opportunity away by interrupting him, and in general, treating him as irrelevant. Jerry had backed down, automatically avoiding a confrontation with his leading chief in front of the division, but on reflection, he realized that might not have been the best choice.

As Jerry walked back on to the sub, he tried to put himself in Foster’s place. The senior chief had been the acting division officer and had expected to fulfill that role until Memphis was decommissioned. Now he’d have to step down. It was part of the service’s tradition, but still, it had to grate, at least a little.

And what kind of a man was Foster? Jerry hadn’t had time to study any of the men’s service records, but he resolved to do it as soon as he could.

Back aboard, Jerry headed for the torpedo room. It was time to get started in his new job. He found Senior Chief Foster already at work, filling out what appeared to be a new duty schedule. One of the torpedoman’s mates, a second class named Greer, was leaving and nodded politely to his new division officer.

Foster looked up wordlessly as Jerry maneuvered into the cramped corner in the forward and starboard side of the torpedo room that functioned as the division’s administrative office.

“Well, Senior Chief, let’s get started on the turnover. What do you recommend we should do first?” Normally, when a new officer arrived, his predecessor would “turn over” materials like paperwork and keys that the new officer would need to do his job. There were classified pubs to inventory, maintenance records to review, and a host of other administrative issues.

“I don’t think I can do anything with you right now, sir.” Foster’s tone was hurried again, almost dismissive. “The Weapons Officer wants the new duty section done in half an hour, and then I’ve got to supervise a test of the fire-control circuit.” He paused, and looked almost kindly at Jerry. “I’d ask you to do the duty section, but you don’t know any of the men yet.”

Jerry tried to be positive. “You sound overloaded, Senior. You’re wearing too many hats, and I’m supposed to be wearing one of them. The quicker you turn over the division officer responsibilities to me, the sooner you’ll be able to slow down.”

“Nobody slows down on Memphis, sir,” Foster responded coldly. “This job has to be done properly, and I can’t take the time to teach you how right now.” He paused, as if thinking, and said, “Perhaps you should get the service records for the TMs and FTs and review them, sir. I’ll try and make some time this afternoon to start the turnover.” Foster said it the way a grown-up might promise to play ball with a small child.

Reluctantly, Jerry agreed and headed for the ship’s office. Yeoman Glover quickly retrieved an armful of dark brown folders from the filing cabinets, and after signing a form, Jerry took them back to his stateroom. Berg and Washburn were elsewhere, so he had what little space there was to himself, but he felt useless. Studying records wasn’t going to help get Memphis ready.

An hour and a half later, his head full of names and facts, Jerry threw the pile of folders down in frustration on his bunk. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. There’d be time to look over this stuff later. He’d learn more about his division by working with the men, not by hiding in his stateroom.

Senior Chief Foster was doing his level best to keep Jerry from taking over as division officer. Jerry could see that now, although he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. It wasn’t logical. This certainly wasn’t the way it was supposed to work.

It was universally acknowledged that chief petty officers actually ran the Navy. The chiefs largely tolerated officers because they were willing to do paperwork. Like a shop foreman and a factory manager, each had important tasks.

Junior officers, fresh out of school and new to everything, needed a lot of guidance. It was no accident that the Navy teamed up a green division officer with a much more experienced chief. On the books, the officer had the authority, but only a fool would act without listening to what his chief had to say.

The division officer had to interpret the orders that came down from his department head and to get his division what it needed, whether it was repair parts, nominations for a school, or annual personnel ratings. If the division officer was good, he could resolve the inevitable conflicts between orders from above and reality impinging from below. Even the mediocre ones did their best to screen their men from the bovine byproducts that often accompanied guidance from above.