When Called to Serve: A Family's Struggle over Vietnam

By John Horan-Kates

WHEN CALLED TO SERVE is the story of the visceral tensions of anger and violence set within the complexities of the ’60s Cold War era. A distinguished three-generation military family struggles with the agonizing patriotic, moral, and spiritual dilemmas of the Vietnam War.
The politicians and military leaders claimed it was crucial to honor our commitments around the world, whereas the protesters challenged the “system,” arguing that authority was corrupt and immoral. The narrative exposes the tensions between the principled notions of service, dedication, and loyalty set against the injustices of discrimination, economic inequality, and government secrecy, plus the suppression of human rights. The protagonist, Richard O’Brian, is a navy chaplain who fights to keep his family together with an alternative worldview that acknowledges the situation is an argument without end.
What does one do when called to serve? What is America’s responsibility around the globe? Should we always defend freedom, as President Kennedy said, by “paying any price” or by simply helping other countries help themselves, realizing they must solve their own problems? Tracing the root causes of the Vietnam War, the story posits how the failure to understand the other, how the lack of trust created by deceitful communications affect families as well as organizations—and nations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664125605

John Horan-Kates

John Horan-Kates has more than fifty years of experience in leadership roles in business, government, and nonprofit organizations. He was the founding president of the Vail Valley Foundation in the early ’80s working directly with former president Gerald R. Ford to establish several international events and programs. Later, he founded the Vail Leadership Institute, offering programs for emerging community leaders. In 1994, John was named Vail Valley Citizen of the Year. He earned an undergraduate business degree from Wayne State University in Detroit, was an honors graduate from the U.S. Naval Officer Candidate School, and received the Navy Commendation Medal for service in Vietnam aboard the USS Jennings County. He holds a certificate as a professional leadership coach from the Hudson Institute of Santa Barbara and is a graduate of the Living School at the Center for Action & Contemplation. His most recent book is a memoir titled A Journey toward Surrender.

Book preview

PREFACE

HANOI – MAY 5, 1954

T HE EXPLOSION WAS horrendous and deafening. The blast caused glass and debris to fly everywhere. Plaster walls crumbled. Screams added to the bedlam. Smoke filled the café, making it impossible to see, while the reek of burned cordite was overwhelming. And then a second explosion, this time from across the street. It was chaos, and Richard knew immediately it was the work of Viet Minh terrorists.

Richard was on his back, stunned and bleeding from several places on his right side, but he was alive and reasonably mobile. Many throughout the restaurant weren’t so lucky. Some were lifeless and probably dead. Bodies were strewn about; shredded and bloodstained linen draped many of them. Only a Vietnamese woman and a few others scattered around the room were moving.

The seven-year French-Indochina war was an extension of Asian struggles over the past hundred years. The French were loved by a few but hated by most—they were colonizers and invaders. The fighting had been sporadic, mostly in the remote mountains of Northwest Tonkin. The villages and hamlets that surrounded Hanoi had seen occasional terrorist attacks against French outposts, but it was mostly a guerilla war of hit and run. With the French garrison at Dien Bien Phu under siege, total war was closing in.

The Metropole Hotel embodied everything French. The European architecture, the shuttered windows next to airy balconies, the red-and-white striped umbrellaed tables in the outdoor café, and the posh, chandeliered lobby all spoke of foreign invasion in this tropical Southeast Asian country. It was charming but out of place. It was a sore thumb to the Vietnamese who quietly rode by on their bicycles beneath those conical straw hats. But to the French, the hotel was a reminder of their superiority.

It started as a peaceful evening for a few friends of the French Education Ministry—diplomats, university professors, and government officials. They were celebrating the end of the school year, and even though the fighting raged only a hundred miles away, Hanoi could still display European hospitality and French cuisine. Richard O’Brian, a U.S. Navy lieutenant, had been invited because he was an American advisor to the French colonial government on naval issues in Haiphong Harbor. While he was there to help, he questioned the French cause. Deep down, he sensed the Vietnamese longing for freedom, independence, and that better life the French only promised. Freedom now seemed a long way off.

When his senses returned, Richard’s survival training kicked in. He crawled toward the woman and shouted, We’ve got to get out of here! Barely conscious, she stared back blankly. Most of her left side was severely cut from shards of glass, and her white silk ao dai evening dress was ripped and covered in blood. Her face was also bloodied. We’ve got to get out of here! Can you hear me? Again, the blank stare.

As Richard surveyed the café, the debris was settling, but the screaming from the street continued. He dragged her toward an exit, and they landed in a side alley amid trash and garbage as rats scurried for cover. She was barely able to stand, and Richard knew he needed a rescue plan. She groaned something unintelligible, tried to take a step, and then crumbled to her knees. Where is my husband?

Richard, having seen Jean-Luc’s eyes staring straight ahead, replied with as much compassion as he could muster under the circumstances, I’m afraid he’s dead. She slumped to the ground in a mixture of sobs and moans. He realized he’d end up carrying her—but where? Tell me your name.

Chong, she said faintly. As she tried to move her legs, she winced in pain. The fighting had been in the distance, but now everyone would know the war had just arrived in Hanoi.

When gunfire erupted, followed by another explosion, Richard whispered, We’ve got to go.

