You’re the Chief

You attend the funeral in civilian clothes and sit in the back. The chaplain’s up front with the family in his dress blues and no one told you to come, you just decided to do it. You think showing up will absolve you of what happened, your responsibility which tickles your mind when you’re alone. The quiet moments aren’t as quiet as you’d hoped.

It’s an open-casket funeral. When the time comes to offer condolences to the family, you don’t know what to say—you didn’t plan this far ahead. A line forms and people wait their turn, the body on full display. He’s dressed in a tux and his hands are crossed at his chest. If not for the casket he might be asleep. In this pose he looks younger than you remember. Ahead of you, a relative talks directly to the body. The family weeps.

You remember the day he checked in. Kid fresh out of high school. Like many young Seaman he always seemed on the verge of breaking into a shit-eating grin and you welcomed him to the ship, explaining the chain of command, the watchbill, the current duty rotation. You asked the standard gamut of questions, Are you married? and Where are you from? He ended every answer by calling you Chief and some ten years after initiation you still weren’t used to it. Chief. No longer a First Class Petty Officer, long past Seaman. The Navy you were a Seaman in might as well be a different branch of service.

He asked, How long’ve you been in, Chief?

You answered him. He was four when you joined and though he didn’t say anything you could see it in his eyes. Whether it’s fifteen years ago or today, the kids joining the Navy see everyone outranking them as old and you see them all as kids.

It’s tradition to send new check-ins cranking. They go work in the mess decks for six months. No one likes it and you tell yourself you did it with no complaints and one day in the Chief’s Mess where you and the rest of the senior enlisted eat and hang out, you claimed you’d do it all over again. Cranking was your favorite time in the Navy and even you’re not sure if you believe this or not.

The kid didn’t complain. He went cranking and you saw him sometimes in a black T-shirt with Food Service Attendant stenciled across the front. He was smiling, joking around, and anyways you knew there were worse duties than cranking. He could’ve gotten assigned to Hotel Services, doing officers laundry and changing their bedding. As you tipped a few dollars to the other Seaman who’s cranking in the Chief’s Mess, you told yourself that Yeah, cranking was the best part of being a junior sailor.

The Navy you joined had port calls every couple weeks. It was also a peacetime Navy. This Navy hasn’t known peace since September 11th. Free-for-all liberty was a thing of the past and with Covid, ports were limited. Only relief on the ship’s schedule was a beach party in Hawaii.

It’s a different Navy, and you tried not to say this but along with every other phrase you swore you’d never say—crawl before you walk, I’m not a Math major but something here doesn’t add up, however comma— they’ve crept into your daily speech. You told yourself you would never become the Chief you hated.

No port calls, increased optempo. The workup cycle began, the ship running through its qualifications, getting ready for deployment. The kid cranked for most of it and he rejoined your division, less youthful, his shit-eating grin more hesitant. You asked him how cranking was and you believed his response: I had a great time.

It wasn’t like he was your only sailor. And besides, he was just a Seaman. There were several links in the chain of command before his problems reached you.

Underways, duty days. Even in port the work didn’t stop and he was late a couple times. Nothing your First Class couldn’t handle. If something reaches your level, it had better be deserving of your attention.

Then he missed the dress blues inspection. You asked your First Class where he was and a voicemail later, you and your division officer conducted the dress blues inspection on the flight deck without him. It was a nice, clear day. The sort of day that makes you grateful to be outside.

He met you in your office, his head down, and you told him to shut the door. He’d forgotten blousing straps for his trousers, but that was the least of his worries. Your First Class was sitting beside you. Train the next generation to take your place and it wasn’t kindness that made you a Chief, it was love, the rawhide variety.

Why did you miss the blues inspection?

He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Upon closer inspection, he hadn’t shaved either. I’m sorry, he said. I’m really sorry.

I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to tell me what happened. Look at me. I said look at me.

It took him a couple tries, but he looked at you, and gone was that shit-eating grin of his. He didn’t have bags under his eyes, he had luggage.

My daughter got sick and I was up all night taking care of her.

So? The harshness in your voice surprised you both, but you maintained your game face. He joined the military. This wasn’t McDonald’s and he needed to understand that and the only compassion here was the kind that worked: tough.

You went on, That’s not an excuse. Most of us here have families. Me, your LPO, we had little kids once and we didn’t miss inspections.

He cried. You offered no comfort. He would be better for it. The military held no hands and all tears were the same.

The counseling session ended with an assignment of EMI. Per the guidance, Extra Military Instruction isn’t punishment, it’s a corrective measure, and his corrective measure was to muster at six in the morning every day with the Officer of the Deck.

Workups continued. Underways, duty days. He mustered every morning at six and you only saw him at quarters. Another way the Navy changed: knowing your sailors. Before the kinder, gentler Navy arrived, you could spend all day in the Chief’s Mess, leaving the division to your First Class and only appearing when necessary. Now you have to stay in the shop all day. Now you must get to know your sailors.

But, seventy people? Who can know seventy people? You kept a spreadsheet listing your sailors’ basic info—the same questions you ask each new check-in—and that’s it. How can you be expected to personally know seventy people?

You didn’t hear from him again until COMPTUEX. The final part of the workup cycle, after this the ship will be certified to deploy and while it’s not as stressful as INSURV, COMPTUEX isn’t a good time. No part in the workup cycle is, but remember, you’re a Chief. You’re not allowed to complain anymore. Your job is to set the standard.

So when he asked you to talk in private, you were taken aback. These conversations rarely happened for pleasant reasons and you braced yourself for what he might say. As a fleet Chief you’d heard it all, any excuse to get out of going underway, and his uniform hung off him. In the back of your mind you made a note to ask him about his uniform allowance. He took a deep breath. Chief, I have a question.

