Lemoore was composed of two major sections: the operational end, with the runways and hangars, and, three miles away, the administrative portion. In between and expanding across a huge area were cotton fields, where farmers were allowed to work the land.
A-7s were king at the time, while the legendary A-4 Skyhawks were going away, with only two fleet squadrons left at Lemoore, a far cry from the abundance of these units prominent during the war. (The Skyhawks remained on duty in training and “adversary” capacities for many more years.) Two of the squadrons, referred to as RAGs—and technically known as FRS today—were training units for the A-7B and A-7C versions of the Corsair II.
I thoroughly enjoyed visiting each of the commands, sitting down with the COs and the flyers, and talking aviation. Interfacing with the young pilots was uplifting. I flew in a two-seat Skyhawk to keep my hand in and for business travel. What a great way to go!
I readily adjusted to the operational aspects of naval aviation despite my six-year hiatus. I had to catch up on things like drug problems and the Z-Grams published by the CNO, Adm. Elmo Zumwalt But for the most part, the assignment was free of major troubles. The Z-Grams were designed to alleviate racial tensions, which created immense turmoil during the war (crises aboard the Constellation and Kitty Hawk were especially troubling) and to “liberalize” the way the Navy did business. They promoted a major improvement in equal opportunity, particularly for blacks.
I did notice a trend, hard to put a finger on, but a trend nonetheless, that bothered me. With respect to running their units, I detected reluctance on the part of commanding officers to take forceful action when the normal precepts of discipline were violated. The COs feared toughness on their part in dealing with enlisted personnel would backfire. Using a hotline, enlisted people could call in any complaint directly to an office in Washington, and the Inspector General Hotline, without using the chain of command.
In my periodic inspections, I found there was a distinct lack of basic cleanliness. The overall condition of the barracks was poor because of improper upkeep by the troops themselves. It was apparent to me the chain of command had weakened over the years. I met with the COs and tried to turn things around by directing them to take more initiative in correcting discrepancies. In other words, they needed to be more hard-nosed in order to get the sailors back into a mode of taking better care of their facilities and respecting military discipline. With the help of the base commander, Capt. Jack O’Hara, we instituted strict security and decorum in the enlisted men’s club and reenergized the shore patrol to maintain same. Overall, we were fortunate in that the racial discord prominent in major facilities like Norfolk and San Diego did not exist in Lemoore. In fact, I believe that, overall in the military, racial problems were on the downswing, certainly because of the end of the Vietnam War and Zumwalt’s determined efforts. Being a southerner, I was happy to see the increased number of African-Americans in the Navy and their apparent good morale. The Navy was finally coming into the twentieth century.
Another key adjustment had to do with the resurrection of our focus on the Cold War. We needed to put the conventional war in Vietnam behind us and concentrate more on nuclear strike planning and issues related to the global challenge of the Cold War. This occupied much of my time. We also took the lead in improving electronic countermeasures at Lemoore, a significant step forward for the Navy in the Cold War.
Diane, Wendy, and I loved this tour of duty. The people of Lemoore and the surrounding community were enthusiastic supporters of the military; collectively displayed a strong work ethic, as patriotic as any group of people I ever knew; and were as friendly as could be. The whole area was an agricultural mecca, part of the great breadbasket of the West, which was the San Joaquin valley.
Alas, it wasn’t to last. Only ten months into the tour I was ordered to Washington, D.C., as director of the Aviation Programs Division (OP-51), under the deputy CNO for air warfare (OP-05B), Vice Adm. Bill Houser. Bill Houser was one of naval aviation’s finest; I could not have asked for a better boss.
I no sooner got there than I was handed a proverbial hot potato. I was to draft a response to Sen. William Proxmire concerning a Government Accounting Office (GAO) report on the Tailhook Convention in Las Vegas in 1974. Seems the Navy authorized thirty-two C-9 flights to transport aviators from across the United States to Las Vegas for the annual gathering.
