Training Timeout
By Bart Mancuso
COMMO was on minute 38 of her 15 minute scope rotation when her already miserable underway would only get worse.
“Hey COMMO,” XO started as COMMO continued her scope routine.
All the JOs hated when XO began the conversation with pleasantries, it usually meant he was about to deliver bad news.
She barely acknowledged him and remained intently focused on the zero visual contacts on the screen.
“What’s Radio training on today?” XO continued. “I think I’ll sit in on it.”
COMMO gulped. Divisional training was in 45 minutes and all they had planned was to finish the cribbage tournament from last week and watch episode three of Only Murders in the Building.
Unbeknownst to COMMO, the CO had spent half of the recent Command Assessment meeting reminding the XO of the inadequacy of the Forward Compartment Training Program (FCTP). Recent ORSE changes promulgated in message traffic that COMMO didn’t read stated that the FCTP could account for up to 1% of an ORSE grade.
COMMO knew that her Radio division had not looked at, let alone followed, the Long Range Training Plan in well over three years. The last approved plan hung unceremoniously on the back of the radio room door. The once brilliantly white 8.5 x 11’’ piece of paper had turned to a yellowish-tan after years of non-compliance and amine exposure. It was submitted by a LTJG Susan Miller who, based on the message traffic COMMO did read, just screened for XO. With COMMOs shore tour slate submissions due in less than two weeks she knew that any slip up would mean only one thing….prototype.
She needed a plan and quick.
“You know XO, I can’t remember off the top of my head,” COMMO said thinking on her metaphorical feet. “ITS1 came to me about a month ago to review the next quarter’s worth of training and I am not sure which one is today. But don’t worry, ITS1 won’t let us down.”
Satisfied, XO left Control to attempt to enforce standards elsewhere on the boat.
As minute 38 blurred into minute 50, COMMO turned to the CHOP - who was aimlessly wandering around Control - to propose a deal to get her out of Control and get her division squared away.
After a few minutes of haggling, CHOP finally agreed to stand the last thirty minutes of Contact Manager in exchange for a pack of Monster Ultra Fiestas and for “Radio to get off their ass and turn in their MAMS inventory that was due 3 weeks ago”.
“Guys, we’re in trouble,” COMMO blurted out as she ran into the radio room, ten minutes before the weekly “Radio Division Training”.
“What’s wrong Ma’am?” the RMOW, ITS1 Paatz, asked as he broke out the Cribbage board from behind the [REDACTED], “You can’t play in the tournament today?”
All of the leadership capital COMMO had accrued throughout her time on board was spent just getting RMC to draft a “training plan”. She knew that getting her division of just three fully qualified radiomen and the on-loan RMC from a shipyard boat to actually conduct any formal “training” would be a pyrrhic victory.
Instead of wasting all that hard earned leadership capital - there were messages to write after all - COMMO decided she could get away with letting the guys completely fuck off during their weekly training nestled in the cozy confines of the Common Submarine Radio Room. And for the 14 months she had held the job, she had been right.
“XO’s gonna be here in ten minutes!” COMMO exclaimed more frantically than before.
“Oh he’s playing with us in the tournament today?” ITS1 Paatz asked. “That’s no big deal. I heard he put two 5s in the COs crib once.”
“No Paatz, he wants to see our training. The actual training. We need to figure something out.”
From around the corner, COMMO heard another one of her radiomen, ITS2 Spinola, call out, “Wait, there’s Radio Divisional Training?”
The team frantically crowded around the computer, trying to find an approved training plan on the LAN.
ITS1 Greene, however, took matters into his own hands.
“This always worked on my last boat,” he said as he reached into one of the equipment bays, “If we have any emergent troubleshooting, we can just cancel training.”
Before the COMMO could even contemplate the number of ways this plan could go wrong, ITS1 Greene had ripped the [REDACTED] device out of the [REDACTED], ripping apart the cables connecting it to the system.
The room fell silent, save the ever present whir of fans and humming electronics.
“What,” ITS1 Greene said, “We don’t use this circuit anyways. It's old legacy equipment.”
COMMO was stunned. She just watched a radioman destroy a piece of equipment…ON PURPOSE no less!
ITS1 Paatz sprung to action. This was not the first, nor would it be the last of ITS1 Greene’s shenanigans he would find himself fixing. With deft hands and years of experience to guide him, he simultaneously stripped the cables in preparation for repair while popping two ZYN 6 mg Wintergreens into his cheek.
Suddenly, the team heard the familiar sounds of Radio Room door access codes being entered and a swift jolt of the door without regard for those who stood behind it. The jig was up.
“Hey guys, you can go ahead and get started without me,” the XO said, poking his head from behind the door. “The Captain wants me to station as CDO so he can go play Madden against the COB in Chiefs’ Quarters. I’ll come again some other week. By the way, what are you guys training on?”
“Advanced Radio Division troubleshooting,” ITS1 Paatz blurted out, soldering iron still in hand.
“Awesome, love the hands-on approach you guys have. I’ll have to come again some other week. Have fun!”
The door shut as soon as it had been opened.
After a rousing series of cribbage matches against RMC, COMMO surveyed the radio room. The lights were flashing on the many terminals just as they should be, processing the hundreds of characters of CASREPs, NAVADMINs and ORDMODs other JOs wouldn’t read but would lie and say they did.
Next to the terminals to the left sat the [REDACTED] a retired in place piece of legacy equipment that still had regular PMS. On top of that sat the [REDACTED] a cold war era communications system that was only used in exercises and on top of that sat the [REDACTED] that only came up when JOs walked into the Radio Room for checkouts on it.
Another three old useless and constantly broken pieces of equipment.
Another three weeks she could put off the long distance training plan.
COMMO moseyed into her stateroom excited about the 10 hours of sleep she would soon log. She hopped into bed, closed her eyes and started to drift asleep.
Her stateroom door flung open. It was the JOOD.
“Commo, the CO wants you to report to his stateroom. He said we messed up some PLADs again.”
“Fuck,” COMMO muttered from behind her rack curtain.
Bart just got his shore tour orders. He is NOT going to prototype.