Go ahead.

My daughter’s birthday is on the twelfth.

You could tell he rehearsed this. Probably several times. You waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, you said, Well happy birthday to her. How old is she? Hurt crossed his face, briefly, and you wondered if he told you her age in the first meeting.

One. She’ll be one.

Wow. I remember when my oldest turned one. Nothing like it.

Yeah, I was wondering, since—

And here was where his rehearsal fell apart, and here was where you understood what he was trying to ask. This was a new one for you and you didn’t help. You let him struggle to get it out. Whether the Navy or the civilian world, he needed to build his confidence, and hand-holding helped no one.

—you know, since it’s her birthday, I was wondering. I was thinking, you know, if I could kind of, kind of stay and you know, stay for it. My wife needs a lot of help setting up anyways. So. You are asking me if you can skip the underway for your daughter’s first birthday. Is that correct?

Yes, Chief.

Maybe it was the way he couldn’t meet your eyes. Or maybe it was something else. After all, there is no service without sacrifice, and those who pay the sacrifices are often those who love us. Do we love them more than we love our jobs? We should. Do we show it? This has gotta be a joke.

And now, waiting in line to express your condolences to his mother and daughter, you tell yourself you didn’t mean to say that. It popped out. A stubborn survivor from the “old Navy”, the times where your Chief expressed comfort as “suck it up, buttercup”. The oldest habits are the hardest to kill.

We get underway next week. Did you bother to mention this to your LPO? The kid shook his head.

Why not?

I just thought, you know, I just thought…

To answer your question, you can’t. I’m sorry. I cannot lose a body for this underway. It’s COMPTUEX, not some one-week cruise. Okay? Listen to me, this is part of the lifestyle. You’re going to miss things. Tell your wife to take lots of pictures. Do you know who the chaplain is?

Looking at his wife and daughter, you tell yourself you were gentle. You tell yourself you gave him the chaplain’s name and offered him comfort. You weren’t gentle, and you never directed him to talk to the chaplain.

Thirty long days underway. The tasking multiplied each day and you lamented to the other Chiefs that you couldn’t join the British Navy—at least they allowed beer on board. These steel walls and pipes and constant announcements, it all took a toll on your mind. You noticed women you didn’t notice before, some young enough to be your daughter. Everyone was stressed and the days limped along, General Quarters drills, meetings, watch. Maintenance.

He came to you at some point in the underway—you don’t remember when because on long underways no one day distinguishes itself from any other—and asked about monthly inventory.

We’re missing a part, he said, showing you the binder. It was logged as checked out, but no one signed for it. Shouldn’t they have signed for it?

They should have. All parts must be accounted for, and you studied the binder, looking for a name. Finding none, you said, Never returned either. Looks like someone didn’t do their job.

What should I do, Chief?

You think about it, but not for long. There is a fine line between a harmless lie and dereliction of duty. This underway had already piled too much on your shoulders. Just sign it as being returned.

He didn’t question you.

Disciplinary Review Boards are fact-finding boards where a sailor accused of misconduct stands before a group of Chiefs. They answer questions. From there, the Chiefs offer a recommendation of going up to the next step in the disciplinary process, Executive Officer’s Inquiry, or stopping it there.

Nothing stopped at DRB anymore, another consequence of the new Navy. And a week later, when the kid stood in his dress blues before a panel of Chiefs, you thought back to what you told him. You tell yourself now, as you told yourself then, that you did nothing wrong. Everyone gundecks, a few get caught, but what of it? He followed your advice. But you’re a Chief.

He’s a Seaman.

The questions and the yelling began. The loudest mouths in the room questioned his integrity, mocked his loose uniform—asking if he was anorexic—and called him a failure not only as a sailor but as a father and a husband. All of the accused cry during DRB. They tell themselves they won’t, but they do.

He cried.

The time came for him to explain what happened, and he stuttered, which pissed them off more. They yelled at him to quit stuttering and show some fucking backbone. He stuttered anyways, and among this pitiful performance, he managed to get out five key words. My Chief told me to.

All eyes turned to you. A few of the other Chiefs scoffed. Here was your chance to own up to what you did. Gundecking, big deal. You thought so little of it at the time. With everything else happening on this underway, how could you do otherwise?

The kid couldn’t meet your eyes.

You said, I told him no such thing.

The line shortens. Your turn is coming up. I told him no such thing. The kid went all the way up to Captain’s Mast and got the maximum punishment. After the underway, while everyone else got to see their families, he stayed behind on the ship. Forty-five days restriction, forty-five days extra duty. Suck it up, buttercup.

A night rover found his body. It was after midnight. He used a belt. There was no hope of reviving him.

Now it’s your turn.

His mother, his wife, his daughter. The girl looks like him. She makes eye contact and doesn’t break it and there’s a moment, stretched to its breaking point where you want to confess. Tell them what you did and throw yourself at their mercy. All he wanted to do was see his daughter. Was there no way to swing that?

Then you grow cold. Yes, there was no way to swing that. This is the Navy, not Wal Mart. You give his mother a hug, you give his wife a hug, and you pat the daughter’s head, offering each your condolences. Call me if you need anything. You offer no card and you don’t know if they have your number.

Then it’s over. Not as bad as you thought. You beeline to your truck and in there doubt threatens to reassert itself. You squash it. Calm seas never made a strong sailor and besides, you did your duty in coming here when you didn’t have to. It’s sad he’s gone, but it happened. It still happens. You’re the Chief and you have seventy sailors to take care of.