“Of course not,” I responded. “Ohio will arrive in broad daylight for all to see, and we’re going to announce its arrival in advance.” The reporter was openly surprised at my reply. “For one thing,” I continued, “there are families of the crew and many other friends and supporters who will be on the pier to greet their loved ones. For another, we would never consider bringing the submarine submerged through Puget Sound.”
“What about the dissenters?” asked the reporter?
“We’ll respect the dissenters,” I said. “We’ll do our best in the interests of public safety to accommodate them, but we’ll have Coast Guard vessels in the area to remove boat-borne protestors who might impede Ohio on the way in.”
In an even voice, I went on, “I respect the right of people to protest. That’s fundamental to democracy. I served in two wars and spent six years as a POW preserving the freedom of speech in this country. I’m not going to be the one who advocates restricting the dissent of protesters.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect in the newspaper the next day, but when it came out, I was relieved and pleased. There was a strong editorial praising me. The reporter had written, “Finally, we have a military officer who is open minded. One who is not trying to conceal things and one who respects those who are exercising their right to protest.”
In the end, Greenpeace was there, but their armada consisted of just a few people and several row boats, which the Coast Guard easily prevented from getting in the Ohio’s way.
Of more concern was a Soviet Trawler that loitered off shore and tracked the submarine when the Ohio went to sea for exercises. The Russians dispersed an unknown type of sonobuoy, which prompted me to order minesweepers into the area. We found nothing, although one of the sonobuoys washed ashore and was discovered a few days after the Ohio was well out to sea. We didn’t learn much from it, but there was a sense at the time that we were dealing with some highly classified activities, and we didn’t take them lightly.
The trawler and the submarine played a kind of tag as they worked their way north toward the Aleutians. The Russians were obviously anxious to learn everything they could about the Trident sub, and we were anxious to counter their probes. This went on for many days, but in the end neither got the best of the other.
Back in warmer climes, we had an unexpected clash with a small and mostly Hawaiian sect called the Ohana. They believed religious artifacts were on Kahoolawe and issued a series of protests against our use of part of the island as a bombing range. We gave the Ohana escorted tours of the island, so they could seek out the artifacts without crossing into the bombing area. But they never seemed satisfied. When they demonstrated in front of the main gate at Ford Island at the outset of the RIMPAC exercise, I finally decided we had to get some closure on this problem.
I summoned the public affairs staff, and we discussed what action we could take. It turned out the editor of the Honolulu Star Bulletin had been a World War II naval officer, and he was amenable to a question-and-answer type interview focusing on the Ohana problem.
I’m sure it angered the Ohana, because our exchange was forthright and honest. I explained that for safety purposes we had to escort the Ohanas when they were on the island. We wouldn’t impede their desire to continue seeking artifacts—as long as we escorted them when a couple of times a month they arrived from the main island of Maui, which was only six miles away.
As luck would have it, their protests grew less and less frequent to the point that the Ohana were no longer a negative issue. This probably resulted more from the small size of their organization and their lack of support from a larger segment of the Hawaiian population than from our interview in the Honolulu Star Bulletin.
Then there was the problem with the goats. When Capt. James Cook, the British explorer, traveled the Pacific, he placed goats on the various islands along his journey. Reason: to provide a source of meat during return visits to the islands. Goats are not popular in Hawaii, because they eat plants and shrubbery, causing severe erosion of the soil. Indeed, there was a sizeable goat population on Kahoolawe, which had decimated the foliage, and there was pressure to reduce the goat population on the island.
This brought joy to the Marines in our command, many of whom volunteered for goat duty on Kahoolawe. Equipped with their rifles, they were sent to the island to shoot the helpless goats. Since there no inhabitants on the island to use the goat meat, the carcasses were left.
I thought, here in Hawaii we’re getting criticized because we’re not killing the goats fast enough, while on San Clement Island, another training range off the California coast, we were taken to task because we weren’t sufficiently sustaining the goats there. In fact, it cost the Navy a couple of million dollars to remove the goats from San Clemente and place them in sanctuaries elsewhere.
Conclusion: special interest groups could tie us in knots.
“Don’t worry, Admiral,” Lt. Cdr. Moe Gibbs, who headed our meteorology department, told me one day in November 1982, “there hasn’t been a typhoon is history in this part of the Pacific that, when it was on a northeast track, didn’t turn to the northwest once past the 19 degree parallel. “There is very little chance it will come to Oahu.”
I wanted to believe him. Nobody likes messing with a typhoon. But something in the back of my mind told me to be cautious with this one. I remembered my history and Adm. William F. Halsey’s dilemma when the Third Fleet, under his command, got caught in a typhoon in 1944 that cost the lives of 790 people and three ships. On December 17, 1944, the ships of Task Force 38, seven fleet and six light carriers, eight battleships, fifteen cruisers, and about fifty destroyers were operating about three hundred miles east of Luzon in the Philippine Sea. The carriers had just completed three days of heavy raids against Japanese airfields, suppressing enemy aircraft during the American amphibious operations against Mindoro in the Philippines.
