Journey

by Norty Schwartz

  I’ve never been a believer in either saying or doing something in the interest of political correctness, and I’m not about to do that now. When I first sat down to contemplate how I wanted to approach this book, I asked myself what I could do in order to impart the greatest value to the readers. The word that kept reoccurring was candor. As a young lieutenant colonel at the National War College I prepared a paper on how the armed forces as an institution has not been very good in holding ourselves accountable and policing ourselves. I named names (often of superior officers) without regard for the fallout or potential detriment to my career. I did what I thought was necessary to stimulate debate and effectuate change. That same directness will be evident throughout these pages, and that includes personal disclosures that might not present me in the most favorable light. For starters, I’ve never disclosed how I grew up without a family to speak of and how this affected the choices I made. But I will do so now, in hopes that such openness will shed light into who I am and hit home with many readers who are struggling to transcend dysfunctional family issues of their own.

  I’m often asked whether I always had my sights set on Chief, and if so, what kind of master plan I used to realize this goal. While there is certainly a prescribed order of ascension in the aviation specialty, I think serendipity played as much a part of my success as anything else. Yet that serendipity allowed me to deviate from the norm and become an outsider who could chart his own course. This wasn’t by design, but it’s how it played out. Despite having proficiency, it’s very difficult to be noticed if you continue to swim with the rest of the pack. In many ways, I was better accepted by the Army than I was by the Air Force because my credentials as a trusted special operator were recognized and appreciated by people of reputation in the Army. I was a known commodity by much of the Army leadership, but it sent up red flares in the minds of many Air Force peers and seniors.

  My service in our Air Force was profoundly influenced by my five tours in the special operations community. We worked hard to develop the tactics, techniques, and intelligence capacities to be able to execute a Desert One–like mission successfully. It took thirty years to create the world’s finest special operations capability—one that could actually take down bin Laden despite significant, unanticipated challenges. They were well trained enough, well equipped enough, and sufficiently resilient enough to adapt. How we got to that place is a phenomenal story of the evolution of U.S. special operations. I was part of that journey, and it serves as the backdrop for this book. Had I not experienced the intensity of the special operations mission, associated with an assortment of remarkable joint teammates, and earned a reputation as being a “SOF warrior,” I would never have had the opportunity to lead in our Air Force.

  Chapter One

  WE DON’T CHEW GUM ON HOT MIC

  JUNE 1965–DECEMBER 1977

  June of 1965 was blistering hot in my home town of Toms River, New Jersey, yet long stretches of Old Freehold Road looked like they were covered with snow. With a temperature of ninety-three degrees, of course it wasn’t snow. It was chicken feathers. Even at age fourteen, I saw those chicken feathers as a tremendous opportunity.

  By the mid-1950s New Jersey had become the top egg-producing state in the country, with over twelve thousand family-owned egg farms producing more than 485 million eggs a year. Jewish immigrants from Russia, Poland, Germany, and elsewhere in Europe were able to escape anti-Semitism in their own towns and start a new life in America by building chicken farms. A $2,000 loan would finance five acres of land, a house, chicken coops, and enough chickens to turn a profit. Between the low cost of land and the nearby markets of Philadelphia and New York, many settled in the southeastern New Jersey town of Toms River.

  School was out for the summer, and a new Stuart Whitman movie was about to open at the Community Theater, just a few blocks from my house. Saturday matinees had just been bumped to thirty-five cents—sodas another dime—but I sure did want to see that film. We were not a wealthy family, so the only way that I could see it was if somehow I could make the money myself.

  I was confident that I’d find someone to hire me in a door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood, but I’d have to make a great first impression. I donned my nicest dress shirt and a fresh pair of cotton slacks—the ones usually reserved for the Sunday school classes I’d attended since first grade—and I hiked from farm to farm in search of work. The Robinsons, Spielers, Epsteins, Rosses, Zwickels—all very polite, but none in need of help. “You be sure to tell your dad hello for us,” they would say as I thanked them and turned away. Dad was highly respected in the Jewish community, a founding member of our synagogue and its third president. He was later president of the United Synagogues of America. They all knew Si Schwartz, and he was never shy about letting you know it.

  I’d been at it all day (completely forgetting to break for lunch), and dinnertime was rapidly approaching. Showing up late for dinner—or late for anything at my house—was not an option, regardless of the veracity of the excuse. I knocked on the front door of the Rosenkrantz farmhouse, my throbbing feet threatening to pop the laces of my stiff dress oxfords. Job or no job, this would be my last house of the day. I knocked harder, then turned to leave. I was halfway down the gravel driveway when a heavily accented voice emanated from inside the garage. “Over here,” called Mr. Rosenkrantz.

  I headed toward the garage and approached the short, balding man hunched over his workbench. A wisp of thick gray smoke curled up from the pipe extending from the corner of his mouth. “Damn transistor,” he muttered. Then he slammed the red paperback-sized radio into the sheet of Masonite that comprised the work surface, prompting the voice of Phil Rizzuto to blare from the tiny speaker. “Did you see that? Unbelievable!” bellowed the Yankee sportscaster.

