Toward the end of the 1950s, the major technological changes that had first been introduced on a few boats in the early 1950s began to effect subtle changes in the submarine force as a whole, transforming the old force, which had a waiting line to get in, to a new force, which has a waiting line to get out.
For more than 50 years, the submarine force has been regarded as the elite of the U. S. Navy. During World War II, the skill of submariners in disrupting the enemy’s communications was matched by their ability to persevere and endure counterattack. While U. S. submarine losses during the war amounted to only 52 boats, the U-boat fleet of the German Navy lost 752 hulls—a fact that led to the ultimate collapse of morale in that service.
The postwar era saw the introduction of nuclear propulsion and weapons systems on new and modern U. S. submarines which added dimensions of speed, depth, endurance, and offensive power that became the envy and model of maritime powers.
Why, then, is the U. S. submarine service, with a tradition of pride, a heritage of combat-proven courage and effectiveness, and a future of expanding potential now unable to attract and retain young officers?
The answer to the riddle of officer retention may lie in unsatisfied human needs that have resulted from the deterioration of group cohesion in the submarine service.
To ask what group cohesion is, is to ask why the members of certain groups work harder, seem happier, defend one another, stick together, and take on a strong identity with the group while the members of other groups do not.
Any reduction in the ability of the group to satisfy the needs of its members will result in a decrease in the attractiveness of the group for its members. Cohesiveness, then, is the sum total of all forces acting on the individual that causes him to remain a member. Given that the member is free to stay or leave, as long as the net sum of these forces is positive for the individual, he will stay with the group. If the net sum approaches zero, the retention force of the group decreases and the individual begins a search for another group which can better satisfy his particular needs. The search may be deliberate and conscious, such as the submission of resignation and the mailing of résumés. It may be subconscious, manifesting itself in feelings of discomfort, anxiety, and stress. If the searcher finds a better group, he will bolt the old for the new.
The word “individual” is emphasized. All people are different and all have different sets of human needs. The group can have a positive sum for some members and a zero or negative sum for others. It is doubtful that any group can always keep a positive sum for all members.
The submarine officer retention problem seems to be that the net sum of its attraction and retention forces is decreasing in value to the extent that an undesirable number of its members are searching and finding more satisfying groups elsewhere. To make matters more complex, it seems logical that an exodus of this nature would create a “lemming” effect to some extent. The naval officer in his first tour of duty is every bit as impressionable as his civilian counterpart. If a significant number of his peers depart, he is likely to question why he is staying. If the departure of his shipmates creates sufficient doubt, he may find himself, almost involuntarily, next in the resignation line.
In less than 20 years, the submarine service has been transformed from a military service with a waiting line to get in, to one with a waiting line to get out. Perhaps we can find at least part of the reason for this transformation by trying to recall some of the conditions that influenced cohesion in what might be called the “Old Force,” and comparing them to present conditions in the “New Force.”
Let us define the Old Force as the submarine force from the end of World War II until the latter part of the 1950s. It was at about this time that the major technological changes first introduced on a few boats in the early 1950s began to effect changes in the force as a whole. The properties of the submarine group started a slow and almost imperceptible transformation which has resulted in the New Force.
From the end of World War I until the early 1950s, submarine technology centered around the principles of the diesel engine, the wet-cell battery, and the steam torpedo. These were the basic technologies needed to get to the assigned patrol area, conduct offensive operations, and get home again. They were reliable concepts, and more important, they were capable of being understood by every officer on board. Innovations such as radar, sonar, and other electronic devices were introduced and, while complex, they were absorbed into the body of required knowledge with no particular difficulty.
The past decade has seen an incredible advance in submarine technology. Nuclear power and the Polaris weapons system were quantum leaps in submarine capability. Nuclear power changed the endurance factor from the quantity of diesel fuel that could be carried to one that has yet to be determined. The destructive power of the 16 missiles carried by Polaris, not to mention Poseidon, submarines is virtually beyond human comprehension.
The sciences of nuclear energy and ballistic missiles could not be absorbed into the old order. To understand and apply these new technologies, officers required highly specialized training. Officers became identified as nuclear-trained, weapons-trained, or neither. The old technologies which had provided the base of common knowledge for all submarine officers were gone. Their replacements created a division of educational backgrounds, goals, and identities.
Man resists such changes. However, the nature of his resistance is not against technical change but the consequent changes in his human relationships. The military advantages of the new submarine technologies are vitally important to the security of our country. In accepting these advantages, the submarine force has had to pay the human cost.
