Chief Brashear smiled and said, “Well, Captain, it wouldn’t bleed.”
The Navy relented in the face of Brashear’s courageous determination. He was sent to the Navy Diver School for a yearlong trial under the tutelage and watchful eye of Chief Warrant Officer Raymond Duell. Cutting Brashear no slack, Duell had the amputee diver go down every single day that year. At the end of the trial, Duell wrote a powerfully convincing letter recommending that Brashear be restored to full diving status and duty. By now the answer was obvious. For the first time in history the Navy had a one-legged diver.
Brashear not only made history as the Navy’s only master diver missing a leg, but he also became Master Diver of the Navy in 1975, the only black man to date to hold that position.
In 2000, Twentieth Century Fox made an inspiring movie about Carl Brashear called Men of Honor. Cuba Gooding Jr. played Brashear and Robert De Niro played a composite character named Billy Sunday, who represented the men like Axtell and Duell who had helped Brashear achieve his goal. Gooding told reporters what it was like to wear a 220-pound diving rig and simulate the action of a Navy diver during the filming of the movie: “At the end of the day I would sit on my steps in the trailer. I couldn’t even walk into my trailer; that’s how fatigued I was. I would rest my elbows on my knees and my whole body would start to shake, so I would have to sit up. It was a very strenuous movie.” Describing the man he was portraying, Gooding said Brashear is a man who “took everything seriously but not personally.”
Retired Sailor Carl Brashear and actor Cuba Gooding Jr. together at a preview of the movie Men of Honor. Gooding played Brashear in the 2000 film based on the master chief’s inspirational commitment to service. U.S. Navy (Dolores L. Parlato)
Years after Master Chief Carl Brashear’s retirement from the Navy, he told his story to the Naval Institute’s historian, Paul Stillwell. When asked about that trial year, Brashear confided that because he was a chief, he led the diving school students in calisthenics each morning and “sometimes I would come back from a run, and my artificial leg would have a puddle of blood from my stump.” Fearing that a trip to sick bay might cause him to fail the trial, he would just “go somewhere and hide and soak my leg in a bucket of salt water—an old remedy.” Matter-of-factly he added, “Then I’d get up the next morning and run.”
Courage comes in many forms.
A Final Word on Courage
The form of courage we most often think of and frequently celebrate is physical courage, as exhibited by the Sailors of Taffy 3 and Medal of Honor recipient James Elliott Williams. It is in our nature to admire such deeds. And well we should. Less often, however, do we recognize moral courage, the kind that does not risk one’s body but does risk other aspects of one’s life.
People sometimes face decisions that will affect their lives in some significant way. It may be as relatively small a thing as giving up a much-wanted leave period to help a shipmate in need, or it may be as significant as risking a promotion or even an entire career.
I have personally witnessed acts of physical courage that I will never forget, but I have also seen many more acts of moral courage during my years in the Navy. For example, there was the young petty officer who came to Vietnam late in the war, newly married and consequently terribly homesick. By chance, he happened to be in the personnel office in Saigon when a personnel drawdown was implemented; the officer in charge offered him the chance to go home after just a few days in-country. I could see in his eyes that he desperately wanted to say yes. But after a moment’s hesitation, he answered: “No, there are others who have been here much longer. Let one of them go.”
There was the chief on a cruiser who was being pressured by his department head to find ways to spend leftover budget money at the end of the fiscal year “so they don’t take it away from us next year.” The chief, who was eligible for promotion to senior chief that year, told the officer he could not spend the taxpayers’ money that way.
There was the captain of an aircraft carrier who was facing an operational readiness evaluation that would determine the ship’s deployability and thus affect the captain’s chances of being selected for admiral the next year. The night before the big evaluation was to begin, his battle stations officer of the deck—who had been training in that slot for months—received a telegram that his wife’s father had passed away. That captain must have been tempted to keep the man on board for obvious reasons, but instead he insisted that the man be flown off at first light so that he could be with his grieving wife in her time of need.
These are acts of moral courage, not risking life or limb but sacrificing or risking personal needs and wants. They occur far more often than do the death-defying feats we celebrate, and they sometimes have serious consequences, yet they are rarely recognized. Unlike acts of physical courage, which often occur spontaneously, acts of moral courage are often reached after careful deliberation, when rationalization is a ready ally.
Although we will probably never find a way to give full recognition to these acts, it is vitally important that we recognize they do happen and they are just as important as the inspiring acts of physical courage we rightfully admire.
When young Americans append the letters USN or USNR to their names, they accept the responsibility of defending a nation; of following in the footsteps of Boatswain’s Mate Williams, Commander Evans, and Master Chief Brashear; of finding within themselves the physical and moral courage that are among the necessary tools of a Sailor. This is no small challenge to be sure, but history has proved that we need not worry. As each new day dawns, we can rest assured that the nation is in good hands, that courage—along with honor and commitment—is alive and well, and that the U.S. Navy will continue to do its job in the tradition set by ordinary people who have left us an extraordinary legacy.