  “Sir, my name is Norty Schwartz, and I need a job,” I said, for what seemed like the fiftieth time that day. Without answering, he took a deep puff, reached into a lime-green refrigerator perched adjacent to the workbench, and withdrew four eggs. He handed them to me.

  “Now put them in order,” he said, just as serious as if he’d instructed me to defuse a bomb. I wondered if this was some kind of joke, but I did as he asked—carefully laying them out, smallest to largest.

  “Be here at six tomorrow morning,” he said with a nod, concluding the strangest job interview I’ve ever had in my life. I had just been hired as an “egg sorter.” For the next three months, I would make fifteen cents an hour sorting eggs by size: small, medium, large, and jumbo. Maybe it wasn’t the most mentally challenging of careers, but at that moment I felt like I’d been drafted by the Dodgers.

  There’s a certain sense of pride that comes from a successful accomplishment realized by having given it your all. And it’s infectious. The more I felt it, the more driven I became to do more, to be more. I had felt it eighteen months earlier when—shortly after my thirteenth birthday—I stepped up to the bimah and stood before the congregation of my synagogue, looked down at the ornate Hebrew passages handwritten on the Torah scroll before me, and began to chant the same passages that my ancestors had been reciting for thousands of years. That was the first time I’d “flown solo” in front of a large group. Well over a hundred congregants packed the seats of Congregation B’nai Israel, not to mention my friends and family that had joined to help celebrate my bar mitzvah—the traditional Jewish coming-of-age ritual—after which I would be considered an adult according to Jewish law. From that point forward I would be responsible for my own actions and held accountable for my own ethical and moral obligations.

  Some older friends had confided in me how terrified they were standing up there, a few to the point of completely blanking out—the boxy abjad symbols totally unrecognizable to them. But I had this. I had studied hard for over three years and I knew my stuff. I lifted a few strands of tzitzit (knotted fringe) dangling from the four corners of my tallis (prayer shawl), kissed them, then touched them to the passage I was about to read. “Bar’ch
u es Adonai …” I began to chant, in a voice that was still changing. Preparation begets confidence. I knew it then, and I knew it twenty years later when I would proudly represent our country in Pentagon briefings broadcast live to worldwide audiences in the tens of millions.

  While I might not have felt like an adult when the ceremony was completed, I did hold my head a little higher and I felt great about myself, and that was exactly how I felt when I ran home to tell Dad the great news about my new job at the Rosenkrantz farm.

  I grew up without a mother at home, and my only female role models growing up were June Cleaver, Harriet Nelson, and a stern yet kind German martinet named Erna Melde. Between the long hours Dad put in at Charney’s—his small office supply store—and the longer hours he spent on his philanthropic causes and synagogue business, he was seldom at home. It was really Erna who raised my older brother Joel and me. Erna cooked for us, she taught us how to tie our shoelaces, how to dress, how to keep our rooms, and how to behave at the table. She was organized and disciplined, and she expected us to act accordingly. In most cases, we did.

  It was a good summer, representative of my formative years growing up in Toms River. In addition to sorting eggs, I mowed lawns, raked leaves, and pitched in to help Dad as a stock clerk at Charney’s. If you ever need advice on which ribbon to choose for your Royal Aristocrat manual typewriter, I’m your go-to guy. (A standard half-inch black/red on a two-inch spool will fit the bill.) Working hard became the norm from as early as I can remember, but you’re not going to hear me complain about it. I have always loved the sense of accomplishment that accompanies the broken sweat of a job well done. A solid work ethic ranks high on the list of my most cherished takeaways from Toms River.

  I also got to see that new movie, Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines. No wonder I had wanted to see it so badly. From an early age I was enamored with anything having to do with flying. I was glued to the TV when John Glenn became the first American to be launched into orbit, and every bit as fascinated with the first Gemini flight in March of 1965. Like almost every kid growing up during that time, I secretly fantasized about someday becoming an astronaut. Lakehurst Naval Air Station was only ten miles away and Dad would take us to the air shows there. Lakehurst was the center of early airship development for the United States. It housed many blimps before, during, and after World War II, but its biggest claim to fame took place on May 6, 1937, when thirty-six people died as the German airship Hindenburg burst into flames as it attempted to dock with its mooring mast.

  I’ve always enjoyed sports, even though I consider myself to be a very average athlete. I’m not big, not fast, and my natural ability is average. Fortunately none of that mattered in the backyard of 42 Park Street, where Joel and I would hone our skills in impromptu games of wiffle ball—just the two of us, with that long, thin plastic bat—and my, how I could curve those pitches with the oblong holes cut out of that lightweight plastic wiffle ball.

  I had always been a Dodger fan, but never more than that year. The Dodgers made it all the way to the World Series, and my idol—Sandy Koufax—was slated to pitch the opening game. But he had a problem. The game fell on October 6, which just happened to be the Jewish high holiday of Yom Kippur, a day on which Jews are forbidden to work. Koufax was not a particularly observant Jew, yet there was never a question in his mind that he would stick to his convictions and refrain from even attending the game, let alone pitching in it. The Dodgers lost that game, but they battled back to clinch the Series with Koufax taking the mound in three of the remaining six games, pitching a shutout in the deciding game seven, and being named the Series MVP. Many don’t remember that it was Twins who lost that Series, far less that it went seven games. But very few baseball fans are unaware of the story of how Sandy Koufax refused to pitch on Yom Kippur. My idol made an indelible impression on fourteen-year-old me about holding true to one’s convictions, and about doing what’s right.

