Black Sailor, White Navy: Racial Unrest in the Fleet during the Vietnam War Era 9780814786789

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Black Sailor, White Navy

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Black Sailor, White Navy Racial Unrest in the Fleet during the Vietnam War Era

John Darrell Sherwood

a NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS New York and London

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new york university press New York and London www.nyupress.org Editing, design, and composition © 2007 by New York University All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sherwood, John Darrell, 1966– Black sailor, white Navy : racial unrest in the fleet during the Vietnam War era / John Darrell Sherwood. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-8147-4036-1 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-8147-4036-7 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Vietnam War, 1961–1975—African Americans. 2. United States. Navy—African Americans—History—20th century. 3. United States. Navy—History—Vietnam War, 1961–1975. 4. African American sailors—Social conditions—20th century. 5. African American sailors—Civil rights—History—20th century. 6. Protest movements—United States—History—20th century. 7. Racism— United States—History—20th century. 8. Race discrimination— United States—History—20th century. 9. Zumwalt, Elmo R., 1920–—Relations with African American sailors. 10. United States—Race relations—History—20th century. I. Title. DS559.8.B55S53 2007 940.54'5108996073—dc22 2006102458 New York University Press books are printed on acid-free paper, and their binding materials are chosen for strength and durability. Manufactured in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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Contents

Acknowledgments Prologue: Storm Warning Glossary 1

The Black Sailor: Chambermaid to the Braid and Nothing More

vii xi xxi

1

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Racial Unrest Strikes the Army and Marines

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The Zumwalt Revolution

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Kitty Hawk: The Pot Begins to Boil

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Blow Off: The Kitty Hawk Riot

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More Unrest: The Hassayampa Riot

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The Sit-down Strike on the Constellation

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Negotiations with the Protesters: A Comedy of Errors

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The Hicks Subcommittee Hearings: Questions and Motives

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Violence on Nearly Every Ship: Race Riots after Constellation

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11

The Struggle to Eliminate Bias in the Fleet

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From Awareness to Affirmation

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Epilogue Appendix: Navy Ranks and Ratings, 1973 Notes Bibliography Index About the Author

262 271 275 315 331 344

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Acknowledgments

The U.S. Naval Historical Center (NHC) is the U.S. Navy’s institutional memory. Its staff of historians, archivists, librarians, archaeologists, curators, and naval personnel work conscientiously to preserve the history of America’s Navy. In one way or another, every member of the command contributed something to this book. Our director, Rear Admiral Paul Tobin, USN (Ret.), not only supported this project throughout but carefully read the manuscript and offered unique insights stemming from his service as the aide and flag secretary to Commander Naval Forces Vietnam. His predecessor, Dr. William Dudley, signed off on this project even though he understood that this book focused on a tumultuous and controversial period of the Navy’s history. A special thank you as well to two NHC deputy directors: Captains Duane Heughan and Peter Wheeler. As any historian will attest, the road to success is “generally paved by footnotes.” Finding the sources for those notes, especially for a subject such as this one, required a bit of luck, a bit of sleuthing, and a lot of hands-on assistance from archivists, librarians, and other staff members. NHC personnel who assisted me include Robert Cressman, Linda Edwards, Davis Elliott, Mark Evans, Edwin Finney, Dale (Joe) Gordon, Roy Grossnick, Charles Haberlein, Robert Hanshew, John Hodges, Kevin Hurst, Ariana Jacob, Dan Jones, Ken Johnson, J. Allen Knechtmann, Heidi Myers, Young Park, Timothy Pettit, Tonya Simpson, Curtis Utz, and Joel Westphal. Glenn Helm, the director of the Navy Department Library and a subject matter expert on the Vietnam War, provided a wealth of reference tips. Bernard “Cal” Cavalcante, the former senior archivist at NHC, guided me to many valuable materials in the Records of the Chief of Naval Operations, known as the 00 Records. Kathy Lloyd, chief of the Navy’s Operational Archives, provided me with special archival training and then granted me direct stack access to records. Dr. Regina Akers, an NHC archivist with a subject specialty in

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the history of African Americans and women’s history, offered valuable research advice from the very beginning of the project. Dr. Akers also reviewed the manuscript and provided many valuable suggestions on how to improve it. The active duty, reserve, and retired sailors at the U.S. Naval Historical Center are a font of “hands-on” knowledge about the sea services. In fact, it was a reserve chief petty officer, Charles (Dan) Springston, who originally showed me a large trove of files pertaining to racial unrest in the Zumwalt personal papers. Captain Charles Creekman, USN (Ret.), the head of the Naval Historical Foundation, answered numerous questions about naval regulations and law. Commander Gregory Contaoi, USN, of the History and Archives Division, explained the duties of a division head on a warship and answered many questions about enlisted ratings. Other naval personnel who assisted me include Lieutenant Cory Durant, USN; Yeoman Second Class Deborah Johnson, USN; Commander Jeremy Gillespie, USN; and Commander Dave Winkler, USNR. The review for declassification, freedom of information, and privacy of every manuscript produced by U.S. government employees can be long and arduous, but three experts streamlined the process for this publication: Ella Nargelle of NHC; Master Chief Alfred H. Jensen, USN (Ret.) of McNeil Technologies; and David Daley of the Naval Criminal and Investigative Service. Professor Eugenia C. Kiesling of the U.S. Military Academy provided a helpful non-Navy review of the book. Oral histories were vital for this project. Thank you to the following individuals for participating in interviews or answering specific questions about the period: Terry Avinger, Douglas Beadle, Wallace Bennett, H. Hollister Cantus, Nicholas Carlucci, Hank Casserleigh, Marvin Davidson, Robert Keel, Orville McGuire, James B. Morin, Carl Morris, John Murcko, Adolf Neumann, Owen Oberg, Robert Olds, Manuel Sabal, John Schaub, Calvin Schmid, Frank Stoval, J. D. Ward, Virgil Werner, and James Yacabucci. Several Navy veterans not only agreed to interviews but also checked part or all of the manuscript for factual accuracy. They include Benjamin Cloud, Patrick McGinty, William S. Norman, and Marland Townsend. A very special thank you to the former chief of naval operations, Admiral James L. Holloway, III USN (Ret.), for taking time out of his schedule to review and comment on several sections of the book that examine his policies and career. Secretary of the Navy John Lehman established NHC’s Contempo-

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rary History Branch in 1987, believing that the Navy would benefit from historical analysis of its recent past. Without the resulting assemblage of naval historical talent in a single office, books such as this one might never be written. Thanks to Drs. Jeffrey Barlow and Sarandis Papadopoulos for always being available to answer questions and offer insights into the literature and documents of the period. Drs. Edward Marolda, Robert Schneller, and Gary Weir read every word of this work, offering advice and constructive criticism at numerous points in its journey from manuscript to book. Finally, thank you to Sandy Doyle for internal editing. This is my third book published by New York University Press. I continue to publish with NYU Press for two reasons: the quality of its staff and of its publications. Despina Papazoglou Gimbel, the managing editor, never overlooks any detail, large or small. Deborah Gershenowitz is an editor in the finest traditions of the profession. She not only quarterbacks projects but carefully edits and develops manuscripts. Last but not least, I want to thank my wife, Darina, for her personal support.

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Prologue Storm Warning

Great Lakes Correctional Center, 8–9 February 1970 At 5:30 p.m. on Sunday, 8 February 1970, a group of black and white inmates glared at each other in Post 3 of the Navy’s brig at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center, a large boot camp located forty miles north of Chicago. A dispute had erupted earlier in the day over the program to be watched on television: white inmates wanted to watch a movie, and blacks, a basketball game. Because whites outnumbered blacks in Post 3 by a large margin (eighty-five to nine), black prisoners contended that a simple majority vote would not solve the problem equitably. The whites refused to listen, arguing that blacks often got their way at the facility. “Every time the niggers wanted something, puff they got it,” complained one white inmate.1 The black prisoners of Post 3 (a large prison dormitory) finally decided to settle the issue by force at dusk on 8 February. Reinforced by black prisoners from other posts, these inmates returned to the post, intent on solving the matter physically if necessary. Blacks and whites formed into two loosely knit groups at either end of the dormitory, with a significant number of both races mingling between the two groups. At about the same time, two black inmates struck two separate white inmates. An unidentified white then threw a chair at the black group. Seeing the fight breaking out, many white inmates started fleeing out of the post. Marine guards, most of whom were white, allowed whites to leave but kept the blacks confined in Post 3. The guards then lobbed tear gas canisters into Post 3. The sparks from the canisters started small fires throughout the post, and prisoners trapped inside, both white and black, stumbled into the post’s bathroom to cover their heads with towels and sheets doused with water. Guards removed additional white prisoners from the post via a back door but still refused to let the blacks

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out. After several more minutes, the guards finally removed the subdued black inmates without incident. A total of twenty-one men required medical treatment of some form after the incident ended, and five men were admitted to the base hospital. But the story does not end here. Guards segregated all of the brig’s thirty-six black inmates, whether or not they had participated in the riot, into Post 4 while the command decided how best to ease tensions at the prison. The next day, prison authorities decided to house all black prisoners in Post 5, the facility’s punishment post. The authorities argued that the move was for the blacks’ own protection, but the prisoners perceived it as a disciplinary move and refused to go. At 8:00 p.m., a group of angry whites, some armed with sticks and knives, suddenly broke out of Post 1 and headed toward Post 4. Some of the white inmates believed that armed racial conflict at the prison was inevitable and therefore decided to attack the black prisoners preemptively. “Why should we take beatings one at a time?” white inmate G. R. Tingley explained. “The general sentiment was, ‘Let’s go out and get it finished now. Let’s get them.’ ”2 A black prisoner, who saw the group heading for Post 4, claimed that some of the whites were yelling, “Come out nigger.”3 Rather than trying to thwart the white attack with riot troops, camp authorities forcibly evacuated the black prisoners from Post 4 and moved them to Post 5. Again, guards lobbed riot control gas canisters into the post and then shifted all the black prisoners three at a time to Post 5. Eleven men required medical treatment after the forced move, and five needed to be admitted to the hospital.4 Lieutenant Commander Dallas Pickard, the officer assigned to investigate the affair, concluded that the decision to segregate all black prisoners, regardless of their involvement in the disturbance of the 8th, into Post 5 was an “overreaction” and “acted to reinforce other instances of treatment which had been considered prejudicial.”5 Pickard, however, did not view the affair as general evidence of conflict between blacks and whites in the Navy. Despite noting racial tensions among individual inmates at the facility and pointing out grossly prejudiced behavior by the guards during the fight on 8 February and events that occurred the following day, Pickard blamed the whole episode not on racial unrest per se but on such factors as overcrowding, lack of trained correctional center staff, and aggressive leaders among both white and black groups. “The disturbances of the 8th and 9th of February 1970 would most probably have developed over any situation, had there not been racial

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tension to use as a vehicle for the outbreak of violence,” concluded Pickard in his report.6 Pickard’s findings allowed the Navy leadership to rest easy after this violent race riot. Military prisons, the report reasoned, were unique institutions with unique problems—problems unconnected to the larger institutional culture of the Navy or the country as a whole. To quote William J. Corcoran, the Navy’s judge advocate general (JAG) in 1970, in his endorsement of the report: Persons confined at the Correctional Center are a part of the minority of servicemen who find it difficult to adjust to the requirements of the organization. The respective numbers of confinees at various posts, as noted above, tend to indicate that this is a matter of individual personality differences not afflicting disproportionately any particular ethnic group.7

Corcoran, like many influential Navy leaders at the time, refused to draw larger conclusions from thunderclaps such as the one that occurred at Great Lakes despite the fact that Army and the Marine Corps had already experienced severe racial strife in 1968 and 1969. His view, as stated in the report’s synopsis, was that “the racial aspects of the February disorders do not appear to have been associated with revolutionary or counter-revolutionary movements, nor deep seated animosities.”8 It would take the racial unrest experienced on the aircraft carriers Kitty Hawk (CV 63) and Constellation (CVA 64) in 1972 to finally convince many of the service’s senior leaders that the Navy had a serious problem with race relations. Even then, however, some retired naval officers as well as members of Congress and other government officials would continue to argue that the Navy’s racial unrest was not a reflection of “institutional racism” but the result of the actions of a very small number of black militants combined with a general atmosphere of “permissiveness” in the ranks. This permissiveness, these critics claimed, was much more dangerous to the service than racism and was a by-product of liberal reforms of the enlisted ranks initiated by Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, the chief of naval operations (CNO). Zumwalt was one of the few high-ranking officers in 1970 who believed that the Navy had a problem with institutional racism. A widely accepted definition of institutional racism can be found in

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Stokely Carmichael and Charles Hamilton’s seminal book, Black Power (1967). They argue: Institutional racism relies on the active and pervasive operation of antiblack attitudes and practices. A sense of superior group position prevails: whites are “better” than blacks; therefore blacks should be subordinated to whites. This is a racist attitude and it permeates the society, on both the individual and institutional level, covertly and overtly.9

Carmichael and Hamilton go on to state that the institutional strand of racism allows people who are not overtly racist to benefit from inequality in society and its institutions. In the Navy context, Zumwalt maintained that institutional racism was endemic in the entire structure of the Navy from its smallest boats to its highest headquarters—a deepseated, historically based form of discrimination that affected black personnel of every rank and at every stage of their careers. Black Sailor, White Navy examines racial unrest in the Navy during the Vietnam War era in a number of ways. First, it explores the context of racism in the Navy. Was the racial unrest of 1972 rooted in the service’s history? If institutional racism existed prior to 1972, why did the Navy not suffer major racial unrest in 1968 and 1969—the period in which the ground services experienced widespread unrest? To put it differently, why did the ground services experience racial unrest three to four years before the Navy did? The book then takes a close look at the man most responsible for reforming the Navy’s policies toward African Americans in the twentieth century: Admiral Elmo Zumwalt Jr. Why did this white son of a California doctor become a crusader for equal opportunity and affirmative action in the Navy? What elements of his background distinguished him from other naval officers of the period? Why did Zumwalt act so forcefully to establish a Navy minority affairs organization in the early 1970s? Why didn’t Zumwalt’s initial round of reforms stave off future trouble on Kitty Hawk and Constellation? Chapters 4 through 8 provide an in-depth review of the three most serious racial incidents in the fleet during the Vietnam War period: the Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa (AO 145) episodes of 1972. It was these incidents that compelled the House Armed Services Committee to establish a subcommittee to examine the Navy’s “disciplinary problems.” By delving deeply into the nature, causes, and person-

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alities involved in those incidents, Black Sailor, White Navy demonstrates the complexity of the Navy’s racial problems during this time and helps unravel the sources of the unrest. Was the unrest the result of the “permissiveness” of Zumwalt’s initial set of reforms (as the House Armed Services Subcommittee argued) or “intuitional racism” as Zumwalt believed? In other words, did discrimination in promotion and job assignments for blacks exist in the Navy? Was the Navy’s discipline system racially biased? Was there a lack of blacks in the Navy’s management structure (officer and noncommissioned officer corps)? Did a climate of racism exist in the fleet as demonstrated by the regular use of racial slurs by white sailors or violence perpetrated by whites against blacks? Did other factors contribute to the problem: recruiting trends, the material condition of the fleet, the Vietnam War, or the general racial climate in the United States at the time? Chapter 9 scrutinizes the subcommittee hearings, its members, and its witnesses to further explore these questions. Zumwalt claimed that the hearings represented an attempt by a small number of racist congressmen to end affirmative action in the Navy. Were Zumwalt’s assertions correct, or were the Navy’s racial problems the product of Zumwalt’s reforms or some other problem with the institution? In particular, why did the House Armed Service Committee’s chair, Congressman F. Edward Hébert of Louisiana, so strongly oppose Zumwalt and his “programs for the people”? Could these flare-ups have been prevented? After analyzing the subcommittee’s exact findings and recommendations, Black Sailor, White Navy surveys six major racial incidents that occurred after those on the Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa to demonstrate that racial unrest was not limited to those three ships and was indeed a Navy-wide problem in the early 1970s. Patterns of discrimination in job assignments and discipline plagued many ships, as did a general climate of racism perpetrated by whites. Moreover, the minority affairs infrastructure established by Zumwalt early in his term appeared powerless to stop the unrest permeating the fleet. The Navy’s white hierarchy, furthermore, handled most of these subsequent cases as poorly as the Kitty Hawk and Constellation episodes. Chapter 11 returns to Zumwalt and his policies. Zumwalt initially created a broad range of equal opportunity and affirmative action programs to help end institutional racism in the Navy: more than 200 were initiated during his first eighteen months alone. By 1972, however, it became clear to him that many members of the Navy were unwilling to

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admit that the service had a problem with racism. He therefore decided to make racial awareness training the centerpiece of Phase I of the Navy’s Human Goals Program. Zumwalt hoped that this training would illuminate institutional and individual racism, and motivate the service’s leaders and commands to design and implement reforms. Occasionally controversial, these seminars employed focus-group tactics to generate self-awareness. Chapter 11 analyzes the impact of racial awareness training on the fleet, paying particular attention to one UPWARD (Understanding Personal Worth and Racial Dignity) course taught by Lieutenant Junior Grade Frank Alvarez at the Great Lakes Naval Regional Medical Center. The Navy’s official investigation of Alvarez and his teaching methodology would later convince Admiral James Holloway III, Zumwalt’s successor as CNO, to scale back racial awareness training in favor of affirmative action programs. He felt that racial awareness training could certainly modify behavior, but it could not change basic attitudes. Chapter 12 discusses the Navy’s shift from awareness training toward a strategy emphasizing affirmative action. Designed by Zumwalt and his team but launched by his successor, Admiral James Holloway III, in the fall of 1974, Phase II of the Navy’s Human Goals Program strove to create longer-term solutions to racial unrest via commandlevel affirmative action plans, but these plans in the end were often hastily conceived and poorly executed. In only a few cases did they result in more blacks being promoted to leadership positions within various commands. As Phase II ran its course, the new CNO realized that affirmative action was more a Navy-wide problem than a commandlevel affair. He therefore designed the Navy Affirmative Action Plan (NAAP), which focused the Navy’s efforts on service-wide programs such as improved minority officer recruitment, remedial training, and better educational opportunities for minority sailors—programs originally initiated by Zumwalt but given a new sense of urgency and focus by the NAAP. In the end, neither Zumwalt’s programs to heighten sensitivity and awareness nor the NAAP came close to achieving its goal of proportional representation in the Navy’s officer ranks, but the efforts of Zumwalt and Holloway did demonstrate the Navy’s commitment to its minority members, and by 1974, the number of racial incidents finally began to decline in the service. More important, by admitting that the Navy had a problem with institutional racism and trying to address the

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root causes of the problem, Zumwalt and later Holloway significantly improved the image of the service in the black community, eventually transforming the Navy into one of the best employers in the nation for minorities—a workplace often cited later as a model of racial harmony. However, the Navy’s journey from a state of racial unrest to today’s relative harmony was not an easy one. Black Sailor, White Navy focuses on the most turbulent point in this road: the early 1970s. Why did the unrest occur? Did institutional racism cause the turbulence? Did the Navy reform its racial policies as a result of the unrest? Did these reforms solve the problem? These are the major questions I address in this book.

A Note on Sources and Methods The main sources for Black Sailor, White Navy are the “JAGMAN” investigations of the racial incidents. A JAGMAN investigation provides a detailed report of an incident for a command and recommends corrective or required disciplinary actions. It is primarily a fact-finding mission by an officer or group of officers and investigators (Naval Investigative Service [NIS] agents or master-at-arms personnel). In the case of the Kitty Hawk incident, for example, Carrier Division 5 ordered Captain Frank S. Haak to conduct a one-officer investigation of the episode shortly after receiving notice of it via a Navy message. Under the authority of the Naval Supplement to the Manual for Courts Martial United States (the Judge Advocate General’s Manual, or JAGMAN for short), Captain Haak collected evidence on the 12 October unrest from official ship records and logs, as well as from verbal testimony from witnesses under oath and sworn written statements. His report comprised five elements: a preliminary statement, findings of fact, opinions, recommendations, and enclosures. The preliminary statement explained the nature and scope of the investigation, as well as Haak’s methodology for obtaining facts. The findings of fact were a detailed chronology of the events that took place on the night of 12–13 October 1972. The opinions section contained Haak’s personal views on various aspects of the incident, while recommendations listed actions that Kitty Hawk’s officers might take to avoid future incidents and improve the racial climate on the ship. He did not recommend a court-martial or disciplinary action for participants in the riot, even though as the head of a JAGMAN

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investigation he had the authority to make such recommendations. The enclosures section included all evidence used by Haak in compiling his report. For this book, JAGMAN “findings of facts” as well as supporting witness testimony and statements proved invaluable in reconstructing and analyzing events. They offered a broad swath of information gathered shortly after the incidents, when memories were still fresh. Even though the JAGMAN reports were official investigations, to me, the interviews between sailors and investigators attached in the reports generally appeared candid and honest. Within the transcripts, it was not unusual to find raw emotional language, including profanity. In many cases, I quote directly from these interviews because I want sailors to speak for themselves and not have their language paraphrased and filtered by me. I also want the reader to understand the intensity of emotions encountered during the period examined—to fully appreciate the anger and racial hatred that some black and white sailors felt toward one another. Only then will the reader begin to understand the magnitude of the problem confronted by Admirals Zumwalt and Holloway in the early 1970s. One limitation of the JAGMAN reports is that any witness who might be tried in a court-martial had to be read his rights before the interview—a process that occasionally convinced a few participants to remain silent. In addition to the JAGMAN reports, the 2,565 pages of closed executive session testimony for the House hearings on disciplinary problems in the U.S. Navy constituted another valuable source. Like the witness testimony in the JAGMANs, the executive session transcripts contain a wealth of material on the personalities involved in the affair, especially the motivations and viewpoints of black participants. Testimony by admirals and other government officials, furthermore, provided excellent insights into Navy policy in the areas of race relations, equal opportunity, affirmative action, and personnel matters. Several sets of other documents also proved invaluable in this regard: Admiral Zumwalt’s personal papers, and the office files of Commander William Norman, Zumwalt’s special assistant for minority affairs, and his successor in that post, Lieutenant Edith Haynes. All these collections are held by the Operational Archives at the Naval Historical Center. The timeliness and richness of the documentary sources used for this book meant that I did not have to rely too heavily on oral history to piece together complex events. Nonetheless, I did interview many of

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those involved in the Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa events. For each ship, I conducted extensive interviews with the commanding officers and key subordinates. I also discussed these issues and Zumwalt’s actions and intentions with the admiral’s closest adviser on racial issues, Captain William S. Norman. In addition, Admiral James Holloway III reviewed for accuracy sections of the book pertaining to him and his policies toward minorities. Regrettably, one key figure in the story, Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, died before research for this book commenced. Admiral Zumwalt, in his last visit to the Naval Historical Center shortly before his death in 2000, said to the chief archivist at the time, Mr. Bernard “Cal” Cavalcante, “Take good care of my papers, Cal, since I may never see them again.”10 In those documents, carefully organized and preserved by Naval Historical Center archivists, the story of Admiral Zumwalt and the revolution he inspired and led lives on. This book is dedicated to his memory and to all the men and women in uniform who fought hard in the 1970s to make the Navy what is today: a place where dedicated people, both black and white, work tirelessly together to defend the United States of America.

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Glossary

1MC: The shipboard public-address system on U.S. Navy ships AA: Airman apprentice AAF: Army Air Forces AAP: Affirmative action plan ABH: Aviation boatswain’s mate ACTOV: Accelerated turnover to Vietnam AFQT: Armed Forces Qualification Test AH: Aviation History Branch, U.S. Naval Historical Center AN: Airman AO: Oiler AOE: Fast combat support ship AOR: Replacement oiler AR: Operational Archives, U.S. Naval Historical Center ASVAB: Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery ATF: Fleet ocean tug AVF: All-volunteer force AWOL: Absent without leave AZC: Aviation maintenance administrationman BLT: Battalion landing team BM: Boatswain’s mate B/N: Bombardier/navigator BOOST: Broadened Opportunity for Officer Selection and Training BT: Boiler technician BUMED: Bureau of Medicine CCC: Civilian Conservation Corps CDR: Commander CIC: Combat information center CINCLANTFLT: Commander in Chief, Atlantic Fleet CINCPACFLT: Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet CINCUSNAVEUR: Commander in Chief, U.S. Naval Forces, Europe

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CNA: Center for Naval Analyses CNET: Commander Naval Education and Training CNO: Chief of Naval Operations CO: Commanding officer COD: Carrier onboard delivery plane. During the early 1970s, the Navy’s COD was the C-2 Greyhound. The C-2 had a crew of three and could carry up to twenty-eight passengers. COMCARDIV: Commander, Carrier Division COMNAVAIRPAC: Commander, Naval Air Force, U.S. Pacific Fleet COMNAVFORV: Commander, Naval Forces Vietnam COMUSNAVPHIL: Commander, U.S. Naval Forces, Philippines CPO: Chief petty officer CTT: Command Training Team CVA: Attack carrier CVS: Antisubmarine support carrier CVT: Training aircraft carrier DD: Destroyer DE: Destroyer escort DOD: Department of Defense E-1, E-2, E-3, etc. (enlisted pay grades in the U.S. Armed Forces, with E-1 being the lowest pay grade and E-9, the highest) EO: Equal opportunity EOPS: Equal opportunity program specialists EOQI: Equal opportunity quality indicators EST: Erhard Seminar Training FA: Fireman apprentice GCT: General Classification Test GED: General Equivalence Degree, or General Educational Development, a test that certifies the taker has attained high school level academic skills in the United States GQ: General quarters HASC: House Armed Services Committee HRC: Human relations council HRS: Human relations staff JAG: Judge advocate general (a Navy lawyer) JAGMAN: Judge advocate general’s manual JOBS: Job oriented basic skills LBJ: Long Binh Jail, Vietnam LCDR: Lieutenant commander

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LCM: Landing craft, mechanized LKA: Amphibious cargo ship LPD: Amphibious transport dock LPH: Amphibious assault ship (Helicopter) LST: Landing ship tank LT: Lieutenant MAA: Master-at-arms MAF: Marine amphibious force MP: Military police MSC: Military Sealift Command NAAP: Navy Affirmative Action Plan NAS: Naval air station NASA: National Air and Space Administration NAVSTA: Naval station NCO: Noncommissioned officer; in the Navy, petty officers and chief petty officers NDL: Navy Department Library, U.S. Naval Historical Center NFO: Naval flight officer NHC: U.S. Naval Historical Center NIS: Naval Investigative Service NPS: Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, California NRMC: Naval Reserve Medical Center NROTC: Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps NRRS: Navy Race Relations School, Millington, Tennessee NWC: Naval War College OD: Officer-on-deck, the officer who controls ship movements on a given watch OPNAVINST: Office of the Chief of Naval Operations Instruction PBY: Navy aircraft designation for a flying boat RAF: Racial awareness facilitators RAP: Recruiting Assistance Program RD: Radarman RIF: Reduction in force RT: Refresher training RVAH: Reconnaissance attack squadron SA: Seaman apprentice SALT: Strategic Arms Limitation Talks SEALORDS: Southeast Asia Lake, Ocean, River, and Delta Strategy SECNAVINST: Secretary of the Navy, Instruction

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SEMINAR: Senior Minority Assistance to Recruiting Program SH: Ships History Branch, U.S. Naval Historical Center SK: Storekeeper SNB: Navy aircraft designation for a light transport/multiengine trainer SP: Shore patrol SR: Seaman recruit SRA: Ship’s restricted availability SS: Steamship SWO: Surface warfare officer UCMJ: Uniform Code of Military Justice UNREP: Underway replenishment UPWARD: Understanding Personal Worth and Racial Dignity USNR: U.S. Naval Reserve USS: United States ship V-1: Deck division on an aircraft carrier V-3: Hangar division on an aircraft carrier V-5: An aviation cadet program similar to V-12 that provided applicants with a year of free college education before they entered flight training VA: Attack squadron VADM: Vice admiral VAW: Carrier airborne early warning squadron VCNO: Vice chief of naval operation. WAVES: Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service XO: Executive officer; the second-in-command on a ship or in a squadron

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1 The Black Sailor Chambermaid to the Braid and Nothing More

During the early 1970s, most black sailors viewed the Navy’s record on race relations with a profound sense of skepticism. As of March 1971, blacks accounted for only 5.3 percent of the Navy’s enlisted personnel and a mere 0.7 percent of officers. By contrast, their representation in the other services was much more substantial. “The figures made it clear,” Admiral Elmo Zumwalt wrote in his memoir On Watch, “that as far as breaking down racial barriers was concerned, the Navy was marching in the rear rank of the military services.”1 The reasons for this disparity were deeply rooted in the history of the service and the nation at large. The history of African Americans in the U.S. Navy can be traced all the way back to the nation’s colonial roots. Black seaman often served on Royal Navy ships and privateers well before the onset of the War for Independence. During that subsequent war, African Americans continued to serve the British cause, especially after the royal governor of Virginia, John Murray, issued a proclamation promising freedom to slaves who fought with the loyalists. Hundreds of slaves used small boats and watercraft to escape slavery and volunteer their services to Royal Navy vessels in the Chesapeake Bay.2 But African Americans also joined the fledgling American cause. It is impossible to know how many African Americans served in the various American navies during the American Revolution. Some historians have suggested that the number could be as high as 10 percent of the sea services. Whatever the case, black sailors fought not only in the Continental Navy but also in the eleven state navies and privateer forces as well. Local black watermen from the Chesapeake Bay area were so valued as pilots for American ships that George Washington offered warrants of

1

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2 | The Black Sailor table 1 Black Participation in Armed Forces, 1971 Service

Navy Marines Air Force Army

% Black Enlisted

% Black Officers

5.3 11.2 11.9 13.7

0.7 1.3 1.7 3.5

source: Office of the Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense, Equal Opportunity table, as cited in Morris J. MacGregor and Bernard C. Nalty, eds., Blacks in the United States Armed Forces: Basic Documents, vol. 13 (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 1977), 439.

as much as $100 to these men. In several cases, blacks working for privateers received generous land grants for their service. Still others received pensions for service in the Continental Navy. For most, however, the most valuable compensation was freedom. Even the Virginia state legislature passed an ordinance that freed all slaves who served in their master’s place in the Virginia State Navy.3 Despite their contributions to the cause of American independence, Secretary of the Navy Benjamin Stoddert decided to ban “negroes and mulatoes” from the service in 1798.4 The reasons behind this decision are still unclear. Stoddert, the son of a Maryland tobacco farmer, may have viewed blacks as inferior beings.5 Stoddert’s fear that the French Navy might export the recent slave revolt in Haiti to the American south may also have played a role.6 According to historian Michael Palmer, the prevention of an invasion from the Caribbean “became the first task of the United States Navy,” and as a consequence, Stoddert may not have wanted to man his ships with crewmen who might show sympathy toward the ex-slaves of Haiti.7 The manpower demands of the Quasi War with France caused some of Stoddert’s captains to disregard this directive and recruit blacks anyway. During the War of 1812, the Navy officially ended its ban on African American recruitment, and by the end of the conflict, blacks represented 15 to 20 percent of the enlisted force. Black sailors manned guns, served in boarding parties, and took part in forays ashore. They also cooked, cleaned, caulked, and handled the sails. During the age of sail, the sea provided blacks with an alternative to slavery because the Navy, with its harsh discipline, dangerous work aloft, long periods at sea, low pay, and bad food, was so unattractive that the service had to accept any stable, sober volunteer, whatever his skin color. Still, some officers

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protested about recruiting blacks. In an 1813 letter to Commodore Isaac Chauncey, Master Commandant Oliver H. Perry, the hero of the Navy’s Lake Erie campaign, complained that some of the men sent to him were a “motley set, blacks, Soldiers and boys, I cannot think you saw them after they were selected—I am however pleased to see any thing in the shape of a man.” Chauncey, in response to this prejudiced note, wrote, “I have yet to learn that the Color of the skin, or cut and trimmings of the coat, can affect a man’s qualifications or usefulness.”8 Despite the strides made by black sailors during the War of 1812, the political situation between the northern and southern states led the Department of the Navy to impose quotas on black recruits during much of the early nineteenth century. To appease powerful, pro-slavery southern politicians like John C. Calhoun of South Carolina, Secretary of the Navy Abel P. Upshur promised in 1842 that African Americans would make up no more than “one-twentieth part of the crew of any vessel.” This quota succeeded in reducing the percentage of blacks in the Navy to 4.2 percent by 1850.9 The situation changed dramatically once the Civil War began in 1861. While blacks could not serve in the Union Army until 1862, they could serve in the Navy throughout the conflict, albeit at lower wages. Overall, blacks represented 10 to 24 percent of the warship crews, depending on time and place, during the Civil War. The proportion rose even higher on service craft and sailing vessels. Most served as cooks and stewards, but a small number became captains of the hold, captains of the foretop, carpenter’s mates, coxswains, and even gunner’s mates and quartermasters.10 As early as 1861, Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles authorized the recruitment of escaped or liberated slaves in the Atlantic Blockading Squadron. The Navy found escaped slaves easy to assimilate, and the racial policies on ships of the Atlantic Blockading Squadron had no impact on Union loyalists in Kentucky or Missouri who owned slaves.11 Initially, these “contrabands” could only serve as apprentice sailors or “boys,” but by 1862, they could enlist as landsmen (adults with no maritime experience). Landsmen received twelve dollars a month, about four dollars less than ordinary seamen, and “boys,” eight to ten dollars a month. The recruitment of former slaves significantly increased the numbers of blacks serving in the Navy during the Civil War. As of 2007, researchers have identified 20,000 Union black sailors from this war.12

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4 | The Black Sailor

“Berth Deck Cook’s” in 1887 on board the USS Ossipee, a 1,240-ton steam screw sloop. During this period, blacks mainly served as cooks, stewards, and landsmen. (E. H. Hart)

After the Civil War, the percentage of African Americans in the Navy dropped from a wartime high of more than 20 percent to 13.1 percent in 1870, as segregation began to take hold in the United States. In the “Jim Crow” Navy, blacks mainly served as cooks, stewards, and landsmen, but some also worked as firemen, storekeepers, carpenters, water tenders, oilers, and in other specialized billets, and they messed and berthed with their white shipmates. A few even rose to the rank of third class petty officer.13 The 1896 Plessy v. Ferguson decision by the Supreme Court legitimized segregation in the United States and ushered in the beginning of a new era for blacks in the Navy. Beginning in 1905, the Navy began creating separate messes for these sailors, and recruitment decreased. By World War I, blacks constituted less than 3 percent of enlisted men, and almost all served in the galleys or engineering spaces. The Navy stopped enlisting blacks altogether in 1919 because officers thought Filipinos made better messmen. Commander (later rear admiral) Robert R. M. Emmett, the head of enlisted training in 1932, explained the nature of this bias in a letter to the Bureau of Navigation director of training, arguing that Filipinos “are cleaner, more efficient, and eat much less than

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The Black Sailor | 5

negroes.”14 When Germany invaded France in 1940, only 4,007 African Americans served in the Navy, most as mess attendants, officers’ cooks, and stewards.15 It would take the Navy more than thirty years to erase this negative image of the sea service as a place where blacks were excluded from all occupations except that of domestic servants. The prominent role white sailors played in the race riots of the summer of 1919 also tarnished the image of the service in the eyes of the nation’s African American community. In Charleston, South Carolina, an altercation between a black man and two white sailors in May 1919 ended with the black man being shot and killed. Shortly afterward, a series of running skirmishes erupted between sailors and members of the local black community. Eventually, Marines and police managed to quell the riot and compel the hundreds of sailors involved to return to the Charleston Navy Yard, but not before white sailors managed to inflict extensive property damage on black-owned stores.16 In Washington, D.C., an even more ugly confrontation occurred. Shortly after 10:00 p.m. on 18 July, a young white woman was jostled by two black men on Twelfth Street in the southwest quadrant of the city. The woman screamed and the men fled. The next day, the Washington Post and Washington Evening Star carried sensationalized accounts of the episode, claiming that this “wife of a naval aviator” was “attacked” by black men.17 The next day, a group of several hundred white sailors, soldiers, and Marines set out for the predominantly black section of the city near the Washington Navy Yard intent on lynching the suspects involved in the incident. This mob beat two black citizens with clubs and lead pipes and injured several more. On the 20th, a white mob beat two blacks in front of the White House. Shortly thereafter, soldiers attacked a group of blacks near the American League Baseball Park. On Monday, 21 July, four black men in a speeding car fired eight shots at a white sentry and several patients at the naval hospital in Georgetown.18 Another black man stabbed a white Marine near the White House, and a black woman shot and killed a white detective who had entered her home to investigate a shooting in the area. That night, a group of black men and women in a car sped through the streets of Washington, firing at various white pedestrians. This group wounded a policeman, a soldier, and several others before police managed to stop the car and kill the driver. On Tuesday, a mob of 2,000 whites attempted to attack a black section of the city but were dispersed by mounted troops aided by a heavy downpour of rain. More than 800

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6 | The Black Sailor

Federal troops and numerous police finally quelled the disturbance on the 23d. In all, six people lost their lives in the incident, and more than 70 others were injured. It was the worst riot in Washington to date, and the first 1919 riot to receive national attention by the press.19 By the end of the summer, rioting had spread to more than twentyfive American cities. In Chicago, 23 blacks and 15 whites died, and more than 290 people of both races were wounded in a conflagration on 27 July, which began as a stone-throwing fight between black and white youths at a local whites-only beach. During the unrest that followed, white sailors stationed at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center participated in the beating and killing of black citizens caught in the downtown “Loop” area of the city. Significantly, the role of white sailors in the riot received much publicity in the Chicago Defender, one of the most widely read black papers in the country.20 As in Charleston and Washington, the causes of unrest in Chicago were complex. Massive troop demobilizations, competition for jobs between whites and blacks, urban overcrowding, and a local media prone to sensationalism were major reasons. However, it is significant for this book that white sailors helped provoke the riots and that all three events occurred near major naval shore facilities: the Navy connection to the riots of 1919 left an indelible impression on African Americans. Relations between the “white” Navy and the black community improved little during the course of years leading to World War II. In 1932, blacks constituted just over one-half of 1 percent of the enlisted force (441 out of a force of 81,120), and 1 out of every 4 blacks in the Navy served as messmen.21 One year later, the Navy again opened the steward branch to blacks, but blacks did not begin to enter the Navy in significant numbers until after America’s entry into World War II. Illustrating the complete absurdity of these policies was a black mess attendant named Doris Miller. During the attack on Pearl Harbor, Miller was collecting laundry when he heard the call for general quarters. He headed for his battle station, the antiaircraft battery magazine amidship, only to discover that torpedo damage had wrecked it, so he went on deck, where he was assigned to carry the wounded to places of greater safety. An officer then ordered him to the bridge to aid the mortally wounded captain of the ship. He subsequently manned an antiaircraft machine gun until he ran out of ammunition and was ordered to abandon ship. For his heroism, the Navy awarded Miller the Navy Cross, the nation’s second-highest award for gallantry.22 Miller’s deed

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The Black Sailor | 7

proved that blacks were just as capable as whites in performing all the duties required of a sailor. The manpower demands created by that war necessitated a change in racial policies, but the Navy initially resisted the pressures. In March 1942, President Roosevelt finally ordered Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox to begin accepting more blacks; Knox responded by enlisting more blacks for general service, but only in segregated units. By 1945, some 166,915 blacks were serving in the Navy (5.5 percent of the total enlisted force). Half of these men still served as cooks and stewards, and a third, as unrated seamen in black labor and base companies. Only 64 blacks received an officer’s or warrant officer’s commission—.02 percent of the total Navy officer corps.23 Among the first African Americans to receive officer commissions were the “Golden Thirteen.”24 In January 1944, the Navy selected a group of 16 black sailors to attend the V-12 officer training program, a college commissioning program similar in some respects to the modern Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps (NROTC) system.25 Of this number, 12 graduated with commissions and 1 became a warrant officer, apparently because he lacked a college education. The subject became a cover story in Life magazine and inspired many African Americans throughout the nation, but it did not end segregation in the Navy.26 During the war, the Pittsburgh Courier, the nation’s leading black newspaper, waged a “Double V” campaign to defeat fascism abroad and discrimination at home, but as the numbers reveal, discrimination ended up being a more insidious enemy. The Port Chicago mutiny epitomized this struggle. Located thirty-five miles north of San Francisco, Port Chicago served as a munitions transshipment facility. It was staffed mainly by poorly trained black sailors organized into ordnance battalions. These men worked around the clock loading explosives onto ships under extremely dangerous conditions. On the evening of 17 July 1944, munitions exploded on a pier, detonating the contents of the merchant ship E. A. Bryan and spinning another empty merchant vessel, Quinalt Victory, into the air. The seismic shock of the explosion could be felt as far away as Las Vegas, Nevada, and the blast caused damage forty-eight miles across the bay in San Francisco. All 320 men on loading duty that evening died. Of this number, 220 were black, and these deaths represented 15 percent of all black Navy casualties of World War II.27 A month later, 258 black sailors refused to load ammunition at Mare Island, a large naval shipyard located in northern California, to protest

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8 | The Black Sailor

“The Golden Thirteen,” the first African American U.S. Navy officers, photographed 17 March 1944. They are (bottom row, left to right): Ensign James E. Hare, USNR; Ensign Samuel E. Barnes, USNR; Ensign George C. Cooper, USNR; Ensign William S. White, USNR; Ensign Dennis D. Nelson, USNR; (middle row, left to right): Ensign Graham E. Martin, USNR; Warrant Officer Charles B. Lear, USNR; Ensign Phillip G. Barnes, USNR; Ensign Reginald E. Goodwin, USNR; (top row, left to right): Ensign John W. Reagan, USNR; Ensign Jesse W. Arbor, USNR; Ensign Dalton L. Baugh, USNR; Ensign Frank E. Sublett, USNR. This official Navy photo appeared on the cover of Life Magazine. (U.S. Navy)

the appalling conditions under which they worked. The Navy drummed 208 of these men out of the service with bad conduct discharges and sentenced another 50 to prison terms of between eight and fifteen years. After the war in 1946, President Harry Truman commuted the sentences of the men but did not offer them clemency or honorable discharges.28

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The Black Sailor | 9

In 1944, black sailors again lashed out against the oppressive conditions they confronted in the service. At Guam, whites of the Third Marine Division attempted to prevent blacks, most of whom were sailors, from visiting native women who lived in the capital, Agana. White Marines sought to intimidate blacks by hurling insults, rocks, and occasionally smoke grenades at a cantonment area for black sailors of the Guam Naval Supply Depot. The situation turned violent in mid-December after an off-duty white military policeman fired at some blacks in Agana, hitting no one; a white sailor shot to death a black Marine in a quarrel over a woman; and a Marine guard reacted to harassment by fatally wounding his tormentor, a white Marine.29 Rumors soon started to fly about these incidents among the black sailors of the naval supply depot, and on Christmas night, forty-three black sailors armed themselves with knives and clubs and invaded a camp that housed white Marines. The ensuing riot resulted in the arrest and imprisonment of the forty-three black sailors who carried out the attack.30 Three months later, a Mississippi-born, white battalion commander sparked a two-day hunger strike by 1,000 black Seabees at Port Hueneme, California, by displaying racial bias in promotions and quarters assignments. The black Seabees, all veterans of overseas tours, reacted to the discrimination in a peaceful manner by continuing to perform their duties but without food. This thoughtful response prevented the Navy from charging the Seabees with mutiny. Furthermore, an official investigation ultimately recommended that the battalion commander in question be replaced.31 The events in Guam and California did not go unnoticed in Washington. When Secretary Frank Knox died in April 1944, Roosevelt elevated Under Secretary of the Navy James V. Forrestal to the post. Before the war, this former investment banker had worked with the National Urban League on civil rights issues, and upon assuming the position of secretary of the Navy he became a strong advocate for black sailors. He told Admiral King, the CNO, during the summer of 1944, “I don’t think that our Navy negro personnel are getting a square break. I want to do something about it.”32 Forrestal proposed integrating blacks into the crew of auxiliaries, not to exceed 10 percent. He argued that such a move would boost morale and break up large concentrations of blacks in shore facilities. In February 1945, he published the Guide to Command of Negro Naval Personnel, which declared, “The Navy accepts no theories of racial differences in inborn ability, but expects that every

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10 | The Black Sailor

man wearing its uniform be trained and used in accordance with his maximum individual capacity determined on the basis of individual performance.”33 In short, the Navy rejected segregation but stopped short of advocating policies aimed at making minority representation in all ranks proportional to black representation in society.34 It instead asserted that merit would be the sole determinant for career placement throughout the service. The highlight of the early cold war period for African Americans in the military was the signing of Executive Order 9981 in 1948 by President Harry S. Truman. This order established a policy of “equality of treatment and opportunity for all persons in the armed services without regard to race, color, religion, or national origin.” In theory at least, it paved the way for greater opportunities for blacks in the Navy. In practice, the Navy’s emphasis on qualitative recruitment and merit promotion meant that blacks actually lost ground during most of this period. Despite Forrestal’s strong commitment to civil rights, the number of black officers in the Navy declined from a wartime peak of sixty to just three reserve officers on extended active duty by 1946. In the enlisted grades, 62 percent of all blacks in the Navy still served as stewards on the eve of Truman’s desegregation order in 1948. The situation was so bad that Forrestal’s successor, John L. Sullivan, commented that the service had “slipped back into its comfortable prewar ways, with enlisted blacks waiting on white officers.”35 Black officers commissioned during World War II tended to be older than newly commissioned ensigns and therefore not as easy to promote. Moreover, the NROTC commissioned only sixteen new black officers between 1946 and 1948. One reason that NROTC failed to produce more black officer material was that it did not establish any programs at black colleges. Civil rights leaders did not press to change this situation because they feared that black schools would attract the best and brightest black officer candidates, thus demonstrating that “separate but equal” facilities were the best solution to the military’s minority recruitment problems. Another problem had to do with the poor image of the service in the eyes of America’s black community. Lieutenant Dennis D. Nelson, one of the Navy’s few black officers in the 1940s, learned just how deeply African Americans resented the U.S. Navy during a recruitment tour in the 1948–1949 school year. After addressing 17,000 black high school seniors, this World War II veteran managed to persuade just 90 students to take the NROTC examination.36

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The Naval Academy could have helped the service to solve the officer recruitment problem, but it too failed miserably in this regard. It did not graduate a single black officer until 1949, the year Ensign Wesley Brown finally broke the color barrier. According to Brown’s biographer Robert Schneller, “Pressure along the entire chain of command—from fellow plebes, upperclassmen, midshipmen officers, Executive Department officers, the Secretary of the Navy, and congressmen—crushed the effort to run Brown out and ensured him a level playing field.” It would take three more years, however, until a second black graduated from the academy. In all, the classes of 1950 through 1968 produced fewer than three dozen black graduates. Schneller blames this shortfall on institutional racism in the Navy and the Navy’s policy of racial neglect. The black community’s perception of the Navy as a racist institution discouraged its brightest youth from seeking admission to the Naval Academy, and the “policy of racial neglect prevented the establishment of a permanent minority affairs organization or program charged with recruiting blacks for the Academy.”37 Problems in the area of minority recruitment not only plagued the Navy’s efforts to increase black participation in the officer corps but also extended down to the lowest ranks. In 1948, just 4.3 percent of the enlisted force was black, and most were still concentrated in the steward’s branch. President Truman’s Committee on Equality of Treatment and Opportunity in the Armed Forces attempted to understand why the Navy’s progress was so slow. Headed by George Fahy, a white Georgia lawyer with a liberal attitude toward issues of race, the committee asked Chief of Naval Personnel Vice Admiral William Fechteler, why so few blacks served in the Navy. Fechteler’s response was that blacks were “not a seafaring people.”38 Captain J. H. Schultz, the assistant chief of naval personnel for the Naval Reserve, had a more plausible rationale. “We make no special effort to get any race, creed, or color,” he explained.39 Lieutenant Nelson confirmed this observation by testifying that the Navy had no programs to recruit or commission blacks.40 The Navy reacted to the Fahy Committee’s concern over its dearth of minorities by stepping up efforts to recruit African Americans. During the next several months, the Navy activated five black reserve officers for recruiting service and sent three of these men on a tour through seventeen southern cities to recruit black NROTC candidates. The trip yielded only one suitable candidate for NROTC. Although 2,700 blacks in those cities submitted applications to NROTC, only 250 actually

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12 | The Black Sailor

took the entrance exam, and out of this number, the Navy found only 1 candidate mentally and physically eligible for the program.41 On the eve of the Korean War, the overall number of black personnel in the Navy had declined from 17,518 in 1949 to 14,842 in 1950—just 3.4 percent of the total Navy force.42 By comparison, the Army had nearly four times as many blacks in uniform: 56,446 enlisted men and 1,317 officers. Although most blacks still served in support units, the Army had a higher percentage of black soldiers in 1950 than it had at the end of World War II: 9.8 percent compared with 8.5 percent in 1945.43 Despite their small numbers, black sailors and officers demonstrated their competence in a variety of military occupations in which they had never served previously. A handful distinguished themselves as naval aviators. Lieutenant Frank E. Petersen, the first black Marine to become a naval aviator, flew sixty-four combat missions over Korea in the F4U Corsair. Petersen ultimately retired from Marines as a lieutenant general.44 Others served as surface warfare officers. In the enlisted ranks, blacks found new opportunities serving as clerks and even became medical and dental aides.45 Still, the picture was bleak. During the Korean War, 65 percent of the steward branch was still black. Low test scores among many black recruits precluded them from being assigned to more skilled positions. The Navy also tended to assign blacks to the branch in large numbers because these positions, according to historian Richard E. Miller, were “undesirable for whites.”46 Furthermore, following Philippine independence in 1946, the United States stopped recruiting Filipinos for naval service until 1952, when a “direct procurement” agreement between the two countries allowed the Navy to enlist up to 1,000 Filipinos a year for service as stewards. As a consequence, the branch still offered some of the best opportunities for advancement and promotion for black sailors.47 Following the Korean War, black representation in the Navy continued to slide. African Americans represented 9.5 percent of Navy enlistees in 1956 but then slid to just 3.1 percent during the next six years.48 The reason for this decrease had much to do with the Navy’s emphasis on qualitative recruitment. The Navy rejected so many blacks in the 1950s and 1960s because of their low scores on the Armed Forces Qualification Test (AFQT). The AFQT classified all recruits into five categories based on scores. Those who scored in the 93 through 100

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percentile were classified as category I; 65 through 92 percentile, category II; 31 through 64, category III; 10 through 30, category IV; and 0 through 9, category V. A percentile score of 10 was considered the equivalent of a fifth-grade education. A 1963 Bureau of Personnel study found that approximately 80 percent of draft-aged black males scored in the two lowest categories of the test, compared with 25 percent of white males.49 It should be noted that Navy-sponsored studies in the early 1970s later determined that the AFQT and other Navy entrance exams of the period were culturally biased against blacks. During the Korean War, the Department of Defense (DOD) had allowed the services to accept up to 24 percent of their recruits from category IV. When the buildup ended in the midfifties, the Navy reverted to qualitative recruiting. Between 1957 and 1959, the Navy drastically reduced the percentages of recruits it accepted from category IV and the lower part of category III, in order to reduce training costs and to obtain the maximum effectiveness and permanency of personnel.50 Hence, by 1962, only 5.1 percent of the Navy was black, even though blacks represented 11 percent of the U.S. population at the time. In the officer ranks, the situation was even worse: only 0.2 percent of the Navy’s officer corps was African American in 1962, and most were concentrated in the lower grades (O-1 through O-3). By comparison, blacks constituted 12.2 percent of the Army’s enlisted force and 3.2 percent of its officer corps.51 The Army’s high demand for low-skilled recruits allowed it to more easily meet minority recruitment targets during this period than the Navy. The Army’s emphasis on recruiting men of all skill levels and abilities versus the Navy’s emphasis on qualitative recruitment partially explains this disparity, but so too does the Army’s unique experience with black troops during the Korean War. The poor performance of the allblack 24th Infantry Regiment early in the war convinced that service’s leadership that segregation undermined military effectiveness. After the war, the service strove for a 10 percent quota of black troops in all its units — roughly the same proportion of blacks in the general United States. By the early 1960s, the Army could boast not only of having achieved proportional representation but also that integrated units functioned better and were more combat effective than previously segregated forces.52 In addition to falling short of the other armed services in the area of recruitment, the Navy also lagged behind the other branches when it

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came to assignments for black personnel. Although more black enlisted men began entering technical fields in the early 1960s, one in five still worked in food services—a factor that perpetuated the image of the black sailor as a menial servant.53 De facto segregation also existed at many enlisted clubs on Navy bases (the other services all suffered from this problem), and blacks continued to suffer discrimination off base. Civilian communities near naval bases often prevented black service personnel from living in white neighborhoods and sending their children to white schools. These segregation practices even extended to public swimming pools, movie theaters, bowling alleys, churches, and libraries.54 Ensign Louis Ivey’s career typifies in many respects the segregation experienced daily by black naval personnel in late 1950s and early 1960s. Ivey graduated from the Penn State NROTC program and became the first black officer to ever serve on the battleship New Jersey (BB-62) in 1954.55 His first roommate, a higher-ranking white officer, ordered him to find other quarters, but he eventually formed friendships with other white officers. At various ports of call abroad, such as Cherbourg, France, he found he could move freely without feeling any discrimination, but American ports were a different story. At Norfolk, Virginia, he could not eat at local restaurants or watch movies at theaters with his shipmates, and he was compelled to spend his entire leave on base or on the ship.56 To improve black participation in the Navy as well as the other services, President John F. Kennedy in 1963 formed the Advisory Committee on Equal Opportunity in the Armed Forces and appointed a Washington attorney, Gerhard A. Gesell, as its chair. The Gesell Committee found that Navy was “falling behind the other services” in the area of equal opportunity and suggested “expanding the recruiting teams in black communities, developing special training programs and methods for recruiting African Americans, and setting up recruiting stations on the campuses of black colleges.”57 While the Navy leadership recognized its problems with respect to black recruiting as early as 1963, the situation did not begin to change until the end of the Vietnam War. With the war in full swing, Navy leaders confronted a unique dilemma. On the one hand, large numbers of highly qualified whites eager to avoid being drafted into the Army flocked to recruiting stations; on the other, the Kennedy and Johnson administrations petitioned the service to recruit more blacks, even those

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with lower AFQT scores.58 Throughout the war, Navy leaders, anxious to recruit the best possible sailors to fight the war, chose to ignore demands to fill racial quotas and instead continued the trend of qualitative recruitment. This situation would not change until Nixon began scaling back the draft in the early 1970s—a move that ultimately compelled the Navy to begin actively recruiting low test category persons of all races into the Navy.

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2 Racial Unrest Strikes the Army and Marines

The U.S. Army and Marine Corps experienced serious racial unrest several years earlier than the Navy and the Air Force. The reasons for this have more to do with the draft than with the institutional culture of the Army or Marines. During the Vietnam War, many draftaged American youth perceived the ground services as the most dangerous way of fulfilling their commitment to Uncle Sam. As a consequence, many joined the Navy or the Air Force to avoid ground combat in the jungles of Southeast Asia. This meant that while the Navy and the Air Force often had their pick of recruits, the ground services struggled to fill their ranks with the draft and also by lowering recruiting standards. As a consequence, many more black males entered the Army and Marine Corps than their sister services during much of the Vietnam War. By 1968, blacks constituted 12.6 percent of the Army, 10.1 percent of the Marines, and 11 percent of all enlisted in Vietnam. More significantly, 31 percent of all combat troops in Vietnam and 24 percent of fatal casualties in the war were black.1 Without question, the draft hit the African American community extremely hard. The Vietnam era Selective Service System traces its origins to 1948, when the demands of the cold war compelled the United States to reinstitute the draft to fill vacancies in the armed services that could not be filled by voluntary means. During the Korean War, the military drafted 1,529,539 men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, and in Vietnam, the figure jumped to 1,857,304.2 Up until 1971, local draft boards wielded tremendous power over who got drafted and who received deferments. Boards typically granted deferments to university students, members of the National Guard and Reserves, persons who opposed the war, and those able to prove a physical or mental disability. Often composed of white veterans from World War II, these bodies

16

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tended to be more sympathetic to white petitions for deferments than black ones. As historian Bernard Nalty explains, “Draft boards applied standards of their own, reflecting the views of those who exercised political or economic power within a community.”3 Furthermore, blacks, because of their low economic standing, rarely could afford to attend college full-time, so college deferments were beyond the reach of most. Approximately 11 percent of military-aged males in America were black, yet the Army draft rates for this group during the war often exceeded 18.5 percent. In 1967, 29 percent of black men were eligible for conscription, compared with 63 percent of whites, yet the armed services drafted 64 percent of the black pool, compared with only 31 percent of the white.4 The DOD initiative, Project 100,000, exacerbated the situation. Launched in 1966 by Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, Project 100,000 sought to ease the Army and Marine Corps manpower shortages and also lift unemployed and poorly educated youth out of poverty by lowering recruiting standards. Military employment for disadvantaged youth, reasoned McNamara, would provide these men with valuable skills, a structured environment, and, most important, a steady paycheck. Despite its lofty goals, Project 100,000 ultimately became a program to provide cannon fodder for the ground services and forestall the mobilization of the National Guard and Reserves—havens for middle-class white youths seeking to avoid combat in Vietnam. When the draft was scaled down in the early 1970s, Project 100,000 also became a tool used by Navy and the Air Force to meet recruitment quotas. Forty-one percent of the first 240,000 men enlisted under the new standards were poor, black high school dropouts, and most ended up in Army infantry units in Vietnam.5 Before Project 100,000 was initiated, 50 percent of blacks recruited for the armed services failed to meet eligibility standards; after the program began, only 30 percent failed.6 The men who entered the Army via the Project 100,000 initiative often were high school dropouts from broken families. An Army report on 29 personnel who entered the service in spite of being mentally unqualified by military standards stated: Nearly all had come from either broken homes or those in which argument and violence were common. Several of the young men had been affected by over-control, nagging, and excessive physical punishment. More had been affected by insufficient control. Almost all of them had

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found it necessary to go to work at an early age. Four had prison records. Only three of the 29 had ever learned to play baseball or other common games. A defeatist attitude in competition characterized the entire group. As a group, they were easily swayed.7

But this group was not necessarily unhappy to be in the service. After six months of training, 59 percent of this group achieved minimum Army standards and requested to remain in the Army for additional training. The Army discharged the remaining men for failing to meet minimum standards.8 As this study shows, many blacks found military service agreeable and became careerists during the Vietnam War period—another factor that explains why so many blacks lost their lives in Vietnam.9 For men lacking skills and education, a military job was often highly desirable. “We join because of the pride and the $55 extra a month,” explained paratrooper Lawrence Harkness; “it’s a challenge [and] the brother likes a challenge. We’re tough and we want everyone to know it.”10 Military service allowed Harkness and other men like him to transcend their social backgrounds and achieve a modicum of success in an “elite” organization. For this reason and others, blacks reenlisted twice as often as whites during the war.11 Some blacks also appreciated the equal opportunity emphasized by the armed services. “I don’t know if I could live as a civilian,” Marine Staff Sergeant Leon Thomas stated. “I could work at a job for eight years and no one would give me a promotion and I’d probably have no recourse. But here in the Marines, you can see your progress and you can have responsibility.”12 The Marine Corps attracted many talented black recruits like Thomas because of its elite image and because it promised equal treatment for those who could meet its rigid physical and mental requirements. But not every black man who entered the corps during the period did so willingly. The manpower demands of the Vietnam War compelled this elite service to draft approximately 15 percent of its personnel between 1966 and 1970 (a total of 44,000 men), and many of these conscripts wound up in Vietnam.13 As historian Ronald Spector noted, “It was popularly observed at the time that there were only three classes of Marines: those in Vietnam, those recently returned from Vietnam, and those getting ready to go.”14 Black activists of the period viewed military service, whether voluntary or involuntary, with disdain. Stokely Carmichael, the chairman of

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the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and one of the founders of the black power movement, viewed the plight of the black man in the Army as similar to that of a mercenary. Speaking on NBC’s Meet the Press in 1966, Carmichael explained that a mercenary is a hired killer and I think that when this country says to a black youth in the ghetto and to black youths in the rural south that their only chance for a decent living is to join the Army, and they throw all sorts of rationalizations about how you can get skills, and there is a chance to advance, et cetera, et cetera, it is saying to that black man that his only chance for a decent life is to become a hired killer because that’s his sole function in the Army.15

Eldridge Cleaver, the minister of information for the Black Panther Party from 1967 to 1971, claimed that the “black man’s interest lies in seeing a free and independent Vietnam, a strong Vietnam which is not a puppet of international white supremacy.”16 Both Carmichael and Cleaver were central figures in the black power movement of the 1960s. An umbrella term for the more militant wing of the civil rights movement, black power became a major unifying force and rallying cry for many African Americans in the armed forces in the late 1960s and early 1970s. It served to reinforce the identification between these men and their compatriots in ghettos across the nation. To some, it represented racial dignity and self-reliance—the idea that black people and other peoples of color throughout the world share a unique culture separate from that of whites. To others, it was a rallying cry for violent revolution and the rejection of U.S. imperialism abroad. Almost all black power advocates asserted that black communities should strive for self-determination rather than integration. Many black power advocates urged their communities to strike back against white violence—a theme that resonated deeply for young urban blacks, increasingly disenchanted with Martin Luther King’s strategy of nonviolence. Young adherents to black power looked in particular to Malcolm X for direction. This famous Black Muslim had earlier argued that blacks must take pride in their skin color and begin to assert control over their own destinies. Rather than suggesting that a black person turn the other cheek when slapped by a white, Malcolm X’s advice was more streetwise: “Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery.”17

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Malcolm X also had called for a revolt of the American Negro against a society intent on victimizing him. The Black Panther Party, the most prominent organization advocating black power, epitomized the more violent side of black power. Between 1968 and 1970, it battled with police departments in a handful of major cities, and several of its leaders were killed, imprisoned, or made fugitives from the police. On a less organized level, the Watts riot of 1965 and the subsequent riots in scores of cities across the nation were an indirect manifestation of black power and the increasing dissatisfaction young blacks felt toward their lot in life. In Watts alone, more than 50,000 blacks participated in the five-day riot in 1965, causing $200 million dollars of damage and requiring 14,000 National Guardsmen to quell it. The Newark riot of 1967 led to the deaths of more than 20 blacks and the wounding of 1,200 others when the police and National Guard attempted to quell with live ammunition what the New Jersey governor labeled as a “city in open rebellion.” In Detroit that same year, National Guardsmen, firing without discipline, killed another 90 blacks, wounded more than 4,000, and made more than 17,000 arrests in one of the bloodiest riots in American history. The assassination of Martin Luther King touched off a final round of riots in 1968, the worst of which occurred in Washington, D.C. By the end of that year, police reported more than 50,000 arrests and 8,000 casualties in the 300 riots that occurred across the nation between 1965 and 1968.18 Black power ideas permeated the military in much the same way they filtered through the general black society, starting in areas where the concentration of blacks was highest. In the mid-1960s, the Army had far and away the largest percentage of black servicemen. In the words of historian Herman Graham III, “Black consciousness offered a way for racially ‘brainwashed’ GIs to deprogram their ingrained attitudes so that they could experience a sense of personal power through their own culture and relationships with their black brothers.”19 They accomplished this end by congregating informally in their barracks or hootches to engage in rap sessions about racial matters. They also established formal organizations at installations such as the Malcolm X Association, Unsatisfied Black Soldiers, Better Blacks United, and De Mau Mau. Like their brethren in the civilian world, black enlisted members of all the services, including the Navy, began greeting each other via black power salutes and a series of complex handshakes called “dapping.” The dap required two men to engage in a ritual of hand slapping, finger

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snapping, and pounding of the upper body of another man to transfer power to that individual. Men from different units had their own special dap. The dap provided blacks with a unique alternative to the traditional military salute. “If you come to a mess hall,” one black soldier explained, “you would go around to all the tables and give up this dap to every black man in the place before you would sit down to eat.”20 Dapping irritated officers, because it mocked the military salute, and white soldiers, because it often lengthened queues at the mess hall. One critic complained, “It looks like a kind of game you see kids playing.”21 But to blacks, the dap was a very important bond between men. Lonnie Alexander explained its significance as follows: Instead of grabbing the old hand and shaking hands and pulling and yanking, you do the [dap], because it was . . . like making love to the brother. [I]t’s like . . . telling a brother: “Now, look OK—I can talk to you about whatever you want to talk about.” You know all this comes out of a dap. You’re naturally free with him. You understand? He’s your brother, and like I say if you’ve got an emotional problem, you feel like crying or carrying on, he won’t laugh at you. Because he’s not there to laugh at you, he’s there to help.22

In contrast to the military salute, which was a mandatory display of respect rendered to a superior, a dap was a voluntary expression of friendship and solidarity. Another display of black masculinity and power was the Afro hairstyle. To the American black community at the time, Afros made men look more virile. Long, bushy black hair also represented a rejection of the white aesthetic. In the military context, it was a rebellion against military regulations that demanded close-cropped hair. Some commanders initially resisted this trend by ordering African American soldiers to keep their hair “high and tight,” but by the early 1970s, most services, including the Navy, relaxed their hair policies to allow for modified Afros for blacks and longer hair and sideburns for all sailors. It should be noted that black sailors were not alone in their countercultural displays. Many white sailors also grew sideburns and long hair, wore mod clothes, and enjoyed flashing the peace sign.23 Besides growing Afros, black soldiers began wearing black sunglasses, black armbands, black shirts, and black gloves. Some carried walking sticks, known as “dap sticks,” with Black Panther heads on

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the handles, and hung red, black, and green Pan-African flags in their rooms. During their off-hours, they listened to soul music and ate food such as barbequed ribs, turnips, and chitterlings. In Saigon, the Khanh area of the city, known as Soul Alley, catered almost exclusively to the black GI community by serving soul food in local restaurants, playing soul music at clubs, and recruiting dark-skinned women from Cambodia to serve as bartenders and prostitutes.24 During the late 1960s and early 1970s, increased drug use among enlisted personnel in all the services contributed to racial polarization by exacerbating antisocial behavior by both races. Due to the widespread availability of cheap drugs in Vietnam, Thailand, and the Philippines, drug use in the armed services skyrocketed during the Vietnam War. A poll of more than 2,000 Army soldiers at a Vietnam transit center in 1969 indicated that more than 50 percent used marijuana at least once in Vietnam, and more than 31 percent admitted to having smoked the drug more than 200 times during their yearlong tour of duty.25 The Marines, similarly, faced a marijuana problem of epidemic proportions. Colonel Peter J. Mulroney, USMC, the commander of the Twelfth Marines, noted: Its use is more widespread than anyone would care to admit. Every one of my battalions had investigations going all the time. It is almost impossible to keep somebody that wants to get marijuana from getting it. [It’s] sold at every roadside ville [hamlet], peddled by all the civilians. . . . You would have to have an officer or NCO on every vehicle to prevent them from getting it.26

Major Ives W. Neely, commander of Maintenance Company, Force Logistic Supply Group Bravo, noted that 70 to 80 percent of his company was using marijuana in 1969.27 “You could get a big baggie for $5,” explained former Army military policeman Ken Cowan. “People did it in their hootches, and no one ever got busted.”28 According to Ronald Spector, the five largest marijuana farms in the Mekong Delta harvested 3,200 kilograms (7,054 pounds) annually—a $2.2 million annual cash crop.29 Marijuana, while being the most widespread drug in Vietnam, was not the only substance abused. After the invasion of Cambodia in 1970, heroin began to flood into Vietnam. Heroin overdose deaths shot up from two a month during the spring of 1970 to two a day by the fall.30

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Soldiers often laced tobacco cigarettes with heroin, making it very difficult for authorities to detect the drug. “Heroin was absolutely rampant over there,” recalled Army sergeant Clifford Prosser. “In any latrine over there — in MP companies as well as infantry units — you could look through the hole and see hundreds of little plastic thumb-size jugs, somewhat larger than a thimble, that had held heroin.” According to Prosser, a soldier could sustain a full-blown heroin addiction in Vietnam for as little as twenty dollars a day.31 Major General Allen Armstrong, the commander of the Third Marine Amphibious Brigade, reported that one Marine air group “had a heroin problem that I viewed as an operational problem, not an administrative problem.”32 Alcoholism proved to be as much of a problem for the services as drugs during this period, especially since liquor was considered more socially acceptable than drugs. In Vietnam, clubs and PXs sold alcohol at rock-bottom prices. Soldiers could purchase a fifth (approximately 750 milliliters) of alcohol for a dollar in 1969 ($5.5 in 2006 dollars). “I was drinking two quarts of Old Grand-Dad, 100 proof, every day,” a soldier explained. “You needed it to keep going. . . . You saw so much happening.”33 Such abuse often led to fights, accidents, or even homicides, yet as Ronald Spector points out, the generals “tolerated or ignored” alcohol abuse as “as long as a man kept his behavior within certain broad bounds.”34 They perceived alcohol use as an acceptable stress reliever. Furthermore, whereas routine urinalysis ultimately curbed drug abuse in the armed services, alcohol abuse continued to plague the military throughout the 1970s. Admiral James Holloway, during his first week as CNO in 1974, visited the naval base at Norfolk, Virginia, and was appalled by the alcohol abuse he encountered. His car came to a crawl at 11:30 a.m. because so many sailors were heading to the club for their daily two-martini lunches. “I asked the captain of the base, who was escorting me,” he later explained, “where the sailors were going. He replied, ‘They’re going to the Enlisted Club. We’ve got a great deal. Our E Club is really making money. During the week, from 1130 to 1230 we offer a martini happy hour, two drinks for the price of one, and we have topless go-go dancers, too.’ ”35 Unrest fueled by drugs, alcohol, black power ideology, and de facto segregated conditions came to a head on 29 August 1968 at the U.S. Army Stockade outside of Long Binh, Vietnam. Known informally as the Long Binh Jail, or simply LBJ, the installation was constructed to hold 400 men, but by 1968 it housed more than 719 inmates, 48 percent

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of whom were Americans. Many prisoners, white and black, were in jail on drug convictions and other relatively minor offenses.36 Conditions in the stockade were appalling. The Army housed fourteen or more men in 518-square-foot tents. Maximum-security prisoners lived in 61-by-81-foot wood and sheet metal boxes or Conex shipping containers that were 6 feet high, 9 feet wide, and 6 feet long. Temperatures often exceeded 110 degrees in these poorly ventilated, cramped boxes.37 During the day, many prisoners worked in a large sandpit, called “Big Red,” filling sandbags with red clay dirt.38 According to Army regulations at the time, 280 trained military police (MPs) were required to adequately control the facility. By the summer of 1968, however, the prison only had 90 permanent guards and 63 temporary guards (men drawn from other units with no correctional experience).39 Lack of training combined with crowded conditions led to brutality. “The attitude among both personnel and prisoners was bad,” explained Lieutenant Colonel William Keyes, a confinement officer at LBJ. “As a matter of fact, I had one sergeant guard who wasn’t too bright who told me how he didn’t believe in beating inmates like some guys. He would take them into the latrine, take the head off the shower and shove their face up there into the water until they started choking and then they were good boys after that.” According to LBJ historian Cecil Barr Currey, “Midnight showers were a way guards dealt with inmates, sometimes on an almost casual basis.”40 An Army inspector general investigated twenty-one cases of MP brutality for the period 1 September 1968 through 13 January 1969 and found four guards willing to confess to either beating a prisoner or witnessing a beating.41 Clifford Prosser, an MP, admitted to being a jailyard enforcer. “If a prisoner caused trouble,” he explained, “we went in a cell and duked it out with him if that was necessary. It was our job. That happened a number of times.” Even medical personnel occasionally got into the act. Prosser claims that he once witnessed the camp doctor shoot a syringe of cold water into the buttocks of a prisoner who often turned up at sick call to “teach him a lesson. . . . His rear end lumped up like a tennis ball and he ricocheted around the room, screaming and hollerin,’ bouncing right off the walls. Needless to say we had no more problem with him going on sick call.”42 For young black prisoners assigned to LBJ, one of the few outlets for their tensions and anger was illegal drugs. Vietnamese often sold drugs to prisoners during work details. To try and ease the drug problem in

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1968, Colonel Vernon Johnson, the stockade commandant, ordered guards to strip-search prisoners after work details beyond the camp boundaries. Enter the law of unintended consequences. While the searches did reduce the supply of drugs in the stockade, they also set off a chain of events that ultimately led to the riot. Black prisoners, humiliated by constant strip searches and suffering drug withdrawal, were more willing to lash out against the system than they had been before the drug searches. The riot that resulted, though, was not just about drugs. It was also a distinctly black affair—the sum total of frustrations caused by the war, the draft, and a racially polarized military. “There were no whites involved [in planning the riot],” stated former inmate Jimi Childress. “We were mad at anything white, you understand. What it was? It was hate that a lot of blacks had towards whites period. Bein’ out in the boonies, seein’ their friends killed, seein’ it’s a form of genocide, hearing Martin Luther King killed. It was just a hatred of anything white.”43 In the days leading up to the riot, a syndicate of black inmates damaged the locks of their cells by cramming cigarette filters into the keyholes and setting them on fire. On the night of 29 August, two small groups of black prisoners from the B Compound broke out of their cells. These prisoners overpowered several guards, forcibly removed their keys, and freed hundreds of prisoners, who streamed into the main yard of the stockade. The escaped men then set fire to a number of buildings and armed themselves with makeshift weapons such as metal or wood bars from bunks, as well as knives from the stockade kitchen. As the prisoners advanced, they freed more prisoners, beat any guards they found, and chanted, “Kill those white fucking guards. Let’s get those chucks.”44 Black inmates managed to find and beat a few guards, but most guards escaped unharmed. Many white prisoners were not as lucky. One inmate remembered hearing a black prisoner “comment that he was going to show his brothers how to ‘fuck a chuck up good’ or words to that effect. He . . . kicked me in the chest. I was kicked in the testicles and stomach by two Negroes.” Another white inmate claimed that black prisoners tied his hands behind his back and beat him with sticks and bunk adaptors (metal tubes used to turn single beds into bunk beds). The only prisoner to die in the riot was a white inmate named Edward Haskett, who was struck repeatedly on the head with a shovel.45

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Shortly after the riot began, Colonel Johnson and First Lieutenant Ernest B. Talps walked unarmed into the compound toward the rioting prisoners. Johnson got into a heated discussion with one inmate, C. Planter, and then ordered Talps to take Planter out of the compound. The remaining prisoners then went to work on Johnson. “I saw Lieutenant Colonel Johnson running towards the main gate,” Talps later explained. “He was staggering and almost stumbling. He was bleeding from the head. I helped him out the gate and some MPs rushed him to the hospital.”46 Johnson’s injuries proved serious enough for the Army to medically evacuate him to the United States. Twenty-four other prisoners and one guard were also injured in the riot.47 Forty-five minutes into the riot, a phalanx of MPs and custodial personnel moved into the compound with fixed bayonets. These men, using liberal amounts of tear gas, restored order over most of the prison by 1:00 p.m. Approximately 200 hard-core rioters held out in the Big Red area. The MPs cordoned off the area but did not attempt to enter it. The MPs provided the holdouts with canned rations and water and waited for individual inmates to give themselves up. After a monthlong siege, the core group dwindled to about 15 prisoners, most of whom were in LBJ for serious crimes. The new stockade commander, Colonel Ivan “The Terrible” Nelson, ended the siege by sending in a squad of guards with bayonets. Except for one prisoner, all the holdouts surrendered without a fight.48 The Army picked Nelson to restore order to the camp because, as his nickname suggested, he had a reputation for being a disciplinarian. Nelson replaced most of the tents in the compound with Conex boxes, but he had them painted silver to reflect light, cut more airholes in them, and put most of them under canopies.49 He also eased crowding by sending men who were guilty or awaiting trial for minor crimes back to their units. Nelson tolerated no more nonsense at the stockade. He fired any MPs caught in possession of drugs and used sniffer dogs to find drugs in the MP barracks. With the prisoners, he was even stricter. According to MP Clerk Mike Doherty, “There was no more diddly-boppin or Black Power salutes or peace signs or special handshakes. All prisoners marched or ran at all times everywhere. When they encountered an officer, they had to stop and stand at attention until the officer told them to move on.”50 Nelson employed intensive work details, physical training, sweatboxes, and military drill to mold LBJ into a model prison. As

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Colonel Herbert Green, an Army JAG officer, put it, “The stockade became a place where prisoners didn’t blink without permission.”51 The LBJ riot was the worst prison riot in Army history and the most severe outbreak of racial unrest in the Army. The Army also experienced lesser degrees of racial unrest at numerous other installations in Asia, Europe, and the continental United States, including Fort Dix, New Jersey; Fort Hood, Texas; and Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Racial unrest also struck the Marine Corps hard.52 Two weeks before the LBJ riot, on 16 August 1968, prisoners at the III Marine Amphibious Force (MAF) Brig rioted and took over the prison for twenty-four hours. The mainly black prisoners burned cellblocks, looted offices, and beat prisoners suspected of being informants. Marine guards ultimately compelled the rioters to surrender by blanketing the place with tear gas.53 At Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, black Marines upset at being assigned menial work on base rioted in the spring of 1969, killing 1 white Marine. At Kaneohe Marine Air Station in Hawaii, 250 black and white Marines went at each other with makeshift weapons after some 50 black Marines rendered a black power salute during a lowering of the colors. The clash injured 16 men, 2 of whom required hospitalization.54 During 1970, a total of 1,060 violent racial incidents took place in the Marine Corps. One of the most vicious occurred at the Marine Force Logistic Command’s Camp Brooks near Da Nang in Vietnam on 5 February 1970. That night, the Chiffons, an Australian girl band, performed at the maintenance battalion’s enlisted club. The band had been warned about racial tensions on the base but pressed on with the show anyway in an attempt to boost everyone’s spirits. Four hundred Marines crammed into a fenced in 50-by-30-yard patio at the club, and just as the band began singing its last number, a black Marine lobbed two fragmentation grenades into the small arena. One grenade exploded, killing one Marine and injuring sixty-two others. “Suddenly there was a loud explosion,” a band member recalled, “and sand, stones, bits of wood, and metal from tables and chairs came flying up on the stage.” Investigators later discovered that four black Marines had planned and carried out the attack. One of them, Lance Corporal Joseph Jones, went into the club first and warned the small number of blacks in the facility to leave. Corporal Andrew Harris then lobbed the grenades over the fence, boasting to his coconspirators that he was “going to fire a whole bunch of beasts up.” Captain Mark Wood, one of the JAG officers who

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investigated the affair, claimed that the attack was a “deliberate, carefully thought out attempt to kill a hell of a lot of people strictly because of racial problems.” Historians will never know how many of the 1,017 documented fraggings (acts of violence by American soldiers and Marines against fellow armed service members) in Vietnam were racially motivated, but as this incident reveals, some did contain a racial element.55 While the Army and Marine Corps struggled to control growing racial unrest during the 1968–1970 period, the Air Force remained relatively free from the problem until 1971. Again, the draft was the primary cause of this disparity. The Air Force managed technologies that required a highly skilled workforce. The Air Force also operated from relatively safe bases in rear areas of Vietnam or in Thailand. Hence, like the Navy, it became a haven for bright youths seeking to avoid combat in Vietnam, and it did not have to recruit educationally disadvantaged individuals until the draft was scaled back in the early 1970s. The Air Force, to its credit, did make some efforts to achieve a degree of proportional representation in its ranks, but most of its major initiatives yielded only marginal results. For example, it increased black officer recruitment by 50 percent in the early 1960s, but the percentage of black officers in the Air Force still stood at only 2 percent by 1965.56 As with the Navy, once the Air Force began recruiting large numbers of lower test category in the early 1970s, all the ingredients for racial unrest came together. In May 1971, a fight between a white and a black airman over the volume of a record player escalated into a full-blown riot at Travis Air Force Base—an installation located fifty-three miles northwest of San Francisco. At one point, Air Force security police in full riot gear and 70 policemen from local communities battled 200 brawling black and white airmen. In the end, security forces arrested 135 men (including 25 whites), and more than 30 airmen and officers were treated at the base hospital for riot related injuries.57 According to historian Alan L. Gropman, “The Travis riot shocked the Air Force into a vast expansion of the equal opportunity office within the Directorate of Personnel Planning” and “precipitated a restructuring of all programs dealing with equal opportunity.” The Air Force headquarters created a new Social Actions Directorate to monitor all social problems — including race relations, human relations, drug abuse, and alcoholism—and individual bases established similar local programs. It also instituted mandatory race relations instruction for all

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personnel and pushed for the establishment of the Defense Race Relations Institute at Patrick Air Force Base in Florida to provide centralized race relations training to base-level instructors from all services.58 Among other things, Travis demonstrated to the Navy’s senior leadership that racial unrest was beginning to spread beyond the ground services in 1971. In analyzing the event for Admiral Zumwalt, Lieutenant Commander William S. Norman, the special assistant to the CNO for minority affairs, made several very cogent observations in a lessons learned report: • Any commander who assumes he has no racial problem is making a mistake. • No grievance, even if seemingly trivial, should be dismissed as just another GI gripe. • Commanders must get out of their offices and talk with the troops. Human relations councils can be useful if the men on the councils really represent the troops and if they are given the power to make significant changes. • Discipline should be enforced uniformly. Keep close tabs on courtsmartial and Article 15s for signs of discrimination. • If a man thinks he has a problem—whether he does or not—the command has a problem. • Pulling rank is no substitute for leadership. Today’s serviceman, like the sophisticated equipment he operates, is more sensitive and complex than in the past. • No installation in the armed services is immune to serious violence.59 To Zumwalt, who became CNO in 1970, incidents like the one at Travis represented storm clouds that galvanized him and his staff to work relentlessly to enact policies designed to improve the Navy’s racial climate. But one man, no matter how charismatic, cannot move a mountain without broad institutional support for reform. The Navy would have to suffer through its own traumas before true reform could take root.

