Journey Read online

  It goes back to what I’ve been saying about the support I’ve always had from the Army. It’s also a prime example of how leaders lead. Downing looked at the big picture, supported his people, and wasn’t afraid to go to the top or cross service lines to do so.

  We continued to interact over the years even after he retired, and certainly maintained a relationship. When he passed away, Doug Brown (subsequent commander of SOCOM) and I were the only two four-stars at his funeral in Peoria. It was more than appropriate to render those honors.

  * * *

  I’ve always been big on total transparency; it’s the example I would set from day one. That started with a welcome letter I distributed to everyone in the wing. It listed what I liked, what I believed in, what I expected, and what I didn’t like. No surprises, just setting everyone up for success. It empowered them while showing them that we’re a team, we’re all in this together. It’s the same basic list I used when I was squadron commander, and would use when I was Chief. I picked these up from leaders whom I greatly admire, and my hope was that they’d be as worthwhile to others as they had been to me. In any event, they were the framework for the culture under which I would operate the wing.

  It’s always better to be explicit about one’s expectations.

  Wing command was every bit as much of an opportunity for Suzie as it was for me, and by opportunity I mean opportunity to contribute, and teach, and mentor, and effectuate important change. She hit the gate running and still hasn’t stopped. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration when I say that she did more good at that base than all the prior spouses combined.

  HURRICANE OPAL

  Suzie: Far more than missions occupied Nort’s time commanding the 16th Special Operations Wing at Hurlburt in Florida. Hurricane Opal was a Category 4 hurricane headed directly for the base in October 1995. While nearby Eglin AFB was evacuating all their fighter aircraft, Nort was getting resistance from some Air Force higher-ups about the need to evacuate his fleet; he was justifiably apprehensive about them being destroyed by the rapidly approaching 150 mph winds. My concern was how the twenty-two-foot storm surge would impact a row of eight houses that faced south directly on the water, especially since ours was one of them. For days I told Nort those houses had to be boarded up, and he kept assuring me that it was going to happen just as soon as he got the airplanes taken care of. I finally exploded. “I’ve been asking you for three days and frankly, I don’t give a shit about your goddamn airplanes! I want the houses boarded up. It’s our house, our friends’ houses!” He finally had it taken care of, with alarmingly little time to spare.

  Norty stayed behind, but my getting out of that base so that we could hunker down somewhere safe was no small endeavor. I don’t know who came up with the idea that there’s some calm before the storm but it sure didn’t apply to this one. By the time I stopped to pick up my friend Sally and her three-year-old son Ben, I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. It was 7:00 a.m. and the sky was getting darker by the minute. Although nowhere near the 145 mph wind gusts that would eventually pound the base, the winds had already kicked up enough to impede our attempts to get Sally’s critical possessions from her house to my Volvo. Let me rephrase that—to get Sally’s crap into my car. While I had filled the trunk with blankets, pillows, paper towels, wet wipes, food, water, and such, Sally was trying to load up the car with armloads of papers. Not to mention the fact that she was doing this at a snail’s pace as though we had months to spare. This was an urgent situation! “Sally! Storm! Hurricane! If you’re coming with me, get in now because I’m outta here!”

  The truth is that we were too late. With an estimated hundred thousand people trying to evacuate from the Gulf Coast, our attempts to make it to a shelter ahead of the storm were a joke. Traffic was beyond bumper-to-bumper, and once we did get halfway up to the Alabama border, we were told that the bridge was out in Alabama, so they turned us all around. We were still in our car when the storm hit, forced to pull to the side of the road on some bridge over a swamp. Unless you’ve experienced a hurricane firsthand, there’s no way to imagine the enormous destructive power it breeds. We spent seven hours in that car, but we made it alive and unharmed. Others were not as fortunate.

  It was days later before we finally made it back to the base and were recognized by the young airman at the back gate. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry about your house,” he said. I took it in stride, thanked him, and drove toward the inevitable. Whatever it is, it is. Sally, on the other hand, panicked. “Oh my God, Suzie … What are we going to find? What are we going to do?” she whined.

  Once we navigated the obstacle course of downed trees, power lines, and other debris and made it over to the house, it turned out that the young man had mistaken our house for General Hobson’s. Ours was saved, but his was in ruins with his belongings strewn across his front lawn, one of fourteen homes we lost to that storm. Diane Hobson took it very well, but the general took it really hard. Who could blame him? All of his memorabilia had been destroyed. Irreplaceable, priceless pieces. It was devastating.

  I kicked into gear and put together sort of a “Crisis Action Team” for spouses. We couldn’t do too much the first day since we were all without power, but a few of them came over and accompanied me to the commissary so that we could gather some supplies.

  We arrived to find that they were also without power. Even so, they were kind enough to give us bread and peanut butter, which we took back to my place. We made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and distributed them to the homes.

  Each morning our little spouse network expanded, finally getting to the point where I would have them assemble on our front lawn at 7:00 a.m. and I would dispatch them to different homes to provide help.