PART I

THE DIE IS CAST

1961–1963

CHAPTER 1

CAMP DAVID – MARCH 1961

S EVEN YEARS LATER, Richard O’Brian was appointed assistant chaplain at Camp David. Since this remote retreat was managed by the navy, he was among several hundred officers, sailors, and marines stationed here making it safe and secure for the president. Now a newly minted lieutenant commander, he relished this assignment not only for its introduction to interesting people, but also because it allowed him more time at home in Annapolis, less than an hour away. With three teenage kids and an anxious wife, it was good to be close after two years on and off at sea. The request for his presence that evening from the young commander in chief made him a bit nervous as he wondered what he could add that this Ivy League brainiac hadn’t already considered. Plus, he felt way too junior for this last-minute assignment.

Camp David was a peaceful retreat, a place to get away from the workaday pressures of Washington and an opportunity to enjoy family and close colleagues—and occasionally political rivals. In this Maryland mountaintop forest, a mere ninety miles from the White House, with its crisp air and the fresh presence of fallen pine needles, Camp David offered relaxation to even the most stressed politician. The solitude effectively served to calm tensions and bring everyone’s blood pressure down a notch or two. Richard loved the natural world. He enjoyed to just wander, finding it helpful for all kinds of ailments—physical as well as mental.

The place also had an important legacy where momentous decisions had been thrashed out.

When Japan asserted its influence with troops in Vietnam in early 1941, it was here that Franklin Roosevelt decided to institute an oil embargo against Japan and froze their assets, which would trigger Pearl Harbor. FDR called it his Shangri-La and took time here to wrestle with Winston Churchill on reshaping the global order after World War II. In front of a roaring fire in Aspen Cabin, the two leaders debated the merits of freeing the British and French colonies in Southeast Asia in favor of what FDR called trusteeship, giving those nations some semblance of independence. He argued with passion that the imperialist system was bankrupt and decolonization inevitable. Churchill, long dedicated to the British Empire, would have none of it. He had been an imperialist his whole privileged life.

Harry Truman used Camp David to deliberate the consequences of dropping the atomic bomb when weighed against the loss of American boys who would face desperate Japanese defending their homeland to the death. President Eisenhower struggled at a long weekend getaway with his secretary of state, John Foster Dulles, on how to handle the ineffective and oppressive president of South Vietnam, Ngo Dinh Diem. And while Ike hadn’t selected Diem, he did acquiesce when his advisors resolved that Diem was the only choice to run that beleaguered country. And one of Ike’s biggest mistakes was made here when he and Dulles ignored the notion of endorsing Vietnamese national elections in 1956, fearing the Communist Ho Chi Minh would win. It was the beginning of a long downhill slide for America and a curious refutation of a key democratic tenet.

A quaint cabin called Laurel Lodge tucked away down a narrow walking path light-years from Washington’s traffic and noise was what greeted President Kennedy’s guests, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, his wife Marg, and their daughter Kathleen. A light snowfall created a softness and silence as if they were in a netherworld. It was supposed to be a quiet weekend away, but important decisions hung in the air.

Everyone was standing near the fireplace, which gave off such an enveloping warmth, made even homier with the distinct aroma of crackling pine. Richard was slightly embarrassed being the last to arrive and then a little more on edge as McNamara seemed to size him up. Jackie Kennedy extended her hand in welcome and gave him a warm smile. The president was dressed casually in a black cashmere turtleneck and a tweed sport coat. He appeared very much at ease. After ten minutes of small talk, he motioned the group to the dinner table. Commander, would you offer a blessing on our meal?

Richard seemed like an odd choice as assistant chaplain for a Catholic president. Perhaps the Bureau of Personnel had determined that a former Catholic would be good for Kennedy, or maybe the young president had asked for someone with a different perspective. Or possibly some bright personnel detailer thought their shared World War II experiences would be good chemistry. Richard’s slight build, just under six feet, and wavy blond hair didn’t project much of a warrior image, although his double-breasted navy dress blue uniform did give him that dignified look. He hesitated to admit it, but deep down, he was honored to be of service.

Certainly, sir, Richard responded. Before we sit, can I suggest a somewhat different approach? Let’s all just extend our hands to one another, and unlike our more traditional prayers where we bow our heads and close our eyes, why don’t we simply look across at those here, eyes open, head up, and acknowledge everyone, being thankful for this opportunity and for one another? Glancing slowly around the table in a rather pregnant moment, looking everyone in the eye, Richard continued as if it were an informal talk. Lord, we come before you with humble hearts, in gratitude for this beautiful day, in this spectacular place. We are thankful for each person here tonight, we’re grateful for those who have prepared this meal, and we ask that you guide our words to one another that they might be inspiring and encouraging. In Jesus’s name and all the holy names of God, Amen.

Thank you, Commander, the president commented with a slight smile. Where did you learn to pray like that? It’s a bit more heartfelt than our rote Catholic prayers.

Well, sir, it’s just come to me over many years, but I must say, when my colleagues at Duke overheard this way of praying, they thought I might be headed down some slippery slope. The Duke Divinity School had influenced Richard’s navy career, and his whole life really, in more ways than one. He discovered through fear and failure that he wasn’t called to preach but rather to be a counselor to young sailors. At forty-one, he found himself in the second half of life with fulfilment in his work but, sadly, growing instability at home.

