Sometimes, good things happen when you're not looking for them.
The captain rarely announced anything over the 1MC while the ship was under way, so we were surprised 'to hear his voice coming from the wardroom's overhead speakers. It had to be something significant, but his matter-of-fact tenor made it curious.
"If everyone could give me their attention, I want to pass on that the message just came in for Battle E winners, and unfortunately, we didn't make it. But we'll keep doing what we're doing and hopefully we'll win next time."
That was it. No apologies; not a big deal. Just get back to business.
It hadn't always been that way.
A Cause Celebre
Years prior, as a newly reported ensign, I attended an all-officer meeting that the then-executive officer and commanding officer had summoned. They explained to us that despite a decade of distinguished operational history that included naval gunfire support for operations in Lebanon and being the first ship through the Suez in reaction to Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait, our proud destroyer had never won the Battle Efficiency (Battle "E") award.
We were going to change that. The ship had just passed her light-off examination with strong marks, and we were coming out of a shipyard maintenance period with high morale and enthusiasm. The wardroom discussed how we not only had to perform exceptionally on all our inspections, but also had to cover such "fuzzy" factors as the quality of prose in our message traffic. The squadron looked at things like that, we were told, and so our appearance in everything was important. All were dismissed with the understanding that giving the ship her first Battle E was a major command priority.
The months that followed proved this; the captain was serious. It grew into something of a cause celebre. Ship cleanliness became an obsession. Rust had to be painted over—often immediately, with no time for sanding or primer. Department heads were marched about the passageways, with grim consequences if angle irons were not free of dust. While under way, all-hands-not-on-watch polishing parties were convened to add sparkle to the topside brass prior to entering port. Tactical action officers were counseled if they didn't sound upbeat enough on the radio net.
Training and maintenance were attended to, but they were not in the limelight unless an important inspection was on the horizon. Tiger Teams became standard practice for making spaces pristine, at the expense of other departments' internal priorities. In addition, exercises focused on a nucleus of the most skilled and the most experienced watch standers—not training for all watch teams—to forge an "A Team" that would perform flawlessly on the big day.
With time, it became clear to an increasing number in the crew that what was being created was a very eye-catching, well-marketed veneer of ship readiness. "You can paint a piece of dung gold, but it's still a piece of dung" is a somewhat euphemized quote of their complaints.
Broken Rules and Disappointment
More disturbing, at least from my perspective, was that rules were being broken to achieve the goal. The best example of this occurred during preparations for the critical Operational Propulsion Plant Examination (OPPE). A rite of passage for all surface ships, these inspections were an important wicket in the Battle E competition, and typically they swallowed a crew's efforts (and much of the maintenance and supply budget) in the months prior.
For our ship, the times weren't looking good. Two other ships had failed their examinations that summer, and our leadership announced that OPPE preparations had taken "the moral equivalent of war." It was a full-crew effort: storekeepers, boatswain's mates, fire controlmen—all were pooled to support the cause by cleaning, painting, and polishing anything that might be seen by the inspectors.
None of this was particularly disturbing or out of routine, but what did seem odd was an order that many of the ship's engineering logs be rewritten to put them within the approved parameters. Some of my roommate junior officers were assigned the job, working round the clock.
The ship passed her OPPE satisfactorily, which given the previous ships' failures was victory enough, but other hurdles lined up quickly. Crisis management and the dreaded "random priority generator" became the modus operandi. Schmooze evolved into an established strategy to win over inspectors and draw praise from dignitaries in home port and abroad.
Then one evening while we were conducting counter-drug operations in the southern Caribbean, the message arrived. The ship had not received the Battle E. It was contrary to expectations; we were betting we would get a special break by virtue of impressing the right people, despite not meeting the letter-of-the-law requirements. The atmosphere on deck became tense and outright gloomy, and the malaise lasted for weeks.
Eventually, real-world priorities returned, namely, preparations for a four-and-a-half-month deployment for the annual UNITAS cruise with South American navies. Extensive checklists were attacked to ready the ship for her debut since coming out of the shipyard. The emphasis on appearance didn't change, but the no-nonsense realities of operations—you either have the stuff or you don't, your gear either works or it doesn't—forced their way into the daily agenda.
A Steady-Strain Approach
Midway through the UNITAS deployment, the ship took on a new commanding officer. His executive officer also was relatively new, having reported on board a few months prior. On the surface, little change was noticeable. Previous policies (e.g., maintaining ship cleanliness) weren't thrown to the winds, and the buffers continued to hum happily in the passageways. Yet it became clear, and soon, that a major refocus was in progress: We were a warship again.
Crew training became more than a buzzword; it was a solid, well-scripted practice, with close involvement by the new leadership team. It also was held in depth. No longer an A-team affair, combat evolutions and engineering drills were rotated among watch teams and back-ups to ensure all players knew what their reactions should be.
For day-to-day operations, watch standers were given more latitude to exercise initiative and learn from their mistakes. The atmosphere on the bridge changed from perpetual dread that something would go wrong and make the ship look bad to one of professional growth. One salty chief, standing junior officer of the deck, called it a "joy" to be in the pilothouse.
Written procedures were expected to be followed, by the book, but imperfections were tolerated if functionally insignificant. Substance mattered, and a steady-strain approached was adopted. Pride began to build as the crew stepped up to make the ship battle ready, because it was the right thing to do.
Our UNITAS deployment finished with high praise from the embarked flag and his staff. The next OPPE, less than a year out, was on the scope. We were passed over for the Battle E once again, but it just wasn't an issue. We were there to do a job, not to mull over awards; the word was disseminated swiftly by the commanding officer's IMC announcement.
The second OPPE was an almost exclusively Engineering Department show. No teams from supply and operations divisions were sent down to repaint the engineering spaces. Each division had its laundry lists, and training was viewed in terms of many months, not weeks.
Some of the junior snipes at first were cross at having to shoulder so much, but the reasoning was apparent to those who understood the principle of accountability. It was engineering exam, so the engineers should do the preparation. This engendered a higher sense of responsibility and also laid a foundation of truthfulness—we were training the way we were supposed to operate and fight.
The ship passed her OPPE, better than expected, and the same happened for other inspections covering combat systems and supply.
As fleet exercises and deployment preparations came back around, the ship readied herself for a six-month cruise to the Mediterranean. Long-term planning was maintained, and though the sweat pumps occasionally would cycle to fast, the months of steady-strain attention on the ship's programs had a mysterious effect. Crisis management became less necessary. Equipment worked more reliably because it was serviced and operated properly. Training held the crew's knowledge at a high level, even without the specter of impending inspections. General quarters drills and basic engineering casualty control exercises were commonplace during transits of any length. These elements combined to eliminate many of the challenges and problems that had been experienced in the years prior.
Success was built without regard to the outward appearances of success. It was the basics: training; drills; learning the procedures and then following them; and exercising initiative to accomplish the mission. It was sort of a Zen thing—an arrow not aimed that hits the target on its own because all the correct steps have been taken.
About halfway through the Med deployment, the Battle E message came out. For the first time in her 15 years in commission, the ship's name was on it.
Commander Unrein is assigned to U.S. Strategic Command at Omaha.