by Larry Bond
“So I’ve heard,” Reynolds remarked. He sat quietly, letting Jerry talk.
“I’ve got my qualification to work on, we don’t know half of what we should about those ROVs, I’m still learning my regular duties, and I’ve got to keep at least one eye on Foster to make sure he doesn’t blindside me.” Jerry was frustrated and angry. “The blowup this morning is the worst yet. I don’t know what to do about him.”
“How can I help?” Reynolds asked.
“What’s his problem? Why is he doing this?” Jerry asked, almost pleading.
“He thinks you’re a lightweight,” Reynolds answered, “someone who was assigned to this sub because of his political pull.”
Jerry shrugged. “I guess that’s true, to a certain extent. I wanted subs, and I used my uncle’s influence to get the Navy to listen. But I’ve pulled my weight since I got here. Others aboard were unsure of me too, some were even hostile, but they’ve changed their minds. Why not Foster?”
“A long time ago, Foster applied for a direct commission program. He was turned down because he didn’t have a college degree. When he tried to apply for a college program that would give him a commission, they told him he was too old. He applied for a waiver and was denied.”
Jerry listened, then thought for a moment before replying. “So why should I get a second chance when he didn’t get any at all?”
“That’s pretty much it,” agreed Reynolds.
“What do I do about it?” demanded Jerry, almost angry, but really just frustrated.
“You can’t shoot him,” remarked Reynolds, smiling.
“I was considering it,” Jerry confessed. “But seriously, I can’t take him to mast, and I don’t want to. And I can’t think of any other punishment or any way to force him to change his attitude.”
“You’re right. There isn’t any,” Reynolds confirmed. “You can’t just change a man’s feelings. He’s got to do that. You’re going to have to convince him that you’re more than a political hack. Then he may fall into line.”
“I’d just settle for him leaving me alone. He’s supposed to be working with me, but at this point I’d be happy if he’d just stopped working against me.”
“Could you use some help?” Reynolds suggested.
“I’d love any help, from anywhere. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, Senior Chief Foster is supposed to be helping you become a good division officer—and that includes your qualifications. Since he’s not willing, maybe I can fill in.”
Jerry’s spirits soared. “Master Chief, there’s no ‘maybe’ involved. I know I’ll qualify with you helping me.”
“It’s not enough, Mr. Mitchell. Qualifying isn’t going to make Senior Chief Foster respect you. You need to demonstrate to Foster that you are a good officer. One that looks after his men, goes to the mat for them when he needs to, and puts their best interests before his own. Except for the XO, and maybe one or two others, there aren’t many good officers on this boat. But if you don’t qualify, you won’t get very far in the submarine force. So, we’ll start there.”
“I’m grateful.” He reached out, and Reynolds took his hand and shook it. Jerry said, “Thanks, thanks a lot.”
“Come by after you get off the noon-to-six tonight and we’ll see what you’ve got left in that qual book.”
“Right, COB, I’ll be there and thanks again.”
Jerry left, headed forward with what would be a spring in his step, if he had the headroom.
* * * *
Master Chief Reynolds watched him leave, then sighed. He paused for a moment, looked at his watch, and headed up and forward to the chiefs’ quarters. Along the way, he saw FT2 Boswell, one of the men in Jerry’s division. He told Boswell to find Senior Chief Foster and ask him to join Reynolds in the Goat Locker.
Reynolds got there ahead of Foster, and chased out two chiefs sucking on coffee and pretending to do paperwork.
Foster showed up a minute later, to find Reynolds waiting for him. “What’s up, Sam?” he asked, dropping into a chair.
“I want to know when you’re going to let up on Mitchell,” Reynolds said flatly.
Just hearing Jerry’s name changed Foster’s demeanor. Angrily, he answered, “That no-load? I’ll have him begging for mercy by the time we’re back!”
Foster’s statement was no surprise to the COB. He’d heard the Senior Chief say the same thing or worse in the chiefs’ quarters. Foster hated Mitchell and wasn’t quiet about it.
“Everyone else is willing to cut the kid some slack. Why don’t you ease up?” Reynolds made the last sentence a suggestion, not a question.
“Because I’ll be damned if this Navy’s going to be ruined by someone with the political pull to change the rules.”
“Even if you have to ruin your division, or this boat, to do it?” Reynolds voice was hard.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Foster answered.
“I was on the phone circuit during that Otto fuel spill drill during sea trials. I know what you did. And even if I didn’t, your last blowup with Mitchell is all over the boat. You admitted to tanking the drill on purpose.”
“So what? The kid’s worthless. He can’t lead, and now the division knows it.”
“Nobody can lead when his next-in-line is backstabbing him. I don’t see you doing the Navy any favors. I see you taking cheap shots to work off an old grudge.”
Foster took a different tack. “What did he do? Come running to you?”
“Which is exactly what any officer on this boat should do when an enlisted man’s behavior is unsat.”