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3 The Zumwalt Revolution

During his 1967 election campaign, Richard M. Nixon strongly endorsed the concept of an All-Volunteer Force (AVF). Nixon believed that the draft, with its various exemptions for college students, unfairly targeted America’s working class, a core constituency of his new conservative coalition, and rewarded his enemies—college students involved in the antiwar movement. By eliminating the draft in favor of a volunteer force, Nixon hoped to reward blue-collar families hit hard by the war and at the same time confuse and divide the antiwar movement. Once in office, he ordered the Defense Department to phase out the draft by 1973. Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird understood implicitly that the Navy would be most affected by this change because throughout the Vietnam War, it had become a haven for highly qualified individuals seeking to avoid the draft. Without conscription, these individuals would avoid service altogether, compelling the Navy to recruit lower test category personnel, including large numbers of blacks, just as the Army and Marine Corps had been doing throughout the war. Laird believed that the racial unrest suffered by its sister services might soon spread to the Navy. Making morale matters even worse were the poor maintenance condition of many of its ships (caused in part by five years of unrelenting deployments to Southeast Asia) and the fact that the Navy was in the process of downsizing the fleet. Laird, in short, needed a chief of naval operations who not only could rapidly reform what had become America’s most hidebound service with respect to integration and equal opportunity but also could solve a variety of other problems, including transforming the Navy into a smaller yet still potent force. Or, put simply, Zumwalt’s mandate was to shake up the organization and revise the Navy’s force structure to meet the new threats. Most important, he was required to do these tasks—which included building new surface ships —while still saving money.1 While Zumwalt had to play the role of the

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iconoclast by shattering some of the Navy’s worst traditions, he had no intention of starting a Chinese-style cultural revolution in the Navy, nor did he wish to become the Navy’s version of Maximilien Robespierre. “Zumwalt wanted to eliminate the bad traditions, solidify the good ones, and institutionalize new traditions that would carry the Navy through the twentieth century and beyond,” explained his former special assistant for minority affairs, Lieutenant Commander William S. Norman.2 When Elmo R. “Bud” Zumwalt Jr. became CNO in July 1970, the forty-nine-year old admiral was the youngest man ever to hold the office. Deep selected over the heads of thirty-three more senior admirals, this young officer was an unlikely choice to lead the nation’s most traditional service, but a man the Navy sorely needed during the stormy early 1970s. Historian Norman Friedman characterized him as follows: “Zumwalt’s style resembled the charismatic, vigorous military leader of the past, rather than the colorless, bureaucratic manager of the modern armed forces. Whereas another admiral might have stressed continuity, Zumwalt preferred to sharpen the differences between his innovations and previous practices in an attempt to change underlying trends in naval policy and thought.”3 Zumwalt did not begin his life as a pathbreaking innovator. He acquired these skills over time, often through effort and perseverance. The son of two small-town doctors, Zumwalt grew up in Tulare, California, during the Depression. There were many Hispanics in Tulare but few blacks. Zumwalt, a Caucasian, went to school with Mexican American children, played football with them, and became “good friends” with many. His parents, socially progressive physicians, often emphasized to him that race “provided no clue to a person’s character or worth.”4 Zumwalt’s parents were committed to helping and empowering people from all social backgrounds, and their idealism rubbed off on Elmo.5 The Depression did not hit the Zumwalt family as hard as the families of agricultural laborers in Tulare, but Elmo still felt its effects. The household budget was tight because many of his father’s patients could not afford to pay for medical services during these years. Illness also struck two members of the family, wiping out most of the family’s savings and compelling Zumwalt to seek a Naval Academy education because it was free. In 1932, Zumwalt’s brother Bruce developed tubercular meningitis and died. Shortly after Bruce’s death, Elmo’s mother was

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diagnosed with breast cancer. She would battle this cancer for the next seven years and die during Elmo’s first year at the Academy.6 As a child, Zumwalt did not exactly play the part of the future CNO. Although he excelled in high school, eventually becoming his class valedictorian, he also played tackle football and hung out with the wrong crowd. According to his son Elmo III, “He ran with kids who broke windows on Halloween and played touch with their cars at eighty miles per hour.” On one occasion, the future admiral ended up in court for throwing eggs at a hitchhiker. The judge gave him a slap on the wrist, ordering him to perform all family chores for two months.7 Zumwalt’s interest in the Naval Academy grew out of conversations with a rich oilman named P. M. Logan, who captivated the impressionable young man with tales of oceangoing adventures. Strong grades helped Zumwalt compete for a 1939 appointment. Before Elmo left for the academy, he said good-bye for the last time to his dying mother. She made him swear not to come home for the funeral and then bid him a lighthearted farewell. “As I left the bedroom and walked out of the front door,” the admiral later explained, “I knew that was not the way to leave. I knew I would never see her again, so I returned to her room. She was weeping openly. I told her that I didn’t want to go, but she insisted that I must.”8 Three months later, she died. In accordance with her wishes, Zumwalt did not return for the funeral. The two deaths in his family, along with America’s entrance into World War II, transformed Zumwalt into a more serious young man. He graduated from the academy in the top 5 percent of his class and ranked seventh in the midshipmen command structure. The education at the academy, however, did not impress him. As he later recalled, “It was a trade school rather than a college, and I did not emerge from it with a feeling of intellectual satiety, or even fulfillment, though I did have time to do a lot of reading.”9 What impressed Zumwalt more were the events taking place in the Pacific. Wartime manpower demands compelled the Navy to graduate Zumwalt’s class a year early, so he went to sea in 1942 instead of 1943. Initially, he served as an ensign in the engineering department on the destroyer USS Phelps, eventually rising to the rank of lieutenant and battle evaluator—the third-ranking officer on the ship. The highlight of that tour was participating in the invasions of Attu and Kiska in the Aleutians in the spring of 1943.10 From August 1943 until January 1944, he attended training at the

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Operational Training Command, Pacific, in San Francisco, and then shipped off to war again, this time as a battle evaluator in the combat information center (CIC) of the destroyer Robinson (DD 562). With that ship, he participated in several major naval actions, including the Battle of Surigao Strait in October 1944. During that epic battle (one of the four actions collectively known as the Battle of Leyte Gulf), the Robinson joined a screen for five cruisers on the left flank of the northern entrance to Surigao Strait. The destroyers divided into three attack sections and severely mauled the attacking Japanese. By early morning 25 October, the enemy was limping off in retreat, having lost two battleships, two destroyers, and a cruiser. For his role as the head of Robinson’s CIC during that engagement, the Navy awarded Zumwalt a Bronze Star with a “V” device for valor in combat.11 Following the surrender of Japan, Zumwalt was chosen to be the skipper of a captured Japanese troop transport and later a captured gunboat on the Yangtze River. With a small group of heavily armed American sailors and a captured Japanese crew, Zumwalt charted the river for minefields and other hazards. At Shanghai, Zumwalt and his crew assisted Admiral Milton E. “Mary” Miles, the commander of U.S. Naval Forces in China, in disarming Japanese forces still in the city. It was in Shanghai that Zumwalt also met his wife, Mouza Coutelais-duRouche. Mouza, the daughter of a Frenchman and a White Russian, hosted a dinner party that Zumwalt and several other naval officers attended. The two hit it off immediately, and Zumwalt, who was now stationed in Shanghai, began taking Russian lessons from her and going out on dates. Five weeks later, he proposed, and the two were married at a Russian Orthodox church in Shanghai. The marriage would later cause considerable problems for Zumwalt’s career during the cold war period, but it also raised his consciousness. “Seeing Mouza subtly shunned by other Navy wives and officers because of her Russian background had a powerful impact on Zumwalt,” explained Norman; “it made him much more committed to fight against discrimination later on in his career as CNO.”12 After the war, Zumwalt applied and was accepted to medical school. He had not planned to stay in the Navy when he entered the Naval Academy. “I was mostly looking for adventure and the free education,” he later admitted.13 But a chance encounter with General George C. Marshall inspired him to change his mind. At the general’s home in Pinehurst, North Carolina, the two men chatted about the future of

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America’s armed services after the war. Zumwalt informed the general that he planned to get out of the Navy because he did not see much of a future in the service given looming postwar budget cuts. Marshall, a man who had lived through similar cuts in the 1920s, interrupted him. “Young man,” he said, “don’t ever sell the American people short. They have vast reserves of hidden strength ready to use when the crisis is clear. And when the time comes, your country will need dedicated career men like you.”14 Zumwalt never again veered away from a career in blue and gold. Zumwalt continued to serve in a variety of destroyer assignments in the late 1940s. During the Korean War, he was the navigator on the battleship Wisconsin. In this capacity, he had to pilot this huge vessel in mined and restricted waters during naval gunfire support missions against North Korea.15 Between sea assignments, he served in a variety of shore billets, including a year at the Naval War College, an assignment as a detailer in the Bureau of Personnel, and service as an aide to the assistant secretary of the Navy for personnel. During the course of the 1940s and 1950s, he began to see firsthand how the Navy’s personnel system contributed to its institutional racism. Shortly after World War II, as executive officer of the Robinson, Zumwalt tried to help a “very able” Filipino steward to become an electrician’s mate. Every time the man’s application reached a new level, Zumwalt had to “fight for a favorable recommendation.” The papers finally made it to the Bureau of Personnel, where Zumwalt had to call five departments before finally securing the transfer via a special exception. “That episode,” he wrote, “taught me a healthy contempt for bureaucracy and for institutional racism in the Navy.” It also revealed how Zumwalt would go to extreme lengths for even the lowest people in his organization—a characteristic of this man throughout his career. As the commander, Naval Forces Vietnam (COMNAVFORV)), Admiral Zumwalt would often stay up until two o’clock in the morning making phone calls to detailers in the Pentagon on behalf of hundreds of men who worked for him in Vietnam.16 He fought hard for his subordinates, and they, in turn, became fiercely loyal to him. Zumwalt had no tolerance for prejudice or racism. He strongly believed that those who excelled and played by the rules deserved to be promoted, regardless of color. As a personnel detailer himself in the early 1950s, he was appalled by how the system conspired against people of color. “If you were assigned a black officer, which was rare,” he

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explained, “we were supposed to order him to become a recruiter, considered to be the least desirable type of duty. When he finished two years, his posting was extended an additional year. If he was promoted, we sent him to the worst ship for professional experience you could find, either a tanker or an auxiliary ship. By that time he was bound to be passed over for promotion and you were rid of him.” Zumwalt never followed such “verbal” orders, but he claims many others did, so they “in effect became a Navy policy.”17 The 1950s were a tense time for Zumwalt on the home front. A week before his deployment to Korea on Wisconsin, Zumwalt’s son Elmo III was stricken with polio. Although Elmo III survived the disease without any permanent paralysis, doctors two years later diagnosed him with an unrelated heart defect. Without radical and very dangerous surgery, Elmo III might not live past twenty-three. Mr. and Mrs. Zumwalt spent many hours in various doctors’ offices around the country discussing their son’s options during the next five years. Finally, in 1958, Elmo III, then twelve, decided to go ahead with the surgery (which ended up being successful) because it would give him his only chance of following his father’s footsteps and attending the Naval Academy. Ultimately, Elmo III’s grades would not be high enough to secure admission to the Naval Academy, but he did earn a commission through NROTC at the University of North Carolina and went on to serve in Vietnam.18 During the 1961–1962 academic year, Zumwalt attended the Naval War College (NWC) in Newport, Rhode Island. It was here where he first met Paul Nitze, President Kennedy’s highly influential assistant secretary of defense for international security affairs. As the State Department’s head of policy and planning from 1950 to 1953, Nitze authored the famous National Security Council Memorandum 68, which laid the foundation for America’s post–World War II rearmament by emphasizing the Soviet threat. After presenting a guest lecture at the NWC, Nitze learned from the dean of the school about a promising student of Soviet affairs named Elmo Zumwalt. Always on the lookout for talent, Nitze ordered his assistant to examine Zumwalt’s personnel jacket and soon offered him a position in his office. Working for a civilian in the Pentagon was not considered a career-enhancing move for an ambitious naval officer in the early 1960s, but Zumwalt accepted the post anyway. “Under the tutelage of Paul Nitze I earned what I think of as a Ph.D. in political-military affairs,” Zumwalt explained. “Paul examined everything with great intellectual vigor. By serving under him, I was able to

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expand my intellectual scope and sharpen my administrative skills.” Nitze, in short, transformed Zumwalt from a thoughtful officer to a defense intellectual.19 During his tenure with Nitze, Zumwalt found himself near the center of government decision making during the Cuban missile crisis. He also helped Nitze draft early studies that ultimately led to the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty (1963) and the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT-I, 1969–1972). When Nitze became secretary of the Navy in 1963, Zumwalt continued to work for the man. As he recalled, “The managerial side of the Navy was one I had little experience with and I welcomed the opportunity to acquire so much so fast.”20 This experience in administration would later prove instrumental when he became CNO in 1970. Working for Nitze, however, was not without its downsides. It effectively removed Zumwalt from the fleet for an extended portion of his career—the place where most ambitious officers demonstrate their competence for higher command. As the aide to a civilian, it also occasionally put him at odds with the uniformed side of the Navy. When Nitze was secretary of the Navy, Zumwalt often received critical information before it reached the office of Admiral Thomas Moorer, the CNO. “Bud had tremendous influence with the secretary,” claimed Admiral James L. Holloway III, a Zumwalt contemporary, “and Nitze sought his advice in virtually every matter dealing with the secretariat. Their relationship had become a personal one, and the Zumwalt family was living in the guest house, the former gatekeeper’s residence, on the Nitze estate.”21 As a consequence, Moorer began to resent the bright, young upstart and conspire against him. Moorer allegedly helped get Zumwalt promoted to commander, Naval Forces Vietnam to exile him from the Pentagon. “This was Moorer’s way of getting rid of me,” Zumwalt later wrote; “promote the son of a bitch and nobody will ever hear from him again.”22 Zumwalt’s path from policy wonk to COMNAVFORV did not occur without some exposure to operational commands. From July 1955 to July 1957, he commanded the Arnold J. Isbell (DD 869), and from December 1959 to June 1961, the Dewey (DLG 14). On Isbell, Zumwalt experienced firsthand the corrosive effects that long deployments can have on crew morale. During the two years he served on that ship, the crew were away from their families for 75 percent of the time. To improve the spirits of his sailors, he attempted to better apprise the men of the significance of the mission through daily informational meetings

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with his division officers, who in turn spread the news to the crew, and occasional bull sessions with chief petty officers. “More important than any of these details,” he explained, “was the basic effort to communicate a sense of excitement, fun, and zest, in all we were doing.”23 During Zumwalt’s tenure, the ship’s battle efficiency in a squadron of eight went from last to number one. Moreover, Zumwalt managed to inspire his crew and succeed as a leader without letting his personal concerns about his son’s illness overwhelm him. Zumwalt’s stellar performance on Isabell convinced the Navy to award him a few years later with inaugural command of the Dewey, the first ship built from the keel up as a guided missile ship. With this guided missile destroyer leader, he had the opportunity to tangle with a Soviet warship in the Baltic. In March 1962, the Dewey entered the Baltic Sea to “show the flag and demonstrate U.S. resolve to navigate freely in international waters close the Soviet Union.”24 A Soviet Rigaclass frigate eventually challenged it to a game of chicken. Zumwalt’s orders were to follow the international rules of the road and ignore harassment even if that meant taking a “bump or two.” Zumwalt called the ship to general quarters and ordered all watertight hatches closed when the two ships appeared to be on a collision course. At the very last moment, the Soviet vessel backed down, throwing its engines in full reverse and stalling, before coming to a stop less than fifty feet from Dewey.25 Zumwalt’s most significant command prior to COMNAVFORV was Cruiser Destroyer Flotilla 7. He took over this unit in July 1965, shortly after being promoted to rear admiral, but never made it to Vietnam. Nitze recalled him to Washington just one year into his command to head the Navy’s new Division of Systems Analysis. During Zumwalt’s command, this division began analyzing how to replace its aging World War II vintage ships with more modern vessels. One study led to the development of the Spruance class of destroyers, and another, to the Trident ballistic missile submarine program.26 Although he received Legion of Merit decorations for both his service in the Pentagon and his command of the destroyer flotilla, some critics complained that Zumwalt did not have enough operational command experience prior to becoming COMNAVFORV. Zumwalt, however, strongly supported the idea of reducing U.S. troop levels in the theater and replacing them with Vietnamese forces—a policy that started late in the Johnson administration and later became known as “Vietnamization” under the Nixon

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administration. For this reason above all others, he emerged as the Navy’s top pick for the COMNAVFORV position.27 Vietnam was a turning point in Zumwalt’s career. As the COMNAVFORV, he was in charge of the “brownwater” Navy in Vietnam—the ships that patrolled South Vietnam’s coasts and rivers. The Seventh Fleet, a different command, controlled the aircraft carriers engaged in air operations against North Vietnam and Laos. From 1968 to 1970, Zumwalt employed his fleet of patrol boats to interdict Communist supplies moving up and down the Mekong Delta. It was an arduous assignment that required innovative tactics. Unlike the Seventh Fleet, COMNAVFORV could not rely on overwhelming firepower to defeat its foe. Rather, it depended on the bravery and skill of small-boat crews who were willing to take extraordinary risks to engage the Viet Cong in the highly restricted and ambush-prone waterways of the Mekong Delta. It was a war where success often came at the price of heavy casualties — something that the Navy had not experienced since World War II. The other part of Zumwalt’s job involved building up the strength of the South Vietnamese Navy so it could ultimately assume more responsibility for the conduct of the war. Before taking over this position, Zumwalt, along with his mentor Paul Nitze, had argued against the war in internal policy discussions on the subject in the Pentagon. Both believed that a Communist takeover of South Vietnam posed little threat to the security of the United States, and that the war there was draining resources better spent countering the cold war Soviet buildup. Furthermore, they did not perceive South Vietnam as a viable political entity capable of defending itself against the Communist threat. “Both Paul and I,” he later wrote, “thought it was the wrong war, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”28 For these reasons, he became a strong proponent of President Nixon’s new Vietnamization program. The centerpiece of the Navy’s role in Vietnamization was ACTOV, which stood for “accelerated turnover to Vietnam.” This plan called for the U.S. Navy to turn over all responsibility for the in-country naval war to the Vietnamese in three years. Zumwalt initiated the program by first concentrating on building the English skills of the South Vietnamese Navy sailors. As Zumwalt explained, “We devised an English curriculum that in a matter of weeks equipped thousands of Vietnamese sailors with enough language to work side by side in boat crews with Americans.” American sailors, in turn, were given a course on Vietnam-

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ese culture and traditions to prevent personal friction and misunderstandings from arising once the Vietnamese sailors joined their crews. The final stage of the process involved integrating Vietnamese sailors with U.S. Navy small-boat crews. If these indigenous sailors proved themselves in combat with American sailors, they would then be ready to function independently in their own boats. “A chief source of my satisfaction,” Zumwalt wrote, “is that the program was not a mere exercise in military planning and operation, but was effective principally because it combined the military elements with improvised social action of many kinds.”29 As someone concerned about the whole sailor, Zumwalt attempted not only to train the South Vietnamese Navy but also to improve its equipment and the quality of life of its sailors. The U.S. Navy replaced most of the armed wooden junk force with “coastal raiders” manufactured from ferro-cement. It also built homes for South Vietnamese Navy dependents outside of bases and, to supplement their meager income, imported pigs and chickens from the Philippines for these families to raise.30 By 1969, some of the patrol boats on the Mekong were fully manned by Vietnamese crews. By spring 1970, Zumwalt had enough confidence in his Vietnamese crews to assign them a leading role in the invasion of Cambodia. According to historian Edward Marolda, “The generally good performance of the Vietnamese Navy during the allied sweep into Cambodia motivated the transfer of significant operational responsibilities to the Vietnamese.”31 The invasion of Cambodia was a natural extension of Zumwalt’s SEALORDS campaign (Southeast Asia Lake, Ocean, River, and Delta Strategy). Before Zumwalt came on board as COMNAVFORV, much of the Navy’s effort in the in-country war had focused on interdicting supplies along the coast and on major rivers. SEALORDS shifted the emphasis to smaller waterways and rivers—especially those deep in the Mekong Delta near the Cambodian border. Zumwalt knew that by taking a more aggressive approach to the problem of infiltration the Navy would draw more casualties, but he insisted on the strategy anyway because he knew it was the only way to stem the flow of Communist supplies to the South. It was also a way for the Navy to demonstrate that it was bearing its share of the burden in a war where Army troops had suffered a disproportionately high share of the casualties.32 The inherent dangers of SEALORDS had an especially strong impact

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on Zumwalt because his oldest son, Elmo III, served as a Swift boat commander in the Mekong Delta. Five months after his arrival in Vietnam, Zumwalt received the “unsettling” news that his son, a new ensign, had requested duty as a Swift boat commander. “I had a premonition about it,” claimed Admiral Zumwalt. “Elmo had courageously overcome so many obstacles in his life—polio, his heart condition—it would be one of those tragic ironies if he were killed in the war.”33 Zumwalt nevertheless heeded his son’s wishes and did not attempt to block the assignment. True to the family tradition, Elmo III not only deployed to Vietnam in Swift boats but volunteered for the most dangerous assignments. For his heroism during one ambush, Elmo III received a Bronze Star. “He was the type of officer that I treasured as a commander,” wrote the admiral, “but as his father, I was scared as hell because I knew his boldness and courage could get him killed.”34 By October 1969, one year after the start of the SEALORDS campaign, Viet Cong and North Vietnamese troops in the Mekong Delta were under considerable pressure. The Navy’s interdiction efforts had disrupted the enemy’s resupply and troop replacement from Cambodia. The raiding operations hit vulnerable base areas and put allied forces deep into what had been a Viet Cong sanctuary.35 Zumwalt had hoped to serve as COMNAVFORV until the summer 1971, but as was often the case in his career, forces above him would conspire to cut his tour short. By the summer of 1970 the Navy’s personnel woes were becoming so severe that Secretary of the Navy John Chafee decided that only through radical change would the service be able to meet its manning requirements: by 1970, only 9.5 percent of personnel ending their first enlisted tour opted to reenlist, down from 35 percent just a few years earlier. The agent of this change would be Admiral Elmo Zumwalt. Chafee, in a private meeting with Zumwalt, told him that he decided to promote the forty-nine-year-old admiral over the heads of thirty-three seniors primarily because of his advocacy for change in the Navy’s personnel policies. As Chafee put it, he wanted Zumwalt to “bring the Navy into the modern age.”36 Chafee knew full well that Zumwalt was one of the few flag officers in 1970 who understood the plight of the enlisted force and was willing to take positive steps to improve it. “Where I was virtually alone among those being considered,” Zumwalt later wrote, was in viewing the policies in the field of personnel administration as an even greater immediate danger to the Navy’s capability than its obsolescing physical plant.”37

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Zumwalt came to the job of CNO as a manager hoping to improve the Navy’s record on race by recruiting more minorities and providing them with better opportunities once they entered the sea service. He admitted in his own memoir, however, that he had an “almost total lack of personal contact with minority people” in his career leading up to CNO, and no “human viewpoint” on the issue.38 Zumwalt’s first test on the race issue occurred 10 July 1970, just nine days after he was sworn in as the new CNO. At 5:30 p.m. on 9 July, four black Women Accepted for Voluntary Emergency Service (WAVES) at the Naval Station Great Lakes accosted a fifth black WAVE. Security personnel arrived at the scene quickly and took the four women into custody. The next day, fifty black sailors appeared in front of the base correctional center and demanded the release of the four WAVES. A group of whites in civilian clothes then arrived with the intention of starting a fight. Before a major riot ensued, a quick-thinking naval officer explained to the group that the black WAVES had not been charged legally, but put on report—the equivalent of being booked by civilian police—and would soon be released to return to their barracks. After hearing this explanation, the mob dispersed. The chief of naval personnel administratively discharged the black WAVES during the weekend and then launched an extensive investigation to determine if any significant racial tension existed at the base. What his team of Naval Investigative Service agents discovered is that twenty-six race-related incidents had occurred since 1 May 1970, including a cross burning. A second team of personnel specialists headed by the assistant chief of naval personnel soon headed out from Washington to further investigate matters. The team of seven blacks and six whites convened opened “gripe” sessions where hundreds of sailors aired their grievances in a moderated public forum. The base commander, Captain Draper L. Kauffman,39 then set up a fifteen-point program designed to improve race relations, including many that Zumwalt would incorporate Navy-wide: • Improve the Committee for Equal Treatment and Opportunity by staffing the committee with more young black and white enlisted personnel. • Implement race relations seminars for all members of the base community. • Hire more black hair stylists for the exchange.

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• Hire more black entertainers at the enlisted men’s club. • Include more articles of interest to the black community in the base newspaper. • Include more items of interest to black personnel in the exchange. • After permission was secured from Washington, accept the “Afro” hairstyle. • Streamline reassignment procedures to ensure that neither black nor white sailors would have to wait idly on base for long periods of time for their next assignment. While some criticized Kauffman’s programs as permissive, his policies did ease tensions at Great Lakes for sailors of all races.40 Zumwalt, taking his cue from the situation at Great Lakes, worked strenuously to follow up Kauffman’s policies with similar Navy-wide personnel policy changes designed to improve the lot of all sailors. Zumwalt instituted four basic types of reform through a series of messages to the fleet known as “Z-grams.” First, he rewrote regulations dealing with personal behavior—dress, grooming, and so on—to bring them in line with social customs and mores of the 1970s. Second, he developed operational schedules that would allow sailors to spend more time with their families. Third, he ordered Navy commands to give enlisted personnel more responsibility and greater opportunities for advancement. The “fourth, and most important,” in his words, “was to throw overboard once and for all the Navy’s silent but real and persistent discrimination against minorities—not only blacks, the chief victims, but Puerto Ricans, American Indians, Chicanos, Filipinos, Orientals, and, indeed, women as well—in recruiting, in training, in job assignments, in promotion, even, I was to learn, in stocking commissaries and ship’s [sic] stores.”41 The Great Lakes investigation and his later dealings with black sailors involved in the Kitty Hawk and Constellation episodes gradually began to increase Zumwalt’s personal awareness of the racial injustices suffered by black sailors in the fleet. However, an equally significant source of Zumwalt’s developing consciousness was his special assistant for minority affairs, Lieutenant Commander William “Bill” Norman. Norman had already tendered his resignation letter when Zumwalt summoned him to his office on 9 November 1970 for a fifteen-minute meeting. In that letter, Norman explained that after serving as “a member of just about every committee or council or commission on race re-

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lations or minority affairs the Navy had set up in the previous half dozen years, he had decided that the unceasing strain of the conflict between being black and being Navy was greater than he was willing to bear any longer.”42 The letter eventually made it to Zumwalt’s desk and immediately caught his attention. It was clear to Zumwalt that this thirty-two-year-old African American lieutenant commander had a “view from the trenches” that would be a real asset to the revolution he was about to launch. Norman went into the meeting with an open mind but offered no pleasantries. Instead, he presented the admiral with a one-page list of ideas and proposals regarding equal opportunity in the Navy and requested that the admiral agree to several “conditions” or he would go forward with his resignation as planned.43 In essence, Norman wanted to test the seriousness of the new CNO’s commitment to equal opportunity by making two very significant demands of his potential boss. First, he wanted Zumwalt to commit himself to weekly meetings with Norman. Second, he wanted Zumwalt to slay one of the Navy’s most sacred cows—the predominance of Filipinos in the steward rating (a tradition dating back to 1919). Because of Filipinos’ renowned efficiency and skill as messmen and stewards, many of the Navy’s admirals adored their Filipino stewards and could not envision a Navy without them. Maintaining a racially segregated rating, however, could not continue if Zumwalt was serious about reforming equal opportunity in the Navy. By bringing up this issue in their first meeting, the admiral later admitted “he told me, in effect, ‘j’accuse,’ ” and convinced Zumwalt “that I had underestimated the seriousness of the Navy’s racial problem.” But rather than back off from hiring Norman, Zumwalt took an immediate liking to the man because of his candor and deep commitment to the cause of equal opportunity for everyone — Asians, women, blacks, and others. He agreed on the spot to Norman’s two major demands and so began a working relationship and a friendship that would forever change the course of the Navy.44 Norman’s strategy for effecting change was to present the CNO with plans and a checklist of suggested actions at their weekly fifteen-minute meetings. “It is a technique of doing business I like best,” Zumwalt wrote. “An awful lot of work can get done in fifteen minutes that way.” These checklists ultimately evolved into building blocks for Navy policy changes. More important, however, than these lists was the social interaction that gradually began to occur between the two men. Fifteenminute meetings quickly evolved into weekly breakfast meetings at the

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admiral’s house and shared rides to the Pentagon. It was in these less formal settings that the admiral received “a most upsetting cram course on what it was like to be a member of a minority group in the Navy” from Norman’s own experiences as a black officer in the Navy. It was from those experiences that Zumwalt began to develop a true personal consciousness of the issue.45 As the friendship between the two men evolved, some in the Pentagon accused Norman of becoming Rasputinlike character for the new CNO, but Norman emphatically denied exerting undue influence upon Zumwalt. “Admiral Zumwalt had a keen intellect, honed over the years from his association with Paul Nitze,” Norman explained. “He pursued policies on their own merits and never let our friendship cloud his decision making.” Nonetheless, the two men were often on such a similar wavelength that Mrs. Zumwalt once observed that “Bill enjoyed finishing Bud’s sentences and vice versa.”46 Born in 1938, Bill Norman was the second oldest of five children. After attending public schools in Norfolk, Virginia, he went to West Virginia Wesleyan College, a Methodist school in Buckhannon, on an academic scholarship. In college, Norman majored in chemistry and mathematics and participated in a broad range of activities, including student government, varsity athletics, and orchestra. After graduating in 1960, he taught high school math for four months in Norfolk, Virginia, but a draft notice from the Army soon interrupted his teaching career. Rather than fulfilling his service commitment as a soldier, Norman decided to enter the Navy via the Naval Flight Officers School in Pensacola, Florida. In the Navy, he served as an airborne controller for Carrier Early Warning Squadron Eleven and then as an assistant combat information officer for the Constellation (CVA 64) during the early 1960s. During the 1966–1967 academic year, he earned a master’s degree in international relations from American University. He then taught history and foreign affairs at the Naval Academy and served as a White House social aide from 1967 to 1969. Before becoming Zumwalt’s special assistant in 1970, he had been an assistant combat information center and electronic countermeasures officer and evaluator for Carrier Division III.47 From Norman, Zumwalt learned that the commander of the Naval Air Station (NAS) at Meridian, Mississippi, once asked Norman not to attend an evening function at the officers’ club because his presence might offend a group of local guests. He also learned that Norman rarely received voluntary salutes and that when he once tried to break

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up a fight between a petty officer and a Japanese local in Japan, the petty officer called him a “goddam nigger.” The captain of Norman’s ship then refused to put the sailor on report because he had a perfect record. At the Naval Academy, Norman could not find anyone in town willing to rent a decent apartment to a black officer; when he complained to an academy official, he received no support until he sought assistance from the DOD’s Office of Equal Opportunity. Norman, by gradually opening up to Zumwalt, raised the admiral’s consciousness and transformed the admiral from a passive observer of the problem to one committed in his heart to real change. “As I grew to know him better,” claims Norman, “I began to see many of his human qualities, his sense of humor, and his extraordinary sensitivity and candor. He also has a relentless tenacity once he’s committed to a cause, and that was evident as he followed up his directives to make certain they were implemented. He insisted on fast facts and real numbers from people.”48 Together, Zumwalt and Norman did not create a Navy equal opportunity policy from scratch. In 1965, the secretary of the Navy had published the “Manual on Equal Opportunity and Treatment of Military Personnel (SECNAVINST 5350.6).” This manual, which was amended in 1970, stated that “equality of treatment and opportunity” was the “official policy of the Navy” and that the main goals of the Navy’s EO program were to do the following: • Ensure fullest participation and equal opportunity for career fulfillment and equal opportunity for career fulfillment of Negroes and other minorities in the armed forces. • Ensure that relevant educational and training programs in human relations are provided at all levels for military personnel.49 Under this instruction, a commander’s responsibility was to ensure that everyone in his command was treated equally. The instruction directed all commanders to listen to all “legitimate complaints of discrimination” and, if necessary, take corrective actions. What it did not do was establish a formal equal opportunity bureaucracy within the Navy. Although a commander had the option of establishing a minority affairs council, it was not a requirement under the instruction. The instruction relied mainly on the Navy’s preexisting chain of command to improve equal opportunity, with the burden of enforcement being placed on the shoulders of local commanders.50

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Admiral Zumwalt speaks to a human relations council at the Yokosuka Naval Base, Japan, on 2 July 1971. (U.S. Navy)

To give the manual more teeth, Zumwalt put out Z-Gram 66 in December 1970. Z-66 directed every base, station, and aircraft squadron to appoint a minority affairs officer. In one stroke of the pen, Zumwalt created a 2,763-person-strong minority affairs establishment in the Navy. While the role of these representatives was to advise commanders on equal opportunity policy rather than formulate policy, their existence in the chain of command served to promote and facilitate equal opportunity throughout the Navy.51 Z-66 also ordered the Navy supply command to ensure that the special needs of black personnel were provided for in exchanges, ships’ stores, libraries, and wardrooms. Finally, he promised to launch an indepth investigation into the problem of discrimination in the Navy and how to end it: This is the first of my reports to you on minority affairs. Secretary Chafee and I will be looking into all areas of minority affairs and will

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be issuing further reports as our problems become more clear and their solutions become more apparent. It is evident that we need to maximize our efforts to improve the lot of our minority Navymen. I am convinced that there is no place in the Navy for insensitivity. We are determined that we shall do better. Meanwhile, we are counting on your support to help seek out and eliminate those demeaning areas of discrimination that plague our minority shipmates. Ours must be a navy family that recognizes no artificial barriers of race, color or religion. There is no black navy, no white navy—just one navy—the United States navy.52

No one prior to or since Zumwalt has articulated the Navy’s commitment to equal opportunity in such strong and passionate terms. Zumwalt, though, did not rely solely on Norman to formulate Z-66 and other race-related policies; he also organized rap sessions with minority sailors, encouraged these young men to “let it all hang out,” and developed policy based on inputs gleaned from the sessions. These sessions also raised his consciousness to such a great degree that he became an early advocate of focus group–style racial awareness training for the broader Navy. According to Admiral Holloway, Zumwalt’s vice chief of naval operations (VCNO), “Bud Zumwalt was so overwhelmed by the reports of discrimination, harassment, and downright brutality coming out of these sessions that as he told me later, it left an indelible scar on his consciousness.” Norman perceived the situation differently. “These sessions were carefully designed focus groups structured to produce candid exchanges and to elicit viewpoints and recommendations. I helped arrange them and sat in on all these sessions.”53 In January 1971, Zumwalt established the ad hoc CNO Advisory Committee on Race Relations and Minority Affairs and appointed Norman to be its executive director. Zumwalt formed the group to “evaluate, coordinate, and advise” him on “all matters concerning race relations and minority affairs policies and programs in the Navy.” The ad hoc committee also included several senior white personnel officers: Rear Admiral David Bagley, the assistant chief of naval personnel for personal affairs; Rear Admiral John G. Finneran, the assistant chief of naval personnel for plans and programs; and Rear Admiral William A. Greene, the director of Navy recruiting.54 During its first year of existence, the committee developed a set of guidelines and directions for the Navy’s efforts in the area of minority affairs and race relations, and in March 1971 published a report entitled

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“Navy Race Relations and Minority Affairs Programs.” A revolutionary document in many respects, the report, which Zumwalt personally approved, stated in plain terms that the objective of the Navy was to “create and maintain a Navy image of equal opportunity and treatment regardless of race, creed, religion, or national origin” and to “increase and intensify the Navy’s efforts to attain and retain the highest quality officer and enlisted volunteers from the minority community, thus seeking to achieve increased representation of minority personnel in various categories and grades of service.” In short, the document made not only equal opportunity but also affirmative action a Navy goal.55 To achieve better minority representation in the Navy, the report recommended that the service establish “educational, recreational, and social programs within the Navy . . . to bring talented but underprivileged/culturally-deprived personnel to a level at which they can compete with their peers.” To facilitate the promotion of blacks once they entered the service, the report recommended that the Navy root out all bias and “ensure equal opportunity for selection” in such areas as technical schooling, classification to occupational fields, duty assignments, performance evaluations, and promotion. Ultimately, this report became the basis of the 1973 Navy Human Goals Program (OPNAVINST 5300.6)—a comprehensive equal opportunity program, human resource management program, and drug and alcohol abuse policy for the entire Navy.56 By March 1972, the Navy had achieved a number of tangible accomplishments in the area of minority affairs. To increase the percentage of black officers, it authorized the establishment of 10 percent of all NROTC units at predominantly black institutions by 1974. It also set an interim goal of 5 percent for black midshipmen at the U.S. Naval Academy by 1974, and 10 percent by 1978. Project BOOST (Broadened Opportunity for Officer Selection and Training) was revitalized to assist educationally deprived minority sailors in becoming officers. BOOST helped sailors gain admission to officer commissioning programs such as the Naval Academy and NROTC by tutoring them in basic academic subjects at the Naval Training Center in San Diego. As of March 1972, there were 38 minority sailors enrolled in the program. Finally, the Navy’s Bureau of Personnel screened the records of 400 minorityenlisted personnel with baccalaureate degrees and recruited 116 of these men for officer programs.57 Overall, the Navy established proportional representation as a goal

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for minority recruiting, and by the end of 1971 it had achieved this goal for the enlisted accessions. For the last six months of 1971, 12 percent of total enlisted accessions were black—approximately proportional to the percentage of blacks in the overall U.S. population (11.2 percent). Zumwalt ordered all Navy main recruiting stations to establish a minority billet, and by March 1972, thirty-four of these positions had been filled. The Navy also hired Vanguard Associates of Minneapolis, a black advertising firm, to produce minority-oriented recruiting ads and ran these ads in major black publications such as Tuesday Magazine and Black Voices. Feature stories about the Navy’s equal opportunity programs and achievements were released to 288 black newspapers and 191 black radio stations. Finally, to further bolster the image of the sea service in the black community, the Navy named two ships after prominent black sailors: the destroyer escorts Doris Miller (DE 1091) and Jesse Brown (DE 1089).58 Drawing on lessons learned from the Vietnam War, Zumwalt developed a Navy “domestic action” program in the United States similar to the civic action programs he developed in Vietnam. As the COMNAVFORV, Zumwalt had developed pig and chicken farms for the families of South Vietnamese sailors to supplement their meager income. To honor that success and humor his staff, he nicknamed his U.S. domestic action agenda “the pigs and chickens” program, but this time animal husbandry was not on the agenda. Instead, he developed several programs appropriate for the United States. In the summer of 1971, the Navy established a summer youth program that hired 13,331 disadvantaged youths of all races for summer employment with the Department of the Navy. The Navy also encouraged its commands to contract with minority-owned businesses; as of June 1971, it had let out sixty-four such contracts with a total $7.9 million. In the area of public health, the Navy began utilizing its vast health care infrastructure to provide 65,247 disadvantaged youths with immunizations, dental care, family planning and drug counseling, and speech and hearing tests. Finally, the Navy loaned equipment, facilities, and vehicles to various youth groups such as the Boy Scouts, the YMCA, the Salvation Army, Youth Opportunity Councils, and Big Brother programs for recreational and community relations purposes. The Navy estimated that 256,753 children benefited from these latter programs alone over a six-month period ending 15 March 1971.59 As impressive as accomplishments such as these were, change did not

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occur overnight. By creating an extensive network of minority affairs officers, establishing a concrete set of human goals for minorities, working to recruit more minorities in the officer corps as well as in the enlisted ranks, Admiral Zumwalt laid the foundations for change, but it would take two years of riots, a congressional investigation, and a Navy-wide affirmative action plan to create a lasting “revolution” in the Navy. During his initial years as CNO, Zumwalt confronted several major hurdles in the area of minority affairs. First, he needed to convince the Navy’s white community that “equal opportunity” was in the best interests of the service and not simply an attempt to pander to special interests. He also had to contend with morale problems created by an aging fleet of ships and the extended sea tours demanded by the Vietnam War. Finally, as draft calls went down to almost zero, the CNO faced one of the worst recruiting shortfalls in the Navy’s history. Meeting manpower demands compelled the service to recruit lower test category sailors of both races—a move that brought more blacks into the service but also exacerbated tensions between the races. An NIS report on racial tension in Subic Bay, Philippines, in 1971 graphically illustrated some of these challenges. NIS found that many black first-year enlistees at the base were “militant, and uncompromising,” and that many whites possessed racist “attitudes.” Few whites and blacks interacted with one another on a social level. “Several blacks interviewed,” the report stated, “avoided frequenting the clubs on base or the bars in town patronized by whites because they have found that even whites who normally appear to be devoid of prejudice when sober display symptoms of deep-seated prejudice after having a few drinks.” Whites, similarly, resented black power salutes and dapping. Many also “expressed fear of the blacks and noted that while blacks were united at times of violence, whites fled or at least did not come to the aid of another white.” Finally, the majority of whites interviewed believed that command equal opportunity programs were “giving in to” blacks by allowing blacks to wear Afro hairstyles and tolerating a certain amount of dapping and other cultural expression from this group.60 Another incident that revealed the profound level of distrust between the races percolated to the CNO’s office early May 1971. In an unsigned letter to Ebony magazine, a crewman on the submarine tender Canopus (AS 34) complained of discrimination on the ship and alleged that two black sailors were intentionally allowed to die of asphyxiation

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in the ship’s brig during a small fire that occurred during the night of 28–29 November. The fire started in the baggage compartment, but smoke quickly wafted into the brig, where two black sailors were serving court-martial sentences and a white petty officer was stationed as a sentry. Fire and rescue parties responded almost immediately but were unable to reach the brig for twenty minutes due to the intense heat and acrid smoke from the fire. On their third rescue attempt, the firefighters found all three men dead. The sentry had released the two prisoners from their cells, but none of the group managed to escape from the general brig spaces. The Navy investigation of the event concluded that the men had been overcome by heat and smoke within fifteen minutes after the fire started, and that they could have escaped only by an immediate rush to safety in the first minutes of the fire. Unaware of the accidental nature of the fire, the three rescue attempts (by white sailors), the opening of the cell doors by the sentry, and the intensity of the heat and smoke in the confined internal spaces of the ship, many black crewmen from the ship jumped to the conclusion that their two brothers had either been killed or allowed to die. Fearing a public relations fiasco from this tragedy, Norman phoned Ebony on 20 May 1971 and managed to kill the story by providing the editors with the essential facts surrounding the episode and explaining that the young black man who wrote the letter was misinformed. He also assured the magazine that the commanding officer (CO) of Canopus was “making a determined effort to eliminate outward manifestations of prejudice such as name-calling, harassment, favoritism, and lack of equal justice.”61 While Norman used his diplomatic skills to save his boss from potentially embarrassing negative publicity by the press, he also highlighted the incident as evidence of the “pressing need for race relations programs” in the Navy in a meeting he held with Zumwalt on 20 May 1971. Critics of Norman claim that he took a shotgun approach to solving the Navy’s race problems, trying to implement large numbers of programs across the board rather than focusing on just a few key issues such as officer recruitment or racial awareness training. In a typical week, Norman would launch several new programs, meet a variety of notables such as a member of Congress or an assistant secretary of defense, and travel to bases around the country to oversee his efforts. His day would begin early in the morning at the CNO’s house and end late in the evening at the Pentagon. But there was a method behind all this frenetic activity. “Once a program becomes institutionalized in the

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Navy,” he explained, “people will fight very hard to save it. My goal during those hectic early months of 1971 was to institutionalize as many equal opportunity and affirmative action programs as possible, and to create lasting structures to preserve those programs for years to come.”62 Overall, Norman and Zumwalt were not only fighting to create viable equal opportunity programs in the Navy but also struggling with serious morale problems in the fleet due to increased carrier commitments in Southeast Asia and severe recruitment shortfalls due in part to the Nixon administration’s decision to scale back the draft. During the spring of 1972, the North Vietnamese Army invaded South Vietnam and came very close to defeating the Republic of Vietnam. To counter this aggression, President Nixon doubled the number of carriers in the Gulf of Tonkin from three to six—a move that lengthened the average Navy war deployment in the Western Pacific from six to nine months. Severe manpower shortages also existed in such critical ratings as boiler technician, machinist’s mate, and internal communications. Many career-enlisted sailors in these areas had served continuously at sea for four years. “When pressures of daily existence are great,” noted Zumwalt, “the most likely targets of hostility . . . are people with skins of a different color.”63 By 1972, there were many unskilled black sailors on Navy ships, and these men became easy targets for white hostility. The numbers of black first-year enlistees rose during the 1971–1972 period not only due to Zumwalt’s desire to recruit more African Americans but also due to a recruitment problem. During the 1960s, onethird to one-half of all Navy enlistments were young men seeking to avoid being drafted into the Army. This “draft pressure” allowed the Navy to recruit only the most educated applicants: predominantly white, middle-class high school graduates with top test scores. By 1972, DODwide draft inductions fell from a high of 340,000 in fiscal year 1968 to 27,000 in fiscal year 72, and in June 1973, President Nixon terminated the draft.64 At the same time, the tempo of the naval air war increased dramatically with the Nixon’s resumption of the bombing campaign over North Vietnam. Even though Western Pacific tours were extended by three months to help meet the shortfall in personnel, more men were needed. At the beginning of 1971, Navy recruiters were meeting their quotas by 102 percent; by December, that percentage had fallen to 50 percent—the worst percentage of all four services. As Zumwalt put it,

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“The lines of would-be sailors outside the post office or in the basement of city hall were gone with the draft.”65 This predicament left Admiral Emmett Tidd, the head of the Navy’s recruiting command, with little choice but to recruit more sailors from the lower test categories. Tidd recruited almost 14 percent of his quota from AFQT category IV in 1971 and 20 percent from this category in 1972. Reaching down to the lower test categories did indeed bring more blacks into the service. In fact, by 1974 blacks again represented close to 10 percent of the service. Regrettably, many of the blacks recruited during the early 1970s did not possess the skills needed to advance in the Navy. More than 50 percent of black recruits in fiscal year 1971 (1 July 1970–30 June 1971) and the July 1971–January 1972 period came category IV.66 “If the modern Navy is to be manned properly,” Zumwalt declared later, “around four-fifths of its personnel need specialized schooling of some kind [e.g., “A” schools] and it really cannot handle more than about 5 percent Mental Group IV.” Of 12,000 blacks recruited in 1972 (nearly 14 percent of total recruitment for that year), only a third had high enough scores to qualify for a Navy “A” school— the vocational schools that taught sailors the basic knowledge and skills needed to prepare for a general or service rating (such as machinist’s mate, boatswain’s mate, or hospital corpsman) and promotion to the rank of petty officer.67 In the final analysis, a sailor’s category ranking was based on his or her scores on the AFQT—a test determined to be culturally biased against blacks and other minorities by the Center for Naval Analyses (CNA). The CNA Study “Evidence of Bias in Testing in the Navy” (1972) found a “significant degree of cultural bias that appears to discriminate against blacks and other culturally deprived groups” in the AFQT and other tests employed by the Navy such as the Basic Test Battery and the Navy-wide advancement examinations. The authors of the study, Dr. David O’Neil and Navy Commander Robert Stephan, discovered that minority groups scored significantly lower on these tests than Caucasians, but when compared on measures of actual on-the-job performance, these minority groups did not differ significantly from the majority, nor did they have higher disciplinary rates. Stephan and O’Neil recommended that the Navy try to develop less culturally biased tests and also rely more on high school graduation rates than test scores as a basis for future performance. “Only about 50% of the non–high school graduates we have accepted in the past,” the authors conclude, “have

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had sufficiently trouble free service to justify their having been accepted by the Navy.”68 Unfortunately for the Navy, nearly all of the category IV recruits from the 1971–1972 period were also high school dropouts. Zumwalt, therefore, was still correct in saying that the Navy could not handle that many of these low-category sailors even though the test itself was found to be somewhat flawed as a measuring standard for minorities. A more basic problem confronted by the Navy was how to integrate such a large influx of blacks into the fleet, especially given its chronic shortage of black officers. For fiscal year 1971, the Navy commissioned only 134 black officers out of a total of 16,072 new commissions (0.8 percent ); during the period 1 July 1971 to 31 January 1972, this number was 84 out of 7,373 (1.1 percent).69 Needless to say, the introduction into the fleet of large numbers of lower category minorities combined with a distinct absence of black officers to lead, mentor, and act as role models for these men put an extra strain on both the recruits and their white shipmates at “a time when strain was already excessive.” As much as the CNO and his aides attempted to institute rapid change in the early 1970s, the Navy, with all its historical and cultural baggage, could not turn on a dime— especially during some of the most intense months of the war.70

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4 Kitty Hawk The Pot Begins to Boil

On 12 October 1972, the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk was steaming off the coast of North Vietnam, launching air strikes in support of America’s longest conflict. The Vietnam War had been dragging on for seven years, and President Richard Nixon was losing his patience. He wanted to achieve an honorable exit from the war, but North Vietnamese diplomats had been stalling negotiations since he first took office in January 1969. The Linebacker I bombing campaign changed everything. Since May 1972, this campaign had stalled a major North Vietnamese ground offensive in South Vietnam and also destroyed most of the major highways, railways, bridges, warehouses, power plants, and fuel storage facilities in the North. During September alone, U.S. warplanes dropped more than 27,000 tons of bombs in North Vietnam, and all of sudden in Paris, the North Vietnamese began getting much more serious about the negotiations. Between 8 and 23 October, a peace treaty agreeable to both Washington and Hanoi began to take form, but Linebacker could not let up for a moment. Nixon’s predecessor, Lyndon Johnson, had often eased up on bombing when negotiations became more earnest. Rather than motivate the North Vietnamese to come to a settlement, these bombing pauses had served to embolden the enemy and make him more uncompromising. The North Vietnamese simply used the pauses to buy time to regroup and resupply their forces. In 1972, Nixon was determined not to let up on bombing until an agreement was signed. The Navy’s participation in Linebacker I, therefore, was critical not only to the overall success of the bombing campaign but for the peace process in general. As part of President Nixon’s policy of Vietnamization, many of the U.S. Air Force’s tactical aircraft had been pulled out of bases in South Vietnam and Thailand, leaving the Navy with much of

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the burden for prosecuting the air campaign against North Vietnam.1 The Navy also mined all the significant North Vietnamese harbors and reseeded these harbors as necessary during the Linebacker I period— perhaps the most critical component of the entire operation, next to the expanded use of precision-guided munitions.2 It was during this most crucial phase of the air war in Vietnam that Kitty Hawk, operating off the coast of North Vietnam, experienced a race riot.

Catalysts On 17 February 1972, Kitty Hawk (CVA 63) departed San Diego, California, for duty off the shores of Vietnam. The carrier deployed a month early and sailed with only a week’s notice. As a result, many sailors departed with unresolved family and personal problems. Still, the ship’s overall morale appeared to be satisfactory during its first month at sea. Admiral Bernard A. Clarey, commander in chief, Pacific Fleet (CINCPACFLT), in a message to Kitty Hawk on 1 March, praised the ship for its “minimal dissent activity” and explained that its early deployment was “absolutely necessary” and “most vital” for the national security interests of the United States.3 This situation changed at the end of March. The North Vietnamese launched a spring offensive, forcing Kitty Hawk to once again alter its deployment schedule. From that point forward, the Kitty Hawk participated in some of the most intensive strikes of the war, including Nixon’s Linebacker I campaign. All told, by 12 October, the night of the race riot, the Kitty Hawk had completed 164 days of combat air operations and had flown more sorties than any other Vietnam War carrier during a single deployment.4 As the ship’s captain, Marland Townsend, put it, the “Navy asked a carrier staffed with one of the least mentally qualified crews of the Vietnam War era to perform some of the most vital air operations of the war with the most modern air wing in the Western Pacific.”5 Air Wing 11 possessed two of the Navy’s newest aircraft: the A-6E and F-4J. For this reason above all others, the Navy felt compelled to maximize this flattop’s presence on Yankee Station during the pivotal year 1972. For the crew, however, combat did not offer much in the way of added excitement, medals, or promotions—the standard rewards that

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aviators received for enduring the danger of flying against North Vietnam. Rather, for members of the enlisted force, these operations simply exposed them to more danger from handling increased numbers of aircraft and larger amounts of explosive ordnance. It also subjected them to more hard labor and drudgery. In addition to launching more than 19,000 aircraft during the cruise, these men prepared 4 million meals, processed more than 400,000 messages, applied more than 3,600 gallons of paint to the ship’s hull, and conducted 84 underway replenishments transferring more than 26,000 tons of ordnance, 33 million gallons of jet fuel, and 38 million gallons of black oil for the voracious boilers of this 80,000-ton behemoth. These replenishments took place in all weather and often lasted all night long.6 In the engineering department, 600 men worked eight hours on and four hours off for 60 percent of the cruise, while in other departments sailors worked six hours on and six off. Each crewman in engineering, furthermore, received on average only 6 days off during the 247 days Kitty Hawk was away from the United States. Most of the crew performed these duties with good cheer, but for those new to the ship, combat operations became particularly onerous because of the ship’s seniority system of assigning tasks. A new crewman performed the most menial job on the ship during his first 90 days: mess duty (breaking out food, washing dishes, and manning the serving line). Captain Townsend, based on his previous ship tours, justified the system because he believed that it was “essential that every man, regardless of his background, whether from an ‘A’ school or out of recruit training, meet this housekeeping chore. A sailor must learn from experience why he should respect common areas like the mess and keep them clean, neat, and orderly.” The mess noncommissioned officers (NCOs) also made sure new sailors understood the essentials of Navy life: the importance of a well-made rack, clean uniforms, and so forth. Finally, working the mess deck exposed the young sailor to senior petty officers from other divisions. As Townsend explained, “It is a major shopping center for personnel, and everybody gets a chance to see how well a guy is going to do. Good performers are spotted right away. Regardless of their basic battery scores, a man who performs well down there is picked up and given a lot of chances.”7 Despite the logic of mess duty for new sailors, the unique recruiting environment of 1972 meant that many of the men in the mess that year

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would be black. While blacks only represented about 7.2 percent of the crew (297 out of 4,135 enlisted men), 46 percent of these men were received on board subsequent to the start of the deployment, and onethird within four months of the October riot.8 Of the 297 blacks on the crew, 196 held nonrated ranks (E-1 to E-3), and 61 percent of this group were classified in category III or lower, meaning that they had scored under 44 percent on the AFQT. Only 85 blacks held petty officer ranks (E-4 to E-6), and a mere 16 served as chief petty officer (E-7 to E-9). 9 None of the 219 officers in the Air Wing were black, and only 5 members of the ship’s officers were black. If appearances mattered— and they often did, especially for the young and impressionable—Kitty Hawk very much resembled the “great white fleet” of times past: white crewmen worked in glamorous jobs such as aircraft maintenance, intelligence, and communications while blacks toiled mainly on the mess deck. The irony of the situation did not escape the notice of many black crew members, including Terry Avinger and other sailors who played leading roles in the riot. Captain Marland Townsend inadvertently exacerbated this de facto segregation by allowing black crewmen to live together rather than compelling whites and blacks to share the same sleeping quarters. Commander Benjamin W. Cloud described the situation this way: “We had living areas which resembled ghettos.”10 Not only would white crewmen avoid these areas, but NCOs did not inspect them. According to Captain Townsend, “There is just not time to run inspections in a combat area.”11 Cloud described the situation differently, claiming that white petty officers harbored reluctance to enter “black” areas. “People in those areas were kind of off limits because that’s where the minorities chose to live and chose to live in happiness. So if they’re happy, leave them alone.”12 Devoid of proper leadership, the young blacks began to live in a manner similar to college students in a fraternity house. Trash began to accumulate, sheets were not changed, drug use increased, and a general squalor began to permeate the areas.13 Many young black sailors, however, enjoyed the environment as a welcome break from the boredom and structure of working in dull jobs. “After spending six hours washing dishes,” recalled Airman Apprentice Terry Avinger, “I looked forward to going back to the berthing areas to listen to Marvin Gaye and other Motown artists on a reel-to-reel tape deck, talking about

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home, and getting high. There was no violence associated with what we were doing. We were getting to know people and just kicking back.” The men mainly smoked marijuana but occasionally indulged in opiumlaced cigarettes or homemade “wine.” Sailors easily obtained marijuana and other drugs during port visits to the Philippines, and they made wine in the galley from potatoes and yeast.14 It should be pointed out that drug abuse was not something unique to the black community. White sailors used marijuana, LSD, speed, and heroin just as frequently, if not more so. Marvin Davidson, a white sailor (E-2) who worked in the bomb assembly area, often smoked hashish after duty. As he recalled, “I’d get in my rack, close the curtain, take a hit, and then exhale into a ventilation grate.” He also remembered seeing lots of LSD on the ship and even heroin. “One guy, who worked a forklift in the ordnance area, used to shoot up [heroin] while on duty.”15 Another sailor overdosed on heroin on liberty in Hong Kong during the previous deployment.16 “During the 1972 deployment,” recalled Marine detachment CO, Captain Nicholas Carlucci, “heroin became the problem with marijuana as a secondary issue.”17 Heavy users, Carlucci claimed, would smoke it up twice a day in laced cigarettes, which were virtually undetectable. Overall, none of the reports on the Kitty Hawk riot cite drug use as a major catalyst. Furthermore, in testimony before the House subcommittee hearings on disciplinary problems in the Navy, chaired by Congressman Floyd Hicks, Captain Townsend stated that he believed that only 5 percent of the crew actively used drugs while at sea.18 Nevertheless, anecdotal evidence of drug and alcohol use among the crew as described both in oral histories and in investigation interviews implies that substance abuse may have contributed to the dysfunctional and chaotic atmosphere on board ship. For blacks, the situation was made worse by a gang culture that began to take hold in their areas. In the leadership vacuum of these spaces, ganglike leaders took over and used “dapping” to ratify their informal command structure. Similar to a black power salute, more than fifty-seven varieties of dapping handshakes emerged during the war, including one giving the receiver “knowledge” by tapping him on the head and another vowing to die for him by crossing the chest.19 On board Kitty Hawk, these salutes allowed black leaders to establish an informal pecking order outside of the chain of command. Dapping also

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served to intimidate whites and emphasize the solidarity of the black community on the ship. Marvin Davidson, a white, recalls many instances where black sailors impeded the flow of traffic along passageways by going through elaborate dapping rituals with every black sailor they encountered. To Davidson and some others, this appeared to be a deliberate attempt by the black sailors to annoy their white counterparts. He explained, “It seemed to get out of hand. Tensions were high already with 5,000 men on the ship working extremely long shifts, and this just increased animosities.”20 Although the Kitty Hawk riot occurred after the apogee of the black power movement in 1968, the ideology of social despair remained. Commander Cloud, himself of black and American Indian ancestry, explained that most of the “violent people” were between eighteen and twenty-two years old. “The older black sailors did not act that way,” though they did share a common cause, which was a struggle against the white man and white institutions. “Every deprivation of opportunity or privilege that the black man has had since he has been in America,” as Cloud explained later to the Hicks Subcommittee, “can easily, in their opinion, be laid at the door of blame of the white man.” For the young sailors from the ghetto, rioting evolved as a natural form of protest against the white power structure, be it the local police or the Navy’s chain of command. Few realized upon entering the service that the Navy had a well-established system of rules and regulations to handle grievances. Instead, these sailors allowed grievances to fester and grow. As Cloud put it, “There was an accumulation, I feel, real or mythical, of these kind of problems which all black people share. Instead of being taken care of and going away, they left scars, and scars built upon scars to the point where something had to explode.21 Engineman First Class Jimmy A. Randolph, a black petty officer who had served on board Kitty Hawk since 1970, confirmed these observations: “Blacks brought up with nothing other than city gangs as social organizations with which they can identify have no real sense of loyalty to any organization other than their black brothers.”22 If you recruit men from this type of background and culture, compel them to work long hours in the mess during a seemingly endless cruise, and then allow them to congregate together during their off-duty hours to hold gripe sessions, often under the influence of drugs and alcohol, it is not surprising that a handful of perceived injustices on the ship could spark a major riot.

