On June 25, I stood on the fantail in front of my family and friends and in a centuries-old, time-honored tradition, said to Rich the three greatest words a naval officer can say in a career: “I relieve you.” That phrase signified the moment when total accountability and responsibility for a $1 billion national asset and the lives of almost 300 of our nation’s finest sailors passed from one commanding officer to the next.
There was plenty of work ahead. USS Cole was part of the USS George Washington aircraft-carrier battle group, whose next combat-ready deployment would begin in about a year. My next job was to ascertain what additional training would be needed to get Cole combat ready. It was clear that this was a great crew, but there was a clear difference in the level where the crew perceived their training readiness (very high); where the destroyer squadron commodore, my immediate boss, viewed their performance (high, but not as high as they did); and where I assessed their capabilities (room for improvement). The ship and crew had a well-established reputation for being highly competent and capable, but like any crew, over time they had begun to rest on their laurels. I needed to take stock of their training level and performance and bring them back up to the high standards that had set Cole apart from other ships in the squadron.
My vision for the ship’s future was taking shape. I would work to realize it with the help of two key advisors: the executive officer, then Lieutenant Commander John Cordle, the second-ranking officer aboard ship, and the command master chief, the senior enlisted member of the crew—who as I took command had just been temporarily appointed to that post—Master Chief Paul Abney. As I settled in to command, John was an absolute blessing for me. He was a surface warfare officer who had also been trained and qualified as a nuclear power officer on nuclear-powered aircraft carriers and thus had a thorough and extensive background in engineering. One of his greatest strengths for me was his calm demeanor, the perfect counterbalance to my own hard-driving and forward-leaning qualities. Master Chief Abney was probably one of the best technical experts in the Navy in the field of surface-ship sonar systems, and he was also a talented leader, always willing to try new approaches and to be innovative in his working relationships. Throughout Navy history, the rank of chief petty officer has always been considered the gold standard for enlisted leadership. According to most professional sailors, it is the chief petty officers who run the Navy, not the admirals. The command master chief position was crucially important on Cole.
Once I was in command, I asked John to distribute two important documents to each crew member. The first was my command philosophy, which outlined how I expected the crew to perform, establishing the benchmarks by which they would be measured: integrity, vision, personal responsibility and accountability, trust, and professional competence. On this list, integrity came both first and last. Like many commanding officers before me, I believed that unless all crew members conducted themselves with personal integrity guiding every decision, the temptation to compromise on performance and safety standards could lead to cutting corners and performance levels falling far short of their potential. The second document was the framework of my goals for the ship and crew, when operating the ship and interacting with each other as shipmates. It was specifically tailored to where we as a crew were in the training cycle and set both short-and long-term objectives for the next year to ready us for our next deployment and any operations we might undertake in the coming months.
There were some adjustments to be made at first: I was new to command, and the crew likewise needed time to learn what I expected. Building a reputation as a very aggressive and “to-the-point” officer, I knew the ship and crew could accomplish far more than they thought possible, and set about pushing them harder than they had been driven to date. Just a week after taking command, both crew and I learned just how heavily the burden of leadership could weigh on a commanding officer.
Gliding through the calm waters of the Atlantic off the Virginia Capes, Cole had coordinated an underway replenishment with a Military Sealift Command oiler. Underway resupply of fuel, stores, and food is standard Navy practice, the ship being resupplied maneuvering behind and then alongside the supply ship while both are steaming in a straight line ahead. The maneuvering requires precision and control, with the approach ship closing to the stern of the replenishment ship to between 300 and 500 yards, and sufficiently offset from its wake to be able to synchronize speed exactly with it and end up alongside about 140 to 160 feet away. Lines are then shot between the ships, wires and hoses hauled across, and then replenishment begins. The complex ballet requires that all members of the crew in the replenishment detail know exactly how to perform their duties, with constant vigilance and attention to safety. Both ships must keep precisely on course and speed, at a steady distance from each other.
Usually all this is done without incident. But I have always believed that an underway replenishment is the most hazardous peacetime activity Navy ships engage in at sea. History is replete with examples of ships colliding and personnel being injured or falling overboard, so every ship prepares a detailed underway replenishment watch bill, listing in detail each position that must be manned and by whom, with personnel specifically trained and qualified to perform those duties. There is no margin for error. Everyone has to know what to do in an emergency, and to be ready for one at any moment.
I had asked John and the senior watch officer and combat system officer, Lieutenant Commander Rick Miller, to make a series of checks at specific watch stations throughout the ship before we began the replenishment, though normally I would personally make them myself, starting in the after steering position at the back and working my way forward to the Combat Information Center, and then to the bridge. As this was my first underway replenishment as captain, it was more important to be on the bridge throughout to see how the watch team got the ship and crew ready.
The conning officer took a deep breath, checked the angle of approach one last time, and then spoke confidently into the microphone, “All engines ahead flank, indicate turns for 25 knots.” The high-pitched whine of Cole’s four gas turbine engines quickly increased. With 100,000 shaft horsepower driving it forward, the ship rose slightly and we gradually surged forward. The feeling of wind in our faces made everyone smile.