“But he couldn’t take care of it himself, could he?” Foster sounded smug.
“He did take care of it, by talking to me,” Reynolds explained. “It’s the COB’s business to deal with bad actors.”
Reynolds leaned his massive frame forward, emphasizing his words. “You’ve disobeyed lawful orders from a commissioned officer, as well as being openly insubordinate. You’ve deliberately interfered with ship’s drills and you’ve disrupted discipline in your division. If you were a first class or below, you’d be at Captain’s Mast, minus at least a stripe. But we don’t do that to chiefs, because they’re supposed to be better than that.”
Foster was grim, but not contrite. “You can’t make me kiss up to that...”
Reynolds cut him off. “What I expect is for you to earn your pay and do your work. Nothing less and nothing more.” Foster looked unconvinced, and the Master Chief continued.
“The only reason Hardy hasn’t noticed your private war is that he’s too busy sweating Patterson and the mission. If I do not see a change in your behavior immediately, I’ll bring this to the Captain’s attention myself.”
Foster was still unmoved. “Hardy’s hated Mitchell since he came aboard.”
“I’ll just mention the part about how you want our mission to fail. Remember, you not only told it to Mitchell, but the rest of the torpedo division. Add to that your sabotaging of the drills, insubordination, and failure to obey a lawful order, and I think I could make an excellent case against you. If he heard half of that, Hardy would have your ass off this boat in twenty-four hours and you’d be facing Commodore’s Mast.”
Both of them knew that was no idle threat. Captain’s Mast, or more formally, “nonjudicial punishment,” was used to discipline enlisted members who broke the rules aboard ship. Insubordination, unauthorized absence from the ship, dereliction of duty, or a dozen other offenses could be punished by extra duty, restriction to the ship (when next in port), fines, or in extreme cases, the malefactor would lose a stripe and the associated pay.
Officers and chiefs could not be disciplined by Captain’s Mast. They went before the squadron commander, which was similar, but it wasn’t a “family matter” any longer. It made the ship look bad, which made the Captain of that ship look bad. Hardy would not be pleased at all. People who wore khaki weren’t supposed to need this kind of disciplinary action, so anyone who appeared
before the squadron commander could expect no mercy.
Considering the charges Reynolds had listed, Foster would expect a reduction in rate, and to be permanently beached. The financial loss would be accompanied by a succession of crappy duty assignments until he eventually retired.
The two chiefs studied each other. Foster tried to gauge how serious Reynolds really was, and Reynolds watched the wheels turn as Foster processed the Master Chief’s threat.
Foster finally said, “I won’t stand for him being in my Navy.”
“It’s not your Navy, and it’s not your place to make that decision,” Reynolds reminded him. “The only one I see breaking the rules here is you. And I won’t let you wreck my boat.”
“I won’t help him.”
“No, I’ll do your job,” said Reynolds harshly. “Your new job is to stop tripping him up. And you will follow the lawful orders of any commissioned officer aboard this vessel.” The COB stood up suddenly. “I’ve told you what’s wrong, what needs to be to fixed, and what will happen if it doesn’t get fixed. Consider yourself counseled, Senior Chief.”
He left Foster alone in the chiefs’ quarters, considering.
* * * *
After his meeting with Reynolds, Jerry felt better, although he was still unsure about how to deal with Foster and his division. Finally he decided he would just go to the torpedo room and muddle through as best he could. So far, the torpedo gang had done their jobs as if nothing had happened. They were smart enough to know that Foster was wrong. Jerry had to stay focused on the division, and trust his men to follow him in spite of Foster.
The XO found Mitchell as he passed through the control room. “Jerry, I’m going to put Dr. Patterson with your division for the training session. You’ve already got Emily Davis, so the ladies can stay together.”
“Broomhilda?” Bair’s order had caught him off guard. “I mean, ah, where has Dr. Patterson been for the other emergency drills, sir?”
“In her stateroom pretending to work. She’s come up with one excuse after another for avoiding them, but I think I’ve impressed on her the value of learning how to use an EAB mask.”
“How did you manage that?” Jerry was astonished, and more than a bit curious. Patterson wasn’t easy to convince.
“I scared her out of her wits by telling her about Bonefish,” said the XO with a devilish smile on his face. Bonefish was one of the few diesel-electric submarines in the U.S. Navy’s inventory back in the ‘80s. She suffered a hideous battery well fire in the spring of 1988. Three men were killed and twenty-three were injured by the blaze.
“They taught us about her at sub school.” Jerry shivered as he recalled the pictures they showed him of the Bonefish on the surface, with brownish smoke billowing from her sail. “That was one nasty fire.”
“Well, Patterson never went to sub school, but when I described how those men suffocated, she became a believer. I’ll make it worth your while and send Lopez to you first.”
“Aye, aye, XO. She’s more than welcome to join us, of course.”
Bair grinned. “That’s nice. I could never lie that well.”