Although the sea had been becoming rougher all day, the nearby cyclonic disturbance gave relatively little warning of its approach. On December 18th, the small but violent typhoon overtook the task force while many of the ships were attempting to refuel. Many of the ships were caught near the center of the storm and buffeted by extreme seas and hurricane-force winds. Three destroyers, USS Hull, USS Spence, and USS Monaghan, capsized and went down with practically all hands, while a cruiser, five aircraft carriers, and three destroyers suffered serious damage.
Approximately 740 officers and men were lost or killed, with another 80 injured. Fires occurred on three carriers when planes broke loose in their hangars, and some 146 planes on various ships were lost or damaged beyond economical repair by fires, by impact damage, or by being swept overboard. This storm inflicted more damage on the Navy than any storm since the hurricane at Apia, Samoa, in 1889. In the aftermath of this deadly storm, the Pacific Fleet established new weather stations in the Caroline Islands and, as they were secured, Manila, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa. In addition, new weather central offices (for coordinating data) were established at Guam and Leyte.
We began a succession of meetings to track the progress of the storm. In each of these, the meteorologist insisted there was nothing to fear. “Don’t worry, Admiral,” he said, “no sweat.”
Finally, at another meeting with the staff as the typhoon kept on coming, I said, “If I order all the ships in Pearl Harbor to sortie and go to sea, it’s going to take twenty-four hours. As you know, only one ship at a time can get through the mouth of the harbor. We would have ships queued up for some time. The aircraft can pull out much quicker. But my concern is the ships and the submarines.”
I paused and let this sink in.
“Therefore,” I said, “sortie the ships.”
One officer said, “Admiral, you don’t have to do that. The typhoon will turn away. It always has. Think of the impact on morale if we sortie the ships. For one thing you’re going to have to recall people from liberty, and that won’t set well.”
I suppose it was kind of an inexplicable s
ixth sense, but in my heart and mind I had a notion this typhoon was going to be different, and nothing was going to change my mind.
“Sortie the ships,” I ordered with a bit of a bite in my voice. “That’s my decision.”
The staff was not happy, and there followed a collective, though unenthusiastic, “Aye, aye, Sir.” We sortied the ships.
As it turned out, the last ship passing the mouth of Pearl Harbor to escape the storm was the USS Goldsborough (DDG-20). It was struck by a huge freak wave driven by the increasing force of the winds—prelude to the oncoming typhoon—and an officer on the bridge was slammed against a bulkhead and severely injured.
The typhoon roared directly over Pearl Harbor, tore off the roofs from buildings at Schofield Barracks, and battered downtown Honolulu. One hundred knot winds pulled huge trees from the ground throughout the area, and many houses on Ford Island were damaged. But all of our ships and aircraft were able to evade the devastating winds and turbulent seas, and none suffered any damage.
Tragically, the officer injured on the Goldsborough perished, even though a courageous helicopter crew and a very brave young doctor hurried out to the ship to help. The doctor, Lt. (later Capt.) John Wilkens, was lowered by cable to the ship in the increasingly strong winds and did his best to save the officer’s life. I felt guilty about this tragedy. Had we sortied twelve hours earlier, the winds wouldn’t have been that strong and the Goldsborough wouldn’t have experienced that enormous wave.
At a subsequent staff meeting, there were sheepish expressions on the faces of the people. One of them asked, “Do you have some special powers we don’t know about, Admiral?”
“I wish I did have,” I responded, “but I don’t. Frankly, I’d rather face the consequences of being wrong and sending the ships away unnecessarily than play it close to the chest and leave it to chance in a situation like this.” Perhaps I should have proclaimed the importance of knowing history—meaning the Halsey episode—but I didn’t feel it right to get into that.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BUPERS
Basically, on a day-to-day basis, we maintained a “slate” depicting jobs that were coming open, who was appropriate and available to fill them, who was retiring, who had been promoted, and so forth. It was a relentlessly active and often complex operation.
I WAS CAUGHT COMPLETELY OFF GUARD when I was ordered to command the Bureau of Naval Personnel in Washington. I had no prior service in the bureau, not that this was a criteria for the assignment, but it would be like entering a new world for me. I had developed a reputation as a people-oriented officer, but that did not necessarily translate to qualification for the top job in the Navy dealing directly with those issues that affect personal lives. Nevertheless, Adm. Jim Watkins, with the concurrence of Sec. John Lehman, selected me for the job.
We moved back to Washington and to quarters located on Nebraska Avenue, directly across from American University. My office was in the Arlington Annex up a hill from the Pentagon, a distance of several long forward passes, and adjacent to the southeastern edge of Arlington National Cemetery.
I don’t know any person, officer, enlisted, or civilian, who isn’t concerned about what kind of a job he or she is assigned, where they are to be geographically stationed, or what their chances for promotion are. In retrospect, I had good luck with each set of orders I had received over the years. Yet, I had talked to my detailer in the BUPERS only one time. I believed it important that every young officer in the Navy hold no inhibition about getting on the phone and communicating with his detailer. So, we set procedures in motion to do this.