I see from your wings you’re an Airedale, Kennedy observed. What did you fly?

"P-3s, sir, off the Monterey. It was mostly reconnaissance over Japan." Richard didn’t think this was the time or place to recount his Hiroshima experience, but he did feel that reoccurring sense of darkness.

And following the war, where did you serve? Kennedy asked as he concentrated on his meal.

"Another year on the Monterey, then a stint teaching at the academy, followed by two years in Hanoi, then divinity school at Duke, two years abound the Saratoga in and out of Norfolk, and now this most serene of all duty stations."

Interesting. Tell us about your experience in Vietnam. With this, Richard began to feel a bit odd being the focus of conversation directed by the leader of the free world. The table was dignified with presidential china and silver, exquisite flower arrangements, and two sharp Filipino stewards standing by. And yet the intimate cabin setting exuded a serenity that put him somewhat at ease.

Well, it was mostly routine, sir. I was the naval attaché to the French on float plane issues in Haiphong Harbor. I sat in on scores of meetings watching the French argue about how to deal with the Viet Minh and their efforts to impose oppressive taxes, crop quotas, and forced labor. I did survive a bomb attack in Hanoi that exposed me again to the horrors of war, but I left shortly after the rout at Dien Bien Phu. I learned a lot about the French and even more about the Vietnamese. Of course, that was seven years ago, and I’m pretty sure the situation is different now that the French are largely gone.

I understand, but give us your sense of the historical perspective there. Both Bob and I need to hear unvarnished views from time to time, the president requested in an inquiring tone. Richard decided to just give it to them straight.

Well, to be completely candid, I found the French to be arrogant, incompetent, and lazy. Their whole colonial philosophy was self-serving and just plain wrong. They were using the Vietnamese people to advance their little empire and give Paris businessmen easier access to the Chinese market. They were subjugating a people they felt were inferior. The Vietnamese on the other hand seemed to be humble, hard-working and devoted to family. And they were very committed to their country regardless of whether they were Communists or democratic nationalists. I got the feeling that Ho Chi Minh’s rhetoric about freeing Vietnam from foreign rule was heartfelt. Now he was really feeling awkward and decided to study the veal cordon bleu on his plate.

Just mentioning Uncle Ho’s name brought back a flood of what he’d learned about him during his tour in Hanoi. Almost everyone felt Ho was a wise and self-effacing leader. He was diminutive at five feet six inches, and his gentle gaze attracted people. He had studied history and the political forces of democracy as well as Communism for almost forty years. He admired the West for its technology and innovation but saw discrimination and inequity everywhere. And while he appreciated what the French had brought to Vietnam in terms of education and medicine, he loathed the boot of the invader. Ho had observed up close the Soviet version of Communism and had even met with Joseph Stalin before World War II, and he was encouraged by Russia’s support for independence from the capitalist colonizers. But he also sensed Stalin’s ruthless obsession to control the world. The people closest to Ho Chi Minh knew he was really interested in the Vietnamese people, not the larger Communist movement. He simply wanted the right of self-determination.

Don’t overthink it, Commander, McNamara said with a twinge of impatience as he looked across at Mrs. Kennedy, who had been quiet until now.

Did you ever meet Ho Chi Minh while you were there? she asked respectfully.

No, ma’am, I didn’t. What flashed immediately through Richard’s mind was Uncle Ho’s metaphor regarding the struggle for independence. But it was widely known that he had this little saying about the elephant and the tiger. It went something like, ‘If the tiger ever stands still, the elephant will crush him. But the tiger doesn’t stand still. He lurks in the jungle by day and emerges only at night.’ He ends the quip with the ominous threat that ‘the tiger will leap upon the back of the elephant, tearing huge chunks from his hide, and then he will leap back into the dark jungle. And slowly, the elephant will bleed to death.’ I think Uncle Ho knew what he was talking about—the French never understood.

With that, Richard flashed on why Ho Chi Minh chose his preferred moniker that stood for He Who Enlightens. He also recalled a pithy line Uncle Ho had used for years but didn’t dare bring it up with this rarified audience, saying he’d prefer to sniff French shit for five years than eat Chinese shit for the rest of his life. Richard could have relayed more of what he’d observed, but from McNamara’s look of annoyance, he sensed the secretary wanted to move on with his own agenda.

Despite McNamara’s demeanor, Richard decided to mention the relationship that had developed with Quen Ly Chong. Some of my perspective comes from the woman I helped rescue following that bomb attack in Hanoi. During the several day exodus to Saigon, she offered me considerable insight into the Vietnamese mind. Her correspondence over the past few years has described in detail Diem’s increasing oppression. To her, the difference between the Communists and Diem’s regime wasn’t that great. Both were extracting bribes, torturing or even executing people who wouldn’t support their approach. She described Diem’s scheme, which sought to isolate peasants from the Viet Cong by forcing them to leave their homes and their family legacy for a tiny plot of land in a far-off region of the country. She said this was a cruel policy that simply heightened hatred for Diem. To her, leaving their land would dishonor her ancestors.

McNamara dismissed Richard’s assessment by saying, Your first comment is correct. The situation has evolved substantially since the late ’50s. Diem is no saint, but he’s implementing enough democratic reforms to give us the impression he’s moving in the right direction.