Other than in a space capsule environment, there are probably few societies in which each member is so dependent on the actions of all other members as that which exists within the steel confines of a submarine hull. Each member of a submarine crew has it in his power to cause the failure of the mission, or worse still, to destroy himself and his shipmates through negligence or inattention to duty.
The Old Force took considerable pains to ensure that its officers had the competence and skills necessary to this mutual dependence. Before he could be eligible to volunteer for submarine training, an officer had to qualify as officer-of-the-deck on a surface ship. Thus, officer applicants brought a degree of maturity and practical experience with them. By requiring that this base exist before acceptance, the Old Force could concentrate on the specific task of submarine indoctrination, since the officer already knew the rules-of- the-road, both nautical and practical. After six months of basic submarine school, the officer reported to his first boat and a year of solid hell. He was assigned the most onerous tasks, stood very frequent watches, and was constantly hounded by the rest of the wardroom as he strove to qualify for the right to wear his membership pin—the gold dolphins of the submarine service.
The unqualified officer was introduced to qualified officers as “George,” a title which equates to something between a billy goat and a fool. It didn’t matter how fine a fellow you were, the stern dogma was that you couldn’t be pulling your weight in the boat unless you had dolphins on your chest.
After about a year of learning every pipe, circuit breaker, and tank—and writing a small book about it—the officer presented himself to a board of commanding officers other than his own. (After all, his own CO might have gotten to like him despite his unqualified status.) If he succeeded in convincing these hard-nosed, but objective, captains that he could start a diesel engine, fire a torpedo, make an attack on a surface ship, rig the entire boat for dive, get the boat underway and bring her back again without assistance, he was recommended for qualification. The final test was to find his dolphins at the bottom of a 10-ounce glass of whiskey.
On the following day, hangover and all, he was a submarine officer. He had become a full partner in a tight group and he had the skinned knuckles and gold dolphins to prove it. You could depend on him to the degree that he had been required to prove his dependability. The success of the boat and the lives of the crew were placed in his hands. He had proved equal to such a trust.
The Old Force, then, was an attractive, challenging, and cohesive group which prospered because of the mutual dependency of its members.
How, if at all, have things changed in the New Force? The technological change brought about a radical shift in officer qualification emphasis. The officer’s first duty now was to prove and reprove his command of a technical speciality such as nuclear power, Polaris weapons or inertial navigation. Planned and unplanned examinations and inspections multiplied. The perceived consequences of failure brought intense pressure to concentrate on one end of the boat or the other. Although their frequency was debatable, the inspections were necessary to ensure that nuclear and weapons safety were maintained. But the human animal can cope with only so many priorities at a time and most officers—perhaps unconsciously—decided that qualification as a submarine officer simply would have to take second place in the event of conflict with technical qualification requirements.
Qualification as a submarine officer became something the officer did when and if he found time. Instead of describing his wardroom make-up in terms of the number of qualified officers he had, commanding officers began to talk about when Jones was coming up for his engineer’s exam. The officer’s knowledge of his boat decreased as he honed his proficiency in one area. The once-rigid requirements for gold dolphins became mushy, undefined, and tailored to the individual. The ceremony of presenting an officer with his dolphins lost meaning in terms of accomplishment and membership. The final irony was the pronouncement from on high that the amount of whiskey consumed in “finding one’s dolphins” constituted potentially a lethal dose and henceforth would be officially frowned upon.
The result of this shift in emphasis away from “whole” boat qualification was interesting. While each member of the submarine crew was as dependent as ever on his shipmates, his shipmates had become less dependable in the sense that they knew less about the whole boat and what to do in emergencies than had those of the Old Force.
The smaller the size of the group, the more frequent the contact each man has with others and, thus, the greater the opportunity they have to know each other, to like each other, and to find common values.
The Old Force wardroom consisted of seven or eight officers. To add to their opportunity to interact, they lived and worked in an officers’ country the size of a large kitchen. The wardroom itself was about eight by six feet and served as dining room, office, sonar plotting room, conference room, game room, movie theatre, filing cabinet, sleeping quarters, and general parlor. The opportunity for interaction was unavoidable.
Officers took pride in their small but effective group by referring to themselves by numbers: “I’m third in Shark” or “Here’s George, he’s our eighth.” The small number of officers required that each have a number of jobs. It was not uncommon to find an officer with three or four different titles. Furthermore, officers changed jobs frequently since the emphasis was on knowing the whole boat, not a part of it. There was a commonality of experience, background, and understanding of job requirements and problems. Help was available and given.