Commitment
3
While a sense of honor is a prerequisite to military service, and it takes courage to face the dangers of the sea and the violence of the enemy, it takes a special kind of commitment to be a Sailor in the United States Navy.
Among the many things that have always made Sailors different from other people is the way they live and work. There is some truth in the popular image of Sailors visiting beautiful and exotic places and enjoying the comforts of hot meals and a warm bed while their Soldier counterparts are eating cold rations and sleeping on the ground. There is another side of life in the Navy, however, that is often challenging, sometimes difficult to bear, and yet a source of great pride.
Even in times of peace, the life of a Sailor can be arduous. While the vast majority of people live and work in places that do not move, Sailors since the earliest days of seafaring eat, sleep, and do their work—whether it is maintaining weapons, typing reports, or launching aircraft—on decks that move at the whim of wind and sea. They share their quarters with highly explosive substances, dangerous inflammables, and toxic chemicals. Theirs is a world where they perform daily duties on the crest of a storm-driven wave, in the dark and foreboding depths of the ocean, or in the turbulence of a cloud-covered sky. Despite their bond with the sea, many Sailors find themselves in the frigid arctic, a steaming jungle, or a blazing desert.
Many professions have their challenges and difficulties, but it has always taken a unique sort of individual to stand up to the rigors of life in the Navy, whether in surface ships, submarines, aircraft, or the many other branches of the sea service. This is one of the reasons why Sailors can justifiably be proud of the uniform they wear and stand just a little taller when wearing it. They share the knowledge that they come from a long line of tough individuals who, as part of a crew, endured hardships and faced dangers while accomplishing vitally important things for the safety and well-being of their fellow citizens and their nation.
Even though much has changed, much has remained the same in the more than two hundred years that the U.S. Navy has guarded the nation and projected its power to distant places. Although today’s Sailors draw high
er pay, have more comforts, and are treated more justly than were their predecessors, they still must contend with many of the same challenges that faced those “Tars” and “Bluejackets” who first took to the sea in the earliest days of the American Revolution. They face many of the same perils and hardships and must still deal with the sadness of leaving loved ones behind as they carry out their duties the world over.
Today’s Sailor copes with a very different way of life from the one he or she left behind, one that is rich with tradition of the past yet steaming full speed ahead on the cutting edge of modern technology. Today’s Sailor often functions under uncomfortable, taxing conditions, carrying on the necessary tradition of sacrifice that has been one of the hallmarks of the U.S. Navy since its earliest days. It is a tradition shored up by honor, by courage, and not least by commitment, for no one could possibly be a Sailor in the finest sense of the word without being deeply committed to this great nation and its defense.
Earliest Days
At the very beginning, the men who chose to go to sea as part of the newly formed American Navy (first called the Continental Navy) were committed to the idea of revolution, to casting off the ties that held them to England in hopes of creating a new nation based upon the rights of man and the principles of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
When John Kilby joined the Navy in July 1779, he joined a tiny force that not only was facing battle with the most powerful navy on earth, but also was one that had to compete for sailors with several other “navies.” All but two of the colonies (New Jersey and Delaware) had formed navies of their own, and—far worse for the fledgling Continental Navy—there were countless privateers roaming the seas. It was a common practice of the day for warring nations to encourage private shipowners to capture enemy merchant shipping. If successful, they would share in the profits gained from the sale of the goods carried in the captured vessel.
While this practice was beneficial to the war effort because of the damage it did to the enemy’s economy (more than two thousand American privateers took to the sea, seizing British merchant ships and their cargoes and causing insurance rates to skyrocket), it made recruiting for the Continental Navy much more difficult. It took an extra measure of commitment for a young, able-bodied seaman to choose that tiny Navy—whose mission included facing the warships of the professional and powerful Royal Navy—for a mere eight dollars a month, when privateers were likely to make more money while facing less danger. The naval Sailor was far more likely than the privateer to be killed, wounded, or captured.
Recruiting
The Continental Congress offered grants of land to men who would fight as Soldiers in the Army, but no such offer was ever made to those who chose the Navy. So it is no wonder that recruiting for the Navy was challenging in those days. An example of the methods used survives in the record of one of those who, despite his apparent cynicism, signed on.
All means were resorted to which ingenuity could devise to induce men to enlist. A recruiting officer, bearing a flag, and attended by a band of martial music, paraded the streets to excite a thirst for glory and a spirit of military ambition. The recruiting officer possessed the qualifications to make the service appear alluring, especially to the young. . . . When he espied any large boys . . . he would attract their attention by singing in a comical manner:
All you that have bad masters,
And cannot get your due,
Come, come, my brave boys,
And join our ship’s crew!