With that rebuff, he and the president bantered back and forth, mostly ignoring everyone else at the table. The secretary of defense managed a vast empire, what President Eisenhower had labeled the military-industrial complex. And even though he was new to his job, he seemed to be brimming over with facts and figures about the military situation in virtually every country around the world. He was smart, no doubt, but he had a know-it-all attitude that irked Richard. He didn’t seem to have an emotional bone in his lean body, and his narrow, penetrating eyes behind those cold, rimless glasses made him appear a little draconian. The resemblance of McNamara’s personality to Richard’s father was troubling. Even their facial expressions were similar when trying to win a conversation.

May I offer one other perspective? Richard asked as the table turned its attention his way. There’s a nasty religious dimension playing out there. Diem is persecuting the Buddhists to the point where my friend fears it will boil over into demonstrations and perhaps violence. He has even made flying the Buddhist flag illegal.

The president finally brought closure with It’s a complex world out there with alternative views on every problem, including religious perspectives. I must say that our military people haven’t mentioned much about the Buddhist problem.

When the stewards began to clear the table, Kennedy invited the men into the library for that Anglo tradition of bourbon and cigars. Jackie just looked at her husband with loving eyes and invited Marg and her daughter to the living room. The library’s leather club chairs and that special scent of a wood-paneled room lightened the atmosphere slightly as the drinks were served. Every wall was book-lined with histories and biographies dating back to Teddy Roosevelt. Richard could sense the presence of great men weighing historic decisions. He loved to browse through bookstores and libraries, feeding this curiosity of momentous events, but this collection would be a feast. Reading nourished his soul.

The conversation was dominated by Secretary McNamara, who focused mostly on the various Soviet efforts around the world that included isolating Berlin with a wall, continuing efforts to crush Hungarian unrest, testing thermonuclear bombs in the Arctic Circle, and their startling offer to help build the Volta Dam in Africa. He ended his monologue by saying, Most importantly perhaps is the Soviet influence in Cuba. It seems Khrushchev is moderating their doctrine by eradicating much of Stalin’s image and legacy while at the same time expanding their reach throughout the world. As McNamara spoke, Richard reflected on how the spread of Communism was global and frightening to many Americans.

The discussion then veered back to Southeast Asia by recognizing Moscow’s growing interest in arming Ho Chi Minh’s forces. Kennedy did a lot of nodding but then added, When I visited Vietnam back in 1951, I came away convinced that trying to defeat a guerrilla war struggling for independence was unwinnable. As he looked between Richard and McNamara, he concluded, I told the Senate a couple of years ago that the most powerful force in the world was man’s eternal desire to be free and independent. I still question our role in Vietnam. But we presided at Vietnam’s birth—this is our offspring. We cannot abandon it. We cannot ignore its needs. If it falls victim to Communism, then we will be held responsible, and our prestige will sink to a new low. What do you think, Commander?

I am torn, Mr. President, Richard responded tepidly. On the one hand, the Communists really are bad actors. There’s no doubt. But alternatively, is it our role to police the world? A spiritual perspective might be to ask, how can we best help them help themselves?

Yes, that’s interesting, Commander. At that moment, the women peeked into the library, and Marg McNamara said, It’s time, Bob. Let’s let the president rest that active brain of his.

Jackie Kennedy echoed that sentiment by saying, I agree. I’ll see you in the sack. The look she gave her husband communicated their loving relationship.

I’d like to spend a few more minutes with Commander O’Brian. Then I’ll be in.

When they left, Kennedy said, I wanted to hear a bit more about your experience in Vietnam. What Kennedy didn’t reveal was his deepening skepticism about what he was hearing from his military advisors about the whole Southeast Asian theater. The Joint Chiefs, particularly Gen. Curtis Lemay, head of the air force, were painting a deteriorating situation led by the corrupt Diem that could only be resolved with an aggressive military involvement, including nuclear weapons. Kennedy thought LeMay was a real menace and untrustworthy. He didn’t include McNamara by name in his criticism, but Richard wondered.

You mentioned you’re in communication with people over there. What are you hearing?

I’m only getting letters, Mr. President, but my friend Chong’s description of President Diem’s policies is pretty gruesome. He has executed hundreds of people for simply speaking out against the repression in both Saigon and remote villages throughout the Mekong Delta. Her letters are filled with disturbing descriptions of the brutality of the secret police—beatings, torture, rape. One of her letters mentioned that Diem’s people have reintroduced the French guillotine. That last atrocity got Kennedy’s attention as he shook his head.

How reliable is your friend?

Well, I’d say she’s pretty reliable. I spent several days with her after the French defeat as part of the evacuation from Haiphong. The navy called it Operation Passage to Freedom, helping refugees, mostly worried Catholics, get to Saigon. Over about a five-day period, Chong and I had the opportunity for many heart-to-hearts, and I came to see a very intelligent, humble woman who grasped Vietnam’s long history and agrarian culture. She and her French husband plus their eight-year-old daughter, Linh, lived in Hanoi for ten years before he was killed in that bomb attack I mentioned. Jean-Luc had been a professor at the Pasteur Institute, so they moved in somewhat influential circles. She understood the chaos wrought by the French, the Viet Minh, and those who favored an independent democracy.

