The Image of a Winner: An Answer to Personnel Retention
Commander John A. Henry, Jr., U. S. Navy—Three articles appearing in the Proceedings have provided some of the most stimulating reading that I have come across in some time. They are: “The Silent Vote,” in February 1971, “Junior Officer Retention, A Lot of Little Things,” in March 1971, and “The Frustration Factor,” in the April 1971 edition.
Separately, they provide thought-provoking insights into our personnel retention problem. Together, they present a sobering picture of how the problem has been nourished over the years. Happily, in presenting the elements of the problem, they also suggest solutions.
One need not elaborate on the points treated in these three articles, because they stand well by themselves. But there is one ingredient of retention which needs highlighting, because it is the key to obtaining and retaining the kind of people who will maintain a proud professional Navy. The ingredient I refer to is the successful projection of a winner’s image. To appreciate this ingredient, we need first to consider it in the light of other ingredients of the answer to retention—ingredients which have not achieved the success we had hoped.
For as long as I can remember, we have sought ways to improve retention of our kind of people: high-performance people. To achieve this, we have laid siege to the obvious offending areas: relatively low pay, long family separations, inadequate housing, and the like.
Admiral Elmo R. Zumwalt, Jr., U. S. Navy, Chief of Naval Operations, and others have initiated new ship scheduling policies, designed to optimize the Navyman’s time with his family. Navy housing is getting constant attention, with all the action Congressional funding will permit.
And what about pay? With effectuation of the pay raise for under two-year personnel and BAQ, pay will have improved to the point where, according to the Labor Department’s Bureau of Labor Statistics, it will be on a par with civilian pay. Pay has indeed come a long way, but still our retention rates disappoint.
I do not wish to minimize these human factors. Surely, they are important. But overriding? No. For even with the vast improvement of these important factors, our retention rates remain far lower than desired.
What, then, is the answer? We might start by asking ourselves, what motivates good people over the long haul? What attracts them to an organization? Once joined, what makes them want to stay joined? No amount of pay, housing, or family life can motivate a good man indefinitely. He must feel that his work is useful and, even more important, that his organization is a champion. Everyone likes to ride a winner. It is a curious American trait, but it has stood well the test of time and national trials, from the Revolutionary War to the present day. General Douglas MacArthur once said: “There is no substitute for victory.”
Today’s Navy is armed as never before with an impressive array of reasons to project a winner’s image. In reality, is not America’s very future bound up with that of the Navy? Consider the people we Navymen are sworn to protect and defend, the American people. We Americans depend for our welfare on international commerce, nearly 100% of which is delivered by sea.
As for the associated role of our Navy, consider these current events. The Soviet Union and other nations are going to sea in increasing volumes to gain ever-bigger slices of the international economy; even small countries are challenging the large, as they unilaterally claim—and enforce—exclusive fishing rights at least 200 miles out into the oceans. Dare our merchantmen risk themselves on the open seas, in this challenging and increasingly competitive environment, without a powerful American Navy standing watch over their global movements? The answer seems more and more obvious with each passing day. Indeed, in a day which promises to usher in a period when the oceans will be used as never before, our Navy stands as the world’s guardian and ensurer of free use of the seas.
Monumental challenges and opportunities confront today’s Navy. Young people, older people, all people looking for the chance to contribute something worthwhile, would find a useful niche in our Navy. The fields of opportunity range from designing and participating in America’s defense structure, to exploring the unfathomed riches of the underseas, to contributing to the betterment of our society itself.
Active as we are in all these exciting adventures, how do we Navy people sell our Service as the professional career for America’s best young men and women?
Happily, we do not have to dream up subtle “gimmick” appeals, we can sell the truth. We can sell the truth about a Navy on the move, one which is involved in most every meaningful facet of American life. As mentioned earlier, it is involved not only in the maintenance of world peace and equilibrium, but in the explorations of ocean space and outer space, in the seaborne delivery of every product to and from American shores, and in the betterment of the American social condition.
Truly, our Navy has an impressive story to tell, and our present-day involvements, excitingly publicized, will make the message come alive for all Americans, and particularly those who would join us in an even more impressive future. And thus is projected the image of a winner.
We must remember, however, the image is that of a winner only if it is the image the American public sees. Admittedly, that is not easy now, in a time when many of our countrymen see us as parties to failure and poor judgment in Vietnam. What matters is what the public thinks, and so our task is to get them thinking we are a winner. For clues as to how to get them thinking our way, perhaps we would do well to look at some notable winners, to see how they get the image across.
Ross Perot, a former Navyman who has captured the imagination of our countrymen, is a man on the move. He is the founder and chairman of the successful Electronic Data Systems Corporation and an international advocate for our Prisoners of War/Missing in Action. He is a big winner. The bigger his winner’s image, the more people want to join forces with him. We who have known him, and those who have seen him on national television know how he projects the image of a winner. He has something worthwhile to talk about; he says it with conviction and persuasion. His audiences become sold, and he makes them want to find their own place in the winning image he projects.
Now consider an example from the sports world—the late Washington Redskins and Green Bay Packers coach, Vince Lombardi. How did Coach Lombardi come to attract such a following? For the longest time, he was mired in obscurity. And when he did finally get his chance to lead, he drove his players hard, many said unmercifully. At first they rebelled, but when he made them big winners—and gave them their pride—they were hooked. Lombardi’s image as a winner will always stand as a model for all who seek the thrilling heights of top-rate success. And he also leaves us the message behind the model: “Any man’s finest hour is when he has worked his heart out, exhausted on the field of battle, victorious.”
In all walks of American life, it is excellence, a winning image, which draws and holds men. A young Navy lieutenant said he withdrew his resignation because Admiral Zumwalt’s exciting initiatives are making the Navy more “desirable . . . and prestigious.” (Translation: giving the Navy a winner’s image in the public eye.) It boils down to this: We must build our own image.
For starters, let us look at several relatively inexpensive ways to sell a winning image for our Navy. We can sell through getting ourselves involved in the Domestic Action Program that the CNO has outlined and promulgated. We can sell through the opportunities we make to speak to and with civic, school, and other groups. We can sell through appropriate liaison with the news media, and wherever we go, we can sell through our own personal example. The excitement of our unparalleled roles, alone, can win much favorable public exposure as Admiral Zumwalt’s exciting Z-gram series has.
A tough job, this selling? Sure it is. But as we know that is one mark of a winner—the capability to do tough jobs well. Agreeing that action begins at home, I for my part, have become active in a continuing civic project to help build good citizenship in our teenage youth. I hope that through me, some outstanding youth can see a “beautiful” Navy. Let us get together and on with the job.
