THE CHIEFS WHO MADE A CAPTAIN

It is Chief season. Across the Navy, this year’s Chief selectees are going through Chief Petty Officer Initiation—the transition from being one of the Navy’s best First Class Petty Officers to accepting the responsibilities that come with wearing anchors.

The Chief Petty Officer grade was formally established on April 1, 1893. Since then, Chiefs have occupied a place in the Navy that cannot be explained completely by a paygrade, uniform, or organizational chart.

At their best, Chiefs are the Navy’s institutional memory—with a pulse, a coffee cup, and usually a well-supported opinion about how the officer’s plan could be improved. They know the ship, the equipment, and, more importantly, the Sailors. They know who is ready for more responsibility, who needs a firmer hand, who is struggling at home, and which piece of machinery will inevitably choose 0200 to stop working.

That is why the Chief of Naval Operations recently described Chief Petty Officers as “The Backbone of the Fleet.”

My Navy career lasted more than 26 years and eventually concluded with retirement as a Captain. Along the way, there were exceptional Commanding Officers, talented peers, extraordinary Sailors, and many Chiefs who made a lasting impression.

But this is not an attempt to name them all. This is about the Chiefs from my first ship—the men who laid the foundation upon which the rest of my Navy career would be built. At the time, I had no idea how far their lessons would travel, but looking back, one truth becomes remarkably clear:

I would never have retired as a Navy Captain without the Chiefs who trained me, challenged me, corrected me, protected me from some of my own bright ideas, and occasionally told me what no one else in the room was willing to say.

The foundation began in the engineering spaces of USS ELLIOT.

THE CHIEF WHO TAUGHT ME HOW HARD A CHIEF WORKS

Engineman Senior Chief Elorde — USS ELLIOT (DD-967)

ENCS Elorde was my first Chief as a Division Officer. In many ways, I was raised as a young junior officer in the bilges of Navy warships. My first three years were spent aboard the Spruance-class destroyer USS ELLIOT—first serving for 18 months as the Auxiliaries Officer and then for another 18 months as the Main Propulsion Assistant.

Auxiliaries Division is a hard division. You own an extraordinary number of the systems that allow the ship, the crew, and the mission to function. The responsibility stretches from the steering gear in the stern to the anchoring equipment in the bow. It includes freshwater systems, high- and low-pressure air compressors, air-conditioning, refrigeration, galley equipment and countless other pieces of machinery that touch nearly every Sailor and every space aboard the ship. When something in Auxiliaries breaks, someone notices—and usually very quickly.

As a brand-new Division Officer trying to understand both the machinery and the Sailors responsible for maintaining it, I watched ENCS Elorde work. I had never seen a Chief work harder.

Actually, that is not entirely true. As the years passed, many other Chiefs demonstrated that same remarkable work ethic. What made Senior Chief Elorde so important was that he was the first. He established the standard against which many of the Chiefs who followed would be measured.

He also demonstrated that working hard was not enough. In a division responsible for so much of the ship, there will always be another casualty, another maintenance requirement, another inspection, and another Sailor who needs attention. Simply throwing more hours at every problem will eventually exhaust the entire division. The team had to work hard—but it also had to work smart.

Senior Chief Elorde taught both. He did not deliver the lesson through a leadership lecture or a carefully prepared set of talking points. He taught it by showing up every day, knowing his equipment, knowing his Sailors, setting priorities, and doing whatever the ship required.

For a young officer beginning his first sea tour, that example mattered. ENCS Elorde demonstrated right from the start that a Chief does not merely supervise the work; a Chief sets the pace.

THE CHIEFS WHO TAUGHT ME TO STAND THE WATCH

When the move came from Auxiliaries Officer to Main Propulsion Assistant, the responsibilities expanded considerably. The division was larger, the engineering plant was more complex, and there were multiple work centers and watch teams to lead.