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Airman Apprentice Terry Avinger Airman Apprentice Terry Avinger, a man who would become one of the leaders of the riot, in many respects typified the young black sailors who entered the fleet in 1972.23 Born in 1954, Avinger spent the first ten years of his life with his grandmother and aunt in the white, middleclass Germantown section of Philadelphia. Avinger’s life changed dramatically at age ten, when he moved to a poor, black, urban area in North Philadelphia to live with his mother and ten brothers and sisters. The entire family inhabited a five-room townhouse with a single bathroom. His father, a barber, had separated from his mother and lived elsewhere. Initially, Avinger enjoyed the close-knit black community of North “Philly”—especially after attending the predominantly white elementary school in Germantown. His mother took him to a Baptist church weekly, and he soon developed a large number of friends in the community. In turn, he found himself hanging out more and more with a group of youths who belonged to the street gang 28th and Oxford. Eventually, he joined the gang and began participating in numerous brawls. Most fights consisted of organized fistfight matches in local schoolyards, but occasionally the youths fought with bricks, car aerials, and even zip guns. Avinger got shot at several times and beat up on another occasion, but he considered himself to be one of the least violent members of group. In fact, he joined the gang not so much for protection or because of peer pressure but because he genuinely enjoyed socializing with its members. Avinger’s attitude about gang life changed dramatically just before he turned fourteen. That year, a rival gang shot and killed a good friend of his during a stickball game. That event convinced Avinger to quit the gang and join a nonviolent youth club for a social outlet. It would be the first of several attempts by Avinger to turn his life around as teenager. For high school, Avinger chose to attend a nearby vocational school and learn automobile mechanics, but tragedy interrupted his schooling almost immediately. That year his younger brother died of spinal meningitis, and the following year, his father died in a bar shooting. Avinger’s grades declined, compelling his school to hold him back for both his first and second years. Avinger also began using alcohol and marijuana. He even tried heroin a few times. By the time Avinger was seventeen, his life appeared bleak. His house was bursting at the seams with teenage siblings who constantly fought

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among themselves; school did not seem to be leading him anywhere; he still mourned the loss of his brother and father; and his drug and alcohol use were on the rise. Desperate to clean himself up and escape the miseries of his youth, he joined the Navy. He explained, “I always liked ships and the sea and really saw the Navy as my way out of the neighborhood, which had become plagued by violence and drug abuse. I was not attending school regularly. I was staying out late. I was uncooperative with my mother. I joined the Navy determined to turn my life around.” Avinger entered the Navy in 1971 under the impression that he would become a jet mechanic. At boot camp, one of his instructors discovered needle tracks on his arms, and he soon found himself in a company of men being earmarked for early discharge. Avinger stayed with the unit for a few months until he managed to successfully petition the Navy to allow him to stay in and attend aviation school in Memphis. At Memphis, Avinger spent eight weeks learning about handling jets on board a carrier and enjoyed himself tremendously. He then transferred to a reconnaissance squadron at NAS North Island in San Diego, California. North Island ended up being problematic for Avinger. He got into a fight with a sailor who called him a “spook” (neither man received any punishment for it because no one witnessed the affair) and also started traveling to Tijuana, Mexico, a couple times a week to make drug runs. Although he stayed away from heroin, he did take barbiturates, and his performance suffered. His commander placed him on restriction for unauthorized absences on several occasions. Avinger also violated restriction at least once and eventually got transferred to the Kitty Hawk as a punishment for his misdeeds. He recalled, “I was an explosive teenager who had a lot of anger. I felt I was singled out and picked on by authorities. Drugs helped me relieve those feelings.” By the time of the riot, Avinger had committed four offenses under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). These included assault, absence without leave, disobedience of a lawful order, and disrespect to a commissioned officer.24

Commander Benjamin Cloud In stark contrast to Avinger and many other young black sailors entering the Navy in 1972 stood Commander Benjamin W. Cloud, the Kitty

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Hawk’s executive officer.25 Cloud, who had been on the ship for only eight weeks prior to the disturbance, demonstrated through his actions that night that a man could indeed be loyal to his race, the Navy, and the country without being a hypocrite or an Uncle Tom. “Ben did a hell of a good job under the worst conditions imaginable,” explained Captain Marland Townsend. “Everything he did was right in retrospect.”26 Born on 6 November 1931, Cloud was the son of a San Diego police officer and grew up in El Cajon, a mostly white suburb sixteen miles east of the city. Unlike many of the other aviators profiled in this book, Cloud did not gravitate toward athletics but instead pursued the violin, eventually playing with the State of California Youth Symphony. Cloud gave up the violin when he entered San Diego State College in 1949 and devoted himself full-time to civil engineering studies. The Korean War cut short his college career and forced him to decide quickly whether to stay in college and risk being drafted into the Army or instead become a Naval Aviation Cadet. Having flown a bit in high school, Cloud opted to fulfill his service commitment as a naval aviator. At Pensacola in 1952, Cloud experienced segregation for the first time. Prejudice did not exist among his classmates and instructors, but it did in the community and even on base. As he explained, “I could not go into certain areas of the Navy exchange and say get a haircut. I could not use certain bathrooms and bathing facilities.”27 He also endured the indignity of having to ride in the back of a bus as a naval officer candidate. He noted, “There was clearly an area on the bus in which colored people had to ride. But I did ride in that section, and the two white associates that I went to Pensacola with from San Diego rode back there with me.” Cloud attended advanced flight training in Corpus Christi, Texas, in 1954 and graduated that same year. Selected for reconnaissance, he began his operational career flying the F9F Panther with VC-61 based at NAS Miramar in San Diego. With the unit, Cloud made Pacific deployments on the Boxer, Coral Sea, and Ticonderoga. He ended up enjoying himself so much that he decided to make the Navy his career. The Navy, in turn, augmented Cloud to a regular commission and sent him to Washington to finish his college degree at the University of Maryland in College Park. Although he was not a full-time student, Cloud’s day job at the Naval Photographic Center in Anacostia allowed him to devote long periods of time to his studies. His detailer said, “Go to Washington, DC; we’ll give you a relatively mundane job; we’ll give

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Then Commander Benjamin Cloud, ca. 1964. (U.S. Navy courtesy of Captain Benjamin Cloud, USN [Ret.])

you an office; and you can go to college as much as you want.” Since there was no civil engineering program at Maryland, Cloud majored in Chinese language and culture. In late 1962, Cloud received his bachelor’s degree from Maryland and then headed back west to become a detachment leader with his old unit, VC-61 (soon to be redesignated as VFP-63). Based on Kitty Hawk, Cloud’s detachment flew the first Navy mission in the Vietnam War and sustained the first Navy aviation losses.28 During the spring of 1964, Prime Minister Souvanna Phouma of Laos authorized low-level reconnaissance flights over his country after Communist forces stepped up their attacks on Laotian government forces. These missions, called Yankee Team flights, demanded extreme skill from the Navy RF-8 pilots who flew unarmed deep into central and northern Laos to photograph Communist infiltration into these areas. According to Cloud, he received gunfire on every mission. Cloud’s best pilot, Lieutenant Charles

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F. Klusmann, became the first naval aviator shot down by Communist fire in Southeast Asia.29 All told, Cloud flew 12 of the 130 missions American aircraft conducted over Laos in 1964—an experience that prepared him for future combat assignments with the Navy. He then traveled to the District of Columbia again, this time to work for the Bureau of Personnel as head of the Statistics Branch of the Enlisted Personnel Section. At the bureau, Cloud applied for a job as a social aide to President Lyndon Johnson and soon found himself working in the White House, escorting dignitaries and generally helping out with the social aspects of the executive mansion. As he described the position, “You put on the uniform and look nice and stand around and take care of people that are coming and going, and are just there to help in any way you can.” While in Washington, Cloud also spent a lot of time engaged in community service activities. He recalled, “I went all over the country under the auspices of the White House giving pep talks, and showing myself as a role model to minority youth.” Cloud also began to socialize with the elite of Washington’s black community, including Dr. Martin Luther King. King impressed Cloud with his charisma, his personal integrity, and his commitment to the cause of racial equality, but Cloud never actively supported King. As he explained, “I was young in those days and felt that if I am in the military then I’m going to conform and abide by the regime of which I am a part. My tactic was to work within the law, and of course, King’s passive nonviolence, sit-ins, and so forth, were clearly outside the law.” Cloud’s tour in Washington ended in 1966, whereupon he transferred to VF-41 in Oceana, Virginia, this time as the operations officer of an F-4 squadron. After several Mediterranean tours, Cloud successfully screened for command and became the executive officer of his old unit, VFP-63, and eventually its commander. Although detachments of VFP-63 deployed in Southeast Asia during Cloud’s command, Cloud himself did not deploy. As the commander of a reconnaissance squadron, his role was to manage all East Coast and West Coast detachments of the unit from Miramar Naval Air Station. To continue his development as a pilot during the 1969–1971 period, he learned to fly the A-4, E-2, and RA-5. Being one of the first black officers to successfully command a squadron placed Cloud on the fast track to flag rank. At the Naval War College the next year, in 1971, he again excelled and was selected as a

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distinguished graduate out of a class of 100 students. Cloud’s performance so impressed the Navy’s Bureau of Personnel that it bumped him over many officers senior to him to make him the new executive officer on Kitty Hawk. “I was very, very flattered over the appointment,” he explained, “because I came back to a ship that held many fond memories for me.” Furthermore, he was convinced that race had nothing to with the appointment. “At this point in my career, I believed that race had never been an issue.”30 Townsend echoed this sentiment: “I was pleased to have Ben aboard, not because he was black, but because he was a calm, thoughtful, and capable officer.”31

Captain Nicholas Carlucci, USMC As the person in charge of security for the Kitty Hawk, Captain Nicholas Carlucci, the Marine detachment commander, played a key role in helping to put down the riot.32 The son of a butcher, Carlucci was born in Far Rockaway, New York, in 1944. He attended Catholic schools for most of his childhood and went on to get a bachelor’s degree in accounting from St. Francis College in Brooklyn in 1965. Facing the draft, Carlucci joined the Marine Corps in 1965, initially as an enlisted man, but the Marine Corps, seeing that Carlucci had a college degree, encouraged him instead to transfer to Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia. Commissioned in 1966, Carlucci went through the Marine Basic School (TBS) at Quantico and then on to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, to the Army Artillery School. Second Lieutenant Carlucci shipped off to Vietnam in late 1967 to serve as the artillery liaison officer for the First Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment. This unit gained some notoriety that year for its role in Operation Swift, a screening operation designed to protect polling places during elections in the Que Son District. Carlucci saw extensive action on the first day of the operation, 4 September 1967, when he flew in with Company B to rescue another unit that had been ambushed near the village of Dong Son. During most of that day and part of the night, Carlucci worked the radios until he went hoarse, directing air strikes in support of Marine actions to dislodge enemy troops dug in at Don Son and the surrounding areas. During the fight, Carlucci received a leg wound from a grenade but continued fighting until the next day, when

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an infection forced him to be medevaced to Chu Lai.33 Carlucci finished his tour of Vietnam working first as a staff officer and aerial observer for the 11th Marines and then as the executive and then commanding officer of an artillery battery that supported the Third Battalion, 7th Marines. He recalled, “What I really enjoyed about being a Marine officer was all the positive things you could do for your men, even in war. I encouraged many of my men to get GEDs, and take correspondence courses, and it was a really, really positive experience.” After his South Vietnam tour, Carlucci worked as an instructor at Fort Sill for two years and then contemplated leaving the Corps. He explained, “I wanted to go back to Vietnam, where the action was, but the Marines did not have any billets available there, especially for veterans. Instead, I requested [ship] detachment service because it seemed interesting and it was an opportunity perhaps to see a little more combat.” Carlucci, on the night of the riot, had commanded the Kitty Hawk detachment since 1971 and knew as much about the ship and its functions as any naval officer of his rank. Not only had this hardworking Marine taken courses on everything from running a brig to handling nuclear weapons, but he had also spent hours studying to qualify as an officer-on-deck (OD)—the officer who controls ship movements on a given watch. While some sought to blame Carlucci for being too aggressive with his detachment, he never veered from standard U.S. Marine doctrine on riot control and would handle himself in a highly professional manner throughout the evening.

Marland “Doc” Townsend No officer’s career would suffer more from events on the Kitty Hawk than that of its skipper, Captain Marland Townsend.34 While Carlucci, by virtue of his long service on the ship and his familiarity with discipline issues, and Cloud, because of his skin color and his personal contacts with civil rights leaders, were somewhat prepared to confront racial problems in October 1972, Marland Townsend came into the situation with very limited personal experience with racial affairs. Although Townsend was familiar with and sympathetic to the civil rights movement, no aspect of his training fully prepared him to handle a major riot involving his black personnel.35 In this sense, he was no different from

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most naval officers of his generation. Nearly all of them had grown up in an all-white environment far removed from the daily lives of black people. Marland Townsend was born in 1927 and grew up in a house in the Mount Ranier section of Washington, DC, then a leafy, middle-class, white neighborhood northeast of the Capitol. The son of an electrician, Townsend knew from age eight onward that he wanted to be a Navy officer. After attending Taft Junior High School, Townsend transferred to Charlotte Hall Military Academy in Charlotte Hall, Maryland, and then entered the Navy via the Flying Midshipmen Program in 1945. The Navy designed this program to keep the pilot pipeline flowing at a time when wartime pilots were rapidly leaving the service. For those who joined, it offered to pay for two years of college and training as a naval aviator in exchange for a service obligation. Pilots completing the program and designated as naval aviators were not automatically commissioned at the same time. They remained as aviation midshipmen and were ordered to the fleet to serve as pilots but not commissioned officers. Townsend applied for the Flying Midshipmen out of Charlotte Hall and wound up doing his two-year college stint at Georgia Tech. Next, Townsend traveled to Memphis for flight training, receiving his wings in September 1948. He began his aviation career flying F8F Bearcats with VF-91 out of NAS Charleston, Rhode Island, as a flying midshipman, and finally received his ensign’s bars in early 1949. In 1950, the Navy began discharging ensigns commissioned through the Flying Midshipmen Program, and soon Townsend found himself without work. Not one to give up on his dream too soon, he returned to Georgia Tech and completed his college education, graduating in 1952 with a bachelor’s degree in aeronautics. He also flew with the Naval Reserve out of Atlanta. He recalled, “There was a Corsair available for me anytime I wanted to go out there, so I had a hell of a lot of fun flying.” Pleased with his performance in the reserve, the Navy offered Townsend an opportunity to rejoin the Navy and receive a regular commission in 1952. Townsend accepted the offer and joined VF-53 as an F9F pilot. The unit deployed to Korea on board the Valley Forge in November 1952 and flew strikes against Communist logistics targets and coastal artillery and flak sites. Townsend returned from Korea in 1953,

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took an instrument-training course at Corpus Christi, and then deployed again to the Western Pacific, this time on board Philippine Sea. In May 1954, he returned to the United States to attend the Naval Postgraduate School (NPS) in Monterey, California, and from there went to Princeton University to earn an M.S. in aeronautical engineering. He stayed at Princeton until 1957, working on an Army contract involving helicopter stability. His thesis offered the first mathematical proof that rigid rotor helicopters are stable. Townsend’s next assignment was with VF-174, an F-8 unit based at Cecil Field, Florida. It came as a welcome break from the academic routine. Townsend left the squadron in 1959 as a lieutenant commander and headed north to Newport, Rhode Island, to attend the Naval War College. Upon graduation, the Navy appointed Townsend as the fleet air production manager for the fleet air repair facilities in Japan. In this assignment, he devised methods for the Navy to save money in the areas of maintenance and repair and also managed a pool of aircraft intended for use as replacements for the Seventh Fleet. Townsend’s career continued to soar upward in 1962, when the Navy selected him to attend test pilot school at Patuxent River, Maryland. He then worked as an instructor pilot at the same base. He explained, “My great advantage there was I had a chance to fly with every student coming through. And based on my squadron experiences, I could always beat every other pilot in a dogfight, whoever he was in the squadron. I understood the principles of flight well and just never got beat.” After “Pax” River, Townsend tested his fighter skills in combat as the executive officer of the VF-143 “Pukin’ Dogs.” He stayed with the squadron from July 1965 through June 1966 as the executive officer (XO) and then commanded it from June 1966 to June 1967. During his time with VF-143, the squadron began flying against targets in North Vietnam, and on 1 May it participated in a three-day-long series of attacks against the heavily defended Vinh area. Five days later Townsend received a Distinguished Flying Cross for leading a strike against three warehouses and then organizing a rescue for an A-4C pilot who ejected shortly after the strike. Later in June, the unit attacked the heretofore untouched North Vietnamese oil facilities in Haiphong.36 In spite of all this activity, Townsend began to privately view the war with a certain degree of skepticism. “What are we risking?” he asked himself.

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I started out flying airplanes like Hellcats and Bearcats. The Bearcat probably cost $150,000. The Hellcat cost $86,000 in mass production. I then moved to Crusaders, which were $1.4 million, and now I was flying Phantoms, which were $3.6 million apiece, plus two crew members. And I saw nothing on the ground that really justified unnecessarily risking an airplane. Now, if you were supporting troops, that was a bit different, but if you were going after just logistics and supplies, it was very important that you did not do things that were going to invite getting shot down.

Prudence became a hallmark of Townsend’s years as XO and CO of the Pukin’ Dogs. He advised pilots not to fly the same patterns over the beach, and to attack targets in waves of four rather than in vulnerable one-plane bomb runs. As a consequence, the unit suffered only two operational aircraft losses over the course of the 2,000 combat sorties flown during his command—one crew disappeared in bad weather and became missing in action, and the other ran out of fuel during a night carrier landing, forcing the crew to bail out near the carrier.37 VF-143 left Yankee Station on 25 August 1966 and returned to Miramar, where it trained for its next deployment in May 1967. Townsend, scheduled to be relieved on 15 June, flew only a handful of missions on this deployment on board Constellation. His most significant occurred on 6 June, when he led the first big strike against a vehicle storage and repair depot at Van Dien eight miles south of Hanoi. The strike encountered extremely heavy opposition in the form of concentrated antiaircraft artillery and surface-to-air missile fire but still managed to reduce the facility to nothing but dust and rubble. For his success in leading this strike, Townsend received his second Distinguished Flying Cross.38 Townsend left the Constellation to take over the Replacement Air Group, VF-121, at Miramar. In this assignment, he was able to modify the unit’s training curriculum to reflect new tactics he had learned in Vietnam. He also had the opportunity to fly against a captured MiG-21C as part of a highly secret enemy weapons evaluation program called “Have Donut.”39 From VF-121, Townsend then headed back to the Constellation to take over as the operations officer and, later, as executive officer. These tours helped prepare him for a deep draft and carrier command. As he explained, “I got to know all the departments on the ship, and it was a great training ground in the duties of a surface officer.” Townsend, for

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Captain Marland Townsend, ca. 1972. (U.S. Navy)

example, occasionally acted as the conning officer during underway replenishments and actually controlled the carrier during approaches to tankers and supply ships. This experience prepared him well for his first deep draft, a fast combat support ship (AOE). Townsend commanded Seattle (AOE 3) from May 1971 to May 1972, at which point he received what should have been one of the crowning assignments of his career, a carrier command. “A carrier command,” wrote Admiral Zumwalt, “is the critical assignment for a Naval aviator. Its bestowal on him signifies he is being considered for Flag rank. He knows that whether or not he makes Admiral pretty much depends on the ship’s record under his command.”40 For Townsend, the Kitty Hawk command was a dream come true, the job he had trained for during his entire career, and the job he had dreamed of holding since his early childhood. Townsend took over the ship from Captain Owen H. Oberg on 5 June 1972. As someone who had participated in four

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combat cruises to Southeast Asia prior to assuming command of Kitty Hawk, Townsend had few equals as a combat leader, and flight operations were his primary focus from day one of his command. Within a day of taking command, Townsend noted that one of his ship’s boilers was due for inspection and immediately corrected the issue before the ship left port (carriers of this type require all eight boilers online to safely conduct flight operations). He also requested and was granted a fixed midnight-to-noon operating schedule to make life easier for his crew, which had been accustomed to changing the schedule every nine days. Finally, he made changes in the air and operations departments that improved night sortie efficiency from fourteen sorties per forty-five-minute cycle to twenty. “My goal was to win the war. We had to be more efficient and combat smart.” Townsend was “aware of the racial tension on the ship” but felt that by improving the Kitty Hawk’s combat performance, he could raise morale among the entire crew, including disaffected blacks.41

Trials and Tribulation: Captain’s Masts Prior to the Riot On 8 June 1972, J. L. Finley, a white airman, walked through the after mess cooks’ berthing area and got hit on the face and neck with popcorn kernels. Fifteen to twenty black men from the compartment then attacked him as he headed topside on an escalator. These men pushed Finley down the escalator, punched him several times, and threw a small trash can at him.42 On the basis of facts compiled by the ship’s investigator and witnesses for the accused, Captain Townsend convened a captain’s mast the next day for two black sailors, Airman Apprentices Melvin J. Newson and Terry V. Avinger. A captain’s mast is a Navy tradition that dates back to the age of sail. On a sailing ship, the commanding officer would try men accused of violating regulations in front of the mizzenmast, which, in a three-masted ship, separated the officers’ quarters from those of the crew. The term “mast” endured, and by 1972 it was used to describe a nonjudicial tribunal at which the commanding officer issued punishments (punishment mast), listened to requests (request mast), or commended men for special services (meritorious mast). Under the rules of a punishment mast, an enlisted man accused of an offense must first be questioned by the ship’s investigator and then

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brought in front of the executive officer for a screening mast. If the XO decides that the facts warrant a captain’s mast, he presents the case to the commanding officer, who decides to either hear the case at mast, dismiss it, or request further investigation. If the captain decides to go forward with a mast, he summons the chief master-at-arms (MAA), the accused, witnesses, and other people involved to a designated mast area. The chief MAA inspects each man’s uniform and appearance and instructs each one on the procedures of mast. A legal officer warns the accused of their rights under the UCMJ, and the mast may begin. The captain, having read the preliminary investigation report, begins with questions for the witnesses. He then offers the accused an opportunity to make a statement or question witnesses. After hearing all the evidence, the captain asks the man’s division officer questions concerning the man’s record, reputation, and performance of duty. The captain concludes the trial with an announcement of his decision. Under Article 15 of the UCMJ, the captain may dismiss charges, excuse the accused with a warning, determine guilt and impose nonjudicial punishment, refer the case to a court-martial, order a pre-court-martial investigation, or postpone action pending further investigation. If the captain chooses nonjudicial punishment, he may confine a sailor to the brig for a limited period (usually no longer than thirty days) or impose a variety of lesser restrictions ranging from withholding pay or privileges to ordering extra duties.43 During most of its history, the mast system provided Navy commanders at sea with an expedient means of bringing men accused of minor infractions to justice. While the system denied the accused proper defense counsel and trial by jury, it was generally far more lenient in its punishments than a court-martial. In contrast to a court-martial conviction, mast punishments did not go on a man’s permanent record as a federal conviction. Men brought to mast also could always request a court-martial if they believed they would not get a fair trial at mast, but most men readily took their chances with mast, figuring that in the worst case they would have to serve a brief jail term in the ship’s brig with no long-term consequences. Why, then, did this time-honored system serve to increase tensions between blacks and whites on Kitty Hawk? The answer lies in how punishments were calculated. Mast rules dictated that a captain use a man’s past disciplinary record (both as a civilian and as a member of the military) as a basis for determining punishments. This rule often compelled Townsend to be harder on many of

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the black men appearing at mast during the summer of 1972 than on white men accused of similar crimes—a situation many black sailors were unable or unwilling to grasp.44 Initially, Townsend unwittingly exacerbated the situation by televising his masts over the ship’s closed-circuit television system. He did so only because the previous CO, Captain Oberg, recommended it highly, and as a new CO, Townsend did not want to change basic ship policies until after he had gained some familiarity with the vessel. In an era before Court TV, televising a hearing appeared to Townsend as beneath the dignity of the court. It also violated the guidance, offered in the 1967 Naval Officer’s Guide, that the mast area “should be reasonably private and should be capable of being transformed into a place of appropriate dignity.”45 For black sailors, television degraded the process because many whites enjoyed watching masts solely for their entertainment value.46 In no instance was this more the case than in the Newson-Avinger trial. Since both sailors had poor disciplinary records in the Navy, Townsend felt compelled to hand out stiff sentences, but he did not give either sailor the maximum punishments for their infractions. He sentenced Newson to a period of correctional custody, during which time Newson requested, and was granted, training as a barber.47 Avinger, by contrast, received three days in the brig on bread and water—a punishment that many black crewmen deemed cruel and unusual, especially given the conditions of incarceration. The brig consisted of six 4-by-7-foot cells, each containing nothing but a toilet. Marine guards provided prisoners with a mattress at night for sleeping but then removed it in the morning. During their initial incarceration period, prisoners generally spent many hours cleaning the brig. At night, they received rehabilitative counseling from either Captain Carlucci, the Marine detachment commander, or the chaplain. Carlucci encouraged them to write the captain confidential letters discussing their prison stay and what they were learning about themselves from the process. After five days, if a prisoner’s attitude improved, he would be allowed to work in other areas of the ship and be given time to complete lesson plans for the high school General Equivalence Degree (GED) test. Prisoners who completed all GED assignments were often released in fifteen days rather than thirty. “The problem with the Avinger sentence,” explained Carlucci, “is that it did not give me a chance to put him through my complete program. Three days of jail just makes a per-

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son angrier. Significant improvement cannot generally be seen until two weeks have passed. Most of these kids are not criminals but immature kids who need some guidance and structure in their lives.”48 Avinger disagreed. He later served a thirty-day sentence in the brig in September 1972 and claimed that it did nothing to rehabilitate him.49 Beyond the issue of the short punishment, what remains clear is that Avinger’s not-guilty plea combined with the paucity of evidence presented at the trial might have convinced Townsend to give him a lesser sentence. Townsend, far from sympathizing with the black crew, viewed the penalty as fair, if not lenient. “If I made a mistake with one man,” he later explained, it certainly has to be with Avinger. I kept that man on the ship when I could easily have discharged him, but he made a plea, after I put him in the brig, in a very nice letter on the importance of an honorable discharge. He wanted an honorable discharge and we made an effort to get him a job. He went to the jet shop and did a hell of a job. But when he was not working, or learning a trade, or something to his advantage, he immediately went back to being a malcontent.50

Townsend, recognizing that potential problems were brewing with his black crew after the mast, convened a meeting with “concerned blacks” the next day on the ship’s forecastle. There, he explained his actions at the recent mast and allowed the men to air their grievances. The situation seemed under control when the meeting concluded. Trouble, however, erupted the next day following another televised mast. The case involved Airman Recruit Pruitt, a black sailor, and Fireman Randall, a white sailor assigned to supervise Pruitt during a cleanup of empty compartments in the engineering area on 8 June 1972. While handling a fire hose, Pruitt lost control of the high-pressure nozzle and then refused to continue working. Randall secured the hose and then told Pruitt to pick up the hose and carry on. Pruitt again refused, whereupon Randall allegedly said, “Either pick it up or I’m going to kick your ass. We don’t take no static from niggers down here.” Randall then shoved Pruitt from behind in an attempt to get him to resume work. Pruitt finally did pick the hose up and managed to finish the assignment by bracing himself against the wall to control the serpentine hose.51 At mast on 11 June, Captain Townsend heard the case and opted to dismiss it with a strong verbal admonition. “That was a great chance to

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win a lot of affection from the blacks,” Townsend later told the Hicks Subcommittee. “I could have thrown Randall in jail and been a hero.”52 Townsend chose not to for several reasons. First, Randall, an unrated fireman, should never have been supervising men, and Townsend later censured Randall’s division officer for the assignment. Second, unlike Newson and Avinger, who had very bad records, Randall’s record was clean. Finally, Townsend believed that the shoving amounted to frustration more than anger and was not premeditated.53 To many black sailors, who naturally compared Newson and Avinger’s mast with Randall’s, Townsend appeared to be operating under a double standard. “His reasons for the dismissal,” argued the unofficial black newsletter “Kitty Litter,” was the “same quality argument as, ‘I like blacks okay, as long as they know their place.’ ”54 According to Commander Cloud, the discontent blacks felt after these masts had as much to do with Townsend’s predecessor, Owen Oberg, as it did with Townsend. Although Oberg denied this claim in an author interview, Cloud claims Oberg had treated each white crew member as “one of the boys” but had not been very friendly to black sailors. Having experienced the degradation of Captain Oberg’s televised masts and his “lack of sympathy” toward minority concerns, black crewmen had hoped for “a change when the new captain came aboard,” but if anything these initial mast decisions made Townsend “appear as more of a hard-liner than the previous Captain.”55 Groups of discontented black sailors began meeting soon after the conclusion of Randall’s mast, presumably to discuss a course of action. One night later, on 13 June, a group of blacks attacked five whites in their berthing areas. The victims suspected that their assailants were black but would not identify anyone, and so no one was charged. On 14 June, a group of black sailors requested a meeting with Captain Townsend, who readily agreed to meet with them. In a “rap” session on the forecastle, 150 black sailors met with the captain for two hours and suggested, among other things, that the human relations council (HRC) be converted into a full-time job for those serving on it. Up until July, the elected board, chaired by a chief petty officer, struggled to juggle official duties with the collateral duties of the board.56 HRCs had been in existence in the Navy since March 1970, when Admiral Thomas Moorer, then the CNO, put out a message to all flag officers, unit commanders, commanding officers, and officers in charge recommending that such councils be formed at all major commands. Zum-

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walt added more muscle to this guidance with the publication of Z-66 in December 1970 by ordering all ships, squadrons, and stations to establish a minority affairs assistant to serve on these councils and be the commander’s main assistant in the area of equal opportunity. Zumwalt envisioned the HRC as an advisory body composed of officers and enlisted sailors from all the major races. According to Zumwalt, the HRC “should meet on a regular basis” to discuss issues pertaining to race relations and “publish and disseminate and communicate salient points to the commanding officer for appropriate action within the chain of command.” The HRC, in short, was designed to be not an executive body but a forum to facilitate communication between sailors and the chain of command. Z-66 represented “only parameters and suggestions, not limitations,” Zumwalt later stated in OPNAVNOTE 5350; “imagination is asked for, and flexibility to meet requirements is paramount.”57 Employing the kind of flexibility envisioned by Zumwalt, Townsend agreed to the request and in July established a full-time council consisting of six black sailors ranging in grade from E-3 to E-6 elected by the ship’s major departments. The council, called the Human Relations Staff (HRS), established an office on the forecastle, manned twenty-four hours a day to receive complaints, investigate grievances, and provide counseling to minority crew members. The HRS maintained case files on major complaints and reported to Townsend on a continual basis. According to the JAG investigation of the Kitty Hawk, up until 12 October, “There were encouraging indications that the ship’s approach to dealing with minority affairs was working well, that the approach was understood and accepted by the black personnel on board, and that effective lines of communications existed between the command and individuals of minority groups.”58 Boatswain’s Mate First Class Frank Stoval, a black petty officer in the engineering division, disputed this claim. In an author interview, he argued vehemently that even with the new HRS, dispute resolution tended to be far slower than it had been in his previous assignments on destroyers. The small size of the HRS, and the fact that no chief petty officers or commissioned officers served on the committee may have hindered its overall effectiveness. In OPNAVNOTE 5350, published in early 1973, Zumwalt stated these councils on larger ships should contain twelve to fifteen people from a mixture of ranks, age-groups, and races. Kitty Hawk’s six-person HRS was significantly smaller than the type of HRC that Zumwalt ultimately demanded all carriers to establish. It also contained no officers.59

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In July a black airman named Pettus stopped at a head on the way to sick bay to get a prescription filled. A friend of his, a white messman named Hendricks, told him that the head was closed for cleaning. Pettus, who thought Hendricks was playing a joke on him, insisted on going in, and an argument quickly ensued. The exchange concluded with Hendricks striking Pettus in the eye.60 At mast on 19 July, Townsend sentenced Hendricks with a forfeiture of pay—a penalty that outraged black crewmen. A week later, on 28 July, some of the black crew lashed out against what they perceived to be the injustice of the lenient penalty. Between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m., several black sailors entered Hendricks’s berthing space, awakened him, and took him to a cubicle in the compartment. After questioning him about why he hit Pettus, the men threw a blanket over his head and struck him several times.61 They also assaulted six other white sailors in the space. Two suspects were charged with five counts of assault and referred to a trial by court-martial.62 No serious incidents occurred again until October. This review of some of the more racially charged masts leading up to the 12 October riot reveals some of the dilemmas Townsend confronted during his first months on the ship. New to the ship, he felt obligated to adhere to the past tradition of televising masts even though he personally viewed this practice with skepticism. He also felt obligated to adhere to the regulations with respect to punishments based on a man’s past record, reputation, and performance of duty as articulated by that man’s division officer.63 To do otherwise, in his opinion, would have been a violation of his mast authority. The black crew viewed matters differently. Rejecting the punishment guidelines as “white man’s justice,” they demanded that Randall be punished in the same manner as Avinger and Newson. In the words of Cloud, they wanted an “eye for an eye,” and nothing else mattered.64 Between Townsend, a naval officer schooled in traditional naval justice, and the black sailors, men angry at a system that they perceived as inherently racist, no middle ground existed on this issue. What Townsend could and did do was listen to the grievances of his black community and improve the minority affairs board—solutions that appeared to be working up until mid-October. “The unique organization of the Human Resources Staff,” Commander Cloud stated in testimony to the Hicks Subcommittee, “seemed to be working, and I say this because they were communicating with minorities, with depart-

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ment heads and division officers, with all the people that seemed to have had a problem basically communicating somewhere along the chain of command.”65

Subic Bay Unrest Over the next few months, tensions increased due to an extension in the ship’s combat schedule. When the ship left Yankee Station after its fifth line period on 3 October, many on the crew believed that the carrier would head home to San Diego after the scheduled six-day port stay in the U.S. Naval Base Subic Bay, a major ship repair, supply, and rest and recreation facility located on the island of Luzon, in the Philippines. Nixon’s negotiators appeared to be making progress in the peace talks, and the end of the war appeared to be close at hand. To their utter dismay, Townsend informed the crew just before they disembarked from the ship in Subic that Kitty Hawk would be going out on the line again after a short in-port visit. This rescheduling resulted from the fact that the Navy had barely enough carriers to keep up with the missions demanded by Linebacker. Ranger, which was originally scheduled to relieve Kitty Hawk, was delayed due to sabotage. On 10 July, a disgruntled white sailor on that ship lodged an eighteen-inch-long threaded steel rod in the number four main reduction gear. The rod chewed off several of the gear’s teeth, forcing the ship to undergo a major overhaul in August. Because of the training schedule disruptions caused by the incident, Ranger would not reach Yankee Station until 16 November. This schedule change was the second time that Kitty Hawk’s deployment had been extended because of problems on another ship. In July, America ruptured a main feed pump, forcing Kitty Hawk to extend until the fall. One can only imagine how disappointed the Kitty Hawk’s crew was to be delayed yet again because of another carrier’s maintenance problems.66 “There was really never any definite date promulgated to the crew as to when they could get home,” recalled Cloud, and the “apprehension, uncertainty, and conflicts” that this situation caused “may have contributed to the problem in some way.”67 On the eve of the riot, many sailors had not seen their families and loved ones for 239 days.68 In the “hothouse” environment of Subic Bay, this apprehension, fueled by cheap alcohol, intensified.69 The Subic Bay Naval Base contained

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numerous recreational facilities for sailors, ranging from golf clubs to beaches, but for many sailors the real entertainment took place just outside the gates in the nearby city of Olongapo. Olongapo, functioned as a classic garrison town with the usual seedy hotels, tattoo parlors, bars, and whorehouses. During the Vietnam War, Olongapo played host to nearly every sailor who fought in the conflict and formed a fundamental backdrop to the sea war—a place to unwind and escape the pressures of line tours. In 1967, for example, the port took in an average of 215 ships a month. The availability of cheap liquor, drugs, and prostitutes combined with the pressures of war and shipboard life encouraged many (including some married men) to take up with local prostitutes. At Olongapo, the bar and prostitution scene was racially segregated. The city had a black section, known as the “Jungle,” and a white area, known as the “strip.” On any night, fights were a normal occurrence in both sections of town, but a midnight curfew imposed by the Filipino authorities tended to exacerbate the situation as drunken sailors of both races headed back to their ships. Such was the case at 12:30 a.m. on 9 October. On that morning, Airman Dwight. W. Horton, a black sailor from Kitty Hawk, got into a fight with two white petty officers just outside the Subic Bay Naval Base gate and was arrested by the shore patrol (SP). Upon his return to the ship, Horton claimed that officials at the Subic Bay provost marshal’s office mistreated him. Not content with using the HRS system to investigate the matter further, a group of black Kitty Hawk sailors decided they would protest Horton’s mistreatment by creating a disturbance at the Sampaguita Club the next night. On 10 October the club hosted a weekly “Soul Night” for black sailors. The night also happened to be Kitty Hawk’s last evening in Subic before returning to Vietnam. For the ship’s sailors, emotions ran high that night as they watched members of Subic Bay’s black and white community enjoy themselves at the club with their wives while they fumed over having to deploy on another line tour. Minor incidents occurred throughout the evening at the club, but one of the most unusual occurred at 9:00 p.m. A white third-class shore patrolman from the oiler Savannah (AOR 4), seeing an argument develop, went over to break it up. He tapped one black sailor on the shoulder, and the man immediately swung around and socked him in the face, fracturing the man’s nose. Members of the crowd pulled the petty officer into the club manager’s office, and eventually an ambulance arrived to take him to

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the hospital. According to Captain Bobby Lee Hatch, a navy investigator who interviewed many people at the club that evening, that incident seemed significant. “Many patrons and shore patrol had noticed that a black man had struck a white shore patrolman,” Hatch wrote in his report.70 Because of this and other incidents, the base operations command center augmented the SP detail at the club from fifteen to thirty men. At 12:45 a.m., another fight broke out. Airman D. W. Horton, the same sailor involved in the gate incident the night before, started a brawl by striking a shore patrolman on duty at the door of the club. One member of the SP called the operations center and requested the Marine riot squad to put down a “fight of considerable proportions.” Twelve Marines and ten provost marshals responded to the call. In the meantime, a group of black sailors dragged a white sailor to the men’s head and began to beat him. A civilian investigator with the provost marshal’s office, Mr. Alderman, followed the men into the head with six shore patrolmen to back him up. Alderman successfully extracted the white sailor from the head and then started ejecting the more violent black sailors from the club with the assistance of the Marines. He then ordered a line of SPs to guard these prisoners until the paddy wagons arrived to transport them to the brig. As Alderman struggled to get the last black out to the parking lot, a black sailor in the club broke a bottle. This provocation caused the black sailors under guard outside to break through the SP line and swarm the club. The group turned over tables and started striking any white patrons they encountered. Assisted by black civilian patrons who impeded attempts by Marines to block exits, the group escaped into the night. Fifteen minutes later, three Kitty Hawk Marine detachment members observed a group of fifteen black sailors running along the pier toward the ship’s gangplank. The sailors appeared to have been in a brawl. Some had their belts unbuckled, and at least one was bleeding from a cut.71 The Navy investigators later concluded that the Sampaguita club brawl was one of the major catalysts of the Kitty Hawk riot. However, black sailors from the Kitty Hawk viewed the situation differently. They did not deny that Sampaguita contributed to the tensions leading up to the riot, but placed more blame on a bizarre incident that occurred earlier in the Jungle. Apparently, a white sailor on the Kitty Hawk hired a group of Filipino nationals to assault a black sailor with whom he had fought earlier in the cruise.72 Black sailors from the ship ultimately

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stumbled upon the attack, interceded, and saved the black sailor. The Filipinos then confessed to the group that they had been hired as hit men by a white sailor from the ship. The white perpetrator, who later lived with the Marine detachment for his own safety, naturally had a completely different story to tell, and the master-at-arms on Kitty Hawk never resolved the matter due the refusal of the Filipinos to cooperate with the investigations.73 Whatever happened, the event or rumors about it galvanized the black crew and created an “us against them” mentality. Captain Carlucci best summarized the effect of the Subic Bay liberty: “I don’t mean to sound like a moralist, but Olongapo is an area that just lends itself toward incidents like this.” The segregated nature of the town allowed rumors to “feed” on each other, “and there was no one to check the rumors.”74 For most sailors, white or black, service on aircraft carriers during the Vietnam War was a hot, dirty, dangerous, noisy, and demanding duty. Unrated sailors often found themselves working long hours, performing mostly menial work. Furthermore, deployments lasting longer than six months were not uncommon. For the 297 black sailors on Kitty Hawk in October 1972, though, there were additional problems. They perceived racial bias in the system of work assignments on the ship, since most of the black sailors worked in the mess decks and laundry room. They also distrusted the ship’s military justice system, since black sailors seemed to be tried for offenses more often than whites and received tougher sentences. Segregated living conditions allowed these grievances to fester and grow unchecked, and alcohol and drugs, especially during the liberty call at Subic Bay, further distorted perceptions. Events in Olongapo exacerbated the situation and solidified an “us against them” mentality vis-à-vis white crewmen that had been slowly developing during the cruise.

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5 Blow Off The Kitty Hawk Riot

The Kitty Hawk left Subic Bay on 11 October. It conducted air operations from 1:00 p.m. until 6:00 p.m. the next day while in transit to Yankee Station. Once the operations concluded, the aircrews debriefed, ate, and filed into their ready rooms to watch movies. Enlisted men, many still exhausted from liberty and angry about having to return to the line, either ate, slept, or went on duty. Black sailors, in particular, seethed with anger over actual and alleged racial incidents at Subic Bay. No one looked forward to another line tour. Seaman Apprentice Terry Avinger broke the fragile harmony of the ship at 6:30 p.m. on the 11th. Avinger wanted two sandwiches, but the cook let him have only one. When he reached across the food line and attempted to grab an extra sandwich, the cook scolded him, and the two men got into a shouting match. The next argument occurred when a white mess cook, while stacking trays, accidentally stepped on Seaman Apprentice John L. Rowe’s foot. By eight o’clock, rumors began to circulate around the messmen’s berthing compartments that whites would not be safe sleeping that night. Fifteen minutes later, six black sailors started “hassling” a white radioman in the mess line of the forward mess deck. An officer near the scene proceeded to his office and requested that the master-at-arms station a man in the mess line to keep order.1 Approximately fifteen blacks then gathered in the mess decks. A member of the HRS, Commissaryman First Class (CS1) Clark, stepped into the situation and convinced the blacks to meet with him and two food services officers in a training room located off the forecastle. There, the black sailors discussed their complaints, most of which centered upon recent events in Olongapo.2 Clark carefully noted each complaint and explained the command actions being taken to investigate

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previously reported grievances. The situation, while still tense, now appeared under control.3 At 9:15 things again escalated. Black sailors assaulted two white messmen in the S-8 forward berthing compartment and then assaulted several messmen in the S-8 aft berthing compartment. Boatswain’s Mate First Class Holmes attempted to stop the group, but one of the men threw a blanket over Holmes’s head and hit him. Gunnery Sergeant Robert L. Sellers, a black Marine, then stormed into the area, and the black sailors retreated. It was at this point that the Marine detachment was called to the after mess deck. On a carrier, the Marine detachment, roughly a company in size, guarded nuclear weapons, the brig, and other high-security areas of the ship. The sixty-man, two-officer “MarDet” also performed ceremonial duties and could be called upon by the captain of the ship to quell a riot or mutiny. Marines, because of their internal security function, lived separately from the ship’s company and, except for sailors they needed to associate with in their daily tasks, generally did not fraternize with the ship’s company.4 Black sailors (and some whites as well), claimed Commander Cloud, perceived the Marines “like the police establishment of a major metropolitan area. They were not looked upon with any respect at all.”5 The commander of the detachment, Carlucci, sought to improve relations between the Marines and the crew by assigning Marines to work with sailors whenever possible. No matter how hard he tried, however, he could not erase the feelings among blacks that the Marines were a critical component of the white power structure on board the ship. Corporal Anthony Avina, wearing a sidearm, along with First Sergeant Willie A. Binkley and several men from the MAA office, headed to the after mess deck without knowing the full nature of the disturbance. Twelve Marines armed only with nightsticks soon joined up with Avina. The noise and commotion of the Marines double-timing it to the mess decks initially alerted Captain Carlucci to the trouble. Carlucci, Cloud, and Lieutenant James P. Martin, a legal officer, had been watching the movie Paint Your Wagon (1969), a western musical starring Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin, in the officer’s wardroom at the time, but when they heard the noise in the passageways, they immediately left the film to investigate. Martin also telephoned Captain Townsend on the bridge to report the problem just before leaving the wardroom.6 Townsend, asleep in his sea cabin when the call came through, got up and began to react. He first ordered the ship’s navigator to take charge

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of the bridge and keep a sharp lookout for any unusual activity on the flight deck. As he recalled, “My main concern was the airplanes on the flight deck and the airplanes on the hangar deck. I put out the word to the master-at-arms to get out there and make sure that we had people protecting the airplanes.” Townsend also told the air officer to increase the illumination of the flight deck for improved security surveillance. He then left the bridge to investigate the situation at 9:40 p.m.—a decision later criticized by investigators. A captain, these critics argued, should never leave the bridge to investigate riotous or mutinous activity because he may later have to judge the perpetrators at a mast or courtmartial: judges cannot be witnesses at a trial they are presiding over. Townsend left the bridge anyway because he believed that his presence might serve to calm the situation.7 Corporal Avina and the Marine detail arrived at the after mess area first and immediately confronted a group of approximately twenty-five very angry black sailors, including Avinger and Rowe. “All of our frustrations over what had happened in the Philippines just came to a head then,” recalled Avinger.8 The black sailors taunted the Marines with provocative language and gestures. They raised fists, overturned tables, and armed themselves with makeshift weapons (mainly overturned chairs and ketchup bottles). They also attempted to block the entrance of the mess, but a small number of Marines pushed through and formed a half circle. Carlucci, who entered the room shortly thereafter, described the situation as follows: “I went between the two groups. There was no real physical contact as such between the men. It more or less appeared as if it was a Mexican standoff. The blacks were angry, the Marines were ready to respond to anything, but no blows were thrown.”9 Carlucci, with the help of First Sergeant Binkley and CS1 Clark of the HRS, attempted to separate the two groups by sending the Marines out of the room. As the final Marine, Corporal Avina, left the room, someone grabbed the shoulder strap of his holster and pulled him back into the crowd. Separated from his men and directly exposed to physical threat, Avina tried to protect his .45 automatic pistol by placing his hand on its butt. Clark, thinking that Avina was drawing the weapon, pinned Avina against the bulkhead. Sergeant Binkley then stepped in and forcefully extracted Avina from the area, exchanging blows with several black sailors in the process.10 When Commander Cloud reached the scene, he commanded all whites except Master Chief Curtis Johnson, the senior enlisted adviser,

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to leave the premises immediately and close the watertight doors of the mess behind them. While all this was taking place, unbeknownst to Cloud, Captain Townsend entered the room. As Townsend later described it: I walked in and nobody acknowledged I was there. It was totally out of order, and the XO was in tough shape, but obviously trying to work hard to get things under control, and operating as a black, too, a black rather than as XO to blacks, which was a mistake. I took a look at that and decided I am either going to have to throw the XO out now or walk out and leave because my authority was being eroded. So I turned and started to walk out.11

In an attempt to quickly defuse the situation, Cloud decided to interact with the rioters more as a fellow black man than as a Navy authority figure.12 “I think that by the time I stepped into this conflagration that night,” he later told the Hicks Subcommittee, “that the time for rational military conduct was on the verge of being lost. You had to use extreme, possibly in some ways non-military tactics in order to de-fang the thrust that the argument was going. I admit that I listened very, very sympathetically to their grievances, and gave everyone there the impression that if their grievance was valid, that I could assure them, it would be taken care of properly.”13 “For the first time,” he reassured the crew, “you have a ‘brother’ who is the Executive Officer. My door is always open.” On two occasions during the meeting, the group saluted Cloud with raised fists, and he responded in kind, but Cloud also stressed the need for black sailors to comply with rules and regulations and use proper procedures for reporting grievances.14 The black sailors, angry that the Marines had been ordered to the mess deck to break up their group, pointed to Avina and the gun episode as proof that the command wanted to employ violent means to crush their protest.15 They also voiced concerns about recent masts, about masters-at-arms who tried to break up groups of blacks, about the schedule, and about an unfounded rumor that two black sailors were left behind in a Philippine jail (the two men were actually in Navy custody because they were unauthorized absentees). Roughly thirty minutes into the meeting, Captain Townsend again entered the room but said nothing. When Cloud finally became aware of Townsend’s presence, he pulled the captain aside and suggested that he leave

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the room and allow him to handle the problem. As Townsend began to depart, several blacks bombarded him with questions, which he answered, according to Cloud, with “logic, reason, firmness, and compassion.”16 Townsend then ordered the room to disperse peacefully and stayed behind to answer more questions. During Cloud’s meeting, Captain Carlucci met with his Marines and informed them that their first responsibility was to protect the aircraft, fueling systems, and light water stations from sabotage. He ordered two 3-man patrols armed with nightsticks to be posted on the hangar deck and similar patrols on the flight deck. He told the Marines to use judgment, common sense, and restraint in handling any confrontation with black sailors. “Be firm,” he told them, “but avoid trouble if possible.” Carlucci, who had recently read a U.S. Marine Corps study on race riots, explained basic crowd control techniques to his men. Following the guidance of Army Field Manual 19-15, “Civil Disobedience,” he told the men to prevent the formation of groups of blacks (which he defined as three or more sailors) and to summon help with their whistles upon encountering resistance. Carlucci would keep a mobile reaction force of twelve Marines to respond rapidly to any crisis.17 After the meeting, Carlucci requested two things from Captain Townsend. He asked the captain to order all the black sailors in the after mess deck to turn in their identification cards as they left the meeting: this would give the command group a tally of who was involved in the disturbance should further legal action be necessary. Carlucci also believed such a move might “shake up these kids a bit” and dissuade the group from committing more disturbances in the future. Carlucci, again following basic Army and Marine doctrine on riots, then asked permission to apprehend three of the ringleaders. Townsend, fearing that such moves would spark more violence, rejected both requests.18 Things seemed to be much calmer and in control at the conclusion of both meetings. Commander Cloud returned to his stateroom with fifteen black sailors who wished to discuss matters in greater detail. “I reminded them of the fact that I had been aboard only eight weeks,” explained Cloud, “and I had never been put to a test as to whether or not I was white in practice or black in practice. And the big point that I tried to get across to the young blacks was the fact that there need not be a compromise in terms of being an effective naval officer, and being black; that indeed the two are very compatible.”19 The group behaved in an amiable manner, with everyone seated either in a chair or on the

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deck, until the peace was interrupted by a young black sailor, Seaman Recruit Williamson, who stormed into the office shouting, “Oh my God, Oh my God, they are at it again. They are going to kill us all.” The man had a large gash across his head and was crying in near hysteria. The group immediately left the stateroom to investigate.20 Black sailors and Marines again confronted one another, this time on the hangar deck. “The marines were never called out by me in this incident,” claimed Townsend. “They were on the scene and armed, without the direct order of me, the XO, or the Marine commander. When people began to move out and saw the Marines, the marines decided they could walk only in groups of three or fewer, and instead of obeying, the blacks fought with the marines.”21 That was the “trigger point” of the entire episode, explained Townsend. “Many of them had believed when they left that first meeting on the after mess deck that there would be no problem with the marines,” testified Cloud, “yet when they went up on the hangar deck there was a confrontation. That episode, argued Cloud, caused a large number of blacks to lose faith in the sincerity of the command group, and further escalated the conflict.”22 Carlucci saw the situation differently. “I was the one who ordered the marines to the hangar deck and authorized them to break up groups of three or more black sailors. This was basic Marine riot control doctrine at the time.”23 Carlucci, after initially posting patrols on the hangar deck, had even stayed on the deck to witness the patrols disperse a few groups without incident.24 He believed his Marines behaved properly and in accordance with commonly practiced doctrine. In the end, Carlucci and Townsend’s difference of opinion over the Marine behavior on the hangar deck has become a moot point because, unbeknownst to either of them at the time, the eventual confrontation between blacks and Marines on the hangar deck was not the “trigger point” of the riot. The situation actually had begun to unravel during the time of the mess deck meetings. In a spree of random violence, blacks were attacking whites throughout the ship as the command group struggled to ease tensions in the mess: • At 9:20, three or four black sailors pushed Photographer’s Mate Airman Apprentice Charles T. Simpson into a head and hit him several times. • At 10:00, five black sailors punched and kicked Radarman Seaman John Callahan while he was taking a shower. A black sailor

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then struck Callahan again as he proceeded to the ship’s investigator’s office to report the incident. • At 10:10, fifteen to twenty blacks kicked and hit Fireman Apprentice David L. Elwell on the starboard passageway by the after bomb assembly area. Elwell suffered a severe blow to his ankle. • At 10:30, Airman Apprentice Franklin Roundtree, a black sailor with VA-52, struck a man and knocked him down. The unidentified man suffered a cut under his left eye. In short, the black sailors who instigated the next fracas in the hangar deck may not have even been the same sailors involved in the mess deck affair.25 The hangar incident occurred when one of the two patrols of two men guarding the forward hangar bay approached a small group of black sailors at 11:00 p.m. and ordered them to disperse. The sailors refused, and the patrol, led by Corporal Gary F. Bishop, summoned the other two-man patrol, led by First Sergeant Willie Binkley, for assistance. The group of black sailors, now twenty in strength, moved toward the four Marines shouting and raising their fists in black power salutes. At this point, Binkley signaled a third patrol in the aft hangar bay to reinforce them, and the Marines formed a defensive line between the fore and aft hangar bays. More Marines from the hangar deck soon augmented the small force. Binkley, a white NCO, ordered the black sailors to disperse. They refused, and as Binkley turned around, a man lunged at him with a steel pipe. Lance Corporal Jackson grabbed the pipe and tried to wrestle the perpetrator to the ground. A fight ensued, and one Marine and one black sailor received facial injuries. The black sailors then broke contact and began arming themselves with aircraft tie-down chains. Fifteen more black sailors soon arrived, as did Captain Carlucci, who ordered the Marines to regroup and stop pursuing black sailors. Carlucci then proceeded into the crowd of fifty black sailors and attempted to calm the men down. Townsend, meanwhile, had received word of the disturbance on the hangar deck from Master Chief Curtis Johnson and immediately proceeded to the area to “see physically what was going on.”26 As he arrived in the hangar deck, a black sailor threw a metal pipe section of a guardrail and hit First Sergeant Binkley in the leg, but other than that, no additional violence occurred in the hangar. “When I was down on the hangar deck,” recalled Townsend, “the black groups were not near

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airplanes and wherever I would go, they were obedient and proper.”27 Commander Cloud, who got there a few minutes later, described the situation slightly differently: “There was a large group of blacks surrounding the captain, and I went up to the captain and briefly spoke to him. He seemed to be in control, or relatively in control of the situation, even though the blacks that were around him were shouting and cursing and hollering.”28 Someone then advised Cloud that a big fight was going on in sick bay, and he departed to investigate. When Cloud passed his stateroom, three black sailors told him that “the brothers” were going to “get” Binkley. As Cloud testified, “They were armed with weapons, chains and pipes, and they said, no two ways about it, they were going to kill him.”29 Cloud told the men to go into his stateroom and stay there. He then called the legal office and told Captain Carlucci to personally escort Sergeant Binkley to his stateroom. As Binkley entered the room, black sailors yelled out, “That’s him, that’s him, we are going to get him!”30 Before Cloud could calm the room down, Master Chief Johnson burst into the room dragging a handcuffed young black sailor named Pettis who was crying hysterically. Johnson shouted, “XO, they are killing people in sick bay. Come see what you can do about it.” Cloud could see that Johnson was “really shook up” and “knew what he was talking about.” Cloud therefore decided to proceed to sick bay, but before he left, he told Johnson not to let any of the black sailors in the stateroom out. Cloud then ordered Sergeant Binkley to go with him. “I gave him the specific order that he was never to leave my side for the rest of the evening.” In the sick bay, black sailors smashed glass and attacked several hospital corpsmen. Corporal Robert L. Anderson, who was being treated there at the time, bit one of his assailants in the leg. The passageway outside teamed with angry, violent men. The situation was very confused. Cloud tried to push through the congestion on the port side of sick bay but ended up having to cross the ship and go up the starboard side to access the area. As he neared sick bay, two medics ran out saying, “They got Captain Townsend. The Captain has been hurt. They got him.” Cloud turned Binkley over to a chief petty officer standing nearby and ordered him to hold the sergeant until further notice. “I then went up a few feet more to sick bay. The commotion that was in there was in the wards themselves, and in the operating room, but it all seemed to quiet down shortly after I got there. There were people still bleeding

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and people on the operating table being taken care of by surgeons, but the general commotion quieted down as soon as I got there.” A man then approached Cloud and said, “They got the captain.” Cloud turned around and immediately started running to Damage Control Central, a control room used to manage crises on the carrier. When Cloud reached the personnel office, a man in khaki trousers and a white T-shirt said, “They got the captain. They killed the captain. Oh my God.”31 Cloud made a decision on the spot to make an emergency broadcast over the public address system: This is the Executive Officer speaking. May I have the attention of every Kitty Hawk crewmember? This is an emergency. Do not listen to what anybody else tells you. I want you to do exactly as I tell you. I ask you, I implore you, I order you to stop what you are doing. All black brothers proceed immediately to the after mess deck. Every member of the United States Marine Corps proceed to the forecastle immediately. This is an emergency.32

For the great majority of the crew, this was the first indication that something was amiss, and sailors throughout the ship, both black and white, began locking the hatches of their berthing areas to guard against attack. Captain Townsend, upon hearing Cloud’s announcement, decided to countermand the order because he did not want the Marines to leave their areas again and clash with groups of black sailors. Townsend later testified: I certainly had no way of knowing why the XO was taking over the ship. His actions up to that point were pretty much taking over the ship anyway, in dealing with blacks and giving them special permissions. He was I must stress, trying to do his job the best he could. He had been aboard for less than eight weeks, had limited command experience, and had limited shipboard experience at that. But he is a damn good man and was working to the best of his effort.33

Townsend finally caught up with Cloud in Damage Control Central. Trying to instill some much needed humor into the situation, he greeted Cloud and told him, “If anybody ever writes a book about this, this is going to be the most fucked-up chapter.”34 He then assured his execu-

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tive officer that the Marines would not be used against anyone, but he also made it clear that the black sailors had to “stop any type of disturbance and go back to their regular spaces.”35 Townsend opted to countermand Cloud’s order to isolate the Marines on one side of the ship and the black sailors on the other because he believed that such a move would further polarize the ship. The captain also decided not to go to general quarters. “A general quarters would have interrupted the whole pattern of flight operations and forced me to cancel strikes against North Vietnam that morning.” Carlucci, who also participated in that meeting, claims that Townsend also worried that a general quarters alarm would cause more movement on the ship, which could have easily sparked more violence.36 The Hicks Subcommittee later rebuked Townsend for not bringing the ship to general quarters, arguing that “such a tactic, as demonstrated by U.S.S. Saratoga, [was] effective in breaking up unauthorized groups and preventing shipwide rampages by placing the ship and crew in their most secure condition.” In the Saratoga affair, which occurred on 18 October 1972, a general quarters alarm effectively broke up a small racial scuffle that occurred near the ship’s main galley. This fight, however, was much smaller and more centralized than the widespread unrest on Kitty Hawk. More important, it occurred after flight operations had ended. If Townsend had sounded general quarters and canceled his air strikes, he would have undermined the entire Linebacker campaign for that day—a closely choreographed bombing effort involving aircraft from three services. At the time, Townsend believed that he had to end the riot without violating his sacred duty as a naval officer to prosecute the war to the best of his abilities.37 Instead of sounding general quarters, he made the following statement on the address system: This is the Captain. Disregard what the XO just said. The XO’s words were premature and based on erroneous information he received. He thought the situation was more serious than it really is. Do not go to places. Blacks are not to proceed to the after mess decks. Marines are not to go to the forecastle. That’s the last thing we want to do, to segregate into two separate camps. I do not want any gatherings of anyone. Everybody go about your normal business. Cool it, everyone. Break up peacefully and proceed back to your spaces. The marines will not use any weapons and will leave you alone. There will be no weapons used

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unless I call for it on this box. Those of you who have grievances I will meet with you right now on the forecastle. The rest of you I want to cool it. Knock off this senseless behavior before more of your shipmates are seriously injured. I know everybody is hot under the collar. I know you are disappointed at not going home as planned. So am I, but we’ve got to live with it, so cool it. I’m OK and the XO is all right. I repeat, I’m heading for the forecastle now and will meet with anyone and try to work out your grievances. But for God’s sake, the rest of you cool it and go back to your spaces.38

As Townsend made his announcement, black sailors, in Cloud’s words, were “indiscriminately beating all whites they encountered in passageways and berthing.”39 More than thirteen random attacks occurred during this period. At 12:00 midnight, a gang of fifteen black sailors jumped Cryptologic Technician Third Class Ronald J. Lawson and Cryptologic Technician Seaman David D. McMillon on the forward mess deck, knocked them down, and began kicking and bludgeoning the two men. McMillon managed to break away, but Lawson was knocked unconscious. At the same time, six other black sailors attacked two machinist mates on the port side of the ordnance handling area. The white men, Machinist’s Mate Third Class Dale Wilson and another white sailor, scrambled down a ladder to the P-1 berthing area, dodging bomb fins being thrown at them. A black man kicked Wilson in the head as he climbed down the ladder, causing Wilson to fall into the lower compartment. Meanwhile, large numbers of blacks ran through the S-8 forward berthing area, striking anyone in their path, while white sailors huddled together in the darkness praying that the next blow would not fall on them.40 Some thirty minutes after midnight, five to six black sailors wielding broomsticks attacked two white sailors heading to the “G” division berthing compartments. At about the same time, Boatswain’s Mate Second Class Ronald L. Yeaman and three other masters-at-arms proceeded to the forward ammo handling area to investigate reports of trouble there. A gang of black sailors hit Yeaman, knocked off his glasses, and ground them into the deck.41 During this time, Townsend stayed in sick bay to make sure the medical staff could treat the injured in relative peace, and Cloud went to the forecastle to meet with the agitators. At one point, he ran into a group of blacks and ordered them to give him their weapons. A couple

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of them complied, but Avinger protested, “You know your way won’t work. You told us the marines would not hurt us, would not bother us, and they were out there again beating us up just like they had been told. You are no better than the others. We don’t believe you. You are a liar, and you are just as bad as all the rest.” The crowd again gathered. Cloud and another black officer then tried to pull Avinger off to the side to discuss the matter privately with him. “I order you to come with me,” Cloud commanded, but Avinger broke away, and the XO decided not to pursue him. Recalling the episode later on in testimony before the Hicks Subcommittee, Cloud said that he “felt that if I had used any physical constraint on him, it would have prompted a violent attack on me by others who were still watching.”42 By 12:15 a.m., many black sailors began assembling on the forecastle. Most of the 150 men in the group were nonrated, young sailors, but Commander Cloud noticed several petty officers in the crowd. Many of the sailors carried makeshift weapons such as chains, dogging wrenches, pipes, and nunchucks (a martial arts weapon consisting of two sticks connected at their ends by a short length of rope or chain). “Kill, kill, kill the motherfucker. Let’s tear the ship apart. There’s the son-of-abitch. We ought to throw him over the side,” they shouted when the executive officer entered the room, but no one dared to lay a hand on him. “That situation was very, very incendiary,” recalled Cloud, “very touch and go. The only reason that I was not killed at that point was the fact that I was black.”43 The XO offered the men a black power salute and then tried to shout down some of the more vocal sailors. As Cloud attempted to quiet the crowd, without much success, one of the young ringleaders stood up on an anchor chain, raised his hand, and said, “Listen to him, listen to what the man has to say. The least you can do is listen to what he has to say.” The crowd began to settle down, and Cloud began exhorting the men to adopt the nonviolent strategy of Martin Luther King. In an impassioned speech, Cloud compared King’s integrationist strategy of nonviolence to Malcolm X’s emphasis on armed self-defense, racial pride, and separatism. “If you follow the practices of a Gandhi, and of Martin Luther King, Jr.,” he argued, “you can live tomorrow and the next day in pride and respect, but if you continue to use the tactics that you are using here tonight, the only thing that you can guarantee is your death, and the further worsening of the situation that you are trying to correct.” To show his earnestness, Cloud reached down and took a two-

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foot piece of pipe from one of the men and held it up. He then removed his shirt, and said, “If anyone in this crowd does not believe my sincerity, I hold this weapon and I bare my back for you to take this weapon and beat me into submission right here.”44 The crowd went dead silent, and then a chant went up, ”He is a brother! Let’s do it your way. We are with you all the way.” Cloud responded with the black power salute. Some men began to throw their weapons over the side of the ship. He then ordered the crowd to return to their berthing compartments, take the rest of the night off, and get some sleep. “Right on brother!” the crowd responded. The meeting with 150 blacks in the forecastle lasted about an hour and ended in a relaxed, even jocular mood. Weapons by the hundreds went over the side of the ship, and the group began to disperse with an admonition by Cloud that all should peacefully return to their tasks, discard weapons, and be prepared to start voicing complaints via HRS to Captain Townsend.45 As Cloud left the assemblage at 1:00 a.m., a black master-at-arms approached him from the communications office and said, “XO, there is a man in here that is injured. He is near death, and we can’t get him out.” Cloud ordered several of the black sailors to go into the office with him. Cloud entered the compartment with six blacks. The compartment was full of whites. Two blacks and two whites picked up the stretcher containing an unconscious white sailor named Lynwood Patrick and transported him to sick bay.46 Cloud’s prompt action in this instance may have saved the life of Radioman Third Class Patrick, who was attacked in his bunk and suffered from a depressed open skull fracture and lacerations to the hand and forehead.47 Subsequently, Cloud stopped by his stateroom and then went to the mess decks, where a group of twenty blacks were being fed sandwiches and punch. A few white sailors remained just long enough to eat. In twenty minutes or so the group had expanded to forty men, most of whom ate peacefully, played cards, talked, listened to music, or played bongo drums. Cloud sat down to have a sandwich and then left the group at about 2:00 a.m. to inspect the berthing and living compartments. At 2:30, Cloud spoke to the captain by phone and was told that there were still cases of random and sporadic violence on the ship. “We’ll have to stay on top of it until things quiet down,” Townsend told him.48 Thirty minutes later, Cloud encountered the captain leaving the S8 berthing spaces. Townsend indicated his concern over a large group of

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blacks congregating in the mess area. Townsend felt that the group would disrupt the meal hour and likened the gathering to a victory party, something he would not tolerate. The captain and Cloud then broke up the gathering and offered to conduct another meeting on the forecastle with anyone who still had grievances. That meeting lasted from 3:30 to 5:00 a.m. and seemed to finally quell black dissent on the ship—at least for the time being. White anger over recent events, however, was just beginning to gain intensity. For many whites and some black sailors, the riot existed only as news after the fact. Many areas of the ship never experienced any violence, and some men literally slept through the entire affair. Others stumbled into the riot by accident or became victims by circumstance. Seaman Marvin Davidson, a young bomb assemblyman from South Bend, Washington, was in some respects typical of those attacked. A petty officer told Davidson that fights were taking place on the ship and ordered him and others nearby to move their squadron’s bombs to the magazine for safekeeping. Davidson climbed seven ladders to get from his berthing area to the hangar deck; when he opened the final hatch leading to the hangar deck, a group of black sailors reached down, pulled him onto the deck, and began kicking him. As Davidson recalled, “I’m laying on the deck getting the snot kicked out of me and the next thing I know someone barges in, breaks it up, and then reaches down to pull me off the deck. It was Captain Townsend. I was totally shocked.” Townsend said, “Are you OK, sailor?” “Yeah.” “Are you sure? Would you like to go to sick bay?” “No. I’ve got bombs to move.”49

As rumors began circulating that whites had been attacked randomly while they slept, Davidson and other whites became more concerned with the situation. They soon began arming themselves for what many believed would be a full-scale battle for control of the ship. Interior Communications Electrician Fireman Robert Keel, a young sailor from San Diego who never possessed any feelings of racial animosity prior to the 1972 cruise, armed himself with a length of cable. Keel explained, “The only thing we knew was that blacks had control of the main decks

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above and below the hangar deck, and this was completely unacceptable. We planned to take back the ship.”50 Commander Cloud, concerned about the developing white reaction, confronted one group of armed whites in a berthing compartment near the forecastle. This group of 150 sailors “wanted to know why they couldn’t go out and retaliate.” According to Cloud, “They weren’t as noisy as the group of blacks, but they were certainly loud and boisterous, and initially disrespectful to me, saying of course that I was nothing more than a nigger, just like the rest of them.”51 The XO responded by telling them that “by a higher authority I was appointed as Executive Officer of this ship, and that as such you men, as part of the Kitty Hawk, along with the blacks, are crew members of one ship, and you will obey orders and edicts of the commanding officer.” Cloud then reminded the men that if they decided to take the law into their own hands, they would be subject to legal action. “The alternative,” Cloud implored them, “is yours. Either you will do it the legal means and stay correct and proper as you are, or take up weapons as you are threatening to do right now, and every one of you will be subject to a long prison term away from your wives, families, and loved ones.” He then left that meeting to discuss the matter further with Captain Townsend. During the remainder of the early morning, Cloud continued to talk to concerned sailors about recent events. Chief petty officers augmented these efforts with both black and white sailors. In part due to these efforts, no massive white retaliation ever materialized. Instead, the flight deck erupted with activity as the Kitty Hawk commenced air strikes against North Vietnam at 7:58 a.m. on the 13th. It was a testament to the professionalism of the crew that Kitty Hawk was able to resume combat operations so soon after the riot, but it also reveals that the riot affected only a small number of the 4,582-member crew. Many crew members only found out that something was amiss on the ship from Cloud’s announcement on the ship’s public-address system (1MC). If it were not for that address and Townsend’s subsequent one, the vast majority of ship members might never have known that a riot took place. If a carrier is like a small city, the riot occurred on only a few of its blocks.52 The ship’s medical department eventually filed forty-seven injury reports, but it estimated that at least sixty people were treated for injuries. Three required medical evacuation to shore hospitals, while the rest

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were treated on board ship. The ship finished its last line tour on 31 October and, after brief stops at Subic Bay and Pearl Harbor, returned to San Diego on 28 November. In the days immediately following the disturbance, Townsend broke up all segregated berthing compartments and assigned a senior enlisted man or officer to remain in each berthing space between taps and reveille (10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m.) on the assumption that the presence of a khaki uniform (officer/senior enlisted) would deter further hostilities. Officers, masters-at-arms, and chief petty officers also patrolled the passageways during the night.53 Finally, Townsend transferred Terry Avinger and two other ringleaders off the ship on the 13th. Both sailors ultimately wound up in pretrial confinement in the brig at North Island, San Diego. Within days, three legal teams arrived from headquarters of the commander in chief Pacific (CINCPAC) to expedite the identification of perpetrators of the riots and the drawing up of charges. Pressure was placed on Townsend to court-martial the perpetrators on the ship, but he refused, arguing that these men could not get the proper legal advice and counsel they needed in the confines of the ship.54 Ultimately, the Navy charged twenty-nine individuals with various offenses under the UCMJ and found nineteen of that number guilty of at least one charge.55 Charges against Avinger for his actions on Kitty Hawk would be dropped in the end “for lack of speedy trial.” However, a Navy courtmartial did find him guilty of assaulting a Marine guard during a subsequent protest at North Island and sentenced him to two months of confinement, reduction in grade to E-1, and forfeiture of $200 a month for two months.56 After his brig time, Avinger accepted an early discharge from the Navy in 1973. Upon leaving the service, Avinger earned his high school diploma at San Diego City High School but also began taking drugs again. After getting into a scuffle with a man in a public restroom, Avinger again wound up in jail. At the maximum-security facility in Chino, California, Avinger took college classes through a prison program offered by California State University, Los Angeles. He continued taking classes at a local community college in Philadelphia after his release two years later but soon lapsed back into drug abuse. The FBI ultimately caught him trafficking drugs, and a federal court sentenced him to two years of prison. Avinger finally began to clean up his act in 1984, the year he entered the Gaudenzia treatment center in Westchester, Pennsylvania, for thirteen months of drug rehabilitation. He relapsed one more time in 1985

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and checked himself into another Gaudenzia program in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for six more months of treatment. While there, he finally broke the cycle of addiction and matriculated into the permanent workforce, initially as a car salesman for three years, followed by a stint as a marketing person for drug addiction centers. In 1991, he enrolled in a part-time two-year program at Lincoln University in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where he ultimately earned a master’s degree in social work in 1993. He then worked in a variety of jobs in the managed health care field and the drug and alcohol counseling area. Today, Avinger serves as the employee assistance counselor for Amtrak’s northeast operations.57 For Townsend and Cloud, the riot essentially ended their careers in the Navy. Although the Kitty Hawk investigation did not recommend that either officer be punished or reprimanded in any way for their actions during the riot, being associated with the event became a black mark on both of their service records. Despite his outstanding record as a combat leader, Townsend became the first Vietnam War carrier commander to be passed over for promotion to admiral. Instead, he ended up finishing his time in the Navy at a dead-end job as an assistant to the Defense Department’s research and evaluation director. Marland Townsend recently retired as the mayor of Foster City, California. Cloud, given his combat record and superior intellect, also might have risen high in the Navy had it not been for Kitty Hawk. Rather than assigning him to command a deep draft ship followed by a carrier, however, the Navy sent him to Texas to run the NROTC program at Prairie View A&M University, a predominantly black college. From there, he commanded the Naval Support Activity, Naples, and ended his naval career as an aviation detailer in Washington. Cloud retired from the Navy in 1984 as a captain. Interestingly enough, Captain Nicholas Carlucci was the only officer intimately involved in the riot whose career did not get cut short as a result of the event. In contrast to Cloud and Townsend, Carlucci was a relatively junior officer at the time. He also followed Marine doctrine as strictly as Townsend would permit, and unlike Townsend or Cloud, did not attempt to improvise to spare the ship from violence. To this day, Carlucci argues that he could have put the riot down with his Marines had Townsend allowed him to confiscate IDs and arrest ringleaders after the initial violence on the mess deck. Carlucci also pointed out in an author interview that he had given his Marines extensive riot training prior to the event and that they “never veered” from this training.

