Chain of Command The CINC was ADM Moorer, then ADM Ron Hayes The Admiral's EA was CAPT Vic Gulliver, a classmate of mine from Naval Postgraduate School. I worked in the N8 office (SECGRU) under CAPT Don Beck, then CAPT Stu Parcher. The billet was dual-hatted as Cryptologic Advisor to the CINC and Director Naval Security Group Europe. My billet was Deputy. Our NSG staff members were: CAPT Parcher CDR Wallace Deputy (I relieved CDR Charlie Scott) LCDR Jerry Anderson Ops LCDR Joe Janeczek COMSEC/OPSEC LT John Featherstone Ops LT Bill Fitzsimmons Ops LT Mike Ketron Ops LT Dan Donavon COMSEC/OPSEC LT DaveTepley (COMSEC) LTC Mike Keene, USMC (COMSEC)
Other Memories "Pedant�??s Progress"
I�??m convinced that within each of us there lurks a pedant, ready to spring forth at the first opportunity to humble some poor soul whose knowledge or ability in some field is less than our own. My personal pedantic affliction has always been in the area of written and spoken English, where I rarely pass up a chance to correct the grammar, spelling, pronunciation or syntax of someone�??s written or spoken words. The method of correction may be overt and confrontational or low-key and constructive. I have been guilty of both approaches. Without delving too deeply into the psychology of pedantic behavior, I suspect it has as its basis the need to bolster one�??s self esteem at the expense of another. In a military hierarchy, particularly at the officer level where communication skills are constantly under scrutiny, a document that works its way from originator to releaser may pass through many levels, as each reviewer reads, modifies, and accepts responsibility for the contents and sends it to the next echelon. This process tends to bring out the pedant in the best of us. A person who ostentatiously takes on the role of the pedant, leaves himself vulnerable when he commits his own inevitable errors (glass-house-and-stones syndrome). If I may illustrate: A few years ago (has it been almost 20?), as a member of a large naval staff in London, I had several officers working under me whose job required that they draft messages, letters, memoranda, etc. which received wide dissemination, and which (we were reminded not infrequently) reflected on the competency and professionalism of "The Admiral" himself. One of my subordinates (call him "Joe") was what we would nowadays call "verbally challenged." Back then, he was just "not very smart." Joe was a Lieutenant Commander (O-4) and the master of malaprops, mixed metaphors and all conceivable ways to mangle the English language. He once brought me a leave request which had, as the reason for leave, "Whales." A kinder, gentler boss would have changed it to "Wales," and let it go; but I scribbled "Let us know if you see any."(In defense, all I can say is that everything he wrote had to be rewritten). One day, Joe had to counsel his secretary for her poor performance and I was interested in how well she took the criticism. "Well," Joe told me, "After I got through chewing her out, she walked out with ruffled feathers between her legs." I have to admit, in that mixed metaphor he eloquently captured the image of an angry person who had just been chastised. I did manage to keep a straight face until he left my office. Returning to the central point of my story -- One day a particularly difficult message had to be drafted advising Commander Sixth Fleet that his request for additional temporary personnel to man his shipboard communications center was denied. One does not say "no" to a Four-Star Admiral, especially a Fleet Commander, without great care. There are ways to say "no" and there are ways to say "no", and it fell to me to write this Friday night, high priority message. After many drafts, I finally put together the following weasel-worded message: "REGRET LIMITED PERSONNEL RESOURCES DO NOT AUGER WELL FOR ADDITIONAL MANNING AT THIS TIME." -- much more acceptable than a flat "no". Rather pleased with myself for this diplomatic word-smithing, I was surprised the following Monday to see a copy of the transmitted message in my in-box, with red writing all over it (red pens were exclusively for notes from the "Big Guy" himself). If there are any genuine pedants out there, you might already have guessed what the Admiral�??s note said. If you�??re a wannabe pedant, go back and read the message. As I prepared to savor the accolades in the Admiral�??s note, Joe stuck his head in. "Read the Admiral�??s note yet?" "Not yet," I said, wondering what Joe�??s interest was. As he left, I read these never-to-be-forgotten words: "If you�??re going to use esoteric words, learn how to spell them. A God d*mn auger is a drill." Was that the sound of glass breaking? Lessons learned: 1) If you tend to be pedantic, be kind to those whom you would correct, for eventually you will surely err, and publicly; and 2) "If you�??re going to use esoteric words, learn how to spell them" or, as Joe might say, "You�??ll wind up with egg on your foot."
