this story was passed around when i was a navy nuclear electronics technician... but the origins of who wrote it are unknown.

(i was a nuke yes.. and a part of this truly describes how the military REALLY operates... this has nothing to do with bush.. or the war.. it's what goes on in the general military in every branch.. and i want people to really know before they make any irrational decisions without proper research...
though this was written way back then.. it still holds true to this day.. and myself have experienced that very fact... it's things like this that changed my mind about the general intelligence of all military branches and.. still, continues to be a sensitive subject)
(read along..)

Introduction:
Why are we here?
The first thing you need to know is that this entire book is one big sea story. If you want to read a factual account of Navy life, I suggest you write a US Navy PAO (that’s Public Affairs Officer- a Naval spin doctor) and get the approved, P.C. version of everything I’m going to tell you. Since this book and everything therein consists of my opinions and thoughts exclusively, I think it’s safe to say that you’re reading at your own risk. Nothing in here represents the Department of the Navy or it’s policies and procedures. Nothing in here may be considered the truth, either... If you’ve “been there and done that” then you’ll quickly realize what’s been altered for security reasons. If you start taking this seriously... if you are offended, outraged, or otherwise yipping around like a rabid schnauzer... too bad! You didn’t read the above first. All of this is just what I think, and I’m all f@%ked up, so there ya go.

That said, let me tell you how you came to be holding this little chunk of slander, exaggeration and outright lies. When you tell someone you work on a submarine, especially a no-nothing civilian, they almost always think its a fascinating and exciting thing to do, and precede to ask you all sorts of questions. I got tired of telling them all the same thing- like any job, most of it’s boring and repetitious.
That’s why it’s called “work” after all- if they didn’t pay you, you probably wouldn’t do it. The best books (and, about the only books) about submarines all deal with World War 2, and are usually written by the officers who were there, slugging it out with the Japanese Navy in tiny, cramped, smelly diesel boats. While these make fine reading, they sure won’t give you a feel for what the every day monotony of life at sea can be like these days. And, they’re from the officer point of view, which has little to do with life as we know it. How entertaining would Star Trek be if they showed the enlisted
men doing what enlisted men usually do: cleaning? The idea of nothing but officers driving a tugboat is spooky; the idea of them flying a spaceship without us blueshirts around is downright frightening.

So, after telling my tale like the ancient mariner to countless folks over the years, I decided too just write it all down. This saves me a lot of time, and my listeners’ sanity as well; once they get the general idea they can toss the book away. If I was there telling them in person, I’d be much harder to ignore. Here are some thoughts you can contrast to the Navy life you see on TV and in the movies. There has also been a recent surge in modern fiction about submarines, the operative word there is fiction. Like most all of the stories about the military, they deal with officers doing exciting things, while the blueshirts fetch them coffee. And there’s no mention of nukes hardly at all . There is a very simple reason for this:

Nukes get no glory.

Nukes are more likely to see the captain at mast than at an awards ceremony. They're more likely to see a tech manual and a PMS card than a movie underway. But, after a few years, you learn that you're being paid the big bucks because you're the dependable one, the one that the Navy's going to hold in a spotlight for your entire career. This naturally breeds a bit of resentment.
Why?
Because you watch the rest of the Navy chugging along at half speed, with only a vague impression of what accountability really means. To a nuke, it means he's going to bet his career on just about every decision and signature he makes. One mistake and all your training and credentials go up in smoke, along with one or more pay grades.
There will never be a movie made about nukes, and what we do. Even the recent interest in submarines (Hunt for Miss October, Crimson Bile) have so little reference to nukes that only nukes themselves know they're there. This is partially because we don't take tour groups back aft, and partially because the only things exciting that happen aft are the things that give anti-nuclear power fanatics ulcers. We like it that way- excitement means less sleep.
But, you have to admit that nukes are very good at what we do. Cities that would burn the mayor's house to the ground in protest at the mere suggestion of building a nuclear power plant have no problem with a sub or a carrier sitting in their port- both of which have nuclear reactors humming away in their bellies. This proves that the Navy's track record in nuclear power is unequaled in terms of safety and reliability. After a few more pages, you may understand how they did it.

A nuke is like a Swiss army knife... with a college degree. The first few years of training focus mainly on nuclear physics and metallurgy and chemistry. But, once you strip away all the theory, the meat of the job is to keep the plant steaming, not design new ones. A nuke has to be as good at anticipating how shutting a steam valve will affect reactor power as he is at painting hard-to-reach motor foundations. He may be performing a reactor shutdown one day, and laying in a puddle of slime in the galley fixing a heater box the next. He has to know how to get a broke dick motor-generator running, as well as how to get his non-wax floors their shiniest.
In short, nukes are justly famous for what they refer to as "nuking it out", or figuring out how to do something on the fly. A nuke can be placed in any job in the Navy, and he will not only be able to do it, he will do it better. This is due, in no small part, to the amazing amount of confidence our training instills in us.