  Once the power got restored, we went around with trash bags and picked up people’s laundry. These were big lawn bags, far too heavy for me to carry once they were filled with clothing. But the neighborhood kids stepped in and helped me drag all these huge trash bags back to my house. They would unload them onto my back yard and we would start by hosing everything off because the whole lot was covered in muck; looking at them you’d think they were ruined, but we were able to save most of them. Once they were in a condition where they could be laundered, we’d stuff them into my washer, which was running almost twenty-four hours a day for the first three or four days. Those home units were not designed for that; I was concerned we might blow out the motor or something. So I said to Nort, “Could we get a washer set up in the marina parking lot?” Next thing I know, they showed up out there with a row of washers and dryers.

  “Thank you so much, that’s great,” I told him. “But so many folks are working on their homes during the daylight hours and they need to do the laundry at night. Think we can get some lighting out there?”

  Ask and you shall receive. That evening, our entire “mobile laundry facility” was bathed in a bright blanket of light, thanks to rows of emergency lights and generators set up by the facilities folks.

  The Hobsons’ place was still a disaster and far from habitable, but I knew that they came by every day to check on things. First thing every morning, I would wake up, make a fresh pot of coffee, then take it over to their place and leave it on the counter (which was still filthy and disgusting) along with some muffins or sweet rolls. I would run in early and get out before they saw me.

  One morning I overslept, having worked the “night shift” on the laundry detail. By the time I made the coffee and prepared the tray, I didn’t even have time to get dressed if I were to make the run before they arrived. I threw a robe over my PJs and hustled over there, quietly padded up to the back door, and snuck a glance. I was safe, the kitchen was still empty! I slipped in, quickly deposited the goodies onto the counter, and turned to leave.

  “Honey, call the police, we have an intruder,” boomed a voice from the next room. I spun around and nearly jumped out of my skin, I was so startled! Apparently the Hobsons arrived early and were already working in the back
of the house.

  “And all dressed up, too,” the general said with a chuckle.

  “Says the man with forty-eight golf shirts,” I shot back at him. “I should know, because I just washed and folded them all last night. Who has forty-eight golf shirts? Arnold Palmer couldn’t play that much golf!”

  “I had a feeling you were the invisible daily welcome wagon. Thank you for that.”

  “Don’t thank me. It wasn’t for you, it was for her,” I said, shooting Diane a quick wink. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back and make sure that I didn’t leave any golf shirts in the dryer.”

  “Thank you, Suzie,” Diane added as I bolted out the door to give them their privacy.

  The good news is that we did end up with a thirty-seven-foot sailboat in our backyard. The bad news is it wasn’t ours. (That’s really Norty’s line, but I temporarily borrowed it from him.) It had broken loose from its moorings a few miles up the coast. As the water subsided, it came to rest about three feet down from what used to be my vegetable garden, and it planted its centerboard more firmly than the sword in the stone; that thing wasn’t going anywhere.

  The following morning we’re all out there with a bunch of workers who’ve begun their recovery efforts. Suddenly in the middle of it all—and to us this felt as surreal as it must sound now—this little rubber dinghy putted up the Sound, and pulled up to the seawall right behind all the activity that was going on. The “captain” of the dinghy stepped out and tied the boat off, and then approached Norty and me. Not to be judgmental, but the guy had a week-old beard and it looked like he hadn’t been anywhere near a working shower in a week. Of course we were both wondering, “Who is this guy?” He pointed to the sailboat in the middle of the yard and said, “That’s my boat. Think it’s safe here?”

  Norty and I both broke out laughing, because of course we had seriously escalated security to prevent any looting, and as he asked the question there were uniformed Air Force security forces all over the place on their four-wheelers.

  “Trust me, it’s not going anywhere,” Norty assured him. He thanked us, turned around and putted away in his dinghy. I suppose the moral of the story is “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

  When he returned to arrange for the removal of his vessel he looked a lot more presentable. “Dan Gralnick,” he offered while shaking hands with Norty, then handed him his business card. “Sincerely sorry about the inconvenience.” Glancing at the card, Norty was surprised to see that this was Doctor Daniel Gralnick, a prominent Fort Walton Beach cardiologist. The sailboat was an ocean-going vessel that had taken him around the world.

  A few weeks later, a towing company showed up with a crane and two eighteen-wheeler flatbeds. They picked the thing up, put it on the flatbeds, and towed it away.

  We worked our asses off to recover that base, and while I took the lead in caring for the affected families, Nort’s recovering the mission capability of that special operations base was one of those real tests of his leadership. I’m still in awe of how he consistently pulls this off with total calm and focus. We got a lot of positive press on this one, with one reporter branding me “The quarterback of Hume Drive.” I still kind of like that one … except we don’t live on Hume Drive anymore.

  * * *

  A few months later, General Fogelman (Chief of Staff) came by for a visit. Fogelman was not a man to mince words. He had barely stepped into my car when he caught me off guard.

  “How does it feel to be the commander of the suicide capital of the Air Force?” he asked, referencing a problem of which I was very much aware; the night of my very first day in command an airman went out into the woods and shot himself. Basically, the Chief was saying, “Schwartz, you’ve got a serious problem here. Get your arms around it.”

