I was surprised and immensely grateful that he would go out of his way to do this. But, as it turned out, he was lying through his teeth. He never had any intention of sending me back home early. He didn’t want me to go to BUD/S and was determined to prevent it, whatever that took.
A few weeks later, a friend in our squadron admin took me aside and told me I was getting railroaded (navyspeak for “screwed over”) by Chief Clarin on my upcoming evaluation.
Evaluations go a long way in making rank in the Navy; they’re put into the mix with your rating test to yield a final multiple that determines whether or not you are promoted. Usually, you would not have a chance to see how your peers break out during an evaluation period unless you exchange notes. My friend taught me that I was being rated as low as the brand-new check-ins.
I was not about to take that lying down. If I had deserved a low eval, that would be one thing, but that was not the case. So instead, I had busted my ass to get every qual I could and volunteered for every shit detail to prove to my peers and superiors that I deserved a shot at BUD/S.
Here’s how the process works: After receiving your written eval and having a one-on-one debrief with whoever wrote it, you sign your name at the bottom. Then, there is a tiny box by the signature line that you check if you intend to submit a statement along with your eval. But, of course, hardly anyone ever marks a check in that box. I still remember the utter horror on Chief Clarin’s face when he saw me check the box. He knew that I knew what he was up to. He knew he had fucked up.
At the time, I took a few college classes on the ship (they even had professors on board; as I said, an aircraft carrier is like a small city) and had just finished English 1302. I thought this would be a prime opportunity to put my writing skills to use. So, I prepared a formal statement, which I took great care in writing. It contained not a single whine or complaint but the facts, line item by line item.
My statement created quite a stir. After it landed on my department head’s desk, he ran it up to the commanding officer (CO). I soon got word that Chief Clarin and I were both wanted in Commander Rosa’s office.
When I arrived, Clarin was already there. I nodded at him without a word. It was evident that he was not too happy with the situation. Chiefs run the navy, and in the navy culture, it is scarce for anyone to go against a chief or question his judgment or leadership. But I would be damned if I was going to roll over and take this. Maybe this came from my time on the dive boat, when I often felt I had to prove myself to all the older guys. Perhaps it was an echo of the times I stood up to my dad—or maybe I got it from my dad, and it reflects the times he stood up to his father. Whatever its source, there is a stubborn streak in me that refuses to knuckle under what seems to me a poor decision or unfair judgment.
We were both ushered into Commander Rosa’s office, where we stood for a moment while the commander continued looking down at his desk at the eval and written statement spread out in front of him. Then, finally, he looked up at me, then at Chief Clarin, then back at me. “Look,” he said, “what’s the deal here?”
“Sir,” I said, “in block 1, Professional Knowledge, I should be rated a 3.0. I’m the only guy in my shop who has these quals.”
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