The Navy diver is not a fighting man but a salvage expert. If it's lost, he finds it. If it's sunk, he brings it up. If it's in the way, he moves it. If he's lucky, he'll die 200 feet beneath the waves. That's the closest he'll get to being a hero. Hell, I don't know why anybody'd want to be a Navy diver.
My name is Master Chief Billy Sunday. There was a preacher by the same name who rid Chicago of the whoring spics, drunken wops and motherfucking niggers, who were making that place unfit for decent white folks to live. The only difference between me and that preacher is that he worked for God, and I am God!
— Captain Hanks, sir, I concur with your assessment. These slippery floors alone prohibit such a demonstration, sir.
— Chief Sunday, haven't you had enough trouble in your career? Your advice is unwelcome.
— Who is this man?
— Chief Leslie W. Sunday, sir.
— You swam out of the Saint Lo at Leyte Gulf. You held your breath for four minutes.
— Five, sir.
— He can stay.
Sir, I am a Navy man. Where I come from there are no oceans, only dirt farms and ornery mules. And no self-respecting Navy man makes a living driving mules.