by Joshua Welle
Another year passed, but by then things had changed considerably, for me and for the boat. Virginia had completed all of its initial testing at sea and was eight months or so into a follow-on effort to inspect, repair, and upgrade its thousands of major components. The shipyard, in its furious effort to finish projects on time, was constantly scheduling one work activity on top of another, many of which were in direct conflict. While one system was being reassembled, another was being torn apart; one worker was asking to weld in a given space, while another was asking to do work with explosive gas only a few feet away. Through all of this, the ship’s reactor plant was shifted from one unusual lineup to another to support work on its multitude of propulsion and electrical components. There were pumps running on power supplied by temporary cables, cooling systems running on temporary refrigeration units outside the boat, and many other strange setups.
One day, I was assigned to be the acting engineer on the boat while the captain was away. The shipyard planned its usual symphony of chaos, which included atypical alignments of the reactor coolant system for maintenance and tests. We proceeded to carry out the plan we had been handed, but as things tend to happen during shipyard testing evolutions, I was faced with making a choice about how to realign the plant’s systems. I thought about the risks of two paths we could take and made a call to the captain. He reiterated an option we had considered earlier but because of the unique conditions I had thought might conflict with an obscure part of Navy engineering procedures. He was silent for a moment, but then said, “You’re right, Lucas, we can’t do that. Let’s go with your proposal.” It was a simple exchange of words, but it signified that I had independently reached a conclusion about a complex problem that the captain hadn’t thought of first. Suddenly my contribution seemed clearer. Even more important, this man, who less than a year earlier hadn’t seemed to trust me to do much of anything without supervision, was entrusting me with the safety of the entire crew. It had been a meeting of minds, and I was finally one of the minds, rather than just a follower or spectator, and there would be more moments like this during the remainder of my time on Virginia. They were moments of empowerment and personal reward and the feeling that I could still do something valuable. More important, I learned to focus less on my individual tasks and goals and more on the collective goals of the boat. This attitude served me well in the shipyard but would be even more important at sea.
By the time the boat was approaching the completion of its overhaul period in early 2007 and a third round of sea trials, the crew had not been to sea in over a year. Because of this hiatus, we once again had to undergo a thorough test of our ship driving and operational skills. This time around, I was no longer an unqualified observer but an active participant. At this point, we had only three qualified officers of the deck who had enough experience to stand watch during sea trials: a department head, another experienced junior officer, and me. This meant that I would finally have an opportunity to act in one of the most vital roles an officer can provide on board a ship at sea, in a dynamic and rapidly changing environment that is far removed from the relatively static conditions of the shipyard. All I had to do to secure my spot was to take an exam on my knowledge of ship driving and to demonstrate my abilities in an observed drill.
On the morning of my drill—which would simulate our initial departure from the Groton shipyard and our surface transit out to open ocean—I was the first to arrive on the boat’s bridge. It was early, still dark, and the January wind whipping off the Thames River stung my face as I awaited our captain and the senior officer who would observe my performance. I did not know whether my hands were shaking because of the cold or because of nerves. In most cases I could depend on the expertise of the watch team to make up for any mistakes I might make, but in this case I was on my own. Once the others arrived, I initiated our computer-based transit, and things began to go downhill quickly. I had a hard time determining what was supposed to be simulated and what I was actually supposed to perform, such as a real blowing of the ship’s whistle to indicate our getting under way from the pier. The observers kept interjecting into the simulated scenario, and by the time our imaginary crew member went overboard signaling the start of a drill, my head was spinning.
Even after a year of developing a newfound sense of confidence and establishing my merits as a competent leader, I still could not wrap my head around the task of demonstrating my abilities at sea while standing on a ship that was tied to the pier. After the drill, the captain called me into his stateroom and explained that he couldn’t put me on the bridge for our outbound transit after such a harried performance. While this did not come as a surprise to me, I was deeply disappointed. Fueled by an unremitting determination to rebuild my image and earn back the trust of my superiors, I was considerably more focused from then on out.
We then ran a fire drill, which I had done many times before. As is usually the case, it isn’t the repetition of something previously rehearsed that impresses the judges the most, it’s how things are handled when they go wrong. As we were reaching periscope depth during the drill, the video system for the periscope froze, essentially rendering us blind. Almost instinctively, I unhooked the air hose for my breathing mask and rushed to the back of the control room to start the alternate periscope imaging device, all the while screaming orders through my mask. It probably looked ridiculous, but it was Oscar-worthy compared to my bumbling performance on the bridge. It sufficiently impressed my observers to get me back on the watch bill.