I can think of no professional area which has a more winning list of missions to fulfill. And none whose missions are so historic, affecting as they do people the world over, politically, economically, and socially. It only remains for us to let our light so shine that America will see our true image—the image of a winner. And Americans—good Americans, high-performance Americans—will be attracted to the light.
A “Tin Soldier” is a Good Soldier
Rear Admiral Elliott B. Strauss, U. S. Navy (Retired)—Those who have visited London have almost certainly watched the sentries outside of Buckingham Palace. When not standing immobile in their sentry boxes, wearing dress uniforms, they pace back and forth, eyes to the front, arms swinging from the shoulder, with precise turns at the ends of their path. What have these antics to do with warfare and preparation for fighting? The answer is, “A great deal.”
Except when other units claim the privilege of this duty, trying to outdo the regular occupants in smartness, the job of guarding the Royal Family devolves on the Brigade of Foot Guards. The Brigade is composed of the five regiments: Grenadiers, Coldstream, Scots, Irish, and Welsh. The first of these came into being in 1658, the last in World War I. All are drilled to perfection in close order movements, are watched for the soiled white glove, the unshined button, the unpolished shoe. Tin soldiers, if you like, but let us go on from there.
In the holocaust of Dunkirk, units of the Guards Brigade were among those assigned the task of holding the perimeter while the main body embarked. This almost suicidal duty was given them because of their combat ability, proven over the long years. The embarkation was a wild scene of troops of all sorts, abandoning their gear and scrambling, often through water, to craft varying from Channel steamers to private power boats. As units of the Brigade reached England, it was found that the men had kept their rifles and packs with them. They were immediately asked: “How on earth did you manage to save your rifles?” The reply was that “We always keep our rifles and gear with us,” implying that it was a silly question.
The foregoing is cited to indicate that there is a demonstratable [sic] relationship between spit and polish and combat ability. The examples are numerous; however, I would like to belabor the subject at greater length since there is a prevalent school which would have us believe that just so long as the individuals of a unit are tough and “willing to go,” their appearance and discipline as a unit really do not count. No more, “A taut ship is a happy ship,” or “A clean ship is an efficient ship.” This is old hat.
The U. S. Marines are perhaps the outstanding example of my thesis. They have, over the years, combined spit and polish with universally acknowledged fighting ability. It was refreshing in this era of apparent wide belief that a military force can remain an effective one, without the concomitant of esprit de corps arising from military appearance, that the former Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Leonard F. Chapman, Jr., stated that, regardless of the attitudes of the other Services, the Corps would retain “short hair and short leaves.”
Our erstwhile enemies were aware of this phenomenon. In World War II, the German Waffen S.S. and the airborne were the elite troops. They excelled at the somewhat ridiculous goosestep, but they excelled in battle, too. As to whether such excellence still obtains, I quote an item from the Sunday magazine, Parade, of 30 May 1971:
After World War II, the West Germans put their army on the basis of “citizens in uniform,” as opposed to the Prussian professionalism of the past. Now, army leaders complain, they have more hippies than citizens in uniform. . . . In order to placate its increasing numbers of bearded, long-haired conscripts, the West German Army recently liberalized its regulations regarding dress and grooming . . . All over West Germany officers report . . . that discipline is “barely adequate,” that hippies in uniform have created a condition of military chaos.
Robert Graves, the author and poet, wrote Goodbye to All That; an account of his experiences in the Welsh Regiment in World War I. Now poets are not normally advocates of military discipline. The Welsh Regiment in that war suffered such severe casualties that the officers and men “turned over” several times, and only a handful of the original members survived the war. Graves writes that after any action in which the regiment was badly mauled and morale was just about destroyed, the best antidote to restore their combat readiness was an overdose of close-order drill. He points out that men, shoulder-to-shoulder, obeying the commands of a common commander, regain the feeling that they are part of a fellowship with a common purpose. The American general, Johnson Hagood, Chief of Service of Supply, in World War I, in an article in the Saturday Evening Post, made exactly the same assertions as to the virtues of close-order drill, this at a period when the unthinking questioned the purpose of squads right and left, when infantrymen in combat are scarcely in sight of one another.
It is worth noting, also, that, at a time when there is widespread disenchantment with the idea of discipline in the military in American and liberal calls for a “civilianized” Army and Navy, our most probable opponents have moved in the other direction. It will be remembered that at the time of the Bolshevik takeover in 1917, officers were stripped of their rank badges and the Services were “democratized.” It soon became evident that this simply would not work, and the reverse procedure has progressed to a point where the authoritarian character of the Russian military hierarchy far outstrips anything to be seen in the “imperialist” countries. Chauffeurs and orderlies wait longer times and in worse weather for their military masters than would ever be countenanced in the West. A February 1971 article in the Proceedings, by Captain Sumner Shapiro, U. S. Navy, points out the decline of influence in the political commissars in ships and stations of the Soviet Navy and that the commanding officer has again become boss. The photographs accompanying the article show smart, clean, well-groomed personnel.
As Alice in Wonderland would say, it is “curiouser and curiouser” that in the United States, where civilian control of the Services is more thorough than in perhaps any other military power in the world, military ascendancy is raised as a constant bugaboo. No military man in the United States can be found who would dispute that the political aims and grand strategy of the Republic is properly the sphere of the Administration and the Congress, but the public’s fear of the Pentagon has reached a point where the civilian is being injected into control of tactics, weaponry, military law, and personnel management. If the civilian is, in fact, better able to manage these facets of military expertise than the career professional, then it is evident that the latter should be fired. A doctor who had a layman second-guessing him on the scalpel to be employed or the type of anesthetic, would be an odd M.D. indeed.
To return to spit and polish, no one would propose that troops in jungle warfare or the sailors in river craft on the Mekong be arrayed like the soldiery seen in battle in the movie, Waterloo, but there is no reason why on their return to secure bases they cannot conform to the rules of military deportment learned through the combined experience of many countries over many years.
A Guards officer has said that in moving about the units in London, he could pretty much size up their morale and efficiency by how alert they were to render salutes to officers in uniform, even at a distance. When it was remarked that this seemed a rather superficial criterion, he said, not at all, if a member of an armed force feels pride in his unit and wants to make sure that by his alertness and conformity to regulation he, as a member of that unit, builds up its reputation, the chances are that it is a pretty efficient outfit. On the other hand, if an individual who sees an officer approaching avoids saluting by staring in a store window or by patting a nearby dog, it casts considerable doubt on the morale and esprit de corps of his organization.
With the advent of increasingly complex weaponry and the requirement for technological training of those who operate them, there is a growing tendency to consider a battalion or a ship’s company as a group of technicians, forgetting that at the moment of battle, the morale, discipline, and teamwork of these groups must be superimposed on their technical skills, however thoroughly the latter may be acquired. These non-technical attributes cannot be called up at a final moment; they must be bred during the day-to-day life of the military men.