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Finally, he sharply criticized Townsend and Cloud for holding so many meetings in the forecastle because every time they convened a meeting, the black sailors had to move through white berthing areas, with violence being the end result. The Marine Corps accepted Carlucci’s defense and opted not to derail his career. He ultimately retired as a full colonel. That Townsend and Cloud made mistakes during their tours on Kitty Hawk cannot be disputed. Given the history of blacks in the Navy, Townsend should never have assigned so many black sailors to the mess, no matter how important a learning experience it might have been, but like most white officers of the period, his knowledge of the black community and its history was limited. Townsend’s policy of televising his masts and his allowing blacks to berth together in a de facto segregated environment certainly contributed to tensions leading up to the riot. On the other hand, it is doubtful that Owen Oberg or any other officer could have staved off the riots by handling masts or berthing arrangements differently. The large influx of lower test category black sailors to the ship and their assignment to such areas as the mess deck and laundry rooms, the carrier’s long deployment, the poisonous Subic Bay interlude, and the spread of black power ideology all served to undermine morale among black sailors. It did not take much of a spark to ignite the flames of racial hatred on this ship. During the riot itself, Cloud may have acted hastily in getting on the 1MC after hearing that Townsend had been killed. Townsend, similarly, might have been in a better position to control events had he remained on the bridge. However, what those far removed from the riot do not understand is just how confusing the night of 12–13 October was for the command group. A carrier is a labyrinth of passages and compartments. In 1972, internal communication between areas of the ship consisted of a handful of voice-powered intercom systems linked by an enlisted operator manning a switchboard. Closed-circuit television was limited to the flight deck. Townsend and Cloud, in short, had no idea of the exact nature of the riot until well after it ended. That is why Townsend needed to leave the bridge and survey the situation himself before calling in the Marines, and why Cloud acted prematurely in getting on the IMC to order the Marines and blacks to go to separate sides of the ship. What remains admirable about Cloud and Townsend was their very willingness to improvise. Rather than besieging themselves in the bridge,

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these men, without any regard for their personal safety, engaged the rioters in dialogue—a dialogue that ultimately convinced the dissidents to lay down their arms. Townsend showed tremendous restraint with his handling of the Marines and other security forces on the ship. Although it was certainly within his authority as commanding officer in a war zone to put down the riot violently, Townsend chose the more peaceful route of negotiation. Far from being permissive, Townsend’s actions in hindsight appear prudent and thoughtful—especially for a man coming out of the Navy of the 1950s. Townsend firmly believed that his Marine force was simply too small to put down the riot without serious violence and destruction resulting. As Townsend later explained, “Attica was always on the back of my mind. I did not want to ignite the situation any further by ordering a violent overthrow of the riot. I handled the situation with a velvet glove and iron-fisted determination.”58 No man proved more central in putting down the riot that night than Ben Cloud. Although he never thought of himself as a civil rights leader, Cloud demonstrated the same heroism, moral character, and charisma that Martin Luther King did during the civil rights movement. Black sailors on the Kitty Hawk were convinced that the system would not work for them and that revenge needed to be exacted directly and violently. Cloud’s great contribution that night was his ability to step out of his officer persona and talk to the black sailors as a black man with the same language and passion as King. The Hicks Subcommittee and some in the Navy hierarchy later criticized such behavior. Townsend testified later that by operating as a black man in this situation, Cloud had seriously compromised the captain’s ability to handle the situation. After the riot, Townsend warned Cloud, “If he ever did anything like that again, any more black power salutes or anything like that, he was off the boat.”59 This criticism by Townsend, however, ignores the important fact that Cloud ultimately convinced an angry crowd to choose the path of peace and, in so doing, saved the ship from additional violence and allowed the aircraft of Air Wing 11, the Navy’s most powerful wing in WESTPAC (Western Pacific), to continue prosecuting the Linebacker offensive on the 13th. Ending a wartime riot peacefully and in the most expeditious manner possible is what mattered. Taken in a larger sense, the events on Kitty Hawk reveal a Navy completely unprepared for the influx of lower test category blacks that

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occurred in the early 1970s. The Navy had no plan to integrate these men into a variety of ratings through additional training and education. Instead, it sent them directly to the fleet as unrated seamen, where they inevitably ended up concentrated in menial jobs. Moreover, the Navy did not provide the officers on Kitty Hawk or most other ships with special training in how to integrate these men and prevent racial tensions from arising. Townsend, for example, did not understand that by assigning blacks to the mess deck and laundry, he inadvertently reinforced the stereotype of blacks as shipboard servants. Effective racial awareness training might have prevented this error and others. Instead, the situation “blindsided” him and many others. The black sailors, however, also bear some responsibility for events. When confronted by institutional racism, they tended to draw inward and become paranoid rather than making strong efforts to address their concerns with the chain of command. Avinger mentioned listening to Marvin Gaye’s masterpiece, “What’s Going On,” but he and others like him did not heed the song’s central message: “We don’t need to escalate / You see, war is not the answer / For only love can conquer hate.” Integrated berthing and a more integrated liberty environment might have encouraged more interaction between the races and, with it, increased mutual understanding. In the long run, though, the Navy needed more black middle managers like Cloud to facilitate better communication within the ranks and to act as role models for those who tended to only see blacks in stereotypical roles in the Navy.

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6 More Unrest The Hassayampa Riot

Gray Steel, Black Oil Four days after the Kitty Hawk riot, on 16 October 1972, another riot erupted in WESTPAC—this one on Hassayampa (AO 145), a fleet oiler moored to a pier at the Subic Bay Naval Base in the Philippines. The Hassayampa had a much smaller crew than Kitty Hawk (324 sailors as opposed to 4,582), so this riot was smaller in scale and scope. Only 11 black sailors rioted, and only 5 white sailors were injured in the affair. The Hassayampa riot, however, demonstrated that racial unrest extended beyond Kitty Hawk and was indeed emerging throughout the fleet. Furthermore, unlike in Kitty Hawk, where white sailors for the most part were taken by complete surprise during the riot and did not fight back, the white sailors on Hassayampa were more prepared to retaliate. Whites, especially because of their larger numbers, would prove just as dangerous and difficult to control as blacks during episodes of racial unrest. The world of a Navy oil tanker sailor is very different from that of the carrier crewman. The Hassayampa’s large size and small crew gave these men more living and working space than your average carrier sailor, but the crew paid for these luxuries through long deployments and harsh work schedules. Underway refueling operations were very labor intensive and stressful in the early 1970s. Everyone from the captain to the lowest seaman had to perform their jobs flawlessly or disaster could result. By 16 October, the crew of Hassayampa, like that of Kitty Hawk, was tired and angry. Their long ten-month cruise had just been extended “indefinitely,” which to men of AO 145 was terribly unfair, since they believed they were the hardest-working members of the Seventh Fleet. To some degree, they were right. The severe shortage of replenish-

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ment ships during the latter stages of the war meant that the average oiler refueled sixty ships a month and rarely spent more than four days a month in port. Moreover, by the early 1970s, many of the fleet’s oilers were showing signs of age and needed to be replaced.1 The Hassayampa was no exception. “When I first inspected the ship,” recalled Adolf Neumann, the ship’s first lieutenant, “my heart fell through my shoes. The ship was literally a rust bucket. When I went into the well decks with a chipping hammer, I hit a pipe hanger to see how deep the rust was and the whole hanger fell apart.”2 The job of an oiler is to refuel carriers and other surface ships at sea while under way. Underway replenishment (UNREP) was pioneered by the Navy in World War I and upgraded significantly during World War II. Only through underway refueling and replenishment was the Navy able to gain the range and mobility needed to fight battles far from its bases. In Korea, Navy ships operated relatively close to bases in Japan. Nevertheless, the need to keep carriers on the line off the coast of North Korea still required resupply at sea in order to remain on station for extended periods of time. Oilers allowed the carriers to operate three out of every four days on station and spared them from having to make constant trips to their base at Yokosuka, Japan. Oilers also enabled the Navy to begin converting its air wings from propeller-driven planes to jets. Jets required four times as much fuel as prop planes. Without oilers, the operational availability of these new planes would have been severely limited.3 The Korean War experience and the prodigious fuel requirements of modern air warfare contributed directly to the design of a new class of oilers named after the Neosho (AO 143). These new tankers would be 655 feet in length, displace 36,000 tons, and be capable of traveling up to twenty knots. More important, they would be capable of simultaneously transferring 1.2 million gallons of various fuels per hour through eight fueling stations on the ship. The Neosho, the Hassayampa, and the other three members of this class were the first oilers “engineered specifically for underway replenishment.” In addition to these characteristics, they also contained excess deck space for nonliquid cargo and improved rigs capable of underway replenishment at speeds up to seventeen knots.4 The Hassayampa was launched on 12 September 1954 and quickly became one of the Seventh Fleet’s workhorse oilers, often refueling as

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many as thirty-three ships in the course of a week on Yankee Station. The ship was named after Arizona’s Hassayampa River, which begins north of Wickenburg in the Bradshaw Mountains and empties into the Gila River near Arlington. Dry most of the year, the river is the source of many legends, the most famous of which is that whoever drinks of its waters will never again tell the truth.5 The 655-foot-long ship carried more than 7.8 million gallons of various types of oil and fuel and traveled at speeds of up to 21 knots. Its armament consisted of six twin three-inch 50-caliber gun mounts, and it carried a crew of 324. Hassayampa made its first Western Pacific deployment in 1955 and remained in that theater of operations for most of its career. Hassayampa refueled Seventh Fleet warships involved in combat off the coast of Vietnam from the Gulf of Tonkin crisis in 1964 until the end of the war in 1973.6 When forward deployed, Hassayampa spent most of its time at sea, refueling ships on the line for two weeks and returning to port only for short two-day stretches to reload its tanks. Aircraft carriers required 500,000 gallons of fuel per UNREP, and when three carriers operated off the coast of Vietnam, Hassayampa’s schedule became very tight: in rough seas, it could take up to ten hours just to UNREP a carrier.7 “We spent a lot of time at sea,” Carl Morris, a white electronics technician third class, explained. “It was a lot of hard work. Because we were a supply ship, we had to give a lot of our food, movies, ice cream, and other supplies to other ships during UNREPs. We were a support ship and were kind of treated like a secondclass citizen.”8 Hassayampa mainly supplied fuel, but it also delivered ammunition, food, mail, and other nonliquid supplies. On several occasions the ship carried 30,000 to 40,000 pounds of freight for the carriers alone.9 “From having been on two WESTPAC deployments on small boys [destroyers],” explained Adolf Neumann, “I knew that some of the things in greatest demand were movies, fresh fruits, and vegetables.” Neumann therefore strove to make the Hassayampa a full-service supply ship.10 The ship’s best customers received not only fuel but also fresh produce, steaks, and even lobsters. In return for these goodies, combat ships often rewarded Hassayampa with barter. “Our deck rigs became traveling swap meets to help our customers and help ourselves,” explained Neumann. “If there was a particularly good movie that every crew wanted to see, a five gallon can of haze gray paint from a destroyer

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would ensure that particular ship would get to see it first. We’d beg or swap for something with almost every customer.”11 Gray paint was always in high demand on Hassayampa. This ship had a lot of surfaces that needed to be preserved, and the crew often resorted to bartering to acquire the extra paint supplies needed to keep the old ship properly maintained. Painting became the bane of many a new sailor’s existence. Not only did it break their hearts to trade movies, ice cream, and steaks for paint, but for new sailors, painting was often their primary duty on the ship. A large percentage of the ship’s unrated workforce spent much of their first ninety days on the ship doing little more than working as painters in the deck force. When they were not painting, they manned the rigs and cranes during UNREPs. After a twelve-hour shift, they were often covered in black oil from the hoses and rigs, and gray paint from deck work. Life in the deck division was hot and messy. Another common duty for new sailors was mess work and laundry service. Mess work involved dishwashing, cleaning, and bringing food up from holds below decks. Laundry duty revolved around washing and pressing clothing. Virgil Werner, a white boatswain’s mate third class who supervised the laundry room for a few months in 1972, described the laundry duty in both negative and positive terms: “Sure it was hard work, but there were some fringe benefits. Guys were trusting you with their clothing and bedding. You could make their life miserable by putting too much starch in the laundry. The upside is that we got extra pay. Money dropped out of pockets.”12 Because of their low scores, many black sailors ended up being permanently stationed in one of these divisions. “A lot of blacks were stuck on deck division chipping paint,” recalled Morris.13 “These guys were pissed off because they had to do hard, menial labor,” claimed Werner. “They complained that the black man always had to do work like this.” It did not help matters that in the Navy, those who work on the decks are called “deck apes.” This slang term, with its racist connotations, further reinforced the notion that blacks were on the decks not because of their lack of skills but because of their skin color.14 To gain some temporary relief from the drudgery of working on the decks or in the laundry, some sailors, both white and black, turned to drugs. According to Werner, “Drugs were a major problem on Hassayampa. That’s where I became a drug addict.”15 Captain Robert Olds,

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the man who replaced McGuire as CO in December 1972, concurred: “There was a horrendous drug problem on the ship. Underlying everything that happened on the ship was drug usage.”16 One of the first things Olds did when he took over the ship was to order a thorough search of the vessel for drugs. He was “amazed” at the amount of drugs he discovered, not simply marijuana but harder drugs such as amphetamines.17 Amphetamines known as “Red Devils” were popular in some quarters, especially in the black community on board ship. According to Vietnam historian Christian Appy, coming down from amphetamine highs made servicemen edgy and irritable, so much so that some felt like “shooting children in the streets.”18 The night before the riot, many black sailors in the deck division allegedly had been taking Red Devils.19 For a small group of hard-core users, heroin was the drug of choice because of its intense high and also because it was so difficult to detect. According to Werner, “We used to smoke heroin on watch. We laced ordinary cigarettes with the drug. It was completely undetectable. No odor, nothing. With heroin, you puked after you smoked it and then you got your high. It had a beautiful high. You were invincible; nothing could hurt you. I fight a daily battle against drug addiction.”20 Heroin was not widely available in Southeast Asia before 1969, but by 1970, it was everywhere. Small vials of 95 percent pure heroin could be purchased in Vietnam or the Philippines for as little as $2 apiece; the same quantity in the United States cost between $100 and $200. Many servicemen like Werner mistakenly believed that if they did not inject heroin, they would not become addicts.21 But marijuana was far and away the most popular drug on Hassayampa. Seamen Douglas Beadle and Edward Lush both admitted in interviews that they enjoyed “toking up” on the forecastle of the ship when they were off duty.22 “As long as you pretended to be smoking a normal cigarette,” explained Lush, “no one would know you were smoking pot. The intense breeze at the bow of the ship made it hard for anyone to smell the stuff.”23 Adolf Neumann personally found small bags of marijuana on several zone inspections of the engineering department. In one such inspection after a port call at Subic Bay, he discovered a bale of cannabis worth several thousand dollars.24 In March 1972, the Navy conducted urinalysis on 26,959 sailors serving in the Republic of Vietnam and found that only 87 individuals,

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or 0.3 percent, tested positive for various types of drugs. A urinalysis of 150,965 sailors and Marines in other areas yielded only 871 laboratory positives, or 0.5 percent. These relatively low numbers led some to conclude that the Navy did not have a serious drug problem in 1972, but anecdotal evidence gleaned from interviews with Hassayampa crew members suggests that the numbers were much higher than these tests indicate.25 Historian Benjamin C. Dubberly claimed the Army studies conducted in 1969 suggested that 50 percent of all servicemen in Southeast Asia had smoked pot at least once, with 30 percent classified as heavy users.26 The effect of marijuana on servicemen varied widely. Some used it to escape anxiety, and others found it to be an enjoyable “social” drug. Marijuana generally made sailors under its influence mellow, but not always. While under the influence of pot, Werner often got into fights. As Werner recalled. “It mellowed me out, but if you pissed me off, my anger was intensified. I got into more trouble when I was stoned.”27 Olds, who claimed that most of the sailors he tried at masts were marijuana users, said, “You could see a young sailor who was a good performer start to slow down. His appearance got sloppier and his actions, slower, and pretty soon he was a lousy sailor. Marijuana had that kind of effect on many young men.”28 Drug use in the fleet during the early 1970s was certainly not unusual, and in no sense were Hassayampa’s experiences with illegal drugs unique. But this ship, according to Neumann, “definitely had a drug problem,” and drugs to some extent helped fan the flames of black anger on the ship.29

The Command Group In his book On Watch, Admiral Zumwalt claimed that the officers of Hassayampa were less “conscientious” and “competent” than the command group of Kitty Hawk, one of the Seventh Fleet’s crown jewels. Hassayampa experienced a collision at sea shortly after the riot, and that event may have made this ship look worse than the others in the mind of the CNO. As for the riot itself, however, mistakes were certainly made, but they were no more or less egregious than mistakes made on Kitty Hawk. The institutional racism blacks experienced on a large carrier could also be found on smaller ships.

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Captain Orville McGuire A white midwesterner by birth and temperament, Orville McGuire grew up in Amoret, Missouri, a small town located seventy miles south of Kansas City.30 The son of a farmer, McGuire aspired to be a high school teacher and attended Central Missouri State College in Warrensburg in preparation for a teaching career. During the summer between his junior and senior years, a chance encounter with a naval officer changed the trajectory of his life forever. This officer waxed eloquently on the virtues of naval service and easily hooked McGuire. Upon graduating from Central Missouri State College in 1952, McGuire attended Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island, and then the aviation ground officer school at Naval Air Station, Jacksonville, Florida. McGuire went on to serve as a bombardier/navigator (B/N) in a variety of heavy attack squadrons, including an AJ Savage squadron. The AJ Savage was developed to provide a nuclear delivery capability to the Navy and give the sea service a strong argument for continuing its carrier program in light of the Air Force’s heavy bomber program. McGuire served four years as a Savage B/N and made two Mediterranean cruises. In the summer of 1957, he attended the NPS and earned a second bachelor’s degree. He continued his education at the University of Minnesota, where he received a master’s degree in aeronautical engineering in 1960, and then went back to the heavy attack community as an instructor in Heavy-Attack Squadron (RVAH) 7, an A-3J unit based in Sanford, Florida. The A-3J was a bomber version of the RA-5 Vigilante — the Navy’s workhorse reconnaissance aircraft in Vietnam. North American Aviation developed the plane in the late 1950s as a Mach 2 carrier-based attack plane capable of carrying nuclear or conventional ordnance. It had a range of 3,000 miles and was powered by two enormous General Electric J79-GE-10 afterburning turbojets. Despite its tremendous power and range, the A-3J had poor maneuverability. Its seventy-six-foot length and fifty-three-foot wingspan made it a difficult plane to land on the small deck of a carrier. So challenging was this “lead sled” to fly that the Navy assigned some of its best pilots and navigators to serve in this plane and its reconnaissance variant, the RA-5. Deep selected over the heads of many officers with more seniority for lieutenant commander in 1962, McGuire served in a variety of staff and training assignments during the early 1960s before finally ending up

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in an RA-5 unit, RVAH-6. McGuire became the first naval flight officer (NFO) ever to be appointed as an operations officer for a heavy/reconnaissance attack squadron in November 1965. With this unit, he flew seventy-nine combat missions in Southeast Asia, most of them to conduct bomb damage assessment for A-6 strikes in North Vietnam. The A-6s got to fly at night, but the RA-5s had to fly during the much more dangerous daylight hours. “Alone, unarmed, unafraid” was the motto of this stalwart group of aviators. McGuire took antiaircraft fire on many missions, earned two Distinguished Flying Crosses, and was selected for promotion to commander during the course of his wartime duty. For the NFO community, the Vietnam War was a watershed.31 Complex jet aircraft like the F-4, A-6, and RA-5 demanded two men in the cockpit to accomplish the mission. This meant that navigators, a previously downtrodden group, became more valuable than ever before for naval aviation, and the Navy sought to recognize the new status of this group by promoting officers to positions never before held, including squadron and carrier command. McGuire, because of being a more senior member of this “minority” community, benefited from the Navy’s efforts to affirm the group via new opportunities. In 1967, McGuire took command of the Basic Naval Aviation Officer School—the training unit for all new NFOs. Partially through his efforts, the school was redesignated as Training Squadron (VT) 10, making him the first NFO in the Navy to officially command a squadron. This move was all part of the Navy’s efforts to make the naval flight officer specialty a more viable career path. In 1968, the Navy appointed McGuire first navigator of the newly commissioned USS John F. Kennedy (CV 67). On the new carrier, McGuire gained extensive experience in large ship handling—an assignment that prepared him well for eventual deep draft command. McGuire spent his next two years onshore: first with the Naval Air Systems Command, testing and evaluating new reconnaissance technologies, and then with the staff of the chief of naval material. The Navy promoted McGuire to captain in July 1971, and he screened for deep draft command that fall. In March 1972, he finally got orders to Hassayampa. Gaining command of a deep draft meant that the Navy was grooming McGuire for carrier command and ultimately promotion to admiral. At the time of the riot, McGuire had already received his orders to leave Hassayampa in December and take command of an Essex-class attack carrier.

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Lieutenant Adolf Neumann The subordinate officer who dealt most closely with the rioters on 16 October was Adolf Neumann, the ship’s first lieutenant.32 On an oiler, the first lieutenant is in charge of all the rigs and cranes on the deck. In this position, Neumann worked closely with the deck division and was also one of the first officers to respond to the disturbance once it started. Neumann’s background was unusual for a U.S. Navy officer. An ethnic German by birth, Neumann grew up on the fringes of the Nazi empire during World War II. His father initially worked as a blacksmith in the town of Dermanke, a small hamlet near Z˘tomyr in western Ukraine. The approach of the Soviet Army compelled his family to flee the Ukraine late in the war for Maribor, Slovenia, where his father eventually found work as a translator for the German Army. During his initial days in Maribor, Adolf, then three, enjoyed playing with other children near the main rail tracks to Graz, Austria, seventy kilometers to the north. One day, another child found a hand grenade on the tracks and began tossing it around. The grenade exploded, instantly killing three children aged five to ten and severely wounding Neumann, who spent the next two months in the hospital. In 1945, Adolf and his mother fled Slovenia by train. The two traveled to Salzburg, where they were interned in a displaced person’s camp that had been a former holding camp for Jews destined for Auschwitz. Ultimately, Adolf was reunited with his father at another refugee camp in Feldkirk, a small village in the western Vorarlberg province of Austria. The war had been difficult for the Neumann family. Adolf’s two brothers and sister died in the Ukraine of diseases that could have been treated had adequate medical care been available. During his escape from Maribor, Neumann remembered sleeping on a park bench in Graz, Austria, on the second night of his journey. So great was their misery that his mother prayed for an aerial bomb to fall on them and end their despair. With the end of the war, life gradually improved for the Neumanns. Six years after arriving in Feldkirk, the Neumanns immigrated to New York on board the John C. Muir, a former Navy transport ship that carried refugees to the United States under the auspices of the International Refugee Organization, the predecessor of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. They then took the train to Harlem,

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Montana, where a sponsor family was waiting to help them make the transition to American life. In Montana, Neumann’s father found a job as a farm laborer and Adolf attended local schools, graduating from high school in 1959. For a year, Adolf attended North Montana College, but when his money ran out, he enlisted in the Navy. An outstanding student, Neumann graduated first in his class at boot camp at Naval Station Great Lakes in 1961 and competed successfully for a slot in the prestigious electronics technician radar (ETR) “A” school. From 1962 until 1964, Neumann served as an ETR on the Notable (MSO 460) and the Vital (MSO 474). These minesweepers, based in the southeastern United States, were a proving ground for some of the Navy’s best officers. On Vital, Neumann’s executive officer was Jeremy Michael Boorda, a future chief of naval operations. In addition to performing electronics maintenance work, Neumann participated in minesweeping drills and stood sonar and combat information center watches on Vital and Notable. In 1965, Neumann attended Stanford University under the Navy Enlisted Scientific Education Program. This program took the most promising enlisted personnel, ran them through a battery of tests and interviews, and then sent them to college on a scholarship to get a scientific or engineering degree. When they graduated, the Navy commissioned them as officers and allowed them to apply for any officer career field they desired. Since Neumann already had a year of college under his belt, he graduated one year early, in 1967, with a bachelor’s degree in science and engineering. He then joined the destroyer Leonard F. Mason (DD 852) and did two combat cruises off the coast of Vietnam with it: in 1967–1968 and another in 1971–1972. During the later stages of the war, destroyers participated in daring naval gunfire support missions just off the coast of North Vietnam and would occasionally come under attack from shore batteries or, in several cases, from MiGs. Destroyers also provided cover fire for helicopter crews going into North Vietnam to rescue downed aviators.33 For his combat service as a weapons officer on DD 852, Neumann received a Navy Achievement Medal with Combat “V,” a Combat Action Ribbon, and a Vietnam Campaign Ribbon. Neumann joined Hassayampa in August 1972. By all measures, his career prior to joining the oiler looked promising. Through merit and

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hard work, Neumann had risen through the ranks from seaman recruit to lieutenant in less than eleven years.

“We’ll Get You White Asses”: The Riot The first inkling that something was amiss between the races on Hassayampa occurred several weeks before the riot. At the center of this unrest was a popular black boatswain’s mate third class named Craig Atkinson. Atkinson was not directly involved with the riot on 16 October, but he functioned as a behind-the-scenes agitator in the days and nights leading up to the affair. To the officers, Atkinson was a model sailor and a natural leader. “All the blacks followed him, and a lot of junior whites did as well. He was really good and charismatic,” explained Adolf Neumann.34 But to some of the white sailors, Atkinson appeared militant.35 Seaman Hank Casserleigh, a white crewman, claimed that Atkinson had a “chip on his shoulder from the first day” he met him. “I stayed clear of him because he was big and could beat the crap out of me. He talked like he did not like white people. The blacks did a lot of things together without whites. He was their gang leader.”36 Another white, Seaman Douglas Beadle, characterized Atkinson as follows: “He was not afraid to tell you what he thought. He was a loud person who tried to push his authority physically and verbally. He was a very emotional person.”37 Seaman Wallace Bennett, a twenty-year-old white sailor from Dover, Delaware, vividly remembered his first encounter with Atkinson. A week and a half before the riot, Atkinson approached Bennett on the fantail of the ship and asked him for a “square” (a cigarette). After Bennett gave him one, the two men exchanged a few friendly words, and then, bam! Completely out of the blue, Atkinson hit Bennett in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Laughing, Atkinson said, “Oh, you’re going to be alright Wally. If you didn’t have that bird chest [large breasts], it wouldn’t have hurt so much. Maybe I could flatten it out for you?” Bennett said, “No thanks,” and retreated to the first division area.38 A few days later, Bennett had another encounter with Atkinson. The incident began shortly after Bennett “exchanged words” with a black sailor who worked in personnel. Upon hearing of the event, Atkinson and seven other black sailors, including the personnelman, confronted

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Bennett in the first division berthing spaces. Atkinson ordered the personnelman to “get it done” because he was getting bored. The personnelman then threw a punch at Bennett, but Bennett blocked it and struck the man just below the eye, cutting the man’s eye with his ring. Upon seeing this, Atkinson immediately stepped in and punched Bennett in the jaw, almost knocking him out. Surrounded and scared for his life, Bennett rolled up in a ball and stayed in this position until he was sure that all the black sailors had left the compartment. Fearing he would end up being punished for hitting the personnelman, Bennett never reported this incident.39 “I don’t care what the officers said about Atkinson being a ship shape sailor,” exclaimed Bennett. “He was a thorough trouble maker.” As the de facto leader of the black community on Hassayampa, Atkinson felt compelled to take action when one of his “brothers” was wronged. In the opinion of Bennett and Casserleigh, he also appeared to harbor a certain level of resentment toward whites.40 The next indication that Atkinson may have been behind the riot occurred the night before the event while the ship lay at anchor in Subic Bay, Philippines. As in the case of Kitty Hawk on the night of its riot, everyone on Hassayampa was in a bitter mood, and some were acting under the influence of alcohol or drugs. The captain had announced earlier in the day that the ship’s ten-month deployment had been extended indefinitely, and everyone felt betrayed. To add insult to injury, Rear Admiral William R. Flanagan, the Carrier Division 1 commander, decided to inspect the ship at 7:30 a.m. the next day, 16 October.41 In preparation for this command inspection, Lieutenant Neumann took a tour of the ship before going on liberty. He came to the Second Division spaces, where some of the ships black sailors lived, and found the place in bad shape. “It was a pigsty,” recalled the first lieutenant. “I knew we needed three hours to get that place together.”42 Neumann summoned Atkinson, the petty officer in charge of the area, and told him that he wanted the spaces in ship shape before the admiral arrived. “Sir, we’ll do it in the morning,” Atkinson responded. “That’s not good enough. Do it now.” By this time, it was 9:00 p.m. and Neumann had missed dinner at the Subic Bay officers’ club. Instead, he went to the Naval Air Station Cubi Point club, a notorious hangout for aviators. At Cubi Point, a favorite pastime of the aviators was to harass any surface warfare officer (SWO) brave enough to enter the club. SWOs were immediately identifiable by

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their black shoes—aviators, by contrast, wore brown shoes. While Neumann tried to eat dinner nonchalantly, an intoxicated aviator walked over to him and spilled booze on his uniform. “I don’t drink alcohol, so I just let the matter go. He was a stupid drunk.” With liquor still on his uniform, Neumann went back to the ship after dinner to check on the Second Division spaces. Finding the space still a mess, Neumann confronted Atkinson about the situation. “Sir, we’ll do it in the morning,” Atkinson said again. “That isn’t good enough. Clean it tonight,” Neumann replied. Because Neumann stank of liquor, Atkinson (according to Neumann) assumed that the first lieutenant was drunk and figured he could disregard the orders. Atkinson and his crew ultimately did clean the spaces, but they also spent much of the evening taking amphetamines, smoking marijuana, drinking alcohol, and venting their anger about the ship and the general condition of black sailors on it.43 Strung out and angry, the black sailors of the Second Division awoke the next day and began showering and getting ready for inspection. Seaman Beadle, who was in that berthing space at the time, described the situation as “pretty normal.” The relative calm, however, was soon broken when Seaman William Harding, one of the black sailors, discovered that forty dollars was missing from his wallet. The other black sailors in the compartment soon threatened violence unless the money was returned, and some of the members of the group grabbed dap sticks.44 When he heard that something was brewing in the Second Division berthing spaces, Neumann proceeded to the area to investigate. He also placed a guard in front of the ship’s armory and told the guard that no one was to be admitted to that compartment unless either he or the captain gave the man a direct order. “The last thing I wanted,” Neumann said later, “was a bunch of firearms on the quarterdeck [access point to the ship] because that’s a recipe for getting someone killed.”45 Neumann tried to reason with the group but did not make much headway. William Hannaford, the ship’s executive officer, soon joined Neumann.46 “You have two hours to come up with the money or there will be a rumble and blood will be spilled,” Seaman Shelton Cuff, another black sailor, warned. “No man, they’ve got thirty minutes,” Seaman L. S. Oliver interrupted. “We’re tired of talking. We want action. We’re not going to take any more of this shit. We won’t sail with the ship.”47 Hannaford, upon

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hearing these demands, departed the scene and reported the situation to Captain McGuire. Other sailors in the compartment, both black and white, then began offering their own opinions on the dispute. Boiler Technician First Class (BT1) William S. Bradley, the ship’s black minority affairs petty officer who joined Neumann in trying to calm the situation, claimed that the group was “waving clubs and sticks and yelling things about taking action.” Two of the black sailors (Matthew Clayton and Shelton Cuff) also appeared to be under the influence of narcotics. “I say this,” stated Bradley, “because they had a wild look about them and Clayton who will ordinarily listen to me wouldn’t.”48 Since there were three white sailors in the compartment, Neumann decided to stay and monitor the situation. “I thought that if I continued talking to them it might settle them down and quell any violence.”49 One of the whites, Douglas Beadle, a nineteen-year-old sailor from Marlette, Michigan, was very friendly with the group and felt he could stay in the compartment without attracting too much attention. He also felt he could offer some advice. “The group was being very disrespectful to the first lieutenant,” explained Beadle, “so I said pipe down because it doesn’t look like anyone will be getting any money.” One of the black sailors then reached over and punched Beadle. “Hey guys, I’m innocent,” Beadle pleaded, but to no avail. L. S. Oliver, Shelton Cuff, Henry L. Allen, and Gregory Caldwell surged toward Beadle, who was in the corner of the compartment between a rack and the wall, and began beating him with sticks.50 BT1 Bradley, assisted by two other sailors, immediately jumped into the fray. He shoved the black sailors away from Beadle, who had lost consciousness. As Bradley struggled to remove the unconscious sailor from the compartment, Oliver punched Beadle in the kidneys, and Cuff shouted to Bradley, “Hey brother, what are you doing with your arm around a white man?”51 “I can still see that kid’s eyes as he went down,” recalled Neumann. “They said, ‘Help me please!’ ” Neumann did not intervene directly because, like Townsend, he had been told in legal training not to intervene in fights between sailors in a war zone. “If a sailor hit an officer in a war zone, he could be charged with a capital offense, so officers were told not to get physically involved in sailor scuffles in Southeast Asia.”52 Hannaford, who returned shortly after the fight started, also did not intercede.53 While all this was taking place, Captain McGuire decided to exit the

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ship to inform the commander, U.S. Naval Forces, Philippines (COMUSNAVPHIL) that there was a potential racial problem on his ship and obtain assistance. At that point, McGuire had no idea that the situation had turned violent. “It seems stupid in retrospect,” he later explained, “but we had limited phone service and we were tied up only fifty yards from the COMUSNAVPHIL office. The one phone we had was being used to call in a Marine reaction team.”54 As soon as Beadle was dragged out of the Second Division berthing area, six blacks left the area and began inciting violence in other parts of the ship. “I’m getting the fuck out of here. I’m gonna get some blood,” Oliver yelled. The first white the group encountered was Edward James Garrison, a twenty-year-old seaman apprentice from Portland, Oregon. Garrison, who was coming back from garbage detail, ran into the group in a passageway just outside the bakery. Shelton Cuff called him a “pig” and then struck Garrison’s left arm with a dap stick. The force of the blow broke the stick but Garrison sustained only a minor bruise.55 The group then continued moving toward the mess decks. Boiler Technician Fireman Apprentice Kirk Taylor heard some noise in the vicinity of the chief’s mess and emerged from his berthing space. He saw Oliver and others running by him. Oliver suddenly stopped, turned around, and told him that “he better stick his head back in the hole [i.e., return to his berthing compartment].” Taylor, an eighteenyear-old white sailor from Orange County, California, yelled back, “I’ll put my head back in the hole when I feel like it.” Oliver then took a swing at Taylor. Others soon joined in, and Taylor retreated down a ladder to his compartment while the black sailors continued to kick and hit him in the back. Sick bay later reported that Taylor suffered a bruised and cut shoulder.56 Upon hearing the commotion outside of the chief’s mess, Chief Boatswain’s Mate Manuel Sabal headed out of the mess to investigate the situation. Sabal was the ship’s chief master-at-arms and an authority figure whom most sailors respected. An ethnic Polynesian, Sabal was born in Hawaii in 1924 and joined the Navy in 1940s, spending most of his career working in oceangoing tugboats and as a deep-sea diver on submarine rescue ships. He was not only a highly experienced chief petty officer but a physically imposing one as well.57 Determined to stop the violence at all costs, Chief Sabal followed the rioters to the mess decks. Seaman Wallace Bennett, who was washing dishes at the time, remembers looking up from his work and seeing a

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group of black sailors yelling, “Fuck the whites.” Shelton Cuff, a man who had trained Bennett on how to stand watches and whom Bennett considered a friend, hit the white sailor on the right side with a dap stick. Henry Allen also started punching him. As Bennett curled up in a ball position on the deck, Allen landed a glancing blow on his jaw with a dap stick. While this attack was happening, L. S. Oliver attacked Richard Spence, a nineteen-year-old white from Winnebago, Minnesota, with a dap stick.58 Seeing this violence, Sabal tried to pull Spence away from the group. He also ordered the black sailors to stop and leave the area. They finally left, and Sabal then tended to the two injured men. Both men had bruises on their arms, but neither was bleeding. “When Oliver struck Spence,” explained Sabal, “he raised his cane above his head and came down with hard, sharp blows. I feel that if these blows had hit Spence in the head, they would have seriously injured the man.”59 The rioters’ next stop was the number eight refueling station. Seaman Apprentice Ricardo Owens struck Donald Ream, a white third class electronics technician, several times with a club. “I felt a sharp pain in my head, shoulder, and left side,” claimed Ream. “I do not know Owens personally. I said nothing to start the assault. I have no idea why I was assaulted.”60 Machinist’s Mate Third Class Dennis J. Miller came to Ream’s assistance and pulled him aside. Miller, a nineteen-year-old white sailor from Detroit, then told Oliver that there was “no sense in doing this.” Oliver would not listen. Instead, he insisted that he was “sick and tired” of what was happening on the ship, then attacked Miller with a club. As Miller tried to step back, another black sailor, Collins, pushed him back toward Oliver, who hit him again with the club. Chief Sabal soon arrived on the scene and stepped between the two men while another white sailor grabbed Miller and escorted him to sick bay. Miller later received stitches for injuries to his head.61 The entrance of Sabal into the riot had a definite calming effect, but so too did the actions of the ship’s operations officer, Lieutenant Robert W. Cassell. At 2:15 p.m. that day, Cassell was in the wardroom eating lunch when Hannaford came in and notified him that an “uprising” was taking place. Hannaford directed Cassell to find the ship’s minority affairs petty officer, BT1 William Bradley, and bring him to meet with the XO. In trying to locate Bradley, Cassell came across six black crewmen led by Oliver. The men, many of whom appeared drunk or high,

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brandished clubs and shouted, “We’ll get you white asses.” “My first thought was to keep the blacks and whites separated,” Cassell later explained. The quick-thinking officer decided to order all officers and masters-at-arms to the quarterdeck. He then proceeded to seal off the main deck (01 level) by placing officers and petty officers at various entranceways.62 A forty-five-man Marine riot force from the office of the provost marshal, U.S. Naval Base Subic Bay soon augmented Cassell’s efforts. These reinforcements quickly quarantined the black rioters in the quarterdeck area. The Marines assumed positions directly below the quarterdeck while masters-at-arms formed a quarter circle around the rioters. A third force of petty officers and officers from the ship’s company guarded various entranceways to prevent any white sailors from congregating topside. The white sailors were extremely angry and riled up. Beadle, despite his injuries, managed to climb up to the main deck. “I was fuming. I went up topside and grabbed a ten-foot fire applicator and started swinging that thing around. It took two or three sailors to calm me down.”63 Other whites armed themselves with similar makeshift weapons. “When we realized what was going on, we grabbed any weapon we could get our hands on,” Virgil Werner later explained. “I grabbed a pipe. We did not go looking for trouble, but we were intent upon taking back the ship.”64 Werner and most of the other whites were convinced that Atkinson was the ringleader of the riot even though he did not directly participate in it. “We had made up our minds that if Atkinson got close enough, we were going to kill him. I had wanted to kill Atkinson for three months leading up to that time. He was a marked man by the Second and First Division deck apes. Allen was also a marked man and we planned to kill him as well.”65 The official investigation of the incident later recommended that Henry Louis Allen be court-martialed for his involvement in the riot but found no evidence that Atkinson participated in the affair.66 White hatred against Atkinson was related more to his role as a prominent black leader before the riot rather than to his behavior during the events of 16 October 1972. Many white crew members inferred that since he displayed some aversion toward whites in the past, he must have been “a behind-the-scenes ringleader.” Atkinson, who had slipped off the ship during the course of the riot, was standing on the pier as the Marines entered the ship. When the white sailors saw him, one yelled, “You fucking nigger, you know damn

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well what happened. Come on up here, you motherfucker. You’re dead. We will kill you if you come back to the ship.” According to Werner, Atkinson was a marked man at that point. “I don’t think he slept for three nights,” Werner later said. Other blacks protected Atkinson, but many were angry with him for helping to stir up the younger, more impressionable black sailors. Atkinson ultimately lost his stripes in Hawaii for accidentally crashing the captain’s motor launch, but he was never charged for any of the events that occurred on the 16th, nor was he interviewed by Captain Howard L. Beesley, the man in charge of the JAG investigation of the incident.67 Captain McGuire arrived back on the ship at approximately the same time as the Marine reaction force. “My primary aim at that point was to prevent violence,” he later told Beesley.68 Seeing that the situation was under control, McGuire then exited the ship again to confer with various members of the Subic Bay Law Center. McGuire needed to offload the dissidents as soon as possible so he could get his ship back to sea, where it was desperately needed. He also wanted to leave any blacks behind who feared retribution from whites. Ultimately, he decided to announce to the dissidents that any black sailor who chose to leave the ship voluntarily would be placed in protective custody, without charges, until the incident was investigated. McGuire also announced that approximately eight members of the group would be arrested and charged on the spot if they did not leave voluntarily.69 Each of the dissenters plus a few other blacks (eleven total) agreed to McGuire’s demands and left the ship peacefully. The Navy eventually referred five members of the group (Collins, Oliver, Allen, Caldwell, and Cuff) to a special court-martial.70 In all, the black dissenters assaulted seven white crew members. The ship’s medical department treated five for injuries, but all of the men returned immediately for duty. The other two men felt that their injuries did not warrant medical treatment. No sailor sustained permanent injuries.

Press On Although the eleven black dissenters did not leave the Hassayampa until 8:15 p.m., relative calm was restored on the ship at 3:30 in the afternoon. Shortly thereafter, many of the ship’s white sailors proceeded to the Subic Bay enlisted club to drink beer and unwind after what had

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been a stressful course of events. None of the ship’s sailors, either white or black, thought that the ship would depart Subic Bay that evening, but the Navy had other ideas. Without Hassayampa, Seventh Fleet carriers operating in the Gulf of Tonkin would soon run out of jet fuel and be unable to prosecute air strikes against North Vietnam. Therefore, Admiral William Flanagan, the Carrier Division 1 commander, ordered the ship to press on. The “press on order” infuriated Captain McGuire, but he nevertheless obeyed it. McGuire contended that if his ship had been allowed to stay an extra night at port, his sailors would have had time to cool off, rest, and sober up. With a more alert crew, he reasoned, the ship’s subsequent collision with the merchant ship Pioneer Moon might not have occurred.71 Additional port time, however, might simply have led to more drinking, drug abuse, and interracial fighting among the crew. Furthermore, the aircraft carriers in the Gulf of Tonkin desperately needed Hassayampa’s fuel. At the time, American diplomats in Paris were trying to hammer out a peace agreement with their North Vietnamese counterparts; any letup in the bombing might have emboldened the North Vietnamese and made them more intransigent at the bargaining table.72 In the rush to cast off the lines and get the ship moving, several sailors were left behind, and others manned their stations in a less than sober state. According to Virgil Werner, at least one of the lookouts was “wasted.” Others were completely exhausted from the day’s events. Lieutenant Commander Robert A. Long, the harbor pilot assigned to Hassayampa, recalled meeting Captain McGuire shortly before the ship got under way. As Long described it, “McGuire appeared to be under great emotional strain, and may have earlier been crying as a result of the stress imposed upon him by the racial incidents.”73 Hassayampa departed Subic Bay at 9:15 p.m., one hour after the dissidents had been offloaded from the ship. For getting the ship under way, Captain McGuire had control of the ship, and the pilot, Lieutenant Commander Long, advised him and directed the employment of tugboats. During the racial disturbance, the tugs deployed near the ship in a riot control posture with high-pressure water hoses aimed at the quarterdeck. Once things calmed down, those tugs had to scramble to move another ship before they could return to Hassayampa for the harbor egress. Overall, the racial disturbance delayed the departure of Hassayampa by approximately two hours.74

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Once all the lines were cast off, Lieutenant Neumann, who was at the bow, ordered his deck division men to heave up the anchor, but a leak in the steam chest of the anchor windlass soon forced him to delay pulling the anchor up for several minutes.75 By 9:30 p.m., Hassayampa was 200 yards from the pier, and the tugs, along with Lieutenant Commander Long, left the ship. Before departing, Long advised McGuire that the Pioneer Moon would be arriving but that it had been directed to remain at an anchorage until Hassayampa departed. The Pioneer Moon was a U.S.-registered merchant ship owned by the United States Lines and operating under a Military Sealift Command (MSC) charter. It was a C-4 type of the Crusader II class, about 565 feet long, with a single screw capable of twenty knots. The ship’s master, Captain Horten F. Johnson, had been sailing since 1924 and had been a master with the United States Lines for more than nine years. His ship was en route from Concord, California, to Danang, South Vietnam, and carried a full load of ammunition. It had stopped at Subic for fuel and was in the process of moving toward the fuel pier 800 yards from its anchorage when the collision occurred.76 The harbor that night was calm, and the sky was mostly clear, with a quarter moon. The Pioneer Moon weighed anchor at 9:32 and headed toward buoy 8 at a speed of three to four knots. Captain Johnson had the conn and communicated with lookouts in the forecastle and fantail by walkie-talkie. The official Navy inquiry into the collision stated that Pioneer Moon displayed proper navigational lights. Lieutenant Adolf Neumann, who was on the forecastle of AO 145 at the time of the collision, disagreed: “I saw the anchor lights on, as well as their white deck lights. The ship did not put on its running lights until just before the collision.”77 The lighting situation on Hassayampa was also problematic. According to the Navy inquiry, Hassayampa’s red sidelights were indistinguishable from its red deck lights. Red deck lights, which helped crew members maneuver on deck during UNREPs, were often left on during night departures from Subic Bay. Tragically, they prevented Pioneer Moon’s crew from determining Hassayampa’s aspect. In night navigation at sea, red sidelights indicate the port hull of a vessel, and green lights indicate the starboard hull. With AO 145 “lit up like a Christmas tree,” Captain Johnson could not determine whether he was approaching the ship from the side or head-on. Since Pioneer Moon was showing his red

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(port) sidelight to AO 145, however, he held his course, 128 degrees true, and speed, 20 rpm.78 At 9:41, McGuire observed Pioneer Moon about 1,200 yards under way on his starboard bow. McGuire directed his officer on deck that day, Lieutenant Robert W. Cassell, to call port control on the radio to find out the intentions of the other ship. Port control informed Cassell that the other ship was waiting in its anchorage and had been directed not to cross AO 145’s bow. Little did McGuire know at the time that port control did not have a direct communications link with Pioneer Moon’s bridge. Instead, it was relaying messages to the ship through the MSC office. To get movement orders to a merchant ship, port control had to telephone the MSC office, which in turn would relay the information by radio to the merchantman. Without real-time communications, port control was never completely certain of a merchant vessel’s intentions.79 The Hassayampa had two other early warning systems that failed on this evening: a radar system and lookouts. The senior radarman on the ship was Radarman First Class (RD1) Edmund Thomas Wright. As the navigation plotter that night, Wright was responsible for marking and recording the times, ranges, and bearings of objects on the combat information center’s plotting table. According to Wright, the ship’s AN/ SPS-10 radar was in perfect running order at the time of the collision. Wright tested the system before the ship left “and found no problems with its presentation.” When the ship got under way, Wright checked the shipping picture and observed no contacts under way except for a small fishing craft. He then left the CIC to go to the head, which forced two of his CIC shipmates to scramble to cover their jobs and Wright’s. Radarman Third Class (RD3) George P. Murphy had to divide his time between the shipping scope and the CIC log, and RD3 Earl J. Fischer, who usually manned the shipping scope, took over Wright’s job at the plotting table. This disruption in the CIC routine may have contributed to its failure to detect Pioneer Moon’s movements early on in the Hassayampa’s departure.80 Lookouts also posed a problem for AO 145. In addition to the possibility that one of them had been drinking earlier in the day, the stations of the bridge lookouts were not ideally located. Rather than stationing these men on the open bridge level, McGuire positioned them one deck below on the bridge wings of the pilot level. On this level, the three-inch

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gun mounts and other structures can obstruct forward visibility. Communications problems, however, compelled McGuire to station the sailors at this lower level. “The lookouts,” McGuire later explained, “were stationed on the same level as the conning team so they could shout their reports to the conn.” The ship did not have enough open phone circuits to supply lookouts with phones.81 At 9:43, McGuire suddenly realized that a collision was possible and ordered all engines back one-third, and three short blasts. Under the international rules of the road, three blasts indicate that a ship is under way. Five blasts mean that a collision is imminent. After checking the starboard water depth with his navigator, Lieutenant Roy E. Graham, McGuire ordered a right full rudder and one short blast. He then ordered all engines back two-thirds, back full, and back emergency. Pioneer Moon held course until after AO 145 sounded the danger signal. Captain Johnson then ordered the engine back emergency and sounded the underway signal: three short blasts on his whistle. Actions taken by both ships were not enough. Hassayampa’s port bow struck a glancing blow on Pioneer Moon’s port side aft. Hassayampa’s port anchor absorbed the brunt of the impact and caused most of the damage to the merchantman, raking the merchant ship’s side. The impact was relatively gentle, and there were no personnel injuries on either ship.82 Neumann, who was at the bow of Hassayampa, was still struggling with his crew to secure the anchors when he heard the warning blasts. He immediately walked to the tip of the bow to get a better view and check to see if the phone talker had reported the contact. The phone talker said that he had done so. “Since the contact was closing and looked too close, even though it appeared to have a left bearing drift, I turned thinking that we would probably have to drop the anchor if things got much closer,” Neumann recalled. “Since the bow port anchor was still engaged and could possibly swing our bow toward the other ship even if we did drop it, I and my boatswain’s mates decided on the starboard anchor.” But at the last moment, Neumann changed his mind. “Since dropping the starboard anchor would have swung our stern into the other ship, I did not order the anchor dropped.”83 Dropping the anchor also would have limited the bridge’s maneuver options—an outcome Neumann sought to avoid. When Neumann heard the three blasts from Pioneer Moon, he ordered all men to clear the forecastle. The phone talker tripped and fell as he tried to leave the forecastle but did not injure himself. As the stern

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of Pioneer Moon swung toward AO 145, the world began to slow down for Neumann. When the Pioneer Moon continued to move left at a fast walking pace and AO 145 still did not hit it, Neumann thought, “Thank God we’re not going to hit.” The ship slowed as the backing bell and rudder took effect, and then AO 145’s port anchor began raking the rigging of Pioneer Moon, parting cables, and causing sparks. “The merchant ship tore a hole in our hull just above the waterline.”84 Minutes later, Captain McGuire ordered Neumann to drop the starboard anchor so that the damages could be assessed. Lieutenant Commander Long soon came alongside in a small boat to inspect the ship. “We could not see any indication of any puncture of the hull, other than two minor splits in the hull plating,” Long later testified to the investigation.85 When it was determined that the watertight integrity of the ship was not significantly affected, Admiral Flanagan authorized AO 145 to proceed to sea at McGuire’s discretion. Damage to the Pioneer Moon consisted mainly of “torn and distorted bulwarks and stanchions above the main deck,” but, like AO 145, its watertight integrity remained sound.86 In the official Navy investigation of the collision, Captain Robert J. Trott concluded that the two ships were in a crossing situation as defined by the international rules of the road, with Hassayampa burdened. According to Trott, “She did not remain clear of Pioneer Moon as she was required to do.”87 The Pioneer Moon held course and speed as she was required to do until a collision was imminent. The Pioneer Moon was “showing proper navigation lights,” but AO 145’s lights were obscured by an array of red deck lights—a clear violation of the rules of the road. The poor performance of both the lookouts and CIC on AO 145 meant that the ship had virtually no early warning of a possible collision. Maneuvering actions taken by Hassayampa were too late to avoid the collision, but they, along with the actions of Pioneer Moon, prevented a much more serious collision from occurring. If Pioneer Moon’s munitions cargo had exploded, the scene in Subic Bay might have resembled Port Chicago in 1944. The overall opinion of the official inquiry is that most of the blame for the collision rests with AO 145. As Admiral James Holloway III stated in his endorsement of the inquiry, “The Hassayampa, as the burdened vessel in a crossing situation, failed to take positive and substantial action to avoid Pioneer Moon.”88 However, there were some mitigating circumstances in this affair. Port control should never have

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indicated that the merchant vessel was holding at its anchorage because it did not have direct contact with Pioneer Moon. The slow three- to four-knot speed of the merchant ship and perhaps, as suggested by Neumann, its lights confused the situation even further, making it difficult for AO 145’s conn to determine if the ship was at anchorage or moving. Finally and most important, the fact that the ship had just experienced a race riot certainly undermined crew effectiveness on that evening. Admiral Holloway believed that the racial unrest “understandably left Captain McGuire emotionally, if not physically, fatigued and may have therefore contributed to his inadequate response to Hassayampa’s encounter with Pioneer Moon.”89 Captain Trott, in his official report, was more blunt: “It must be concluded that the unsettling and emotionally charged events that occurred earlier in the day may have contributed to the collision by rendering Hassayampa more than usually vulnerable to accident. Key personnel may have been distraught, preoccupied and emotionally exhausted by the ordeal with the result that their ability to rise to the occasion was blunted.”90 The Hassayampa episode was significant because it revealed that the Navy’s racial problems were pervasive, not limited to a single aircraft carrier, and that racial unrest was a fleetwide problem. “No one could have predicted that, of all the ships in the Pacific,” Admiral Zumwalt wrote in his memoirs, “Kitty Hawk and Hassayampa would be the two that would erupt. The most disturbing implication of the incidents, then, was that they could have happened anywhere: on fighting ships like Kitty Hawk and on auxiliary ships like Hassayampa.”91 In October 1972, racial unrest appeared to be spreading throughout the fleet, and no one could predict where it would strike next. As in the case of the Kitty Hawk, however, the causes of the outbreak on Hassayampa were murky. Certainly, the ship’s long ten-month deployment had something to do with the breakdown in morale, but so too did the racially segregated nature of liberty at Olongapo and the easy availability of drugs and alcohol both in that port town and on the ship. Was it a spontaneous eruption or a premeditated event? The official JAG investigation of the incident states that it erupted spontaneously, but other evidence I have collected in oral history interviews suggests that a single agitator may have worked behind the scenes to motivate blacks to action. Although there is no mention of a ringleader

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in the official report, anecdotal evidence suggests that Craig Atkinson, a highly charismatic black boatswain’s mate third class, might have spurred fellow blacks to riot. Many young black sailors on Hassayampa were clearly frustrated by the length of the cruise and the menial work that most performed on this tired, old ship. Fueled possibly by drugs, and spurred on, perhaps, by a charismatic ringleader, these sailors lashed out on the night of the 16th, and the result was a riot. The JAG investigation of the incident severely rebuked Captain McGuire for not being accurately apprised of the “total situation that was taking place aboard his ship.” The captain, the report states, had “excellent rapport with the crew” and “may well have been able to control the situation” had he talked with the dissident group directly as Cloud and Townsend had done on Kitty Hawk.92 In retrospect, McGuire admitted that leaving the ship and not dealing directly with the protest was a mistake, but at the time, he was intent on securing legal assistance from the station commander and did not know the full extent of the problem. “Considering that he was unaware of any threatened violence and only knew that the dissident group might not sail with the ship,” the report later conceded, “the decision to leave the ship was justifiable.”93 Ultimately, McGuire did not receive a letter of reprimand for his actions after the riot and subsequent collision, but his career essentially ended on 16 October. McGuire had orders to the aircraft carrier Hancock in December, but they were canceled. He instead worked for the Office of the Secretary of Defense, deputy director of test and evaluation, for a year and then retired from the Navy.94 The report reserved even stronger criticism for William Hannaford, the ship’s executive officer. “Although the dissident group was armed and threatening violence,” claimed the report, “the executive officer’s evaluation was that they might not sail with the ship but would not resort to violence.”95 The riot investigator, Captain Howard Beesley, also rebuked Hannaford for not doing more to stop the violence once it occurred, and recommended that Hannaford receive a nonpunitive letter of caution—a mark on his record that killed his chances of ever being promoted. With regard to Neumann, Beesley criticized the first lieutenant for being “over-zealous to the point of harassment” with the men of the deck division and suggested that he be formally counseled. Rear Admiral Philip P. Cole, commander of Service Group 3, recommended even

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sterner measures. For failing to come to the aid of Seaman Beadle and also for failing to order the black dissidents to disarm and disburse, Admiral Cole demanded that Neumann receive a nonpunitive letter of censure for performing his duties in a deficient manner.96 Although Neumann ultimately lobbied to have this letter expunged from his personnel records, his association with the riot and the collision of Hassayampa irreparably damaged his career. He served in two shore assignments— one as a nuclear weapons officer at the Naval Magazine, Lualualei, Hawaii, and another as the team leader for the Inspection Department, Nuclear Weapons Training Group Pacific, San Diego—but was twice passed over for promotion, compelling him to leave the Navy in 1978 after seventeen years of service. When asked why he did not serve out his remaining three-year commitment in the reserves so as to qualify for a military retirement, Neumann responded, “I felt betrayed by the Navy and did not trust the service after seeing how they handled this thing.”97 The paradox of the Hassayampa affair is that while Admiral Zumwalt sharply criticized its officers as being less “competent” than those of Kitty Hawk and Constellation, these officers actually put down their conflagration faster and more efficiently than their colleagues on the two carriers. Beesley praised Lieutenant Robert W. Cassell for “effectively isolating the group from other crew members” by placing officers and petty officers at key access points to the 01 level. He also complimented Hannaford’s decision to stay with the group of blacks still in the Second Division berthing area “in order to preclude them from joining the dissident group” rampaging throughout the ship. Finally, the prompt notification of the Marine reaction group, coupled with its rapid response, “was particularly effective in establishing positive control of the situation.”98 The Subic Bay Marine reaction force arrived at the scene of the riot just fifteen minutes after being notified of the event. The other irony of the event is that although the Kitty Hawk disturbance occurred just four days earlier and many of the sailors on Hassayampa had heard rumors of that event during their recent liberty call at Subic Bay, the AO 145 investigation made a concerted effort to portray the affair as an isolated incident and not as further evidence that racial unrest might be a larger, institutional problem in the Navy. To quote the report’s conclusions, the riot was a “vehicle for an ego-escalation trip for the participants” and not a larger expression of black dissent in the Navy. Rear Admiral Cole, in his endorsement, put it this way: “The underlying premise for the confrontation and subsequent violence was a

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self-seeking drive for attention, and, on the part of the leaders, particularly Seaman Oliver, prominence among the group of dissidents.”99 It would take one more major episode to finally convince many naval officers, as well as Congress in Washington, that the events occurring on Hassayampa and Kitty Hawk were indeed indicators of a much larger problem in the Navy.

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7 The Sit-down Strike on the Constellation

On 3 November 1972, racial trouble again erupted in the Pacific Fleet, this time on the carrier Constellation (CVA 64). Until that point, Washington had paid little attention to the racial problems of the Navy despite several stories in the New York Times on the Kitty Hawk and Hassayampa riots. Preoccupied with the upcoming presidential election, policymakers in the capital had little time to worry much about the Navy. The Constellation affair changed everything. Whereas the Kitty Hawk and Hassayampa riots took place in overseas locations far removed from the spotlight of the American media, significant episodes of the Constellation protest took place on a San Diego pier with members of the media directly witnessing events. As a consequence, it was far more damaging for the Navy’s image than the earlier incidents. As Admiral Zumwalt put it, “Connie was sort of a floating testimonial to the more occasional pertinence of Murphy’s Law: everything that can go wrong probably will.”1 It was this “mutiny of sorts” that finally prompted the House Armed Services Committee to hold hearings on the issue of race in the Navy—an event that in turn put all of Admiral Zumwalt’s racial equality programs on public trial and precipitated the “nastiest fight” the CNO ever fought in his entire naval career. As in the case of Kitty Hawk, the causes of Constellation’s racial problems were diverse and varied. Some problems related to recruitment issues, some to institutional racism in the Navy, some to specific grievances by individual crew members, and some to the poisonous racial atmosphere in the country at large in 1972. Recent events on Kitty Hawk and Hassayampa had an impact, as well as the long war in Vietnam, the pervasive antiwar environment in San Diego, and Constellation’s grueling operations tempo in that war. In contrast to Kitty Hawk and Hassayampa, where neither the actions nor the identities of the black leaders was always evident, the actions of many of the young

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blacks on Constellation appeared to be carefully controlled and orchestrated by a small group of leaders. The tight grip that these leaders—especially Seaman Recruit Howard Smith (black) and Seaman Apprentice Edward Martinez (Hispanic)—had on their followers made the Constellation episode extremely hard to control, and ultimately the most embarrassing racial episode for the Navy in the fall of 1972. Pitted against this group was the captain, J. D. Ward; his executive officer, John Schaub; and a human relations council led by the ship’s dentist, James Yacabucci, and its minority affairs officer, David L. Wilson.

Captain J. D. Ward Near the center of the gathering storm was Captain J. D. Ward, the skipper of Constellation.2 Ward, born in 1926, grew up in a rural region of Arkansas, fifteen miles south of Pine Bluff. His father sold insurance, taught briefly in the public school system, and ran a small farm north of the town of Rison. Since money was usually tight in his family, J. D. spent much of his free time as a teenager working. Up until his freshman year in high school, he worked on the family farm during the summers. During his second high school summer in 1942, he joined the Civilian Conservation Corps and dug trenches for a pipeline project near Medford, Oregon. The next summer, he toiled on the production line at the A. O. Smith Corporation near Houston, Texas, assembling tanks for compressed air. Sustaining him throughout these many periods of drudgery was his dream of one day flying fighters for the Army Air Forces (AAF). Unfortunately, by the time he graduated from Rison High in 1944, the AAF no longer needed pilots, so Ward set his sights instead on becoming a naval aviator. He entered the Navy via the V-5 program, a program similar to V-12 that provided applicants with a year of free college education before they entered flight training. Ward took thirty-six credit hours of college courses at Arkansas A&M and then went to Memphis, Tennessee, for tarmac duty. The latter assignment consisted mainly of working as a “flunky” at a Navy airfield before starting flight training. Ward spent an entire summer performing minor maintenance on N-2S Stearman trainers. For him, tarmac duty proved to be a great experience because it provided him with basic information about Navy training planes before he actually had to fly them.

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In October 1945, Ward started pre–flight training at St. Mary’s College near San Francisco. Preflight consisted mainly of military indoctrination and athletics. Ward’s first opportunity to fly came in April 1946 at primary training in Corpus Christi, Texas. Following the conclusion of World War II, the Navy scaled down its flight training programs by offering cadets early outs, but Ward stuck it out and learned to fly on the N-2S and the SNJ trainers. In February 1947, he transferred to Pensacola to train in multiengine planes such as the Catalina PBY flying boat and the Beechcraft SNB transport plane. He also trained in aerial gunnery and carrier qualified on the SNJ. After graduating from the Naval Aviation Cadet program in August 1947, Ward began operational training in the F-6F Hellcat fighter in Jacksonville, Florida. He then served in several night/all-weather F-6 units before getting released from the Navy in 1949 during a drawdown that year. Distressed by the sudden end of his naval career, Ward opted to go back home to Louisiana and work on a geology degree at Louisiana State University. At the university, Ward also flew F-4U Corsairs with the Naval Reserve. In June 1952, he received his bachelor’s degree, and just a few months later, in October, he was recalled to active duty because of the Korean War crisis. Ward trained to fly the F-2H Banshee, a jet night fighter, but by the time his training cycle ended, the war was over. Although he never made it to the fight in Korea, his wartime recall did jump-start his Navy career. Once he was in the service again, his recently minted college degree helped him to transfer from the reserves to the regular commissioned officer corps in 1954. In 1956, the Navy offered him a coveted slot in the test pilot school at Patuxent River, Maryland. As a student and later a test pilot at “Pax” River, Ward flew with a bevy of legendary Navy pilots, including Medal of Honor recipient Jim Stockdale and future astronauts Walter M. “Wally” Schirra, Pete Conrad, Allan Shepherd, and Jim Lovell. He also got to test some of the hottest planes in the Navy’s inventory—namely, the F-4D, A-4D, FJ-4, and F-8U. From March 1952 until July 1962, Ward served as the operations officer for VF-64 (later redesignated VF-21), an F3H-2N Demon night fighter squadron. With this unit, he made more than 100 night landings and 300 total traps on board Midway. Impressed with his flying ability,

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the Navy invited Ward to apply for the Project Mercury astronaut program, but he ended up being disqualified due to age. Ward reported for duty with the Policy and Plans Division (OP-602) of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations in the Pentagon in August 1962, and shortly thereafter the Navy deep selected him for promotion to commander. After an uneventful two-year stint in the Pentagon, Ward achieved a critical milestone in his career: combat command of a fighter squadron. On board Coral Sea, Ward’s F-4B unit, VF-151, participated in the early stages of the Vietnam War, focusing mainly on fighter and flak suppression missions over North Vietnam during the 1965 period. Ward then fleeted up to command of Carrier Air Wing 15 in June 1966 and flew fifty-four combat missions over Vietnam from Constellation during that same year. As the wing commander, Ward tried to fly every other day. His most memorable mission was a large multiplane strike against the oil storage facility at Haiphong, North Vietnam. He also led a forty-plane strike against the approach ends of the infamous Thanh Hoa Bridge. Ward’s personal target that day was an antiaircraft battery near the foot of the bridge. As he made his run, the battery’s eight 100-millimeter guns banged away at his F-4, but Ward survived the mission unscathed. “The irony of it all,” he recalled, “is that I blanketed the site with ten 500-pound bombs and yet the Vietnamese were still able to get four of the guns working before the remainder of the strike had exited from the area.” From April 1967 to June 1968, Ward served as the executive officer of Coral Sea and was selected for captain during this tour. On U.S. Navy ships, the XO is the second-in-command and the alter ego for the captain. The XO spends some of his time on the bridge helping to run the ship, but most of his duties involve endless hours of administrative paperwork, much of it relating to personnel matters. Ward’s Coral Sea duty, in short, gave him a comprehensive understanding of discipline issues on a large Navy ship. From the commander of Coral Sea, Captain James Ferris, Ward learned that it was better to handle disciplinary problems at the department head level rather than at captain’s masts. As a result, the Coral Sea had very few mast cases while Ward was XO. “We told the department heads,” War explained, “ ‘hey, this is your guy and you take care of the situation in any way you deem appropriate.’ ” Department heads could not fine or incarcerate sailors, but they could

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punish a man by assigning him more work or more arduous tasks. For the most part, this extrajudicial system worked well; in the racially charged atmosphere of Constellation four years later, however, the same approach did not work. Protesters would bypass the chain of command altogether and demand results directly from the captain. Ward’s next assignment was on the First Fleet staff. In the early 1970s, the First Fleet functioned as a training fleet for the Navy in the Pacific. Ward’s work there involved planning and monitoring fleet training exercises between June 1968 and August 1970. From First Fleet, Ward took command of Mobile (LKA 115), an amphibious cargo ship. With Mobile, Ward learned the ins and outs of operating a deep draft vessel on the high seas. In the 1970s Navy, Ward was an ideal candidate for carrier command. He not only had successfully commanded a deep draft but also had proven himself in combat as both a squadron and a wing commander during the Vietnam War. Finally, his experience with Coral Sea as a carrier XO ostensibly gave him more than enough administrative skills to tackle the challenges of running a large ship staffed by more than 5,000 men. What is more, from 1 October 1971 to 30 June 1972, Ward led Constellation on one of its most successful deployments of the war —one where the carrier contributed mightily to the success of the Linebacker I bombing campaign and also produced the first American aces of the war. After that deployment, President Nixon awarded the ship a Presidential Unit Citation, which stated that the “Constellation’s performance was the best of any carrier during the Vietnam War.” According to Calvin Schmid, a Protestant chaplain who served with Ward on Constellation from September 1971 to September 1972, the “crew loved him; they really, really thought so highly of him.”3

Commander John Schaub Like Captain Ward, John Schaub, the ship’s executive officer, was very much an aviator at heart. The forty-two-year-old executive officer grew up in Los Angeles and joined the Naval Reserve at age seventeen in 1947. As a young sailor, Schaub often hung out at the naval airfield at Los Alamitos and bummed airplane rides from naval aviators in training there. Shortly after the start of the Korean War in 1950, Schaub secured ad-

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mission to flight school in Pensacola, receiving his wings and commission two years later. From there, he went to Attack Squadron (VA) 45 in Jacksonville and deployed to Korea on the USS Lake Champlain (CVA 39) from April to December 1953. During the war, Schaub received an Air Medal for flying combat bombing missions in the AD-4B Skyraider. Schaub stayed with that squadron until 1955 and then served as a flight instructor at the Naval Air Station in Memphis for three years. From 1958 to 1960, he served with the USS Lexington as an administrative officer in the ship’s company and then transferred to an E-1B “Willy Fudd” squadron based at the NAS North Island, San Diego. The E-1B had a large radar mounted on top of its fuselage and was used to detect enemy aircraft at long ranges and also to manage aerial battles. Schaub remained with that squadron until 1965 and then transferred to NPS to finish his bachelor’s degree (Schaub had taken some courses at Los Angeles City college but needed a year of intensive course work to complete his Bachelor of Science degree). From his graduation at NPS in 1965 until 1969, Schaub served first as the director of the Navy’s Deseret Test Center in Salt Lake City, Utah, and then as the commander of VAW-12, a carrier airborne early warning squadron based at Norfolk, Virginia. From 1969 until 1972, he worked as an analyst for the Center for Naval Analyses in Alexandria, Virginia. Schaub became the executive office of Constellation in July 1972.4

Commander James Yacabucci As chairman of the ship’s human relations council, Commander James Yacabucci played nearly as important a role as the captain and the XO in trying to quell the sit-down strike. Like Ward and Schaub, he also had very little experience in race relations prior to the night of 3 November 1972. As Yacabucci recalled in an interview, “I was totally unprepared, naive, uneducated.”5 The son of working-class Italian American parents, Yacabucci grew up in Curwensville, Pennsylvania, a small town fifty miles north of Altoona. While still in high school, he joined the Naval Reserve and became a radioman third class with a local electronics unit. Yacabucci entered Penn State in 1954 and then transferred to the University of Pittsburgh’s dental school in 1956. In 1960, his last year of dental school, he joined the Navy’s Dental Corps and served as a dentist in

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shore assignments at Guam and Long Beach for the next four years. Yacabucci’s first sea assignment was on the USS Canberra CAG 2, a guided missile cruiser. During that 1964–1965 tour, Canberra engaged in naval gunfire support missions off the coast of Vietnam, and Yacabucci, whose office was located near one of the ship’s eight-inch guns, vividly remembers experiencing the power of that ordnance. He explained, “Every time they shot the guns off all the pilot lights in my X-ray machine fell out and the instruments went off.” On Canberra, Yacabucci not only served as a dentist but also headed up the medical department. “During that tour,” he said, “I got to do a lot of exciting things such as assisting a physician with an appendectomy operation on the high seas and wiring up a broken jaw.”6 When his duty on Canberra ended, Dr. Yaccabucci worked as general dentist at the San Diego Naval Training Center from 1966 to 1967. Unlike life as a medical department head on ship, shore duty proved less interesting. “I was getting bored because when you’re a general dentist in the Navy, about the only thing you do is fillings.”7 Jim therefore applied to and was accepted at the Bethesda Naval Hospital to become an oral surgeon. He completed the research portion of the training at Bethesda in 1968 and then worked in the San Diego Naval Hospital on the clinical portion in 1969 and 1970. Yacabucci joined Constellation in 1971 and served on the ship as an oral surgeon during its deployment to North Vietnam in 1971 and 1972. In April 1972, Captain Ward asked him to head up a new HRC on the ship. As Yacabucci later explained: I don’t know why I was chosen. I think probably because I was not involved with the operational parts of the ship. I was just the dentist. I did surgery every day, but I had my evenings free unless there was an emergency. Everybody else was involved in the twenty-four-hour operation of the ship, so that may be one reason. This directive came down to establish a human relations council, and so they told me to do it.8

Yacabucci spent the next several weeks trying to gather information from other commands on the functions of an HRC. When the ship returned to San Diego, he also took a weeklong course on “command development” taught by the Navy’s Human Resources Development Center in San Diego. In that course, he engaged in role-playing exercises designed to teach him how to handle various command situations. “It was

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good sensitivity training,” he recalled, but it did not prepare him for what happened on the ship in November 1972.9 Yacabucci may have been a fine dentist and oral surgeon, but he was in no way prepared to run Constellation’s HRC. The purpose of the council, as envisioned by Zumwalt, was to facilitate communications between minority groups and the chain of command. To be effective, the leader of the HRC had to be a person respected by both sides in the equation. As a white man, and a nonaviator, Yacabucci simply did not posses the credentials to be the head of the HRC. Better race relations training might have helped him to some degree, and the Navy did establish a race relations school in Millington, Tennessee, shortly after the Constellation flair-up, to better train its minority affairs officers and HRC chairpersons. However, the long-term solution to the problem lay in recruiting more black aviators and unrestricted line officers to serve in positions such as these—something that would take many years to accomplish.