A few weeks later when Virginia was put back to sea, I was in control as officer of the deck, getting ready to direct its first submergence, a milestone following such a long shipyard overhaul. After a few initial tests in the depths, we conducted a surfacing, and I prepared to take over the watch from the bridge. When I reached the bridge in the early hours of the morning, it was snowing heavily, something I had never experienced at sea. The water was strangely calm for winter in the North Atlantic, and the wind gently swirled the snow around the sail and the bridge cockpit, some of it brightly lit by the masthead light above my head and intermittently in bright orange pulses by the submarine’s ID beacon. I could hear nothing but the wind, and except for the lookout behind me, I was alone. Beneath me, 130 sailors were operating the Navy’s newest national asset, a vastly complex machine that would eventually take its crew around the world in the silent depths of the sea. I had never felt such a powerful sense of responsibility in my life.
By the time I left Virginia to attend graduate school at Georgetown University, we had been to sea twice more. On our final return to home port, my father was on board as part of a three-day family cruise, a rare and unique event for a submarine. Seeing me issue orders and manage the watch team in a way that showed confidence, and the evidence of what I had accomplished in the nearly nine years since he saw me off on my first day at the Naval Academy, made him appear to truly appreciate how far I had come. It was a great capstone to my service in the Navy to show him this unique trade, submariners at sea, especially on this first-of-a-kind ship. The road to qualifying as a submarine officer was among the hardest I had ever traveled, but I am grateful for every moment. I had the chance to work with some of the most dedicated and professional individuals I’ve known, both officers and enlisted personnel, while contributing to jobs that, even if they seemed small on their own, added up to a lot.
Of most importance, I learned to set aside the doubts about my own abilities, get past my hindering anxiety, and do the job for which I was trained. My task was made challenging by technical complexities rather than the visceral dangers that many of my classmates from the Academy would face in other branches of the service, especially those in active combat. I’m certain that the way that we developed as leaders in these jobs, no matter where or how, has prepared us to make truly meaningful contributions to the country. We’ll do it in different ways, both as civilians and as military officers, but we all have the potential to do great things that can improve
our society and honor the sacrifices made by many over the past decade, including some of our own classmates. It all started with learning how to salute and how to put on a uniform on Induction Day at the Naval Academy. The valuable lessons that followed will stay with us for a lifetime.
Lost at Sea
Glyndell Houston
The adventure of a lifetime was about to begin. None of us knew to what extent it would forever change our lives. In July 1998, our son, Joe Houston, left our home and sheltered life in Houston, Texas, to join the midshipmen at the United States Naval Academy. He was eighteen years old and so confident in his calling that he convinced us not to accompany him to Annapolis to send him off. He wanted his independence. He wanted to be a man. He wanted to embrace the challenge head on and say all his goodbyes in Houston. He was pumped. He was ready for anything and everything they could dish out. The apron strings were cut. It was his chance to make his dream come true: He wanted to fly. At the time, the Lord comforted me with the song “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” I was able to let go and launch our fledgling from our nest into his care.
We later learned that on the very first day, while the medics were taking blood, Joe passed out in line and had to have his blood drawn laying on a cot. Needless to say, this was not the first impression he wanted to make. I laugh now and wonder if the blood in his veins had been replaced by pure adrenaline. He was eager to absorb every aspect of USNA. His attitude was “bring it on.” He would wax philosophical with each phone call home, analyzing what was expected, what he had achieved, how he could improve, how best to serve, as well as observations about relationships, loyalty, competitiveness, and camaraderie. Joe loved structure. The regimen, discipline, and daily grind of the Academy suited him well. He quickly became “Houston from Houston” and as a proud Texan enjoyed the attention. He laughed when he had to explain to his classmates that he didn’t drive a pickup with a rack full of guns. He was miffed at being called John instead of Joe. His full name is John Joseph Houston, so all his official records refer to him as John.
Another of Joe’s initial challenges was the need to study—perhaps for the first time in his life. He realized he was an “average Joe in the middle of the class” and “there are many people here a lot smarter than I am.” He intentionally pushed himself to his maximum capacity and beyond. He became fiercely loyal to the brotherhood. There was a transformation occurring in Joe. He learned the wisdom of keeping his weapon secured after “losing” his rifle. (When a squad mate misplaces a weapon or ammunition the entire team suffers.) He learned to add green hot sauce to everything on his plate and that the mess hall cooked four hundred turkeys for Thanksgiving. He learned to turn to Scripture each night before bed for encouragement and strength for the next day. We noticed he began to refer to “Mother B” as home.
Four years at the Academy served as an anvil in Joe’s life that helped sharpen and hone his character, honor, integrity, and mental, physical, and spiritual strength and endurance. We watched him expand his horizons and gain leadership and organizational skills. He learned to become efficient and to appreciate humility, sacrifice, and service to God and mankind. He learned to scuba dive, skydive, coach soccer, pay attention to world news, fold his T-shirts into tiny squares so they could neatly fit on his closet shelves, and appreciate his family more than ever. He developed perseverance and gained self-confidence.