As the conversation unfolded, Richard could see the depth of the president’s intelligence and sincerity, and yet he displayed a casual style that was engaging. Here was the leader of the free world talking with a mid-level naval officer like they were best friends.

Then the president shifted gears and asked, So why did you leave flying for the chaplaincy?

Well, it’s kind of a long-winded story with more twists and turns than you might care to hear.

No, the president said, I want to know the people serving here at Camp David. I plan to spend as many weekends here as possible. Jackie and I love it. And it’s the one place I really get to spend some time with my kids. Plus, I get to actually think up here.

With a smile on his face, Richard proceeded to describe his career path as a naval aviator and the joy and exhilaration of flying, not including those periodic wild dreams where he embodied a bald eagle soaring and swooping unimpeded. Those dreams seemed so real.

Interestingly, a transformation of sorts really started in Vietnam when I encountered many Buddhists. I was drawn to their serenity and peacefulness. Just a few conversations caused me to ponder more seriously what real influence I had flying P-3s or being deskbound as a naval advisor. I had always been drawn to military service given my family’s history in the navy but started wondering whether I was really a warrior. My reading of the Vietnamese culture, especially according to Eastern thinking, is that they strive to live a life of simplicity and happiness. In the remote villages I’d seen, the people seemed peaceful, satisfied to work the land as their ancestors had. And they had a wonderful attitude about family.

Compared with the guilt and shame aspects of his Catholic upbringing, Richard felt the Buddhists were on to something. What he didn’t divulge was his attraction to Chong’s gentle beauty, her soft black hair, and her alluring eyes. What he found particularly attractive was the fact that she needed no makeup; her natural beauty was enough. And even though it had been six years since he had seen Chong, her calm presence still lingered. The photo in his wallet helped.

Speaking of family, I’ve been in several meetings recently with your father. It’s Franklin, isn’t it? Kennedy interjected in his easy way.

Yes. He’s really quite proud to be serving as deputy CNO. His father’s career path to number 2 behind the chief of naval operations raced through Richard’s mind. After World War II, Franklin mostly rode desks, but the navy had picked some fantastic places—Rota, Spain; Naples, Italy; Newport, Rhode Island; and San Francisco. Moscow had been cold and dark, but his father found it interesting observing Communism up close. Among all these fascinating places, Franklin’s earlier assignment at the Naval Academy in Annapolis had made an indelible impression when Richard was just a child of seven. Richard loved the place the way a boy loves his first fire engine. All things nautical caught his attention, but there was something about brass that he loved. Was it a feeling of permanence or just the shininess?

He hasn’t said a whole lot in those meetings, so I can’t say I know him yet.

Well, he’s been a big influence in my life, but I must say he still thinks my shift to the chaplaincy was a mistake. He thinks I’ve gone soft. Franklin was a hawk before they started using that expression. His short, five-foot-nine muscularity reinforced a strident, pugnacious attitude. After being denied sea duty with the loss of his right eye to a Japanese kamikaze, he became ever more harsh with those who even gave the slightest mention of the constructive tenets of Communism, causing him to fidget with his eye patch. That signal of frustration was supported by the reddening in his already ruddy face. He would almost always cut off the conversation by referring to FDR’s claim that freedom is not free.

Have you gone soft? the president asked.

Not really, sir. My colleagues remind me periodically that the stark oppression Stalin started in Eastern Europe is quietly being advanced by Khrushchev. And my ongoing correspondence with my Vietnamese friend continues to confirm that Communism is a disease, and we probably have a responsibility to challenge its expansion. I have just come to see my purpose as guiding sailors, and particularly junior officers, in their spiritual pursuits. I think we should be much more purveyors of peace than managers of war.

I like the way you’ve put that. Maybe I should hook you up with Sargent Shriver on our Peace Corps idea.

Well, I’d like that because Duke really opened my eyes to what they called a more mature, authentic spirituality—a worldview really—that advocates for a peace-loving world. I must say I came out of Durham thinking very differently. As opposed to the dogmatic approach taken by many priests, my professors urged me look at faith as so much more than sin management, much more than suppression of evil. Even though it may sound a little heretical, they even claimed that a deeper examination of Christianity would show that real faith is much more than some emergency evacuation plan into the next world because if you believe, you’re already there. Can you support the notion that the divine was placed in you at birth? Being aware of that—being present with divine union—is more important than believing any prevailing doctrine. He worried what JFK thought about such a clearly divergent perspective.

That’s pretty interesting. I’ve never heard it described that way. I like the way you express yourself, Richard. I’m wondering if I can call upon you from time to time for some very private, very confidential conversations. I’m dealing with more than a few thorny problems. I’ll call them ethical dilemmas. I really need someone like you who’s not in the normal Washington loop whom I can talk with openly. In bureaucratic parlance, we call these kinds of conversations off the record and on deep background. Think about whether you can help me in this way.

Before Richard could respond with the obvious Of course, Kennedy said, "But listen, I’ve got to call it a night. We’ll be back weekend after next if the Soviets haven’t totally upset the world order by then. I’d like to continue our conversations. And I want to hear more about this so-called mature spirituality. I’m intrigued. And thank you for your good counsel this evening."