Nukes are strange people. No place is this more evident than in Nuclear Power School. The Navy's only going to hire the very smartest people to run her reactors, so nukes are strange because, in order to be a nuke, you had to be someone who really didn't need the Navy in the first place. Most of the guys I worked with in school either could have breezed through college, or already had. When you get to know them, you'll find they're people so self sufficient and so confident that they could easily rise to the top of any civilian profession. This fact is not lost on the civilians; many companies have realized that a trained nuke is a valuable asset in any workplace, and specifically target them when they get out. Just last year I watched Intel hire virtually every nuke who was getting out in our area. They were smart to
do so.

The Navy's getting a hell of a deal. For basically the same pay as any other sailor, they get this country's brightest and most motivated young people, and then get to use them for anything and everything. If not for nukes, crisis management could only work in a real crisis.
As you will see, this relationship is not always a happy one. One of the most common complaints is that, while the non-nukes race off the boat as soon as it touches land, the nukes stay on board for hours and even days later. Nukes are the ones to show up at three in the morning before an underway to start up the reactor; who stay until eight or nine in the evening to make sure everything's good to go. Nukes work weekends, holidays, and nights. Nukes, when they're not working, are studying for the continuing training or their next qualification.
The officers have it even worse. While nukes don't like (to say the least) the over emphasis on cleaning and preservation, the officers are the ones who have to find some way to get us to do it. They get the same training, only they've got a whole world of equipment up forward they also have to be experts on. They get even less sleep than we do, and certainly get dumped on more by the Navy higher ups. But, as the joke goes, the smartest and best looking in the academy go to flight school, and those with glasses go nuke.

So, nukes get no glory. You'll never see Tom Cruise or Denzel Washington play one, mainly because it's hard to rationalize Kelly McGillis kissing someone who just crawled out of a scum-filled bilge. There are no benefits to being a nuke- we don't get special rooms or food; we don't have any advantage in promotion or butt massagers to sit on in maneuvering. Nukes get every ____ deal that has to be done. On a submarine, they make up less than one-third the crew, but own more than half the boat and it's gear.
But, even for all that, there simply isn't a better job for people who are good enough to be nukes in the Navy. Sure, it sucks to work for someone who knows completely what you're truly capable of doing, but nukes do have one thing going for them- they are challenged.
Just that.
The Navy challenges them, and for many who coasted through our pathetic public education system, it's enough to change their mental engine into a tank. When they come out the other end of the pipeline, they are literally unstoppable in anything they choose to do. Very few of the other programs in the military, or the country, can give a man that confidence.
While I have sorely regretted my choice to go nuke many times (not the least of which were sitting on the phones in maneuvering on Christmas Eve), I am glad I did. Nukes are amazing people and I take a great deal of pride in the fact I was good enough to be one.


Prologue:
Why Nuclear?
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Hot smell of my engine
Rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance
I saw a blue neon sign
Said "Navy Recruiting, next left"
Must be out of my mind
As I stood in the doorway
And bought the lies that they sell
I was thinkin' to myself
"They must have reactors in hell"
But I signed all the papers
And was off on my way
There were voices down in Orlando
Thought I heard them say:
You volunteered for the worst job in the Navy
Might look good at first
But it gets only worse
Drop out now from the worst job in the Navy
Working nuclear
Bone job every year