The approach was almost perfect in angle and would put us at about 150 feet lateral distance from the oiler once alongside. Just as the bow appeared to cross the stern of the oiler, the conning officer used relative motion and a seaman’s eye to judge the distance and, without taking his eye off the distance between the ships, crisply ordered, “All engines ahead standard, indicate turns for 13 knots,” deftly bringing the ship into position.
Soon the lines and hoses were across, the refueling rig was in position, and, very slowly at first, the refueling hose wriggled and jerked to life as the first few hundred gallons started flowing down the hose. Everything seemed to be going like clockwork. Our time alongside was estimated to be about forty-five minutes.
“XO, do we have the cookies ready to go?” I asked John. This was the start of a new tradition. Every time the ship would pull alongside an oiler for an underway replenishment, a bag containing a couple dozen hot, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies would be sent over to the commanding officer of the oiler to thank him for great at-sea customer service. At first, the crew thought this a pain and somewhat of a waste of time but soon, we found, the oilers we operated with over the year actually looked forward to the ritual, and so did Cole’s bridge watch team, because the supply officer would also send a bunch of warm cookies up for the boatswain’s mate of the watch to pass around.
Soon the reports from the engineers indicated our fuel level was at almost 98 percent. We had topped off our tanks and were ready to execute a standard maneuver called a breakaway. This procedure has the two ships disconnect the refueling hoses and cables attaching them together in a very precise and methodical manner to ensure the safety of the ships and the crew working the rigs.
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nbsp; After every refueling, both ships simultaneously practice what is called an “emergency breakaway,” a fundamental safety skill in an actual emergency. The crew had done such a fabulous job with the refueling that I was sure my first emergency breakaway would be just as successful. After releasing the high-tension metal wire that kept Cole and the oiler at a proper distance from each other, and disconnecting the phone and distance line, we went to “flank speed,” 31-plus knots, and the ship leaped forward. The wind began to roar across the bridge wing. The ships were still about 160 feet apart, and as our speed increased dramatically, the margin for error shrunk to almost nil. The gas turbine engines, with fully open throttles, screamed with a high-pitched whine. Seconds later, we were well ahead of the oiler, keeping a close eye on it to make sure nothing could go wrong—any errors in determining course or position could cause a disaster.
We set a course to continue moving away and within minutes announced that the refueling evolution was over and the regular watch team could assume the watch. I left the bridge and went down to my cabin, feeling very proud of myself and my ship: command at sea with the first underway replenishment now under my belt, without incident. It just doesn’t get any better than this! I thought.
But quickly, I was brought down from this reverie by a knock on my cabin door: it was the XO, who asked, “Captain, do you have a minute for Rick and me to talk with you?”
“Sure. Come on in and have a seat,” I answered. “Mind if I shut the door?” asked John.
With a question like that, and stern expressions on their faces, he and Rick, the most senior department head on the ship, couldn’t be bringing good news. They weren’t. Rick reported that when he had made his rounds before the maneuver to the section of the ship that controlled the rudders, he had found the safety officer and two other personnel asleep on the deck instead of properly carrying out their duties.
The fact that the senior watch officer had found personnel responsible for steering the ship neglecting their duties was a matter of grave concern. They could have left Cole critically vulnerable to a collision—and Rick had discovered them malingering just as the ship came alongside the oiler, with only 150 feet between them.
I asked John what he thought we should do. Like me, he was somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed but he did not want to overreact. I agreed, but ordered the XO to charge all three with violating the Uniform Code of Military Justice, by hazarding a vessel, among other offenses. This administrative process on ships is called captain’s mast, or non-judicial punishment. I wanted it to send a definitive signal to the crew that no actions would be tolerated that endangered the ship or anyone on board.
The next week I met with the new commodore of our squadron, Captain Mike Miller. A very earnest and hard-working naval officer, he truly believed in letting commanding officers run their ships. While I was very concerned about how he might perceive the replenishment incident, I also wanted his guidance. “Well, Captain, how do think this came to happen and what do you think needs to be done to fix it?” he asked. I described my plan of holding not just the enlisted men but also the officer accountable for their mistakes. While knowing that taking an officer to captain’s mast for this offense might end his career, I also knew that the safety of the ship and crew was paramount. This incident had crossed an inviolate professional standard of conduct and endangered the crew.
While initially uncomfortable with my decision to punish everyone, the commodore backed me 100 percent. Nevertheless he encouraged me to ensure that I was on sound legal ground before proceeding. One week later, I held my first captain’s mast, first for the two enlisted personnel and then the officer. Quite frankly, the crew was stunned to see me actually punish an officer. Immediately after imposing the non-judicial punishment, levying a punitive letter of reprimand for the officer—who then felt he had no chance of making the Navy a career and later left the service—and a reduction in rate and pay grade, a fine, and a thirty-day confinement to the ship for the others, I separately met with the chief petty officers and officers to explain my rationale and decision. To both, I made it very clear that I would never tolerate anything endangering the ship or crew. All of us had an enormous responsibility to safeguard that national asset and ensure that it was maintained at peak operating condition in the safest manner possible. I would be unforgiving if this responsibility was not taken seriously.
