The Quarterdeck

No one who worked in the Pentagon on 9/11 thought that war would blaze itself into their lives that bright and lovely Tuesday morning. And I’m pretty sure that no one at NAS Pensacola had any idea of what was going to happen to them last week. And now we learn that it was a gun-free zone – that worked out pretty well, didn’t it?

Ensign Josh Watson was the OOD of a training building not a warship, but it’s important to understand what that meant in this situation. I hearken back nearly 40 years ago to OCS in King Hall at Newport. We had a formal Quarterdeck with an OOD and watch team. There was ALWAYS an armed Master at Arms (MAA) standing by, sporting a nasty-looking piece on one side of his arms belt, and a Billy Stick on the opposite side, much as it was on ships. The Quarterdeck ceremony was intended to indoctrinate and re-inforce the ritual procedures and protocol we inherited from the Royal Navy. We don’t just let any shit-head on our ships, but if you are legit, we will treat you with respect; and if you are important, then we will render you honors with bells, as well. Josh had that responsibility, and executed it in tragic spades.

It was a simple and still for me a proud tradition – you approached the Quarterdeck, stood to attention, saluted, announced your presence, and requested permission to come aboard. The OOD and watch team came to attention, returned salute, and assuming you weren’t some sort of Islamic terrorist would answer with “permission granted, welcome aboard.” Not so much a tradition at shore establishments these days I’ve noticed of late, which probably the root of the problem at NAS Pensacola last week, but it was very much so in the training commands like OCS Newport back in the day.

Old Ironsides in Combat Action

The proper way to approach the Quarterdeck is an ingrained habit; I executed the same this summer when visiting the USS Constitution. I mounted the brow, stood to attention, faced and saluted the ensign flying from the stern, and then turned to the watch, saluted smartly and loudly barked out my presence and intent ”Officer of the Deck! Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

There was my family and a line of visitors behind me that I was holding up but goddamnit, I was a Navy Captain visiting the oldest commissioned warship in our fleet and not just another tourist, so fuck your momentary inconvenience – I WILL render honors and uphold the traditions which were permanently branded into my psyche back in OCS. The OOD took immediate notice – this dude in shorts, flip flops and T-shirt was a whole ‘nother cat. He rose to attention, saluted and hollered out “Permission granted, welcome aboard.”

I later chatted with him before we left and he asked me what rank I had held in my prior service. I told him that I was a retired Navy 0-6, so he offered me bells – well Hell Yeah, and got them upon my departure – which I executed in the same perfected manner; saluting and requested permission to go ashore. After the OOD called attention on deck, I saluted him and the flag of the nation of which we serve, and was bonged off. I had earned those 15 seconds of fleeting fame – four bells and the parting homage “Captain, United States Navy Retired, departing” by virtue of 27-years of service. A small reward maybe, but honors are honors after all, so why not collect them when offered? The funny thing is that while we were walking back down the pier to return to downtown Boston, I heard bells being rung for another retired officer behind us, who must have heard mine.

When coming and going to and from King Hall after normal daytime working hours, you had to report departures and arrivals via the Quarterdeck, since they locked the side doors after dark. And, part of the OCS catechism was that you also had to perform at least one formal watch as the Officer Candidate OOD aka the OCOOD. There, you learned to develop an instinct on judging people and how to handle difficult situations – and you had an armed backup if it went south on you.

While in OCS, I had developed a friendship with this SEAL Chief in our company who was pursuing a commission via the NESEP program. He was a funny, short, and balding guy in his mid-30s, but more so a larger-than-life character and a huge liberty risk. He was our Deputy Company Commander and an all-around good guy. For some reason, he took a liking to me – just some callow Finnish redneck from LA. He had a rack of super-duper ribbons earned in Vietnam that was pretty incredible – Silver Star, Bronze Stars, Purple Hearts, etc. He was a true stone cold-blooded killer – let’s call him Pete. I still don’t know why we got to be friends, but maybe he saw in me a quality that I didn’t know I possessed at the time.