Those in responsible positions in the military Service at this time have a doubly hard task in inculcating these indispensable attributes of an effective military force. Discipline, teamwork, and perhaps above all, spit and polish, have been given a pejorative flavor by, alas, too large a section of our community. This has seeped from family, school, and work life into the military. If our military lacks these qualities and our probable opponent possesses them, and if Napoleon’s dictum that morale is to manpower as five-to-one has any validity, then we are in deep trouble.
John J. Pullen in his book, Patriotism in America, says, “. . . morality and patriotism are not unconnected.” Farfetched as it may appear, for the military, at least, perhaps spit and polish should have a place there, too.
Shipmates
Warrant Officer Leonard J. Mitchell, U. S. Navy (Retired)—The best time of my life was, in many ways, the worst. During those two years I had very little fun, or as we say in these times, cultural enrichment. I had very few contacts with the fair sex, and those few were, in general, not very satisfactory. I saw no plays, read no books, won no prizes. Often, I missed meals for days at a time—seldom did I have an unbroken night’s sleep. It was “a hell-of-a-life,” yet I look back on them as my most rewarding years. I spent them on board destroyers in the South Pacific, during World War II.
Why was it a good time? Well, for several reasons:
First, I was doing something which I whole-heartedly believed in. That conflict appeared to our generation as the thing which would revolutionize the world; the millenium would follow as night follows day. There was no doubt about that.
Second, I had been trained for this function all of my adult life as a career man-o-warsman. Now, however, it was not a drill.
Third, I was closer to my shipmates—actually, perhaps for the first time I really learned the meaning of the term.
And fourth, because I was a professional, I was able to carry out my duties as an American combatant without any deep feeling of hatred for my enemies. They were, I realized, up against the same hazards and doing their duty by their respective countries as I was doing mine.
In my home today, I display a “Certificate of Satisfactory Service” signed by James Forrestal, for the President. I have surrounded it with the campaign medals which attest to my presence in various combat areas. Flanking it are snapshots of my division, the officers of one ship’s company and the CPOs of another. I am able to recite the names of all those men, and tell their shipboard titles and their hometowns. In several cases, I can tell you quite a few details concerning their wives and kids, fathers and mothers, and something about the migration of their families from various “old countries.” I am proud of having shared experiences with those men. I realize, however, that I am not unusual. Several million Americans, and, no doubt, proportionately as many other allies, as well as a like proportion of erstwhile enemies feel the same about their war experiences. Military men have always cherished the memories of their battles. But why is this so? Is it because, as is often said, we are all, at heart, savages and enjoy killing? Is it because we are masochists glorying in pain and fear? Does the blare of martial music, the display of might in ships, guns, and tanks, banners slapping in the breeze, and the sound of marching feet so intrigue us that we feel compelled to be a part of it all?
Are we insane? I think not. We did not enjoy either the prospect of killing or being killed; we were most unhappy to have been isolated from womankind, we abhored [sic] missing sleep and meals. We hated the feeling of dryness in our mouths and the sickening sensation at the pits of our stomachs as physical fear sent a flood of adrenalin through our veins. We did not dare to think that perhaps it was all a great waste of men and materials—that the world would return to its old selfish ways as soon as it was over, even though, in retrospect, we knew that was bound to happen—it always had.
What was left? Simply this. There was a colossal task to be accomplished, and we had been selected for a specific role in that task. The task—to win the war—was all important. Far more important than the lives of our shipmates, or even our own lives. A secondary task was to successfully bring our ship through the fight, so that we would be around to see the sun come up the next day, and live to fight again. We have no choice but to accept that role and its challenge, and we knew that the better we applied ourselves to the task, the more chance we would have of survival. So we diligently applied ourselves. We studied and worked, night and day, to achieve excellence of performance; not for greater pay, not for social prestige, not for the satisfaction of achieving leadership, but chiefly to improve the odds of survival. We knew that our own lives, and those of our shipmates depended on doing the job right.
Young officers, many of whom had majored in the arts, became, within a year, efficient shiphandlers, tacticians, and beloved leaders of men. Boys from farms and factories learned gunnery, machinery operation and repair, and seamanship, practically overnight. Nobody worried about having to work overtime. We were all glad to still be around in overtime. We soon became aware that everybody else was working and striving for our ship’s excellence as hard as we were.
Our captain, of course, was the hardest worker of all, and did not dare leave the bridge for long, even in good weather and relatively safe waters. We referred to him as the “old man” and we meant it. He had only three regular Navy officers beside himself, and one of them had been in civilian life ever since graduation from the Academy. The rest were “90-Day Wonders,” fresh out of college with 90 days of officer training. But he made it through, and so did the “Wonders.” Within two years, most of those beginning Reserve officers had commands of their own. But it did not take them two years to earn our respect. They had that right after the Battle of Kolombangara, a sharp shoot-out on a pitch-black night. When the sun came up in the Solomons next morning, it shone on a task force lighter by a cruiser and destroyer.
We mourned our losses, but, for all that, in our destroyer the sun shone on 340 officers and men proud to be there, and to know that we were still afloat, very much alive because of lessons well learned, the execution of the task, and the efficiency and courage of the entire crew. From the “old man” to the number six messman, we were shipmates. We still are.
Retention—and Comradeship
Burton Longwell—In April 1969, on Easter Sunday in fact, my wife and I were sitting in a waterfront cafe at St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands. Anchored offshore was an American destroyer. At this cafe were many crewmembers, both officers and enlisted men—black, white, yellow, and brown—all neatly dressed in their uniforms, quietly drinking beer, as were my wife and I.
The ship’s commanding officer walked in, wearing Hawaiian civvies, and immediately all the ship’s company stood up at attention. He told them to sit down, and then he went from table to table and bought each man a beer—including himself. My wife and I watched as he greeted each man by name, joined in their songs, and told his share of stories. Later, he shook hands with every one of them and then left.
The point of this discussion is that there was no segregation, no “kowtowing”—nothing but comradeship. There was no “brass hat” attitude on the CO’s part. At the same time, each man knew and respected the fact that he was their skipper, and conducted themselves accordingly. The CO could easily have gone to another club and thereby avoided the underlings.
After the commanding officer left, several crewmen said to me that they would serve under him anywhere, under any circumstance—that he was a “real guy.” That is the way to retain and re-enlist men.
Destruction of the USS Maine—Accident or Sabotage?