Having affirmed in action the importance I had set forth in my command philosophy and goals and expectations for the crew, I had clearly established a benchmark for my expectations of professional performance. As the crew moved inexorably toward deployment overseas, they grew more comfortable with the goals for the ship and developed a sense of personal accomplishment in reaching them. During weeks of intensive training with other ships in our squadron from mid-October of 1999 to mid-February of 2000, despite the demanding drills and exercises needed for certification, I had no disciplinary issues requiring the imposition of captain’s mast. The chain of command below me dealt with minor problems, and the officers and chiefs were able to resolve all of them before they reached my level, which for me was a tribute to the officers, chief petty officers, and senior petty officers running the ship.
Two events stood out that best captured the essence of how well the ship was operating. One of the most challenging exercises involved our towing another ship. It was an overcast day, and the wind had created a very difficult situation. As the ship to be towed drifted in the open ocean—we were down in the Caribbean—Cole had to maneuver in very close ranges of less than 100 feet to pass a towing line and then remain in position while the other ship safely rigged it in place. The winds kept blowing us away and I found it very difficult to hold our position. I finally decided only one more attempt would be tried and then I would stop the exercise for safety reasons. During this last attempt, Cole began to drift away again, and I ordered the ship to reverse engines in an attempt to not open the distance between us. Unfortunately, the towline slipped from the other ship, dipped into the water just astern of us, and in a matter of seconds wrapped around the port propeller shaft.
I ordered the engines stopped and immediately shut down to prevent any damage to the ship or injury to those on board who were working near the towline. We were in water shallow enough to drop anchor, and after we notified the destroyer squadron we waited for a diving team to fly out to the ship by helicopter to free the towline from the shaft. They were able to do that within two hours, and determined that no damage had been done.
While skill had prevented anyone from being injured, to my mind, we had also been extremely lucky. As we got the ship underway from anchorage and proceeded to the next exercise, I gathered the crew and the towing team to discuss the day’s events. The first thing I made clear was that the responsibility for the towline’s getting wrapped around the shaft was solely my fault as captain. It had been my judgment that had failed them, and we had been fortunate to not damage the ship or injure any crew members. In detail, we broke the exercise down into short time intervals and covered every aspect including communications, maneuvering the ship, wind and sea conditions, engineering actions, and the consequences of each decision. In the end, while it cost us the expense of replacing the towline, the experience created a more mature and experienced crew. It was better for them to understand the consequences of my decision to continue to press forward and complete the exercise despite clear indications that should have caused us to delay or cancel the exercise.
A few days later, late in the afternoon, after we had successfully completed the series of towing training exercises, we were told we could conduct another few hours of training with the other ship. I declined the offer and instead told the other ship we needed to conduct some internal training for the next few hours. Once that ship had sailed away, I told John, “XO, let’s come to all stop and have the engineers shut down the main engines.” He raised his eyebrows, wondering what I was up to next, but the lightbulb came on as I told him, “Get on the
1MC [general announcing system] and get a boat in the water with a duty gunner’s mate. It’s time for the crew to enjoy their first swim call.”
We were off St. Thomas. Swimming in the ocean in crystal-clear water with the sea floor 3,000 feet beneath is very different from being in the deep end of a pool where the bottom is only twelve or fifteen feet down. It is a beautiful and humbling experience. Looking up at the ship, feeling the immense power of the sea swells, makes you realize how small and insignificant you are in the larger scheme of nature. We had swim call for about an hour and twenty minutes. I took every safety precaution, managing the risks from many angles: a nearby boat contained a trained sharpshooter to guard against shark attack; all the ship’s engineering equipment was set to keep anyone from possibly getting sucked underwater into an intake; and a rigorous check-in/check-out routine was in place to make sure that everyone who went overboard got back on the ship. The crew was thrilled by what for many was a once-in-career experience, and they talked about it for days afterward.
About this same time, I received a message from the Navy’s Bureau of Personnel reporting that a permanent command master chief (CMC) had been ordered to the ship directly from the Senior Leadership School in Newport, Rhode Island. As was his nature, Master Chief Abney was graceful when I told him, and looked forward to turning his duties over to his relief. In November 1999, Command Master Chief James Parlier arrived on board. With a medical background as a fully qualified hospital corpsman, he had a knack for talking with the crew and soon took a keen interest in conveying their views to me.
When he came aboard he was hard charging and eager to do well in his new position. Initially, he had some hesitation about embracing the concept of being part of the CO-XO-CMC triumvirate running things on the ship. He had conceived of his role as being more a command representative of the crew than full-fledged member of the leadership team. Quickly though, he embraced being an integral part of my long-range vision for the ship and its crew.
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