We had a JO Club in Newport back then called the Datum (I’m trying hard to find a picture of it but it seems none exist on the Internet), which is where we went first on Friday nights for Happy Hour, and maybe stayed too late on occasion. No one above the rank of LT was allowed in, and it was pretty raucous. In addition to us OCs, we had the doctors, nurses and lawyers going to Officer Instructional School (OIS) to mix with who we termed “Oysters.” They went through a six-week course in officer etiquette, since they were already professionals and not eligible for command-at-sea. The Oysters lived in Nimitz Hall cattycorner from the parade ground to the lower left from King Hall, and were assigned single rooms. Unlike us, they could come and go as they pleased, and sometimes lightning would strike -you knew it was already going to be a good liberty weekend when struck.

Around 2300 at the Datum, and after about 2011 beers, Pete would get this strange look on his face, like he was back in the Mekong Delta somewhere, face-to-face with Charlie. He would take a long, hard, knowing look at his beer glass; take a bite out of it, and start chewing it up. The first time it happened, I was a little taken back, but got used to him doing that as I realized it was his way of coping with personal demons – there was a part of his soul left back there in the jungle environs surrounding Saigon. He would normally eat about half a glass and that was okay – but one chilly Friday night, he ate two.

The Datum closed down at 2400, and then we had one hour to stumble our way on the mile-or so long walk back to King Hall and officially report ourselves back aboard to the OCOOD on the Quarterdeck before liberty expired at 0100. Once aboard – you could always sneak out later… like making a date over in Nimitz Hall, but this was not one of those nights.

Pete that evening was obviously experiencing some extreme flashbacks, and was not as assiduous as he should have been in chewing up the broken shards of beer glass – his lips were bleeding – and God only knows what was going on deep inside his innards. They flashed the lights at midnight, and then we were shooed out of the Datum. He was pretty well fucked up so, I grabbed his arm and ushered him out the door. It was late October and no Uber to come to the rescue. It was freaking cold and we were drunk; with a long way to walk – survival was foremost on my mind, and we were stuck in extremis conditions of our own dumbshit making. If we didn’t show up before the witching hour on what was now Saturday morning, we were going to get administratively fucked come Monday.

It was an ordeal – the Datum stood atop a steep hill above the harbor, and getting down that was just the first obstacle to navigate. Imagine dragging 175-pounds of solid but wandering SEAL muscle through that hilly trek and maze of roadside ditches encircling Coddington Cove to get back to King Hall. Naval Station Newport had a series of above-ground 2ft-diameter steam lines that snaked around the base along the roadsides which constantly vented at the seams, so in the near-freezing conditions that October night, it was dark, damp and dank, and there was this mist of vapor floating around us like something out of a cheap horror movie – surreal. Pete wasn’t much help, and would collapse without warning on the ground either laughing or crying.

I had sobered up pretty much around 0040 when I checked my watch; we were behind PIM (Point of Intended Movement) getting back to King Hall, so I realized that we needed to get mission-oriented. I picked him up, wrapped an arm around him, and we limped back together – I was calling cadence like a drill instructor. “Yo’ left, yo’ left, yo’ left right left.” It may sound like a stupid idea, but it worked like magic upon him at some innate level, and we arrived there with five minutes to spare.

You learned early on in OCS to check the watch bill to find out who the OCOOD was going to be on a liberty night in order to avoid dealing with known assholes. You could always do an end-around by knocking on someone’s window to get them to come open one of the ground floor doors where our company was located, but that was a risky proposition – and there were roving security patrols to deal with or avoid. During the warm summer nights, we used to designate a door at one end of the ground floor passage ways (P-ways) that was going to be propped open, but not when it was cold as shit. This night, the OCOOD after midnight was a good guy from our company who I knew wouldn’t fuck us up in front of witnesses – as long as we were on time, so we were probably going to be safe.

