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Civil Service mariners, such as Captain L. 0. Nassett, first MSC master of the fleet oiler Taluga, have demonstrated that experienced civilians can operate underway replenishment ships with considerably smaller crews than their Navy counterparts. When the carrier Ranger takes a drink from the Taluga, facing page, she’s getting good service, and the Navy is saving money.
On watch, after four hours of peering ahead at what has been an empty sea, fatigue is beginning to creep in. The darkness from an overcast sky is doggedly giving way to the first hint of dawn. Glancing over your shoulder at the luminous hands on the clock, you almost absently note the time: 0330. Up ahead, the lights of the replenishment ship slowly loom larger. Off to starboard, two Knox (FF-1052)-class frigates pass in the opposite direction to take up stations astern. Only their running lights are showing, and you aren’t able to make out their silhouettes. So you key the bitch-box and brusquely discuss with the CIC watch officer which ship is which.
The tension has been slowly mounting on the bridge for the last half hour. The oiler up ahead was not at the assigned rendezvous point, and you had to wake the “old man” three times regarding the changing situation and your intentions. At exactly 0300—45 minutes before the scheduled alongside time—the XO was on the bridge muttering over the smell of too-long-brewed coffee about OODs who
MILITARY SEALIFT COMMAND
Above, an able seaman applies ornamental covering to a piece of wire on board the USNS Rigel (T-AF-58), the ship shown at right. She is the first dry stores replenishment ship taken over by a Civil Service crew. Many of the crewmen on board the Military Sealift Command ships are retired Navy enlisted personnel.
couldn’t find a sluggish old oiler despite explicit instructions in the night orders. Ten minutes later, the seaman on the CIC radar repeater had found the elusive ship, and you were closing rapidly when the boatswain’s mate sang out, “Cap’n’s on the bridge.” Shortly thereafter, “Station the replenishment detail” went out over the 1MC announcing system as you brought the ship around astern of the oiler. Now, feeling silent pressure from the man in the baseball cap behind you, the entire bridge team works in low murmurs as check-off sheets are completed. The quartermaster relieves the helmsman, and your JOOD estimates ranges to the oiler off the radar display.
From the wing of the bridge, you look down across the forward rig crew—grumbling but alert—as the phone talker relays the word that all stations are manned and ready. The first rays of the sun begin to slice into the darkness, but you don’t notice them. Your eyes are focused on the running lights of the oiler, and your ears are tuned for the JOOD’s ranges, the helmsman’s replies, and the occasional comment of the four-striper seated in the wing chair at your back. When all is set, the captain calmly commands: “Take her in.”
And so it begins, like a thousand other times for a thousand other sailors before you. Professionally, you ring up a flank bell and easily slide alongside. You eyeball a spot midway between the lightbox on the oiler’s station 3 and the kingpost just aft. You settle the ship there, awaiting the twinkle of markers on the phone-and-distance line up ahead to gauge the gap between ships. The two ships echo standbys for shotlines, and the rigging begins. Keeping an eye on the bow, you establish a range of RPMs which seems to match your throttleman against the oiler’s. The ship rides easily and well, requiring little change in course or speed once in place. A feeling of confidence slowly wells up inside.
The feeling is short-lived. After five attempts up forward, the probe—the connecting link in the fuel line—has still refused- to seat. Similar problems on the after station result in a fiery exchange of words between the captain and the first lieutenant who adamantly claims that both receivers were personally checked out last night. Success finally comes aft, but the forward rig holds out for five more attempts, so there’s a delay to inspect the probe on board the oiler. Inevitably, most problems seem to occur right under the “old man’s” eyes. Meanwhile, the amidships cargo rig is suffering its own problems when the untensioned highline is received twisted. The third class boatswain’s mate inexpertly trying to unwind the line and couplings receives the moral support and frequently ill-directed orders from everyone within shouting distance. To make matters worse, the phone talkers at the amidships stations of the two ships apparently come from opposite ends of the country. Neither can understand the other. Communications thus degenerate to a cacaphony of
curses, handwaving, and declarations regarding the parental heritage of the guy on the other end.
At last, the probe gets seated up forward, and you note with guarded optimism that the connecting fuel hose is no longer flat. For a while the refueling goes well. The chief engineer reports that both stations are receiving fuel at reduced rates and passes up the first of what will be many estimates of the time it will take to finish. The amidships rig is finally straightened out, and the cargo drop reel is successfully tested with a dummy load. Although the captain grumbles with displeasure at the oiler’s movie list—no decent Westerns—the time-honored process of film swapping continues.
