Among Heroes: A U.S. Navy SEAL's True Story of Friendship, Heroism, and the Ultimate Sacrifice by Brandon Webb Page B
Authors: Brandon Webb
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Webb, we got our teams to pay for trailers. We’re going to rent RVs so we don’t have to sleep in the tents and inhale all that toxic dust.”
I thought Rob’s solution was brilliant. Harvey didn’t.
“Absolutely not!” he said when he heard what the students were planning. “That’s a waste of the Navy’s money! I’ve got the water truck lined up, and it won’t be a problem.” He put the kibosh on the whole thing—called their command and had them cancel the RVs. I was furious. There was no reason to pull the plug on this plan. It would have been no skin off Harvey’s back; the money was coming out of Team Three’s budget. Whether it was Harvey’s need to show he was in control or just plain meanness, it was unconscionable.
But wait. It got worse.
There we were: up in that spore-infested environment again, no trailers, the guys putting up their tents to get ready for the course. First day of the session, guess who shows up in a fucking RV? If you guessed Harvey, you’d be right. During the six long weeks of that shooting phase he was the only one there who was not sleeping in a tent. And of course his spraying-down-the-dust plan was worthless. To no one’s surprise (but Harvey’s) our guys started getting sick again. It was an abomination.
Harvey’s behavior went from bad to worse. Now he started getting drunk, stalking the facility and yelling at the students he didn’t like. It was beyond embarrassing.
When the students were given course critiques to fill out, they hammered him, calling him “unprofessional,” “hurting credibility,” and “a clear weak point” in the course. One ofthem wrote, “Master Chief Clayton is an idiot.” I watched Harvey turn crimson as he read through them. He grabbed a handful of the papers and said, “I’m going back in there, and they’re going to fill these out all over again!”
“Master Chief Clayton,” I explained, “you can’t do that. These are their fucking critiques! The whole point is to get their honest feedback.”
He glared at me, stalked out of the office, went back into the classroom, and ordered the students to fill out new critiques. (Which they did—and they filled them out exactly the same way again.)
Three of our instructors were newly minted chiefs themselves. I went to them and said, “Guys, we have to do something about Harvey. It can’t go on like this. He’s killing the course.”
They knew I was right. They also knew my hands were tied. I was in charge of the course—but I wasn’t a chief.
In the Navy, the title of chief refers to the upper ranks of enlisted men. Becoming a chief is a serious accomplishment. Chiefs are the Navy’s version of senior management. They have their own eating area on the ship (called the chiefs’ mess) and walk their own walk. Even officers (if they’re smart, which they often are) will defer to a chief’s judgment. In essence, chiefs run the Navy.
Harvey was a master chief, rank E-9. I was a petty officer first class, rank E-6. This problem was literally above my pay grade. If anyone was going to do something about the situation, it was going to have to be one of the three other chiefs; I knew it, and they knew it. Yet this was the last thing any of them wanted to do. In the military, going around your boss to complain about him to his superiors is one of the worstsins you can commit. But they also knew that Harvey was destroying the fabric and credibility of the course.
Finally one of our chiefs, Chris Sajnog, took it on.
And took it on the chin.
When Chris went to our command’s master chief and complained about Harvey, the only impact it had was to get Chris knocked on his ass. He was instantly relieved of his post at the sniper course and went from the number one E-7 (chief) at the command to last. Any chance he had of ever making senior chief (E-8) evaporated on the spot. Chris had joined the Navy in the late eighties, graduated from BUD/S Class 199, and went on to a
I thought Rob’s solution was brilliant. Harvey didn’t.
“Absolutely not!” he said when he heard what the students were planning. “That’s a waste of the Navy’s money! I’ve got the water truck lined up, and it won’t be a problem.” He put the kibosh on the whole thing—called their command and had them cancel the RVs. I was furious. There was no reason to pull the plug on this plan. It would have been no skin off Harvey’s back; the money was coming out of Team Three’s budget. Whether it was Harvey’s need to show he was in control or just plain meanness, it was unconscionable.
But wait. It got worse.
There we were: up in that spore-infested environment again, no trailers, the guys putting up their tents to get ready for the course. First day of the session, guess who shows up in a fucking RV? If you guessed Harvey, you’d be right. During the six long weeks of that shooting phase he was the only one there who was not sleeping in a tent. And of course his spraying-down-the-dust plan was worthless. To no one’s surprise (but Harvey’s) our guys started getting sick again. It was an abomination.
Harvey’s behavior went from bad to worse. Now he started getting drunk, stalking the facility and yelling at the students he didn’t like. It was beyond embarrassing.
When the students were given course critiques to fill out, they hammered him, calling him “unprofessional,” “hurting credibility,” and “a clear weak point” in the course. One ofthem wrote, “Master Chief Clayton is an idiot.” I watched Harvey turn crimson as he read through them. He grabbed a handful of the papers and said, “I’m going back in there, and they’re going to fill these out all over again!”
“Master Chief Clayton,” I explained, “you can’t do that. These are their fucking critiques! The whole point is to get their honest feedback.”
He glared at me, stalked out of the office, went back into the classroom, and ordered the students to fill out new critiques. (Which they did—and they filled them out exactly the same way again.)
Three of our instructors were newly minted chiefs themselves. I went to them and said, “Guys, we have to do something about Harvey. It can’t go on like this. He’s killing the course.”
They knew I was right. They also knew my hands were tied. I was in charge of the course—but I wasn’t a chief.
In the Navy, the title of chief refers to the upper ranks of enlisted men. Becoming a chief is a serious accomplishment. Chiefs are the Navy’s version of senior management. They have their own eating area on the ship (called the chiefs’ mess) and walk their own walk. Even officers (if they’re smart, which they often are) will defer to a chief’s judgment. In essence, chiefs run the Navy.
Harvey was a master chief, rank E-9. I was a petty officer first class, rank E-6. This problem was literally above my pay grade. If anyone was going to do something about the situation, it was going to have to be one of the three other chiefs; I knew it, and they knew it. Yet this was the last thing any of them wanted to do. In the military, going around your boss to complain about him to his superiors is one of the worstsins you can commit. But they also knew that Harvey was destroying the fabric and credibility of the course.
Finally one of our chiefs, Chris Sajnog, took it on.
And took it on the chin.
When Chris went to our command’s master chief and complained about Harvey, the only impact it had was to get Chris knocked on his ass. He was instantly relieved of his post at the sniper course and went from the number one E-7 (chief) at the command to last. Any chance he had of ever making senior chief (E-8) evaporated on the spot. Chris had joined the Navy in the late eighties, graduated from BUD/S Class 199, and went on to a
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