As Richard returned to his quarters, he found himself both admiring the president and questioning his veracity. Was he vacillating on Vietnam? What about the pay any price, bear any burden line at his inauguration? What about the domino theory and the need to prevent the further spread of Communism? Was he accepting Khrushchev’s position that liberation wars would continue as long as imperialism existed? Richard was confused and wondered if Kennedy was wavering under political pressure or just airing his doubts in this cloistered setting. Was he saying one thing in public and another in private? But he said quietly to himself, Don’t jump to conclusions.

CHAPTER 2

ANNAPOLIS – MAY 1961

I ’M HOME, RICHARD announced with enthusiasm to his family scattered throughout the backyard.

Their house in Annapolis was a modest two-story brick structure built as part of the wave of homebuilding after World War II. The two window dormers in the front reflected the French Colonial style often seen in Maryland, but what made it special were the trees—a couple of massive oaks, a sprawling willow, and the thick shrubbery surrounding their lot. And the soil offered a clean scent, reminding Richard that this had been rich farmland for more than two hundred years. Their home was a sanctuary where the nearby Naval Academy order and discipline could be held at bay. He and Shirlee had lived here since 1951, when he returned from sea duty aboard the USS Monterey. This is the place where the family could finally call home. And the kids loved it except for Shirlee’s rules and Richard’s swear jar.

The Naval Academy and its sprawling facilities dominated Annapolis and the overall culture of the community. Beyond the mores of mild Southern hospitality, the academy gave the quaint town an air of buttoned-up military formality. Midshipmen were smartly dressed, clean cut, and well-behaved—mostly. Everyone was exposed to the town’s history of patriotic service. Whenever their father or grandfather were in town on a Saturday, they would take the boys to the weekly Pass in Review, simply called PIR. With the band blasting out Sousa’s best, the midshipmen marching, and all the sharp saluting, Jon and Thomas were introduced to the flashy part of navy life. The girls never went because from Becky’s point of view, guys were just stupid no matter what they were doing.

In June, almost every midshipman was involved in some sport. The crew team was out in their shells practicing on the Severn River by 6:00 a.m. At that hour, with the sun just rising across the Eastern Shore and the rhythmic cadence shouted out by the coxswain-inspired confidence that our nation would be in good hands, Richard remembered fondly the measure of tranquility on the river during his time at the academy in the heat of World War II.

Have you guys already had breakfast? he asked with eagerness.

Shirlee replied for everyone, Yes, but then you should know teenagers are always hungry. Let’s have an early lunch.

Good, because I’ve got to tell you guys about my most recent meeting with President Kennedy. His teenage kids were only slightly interested.

Over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Richard told of a special walk with the president and about the splendor of Camp David and the relaxed nature of the place. It was a camp for adults with every imaginable sport and game readily available. I’ve told you this before, but President Kennedy is remarkable and very friendly. He’s smart but down to earth. And he’s a family man who loves playing with his kids. I’ll explain more tonight at dinner at your grandparents’ house. What’s going on with you, guys? I gotta catch up.

As they all sat around the family’s cheap but functional yellow Formica kitchen table, the place around where most arguments started, Jon said excitedly, Baseball is happening. I made the team at third base. Dad, can we go to an Orioles game? I really want to see Brooks Robinson in action. Out of the corner of his eye, Richard caught a glimpse of all the kids’ sports gear scattered in the laundry room.

Who’s Brooks Robinson? Becky asked mockingly.

Only the greatest third baseman in history, Jon responded with equal sarcasm. Don’t you know anything?

I know that baseball is stupid. Who wants to watch grass grow? Becky’s twisted facial expression added to her disdain.

It is the national pastime, Beck, Richard interjected with enthusiasm. Besides, I think President Kennedy is throwing out the first pitch on opening day. I can try to get tickets.

Richard saw baseball as the quintessential team sport representing everything respectable about America—loyalty, courage, determination, and fun. He was pretty sure his son felt the same way; he only wished his father knew how to lighten up.

He was also reasonably sure Jon had a bright future. Not only did his six-foot-one frame packed with a hundred and eighty pounds give him strength for his baseball and football interests, but he also possessed excellent eye-hand coordination that made him excel at almost any physical activity. But most of all, he had common sense; Richard knew this would make him a good officer. On the other hand, Thomas, the younger son, was tall and skinny and seemed only interested in building things, especially model sailboats.

As an only child living within the confines of various naval bases, Richard observed poverty at a distance. The newspapers were filled with stories of hunger and joblessness—and also of Hitler’s steady rise in Europe. FDR’s fireside chats were an inspiration to him, and his father’s stories of seafaring adventure foretold of his own future. He admired his father, but his strict disciplinary approach created a sense of fear in Richard.

That evening when the family descended on the ancestral O’Brian home for dinner, he was reminded how it felt like an interior decorator’s interpretation of a nautical museum. Franklin’s wife of forty years, Elizabeth, better known as Bess, had bought into the navy life the way barnacles clasp to a ship’s hull. She had done her best to create a loving home, but moving every two or three years to a new base made it difficult. When she and Franklin finally settled in Annapolis after the war, she could build the family nest. It was terribly sad that she never had much of a chance to enjoy it. Breast cancer took her just eight months after they moved in. The family was devastated, and Franklin was never the same.

