http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Making-a-Submarine-Officer-A-story-of-the-USS-San-Francisco/Alex-Fleming/e/2940012952523
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052YQLWA
June 10, 2011
June 3, 2011
Troubled Times on 711
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052YQLWA
No matter how long I have been onboard, I still notice the smell. It is a faint, chemical aroma, like sniffing a bottle of ammonia, and it is always present. Sometimes, I allow myself to forget about it and I walk around the boat for weeks without noticing, but it always returns. It is in my clothes and my hair and every personal item in the storage pan underneath my bed. The scent returns to me now, as I stand with my back against the wall outside the Captain’s stateroom. I am pressed up against the cheap plastic of the surface behind me, which is smooth and cold. Even with my back against the wall, there is only 7 inches in front of me in the hallway, so that every man who passes has to turn sideways and our chests brush against one another. In my case, my stomach is becoming significant enough from my nervous eating habits that it is my widest point.
The hallway is dark, which is normal after sunset, though the hours of daylight have little meaning when we are underwater. The traditions of the service tell us that we still turn the lights to red at night, which always seems like teasing to me, because there is some normal person somewhere who gets to watch the sunset and have a normal schedule. I stand in the dark passageway, listening intently to the unintelligible sounds coming from the behind Captain’s door to my left. There is white light shining under his door frame and the control room at the end of the hall on my left has a soft red glow coming through the small round window in the door. Every few moments a face looks through to check if I am still here, because everyone seems to know why I am waiting. I get tired of seeing the faces and trying to appear calm, so I look at my belt and the bottom half of my blue jumpsuit. My tennis shoes are getting dirty from a year of constant use on the ship, and I remind myself again that I must get new ones when we get back to port ... unless I am not going to have to get underway again. That thought makes me shift my eyes upward, past the polished walls. They are so clean I am afraid to touch them for fear of leaving fingerprints. It is still hard for me to imagine the painstaking time taken to clean cheap plastic walls with a fake wood grain pattern and thin metal plating. I focus on the ceiling, which is also false and easily removed to get to the equipment above it. The new powder coating is glossy white, but the latches have begun to chip after only a few days. The Master Chief will be furious, and we will probably have to get the job done again. That doesn’t surprise anyone, but we will still have to get angry about it for show.
The seconds tick by, and I try to avoid looking at my watch. I close my eyes and lean my head back on the uneven welds of the frame piece behind me. It is cold as well, but I have become accustomed to having a chill most of the time. I wear a thick brown wool sweater, which scratches at my neck and smells like it is as old as the boat. Washing repeatedly and dry cleaning did not fix the smell, and it is just another sign that the marks of being on a submarine are hard to remove. I shut my eyes tighter and focus on the sound. We are deep and going fast, and my head on the frame piece feels the deep throbbing vibration of the engines. That throaty noise is complimented by the fans. There is a ventilation duct above me, and the fans that push the chemical smelling air around the ship hum constantly. It is so much a part of our consciousness that the first thing we notice in many emergencies is the fans coasting down. My weight shifts slightly back and forth, from my heels to my toes, as I feel the ship rocking with the slight rudder corrections. It must be a new helmsman at the wheel, to be correcting so hard at this speed. The more experienced drivers correct their course so smoothly that you can hardly feel the turns. These rumbles and hums and shifts are the heartbeat of the ship, and they calm me with their familiarity.
I jerk out of my revelry as I hear someone on the stairs to my right. The messenger climbs up a staircase from the deck below, the dim glow outlining his form. I do not need to see his face, I know his body outline, gait and voice well enough. A voice is all I need to identify someone on this ship, especially the messengers, since they are the first voice you hear through the curtain when you wake up. He gives me a brusque nod and whispers “Excuse me, sir,” as he turns sideways and passes me, heading for control. People glance through from control to see if I am still there as he opens and then silently shuts to door. I am back in the darkness.
Suddenly, light floods into the hallway as the Captain’s door opens. The Executive Officer steps out and even though I am blinded and cannot see his face, I can sense the solemn expression from the outline of his features. He tells me that the Captain is ready to see me, and I walk into the outline of the doorway, and straighten my back as I knock twice on the already open door. I hear a pinched and abrupt voice telling me to come in and close the door. I turn my shoulders sideways to fit them through the doorway, and step into the cabin, silently latching the handle behind me.