Lieutenant Colonel L. VanLoan Naisawald, U. S. Army Reserve (Retired)—The harbor of Havana, Cuba, lay still and dark. It was 9:30 p.m. on 15 February 1898, and the silhouette of a large U. S. warship riding at anchor could be seen clearly from the shore, even though clouds of a forthcoming shower were gathering overhead. Then, at approximately 9:40 p.m., an immense white, orange, and yellow flash lit the whole harbor. Seconds later, the roar, thunder, and concussion of a heavy explosion rolled across the waters. The USS Maine had blown up with the loss of over 250 officers and men.
The mystery of the cause of the explosion has never been solved despite two formal naval boards, the raising of the hulk of the Maine, and the passage of 73 years. In reviewing all available evidence, there appears to be good reason to believe that the destruction of the Maine was accidental. In analyzing every possible manner in which the explosion could have occurred, one must start with two major groupings—accidental or deliberate. For each of these, a number of amplifying alternatives can be listed. Under the “deliberate” column, there are far more possible conditions and situations, ranging from sabotage by a single U. S. sailor, by a group of Cuban revolutionaries, by a U. S. citizen, or even—to carry an assumption to its most unlikely extreme—a deliberate scheme planned by the U. S. government or by certain parties in the government.
In contemplating those under the “deliberate” heading, there did not then—nor now—appear to be any evidence to back up such a charge. The Maine’s crew were all on board her, except for one or two officers, so it is unlikely any U. S. personnel would have been involved. The questioning by the court, as to crew morale, indicated no dissatisfaction, only the highest order of good attitude. As for foreign instigation, the job would have been too complex for an amateur or for just one person or even two. The Spanish officials would certainly not have blown up a ship in an enclosed harbor, in an area heavily dotted with vessels from their own as well as other nations.
Perhaps equally important, is the complete absence of any claim by a Cuban, any American, or a Spaniard, with or without a basis in fact, of any involvement in or knowledge about a sabotage attempt on the Maine. If sabotage had been the case, it just seems contrary to human nature that on his death-bed, if not before, some participant—and there certainly would have had to be more than one person involved—would not have confessed his involvement. Or, in recent years, after the emotional aspects had died away and a mood of objectivity prevailed, (and the lure of monetary journalistic reward gaining in appeal), no one has spoken out of any knowledge of participating in the sabotaging of the Maine.
On the “accidental” side, the court and the residual evidence eliminated many of the possible causes. But there is one cause that went undiscovered, and this, it now appears, is the probable culprit. Nowhere in the U. S. Court testimony does the word “gas” appear. In 1898, knowledge of coal gases was very scant. The U. S. Department of the Interior’s Bureau of Mines informed the author that it is now known that coal gives off the very deadly, highly inflammable methane gas. This is an odorless, tasteless gas, which when present in the air at a ratio of 5 to 14% is extremely dangerous. In addition, coal continues to give off methane for an undetermined length of time after mining.
There was no concern in 1898 over the possibility of coal gases forming in the bunkers of a ship, resting at anchor, where temperatures below decks admittedly reached over 100 degrees, where there was no forced air ventilation, where there was no overwhelming evidence that a suspect bunker had been completely opened up, and even then, there was no means of detecting the presence of methane gas. Yet, all of the conditions were there, to include the electric power generating room adjacent to A-16 bunker, plus a very crude electrical wiring system by modern safety standards, and the additional proximity of the 6-inch reserve ammunition magazine—the one that the second court determined had partially exploded. What was missing was the knowledge of methane gas.
It was generally agreed that the explosion on board the Maine had occurred forward of the bridge and a little to the port side—the location of A-16 bunker. Testimony was given that most of the bunkers near the site of the explosion were empty, and those that still contained coal had allegedly been checked within 24 hours before the explosion. Only A-16 bunker was full. It was located behind two other bunkers, so was generally inaccessible. It was the first to be filled and the last to be emptied. Access to A-16 was through the other two bunkers or by an emergency hatch. It had been filled in Norfolk in November 1897 with 40 tons of soft coal, and had not been touched up to the time of the disaster.
To the investigating officers, there were only a certain number of possible causes: spontaneous combustion of coal or other inflammables, steam, electricity, high explosives, and sabotage. Every one of these seemed to emerge faultless, except for possibly some combination of the ammunition and sabotage by non-Maine personnel. There was no firm evidence of this, so the court wisely refrained from making any blunt accusation. But, in retrospect, one wonders, in light of the fact that there had been several prior mysterious explosions on coal-burning vessels, one of which was attributed to gas in a paint locker, whether any member of the court wondered about causes then scientifically unknown.
The Spanish court alone touched, but quickly skirted the gas theory without really coming to grips with it. In the summation of their findings, the Spanish noted the danger of ammunition being stored in close proximity to coal, and that this required “. . . ventilation sufficent [sic] to prevent the accumulation of gases and the development of caloric . . .” Their concern, too, was spontaneous combustion of coal that may have ignited the ammunition.
What of the external evidence submitted by U. S. divers of the bending of the keel and plates that tend to corroborate the theory of an external blast? Could not the same physical phenomena have occurred from (1) an initial internal explosion from gas, followed by (2) an ammunition explosion that penetrated downward through the hull and then reflected back upwards off the harbor bottom? And could not the Americans have been mistaken?
When one considers the following, it appears evident that the Maine was destroyed by an internally-caused, accidental explosion, probably methane gas in the A-16 bunker, ignited by the electrical system in the nearby dynamo room, which in turn caused a partial explosion of the contents of the 6-inch reserve magazine adjacent to the A-16 bunker:
(1) the waters outside Havana harbor were apparently never mined; (2) it would be inconceivable to have mined the interior of a harbor whose very narrow entrance was heavily protected by land defenses; (3) there was no evidence of sabotage detected by the Maine’s reinforced watch; (4) the scientific possibility of methane gas accumulation appears quite valid for Maine’s A-16 bunker; (5) the presence of electricity, ammunition, heat in proximity to the A-16 bunker; and (6) the absence of any subsequent personal statements of knowledge or involvement.
As to what the impact might have been on the events of that day, had investigations been able to determine methane gas as the cause of Maine’s disaster, cannot now be determined. There certainly would not have been the nation-wide wave of public indignation in the United States that unquestionably was fanned into the high heat of war fever by the American press. As to whether there would have been eventual hostilities between Spain and an expansive, crusading-minded United States, one can only conjecture.
But the words of that day, as written in the Senate Report of 1898, give a clear blunt feeling for the temper of the times. The investigation into the cause of the Maine’s destruction, said the Committee on Foreign Relations, had been completed with thoroughness and deliberation:
The difficulty of demonstrating by conclusive proof the efficient personal cause of that sinister event was the usual one of exposing plotted and mysterious crimes. No such difficulty, however, obscures its official and responsible cause. . . . So clearly is the destruction . . . only a single incident in the relations of this government with Spain, that if the calamity had never happened, the questions . . . would press for immediate solution.
