Memories of Higgins: Take Charge and Move Out

Attaboy, kid! The Goats finally gave you that Master Chief ranking, eh? About time, I say. About time.

So what’s with that glum look on your face, then? You look worse than a Bangkok ladyboy prostitute who didn’t score a night with a shore-leave sailor or two.

What’s that? Getting cold feet because of that extra chevron? Bigger responsibilities giving you the chills? Heh, kid, you don’t have to worry about nothin’. Why, I remember when I had to be on top of things back at Empress Augusta Bay… What do you mean ‘Granddad’s at it with his war stories again’? Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of listening to them! Heh, Thought so. Now be a good lad and let me talk.

War at sea is a funny thing, you know? It’s not just the feeling that you can expect an attack any minute. An attack inland would mean you could hide in a foxhole or hardened bunker and shoot the poor bastards trying to wreck your base. In a dogfight you at least had a chance to bail out, provided you were fast enough and the canopy would cooperate with you. But actions at sea? You and I know that drowning is the worst way to die, and it’s just one of the things that put sailors on edge. Seamen back then, they were extremely unstable powder kegs; most of ‘em enlisted fresh out of high school, a lot of them still have raging hormones to deal with, and by God’s grace plenty of them can’t even swim to save their sorry asses. Add that to the fact that some of the lads haven’t even seen actual combat yet and you’ve got yourself a recipe for disaster.

Of course, that’s where we, denizens of the Goat Locker, come in. As senior NCOs, we’re supposed to set an example for the younger sailors to help keep ‘em in line. The young ‘uns are supposed to look up to us when things get exciting… and when things don’t. The guys with the shoulder boards look to us to make sure that things run according to specifications. They also expect us to give the junior officers a crash course in actual command at sea, one of the few pleasures that the Joint Chiefs allow us to have.

It wasn’t really an easy thing, getting to command a bunch of unruly kids aboard a United States warship. At least you won’t have to worry about a rushed training period; the first time I was handed the reins, I had to think of a way to get the boys drilled properly and keep them focused WHILE under fire. I think I’ve had three or four boots suffer panic attacks at different times, all of them while we were in combat. Christ alive, you can’t believe how hard it is to help them snap out of it and get their heads back in the action. I might’ve kicked someone in the nuts at some point just to get them to listen. Yeah, it’s frustrating, but somehow it helped keep myself up and focused. I’ve probably been close to crashing in the middle of battle a couple of times myself.

Losing a man? Yeah, it’s… It’s never easy. I still remember my first fatal loss. Taggart, able seaman from Baltimore. We were covering the GI’s at Leyte when some crazy Nip flew his plane right through our ship. I felt it before we got hit; it was this odd gut feeling for danger. I could’ve pulled him out before the impact, but I hesitated at the last minute. Next thing I know I was on the deck with this ringing in my ears and the whole world was moving so slow. I don’t remember everything from that time, but the XO said that, while everybody else was patching up the big hole in the hull with some mattresses, I was clutching Taggart’s severed hand and begging it to get up, like he just slipped or something. The face he had right before the plane crashed in… I haven’t forgotten it since. Still wakes me up at night. No, you can’t really get over it. It shapes who you are as an NCO. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Still, you gotta keep trucking, for your sake, and for those who fell before you.

Remember this, kiddo. There’s no golden road to being a Master Chief. It’s a bit of experience, a bit of trial-and-error, and a bit of luck. You’ll get to meet a lot of people, some of which you won’t get respect from. You’re not expected to please everybody. You’re expected to make a lot of unpopular decisions. Such is life in the Goat Locker. In the end, what’s important isn’t the number of ribbons, medals and commendations you receive, or the number of tours you’ve accumulated, or the number of girls you’ve got gunning for your swinging dick in all the ports you’ve visited. What’s important is that, the end of every tour, you know that you did your best; you kept your fellow sailors alive, you fought well, you kept your ship sailing through thick and thin. Never have regrets! That’s the Goat Locker way!

Good luck, kiddo. Kick ass for us folks back home, alright?

--Master Chief Fire Controlman Merrick Cotsworth was overseeing the maintenance of some of the Higgins’ onboard weapons when the Abyssals attacked LA. Springing into action immediately, he expertly directed the sailors under him as they manned the M242 Bushmaster in their immediate vicinity. As their position became untenable, he ordered his team to evacuate to the safer confines of the destroyer as he manned the gun alone. He suffered fatal injuries after the mount was struck by bracketing hits from cannonade fire while the destroyer was maneuvering to evade torpedoes. After the battle, his teammates found his body, still clinging to the broken gun, planning to fight it out until his last breath. He was 38.--