GSCS Carlson was the division’s first Leading Chief Petty Officer, followed by GSCS Black. Both were exceptional leaders. They helped a young LTJG learn how to manage a larger division, establish standards, and—most importantly—stand the watch as an Engineering Officer of the Watch.

One of the most important skills they taught was the art of the gauge scan. A Spruance-class engineering plant presented the watchstander with rows of gauges, indicators, alarms, and status lights. A new watchstander was tempted to study every gauge individually, reading each number as though taking an examination. That was not the art. The real skill was learning what normal looked like.

An experienced watchstander developed a disciplined scan across the entire plant. Normal indications registered quickly. Attention went to the gauge that looked different, the pressure that had begun to drift, the temperature that was moving in the wrong direction, or the equipment status that did not fit the rest of the picture. The purpose was not merely to discover that something had already failed; it was to recognize a deviation early enough to prevent a developing problem from becoming a casualty.

Aviators use a similar instrument cross-check in the cockpit. Bridge watchstanders continually scan the horizon, navigation picture, radar displays, weather, traffic, and the ship’s operating status. The equipment and environment change, but the principle remains the same: know what normal looks like, keep scanning, recognize what has changed, and act before the situation gets worse.

That is the enduring truth behind every good watch: eternal vigilance is the price of safety as the old saying goes. Vigilance does not mean treating every normal indication as a crisis. It means maintaining disciplined, continuous awareness—knowing the baseline, recognizing the deviation, and taking action before the margin for correction disappears.

That lesson carried well beyond the engineering plant. As an Executive Officer or Commanding Officer, the “gauges” became the material condition of the ship, the readiness of the crew, maintenance, training, schedules, morale, and operational performance. On a Fleet watch floor, the scan became larger still. The indications included force disposition, readiness, logistics, intelligence, weather, emerging requirements, and activity across the theater.

The skill remained largely unchanged: establish the normal picture, keep scanning the entire system, identify the indication that does not belong, and take corrective action while the problem is still manageable.

Senior Chiefs Carlson and Black also taught another essential part of watchstanding: follow the established procedure. During a casualty, it is difficult to diagnose the problem, decide what must be done, direct the watch team, and execute every required action simultaneously. Stress narrows attention, time becomes compressed, and a small error can quickly compound into something larger.

That is why watch teams train. In the engineering plant, Engineering Operational Casualty Control procedures provided the immediate and controlling actions. Later, in the Combat Information Center or on the bridge, established tactics, techniques, and procedures served a similar purpose.

Procedures did not eliminate the need to think. They protected the team from having to invent its response during the worst possible moment. Training allowed the watchstanders to execute the immediate actions while leadership preserved enough mental capacity to assess the larger situation, anticipate what might happen next, and adjust when conditions required it.  The procedures that were followed allowed leadership to develop some "tactical white space" to think.  Then I became senior that same process of following established procedures provided greater time to just at different levels of operation be it the tactical, operational, or even the strategic level of warfare.

Carlson and Black taught those lessons during countless hours of standing watch, conducting drills, and operating the plant. But one particularly “Old School” demonstration from Senior Chief Carlson has remained unforgettable.

It occurred during an Operational Propulsion Plant Examination—OPPE. Outside of INSURV, OPPE was one of the largest and most demanding inspections a ship faced. The ship first had to demonstrate that it possessed the minimum equipment necessary to get underway safely. The at-sea phase then included two sets of propulsion-plant evolutions and engineering casualty-control drills.

One of those sets would include the Main Space Fire Drill—the big one. The simulated casualty would escalate into a major fire, General Quarters would sound, and the entire ship would become part of the response. If the first drill set ended without the Main Space Fire Drill, there was no longer any suspense about how the second set would finish.

That was the situation aboard ELLIOT. GSCS Carlson was the Engineering Officer of the Watch for the second drill set. The senior OPPE inspector was a crusty Navy Captain. Our Commanding Officer, the senior inspector, and a very young LTJG, yours truly, were all observing from Central Control Station.

