The Crossed Pond

After 24 years of naval service, I feel comfortable providing an addendum to the standard Laws of the Navy; Excepting aviators, it is nearly always a bad sign if your boss has a nickname. Smokin Joe. Iron Mike. Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. If assigned to a ship with one of these bastards in charge, you are well and truly screwed. While our pilots get cute “call signs” e.g., Maverick or Walleye, assigned during their training process, black shoe officers will only receive a nickname in the course of a lengthy career of memorable behavior, such as certifiable insanity, slave-driving brutality, or spectacular hair-trigger temper.

Don’t get me wrong: These guys are almost always supremely competent and highly effective in the right circumstances. Frequently they are assigned to a specific unit because of their reputation, perhaps as a “fixer” for a ship or command experiencing a particularly troubling problem. I have worked for several nicknames. In the late 1990’s, I was in a squadron of destroyers and frigates lead by Commodore Smokin’ Joe.

Smokin Joe was a bit of an anomaly: unfailingly polite, relentlessly calm, unflappable. I can recall no instance in which he raised his voice or cursed any sailor. He was an intellectual, brilliant, highly educated, and in continual need of a haircut. He was possessed of a work ethic like I have never seen. He had the energy of three men, all of it directed exclusively into his job. And as a matter of deeply held faith, Smokin’ Joe believed that everyone else in his sphere of influence should as well. He worked constantly, and so did his staff. He had no known outside activities. Even while in port, a light week at the office included 80 hours with some of it on Sunday. Out of desperation, a group of junior officers seeking to distract him bought him a puppy. It ended up back at the pound within a week. When we heard he had married, we assumed it must have been an arranged marriage or perhaps a mail order; we could see no way in which he had time for courtship.

His direct staff, a dozen or so officers and chiefs, were continually at the edge of exhaustion. We lucky ones, merely stationed on one of his ships and thus protected by the sovereignty of our Captains and a couple of layers of command, both pitied and hated them. The Commodore’s remorseless pursuit of squadron perfection came at us via these staffers. Their interference with our daily routine was constant and aggressive. During the standard in port workday, we fielded a continual stream of queries, “requests” for information, direction on specific issues, interrogatives as to when they might expect the next update, and firm “recommendations” on appropriate courses for any and all planned activity. After standard working hours, this continued unabated into the night, forcing the 24-hour rotating duty section to respond as best they could or stiff-arm if possible. God, how we cursed them. The Commodore himself was so damn likeable; we directed much of our irritation towards his minions. They were not “The Staff,” or “the DesRon” (Destroyer Squadron), they were “The Fucking Staff.” And they were on the phone. Again. It became normal. And we were the best damn squadron in the Navy. We just didn’t realize it.

When he left, the officer wardrooms of four navy ships breathed a collective sigh of relief. Finally, we could operate like a normal squadron. We could run our ships and departments, rather than the Commodore trying to do it by proxy. We were happy as clams. At first.

It started with little things; queries to DesRon went unanswered. The Staff seemed unaware of significant events happening on our ships despite standard reporting. Long term multi-ship planning slacked off. And almost without even realizing it, certainly without recognizing the absurdity of it, we caught ourselves noting aloud that “This wouldn’t have happened under Smokin’ Joe.” Against all odds, we missed our old staff. We missed their near infallibility, their supreme competence, their constant push for better and more.

Things didn’t work out too well for Smokin’ Joe. He only made three stars, and now has to work with these blokes. But at least he got to command some ships for a while.