Chief Aviation Maintenance Administrationman David L. Wilson One member of the new HRC who did have an understanding of race relations was Chief Aviation Maintenance Administrationman (AZC) David Wilson. A black man from Chicago, Chief Wilson enlisted in the service in 1950, served four years as a sailor, and then, upon discharge, entered bricklaying school. Wilson worked as a construction laborer for four years and then reenlisted for a second four-year stint in the Navy. Following his second enlistment, he worked as an auto mechanic for a blacks-only taxicab company in Florida (cab companies were still racially segregated then) and then reenlisted in the Navy for a third time in 1964. “I talked myself back into re-enlisting,” he later explained. “I knew that in the Navy I would be on the same level as whites when it came to making the rate. I can sit down and take a test with a white and I am just as equal as the white for this reason, so I went back to the Navy.”10 Wilson’s experience revealed that equal opportunity of the mid-1960s worked well for certain highly motivated black enlisted men. During Wilson’s various enlistments in the Navy, he gradually worked his way up the enlisted ranks to chief petty officer. He also earned a high school diploma and an associate’s degree in sociology. Wilson requested

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duty on the Constellation to “take a break from the books.” He came on board the ship in May 1971 and worked as an aviation maintenance administration chief—a job that entailed managing much of the routine paperwork in the aviation division. Wilson also worked on the HRC and was the “black investigator on the ship.” He was one of eighty chief petty officers assigned to Constellation at the time of the unrest, and one of only seven black chiefs on the ship. Wilson was on leave in October 1972, but he returned to the ship immediately after hearing about the Kitty Hawk riot. “When I read about that in the newspaper, I knew that we were going to have trouble,” Wilson recalled, so he cut his own leave short and immediately flew back to the ship, which was at sea on readiness training at the time.11

Seaman Recruit Howard R. Smith Seaman Recruit Howard R. Smith was one of the leaders of the black dissenters on Constellation. This nineteen-year-old sailor grew up in East St. Louis, graduated from high school in 1972, and shortly thereafter enlisted in the Navy. “I came into the service with an open mind. I knew I would have to go through a lot of changes. I wanted to have something out of life. I wanted the GI Bill and I really wanted to go at it.”12 Smith joined the Navy with the intention of becoming a hospital corpsman but failed to achieve high enough test scores to qualify for that rate. According to Smith, his drill instructors at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center ordered him to go running during both the night and the morning before the test, which made him too tired to perform well on the exam.13 His grades, however, were high enough for him to secure a position in the supply department on Constellation. The chief who ran the supply contemplated reassigning Smith to the laundry section, but when he discovered that Smith could type, he changed his mind. Smith got along well with his shipmates in the department and never got in trouble. He began attending meetings with other black sailors and eventually ended up being elected as an unofficial “legal representative” by the black sailors on the ship. The job of legal representative entailed counseling black sailors about the rules and regulations of the ship. Initially, Smith started counseling

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shipmates on minor issues such as hair length, but after a couple of weeks on the job, sailors started to come to him with more serious problems such as unauthorized absenteeism. The more grievances Smith heard from blacks like himself, the more convinced he became that black sailors were being unfairly singled out and punished due to their skin color.

Seaman Apprentice Edward A. Martinez In the realm of minority affairs, Hispanic sailor Edward A. Martinez wore two hats. Officially, he served as an elected minority representative on the HRC. Unofficially, he was one of the main “agitators” behind the episode. “Martinez, in my personal view,” claimed Ward, “was a very dangerous man. He has not been the loud, vociferous outspoken young man. . . . He has worked behind the scenes to quietly and effectively influence minority personnel.”14 Martinez grew up in Chicago and joined the Navy in 1969. After boot camp, he worked in the laundry section of the Adak Naval Station —a remote submarine surveillance center in Alaska’s Aleutian Islands. Martinez joined Constellation on 15 September 1971, worked in the laundry room for six months, and then transferred to the ship’s smoke shop—a small concession that sells nothing but cigarettes. His fitness report stated that his performance in this job was good, “except for occasional surliness, bordering on insolence toward the supply officer.” This shop job put him in contact with a lot of other minority personnel on the ship. He often engaged in close conversation with black sailors in the smoke shop but abruptly ended these talks when an “outsider” approached. His close friendships with black sailors, in turn, enabled him to get elected to the HRC in April 1972 as a minority representative, and he attended nearly every meeting before the racial incident.15 Although Martinez was not black, the black sailors trusted him because he was a good listener. As he explained, “They felt more confident speaking to me than someone in khakis [an officer or chief petty officer] because a man in khakis really doesn’t listen to sailors. But a man who wears dungarees [i.e., a fellow sailor] such as me will listen to anyone for hours, so that’s why they picked me.” Martinez not only attended all HRC meetings but also attended informal meetings held by minority sailors in the months leading up to the November mutiny. Once the

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mutiny occurred, Martinez and Smith served as intermediaries between the captain and the minority dissenters.16

A Mutiny of Sorts: The Sit-down Strike Commissioned in 1961 at the New York Navy Yard, the Constellation was the Navy’s sixth Forrestal-class carrier and one of the largest flattops in the fleet, with a flight deck longer than three football fields and a full crew of 5,000 men. From May 1964 to June 1972, Constellation had deployed to Southeast Asia six times for periods that averaged eight and a half months per cruise. Beginning in August 1964, aircraft from the carrier participated in some of first naval air strikes of the war. From 1966 to 1968, the Constellation participated in Rolling Thunder strikes against North Vietnam. From 1969 to 1971, the ship was mainly involved in interdiction attacks against enemy targets in Laos. During its final deployment of the war in 1972, planes from the Constellation helped stave off North Vietnam’s Easter Offensive and then participated in Linebacker I. On 10 May, the first day of Linebacker operations, Constellation aviators Randy Cunningham and William Driscoll became the first American aces of the Vietnam War. Upon return to San Diego on 1 July 1972, Constellation stood down for thirty days so that crew members could take leave and reunite with their families, and then went into a “ship’s restricted availability” (SRA) period. SRA was a normal part of the in-port period for a carrier. During this time, rated sailors often attended training in their specialties, leaving the unrated sailors behind to perform mostly menial work on ship. Since work demands were high and labor in short supply, those remaining on the ship had to work a maximum schedule (6:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m.) to perform maintenance necessary for the next deployment. For Constellation’s black sailors, who were mainly unrated, the system appeared unjust and reinforced their view that the Navy suffered from institutional racism. During Constellation’s SRA, the ship became virtually uninhabitable. The air-conditioning was out for most of the time during some of the hottest months of the year. Water shortages forced the closure of all laundry facilities and made showers a rare luxury. Frequent loss of steam without notice resulted in changes of menus, cold meals, the use of paper plates, and spotty silverware. Work on main fire valves re-

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Sailors gaze at the Constellation, ca. 1972. (U.S. Navy)

quired many of the ship’s toilets to be closed for several days at a time in different parts of the ship. High levels of noise from grinding, drilling, and hammering persisted from 6:00 a.m. to 11 p.m., and because contractor work received priority, crew members often had to work odd hours and sleep during the day—the noisiest, hottest, most disruptive part of the cycle.17 The two-month-long SRA period also witnessed a turnover of more than 1,300 personnel in the crew, with more than 900 new men reporting aboard for duty. For sailors fresh out of boot camp, the shock of living in a carrier being overhauled was severe. Fireman Apprentice John L. Baker, a young black sailor from Pittsburgh who later participated in the protest on the ship, complained that after working long hours below decks, nothing frustrated him more than not being able to take a hot shower. He also complained about overcrowded toilets and unsanitary food facilities. “The food is not bad itself,” he recalled, “but would you like to have a roach walking across your food every now and then?”18 Another black sailor, Engineman Fireman Leroy K. Templeton,

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complained that nine times out of ten, mess trays and silverware were dirty. “Whatever they had for breakfast you will see it on the lunchtime knives, forks, spoons and trays—eggs, cigarette ashes, milk still in the glasses—things of this nature.”19 Templeton also grumbled about finding roaches in his bed. When he requested fumigation for the Electrical Division berthing spaces, the response he received was as follows: “Why the hell should we do that? They will just be back in 6 months.”20 In addition to such habitability problems, the ship did not have enough bunks to accommodate this large influx of nonrated sailors. To ease the problem, Captain Ward decided to install temporary chain bunks. He also authorized early outs and moved to discharge some personnel with substandard marks—discretionary authority authorized by the Navy personnel manual of the period. His ultimate goal was to reduce the size of the ship’s company by approximately 250 persons.21 From 4 through 20 October, the Constellation went through refresher training (RT). During this period, various observers and instructors came on board to train the crew and observe the evolution of carrier life. In the first stage of RT, instructors went over basic ship operations with the ship’s company. At the conclusion of this stage, the air wing joined the carrier and began practicing air operations. It was during the more stressful second stage that racial problems began to unfold on the ship. There was no open dissent on the ship prior to the riot on Kitty Hawk, but the situation changed dramatically as soon as news of that event began filtering to Constellation. On 17 October, five days after the Kitty Hawk episode, fifty black crew members on Connie met informally in the barbershop to discuss ways of “supporting the cause of their brothers on Kitty Hawk.”22 Airman Apprentice R. Killiebrew, one of the black men who attended that first meeting, went to gain information on Kitty Hawk and also to talk about his own problems with racism in the Navy. He later testified, “You couldn’t get any answers on anything by going to the division officers, so we started having these meetings to rap about our problems.” Killiebrew used these meetings to vent about receiving harsher punishment for an unauthorized absence than several white sailors who had committed similar transgressions.23 Other sailors attended these gatherings to commune with other blacks. “I was just another black member aboard the Constellation that felt like rapping with the brothers,” recalled Electrician’s Mate Third Class M. L. Dawson. Dawson did not even consider the get-togethers as

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meetings in the formal sense of the word. He later explained, “They weren’t meetings. They were just blacks deciding to get together so we could talk and listen to music and see if we could aid each other in some manner.”24 The next day, black sailors held another informal gathering in the “sidewalk café” area of the after mess decks, a place where sailors could buy sodas and snacks while off duty. Commander John Schaub, on hearing of this meeting, decided to make an impromptu appearance. The black sailors immediately recognized Schaub and asked him to come forward to answer questions. Schaub answered several general questions, but no specific grievances were brought up. One sailor asked if Schaub had an open-door policy. “Any member of the crew had the right at any time to see either me or the captain,” Schaub explained, “to solve whatever problem he may have.” Another sailor asked if the commander was prejudiced. Schaub replied that the only way to tell if a man was prejudiced was “not by his answer to a question like that but by judging his actions.” After the question-and-answer session ended, the black sailors requested that Schaub leave, which he did. Schaub noted no hostility at the meeting.25 The next meeting of note did not occur until 1 November. Commander Schaub also attended this gathering, at which the men complained to him that blacks were receiving harsher treatment than whites at masts. Although none of the black sailors offered specific cases for him to examine, Schaub said he would explore the matter in more detail. As the meeting dispersed, a small group of blacks attacked a white cook without provocation while he was emptying trash on the mess deck. The cook sustained a broken jaw.26 This violent act convinced Captain Ward to act. Through conversations with Schaub and also the new Protestant chaplain, Otto Schneider, he identified fifteen black sailors whom he considered to be “agitators.” These men, according to Ward, were “making a definite effort to distort actions of the command just to create hate and dissension.”27 Ward directed Schaub to explore the records of these personnel to see if any were eligible for discharge on the basis of poor marks. Upon an initial survey, Schaub discovered that six of the “agitators” qualified for immediate discharge. Ward then directed the personnel officer to commence proceedings to discharge these men.28 Enter Murphy’s Law: a set of “good” quarterly marks was missing from one of the men on the original discharge list, Seaman Apprentice J.

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V. Hart. Not only had this man’s performance improved considerably during the recent review period, but he was also the best and most popular Afro barber on the ship. Although Hart’s name was ultimately dropped from the list, the damage was already done well before the situation could be resolved favorably for Hart. Many blacks on the ship began to feel the system was unfair, and rumors started to fly. One suggested that 6 men would be discharged immediately and 250 others would be reassigned from the Constellation to other ships or shore assignments. Another started circulating that all men whose General Classification Test (GCT) scores were under 41 would be given general rather than honorable discharges at the end of their service. The GCT measured a sailor’s basic vocational aptitudes and was designed to find out how much he could learn, as opposed to how much he already knew. The GCT helped the Navy select and train sailors for the “right” job, but like the AFQT, the GCT was culturally biased, according to a later study of it by the Center for Naval Analyses.29 That night, the ship’s HRC met to discuss these matters and other grievances of some of the black crewmen. At the suggestion of Schaub, the council discussed the idea of holding an open forum for black crewmen. Chief David Wilson disagreed with this approach. Wilson advised the council not to hold a forum because he felt it would be difficult to communicate with the black sailors in a group setting. He warned HRC that by holding an open forum, they would open themselves up to a lot of verbal abuse, and it would “take all their courage to stand it.” Commander James Yacabucci disregarded Wilson’s advice and scheduled the open forum for the next evening anyway.30 On the morning of 3 November, Edward Martinez and Howard Smith met with Commander Schaub. The sailors told Schaub that there could be trouble with the black sailors if the command group did not allow them to air their grievances. Martinez demanded that Schaub get on the 1MC immediately and tell the blacks that “he was interested and will look into the subject.” According to Martinez, if the black sailors did not hear this phrase over the 1MC, they would launch a sit-down strike on the mess decks at 12:00 p.m.31 After this meeting, Schaub got on the 1MC and announced that the HRC would hold a meeting at 8:00 p.m. He urged all personnel with complaints and grievances to attend, but he did not phrase his announcement in the exact manner demanded by Martinez, and this angered Martinez and his followers.32

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At 11:45 a.m., sixty predominantly black sailors gathered in the forward mess decks and started harassing white sailors who were eating. This group threw food at the whites, stole their chairs, and taunted them verbally. Masters-at-arms soon arrived and directed all personnel, black and white, to leave the scene immediately. Smith, who was on the mess decks at the time, claimed that the black sailors were not breaking any laws or destroying anything. As he testified, “We even swept up while we were there about three times.”33 But the JAG report claimed that the blacks were initially unruly. Upon hearing of the situation, the chief master-at-arms, Merrill F. Peronto, informed Commander Schaub that a group of personnel had initiated a sit-down strike. Commander James Sealy, one of the ship’s squadron commanders, also called and offered to send some of his officers out into the mess area to disperse the sailors. “We were conducting air operations,” recalled Schaub, “the activities of the ship were at a high tempo, people were trying to eat a quick meal and get back their posts.” The XO recommended to Captain Ward that Sealy and his men “get out there” and try to do something. Ward concurred but also ordered Schaub to send officers and chief petty officers from other divisions to the mess deck to surround the protesters with khaki. These officers and petty officers quietly went through the group, ordering individuals to return to their place of duty. In most cases, the black sailors refused to move.34 At 1:00 p.m., an unidentified mess cook reported a potential riot on the after mess decks to the master-at-arms office, which in turn sent out a twenty-man Marine reaction force to investigate. Black sailors tried to intimidate the Marines with catcalls and profanity, but since there was no riot, the Marine team withdrew. A group of sixty black sailors remained in the mess deck area throughout the afternoon.35 Around 4:00 p.m., Martinez and Smith, acting as spokespersons for the group, met with Schaub to discuss specific complaints. They stated that the men’s main grievance was Ward’s move to discharge “250 black men” from Constellation. Schaub tried to explain that the reduction in force had to do with space management issues and not racial unrest. He also explained how Captain Ward intended to achieve the reduction mainly through attrition rather than discharges. Any discharges granted were to be based on low marks, not race.36 Not satisfied with Schaub’s explanations, the black sailors demanded that Captain Ward come down to the mess decks and speak to the

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group. Martinez and Smith went up to the bridge to convey this message directly to the captain. New York Times reporter Henry P. Leifermann, who interviewed Ward shortly after the episode, described the captain as an awesome figure: “Captain Ward, sitting on his bridge in command of the warship, in his brown leather aviator’s jacket, starched white shirt and black tie, is an imposing figure. His black hair is closely trimmed, his mouth usually set in a tight line and his tanned visage as roughly handsome as any Indian chief.”37 At the time Martinez entered the bridge, Ward was supervising flight operations—the most critical and dangerous period of a carrier’s daily cycle. “We have a large crowd of people on the mess decks, a large majority of them are white and you have blacks down there and something could arise—a riot. Somebody could say something to a black and he might not like it, or someone could say something to a white and he may not like it,” Martinez explained. He then asked the captain to make an appearance on the mess deck.38 “I don’t see what good that will do,” Ward responded. “Well, it might prevent a riot.” “Well, I will meet with anyone who has a grievance. Just have them go through the proper chain of command. I will meet with anybody, anyone, any representative.”39 Martinez then told the captain that an appearance on the mess deck could solve the entire situation, but again the captain refused to go down. Having failed to reach an agreement with the captain, the two sailors exited from the bridge and soon told the men on the mess deck what had happened. The black group interpreted the captain’s refusal to come down as a signal that “he didn’t care.”40 As Smith put it, “I didn’t feel that he understood the seriousness of his problem. I believe that if he would have understood the seriousness of this problem, he could have did [sic] a simple thing as made [sic] a personal appearance on the mess deck.” To Smith and other blacks, the captain seemed more concerned with “watching a manmade item fly around on the flight deck” than with welfare of his crew.41 At 4:45 p.m., Ward sent a message to the commander, Naval Air Force, U.S. Pacific Fleet (COMNAVAIRPAC) , advising him of the situation. In the message, Ward stated that “a cadre of blacks were working very hard to create a confrontation or racial incident and that twelve apparent ringleaders had been identified.” Ward ended the message by

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promising to avoid a confrontation at sea “while making plans for action as necessary upon returning to San Diego.”42 Ward also took several concrete steps to secure the safety of the ship and its equipment and personnel. He directed additional personnel to watch over critical parts of the ship such as the aircraft, engineering spaces, and the bridge. He also had white lights turned on in the lower spaces and asked a group of chief petty officers and officers to go to the mess decks to passively surround the dissidents and try and convince some of the sailors to return to their divisions. Finally, he ordered roving patrols of Marines and MAAs to circulate throughout the ship. These actions were prudent given that the predominantly black group assembled in the mess deck was angry and possessed all the means necessary to start a riot or mutiny, including such weapons as dog wrenches, razors, and clubs.43 At this stage in the confrontation, Captain Ward had not violated any regulations in handling the dissenters. However, several of his decisions were not prudent. According to the official investigation conducted shortly after the incident by Rear Admiral John M. Tierney, the COMNAVAIRPAC, Ward’s decision to identify ringleaders of the group and attempt to oust them from the Navy by way of discharges was a definite “triggering” event. Word of the discharges quickly leaked out of the personnel office, causing great anger among the blacks. Black sailors viewed the discharges as a racially motivated attempt by the captain to get rid of any man committed to highlighting the plight of blacks on the ship. To add insult to injury, one of the men on the original discharge was a popular black barber.44 Once this spark occurred, many false rumors followed, the most damaging and explosive of which was that “Ward was going to discharge 250 black sailors of the ship’s company.” The ship was in the process of reducing its complement by 250 sailors to improve habitability standards on the ship. If 250 men could not be eliminated by normal attrition and early outs, men with low marks were to be selected proportionally from each department of the ship and discharged. Race had nothing to do with the selection process. Unfortunately, disaffected black sailors viewed the situation very differently. To them, the reduction in force was a conspiracy by Ward to eliminate blacks from ship. To counter this rumor, Ward attempted to explain the reduction in force (RIF) in an all-hands flyer distributed throughout the ship on the

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afternoon of 3 November, but by that point, the damage had been done. For the remainder of the crisis, the perception would persist among black sailors that this RIF was directed at them and them alone. Disaffection, it should be noted, stemmed not just from the RIF but from the general condition of black sailors on Constellation at the time. While many of their white peers had been enjoying specialized training in airconditioned classrooms, blacks often found themselves working long, hot shifts during the SRA period performing menial work. They did not understand or accept the fact that these white sailors had earned their ratings by achieving high marks on the Navy’s entrance tests and then successfully graduating from “A” school. Just as in the case of their compatriots on Kitty Hawk, sailors on Constellation perceived no career opportunities in the Navy. Another tactical error made by Ward was his decision to meet with Martinez and Smith on the bridge. Although Navy investigators later found that while the motivation of these two men to avoid violence was sincere, their lack of understanding of the responsibilities of a commanding officer on an aircraft carrier compounded problems. They did not appreciate that a captain of a ship should not present himself before an unruly and disrespectful audience, for doing so could potentially undermine his authority. As the investigation stated, “Abuse or disrespect against his person or office had the danger of creating backlash and the eruption of violence.”45 In the case of Kitty Hawk, Commander Cloud could take such a risk because he approached the unruly group on that ship as a highly articulate and resourceful black man and not as the executive officer of the ship. In the case of Constellation, neither Ward nor Schaub, both white, had this option. Martinez and Smith understood none of these realities, nor did they know that Captain Ward had received anonymous personal threats from militants over the ship’s phone system. Instead, they inferred from Ward’s refusal to come to the mess deck a lack of concern. The sailors then conveyed this message of “unconcern” back to the mess decks. Ward, by better explaining his actions to Martinez and Smith, could have appeared less cold and distant, but in the Navy of 1972, it was contrary to long-standing traditions for an officer to explain his decisions to subordinates. The fact that Ward was even willing to speak to two enlisted personnel operating outside the formal chain of command showed considerable flexibility and tolerance. In the final analysis, however, it was the wrong choice because neither Smith nor Martinez was

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able to negotiate with the captain in good faith. Their goal, as the next chapter will reveal, was to precipitate a crisis and stop the daily evolution of the ship. The captain, had he confronted the angry mob, might have lost face, just as Yacabucci later would at the HRC meeting. It is doubtful that even a strong personality like Ward’s could have quelled the protest given the racial dynamics at play.

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8 Negotiations with the Protesters A Comedy of Errors

The Meeting of the Human Relations Council At 9:45 p.m. on 3 November, Commander James Yacabucci convened a meeting of the Constellation’s human relations council to hear the grievances of the men on the mess deck. The HRC consisted of three officers and five enlisted crewman. One officer was black, and the other two were white. The enlisted cadre consisted of two blacks, two whites, and one Asian. The HRC had the authority to listen to grievances and make recommendations for changes, but it could not formulate policy for the ship.1 The first item discussed that night related to the six discharges being given to black ringleaders by Captain J. D. Ward. A personnel officer who attended the meeting, Chief Warrant Officer Havis W. Barfeld, stated that “the processing of all administrative discharges had been stopped and no discharges had been issued.”2 Several members of the audience then asked Barfeld about the general discharges being administered to reduce the size of the ship’s company and improve habitability. He responded by telling the men that those discharges related to performance and not race and were fully authorized by Navy regulations. He even read portions of the Bureau of Personnel manual to prove his point, but he was heckled as he tried to justify the command group’s actions to black the sailors. Fireman Apprentice John L. Baker, Seaman Apprentice Charles D. Bowman, Seaman Edward A. Martinez, Airman Mose Stanburry, and Fireman Apprentice Michael E. Turman then proceeded to take over the meeting.3 This leadership group, which included Martinez and Smith, refused to allow the HRC to get a word in edgewise. “They pretty much shut me down, including my black members on the human relations council,” recalled Yacabucci. “My black senior men were absolutely

150

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dumbfounded. It was like: We didn’t know where these people came from.”4 During the course of the meeting, three dissidents, usually Martinez, Smith, and Fireman Apprentice John L. Baker, directed the others to heckle speakers from the HRC on cue. “It was almost like a comedy act,” claimed Yacabucci; “they would grab the microphone and get up and do these things and everybody would laugh. It made us look a little silly.”5 Each time a member of the council attempted to address an individual grievance, one or more of the leaders interrupted him. Whenever things appeared to be settling down, one of the black leaders, particularly Baker, would whip up the group. Baker used cursing, emotional outbursts, and tirades against the HRC to spur the crowd on. As one eyewitness explained, “The group would not accept reasonable answers and in my value judgment, really was not looking for answers. Such comments as calling the Captain a son-of-a-bitch, bastard, cocksucker, etc., were the rule and not the exception.”6 A tape recording of portions of the meeting revealed statements such as the following: • “If the Captain can’t hear what we say, we not going to do nothing ’til he do.” • “If the Captain don’t come down, his ship isn’t going to be together much longer.” • “We don’t want no bloodshed, unless he come down here, and if he come down here there won’t nobody[’s] blood be shed but his.” • “We can bring him down by force, but when we get him here, he won’t listen.” • “First when we get through striking on you, you won’t be able to fly your plane tomorrow.”7 Baker twice threatened go up to the bridge and drag the captain down to the mess deck or “possibly throw him over the side.”8 When specific grievances emerged, they generally centered on the captain’s decision to offload 250 personnel for habitability reasons and the procedures for selecting those individuals—especially the general discharges based on low quarterly marks. The grievance cited most frequently was the general discharge initiated (and later retracted) against black barber J. V. Hart. “I asked myself how a man can come in and serve his country for four years and never get in trouble, and still not get an honorable discharge,” claimed Smith.9

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Throughout the affair, Yacabucci attempted to strike up a meaningful dialogue with the protesters but was constantly interrupted. He later testified, “I took some abuse that evening that I will never take again.”10 As time went on, it appeared that the protest leaders began to have more and more influence on the assembled group. The more they challenged authority and acted disorderly and disrespectful in front of the HRC, the more their power and prestige increased among their peers.11 After about two hours, Yacabucci decided to give the minority members of the HRC a chance to communicate with the group in private—a tactic that probably should have been employed much earlier in the process. Chief Wilson and another black HRC member attempted to talk to the group, but to no avail. Never before had Wilson had difficulty communicating with young black sailors on a one-to-one basis, but a in a group situation, the dynamics were very different. “You see I am an Uncle Tom,” he later told the Hicks Subcommittee. “I have accepted the system. I have turned white, you know, and I don’t really have their goodness at heart. But I do, and a lot of them know it except I don’t stand up on a table, you know, and scream ‘black, black, all black.’ ”12 Unfortunately, the perception that black officers and chief petty officers were nothing but tools of white authority trumped efforts by individuals like Wilson to rise above this image. At midnight, Smith and Martinez again visited Captain Ward on the bridge. To these men and their followers, the HRC was a farce because it had no power to enact policy. “We never saw any decisive action taken by them,” explained Smith.13 For Smith and his followers, only the captain could solve their problems, and that was why they insisted so strongly on his making an appearance on the mess decks. To some degree Smith was completely correct in his analysis. Minority affairs councils were a knee-jerk reaction by the Navy to racial tension. Few commanding officers understood how to organize and run these committees for maximum effect. How could a group chaired by the ship’s dentist have any impact on the policies of an aircraft carrier of 5,000 officers and men? If an officer with real stature such as the executive officer, the air wing commander, or even the captain had chaired the council, the reaction of the black crew might have been different, but these officers were far too busy for such a “collateral” duty (most were lucky to get four hours of sleep during a twenty-four-hour period), and few besides Zumwalt understood the gravity of the Navy’s racial problems in 1972. As in the case of Townsend, the focus of Ward and his se-

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nior leadership was on launching and retrieving aircraft and running the carrier — extremely dangerous operations that required these men to make frequent life-and-death decisions, even when the ship was conducting peacetime flight operations. For the skipper of a carrier, leaving the bridge during flight operations, especially at night, was similar to a doctor leaving an operating room during the middle of a surgery. Martinez and Smith arrived at the bridge at midnight during night flight operations, twenty-five minutes before the last plane landed.14 Ward may have treated these men a bit gruffly, but given the context of the situation, it would have been perfectly justifiable for him to have refused to meet with them altogether. “Sir, we have a problem on the mess deck, and we feel you should go there,” Smith implored Ward. “Smith, what advice can you give me?” Ward responded. “Sir, make a personal appearance on the mess decks. You don’t have to answer any questions. There ain’t nobody going to try and get you because I don’t think there is anybody mad enough to jump you. Everybody has agreed to conduct themselves in a military manner. All you have to do is make a personal appearance and let them know that you are concerned about the problems because right now they feel like you don’t give a damn about them.” “Well Smith, I don’t see how my making a personal appearance on the mess deck will solve anything.” “Sir, we are trying to avoid bloodshed. We don’t want another Kitty Hawk. There is a rumor going around about the men wanting to come up here and bring you down. If these men try to get up here, you are going to call the Marines. It will be the black crew against the Marines. You might lose some lives and this is something we are trying to prevent.” “Well, Smith, I don’t see how making a personal appearance will solve anything.”15 To ease the situation, however, Ward did get on the 1MC with a direct message to the protest group: Good evening gents. I understand we are having considerable trouble and problems I am not sure of. I’ve looked at certain aspects of the ship, and I hope and assure all you gentlemen who have any grievances and who feel you are not being treated fairly that I am readily available to discuss any and all of the problems and grievances. Would you

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individuals please come forward and I’m certain we can resolve them to your satisfaction.16

But this message did little good. Following the announcement, Baker jumped up and said, “That’s it. There is no more talking. We have to do something drastic now. The captain has got to come down here, down to the mess decks.”17 Ward continued to resist the idea. “I will not put myself in the position of an ashcan, nor do I feel that my presence on the mess decks will help matters at this time,” he told representatives of the HRC who met with him after Smith and Martinez departed. As Ward saw the situation, these men had just issued him an ultimatum: either go to the mess decks and meet with a group of “unruly and disorderly sailors” or “have the ship torn up.”18 Meeting with the sailors probably would not have been prudent. As Rear Admiral Tierney stated in his investigation of the incident, “He would have been the subject of abuse for the aggrandizement of the militant leadership.” Furthermore, “Abuse or disrespect against his person or his office had the danger of creating backlash and the eruption of violence.”19 Unlike Commander Cloud on Kitty Hawk, Ward did not understand the psychology of the protest enough to thrust himself into the middle of a potential riot. By this juncture in the crisis, therefore, Ward had exhausted most of the options available to him. He had met with representatives of the group and also had tried to ease tensions with his 1MC announcement, but the protest persisted. He now had two basic courses of action left: break up the protest with his Marine detachment, and arrest the protesters; or return to port and offload the dissidents. If he had chosen the first option, he might have sparked a bloody confrontation because his Marines had no training in riot control and probably would have been forced to employ excessive force to break up the gathering. Also, the Constellation was unequipped to handle the demands of a mass arrest: its brig could hold only twenty personnel, and confining men on the mess decks, hangar decks, or berthing spaces would disrupt normal shipboard operations. The second option, therefore, appeared to be the most prudent. Once on shore, the protesters would have access to better legal assistance and counseling. More significantly, their absence on the ship would allow Constellation, one of America’s most important carriers, to continue preparing for a wartime deployment.

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Investigators later criticized Ward for choosing this option because by putting these men on shore, Ward inadvertently strengthened their position. He gave them access to the national media and powerful support groups such as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and the Congressional Black Caucus. These outside forces ultimately scrutinized every Navy action vis-à-vis the group and later spurred Congress to hold special hearings on the subject. In the early morning hours of 4 November, however, Ward’s primary concern was to avoid bloodshed and continue shipboard operations. Offloading the protesters appeared the best route available to him at the time to achieve that end. At 3:00 a.m., Ward informed his division officers that the ship was returning to San Diego and that the dissident group would be offloaded to form a beach detachment. During the course of the protest, investigators with the MAA office had worked industriously to establish a list of persons involved in the protest; this list became the basis for determining who would be assigned to the detachment.20 By this time, the situation on the mess deck had reached a new low. The group threatened a “blood bath worse than the Kitty Hawk.” According to Yacabucci, they said, “The goddamn captain couldn’t run his ship unless we were down here doing it, so we are going to stop it and see how long he is captain.”21 To try and calm things down, Ward ordered 150 officers and petty officers to surround the group. The presence of these authority figures had a stabilizing effect upon a tense situation. Yelling and obscenities continued, but there was no additional violence or vandalism. The group remained in the mess deck for the remainder of the night, but it calmed down considerably. Most passed the time by playing cards, listening to music, or sleeping. Seeing that the situation was under control, the officers and petty officer withdrew at 4:00 a.m.22 Constellation returned to San Diego at 7:45 a.m. A delegation of four captains from Naval Air Station North Island and the COMNAVAIRPAC office met the ship. One of the officers in that group was Captain William E. Gross, the head of the COMNAVAIRPAC minority affairs office. A naval aviator by background, Captain Gross (white) had served in a variety of flying assignments before assuming his present position. As the former chief of staff of the commander of fleet air, Miramar, he had

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also recently implemented a successful minority affairs program at the Miramar Naval Air Station, so he was much more familiar than Ward or Yacabucci with racial affairs. After listening to Ward describe recent events on the ship, Gross, backed up by the other officers in the group, recommended that Ward keep the dissidents on board rather than offload them as a beach detachment.23 Gross also believed that Ward might be able to ease tensions by making a personal appearance in front of the group. “I discovered in my position,” Gross later told the Hicks Subcommittee, that minority groups, when angry, “don’t want to talk to anyone but the Man.” No one else will do. By not confronting the group directly, Gross argued, Ward had inadvertently allowed tensions to increase.24 Ward disagreed: “My course of action that I elected was to get the men ashore and place a cadre of personnel in charge of them to start exploring just what our problems were while I continued to train the ship and air wing at sea.”25 In defense of Ward, the captain’s course of action was heavily influenced by two external factors. First, he was fully aware of what had happened on Kitty Hawk and wanted to prevent similar violence from occurring on his ship. Second, America was at war in Southeast Asia at the time, and aircraft carriers needed to maintain a strict training and deployment schedule to keep up with deployment demands. Ward knew that if he did not meet his schedule, he would throw off the entire Pacific Fleet rotation cycle, forcing some carriers to remain forward deployed longer than anticipated. The last thing he wanted to do was compel sailors on other carriers who had been away from their families for six months or longer to remain at sea beyond an original deployment schedule. As Admiral Zumwalt later explained, “Hindsight gives me the wisdom to assert that Captain Ward would have been welladvised to follow [Gross’s] recommendation, fairness compels me to add that the case was not all that clear at the time, and, given Captain Ward’s intimate knowledge of the dynamics of getting his ship ready for wartime deployment against an impossible deadline, a good case for his decision can be made.”26 In late 1972, the Navy was fighting the final stages of the Vietnam War and also trying to reconstitute the force for possible future conflicts. At the same time, it was fighting a sociological battle to integrate large numbers of unskilled black sailors into the fleet and struggling to overcome pervasive institutional racism. Most naval officers placed the military mission of the Navy well in front of the so-

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ciopolitical one. To men such as Ward and Townsend, who had spent the better part of their careers fighting the Vietnam War, launching aircraft and putting bombs on target remained of paramount importance.

The Saga Continues: The Beach Detachment When Captain Ward decided to offload the dissidents from Constellation to San Diego, he unintentionally transformed a localized crisis into a larger Navy-wide affair. Once the media picked up on the story, these men emerged as a symbol for the Navy’s racial problems. As such, it became imperative for the Navy to calm the situation down as soon as possible. Navy regulations and traditions dictated that Ward would be in charge of the beach detachment as long as it was formally part of his ship’s company. In practice, though, the beach setting allowed numerous other officers to intervene in the affair. Most were associated with COMNAVAIRPAC, but through that office, even higher authorities got involved, including the commander, Pacific Fleet, the CNO, and the secretary of the Navy. Captain Earl F. Godfrey, the COMNAVAIRPAC chief of staff, was one of the first officers to meet with Ward. On the morning of the fourth, they discussed the formation of the beach detachment. Some confusion existed as to who was supposed to be sent to the detachment. Captain Ward had made it clear to his master at arms and the division officers of the ship that only men positively identified in the sit-down strike were to be offloaded, but somehow word passed down the chain of command that anyone who volunteered could go to shore. A total of 144 men ended up disembarking from the ship—62 more than originally expected. As Zumwalt described it, “A group of eighty to ninety aggrieved men is hard enough to handle; a group of 144 is that much harder.”27 At 10:30 a.m., Captain Godfrey asked Ward to explain his plans to the group in person. Ward agreed and proceeded to the mess deck to inform the men about the beach detachment and listen to some of the men’s grievances. Since most of the protesters had been up more than twenty-four hours by this point and were extremely fatigued, the meeting did not go very well. Some swore at the captain, but no one attempted to harm him.28 The beach detachment left the ship at 11:45. Most of its members

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were nonrated seamen with less than a year of service. Few possessed more than a high school education, and most fell into the category III or IV of the AFQT. Twenty-two members of the group had prior offenses, ranging from nonjudicial punishment (eighteen) to court-martial (five), and the Navy suspected that twenty-three were involved in drugs.29 One member, Radarman Third Class L. Brown, later claimed that he did not want to leave the ship but decided to go after being locked out of his work space in the ship’s combat information center by a second-class petty officer. Brown testified, “I reported the incident to my leading petty officer who with a smirky smile on his face just lifted his shoulders and shook his head and thought it was funny.”30 While the detachment offloaded from the ship and transited to Barracks 317 of the North Island Naval Air Station, Admiral Thomas Walker, the COMNAVAIRPAC, met with Ward and key staff members to determine how to handle the situation. It was generally accepted by the group that returning the men to the ship was not a good option. Walker therefore decided to back up Ward’s decision to form the detachment and offer him all the resources at the admiral’s disposal to solve the problem. “It was his view,” Ward later explained, “that all right, this is your problem and I want you to solve it and I will give you all possible assistance.”31 After the meeting, Walker sent a message to his boss, Admiral Bernard Clarey, the commander of the Pacific Fleet, describing the situation and stressing that Captain Ward was doing everything in his power to avoid violence.32 Clarey, in turn, called Admiral Zumwalt on the telephone to brief him. Zumwalt immediately went to work trying to manage a situation rapidly spinning out of control. The CNO’s strategy was to quell the dissent before the presidential election on 7 November. By doing so, he hoped that the crisis might escape the attention “of the ideologues and rabble-rousers on both sides of the racial issue.”33 To a great extent, only Zumwalt, as CNO, was in a position to place political realities above the military ones. Wartime captains like Townsend or Ward, who in the words of John Paul Jones “intend to go in harm’s way,” are in no position to place domestic political concerns above those demanded by a war. Based on consultations with his staff, Zumwalt designed a classic “carrot-and-stick” strategy for dealing with the dissidents. He first wanted division officers from Constellation to break the beach detachment into small focus groups. After a period of open discussion, these

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officers would then offer not only to look into any grievances raised by a sailor but also to drop all charges against that individual. There was only one catch: the sailor had to agree to return to the ship. Sailors were to be given until the end of the business day to consider the offer. If they did not agree to it by that time, charges would be filed against them. To “polish” the plan off, Ward would present the offer personally to any holdouts.34 Zumwalt’s plan required an interruption in the Constellation’s training schedule to allow Ward and his officers to meet with the aggrieved —a move Ward opposed. To Ward, changing the ship’s schedule was “tantamount to knuckling under to protesters.” But to Zumwalt, “there had to be delicate handling of the symbolic band as its members were brought back under naval discipline.” Ward viewed the situation in light of his ship and its mission. Zumwalt had much larger concerns: he did not want this protest to “irreparably set back” the Navy’s progress in the realm of racial integration. “I had to make my judgment in the light of my responsibility to the entire Navy, a responsibility that obligated me to find a way of combining the maintenance of discipline with the maintenance of progress in racial matters.”35 On Sunday, Constellation put to sea for training, and the beach detachment went on liberty. The next day, the ship returned to North Island to offload a damaged plane. That morning, members of the HRC and the COMNAVAIRPAC staff met with the beach detachment in an auditorium. Four counselors stood by to work with any sailor willing to speak to them privately, but no sailor stepped forward. Over the weekend, the beach detachment had coalesced and hardened. The men refused to break into smaller groups or talk to counselors individually. Instead, the group elected a committee to present their demands. The committee, which included Edward Martinez, Howard Smith, and John Baker, presented three demands to the command. First, they wanted a review on board Constellation of all the general discharges for black personnel. Second, they wanted a review of all nonjudicial punishments on Constellation because they felt that most of the recent captain’s masts had been unfair to blacks. Third, when they returned to ship, they wanted no punitive action taken against any member of the group.36 After the meeting, Captain Ward ordered Lieutenant Charles L. Tomkins, the beach detachment commander, to interview those who wished to return to the ship immediately to ascertain their motivations. Did they wish to return to their jobs or stir up more unrest on the ship? Six

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men eventually passed the interview and returned to the ship. The ship then put to sea at 12:00 a.m. that same day. Meetings continued between the detachment and the COMNAVAIRPAC staff throughout the rest of the day, but no progress was made because the staff could not act on the grievances directly. By regulation and tradition, only Captain Ward had that authority.37 Admiral Zumwalt therefore ordered the Constellation to return to port the next day so that Ward could directly participate in discussions with the beach detachment. As it turned out, the ship had to return anyway to offload a damaged aircraft. For much of the day, Ward met with members of the COMNAVAIRPAC staff to come up with a plan for handling the crisis. The staff wanted Ward to bring the men back on ship as soon as possible, but Ward wanted the right to approve every man seeking to return—a demand that was unacceptable to the beach detachment. After a discussion with Admiral Walker, Ward finally agreed to grant all who wanted to return to the ship an opportunity to do so, and to discharge or arrange transfers for those who did not want to return. He also agreed to have each general discharge reviewed by an independent authority. This plan was to be presented to the group in the NAS North Island auditorium the next morning.38 That night, several of the beach detachment members appeared on local television, prompting Zumwalt to petition Secretary John Warner for decisive action. If the group did not agree to Ward’s plan to personally vet every man who wished to voluntarily return, Zumwalt wanted to order the men back to the ship and place those who refused to obey this order in disciplinary status. “By then,” the CNO concluded, “the Navy had not only dealt with the dissenters fairly and patiently but would be perceived as having done so and that the time had come to take decisive action.” Zumwalt wanted not only to directly intervene in the affair to stave off more negative media attention but also to shield Captain Ward. He wanted to “ensure that thenceforth the occupant of the hottest spot in the Navy would not be Captain J. D. Ward but Admiral E. R. Zumwalt, Jr., who was being paid to sit there.”39 Early in the morning of 8 November, Ward talked to Captain William Gross shortly before the meeting with the beach detachment. “Ward had a severe cold,” according to Gross, “and was tired.” He was also “damn disgruntled.” Gross tried to calm him down, telling him to “smile if it kills you.” Ward then went in and told the group: “Undoubtedly, I have put my priorities in the wrong place in this particular

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With their ship moored in the background, Constellation sailors give the black power salute. (The San Diego Union and Evening Tribune via the San Diego Historical Society)

instance. We are willing to look at these things and correct whatever needs to be corrected. I agree to review the administrative discharges and review the injustices alleged in the NJP [nonjudicial punishment], and I ask that you all come back aboard the ship and get things settled.”40 Ward requested the men to come back to the ship but stated that they were not ordered to return. Captain Gross thought Ward’s performance was “magnificent,” but magnificent was not good enough. When Ward asked for a show of hands by those willing to return to the ship, he received a display of clenched fists. The beach detachment subsequently voted not to return to the ship.41 Ward then departed the meeting and met again with Admiral Thomas Moore. After conferring with Moore and Admiral Clarey by phone, Ward met one last time with the dissident group. He informed them that he had been directed by COMNAVAIRPAC to dissolve the beach detachment and allow the group to go on liberty until 8:00 a.m. on 9 November. By that deadline, anyone not on Constellation would be considered a UA (unauthorized absentee). The next day, the dissolved beach detachment assembled on the pier

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alongside Constellation in uniform and with their gear. Accompanying them were reporters from various newspapers, TV networks, and radio stations. At 8:00 a.m., the American flag went up, and then the men came to attention and saluted. Ten minutes later, the duty officer from Constellation came down to the dock and advised them that their liberty had expired and they would be unauthorized absentees unless they reported on board immediately. Five men returned to the ship, but the remainder of the group stayed on the dock. Ward then sent down division officers to try and convince individual sailors to return. The group laughed at the officers. Anyone who attempted to speak with officers in earnest was quickly surrounded and dissuaded from breaking away from the group.42 Thirty-five minutes after the refusal of the beach detachment to disband and rejoin Constellation, a group of five civilian attorneys requested a meeting with Ward. Although these lawyers had antiwar backgrounds, they approached the meeting as lawyers, not ideologues. Attorney John Murcko claims that the main goal of the lawyers was to end the crisis quickly and persuade the Navy not to court-martial the group. They also presented four grievances to the captain. First, the men wanted to be dealt with at North Island and not on Constellation. Second, they wanted all administrative discharges of black men reviewed. Third, they requested that all nonjudicial punishment be meted out equally: blacks, in other words, should not receive harsher punishments than whites. Fourth, they demanded that no punitive action be taken against the blacks who left Constellation for their personal safety.43 Back in Washington, Zumwalt kept close tabs on the situation by phone. When he learned that the detachment had refused to disband, he called the secretary of the Navy, John Warner, to request action. At forty-eight, Warner was a young and relatively inexperienced executive. An attorney by training and a former Marine communications officer, Warner had risen to prominence through his work as a speechwriter in Richard Nixon’s 1968 campaign. Nixon rewarded Warner with a job as under secretary of the Navy. When Warner’s boss, John Chafee, resigned to run for the Senate in 1972, Warner took over as secretary of the Navy. Warner, now a highly seasoned senator, did not have much stature in 1972. His “home front” was also messy at the time. He had just divorced his first wife, Catherine Mellon—a woman whose social prominence as a member of one of America’s wealthiest families had

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greatly boosted his early career—and his children were vehemently antiwar. The children urged him daily to resign from his job because it was creating “grief” for them at school.44 Warner thought that the men should return to the barracks for a cooling-off period and that the Constellation should leave San Diego because the ship had become a symbol. Zumwalt, by contrast, wanted to deal with the situation by issuing the sailors an ultimatum: they could either return to Constellation or face disciplinary charges. Warner and Zumwalt debated the merits of both proposals for two hours. By 2:00 p.m., the situation had still not been resolved. Meanwhile, members of the beach detachment had had ample time to “utter a plethora of militant statements” to the assembled press and “pose for a gamut of clenched fist photographs.”45 Finally, Warner agreed to a compromise course of action. The men would first be transferred together back to Barracks 317. Captain Robert P. McKenzie, the NAS North Island commander, then would inform the men that they were all being charged with an unauthorized absence from 8:00 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. on 9 November and would be transferred in smaller groups to various bases in the area in a disciplinary status.46 McKenzie executed the plan at 3:30 on 9 November. In the end, 120 men left Constellation that day in disciplinary status. Of this number, 46 eventually received discharges (36 of which were honorable), and 74 were transferred to new assignments. In the words of Zumwalt, “The punishments they received were trifling.”47 The Constellation protest proved more damaging to the Navy’s reputation than either the Kitty Hawk or the Hassayampa riot. The latter two events occurred on ships far from the public eye. Although violent and highly disruptive to those at the scene, they did not receive much media attention. The beach detachment, by comparison, broadcast the Navy’s racial problems to the national media and transformed the Constellation into a living symbol of all that was wrong in the Navy with respect to race relations. The longer the protest persisted, the stronger the negotiating position of the dissenters became. Far from solving problems, outside interference from the CNO and secretary of the Navy exacerbated the situation by slowing down decision making and giving the dissenters more time to press their case with the media. Interestingly, Navy JAG investigators did not believe that the media skewed the story in favor of the protesters. “The news coverage

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of the Constellation incident,” their report states, “was essentially accurate with no evidence of sensationalism or irresponsible journalism.” What created problems for the Navy and its public image was the inability of chain of command to make public statements as rapidly as the protest group, according to the JAGMAN report. “This plus the public impression that open defiance of military authority had gone unpunished produced an unfavorable Navy image.”48 In terms of assigning blame, Rear Admiral John Tierney, the JAGMAN’s author, placed most of it on the shoulders of Captain Ward, criticizing him for permitting gatherings of blacks on the ship before the sit-down strike, and not taking more “positive action” in determining grievances. Once the strike occurred, they faulted Ward for not breaking up the gathering and also for sending an inexperienced HRC down to handle the protest. While investigators accepted Ward’s rationale for establishing the beach detachment, they criticized him for mismanaging the off-loading of the men and not coming up with a workable plan for managing the detachment once it hit the beach. “Considering the training requirements of the ship and the air wing,” Tierney declared, “I see no evidence of dereliction or inattention to duty exhibited by Capt. Ward.” But he did “question the wisdom” of some of Ward’s decisions.49 Once the dissenters left the ship, Ward’s actions toward the group were heavily influenced and guided by his chain of command. However, Tierney would blame Ward and not the chain of command for mistakes made. In the Navy, a commander of a ship is always accountable for his ship’s sailors, whether they are on the ship or ashore. Not until the beach detachment was disbanded did responsibility for the men shift to authorities at NAS North Island. To his credit, Admiral Zumwalt, in his memoirs, admitted to controlling most of the events from Washington during the beach stage of the protest, but Tierney saw the situation in different terms—terms defined by regulation and tradition, not by practice. The Constellation incident irreparably damaged the promotion prospects of Captain Ward. Ward served in staff assignments with the commander in chief, U.S. Naval Forces, Europe (CINCUSNAVEUR), and the chief of the Naval Reserve before retiring in 1978 as a captain.50 As for the causes of the protest, the JAGMAN report cited many factors, but the ones that stand out the strongest in the report are the tight deployment schedule, degraded living conditions on the ship, a large influx of new personnel, the existence of a loosely structured black militant organization, and lack of faith by blacks in command responsive-

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ness. This last cause, in particular, resonated strongly with the protest group. In a survey conducted after the protest, one-third of the beach detachment stated that “they were not receiving a fair shake from their superiors” before the sit-down strike.51 Given this climate of distrust, it did not take much to set this group off. Ward’s decision to discharge six black ringleaders, including a popular black barber, was enough to trigger a strong reaction. Once the disturbance began, Constellation, like Kitty Hawk before it, was ill prepared to handle it. Its newly formed HRC was no match against the militants who led the sit-down strike and subsequent beach detachment protest. The more these militants successfully tested the system, initially by holding unauthorized meetings but later on by challenging authority more overtly, the more their strength grew with the group as a whole. Ward’s initial refusal to meet with the group made the situation worse. However, given the volatility of the situation on the mess deck, Ward’s motives for avoiding a direct confrontation are understandable. If he had confronted the group during the height of the protest, he might have been severely humiliated or even injured. Unfortunately for Ward, he did not posses a Ben Cloud figure who could bridge the gap between the black militants and the command group. In the Kitty Hawk protest, Cloud managed to convince the rioters to lay down their arms because he offered them his word as a black man that they would be treated fairly by the Navy’s justice system. As a white man, Commander Schaub could make no such promises. Furthermore, he also proved to be ineffective as a general symbol of authority. According to the JAGMAN, “An ingredient which seems to have been missing from all the events of 3 November and subsequent events was the presence of a strong resourceful executive officer.” From the noon meal on 3 November to Ward’s meeting with the protesters the next morning, Schaub did not make an appearance on the mess deck. Instead, he allowed the HRC—an organization with no real authority led by the ship’s dentist—to negotiate with the group. Rather than serving as an instrument of the command, the HRC became a vehicle through which the protest leaders could test the system and enhance their prestige with their followers by making of a mockery of the HRC and its well-meaning but ineffective chairman, Commander Yacabucci. It is worth noting that the JAGMAN stated that “most of the grievances [of the group] are common complaints of many sailors of all races throughout Constellation and the Navy,” and that only a few specific

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grievances of the group were legitimate.52 Grievances over matters such as the awarding of nonjudicial punishment, the assignment of menial tasks, and the evaluation system could not be “positively validated” by Tierney. In an analysis of 317 mast cases that occurred on the ship during the 1971–1972 period, a team from the Naval Personnel and Training Laboratory found that only 36 involved blacks (11 percent). Furthermore, the team concluded that, “with the possible exception of some punitive imbalance for men violating Article 86 [AWOL],” these cases do not support “the allegation of discrimination in the severity of punishment awarded blacks as opposed to non-black (white).”53 But as in the case of Kitty Hawk, perceptions mattered more than reality. Blacks entered the Navy with less education and aptitude than many whites, and therefore often received lower marks on the AFQT. Unskilled blacks new to the Navy were more likely to end up working in the laundry or the mess decks than were white graduates of Navy technical training programs such as the “A” school system. Did this mean that Ward was a racist? Clearly not, but that did not matter to the black sailors. To men conditioned by the “long hot summers” in America’s ghettos and the rise of black consciousness, the situation appeared racist. Having to work in menial jobs with no air-conditioning, no hot water for showering, a lack of bathrooms, and excessive construction noise exacerbated the situation and made it easier for a few leaders to convince these young, impressionable sailors that the Navy was not giving them “a fair shake.”

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9 The Hicks Subcommittee Hearings Questions and Motives

With the breakup of the beach detachment on 9 November, the attention of the media, Congress, and the Nixon administration shifted to Admiral Elmo Zumwalt. Each of these groups expected Zumwalt, as the Navy’s top uniformed official, to act swiftly to address what many perceived as a serious breakdown in discipline in the Navy. Many also blamed Zumwalt for the problems, arguing that his “programs for the people” were undermining the chain of command and leading to permissiveness in the ranks. Congressman F. Edward Hébert, chairman of the powerful House Armed Services Committee (HASC), ordered a special subcommittee to investigate the Kitty Hawk and Constellation affairs. The hearings that resulted attempted to pin the blame for the current unrest on an erosion of good order and discipline caused by Zumwalt’s permissiveness and not on institutional racism endemic in the Navy. They put Zumwalt’s equal opportunity programs in severe jeopardy. As he put it, “I have never been in a nastier fight or one that was more important to win.”1

Events Leading Up to the Hicks Subcommittee Hearings On 10 November, the day after the dissolution of the beach detachment, Zumwalt knew that forces in Washington were quickly aligning against him, and that powerful figures both inside and outside of government would attempt to use the Kitty Hawk and Constellation episodes to derail his programs. In an effort to get out ahead of the negative publicity, Zumwalt decided to directly address the issue of racism at a flag officers meeting and open the gathering up to members of the press. While

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many senior Defense Department officials supported this move, it came across to many in the media and Congress as a public dressing-down of the Navy’s senior leadership and not as an important policy statement. Zumwalt, nevertheless, strongly defended the speech in his memoirs, claiming that he needed to publicly reaffirm the Navy’s commitment to racial equality. “I wanted to put both the racists and those suffering from racism on public notice to follow orders,” he later wrote.2 In the speech, Zumwalt demanded that his equal opportunity programs be implemented down to the lowest levels of every command. He further emphasized that these corrective measures were not a form of permissiveness or a direction to “coddle,” but a means to unite a severely fragmented Navy.3 Zumwalt called upon his admirals to punish severely any member of their command who were involved in “discriminatory practices” or who violated the spirit or letter of the Navy’s official equal opportunity policy. He also admitted to the group that he could not “legislate attitudes,” nor were all issues involving whites and blacks “racial in motivation.”4 Still, he expected his leaders to do more than simply establish equal opportunity programs and hope these efforts changed prevailing behavior. The Navy could not legislate attitudes, but it could legislate and enforce behavior. This is what sets the military apart from society and partly explains why some of the country’s greatest presidents—namely, Abraham Lincoln and Harry Truman —employed the military as a vehicle to promote social change in American society.5 In his speech to the admirals, Zumwalt demanded that they stand behind his programs and enforce behavior down to the lowest ranks. At the same time, he called for all commands to maintain good order and discipline and stressed that equal opportunity and discipline can be achieved in concert with one another. Many of the nation’s finest newspapers appreciated both the tone and the substance of this speech. The New York Times made it a lead story and used Zumwalt’s “Equal Means Just That” line as its quotation of the day. The editorial staff of the Los Angeles Times wrote: Admiral Elmo R. Zumwalt finds himself at the center of bitter controversy as chief of naval operations. It could have been otherwise. Many of his predecessors have been satisfied to maintain the status quo. But he recognized the risks in practice and principle of leaving the Navy unchanged, and took on the critical task of reform.

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The Los Angeles Times, in short, recognized that change was well overdue and praised Zumwalt for having the courage to take on the bureaucracy. “Nothing is more important to the mission of the Navy than the quality of its personnel,” the editorial concluded. “That is why Adm. Zumwalt must succeed.”6 Another group who appreciated Zumwalt’s efforts was the Navy’s younger generation of sailors and officers. Not since Admiral Arleigh Burke had a CNO won over the hearts and minds of so many ordinary sailors as Zumwalt did. “On more than several occasions when I had to walk down the stairs of the Pentagon at 1900 to brief him on some issue as he walked to his car,” recalled Lieutenant Commander Roberta Hazard, “there were groups of sailors or junior officers who were waiting outside to thank him for what he was trying to do for them and relate how much they appreciated it.”7 But some retired admirals and members of Congress sharply criticized Zumwalt for riding some of his senior admirals too roughly and bucking the authority of local commanders by issuing so many Navywide directives. To these critics, the 10 November speech epitomized these “poor management practices.” “I remember so well that when I was an hourly employee,” Congressman Dan Daniel remarked, “if the superintendent were to come in and dress down the overseer in my presence, I lost respect for the overseer.” Zumwalt tried to explain to Daniel that his remarks were necessary to clear the air on the subject and were not meant to be a chastisement, but his self-defense fell on deaf ears.8 Partly in reaction to the speech, a group of retired flag officers led by Admiral George Anderson organized a smear campaign against the CNO. These officers phoned members of Congress and senior administration officials, arguing that Zumwalt’s emphasis on equal opportunity was exacerbating the problem of racial unrest. Human relations councils and other measures designed to ease tensions were seen by this group as “permissive” because they offered sailors an alternative avenue for addressing grievances to the formal chain of command.9 On 27 November, Time magazine highlighted this struggle in article entitled “Keelhauling the Navy”: Ever since Zumwalt took command of the Navy in 1970, the more conservative admirals have watched in horror as he set adrift one tradition after another. In their view, permissiveness and luxuries have no place

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at sea. They ridiculed his reforms as the three B’s—beer, beards, and broads.10

One of the most damning accusations made in the story was that the dissident group of admirals was led by none other than Admiral Isaac Kidd, an active duty flag officer and Zumwalt’s likely successor. Kidd vehemently denied this accusation in a letter he wrote to the CNO shortly after the article appeared: “I’ve just read in Time where I’m one of your critics—it’s news to me! When you and I do disagree, you’ll be the first to know—and in private—not in public.”11 On 11 November, Zumwalt received sharp criticism from one of the most powerful figures in the Nixon administration, National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger. In late 1972, Kissinger was at the height of his powers. He had recently negotiated a détente with China and was on the verge of achieving a peace settlement with the North Vietnamese and winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Kissinger called Zumwalt to express President Nixon’s dissatisfaction with the way Constellation dissenters were being handled. Kissinger claimed that the president wanted these dissenters immediately dishonorably discharged. Zumwalt responded by informing the national security adviser that under the Uniform Code of Military Justice the Navy could not dishonorably discharge a sailor without a formal court-martial, and that many of these men had not committed court-martial offenses. Commander Roberta Hazard, who monitored the call, claimed that Kissinger “sounded like he was outside his own skin he was so angry over this thing, threatening to have the admiral fired.”12 The CNO later learned that President Nixon had become furious after seeing Constellation sailors giving the clenched-fist salute on the evening news and demanded that his national security adviser do something about the Navy’s discipline problem. Kissinger actually asked Laird to fire Zumwalt that day, but Laird had enough support in Congress to disregard the request.13 Laird, however, did not have enough clout to prevent what happened on Monday, 13 November. Without any warning, Congressman Hébert, chairman of the House Armed Services Committee, announced in a press conference that he had appointed a special subcommittee to investigate alleged racial and disciplinary problems on Navy ships. The sudden announcement blindsided Zumwalt, but given Hébert’s anti–civil rights background, it should not have surprised him. Although the pow-

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erful HASC chair had always been a great friend of the Navy when it came to appropriations, he was a strong opponent of Zumwalt’s programs for the people. “Eddie did not think that long hair and beards were consistent with good discipline, did not favor women going to sea, and preferred to maintain the Navy’s traditional policies towards minorities,” Zumwalt later wrote in his memoir, On Watch.14 F. Edward Hébert, the son of a New Orleans streetcar driver, began his professional career as a newspaper reporter in the Louisiana capital in the 1920s. As the political editor and columnist for the TimesPicayune of New Orleans, Hébert covered much of Huey Long’s political career, including his successful 1930 run for the Senate, his assassination in 1939, and the political scandals that broke out after Long’s death. Those scandals also presented Hébert with a unique opportunity to run for Congress in 1940. Hébert not only beat his opponent in 1940 by a two-to-one margin but also managed to hold on to his seat as representative of Louisiana’s First District through numerous elections thereafter. In 1948, Hébert served on the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) and helped question Alger Hiss, the famous State Department employee accused of being a Communist spy.15 As a member of the House Armed Services Committee in 1969–1970, he helped expose the Army’s My Lai cover-up. By 1972, he was chair of HASC and one of the most important power brokers in Congress.16 For much of his career in Congress, Hébert looked to Congressman Carl Vinson (D-GA) for guidance and mentorship. Vinson chaired the House Naval Affairs Committee from 1931 to 1947 and was the “father of the two-ocean Navy.” Following in Vinson’s footsteps, when Hébert took over the HASC, he strongly supported naval appropriations and became a powerful friend of the Navy in Congress. Like Vinson, Hébert was also one of the “last of the Titans”: autocratic, longterm southern Democrats famous for pork barrel politics and arbitrary management of committees. As a southern Titan, Hébert held segregationist views. For example, he strongly supported the Democratic States’ Rights Party (Dixiecrats), a group of southerners, led by Senator Strom Thurmond, who walked out of the 1948 Democratic convention when it adopted a pro–civil rights plank.17 In 1964, Hébert opposed the Civil Rights Act “on the grounds of a life-long abhorrence to Big Brotherism.” The congressman did not feel that black Americans suffered any discrimination in the country. “I voted against the Civil Rights Act because I do not believe it

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is equitable,” he wrote in his biography. “I do not believe it is valid.”18 After President Kennedy’s Advisory Committee on Equal Opportunity in the Armed Forces came out with its report in 1963, Hébert claimed in an editorial written for the Times-Picayune that its recommendations would lead to “a virtual transformation of the armed services of the United States into an instrument of domestic sociological pressure” and to the “prostitution of a vital national institution.”19 When the Constellation affair became headlines, Hébert was in New Orleans attending a Marine Corps birthday ball. At the event, constituents complained vehemently about Zumwalt and his equal opportunity program. These traditionalists blamed Zumwalt personally for the unrest in the Navy and demanded that he be fired. Hébert did not have the authority to dismiss the CNO, but he could embarrass him and perhaps undermine his policies by holding hearings on Kitty Hawk and Constellation. Hence, on 13 November, he announced the formation of a special subcommittee to investigate “alleged disciplinary and racial problems in the Navy.”20 Hébert appointed Floyd Hicks, a Democrat from Washington, to head the subcommittee. Hicks, born in 1915, attended public school in Prosser, Washington, and graduated from Central Washington State College, in Ellensburg, in 1938. He worked briefly as a coach and teacher until 1942, when he joined the Army Air Forces as a private. After being discharged as a captain in 1946, Hicks attended the University of Washington Law School and began practicing law after graduating in 1948. Before being elected to Congress in 1962, he had served as a superior court judge of Pierce County, Washington. As a former judge from a western state, Hicks approached the hearings with impartiality: he was neither set in his ways on the subject of race nor a pawn of Hébert’s. According to Zumwalt, he was the only “potential friend” of the Navy on the committee. Hébert later told the CNO that he had given Hicks the chairmanship to see if he could “handle a tough assignment.”21 The other members of the subcommittee, however, proved more problematic for Zumwalt. Wilbur Clarence “Dan” Daniel, a Democrat from Virginia, was born in 1914 and grew up on a tobacco farm in Mecklenburg County, Virginia. The Great Depression affected tenant farmers working the clay fields of southern Virginia especially hard. To bring in some much-needed income for his family, Daniel joined the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in 1932 and spent the next two

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years laboring in various work camps. His stint in the CCC left him deeply distrustful of welfare programs and big government. Anxious to rid himself of the CCC “bureaucrats,” he tried out and was accepted as a pitcher for a minor league baseball team in Fredericksburg, Virginia. In 1936, Daniel’s amateur baseball career came to an abrupt halt when he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. The future congressman spent the next four years convalescing at the Blue Ridge Sanitarium in Albemarle County, Virginia. When he finally recovered in 1944, he took a job as a laborer at the Dan River Mills. Eventually, Daniel would rise through the ranks of this large, 13,000-employee mill to become the assistant to the chairman of the board. During World War II, Daniel attempted to join all five of America’s armed services, but poor health caused by the tuberculosis forced every service to reject him except for the Navy. In the Navy, Daniel actually made it through boot camp but then washed out of amphibious warfare training after losing fifty pounds. What he failed to achieve in the military, Daniel more than made up for as a member of the American Legion. Elected post adjutant at his first meeting at Post 97 in Danville, Virginia, in 1944, Daniel rose to the rank of state commander in 1951. In 1956 he successfully ran for the position of national commander on an anti–big government, anticommunism platform. As the new national commander, he promised to be guided by the principle of “trusting in God and keeping our powder dry.”22 Daniel’s meteoric rise in the legion also helped him ascend the ranks of the Virginia Chamber of Commerce, where he became president in 1968, and from there to a successful run for Congress in 1968. As a conservative southern Democrat like Hébert, he took a strong interest in military and naval affairs, but he also believed that recruiting large numbers of blacks into the fleet undermined its military effectiveness. On the Hicks Subcommittee, Daniel would serve as Hébert’s trusted confidant and alter ego. As Zumwalt explained, “Eddie had assigned Daniel to ride shotgun, as it were, on Hicks, and report back every evening on how the chairman had done that day.”23 Alexander Pirnie, the third subcommittee member, was a lame-duck Republican representative from New York State. Born in Pulaski, New York, in 1903, Pirnie graduated from Cornell University in 1924 and Cornell Law School in 1926. He started out as a lawyer in Utica, New York, and also drilled part-time in the Army’s Officers Reserve Corps. During World War II, he served as a JAG officer in Europe and was a

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decorated colonel with a Bronze Star and a Legion of Merit by the end of the war. Pirnie entered Congress in 1959 and served there until 1973. According to Zumwalt, Pirnie was a “straight law and order man” who had “no interest in conditions of shipboard life or in the problems racial attitudes created or indeed anything except whether punishments he considered sufficiently stiff were being meted out to offenders.”24 As soon as he got word of the hearings, Zumwalt called Hébert in New Orleans. During the conversation, the congressman informed the admiral that he was “headed for real trouble because of so-called equality business and quota business of putting people in jobs they are not qualified for. . . . Gotta have a quota of blacks just because they are black—I don’t buy that.” Zumwalt responded by explaining that no such quota system existed; rather, underskilled blacks and whites now filled highly technical positions due to severe manpower shortages in the fleet. “We have people deployed 85 percent of the time working 18–20 hours a day,” he reminded the HASC chair. Hébert remained unsympathetic. “You chewed out your people [i.e., the admirals] on this side and did not say anything about the other people [i.e., the black protesters],” he complained. “That got them convicted in public.” Zumwalt defended the speech, saying it was designed to “get them off their duffs” and not intended to punish anyone. The damage, however, was already done, and nothing the CNO could say would change the congressman’s view. Given Hébert’s segregationist background, Zumwalt surmised that the real purpose of the subcommittee was to blame the problems of the Navy on permissiveness and not on racism.25 The die was cast, and Zumwalt girded himself for what would become the biggest battle of his career: the battle to save equal opportunity in the U.S. Navy.

