Another story from my Navy days…
The hour before dawn usually is a quiet time aboard ship. On this morning all hands are on deck for underway replenishment, the regular delivery of fuel and supplies that sustains our tiny minesweeper on a two-month patrol off the Vietnamese coast. This is our lifeline for fuel, food, ammunition, spare parts and different movies. If we’re lucky there’s mail from home by way of the Philippines and an aircraft carrier in the Gulf of Tonkin.
We’re on course for a scheduled rendezvous with a seagoing gas station and supermarket known as an oiler. On the crowded bridge, we track the oiler on radar and establish voice radio contact. Both ships are darkened under wartime conditions, and we don’t see the other ship until floodlights are turned on when we’re a few hundred yards apart. On the deck below, men turn up dungaree jacket collars against a light rain and tropic night chill, and put on orange lifejackets and battered hard hats. The deck force is rigging cargo gear while the engine room gang prepares for refueling.
It’s called underway replenishment because both ships are moving. Once the oiler is in sight we approach the larger ship from behind to pull alongside. The oiler’s stern looms over us, higher than our bridge, as we batter through the big ship’s wake and along the grey cliff of her side to move into position 50 feet away.
A whistle blows and a shot line, a lightweight rope fired from a rifle, arcs over our ship and is caught. Heavier lines are pulled across, blocks and tackle are rigged and soon the two ships are strapped together with a trolley-like highline and a heavy fuel hose. Larger ships use winches but small ships like ours do it the old-fashioned way with a line of men digging their heels into the pitching deck to pull cargo nets of supplies and barrels of lube oil over the churning water between the two ships. Occasionally we transfer a man between ships in a specially designed chair.
On the bridge the officer of the deck focuses on holding our ship alongside the oiler, matching the larger ship’s course and speed and maintaining a 50-foot distance to keep the lines between the two ships taut. This is precision shiphandling: leaning over the bridge rail to concentrate on a rope with markings that measures the distance between the two hulls, and shouting orders down the voicepipe to the pilothouse below to correct the course one degree, two degrees, and adjust the speed of the engines a revolution or two at a time.
A telephone line has been rigged between the two ships and our captain is talking with the skipper of the oiler. Down on deck, a man signals the other ship with paddles to heave the line or pay it out. Signalmen on each ship exchange wisecracks in semaphore shorthand. Off-duty crewmen on the oiler peer down at us and wave.
Then we hear the music.
Music! High above us on the oiler’s focsle a band is playing, a combo of sailors in dungarees belting out a rock beat through a scratchy loudspeaker. They play in the rain, risking electrocution to entertain the two crews and making up for their lack of talent with raw amplification.
Centuries ago sailors on square-riggers used sea chanteys to add rhythm to the heavy work of raising sails and turning the capstan, and the oiler’s rock band does the same for us. The music breaks the tension on the bridge and brings smiles to the faces of the deck force.
Finally our tanks are full and the last cargo net has been emptied. Orders are passed for the breakaway and dripping ropes are pulled aboard. Once we are unstrapped from the oiler, the officer of the deck gives the order to turn away from the larger ship… and exhales.
The ship settles back into routine as the crew stows equipment and hoses and carries boxes of supplies below. The rain has stopped and the aroma of bacon cooking in the galley mixes with the diesel fumes from the stack. The oiler recedes from view as it continues up the coast to do it all over again, amateur musicians and all, for the next ship up the line. We will do this again ourselves in a few days. And there’s mail.
Budget cuts and bureaucrats
Booo! Sequestration is coming! Our military will be hollowed out! Toddlers will be ejected from Head Start classrooms! Our food will immediately spoil in the absence of federal inspectors! All medical research will be scrapped!
That’s what politicians and the news media are saying. Do you believe them? I don’t.
How drastic are the cuts? We’re talking about a 7 percent cut to defense and a 5 percent cut to federal agencies — most of which received double-digit budget increases in the last few years.
In the private sector, budget cuts of this magnitude are not a big deal. When I was a manager in a Bell Telephone company during the telecommunications reorganization of the 1970s and 80s, annual budget cuts were routine. My group was chronically understaffed and absorbed additional responsibilities as the company downsized. In one case the department where I worked was cut by half.
But here’s the difference: Private companies need to compete for business and cannot afford cuts to customer service. So the telephone company I worked for cut thousands of jobs while leaving its service centers and installation-repair force at full strength. We eliminated layers of management, contracted-out support services and slashed headquarters staffs. It was a big change for us but our customers never noticed the difference.
There are many ways to cut an organization’s budget and managers have choices. So it’s always puzzled me that government agencies are unable to make cuts that won’t inconvenience the public. Can government bureaucrats be that inept as managers? Or, do they deliberately choose cuts that will have the most impact so that taxpayers will pony up? That’s the impression I get when my local school district cuts teaching positions without reducing administration, or when the state government cuts funding for daycare centers while leaving bureaucrats’ jobs intact.
So the coming federal sequestration is no catastrophe. It will pinch the Department of Defense, which has already taken budget cuts and is constrained by long-term commitments. But I suspect the decision to cancel deployment of an aircraft carrier is more showmanship than austerity.
Some government employees will be furloughed temporarily but will still have jobs – unlike the millions of private sector workers who lost jobs while the federal government added 250,000 employees between 2007 and 2011.
But this modest dent in the massive federal budget will play out as high drama. National parks will close. Programs for disadvantaged children will be curtailed. TV reporters will have a field day covering a daily drumbeat of public pain. And President Obama will travel around the country, at $181,000 an hour on Air Force One, to make his pitch for higher taxes.
No one is forcing the government to inconvenience the public. There are many other ways to save money. The government could declare a moratorium on travel and conferences. (The President could set the example by staying in Washington for a while.) Federal agencies could furlough their headquarters staffs and postpone issuing new regulations. The State Department could delay aid payments to places like Egypt and Palestine. Entire agencies, such as the Environmental Protection Agency, could shut down completely for a month or two. But that won’t happen because nobody would notice.