Over my 25-plus years of service with the Naval Security Group, benevolent detailers were kind enough to send my family and me to a number of memorable places. Certainly near the top of the list was the assignment in London, where I had the opportunity to work for two of the finest Naval Security Group officers in the organization, CAPT. Don Beck and CAPT Stuart Parcher. This tour was also filled with a number of off-duty excursions into the countryside where we enjoyed a view of England that few are fortunate to experience. One unforgettable trip up the Thames on a houseboat prompted me to put together this memoir I call �??No Bathing in the Locks.�??
�??Arrrrrrrr, me hearties,�?? I growled in my best Long John Silver voice as I entered the dining room. �??I be after a crew what is smart as paint and knows their knots.�??
My wife, Ann, and thirteen-year-old son, Steven, rolled their eyes and exchanged a what-is-he-up-to-now moment across the dinner table, waiting expectantly for Long John to turn into the rational /pater familias/ who usually stepped through the door at that hour. Our family of three had arrived in England six months earlier on military orders and were settling into a comfortable routine. We had developed a fair grasp of the geography around London and were making great strides in gaining a fluency in the language. To our collective surprise, "spotted dick" was not an STD, nor was �??Bob�??s your uncle�?? a simple comment on one�??s ancestry. One mystery still under investigation centered around the elusive town of Adverse Camber. There seemed to be a number of towns by this name, almost around every turn it seemed, and clearly marked by road signs; but try as we might, we were unable to spot any cluster of houses that we could positively say, "That must be Adverse Camber." As we progressed in our education on things British, we would eventually learn that �??adverse camber�?? was a uniquely British warning to drivers to alert them to the treacherous road condition caused by the angle of the road surface. With all of this knowledge under our belts, I decided it was time to explore the countryside, but to avoid those adverse cambers, I decided we would do it by boat.
�??Arrrr. And don�??t be rollin�?? yer eyes at me or I�??ll have ye on the yardarm,�?? I warned my future crew and began to lay out the plans for our upcoming cruise on the Thames.
And so it came about that one Saturday, blessed by a rare weather phenomenon in England called "sunshine," we loaded up the car and embarked on our great adventure�??a week of plying the Thames in a cabin cruiser. Driving past the small village of Adverse Camber, we followed the road signs to a boatyard near Tower Bridge, where we stowed our week's supply of food aboard the boat and selected a Captain. Ann acknowledged that since I was experienced in the ways of the sea, and if I promised to let Robert Louis Stevenson rest in peace, I could hold that position until I showed myself unworthy. Ah, life on the sea (well�??on the river). We pointed the bow in the direction of Windsor Castle with grand visions of a relaxing, leisurely week on the scenic waterway, basking in the rare summer sun and enjoying unique views of the English countryside. Perusing the navigational chart provided with the boat, Steven asked, �??What are these lock things, Dad?�??
�??Arrr,�?? I responded in a low voice so Ann wouldn�??t hear Long John had slipped aboard. �??It appears, matey, the river be less a waterway than a series of locks interrupted by stretches of water. Arrrr.�?? Over the next few days, we would learn a lot about locks.
The downside to cruising the Thames is that these locks seem to intrude with annoying frequency, particularly the untended ones. Our inexperienced crew had to guide the 30-foot boat into the lock through a garage-door-sized opening, activate the mechanism that closes the door by pulling down on a series of handles, wait for the lock to flood (or drain), open the lock door with more handle pulling, and finally exit, all without the benefit of outside assistance. The only guidance posted for accomplishing this complex series of maneuvers was a large sign clearly stating: "No Bathing in Lock." In spite of this unequivocal warning, one of my crewmembers (who in the interest of continued marital harmony shall remain nameless) bathed in a lock. Actually, fell in, she did. Arrrr. She was clinging to the side of a lock to keep the boat from scraping as the water was pumped out. With the water level dropping rapidly, she maintained her grip on the wall. As the gap between the boat and the side of the lock widened, there were a number of missed opportunities when letting go would have allowed her to remain in the boat; however, ignoring clear guidance from the Captain to �??Let go, let go!�?? she refused to relinquish her hold on the receding wall, reached the point of no return, and plunged into the frigid lock waters. For a brief moment, she completely disappeared from sight, then came sputtering to the surface. I abandoned my post at the helm and rushed forward to pull her out before any bobbies showed up to enforce the no bathing rule and before anything more than her dignity was damaged. Our other crewmember, once he saw his mother pulled safely from the water, was rolling about on the deck in fits of laughter.
�??Why didn�??t you let go?�?? he gasped as he watched the water pool at her feet.
This question had occurred to me, as well, but wise in the ways of connubial diplomacy, I simply asked, �??Did you touch bottom?�??
