In honor of Fleet Command Master Chief Petty Officer Duncan Buckmaster, the beating heart of the battleship.
There are four kinds of people in the unit.
High ranking commissioned officers give orders and manage the big picture.
Junior commissioned officers handle the day to day. They know when to pick up the colorful metaphor phone.
Warrant officers don’t exist.
Junior enlisted follow orders. They move the boxes, sweep the floors and park vehicles. Their SOP is as follows: If it moves, salute it. If it doesn’t move, pick it up. If you can’t pick it up, paint it.
I am none of those. My unofficial title is “HMFIC” I’m the only person in the unit who can move faster than the speed of stupid.
I’m senior enlisted. Everyone reports to me. I have email older than you. My job is to make sure orders get carried out under two conditions: That the job is done right and that everyone comes home safe. Four out of five days a week I’m training personnel, including junior officers, because I was at my post when most of them were learning to walk.
I have orders. The captain just wants it done. He doesn’t care how.
Junior officers want it done right because they want to get promoted.
Junior enlisted want it done right because they don’t want to get demoted.
I don’t care about any of that. I can’t be promoted any more. Demoting me would take more brass than a John Philip Sousa convention. I’ve forgotten more about this unit than all of you put together will ever know. Without me this whole thing jumps up its own ass. I have three chevrons and four rockers on my sleeve. Every one of those stripes was purchased on nights, weekends and holidays, and paid for in blood.
Master Chief. There’s only one.