Hotel 717 - from the EM Log

Unlike 90% of the guys I've met in the service, I actively sought out a career in the Navy from the start. Both of my parents had been in the Navy for most of my life, and it seemed like the next logical step for me. It also eliminated a lot of useless worrying about college my last few years of High School, thus allowing me to concentrate on other, more important issues (like trying to get laid).
So, when I saw a balding, overweight, and tired-looking geek in a Navy uniform slouched down in defeat by our principal's office, I saw my future. I guess I made his day, since I went right over and asked him to schedule me in for an appointment. To his credit, he tried to hide his astonishment; apparently 1987 wasn't a particularly good year for recruiters in Seattle.
That's how it starts; you go to a recruiter's office. You've probably seen them. They're typically in the low-rent areas of shopping malls and office buildings downtown. The one I went to was no exception.
There was the usual crowd of losers milling about, all trying to fit it with the actual Navy guys there. The place was rather run down, with a totally overwhelming collection of Navy propaganda plastered to every bare surface, including the ceiling. It struck me as very similar to a used-car salesman's office, and having since been in several (As I will point out -often- enlisted men rarely make enough money to hang
out in new car showrooms), I can assure you the recruiters are in the same business.
"So, you thinking about joining the Navy?" the bald guy asked.
"No. I want to join. I already decided." I respond. The bald guy's buddy at the other desk leans over .
"You want to go in?" He asked, incredulously "You mean, all we have to do is do the paperwork?"
"Uh huh."
They traded a suspicious look, but the bald guy pulled out the first of countless Navy forms which would bear my name, and started typing away. They were naturally wary, assuming I was joining for ulterior motives, like dodging the cops or a knocked up bimbo. Once they learned of my childhood (which included being in such Hitler Youth programs as JROTC and Sea Cadets, and of my parents, of course), however, they realized they had a live fish on the line, and went all out for me.
If you're thinking about joining, enjoy your recruiters. You should use them like shake and bake bags; it's the very last time you can expect a First Class (or a Chief, for that matter) to be anything resembling civil to you. If you join, they sure won't be asking you if they can get YOU coffee and doughnuts for much longer.
Now, I wanted to be an OS, which is an Operations Specialist. They are the guys who play the war games with the captain. But the recruiters gave me a pre-ASVAB test, and I scored pretty good on it.
What the losers didn't know is that my dad, being a Career Counselor (the guys who try to keep you in once you're in, understandably a much more difficult job), had been giving me ASVAB tests to take since I was ten. I did exceptionally well on the test, well enough to make me eligible for the 'high class' ratings.
An ASVAB test is sort of like the military's version of the SAT test. Whereas the SAT is supposed to gauge how much useless information you could potentially absorb in a college, the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) measures how well you'll do as a garage mechanic. This should clue you in right off the bat what type of work you'll be doing, with questions like A mop is used to (a) clean floors (b) wax floors (c) simulate your presence in a bunk after lights out (d) all of the above.
Another interesting fact is that people who volunteer as nukes count double on the recruiter's quota. If you stop and consider what a recruiter represents; i.e., a guy who's been in the Navy forever and yet still thinks it's a good deal, you'll understand why they have to work on the quota system. Going back to the used car dealer example, they have to con a certain number of people into the Navy per month, their
'quota'. If they can get an exceptional amount in, they can even get auto-promoted to Chief Petty Officer, much along the same lines that you yourself tried to get that new bike by selling GRIT magazine when you were a kid. It doesn't matter if the guys they con actually succeed or not, once they're in the guy's gotten credit towards those anchors he wants.
I'm pretty cynical about life in general. However, I bought the whole pitch about how nukes were the best paid, best trained, etc... hook line and sinker. When they talked me into going nuke, I accepted with something akin to being handed a free pass to SEAL school: I was going to be one of the mental "Top Guns".

My next stop was the MEPS station, the 'gateway' to boot camp. They give you the ASVAB all over again, and toss in a military-style physical. You spend most of the day waiting around, though, so bring a book. Also, feel free to act up a little. You're not in the military - yet- so you can tell them to shove it if they _____ about you reading in line. Most guys are so overwhelmed by their first experience in a military
building that they blindly follow one pointless order after another. Why make life rougher on yourself?
I got a special bonus: while we were waiting around in the common "lounge" area (similar to a Greyhound bus station downtown; all the better to get you used to your upcoming income bracket), the only station on the 20+ year old TV was MTV. That would have been cool, except it was something called "Madonna Thursday", and they were showing the same damn video over and over. At one point I expected Rod Serling to start doing the Twilight Zone voice over, it would have added just the right
atmosphere.
Having scored exceptionally high on the ASVAB (again), the next person I met was the nuke recruiter. Here was my very first live 'nuke', but I wasn't aware of it then. He gave me the entrance exam for nuke school, a multiple choice test covering mostly physics. I had absolutely no idea on any of the questions, so I did like Spiccolli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High; I doodled in a surfboard in the answer sheet. I presented the completed exam, and started to leave. The guy instead sat me down, and started going over (once again) all the great things about nuclear power, and started handing me forms to sign he'd thoughtfully prepared. Knowing I'd tubed the exam, I thought "what the hell?" and started signing.
We were having a good old time, me signing and him bull____ting, until I asked about the test: "Did I pass?"
"Hold on," he said, with a slight frown, and he disappeared into the back. I heard a shredder rev up. Then he reappeared.
"Congratulations!" He said "You passed!"
"What was my grade?" I asked suspiciously
"Forty eight" He said
"What's passing?"
"Forty eight,"
"Can I see it?" I asked. He looked at his typewriter.
"Nope."
Which was my first introduction to how things were done, both in the Nuclear Navy and in the Other Navy. While I was there, he also felt me up for joining the submarine force, though he couldn't commit to those orders. I raised my hand, took the oath, and was off to sunny Orlando, Florida.
I naturally called my dad with the news I'd enlisted, a little under month after my seventeenth birthday.
He asked what rate I picked.
"I'm going to Nuclear Power School!" I said excitedly.
"F#&kin' nuke," he said, and hung up.
At least I still remember the first time I heard that phrase.