It is but conjecture and vain contemplation, but I believe that if it could have been ascertained that the Maine’s loss was accidental, the war with Spain would never have been fought, the Philippines would not have come under American rule, and as for Pearl Harbor—who knows?
“Junior Officer Retention, A Lot Of Little Things”
(See M. S. Harris, pp. 26-31, March; pp. 97-98, August; and pp. 96-97, September 1971; and pp. 90-91, January 1972 Proceedings)
Lieutenant Larry Roberts, U. S. Navy—We have created an environment in which j the true leader, the outspoken, adventuresome individual cannot exist. After World War II, as technology advanced and weapons systems grew more expensive, there came a perhaps understandable reluctance to trust these new, sophisticated weapons to the man in the field. Since the admirals could not be there to fire every missile and fly every new airplane, they turned to the next best thing—reports, reports, and reports.
How many times did you use it? Did it work? Why not? This pervasive, management-from-the-top concept has reached into every aspect of unit life—money, manpower, maintenance, and even petty everyday decisions.
How has this affected the once all-powerful commanding officer? Gradually he has been shorn of all alternatives and authority while retaining full responsibility. He cannot afford to make a mistake for, with the onset of instant communications, he has an admiral looking over his shoulder 24 hours a day. Junior officers look at this harassed, gun-shy individual and wonder why they should strive to attain his status. In fact, most wonder how anyone can exist in this environment.
We tell the college graduate that he can fly his own jet or conn a ship and, if we are lucky, we get the more spirited, adventuresome people. Then we chain these dynamic people to a desk where they grind out reports, letters, and messages all day long. As paperwork has proliferated, paperwork-related jobs have multiplied until now, in a typical aviation squadron, roughly two-thirds of the junior officer jobs are such exciting billets as communications, registered publication system (RPS) custodian, legal referral, public affairs officer (PAO), ad nauseam.
We are losing the intelligent, questioning man who is the source of improvement and change in any organization. These people are discouraged and disappointed at first, then resigned, and finally they grow hostile and count the days until they get out. Those who speak up for change are sometimes forced out by unflattering remarks on their fitness reports. What we are left with is the good manager, the headshaking back-patter—conservative and uninspired. These dull, dry men rise in the Navy, and perpetuate the morass of paperwork which has been their personal stepping stone to success.
The retention problem is at a crisis stage now, much more serious than an admiral could even guess. And it is going to get worse. The few who even mention that they are considering “shipping over” become the object of ridicule. Most of their peers consider such people to be either deathly afraid of the challenge of civilian life or totally subservient, obsequious people who thrive on paperwork.
The people who love what the Navy could be—and are disappointed in what it is—must make suggestions for improvement and aggressively pursue them. The following are only two of the many ideas that could return the proper perspective to the naval profession:
(1) A restricted line management corps could be instituted. The talent is already there. There are individuals, for example, in every squadron who no longer want to fly, yet who seem to thrive on jobs on the ground. Assign two or three of these men to each squadron and give them the burden of the paperwork. The aviators, then, would have much more time to concentrate on their flying and leadership skills. Each squadron would need fewer aviators, because the ones assigned could fly more and worry less about paperwork. The Navy’s desire that every officer should be a manager could and should be preserved. No one can deny that being a division officer and handling and planning for 30 to 40 men, with all their personal and professional problems, demands skilled management. There are enough jobs in any squadron or ship oriented toward people management to keep the operators busy when they are not flying or conning a ship. They would certainly have more time to study and become professionally adept.
(2) Permit juniors to write evaluations of their seniors, which would be seen only by the man directly above the reported-on senior in the chain of command. This lone reviewer could balance these reports, good, bad, or indifferent against the results gained by the officer in question and thus evaluate him as a leader. Hopefully, this evaluation would not be used as a headhunting device. Most men can spot and appreciate a true leader whether they like him or not. In turn, seniors should possess the judgment to sort out the revengeful attacks from the valid criticisms. The present methods for measuring a unit’s effectiveness, the administrative-material (AdMat) and the operational readiness inspections (ORI), are so nebulous and arbitrary that nobody understands what the grades mean and few care. They should be eliminated. If a unit does well in its primary mission, be it gunnery, ASW, airborne early warning (AEW), refueling, or whatever, and the morale of the unit is good, as evidenced by its CO’s evaluation, it should be considered combat ready and left alone. The only people who have anything to lose from these evaluations are those who have ignored all they learned in those many leadership classes.
The Navy must return management to its lowest level, to the man in the field, and give this man a stake in the results he obtains. The only reason for the existence of managers is to make it easier for the people who work to accomplish that work. If a manager must justify his existence with reports, he is a failure. If we return the management of money, men, and material to the man in the field the need for reports will be virtually eliminated. He must, of course, be permitted to make mistakes. Only by errors can he grow, gain self-confidence, and become an aggressive, mature leader. As long as the military is managed from the top, the managers can juggle figures to create a rosy picture and the hierarchy will be happy—until they must try to explain another Pueblo incident, the My Lai massacre, a Pearl Harbor, or another incident where the captain of a Coast Guard vessel allows Russian seamen to board his ship.
We can continue the present trend, raising pay until we have “bought off” a Navy; but will this mercenary, professional navy have any love of country, patriotism, or the stake in peace that our present civilian-oriented Navy has?
Perhaps the only solution is to return to the concept that each man is totally responsible for his acts and is given the full authority needed to do the job or hang himself. Only then will we have a challenging, stimulating environment and an exciting Navy in which the true leader will fight to stay.
I would also like to commend you for having the foresight and courage to publish an article like Lieutenant Harris’. The Proceedings is at last becoming a true forum for discussion rather than an obscure journal of official naval opinion.
“The Service Force in Action”
(See D. M. Karcher, pp. 28-37, November 1970 Proceedings)
Captain Jack M. Stevens, U. S. Navy, Commanding Officer, USS Wichita (AOR-1)—Captain Karcher makes the rather gloomy, but truthful, prediction that, for the immediate future, “. . . the support forces will be a mixture of the weary old and the untried new.” In response, I offer a report of the USS Wichita (AOR-1), the first of an entirely new class of ship.
The Wichita, designated as a replenishment oiler, is a multiproduct ship capable of delivering simultaneously fuel, ammunition, and dry stores. Commissioned on 7 June 1969, she is 659 feet long and 96 feet wide. Full load displacement is listed as 37,632 tons, but frequently for operational line swings, she displaced over 40,000 tons. Three boilers and two main engines produce 32,000 s.h.p. that translates into a top speed of about 21 knots. Twin screws and twin rudders contribute to excellent handling characteristics.
