Providing a stable role model for a group of twenty-something males (men seemed like a stretch in this case) is not an easy task. Couple the obvious hurdle of kids barely out of their teens away from home and on their own for the first time with the extra bonus of being locked in a tube a few hundred feet below the surface of the ocean.
Generally the older a Submariner gets, the more he becomes an all around surly individual. The grand colloquialisms spew from his mouth as a way of teaching the younger generations about the dangers of OPSEC and slamming toilet seats. There are the few exceptions though. George was an older salt: white hair, a little softer around the edges, but still as sharp as ever with a vitality that some of the younger guys would have loved to have.
George led his men through some of the more trying times a submariner can face, namely port and starboard watches. For one reason or another George's division kept coming up short on people. A mast here, a sailor going UA (Unauthorized absence) there, someone crying to the Chaplain about work being too hard. Whatever the reason, George had to lead people who were overworked and under compensated.
While most Chiefs would come to Quarters, divvy up the tasks for the day and then go hide out in the Chief's quarters until lunch, George stuck with his men. He not only taught them, he worked along side them. I would have killed to have a Chief like George.
Because of his apparent fondness for us dirty blue shirts George was the black sheep in the Chief's quarters, and we all knew it. When George asked us to do something, whether we worked for him or not, we tried our damnedest to get it done. We knew that George went out of his way to ensure we were not getting the short end of the stick, and for that each one of us was grateful.
One eventful day the entire Engineering department was, across the board, doing some pretty detailed maintenance when who should stroll through the engine room but the COB (Cheif of the whole Damned Boat), the enemy of all Nukes. Rather than siphoning carcinogenic water (used for reactor shielding) from a holding tank into big yellow buckets he saw us gaffing off his cleaning list. We were neglecting his engine room, not performing underway limiting emergent maintenance. As far as he knew, all the Nukes cut out early to go play on our newly minted softball team.
When we all got to work the next day there was something in the air (other than the Amine) that just didn't feel right. It turns out that the COB had read the riot act to the Nuke Chiefs (via email) about our poorly run engine room (apparently an engine room must be shiny to work properly) and was up in arms about our department leaving to play softball while his Forward Area Guys (Coners a.k.a the guys who steer the boat/bend periscopes)came back to do our cleaning. Mind you this is the same guy who, when we were doing submarine things and a tool box took out one of our Torpedomen in the Torpedo room ran back aft to yell at us for poor stowage.
Moral of the story is that any non-emergent work was put on hold so we could herd Dustalos (an inter-species hybrid of Dust Bunnies and the American Bison). While a complaining Sailor is generally a happy Sailor, this hit us hard. We were crushed with all our work, and now this.
George, in a show of solidarity, printed the email form the COB and posted it throughout the engine room. He gladly passed out copies of the email to all who wanted them. He said that if we were to be persecuted, we should at least know why.
George, with his white (sometimes mahogany) hair, and his unwavering moral compass, is the type of leader a man would love to follow. What's more, he is an example for future leaders to learn from.
No comments:
Post a Comment