The Hicks Subcommittee Hearings The Navy’s Pentagon staff had a little more than a week to prepare the CNO for the hearings. In that short amount of time, it assembled thousands of pages worth of background material.26 The CNO appeared before the Hicks Subcommittee on Monday, 20 November. He began his opening statement by stressing that the priority of the U.S. Navy was to maintain the highest level of combat effectiveness, and that this goal depended heavily on good order and discipline. He went on to provide the committee with a snapshot of the current Navy. This background talk

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was designed not only to give the committee some context but also to make a subtle case for his programs for the people. Zumwalt reminded the subcommittee that in 1972, the Navy possessed 590 ships, many of which had been operating under wartime conditions since the Gulf of Tonkin incident in 1964. The sailors who manned these ships worked in “conditions which were unmatched elsewhere in our society for rigor and danger,” Zumwalt testified. “Their hours of work have been extreme, their separation from home and family long, and time with loved ones short.”27 In 1972, the average carrier deployment rose from nine to ten months, and the average sailor on those ships worked as much as sixteen hours a day. In his off-hours, he slept on bunks stacked three high with little privacy. When deployed, 85 percent of his time was spent at sea. If he was lucky, he might have two liberty periods of six days apiece at foreign ports of call. This young sailor reported to a petty officer whose official duties left him very little time to mentor junior sailors. This petty officer, in turn, reported to a division officer equally pressed for time—especially if that officer was also an aviator flying several combat sorties a day. Together, these men were operating in a Navy that had been reduced from 926 to 597 ships and from 776,000 to 585,000 men and women during the past four years, yet had more ships forward deployed than at any other period in the Vietnam War.28 To try and improve the quality of life for these men, Zumwalt “stressed the need to place increased trust in each individual, but in return, each individual must assume responsibility for his own appearance, conduct, and performance.”29 Zumwalt also argued that by eliminating “Mickey Mouse” regulations, he was not taking a more permissive approach to personnel affairs. In Z-57, published 10 November 1970, he explicitly stated: “I am not suggesting a more lenient attitude toward irresponsible behavior be adopted, but I do believe that we cannot permit general policies to be dictated by the need, which I support, to constrain those individuals who do not respond to the trust and confidence expressed in more flexible and less restrictive regulations.”30 One of the main goals of these new policies was to attract and retain quality people, and to do that, the Navy needed to treat its personnel with dignity. Zumwalt pointed to improved reenlistment rates as evidence of success. Since 1965, first-term reenlistment rates for junior sailors in the Navy had been declining every year. In 1970, the year Zumwalt became CNO, reenlistment for this group reached a nadir of 10

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percent, but by 1972, the rate had climbed back to 23 percent. Part of the change in enlistment patterns during this period can be explained by the country’s overall economic downturn: given many sailors’ low prospects for employment in the civil sector, a secure job in the Navy began to look better and better in the early 1970s, especially after the Vietnam War ended in January 1973. Nevertheless, Zumwalt, as the head of the Navy during this period, could also take some credit for the shift in reenlistment trends. The CNO, however, was careful not to paint too rosy a picture of the current state of reenlistments. Long deployments, uncomfortable living conditions, and limited liberty periods made the Navy a tougher sell than the other services in the 1970s, causing the branch to fall well short of its recruitment goals during the 1972 fiscal year. As a near-term fix, the Navy recruited a larger proportion of lower mental category sailors—sailors generally ineligible for the Navy’s “A” schools. In fact, the proportion of recruits eligible for “A” school or technical training dropped to just 61 percent in 1972.31 Lower test category sailors with no hope for superior training opportunities or advancement, notwithstanding, contributed mightily to the problems experienced on Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa. Zumwalt, in short, was quick to note that his programs for the people were not a panacea for the Navy’s personnel problems. To attract first-rate sailors in the future, the Navy had to improve the quality of life on its ships and shore facilities and pay its sailors higher wages. Assisting Zumwalt in making his case was one of his most informed subordinates on the current state of the fleet, Admiral Bernard Clarey, the commander in chief, U.S. Pacific Fleet. Clarey reminded the subcommittee that the Pacific Fleet was more heavily committed to the Vietnam War in 1972 than at any other point in the war’s history, yet it possessed only 56 percent as many ships as it had in 1968: 290 versus 517. At any given time during that year, 160 of those ships were at sea supporting Vietnam War operations.32 The commitments demanded by the war created problems that were further exacerbated by the recruiting shortfalls mentioned by Zumwalt. Personnel shortages combined with a high operational tempo caused workloads to increase and maintenance to slip for many of the ships in the Western Pacific.33 Particularly affected were first- and second-class petty officers. These individuals bore the brunt of the daily managerial responsibilities for junior enlisted personnel, but with additional work

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demands, these petty officer needed to devote more time to basic duties than mentoring and training young sailors. Despite the problems outlined, Clarey flat out rejected the notion that the Navy was suffering from a general breakdown in discipline. “I see no evidence of a breakdown in good order and discipline,” he argued. “On the contrary, I see a great deal of evidence that the overall level of discipline in the fleet is as high as at any point in history.”34 Clarey reminded the subcommittee that he had commanded a ship in World War II and that the conduct of Navy sailors in 1973 was better than in either World War II or the Korean War.35 Admiral U. S. Grant Sharp USN (Ret.), the commander in chief Pacific from 30 June 1964 to 31 July 1968, echoed many of Clarey’s observations.36 He also pointed out that middle management has always been a challenge for the Navy. In World War II, petty officers were just as apt to sit back and allow officers to manage sailors as in 1973. As Sharp testified, “There is nothing new about that particular idea, though it perhaps is more of a problem now maybe because of this racial thing.”37 Finally, he affirmed the need for a strong equal opportunity program in the Navy. “These equal opportunity programs,” he said, “have to go on, and they have to be implemented.”38 While Sharp, Clarey, and Zumwalt worked hard to defend the Navy’s personnel policies in their remarks to the subcommittee, the questioners were less interested in listening to their testimony and more interested in getting them to admit that there had been a breakdown in discipline in the Navy caused in part by Zumwalt’s “permissive” personnel policies, especially those dealing with the issue of race. To some degree, “permissiveness” was simply a code word for equal opportunity. “Since Eddie had admitted during our telephone discussion with me that his real beef was with the Navy’s integration program,” Zumwalt later explained, “the subcommittee’s efforts along that line were pretty transparent.”39 In an attempt to smooth things over with Congress, Zumwalt, accompanied by John Warner, flew down to Milledgeville, Georgia, to have lunch with Hébert and Carl Vinson, the retired former chair of the House Armed Services Committee. As a segregationist like Hébert, Vinson was deeply offended by Zumwalt’s emphasis on equal opportunity and wanted the Armed Services Committee to seize upon the recent racial unrest to give the CNO a “good scrubbing” in hearings. Melvin Laird, the secretary of defense and another protégé of Vinson’s, believed

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that Zumwalt might be able to calm things down by meeting with these two antagonists in person. The hour-long meeting took place near the airport in the house of Vinson’s housekeeper. Throughout much of it, the eighty-nine-year-old Vinson waxed eloquent about his days in Washington and treated Hébert, a man in his seventies, more like an aide than a powerful congressman. At one point, the retired congressman, known as the “Swamp Fox,” boasted that if he wanted to destroy somebody entirely in a hearing, he would appoint Hébert, Porter Hardy, and Mendel Rivers to the subcommittee because they were the “meanest” members of the House. Zumwalt then said, “I hope that was not the principle upon which the Hicks Subcommittee had been constituted.” Vinson just “grinned and winked” at Hébert.40 In private conversations with Hébert after the meeting, Zumwalt learned that both he and Vinson had been “stirred up” by seeing televised images of sailors giving black power salutes in front of the Constellation. The chairman then asked the CNO some questions about the Navy. Toward the end of the exchange, Hébert became noticeably friendlier. Unfortunately for the CNO, this détente between him and the Armed Services Committee chair did not carry over to the hearings. While Zumwalt was trying to mend fences with Hébert on 21 November, the Hicks Subcommittee was taking testimony from Constellation crew members in San Diego, beginning with Captain J. D. Ward. Ward began his testimony by providing some background information on himself and then giving the subcommittee an overview of the riot from his perspective. In a pattern that would become familiar, the subcommittee was far less interested in the facts of the riot and much more interested in asking questions of the witness that might shed unfavorable light on Zumwalt’s programs. For example, the subcommittee questioned Ward extensively on the role of the minority affairs representative on the ship, trying to get the captain to admit that this person undermined the ship’s formal chain of command. Ward defended his representative, Chief David Wilson, arguing that he helped ease tensions on the ship. He explained, for example, that the minority affairs representative made him aware that some petty officers on the ship were calling black sailors “boy.” Hicks responded by saying that the term “boy” has “nothing to do with color, race, or anything else.”41 The subcommittee then questioned Ward about the ship’s human relations council. Mr. William Cook, a House Armed Services Committee

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staff member, asked, “Is it your judgment that perhaps individual members of the crew go to members of this council, diluting the authority to some extent their division officer or other responsible people?”42 Ward admitted that this was a possibility but added that the council often facilitated communications with young men feeling alienated from the normal chain of command. A white officer, Ward explained, can talk to the black man “all day and he won’t understand what the hell you are saying.” The HRC, by contrast, contains minority personnel who can “relate to this young man” and effectively communicate with him.43 Later in the testimony, Mr. Pirnie suggested that the HRC should let black sailors know how “lucky” they are to be in the Navy because most of them obtained their current positions “through some flexibility in regard to standards.” Ward recoiled upon hearing these mutterings. Ward: I would dare say the human relations personnel would not tell them that because he would be casting aspersions on the black man. Pirnie: What aspersions? Ward: Implying he is inferior. Pirnie: If he doesn’t pass the test, isn’t he?44

As this exchange demonstrated, Ward generally held up well in testimony even when baited by the committee with provocative questions and comments. One area where he faltered, however, was in handling a question on institutional racism, defined by Mr. Daniel as “an organized plan to discriminate against men in the Navy today because of their color.” Ward rejected this theory, arguing instead that it occurred on his ship because “there were on board a group of young men who you might describe as militant or agitators who worked very hard to make this thing come about.”45 Commander Schaub, the Constellation’s executive officer, further undermined the institutional racism theory as defined by Daniel. When Mr. Daniel asked him if there were men on board with “criminal intent,” Schaub responded that it “would certainly be an assumption.”46 This testimony, combined with Ward’s, lent credence to the subcommittee’s preordained view that the unrest did not result from institutional racism but from a small group of “criminally inclined blacks with no legitimate grievances, against a background of a weak command authority structure infiltrated by” minority affairs representatives and human relations councillors.47 It did not, however, necessarily disprove

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Zumwalt’s view that deep-seated, historically rooted racism existed in the Navy. Throughout the investigation, the subcommittee refused to accept the fact that a basic gulf existed between black sailors and the predominantly white command structure. To bridge that gulf and facilitate better communication between the two groups, the command structure required special tools such as minority affairs representatives and human relations councils. In no testimony did this basic point become more evident than in that of Fireman Apprentice John Baker. Baker employed some of the same tactics with the Hicks Subcommittee that had he used successfully against the Constellation HRC during the protest. As Zumwalt’s special council, Captain James J. McHugh, described it in his analysis of the hearings, “in the person of John Baker,” the subcommittee “ran smack into the communications problem experienced by Constellation’s human relations council.”48 The testimony started with the congressmen asking the sailor some basic questions about his background, and then Baker suddenly interrupted the line of questioning with his own inquiry: FA Baker: What took you gentlemen so long to realize that you had a problem? Chairman Hicks: We are here for you to tell us. FA Baker: I am asking you a question. Mr. Pirnie: I think the procedure will be that you can answer the questions that we ask. We are conducting the hearing. FA Baker: How can I answer a question that you ask when I have questions of my own—right? Chairman Hicks: I don’t know what you mean.49

With a few pointed questions, Baker seized the initiative and began to use the hearings to promote his own agenda. He began by asking the subcommittee why it did not launch an investigation immediately after the riot on Kitty Hawk. Hicks explained that a congressional recess had prevented the HASC from acting earlier on the issue. He then complained at length about the poor living conditions on Constellation and the harassment he often suffered from leading petty officers and junior officers. These leaders, he explained, often wrote up tired and overworked sailors from the engineering department just for being dirty.

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“You just came up from a dirty void and you are trying to hustle to get lunch so you can get back down and they say you can’t because your clothes are dirty,” Baker complained.50 In another case, he explained that since the noise of the flight deck made it difficult for many sailors to sleep on the upper decks of the ship, sailors on lower decks often lent upper-deck shipmates their racks when they were not using them. Baker claimed that petty officers put an end to this practice just to harass junior sailors.51 Chairman Hicks tried to regain control of the situation by questioning Baker about his tour on the ship, but again, Baker managed to manipulate the line of questioning to his own ends. For example, when Hicks interrupted Baker to ask him to explain what the G Division (weapons) did, Baker scolded the congressman for being ignorant of the inner workings of an aircraft carrier. If Hicks truly wanted to understand the plight of today’s sailor, claimed Baker, he would personally “board the ship to see the different sections and how they actually operate.” If he did that, argued Baker, he would never again make a fool out of himself by asking a sailor to define the functions of the “G” Division.52 Baker continued his testimony by criticizing the subcommittee for its failure to detect problems in the fleet early on and taking immediate corrective measures. “Why is it that it actually took you gentleman this long to realize that you had one basic problem in your services?” Mr. Cook responded by saying, “It is interesting what you say, Mr. Baker, but you really haven’t told us much of anything that would help us investigate what the problems really are.” Mr. Cook failed to realize at the time that Baker’s goal was not to help the subcommittee in its investigation but to expose the subcommittee as just one more example of the white power structure acting against the general interests of the black man. Mr. Cook: You aren’t really helping us. You are asking why aren’t we doing more. FA Baker: Okay. Now I got a question. I got one question for you. Okay? I’m black. Okay? You’re white or whatever. Right? So if you are in a situation to where it’s a racial thing, how can I sit here and ask you questions when I don’t know anything about your color or your background? Right? That’s what you are doing.

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Mr. H. Hollister Cantus (a House Armed Services Committee staff member): Are you saying that no white man can solve any black man’s problem?53 FA Baker: I could see it if you had a few black men here.54

Baker ended his testimony by walking out of the hearing room without being excused—a move that dumbfounded the subcommittee. As Captain McHugh described it: “After a strong dose of their own medicine, the subcommittee was left mumbling protests and apologies at the same time until, tired of the discussion, Baker got up and left.”55 The Baker testimony graphically illustrated the very problems that officers such as Ward, Yacabucci, and Townsend experienced in dealing with the black dissidents. These dissidents were often more interested in embarrassing the command structure than in good-faith negotiations, but rather than drawing larger conclusions from their run-in with Baker, the Hicks Subcommittee wrote him off as an “insolent” sailor. In the witness of Commander Cloud, the Hicks Subcommittee finally confronted a black witness who could not easily be ignored. In stark contrast to most of the other black witnesses, Cloud was a highly educated, articulate officer who was the second in command on Kitty Hawk. In short, he was someone the Hicks Subcommittee had to take seriously, whether or not they agreed with his testimony. Cloud used this unique position to describe in great detail the riot from his perspective as a black man and also from the viewpoint of the officer who did more than any other on the ship to ultimately quell the dissent. Cloud’s testimony lent some credibility to the CNO’s contention that the Navy suffered from institutional racism. Cloud reminded the subcommittee that the Navy was the last armed service to eliminate all the barriers of segregation, saying, “Many of the young men today had fathers that served in World War II.” These fathers vividly recall the Navy in which they served—one where “the only thing they could ever aspire to were stewards mates.” While that situation no longer prevailed, claimed Cloud, the perception of the Navy as a racist institution was still very much alive in 1972. “Our biggest problem in terms of recruiting,” he asserted, “is to get through to the father that tells his son ‘The Navy is the most biased, segregated branch of the service there is, so if you have to go into a service, don’t go into the United States Navy.’ ”56 Cloud also explained that even though Truman officially integrated

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the armed forces in 1948, the legacy of segregation persisted for many years afterward. In 1952, the year Cloud joined the Navy, black servicemen still could not use certain base facilities at many installations in the United States, including the aviation training center at Pensacola, Florida. “The black, no matter what you say,” contended Cloud, “feels the pressures of segregation more in his attempts to secure housing and education for his children than he does anyplace else. The Navy, up until recently, has condoned, basically, segregated housing, medical, as well as school facilities.”57 With the appearance of Captain Nicholas Carlucci and subsequent Marine witnesses, the Hicks Subcommittee regained the upper hand and used these men’s testimony to emphasize Navy shortcomings in contrast to the spit-and-polish image of the Marine Corps. In his testimony, Carlucci stressed that Navy junior officers, while excellent in technical matters, are not as skilled as Marine officers in the critical area of leadership. The naval officer “knows the maneuvering board [the chart used on the ship to determine relative motion solutions], he knows the ship language, but he does not know how to lead men.”58 Carlucci complained that many of the petty officers and junior officers on Kitty Hawk did not have the “intellectual honesty to stand on their own two feet” when it came to disciplining the crew. Carlucci, however, was careful not to include Captain Townsend in this criticism. Townsend, he noted, “set the standards and expected people to follow those standards. He was not afraid to stand on his own two feet. He is not afraid to face the issue.”59 This observation about Townsend clearly contradicted his earlier criticisms of naval leadership, but the Hicks Subcommittee failed to follow up on this inconsistency. In addition to junior leadership, Carlucci also criticized the Navy’s basic training program. According to him, the Navy’s drill instructors were not qualified to take a man from the “streets to the fleet” in nine weeks. In the Navy, recruit training is seen as a “poor duty” because it takes petty officers away from their standard career paths: “They are out of their fields, so they can’t get promoted; as opposed to the Marine Corps where a drill instructor, of course, has all the prestige that any man can possibly handle.”60 One key area of confusion that the Carlucci testimony could have potentially clarified was the effect that the employment of the Marines had in triggering the riot. But as McHugh wrote in his analysis, this “opportunity went a-glimmering.” Carlucci claimed that a “spirit of

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mutual cooperation” and “respect” existed between the Marine detachment and the black sailors on the ship—a statement that directly contradicted Cloud’s testimony an hour earlier.61 According to Cloud, the Marines are “not looked upon with any respect at all.” The black sailors view them in the same way they see a “police department in a large metropolitan area.”62 The next Marine to come before the subcommittee was Corporal Anthony Avina. His testimony, in the words of McHugh, was a “ludicrous exercise” designed to show that the Navy was permissive compared with the Marine Corps. The following exchange illustrates how the subcommittee used leading questions to get Avina to make disparaging statements about his sister service: Hicks: You form an impression of how Marines respond to orders—they respond promptly? Avina: Yes sir. Hicks: Now, in the course of your two years on the Kitty Hawk you saw sailors also being ordered. Do they respond to orders as well as Marines do? Avina: No sir. Hicks: Can you describe the difference? Avina: Sir, you can go around the boat and hear first class petty officers telling a seaman, an E-2, telling him what to do, and the guy will say “Get somebody else.” First class is equal to staff sergeant in the Marine Corps, and a staff sergeant is really something: he will tell you what to do, when, and how to do it. Hicks: And you do it? Avina: Yes sir, or be thrown into the brig. Hicks: You don’t find the same degree of discipline in the Navy? Avina: Not even half.63

Marine Sergeant Daniel Pringle fell prey to similar leading questions. Hicks told this black Marine that he could not find a single factor in the Kitty Hawk episode that would lead black sailors to riot and not black Marines “outside of the fact that the Marines are a better disciplined unit. Would you say they are a better disciplined unit?” Pringle responded in the affirmative: “Yes we are sir.”64 The subcommittee completed its California hearings on 12 December and then headed back to Washington for two final days of testimony,

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beginning with a second session with Admiral Zumwalt. Since Hébert had admitted to the CNO in a phone call that his chief concern was not with racial unrest but with the Navy’s integration programs, Zumwalt approached his second session intent upon defending his policies. “My purpose was to put in the record as emphatically as I could my belief that there was racism in the Navy,” he stated, “and that despite the three incidents there was very little breakdown in discipline in the hardfighting Navy.”65 Hicks noted that he had only discovered two or three specific cases of racism in the Navy during the course of his investigation. Zumwalt countered by telling the subcommittee that Roger T. Kelley, the assistant secretary of defense for manpower and reserve affairs, had just returned from a three-week inspection trip of Europe and concluded that the Navy was far behind the other services in the area of race relations. Mr. Kelley, a neutral expert, told the CNO that the Navy was “at the grammar school level as opposed to the Army at the high school level and the Air Force at the college level with regard to this problem.”66 Zumwalt then further bolstered his position by reiterating that the Navy traditionally has had the lowest percentage of blacks of any service and that this situation will take many years to reverse.67 Hicks and Daniel next attacked the CNO for advocating quotas. “Is that the basis of the discrimination?” Hicks asked. “They say they are discriminated against because you don’t have sufficient numbers of black officers, and petty officers?” Zumwalt denied that he favored a quota system and stressed instead that the Navy was simply trying to increase the number of qualified minority members in the service.68 “I do not favor a quota system,” he told them, but he did believe that the Navy should “increase the number of minority personnel who are competitive with the white personnel who are available.”69 The line of questioning became even nastier when the subcommittee began arguing that a breakdown in discipline had occurred in the Navy during Zumwalt’s watch. Hicks quoted a letter written by a master chief petty officer to Hébert asserting that “there is too much laxity of late on the part of officers, chief petty officers, and petty officers in rendering military courtesies, and the most flagrant fault is the lack of courage (guts, if you will) to counsel juniors in military discipline.”70 Hicks then mentioned that another petty officer with whom he had spoken to recently at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center had complained vehemently about the “sloppiness and unbuttoned jackets” that they witness

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daily at that institution. As that petty officer put it, “If I can’t tell a man to get a haircut, I can’t tell him to do anything.” Zumwalt defended himself by reminding the subcommittee that statements like those offered only a limited perspective on the Navy and its current state of affairs. “What is being missed,” the CNO stressed, “is the fact that the Navy is today performing magnificently in combat under the most arduous conditions of my lifetime, and that in that ultimate measure, combat effectiveness, we are demonstrating the ability to maintain order and discipline.”71 In 1972 alone, naval airpower proved instrumental in beating back North Vietnam’s Easter Offensive. Just three days after Zumwalt’s testimony, Navy and Air Force aviators would initiate Linebacker II, the most decisive air campaign of the Vietnam War. Linebacker II ultimately convinced the North Vietnamese to reach a peace settlement acceptable to the United States. It also clearly demonstrated that the racial unrest had not emasculated the Navy. The fleet was not only capable of inflicting maximum force against America’s foes but more effective in doing so than at any other point in the Vietnam War. In the end, however, the Hicks Subcommittee members were more interested in attacking the CNO than recognizing the Navy’s wartime achievements. “Admiral, based on what you said,” Mr. Daniel complained, “you absolutely refuse to face reality. We went aboard the Constellation and it looked like a pigpen. It was absolutely filthy. . . . You are letting small minorities disrupt and destroy this great record in the public mind of those people performing so well.”72 During the final two days of the hearing, one man’s testimony, that of Roger Kelley, had the potential to strongly bolster the position of the CNO. Kelley, the assistant secretary of defense for manpower and reserve affairs, was the Defense Department’s chief expert on personnel issues, and the person who originally proposed the formation of the Defense Race Relations Institute to Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird in 1971. As a consequence, his testimony could have greatly strengthened the Navy’s defense, but as in the case of many other testimonies, the subcommittee’s negative line of questioning clouded and obscured some of the more valid points that Kelley tried to make. In the final analysis, his testimony did more harm than good. Kelley was born in Milwaukee in 1919 and graduated from Holy Cross College in 1941. During World War II, he served as an officer on a coastal minesweeper and commanded an armored personnel carrier in

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the southwest Pacific. After the war, he began work as a personnel officer with the Caterpillar Corporation and ultimately rose to the rank of vice president in 1964. In 1969, the Nixon administration tapped him to become assistant secretary of defense. As a new DOD secretary, his first job was to work on a study of the military draft system headed by Thomas Gates, a former secretary of defense. President Nixon wished to eliminate the draft in favor of an all-volunteer force, but he needed hard data on the issue to sell the AVF concept to Congress. Kelley gathered this information by talking to hundreds of servicemen in the field. As he explained, “I asked members of all four services what was good about our armed forces, where we were deficient, and what was needed to create an all-volunteer force.” The United States drafted the last person into the service in November 1972, and Secretary Kelley bears a great deal of responsibility for ending a system perceived as onerous by so many Americans.73 Given Kelley’s intimate understanding of the armed services and their personnel problems, he should have been the ideal witness for the Navy, and indeed his initial comments supported much of what Zumwalt had told the subcommittee earlier. Kelley had just returned from a threeweek tour of various U.S. military installations in October 1972. While in Europe, Kelley visited the aircraft carrier Forrestal with the specific intention of assessing the social climate on board that ship. When Kelley met with small groups of six to twelve sailors, he discovered that the principle cause of tension was the ship’s poor working and living conditions. “Ships of the 6th Fleet,” he wrote in his trip report, “have long sea deployments, and people work very long hours with living conditions aboard unsatisfactory.” Liberty ports in Europe offered “few constructive things for Navy people to do outside of working hours, and the plight of the single black sailor is worst of all.” The frustrations of this lifestyle “give rise to a variety of incidents whose final cause is often racial but whose first causes are overwork, crowded conditions aboard ship, and lack of support facilities on shore.”74 Kelley’s findings on Forrestal in his trip report and his testimony about that trip, in other words, supported Zumwalt’s contention that racial unrest had nothing to do with permissiveness or equal opportunity but resulted from institutional racism (in this case the segregated nature of some liberty ports) combined with the stresses caused by manpower shortages and long deployments. Kelley, moreover, agreed with the CNO that the Navy lagged behind the others services with regard to

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race relations and that “only extraordinary action on the Navy’s part would reduce or minimize the possibility of racial explosions from time to time.” This extraordinary action, he argued, had to take the form of education in race relations: in other words, the same type of equal opportunity training advocated by Zumwalt. “Racial explosion is inevitable,” he wrote, “unless massive efforts are made to relieve racial tensions through education and strong command leadership.”75 For every word Kelley voiced in support of Zumwalt’s programs, however, he often had two critical words. For example, he believed that the Navy was experiencing a breakdown of authority, especially in its petty officer corps. Speaking of his European trip, he “identified the senior noncommissioned officer as a sort of the forgotten man, who seemed to be outside the ring of influence, and he certainly perceived that he had lost control over his own units of people.”76 Kelley also noted that many junior officers in the Navy seem “untrained and undisciplined.”77 In the case of the Forrestal, he stopped short of predicting a mutiny, but he did stress that “strong leadership needed to be exerted” or else “human breakdowns are bound to occur.”78 Kelley ended his testimony by stating, “If I have failed to convey strongly here the point that race relations is only one of several reflections of breakdown in discipline and authority within the organization, then I have been a poor communicator.”79 Damaging statements like this one shocked the Navy’s senior leadership. Just two weeks prior to his appearance before Congress, Kelley had upheld the CNO’s views in a speech to Arizona members of the United States Navy League. Kelley specified that the causes of the Kitty Hawk and Constellation incidents were the long deployments under essentially wartime conditions; ten- to sixteen-hour workdays seven days a week; and “extremely limited opportunities for rest, privacy, and relaxation.” Yet despite living and working conditions that would “exceed the endurance limits of most Americans, the vast majority of these sailors continue to perform to the highest traditions of naval service.”80 Kelley concluded this address by stating emphatically: The Secretary of the Navy, the Chief of Naval Operations, and other Navy leaders are facing up to the real problems of the all-volunteer force. They have initiated new policies and programs which place increased trust in each individual, in return for which each individual is expected to assume increased responsibility for his own conduct and

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performance. . . . The purpose of these initiatives is not to lower disciplinary standards or to coddle potential troublemakers within the force. Rather, the objective is to improve morale and foster an understanding of mission which insures discipline when discipline is most critical.81

If Kelley had strongly supported the Navy’s position on racial unrest in a speech given just two weeks earlier, why did he pull an abrupt aboutface in the Hicks Subcommittee hearings and instead blame the Navy’s problems on a breakdown of discipline? The answer to this question almost certainly relates to Kelley’s intimate association with the concept of the AVF. Kelley devoted the bulk of his tenure in Defense Department fighting to end the draft and establish an AVF. In the early 1970s, many members of the defense establishment, including F. Edward Hébert, were extremely uncomfortable with the concept of an AVF. These critics believed that under such a system, the military would always fall short in recruiting significant numbers of qualified military personnel. Throughout his term as assistant secretary of defense, Kelley worried that enemies of the AVF system would attempt to “sabotage” it by highlighting its problems. By labeling the Navy’s racial problems as a breakdown in discipline rather than a crisis caused by manpower shortages and long deployments combined with endemic institutional racism, he was in a better position to defend the AVF against critics. Also, by siding with Hébert in his confrontation with Zumwalt, Kelley could appease one of the AVF’s biggest potential foes: a man who believed strongly in the draft but who also understood that radical changes in the system were needed. It was no surprise that as a witness to the hearings, Captain J. J. McHugh of JAG noted that by the end of his testimony Kelley seemed to have a “symbiotic” relationship with the subcommittee.82

The Subcommittee Issues Its Report The final Hicks Subcommittee report came out on 2 January 1973. Much to Zumwalt’s dismay, the subcommittee found that permissiveness “exists in the Navy today” and defined it as a chain of command that tolerates low standards and failure.83 It also stated that it found no evidence of “institutional racism” in the Navy and rebuked the CNO for issuing his admirals “a public admonishment” at the 10 November 1972

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flag officers meeting in Washington, D.C. Finally, it criticized Zumwalt directly for his handling of the Constellation incident: “The subcommittee expresses its strong objection to the procedures utilized by higher authority to negotiate with Constellation’s dissidents and, eventually, to appease them by acquiescing to their demands and by meting out minor non-judicial punishment for what was a major affront to good order and discipline.” In particular, the subcommittee believed that advice offered to Captain Ward by personnel in human relations billets was “uniformly poor.” In its opinion, interference in the affair by higher authorities, including the CNO himself, damaged Ward’s negotiating position and compelled him to take an acquiescent approach toward the agitators.84 With regard to the Constellation and Kitty Hawk affairs, the subcommittee blamed both on a small number of “thugs” with “belowaverage mental capacity” rather than admitting that the Navy had larger problems with institutional racism and equal opportunity. “During the course of this investigation we found no substantial evidence of racial discrimination upon which we could place true responsibility for causation of these serious disturbances. Certainly there were many perceptions of discrimination by young blacks, who, because of their sensitivity to real or fancied oppression, often enlist with a ‘chip on their shoulder.’ ” Navy recruiters, the report argued, failed to properly screen out these potential “agitators, troublemakers, and those who otherwise fail to meet acceptable levels of performance.”85 Once these men entered the Navy, middle managers (petty officers and junior officers) failed to properly lead them. They took a “permissive” attitude toward these personnel and others, thus allowing the cancer to spread. Examples of this lack of leadership are numerous: the poor personal grooming of the crew, the poor standards of cleanliness on at least one of the ships, the failure to counsel with subordinates concerning their ‘quarterly marks’ or personal problems, the failure to take corrective action when corrective action was warranted, and the failure to demand an immediate response to lawful orders.86

Minority affairs representatives exacerbated the situation by becoming a “special interest group” outside of the chain of command that agitators and other malcontents could manipulate to their own devices. On 29 December 1972, just four days prior to the publication of the

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Hicks Subcommittee report, the United States ended the Linebacker II bombing campaign against Hanoi and Haiphong after the North Vietnamese agreed to resume serious peace discussions in Paris. On 15 January, both sides ceased combat operations, and on 27 January a peace agreement was finally signed. If that were not enough news, former Nixon aides G. Gordon Liddy and James W. McCord Jr. were convicted on 30 January of conspiracy, burglary, and wiretapping in the Watergate incident. The flurry of attention surrounding Watergate, the end of the Vietnam War, and the subsequent release of the POWs in February and March diverted most of the attention of the press away from the subject of racial unrest in the Navy. Much of the media, additionally, had been behind Zumwalt from the beginning, so “they were not much titillated by the report.” According to CNO staff analysis of media coverage of the hearings, “The very large majority of coverage has been favorable to the CNO.” The major TV networks, major magazines such as Time and Newsweek, and most major newspapers, including the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Chicago Tribune, the San Diego Union, the St. Louis Post Dispatch, the Christian Science Monitor, the Baltimore Sun, the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the New Orleans Times-Picayune, and the San Francisco Chronicle, “with few exceptions, appear to have lined up solidly in CNO’s favor.”87 An editorial published in the Los Angeles Times on 7 December 1972, the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, epitomized the press support for Zumwalt: Hicks is wrong. The ultimate question is not “permissiveness.” If there has been a breakdown in discipline that warrants action, it is the failure of the whole command structure to carry out Zumwalt’s orders. The ultimate question here is whether there will be a modern Navy, a Navy responsive to the principles of human equality.88

The goal of equal opportunity in the Navy, in short, was too important to the service and the nation at large to be scuttled by a small group of reactionary congressmen. As Zumwalt put it, “I had a nasty month or two, but the giant torpedo that I had feared would blow my policies clear out of the water turned out to be a damp little squib.”89 Throughout the hearings, Zumwalt argued that the Navy did indeed suffer from institutional racism and that only through strong equal

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opportunity programs would the service be able to come to terms with this problem. In the end, however, the Hicks Subcommittee rejected this notion and insisted instead that permissiveness was the real problem: an attitude that tolerates poor behavior and failure. Fortunately for Zumwalt, Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird and much of the media stood firmly behind him and his programs. They made it difficult for Congress to make much headway in dismantling equal opportunity in the Navy. Eventually, the Watergate scandal eclipsed nearly all other issues before Congress and effectively ended Hébert’s quest to end equal opportunity in the Navy. What the hearings did accomplish was to lend an additional sense of urgency to Zumwalt’s equal opportunity program and Human Goals Program. The Navy reacted to the unfavorable attention created by these hearings and the racial unrest in the fleet by putting equal opportunity on the front burner. By 1974, the Navy had provided more than 70 percent of all naval personnel with a racial awareness seminar. By 1977, every major naval command had a strong affirmative action program in place, and the number of blacks in the enlisted ranks finally began to rise. It would take much longer to increase the proportions of blacks in the officer ranks, but at least by 1977, strong programs were in place to correct this disparity over time. In the end, institutional racism was as much a societal problem as a Navy problem; hence, the Navy could only move a little faster than the overall American society insofar as affirmative action was concerned. If American society could not produce enough blacks who could qualify as officers, the Navy could only go so far in its attempts to reverse this trend. Programs also could not end racial unrest in the fleet overnight, and tragically, conflagrations continued to occur during 1973 and beyond. However, lessons learned during the Kitty Hawk and Constellation episodes helped subsequent naval officers to better react to unrest; as a result, none of these 1973 incidents became a full-blown media sensation like Constellation. Nevertheless, they do reveal that racial unrest was not an isolated phenomenon in the Navy in the early 1970s but a fleetwide problem.

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10 Violence on Nearly Every Ship Race Riots after Constellation

The Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa affairs were the opening thunderclaps of a storm that nearly brought the Navy to its knees. During the 1972–1974 period, racial unrest struck hundreds of Navy ship and shore installations, and this unrest continued virtually unabated until 1975. Between July and November 1972, the Naval Investigative Service reported ninety-eight criminal cases with racial overtones. During the two-month period 1 May to 30 June 1974, the number of racial incidents reported solely within the Atlantic Fleet stood at fifty-seven.1 The majority of the episodes were individual assaults involving two people: a victim and a perpetrator. Many were motivated by personal grievances exacerbated by a racial element. Larger conflagrations involving larger groups of service personnel, however, also occurred during the 1972–1974 period, and it is these events that best highlight the general anger of many members of the Navy’s black community toward the sea service. They also serve to underscore Admiral Zumwalt’s contention that the Navy’s racial problems were not limited to Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa but extended to every corner of the fleet. Racial unrest was a widespread, institutional problem that affected every aspect of the service. Whether a sailor served on shore or at sea during this period, it was virtually impossible for him or her not to feel the effects of racial unrest in the Navy during the 1972 period.

Trenton With its thirteenth-century castle, fine Romanesque churches, and nearby beaches, Brindisi in the Puglia region of Italy should have been an ideal liberty port for the Trenton (LPD 14), but November 1972 was

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no ordinary time for the U.S. Navy. The Trenton, an amphibious transport dock ship, was in Brindisi in 1972 to conduct operations with the Italian Navy and another U.S. ship, the Boulder (LST 1190). Both American ships were in a friendly European port, preparing for a normal peacetime exercise. Relations between the black and white crewmen were normal prior to liberty. So what went wrong? Trenton illustrates how racial tensions just under the surface can arise over seemingly minor events—especially during a time of general racial unease in the fleet. The Trenton was part of the Navy’s so-called Gator Navy: the fleet of ships designed to transport Marines to combat areas. The 596-foot-long ship had a crew of 396 enlisted sailors and 24 naval officers. Its cargo consisted of a 900-man Marine detachment and various amphibious vehicles and helicopters. Launched in 1968, the Trenton could offload Marines in landing craft or amphibious vehicles out the stern of the ship from its so-called well deck. Its flight deck was also large enough to accommodate up to six CH-46 helicopters. Commissioned on 6 March 1971, Trenton was one of the Navy’s more modern ships, but it was not comfortable. The ship’s well and hangar decks took up a tremendous amount of space, leaving very little extra room for the crew and Marine quarters. Marines, in particular, experienced the tightest berthing areas on the ship.2 As in the case of Kitty Hawk, a club brawl during a liberty call triggered the unrest. The affair began on 18 November at the NCO club at the San Vito Air Station enlisted club, a U.S. Air Force facility. Approximately thirty to thirty-five sailors and Marines from Trenton and Boulder got into a brawl. A conflict between a table of Filipino American sailors and a racially mixed table of Marines and sailors rapidly escalated into a large melee. Although the fight was not racially motivated, several racial slurs were hurled back and forth during the course of the brawl. An Air Force security police team, augmented by the base firefighting unit, broke up the scuffle and ordered the participants bused back to their respective ships.3 The next day, liberty ended, but not the tensions. One Marine who returned to the ship in a foul mood was Private James E. Raines. Raines had recently been released from thirty days’ confinement in the ship’s brig and had just learned that an administrative processing board had recommended that he be separated from the service with an undesirable discharge. After trying to drown his sorrows with alcohol while on liberty, he returned to the ship ready to lash out against the system. He

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first attacked P. Whalen, a white private, in the third platoon berthing area at 6:00 p.m.4 Whalen later reported to sick bay, where he received six stitches beneath his right eye.5 Thirty minutes later, Raines entered the chow line and was denied service because the mess was closed. After arguing with a messman, Raines proceeded to the MAA office, whereupon he immediately got into another argument. This one involved a dispute between Sergeant Major Winstead, USMC, and two junior Marines—one white and the other black. Winstead had noticed the two Marines eating with their hats on and immediately hauled them into the MAA office to put them on report. Raines sided with the two junior Marines in their argument with the sergeant major but was soon cut short by two other Marine sergeants from the Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 3/2 staff, who directed Raines to leave the office.6 Raines went back to the chow line, where he was once again denied service. This was his last straw. He threw his metal tray at the glass salad bar and began overturning tables, hurling chairs, and throwing trays of food around the mess. He also shoved the chief duty officer twice and hurled a chair at the mess deck master-at-arms. Other unidentified black assailants kicked and struck a chief petty officer who had slipped on the deck. More than thirteen crewmen and Marines attempted to apprehend Raines, but to no avail. Finally, several blacks on the scene managed to calm the distraught Marine while three others went to the captain’s quarters to negotiate Raines’s predicament.7 At the time, Captain Karl R. Thiele, the ship’s commanding officer, was hosting a dinner party in his stateroom for two U.S. Air Force colonels and their wives. Thiele was aware of a problem in the mess deck and had ordered his executive officer to apprehend Raines, take him to sick bay for examination, and then lock him in the brig. The black servicemen informed the captain that if force were used to apprehend Raines, then the other black Marines and sailors on the ship would riot. Thiele refused to give in to threats, dismissed the black servicemen, and returned to his guests.8 Meanwhile, a group of thirty blacks, mostly Marines, formed a human shield around Raines on the flight deck. Gunnery Sergeant E. Hunter, a black Marine from BLT 3/2, acted as an intermediary between this group and several white officers of the ship’s command group, including Commander Thomas Whaley, the executive officer. These negotiations convinced Raines and several of his supporters to meet with

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Sergeant Major Szary in his office to discuss the matter further. Lieutenant Colonel John Adams, the BLT 3/2 commander, joined in on these discussions but soon concluded that the best course of action was to remove Raines from the ship.9 While these discussions ensued, several other events transpired on the ship. Captain Thiele, after finishing his dinner party, met with a group of blacks on the mess deck for a short time, but most of the group became frustrated with the conversation and walked out. At 8:30 p.m., a Marine riot squad assembled on the well deck, and a serious confrontation began to develop between the squad and the thirty enraged blacks in the same area. The blacks picked up pieces of wood and metal from the deck to use as weapons while another black sailor allegedly held a straight-edged razor to the throat of a Marine sergeant on the riot squad.10 The powder keg was just about to ignite when Lieutenant Colonel Adams entered the well deck. He immediately ordered the riot squad to withdraw to the upper vehicle storage area and told them to stack their weapons against the bulkhead under a four-man guard. He then positioned himself between the riot squad and the black Marines and sailors. This move helped calm the situation. More officers soon arrived on the scene, which further eased tensions. Adams told the black group to return to their quarters, which they did, and then ordered the riot squad to disband.11 Some of the blacks, including Raines, gathered in the crew’s lounge adjacent to the mess decks to discuss their situation. Raines told the others that he did not intend to be taken into custody of any kind, and several others voiced support for his position. Raines then burst out of the lounge and swept across the mess decks from starboard to port, overturning tables and chairs as he went. He then attacked Lance Corporal H. Bennett, a white Marine who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Raines and a group of other blacks then entered “officers’ country.” He told two ensigns to remain in their staterooms, but he did not attack either officer. At about the same time, another group of blacks attempted to surround and disarm two Marine sentries on the quarterdeck. Ensign Williamson, the officer on deck, immediately placed himself between the Marines and the blacks and told the two black men to leave the area, which they did.12

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Based on all these developments, Captain Thiele ordered Lieutenant Colonel Adams to form an armed riot squad with live ammunition and directed all department heads to arm themselves with sidearms and live ammunition. The officers of the ship had been issued .45-caliber pistols earlier in the deployment because of the threat of terrorism in the Mediterranean at the time. After issuing the orders, the captain armed himself and headed to officers’ country to see if any black agitators were still there. He found none. He eventually discovered a group of thirty to forty blacks in the mess decks milling around and talking but not fighting. He immediately walked to the center of the group and began fielding questions.13 Concurrent with these negotiations, First Lieutenant Thomas H. Hilliard, USMC, formed a thirty-man riot squad. He ordered the men to wear helmets and flak jackets and armed them with shotguns and M-16 assault rifles. The ship had no tear gas or other nonlethal riot control agents, so firearms were issued instead. His plan was to first order the blacks to clear the mess decks. If they refused, Hilliard would fire a warning shotgun blast into the bulkhead, then another warning into the deck in front of the protesters; finally, if necessary, he would order a shotgun blast fired into the legs of the group. The M-16s were to be used only as last-ditch weapons.14 At 12:40 a.m., Hilliard led the riot squad into the starboard side of the mess decks while armed department heads with weapons concealed took up a position on the port side of the deck. The protest group reacted strongly to this show of force, vaulting a row of tables and charging the riot squad, shouting, “Shoot me, shoot me!” Captain Thiele immediately ordered the riot squad to withdraw to the flight deck.15 At that point, tensions eased a bit, and Captain Thiele, along with Lieutenant Colonel Adams, listened to grievances for the next three hours. The riot squad disbanded at 2:00 a.m., and Private Raines checked himself into sick bay at 4:00 a.m. on 20 November. At 12:15 p.m. on the 20th, a Marine warrant officer escorted Raines and another black Marine off the ship. The Marine Corps ultimately transferred these two men to the United States for disciplinary action. On 23 November, fifteen additional black and white sailors and Marines were removed from the ship for disciplinary action. Trenton along with Boulder left Brindisi during the afternoon of the 20th and proceeded on schedule to Naples, Italy.16

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198 | Violence on Nearly Every Ship table 2 Navy Administrative and Disciplinary Discharge Rates by Mental Category and Race First Year of Service Category

Black

I II III IV

NA 5.4 8.3 7.9

Second Year of Service

All Other

Black

All Other

3.2% 3.7 6.8 8.4

NA 7.2 10.5 6.9

2.8% 3.2 5.6 3.7

Captain Elmer Kiehl, the naval officer assigned to investigate the incident, concluded in his JAGMAN that Private Raines’s actions on the night of the 19th and the 20th were the trigger that sparked racial unrest on the ship. He further concluded that the incidents were “racial in character” because the black protesters believed that the white chain of command was “incapable of recognizing black problems and that Private Raines was the victim of a system governed by whites and therefore required special protection.”17 In this sense, it very much resembled the earlier protests on Kitty Hawk and Hassayampa — black sailors were highly suspicious of the Navy’s disciplinary system and chain of command and did not feel that these “white” institutions treated blacks fairly. Statistically, there is evidence to support these feelings. Data compiled by Admiral Zumwalt in 1972 suggested that blacks received administrative and disciplinary discharges at rates significantly higher than those for whites even when test category status is held constant.18 Kiehl went on to note that other secondary factors also contributed to the unrest. The majority of the blacks involved, he claimed, were “singularly unsuccessful in their military careers to date and to some degree held the service responsible for their failures.” They were also upset because of tight living conditions on the ship, poor leadership, and the “effects of significant social rejection of blacks in ports visited to date in the Mediterranean.” Recent publicity regarding racial unrest on Kitty Hawk and Constellation raised the consciousness of these disgruntled souls and made them believe that the publicity generated from a protest might somehow improve their lot.19 Colonel Alfred M. Gray, USMC, who also investigated the incident, agreed with Kiehl’s basic findings. In a message sent back to the Fleet Marine headquarters in Norfolk, Gray, the commander of the 2nd Ma-

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rine Regiment and later the commandant of the Marine Corps from 1987 to 1991, noted that “although the average black Marine does not complain about his past and frequently joins the corps to rise above it, we also know that incidents of real or imagined prejudice or discrimination bring forth latent resentment.” In other words, Gray believed that it did not take much of a trigger to spark a full-blown race riot in the early 1970s, and clearly, neither the Marine Corps nor the Navy was doing enough at the time to dispel inherent tensions between the races. According to Gray, “We know that the black community tends to bond together for mutual security, and we know that the black Marine is extremely sensitive to any event that affects his race.”20 Gray’s prescription for solving the problem was improved leadership. As he described it, “We had a breakdown in our traditional leadership within a segment of the Battalion Landing Team particularly in the area of interpersonal relations.” He complained that many leaders, especially NCOs and junior officers in so-called middle management positions, did not understand that effective leaders must know everything about their people. There are “some officers and some NCOs,” Gray noted, “who don’t know their job, do not know their people, and do not know themselves.” Gray also criticized Lieutenant Colonel Adams for his ineffective chain of command during the affair, but he was more critical of those within the chain of command than the man at the top.21 To a certain degree, Gray’s concerns about Marine middle management echo the findings of the Hicks Subcommittee about Navy middle managers. Vice Admiral Gerald “Jerry” Miller, the Sixth Fleet commander, noted in a subsequent message that Gray placed too much emphasis on leadership and not enough on the general problem of institutional racism in the services. According to Miller, “Race played a definite part in this incident . . . as protests against leadership developed, race became the focal point.” He went on to conclude that the “problem is bigger than the Trenton incident and involves complex sociological aspects that warrant further study.”22 Few in the Navy or even in Congress, however, wished to define unrest as a by-product of institutional racism because if they admitted that a larger problem existed, it would have to be solved through a massive investment in equal opportunity programs and affirmative action— programs that might draw resources away from other priorities. For skeptics, affirmative action also threatened to water down the Navy’s

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management team with underqualified leaders and destroy the meritocracy that they had worked so hard to develop and from which they themselves had benefited. Riots in the fleet, though, revealed a Navy management structure completely unequipped to handle the social change brought about by the end of the draft and a difficult recruiting environment. An almost complete lack of blacks in middle management positions undermined the confidence of sailors in the integrity of the overall command structure, which in turn damaged combat effectiveness. Only by filling more of these positions with qualified minorities would the situation improve in the long run and encourage junior enlisted men to place more confidence in their leaders regardless of the race of those leaders. For the service to become a place where blacks happily worked under whites, it also had to become a place where whites happily worked under blacks. Equal opportunity, in short, cut both ways.

Naval Station Midway Island Located 3,000 miles west of San Francisco and 1,150 miles northwest of Honolulu, Midway Island was one of the most remote U.S. bases of the Vietnam War era. During World War II, the Navy fought its most decisive sea engagement of the war near the atoll.23 For much of the cold war, the base served as a refueling and repair facility for the Pacific Fleet. It also functioned as a staging ground for intelligence activities. EC-121 long-range, airborne early-warning planes flew sorties from Midway and scanned the Pacific skies with their powerful radars for Soviet bombers. Midway also served as a listening post for the highly classified Sound Surveillance System (SOSUS) program—a network of underwater sensors that monitored large stretches of open ocean for enemy submarine activity.24 Midway’s two principle islands have a landmass of only 6.2 square kilometers, yet in 1972 the island hosted 900 military personnel and 900 dependents. It was a busy, crowded place—almost akin to an oil rig or a floating base. For married couples, the post, with its beaches and fine weather, was a pleasant place to raise a family, but for young singles it could be a hardship tour. Devoid of female companionship during long fifteen-month tours, single enlisted men became easily bored

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and depressed. Alcoholism was common, and racial polarization of the type seen on Kitty Hawk, the norm.25 The base’s minority affairs council was less than a month old when the confrontations commenced on 24 and 25 November 1972 and had yet to meet. However, the base had several programs in place for minority sailors. With command approval, black sailors had formed an organization called the Afro-American Society, and this club sponsored training programs designed to help black sailors make the rate. It also functioned as a social club for its thirty-four members, which included all nine black petty officers at the base. Naval Station (NAVSTA) Midway also aired a periodic television program called Perspective, on which both black and white sailors appeared with the base commander to discuss issues and problems.26 While these measures helped ease the alienation and isolation of the black community to some degree, many black sailors still felt marginal in the predominantly white community and could easily be intimidated by certain groups, especially the Seabees. In the Navy, the job of the Seabees is to construct airfields and bases in a combat environment; their motto says it all: “We build, we fight.” Although white Seabees often took pride in the organization as a “hard-hat” community of fighting construction workers who helped win the war in the Pacific during World War II, many blacks perceived these battalions very differently. During World War II, more than 7,000 African Americans served in the Seabees. Only a small number of these men, however, worked in regular construction battalions. The rest toiled in “special” segregated battalions as stevedores or in base companies as unskilled laborers. Much of the racial unrest suffered by the Navy in World War II occurred in the segregated Seabee battalions (see chapter 1 for additional details), and to many blacks the Seabees came to symbolize all that was wrong in the Navy during that time.27 Given the checkered history of the Seabees in the black community, it did not take much to spark a racial incident, especially as news of Kitty Hawk and Constellation began filtering into the island. The confrontations of 24 and 25 November were spontaneous, but the underlying tensions on the island were long-term and endemic. Problems began on the night of 22 November, when four black sailors confronted a group of white Seabees at the Echo Barracks about some name-calling incidents that had occurred on the 17th and 18th.

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The Seabees were sitting around outside the building drinking beer in an area they defined as the “Seabee Porch.” A discussion ensued, and then the black sailors departed from the area.28 The next evening, a dispute arose in the enlisted men’s club between white personnel from the Tawasa (ATF 92), a fleet ocean tugboat, and a group of black personnel from the naval station over the music being played on the club’s jukebox. Words were exchanged, and then Tommie Jones and Robert E. Gourdine, two black sailors, attacked Jim G. Poorman, a white, in a bathroom. As Poorman exited the head, another white, Signalman Second Class Elden G. Kinnaird, entered the space and was attacked by Gourdine and another black sailor, Eugene C. Tanner. The fighting soon spilled out into a hallway but was quickly broken up by the club manager. No one was injured except Kinnaird, who received a cut on the forehead.29 Following the assaults in the enlisted club, the commander of NAVSTA Midway, Captain Robert F. Roemer, USN, closed the club, ordered the men from Tawasa back to the boat, and ordered the blacks to their barracks. Shortly thereafter, the station officer of the day, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Henry L. Clark, received a report that a group of black sailors were heading toward the Tawasa. Clark, along with the chief duty officer, Lieutenant Commander Claude E. Edwards, and a riot squad, headed to the waterfront. The black sailors, who soon arrived at the scene in a pickup truck, left the area with two black chief petty officers and later met for two hours with Captain Roemer to discuss their grievances over the type of music being played in the club and about the name-calling by white Seabees.30 The following day, Seabees living in Echo Barracks heard false rumors that the blacks were going to seize their barracks by force. During the day, the Seabees made preparations to defend the barracks, including converting mop handles to clubs. The spark that triggered a near riot between white Seabees and black base personnel was Airman Apprentice Tommie Jones, one of the black sailors involved in the enlisted club fight the day before. At 4:00 p.m. on 25 November, Jones went to the enlisted club, where he consumed seven mixed drinks and two beers. He left the club at 9:00, retrieved a lug wrench from the Bravo Barracks gear locker, and headed toward Echo Barracks with another black sailor whom he met along the way, Airman Apprentice Leonard Bryant Bay.31 Jones and Bay got to an intersection near the Echo Barracks, and

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found 50 to 70 whites from Echo Barracks confronting them. One white then a drove a truck up to the Seabees, and its driver, Utilitiesman Second Class Paul C. Densmore, began distributing ax handles to the whites. The whites, including Densmore in the truck, then chased Jones and Bryant Bay toward a group of black servicemen who had just finished dinner at the base’s steak house. As Jones ran past these sailors, he called out, “Run! These guys are crazy.” Eventually, the two groups squared off on either side of Nimitz Avenue. The white ranks eventually swelled to 100, and the black side, to 30. The two groups exchanged epithets and hurled rocks at one another while base security personnel, a fire truck, and several security trucks positioned themselves between the two factions.32 Glenn A. Johnson, a white Seabee chief petty officer, then requested the use of a megaphone from the command duty officer, Commander Van E. Spradley, and promised not to use inflammatory language. Johnson urged the whites to give the command a chance to solve the problem. As some of the Seabees began drifting back to the Echo barracks, Johnson suddenly yelled out, “And if the command doesn’t do it, we’ll kill us some niggers.” The whites surged forward through spaces between the vehicles and around the flanks of the security line, and the heavily outnumbered blacks retreated to the exchange arcade—a small strip mall of stores that catered to the needs of the military community on base. Fighting then erupted between the two groups. The pumper truck moved in and began hosing down the area with a fire retardant called “Purple K” (a potassium bicarbonate solution). The fighting stopped, and the two sides separated. The command spent the remainder of the evening cleaning up the area and returning the men to their respective barracks. Six people received minor injuries that night and were treated and immediately released from the dispensary.33 After the confrontation, Commander Spradley met with the Seabee group in the base theater. Although they still believed in the false rumor that black sailors intended to take over Echo Barracks, they agreed to return to their barracks quietly after Spradley assured them that he would investigate the matter and ordered the group to disband. Meanwhile, the station’s executive officer, Commander Earl Mann, met with thirty to forty black sailors outside the bowling alley. These men refused to return to their barracks out of fear of reprisal attacks. Mann agreed to inspect the barracks personally to reassure the black sailors. At Echo Barracks, he discovered a white sailor trying to “arm and arouse” other

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white sailors. After putting the man on report, the XO posted a chief petty officer on each floor of every barracks—a move that convinced the blacks sailors to return to their barracks and go to bed. Captain Roemer ultimately convened a captain’s mast for four black and four white sailors involved in this affair. All received forfeitures of pay ranging from $50.00 to $400 ($242 to $1,937 in 2006 dollars). Other punishments included extra duty, reduction in rate, and brig time.34 Captain Robert Yount concluded in his JAGMAN that “uncontrolled rumors and the use of these rumors by deeply prejudiced individuals were the major causes of the incident.” As news and rumors about Kitty Hawk, Hassayampa, and Constellation began circulating throughout the Navy, it did not take much to spark violence elsewhere in the Navy universe: a single vicious story combined with alcohol and boredom could lead to an eruption. Furthermore, even the most isolated posts were not exempt from unrest. In fact, isolation, whether on ships or shore, seemed to fuel these episodes. Finally, while Midway Island did not have a functional minority affairs council at the time of the riot, it did have a popular, command-sanctioned Afro-American society in place. Similar to the Constellation minority affairs council, however, this group did not have any real power in the chain of command, and as a consequence it could neither settle grievances nor mitigate feelings of despair among young black sailors. What was unique about Midway Island was the nature of the white backlash. The behavior of white sailors on Hassayampa revealed the potential of white backlash, but Marines intervened before it occurred. At Midway, the reaction team failed to prevent the backlash, and what resulted revealed behavior just as ugly as much of the black-on-white violence. Midway Island demonstrates that racial violence does not have to originate from black sailors, as the Hicks Subcommittee report implied with its descriptions of “marauding bands of black sailors.” Furthermore, given that whites outnumbered blacks in the Navy by large margins, racial violence perpetrated by whites could potentially have been devastating to the fleet. Once the riot occurred, Midway Island’s security force appeared unprepared and poorly lead. As Yount wrote, “The lack of an effective, forceful, and coordinated response by the security force and crash crew on the evening of 25 November 1972 contributed to the development of the incident.”35 The security force also lacked strong leadership. Rather

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than assuming direct control of the negotiation process, Commander Spradley allowed a member of one of the warring parties (a white chief petty officer and a racist) to speak to the two groups and fan the flames of hatred further, causing a complete breakdown of control. While the actions of Commander Mann later on that night helped restore some confidence in the command for black sailors, Spradley’s handling of the actual riot underscored Colonel Gray’s observations about the failure of “middle management” in these types of situations to know their job, know their people, and know themselves.

Ticonderoga On 14 December 1972, many Americans sat glued to their televisions watching the Apollo 17 moon mission, which marked the conclusion of the National Aviation and Space Administration (NASA) moon exploration program. Apollo 17 was to land on the lunar surface, collect geological samples, and then return to earth on 19 December. The aircraft carrier Ticonderoga (CVS 14) was the mission’s primary recovery ship. As Americans watched the astronauts driving on the moon’s surface in the lunar roving vehicle, a racial disorder unfolded on Ticonderoga. Although this incident ultimately proved less significant than the one on Kitty Hawk, had it not ended quickly, it might have attracted tremendous media attention given the high-profile nature of the carrier’s role in the Apollo splashdown.36 Launched in 1944, the Ticonderoga was a smaller, older carrier than Kitty Hawk and Constellation, which were launched in 1961 and 1960, respectively. Ticonderoga fought in the Pacific during the final years of World War II, receiving two hits by Japanese kamikaze planes. During Vietnam, the carrier made four wartime deployments from 1964 to 1969 and was overhauled and converted to an escort carrier in October 1969. At the time of the riot in 1972, it carried 1,408 sailors and officers (less than a third as many sailors as the Kitty Hawk’s complement). Of this crew, 85 percent (1,195) were Caucasian, 10 percent (145) were black, and 5 percent (68) were defined as “other” in the JAGMAN investigation of the incident.37 The sailors involved in the affair were mainly from the V-1 Division —the division in charge of the carrier’s flight deck. A carrier flight deck

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is a hot, dirty, dangerous place to work, but many sailors thrive on the excitement and camaraderie found in this special part of the ship. For blacks, however, the division was not a happy place. In May 1972, several blacks held a sit-down strike to protest the perceived lack of opportunities for African Americans in the division. On a carrier, new deck sailors start out as blue shirts. Blue shirts push planes, chock planes, scrub the decks, and do all the tough menial jobs on the flight deck. If a sailor excels, he can move on to other functional areas such as ordnance handlers (red shirts), catapult crew (green shirts), or fuel people (purple shirts). Black sailors resented seeing whites getting promoted to other shirt colors in a few months while some of them had served in blue shirts for eight months or even longer. As Airman Earl C. Owens explained, “You tie the airplanes down and you put chocks under their wheels. We got tired of that and we wanted a better job.”38 Chief William Nichols, the man who ran the V-1 Division, defended his promotion policies, arguing that only disciplined, hardworking individuals with a high degree of situational awareness get promoted for the “simple fact that if you have lack of discipline on the flight deck somebody is going to get seriously injured or killed.” He noted that most of the group who participated in the disturbance on 14 December did not posses the “initiative or real sense of responsibility” to merit advancement. He also complained that some of these men were shirkers who hid behind aircraft instead of working and showed “no enthusiasm” for the job.39 Whatever the case might have been, blacks in the deck division were discouraged with their plight. They were also forlorn about being away from their families during the Christmas season and upset in general about being stuck on a predominantly white ship. For many of the eighteen- to twenty-year-old black sailors, the Ticonderoga was their first experience living with white people, and it proved to be a culture shock. Their main outlet from the stress of this new environment was the time spent listening to music with other blacks. Even Ensign Glenn W. Kaiser, a black officer on the ship, occasionally felt this pressure: I’ve got a lot of good friends on the ship who are officers. We socialize together and everything but on long cruises I’m glad that Marshall and Brown [two other black officers] are out here because we can sit together and turn the radio up a little louder than normal and talk about being home.40

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Unfortunately, what started as a similar peaceful gathering on the 13th became violent as the night progressed. The episode began shortly after taps on 13 December. A group of eight black sailors gathered in a TV lounge, turned on the stereo there full blast, and began dancing and singing. Some of the men, including Airmen Apprentice Derick V. King, also drank alcohol.41 At 1:00 a.m., some members of the group entered the V-1 Division berthing spaces and disturbed sleeping sailors by talking loudly and shaking the rack of Airman Michael Allen Phillipe.42 At 1:30, Petty Officer First Class B. M. Williams entered the TV area and said, “Quiet down Brothers or you will be kicked out.” When the group failed to settle down after five minutes, Williams returned and ordered them to leave the V-1 spaces.43 Shortly thereafter, an unidentified black sailor struck Yeoman Third Class Robert C. Farmer in the back of the head as he was walking in the hangar deck. Farmer immediately notified the duty master-at-arms of the attack, who in turn dispatched four MAAs to the scene. Petty Officer First Class Ronald B. Hodges of the MAA force approached a group of black sailors to ask what happened, and words were exchanged. The three other MAAs joined Hodges, and a fistfight soon broke out. Hodges and another MAA, Timothy K. Richardson, ended up being kicked, and a third MAA, Elenito Balingit, was struck in the face. Only Richardson reported to sick bay for treatment. The other men returned to the MAA shack for duty.44 At 2:10, Commander Ray F. Crater, the ship’s executive officer, was sleeping in his stateroom when an unidentified caller informed him of a disturbance on the hangar deck. The commander hurriedly put on some clothes and proceeded to deck. He found no one there but then noticed a closed door to the sponson (a projection from the side of the ship) at Station 6. The sponson was completely dark, but through the shadows, Crater could just barely make out the image of a man as he walked into the area. The man came forward to address him, but then another one said, “I’ll do the talking.” Smelling of alcohol and holding a tie-down chain in his right hand, Airmen Apprentice Derick V. King approached Crater. King turned his chin upward, and his head to one side, and in a very threatening tone of voice told the commander that he was “mad, mad, mad” and “fed up with the motherfucking master at arms.” According to Crater, King “flexed the arm and the tie-down chain downward to the straight position each time he said an invective.”45 King raved for about half an hour, threatening to tear the ship apart.

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Eventually, Norman K. Green, the ship’s captain, arrived on the scene. The situation remained tense for more than an hour, with King mainly venting at the captain and the XO. Captain Green prevailed upon King to relax, and eventually he dropped the chain on the deck and the group began dispersing.46 While the conversation between Green, Crater, and King continued, a black group reassembled on the hangar deck near the sponson. King then joined the group of twenty-five to thirty men and urged them to follow him to the MAA shack to “find out what happened.” Once at the shack, King demanded that Petty Officer Hodges come down to the hangar deck to discuss matters. The MAA office quickly phoned the captain, who in turn, ran up to the deck from his stateroom to confront the group. Green ordered the men to follow him to the wardroom annex, and they heeded his order. “For the next two or three hours,” as Green described it, “I maintained a dialogue with the group.” The black sailors, for the most part, respected Green. “Captain Green has done more for the brothers than the last two captains,” stated Airman Apprentice O. L. Clark, a black sailor in the V-1 Division.47 The group complained that sailors got assigned work in the division by “sucking ass” and not on the basis of merit. They also accused Master-at-Arms Ronald Hodges of being a racist and picking on the blacks.48 While the JAGMAN investigation ultimately determined that both claims had legitimacy, Green concluded from the meeting that King was the main problem, and not conditions in the V-1 Division. “King was the most vociferous by a wide margin,” explained Green; “if he had not been there, I could have had the meeting concluded to everyone’s satisfaction in just a few minutes.”49 The one-officer investigation, conducted by Captain Lewis F. Bogan, agreed with Green’s conclusion, citing King as the primary instigator of the affair. It also concluded that the disorders on Ticonderoga were “isolated and spur-of-the-moment, not an out-cropping of pre-existing resentment and not giving rise to deep-seated interpersonal animosities among crew members.”50 It based this conclusion on the fact that five out of the eight blacks involved in the affair had been assigned to the ship for less than three months, and therefore had not had enough time on ship to develop deep-seated resentments. The report failed to mention that it did not take much time on a ship for a person to recognize institutional racism. The black members of the V-1 had enough consciousness to see that the promotion system in their

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division appeared to discriminate against black personnel—something even the investigation mentioned. According to the report, twenty-eight jobs were viewed as preferred in the V-1 Division, and only seven of these positions were assigned to blacks. Furthermore, there were no black plane directors (yellow shirts).51 The investigation recommended that a training program be established in the deck division that would provide more opportunity for black sailors to qualify for advancement.52 Finally, the report stated that King and other blacks believed that Hodges was prejudiced and that the group’s fight with this particular master-at-arms was motivated by this knowledge.53 The black sailors, in short, possessed some legitimate grievances. However, by resorting to violence and losing self-control, they undermined the legitimacy of their cause, just like Terry Avinger and his compatriots did on Kitty Hawk. The most effective protest was Constellation, which was nonviolent and well covered by the media. If the black sailors on Ticonderoga had waited only five more days to protest, the event might have received extensive media attention from reporters covering the Apollo splashdown from the ship.54 Instead, fueled by alcohol and desperation, King and company lashed out violently on the night of the 14th, allowing investigators and others in the chain of command to blame the episode on him and not the racial climate of the ship. Far from helping the Zumwalt revolution, events such as those on Ticonderoga helped reinforce the opinion espoused by the Hicks Subcommittee that the unrest was caused by undisciplined “thugs” and not institutional racism.55

Intrepid One of the dominant architectural features of midtown Manhattan’s west side is not a skyscraper or a bridge but the museum ship Intrepid (CVS 11), located at Pier 86 near 12th Avenue and 46th Street. Visitors often marvel over the size of this Essex-class carrier, or over the fact that the ship, known as the “Ghost Ship” to the Japanese, suffered numerous attacks during World War II, including five kamikaze strikes. They also learn that after the war, the Navy modernized the carrier’s deck to accommodate jet aircraft, and that the vessel went on to function as a primary recovery vessel for NASA, picking up both Mercury and Gemini capsules. Those interested in Vietnam will be surprised to

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find out that this ship, launched in 1943, served three line tours during that war. What no visitor will discover from any of the ship’s numerous displays, however, is that Intrepid experienced one of the Navy’s worst outbreaks of racial violence during the 1970s—a bitter irony given that the ship now rests just five miles from 125th Street in Harlem, the cultural capital of black America. The unrest started while the ship was anchored in one of Europe’s loveliest harbors—Cannes, France. Since World War I, the French had tended to treat black servicemen with a degree of respect rarely accorded to them in American ports. Cannes, the home of the famous film festival since 1946 and a magnet for American expatriates since the 1920s, offered a near-perfect port of call for the sailors of the “Fighting I” in January 1973. But for sailors who had to remain on the ship, it must have been miserable. Imagine watching your shipmates leaving the ship to enjoy the pleasures of the French Riviera while you had to stay on the ship to perform housekeeping duties and chores. While the current deployment had lasted only a little over two months, it had been a hard one for the crew due to the ship’s very short home port call following its previous deployment. Just four weeks after arriving in Quonset Point, Rhode Island, in October 1972, the Navy ordered the ship back to sea—a sudden schedule change that created great stress for the sailors and their families.56 The situation was particularly onerous for black sailors in the V-1 Division. Like their fellow black sailors on Ticonderoga, they experienced not only the stress of separation from home but also a hostile, racist attitude from their mainly white petty officers. Airman Apprentice H. W. Conner claimed that petty officers regularly used the racially derogatory term “boy” when addressing black sailors.57 Airman Leonard Cooks, a plane director (yellow shirt) from the V-1 Division, later testified to the JAG investigator that blacks suffered discrimination in job assignments in his division. When he was a blue shirt, he remembered training two white sailors who were later advanced to positions ahead of him.58 Fireman Apprentice Jerry D. Rivers similarly complained that whites were often promoted over blacks for highly coveted plane director assignments. Rivers also cited examples of more subtle discrimination, such as less chow time allotted for blacks and more report chits for minor violations signed against blacks than whites.59 Commander William S. Hodgkins, the officer appointed by the Navy judge advocate general to investigate the incident, found no evidence of

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promotion discrimination in the V-1 Division, but he did note that there was a strong “perception” among blacks of discrimination in job assignments. He also found strong evidence of verbal prejudice against black sailors in the Hangar Division (V-3). “These took the form,” he wrote, “of open disgust at the number of blacks in the division by a senior rated petty officer, and the open use of the derogatory term nigger by him when addressing black sailors.”60 The first spark that ignited the racial tension on the ship was an altercation that occurred in the V-1 Division on 16 January as the carrier sailed into the port of Cannes. Petty Officer First Class Joseph A. Jacobs (white) and Airman Frederick Farness (black) got into an argument on the flight deck over a disciplinary report for three black sailors that Jacobs had recently submitted up the chain of command. An officer on the flight deck soon directed the men to take their dispute elsewhere, and the two men retired to the plane directors’ lounge. At one point, Jacobs mentioned the word “colored” in the discussion. Farness immediately corrected him: “It’s black, not colored.” Jacobs responded, “Color makes no difference.” He then invited the sailor to settle the problem on the flight deck man-to-man. When Farness refused, Jacobs shut the door and began hitting the sailor. At a mast hearing later that day, Captain Raymond H. Barker, the ship’s commanding officer, punished Jacobs for his actions by reducing his pay grade to E-5, restricting him to the ship for twenty days, and fining him $100.61 As this altercation was occurring, a separate and unrelated incident took place on the flight deck between Airman Leonard Cooks, a black plane director (yellow shirt), and Airman Antonio Gonzales, a Hispanic plane handler (blue shirt). In attempting to explain helicopter spotting on a flight deck, Cook began emphasizing his points by tapping his finger on Gonzales’s chest. Gonzales protested, saying, “Look, Boy, don’t point your finger at me,” whereupon Cook slugged him in the face, breaking his nose in the process. He then struck Gonzales a few more times for extra measure.62 If that were not enough, several additional fistfights erupted throughout the V-1 Division during the course of the day. Blacks started most of these fights, but in some cases whites provoked them by uttering racial epithets. No one reported these incidents until the next day. Taken together, the use of racial epithets by petty officers and sailors on Intrepid reveals a Navy enlisted force completely out of touch with social norms in the United States.63 It was precisely this type of behavior that

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Zumwalt’s racial awareness training programs, which became mandatory for petty officers by 1972, sought to address. No report was made of any of these incidents until the 17th, when twelve white nonrated sailors filed assault charges against seven black men. Commander Lee E. Levenson, the executive officer, screened the cases and dismissed the charges against two of the sailors. Captain Barker dismissed charges against another but brought five black sailors to mast the next day. At the hearing, Barker sentenced Airman C. J. Cooke to eighteen days in the brig and issued brig time ranging from five to twenty-five days for three other sailors: Airman Apprentice J. D. Rivers, Airman Apprentice H. W. Conners, and Airman Leonard Cooks. Charges against a fifth sailor were dropped, and no white sailors were brought to mast except for Aviation Boatswain’s Mate First Class Joseph Jacobs, who had received a mast sentence on the 16th.64 Knowing that the ship’s black crew would be outraged by these sentences, whites began assembling in the Air Department Office to voice concerns for their safety, stating that they feared reprisals from blacks due to their participation as witnesses at the recent masts. Captain Barker listened to the white sailors and assured them that they had nothing to fear.65 Captain Barker had commanded the ship only since 22 December 1972, and so he was still getting to know the personalities and politics of the crew when unrest broke out. Like other carrier captains profiled, Barker came from the Navy’s aviation community. During the Korean War, he served with VA-115 on Philippine Sea (CVA 47) and flew numerous attack missions against North Korean targets in the AD4 Skyraider — a single-seat, propeller-driven, fighter-bomber. After the war, he performed a variety of shore and operational assignments, including squadron, group, and ship command. Before taking over Intrepid, he was commanding officer of White Plains (AFS 4)—a combat stores ship.66 Shortly after the Intrepid steamed out of Cannes en route to Lisbon, Portugal, on 20 January, Captain Barker held another rap session with all V-1 sailors for three hours on the forecastle. During the meeting, the captain again tried to ease tensions by listening for three hours to problems expressed by both blacks and whites. Commander Lee E. Levenson, the ship’s executive officer, attended the meeting and described it as “a highly satisfactory communication session . . . with the exception that a few black sailors started to agitate after the commanding officer

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had departed.”67 These sailors were still upset over the brig sentence of the four black sailors involved in the earlier altercations. They wondered, why had no white sailors, except for Jacobs, been punished for provoking these incidents with racial slurs? To these men, this disciplinary system on Intrepid appeared dysfunctional and racist because it failed to properly address the issue of provocation—an issue that civilian courts were beginning to take into consideration in the 1970s.68 The use of racial slurs on the ship, moreover, was not limited to the incidents just described. The investigating officer, Commander William S. Hodges, found that there was evidence of “overt, verbal prejudice against blacks” on the ship “well prior to the period under investigation.” One senior-rated petty officer, for instance, openly used the term “nigger” when addressing black sailors. Hodges, however, found “no evidence of institutional racism” on Intrepid even though “the active and pervasive operation of anti-black attitudes” clearly constitutes institutional racism according to both Zumwalt’s and Carmichael’s definitions.69 Commander Levenson agreed immediately to meet the distraught black sailors. A patrol plane pilot and the former head of Antisubmarine Squadron 39, Levenson noted that the meeting proceeded in very civil matter, but that it failed to solve underlying tensions. “There was no breakdown in respect for khaki,” he explained, but emotions ran high. According to the commander, “Certain black leaders, and the possibility of physical confrontation,” had whipped many previously calm sailors into a state of frenzy. Like Hodges, Levenson refused to see the situation in racist terms. Instead, he blamed the problem on a few black militants rather than pervasive institutional racism on Intrepid.70 While this discussion occurred, three sailors armed with spanner and dogging wrenches entered the brig area intent upon freeing the four black prisoners under custody on assault charges. Lieutenant Commander Francis J. Gill, the ship’s Catholic chaplain, went down to the brig to talk to the men. After some discussion, the sailors (two of whom were black and one who was of Hispanic descent) left the area.71 That evening, the captain addressed a group of 100 black sailors in the mess deck. He carefully explained the basis for the punishments he issued to the 4 black sailors then serving in the brig, answered questions, and discussed the formal appeal process for mast decisions. According to Commander Basil H. Struthers, the ship’s Protestant chaplain, “the entire session was orderly and continued respect for authority

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was evident throughout.”72 But as soon as the captain departed, the situation again degenerated. “What have we accomplished here? Nothing,” a black leader remarked. “I’m tired of talk, it’s time to act.”73 Later that evening, the department heads met in the executive officer’s quarters and decided to embark on a controversial course. Rather than waiting for a riot to occur on the ship, these men opted to preempt one by identifying ringleaders and removing them from the ship. Levenson asked the department heads to compile a list of the “most militant, anti-productive, anti-establishment” black members of his department, which Levenson in turn presented to the captain with the recommendation that they be removed from the ship as soon as possible to prevent future “violence and sabotage.” This move in the end proved to be the triggering event for what followed next. As Levenson later admitted, “Some black sailors felt they had been tricked or let down by the command’s decision to summarily remove leaders and agitators.”74 William Hodgkins wrote in his investigation that this move served as a “further catalyst and focal point of the argument around which some blacks coalesced and which led directly to the physical violence of 21 January.” Hodgkins, however, defended the actions of the command group, arguing that the removal of the eight ringleaders was necessary for the best interests of the ship. “Although providing a catalyst for some violence,” he wrote, “[their removal] resulted in a leadership vacuum and in all probability, prevented the occurrence of possibly greater violence at some later time.”75 What Hodgkins failed to comprehend is that there were white agitators on the ship as well as black ones. A more evenhanded approach would have been to remove anyone, black or white, who threatened the good order and discipline of the ship. Such an approach not only might have prevented more violence from occurring but would have adhered to Zumwalt’s principle of one Navy, black and white. Just before a scheduled general quarters at 2:00 p.m. on 21 January, division personnel escorted each of the eight suspected black dissidents to the flight deck and then informed them that they were being transferred off the ship. A plane director immediately directed them to board a carrier onboard delivery (COD) flight to Naples with six Marine escorts. The captain shipped the men’s personal effects to Naples the following day.76 At dusk that same day, black sailors began assembling in the mess decks. They then attacked six whites in a thirty-minute melee. Machin-

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ist Mate Third Class Robert Valden was standing in line for chow when the black group entered the area. A black sailor knocked the tray out of Valden’s hand, and others pulled him into a large group, where an unidentified assailant hit him with a dogging wrench.77 The group also attacked five other white sailors in the mess hall, and seven additional assaults occurred throughout the ship. Boilerman Technician Fireman Wes Eaton claimed that six to seven blacks in flight deck jackets followed him for a while down a passageway and then pushed him down to the deck and “stomped” on him.78 Seaman Edward Legault, another white, testified to Hodgkins that a black sailor tapped him on the back as he passed a group of black sailors in another passageway. “I thought I had bumped into one,” he explained, “[so] I turned around to say I was sorry and I was poked in the nose. The next thing I remember is that I was in the weapons office, then in sickbay.”79 Fireman Apprentice Richard Kallapure noticed a group of black sailors as he was coming out of a head. “I knew what was going to happen,” he later told the investigation, “so I stayed in the head. Then two blacks came into the head. I was struck in the head. I was unable to identify them.”80 As these examples reveal, many assaults were against individual sailors in isolated spaces of the ship. To quell the violence, Captain Barker ordered Marines and roving patrols consisting of an officer, a chief petty officer, and a member of the master-at-arms force, to patrol the ship. Commander William Powell, the ship’s supply officer, participated in these patrols and observed that they had a marked calming effect upon the crew. Both black and white sailors, he noted, began behaving themselves once they saw these patrols throughout the ship. “There go the heavies,” they would remark. “Cool it, here comes the khaki.”81 The next day, Captain Barker announced on the 1MC that no congregations of personnel—either white or black—would be permitted, and that roving patrols would continue. The captain ultimately discontinued the roving patrols on 23 January.82 To those unfamiliar with Navy traditions and regulations, Captain’s Barker’s decision to identify and remove eight suspected agitators without even a mast hearing may seem draconian, but these actions were well within his rights as a Navy commanding officer. From a legal standpoint, the captain of a Navy warship has an “unquestioned right to effect summary removal” of any person or persons whom he feels are a threat to the safety and well-being of the ship.83 What is less clear is whether or not this action was prudent. Com-

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mander William Hodgkins, as mentioned, supported Barker’s actions in his investigation, arguing that it prevented a much more violent riot from developing. Father Gill’s statements offer further insights into the situation. As he described it, “There was an obvious sense of anger by some but, in my opinion, a few stimulated the response of the majority. Some even cornered and threatened their brothers towards group solidarity.”84 In Father Gill’s view, the violent acts were driven by hard-core black leadership. Therefore, in his opinion, Barker’s transfer of the eight suspected leaders off the ship was the right move to make. Gill went on to suggest that “for all there was clear frustration” and a need to “do something” to express their anger. The tense racial climate in the Navy at the time allowed a small group of agitators to easily manipulate others to commit violent acts. To have fully defused this impulse would have required a man like Ben Cloud to intercede directly with the black population on the ship and appeal to them in very personal terms to stop the violence. Up to this point in the wave of violence and unrest sweeping across the Navy, however, few officers had emerged like Cloud who were capable of using force of personality to turn the tide in the Navy’s favor. Effective black intermediaries also might have convinced the command group to crack down on white racism on the ship—something that few white leaders perceived, but which was patently clear to most black sailors on Intrepid. In the end, it was the pervasive white racism on the ship that allowed black militants to prevail. Two hundred years of institutional racism could not easily be erased with a handful of rap sessions.

