The carriers were particularly impacted because the catapults, arresting gear, and flight deck surfaces had not been designed for a tempo of operations that extended to twelve hours per day for thirty days without respite. Carrier aircraft were affected as well. Replacement planes for battle losses were rushed through overhaul and repair to get them back in the squadrons, and often deep preventive maintenance and essential upgrades to armament systems and safety improvements had to be left off lists of scheduled overhaul work.
With the end of the conflict in Vietnam, the pace of operations was slowed, but the program of repair, refurbishment, and improvement was only partially implemented. Now the problem was money. Funds intended for fleet maintenance and rehabilitation became part of the “peace dividend” and were largely diverted to federal social programs. There were many members of Congress who did not understand the relationship between the Fleet Operations and Maintenance (O&M) account in the Navy’s budget and fleet readiness. To the uninitiated, as long as the Navy had enough sailors, the ships and aircraft ought to be properly maintained. The need for technical training schools to teach bluejackets the esoteric skills of maintaining modern weapons systems, the requirement for replacement spare parts for worn out as well as broken equipment, and the necessity to provide ships with dedicated periods in shipyards and naval bases where heavy equipment for big jobs was available were not recognized, or perhaps just not accepted. But there was also a pernicious problem that was especially bothersome. The Vietnam War had made serious inroads on the social mores of young Americans. There seemed to be a palpable diminution of the characteristic American work ethic in this postwar generation. To induce young people to enlist in the Navy, the recruiters had made promises of good pay, fun cruises, rapid promotion, and the opportunity to learn a marketable trade.
Unfortunately, the Navy couldn’t deliver, especially to the young people who had been underachievers on the civilian side, both in high school education and in the job market. They could not understand why they had to start at the bottom of the ladder and how chipping paint and cleaning firesides were going to lead to promotion. They expected instant gratification, but they lacked the basic education for the more glamorous careers in electronics and computers. Their disenchantment became manifested in a lack of motivation for the menial tasks of keeping their vessel shipshape up to man-of-war standards.
I will confess that when I became CNO, I was not aware of the extent of the material problems in the operating forces. Many of our middle-grade officers, and flag officers as well, seemed willing to accept these lower standards, believing that they would be reflected only cosmetically in the external appearance of our ships. The failure and nonoperability of equipment, weapons, and systems due to neglected maintenance had not yet sunk in.
The carriers were the major fleet units most affected by this problem. As early as 1970, a three-star aviation admiral in the Pentagon had seriously questioned whether the Navy should continue to even try to hold the carrier crews to the higher, pre — Vietnam War material standards or simply accept “Band-Aids” as a way of life. Recovery seemed just too difficult. The harder the crews were worked, the more the reenlistment rates deteriorated. A climax of a sort had occurred when, during a firepower demonstration by a carrier at sea for a presidential visit, not one single air-launched missile hit its target. This was acutely embarrassing and a revelation to the flag officer conducting the exercise. He prompted a full investigation of the problem, catalogued in the exercise report, which resulted in a major overhaul of the Navy’s air-launched weapons-system management.
Yet there seemed to be a general apathy and little sense of urgency in resolving the readiness problems in the operating forces. The excuse seemed to be, “That’s the way it is on the outside. Our sailors are just reflecting the post-Vietnam counterculture.” As vice chief, I had realized that we had problems, but I didn’t have a solid appreciation of the extent. Maybe it was because as vice chief I had stayed in the Pentagon while Bud visited the fleet and field activities.
Then, in my first week as CNO, I was asked if I would inspect the new alcohol rehabilitation center that had recently been opened in NOB Norfolk. I had not realized that alcohol and drug rehab was a big issue in the fleet, so I was quite interested. I flew to Norfolk by helicopter, transferred to a car, and first drove around the naval base for a general overview. It was around 1130, and the car literally had to crawl because of the hundreds of sailors on the streets coming up from the waterfront. They were in dungarees. I asked the captain of the base, who was escorting me, where the sailors were going.
“They’re going to the enlisted club,” he replied. “We’ve got a great deal. Our E club is really making money. During the week, from 1130 to 1230, we offer a martini happy hour, two drinks for the price of one, and we have topless go-go dancers, too. It has really put this E club in the black.”
“Are you in favor of this?” I asked.
“It’s made the club solvent,” he said. “We hardly need the slot machines anymore. The idea of a noon happy hour was proposed during our all-hands session at the base theater last year.” This was a forum that had been established by an earlier Z-gram.
So I inspected the alcohol rehab center, which seemed underutilized, then went to the waterfront, where the fleet units — carriers, cruisers, destroyers, supply ships, and amphibious vessels — were tied up at the piers. On the waterfront, you expect to hear paint chipping and motors running, but it was dead quiet. I went on board a couple of ships and there was no work being done. I asked where the sailors were.
“Well, a lot of them have gone to the PX or are down in their berthing compartments,” the captain said.
“If these sailors have been drinking at noon, you’re not going to get any work out of them this afternoon,” I said.
“Well, even though they have a couple of beers at lunch, they still ought to be able to do a day’s work.”
“Let me be realistic,” I replied. “I’m a normal human being. If I had two double martinis in the middle of the day, I know I’d be through with any productive work. Physiologically, they’re no different than I am. I can’t believe they can be productive in the afternoon. I sure wouldn’t want them working on my airplane.”
I got a couple of the ship skippers together and they told me, “It’s terrible, Admiral. These young teenage sailors go up to the club almost every day in their dungarees. They come back to the ship, but they don’t work. They just sort of drift around going through the motions of doing their jobs, but nothing really gets done after the middle of the day.” Here was an example of a lack of command attention all the way up the line that was really hurting the Navy. It was supposed to be good for the young seamen’s morale, subsidized booze and topless dancers in the middle of the working day. But it was all wrong from every aspect and wasn’t really legal. Most of the young sailors weren’t twenty-one. Identification cards were never checked. The attitude seemed to be, if a kid is old enough to fight, he’s old enough to drink.