The liquid cargo capacity of the AOR-1 exceeds 7,000,000 gallons. About 3.6 million gallons of Navy special fuel oil (NSFO), 3.3 million gallons of JP-5, and 230,000 gallons of aviation gasoline (AvGas) could be carried. The black oil and JP-5 can be pumped to a customer ship at a rate of 3,000 gallons per minute, per hours. In addition, about 500 tons of refrigerated and non-refrigerated provisions can be carried, plus, as frequently required, over 2,000 tons of ammunition.
The Wichita departed her homeport of Long Beach, California, in June 1970 for the first operational deployment of an AOR. Carrying 350 men and 25 officers, she joined the U. S. Seventh Fleet as part of the mobile logistic support forces assigned to Commander Task Group (CTG) 73.5. The ship participated in combat support operations providing replenishment in the Market Time areas as well as Yankee Station. The types of ships serviced varied from attack carriers through cruisers and destroyers to LSTs, minesweepers and Coast Guard cutters. One of the sharpest ships alongside several times was the Australian frigate, HMAS Perth.
When the deployment was completed on January 1971, she left behind an impressive record. A total of nearly 250 ships had been alongside, with no accidents or oil spillage. The Wichita had delivered over 500,000 barrels of NSFO, 250,000 barrels of JP-5, 10,000 tons of ammunition, over 450 tons of provisions, plus Fleet freight, mail, and personnel. About one-half of the underway replenishments were conducted during hours of darkness.
Considered noteworthy was an evolution during the night of 14 October 1970, when the Wichita was pressed into action to provide major replenishments to all Task Force 77 ships on Yankee Station to facilitate evasion from Typhoon Joan. A total of 11 ships were serviced successfully during the night in spite of increasingly hazardous seas.
When the Wichita departed the Western Pacific, it was with optimistic words of praise such as the following excerpt from a message sent by our immediate operational commander, CTG 73.5: “Through the enthusiastic efforts of all hands, Wichita has established the AOR class as a premier mobile logistic support force unit. Even more significant, Wichita has created a reputation for excellence which will long be the standard for all who follow.”
I do not expect that the Wichita-class AORs represents [sic] any miraculous breakthrough, but when manned with as fine a crew as the Wichita has, there is a good feeling that perhaps one element of Captain Karcher’s “untried new” will prove equal to the task.
“For the Reserves: A Workable System”
(See H. C. Boschen, Jr., p. 93, April; and p. 86, November 1970; and p. 97, October 1971 Proceedings)
Captain J. A. Culver, U. S. Naval Reserve-R, Commanding Officer, Naval Reserve Officers School 1-17—The following comments are the opinions of the officer students of this South Weymouth, Massachusetts, school, which represent a cross-section of the Naval Reserves, both rank and designator:
The concept of using overage amphibious ships as Naval Reserve training ships has both advantages and disadvantages. The advantages are:
Shipboard training is more interesting, more practical, and more realistic than a shore based training center. It would also stimulate more interest in the Reserve program and would enhance retention and recruiting. Shipboard exercises and underway operations would make a man to feel like part of the Navy, and would reduce boredom associated with “paper-pushing” drills. Using amphibious ships as training ships results in practical training for both Navy and Marine personnel.
Some of the disadvantages are:
A suitable beach and warm-water operating area would be needed in order to obtain a reasonable level of performance. Planning an exercise every weekend would have drawbacks and cause problems. The techniques and concepts would be based on World War II operations, using ships of that era. Using an overaged ship results in the lack of modern defensive and offensive tactics, and so the Reservist would not be using up-to-date equipment.
The scheme has problems. The Reserve crews of destroyers have problems with attendance and poor operational readiness. The older ships contribute to these problems because of considerable down time of older equipment.
Maintaining older ships, amphibious or otherwise, is an expensive proposition. The financial upkeep appears to be expensive. A complete analysis should be conducted to determine the costs of operating and maintaining a World War II personnel attack transport (LPA). The Naval Reserve has the capability and manpower to conduct such a study. A task group could be set up on each coast to conduct the study. The study would include such things as a caretaker force to maintain the ship in seaworthy condition. Every Reservist would become a weekend driller. The problem here is that there are not enough weekends to care for all of them in a big seaport area, so more than one ship would be needed to take care of the volume.
Another problem is obsolete equipment, ships, and methods. These are of limited value to the security of our nation during an emergency. The Navy should be realistic and furnish the Reserves with the best equipment. If a compromise is considered, however, overage ships would be better than none.
The overall scheme is basically a sound one and the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. The problems can be solved, however. The theme of better ships and equipment seems to be valid and strong.
An amphibious assault ship would offer the most modern techniques in amphibious landings. A squadron of gunboats would offer the most modern shiphandling, communications, and operating techniques. A new type training ship for reserves with new modern equipment installed is an approach.
More ships are needed for the Naval Reserve whether they be old or new. The Naval Reserve can handle changes as it has in the past. Forward thinking and new ideas are needed and imputs [sic] from the reserve components can result in a strong ready reserve force to protect the security of our nation.
“Navy Medicine: A New Prescription”
(See P. A. Flynn, pp. 42-47, February; p. 98, June; p. 95, August; and pp. 96-97, October 1971 Proceedings)
Lieutenant C. J. Jannings, Medical Corps, U. S. Naval Reserve (Retired)—Experience with socialized medicine in other countries has shown that there must be some barrier between the patient and the physician if, for no other reason, than to conserve a scarce resource and to preserve it against the effects of unlimited demand.
Perhaps this barrier might best be a Navy corpsman who has received special training as a physician’s assistant in a program such as is presently provided at Duke University. This corpsman, a highly trained physician’s assistant, could proceed up the warrant officer ladder and into the officer grades, thus providing a new career choice for highly-motivated medical corpsmen within the structure of the Navy. Keep up the good work.
“The Career Officer as Existential Hero”
(See D. G. Deininger, pp. 18-22, November 1970; p. 91, April; pp. 99-100, June; p. 98, July; pp. 96-97, September; and p. 96 October 1971; and p. 91, January 1972 Proceedings)
William V. Kennedy—Lieutenant Deininger’s generation did not come up with the idea that “Truth, after all, is a relative quantity.” That idea has been eating at the core of Western thought for at least two generations. The notion that personal integrity exists only in the outcasts and the self-exiled of the great Western institutions has its origins precisely where Lieutenant Deininger places it—in the glib tongues of the Bernard Shaws and the despairing introspections of Albert Camus. Granted, these artists reflected rather than formed the society in which they lived. It was, and is, however, a society made sick by the abandonment and perversion of its ancient ideals and virtues, not by the fundamentals that were and remain its glory.