Obviously, I was putting a load on BUPERS personnel. The detailers already were on the phone a lot. This would increase their burden of work, to be sure, but I tried to instill in our people the notion that it was an integral part of their duties to talk personally to officers, especially the younger ones.
My staff and I had barnstormed this concept. I was ably assisted in this critical endeavor by Captain Mike Boorda, my executive assistant. Boorda had been an enlisted man and ultimately became the first individual to rise from seaman all the way up through the ranks to the top office in the Navy as chief of naval operations. He had previous experience in the bureau before joining my staff, which was a huge bonus. Mike was smart as a whip, possessed a great deal of common sense, and had wonderful compassion for the troops.
Before World War II, the Navy was divided into a number of bureaus. The Bureau of Navigation, for example, was not only in charge of navigation matters, it also handled personnel issues and was actually the predecessor to the Bureau of Naval Personnel. Other bureaus included aeronautics, ordnance, engineering, construction and repair, supply and accounts, medicine and surgery, and yards and docks. After World War II, they were placed under the control of the CNO and the chief of naval personnel (CNP) with the Naval Academy falling under the CNP.
We decided to call ours a “never say no” policy. We promulgated this to our people and emphasized that when contacted by an individual, the first inclination in any discussion was to say “yes,” meaning we’ll do all we can to satisfy an individual’s preferences for a duty assignment. We wanted everyone to prove to themselves they were totally justified in those cases where you had to say no to a request.
Admittedly, there was a lingering attitude among some detailers to the effect, “Why are you bothering me?” in response to incoming calls. That began to erode over time, fortunately.
Clearly, mine was a very demanding job. One responsibility increased the degree of difficulty dramatically compared to other duties. That was detailing all flag officers below the three-star rank. I worked with the CNO on the detailing of three-star officers but had to personally handle the one and two-stars, which numbered around five hundred individuals. There were laws to abide, so I had to be very familiar with them. Additionally, we had to be sure we understood each of the categories of officers in the restricted line: medical corps, supply corps, and so forth. Obviously, we relied heavily on inputs from the heads of these groups. The chief of the Medical Corps would have significant inputs for flag selection among his or her cadre of personnel. The unrestricted line was composed of the vast bulk of flag officers, and we were responsible for the management of their careers. This was an exceptionally time-consuming task.
Basically, on a day-to-day basis, we maintained a “slate” depicting jobs that were coming open, who was appropriate and available to fill them, who was retiring, who had been promoted, and so forth. It was a relentlessly active and often complex operation.
I met two or three days a week with the vice chief and the CNO to brief them on individuals and offer recommendations.
Unfortunately, our tasks were made more difficult because of the tendency of the secretary of Navy, John Lehman, to intervene not only in the detailing of certain officers but in the promotion process. Lehman, himself a naval flight officer in the reserves, was a forceful individual and a great advocate for naval aviation who became the head of the naval service in early 1981. Adm. Tom Hayward was CNO at the time, and the relationship between the two men was contentious. They hardly spoke to each other. Their respective executive assistants handled most of the communications between these two top offices. Hayward’s successor was Adm. James D. Watkins, who took over in June 1982.
One of my responsibilities was running the promotion boards, which are composed of carefully selected individuals, led by a senior officer, designated the president of the board, who reviewed the records of candidates eligible for promotion and voted on which individuals would be advanced in rank. During the first flag board during my tour as CNP, it became apparent to me that the president of the board had received direction from Lehman to select Lehman’s executive assistant for promotion to flag rank. This individual was a very bright officer with an outstanding record but had only been in the Navy nineteen years and been a captain for a comparatively brief period of time. I believed that others in line for promotion had more experienc
e and were better qualified. The executive assistant was promoted.
In subsequent boards it became apparent that the secretary had his druthers. For example, if a board did not select enough naval flight officers, there was fear that the president of the board might be dressed down by Lehman or that the secretary might order the board back in session to reconsider the selections.
In one case the results of a board convened to select officers for promotion to the rank of captain did not please the secretary. However, the rear admiral who was the president of that board stood fast, and a testy situation developed that got the attention of the Senate Armed Services Committee.
I believed the secretary’s actions were in violation of at least the spirit of the law. I talked to Admiral Watkins about this problem. He was very sympathetic to my feelings about this matter, but he was in a tough position. He believed we had to try do what we could to get along with the secretary.
Fortunately, Congress eventually passed a law specifically restricting the service secretaries from intervening in the case of promotion board actions. This was obviously prompted, in large part, by the actions of Secretary Lehman.
I attended meetings at the secretary’s office but, in general, my dealings with him took the form of communications relayed from him to me via lower-echelon officers. In other words, I did not have a lot of face-to-face time with John Lehman.
There was one action he took that I thought was inexcusable. It had nothing to do with promotion boards. A press report revealed that ashtrays installed in E-2C Hawkeye aircraft at Naval Air Station Miramar in California cost over one hundred dollars each. Allegedly, someone in the supply department at Miramar reported this on the fraud, waste, and abuse hotline. The secretary became aware of the matter, which got some national attention. He called a press conference and announced that he was relieving the cognizant flag officer at Mirarmar, the commanding officer of the air station, and the supply officer.
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