The Captain’s cabin is the only space on the whole ship that one person has for himself alone. There is a safe and a desk built into the left wall, which is actually facing aft. The electronic equipment is affixed at seemingly random intervals, almost like every new screen or gadget had to be put in where it could fit at the discretion of the occupant. The far wall has a bed, which is normally folded into the wall, but since it is night, a mess steward has opened and made the bed, something that is only done for the Captain. There is a bookshelf with a metal restraint that prevents the contents from pouring out, and the forward wall has the door to the bathroom. I am standing against the thin plastic separating the cabin from the hallway, and to my right is a mirror with a sink that folds out of the wall. I have to concentrate to remain standing at attention and not glance at myself in the mirror to see if I am pale. There is a calendar on the wall in front of me that stares back at me: September 2003. The new month’s picture is of a submarine on the surface leaving Pearl Harbor. I wonder if there were officers on that ship with my problems. The ceiling of the room is solid in places, with patches of blue vinyl snapped over other rectangles. The Captain sits at the desk a few inches in front of me, and types on his laptop. I know better than to speak, and I stand tense, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
Paul Lovpock closes his laptop and folds up his desk before turning to look at me. He rotates his chair and gazes over his thin framed glasses and his sharp, beak-like nose. It is hard not to look at the shiny gleam from his bald head, and so I try to keep my eyes unfocused pointing at the ugly wood pattern on the far wall. Finally, he crosses his arms and speaks.
“Mr. Fleming, you are broken as a leader and I do not know how I am going to fix you.” His words seem to sneer without any visible facial expression.
I listen with exhaustion and defeat after the worst 12 months of my life, and I wonder if any job is worth this pain. I try to think of something to say that will not make the situation worse, but no thoughts come to me. It is like my brain is gridlocked. Only 30 months ago, I was commissioned as a Naval Officer after graduating from the University of Pennsylvania with an honors degree in Physics and Russian. I was eager to join one of the most elite groups of officers in the Navy. But now, I am close to a nervous breakdown. How could my path could have lead me to the point of being fired and sent to a desk job for my remaining 3 years in the Navy?
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052YQLWA
No matter how long I have been onboard, I still notice the smell. It is a faint, chemical aroma, like sniffing a bottle of ammonia, and it is always present. Sometimes, I allow myself to forget about it and I walk around the boat for weeks without noticing, but it always returns. It is in my clothes and my hair and every personal item in the storage pan underneath my bed. The scent returns to me now, as I stand with my back against the wall outside the Captain’s stateroom. I am pressed up against the cheap plastic of the surface behind me, which is smooth and cold. Even with my back against the wall, there is only 7 inches in front of me in the hallway, so that every man who passes has to turn sideways and our chests brush against one another. In my case, my stomach is becoming significant enough from my nervous eating habits that it is my widest point.
The hallway is dark, which is normal after sunset, though the hours of daylight have little meaning when we are underwater. The traditions of the service tell us that we still turn the lights to red at night, which always seems like teasing to me, because there is some normal person somewhere who gets to watch the sunset and have a normal schedule. I stand in the dark passageway, listening intently to the unintelligible sounds coming from the behind Captain’s door to my left. There is white light shining under his door frame and the control room at the end of the hall on my left has a soft red glow coming through the small round window in the door. Every few moments a face looks through to check if I am still here, because everyone seems to know why I am waiting. I get tired of seeing the faces and trying to appear calm, so I look at my belt and the bottom half of my blue jumpsuit. My tennis shoes are getting dirty from a year of constant use on the ship, and I remind myself again that I must get new ones when we get back to port ... unless I am not going to have to get underway again. That thought makes me shift my eyes upward, past the polished walls. They are so clean I am afraid to touch them for fear of leaving fingerprints. It is still hard for me to imagine the painstaking time taken to clean cheap plastic walls with a fake wood grain pattern and thin metal plating. I focus on the ceiling, which is also false and easily removed to get to the equipment above it. The new powder coating is glossy white, but the latches have begun to chip after only a few days. The Master Chief will be furious, and we will probably have to get the job done again. That doesn’t surprise anyone, but we will still have to get angry about it for show.