The final drill began with a major fuel leak. The leak became a fire, General Quarters sounded, and the engineering watch team executed its immediate casualty-control actions while the crew began setting the ship for battle.

Then Senior Chief Carlson calmly walked over to the watertight door on the starboard side of CCS and pulled out a cigarette.

Smoking was still authorized in designated spaces aboard ship in those days, and CCS had ashtrays. Nevertheless, this did not appear to be the ideal moment for a smoke break. The ship was at General Quarters, the largest drill of our most important engineering inspection was underway, and both the Commanding Officer and senior inspector were watching.

And GSCS Carlson lit his cigarette.

My heart sank. It appeared that Senior Chief had just found a way to fail the entire ship while standing directly in front of the two people most capable of making that happen.

Carlson looked at his watch. Then he looked at the Commanding Officer and the senior inspector.

“The standard for setting Zebra on a Spruance-class destroyer is seven minutes,” he told them. “I have four minutes and change to secure this watertight door and put out this cigarette.”

He knew the standard—not approximately or generally, but exactly. He knew the requirement, the status of the ship, the time remaining, and what still needed to be done. That confidence might have looked reckless without the professional mastery beneath it.

I would not recommend that today’s Chief selectees recreate Senior Chief Carlson’s particular teaching method, but the lesson remains sound: know the plant, know the procedure, know the standard, and know how much time remains.

The OPPE after-action report said nothing about the cigarette.  It said we passed the Main Space Fire Drill. Phew!

Together, Senior Chiefs Carlson and Black taught that watchstanding is an exercise in disciplined anticipation. Scan the entire system, recognize what is out of the norm, follow the established procedure, and take corrective action before an abnormal indication becomes a casualty.

The gauges would change many times over the course of a Navy career, but the responsibility to remain vigilant never did.

THE CHIEF WHO CARRIED THE WORLD WIDE WEB IN HIS POCKET

The other Chiefs in Main Propulsion included GSMC Smith and GSEC Asarro, followed later by GSEC Rottnek. Each contributed to an exceptional leadership team, but Chief Smith demonstrated something that would become increasingly important throughout the years ahead: the operational power of being organized.

This was before smartphones, search engines, shared electronic calendars, and databases accessible from anywhere. We were only beginning to use email. Most official correspondence still arrived by letter, and every morning Radio produced a printed stack of the naval messages received overnight.

Information traveled differently then, but if the World Wide Web as we know it today had existed, I swear GSMC Smith carried the entire thing in the wheel book tucked into his back pocket.

That Chief simply never forgot anything. Ask him about a repair part, and he knew the requisition number and its expected arrival date. Ask about outside assistance, and he knew the technical representative, when the tech rep had been contacted, and when support could be expected. Ask about a piece of equipment, a maintenance requirement, or a Sailor with a problem, and he knew the history and current status.

Long before anyone could type a question into a search bar, the fastest way to retrieve information in Main Propulsion was to ask GSMC Smith. His knowledge was not accidental. It came from a disciplined system. He captured information, kept it current, and carried it with him. That organization allowed the division to anticipate problems, follow up on commitments, and prevent important details from disappearing amid the daily noise of running an engineering plant.

At the time, what stood out was his remarkable ability to recall information. Only later did the larger lesson become clear: organization is not merely an administrative skill; it is a leadership skill. An organization cannot keep control of its people, equipment, commitments, and deadlines unless its leaders create systems that capture information and turn it into action.

Years later, while serving as a Captain and the Seventh Fleet N3, that lesson from Chief Smith’s wheel book reappeared on a much larger scale. The staff was no longer tracking the requirements of one engineering division. It was organizing operational problems affecting an entire numbered Fleet. The volume of information was immense, the consequences were greater, and success depended upon the collective work of an exceptional staff.