Recruiting posters were plastered on walls along the waterfront of American seaports, offering whatever incentives recruiters could devise. One such poster created in March 1777 used patriotism as its primary incentive, beginning with the heading “Great Encouragement for Seamen”:
ALL GENTLEMEN SEAMEN and able-bodied LANDSMEN who have a Mind to distinguish themselves in the GLORIOUS CAUSE of their Country
Yet this same poster did not rely upon love of country alone. The ship seeking the recruits was described in these glowing terms:
The Ship RANGER, in the Opinion of every Person who has seen her is looked upon to be one of the best Cruizers in America.—She will always be able to Fight her Guns under a most excellent Cover; and no Vessel yet built was ever calculated for sailing faster, and making good Weather.
As recruiters have always done, this one painted a slightly “enhanced” description of what the volunteer could look forward to.
ANY GENTLEMEN VOLUNTEERS who have a Mind to take an agreeable Voyage in this pleasant Season of the Year may, by entering on board the above Ship RANGER, meet with every Civility they can possibly expect.
Those who actually signed on might describe this “agreeable voyage” in different terms. Under routine sailing conditions, Sailors like John Kilby could expect to be on watch fully half of their time under way—because the ship was divided into merely two watch sections—and the remaining time was allocated to additional work assigned (which was often considerable) and to the necessary functions of sleeping and eating.
Danger as Routine
The work aboard a sailing ship in those times could be quite dangerous. While the odds were thirteen to one that Kilby would be killed in battle, they were a frightening three to one that he might die in an accident. Indeed, by his own account, Kilby described an incident that occurred shortly after reporting aboard his ship: “The first thing that happened was, as we were beating down to the island of Groix, a man fell off the main topsail yard onto the quarterdeck. As he fell, he struck the cock of [the Captain’s] hat, but did no injury [to the Captain]. He was killed and buried on the island of Groix.”
The Kedge Anchor, a book published some years after the Revolution “as a ready means of introducing Young Sailors to the theory of that art by which they must expect to advance in their profession”—a forerunner to today’s Bluejacket’s Manual, which first appeared in 1902—understated the situation when it advised “men perched aloft in a perilous situation will adopt that method which will eventually cost the least time and trouble.” Among the Sailors themselves, it was commonly understood that the rule was “One hand for the ship, one hand for yourself.”
Sails have long since disappeared from the Navy, yet danger has not. Sailors must still climb masts, and although these masts are more user-friendly in many ways, invisible gremlins in the form of volts and amps now lurk there, waiting to do harm to the careless Sailor. There are far fewer lines in the modern warship, yet it takes only one to give way under strain to leave a swath of death and injury in its path. Modern weapon systems are in many ways safer than those cumbersome cannons, yet their explosive power is far more devastating when something goes wrong. Fire, flooding, and falling overboard are the ever-present dangers common to eighteenth- and twenty-first-century Sailors alike. Fuels, electricity, heavy machinery, heights, depths, extremes of temperature, erratic motion, the dark of night, and nature’s unpredictable moods are all potentially deadly shipmates to today’s Sailor. It takes vigilance and prudence to survive these hazards and serious commitment to meet them head-on in today’s Navy.
A Revolutionary War poster used to recruit Sailors for service in the new Continental Navy. Naval Historical Center
Elusive Sleep
Sleeping was itself a challenge in Kilby’s day. Although there were some on board—known as “idlers” (cooks, sailmakers, clerks, for instance)—who stood no watches and therefore could sleep the night through, Kilby and the vast majority of his fellow Sailors could sleep for merely four hours at a time (the two-section watches were “four on, four off”). To make matters worse, they were permitted to sleep only during the hours of darkness, so one night they would get barely four hours of sleep and the next night they might get seven and a half, but with a four-hour watch dead in the middle. Further, a sudden squall or some other emergency could necessitate a call for “all hands” at any time of day, and virtually all the crew (even the idlers) would have to go to their assigned stations to reef t
opsails or carry out whatever major evolution was needed.
The wristwatch was a long way off, so most on board relied upon the sounding of the ship’s bell to know when it was time to go on or off watch. The bell was rung each half hour of the watch—beginning with one bell on the first half hour, two on the second, and so on—so that by the time a Sailor heard seven bells, he knew he had but half an hour before it was time to relieve the watch.
The Sailor’s bed of the day was a hammock, a wonderful place to catch a nap in one’s backyard, but not the place to try to sleep night after night. When a Sailor could at last crawl into his hammock, other obstacles to coveted slumber often intervened. The motion of the ship could be quite violent and counter to the swing of the hammock. There was no source of heat or air conditioning, and ventilation was poor at best. Herman Melville, who went to sea in the frigate United States, a much larger ship than the earlier one Kilby signed onto, colorfully described sleeping (or trying to) in a sailing man-of-war in his narrative White-Jacket.
Your hammock is your [prison] and canvas jug; into which, or out of which, it is very hard to get; and where sleep is but a mockery and a name.
Eighteen inches a man is all they allow you; eighteen inches in width; in that you must swing. Dreadful! They give you more swing than that at the gallows.
A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy Page 8