The idea of freedom is rooted in the traditional Judeo-Christian concept and it cannot survive the abandonment of that concept. So long as we adhere to the concept and the ideals that flow from it we shall be committed to a mortal struggle for control over the political destiny of mankind. That, I believe, is what Woodrow Wilson meant when he said the world must be “. . . made safe for democracy.” The simple technological and professional faith proposed by Lieutenant Deininger will serve him no better in this struggle than did the “simple soldier” faith of the German Army.
Despite all of their failings and all of their inadequacies, the American Armed Forces have followed, so far, the truest and brightest stars of the heritage from which they emerged. Decatur and his toast notwithstanding, “romanticism” has not been the primary motivating force of Washington, Barry, Lee, Farragut, Mahan, Pershing, Sims, King, Eisenhower, and Arnold. Nor, for all the studied play-acting, was it the dominant force in the lives of MacArthur, Halsey, and Patton. These men shaped the American military tradition. To say that the generation now coming of age has a right to repudiate that tradition because of something it never was, is to suggest that the miscellaneous reading of the present college generation leaves much yet to be encountered.
If the stars of the generation that is now over 40 remain fixed and true, Lieutenant Deininger and the young men and women who share his views do indeed have a right to question some of the methods of navigation. Within the Armed Forces there is first and foremost the question of honesty. What of the “ghosted” speech and magazine article? How far can men in uniform support such slogans as “more muscle, less fat,” “a bigger bang for a buck,” and the promotional campaigns that accompany them without compromising personal honor? To what degree were the Services culpable in accepting the series of decisions that very nearly compromised our basic purpose in Vietnam? Would civilian leadership be tempted as far as it has on occasion if it knew that the officer corps was determined to state the risks clearly and explicitly, if necessary by individual resignations? What price have the Services paid for the acceptance, however innocently, of prestigious and lucrative positions in retirement that could not possibly reflect a valid economic contribution? None of these are easy questions to answer, but they must be addressed. That Lieutenant Deininger and many others of his age cannot accept the answers provided is all too obvious. We must do better.
Ensign Lawrence F. Clark, U. S. Navy—Much of the student activism is aimed not at destroying this nation, but at changing an America which is basically good into one which is even better. It is possible to love one’s country without being proud of every single aspect of life in it. To me, Lieutenant Deininger attacked the root of this problem—please, let me be dedicated not only to preserving the beauty of America, but also to eliminating the ugliness in it. Do not, therefore, make me blindly accept both right and wrong.
“The Silent Vote”
(See F. G. Dengler, pp. 34-37, February; pp. 98-99, June; pp. 93-95, July; and p. 92, October 1971 Proceedings)
Lieutenant (j.g.) Patrick A. Sabadie, U. S. Navy—If I am able to explain to my people the whys and wherefores of what they are told to do, when the day comes when I am unable to explain my actions, the job will still be done. Why will it be done with no questions asked? Because past actions will indicate to them that I probably had a good, supportable reason for my orders. This plateau of working relationships may be impossible to reach in the present-day Navy due to the overwhelming problem of personnel instability. If we could cure this problem, I feel that 70% of our other problems would also disappear.
I disagree with Lieutenant Dengler in his proposal that officers attend enlisted schools. The job of the division officer is to lead and counsel his men, not to do their work. The chief petty officers are the ones that must follow up, supervise, and report on a division’s work. It is too early to tell, and I have not had any personal experience with graduates of the Surface Warfare Officer’s School, but I hope that these men are learning the role of the division officer and the division chief. Chief petty officers must also teach their new division officers the ropes. A new, young, hard-charging junior officer needs direction from the bottom, as well as from the top.
Pictorial—“The Odd Ones”
(See pp. 71-81, September 1970; pp. 91-92, June; and pp. 96-97, August 1971 Proceedings)
Rear Admiral J. R. Tate, U. S. Navy (Retired)—Ted Jorgenson made a ten-strike with his layout. Some of the pictures brought back a flood of memories and a nostalgia far in the past.
The careful observer will note that in Picture Seven, the pilot of the Burgess-Dunn has two sticks in front of him. A fore-and-aft motion of both sticks controlled the ascent and descent of the plane, but to turn, one stick was pushed forward and the other pulled aft. Clever, eh?
Picture Eight, of the Loening Kitten, also a competitor for the smallest plane, might be the Martin MS1 or the Cox-Klemin XS1. Both submarine planes were designed for the tank on the S1 sub. Picture Nine, of Dave Ingalls’ special Lockheed brings back memories of a very hectic cross country.
Picture 20, of the plane with the flotation bags inflated is not an F4B, but rather an F2B, and it was an SOB to land on a carrier with the bags inflated as sometimes happened. Current instructions said to dive and tear them off if they inflated accidentally.
Picture 27, of good old 8878, the Grumman FF1, really was the stopper. I put the XFF through carrier acceptance tests and signed the report. Later I commanded VF-5 (the Red Rippers), the only squadron ever equipped with this type. It took 43½ turns and skinned knuckles to get the wheels up. No, I never landed one with the wheels up.
In connection with your invitation to submit candidates for consideration, I suggest:
1923-24: The Aeromarine 306—the first plane to make a carrier landing. This beauty, originally designed as a seaplane training plane, had the float removed (the B modification). It was a two-seat biplane—the pilot flew from the back seat and sat on the 12-gallon gas tank. It had a Curtiss OXX 100-h.p. motor that cruised at 1,250 r.p.m. The radiator was on the top wing, convenient for the pilot to hang his flight jacket over while warming up. The gas pump was driven by an anemometer head. The weight was 1,300 pounds and the wing loading was 1½ pounds per square foot. Top speed, nose down, was 44 m.p.h., while landing speed was 18 m.p.h.
The TS2 (Turret scout)—the fighter designed to be launched from the USS Nevada from a platform built over the gun barrels of the two forward turrets. There was no catapult. The plane, when released from the top of the Number 2 turret, roared down the incline. If the combined wind and ship speed was sufficient, it flew off. If not, the pilot bounced his wheels on the forecastle and hoped to get flying speed before he hit the water. This was not a popular sport. VF-1 was first equipped with these planes, and when the catapult was finally placed on the battleships, the planes were equipped with twin floats and became the battleship fighter.
I suggest also the Martin MO1 observation plane. This was one of the Navy’s first monoplanes. Its engine had a bad habit of falling off in flight. The Naval Aircraft Factory armored observation plane, the NO1, is still another. Best named plane in the Navy. Only one was built. Or perhaps the XOK which was not O.K. (the wings came off).