  A few years later, I became president of our local chapter of United Synagogue Youth, a Jewish organization committed to learning, community service, and social interaction. While I am far from observant these days, I have no doubt that my value set and moral compass were deeply ingrained within me by my years of Sunday school study and active participation in USY. Jewish tradition teaches us to live our lives in keeping with a concept called derech eretz. It’s so central to our foundation that it precedes the Torah. It’s a roadmap that charts our path toward behaviors that are righteous and just. In a broad sense it’s as simple as the Golden Rule, and it certainly transcends any particular organized religion. I think this had a lot to do with my decision to join the military, an institution that encourages its members to serve others selflessly and gives them a sense of community, purpose, and belonging to something larger than themselves. I needed this, and I believe it’s central to why I felt so comfortable with the military culture from day one.

  I played a little baseball in high school, but far more significant was my time on the Toms River football team. Believe me, this had nothing to do with my great talent—in fact, far more of my game time was spent warming the bench than it was on the field. But it didn’t matter—I was still a Toms River Indian and I would give it 500 percent. I fought hard to get there (another battle with Dad, who felt that tackle football was too dangerous for me), and I savored every minute. Coach Ron Signorino had considerable influence over all of us in ways that weren’t immediately obvious or in ways that really related to playing football. He drummed in the importance of discipline and preparation, and he wasn’t just referring to football. He had standards he believed in—character building and so forth. He was an important influence in my early days, as are coaches in many sports for kids. He was my primary mentor in high school and played an important role in my becoming the man I am today.

  I couldn’t wait for Saturday late mornings. We would start with a bit of gamesmanship, waiting in our locker room until well after the visiting team was out on the field, then we would race out and wend our way through their stretches and warmup drills. Our mascot was a senior dressed as an Indian. Just before the game was about to begin, he would charge onto the field riding a horse and brandishing a spear, then head for the opposing team’s bench and hurl the spear into the ground in front of them. The crowd would explode and it was game on!

  1968 was a memorable year for the Toms River Indians, in no small part due to coach and mentor Ron Signorino. Schwartz personal collection

  Coach Signorino positioned me as what he called “monster”—an outside linebacker, essentially. On one occasion during a pre-season game against Rancocas Valley High School, I attempted to tackle their oversized running back, and I bounced off him like a maroon-and-white pinball hitting a turbo bumper. It was Franco Harris, the number-one draft pick for the Pittsburgh Steelers, who would go on to become a Hall of Fame superstar that The Sporting News would list as number 83 of the 100 Greatest Football Players. (Coincidentally, my jersey number was 83 for the Indians—but that was the extent of the similarity.) “Nice hit,” he told me after the play.

  1968 was an outstanding year for the team. We went 9–0 and won the Shore Conference Class A title that year, with quarterbacks Drew Altans and Rip Scherer taking the snaps. Rip went on to coach for the Carolina Panthers and Cleveland Browns, and he’s now the assistant athletic director for football at UCLA.

  My question was what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Joel was already in college at Columbia University, so I had to either get a scholarship or go to work for two years, which we had planned to do. I met with my high school guidance counselor for some advice.

  “Norty, have you considered Annapolis?” he asked, fully aware of my love for aviation. “Perhaps you can fly for the Navy, and it’s a full scholarship.” This was long before Tom Cruise became a Top Gun for the Navy, so it really wasn’t something I had thought about. But I sure liked the thought of earning my flight wings. “For any of the service academies, besides the
actual application you have to be nominated for the appointment,” he continued. “This can be by your congressman, senator, the vice president, or even the president. But I have to tell you that it’s very, very competitive, and the number of requests far outnumber the available slots—so let’s talk about how we can make this happen for you, Norty.”

  I left his office and kicked into high gear, ultimately scoring an appointment with Congressman William Cahill. But just as when I went door-to-door in search of employment as a young teen, I knew that I would have to impress the elder politician, who was serving his sixth term in Congress and running for governor of New Jersey (an election that he would win just a few months later).

  It was always somewhat awkward when I asked my dad for anything, and this time was no different. He was thrilled with my decision to apply to Annapolis, but to ask him to pay $99 for a kid’s suit was pushing it—serious money in those days. It was late evening when I approached his Barcalounger and showed him the newspaper ad I had cut out. “Dad, we’re talking about my entire future here, and this suit will really, really make a difference in that interview.” He studied that ad like his life depended on it, then shocked the hell out of me.

  “Norty, I couldn’t agree with you more. Meet me there at noon tomorrow and let’s have them fit you up. Wouldn’t want you to meet the congressman with a baggy vest, now, would we?” I don’t know whether that suit made any difference with Congressman Cahill’s decision, but it sure made me feel good during the interview. The congressman seemed particularly impressed that I played ball for Ron Signorino, which says a lot more about the coach’s esteemed reputation than it does about me.