The Old Force showed a propensity to take their limited cubage ashore with them and conduct their social activities within it. The wardroom stuck together on the beach as well as in the boat. Social activity outside the wardroom group was the exception. When large social occasions happened, tables were arranged by boats, and signs or banners identifying the group were common. An officer’s wife identified herself by saying, “We’re in the Bluefish.” In addition, while no one got confused about who was captain and who was “George,” there existed a single social stratum, and sub-groups or cliques were rare.
It seems evident that size was an important factor in the Old Force cohesion. The memberships and belonging needs were well met for both officer and lady.
In the New Force, the complexity and magnitude of the technical changes required that there be more wardroom officers to supervise them. The number of officers nearly doubled. To the extent that the number of officers increased, it became more difficult to know one another.
The boats got bigger and their internal arrangement changed. Officers’ staterooms were transformed from sleeping cribs to Formica and stainless steel cubicles where it became possible to sit at a desk and work. Offices were included. The engineer, weapons, supply, and navigation officers had work areas assigned to them separate from their staterooms. These much-needed habitability improvements made it possible for an officer not to have to go to the wardroom when he wasn’t sleeping or on watch. In short, although the number of officers increased, their density decreased and so did human contact.
Officers stopped referring to themselves by numbers. Somehow it became more significant to say, "He’s the Assistant ‘M’ Division Officer” rather than, “He’s our thirteenth.”
As the number of officers increased to cope with the requirements of the enlarged technology, job descriptions narrowed around a particular expertise and job changes became possible only within that specialty. The engineer was unqualified to navigate, the navigator unqualified to launch a missile, the missile officer unqualified to operate main engines. New languages developed which not all could interpret. The captain was placed in the demanding position of having to be multilingual. The fire control officer could get no help from the supply officer, not because the latter didn’t want to give it, but because he couldn’t give it. He was unqualified in fire control and probably always would be.
As the “spread” increased, sub-groups began to emerge and generally were oriented around common technologies and their common languages. Wardroom units were seen less frequently in social settings. The engineers had their parties and the weapons officers had theirs. The banners and the signs disappeared.
Every military service and unit is poorly constituted in terms of personnel stability. Officers are transient professionals first and professional transients second, rarely remaining at one duty station for more than three years at a time. Despite this, the cohesiveness of the Old Force was not significantly disrupted by the constant reporting and detachment of officers. It was an accepted if not desirable way of life. There was some stability in knowing who was going to be on board and for how long. Furthermore, the relatively small number of officers in the submarine service always presented the opportunity to renew old friendships at some future time and place. Resignations were rare. Only about one in five first-tour submarine officers made the decision to leave military service. It was probably the most stable officer corps in the armed forces.
Can the same thing be said of the New Force? Technological change increased the number of officers required in submarine billets by a significant factor. This required number was never reached. At the same time, the number of first-tour officers resigning from the New Force increased to about three times that of the old. This led to unpredictable tour lengths as stopgap measures were taken to fill an increasing number of holes with a decreasing number of pegs. Diversion and rediversion of officers from their original career patterns began to be so commonplace that the very concept of a career pattern lost its credibility. Young officers were referred to in terms of “inventory shortages” instead of people, and the officer tour plan began to take on the characteristics of a motor pool.
The normal difficulties of disassociation every three years became even more stressing as the uncertainties of where and when increased. Family pressures heightened, particularly among first-tour officers, whose wives already had quite enough to cope with in a new marriage and a new way of life which required them to be wife, mother, comptroller, mechanic, and lady.
There was little intra-group competition in the Old Force. Equal values of background, education, knowledge, and experience acted to prevent there being “two ends to the boat.” All officers shared one distinction—they were submarine officers. There was equal opportunity to achieve. Officers were limited only by their individual abilities and ambitions.
There was a considerable amount of inter-group competition, both official and unofficial. Efforts to win the division efficiency pennant were real and strenuous. The winner became the flagship of the division commander, which added to the boat’s recognition and status. Unofficial competition took the form of between-boat “razzing” for a pier smashing arrival or ragged performance. But officers from different boats stood back-to-back when confronted by destroyermen.
In the New Force, however, the requirement for technical specialization introduced intra-group competition. Consciously or unconsciously, officers began to compare the value of nuclear training with non-nuclear training. Much of the wardroom joking about whether the engineers were pushing or following the front end of the boat had a strained quality.