A simple framework became common language across that team: PIST—Problem, Impact, Solution, Timing. What is the problem? What is its impact on the Fleet? What solution—or next action—is required? What is the timing?

Timing placed each issue into the appropriate planning horizon: COPS, FOPS, FUPLANS, or PLANS. Immediate problems went to the team responsible for current operations. Issues farther over the horizon moved into the appropriate future-operations or planning process. Nothing was allowed to remain merely an interesting bullet on a briefing slide; problems needed to be defined, assessed, assigned, and acted upon.

GSMC Smith never taught me the acronym PIST. What he demonstrated was the discipline behind it: know the problem, know the details, know who owns the action, know what has already been done, know what must happen next, and know when it must happen. Do not allow it to be forgotten.

It is remarkable to consider the reach of that example. A Chief’s method for tracking parts, technical assistance, maintenance, and Sailor issues in one destroyer’s engineering division eventually influenced how a Seventh Fleet staff organized operational problems across the Fleet’s area of operations.

Chief Smith’s wheel book never left the ship, but the lesson inside it traveled much farther.

THE CHIEFS WHO TAUGHT ME TO LEARN MY TRADE

If GSMC Smith demonstrated how to organize information and control a problem, GSEC Asarro and GSEC Rottnek demonstrated how to understand that problem in depth.

Those two Chiefs were—to borrow the finest Boston accent available to someone who is not actually from Boston—wicked smart. They were technically magnificent. More than anything, they had learned their trade.

Their world was engineering, but they did not merely know how to operate the equipment. They understood how it worked. They understood the relationships between components, the meaning behind the indications, the operating limitations, and the ways a failure in one part of the system could affect everything around it.

When confronted with a difficult problem, they opened the books. They read the procedures, followed the diagrams, and worked through the details until they understood not merely what had failed, but why it had failed and what needed to happen next. To a young Main Propulsion Assistant, it seemed there was nothing those two Chiefs could not solve once they opened the technical manuals.

Watching them work reinforced an enduring lesson—one I had no clue existed at that point in my career: no one should become so senior, experienced, or confident that reading the source material begins to seem unnecessary.

Experience is essential, but it does not make the technical manual optional. The manual provides the specifications, procedures, limitations, and system relationships from which sound judgment begins. Knowing how to find, understand, and apply that information is professional mastery.

Only later did the full reach of their example become clear. Asarro and Rottnek were teaching more than engineering; they were demonstrating how a professional learns a trade.

The process of learning how a gas turbine engine works is not fundamentally different from learning how a complex weapon system works. The machinery and purpose are different, but the intellectual discipline is the same. What are the system’s components? How do they interact? What does normal operation look like? What are its capabilities and limitations? What indications reveal that something is beginning to go wrong? How will the system respond when pushed beyond its operating envelope or when one component fails?

The same discipline applies to sensors, weapons, combat systems, and Fleet operations and communications. It is not enough to know that a capability exists. A warfighter must understand what it can do, what it cannot do, what other systems it depends upon, and what alternatives remain when it becomes degraded or unavailable.

A Surface Warfare Officer cannot possess every technical detail held by the Sailors who operate and maintain those systems. That is why the Navy builds teams of specialists. But complexity cannot become an excuse for superficial understanding.

Learning the trade of a warfighter means studying the publications, understanding the equipment, knowing the tactics, and recognizing the limitations that determine what is actually possible. It means developing enough technical depth to ask the right questions, evaluate the answers, identify operational risk, and avoid building a plan around a capability the system does not possess.

That responsibility only grows with seniority. A Commanding Officer may not personally troubleshoot every component, but decisions about how to fight the ship must rest upon an accurate understanding of its sensors, weapons, propulsion, communications, crew, and material condition.

At the Fleet level, the systems become even larger. Ships, aircraft, submarines, logistics, intelligence, and communications must function together across great distances. A plan that looks elegant on a briefing slide can fail quickly if it rests upon a technical assumption that no one took the time to examine. Professional mastery begins with refusing to accept that kind of shallow understanding.