The wide green stretch that led to the banks of the Chesapeake had always been the boy’s playground, but that was years ago; now sailing was Jon’s and Thomas’s passion. While the boys put out in Franklin’s Catalina 19, the adults relished their gin and tonic. Becky sat by herself leafing through the most recent issue of National Geographic. She was the studious one who seemed to have unlimited intellectual curiosity.

It felt like a family reunion with stories of the kids’ exploits. Jon and Thomas were a father’s dream—boys with energy and curiosity. Jon always had a ball in his hand; Thomas hated books but loved chasing girls. Both were outgoing and were a handful for Shirlee. They always wanted to explore beyond the confines of their yard, which meant somewhere on or near Chesapeake Bay. This filled her with anxiety and worry and not without good reason.

Shirlee recounted a frightful afternoon the boys had gone sailing with their friend next door when the weather suddenly changed. The wind rose precipitously, and rain fell unmercifully as if the heavens were being emptied. She said, I was convinced they were gone—capsized and drowned. Thankfully, that patron saint of safe travel, whatever his name is, brought them home soaking wet but in good spirits. In describing how crazy it was out there, they said it was a wild ride. She stopped short of mentioning that with no husband around to help, a second drink provided a little relief.

That second drink sometimes morphed easily into a third. She preferred vodka and tonic to hide behind that odorless liquor—or she might have several glasses of wine at dinner. Her dependence on alcohol started in earnest after falling from a ladder during their time in Durham. The pain in her back often became intense exacerbated by North Carolina’s stifling humidity. She had been miserable at Duke and couldn’t wait to leave the deep South.

Before Shirlee could finish her story, Franklin boasted, They’re sailors at heart. Of course, they made it home. He was pleased with himself for having passed the love of sailing down through the family. Richard was an accomplished helmsman, while his sons loved hiking off the windward side with the wind whipping and the bow slicing through the waves. This was seafaring excitement, especially with your boys.

Yeah, but that wasn’t the only distressing event, Shirlee interjected. There was the night Jon convinced Thomas to sneak onto the academy campus. The marine guards caught them trying to slip between two iron bars. They were brought home in flashing lights by what seemed like a full squad of jarheads. That was the night her drinking reached new heights.

I hope you gave them a proper tongue-lashing, Franklin said as he directed his rebuke at his son.

Of course, Richard replied in the obedience of his childhood, remembering how he did no such thing. His approach was to ask them a whole series of questions, most importantly, What did you guys learn out there? And more importantly, what were you thinking?

Life in Annapolis was all about the sea. With the Chesapeake Bay at hand, every manner of floating vessel was present; sailboats heeled over in the ever-brisk wind spoke of adventure. Even though the bay was protected from the Atlantic by Maryland’s jutting peninsula, occasionally, large waves made for an exciting sail. The fresh sea salt in the morning dew beckoned, and clanging halyards reminded one that this was a place for sailors. The community boasted a robust sprinkling of retired naval officers, many of whom had taught at the academy during their careers. They ensured that naval tradition stayed prominent. Their love of the sea clearly mirrored the eighteenth-century farmer’s devotion to the land.

Franklin had graduated from the academy in 1924 just as the navy of big ships and aircraft carriers was blossoming. His initial assignment out of Annapolis was on the USS Furious, the first ship to be modified with a permanent single flight deck forward of the original battleship superstructure. He loved the fresh wind in his face and the muscular waves that signaled the strength of the sea. It was exciting, even as a lowly ensign managing a crew of salty deck apes. His authority didn’t spring from his officer’s insignia or from a modest 160-pound frame but from a ruddy complexion and bulbous nose, which made him seem the rough and tumble type. This early experience with naval aviation would launch a twenty-five-year career culminating as skipper of the USS Enterprise, an aircraft carrier of the Seventh Fleet during World War II. After losing his right eye, Franklin was forced to spend the next fifteen years as base commander at several naval stations around the world. It wasn’t tough duty, but his black eye patch conveyed his warrior status and commanded the respect he thought he deserved. He wanted to drive ships, not desks, but these commands were his best route to an admiral’s flag status. And then the stint as naval attaché at the U.S. embassy in Moscow became the logical step that propelled him to his dignified status as rear admiral and deputy chief of naval operations.

Richard followed his father’s career path after departing Annapolis in 1944 by attending flight school and serving aboard a cargo ship, which had been modified as an aircraft carrier. It was from this old battlewagon that he flew missions over Japan in his P-3 reconnaissance plane and observed the widespread firebombed devastation. It had been sixteen years since his service aboard the USS Monterey off the coast of Japan, but he still felt a heaviness on his heart.

The day after the Enola Gay dropped its horrendous atomic payload on Hiroshima, Richard flew his last mission over Japan. That flight left an indelible impression; fires smoldered and dense smoke hung like fog. Everything was black as if an evil blanket had descended. The destruction was utterly complete; Hiroshima was lifeless, and yet just beyond the city were green fields and lush vegetation. The contrast was incredibly stark, so he took a hard-banked turn to see it again. The recon photos displayed in the Monterey’s ready room that night were beyond belief. They sparked intense debate among the pilots about whether the atom bomb would save American boys from facing the suicidal tendencies of the Japanese. And the troubling thought that always accompanied that whole scene for Richard was Why? Why was that necessary? Why so much killing? The idea of victory over Japan was dampened by a depressed, lingering sadness. His view of war was forever in question, especially because the bomb wasn’t necessary. A naval blockade would have sufficed, starving the Japanese into submission.

