by Joshua Welle
On a moonless night in the Pacific, I struggled to stay awake through one of my first officer of the deck watches on USS John S. McCain (DDG 56). It had been a full day of drills, an hour or two of broken sleep, and then back to the bridge for the “reveille watch,” from 0200 to 0700. We were under way as part of our destroyer squadron’s group sail, during which all the ships in the force are put to sea for a series of exercises, to prepare for upcoming operations in the East China Sea. Each day featured an exchange of several officers and crew members to observe the operation from other ships in the squadron.
On this particular morning, the ships converged to close quarters before first light, put their small boats in the water, and conducted the personnel transfer. The radio crackled with the signal for each ship to close one another, and I ordered the conning officer to turn starboard to our appointed position in the darkness. The bridge was pitch-black, I could only see the outlines of those on watch, quietly focusing on their duties in order to make it through the long hours of the watch.
My quartermaster was diligently plotting our course and speed and entering them into a log. My junior officer of the deck walked over and examined the chart and radar every few minutes in the dim glow of red light. I knew they were all tired. The minutes before the first rays of sun reach above the horizon can last for what seems to be forever. This is the time when the human body reaches its nadir of energy. I had certainly reached mine, I thought, as I sipped the last, cold drops of the coffee I had poured myself hours before. Then the silence was broken by the radio chatter with new signal orders. I snapped at the other officers to write down the message quickly: “All ships ordered to close each other and take tight formation for personnel transfer.” I strained through my binoculars to see the red and green running lights of the ships converging in the dark Pacific night ahead of us.
It was 0455. The captain had asked the officer of the deck, me, to wake him up at 0500, prior to the personnel transfer. It was a tradition to give the boss a wake-up call, not because he needed to be reminded to wake up, but because he worked eighteen-hour days and rarely slept for more than four hours at a time. No matter the time of day, the captain is on call and responsible for the welfare of the ship, its crew, and our mission. I was being trusted as the officer of the deck to keep us safe while on watch.
I rehearsed and revised the report that I would give the captain when I called him. I wanted to sound confident instead of exhausted. I had been on board for a little more than a year. I was ahead in my qualification exams, already having qualified as an officer of the deck on the best Aegis destroyer in the Pacific Fleet. We had returned from Operation Iraqi Freedom to our homeport in Japan only months before and were already preparing to sail again, which was the tough but proud life of a sailor in the forward-deployed naval forces. I had picked up tons of valuable experience in driving my ship halfway around the world and back. The last thing I wanted was to fail my first real test when in charge on the bridge.
I woke the captain and reported: “Sir, the time is now 0500; the ship is on course 050 at 13 knots; we are 5,000 yards away from the guide, USS Curtis Wilbur, and are closing to our assigned station of 500 yards astern for the personnel transfer; there are three other ships moving to their assigned station in the screen formation” The captain grunted his approval and asked if everything was okay up there. “Yes, Sir,” I answered as confidently as I could.
The radio crackled again. The junior officer of the deck recorded a message that the ship ahead of us was turning to port, but clearly the ship was turning to starboard, its running light plainly visible and now only several thousand yards away. The ship directly off our port beam had started to turn as well. In an instant, I knew I had confused the identities of the ships around us as the formation grew tighter. It should have taken my watch team only moments to regroup, but we were now only focused on staying clear of collision. I looked at my conning officer, Ensign Cordray, still green and inexperienced after only three weeks on board. I felt the knot in my stomach and knew I was in over my head.
My first option was to muddle through the next few minutes and hope to recover situational awareness. My second option—the more humiliating of the two—was to call the captain to the bridge, admit I had lost “the bubble,” and face reprimand or worse. My mind protested. Hadn’t I just woken him with his wake-up call and told him everything was fine? It was decision time. I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. “Captain, I need you to come to the bridge now.”
Seconds later, the captain was standing by my side. From the bridge, we could see that we were now only hundreds of yards away from several other warships, but we couldn’t identify each ship because it was too dark to see their profiles and hull numbers. I expected a sharp reprimand right then and there for poor watch standing. Instead, something different transpired that helped shape my view of leadership, integrity, and what a command culture should be.
The captain listened to my explanation of what I knew and made a quick assessment. He then started quietly feeding me rudder orders to give to the conning officer. “Right 15 degrees rudder,” he said. I echoed. “All engines ahead one-third for seven knots,” he added. Again, I repeated. “Shift your rudder.” I called the last order and suddenly felt the ship moving out of danger and into a clear path. The captain could have easily given these orders himself in a show of frustration but instead chose to work through me. In doing so, he helped me regain control of the situation as well as the trust of my team. It was the confidence boost I needed. Like many commanding officers under the stress and anxiety of having ultimate responsibility, he could have berated me and sent me off the bridge. By not making an example of me that morning, he allowed me to learn from my failure. An experience such as that was all the junior officers needed to know that the captain was someone they could trust and rely on in a dangerous situation.