Just when it appears that the refueling evolution might come off without further difficulties, the captain’s phone talker reports that the oiler has stopped pumping up forward. Sure enough, a quick glance at the hose verifies its collapsed state. For the next half hour, the pumping rate at each station varies wildly from zero to 6,000 gallons per minute. At one point, the chief snipe projects completion times from 40 to 20 and back up to 90 minutes, all over a three-minute stretch. The bridge-to-bridge phone discussions are still polite, but they are becoming strained. Then the after probe somehow unseats itself, and for several seconds Navy distillate (ND) fuel flows freely over the deck on the port quarter and out the scuppers. No one is hurt, but footing has become treacherous, and the decision is made to send the probe back. Subsequently, a station-to-station argument takes place regarding the proper sequencing of back suctions and blowdowns, the result of which is that the remaining contents of the hose are spewed against the side of your ship. Pumping continues up forward, although at a reduced rate. You are spared further incidents, and with the sun three fists up in the sky—some two hours and 40 minutes after you pulled alongside—the prep flag is hauled down. The net gain from the effort is 50,000 gallons and five movies.
Outrageous? Ridiculous? Unfortunately, not so. On one recent Western Pacific deployment, the above situation was repeated more than once with minor mishaps of varying degrees of seriousness. Privately—both on the messdecks and in the wardroom—there is much discussion about the perceived professional competence of the officers because of their supervisory roles. All too often, mishaps among enlisted sailors serving in the deck gang, both as workers and immediate superiors, are attributed to individual ineptness rather than improper training and direction from the officers. Sloppiness in preparations breeds sloppy performances. Poorly or incorrectly prepared rigs, improperly trained winch operators, unknowledgeable phone talkers, malfunctioning pumps and gate valves—all contribute to the “Keystone Cops” type of operation described above.
Yet this does not have to be. There are many ships’ crews so well prepared and trained that they conduct smooth, safe, and productive operations routinely. Nine days after the above incident, the same apprehensive crew witnessed such a ship. The impact was nothing short of amazing.
This time it was another OOD’s turn in the barrel. At first it seemed that the evolution was going to duplicate the previous one. The CIC officer was prepared to fend off the accusatory adjectives of an angry skipper. A start time of 1530 was delayed by the carrier for which you had been serving as a picket, and now, one and a half hours later, you’re still in the starboard waiting station as the carrier refuels along the oiler’s port side. The alongside order had been shuffled to allow her escorts to go with the carrier when she finished. You casually comment to the sailor next to you that the oiler definitely needs a paint job.
Once alongside, the rigs are set up as before. Lines are passed and probes shuttle across. Miraculously, both probes seat on the first or second try. With the exasperating experience of the previous week’s episode still in his memory, the chief engineer requests “everything you’ve got” when asked for a pumping rate.
The response is such a rapid and sustained fuel rate that your ship is seemingly blown out of the water. After quickly, and somewhat embarrassingly, telling the fueling ship to slow the rate, cargo central settles into the routine of soundings, calculations, and orders. The time-to-go figures are passed topside with welcome predictability. Meanwhile, a terse but useful recommendation regarding rigging is passed over at the after station. Shortly thereafter, the fueling is completed, the order to break the rigs is given, and hoses, spanning wires, and tag lines are expeditiously returned. Forty-five minutes after the first hookup, 175,000 gallons of Navy distillate are on board, and the two ships ease away from each other. The boatswain’s mate on the forward rig tells his strikers: “Those guys were damn good”.
“Those guys” were all Civil Service sailors on board the USNS Taluga (T-AO-62) of Task Force 73- To be sure, they were a motley-looking bunch compared to our crew. You could pick out every sort of
garb from khaki cutoffs to rugby shirts; all of them were wearing lifejackets. The Taluga was carrying a small crew, and her men were generally much older than their counterparts on board our cruiser. Yet, something in the way they handled the rigs, the way they communicated once alongside, the manner in which they responded—all spoke of professionalism.
And it rubbed off. When first making the approach, there was an attitude of derision on board the cruiser. It was a combination of the oiler’s working appearance and the age-old, though good- natured animosity between destroyermen and the underway replenishment force. Yet, by the time the last line was cleared, this attitude had begrudgingly changed to one of respect. As in many endeavors, you tend to play up or down to the level of your opponent. The demonstrated skill of the Taluga s crew brought out the best in our own sailors.
“Those guys” were seen more and more frequently throughout the deployment, and our initial reaction was firmly reinforced. Although the reputation of the civilian-manned support vessels of the Navy’s Military Sealift Command (MSC) had preceded them, it was their doing of the job that cemented their reputation in our minds. Over a seven-month WestPac deployment, we were alongside MSC ships a dozen times—each time with the same results, the same superb performance. To a man, the wardroom developed a high regard for their operational capabilities, frankly to the detriment of our own commissioned replenishment ships which never stood up well in a one-to-one comparison alongside.