Both questions went unanswered as she stomped down the ladder into the cabin to change into dry clothes, leaving us one crewmember short for our exit from the lock. Later, emerging from the cabin after a shower and change of clothes, she made it quite clear that mutiny was a distinct possibility should there be any further mention of her unplanned swim
In addition to the ubiquitous locks, we also discovered an unpleasant menace called a "weir," which popped up about as often as the locks. These stretches of white choppy water are spillways that help maintain the water level at strategic locations along the river. One does not want to wind up in a weir. Between reacting to the locks and dodging the weirs, we found ourselves in an almost constant state of physical exertion.
"All hands on deck," I yelled out all too frequently, just about the time we were recovering from the previous line-handling evolution. So much for the leisurely cruise.
It was a unique experience that I'd recommend to anyone looking for a different view of England. But be prepared for some serious line handling, and by all means, don't bathe in the locks.
More memories of the London assignment
"The Chicken Wire Sanction" Forty-five minutes by British Rail, north of Central London, is the small village of Stoke Poges. Though not generally known to the average tourist, it was here that Thomas Gray penned his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." Not far from that historic churchyard is a manor house and surrounding cottages once comprising the Moorehouse estate. The cottages have long since been sold off as quaint country homes, and the once elegant manor house turned into a workman's social club. During our tour of duty in England, we lived in a house facing the high brick wall surrounding the manor grounds. "The Cottage", as it was called (our official postal address was "The Cottage, Stoke Poges", was said to date from the 1700's. Originally just a one room dwelling, in Victorian times a three-story structure was added to the front�??six huge box-like rooms�??and the original cottage became a roomy kitchen. It had a substantial garden (that's yard, in Brit), enclosed by a seven-foot high fence of interwoven horizontal planks. It seemed to be ideal for containing a dog--lots of room to wander and explore. Pooker, the Andalucian cockerpoo who joined the family in Rota, had served his time in the British Quarantine facility and came to join us in The Cottage. It became apparent very quickly that he considered that seven-foot fence a minor impediment between him and the exploration of the environs of Stoke Poges. His first escape was baffling. We put him out to romp in his huge domain and he disappeared within minutes. Following a close inspection of the fence for open gates or holes (nothing), I tracked him to a nearby field where he was receiving a short lesson in why not to mess with horses. A rather bored mare tired of his yapping and sent him tumbling with a well-aimed kick. The misadventure with the horse was not a deterrent to Pooker's desire to find out what was beyond that fence. At the next opportunity he was gone again. This time he disappeared for several hours, eventually returning with a tired but satisfied look on his face. I was determined to find his escape route from the yard and seal it off; so the next time I let him out of the house, I cleverly took up a strategic location where I had him under constant surveillance. He behaved as if he had no interest whatsoever in leaving the yard�??lots of sniffing and wandering about. When he finally lay down near the back door with a deceptive yawn, I took a break from the surveillance. Zip...he was gone. This time we had to retrieve him from the Maidenhead jail several miles away, where he had been deposited by a concerned citizen who found him meandering along one of the busier nearby streets. Having been outsmarted on all my previous attempts to find his point of egress, I decided to station myself outside the yard where I could observe the entire fence line, then have my wife let the beast into the yard. It worked. Along one stretch of the fence I spotted a black furry head emerging, followed by a leg, a fat little body and a stubby tail. He had discovered that midway between the posts the horizontal planks were flexible enough to wedge a determined body through. At last I had him. I went out the same day and procured sufficient chicken wire to seal off the flexible area between the two bottom boards along the entire length of the fence. Gleeful, after having finally outwitted this wretched animal who had confounded me for so long, I left him alone in the yard to ponder the consequences of matching wits with his master. He, of course, disappeared immediately. He just moved up one level on the fence. And so it went over the next few months, the contest between man and beast literally escalated. As I sealed off one level of this seven-foot high barrier, Pooker moved up to the next. I was spending a small fortune on chicken wire. I guess I was hoping that eventually the height would discourage him before all of my disposable income had gone into chicken wire. The chicken wire had reached almost to eye level when the contest of wills and wits finally ended. A pleasant English matron appeared at the door one day to inquire about a dog that seemed to be protruding from our fence. She was walking by when she came eyeball to eyeball with Pooker, who had worked his way up to the escape level, which now stood at about five feet above the ground, but had apparently gained too much weight to get more than a head and a leg through the fence. From that day, Pooker abandoned his escape attempts, I suspect more out of embarrassment than anything else. I am amazed to this day that he was able to wander around the streets and countryside of Stoke Poges without coming to an unfortunate end. But he was a clever beast, and I've still got the chicken wire invoices to prove it.