One of my responsibilities as strike officer on an Aegis destroyer was to maintain custody of classified documents. There was strict accountability for top-secret paperwork and a requirement that two people handle the information. After the documents were reviewed and understood, they were required to be destroyed. One night, after a weeklong exercise in which my team had been called upon at intervals around the clock, I sat in the ship’s radio shack next to the classified document shredder mulling a serious dilemma. The log showed that there should have been five documents in my possession, but the destruction record showed that only four had gone through the shredder. I asked my partner if he had seen the missing one, but he didn’t remember. I traced my steps, walking from shredder to safe, shredder to the desk, shredder to anywhere that I might have conceivably gone and everywhere in between. Had I written my notes in the log incorrectly? Could I have been that careless in my fatigue? I played it cool and walked out of the radio shack trying to keep an impassive face while I pondered what would happen if I could not find this paper: court-martial? Fort Leavenworth? Discharge? The voice of my chief petty officer played nonstop in my head, warning me about how careful I had to be with classified material at all times. The knot in my stomach grew tighter and tighter.
Lying awake in my officer rack at 0300, I knew I could go back into radio easily enough and alter the destruction log and end the whole sorry episode. I wanted to talk to someone, but once I disclosed this violation, I would lose control of the situation. I would also lose the opportunity to cover my tracks. If I decided to falsify the destruction log, no one would ever know. At 0600 that morning, I found myself standing in front of my department head telling the story of how I had mishandled a document. I had looked everywhere and had retraced my steps, but without success. Losing the piece of paper was like falling on my own sword. I could lose my job. Yet, I would lose my integrity, and all the trust that had been given to me, if I turned my carelessness into a lie and my actions later came to light.
The sum of my experiences at the Naval Academy helped in always guiding me toward the right action, no matter the
consequences. The hours of training we received as nervous plebes that first summer, the countless case studies, the skits and scenarios we enacted for plebes when it was our turn to lead them, and the numerous honor boards that I witnessed had all deeply imprinted in my mind that violating my integrity would have irrevocable consequences. This, however, didn’t make swallowing my pride and admitting my mistakes and shortcomings any easier. Yet, my revelation was that the environment on USS John S. McCain encouraged integrity because I knew the commanding officer would deal with me fairly. Confidence and trust in the chain of command made doing the “right thing” not quite so hard.
Creating a command culture that encourages integrity in others does not mean ignoring mistakes and wrongdoing. John Paul Jones reminds us that a naval officer should “not be blind to a single fault in any subordinate, though at the same time, he should be quick and unfailing to distinguish error from malice, thoughtfulness from incompetency, and well meant shortcomings from heedless or stupid blunder.” In each of my cases, no one overlooked my failure. After that morning watch, the captain made it clear that he expected more from me as an officer of the deck. Following an investigation into the missing document that concluded that I had most likely shredded the document inadvertently, I received formal counseling to help ensure that I never again repeated that mistake. Each incident reaffirmed my belief that it is better to go forward with bad news than to bury it.
What my captain showed me in his actions was that the officer who was forthcoming with problems and forthright about his or her failures could still maintain others’ trust and continue to improve and excel. My captain viewed admitting one’s faults as a sign of maturity and of officer development. What’s more, that attitude was the bedrock of a solid, winning, and combat-proven destroyer crew. Our entire ship believed in integrity above all else. It was acceptable to strive for great things, and if something went wrong and one missed the mark, to grow from it.
Fleet experiences provided perspective on leadership that my four years as a midshipman had not. Annapolis espoused selflessness but rewarded individualism. If you made a mistake, you were responsible for the consequences. Even as midshipmen honor chairman, my development of integrity had been all about me—my personal choices and the negative consequences if I failed to live up to the Honor Concept. One’s grades and push-ups score dictated one’s own success, not the performance of subordinates. At sea, and in life, the performance of the team is the metric for excellence. After a year on a destroyer, and earning my salt at sea, I learned to use my own integrity as an example to foster the integrity of others.
Selflessness from the ICU
Anita Susan Brenner and Rachel Torres
GySgt. Curtis Sullivan, 11th Company senior enlisted adviser, paused in the doorway to Room 7345, clipboard in hand. The room’s occupants, plebes Kurt “Nick” Fredland, Daniel “Gunny” Floyd, and Andrew Jacob Torres, stood at parade rest.
Gunny Sullivan’s official assignment was to counsel and advise the plebes of 11th Company and to prepare them morally, mentally, and physically to become professional officers, preferably in the United States Marine Corps. He was well-acquainted with Fredland, Floyd, and Torres. The three roommates were bright, physically fit, and a constant challenge to their higher-ranking upperclassman detailers. Torres, in particular, was viewed as a bit of a troublemaker. Barely 5 feet 7 inches, Torres had been the smallest player on his high school football team, didn’t mind getting yelled at, and wrote home that he was having “an outstanding time at plebe summer.”