Inchon Like the Trenton affair, the Inchon riot took place on a ship belonging to the amphibious Navy. A helicopter carrier designed to carry approximately thirty helicopters and 1,500 Marines, the Inchon (LPH 12) was commissioned in 1970 and represented one of the newest additions to the “Marine Corps Navy.”85 Like the Trenton, however, the ship sacrificed berthing space for hangar space — especially in the areas that housed the Marines. Fights among enlisted personnel on the ship, therefore, were not unusual, but what happened on the night of the 26 January 1973 was more than just a scuffle; it was a full-scale riot.86

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According to the Navy’s later investigation, the affair erupted spontaneously, and the immediate causes of the crisis were “unclear.” This conclusion mirrors many of the official investigations of racial unrest from Kitty Hawk forward and may be another sign of the institutional racism in the Navy that Zumwalt complained about so loudly—a failure, either intentional or accidental, by investigators to see underlying racism and deeper meaning in these events. The Inchon riot occurred while the ship was steaming from the Gulf of Tonkin to Okinawa—just one day before the Vietnam peace agreement was announced.87 That night, off-duty Marines and crew members assembled at the aft quarter of the hangar deck for a movie, which on this night happened to be a western. Most of the men sat on folding metal chairs, but some sat on a metal container at the rear of the audience or on the deck. During the course of the film, a group of blacks moved to the port and starboard aft hangar deck stairwells (ladders in Navy parlance) and left the deck. As often happened in the era of cellophane movies, the film had to be stopped several times because of technical difficulties. After one of these stoppages at 9:45 p.m., a group of about twenty black Marines and sailors formed on the hangar deck in the aft quarter, just to the rear of the movie audience.88 These men rendered the black power salute, stood together as a group for a few moments, and then began moving closer to the movie audience — mostly white Marines from Battalion Landing Team 1/9. They gave the black power salute a second time, and then one unidentified member of the group shouted, “Well, what are we waiting for?” Another man immediately lunged forward, yelled, “You white bastards,” and proceeded to kick a white Marine lying down on the deck.89 A white sailor, Boatswain’s Mate Second Class Merlo Gene Weems, was lying on a container trying to watch the movie when the scuffle began. One of the blacks struck a Marine sitting near Weems in the head, knocking the startled man off his chair. At that point, Weems tried to leave the area, but he fell flat on deck while trying to get off the container. An unidentified black Marine or sailor kicked him as he struggled to get up from the floor. A Marine sentry then helped Weems get back on his feet, and Weems headed toward the port ladder. As he reached it, he heard a scream and saw his friend, Fireman Apprentice Dennis Senters, falling down the steep ladder. Senters, who claimed he was “thrown down the ladder,” then pulled out a folding knife and

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tried to go back to the hangar deck, but Weems managed to restrain him.90 Seaman Apprentice David Wayne Rauth, a white sailor from Washington County, Maryland, recalled seeing five or six blacks come out from liberty boats—which are stored on the hangar deck—and start throwing chairs. Two of the rioters, Thomas L. White and John H. Beauford, attacked a Marine with chairs as the white man attempted to escape down a ladder. “All during this time,” Rauth explained, “I was sitting on top of some big containers and nobody bothered me.”91 In all, approximately nine to twelve black personnel participated in the initial assault on the moviegoers. The group attacked the audience with fists, feet, chairs, and helicopter tie-down chains. Most of the viewers were too surprised and shocked to fight back, but a few tried to defend themselves by using chairs as makeshift shields. The rioters moved very quickly through the hangar deck and then, “as if upon signal,” exited down trunks and hatches. Additional assaults occurred outside the ship’s post office and on the after mess deck.92 The commanding officer of Inchon, Captain John K. Thomas, first received notice of the riot from the watch petty officer stationed one level above the hangar deck. Thomas, an S-2F Tracker pilot and the former commander of Antisubmarine Squadron 38 (VS-38), then began receiving calls confirming the event from other officers and petty officers on the ship. Thomas, who was on the bridge at the time, decided to get on the 1MC and sound general quarters (GQ) at 10:05.93 Electrician’s Mate First Class Clyde C. Howard was in the first class petty officers’ mess when he heard the GQ alarm sound. As he left the mess area to report to his GQ station, he saw a black sailor striking a white Marine. Howard, who thought the two sailors were just horsing around, told the men to “knock that shit off.” The black sailor, Seaman Apprentice Steven Betts, then said, “Fuck you.” “What do you mean ‘fuck me’?” Howard replied. “I told you to knock that shit off.” “I mean fuck you,” Betts reiterated. He then shoved Howard backward and took off toward the after mess decks. Howard pursued Betts but did not catch him.94 This GQ order ultimately compelled sailors and Marines to go to their battle stations and effectively ended the riot. Ten men reported to sick bay with injuries ranging from minor bruises to lacerations. Marine Lance Corporal Wilton Dixon received a contusion, and Lance Corpo-

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ral Michael Walker, a broken nose. There was no serious damage to government property.95 The officer who investigated the Inchon for the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Captain Richard A. Paddock, USN, praised Captain Thomas for sounding GQ. “The action of the commanding officer of Inchon . . . in sounding General Quarters,” he later wrote in his report, “was effective in breaking up the group of assailants who may have had plans for other assaults.” Paddock also concluded that Thomas was “in no way responsible for the disturbance” and should receive no punishment for the affair.96 Paddock offered few opinions on the actual cause of the riot. He stated that the pending debarkation of the Marines at Okinawa might have helped spark the affair. The Navy planned to utilize Inchon to sweep mines off of North Vietnam as part of Operation End Sweep—an effort the United States agreed to as part of the Paris Peace Accords. As a consequence, the Navy offloaded the Marine landing team from the ship on 29 January 1973. Blacks, according to Paddock, may have believed that the night of the 26th was their last chance to settle old grievances before the Marines left the ship, but Paddock never uncovered the specific nature of these grievances.97 For a statement to be admissible evidence in a court-martial, an investigating officer must first read a person his or her rights; once those rights were read, many black sailors involved in the riots chose to remain silent. Hence, officers investigating riots often had to rely heavily on witnesses who had not committed any crimes (sailors the Navy did not intend to bring charges against) to formulate their reports. In the case of Inchon, these witness statements yielded few clues regarding the causes of the riot. The ship had an effective human relations council, a minority affairs adviser, and an enlisted minority affairs adviser. “Open lines of communications exist, are publicized, and used,” wrote Captain Paddock. But they obviously were not used enough or the riot would never have occurred. Inchon, if anything, reveals how impenetrable the black community was for the command group. The minority affairs structure on the ship, as impressive as it was on paper, failed miserably on the night of 26 January 1973. In the end, the Marine Corps punished six men involved in the affair. It sentenced four to jail time ranging from forty-five days to three months. It granted a fifth Marine an undesirable discharge and a sixth, a bad conduct discharge.98

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Kaohsiung Fleet Landing, Taiwan The Kaohsiung Fleet Landing is in the southwest corner of the island of Taiwan. During World War II, the Japanese transformed Kaohsiung into a modern international port. For much of the cold war, the base was an important repair facility for the U.S. Navy. During the 1970s, the naval shipyard at Kaohsiung had one of the largest lifting capacities in the world. Facilities there included dry docks and a complete range of shops capable of repairing almost any maintenance problem encountered by the fleet.99 At the time of the riot on 20 August 1973, three Navy ships were moored together in Kaohsiung harbor: the destroyer tender Prairie (AD 15), the destroyer Agerholm (DD 826), and the destroyer escort Stein (DE 1065). Prairie had been in port eighty-five days, but Agerholm had been there only nine, and Stein, just five. Typhoon Joan swirled in the Pacific, and there was a chance that liberty would be terminated for all Navy ships on 19 August (during typhoons, large ships put to sea to avoid being battered against docks and other boats in the tight confines of a port). By 5:30 p.m., however, it appeared that the danger of a direct hit on the island was minimal. The commanding officers of the three Navy ships ordered signs posted in popular bars telling sailors that the storm danger had receded, and that liberty would end at 6:00 a.m. on the 20th as scheduled.100 Relieved that their leave was not being cut short, some sailors flocked to the Dragon Club to enjoy a five-hour-long happy hour consisting of drinks priced at fifteen or twenty cents (U.S.). Others reserved rooms for the night at local hotels and arranged rendezvous with girlfriends or prostitutes there later that evening. Three hours later, at 10:15, the commander of Agerholm informed the shore patrol headquarters that he was securing liberty for all his sailors at 1:00 a.m. because the storm threat had increased. The Prairie chief duty officer soon issued a similar order. Upon receiving these instructions, shore patrolmen scrambled to round up the crews of both ships. They notified bar managers and hotel desk clerks of the change and then began going room to room at various hotels in search of the crews. The Empress Hotel was the closest to the fleet landing and the last to be swept by the shore patrol. A known trouble spot, the hotel was the source of 60 percent of sailor-related problems in the city. The night be-

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fore, a fight had occurred between white and black sailors from Agerholm in Room 601. Two whites deliberately picked fights with black sailors attending a party for first class petty officers—a situation that embittered many members of the ship’s black community. One of the blacks attacked, Seaman Apprentice Frank Lee, was sitting in a chair when Gunners Mate (Guns) First Class James W. Camp told him, “I can fuck you up before you can even get out of the chair.” Camp then pulled Lee’s hat over his eyes and jammed his fingers in the sailor’s eyes. Another white, Boilerman Technician First Class Marvin M. Hamilton, soon joined in on the attack, hitting Lee in the side of his face. Before Lee could defend himself, a third white petty officer pulled him from the chair and escorted him out of the room while Hamilton verbally taunted him, saying, “Come on Nigger, I’ll cut your guts out.”101 Hamilton and Camp attacked other blacks in the room that night, but the later JAG investigation of the incident never determined the exact number of white or African American sailors involved in the fracas.102 Investigators, however, did conclude that on the following evening— the night of the riot—fifteen of the twenty to twenty-five men staying at the Empress were black sailors from Agerholm. Just after midnight, an SP detail began entering rooms at the hotel. Most of these SPs were not members of the permanent patrol but sailors from other occupational fields assigned temporarily to the force. In an unprofessional manner, they barged into rooms without knocking and rudely ordered sailors to return to ship. The SPs surprised several black sailors in bed with girlfriends and in one case caught a man in the act of sexual intercourse with a woman.103 Angry and somewhat inebriated, the black contingent from Agerholm left the Empress and went to the fleet landing area. Two Taiwanese guards manned the gate to the installation. When they demanded identification cards from the group, one black sailor told them, “We don’t have to show you Goddam Chinese any identification; to hell with you and the whites too.” One of the guards then blew his whistle, and six Chinese soldiers mustered in the area with bayonets fixed to their rifles. Seeing the quick show of force by the Taiwanese troops, the blacks sailors calmed down, showed their IDs, and passed through the gate.104 It was now 1:15 a.m., and the black group proceeded toward the liberty boats singing a bawdy song that consisted of just one line: “Open the door, motherfucker, open the door.” When they arrived at the Quaywall landing, a white quartermaster third class, Carl K. Small, told the

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sailors to “hurry up” because the liberty boat was arriving. Hearing the word “motherfucker” and thinking that the insult was directed toward him, Small approached Seaman Apprentice Devon N. Goodwin (black) and shouted, “Did you call me a mother fucker?” Goodwin denied it, and a shoving match ensued that quickly escalated into a fistfight. Other sailors soon started throwing punches, and a black-versus-white “freefor-all” erupted.105 Two beach guards and five whites from Prairie were on the landing when the brawl began. One of the Prairie sailors, Chief Electronics Technician Franklin J. Colson, tried to stop the fight. “Knock the shit off,” he told both groups. “Fuck off,” responded one of the black sailors. The chief then demanded the sailor’s ID card, but the sailor refused, telling the chief to “take it from me mother fucker.” Several other black sailors then pushed Colson down on top of another white sailor, third class petty officer Gary L. Walker, and started kicking both men.106 Meanwhile, several black sailors threw David W. Cheetham, a white seaman from Stein, into the water. Chief Carl Hill, another white from Stein, immediately jumped in the water to rescue Cheetham but was unable to hold his head above the surface. Seaman Apprentice Robert L. Carter (white) then went into the water to help and succeeded in tying a rope around Cheetham. Various other sailors pulled the unconscious seaman to the dock, and a black sailor from Agerholm, David L. Brooks, successfully administered artificial respiration to the stricken man.107 A paddy wagon full of SP reinforcements arrived at 1:30, but like a scene from the Keystone Cops, the SPs could not exit the vehicle because the rear door was locked. When they finally did get the door open, two of the SPs were not even in uniform. Nevertheless, this additional show of force caused the fighting to diminish, and some of the blacks began entering the liberty boat. One of the white crewmen from the boat, Store Keeper Third Class Raymond C. Medrano, however, was not convinced that the fighting had ended. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the boat and began hosing down black sailors on the pier with carbon dioxide This move sparked some more scuffling, but the SPs quickly broke it up, and by 1:45, blacks again started getting on the liberty boat.108 Upon discovering that Cheetham had been loaded into the same boat, one black said, “Get this guy out of here,” whereupon several others began knocking the injured sailor around and then shoved him overboard. Seaman Apprentice Carter immediately dove in after Chee-

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tham, and with the help of Chief Hill and another sailor, Raymond R. Bowman (black), managed to get the man back on dry land for the second time that evening. A beach guard later transported Cheetham, who eventually regained consciousness, to Prairie for medical observation. Three other Prairie sailors also received medical treatment for injuries sustained in fighting that evening. All returned to duty the next day.109 By 2:00, tensions were running so high that blacks refused to allow any whites on the liberty boat, which was a fifty-six-foot mechanized landing craft (LCM 6) capable of carrying eighty men plus up to five crew members. This boat had only two crewmen: a black coxswain and a white boathook. The boathook stood behind a canopy and could not be seen by the passengers, so no one bothered him during the shuttle ride to Prairie.110 Meanwhile, on Prairie, the chief duty officer, Chief Warrant Officer 3 John E. Miller, awaited the arrival of the LCM. The shore patrol had informed Miller that a fight had occurred on the pier and requested that Miller obtain the names of the individuals on the landing craft. Anticipating additional problems, Miller ordered three masters-at-arms to the quarterdeck to assist the officer-on-deck (OD), Chief Machinist’s Mate James L. Stuart, in gathering the names. On a destroyer, liberty boats typically arrive at a float just below the quarterdeck, which had been established at the stern of the ship. Sailors returning from leave are expected to climb a gangplank, known as the “accommodation ladder,” or brow, to the quarterdeck. If it is daytime and the colors are flying, a sailor immediately faces aft and salutes the flag. He then renders a second salute to the OD and requests permission to come on board. If it is night and no flags are flying, the colors salute is omitted, but not the courtesies to the OD. The OD controls all ship movements from the bridge while a ship is sailing and supervises the quarterdeck while the ship is in port.111 In the early morning hours of 20 August, no respect was accorded to either Chief Warrant Officer Miller, the duty officer, or Chief Stuart, the OD. Black sailors climbed the accommodation ladder laughing and joking. They also became “belligerent and uncooperative” when Stuart told them to identify themselves by name to the master-at-arms standing next to him. A black MAA ordered the first three black sailors to step to the right. All refused, and one sailor said, “Who’s that black mother fucker giving us this bunch of shit?” Miller, who was also on the quarterdeck, then ordered them to clear the deck. “Fuck this shit,”

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one sailor proclaimed, “we’re going to cross over to our ship.” Apparently, this sailor wanted to cross the quarterdeck and walk over a brow to Agerholm, which was moored on the port side of Prairie.112 Miller told the MAA force to hold this sailor and others while he attempted to contact the OOD of Agerholm, Chief Machinist’s Mate Robert D. Laird, and request that the chief obtain the names of all sailors crossing to Agerholm. Laird attempted to stop the blacks, but none responded to his order, and Laird, who had been with the ship for only three weeks, was unable to identify any of the sailors by sight.113 Two other sailors from Agerholm, however, did identify some of the sailors and later, in conjunction with Miller and other witnesses, managed to compile a list of sailors involved. Ultimately, the JAGMAN recommended that charges be brought up against five sailors involved in the affair, including the white petty officers (James Camp and Marvin Hamilton) involved in the Hotel Empress assault the night before, and that disciplinary letters be issued to ten additional black sailors for failing to show proper identification when ordered to do so by the Prairie and Agerholm OODs.114 Captain John E. Mitchell, the man in charge of the JAG investigation, concluded that a variety of events contributed to the Kaohsiung Fleet Landing riot: the five-hour happy hour at the Sea Dragon Club, the “extremely confused picture of liberty termination,” and the sloppy manner in which black sailors were notified of the sudden ship departures. Mitchell severely rebuked the Kaohsiung Fleet Landing Shore Patrol and its leadership for mishandling the Empress Hotel sweep and the subsequent pier riot. “The apparent sense of urgency in arousing men from their hotel rooms without sufficient time to dress, or even, in one case, to arise from sexual intercourse, becomes incomprehensible in light of the fact that shore patrol knew the curfew did not affect USN sailors until 0300,” wrote Mitchell in his report.115 In the end, the three Navy ships did not begin leaving Kaohsiung until 6:00 a.m. on the 20th; as a consequence, Mitchell believed that the shore patrol could have taken a more relaxed and mature approach to rounding up the crews than the abusive manner in which it was conducted. His report recommended that Lieutenant Junior Grade Joseph E. Grange, the senior shore patrol officer on duty that night, receive a punitive letter of reprimand, and that Grange’s superior officer, Captain Russell Vollersten, the commanding officer of Prairie, receive a nonpunitive letter of reprimand.

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But Mitchell also had some stern words for the black sailors who rioted. He chastised them in his report for singing a vulgar song and acting discourteously to the Chinese guards. “Personal frustration and/or anger,” he wrote, “does not give us the luxury of disregarding elementary concepts of human courtesy in general, or respect of a host country, and its unique ways, in particular.”116 He was even more critical of the behavior of Devon N. Goodwin and Carl K. Small at the pier. These sailors “showed a remarkable lack of restraint in addition to a hypersensitive reaction to stress, even seeing insult where none was intended.”117 Finally, he lambasted the entire group for failing to show proper ID when returning to the Prairie and Agerholm. White sailors were not exempt from criticism. In addition to the two white first class petty officers mentioned earlier, Mitchell recommended that charges be filed against Store Keeper Third Class Raymond Medrano for his misuse of the fire extinguisher at the pier. “Of the whole spectrum of human behavior in the altercation in Kaohsiung, few, if any, appear more juvenile or pointless than SK3 Medrano’s foolish use of the carbon dioxide extinguisher, especially at a time when the fight had quieted.”118 Mitchell also raised an issue inherent in many of the official investigations of racial unrest during this period: the difficulties investigators had in piecing together the facts of these fracases. “Radical differences between statements referring to the scope and nature of the participation of most of the crewmen involved . . . make them difficult, if not impossible to resolve.”119 The problem was compounded when participants opted to remain silent to prevent their statements from being used against them in courts-martial. The Navy might have granted investigating officers more authority to offer immunity from prosecution to witnesses/participants in exchange for testimony—a precedent would be aircraft accident investigations, where the Navy has decided that getting the facts behind accidents takes precedence over prosecuting pilots or others at fault. The six racial incidents reviewed in this chapter demonstrated that racial unrest extended well beyond the hulls of the Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa. Nearly every ship and shore installation in the Navy experienced some degree of racial tension during the 1972–1973 period, and many of these ships and shore facilities suffered riots nearly as intense and violent as the one that occurred on Kitty Hawk. To the

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dismay of many of his critics in Congress, Zumwalt was correct: racism was endemic in the entire structure of the Navy from its smallest tugboats to its mightiest carriers. For a variety of reasons, however, official investigations of these episodes generally did not conclude that institutional racism was a factor. In some cases, the investigators did not understand the definition of institutional racism. In others, black sailors, fearing prosecution, refused to talk about the grievances behind their actions. Nevertheless, there were indications of institutional racism in many of the episodes: • Discrimination in promotion and job assignments for black sailors (Ticonderoga and Intrepid). • A climate of racism as demonstrated by the regular use of racial slurs by white sailors or violence perpetrated by whites against blacks (NAVSTA Midway Island, Intrepid, and Kaohsiung Fleet Landing). • A racially biased discipline system or one perceived to be biased by black sailors (Trenton and Intrepid). • Ineffective minority affairs councils with no real power in the chain of command (NAVSTA Midway Island and Inchon). • Lack of blacks in the Navy’s chain of command, especially in middle management positions (all incidents). That white investigators rarely picked up on the clues reveals a lack of training and knowledge of the issue. In short, these investigators, who were almost always white, often served to reinforce institutional racism in the Navy by blaming the unrest on a handful of “agitators” rather than probing more deeply into the sources of anger—a phenomenon that allowed opponents of equal opportunity, like the Hicks Subcommittee, to ignore the issue and instead focus on discipline. For their part, black sailors exacerbated the situation by quickly turning to violence rather than taking a more nuanced approach to the problem. The cause of equality tended to be furthered more by peaceful acts of protest such as Constellation than by violence. But anger and frustration abounded among black sailors in the early 1970s, and few African Americans existed in middle management to assist these sailors in channeling these emotions in more sophisticated and potentially fruitful ways.

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11 The Struggle to Eliminate Bias in the Fleet

Racial unrest in the fleet spurred policy changes in the Navy immediately after the unrest on Kitty Hawk, Hassayampa, and Constellation. These changes ranged from improving the quality of Navy life for all sailors to specific policies aimed at eliminating racial bias in the fleet. Recruiting more minorities and advancing more minorities to management positions was also a goal of these early programs, but such work required more time than “bias-eliminating programs” such as establishing racial awareness programs and minority affairs councils. As a consequence, these latter programs tended to dominate the Navy’s initial approach to racial unrest. The last chapter analyzed some of the shortcomings of minority affairs councils as a solution to unrest. This chapter will examine racial awareness training, paying particular attention to a program called UPWARD (Understanding Personal Worth and Racial Dignity). Race relations training began in the Navy in the spring of 1971, when the Bureau of Personnel established a pilot program to study the issue. A year and a half later, on 14 November 1972, Admiral Zumwalt initiated Phase I of the Navy’s Human Goals Program. This program had several major objectives. It sought to “increase and intensify the Navy’s recruiting effort to attain and retain the highest quality officer and enlisted volunteers from the minority community, thus seeking to achieve increased representation of minority personnel in the various categories and grades of service.” It also sought to eliminate “all bias” and ensure equal opportunity for selection, classification to occupational fields, technical/professional schooling, progression in duty assignments, performance evaluations, advancement, promotion, retention/reenlistment, and so on. Finally, the program strove to “elevate the dignity of each individual and eliminate all vestiges of racial discrimi-

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nation” through a series of racial awareness training and educational programs.1 To facilitate training and education throughout the fleet, the Navy established human resource management centers at major Navy bases. These centers supported training activities in four major areas: management, drugs and alcohol, intercultural relations, and racial awareness. Racial awareness training fell into several categories. A twenty-hour seminar for flag officers was designed not only to increase racial awareness within this group but also to spur them on to develop individual affirmative actions plans within their respective commands: all 350 flag officers were to attend this seminar by 30 June 1973. The “executive” seminar was designed for senior enlisted and midlevel officers: 81,700 (70 percent) of this group were to attend this twenty-four-hour course by 30 September 1973. The third type of seminar was the twenty-hour UPWARD course—a class designed for junior officers and for enlisted sailors in middle and lower management positions; 70 percent of this group (129,000 out of 185,200) was to complete UPWARD by 30 September 1973. Additionally, commanders could invite civilian employees to attend UPWARD.2 UPWARD was primarily a racial awareness course. Service members met in a seminar room format to discuss emotionally difficult topics related to race with the help of a biracial, “salt-and-pepper,” team of Navy facilitators. The purpose of UPWARD was to “increase the recognition of individual worth and to promote understanding and communication between whites and nonwhites.”3 The seminar also provided an avenue for participants to forward to the command recommendations on issues that the group found to be important. Recognizing that racial awareness training was an “emotional issue” that required “skilled and experienced trainers,” the Navy established 702 full-time racial awareness education specialist billets to run the training programs at major commands. At smaller installations, it relied on part-time racial awareness facilitators (RAFs) to teach UPWARD courses as a collateral duty.4 RAFs typically received three weeks of training at the Navy Race Relations School (NRRS) in Millington, Tennessee.5 NRRS taught instructors basic ground rules for conducting a seminar. They learned, for example, that all students were to speak for themselves, and that no “oracles” were allowed. NRRS rules forbade instructors from making blanket or universal statements, or verbally attacking students. NRRS taught RAFs to “listen actively to other people

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with an emotional feeling to express, and help these people discover for themselves what is troubling them.”6 To achieve such a climate of selfawareness and discovery, instructors had to always “act in an open, supportive manner” and never show “hostility with impatient and hostile participants.”7 At the same time, the seminars attempted to induce an element of frustration among students, but the frustration was supposed to come from within a person and not from the instructor. The five phases of UPWARD were self-, other-, and issue-induced frustration, test, and action. Students came to a seminar assuming that they would be discussing the “black problem” and ended up spending most of the class exploring their own personal thoughts on race. “By limiting the discussions in the first eight hours,” the instructor manual stated, “the students have been brought into an emotional situation (frustration, anxiety) from which they will now be permitted to deal with issues of racism.”8 In some instances, UPWARD helped sailors learn about each other and eradicated myths about blacks and other minorities. On the aircraft carrier Forrestal (CVA 59), the ship’s special assistant for minority affairs, Chief Ralph Mizel, claimed these seminars reduced tensions on the ship: “People now talk instead of wanting to punch at each other.”9 For a few, the course proved to be a catharsis. One black chief petty officer on the ship wrote the following on a course evaluation form: I have a good bank account. I’m basically middle class. I live a lot better than my dad did. . . . I seem to get into a little groove. I don’t do anything. I just sit back and do not get involved. But I’m saying to myself right now, “Hey baby, you better get out there and do something.” I dig this. This is where it’s at.10

Part of the reason UPWARD had such a strong impact on some was its group encounter tactics. UPWARD’s philosophy and methodology bore some resemblance to the Erhard Seminar Training (EST) program—a popular “group awareness” seminar that swept the country during the 1970s. EST, founded by a car salesman turned guru named Werner Erhard, attempted to deconstruct a student’s personality, rid his mind of negativity, and teach him to accept life’s course through group encounter sessions similar to UPWARD’s. Erhard developed his courses from a potpourri of philosophies and ideas, including Hinduism, Zen Buddhism, existential

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philosophy, and the writings of Alan Watts, Sigmund Freud, Abraham Maslow, L. Ron Hubbard, Dale Carnegie, and Norman Vincent Peale. Like UPWARD, EST seminars sought to generate stress among its participants to help them develop their human potential, but in contrast to UPWARD, stress was often directly produced by the instructor rather than self-induced. Borrowing from Zen Buddhism, Erhard believed that abusive discipline could help a student achieve self-awareness. EST facilitators, for example, told students never to leave the training room, even to go to the bathroom, and employed emotionally abusive language and shock tactics to open up students. While NRRS explicitly forbade the use of many methods made popular by EST and other encounter groups, it could not police every UPWARD classroom, and it was not uncommon for overly enthusiastic, part-time instructors to freelance a bit. Lieutenant Junior Grade Frank Alvarez was one such freelancer — a man more prone toward sociological experimentation than teaching his classes by the book. His story is instructive because it illustrates some of the major pitfalls of such training. It also proved pivotal in convincing Zumwalt’s successor, Admiral James Holloway III, to ultimately scale back racial awareness training and focus the brunt of the Navy’s equal opportunity program instead on affirmative action.11

The Frank Alvarez Story Of mixed black and Puerto Rican ancestry, Alvarez was born in 1940 and grew up in New York City, living in a series of twelve foster and orphan homes. He joined the Navy in 1961 and served as a hospitalman for thirteen years, eventually rising to the rank of first class petty officer. During his time in the service, Alvarez got married, earned an associate’s degree from Pensacola Junior College, and began raising three children. In June 1974, he successfully applied for a commission as an ensign in the Medical Service Corps, U.S. Naval Reserve. Following a brief course of instruction at the Naval School of Hospital Administration, Alvarez began working in various hospital administration positions, including patient affairs, drug screening, training, and toxicology. Alvarez also became the equal opportunity assistant for the Great Lakes Naval Regional Medical Center (NRMC) in Illinois, a duty that soon eclipsed his primary work. According to his supervisor, Lieutenant Thomas E. Gran,

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“LTJG Alvarez’ performance deteriorated due to his excessive preoccupation with race related collateral duties and outside activities.”12 As an equal opportunity assistant at the NRMC, Alvarez, according to a Navy JAGMAN investigation of him and his teaching, “often went out of his way to seek out possible race discrimination incidents by soliciting people in passageways, in the mess hall and in their offices.”13 Some members of the command did not object to this approach. Captain John D. Pruitt, a former executive officer for the NRMC, thought Alvarez was “highly intelligent,” and that his “work was above average” both as an EO assistant and as a hospital administrator. Other officers viewed Alvarez more skeptically. Captain Paul H. Lionberger, the former Ninth Naval District chaplain, believed that Alvarez was “positively motivated” but “lacking sound judgment” and “volcanic” in his personality. Commander Robert R. Abbe, a personal friend of Alvarez’s who attended his seminar, described him as a “zealot.”14 Alvarez’s goal as an officer was to serve for seven additional years and then retire. During his tour at NRMC, he applied twice for a regular Navy commission and was rejected, but the Naval Reserve did promote him to lieutenant junior grade on 1 May 1974.15 A month later, he taught his first UPWARD seminar. Frank Alvarez did not attend instructor training at NRRS, but at a satellite program held at the Naval Amphibious School at Coronado, California. Alvarez volunteered for the four-week-long RAF course and received outstanding marks. At the end of the class, his instructor praised Alvarez as a model student. “Mr. Alvarez has demonstrated superb knowledge and skills to do UPWARD seminars,” the instructor wrote. “He is highly motivated. He is very supportive to his partner and the group’s needs. He is highly capable in areas of confrontation, intervention, and dealing with issues. He has a keen sense of insight and can see the direction where his group is heading. He is sensitive to bringing out all views and very concerned as to the direction the group is going. He has demonstrated his ability to keep the group moving without overlooking the feelings of the group.”16 In June 1974, Alvarez taught his first UPWARD seminar with Hospitalman First Class (HM1) Bernard T. Miller, a white petty officer with whom he attended the RAF course. Sixty-seven percent of the minority students who eventually took his first class and subsequent classes gave him high performance marks, but his popularity was not nearly as strong with majority students. Fifty-five percent of Alvarez’s overall

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students (whites and minorities) gave him negative evaluations after attending his seminar, and 43 percent of these students claimed that they left the class feeling more “polarized/prejudiced” than before they entered it.17 Alvarez’s Navy supervisor, Lieutenant Thomas E. Gran, described him as a “black racist” and the “worst possible choice for a race relations coordinator.” Alvarez, in short, was Dr. Jekyll to some and Mr. Hyde to others, and a person’s opinion of the man often boiled down to skin color. The hospital’s executive officer, Commander James J. Devane, MD, managed UPWARD in a style traditional for Navy officers. He gave the facilitators guidance and assistance in some areas but allowed his instructors to solve most of their own problems and make their own arrangements. After meeting with Alvarez and Miller, he felt confident that these men had the necessary skills and training to carry out their mission.18 Alvarez, however, interpreted Devane’s “hands-off” approach as lack of interest and decided to confront Rear Admiral Warren H. O’Neil, the commandant of the Ninth Naval District and the Great Lakes Naval Base, about the situation at a regularly scheduled meeting of the admiral’s committee on equal treatment and opportunity on 19 June. According to Rear Admiral O’Neil, Alvarez peppered him at the meeting with a “series of probing questions and inquiries that could only be described as inappropriate and bordering on the insubordinate.”19 After the meeting, Alvarez requested an office appointment with the admiral. Instead of apologizing to O’Neil for his abrasive behavior, he began interrogating the admiral on the issue of equal opportunity. Realizing he was dealing with a “very intense, dedicated young man who placed his self-defined cause beyond the bounds of good judgment,” O’Neil opted to counsel him like a “father rather than an admiral.”20 By 31 July, word started filtering up the chain of command about Alvarez’s unorthodox behavior during his UPWARD classes, which generally consisted of mixed military-civilian groups of sixteen people. Some participants found the class to be effective, but others found Alvarez too aggressive. Alvarez often used allegorical stories to illustrate key points. His favorite allegory described a future, apocalyptic revolution in America between whites and blacks. During this revolution, Alvarez stated, he would not try to defend his white colleagues, even ones he respected, especially his co-facilitator, Miller. “It would be just hatred and guns!” Alvarez exclaimed. “If you were white, you would be killed by blacks

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and if you were black you would be killed by whites.” Quite a few of his students found it shocking that Alvarez was willing to sacrifice a friend and colleague to an angry black mob. “My situation would be for myself,” Alvarez responded. “The revolution is inevitable, there is nothing whitey can do. . . . You’d better watch us whitey, your house will be bombed. . . . I would stomp your asses six feet under if I had the chance.” Under NRRS instructor guidelines, RAFs were to “focus on the ‘here and now,’ and avoid ‘sea stories’ ” or other such concoctions. The use of a fictitious, allegorical story, while popular with “human potential” groups like EST, violated basic NRRS principles.21 On 31 July, a nonrated sailor walked out of the seminar after hearing Alvarez say that when the black revolution comes, he was going to be on the “side of blackie.” On 1 September, Regina Miller, a civilian GS-4 in the hospital’s patient affairs department, had an even more severe reaction to the seminar. “I found myself almost apologizing for being Caucasian,” she told a Navy investigator. “These seminars do not teach working and living together. They definitely teach hatred and bigotry.” Miller claimed that the seminar made her ill. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was having nightmares. I would jump out of my bed at midnight and there he [Alvarez] was with one of those knives trying to kill me. My blood pressure went up. I just couldn’t take it.”22 Commander Abbe, who attended the seminar with Miller, thought that the seminar should have consisted of open and honest discussions about race relations, but instead he found it to be “a place where the white majority could be attacked, degraded and blamed for past, present and future black problems. No solutions to these problems were presented or discussed.”23 When Alvarez’s fourth UPWARD seminar ended on 13 September, Regina Miller’s supervisor, Lieutenant Commander Richard J. Cota, came to her cubicle to discuss the class with her. “I just started crying,” Miller explained. “I was just so relieved it was over and I didn’t have to go anymore.” Cota allowed Miller to leave work at 2:30 that day because “of her extreme emotional reaction to the seminar.” Under official Navy policy, Regina Miller should never have been ordered to take UPWARD in the first place: only civilian “volunteers” were authorized to take the course. Alvarez, however, constantly hounded Cota for civilian students and cited an action item in the base equal opportunity policy as evidence that civilians could be ordered to attend.24 Cota, who was unfamiliar with overall Navy EO policy, did not question the action

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item, but as soon as Mrs. Miller complained about the course, he immediately forwarded the grievance to Captain Almon C. Wilson, the hospital’s new commanding officer. Wilson summoned Dr. (Commander) Gary L. Almy, the chief of the hospital’s neuropsychiatry service and a trained psychiatrist, to his office on 18 September to discuss the situation and ask if Alvarez might be exhibiting signs of an emotional or mental disorder. Dr. Almy stated that “changes in behavior and difficulties in interpersonal relationships are often indicative of the need for psychiatric evaluation.” He then outlined a range of possible methods for Wilson to use to get Alvarez to submit to an evaluation. “A fully voluntary, cooperative psychiatric patient is preferred,” Almy explained, but as a commanding officer, Wilson could order Alvarez to submit to an exam if he so desired. Commenting later on the investigation, Vice Admiral Donald L. Custis, the surgeon general of the Navy, confirmed that “any active member of the naval service may at any time be involuntarily ordered by competent authority to report to a medical officer for a physical/mental examination.” This authority was necessary to ensure that personnel were physically and mentally fit for naval duty.25 Rather than act too hastily, Wilson decided to first observe Alvarez’s class with Almy before deciding on a course of action. Both Bernard Miller and Alvarez resented the command presence in their class. “The process of the group was completely destroyed,” claimed Miller. “I wanted to stop the class,” but he instead kept his thoughts to himself. After Wilson and Almy departed the seminar an hour later, Miller and Alvarez spent the next hour “berating” the two men for the interruption.26 After the class, Alvarez confronted Wilson in his office: “Sir, I realize that you are the commanding officer of the hospital, but I did not feel it was right of you to interrupt our seminar, and therefore, I would like to know what was your purpose for doing so.” Wilson told the irate junior officer that he had received several complaints about the class and was following up on those grievances. Wilson then asked, “Mr. Alvarez, would you possibly restructure some of your techniques in your seminars in order to prevent incidents such as with Regina?” Alvarez answered, “Sir, before I restructure my techniques, wouldn’t it be wise to first find out what techniques I’m using? One way to do that is to be a participant yourself. This command needs an executive seminar. We have not had one yet. Would you like to be a participant in one?”

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“I’ll think about it,” was Wilson’s response. Alvarez clearly manipulated the situation to his advantage, using Wilson’s lack of knowledge of race relations training and his lack of experience with the command as a means of gaining an argumentative advantage. One of the major weaknesses of UPWARD was that many commanders such as Wilson did not receive executive training on race relations until after their subordinates took the basic UPWARD course. Reflecting on the confrontation, Wilson became convinced that the Alvarez “was indeed taking the racial issues much, much too seriously. He voiced opinions that led me to believe he had rather grandiose ideas of his capabilities. In fact, he mentioned that he felt that he could facilitate President Ford and Members of Congress.” But Wilson neither ordered a stand-down of UPWARD training nor sent Alvarez to the hospital’s psychiatric unit for an evaluation. Wilson knew that participants made comments such as “he’s nuts,” but felt he could not use those comments as a basis for action. More grievances needed to be filed.27 The next day, 19 September 1974, Deborah Capponi, a civilian hospital clerk, filed a grievance against Alvarez. During a breakout discussion on the second day of her UPWARD class, one student lit a cigarette, causing Ms. Capponi to pull her chair slightly out of the circle to get away from the smoke. Alvarez interpreted the move as a withdrawal from the group and immediately attacked Capponi verbally. “I was quite angry by this time,” she later told a Navy investigator. “He told me he was glad he was getting me angry and laughed at me.” Capponi then lost her composure completely and told Alvarez to “fuck off.” When Alvarez continued to yell at her, she pleaded with him to leave her alone and go to the next lesson plan. “You are the next lesson plan,” he replied mockingly. Alvarez then humiliated Capponi further by asking the rest of the class to critique her emotional outburst. At one point, Alvarez told the participants that they “should not blame him for her getting so upset because it would probably have been a psychotic ill that was within her and it was his job to get the psychotic ill out and bring her to a psychiatrist.” Capponi then left the room and went directly to the hospital’s second-in-command, Commander James J. Devane, MD, to file a formal complaint. This prompted Wilson to immediately take action against Alvarez. The captain ordered Devane to consult with Commander Almy by telephone about the “best way to obtain a psychiatric evaluation of LTJG Alvarez.” According to Devane, Dr. Almy recommended that

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Devane first ask Alvarez to see him on an outpatient basis, and if that did not work, order him into treatment. In an interview with Navy investigators, Almy later denied that he ever recommended involuntary treatment as an option.28 Later that morning, Wilson visited Rear Admiral O’Neil to inform him of the situation, but he did not mention that he was contemplating ordering Alvarez to neuropsychiatry for evaluation. “This was a matter that was really within the Regional Medical Center command,” Wilson believed at the time, “and did not have broader policy implications for the Ninth Naval District.” O’Neil then told Wilson about his personal encounter with Alvarez and expressed support for the captain’s decision to suspend the hospital’s UPWARD program pending a full investigation.29 The next day, Alvarez and HM1 Miller sought Dr. Almy’s advice regarding the seminars. They “expressed concern that some seminar attendees had expressed adverse emotional reactions, but they did not express awareness that the command was concerned with their conduct as facilitators.” In Almy’s opinion, Alvarez showed “little understanding” of the complexities involved in leading group discussions on such a sensitive issue as race relations. To him, Alvarez also appeared “defensive, unrealistic, grandiose, preoccupied, suspicious, distant, and at times, illogical.” At the conclusion of the meeting, Alvarez asked Almy if there was anything he needed to know. Pointing to the commandant’s building, Almy answered, “Yeah, you two are in trouble. You’ve got a two star admiral over there madder than hell at you; you got a commanding officer who was called over and he’s mad at you; and you’ve got gobs of negative feedback about your seminar, letters have been written to Admiral O’Neil and Captain Wilson, and O’Neil wants to boot you out of the Navy, Alvarez.”30 Two hours later, Devane presented Alvarez with an official letter terminating UPWARD and reassigning him to operating services. Devane then asked Alvarez to voluntarily submit to an outpatient evaluation by Dr. Almy. Alvarez refused, whereupon Devane ordered him to report to patient affairs at 8:00 a.m. on 23 September to undergo an inpatient psychiatric examination at the hospital’s psychiatric unit, Ward 5N. The JAGMAN investigation later defended the order from a legal standpoint, stating that it was within Devane’s authority under the manual of the medical department, Articles 2–22 and 18–15, but criticized the decision from a clinical point of view.31 The decision, according to investi-

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gating officer Rear Admiral John M. Tierney, who was not a doctor, was “precipitous, lacking in clinical backing and an over-reaction to a legitimate requirement for action.”32 Tierney believed that Wilson and Devane should have first pursued other avenues, such as mandatory outpatient consultation. The Navy surgeon general, Vice Admiral Donald Custis, later arrived at the opposite conclusion. Based on his and his staff’s evaluation of the case’s facts, “a strong clinical basis for psychiatric evaluation existed and . . . involuntary admission for a period of observation was justified after the patient refused to cooperate in a voluntary outpatient examination.”33 Before reporting to the hospital for sick call, Alvarez wrote a letter to the chief of naval operations, defending his UPWARD course. Rather than trying to justify his teaching methods, Alvarez attacked the people who filed complaints against him, arguing that they violated the seminar’s confidentiality rule. He also questioned the decision of Wilson and Devane to send him, but not Deborah Caponi or Regina Wilson, to the psychiatric ward for evaluation. “I personally feel I have a right and a need to bring my problem to your attention because I’ve been informed that my 15 years of Naval Service may be at stake.”34 Alvarez reported to the hospital on 23 September and did not emerge from Ward 5N until the 27th. Ward regulations required him to address all other patients in the ward by their first name regardless of rank or grade, and to perform various menial chores when not being tested or observed by NRMC staff members. Alvarez proved uncooperative and attempted to “direct other patients’ activities rather than participate as a patient undergoing psychiatric evaluations.”35 Group therapy became another opportunity for him to teach his style of racial awareness. At 11:50 on the 24th, Captain Wilson’s office received a call from Lieutenant Commander Robert C. Butler, the head of the White House Correspondence Section. Butler, fielding an urgent telephone inquiry from Mrs. Alvarez, wanted to know why her husband was being held in the hospital. Three hours later, Mr. Gary Schlesinger, Alvarez’s attorney, called the NRMC and demanded to know why Alvarez was being held against his will in the psychiatric ward, and when he would be released. Since Captain Wilson was out of town attending a surgeon general’s conference at Bethesda Naval Hospital on this day, Captain W. J. Wagner, the acting commander of the hospital, notified Rear Admiral O’Neil of the two inquiries about Alvarez’s confinement. Up until that point, O’Neil had been unaware that Alvarez was a patient in Ward 5N.

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O’Neil ordered Wagner to notify Wilson of the situation by phone and then hold a meeting of the NRMC Human Relations Council to explain why Alvarez was admitted for psychiatric observation and dispel rumors.36 Concerned black personnel at the facility preempted the official HRC meeting (which was never held) by holding their own meeting on the night of the 26th at the house of Commander Ronald T. Harris, the hospital’s senior black physician. Harris then met with Captain Wagner on the 27th to seek a full explanation of why Alvarez was in the hospital, and by what authority. He also wanted to know if Dr. Almy or any of the other staff psychiatrists had diagnosed Alvarez with a mental illness, and when Alvarez would be released. Wagner evaded Harris’s questions and instead asked Harris specific questions related to his personal involvement with the Alvarez case, which the black commander refused to answer. That afternoon, Captain Wilson returned to NRMC and soon learned that the Navy’s inspector general, Rear Admiral Burton H. Shepherd, was coming to Great Lakes on the next available flight to personally investigate the Alvarez case. Two hours later, Ward 5N discharged Alvarez with no diagnosis and no recommendation for further evaluation or treatment. Alvarez was free to return to his normal duties as an administrator in patient affairs, but his UPWARD seminars remained canceled pending an official investigation. Admiral Shepherd and his team arrived late on the 27th and after a brief visit concluded that the Alvarez situation demanded a full-blown JAGMAN investigation. After he returned to Washington, Shepherd recommended that Rear Admiral John M. Tierney, the commander of the Thirteenth Naval District (Seattle, Washington), be appointed to lead it. Generally, lower-ranking officers head up such investigations, but because the case had already attracted White House attention, it demanded a higherprofile investigator.37 The Tierney investigation concluded that Frank Alvarez did not possess the necessary personal and emotional skills to be an effective RAF instructor. His “extreme racial sensitivity, his almost total pre-occupation with black problems, his highly emotional qualities, his grandiose self-image, and his low level of tact render him unsuitable for the very delicate duties of a race relations instructor.”38 Alvarez violated many of the basic rules taught to him in RAF training. He relied on absolutisms and fictitious examples to make points rather than focusing on the “here and now.” To him, all the problems of the black population could

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be blamed on white racism, and a black revolution was inevitable. Rather than treating his students with sensitivity and respect, he used the seminars to preach hatred and verbally attack his meekest students —low-level civilian clerks who should never have attended the course in the first place. On paper, however, Alvarez was not unqualified to teach UPWARD. At the RAF training class at Coronado, he received the highest grades and evaluations from his instructors. In reviewing the case, Admiral James Holloway, the CNO who succeeded Zumwalt on 1 July 1974, opted not to punish Alvarez for his behavior. Lacking clinical evidence of a personality disorder, the CNO could only conclude that Alvarez acted out of zeal as opposed to maliciousness, sadism, or mental illness. Although Holloway recommended that Alvarez be barred from teaching any more UPWARD courses and transferred to another duty station, he did not issue him a letter of reprimand or otherwise punish him in any way. Wilson received a nonpunitive letter of caution for exercising “less than sound judgment” in allowing Devane to order Alvarez to the NRMC psychiatric ward. Holloway also criticized Devane for not trying harder to persuade Alvarez to seek outpatient treatment, but he did not recommend any punishment for the executive officer.39 The Alvarez case, in the end, revealed how easy it was for an overzealous instructor to hijack these seminars and turn them into EST-style encounter groups. “There is a significant possibility that group dialogue, on emotional subjects, such as the UPWARD Seminar,” wrote Admiral Tierney, “can easily slip beyond the limits of awareness and into sensitivity training or encounter methods.”40 Chester Wright, a black sociologist who interviewed many UPWARD participants, indicated that a common reaction to a poorly led class was, “I was more prejudiced after I attended that damned UPWARD than I was before.”41 The higher an officer’s rank, the more he or she was likely to become offended by these seminars. Admiral Hyman G. Rickover, a Jewish American who had experienced discrimination firsthand as a young midshipman at the Naval Academy, criticized the Navy Human Goals Program as “amateurish.” It has been “poorly conceived, poorly executed, is a joke in the fleet, and is inimical to building a strong fighting force. Sociological experimentation of this nature, including group dynamics and sensitivity techniques must not be permitted.” Rickover instead called for a “return to the more traditional concepts of competence in doing the job at hand, hard work, good example, and commonsense

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reasonableness, without sociological interplay.”42 A poll of the Naval War College class of 1974 found that 68.5 percent of captains/commanders and 50 percent of lieutenant commanders/lieutenants agreed with Admiral Rickover’s basic premise that the Navy’s Human Goals Program had been “amateurish, poorly conceived and poorly executed.”43 UPWARD’s fundamental flaw was its attempt to change sailors’ attitudes toward race, using self-awareness as a vehicle. As Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy John D. Whittet stated in a 1974 All Hands article, “We can educate people as we attempt to do in our UPWARD seminars, but we cannot legislate attitudes.”44 A course that focused on behavior as opposed to beliefs might have been more effective. The RAF training program could have easily devised a series of lectures explaining acceptable and unacceptable behavior with respect to race relations and equal opportunity. Instead, it ventured into the troubled waters of self-awareness, and what resulted was, in many cases, disaffection with the course and, in extreme cases, emotional scars. The Tierney report intimated that UPWARD might be venturing too far into the realm of group therapy and psychology for most “four week wonder” RAFs to handle. It therefore suggested that the Navy request its Bureau of Medicine (BUMED) to review the UPWARD curriculum and RAF training program. Lieutenant Edith E. Haynes, Norman’s replacement as a special assistant to the CNO on equal opportunity, agreed.45 In a December 1974 memo to the CNO, she wrote, Our Achilles’ heel will be the fact that the methodology of the race relations program is not and has not been sanctioned by BUMED, the segment of the Navy most qualified through experience and formal education to aid in the creation of such programs. . . . BUMED’s partial ownership of the race relations program would speed its acceptance throughout the medical community internally and probably would benefit the Navy fleetwide. Additionally, this weakness in our armor would be remedied.46

Following the Alvarez fiasco, Admiral Holloway ordered a standdown of all RAF training programs until special teams (including one from BUMED) had a chance to review the entire RAF curriculum, but he did not go so far as to shut down the entire UPWARD program. A 1974 study by the Systems Development Corporation indicated that UPWARD was increasing racial awareness among the 24,000 Navy per-

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sonnel who were surveyed for the report. Based on these conclusions, Holloway believed that UPWARD was successfully meeting its goals.47 In a December 1974 interview in All Hands magazine, he stated, “Our program has been quite effective. It has increased personal awareness of such elements as personal worth and racial dignity, inequities in opportunity for women and minority personnel, and personal and institutional racism.” If his public statements on the issue are any evidence, Holloway appeared to firmly support UPWARD even after the Alvarez case. This support, however, may have resulted more from his desire to see the program successfully completed than from a personal commitment to UPWARD. Privately, Holloway wanted to scale back racial awareness training and focus the Navy’s efforts instead on affirmative action. As of May 1974, more than 315,000 of the Navy’s 556,528 personnel, including 80.5 percent of E-5s and above, had participated in race relations education training. “The major problem of quality control in Phase I was that it did not exist,” wrote Lieutenant Haynes in a 29 January 1975 memorandum to the CNO, but the Navy “had passed the point where wide scale modifications, if needed could have been made effectively.”48 As the Alvarez story reveals, UPWARD and racial awareness training programs like it did not address the root causes of racial unrest in the fleet. Racism by white sailors often triggered unrest, but the causes were much deeper. Black sailors were most concerned about the menial work they were often assigned to perform and the lack of opportunity for blacks in the Navy. To them, it appeared that the Navy’s justice system and chain of command functioned mainly to keep them in their place while more educated white sailors in technical ratings enjoyed a better lifestyle. Minority affairs councils further solidified these feelings of despair. They appeared to be designed more as sounding boards than as bodies empowered to make substantive policy. The fact that they often were staffed with limited duty officers and low-level enlisted outside the formal chain of command tended to reinforce this point of view. Admiral Zumwalt, to his credit, recognized these shortcomings early on in the process. In November 1972, he identified the continuing problems in minority affairs as follows: • Biased disciplinary procedures • Requirement to maintain and accept white standards and values

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• • • •

Poor upward mobility Culturally biased tests Channeling into dead-end jobs Exclusion from “A” schools49

In the area of military justice, the Navy issued far more administrative and disciplinary discharges to blacks than whites during this period, even when test category is held constant. For example, 10.5 percent of second-year black sailors in category III received discharges (administrative and disciplinary) in 1972, compared with just 5.6 percent of second-year category III whites.50 Blacks as a group also scored much lower than whites on entrance exams. By 1974, only 36 percent of black sailors entering the Navy attended “A” school, compared with 60 percent of whites.51 The minority recruitment situation was even more problematic. As of 30 June 1974, black officers still represented only 1.24 percent of the Navy’s officer corps, and no long-range minority representation goal had been set. Overall, minorities represented 7.4 percent of the Navy in June 1974, far short of the goal of 11.9 percent (the same as the percentage of blacks in the American population). According to Admiral David H. Bagley, the Navy’s chief of personnel, even if the Navy achieved its goal of proportional representation, it “will have difficulty achieving proportional representation in various basic skill training courses (A Schools). This is because a disproportionate share of minority accessions have test scores in the marginally school eligible area.”52 Again, the upward mobility problem could not be solved simply by recruiting more African Americans. Long-term solutions were needed to find, promote, and retain more black middle managers, in both officer and enlisted ranks. The Navy’s quest to arrive at such solutions is the subject of the next chapter.

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12 From Awareness to Affirmation

The racial awareness training component of Phase I of the Navy’s equal opportunity/race relations program sought to improve the racial climate in the fleet by making majority sailors aware of inequality and institutional racism in the fleet. It also made it patently clear that any language with racist overtones was unacceptable. In essence, the awareness training implemented by Admiral Elmo Zumwalt was shock therapy. The UPWARD seminars and other programs like it attempted to shock the Navy into the realization that it had a serious race relations problem on its hands. “Bud was smart enough to realize,” his successor Admiral James Holloway later explained, that reforming a “twohundred-year legacy could not happen under an administration doing business as usual. He knew that he was going to have to get the attention of everyone in the uniformed Navy, in the Navy Secretariat, in the Office of the Secretary of Defense, the Congress, and the White House to gain their support for these changes. He considered the best way, in fact, the only way to gain this attention was through shock tactics.”1 These tactics may have produced greater awareness of the problem in the fleet, but they did not convert hard-core white racists into proponents of equal opportunity, nor did they get at the root of the problem: lack of minority representation in the upper enlisted ranks (E-7 through E-9) and the officer corps. Phase II of Zumwalt’s equal opportunity program strove to create longer-term solutions to racial unrest via command-level affirmative action plans. In essence, Phase II tried to build on the awareness generated by racial awareness training to create lasting change in the Navy. The Navy initiated Phase II by first retraining many of its UPWARD seminar leaders to be Equal Opportunity Program Specialists (EOPS). EOPS training emphasized consulting and organizational development skills as opposed to teaching. The Navy then scattered the EOPS personnel throughout the fleet to help individual commands establish affirmative

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action plans. During their first on-site visit, the EOPSs briefed commanding officers on the basic concept and methodology of Phase II and then scheduled a second visit to collect data needed to develop the command’s Equal Opportunity Quality Indicators (EOQI). The major EOQIs consisted of the command’s racial composition; enlisted retention rates (how many men reenlisted); the number of men eligible for “A” school broken down by race; its promotion policies; and the command’s military justice record. Military justice, in particular, proved to be a very telling EOQI. If an EOPS discovered that minority sailors were receiving harsher punishments than whites for similar crimes, then he or she might suggest that the commander begin “looking carefully at the racial attitudes of his subordinates and introspectively at himself.” Such a finding also would become the basis for actions required in the command’s affirmative action plan (AAP).2 Once a unit completed its EOQIs, the EOPS scheduled a second visit to conduct a Command Affirmative Action Planning Workshop. In the workshop, the EOPS went over the EOQI data and assisted the command in formulating an AAP. Throughout the process, the unit’s commanding officer retained the right to select all workshop attendees, which usually included himself, the XO, department heads, middle managers, and selective worker representative. It was up to the workshop attendees to develop, refine, and implement the AAP. Issues raised during the development of the AAP that could not be resolved by the command were forwarded up the chain of command for action.3 Once formulated, the command transmitted the AAP to all pertinent middle managers and set up a workshop for this group to teach them how to promulgate it throughout the unit. The workshop, entitled “Actions to Counter Racism,” not only taught leading petty officers and junior commissioned officers about the AAP and equal opportunity in the Navy in general but also strove to turn these “power brokers” into an effective Command Training Team (CTT). The CTT then went out and conducted mandatory four-hour “Rights and Responsibilities” workshops for all E-4s (third class petty officer) and below. The purpose of these workshops was to teach sailors how to use the chain of command to solve problems, with emphasis placed on addressing problems at the lowest level of the chain.4 The final training program, led by the EOPS, was a Cultural Expression Workshop, which celebrated the Navy’s diversity as one of its great strengths and tried to convince students to avoid stereotyping col-

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leagues. Instructors encouraged students to speak candidly but avoided the encounter group tactics of Phase I. Instead, the EOPS focused on real-world examples to spur discussion and awareness. A favorite example was that of the boatswain’s mate (BM). In the Navy, boatswain’s mates are often looked down upon as dummies or “deck apes,” but without these “keepers of the boats,” ships cannot be properly maintained, refueled, and handled. The seemingly mindless work of the BM is critical to a ship’s operation, and it takes years of training and apprenticeships to become an effective BM.5 Sailors, in short, needed to see through stereotypes and recognize people for their individual worth. Officers also needed to be more sensitive to the individual needs of minorities. As Navy sociologist Chester Wright noted in a study of Phase II, “Few Admirals and Generals, Captains and Colonels” understood the “deep-seated animosities and potential for violence of feelings generated around, (1) food, (2) hair, (3) dress and (4) symbolics such as dapping.” By simply ordering the mess to establish a more diverse menu and allowing black sailors to wear their hair slightly longer, commanding officers could potentially spare commands a lot of turmoil. By the same token, sailors needed to be more sensitive to the Navy and its mission. For example, it did not serve the Navy’s diplomatic mission overseas to have its white sailors disembark in foreign ports wearing cowboy outfits or dashikis.6 The monitoring and evaluation of a unit’s AAP took place both internally and externally. The unit, with the help of the EOPS, conducted an internal review of the EOQIs over time. On an annual basis, the unit’s immediate superior in command conducted an external review of the “actual progress the unit had made in achieving true equal opportunity as measured by its EOQIs.” If the external review revealed shortfalls, it could order additional consulting or training for the subordinate command, but “only in response to identified needs as agree upon by the commanding officer.” If the review determined that the unit had obtained “self-sufficiency” in the area of affirmative action, equal opportunity, and race relations, it was still required to modify, update, and refine its AAP from time to time, and the commanding officer remained ultimately responsible for the “content, quality, and implementation” of the unit’s AAP.7 On paper, Phase II appeared much less confrontational and more committed to lasting change than the shock therapy of Phase I, but it was not without shortcomings. Success depended heavily on command

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cooperation with the EOPSs. Without it, these specialists, who were usually enlisted petty officers, had almost no hope of enacting an effective AAP. Radioman First Class Johnny A. Currington’s experience as an EOPS assigned to the training carrier Lexington (CVT 16) typified the challenges confronted by many EOPSs in orchestrating the Phase II program. Currington and one other EOPS, Chief Dental Technician G. C. Fillmore, reported to Lexington on 24 March 1974. After spending seven weeks on the ship, the two men presented their first assessment to the commanding officer, Captain Donald E. Moore. In it, they pointed out that the ship’s leading petty officers did not always treat their men equally. Minorities, claimed Currington and Fillmore, often received the most menial work assignments. In some cases, leading petty officers refused to allow black petty officers to enter gear lockers unescorted, even though ship policy authorized such access. In discussions with division officers, the two EOPSs arrived at “good workable solutions,” but none of these solutions were implemented.8 In August 1974, Currington held a Command Affirmative Action Planning Workshop to formulate an AAP for the ship, but he received almost no support for the plan from the command’s leadership. “The Human Resources Management Office,” Currington later wrote in a memorandum to the CNO, “in the past twelve months has submitted approximately twelve memorandums concerning various aspects of the Human Goals Program (Race Relations) that required response from either the department head or the division officer. In every case, the office received a poor response or no response.” When Currington reported this noncompliance to the Lexington’s commander or executive officer, he continued to hit a brick wall. “Problem areas that in the past have been brought to the CO’s and in most cases the XO’s attention, have been looked upon as being a threat to the command and therefore received with hostility or with an ‘Ok, thank you attitude,’ attitude.” In the end, Currington did manage to produce an AAP with the help of the commander’s administrative assistant, but he did not receive any direct assistance from either the CO or the officers who attended the Command Affirmative Action Planning Workshop. More significantly, the plan was never promulgated.9 Currington warned the CNO that unless positive steps were taken by the CO of the ship and his chain of command in carrying out the Phase II equal opportunity program, “problems will magnify in multitude and

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subsequently may result in another Kitty Hawk or Constellation.” In addition to the problem of the leading petty officers, the ship suffered from low morale due to long workdays and limited liberty hours for the crew. According to Currington, unauthorized absences ran about fiftytwo per day during the spring of 1974: “Nerves were on edge, and tempers were cocked and ready to explode among the crew.”10 Soon after receiving a copy of the Currington memorandum, Captain Moore retaliated by giving him a poor performance appraisal and submitting a response to the CNO. In it, Moore stated that Currington did not have the decency to discuss the contents of the memorandum with him or the ship’s chaplain, who headed the ship’s human resources management center, before submitting it up the chain of command. Moore also claimed that many of Currington’s opinions “were often requested and sometimes used,” but “my responsibility as commanding officer still requires that after evaluating alternatives and possible courses of action I utilize the best one suited for the problem.” Moore believed that Currington tried to act more as a “commander than an advisor” and questioned his loyalty to the ship and the Navy.11 Currington, in fact, did speak to the Lexington’s chaplain prior to submitting the memorandum up the chain of command, but he was advised by the priest not to submit the letter until after he had reported to his new command. In examining the case, Admiral Harold E. Shear, the vice chief of naval operations, concluded, “There were problems in Lexington and the chain of command in the ship was, in fact, slow in taking appropriate actions. This led to considerable frustration on the part of the race relations team and resulted in the letter from RM1 Currington to the CNO via the chain of command.”12 Lieutenant Edith Haynes, the CNO’s special assistant on equal opportunity, was more stinging in her criticism. “Petty Officer Currington’s case is a classic example of what can happen to a 4.0 sailor who attempts to implement a program not supported by the command.”13 The Currington case reveals not only how EOPSs occasionally confronted resistance but also the challenges that these enlisted specialists had in working with officers to develop an AAP. In a rigid hierarchal organization like the Navy, there were distinct limits to what an enlisted person could accomplish within a command, even one that fully supported the basic premises of Phase II. These shortfalls and others were eloquently outlined in a memorandum written to the secretary of the Navy by Aviation Technician Chief Ernest V. Barial Jr. on 14 June 1976.

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A career sailor, Chief Barial had served in a variety of race relations positions during the early 1970s. He had taught UPWARD and executive seminars at the Naval Station San Diego; had helped design and field-test the Military Rights and Responsibilities Workshop for the Pacific Fleet; and had led the EOPS team assigned to implement Phase II for Naval Station Norfolk. In contrast to Currington, Chief Barial wrote the secretary of the Navy not to complain about a specific command’s response to Phase II but to criticize the program in broader terms. Barial believed that Phase II was not being “implemented as intended or designed,” and that “unqualified personnel [were] delivering the package.”14 In analyzing the situation in the Atlantic Fleet, Barial found that some EOPSs were altering the Phase II methodology in violation of accepted methods set forth in the EOPS Consultant Guide: “The trend among these personnel is to substantially change the design of workshops, focus of the training, and processes by which objectives are reached to something totally different from what is dictated by the consultants guide.” In some cases, the EOPS altered the program to save time, but in others, it appeared they did so to appease management. “Commanding officers,” Barial wrote, “are led to believe that racism and cultural discrimination are not important factors and that what is important is management techniques that address . . . human behavior disciplines.” The philosophy being espoused by these freelancers was that unrest could be handled by sound management principles and that it was unnecessary to educate Navy leadership on such issues as racism, sexism, and cultural discrimination. As a consequence, commands were led to believe “that the counter-productive effect of past discrimination has been eliminated and therefore is an insignificant factor.” Furthermore, some EOPSs who attempted to refocus Phase II training to the guidelines established in the Consultant Guide “have been reprimanded, censured, and reassigned. The results are that EOPSs generally do as they are told because they feel powerless to perform as they have been trained.”15 A basic problem with EOPSs, according to Barial, was that they were mostly enlisted and nonwhite, and, as the Currington case illustrates, these people generally did not have much influence with officers. He explained, “Only officers can perform those tasks that involve decision making (entry, planning, scheduling, etc.). These functions are the most crucial elements of the program.” In short, an EOPS must do more than

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simply set up the machinery necessary for implementing Phase II; he must motivate an often-recalcitrant bureaucracy to “see the importance of countering racism, cultural discrimination, and sexism” and implement reforms—a job more suited to officers than junior enlisted.16 Since Chief Barial had an excellent reputation with the Atlantic Fleet, the chain of command took his criticisms very seriously. Rear Admiral Howard E. Greer, the deputy Atlantic Fleet commander, noted in his endorsement of the memorandum that Chief Barial’s “credentials in the equal opportunity/race relations area are impressive,” and that Barial had recently formed an “integral” part of a team assigned to critically review the Atlantic Fleet’s equal opportunity/race relations posture. Greer agreed with the chief that the methodology, workshop content, and structure of Phase II needed to be standardized and that most of Barial’s other comments were “positive and constructive.”17 Admiral James Holloway III, Zumwalt’s successor, concurred with Greer and also noted that the Navy needed to better “quality control” the EOPS personnel and continually monitor Phase II programs. In a memorandum to the secretary of the Navy, Holloway noted that the new Navywide affirmative action plan, promulgated in June 1976 (the same month as the Barial report), supported these initiatives and had “provisions for the development and promulgation of equal opportunity inspections and evaluation guides.” Surveys conducted of 26,000 personnel who attended Phase II in 1975 and 1976 indicated that despite criticisms from Barial and others, the majority of Navy personnel who attended the workshops found them to be a “valuable means” of improving equal opportunity in the Navy. Based on these surveys, Holloway allowed Phase II to continue throughout his tenure as CNO, which ended in June 1978.18 Admiral James L. Holloway served as Zumwalt’s VCNO from September 1973 to 1 July 1974, when he became the Navy’s twentieth chief of naval operations. A 1943 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, Holloway participated in several major Pacific theater engagements as a gunnery officer on the destroyer Bennion (DD 662). After the war, he entered flight school, earning his wings in 1946, and went on to serve in a variety of naval aviation assignments, including two combat tours in Korea as a fighter pilot. In 1958, he commanded Attack Squadron 83 during the Lebanon landings and later that year participated in the flight operations over the Taiwan Strait during the Quemoy-Matsu crisis. In the early stages of the Vietnam War, Holloway commanded the

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Admiral James Holloway III, the twentieth chief of naval operations, ca. 1974. (U.S. Navy)

pride of the fleet, the nuclear-powered carrier Enterprise, for two combat tours. In May 1966, he became a rear admiral at the age of fortyfour and worked for the CNO as director of strike warfare, where he developed concepts of carrier warfare that are still employed by the Navy today. In 1972, Holloway returned to the Western Pacific as commander of the Seventh Fleet. In this assignment, he orchestrated two of the Navy’s most successful operations of the Vietnam War: the mining of Haiphong Harbor (Operation Pocket Money) and the Linebacker bombing campaign—President Nixon’s punitive response to North Vietnam’s invasion of South Vietnam. After the war, Admiral Zumwalt promoted him to admiral and selected him to serve as VCNO.19 On a personal level, Holloway considered Zumwalt to be a friend.