  “Sir, point well taken,” I responded. “Let me assure you that we are on top of it.” I went on to explain that we had already implemented a number of changes, including an intervention campaign that suggested not allowing a wing teammate to spiral down. If you note someone who’s troubled, intervene. Act, don’t wait. We also tried to minimize the stigma associated with it. Going to see a mental health professional was not something special operators particularly aspired to do.

  In addition to the steps that had already been taken, we certainly knew that the chief of staff expected even more progress, so we did our best in that regard. I shared his comment with my leadership team.

  “The Chief has this perception and we obviously are concerned about this anyway, but we need to redouble our efforts to try to again reduce the incidence of suicide.”

  We put our heads together on the medical side, on the supervision side, and on the family support side.

  But the truth was that expectations in this wing were high. This was not a good place for people who didn’t carry their weight, and frankly that was not something I was going to change. This was a demanding operational environment and if people were not up to it, we would find a way for them to serve elsewhere in a productive way and continue their service. But we had to balance stress management aspect, with the fact that we were a very significant mission intent on carrying on the “never again” determination that was born from Desert One. This was a continuation of that process and if this mission was not for them, no harm no foul.

  We did have to change that perception that going in for help would be a career-ender. We wanted them to know that once they recovered they would be welcomed back as full members of our team. There was a perception that going in for help—seeing a psychiatrist if necessary—would prompt a mark against them, and that’s not true. This was not a nuclear mission where it would be, where they would lose their access for a period of time. There was management’s discretion and we did our best to exercise prudential discretion. And the rates did come down.

  This theme stayed with me. Till the very end I was haunted by Fogelman’s words, “How does it feel to be the suicide capital of the Air Force?” Fifteen years later, when I was Chief, I spoke about it to the airmen at Little Rock AFB:

  Reach out to chaplains, supervisors or medical professionals if you’re feeling stressed or under duress. We don’t want anyone at Little Rock [AFB] to be affected by the phenomenon of suicide, because this is a family business. Make it your personal mission to make sure the airman to your left and the airman to your right is still here tomorrow.

  THE LAST FEND

  Earlier I spoke about the Fulton surface-to-air recovery system—or STARS system—that we used on certain specialized missions. It’s the same one that’s depicted in the classic final scene in Thunderball where a B-17 swoops overhead to snatch 007 (Sean Connery) and his femme fatale from a dinghy off the coast of Florida.

  The very last time it was employed was in 1997, and as wing commander I was given the honor of piloting the aircraft that would execute the intricate maneuver during a special “farewell” ceremony. The crowd looked skyward to see Brigadier General Schwartz execute this perfect piloting maneuver. I lined up the nose of my C-130 so that its “whiskers” would perfectly intercept the lift line that dangled from the very last lift balloon in existence. The photographers snapped away as I missed the target (we called that “fending”) and destroyed the device—easily the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.

  I stepped off the plane and was assaulted with the expected friendly razzing, but on the inside, I felt more than a tinge of disappointment. We were all hoping for a successful intercept, closing this chapter of special operations history in a positive way. Suzie felt the disappointment both for her “boy” and the emotion of the moment for the Fulton community. Twenty-plus years of capability retiring to memories and the history books. Bittersweet.

  * * *

  In May 1997 as I prepared to transition from my first command as a general officer to new experiences at SOCPAC (Special Operations Command, Pacific) in Hawaii, I reflected back to my conversation with General Downing at our change-of-command ceremony. I recalled that after he
stepped away I had challenged myself to leave the wing a better place than when we got there. Looking back, I believe that Suzie and I met that challenge. We successfully fostered a real sense of family, crisper management, and a better bench of talent. We hired and trained the best maintainers and support people as well as the best operators. Everybody contributed, and everybody mattered.

  One thing that Suzie and I observed through the years was how you get a feeling about an organization the moment you arrive; it’s a sixth sense that you develop. The longer I served, the stronger that instinct became. By the time I became Chief, it was pretty infallible.

  Before I left Hurlburt, we hosted a glorious celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the Air Force at the Air Park. The Air Park is a wonderful museum where over twenty historic old airplanes now live. From UH-1s to E-model Talons, Pave Lows to AC-130 Spectre gunships—they’re all on display along with monuments and a Walk of Fame for Medal of Honor recipients. It’s magnificent. Along with local dignitaries and alumni, General Fogleman came down for the event. This time when I greeted him, he responded differently than his prior rejoinder about our suicide rate.

  He returned my salute, then shook my hand and nodded. “Good to see you, Norty.” He didn’t say much, but his look spoke volumes; it reflected that sixth sense that I referenced. He approved of what he saw. It was a good wing.

  * * *

  Admiral Joe Prueher was a highly decorated Navy combat pilot and my boss when I became commander of SOCPAC, Special Operations Command, Hawaii. We had a tremendous expanse of partners and territory to be concerned about. Our area of responsibility covered thirty-six countries spread over half the world. While I was being briefed by ADM Prueher, Suzie toured the island, after which she met Prueher and provided him with a brief of her own. “You know, Admiral, I just toured Pearl Harbor, and it’s not exactly up to Air Force standards. Maybe you want to look into that?”