It was recommended I explain away the flights to the GAO as training sorties. That, to say the least, would be an enormous stretch and lack credibility. Proxmire at the time had garnered enormous national visibility with his periodic Golden Fleece Awards—presented to the individual or group that pulls off a boondoggle, or takes advantage of the government in some outlandish fashion, and the Navy was a winner for this episode. I met with Admiral Jim Holloway, III, CNO, another of my heroes and one of the Navy’s most remarkable and well-liked officers.
“Sir,” I said, “You don’t have thirty-two C-9 trips to Las Vegas for training purposes. I think we should just stand up and say we believed the Tailhook Convention important enough to have our flyers there, and the C-9 was the way to do it.”
The Vietnam War had ended, the Tailhook Convention has been a traditional morale builder, and the professional briefings that took place were valuable. This is even more true today than it was back then. Admiral Holloway agreed. I met with Senator Proxmire’s staff, told them what I said to the CNO, and believe it or not, that was it. Proxmire got his publicity about the event, and he was already on another witch hunt, so the problem rather quietly went away.
I was responsible for overseeing all the air stations, target complexes, airspace training areas, maintenance and logistics programs, the overall inventory of aircraft, and even maintenance of the historical records of naval aviation. This was not a glamorous tasking, but I had plenty of autonomy to do what I thought was right, and Bill Houser didn’t demand a plethora of reports of my activities. It turned out to be a most enjoyable, educational job, one which taught me much on how to play the game of Washington, D.C. This was essential in today’s military, particularly in dealing with the U.S. Congress, which enacts the annual defense bill.
Diane; her son, Fritz; Wendy; and I bought a home in the Villa May area of Alexandria. Diane was close to her business again, Wendy attended Fort Hunt High School in Alexandria, Virginia, a prelude to her acceptance to the Naval Academy a couple of years later, and I was working in the heart of top naval aviation management. I had an idea of how the Navy did business in the place often referred to as the “Puzzle Palace,” but I gained new insights in a hurry, particularly because I was dealing with large sums of money, for example, $800 million alone for the flight-hour program.
I became well steeped in what was called PPBS—the Planning, Programming, and Budgeting System. I won’t go into cumbersome detail here, but I will mention I was involved in finding money to support development of the F-14 at a time when that new fighter’s accident rate was uncomfortably high, especially with the occurrence of in-flight fires; VAST (the Versatile Avionics Systems Test); the transfer from Litchfield Park, Arizona, of “boneyard” aircraft—older aircraft wrapped mummy-like in anticorrosion material and parked securely in the desert air for potential use in the future; and introduction of the antisubmarine aircraft, the S-3 Viking. My plate was more than full, but I enjoyed the challenges despite the never-ending frustrations entailed in Pentagon duty. Working on problems with fellow officers dedicated to making things better for our aviators in the fleet was thankless work and rewarding only in the self-satisfaction we derived from programs that worked out well for naval aviation.
After two years as OP-51, I was moved up the chain to the post of assistant deputy CNO, OP-05B, in essence, the number two job in the air warfare organization. I worked closely with Vice Admiral Fred “Fox” Turner, who had relieved Vice Admiral Pete Peterson, a renowned test pilot, who had relieved Houser. But Peterson’s tour was abbreviated, because he was reassigned as commander
Naval Air Systems Command.
I greatly admired Fox Turner, as I had admired Bill Houser. When an issue came up, I’d lay it out before Bill or Fox, with recommendations, and, inevitably, with a request for money to carry out one program or another. They always backed me. This was especially significant, because these were leans years for the Department of Defense, in terms of funding.
I was involved in a study of aircraft carriers. There were some in the Jimmy Carter administration who advocated a reduction in the aircraft carrier force levels to eight. Others sought carriers of reduced size, an argument that continues today but that is usually set aside because the logic of using the big carrier wins the debate. We struggled against the option for eight carriers for obvious reasons, and Desert Storm and Operations Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom have certainly proved the value not only of the big carrier concept but also of the numbers of carriers—twelve minimum, three more desirable—as the way to go. There was also a movement to acquire VSTOL—vertical, short takeoff and landing aircraft—but because of funding shortfalls, that program did not continue. Happily, today VSTOL is manifested in the Marine Corps’ V-22 Osprey, a program with a troubled beginning but one that is doing especially well as this is being written.