What accounts for the difference? The recent growth in both numbers (depicted in Figure 1 at right) and respectability of the civilian-manned support force is at best a sore point to many Navy recalcitrants. Although the Navy is still building new auxiliary vessels with the intention of manning them with regular Navy crews, there appears to be well- founded support of operating a greater percentage of the replenishment ships with civilian crews—Navy Civil Service employees.
The difference is certainly not the equipment. Of the 17 MSC vessels operated in direct support of the fleet commanders (eight oilers, four fleet tugs, one refrigerated stores ship, and four ex-Victory ships used for fleet ballistic missile submarine resupply) the average ship is more than 30 years old.1 While MSC expended significant funds upon acceptance of the vessels from commissioned status to upgrade machinery and habitability and to incorporate modern automated facilities, the basic hull and machinery are vintage equipment.
NUMBER OF SHIPS
'The Military Sealift Command currently operates a total of 106 ships: 33 dry cargo vessels, three bulk carriers, and 29 tankers assigned to the worldwide movement of Department of Defense cargoes; the 17 ships noted above in fleet support roles; and 24 special project ships such as cable layers, missile range instrumentation ships, and oceanographic research vessels. These latter ships are operated on behalf of numerous federal agencies. When Navy auxiliaries have been turned over to MSC for civilian operation, monies expended for improvements have been largely in the areas of engineering and habitability. In general, remotely controlled, hydraulically operated watertight doors have been installed in these ships between the fire rooms and engine rooms for unmanned operation of the fire rooms. Additionally, automatic control devices on evaporators have been installed to provide totally unattended operation. In the habitability area, living conditions were upgraded to commercial marine standards; i.e. private staterooms for the licensed (officer) personnel and semi-private rooms and toilet facilities for the non-licensed men. It should be noted that Navy personnel of the military detachment assigned to the fleet support ships are berthed in facilities identical to those of the civilian crew.
The difference is not explained simply by the difference between civilian and military crews. Considering men of equal experience, a civilian—whether union or non-union—is probably no better or no worse a sailor than a bluejacket. And yet, this area of civilians and the unions is a source of much confusion and misconception—frequently noted with disdain—on the part of many Navy people.
A large number of Military Sealift Command ships, including all of the fleet support vessels, are manned by individuals who are Navy employees— Civil Service mariners. Many, by their own choice, also are members of maritime unions which represent all MSC seagoing employees, those who are union members and those who are not. Among major unions are the Marine Engineers Beneficial Association and Masters, Mates and Pilots. Other unions, such as the Seamen’s International Union, and National Maritime Union represent unlicensed personnel, radio officers, pursers, and nurses. While no records are maintained by Military Sealift Command, it is estimated that a substantial number of MSC employees are union members.
The MSC wage scales are on a par with the commercial industry, and pay increases and living conditions are also in step with commercial practice. There is one big difference, however. Civil Service employees are not allowed to strike. In MSC’s 27-year existence, including the six years of Navy fleet support activity, command operations have never been hampered by strikes or work slowdowns—an indica-
tion of MSC employees’ dedication to their jobs.
The difference goes back to the people themselves—these same civil servant sailors, some of whom are retired Navymen. All are mariners in the best sense of the word. By and large, these men have a significant experience edge on Navy sailors doing the same tasks on board combatants and commissioned fleet support ships. Compared to the deck gang (averaging perhaps 19 to 21 years old), on board a commissioned fleet oiler, the rig crews of an MSC oiler are genuine “old-timers.” Unlike the crews of the Navy ships they service, only a few of the Civil Service crewmen could be considered in training. Furthermore, were the two ships to meet again two years hence, it is as likely that many of the oiler’s crew would still be the same as it is unlikely on board the cruiser. MSC fleet support seamen seem to keep coming back.
Talking with these Civil Service mariners, one is impressed with the notion that they are not in this business solely for the pay. While their financial rewards are excellent, one gets the feeling that most crew members are there because they like their jobs. Almost invariably, the senior officers—the master, the chief mate, the chief engineer—are old hands at their tasks, many having come up through the ranks from able seamen or wipers. Considering that every man tempers his priorities and, hence, his demands by his own experiences and goals, the environment set by these men is routinely different from that created by an aviation four-striper on his way to bigger and better commands.