By being blessed with admission to the first class offered corrective surgery for nearsightedness, Joe was able to qualify and be selected for aviation. Commissioned in 2002, he was winged two years later as a helicopter pilot at Whiting Field, in Milton, Florida. Following graduation, Joe faced many difficult personal and professional challenges. During periods of retrospection, he would comment on how lessons learned at the Academy had prepared him for later real-life situations. With God’s help, he was able to achieve success while overcoming significant trials in flight school, a difficult marriage, the premature birth of his son, and three deployments to the Persian Gulf.
During survival training in advanced helicopter school in San Diego, Joe reported a humorous event. He was alone, evading the “enemy,” taking shelter in a ditch to hide. Suddenly, the earth trembled and shook, scaring the wits out of him. For a moment he thought they were using live artillery in the training. It was impressively realistic and turned out to be his first experience with an earthquake.
Joe flew the Navy’s latest helicopter, the SH-60 Sea Hawk, doing search and rescue and cargo/supply missions. He absolutely loved it. During Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, Joe was assigned a humanitarian mission. He assisted people standing on roofs of houses waiting to be rescued. He witnessed the mass devastation of communities and infrastructure. He was frustrated with civilian air traffic and the media’s erroneous reporting. He remembered the stench over the entire area. He embraced the opportunity to render aid.
During a workup training mission in San Diego, Joe was assigned to be first pilot in the Sea Hawk. At the eleventh hour, however, there was a decision to change pilots. One of his squadronmates flew instead. The helicopter went down in an instant, with no reported problems and in good weather. The entire crew perished. Joe struggled with survivor’s guilt but realized that the Lord had spared his life for a purpose. Within days, he volunteered to fly again. His heart always wanted to fly. It’s what he was trained and blessed to be able to do. He was a man of courage and commitment to the mission.
Joe served on USS Peleliu, USS Bonhomme Richard, and USS Rainier, flying search and rescue and supply missions. He was also involved in a counterpiracy expedition. He continued to excel. We were extremely proud of his service. During his deployment, we would send Joe care packages. He told us he would take all his goodies to the wardroom and spread them out on the table to share with those who had none. He was very appreciative of his blessings and privileges, empathizing with buddies who had few letters from home.
In Dubai, Joe rode a camel and reported crash landings when he ventured to snow ski on an indoor mountain. He relished trying all the exotic foods and loved the stuffed dates. On port calls to Guam, Australia, and Hawaii, he took advantage of the clear waters and beautiful reefs to go scuba diving. Once in Singapore he was walking down the street with a Navy buddy and decided he needed a drink of water. He saw a faucet on the side of a building and took a drink. He later realized it was a temple.
Joe had a great sense of humor and enjoyed making his squadronmates laugh. He would dress up in outlandish costumes, wigs and all, relishing their reactions and comments. His most renowned disguise was the Joker nurse in Batman. He developed an interest in flowers, taking beautiful photographs of blossoms from all over the world. After learning to macramé, he made lovely necklaces incorporating unusual shells collected on his dives.
In an effort to save his failing marriage, Joe requested and received a change in position and location. He believed that transferring to Corpus Christi, Texas, would strengthen his family bonds, stabilize his marriage, and allow him to be home three years without deployment. He became a T-34C Turbomentor flight instructor. Shortly before reassignment, however, his marriage ultimately failed. He came to Texas alone, leaving his wife and son in San Diego. He was in the middle of a divorce, wounded, broken, starting over again.
Joe applied himself fully to the Navy task at hand and enrolled in Embry University, pursuing a master’s degree in aviation safety. He became an excellent flight instructor, with nerves of steel, great patience, and a heart full of compassion. He earned personal and professional respect at Corpus Christi Naval Air Station. Students would request his instruction and look forward to flying with him. He made sound decisions and quickly formed deep relationships with Christian friends in the area. Joe also received emotional healing and began moving forward again in his personal life. He soon reacquainted with a wonderful high school friend and became engaged to be married. Life was good; his hope was renewed and joy evident. He continued to be an incredible dad to his son, Asher, despite the
physical distance.
John Joseph Houston, beloved classmate, son, father, and friend. (Courtesy Houston family)
On October 28, 2009, Joe unexpectedly completed his earthly assignment. He called his son, Asher, that morning and then flew a routine training mission with a senior instructor, Lt. Bret Miller (USNA Class of 2001). During the flight, their plane went off radar, plunging into the Gulf of Mexico. Two days later, Bret’s body was found, raising questions about whether the canopy had been opened and whether Joe had been able to eject. A massive land and sea search ensued involving the Navy, Marine Corps, Coast Guard, and civilians. It lasted twenty-one days. Matt Kavanaugh, a classmate of Joe’s from USNA 2nd Company, came from New Jersey to organize and facilitate the civilian search. On November 18, one day before Joe’s thirtieth birthday, his plane was finally located. Joe’s body was strapped in the cockpit.