We shambled up to the glass door Quarterdeck Lobby in front of King Hall, and I took a minute to straighten up Pete, whose lips were still bleeding. He was one sodden mess from his encounters with the ground, but he was my shipmate and I was his wingman. We entered the vortex of official Navy-dom and sort of made it to attention since Pete was reeling and I had to keep an arm on him. I announced our presence and requested permission to come aboard – what a sight that must have been. My OCOOD buddy took a long look at us while Pete was swaying back and forth and drooling blood, suppressed a smirk, and granted us permission to come aboard. All the while, the MAA was standing to the side with side-arm holstered but ready – we weren’t much danger to anyone besides ourselves.

While dragging Pete towards the main P-way and the sanctuary of our Quarters, for some strange reason I stopped short – and still don’t understand why.

Star Trek Communicator – Who would have thought?

I mimicked taking out a Star Trek-era communicator out of my pocket and flipping it open. I spoke into the palm of my fake communicator hand – “Point Loma to Alpha Company, beam us up Scotty.”

Decorum on the Quarterdeck collapsed into laughter – that was the old Navy.

They closed down the Datum as a cost-cutting measure for MWR (Morale, Welfare & Recreation) a couple of weeks later and at the same time, deprived us of our civilian clothes-on-liberty privilege, probably for good reason. Pete was on a different program than us regular OCs and was commissioned shortly thereafter and went on later to command SEAL Teams; I never saw him again.

I was commissioned a few weeks after he left so the Datum closing was not a big deal although we did have to endure the boring Happy Hour nightlife of the main O’club over on Coaster’s Harbor Island next to the Naval War College, where proper decorum ruled. There are more stories about life in OCS and Newport that summer and fall there that are best left untold. Surviving OCS was hard; the Fleet was easy after that.

If Josh Watson had had an armed MAA on his Quarterdeck, he and others of his watch team may still be alive. It hurts to think that the new Navy eliminated armed MAAs as a cost-cutting measure, and most likely public displays of side arms and other weapons so as not to offend anyone’s sensibilities. War?

Good God Y’all.

This whole unfortunate situation is sad beyond belief, and has crushed the souls of many of us here in Annapolis. His family and those of the other victims deserve and are getting their share of sympathy and respect for their now dead sons and friends, but there’s more to it. While defending the sanctity of his Quarterdeck, that incredibly brave young man died as much a hero as anyone else who has done so throughout our history while serving on fleet warships or rolling in on target – we are at war and there is no difference in my mind.

He was on watch, performing his duty as the OOD and saved countless lives – take a knee, and say a fervent prayer for the departed.

The Navy has taken a beating in the press lately – a lot justly deserved. There’s a long way to go to right the ship of public opinion and while tragedy should never be taken lightly, it offers opportunity for a restart.

Here’s what I propose, so now hear this: First, immediately award Ensign Josh Watson with whatever Naval Aviator wings he wanted to wear, because he earned them – they are Angel Wings. Second, you also have to award him the Navy & Marine Corps Medal for heroism as well as the Purple Heart for wounds suffered in battle. Do the right thing – because anything less in my view is unacceptable. If I were still large and in charge, the paperwork would already be in my in-box for signature; make it so.

To date. the administration (outside of the FBI) and MSM have refused to describe what happened as an act of radical Islamic terrorism – GMAFB. Assuming the watch is a solemn event. On a warship at sea or in a training command ashore, the OOD is legally in command, not the Captain, who remains legally responsible – there is a distinction. Regardless of circumstances, however, the orders you are going to issue and actions you take are legally binding and final. Once comfortable that you understand the situation and are ready to assume the watch, and thereby command, you approach the current standing OOD, salute and state:

“I am ready to relieve you, sir.”

The OOD salutes back and says:

“I am ready to be relieved.”

“I relieve you sir.”

“I stand relieved.”

“Very well.”

Still holding salute, the fresh OOD then turns to his watch team:

“Attention on the bridge – this is LTJG Point Loma and I assume the watch.”

That act never failed to fill me with awe at what I was doing. And if you don’t understand the solemnity of that, then get your mind right, because now it’s your turn, for better or worse. Our dead ship-mates Josh, Cameron Walters and Mohammad Sameh Haitham understood that, and deserve better. They had the deck, Josh was in command, and they defended it until the very end.

I remain your faithful servant.

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