I was in the Pentagon for three years, felt confident I knew how things got done, or undone, there, and learned much about dealing with Congress. I briefed various committees “on the Hill,” primarily on subjects in the maintenance, logistics, and airspace-control areas. I learned the importance of lateral communications in the huge bureaucracies of the Defense Department and Congress.
Laboring with a cadre of naval officers and dedicated civil servants toward the singular goal of trying to sustain naval aviation as a key element in our nation’s defense was a reward unto itself. The complexity of the duty was exhausting. Twelve-hour working days were the norm, not the exception, but mine was an enlightening and most satisfying tour of duty.
The major lesson I learned during that time was that the military, Congress, and the administration must work together as a cohesive team in order for our country to have an effective defense posture. This is a key factor in a strong democracy encountering today’s dangerous world.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ON TO ANNAPOLIS
“You’re too early,” she answered, “you’re supposed to arrive two minutes before 1100 and be seated before the procession of the choir at the beginning of chapel. The choir’s not ready, the chapel’s not ready. Please just go walk around the yard and come back.”
I HAD SERIOUS THOUGHTS about where I would go after the OP-05 tour. In my heart I wanted to command a carrier group, but not having captained an aircraft carrier, this was unlikely. It was the spring of 1978, and Adm. Tom Hayward, a friend from test-flying days and a fellow astronaut aspirant at Patuxent in the 1950s, was CNO. Rear Adm. Kinnard ‘Kin’ McKee, a nuclear submarine officer, superintendent of the Naval Academy and a classmate of mine at Annapolis, had just been awarded his third star and was to remain at the school for a third year. At the time, superintendents were two-star rear admirals.
At a social event on the CNO’s barge during a “cruise” on the Anacostia River in Washington, D.C., Admiral Hayward pulled me aside. “Look,” he said, “I very much want to promote you to three stars, but I don’t have the available billets for that right now. However, I plan to send you over to Annapolis to become superintendent of the Naval Academy.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, stunned and excited all at once over the prospect. I had not coveted this position, nor even thought about it, but I knew I would love it. But McKee was supposed to stay another year.
Meanwhile, Adm. Jim Watkins, a nuclear trained officer, was chief of the Bureau of Naval Personnel and lobbied vigorously to have an officer from the nuclear power community—a “nuke”—get the job at the Academy. He felt it would enhance the nuclear power program by attracting graduates into the field.
It turned out that Admiral Hayward didn’t want McKee, a newly crowned vice admiral to stay at the Academy. “I need a three-star officer in the fleet more than I need one heading the Naval Academy,” he said.
The conflict over the assignment was elevated to the secretary of the Navy, Graham Claytor, who was vehemently opposed to a nuclear-trained officer taking the helm at Annapolis. “I refuse to do it,” he told Hayward. He feared this would increase the influence of Adm. Hyman Rickover, the literal founder of the nuclear Navy and a powerful figure among the hierarchy of the Navy. Claytor had the last say, and that left a gap for me, into which I was happily inserted. McKee was ordered to command the Third Fleet, and Diane and I prepared to move into quarters at my alma mater.
The year before I became superintendent, women entered the Naval Academy for the first time in history. I shared the concerns of many as to whether this integration was going to work. It was clear that many in the senior leadership of the military were opposed to women attending the service academies. Even McKee spoke out against it, but after a time, he became an advocate for it. My wife, Diane, was very supportive of women in the military, while Wendy’s grandfather, Anne’s father, was vehemently against it, although he, too, changed once Wendy started school at Annapolis. Then he favored the integration.