On this hot August day, Gunny Sullivan began the room inspection with a visual assessment to ascertain the material and sanitary condition of the room, which was poor. The inspection took a sudden turn for the worse when he saw a silver-framed photograph. The gunny glared at Torres and pulled out a contraband identification form. When he picked up the offending object for closer inspection, he noticed the genetically familiar swagger of another Marine from thirty-two years ago. It was Andrew’s father, a young captain, standing a security detachment on the deck of USS Galveston, wearing Dress Blue “C”—blue trousers with a red “blood” stripe down the leg and a khaki long-sleeve button-up shirt. Gunny Sullivan squinted at the photo. The three rows of war ribbons were barely visible, but he noted a Bronze Star, jump wings, and a Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. Sullivan sighed, put down the photo and tore up his paperwork. The photo would not be removed.
For the next four years, Fredland, Floyd, and Torres never failed a room inspection, though rumor has it that they never truly passed one either. Their decor and amenities expanded to eventually include a working air conditioner, a toaster oven, and a refrigerator, which was never confiscated despite sitting in plain view under Andrew’s desk, barely covered by the original cardboard box. Torres thoroughly believed in honesty and was committed to the Naval Academy’s Honor Concept, but minor rules were meant to be broken. When a plebe detailer asked, “What is in that box under your desk?” he answered respectfully and truthfully. “Sir, that is a refrigerator, Sir.”
Floyd explains, “It wasn’t just that Andrew had charmed Gunny Sullivan. A few years later, when the gunny left, CPO Sanders stepped right in line with the program, although he did make us get rid of the toaster oven. He said that it was a fire hazard.”
Under Torres’s dubious leadership, the room became a safe haven for other midshipmen. “Living with Andrew was like living in a commune,” recalls Fredland. During plebe summer, the roommates began to share their clothes. All the clean clothing was stuffed into two laundry bags; all the dirty laundry was placed in a third. Problem solved—no more folding t-shirts. Nothing fit, but so what?
There was a “quarter jar” in the room. “If you need money for a soda, take some quarters. If you have change, put it in the jar,” directed Torres. There were video games (from Floyd), a string of Christmas lights in the shape of red chili peppers (courtesy Torres), and a poster of John Belushi (Fredland’s contribution but worshipped by all).
With his communal “share and share alike” outlook, Torres didn’t realize that others might feel differently. Floyd remembers that anyone could come into the room, upset with one of the other three roommates, but after a short conversation with Andrew would leave on good terms. Since Torres was so giving with his friends, and everyone was his friend, what he had was theirs, and to some of their annoyance, sometimes what they had was his. Andrew wrote to his parents, “People from outside California are weird.” Survival required a philosophy of “one day at a time,” or as Torres put it, “some days you gotta live chili dog to chili dog.”
As luck would have it, Torres found the perfect sponsor family. Capt. Rick Stevens, a JAG officer, and Connie, his wife, decided, sight unseen, to become Andrew’s sponsor family after noting an interest in “cooking” on his sponsorship application. The Stevenses were accomplished home chefs. Whenever they offered to let Andrew cook, he would decline. Perplexed, Captain Stevens said, “But your application said that you like cooking.” Andrew replied, typically, “I said that I liked cooking because I like to eat.” Soon, the Stevenses were cooking for Andrew’s classmates and friends.
Classmates describe an event during the 1999 Army-Navy game in Philadelphia during Andrew’s “youngster” (sophomore) year. The story is told and retold, even by those who were not present. According to legend, Fredland, Floyd, and Torres had arrived separately at the Wyndham Franklin Plaza Hotel the day before the game. When he unpacked, Andrew realized he had forgotten an important component of his parade uniform—the shoes. All he had were Nikes.
“Didn’t you bring my shoes?” he asked Fredland.
“No,” said Fredland. “Why didn’t you pack them?”
“I thought you would bring them,” exclaimed Torres. “Did you bring any shoes?”
Nick Fredland handed over his one extra pair of civilian shoes—size ten, brown Timberland dress loafers. Andrew wore a size nine. “Apparently Andrew thought my brown loafers were more unifor
m-like than whatever pair of sneakers he had brought with him” recalls Fredland.
The next morning, exhausted after a raucous evening in Philadelphia, Torres and Jay Consalvi boarded the subway from downtown Philadelphia to Veteran’s Stadium. They were dressed in Service Dress Blues, complete with overcoats, scarves, and covers, with one difference: Consalvi strode purposefully in the regulation black Corfams, while Torres slid along in Fredland’s oversized, brown loafers. “It’ll work out,” Andrew told Consalvi.
Inside the subway car, Andrew spied a white-haired alumni. A true fan, the gentleman was dressed in a USNA jacket, a “Bill the Goat” scarf, dark slacks, and government-issued black Corfams, a relic from his days in service. Problem solved! Torres approached the gentleman. “Sir, I forgot my shoes. May I please borrow yours for the march on?” Of course, the gentleman agreed to the swap. Torres exchanged Fredland’s loafers for the gentleman’s size eight Corfams, wrote down the man’s seat number, and arranged to switch shoes again during halftime. Trusting and trustworthy, likeable and charming, Andrew’s defining characteristics avoided bringing the dishonor to the Academy’s good name (and demerits to his record) that a march on without Corfams would have caused.