In Polaris submarines, inter-group competition was simply never established. There was little or no comparative basis on which to judge the merit of one boat against another, since, for every boat, every patrol was like every other patrol. The inter-boat razzing decreased or stopped altogether. The very serious business of conducting deterrent patrols essential to our national security was inconsistent with practical jokes or levity. The highly classified nature of Polaris operations and the sameness of these operations reduced the opening lines of conversation at the club to such inanities as, “Are you going or just coming back?”
More than one submarine officer who had served in both the old and new force was heard to remark, “They’ve taken all the fun out of it.” But it wasn’t “they” who took the fun out of it; it was technological change that was necessary, inevitable, and demanding.
The Old Force had a keen sense of status both internal and external to the submarine service. Within the force, status was measured by success in official and unofficial competition. Since success was measurable, officers knew the status of their boat compared to other boats. Since the inter-group competition was intense, those with high status worked hard to maintain it and those with low status worked hard to improve it.
Status external to the force was measured by comparisons vis-à-vis destroyers, carriers, and so forth. The waiting line of volunteers from these external forces for submarine service was sufficient testimony to the status of the submarine force.
But, what part does status play in the New Force? As the number of Polaris boats increased and inter-group competition decreased, it became more and more difficult to measure the status of one boat against another. There was no discernible difference between ships. A “greyout” occurred within the submarine force. It seems reasonable to assume that since status became hard to determine, efforts to maintain or improve status could not materialize. This is important. Nothing drives the Rotary harder than a successful Lions Club.
The greyout had predictable and unpredictable results. More than one submarine officer returning from a long and difficult Polaris patrol experienced the chill of being welcomed back by a squadron commander who addressed the crew by its wrong name.
Status external to the force decreased as it became known that an officer no longer needed surface ship qualification to be accepted for submarine training. In fact, no prior naval experience of any kind was required as the direct input program from college door to submarine developed. Today, a brand new officer reports to his submarine via nuclear training and a five-week “orientation” course. Submarine qualification procedures have become even more abbreviated. The decrease in external status is further reflected in the less-than-needed number of officers asking for submarine duty and unparalleled recruiting efforts.
Every officer in the wardroom of the Old Force had an equal opportunity to achieve the highest status position in the group—that of commanding officer.
The commanding officer of the New Force, however, must be nuclear-trained. He needs to know and understand the principles of nuclear energy in order to supervise their safe application. However, not all officers in the new force wardroom are nuclear-trained and not all can become eligible for nuclear training. These officers cannot succeed to command of a New Force submarine and therefore cannot attain the highest status in the group.
It has been observed that one of the essential dimensions of member satisfaction is the perceived freedom of full participation. Certainly the freedom of participation includes the opportunity to achieve group leadership. The officer who is not nuclear-trained is likely to have mixed feelings about his membership in a group in which he is barred from succeeding beyond a certain point. Furthermore, he is apt to harbor some hostility towards those who are nuclear-trained and can succeed to command, but who do not work as hard as he does for group goals.
Another disruptive element that emerged in the New Force was the increasing duration of patrols. In the Old Force, the boats were generally operated on a weekly basis, with occasional exercises lasting longer. In the New Force, particularly the Polaris element, operations are measured in months. For the most part, they are dull. Officers have little to do, and “busy work” is invented to occupy time. A successful Polaris patrol, by national security definition, is one during which nothing happens.
In a study of stress relationships in socially isolated groups, it has been observed that groups on long successful missions report more anxiety and stress than successful groups on short missions. This study would seem to have particular relevance to Polaris patrols.
Military service has a great deal of ritual and the submarine service participates in that which is common to all branches of the armed forces. In addition, the Old Force observed rituals that were unique to submariners, from the formal ceremony of presenting dolphins in the presence of the whole crew at dress parade, to the unwritten law that says that no one sits in the captain’s chair but the captain. These ceremonies were a part of submarines and were expected and observed.
Ritual has not changed very much in the New Force, but it has become more unpredictable. If there are more pressing technical matters that must be attended to in preparation for patrol, the crew may not be assembled for ceremony. The necessity to preclude ceremony under such circumstances cannot be denied. All that can be said is that this is one of the manifestations of a society under stress and there isn’t very much that can be done about it, except perhaps to recognize that unrecognized accomplishment has its price, too.
The submarine force is not sitting on its hands. It is painfully aware of the effects of the officer retention problem, if not the causes. The alarming number of resigning officers has a direct impact on our strategic posture, since 82 submarine crews must be maintained to man the Polaris force in addition to the personnel needed to operate the fast attack submarines. The significance of this is not lost on the Department of the Navy. The problem has received first priority attention at the highest councils in the government. There are many corrective actions under consideration. Let us discuss two recommendations which have been approved for implementation.