Chapter One:
"You have twenty minutes, and twenty minutes ONLY..."
So set condition one
Bring the shore power on
Scram the f#&king reactor
And let me go home- I wanna go home
Why won't they let me go home?
This is the worst ship
I've ever been on...

I Wanna Go Home - from the EM Log

Actually, I didn't go straight to boot camp. I went into 'DEPs', which is where they cut you loose to finish your senior year of high school. They have you show up about once a month to make sure you're still alive, and send you all sorts of free Navy stuff, like cups and patches and all. Tax dollars at work. So, I didn't actually go to boot camp until the following August. In the mean time, I worked at getting into shape.
I had an edge, having been though boot camp already with the Sea Cadets. That was when I was about thirteen, and was about as much like real boot camp as masturbation is like real sex; You get a rough idea of what's expected of you, but it doesn't take as long. So I bummed around, and tried to work out a few times a week.
Finally, my carefree civilian life was over. After another long day at MEPs, they swore us in again, and packed us off to Sea-Tac airport for the night. For god knows what reason, the MEPs guy gave me the paperwork for our group, and put me in charge. As this would be the one and only time I'd ever be in charge of anything, I made the most of it. We all walked over to the airport, found out that our meal tickets worked just as good at the bar, and preceded to get totally ____faced. About 3 am we staggered
back to the hotel, and took turns puking in the pool.
I called my buddies (all two of them; the rest were already at boot camp, which says a lot about my childhood, doesn't it?), and had them come over. "The Navy's throwing us a party". They didn't actually show, but we still had fun seeing how many sheets we could flush down the toilet at once. There were a couple of women in our group, but they spent the whole night crying with each other in their rooms. We finally passed out around five am, exactly one half hour before our wakeup call.
My next coherent thought was waking up hung over on the plane to Orlando. If I had any bags, they're probably still stashed somewhere in Sea-Tac airport. I showed up in the same clothes I'd had on the day before, which were soon taken from me. But I'm getting to that point. The last movie I'd seen before going was Full Metal Jacket, which was what I though about for most of that trip. We finally pulled in to Orlando about 7 pm, and crashed in the USO lounge another hour awaiting the shuttle to the base. Perhaps it was the jet lag, or the beer, but that whole last hour of semifreedom
reminded me of the myth of Charon, ferrying the dead across the Styx to hell. I distinctly remember the look of sardonic pity on the guards who opened the gate for our van, and my fellow passengers' trepidation. The van stopped in a darkened alley, and we got out. The van left, and all was quiet. We looked at each other, already sweating in the humid southern Florida air. Then we headed into the only building that looked occupied.
This was RIF, or Recruit In processing Facility. Check your brain at the door; you're here to be brainwashed, make no mistake about it. The second you step in, they're already forcing you into a line.
There's a bright red line on the floor, with arrows. Follow it like cattle. Don't hold stuff in your right hand. Stand up, don't look around, no talking. Wait. Stare at the guy ahead of you. Women, off to the other side of the room. Don't talk to them, either. Grab a chair.
Then, fill out the forms. You're a moron, so we're going to go though it one block at a time. Block one, your last name. No, not your first name. God, an idiot, already! Last name, special ed, LAST NAME.
Good! Block two, your first name...
About four am they herded us into a dark bunk room, and told us to go to sleep. There's fifty half naked guys already snoring away like truck drivers, so it took some time. The same second my eyes closed, the lights came on, and we were getting rounded up for chow. God, what a great day it was, too.
Apparently no one else in my group had the benefit of military school, since they all marched like drunken winos. Most of them smelled, too, but since I had the same damn clothes on I couldn't really complain.
Breakfast was a pleasant surprise. Most of the other guys seemed shocked by the room packed from end to end with blue uniforms, but what they were feeding us was what surprised me; it was real food.
Even fresh fruit and doughnuts, stuff I'd never even heard rumors of in San Diego boot camp. The whole time I was in boot camp, the food was fairly decent. Of course, since we still had hair, and we still had normal, if not smelly, clothes on, we stood out. This was purposeful, as it encourages you to want to blend in. One of the primary tenants for survival in boot camp, and then in the Navy, is not to stand out.
We were grateful, sort of, to get our heads shaved and to get issued a bunch of mothball-reeking clothes later that day.

.... if you actually like to read more or read the rest... pm me. (it's a 200 page pdf)

 

is there a reader's digest version? you lost me at the hotel 717