After an extended tour aboard the Monterey, Richard lobbied to come back to Annapolis and successfully landed a plum assignment teaching navigation to third-year midshipmen. He loved the tools of seafaring navigation; the charts with their dead reckoning guidance, the maneuvering board, the celestial tables—all this came to him naturally and was of endless fascination. He had the unique opportunity to apply his flight navigation experience to ship driving. At the time, he used to wonder, What do I love the most—the sea or the endless expanse of the sky? Leaning into a turn at two hundred knots was pure joy. Soaring at ten thousand feet and then diving to six was like being an eagle. In fact, he’d twice dreamed that he was actually an eagle, soaring and diving, turning on a dime. The dream was incredibly real.

Coming back to the Naval Academy was wonderful, but being with his family was close to winning the lottery. He remembered fondly the day he and Shirlee finally bought that home they’d talked about for years. A front porch, a fence, and a backyard where the kids could romp—it was a new beginning.

Their marriage was solid—or so it seemed. They’d met in Pensacola at the height of war in April 1944 as Richard was earning his wings. Flight school was demanding but exciting, where pilots seemed to carry an air of invincibility, a natural swagger enhanced by a perpetual smile. Shirlee was on spring break with three girlfriends from the University of Georgia when they glimpsed each other on a crowded beach on Florida’s panhandle. She was a Southern belle in every way—cute, with medium-length red hair, a full figure, and that slight Atlanta-bred twang. She fell for Richard’s hardy lifestyle and his patriotic bent, and she loved his smile. He told her, I want to kill Japs, come home alive, and build a life. They were married within three months, and she was pregnant with Jon before Richard shipped out for the Pacific. It all seemed the perfect storyline, but Shirlee was on her own from the start.

As they moved from the lawn to dinner, Shirlee felt compelled to add It’s not just the boys who are challenging. Becky has her own adventures to boast about. Don’t forget that she managed to break her arm by falling out of our willow tree. And then she destroyed the cast by picking at it with a kitchen knife. She couldn’t stand the itch, and we had to recast it a second time. She’s definitely independent. There was much more on Shirlee’s mind about Becky, but this wasn’t the time or place. She and Richard really needed to talk.

Around the table, Richard related his latest experience with President Kennedy. He described Camp David as a special place where the president could relax but also have off-the-record serious conversations. He said, He is so easygoing, and he listens more than he talks. Politicians like McNamara and Johnson fill that bill—and then some. When the cherry pie arrived, Richard relayed how the discussion got more serious, including the current dilemma in Vietnam.

With the mention of Vietnam, Jon, now sixteen and thinking beyond high school, pressed his dad to retell the story of the bomb attack and his rescue of the Vietnamese woman and her daughter.

He wanted to know everything—again—about how he got them to Saigon and whether he had any firefights along the way. Richard said, We navigated the entire length of the coastline, and while the ship was jammed with refugees, it was amazingly quiet. He described the beautiful beaches, the lush coastal vegetation, and the mountains rising serenely behind, stark against the cobalt sky. While the coastline appeared quite peaceful, Richard described how the guerilla tactics used by the Communists were stealth, brutal, and totally beyond French capability to contain. He concluded by saying, The Viet Minh, whom President Diem referred to as Viet Cong, for Vietnamese Communists, probably cannot be beaten on their home turf. Shirlee was relieved that the kids didn’t press their dad about Chong as she had long ago tired of hearing about that woman.

Franklin interrupted the conversation with My sources tell me that the Viet Cong lack modern weapons, a stable organization, and have no airpower whatsoever. With his jaw firmly set and his eyes locked on Richard, he gave the impression that he had the real story.

That’s probably all true, Richard responded, and while he was gleaning some knowledge from Chong’s letters, it was also being confirmed by a few of his academy classmates currently serving in the South China Sea. But what they do have is a fervent commitment to go all out for independence. Just remember what Ho Chi Minh got General Giap and his people to do at Dien Bien Phu lugging massive artillery up mountains and across rivers on their backs and on bicycles. The French totally doubted they could mount that kind of fight. And the North’s resolve for reunification has only increased.

As Franklin crossed his arms, he was getting more and more peeved. I think you’ve been buffaloed. Don’t you see that their commitment really comes at the end of a Communist whip? Our CIA guys tell us of torture and death squads for anyone who resists their socialist propaganda. Uncle Ho sits at the feet of Stalin and Mao buying their armaments plus their murderous, stifling philosophy.

That’s also true to a great extent, but I wonder what the right approach is in Vietnam—in any war really, Richard responded. On occasion, in my late-night conversations with a handful of thoughtful line officers and a few chaplains, we discussed the issue of just war. I kinda zoned out when we covered that at the academy and paid only fleeting attention at Chaplaincy School, so it made for some interesting conversations.

Most chaplains I’ve met, Franklin interjected as he fiddled with his eye patch, don’t know what they’re talking about when it comes to fighting a real war. They may know the Bible, although even that is questionable, but that’s about it. This exchange brought up for Franklin his lifelong contempt for priests whom he felt were full of dogma and rules and total obedience to a Vatican entrenched in a tradition meant to maintain the status quo. And the occasional rumor about abuse of altar