* * * *
Foster was not in the torpedo room when Jerry came down the ladder. Emily Davis had TM1 Moran, FT1 Bearden, and FT2 Boswell going over the weapons launching console with her. Jerry called TM1 Moran over and told him about Patterson joining them for the drill.
“Broomhilda? Ah, sir, does she have to be here?” Moran almost pleaded with the lieutenant. “Marcie’s okay,” he said, indicating Emily Davis, “but Broomhilda’s just going to make a fuss.”
“Not our call, TM1.” Then, doing a double take, he asked, “Marcie?”
Moran nodded toward Davis, as she quizzed the two FTs about the panel. “Short, straight dark hair, big glasses, kinda quiet, and hangs around with a dominating Patty, of a sort. And she called me ‘sir,’ sir.”
Jerry closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as he thought about the allusion Moran had made concerning the mousy Peanuts character and Emily. The image of Marcie following Peppermint Patty around was way too accurate a comparison. He had to admit that Moran had her pegged. Puffing out a sigh, Jerry said, “Whatever works, Petty Officer Moran, just expect one more for the training. And pleeease, don’t call her Broomhilda—at least while she’s here.”
“Yessir.”
It wasn’t until he had left that Jerry realized how normal Moran had acted.
There was a clattering on the forward ladder and Senior Chief Foster came down from the Goat Locker. Jerry decided the only way to deal with this was to act like he was in charge, because he was. “Senior Chief, we’re just about set up for the training session. Dr. Patterson will be joining us, and Lieutenant Lopez will start with us.”
Foster stepped away from the starboard tube nest, started to reply, “I don’t. . .” but was interrupted by footsteps behind him. He quickly moved out of the way as Master Chief Reynolds came from the after crew accommodations.
“I heard Dr. Patterson was joining you. I thought I might stand by, in case you needed a hand, sir.” Reynolds started the sentence facing Jerry, but finished it by looking at Foster. Jerry was sure everyone in the room had seen it, including the Senior Chief. Reynolds’ support might not have been necessary, but Jerry welcomed it all the same. He struggled to suppress a smile.
“Senior Chief, would you please double-check the preparations?” Jerry asked as casually as he could.
“Yes, sir,” Foster answered coldly, managing to look daggers at both Jerry and Reynolds.
Patterson then entered the room by the same path the COB had taken. She paused halfway down the small passage between the center and starboard racks and said, “Lieutenant Mitchell? Emily? Since you’re here, this must be the torpedo room,” she said jokingly.
“As if the rack of torpedoes on the port side and the ROVs on the starboard wasn’t a dead giveaway,” muttered Moran under his breath. Jerry hoped she hadn’t heard that.
Patterson walked up to Jerry and seemed to gather herself. “Lieutenant, I’m supposed to learn about the emergency air masks with Dr. Davis and the rest of your division.”
Mitchell was impressed. Patterson was actually being polite. What did the XO tell her?
Lieutenant (j.g.) Frank Lopez appeared, quickly descending the forward ladder.
“The XO says I’m supposed to start in here. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Frank, we’re all set.”
“For the benefit of our guests,” Lopez began, “I’ll go over the basic mechanics of the emergency air breathing system before we discuss the procedures on how to use it.” Lopez picked up a mask and started to go over the various parts. He explained that the mask was made of flexible rubber, with a clear Plexiglas faceplate and that all masks were the same size. There were four straps that pulled the mask tightly against the face and could be made to fit anyone. Lopez then cautioned Dr. Patterson to make sure her long hair was pulled back when she put the mask on. Otherwise the hair would prevent a good seal.
The air, not oxygen, was provided by the ship’s low-pressure air system and there were 169 EAB manifolds located throughout the boat. You could always find a manifold by looking for the red squares with a black triangle on the deck. He pointed to the one below him and asked Emily to run her hand over the triangle. It was noticeably rough, like coarse sandpaper. Lopez explained that this was how you could find the square in the dark with your hands, or even with your shoes.
He then went to the end of the hose and showed them the conical plug. Reaching up to the manifold, he demonstrated how the plug could easily be inserted into the manifold, even though there was one hundred-pound air in it. To release the plug, he pushed on the outer ring on the female connector and the air pushed the plug out.
The air was not allowed to just flow into the mask. That was much too dangerous. Instead, air was passed to an individual only as it was needed by a demand regulator, which was attached to a person’s belt. It was the same type of
regulator that scuba divers used and it was very reliable.
Emily was intrigued by the simplicity of the EAB mask, but she also looked nervous. Jerry guessed she was still dealing with being submerged.
Lopez turned to Patterson and Davis. “Ladies, the torpedo gang are all familiar with the mask and the procedure. If you’d like, I’ll put them through it first while you watch, so you can see how it’s done.”
He pointed to Jerry. “You first. You can set a good example.”
Jerry took the mask and placed it over his face. He grabbed the top two straps and pulled on them. He then grabbed the bottom two straps and pulled tightly. He repeated the process again to ensure a good seal.