The seconds tick by, and I try to avoid looking at my watch. I close my eyes and lean my head back on the uneven welds of the frame piece behind me. It is cold as well, but I have become accustomed to having a chill most of the time. I wear a thick brown wool sweater, which scratches at my neck and smells like it is as old as the boat. Washing repeatedly and dry cleaning did not fix the smell, and it is just another sign that the marks of being on a submarine are hard to remove. I shut my eyes tighter and focus on the sound. We are deep and going fast, and my head on the frame piece feels the deep throbbing vibration of the engines. That throaty noise is complimented by the fans. There is a ventilation duct above me, and the fans that push the chemical smelling air around the ship hum constantly. It is so much a part of our consciousness that the first thing we notice in many emergencies is the fans coasting down. My weight shifts slightly back and forth, from my heels to my toes, as I feel the ship rocking with the slight rudder corrections. It must be a new helmsman at the wheel, to be correcting so hard at this speed. The more experienced drivers correct their course so smoothly that you can hardly feel the turns. These rumbles and hums and shifts are the heartbeat of the ship, and they calm me with their familiarity.
I jerk out of my revelry as I hear someone on the stairs to my right. The messenger climbs up a staircase from the deck below, the dim glow outlining his form. I do not need to see his face, I know his body outline, gait and voice well enough. A voice is all I need to identify someone on this ship, especially the messengers, since they are the first voice you hear through the curtain when you wake up. He gives me a brusque nod and whispers “Excuse me, sir,” as he turns sideways and passes me, heading for control. People glance through from control to see if I am still there as he opens and then silently shuts to door. I am back in the darkness.
Suddenly, light floods into the hallway as the Captain’s door opens. The Executive Officer steps out and even though I am blinded and cannot see his face, I can sense the solemn expression from the outline of his features. He tells me that the Captain is ready to see me, and I walk into the outline of the doorway, and straighten my back as I knock twice on the already open door. I hear a pinched and abrupt voice telling me to come in and close the door. I turn my shoulders sideways to fit them through the doorway, and step into the cabin, silently latching the handle behind me.
The Captain’s cabin is the only space on the whole ship that one person has for himself alone. There is a safe and a desk built into the left wall, which is actually facing aft. The electronic equipment is affixed at seemingly random intervals, almost like every new screen or gadget had to be put in where it could fit at the discretion of the occupant. The far wall has a bed, which is normally folded into the wall, but since it is night, a mess steward has opened and made the bed, something that is only done for the Captain. There is a bookshelf with a metal restraint that prevents the contents from pouring out, and the forward wall has the door to the bathroom. I am standing against the thin plastic separating the cabin from the hallway, and to my right is a mirror with a sink that folds out of the wall. I have to concentrate to remain standing at attention and not glance at myself in the mirror to see if I am pale. There is a calendar on the wall in front of me that stares back at me: September 2003. The new month’s picture is of a submarine on the surface leaving Pearl Harbor. I wonder if there were officers on that ship with my problems. The ceiling of the room is solid in places, with patches of blue vinyl snapped over other rectangles. The Captain sits at the desk a few inches in front of me, and types on his laptop. I know better than to speak, and I stand tense, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
Paul Lovpock closes his laptop and folds up his desk before turning to look at me. He rotates his chair and gazes over his thin framed glasses and his sharp, beak-like nose. It is hard not to look at the shiny gleam from his bald head, and so I try to keep my eyes unfocused pointing at the ugly wood pattern on the far wall. Finally, he crosses his arms and speaks.
“Mr. Fleming, you are broken as a leader and I do not know how I am going to fix you.” His words seem to sneer without any visible facial expression.
I listen with exhaustion and defeat after the worst 12 months of my life, and I wonder if any job is worth this pain. I try to think of something to say that will not make the situation worse, but no thoughts come to me. It is like my brain is gridlocked. Only 30 months ago, I was commissioned as a Naval Officer after graduating from the University of Pennsylvania with an honors degree in Physics and Russian. I was eager to join one of the most elite groups of officers in the Navy. But now, I am close to a nervous breakdown. How could my path could have lead me to the point of being fired and sent to a desk job for my remaining 3 years in the Navy?
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052YQLWA
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