Chief Smith showed how to maintain control of an enormous volume of information. Chiefs Asarro and Rottnek showed that before a problem can be organized, briefed, or solved, it must first be understood. Otherwise, all that has been accomplished is the careful organization of confusion.

That lesson eventually sat beneath the first letter of PIST: Problem. Understanding the problem was the foundation for solving it.

Before the staff could explain a problem’s impact on the Fleet, recommend a solution, or place it within the correct planning horizon, the team first had to define it correctly. That required people willing to move beyond the executive summary, examine the source material, and understand the system well enough to explain what was actually wrong.

Years before that discipline reached a Fleet watch floor, two “wicked smart” Chiefs in the engineering spaces of USS ELLIOT demonstrated how it was done: open the book, understand the system, know its limitations, and learn your trade.

The systems would change throughout a Navy career, but the obligation to master them would not.

THE WEIGHT OF THE ANCHORS

These were not the only Chiefs who shaped my Navy career, but they were the first. The foundation laid by those six Chiefs aboard USS ELLIOT influenced every tour and every level of responsibility that followed. Long before the later commands, deployments, staffs, eagles, and Fleet watch floor, these Chiefs were establishing the habits upon which everything else would depend.

ENCS Elorde demonstrated how hard a Chief works—and why working smart matters just as much. Senior Chiefs Carlson and Black taught the discipline of standing the watch: know what normal looks like, remain vigilant, trust the training, follow the procedure, and know the standard.

GSMC Smith demonstrated that organization is not administrative housekeeping; it is how a leader turns information into action and prevents important problems from being forgotten. GSEC Asarro and GSEC Rottnek demonstrated how professionals learn their trade. Their technical mastery in the engineering plant provided a model for learning the far broader and increasingly complex trade of a warfighter.

Their personalities and leadership styles were different. Some lessons were taught quietly. Others involved lighting a cigarette during General Quarters in front of a Commanding Officer and an O-6 inspector. What they shared was a commitment to their Sailors, their standards, their profession, and their ship.

It is easy for one generation to look at the next and worry about what might be lost. The Navy changes, technology changes, and Sailors change. The way each generation communicates, learns, and leads will never look exactly like the generation that came before it.

That does not worry me. The Chief Petty Officer grade was formally established in 1893, but the culture and traditions of the Chiefs Mess have never been preserved by standing still. They have been tested, refined, and strengthened by every generation entrusted with wearing the anchors. The culture survives not by refusing to change, but by knowing what must never change.

Those enduring foundations are professional competence, personal accountability, deckplate leadership, candid advice, care for Sailors, enforcement of standards, and the willingness to take responsibility when things go wrong while giving the team credit when things go right.

New technology will not weaken those foundations, and generational differences will not erase them. Each new group of Chief selectees inherits those standards, carries them forward, and adds its own experience to more than a century of Navy leadership.

To this year’s Chief selectees: being selected is an extraordinary accomplishment, but anchors will not make anyone wise simply because they have been pinned on a collar. Their meaning will come from what happens afterward.

Know your Sailors, master your profession, enforce the standard, train your relief, own your mistakes, and protect the credibility of the Mess. Give your officers honest advice—even when you suspect they will not particularly enjoy hearing it.

Do those things well, and years from now, some former Ensign, Lieutenant, Department Head, Executive Officer, or Commanding Officer may still be telling a story about you. They may even say:

“I would never have made Captain without that Chief.”

To the Chiefs who helped me along the way: thank you. I may have eventually worn the eagles, but your anchors helped keep me steady throughout the voyage.

This week, hoist a mug to the United States Navy Chief Petty Officer. As for the future of the Chiefs Mess, I am not worried.

The Chiefs have the watch.

Fair Winds and Following Seas,

Dave 
Captain, U.S. Navy (Retired)
Co-Founder, Old Salt Coffee Company