One thing was certain. Wendy absolutely loved being a midshipman and from day one ate it up. She even thought her plebe year was a wonderful experience, which surprised me, because that first year at the Academy is not exactly a fun-and-games endeavor.
I met her at National Airport, now Reagan National Airport, on a commercial flight when she returned from England following a summer training deployment. She was aglow with excitement from the deployment. After she unwound a bit, I said, “I have something to tell you. I’m going to be superintendent of the Naval Academy.” Her joyful expression was transformed to one of dismay.
“Oh, no,” she said. “That’s going to make things very difficult for me.”
I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised at her reaction. She thought my being there was going to draw unusual attention to herself, and she didn’t like that one bit. We talked about it, and I assured her she would not get any special treatment from me, and she didn’t. She handled the situation very well. And for my part, I avoided any notion that I was more available to Wendy than to any other midshipman.
My first Sunday as superintendent was memorable. Wendy was assigned as head usher, and Diane and I walked to the chapel next door to the superintendent’s residence. We arrived twenty minutes before the service was to begin at 1100. We were rather tired from the move and just wanted to sit and enjoy the organ music and the beauty of the chapel. I was in my dress blues, and as we started up the stone steps of the chapel, we saw Wendy at the door in her blues and white gloves.
“Stop,” she said, “you can’t come in.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, a bit impatiently.
“You’re too early,” she answered, “you’re supposed to arrive two minutes before 1100 and be seated before the procession of the choir at the beginning of chapel. The choir’s not ready, the chapel’s not ready. Please just go walk around the yard and come back.”
The midshipmen functioning as ushers with Wendy didn’t realize she was talking to her father and just about had apoplexy.
“Well, OK,” I said reluctantly. Diane and I went on a delaying stroll and returned at the two-minute point as instructed. We were escorted down the center aisle and took our seats in the superintendent’s pew, designated by small brass plaques honoring every superintendent from the beginning of the school in 1845. A few minutes later, I noticed a lady midshipman in blue uniform ducking under the railing that blocks the superintendent’s section from the remainder of the pew. It was Wendy. She slid along the pew, moved next to Diane, and whispered in her ear for a moment. It appeared to me that Diane had asked her a question and Wendy withdrew to get an answer from another usher at the rear of the chapel. Wendy returned a couple of minutes later and said somethi
ng to Diane, whereupon I said, “What’s going on here?” This whispering was agitating to me.
Apparently the issue had to do with our egress from the chapel at the conclusion of the service. Wendy explained that two ushers would come to the end of our pew at the center aisle and lead Diane and me to the rear of the chapel, where we could offer greetings to the chaplain. Seemed like a lot of confusion over nothing to me. We returned to our quarters and had hardly entered the house when Wendy came in. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “You’ve been here a week and no one’s briefed you on how to act in the chapel.”
My back was up, as I said, “Wendy get this straight. Please tell the chaplain and anybody else that this superintendent is going to arrive at the chapel when he darn well pleases. Furthermore, I’m not going to lead processions up and down the aisle. You pass that on, OK?”
Consequently, that was the one and only Sunday during my tour at Annapolis that I led processions at the Naval Academy chapel. The incident is resurrected, with humor, at family gatherings.
About three months into my new assignment I started receiving fragmentary reports from the Naval Investigative Service (NIS) and other sources that some midshipmen were using drugs. At around this time, 48 percent of Navy enlisted men, primarily pay grade E-4 and below admitted on a confidential Department of Defense survey form that they used drugs in one form or another. If we had a problem with midshipmen using drugs, it certainly figured that young petty officers in the fleet likely were abusing them as well. We had no antidrug program at the time, and it would seem the type of individual who qualifies for the Academy would be disinclined to take drugs. So I encouraged NIS to dig further into the issue. A few months later, as the 1979 graduation week neared, it was reported to me that eighteen first classmen were suspected of being involved with drugs. I was suddenly confronted with a dilemma. Should the eighteen be withheld from the ceremony? I believed they should, but at the same time I ordered an Article 32 investigation.
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