Submarine deployments

Admiral Sir Michael Boyce (as he was then), commander-in-chief fleet, sat in the mess deck aft and accepted the disappointment and anger directed at him by the sailors. He was calm and professional, explaining the reasons why – after a gruelling 6-month deployment north of the Norwegian Sea – this T boat would be turned around in six hours and sent out on a new mission. No leave. No run-ashore. No decompression. No additional training. No maintenance. No crew changes. In fact, no other visitors. Just time to load a new false deck of food, some spare parts, and new orders. And they went. The CO hadn’t protected Admiral Boyce from the rawness of his crew. Indeed, his eyes – I might be remembering this poorly – seemed to hold that same ire and frustration as his chiefs and sailors. But they turned around and deployed. No band or fanfare. No cameras. No visit from SoS or CDS. No mention ever made by the then PM. Neither the public, nor the 120 families of the submarine’s crew, knew the reason either before, during or after.

When Boyce got in the car after the visit he was also angry. He was a hard man to read sometimes, not given to levity. Both his RM driver and me – his Flag Lieutenant, note taker and bag carrier – understood. Boyce – himself a submariner – knew what they were going through and what he was telling them to do. He hadn’t shirked away from any of it: he had chosen to go and give them the news himself, against the advice from his headquarters staff.

We had visited more submarines than surface ships in the six months since Boyce had become CINCFLEET, including several visits to the infamous Perisher course. As in my previous time sucking rubber on Oracle, Sovereign, and Resolution, the determination and professionalism of the people was clear. They were a dark group: in humour, in manner, and in the way they operated. Their disdain for anything not them (‘targets’) was renowned: their standards were absolute and unforgiving because submariners survived on the shared knowledge that each and every member of the crew was either their salvation or a harbinger of death at any single unexpected moment. No one was coming to their rescue and they didn’t (and still don’t) have access to external advice. They were, would be, and seem likely to be in the future, completely isolated with only their ‘ears’ and low-baud rate E/VLF communications array to maintain SA. I did it for a very short time: there is an isolation, focus and beauty that can be reached only in those environments. And the knowledge that the people you are with are the very best at what they do. They have to be but – more importantly – they want to be. Submariners are the Olympic champions of naval operations because they have a professional hunger.

That was in the late 1990s. I’m not sure how much has changed but the reality of hull numbers today mean that submarine patrols are increasing in length and are only likely to get shorter sometime in the mid-2030s if naval leaders (and their political masters) maintain their priorities, and industry delivers working boats. Until then, the anger and weariness of submariners will continue. And rightly so.

The command and control for submarines is different from any other branch of the military. It has to be. And, given the difficulty of passing data (or voice communications) through the oceans, there doesn’t seem to be a significant change anywhere in the near future. Captains of submarines are the top of the spire for the crews. Their inability to communicate with higher levels of command means that headquarters staff must trust their judgement completely; and is the reason why selection is taken so very seriously. That understanding of personal character, strengths, judgement, and flaws is personal and different: there is little chance of replacing a commanding officer midway through a patrol if doubts start to emerge. The connection, therefore, between a commander and his submarine captains is vital. It happens well before deployment and requires an investment of time, effort, and understanding. It can, like the Perisher selection process, be brutal and uncompromising. It is also quite unique to submariners.

This is not to take away from command in any other sphere of warfare; each branch, fighting arm, and specialisation has its own unique elements that sometimes requires a different sort of person. And each takes time to build in those characteristics that make commanders suitable, and sometimes exceptional, in their particular area. Command and control are not generic functions. They are highly differentiated, sometimes data driven but more usually personality centric. Admiral Boyce understood that, and he also understood that the relationship between a commander and his ship’s company required the support from the top level of command. In an era where conversations and research about C2 is dominated by terms such as data, agentic AI, digital backbones, and fighting webs, we might benefit from some less technological jargon and a bit more appreciation for the people who execute. Boyce had that in spades.

Photo credit: Royal Navy/UK Ministry of Defence