When combined with MSC-incorporated equipment and design changes that reduce the physical workload, this experience factor results in a much smaller crew vis-a-vis a commissioned auxiliary ship. Because this smaller number places a bigger demand on each man, it also tends to reinforce the importance of each individual. Whether the attitude of professionalism that prevails is a result of or a contributing factor to this reinforcement is a matter of conjecture. Nevertheless, this atmosphere of civilian mariners being where they want to be is prevalent throughout the MSC support fleet.
The Civil Service mariner on board a Military Sealift Command ship does have some significant advantages over his bluejacket fleet counterpart. Principal among these is the singleness of purpose of these vessels, including the carryover of this purpose into the setting of priorities that affect the daily routine. Fleet support vessels of the USNS variety do just that—support the fleet—and only that. Unlike the commissioned Navy replenishment ships in which fleet support is primary among a collection of mis-
sions, it is the only mission of the MSC vessel. Everything else is secondary to the task of providing timely, safe, and quality support to the afloat forces.
To the deckhand on board an MSC ship, this mission orientation is manifested in several ways that make his life different from the Navy sailor. First, virtually all of his working time is spent in preparation for, carrying out, or in picking up after the transshipment of cargo. He’s either taking it aboard, consolidating to a commissioned Navy fleet support ship, or transferring it by highline to an end user. While the able-bodied seamen, the boatswain, and carpenter spend many hours chipping, painting, and reworking rigs, they have practically no other duties—no sentry watches, no mess cooking or similar duties. While you might find an able-bodied seaman in a helo handling team one morning and running a winch on a ship-to-ship line that afternoon, he is spared the host of military duties levied on the Navy sailor.
Secondly, the team he is part of for any cargo handling evolution does not suffer from the effects of a forced “all-hands” participation. The rig crew or helo team is not made up of a few qualified supervisors and a collection of disinterested ratings to whom the task is of only peripheral interest. No fire control technicians, gunner’s mates, boilermen, or disbursing clerks are being prodded into doing a proper job. Instead, the handling teams on board the MSC ships are small. Each man has a specific function, integrally dependent upon the other team members, and looks to the supervisor only for coordination. Indeed, for many that specific function is his primary duty. While the MSC ship’s rig crew also has wipers, messmen, stewards, cooks, and the purser, they don’t require prodding. They are paid extra for this dual service.
Additionally, the cargo-handling team does not generally have to absorb the effects of a large portion of its members being in training. It might be said that because of the very nature of the MSC ships’ operations, the few green seamen who are signed on become proficient faster and maintain a consistently higher level of proficiency than do their U.S. Navy counterparts.
In fairness to the Navy sailor in this era of peace, it must be pointed out that while support vessels do largely the same task in war as in peace, commissioned underway replenishment ships have additional, albeit secondary missions that are combatant in nature. They too incur somewhat changing priorities with changing operational environments. Rising fuel costs and national apathy toward the military have had a double-barreled effect on the operating tempo of the fleet since the early 1970s. To fill the gaps between the distressingly brief underway periods has come the proliferation of inspections. Operational propulsion plant examinations, command, administrative, and personnel inspections, 3M visits, and equal opportunity reviews, are but a few from this seemingly unending list. Individually, each serves a gainful purpose. Their cumulative effect is to wear down even the most stalwart sailor.
While the Military Sealift Command does have inspections, the Civil Service sailor’s duties remain the same, day in and day out, regardless of whether the country is shooting bullets, words, or practicing international harmony. Because fleet commanders are billed by MSC on a per diem basis for the MSC fleet support vessels under their purview, maximum utilization is the result. Ships of the MSC fleet support category in excess of the needs of the fleet commanders are placed in a reduced readiness status with a concomitant reduction in crewing. MSC thus avoids the debilitating process of make-work inspections.
In summary, fleet support via the Civil Service manned ships of the Military Sealift Command is here to stay. It is here because the fleet wants it. The men on board cruisers, frigates, and amphibious ships alike—the essence of the surface Navy—have swung around to supporting what has proven to be the best service available. It is here because of the Navy civilian employees who man these ships—their attitude, their professionalism, and their spirit as true mariners. That boatswain’s mate said it all: “They sure ain’t pretty, but damn how they do work.”
H Lieutenant Emery graduated top man from the Naval Academy in 1968. Following an 18-month in-country Vietnam tour on board the USS Gallup (PG-85), he received an M.S. in operations research and a Ph.D. in industrial engineering from Stanford University in 1974 as a Burke Scholar. He served as the battery control officer of the guided-missile cruiser Halsey (CG-23) from January 1974 to March 1976. A frequent contributor to the Proceedings and other professional/maritime industry journals, he is now special assistant for plans on the staff of Commander Military Sealift Command in Washington. He has been selected for promotion to lieutenant commander.