Spot Promotion of Engineer Officers. The engineer officer of a nuclear submarine has responsibilities which are an order of magnitude greater than those of his civilian contemporary. He is directly responsible to his commanding officer for the safe operation of the nuclear reactor. The threat of biological damage to a large population from fission products released by a major reactor accident is real, although improbable. The price of prevention is constant vigilance. The fact that there has been no such accident in nuclear submarines is a tribute to the excellence of design of naval reactors and the dedication of the officers and men who operate submarine nuclear propulsion plants.
The officer who succeeds to the post of engineer normally does so in the rank of lieutenant. In order to equate the engineer’s responsibilities with his authority, the Navy has upgraded the billet of engineer to the rank of lieutenant commander. This is a commendable action.
Continuation Pay. On 2 April 1969, the House of Representatives approved a bill which authorizes the payment of a $15,000 bonus to first-tour officers who agree to obligate themselves to an additional four years of service.
In a review of current literature in the behavioral sciences related to monetary inducement, the best that could be found in support of such a “cash value” approach to retention was that while salary has its place in the scheme of things, money as a motivator is greatly overrated and that expressions of concern over salary conditions are often used to camouflage other considerations. This view seems particularly applicable to the military where junior officers may be very reluctant to reveal the real causes for their dissatisfactions to their seniors.
In a Harvard Business Review article, “Job Enrichment Pays Off,” Messrs. W. J. Paul, K. B. Robertson, and F. Hersberg collaborated to say a mouthful: “Higher pay may temporarily buy more work, but it does not buy commitment. Nor does commitment to a task, by itself, bring demand for higher pay.”
The bonus plan is not a reward for services rendered beyond normal expectations nor is it a form of recognition for extraordinary responsibility. It is dollar seduction in the absence of a better idea. Since it is to be paid in monthly installments over a four-year period, it will create the incredible paradox in which the commanding officer could be salaried below his division officers. The effect of this embarassment and potential outrage on wardroom relationships boggles the imagination.
Money has the power to buy things and must be respected in that context, but it cannot buy those things that ultimately lead to the satisfaction of human needs. Money is too often thought to be the source of status; it has status only on a scale with other money in the sense that $1,000 has greater buying power than $100. Money cannot buy the true status of deserved recognition, appreciation, and respect of one’s fellow men.
The cohesiveness of the submarine wardroom has deteriorated, because it no longer has the forces of attraction and retention it once had. Its attraction and retention have declined, because this group satisfies fewer human needs than before. The group satisfies fewer needs today, because its properties have changed as the result of the impact of impersonal technological change. Lastly, because it satisfies fewer needs, first-tour officers are seeking other groups that can better satisfy these needs.
Sociologists might argue that the effects of technological change were predictable and that the properties of the group could have been better managed to moderate or neutralize these effects. Perhaps this is so, but it is also retrospective. The important points are that the change has taken place, the properties of the group have changed, and the effects of this change are evident. What is needed now is corrective action of the right kind to restore the cohesion of the group.
The breakdown of group cohesion is not necessarily reversible. There may be no solution or set of solutions that can restore the cohesiveness of the group to what it once was. But this much seems certain: since human needs are difficult, if not impossible, to alter, whatever solutions that can be found will be found by changing the properties of the group to better satisfy human needs.
In restructuring these properties, the Navy must start trying to cure the disease and stop trying to treat the superficial symptoms. It must rigorously search out the true causes of officer resignation. This is not an easy task. The human animal finds it more convenient, or less embarassing, to verbalize his dissatisfactions at the surface level and a trained ear is needed to hear below this depth.
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A graduate of the U. S. Naval Academy with the Class of 1952, Captain Thamm served successively in the USS Abbot (DD-629) and the USS Bang (SS-385) before undergoing nuclear power training from 1957 to 1958. He was assigned to the USS Triton (SSN-586) and was on board during the first submerged circumnavigation, and, from 1962 to 1965, was executive officer of the George Washington (SSBN-598). He was a Senior Project Officer, Supervisor of Shipbuilding, Conversion and Repair, at Groton, Connecticut, from 1965 to 1968. Selected for Engineering Duty (Ships) in 1966, he attended the Master’s Program at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute from 1968 until 1969 when he assumed his present duties as Planning and Estimating Superintendent at Norfolk Naval Shipyard.