Perhaps the DT1, designed by Lieutenant Commander Donald Douglas, later borrowed by the Air Force to be the first plane to fly around the world.
I suggest, too, the BM1—the first plane designed to dive with a 1,000-pound bomb.
How about the O2U with Roy Grumman’s amphibious float? Grover Loening built a beauty called the OL8 (Galloping Goose) and the XSO3L (Pleasant Surprise).
Hall’s XP2H with four engines (Curtiss Conquerors back to back, two tractors and two pushers).
Editor’s Note: Readers having any photographs of aircraft mentioned by Admiral Tate, are invited to submit them for possible publication in the Proceedings.
“A United States Navy For the Future”
(See R. H. Smith, pp. 18-25, March; pp. 81-90, June; pp. 89-93, July; pp. 93-96, August; pp. 93-95, September; pp. 93-95, October; and pp. 93-95, December 1971; and p. 91, January 1972 Proceedings)
Lieutenant Commander G. E. Denn, Jr., U. S. Navy—As a project officer for complex weapons systems, during the past three years, on the Pacific staff of the Commander Operational Test and Evaluation Force, I have monitored numerous systems undergoing evaluation, and I am somewhat in agreement with Captain Smith.
It is inconceivable to me that various technical bureaus, which apparently have their own axes to grind, could continue to recommend buys for numerous systems before any or incomplete testing. These buys are initiated apparently because of contractor promises to make the system work, which rarely occurs, and then only after expensive retrofit requirements which are seldom completed. This policy has been one of the causes why so many “cats and dogs” are being introduced into ships, making them inefficient and ineffective units. Vague and poor direction on acceptance criteria, usually modified to accept lesser parameters, is the norm rather than the exception. Waivers on equipment being tested and contractor’s incomplete, inaccurate or misleading statements are readily accepted while the “blue-suiter” has great difficulty in gaining an audience. The “try-before-buy” concept is a good one, more expensive perhaps, but we must go with that procedure or require much more comprehensive reports from tests conducted and completed by the contractor. However, as long as these factory test observers are under cognizant technical bureaus, unfiltered reports would never be promulgated to an outside agency, much less to the military head of technical bureaus.
The list of unsatisfactory ship classes and systems in the Fleet is long. The criticism of the military is deserved but, as well put by Captain Smith, for all the wrong reasons. For the overall good of the Navy, let us return our loyalty to the Navy instead of to our immediate job and trying to protect the poor decisions made by our predecessors. We may have to back up for a new start, but that could be no worse than our current rapid march into oblivion.
“Time to Change”
(See E. L. Frasier, pp. 46-53, June 1971 Proceedings)
Lieutenant Commander R. W. Flynn, U. S. Naval Reserve—While it would simplify navigation, surveying, and the like, to have 100 degrees per quadrant, a 400-degree circle is quite as arbitrary as a 360-degree one.
Radian measure, in which there are 277 radians per circle, provides a natural measure of angle. This radian system is unchallenged for scientific, mathematical, and engineering applications because of the simplicity it introduces. I feel it would be unwise to forego the advantages of radian measure in any unit reform.
Since one radian equals roughly 57.3 degrees, it is a cumbersomely large unit for many applications. A smaller more convenient unit might be the “centipi” equally .01π radians or 1.8 conventional degrees. This would give 200 centipi per circle and 50 centipi per quadrant. A centipi is thus twice as large as the unit Lieutenant Commander Frasier recommends, but has the advantage of being convertible to radian measure by inspection (e.g., 23.7 centipi = 0.23777 radians). Engineers, mathematicians, and scientists now routinely measure angles in units of 77 radians and so conversion in these fields would be painless, and a 50 centipi quadrant has most of the advantages of the 100-degree quadrant proposed by the author.
Professor Curtis W. Cox, Department of Physics, Southwest Virginia Community College—Our continued use of the English system after the United Kingdom has abandoned it, leaves us in an awkward position logically, and in terms of world trade, I fully agree that all distance and mass measurements should be made and recorded in the MKS units.
But, while we are changing the clock and the compass, why not simply divide a circle into 100 (or perhaps 1,000) equal “radials” rather than 400? That would keep everything conveniently in integral powers of ten. And why do we need a 25-hour day? Why not just divide a sidereal day (or, if you prefer, a mean solar day) into 100 or 1,000 equal parts giving us, say, ten hours of 100 minutes each—or some such arrangement?
“Gibraltar: Monument to Seapower”
(See J. Weller, pp. 27-33, October 1971 Proceedings)
Major Elton C. O’Byrne, U. S. Marine Corps—Since 1945, the emergence of the Soviet Union as a naval and middle eastern power, has changed the geopolitical situation. Their drive along the southern littoral of the Mediterranean has provided them the air bases that would allow their land-based tactical air to contest with the U. S. Sixth Fleet carrier air. While this alone would not necessarily be decisive, their penetration of the Arab countries has now extended their influence west to Algeria.
If changes in neighboring Morocco’s leadership, or overt aggression by Algeria were to allow Soviet influence and weapons to penetrate Morocco, they would be in control of the southern shore of the Strait of Gibraltar. Then, for the first time since 1462, a non-Atlantic power would have the capability to close the Strait. Exercise of this capability would give the Russians the decisive advantage over the Sixth Fleet. Even if the carriers were able to force their way into the Mediterranean, the chain of Service Force ships required to support the Fleet would be denied entrance and defeat of the Sixth Fleet could be averted only by withdrawal.
If, as Mr. Weller says, Gibraltar is of importance because it was held by a maritime power, Morocco would be of ultimate importance if held by a Continental power opposing an Atlantic-based maritime power.
Soviet Officers More Youthful
Professor Claude P. Lemieux, Division of U. S. and International Studies, U. S. Naval Academy—In a column on the life of young officers, Soviet Lieutenant Colonel M. Sviridov quotes Marshal of the Soviet Union A. A. Grechko’s statement to the XXIV Congress of the Communist Party:
The special feature of the present day officer corps of the Armed Forces (U.S.S.R.) is its youth. Now more than 65% of the officers in the colonel complement are under 30. These officers have not been through the war, but they do possess such precious qualities as a ceaseless energy, fighting enthusiasm, and a store of knowledge. They confidently instruct and educate their subordinates and in conjunction with experienced cadres constitute that alloy which gives the needed durability to the complex fighting organization.
Western observers have commented on the advanced average age of the Soviet High Command. Most of the senior members of the Armed Forces had major commands during World War II and reached top ranks at the time of the 1937 to 1938 purges, as did the present members of the political leadership. Grechko is 68, S. G. Gorshkov is 60, while the average age of the Politburo is over 65.