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The two men had known each other since their time together at the Naval Academy and had been quite close in their younger years. Zumwalt “could not have been nicer and more thoughtful and considerate to us . . . and considered me his alter ego,” Holloway recalled. But once Holloway became CNO, he ultimately became one of Zumwalt’s greatest critics and a man who spearheaded a counterreformation against many of Zumwalt’s reforms.20 The son of a four-star admiral, Holloway had grown up with the Navy and, as a consequence, proved to be more of a traditionalist and a realist than Zumwalt, a physician’s son who spent much of his career working as a defense intellectual for Paul Nitze. Holloway summed up his basic philosophical differences with Zumwalt in an oral history with author Edgar F. Puryear: “Bud’s premise was that Navy life should be fun, and his policies were designed to restore this element to the Navy.” To Holloway, the Navy was more about service and sacrifice. “The Navy’s purpose is to fight and win wars,” he told Puryear. “It requires strong people with a determined dedication to serve in spite of hardship and sacrifice. I had seen this in my years in the Navy through World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and the cold war deployments. There was no way to keep everyone in the Navy happy.”21 Holloway did not roll back Zumwalt’s reforms overnight. He followed the age-old Navy tradition that “says that the oncoming officer of the watch should not change the set of the sail in the first fifteen minutes of the watch.”22 He allowed Phase I and Phase II to run their course despite some of their obvious flaws because he agreed wholeheartedly with Zumwalt that the Navy had a serious problem with race relations and that strong solutions were required. By 1975, however, he began making gradual course corrections. In a 13 October 1975 appearance on NBC’s Today Show, he explained his position vis-à-vis the Zumwalt revolution: Admiral Zumwalt was responsible for effecting some very much needed reform in the Navy. I think that we hadn’t matured in some ways, we hadn’t kept pace with the world around us, and he accomplished what I call a step function, as he accomplished a lot of things in a short amount of time. I fully supported the direction in which he was moving, and we’re maintaining most of those innovations which he instituted. But we’re pausing now, really to consolidate those gains and evaluate

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them. And some that we have found to be not practical we are discarding. Those that are practical and useful we are reinforcing and we’re grinding right into our regulations.23

Unlike the Catholic Counter-Reformation of the sixteenth century, Holloway’s program was never designed to be retaliatory, but it did aim to achieve reform from within by keeping some Zumwalt reforms and discarding others. Seeing, for example, that focus group–style racial awareness training was not working well, Holloway ended UPWARD in 1976 and did not create a similar follow-on program. Similarly, once Phase II was fully implemented in 1978, he did not renew it. Instead, he shifted the Navy’s focus away from awareness training to affirmative action, both at the command level and Navy-wide. “We never put out anything that said that we were getting the Navy back on battery,” explained Admiral Harold E. Shear, , “but we just very quietly, by actions—or inactions, in some cases—we just made sure the Navy was changing.”24 Holloway believed that a root cause of the Navy’s racial problems was a distinct lack of minority representation in leadership positions. “The Navy provides a way of life that has no parallel in the civilian community,” he told an interviewer in 1974. “It gives one the opportunity to lead and make important decisions concerning the defense of our nation, and to influence the professional development of subordinates. This aspect of what the Navy has to offer, I consider the most rewarding, because it is a challenge that requires the development of good leadership qualities and a real dedication to the principles and tradition for which our Navy stands.”25 For Holloway, the opportunity to lead was the “most important incentive” for a young man or woman to serve in the Navy, and the answer to the Navy’s race problems lay more in giving African Americans a stronger stake in the Navy’s leadership than in trying to improve race relations through racial awareness training. An effective cadre of black leaders at all levels of the command structure would do more to alleviate unrest than a decade of UPWARD seminars.26 By 1976, blacks represented nearly 8 percent of the enlisted Navy but only 1.6 percent of the officer corps.27 As of May 1976, only 7 of the Navy’s 2,027 active duty captains were black (0.35 percent).28 In a recent promotion board for lieutenant commanders, the Navy promoted only one black officer (out of a field of four) to this midlevel

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Navy recruiting poster issued in 1972. (U.S. Navy)

grade.29 Finally, only 75 percent of black high school graduates entering the Navy qualified for “A” schools, compared with 91 percent of whites.30 Clearly, the Navy was having a difficult time promoting blacks to leadership positions, both in the enlisted force and in the officer corps. Holloway’s solution to the problem was to form a Navy affirmative action task force to develop a Navy Affirmative Action Plan (NAAP). Holloway wanted the focus of the new plan to be on how to create more minority leaders in the Navy without seriously undermining the morale of the majority. In a letter to Admiral Isaac C. Kidd, the commander of the Atlantic Fleet, Holloway noted that he was “encouraged that surveys indicated relatively close agreement among races on the majority of questions regarding most aspects of leadership; on the other hand, this agreement showed a considerable amount of dissatisfaction on the part of our junior people.”31 Led by Rear Admiral Paul C., Gibbons Jr., the NAAP task force focused on how the Navy could achieve the secretary of the Navy’s equal opportunity management objectives, which included the following: • Achieving annual officer recruiting results of 6 percent black and 2 percent other minorities, and annual enlisted recruiting results of 12 percent black and 6 percent other minorities. • Reducing the number of sailors unqualified for a rate (i.e., promotion to E-4) to less than 35 percent of the group and increasing the percentage of E-4s to at least 18 percent of each group.

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• Achieving at least 60 percent honorable discharges as a percentage of total discharges for each racial/ethnic group. • Enlisting no less than 15 percent AFQT test categories I/II for each racial minority group. • Obtaining a minority “A” school input equal to not less than 65 percent of the recruit input for each racial minority input.32 Its plan of action, which was promulgated throughout the Navy in 1976, folded these objectives and several others into seven broad categories: accessions, image and perception, professional growth, equal opportunity/race relations training, women in the Navy, assessment, and compliance. The accession category focused on minority recruiting. The Navy sought to obtain a black officer population of 6 percent—a goal derived from the percentage of blacks enrolled in U.S. colleges, which was 6 percent in the mid-1970s. During the early stages of Holloway’s tenure as CNO, the Navy raised the number of black officers from 865 in December 1975 to 1,163 in September 1977—an impressive 35 percent increase. However, the overall proportion of black officers in the Navy only climbed from 1.36 to 1.81 percent during the same time period.33 The Navy recruited most minority officers from three sources: the Naval Academy, NROTC, and BOOST. Naval Academy accessions of African American midshipmen rose only slightly during this period: from 55 in 1975 to 65 in 1977 and 58 in 1978. Higher academic requirements were partly to blame for this stagnation. In 1975, the Academy raised the minimum Scholastic Aptitude Test score in math from 580 to 600, which reduced the number of incoming black plebes to just 55 from a high of 120 in 1973.34 However, these same requirements also instilled much pride in black midshipmen capable of gaining admission to the academy. “The academy’s tough entrance requirements have not been lowered to boost the numbers of minorities,” boasted Lieutenant Commander George Gaines, the school’s adviser for minority affairs. “The minority midshipmen here could easily have gone to any other college or university.” Furthermore, compared with the situation at the beginning of the decade, the academy was still making significant strides. In 1970, only 23 black midshipmen marched in a typical brigade parade of 4,300; by 1976, that figure had risen to 200. Perhaps more symbolically, the top-ranked midshipman leading the parade in

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1976 was none other than Mason C. “Chuck” Reddix, the first black brigade commander in the academy’s 131-year history.35 NROTC units, many of which were now at historically black colleges, fared even better in recruiting black officer material. By 1978, NROTC had 494 black midshipmen, and 6.1 percent of its entering plebes were African Americans. The Navy assigned 41 of its best officers to a campus liaison officer program. Rather than operating out of isolated recruiting offices, these officers embedded themselves into college communities, getting to know students informally and providing them with a credible source of information on the Navy experience. The Navy also hired the Burrell advertising agency to launch an advertising campaign targeting future black college students with the theme “Navy, it’s a mind-growing experience.”36 BOOST also proved a major success. The program sought to identify potential leaders in high school classes who did not have the educational background to compete effectively for either an NROTC scholarship, the Navy Enlisted Scientific Education Program, or admission to the U.S. Naval Academy. The Navy enlisted these youngsters into the Naval Reserve and then sent them to the Service School Command in San Diego for six months to two years to take courses in algebra, geometry, physical science, chemistry, and communications skills. Through a program of “individually tailored” academic instruction, these young men and women gained the necessary skills to compete for officer programs. “In reality, it’s a ten-year program,” stated Lieutenant Commander Rudolph McAfee, a BOOST administrator in San Diego, “one or two years in BOOST, four years in an officer program, and then four more years of obligated service.”37 Aviation Electronics Technician Airman Harold Molden represented the type of raw talent attracted to BOOST. Hoping to attend the Naval Academy, Molden participated in a two-year BOOST curriculum that included high school–level math, science, and English plus fifteen credit hours of college-level courses. More advanced students than Molden could earn up to twenty-eight college credits in BOOST training. BOOST, which began in 1964 with just 35 students, had 121 sailors enrolled by 1974. In 1974, 66 percent of those entering the program won admission to an officer commissioning program.38 By 1978, BOOST had produced 44 commissioned officers and boasted more than 104 graduates in college. Thirty-eight percent of BOOST’s enrollment in

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Ensign Gregory G. Webb, a BOOST instructor, chalks his way through an algebra problem for Marine Corporal Robert M. Stephens at the San Diego Naval Training Center, 1973. (U.S. Navy)

1978 consisted of minorities. Those who failed to become officers returned to their original rates as enlisted sailors and were encouraged to reapply for a commission the following year. Guidance counselors met with students regularly to provide personal, professional, and academic counseling.39 In the area of enlisted recruitment, the Navy came close to achieving proportional representation in 1977—nearly 11 percent of new recruits were black, and African Americans represented 8.5 percent of the total enlisted force. Two tools were employed to boost numbers in this area: the Recruiting Assistance Program (RAP) and the Senior Minority Assistance to Recruiting Program (SEMINAR). RAP returned newly graduated “A” school students to their home area to assist local recruiters

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in contacting and enlisting other high-quality recruits. SEMINAR paid for career Navy personnel to return to their home regions to give talks to the minority community at churches and community centers about their personal experience in the Navy. A total of 4,966 sailors participated in RAP, and 888 conducted SEMINARs. Of these numbers, 730 (14 percent) RAP and 166 (19 percent) SEMINAR participants were minorities.40 Improving the image and perception of the Navy in the black community was critical for successful minority recruiting, but even as late as 1976, the service had major hurdles to overcome in this area. “I found that many civilian students have the idea that the Navy is the same as it was a generation ago,” claimed Gaines. “I had to work as much to change the image of the whole Navy as I did talking up the Academy.”41 In an attempt to rectify the situation, the Navy invested huge sums of money in advertising campaigns with a direct message for the black community. One ad in Life Magazine in 1978 featured the heading, “Few Black Men Would Have Advised their Sons to Join the Navy.” It then stated in smaller print: Twenty years ago, Blacks made up less than five percent of the Navy. Almost all were in the lower ranks—black chiefs were rarities, black officers virtually non-existent. Things have changed a lot since that generation. Today there are black petty officers in every specialty from advanced electronics to nuclear propulsion, black captains commanding ships and shore installations, black admirals making policy decisions at high executive levels. It’s a different Navy, and a better one.42

This piece adhered perfectly to many of Holloway’s basic ideas on affirmative action. It sought to convince the black community that the Navy was changing without glossing over its history. It also stressed leadership as the ultimate reward of Navy service. The ad’s illustration showed an older black man beaming at his son, a chief petty officer in a dress blue uniform. Despite the improvement in black enlisted recruiting, the Navy still struggled to find adequate numbers of “A” school–qualified African Americans. As a technical service, the Navy depended on highly trained sailors to operate its equipment. To perform most jobs of any significance, a sailor needed a rating, which was signified by a specialty mark

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Data Processor First Class Hooker Thomas runs the Univac doubledeck tape processor on the carrier Enterprise (CVN 65), 1973. The Navy struggled throughout the early 1970s to fill some of its more technical rates with qualified African-American sailors. (U.S. Navy)

worn on the uniform. Some ratings required sailors to have college-level academic proficiency in certain subjects, and others were more vocational and hands-on. Every rate in the Navy has developed into a unique community with its own customs, traditions, and values. In the same way warfare communities (i.e., surface, aviation, or submarines) define an officer, ratings define the enlisted sailor. Promotion to E-4 depended on holding a rating. A sailor would “strike” for a rating by training for the occupational specialty on the job and also attending an “A” school. After successfully graduating from an “A” school and taking a test for the specialty, the sailor was allowed to wear his rating on his uniform sleeve. For affirmative action to be successful, it was critical for blacks not only to qualify in large num-

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bers for ratings but also to be represented in every enlisted career field in the Navy. Professional growth and development in the black enlisted corps could not occur without meeting this essential goal.43 But poor levels of academic training in the black community hindered many from achieving certain ratings or a rating at all. Sixty-five percent of all black sailors entering the Navy in 1976 and 1977 did not score high enough on the Armed Services Vocational Battery (ASVAB) to qualify for an “A” school. The ASVAB tested sailors in a variety of academic and vocational areas such as math, shop skills, mechanical comprehension, and general sciences. Launched in 1976, it was designed to be less racially biased than the former test, the Basic Test Battery, but it still favored students with better educational backgrounds. The Navy attempted to solve this problem in two ways: in-fleet formal training and remedial education. In-fleet training provided sailors with the necessary skills to graduate from “A” school through on-the-job training on ships. If a commanding officer believed that a sailor had the necessary skills to complete “A” school, he had the authority to sign an aptitude waiver for the sailor and send him or her to school. In the late 1970s, up to 10 percent of “A” school seats were filled through such waivers.44 Remedial education was another alternative. A study conducted by the Naval Personnel Research and Development Center in 1974 and 1975 found that 12.5 percent of the black recruit population in the United States could not read above the fifth-grade level.45 The Navy established three- to six-week programs designed to raise the literacy level of promising candidates in this lower category to the seventh-grade level —the minimum needed to graduate from boot camp—but the training proved too short to achieve much success. In 1978, the Navy and the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare created a more ambitious remedial education program designed not only to get disadvantaged kids through boot camp but also to qualify them for “A” school. The program, called Job Oriented Basic Skills (JOBS), provided special training in basic academic subjects plus technical training in four Navyspecific vocations: ship propulsion, electronics, aviation mechanics, and clerical work. Successful graduates of JOBS secured admission to “A” school.46 With the conclusion of Phase II training in 1978, equal opportunity and race relations training was scaled back but not entirely eliminated. All Navy Recruit Training Centers and officer accession programs provided standardized, ongoing race relations and equal opportunity train-

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ing to new Navy personnel. At the command level, human resource management centers provided refresher training for the Command Training Teams established in Phase II. These CTTs, in turn, provided periodic training for command personnel. The Navy also established a separate EO and race relations curriculum for civilians and senior officers. The senior officer program was located at the Naval War College and utilized a curriculum designed by the Defense Race Relations Institute.47 Women also became a critical component of the new NAAP. In February 1972, Admiral Elmo Zumwalt and his WAVES director, Captain Robin Lindsay Quigley, eliminated the WAVES. Quigley told women to stop using the “inaccurate and sentimental acronym WAVES, which implied a ladies’ auxiliary.”48 Six months later Zumwalt issued Z-116, which paved the way for equal rights and opportunities to the Navy women. Recognizing that Congress might soon pass legislation authorizing women to serve on ships and attend the service academies, Zumwalt ordered preliminary steps to be taken such as opening up nearly all ratings to women, permitting women officers to exercise command on shore, admitting women into NROTC, and providing women with avenues of progression to flag rank.49 He also ordered the service to begin actively recruiting females. In June 1970, the Navy possessed only 6,633 women (excluding nurses) on active duty. By September 1979, this number had risen to 24,644. Like his predecessor, Holloway continued to encourage Congress to end restrictive laws prohibiting women from entering the Naval Academy or serving on ships. On 6 July 1976, 81 women entered the Naval Academy and in 1980, 55 of these women graduated with commissions.50 “The women are doing fine,” claimed Rear Admiral Kinnaird R. McKee, the Academy superintendent, “every bit as well as men.” Women also performed acceptably in the air. Six women graduated from the Naval Aviation Training Command at Pensacola in 1974 and served in noncombat aircraft. In 1978, Congress finally ended the restriction prohibiting women from serving on ships, and Holloway immediately began assigning women for sea duty on certain types of ships (auxiliaries and noncombatants). By 1979, 55 female officers and 375 enlisted personnel served on twenty-one ships.51 Holloway measured compliance with the NAAP primarily by examining demographic data on a quarterly basis. He also relied on the commander of naval education and training (CNET) to monitor training

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policies, and ordered the Navy inspector general to look at affirmative action compliance during regular command inspections. Vice Admiral James D. Watkins, the Navy’s chief of personnel, reported in 1978 that although the “extremely slow growth in our minority officer populations remains a concern,” the “prognosis for the plan in terms of its implementation is good. The continued visible support of all headquarters level offices has given strength and direction to the institutionalization of the NAAP.”52 At the heart of NAAP’s success was Admiral Holloway, a man as committed to solving the Navy’s racial problems as his predecessor, but who believed that the key to success was to pave the path for black sailors to rise to leadership positions as opposed to trying to change the racial attitudes of a reactionary majority. Holloway, however, did not take much personal credit for the successes of affirmative action in the Navy. As a self-effacing naval officer, he bestowed most of the recognition on his former boss. “Today I don’t know of anyone who went through that period with Bud who is not now convinced that he did the right thing in the way he had to do it, to make these changes . . . which if left uncorrected could bring nothing but shame and cause embarrassment to the Navy.”53 The NAAP, in essence, institutionalized the most effective elements of the Zumwalt revolution. These programs included: • BOOST, which assisted educationally deprived minority sailors in becoming officers • A program to waive admissions tests (Basic Test Battery) for black sailors who met minimum eligibility for “A schools • Remedial education programs designed for sailors wishing to retake the test for “A” school admission • NROTC units established at five predominantly black colleges • Minority enrollment at the Naval Academy at an all-time high (132 blacks and 174 minorities in total) • Minority educators and community leaders assigned to the NROTC selection committees in all fifty states54 By bundling these programs into a single NAAP, however, Holloway underscored their importance and gave them added attention and focus. Holloway, unlike his predecessor, was not the architect of modern affirmative action in the Navy, but he proved very successful in executing certain key components of the Zumwalt revolution.55

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Epilogue

In Peter Weir’s film Master and Commander (2003), Captain Jack Aubrey, played by the actor Russell Crowe, declared to his officers, “This ship is England.” Anyone who has served on a naval vessel immediately grasped the significance of his line. Aubrey’s ship, the HMS Surprise, was a microcosm of its country. She represented all of England’s ideals, aspirations, and strengths, as well as the country’s contradictions, weaknesses, and foibles. Conflicts and tensions in nineteenthcentury English society were naturally reflected in the Navy. So, did USS Kitty Hawk reflect America in 1972? In some respects, the ship did. The United States in 1972 was a divided society, not just in terms of race but also ideologically and culturally. The country had lost its war on poverty and was in the throes of losing both the Vietnam War and the struggle for African American equality. Its urban cores were in sharp decline, and unemployment hovered close to 6 percent. President Nixon ruled America through divisive means, pitting suburbanites, white ethnic groups, and blue-collar workers against urban minorities, college students, and liberal professionals from the East Coast and West Coast. While the Navy reflected these conflicts and lost causes, at the same time, it was also a separate and distinct culture: a world with its own mores, traditions, and values that was geographically and psychologically removed from the daily life of average American citizens. During much of the Vietnam War, the Navy’s policy of qualitative recruitment had spared it from much of the social turmoil that had plagued the ground services. The average recruit during this time was a white high school graduate who had scored well on the AFQT. This recruit not only wanted to be in the Navy to avoid less desirable service in the infantry, but such sailors generally found unique opportunities in the sea service: training schools second to none and job opportunities in specialized technical fields. Of course, the Navy still needed boatswain’s

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mates, but even men in these less desirable ratings found their work greatly preferable to serving in the jungles of Southeast Asia. With a motivated, predominantly white, well-educated enlisted force, the Navy functioned much as it had since the end of World War II, albeit with more advanced technology. The social and cultural changes of the late 1960s did not begin to affect the fleet until the early 1970s—the period when President Nixon began scaling back the draft in favor of an all-volunteer force. In the long run, the AVF concept would lead to a more professional military, but in the short run it created turmoil, especially for the Navy. Scaling back the draft dried up the Navy’s recruitment pool overnight and compelled the sea service to lower standards and begin recruiting from groups it had managed to avoid for much of the cold war period: minorities, high school dropouts, people with criminal convictions, and other “undesirables.” The influx of these “lower quality” sailors would foment a social revolution in the Navy—a rebellion exacerbated by the Vietnam War, urban poverty, drugs, black power ideology, and institutional racism. In contrast to the volunteers of the 1960s, these new recruits did not see naval service as a privilege and an opportunity to gain new skills. Rather, many perceived it as a jobs program for the poor and demanded opportunity where none could be found. Until the advent of remedial education programs and test waivers pioneered by Zumwalt and Holloway, a minority sailor with low scores had virtually no chance of entering “A” school and striking for a technical rating. Instead, he often found himself working in dead-end, nonrated jobs historically held by black persons in the Navy (washing dishes, painting, doing laundry, hauling bombs, cleaning decks, etc.). Moreover, his supervisor, a leading petty officer or chief, was inevitably white and old-school navy, as was his division officer. If a minority sailor got into disciplinary trouble, a white master-at-arms would arrest him, and he would be tried by a white captain, who often relied heavily on the statements of white witnesses as the basis for his decision. These new black sailors, in short, confronted a system dominated by white values and standards. To use Stokely Carmichael’s definition of institutional racism, they inhabited a world where the “superior group position prevails.” Admiral Zumwalt, to his credit, saw the storm clouds brewing and worked ardently to spare his fleet from the disaster. With the issuance of Z-66, he established a large minority affairs organization to promote

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Admiral Zumwalt talks with a group of black sailors on the mess deck of the destroyer tender Puget Sound (AD 38), 14 September 1970. (U.S. Navy)

equal opportunity throughout the fleet using a system of human relations councils and representatives. He also set up an advisory committee on race relations and minority affairs, which formulated an extensive racial awareness training program for the fleet and laid the foundations for long-term affirmative action by the Navy. Finally, his general reforms of the enlisted force focusing on such issues as deployment schedules, ship habitability, personal behavior, and enlisted training programs began to make the Navy a more humane place to serve for sailors of all races. But it would take time for these reforms to bear fruit, and time in the end was not on Zumwalt’s side. Racial unrest erupted not only on Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa but on a multitude of other ships and shore installations throughout the Navy during 1972 and 1973. The Hicks Subcommittee blamed the unrest on Kitty Hawk on a handful of undisciplined “thugs.” But the problem was larger than criminality: it had been fostered by general racial unrest in American society and

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inflamed by the institutional racism in the Navy. Minority affairs councils alone were not a substitute for increased minority representation in the chain of command. Black sailors generally perceived these councils to be powerless window dressing with no real authority on a ship. In large measure, they were correct. By long-established tradition dating back to the age of sail, a commanding officer runs a Navy ship with an executive officer as second-in-command and division heads in charge of its major functional areas. Chiefs and leading petty officers act as intermediaries between division heads and the enlisted workforce and also serve as a wellspring of technical knowledge for the ship. In this rigid hierarchy, a minority affairs council had no formal authority. As a consequence, black sailors demanding change often sought a direct audience with the skipper or XO; no other officer could fulfill this role. If top-level officers, like Ward, did agree to violate the principle of the chain of command and speak directly with these low-level sailors, the cultural gap between them was often so vast that no effective solutions could be crafted. For example, black sailors might complain that captain’s masts were unjust because more blacks than whites received jail time. Commanders would then defend their judgments by arguing that punishments were determined by the nature of the infraction and the past record of the sailor—an unconvincing argument for black sailors because it was still a system dominated by white officers, petty officers, and witnesses and enforced by white masters-at-arms. Similarly, if a black sailor complained about work assignments, Townsend might respond that “a man can rise as far as he wishes in the Navy based on hard work and selfdiscipline.” This principle might have been the case for college-educated officers but certainly was not possible for an enlisted sailor with very limited education and low test scores. Fortunately for the Kitty Hawk, its XO was a black man who understood the plight of the black sailor and could defuse a volatile situation through empathy and personal example. In no other major Navy riot was this the case. Black sailors represented a changed civilian world, while the white chain of command represented a Navy culture stuck in the social and cultural world of the 1950s. Most of these white men had never had any professional experience with black people. Most, for that matter, rarely socialized with civilians. Their lives revolved around ships, squadrons, and military schools—a separate and distinct naval culture with many antiquated social traditions and mores.

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What set Zumwalt apart from many senior officers in the Navy was his ability to recognize the breadth of the Navy’s social problems combined with an ability to find officers such as William Norman who could help him craft changes. Norman acted as a behind-the-scenes architect for many of the admiral’s programs and also raised Zumwalt’s consciousness of the issue by telling him of his own experiences in the Navy as a black man. Norman, however, did not turn the CNO into an iconoclast. Zumwalt possessed an iconoclastic streak from his earliest days in uniform and made changes not simply for the betterment of minorities but for all enlisted sailors. His propensity to enact “radical” change outraged many retired officers and members of Congress. These men had fond memories of the “old” Navy of the 1950s and 1960s and did not understand how the service’s personnel pool had changed. Instead, they perceived any whiff of equal opportunity and affirmative action as threats to the meritocracy that had allowed many of them to flourish in the Navy. Following the unrest on Kitty Hawk, Constellation, and Hassayampa, these forces of reaction culminated in the congressional hearings on disciplinary problems in the U.S. Navy. In the end, these hearings were a thinly veiled attempt to blame the current unrest on an erosion of discipline caused by Zumwalt’s reforms of the fleet and not on institutional racism endemic in the Navy combined with a large infusion of category IV and V sailors. Admiral Zumwalt fought back by using these sessions as a vehicle for promoting his more enlightened personnel policies and highlighting other concerns such as the Navy’s aging ships and its overstretched workforce of sailors. But in the end, the subcommittee had a welldefined agenda that could not be swayed by the logic of Zumwalt’s arguments. It produced a report arguing that the Navy suffered from an atmosphere of permissiveness and that the Kitty Hawk and Constellation affairs were caused not by institutional racism but by a handful of criminal “thugs,” a failure by middle management to lead them properly, and a “special interest group” minority affairs bureaucracy that allowed these “thugs” to bypass the normal chain of command to have grievances addressed. Fortunately for Zumwalt and his programs, the subcommittee’s bark proved worse than its bite. The events surrounding Watergate and the Linebacker II bombing of North Vietnam distracted Congress and made it difficult for F. Edward Hébert and others to med-

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dle in Navy affairs. The American media also strongly supported Zumwalt throughout the hearings and chastised the Hicks Subcommittee for daring to question the need for strong equal opportunity programs in the Navy. During the early 1970s, Zumwalt not only established minority affairs representatives at every base, squadron, and ship in the Navy but also implemented a variety of other innovative programs designed to accommodate minority personnel. Project BOOST, for example, helped sailors gain admission to officer commissioning programs such as the Naval Academy and NROTC by tutoring them in academic subjects. To attract talented black youth to the Navy, Zumwalt established a marketing campaign, using the major black media, and also set up NROTC programs at predominantly black colleges. To broaden access to technical ratings, Zumwalt implemented remedial education programs designed to help disadvantaged youths to score higher on the AFQT and ordered that the test itself be rewritten to eliminate cultural biases. The Navy’s Domestic Action Program sought to improve the image of the service in the black community through a series of youth employment and health care programs. As part of this public relations campaign, Zumwalt also named two ships after black naval heroes: the frigates Jesse Brown (FF 1089) and Doris Miller (FF 1091). But increased efforts to recruit talented blacks into the Navy and public relations campaigns could not abolish institutional racism overnight. The Navy, Zumwalt reasoned, needed shock therapy to convince majority members of the existence of racism. UPWARD, the cornerstone of the program, provided twenty hours of training to junior officers and noncommissioned petty officers. Racial epithets often caused racial unrest to come to the surface, lending merit to awareness training, especially if it could instruct members of the fleet regarding acceptable and unacceptable behavior. It faltered, however, when it tried to convert ordinary sailors to the cause of equal opportunity. UPWARD could not change attitudes and turn racists into civil rights marchers, but it could prevent them from displaying such attitudes while in uniform and perhaps emphasize that the concept of “shipmate” transcended race, ethnicity, and social origin. Admiral Zumwalt’s successor, James Holloway III, clearly recognized the importance of inspired black leadership in solving the Navy’s race relations problem. He therefore slowly shifted the focus of the

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Chief Thomas E. Ward, an African American drillmaster, inspects a recruit color guard, 2 September 1970. A major long-term goal of both Zumwalt and Holloway was to promote more African Americans to leadership roles. In the Navy, chief petty officers are considered the core of middle management. (U.S. Navy)

Navy’s battle against racism away from awareness training and toward affirmative action. Zumwalt started most of the programs outlined in Holloway’s Navy Affirmative Action Plan, but the NAAP gave these reforms gravity and helped to institutionalize them. Some naval historians view Holloway as a counterrevolutionary for his reversal of many of Zumwalt’s personnel policies, but in the area of race relations, he proved a loyal supporter of his predecessor’s main mission of better-

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ing the plight of the black sailor. Working tirelessly to recruit more black officers, Holloway also strove to get more black sailors into “A” schools via remedial education and in-fleet training programs. In the long run, programs aimed at creating more opportunities for blacks in the service have improved the service’s image among this group. A 2004 survey of 3,746 officers of all races revealed that 75 percent were “aware of Navy’s diversity efforts, support them, and have a good idea of what diversity means.” The survey also revealed that “minorities (particularly black officers) are the most positive about diversity efforts.”1 A 2005 survey of 8,800 sailors and officers of all races confirmed these findings. More than 50 percent of those polled indicated that diversity is important to building a quality force, that the effort will benefit everyone, and that it will unify personnel. Fewer than one-third believed diversity will lower Navy standards.2 A Navy diversity strategy paper stated in 2006 that “climate perception for all groups has improved” and that “minorities and females perceive that their opportunities for advancement, promotion, and fairness in discipline” are better now than “in the past.”3 Still, the Navy continues to recognize that improving diversity in its ranks is a constant challenge. While in 2003 blacks represented 12.7 percent of the overall U.S. population, they constituted only 7.6 percent of the officer corps.4 Therefore, it is doubtful that proportional representation will be achieved by the Navy officer corps in the near future. Furthermore, “diversity” in today’s Navy does not refer only to African Americans but also to Hispanics, other minorities, and females. Women now represent 50 percent of the workforce, and Hispanics are projected to reach 13.3 percent by 2010. Hence, the Navy’s diversity management program must now wage war on multiple fronts to maintain a diverse force. Fortunately, thanks to efforts begun by Admiral Zumwalt, institutional racism does not plague the service in the same way it did in 1970. Minorities and women may still have a less favorable impression of the service than male Caucasians, but these groups no longer feel that the system is aligned against them: as the 2005 survey revealed, twothirds of officers and half of enlisted forces are personally committed to diversity or actively support it. That is a “sea change” of tremendous proportions from the 1970s, when groups of white and black sailors squared off against one another to engage in violence fueled by institutional racism and a climate of fear and despair.

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Appendix Navy Ranks and Ratings, 1973

A. Enlisted Ranks Master Chief Petty Officer (E-9) Senior Chief Petty Officer (E-8) Chief Petty Officer (E-7) Petty Officer First Class (E-6) Petty Officer Second Class (E-5) Petty Officer Third Class (E-4) Seaman (E-3) Seaman Apprentice (E-2) Seaman Recruit (E-1) N.B. Personnel below the rank of petty officer are known as “nonrated” because they do not hold a specialty rating. Rated enlisted personnel usually hold the rank of petty officer third class or higher and are generally referred to by their rate. Hence, a boatswain’s mate who is a petty officer second class is called “BM1.” However, when personnel achieve the rank of chief petty officer or higher, they are generally called by a chief title. For example, a senior chief with a boatswain’s mate rating is simply called “senior chief.”

B. Officer Ranks Admiral (O-10) Vice Admiral (O-9) Rear Admiral Upper Half (O-8) Rear Admiral Lower Half (O-7) Captain (O-6)

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272 | Appendix

Commander (O-5) Lieutenant Commander (O-4) Lieutenant (O-3) Lieutenant Junior Grade (O-2) Ensign (O-1)

C. Warrant Officer Ranks Chief Warrant Officer (W-4) Chief Warrant Officer (W-3) Chief Warrant Officer (W-2) Warrant Officer (W-1)

D. Major Enlisted Ratings 1970 and Percentage of Blacks in Those Ratings Aerographer’s Mate (AG): 1.79 Air Controlman (AC): 1.89 Aircrew Survival Equipmentman (PR): 1.99 Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Operator (AW): 0.58 Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician (AX): 0.81 Aviation Boatswain’s Mate (ABH): 5.66 Aviation Electronics Mate (AE): 2.98 Aviation Electronics Technician (AT): 1.72 Aviation Fire Control Technician (AQ): 1.55 Aviation Machinist’s Mate (AD): no data Aviation Maintenance Adminstrationman (AZ): 3.47 Aviation Mechanic/Jet (ADR/J): 4.27 Aviation Ordnanceman (AO): 3.44 Aviation Storekeeper (AK): 6.52 Aviation Structural Mechanic (AM): no data Aviation Support Equipment Technician (AS): 3.37 Boatswain’s Mate (BM): 10.3 Boiler Technician (BT): 6.16 Boilermaker (BR): 6.66 Builder (BU): 2.50 Commissaryman (CS): 9.45

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Communications Technician (CT): 1.20 Construction Electrician (CE): 2.24 Construction Mechanic (CM): no data Cryptologic Technician Interpretive (CTI): 0.62 Cryptologic Technician Maintenance (CTM): 0.38 Data Processing Technician (DP): 2.93 Data Systems Technician (DS): 1.41 Dental Technician (DT): 6.10 Disbursing Clerk (DK): 3.36 Electrician’s Mate (EM): 2.86 Electronic Warfare Technician (EW): no data Electronics Technician (ET): no data Engineering Aid (EA): 1.16 Engineman (EN): 4.70 Equipment Operator (EO): 2.97 Fire Control Technician (FT): 1.71 Gunner’s Mate (GM): 5.42 Hospital Corpsman (HM): 5.42 Hull Maintenance Technician (HT): no data Illustrator Draftsman (DM): 3.98 Instrumentman (IM): 3.02 Interior Communications Electrician (IC): 2.19 Journalist (JO): 4.73 Legalman (LN): no data Lithographer (LI): 4.38 Machinery Repairman (MR): 1.89 Machinist’s Mate (MM): 3.68 Mineman (MN): 2.53 Missile Technician (MT): 1.65 Molder (ML): 4.26 Musician (MU): no data Ocean Systems Technician (OT): 1.44 Opticalman (OM): 1.36 Patternmaker (PM): 1.58 Personnelman (PN): 3.66 Photographer’s Mate (PH): 4.77 Photographic Inteligenceman (PT): 0.35 Postal Clerk (PC): 8.34 Quartermaster (QM): 3.55

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274 | Appendix

Radarman (RD): 3.09 Radioman (RM): 3.97 Ships Serviceman (SH): 22.6 Signalman (SM): 7.6 Sonar Technician (ST): 1.95 Steelworker (SW): 1.93 Steward (SD): 5.58 Storekeeper (SK): 7.48 Torpedoman’s Mate (TM): 3.16 Tradesman (TD): 1.03 Utilitiesman (UT): 4.58 Yeoman (YN): 5.18 Unrated Categories: Airman (AN): 11.18 Seaman (SN): 10.68 Fireman (FN): 7.51 Constructionman (CM): 5.84 source: The Bluejackets’ Manual. Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute, 1973. Percentage information comes from 5270/1 Files, 1970, 00 Records, AR.

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Notes

notes to the prologue 1. LCDR Dallas Pickard, Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Connected with the Disturbances Which Occurred at Correctional Center Great Lakes, Illinois, on 8 and 9 February, JAG Manual Investigation, Enclosure 34, Zumwalt Papers, Operational Archives (AR), U.S. Naval Historical Center (NHC). 2. Ibid. 3. Pickard, JAGMAN, Enclosure 7. 4. Pickard, JAGMAN, Synopsis of Report of Investigation into Disorders at the Correctional Center, Great Lakes. 5. Pickard, JAGMAN, Findings of Fact, 9. 6. Ibid., 8. 7. Pickard, JAGMAN, Second Endorsement, 3. 8. Pickard, JAGMAN, Synopsis of Report. 9. Stokely Carmichael and Charles Hamilton, Black Power (New York: Vintage, 1967), 5. 10. Author interview, Bernard Cavalcante, 1 May 2005. notes to chapter 1 1. Elmo R. Zumwalt Jr., On Watch: A Memoir (New York: Quadrangle, 1976), 198. 2. James Barker Farr, Black Odyssey: Seafaring Traditions of Afro-Americans (New York: Peter Lang, 1989), 106. 3. Ibid., 111–113. 4. Letter from Benjamin Stoddert to LT Henry Kenyon, Navy Department, 8 August 1898, in Morris J. MacGregor and Bernard C. Nalty, eds., Blacks in the United States Armed Forces: Basic Documents, vol. 1 (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 1977), 192. 5. For more on Stoddert’s biography, see S. Charles Bolton, “Stoddert, Benjamin,” in John A. Garraty and Mark C. Carnes, eds., American National Biography, vol. 20 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 825–826.

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276 | Notes to Chapter 1 6. See Farr, Black Odyssey, 114. 7. Michael A. Palmer, Stoddert’s War: Naval Operations during the Quasi War with France, 1798–1801 (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1987), 18. 8. For the full text of these letters, see William S. Dudley and Michael J. Crawford, eds., The Naval War of 1812: A Documentary History, vol. 2, 1813 (Washington, DC: U.S. Naval Historical Center, 1992), 529–531. 9. Bernard C. Nalty, Long Passage to Korea: Black Sailors and the Integration of the U.S. Navy (Washington, DC: U.S. Naval Historical Center, 2003), 6. 10. Robert J. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black: Racial Integration of the United States Naval Academy (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, forthcoming). 11. Bernard C. Nalty, Strength for the Fight: A History of Black Americans in the Military (New York: Free Press, 1989), 33. 12. A partnership of researchers from the U.S. Naval Historical Center, the National Park Service, and Howard University is currently involved in this identification process. See Nalty, Long Passage to Korea, 9–10. 13. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black; Nalty, Long Passage to Korea, 12–13. 14. CDR Robert R. M. Emmett, letter to CAPT Leigh Noyes, 19 October 1932, quoted in Richard E. Miller, The Messman Chronicles: African Americans in the U.S. Navy, 1932–1943 (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2004), 8. 15. Nalty, Long Passage to Korea, 15. 16. Chester A. Wright, “The U.S. Navy’s Human Resource Management Programs in the Aftermath of the USS Kitty Hawk/Constellation Racial Incidents” (paper presented at the Thirty-fifth Military Operations Research Symposium at the United States Naval Academy, 2 July 1975), AR, 17–19. 17. Actually, her husband worked as a civilian employee in the Naval Aviation Department. See Lloyd M. Abernethy, “The Washington Race War of July 1919,” Maryland Historical Magazine 58 (December 1963): 315n22. 18. They did not hit anyone. See ibid. 19. Ibid., 309 – 322; Constance McLaughlin Green, Washington: Capital City, 1879–1950 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1963), 266–267; “Capital Clashes Increase,” New York Times, 22 July 1919, 1; Wright, “The U.S. Navy’s Human Resource Management Programs,” 17; Terry Ann Knopf, “Race, Riots, and Reporting,” Journal of Black Studies 4 (March 1974): 303– 313. 20. Wright, “The U.S. Navy’s Human Resource Management Programs,” 17. 21. See Miller, The Messman Chronicles, 6. 22. For more on the Doris Miller story, see ibid., 285–319; and Naval Historical Center, “Ship’s Cook Third Class Doris Miller, USN,” www.history.navy .mil/faqs/faq57-4.htm, accessed 20 August 2006. 23. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black.

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Notes to Chapter 1 | 277 24. The Navy accidentally commissioned Harvard medical student Bernard Whitfield Brown on 8 June 1942 because the recruiter, who had not seen Brown before the commissioning, thought he was white. On 28 September 1942, the Navy commissioned Oscar Wayman Holmes in the Civil Aeronautics Administration–War Training Program before learning that Holmes, a light-skinned person, was black. Holmes was also the first African American to earn the naval aviator designation. For more on Holmes, see Robert J. Schneller, “Oscar Holmes: A Place in Naval Aviation,” Naval Aviation News, January–February 1998, 26–27. See also Robert J. Schneller, Breaking the Color Barrier: The U.S. Naval Academy’s First Black Midshipmen and the Struggle for Racial Equality (New York: New York University Press, 2005), 155. 25. The V-12 program sent 120,000 men to civilian colleges to receive up to seven semesters of education. These selectees attended school in uniform and received commissions upon successful completion of the program. Many returned to college after the war to complete undergraduate or graduate degrees. For more details, see U.S. Navy Memorial Foundation, The Navy V-12 Program, www.lonesailor.org/v12history.php, accessed 20 September 2006. 26. For more on the Golden Thirteen, see Paul Stillwell, ed., The Golden Thirteen: Reflections of the First Black Naval Officers (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1993). 27. For more on the Port Chicago explosion, see Robert L. Allen, The Port Chicago Mutiny (New York: Warner Books, 1989). 28. U.S. Naval Historical Center, Port Chicago Naval Magazine Explosion, 1944, www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq80-1.htm, accessed 20 September 2006. 29. Courts-martial eventually convicted the men who fired the fatal shots of voluntary manslaughter. See Nalty, Strength for the Fight, 195–196. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid., 196. 32. Forrestal quoted in Schneller, Breaking the Color Barrier, 158. 33. Bureau of Personnel, U.S. Navy Department, Guide to Command of Negro Naval Personnel, 12 February 1945, vol. 6., 275–293. 34. “Affirmative action” did not come into effect in the general society until the 1960s. 35. Nalty, Long Passage to Korea, 26. 36. Ibid., 27. 37. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black. 38. Nalty, Long Passage to Korea, 30. 39. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black. 40. Nalty, Long Passage to Korea, 30. 41. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black. 42. Dennis D. Nelson, The Integration of the Negro into the U.S. Navy (New York: Farrar, Straus and Young, 1951), 227.

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278 | Notes to Chapter 1 43. William T. Bowers, William M. Hammond, and George L. MacGarrigle, Black Soldier, White Army: The 24th Infantry Regiment in Korea (Washington, DC: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 1996), 27. 44. Nalty, Strength for the Fight, 263. 45. Ibid., 265. 46. Author interview, Richard E. Miller, the author of The Messman Chronicles, 20 August 2006. 47. The policy of recruiting Philippine nationals into the U.S. Navy exclusively as stewards was modified in 1971 by State Department agreement with the Philippine government to allow Filipinos entering the Navy to strike for any enlisted rating they were considered qualified for by means of education, prior experience, and security qualifications. In 1992, the Navy stopped recruiting Filipinos. See Bureau of Naval Personnel, Filipinos in the United States Navy, October 1976, www.history.navy.mil/library/online/filipinos.htm, accessed 18 August 2006. 48. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black. 49. MacGregor and Nalty, Basic Documents, vol. 12, “Memorandum on Recruitment Trends,” 16 July 1963, 527–559. 50. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black. 51. Gerhard A. Gesell, The President’s Committee on Equal Opportunity in the Armed Forces Report, AR, 6–8. 52. For more on the Army’s experiences with integration, see Morris J. MacGregor, Integration of the Armed Forces, 1940–1965 (Washington, DC: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 1981); and Bowers, Hammond, and MacGarrigle, Black Soldier, White Army. 53. Gesell Committee Report, 43. 54. Ibid., 45. 55. While Ivey was the first black officer to serve on New Jersey, other blacks had served on battleships before him. For example, Samuel Gravely served on Iowa (BB 61) in 1953 as a communications officers and in various capacities, including assistant operations officer. See Samuel L. Gravely bio file, AR. 56. Nalty, Long Passage to Korea, 45. 57. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black; Gesell Committee Report, 43. 58. A DOD survey in 1964, for example, found that 75 percent of Naval Reserve enlistments were draft related. George Q. Flynn, The Draft, 1940 – 1973 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1993), 209. notes to chapter 2 1. Micheal Clodfelter, Vietnam in Military Statistics: A History of the Indochina Wars, 1772–1991 (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1995), 243.

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Notes to Chapter 2 | 279 2. U.S. Selective Service System, History and Records, www.sss.gov/hist.htm, accessed 18 August 2006. 3. Nalty, Strength for the Fight, 298. 4. Clodfelter, Vietnam in Military Statistics, 245; Herman Graham III, The Brothers’ Vietnam War: Black Power, Manhood, and the Military Experience (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2004), 16–17. 5. Nalty, Strength for the Fight, 60. 6. Flynn, The Draft, 209. 7. See Terrence Cullinan, “The Courage to Compel,” in Martin Anderson, ed., The Military Draft: Selected Readings on Conscription (Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press, 1982), 452–453. 8. Ibid., 453. 9. Flynn, The Draft, 209. 10. Harkness quoted in Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 25. 11. Flynn, The Draft, 231. 12. SSgt Leon Thomas, USMC, quoted in Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 25. 13. E-mail from Danny J. Crawford, USMC History and Museums Division, to author, 17 May 2004. 14. Ronald H. Spector, After Tet: The Bloodiest Year in Vietnam (New York: Free Press, 1993), 34. 15. Stokely Carmichael quoted in Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 27. 16. Eldridge Cleaver quoted in Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 29. 17. Malcolm X as cited by Bartleby.com, www.bartleby.com/quotations/ 022003.html, accessed 23 October 2006. 18. Harvard Sitkoff, The Struggle for Black Equality, 1954 – 1980 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1981), 200. 19. Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 100. 20. Lamont Steptoe quoted in ibid., 105. 21. Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 107. 22. Lonnie Alexander as quoted in ibid., 105. 23. Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 109. 24. Ibid., 110. 25. Spector, After Tet, 276. 26. Mulroney as quoted by Gary D. Solis, Marines and Military Law in Vietnam: Trial by Fire (Washington, DC: USMC History and Museums Division, 1989), 103. 27. Solis, Marines and Military Law in Vietnam, 126–127. 28. Cecil Barr Currey, Long Binh Jail: An Oral History of Vietnam’s Notorious U.S. Military Prison (Dulles, VA: Brassey’s, 1999), 73. 29. Spector, After Tet, 274.

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280 | Notes to Chapter 2 30. Ibid., 277. 31. Prosser quoted in Currey, Long Binh Jail, 73–74. 32. Armstrong quoted in Solis, Marines and Military Law in Vietnam, 171. 33. Spector, After Tet, 272. 34. Ibid., 273. 35. James L. Holloway III, “Where Are the Carriers? Korea, Vietnam, and the Cold War: A Personal Retrospective,” draft manuscript, August 2006, Naval Historical Foundation, chap. 19. 36. Spector, After Tet, 255; Currey, Long Binh Jail, 49. 37. Currey, Long Binh Jail, 28–29. 38. Ibid., 33. 39. Ibid., 51. 40. Ibid., 95. 41. Ibid., 97. 42. Clifford Prosser quoted in Currey, Long Binh Jail, 77. 43. Jimi Childress quoted in Currey, Long Binh Jail, 3. 44. During the Vietnam War, black servicemen often used the term “chuck” to identify white individuals. Servicemen of all races also used it as a slang term for the Viet Cong (the enemy). See Currey, Long Binh Jail, 53, 116, 127. 45. Unnamed white inmate quoted in Currey, Long Binh Jail, 13. 46. Ernest B. Talps quoted in Currey, Long Binh Jail, 125. 47. Spector, After Tet, 243. 48. Ibid., 243. 49. Currey, Long Binh Jail, 141–142. 50. Mike Doherty as quoted in Currey, Long Binh Jail, 142. 51. COL Herbert Green as quoted by Currey, Long Binh Jail, 142. 52. Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 124. 53. Spector, After Tet, 253. 54. Graham, The Brothers’ Vietnam War, 124. 55. Clodfelter, Vietnam in Military Statistics, 247; Solis, Marines and Military Law in Vietnam, 171, 193–194. 56. Alan L. Gropman. The Air Force Integrates, 1945–1964 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1985), 207. 57. Ibid., 216. 58. This organization was eventually renamed the Defense Equal Opportunity Management Institute (DEOMI) in July 1979. For more on DEOMI and its history, see Defense Equal Opportunity Management Institute, History, www .patrick.af.mil/deomi/About%20DEOMI/DeomiHistory.htm, accessed 20 September 2006. See also Gropman, The Air Force Integrates, 216–217. 59. LCDR William S. Norman, Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations, Subj: Lessons Learned from Air Force Racial Incidents, OP-00M, 22 October 1971, 5720/1 Files, 00 Records, AR.

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Notes to Chapter 3 | 281

notes to chapter 3 1. Timothy Francis, “Money, Management, and Manpower: Important Variables in the Design and Acquisition of Oliver Hazard Perry–Class Frigates,” Report, Ships History Branch (SH), NHC, 2. 2. Author interview, William Norman, 1 September 2005. 3. Norman Friedman, “Elmo Russell Zumwalt, 1 July 1970–1 July 1974,” in Robert William Love Jr., ed., The Chiefs of Naval Operations (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1980), 365. 4. Zumwalt, On Watch, 198. 5. Regina Akers, Interview with Rear Admiral Roberta L. Hazard, USN, Ret., NHC, 1994. 6. Elmo Zumwalt Jr. and Elmo Zumwalt III, with John Pekkanen, My Father, My Son (New York: Macmillan, 1986), 9–11. 7. Ibid., 9. 8. Ibid., 10. 9. Zumwalt, On Watch, 24. 10. Ibid., 24. 11. U.S. Naval Historical Center, Elmo Zumwalt, Jr., www.history.navy.mil/ faqs/faq93-1.htm, accessed 20 September 2006; U.S. Naval Historical Center, USS Robinson (DD 562) History, www.history.navy.mil/danfs/r7/robinson-ii .htm, accessed 20 September 2006. 12. Norman interview, 1 September 2005; Zumwalt, On Watch, 1–22. 13. Zumwalt and Zumwalt, My Father, My Son, 13. 14. George C. Marshall as quoted in ibid., 14. 15. See Letter of Commendation for Elmo Russell Zumwalt Jr., 21 January 1954, U.S. Naval Historical Center Medal Files, AR. 16. Zumwalt and Zumwalt, My Father, My Son, 110–111. 17. Ibid., 116. 18. Ibid., 20–21. 19. Ibid., 38–39; Zumwalt, On Watch, 28–29. 20. Zumwalt, On Watch, 33. 21. ADM James L. Holloway III quoted in Edgar F. Puryear Jr., American Admiralship: The Moral Imperatives of Naval Command (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2005), 454. 22. Zumwalt and Zumwalt, My Father, My Son, 41, 103. 23. Zumwalt, On Watch, 186. 24. David F. Winkler, Cold War at Sea: High Seas Confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2000), 48. 25. Zumwalt, On Watch, 392–393. 26. Friedman, “Elmo Russell Zumwalt,” 366–367.

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282 | Notes to Chapter 3 27. Zumwalt, On Watch, 36. 28. Zumwalt and Zumwalt, My Father, My Son, 39. 29. Zumwalt, On Watch, 40. 30. Ibid., 40–41. 31. Edward J. Marolda, By Sea, Air, and Land: An Illustrated History of the U.S. Navy and the War in Southeast Asia, chap. 4, www.history.navy.mil/ seairland/chap4.htm, accessed 20 September 2006. 32. For more on the role of the Navy in SEALORDS, see Thomas J. Cutler, Brown Water, Black Berets: Coastal and Riverine Warfare in Vietnam (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1988). 33. Zumwalt and Zumwalt, My Father, My Son, 48. 34. Ibid., 61. 35. Marolda, By Sea, Air, and Land, chap. 4. 36. Zumwalt and Zumwalt, My Father, My Son, 103; Zumwalt, On Watch, 167. 37. Zumwalt, On Watch, 167. 38. Ibid., 198. 39. Draper L. Kauffman was a pioneering underwater demolition expert and a renowned Navy educator. A 1933 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, Draper received two Navy Crosses in World War II for his work as a bomb disposal expert, and as the commander of the Navy’s first underwater demolition team. After the war, he organized and commanded the U.S. Navy’s Radiological Safety School, taught as a professor at the Naval War College, and served as the superintendent of the Naval Academy from 1965 to 1968. He also commanded a destroyer, a destroyer division, a cruiser, and a cruiser-destroyer flotilla during the cold war. Draper retired from the Navy in 1973 at the rank of rear admiral. In 1987, the U.S. Navy named one of its Oliver Hazard Perry – class frigates (FFG 59) after Draper and his father, Vice Admiral James L. Kauffman (1887– 1963). For more, see RADM Draper L. Kauffman, Bio File, AR. 40. Jack White, “Seven Days in July,” Proceedings 98 (January 1972): 38–41. 41. Norman interview, 1 September 2005; Zumwalt, On Watch, 199. 42. Zumwalt, On Watch, 168. 43. Norman interview, 1 September 2005. 44. Norman interview, 1 September 2005; Zumwalt, On Watch, 201. 45. Zumwalt, On Watch, 199–200. 46. Norman interview, 1 September 2005. 47. William Stanley Norman, Personal Data Sheet, 5720/1 Files, 1972, 00 Records, AR; Norman interview, 1 September 2005; William Norman, Résumé, Personal Files of William S. Norman, 7 September 2005. 48. Zumwalt, On Watch, 199–201; Zumwalt and Zumwalt, My Father, My Son, 120.

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Notes to Chapter 3 | 283 49. SECNAVINST 5350.6A CH-1, 16 February 1970, 5720/1 Files, 1973, 00 Records, AR. 50. Ibid. 51. RADM David H. Bagley, Pers-P, Memorandum for CNO, Subj: Race Relations in the U.S. Navy, 8 March 1973, 5720/1 Files, 1973, 00 Records, AR. 52. Elmo R. Zumwalt Jr., Z-gram No. 66: (Equal Opportunity), 17 December 1970, www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq93-66.htm, accessed 20 September 2006. 53. ADM James L. Holloway III quoted in Puryear, American Admiralship, 461; Norman interview, 1 September 2005. 54. ADM Elmo Zumwalt Jr., Memorandum for various recipients, Subj: Adhoc CNO Advisory Committee for Race Relations and Minority Affairs, 19 January 1971, 5720/1 Files, 1973, 00 Records, AR. 55. Zumwalt, Adhoc CNO Advisory Committee for Race Relations and Minority Affairs, “Navy Race Relations and Minority Affairs Programs,” 8 March 1971, 5720/1 Files, 1972, 00 Records, AR. 56. Ibid. 57. ADM Elmo R. Zumwalt Jr., Memorandum for Fleet Commanders in Chief, Subj: Minority Affairs/Race Relations Programs, 31 March 1972, 5270/1 Files, 1972, 00 Records, AR. 58. Ibid. 59. ADM Elmo R. Zumwalt, Jr. Memorandum for the Secretary of the Navy, Subj: Domestic Action Programs, 28 June 1971, 5720/1 Files, 1971, 00 Records, AR. 60. 1970 NIS Report on Subic Bay as cited in Zumwalt, On Watch, 206– 209. 61. VADM John A. Tyree Jr., Naval Inspector General, Memorandum for the Assistant Secretary of the Navy (Manpower and Reserve Affairs), Subj: Alleged Discrimination in U.S.S. Canopus (AS 34), 16 July 1971, 5720/1 Files, 1971, 00 Records, AR; LCDR William S. Norman, Action Memorandum for CNO, 20 May 1971, William Norman Private Papers; Norman interview, 1 September 2005. 62. Norman interview, 1 September 2005. 63. Zumwalt, On Watch, 214. 64. Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, Principles Driving Navy Policy, November 1972, 5270/1 Files, 1972, AR. 65. Zumwalt, On Watch, 210, 212. 66. A total of 3,648 of the 7,074 blacks recruited in fiscal year 1971 and 3,265 out of 5,875 blacks recruited during the July 1971 to January 1972 period came from test category IV. LCDR William S. Norman, Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations, Subj: Naval Accessions by Race and Mental Group, 24 March 1972, 5720/1 Files, 00 Records, AR.

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284 | Notes to Chapter 3 67. Zumwalt, On Watch, 168, 203–204, 210; Bill Wedertz, ed., The Bluejackets’ Manual, 19th ed. (Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute, 1973), 549. 68. Center for Naval Analyses, INS 10 – 72 Memorandum for CNO, Evidence of Bias in Testing in the Navy, 4 January 1972, 5720/1 Files, 1972, 00 Records, AR. 69. Norman, Naval Accessions by Race and Mental Group, 24 March 1972. 70. Ironically, on 3 October 1972 (nine days before the Kitty Hawk riot), LCDR Norman met with the CNO at his quarters to go over opportunities for minority enlisted personnel. In that meeting, Norman recommended that 70 to 80 percent of all minority recruits be eligible for “A” school—the same percentage as the overall Navy recruitment goal. He also recommended minority category IV inputs should not exceed 20 percent, and that all minorities be given the short Basic Test Battery again to determine “A” school eligibility. Zumwalt approved all these measures. Norman Action Memorandum to CNO, 3 October 1972. notes to chapter 4 1. VADM William D. Houser, DCNO (Air Warfare) Memorandum to CNO, 5 September 1972, 00 Files, AR. 2. JCS Assessment of Linebacker/Pocket Money Campaign, 7 October 1972, Records of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, RG-218, Box 51, National Archives II, College Park, MD. 3. ADM Bernard A. Clarey, Commander in Chief U.S. Pacific Fleet, to Kitty Hawk, 010538Z MAR 72, AR. 4. ADM Bernard A. Clarey, Commander in Chief, U.S. Pacific Fleet, Fourth Endorsement on CAPT Frank S. Haak, Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding an Incident of Racial Violence Which Occurred on Board Kitty Hawk (CVA 63) on the Night of 12 October 1972, 18 November 1972, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 5. Author interview, Marland Townsend, 19 June 2001. 6. Kitty Hawk (CVA 63), Press Release, 25 November 1972, SH. 7. CAPT Marland Townsend, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Committee on Armed Forces, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 6 December 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1100–1118. 8. CAPT Frank S. Haak, Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding an Incident of Racial Violence Which Occurred on Board Kitty Hawk (CVA 63) on the Night of 12 October 1972, 18 November 1972, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 5. 9. Ibid. 10. Author interview, Benjamin Cloud, 15 May 2000.

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Notes to Chapter 4 | 285 11. Townsend went on to state that he did hold division officers responsible for their spaces and that in some cases, not holding inspections was “almost negligent.” See CAPT Marland Townsend, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Committee on Armed Forces, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 6 December 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1122. 12. Cloud interview, 15 May 2000. 13. According to the ship’s first lieutenant, Patrick McGinty, the general squalor of some of the berthing areas did not improve much even after the riots. “I recall one time—several months after the disturbance—inspecting the berthing compartment of Fourth Division. At least one Black sailor was sleeping with no sheets on his bunk. Apparently neither he nor his petty officers took the initiative to correct this problem.” Patrick McGinty, e-mail to author, 21 June 2005. 14. Author interview, Terry Avinger, 27 May 2000. 15. Author interview, Marvin Davidson, 9 August 2000. 16. Capt. Nicholas Carlucci, USMC, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 6 December 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1328. 17. Carlucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1329. 18. Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1133. 19. For more on dapping, see “Black Power in Viet Nam,” Time, 19 September 1968, 22–23. 20. Davidson interview, 9 August 2000. 21. CDR Benjamin Cloud quoted in narrative summaries of recorded testimony of witnesses testifying in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation. 22. EN1 Jimmy A. Randolph quoted in narrative summaries of recorded testimony of witnesses testifying in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation. 23. Unless otherwise noted, the source for this section is Avinger interview, 27 May 2000. 24. Roster of Kitty Hawk personnel charged with offenses under the UCMJ, Enclosure 188, in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 30. 25. Unless otherwise noted, the source for this section is Cloud interview, 15 May 2000. 26. Townsend interview, 19 June 2001. 27. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1199. 28. Ibid., 1172. 29. For more on Klusmann, see Evasion and Escape Branch (AFNIABB),

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286 | Notes to Chapter 4 Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, Headquarters United States Air Force, Evasion and Escape Memorandum Eight, LT Charles F. Klusmann: Prisoner of the Pathet Lao, Vietnam Command Files (Personnel), AR. 30. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1176. 31. Marland Townsend, letter to author, 10 October 2006. 32. Unless otherwise noted, the source for this section is author interview, Nicholas Carlucci, 31 July 2000. 33. 1 CTZ Summary 4–11 September 1967, Operation Swift, Operations Files, Vietnam War CD 42, USMC History and Museums Division, 1999; Gary L. Telfer et al., U.S. Marines in Vietnam: Fighting the North Vietnamese, 1967 (Washington, DC: USMC History and Museums Division, 1984), 111–114. 34. Unless otherwise noted, the source for this section is Townsend interview, 20 April 2000. 35. In early 1948, he helped a black steward’s mate secure a meritorious transfer to another rating. Later, in 1968, he broke up a fight between white and black enlisted men in his squadron. Disgusted with such behavior, he simply ordered these men to cease and desist, and they did. Townsend, in short, was accustomed to solving personnel problems rapidly with a fatherly bearing, good sense of humor, and keen analytical mind. He had no experience with widespread, deep-rooted problems such as those he would confront on Kitty Hawk. 36. VF-143, Squadron History, 1 January 1966 to 31 December 1966, 10 April 1967, AH. 37. Ibid. 38. VF-143, Squadron History, 1 January 1967 to 31 December 1967, 5 April 1968, AH. 39. The U.S. military acquired the MiG from Israel in early 1967. 40. Zumwalt, On Watch, 125. 41. Marland Townsend, letter to author, 10 October 2006. 42. Testimony of MM2 William J. McNeill in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 58–59. 43. Arthur A. Ageton and William P. Mack, The Naval Officer’s Guide, 7th ed. (Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute, 1967), 561–567; Frederick Bernays Wiener, The Uniform Code of Military Justice: Explanation, Comparative Text and Commentary (Washington, DC: Combat Forces Press, 1950), 64–65. 44. Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1111. 45. Ageton and Mack, The Naval Officer’s Guide, 564. 46. First Endorsement from Commander Attack Carrier Striking Seventh Fleet/Commander Carrier Division Five, in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation. 47. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 10.

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Notes to Chapter 4 | 287 48. Carlucci interview, 1 August 2000. 49. Avinger interview, 3 August 2000. 50. Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1092. 51. Testimony of Chief Aviation Ordinanceman Charles M. Johnson, in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 61–62. 52. Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1113. 53. Ibid. 54. “Kitty Litter,” vol. 1, no. 7, Insert, Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1132. 55. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1179–1180; author interview, Owen Oberg, 4 August 2000. 56. See Kitty Hawk Instruction 1750.2, Insert, Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1073. 57. See OPNAVNOTE 5350 in file 5720/1, 1973, 00 Records, AR. 58. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 12. 59. Author interview, Frank Stoval, 5 September 2000. 60. Testimony of Chief Aviation Ordinanceman Charles M. Johnson, in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 63. 61. Referred to in sailor jargon as a “blanket party.” 62. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 13. 63. Ageton and Mack, The Naval Officer’s Guide, 565. 64. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1182. 65. Ibid., 1173–74. 66. America (CVA 66), History for 1972, 10 April 1973, SH. 67. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1178. 68. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 4. 69. Carlucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1313. 70. Testimony of CAPT Bobby Lee Hatch in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 133. 71. Alderman as quoted Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 136. 72. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 13. 73. Carlucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1307. 74. Ibid., 1316.

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288 | Notes to Chapter 5

notes to chapter 5 1. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 13. 2. Almost all official reports on the Kitty Hawk incident refer to sailors only by rank and last name. Hence, in many cases I am not able to provide a full name for every sailor mentioned in the text. 3. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 17. 4. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1230. 5. Ibid. 6. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 19. 7. Townsend interview, 19 June 2001. 8. Avinger interview, 28 August 2000. 9. Carlucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1299. 10. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 20. 11. Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1124. 12. Cloud interview, 15 May 2000. 13. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1236–1237. 14. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 24. 15. Avinger interview, 28 August 2000. 16. Testimony of CAPT Bobby Lee Hatch, 117, Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation. 17. Carlucci interview, 1 August 2000. 18. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 22. 19. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1234. 20. Ibid., 1239. 21. Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1125. 22. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1249. 23. Carlucci interview, 1 August 2000. 24. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 25. 25. Ibid. 26. Townsend interview, 19 June 2001. 27. Ibid. 28. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1240.

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Notes to Chapter 5 | 289 29. Ibid., 1241. 30. Ibid., 1242. 31. Ibid., 1245. 32. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 30. 33. Townsend Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Morning Session, 1138. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid. 36. Carlucci interview, 1 August 2000. 37. U.S. Congress, House, Committee on Armed Forces, Report by the Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the US Navy, 92nd Cong, 2nd sess., 1973, H.A.S.C. 92 – 81, Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1973, www.history.navy.mil/library/special/racial_incidents.htm#5a1, accessed 20 September 2006. For more on the Saratoga affair, see Carol Reardon, Launch the Intruders: A Naval Attack Squadron in the Vietnam War, 1972 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2005), 258–260. 38. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, 31. 39. Ibid., 30. 40. Ibid., 37. 41. Ibid., 38. 42. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1254. 43. Cloud interview, 15 May 2000; Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1256–1257. 44. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1259–1260. 45. Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation, Narrative Summaries of Recorded Testimony of Witnesses, 20; Findings of Fact, 38–39. 46. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1262. 47. CDR F. R. Deane, Medical Report on RM3 Lynwood Patrick, Exhibit 168, in Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation. 48. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1262; Narrative Summaries of Recorded Testimony of Witnesses, 21, Haak, Kitty Hawk Investigation. 49. Davidson interview, 9 August 2000. 50. Author interview, Robert Keel, 12 August 2000. 51. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1267. 52. Ibid. 53. Patrick McGinty, e-mail to author, 21 June 2005.

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290 | Notes to Chapter 5 54. Townsend interview, 19 June 2001. 55. Letter, Zumwalt to Congressman Floyd D. Spence, 2 May 1973, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 56. CAPT James J. McHugh Memorandum for CNO, 00 Control Number 2096, 5 March 1973, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 57. Avinger interview, 28 August 2000. 58. Townsend interview, 19 June 2001. 59. CAPT James J. McHugh, “A Critical Analysis of the Investigation by the Special Subcommittee of the House Armed Services Committee on Disciplinary Problems in the U.S. Navy,” Op-00F, 7 May 1973, 00 Records, AR, 36. notes to chapter 6 1. Thomas Wildenberg, Gray Steel and Black Oil: Fast Tanker and Replenishment at Sea in the U.S. Navy, 1912–1995 (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1996), 244, 248. 2. Author interview, Adolf Neumann, 5 August 2003. 3. Wildenberg, Gray Steel and Black Oil, 220. 4. Ibid., 225. 5. U.S. Naval History Division, Dictionary of American Fighting Ships, vol. 3 (Washington, DC: U.S. Naval History Division, 1968), Hassayampa (AO 145). 6. Hassayampa (AO 145) history, www.usshassayampa.com/Ship’s%20History .htm. 7. Hassayampa (AO 145), Informal Report of USS Hassayampa (AO 145) Feb 1971–Aug 1971 WESTPAC Deployment, Post 46 Command Files, AR; author interview, Robert Olds, 5 November 2003. 8. Author interview, Carl Morris, 22 July 2003. 9. Hassayampa (AO 145), Informal Report of USS Hassayampa (AO 145) Feb 1971–Aug 1971. 10. Adolf Neumann, e-mail to author, 29 August 2003. 11. According to Neumann, “On one of the UNREPS with an Ammunition ship, or AOE (I don’t remember which) we offloaded the retrograde that we’d been collecting from the ships on the gun line. We were asked to take dunnage to make room for the retrograde. The dunnage was packing material used to protect a ship’s cargo during transport. To withstand the weight of the pallets of ammunition, the dunnage had to be very strong. It was heavy, thick Philippine mahogany lumber—beautiful four by fours, six by six, and other heavy lumber pieces. It went immediately into our cargo hold with the other barter goods. After the few nails were pulled out of it, it could be used to make plaques, sea chests, quarterdeck items, and even boats. We swapped it for more supplies that we needed.” Adolf Neumann, e-mail, 29 August 2003. 12. Author interview, Virgil Werner, 22 July 2003.

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Notes to Chapter 6 | 291 13. Morris interview, 22 July 2003. 14. Werner interview, 22 July 2003. 15. Ibid. 16. Olds interview, 5 November 2003. 17. Ibid. 18. Christian G. Appy, Working-Class War: American Combat Soldiers and Vietnam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1993), 284–285. 19. Werner interview, 22 July 2003. 20. Ibid. 21. Appy, Working-Class War, 284–285. 22. Author interview, Douglas Beadle, 27 July 2003; author interview, Edward Lush, 19 August 2003. 23. Lush interview, 19 August 2003; Appy, Working Class War, 285; Werner interview, 22 July 2003. 24. Upon discovering the bale, the ship’s executive officer, William Hannaford, assembled all off-duty crewmen on the fantail and proceeded to give a speech on the evils of marijuana while he threw chunks of marijuana over the side of the ship. According to Neumann, two of the ship’s engineers had tears streaming down their faces while this speech was being made. Neumann interview, 5 August 2003 25. RADM Bernard B. Forbes Jr., Acting Deputy Chief of Naval Personnel, Memorandum for the Assistant Secretary of the Navy (Manpower and Reserve Affairs), Subj: Weekly Sitrep on Drug Abuse and Racial Incidents Ending 7 April 1972, 7 April 1972, 5720/1 Files, 1972, 00 Records, AR. 26. The high incidence of drug use in Southeast Asia during the early 1970s had much to do with the stresses of war. Statistics reveal that servicemen in Southeast Asia were more likely to use drugs than personnel stationed in Europe, where drugs were also readily available. Fortunately, the vast majority of drug users in Southeast Asia did not return home as addicts: 93 percent of firsttime narcotics users and 86 percent of first-time marijuana users stopped using drugs altogether upon their return to the United States. Benjamin C. Dubberly, “Drugs and Drug Use,” in Spencer C. Tucker, ed., Vietnam: A Political, Social, and Military History, vol. 1 (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 1998), 179–180. 27. Werner interview, 22 July 2003. 28. Olds interview, 5 November 2003. 29. The Navy tried to crack down on drug use with random inspections, drug dogs, and drug tests, but in the end, the more it tried to eradicate it, the more underground it went. Crackdowns often forced sailors to switch from easily detectable substances like alcohol to more easily hidden illicit drugs. As the popular Vietnam War saying went, “I can salute an officer with one hand, and take a drag of heroin with the other.” Werner claimed that some officers on Hassayampa turned a blind eye on drugs because they believed that drug busts

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292 | Notes to Chapter 6 might tinge the reputation of the ship. “I got caught with a half ounce of marijuana in my locker. The pot got dumped. There was no report. My bunkmate had a quart of Seagram’s. He was court-martialed.” Werner interview, 22 July 2003; Neumann interview, 5 August 2003. 30. Unless otherwise noted, the sources for this section are author interview, Orville McGuire, 23 July 2003; and Orville W. McGuire, Officer Bio File, AR. 31. For more on the NFO subject, see John Darrell Sherwood, Afterburner: Naval Aviators and the Vietnam War (New York: New York University Press, 2004), 67–125. 32. The source of this section is Neumann interview, 5 August 2003. 33. Leonard F. Mason (DD 852), destroyersonline.com/usndd/dd852/, accessed 20 September 2006. 34. Neumann interview, 5 August 2003. 35. Author interview, Wallace Bennett, 3 July 2003. 36. Author interview, Hank Casserleigh, 24 July 2003. 37. Author interview, Douglas Beadle, 27 July 2003. 38. Wallace Bennett, e-mail to author, 29 August 2003. 39. Bennett interview, 3 July 2003. 40. Bennett, e-mail to author, 28 August 2003. 41. For more on William R. Flanagan, see www.nwc.navy.mil/newrulesets/ biographies/bio_flanagan.htm. 42. Neumann interview, 5 August 2003. 43. Ibid. 44. Beadle interview, 27 July 2003. 45. Neumann interview, 5 August 2003. 46. Unsworn statement by CDR William Hannaford in CAPT Howard L. Beesley, Informal One-Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding a Racial Incident Which Occurred on Board USS Hassayampa (AO 145) on 16 October 1972, 1 November 1972, Enclosure 6, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 47. Unsworn statement by BT1 William S. Bradley, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 5; written statement by LT Adolf Neumann, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 8; unsworn statement by CDR William Hannaford, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 6. 48. Statement by BT1 William S. Bradley, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 5. 49. Written statement by LT Adolf Neumann, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 8. 50. Neumann interview, 5 August 2003; written statement by LT Adolf Neumann, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 8. 51. Statement by BT1 William S. Bradley, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 5.

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Notes to Chapter 6 | 293 52. Neumann interview, 5 August 2003. 53. Unsworn statement by CDR William Hannaford, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 6. 54. McGuire interview, 23 July 2003. 55. Statement by SA Edward James Garrison, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 26. 56. Statement by BTFA Kirk Floyd Taylor, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 17. 57. While attending deep-sea-diving school at the Washington Navy Yard in 1951, Sabal experienced racism firsthand. Although he was not an African American, his superiors advised him not to leave the base during liberty. Because of his dark skin color, these officers feared that Sabal would be attacked in the then working-class white neighborhood just outside the yard in southeast DC. Author interview, Manuel Sabal, 7 August 2003. 58. Statement by CSSA Richard Dale Spence, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 14; statement by SA Wallace Donald Bennett, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 15. 59. Statement by BMC Manuel Sabal, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 9. 60. Statement by ETN3 Donald Gaylord Ream, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 23. 61. Statement by MM3 Dennis J. Miller, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 20. 62. Statement by LT Robert W. Cassell, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 28. 63. Beadle interview, 27 July 2003. 64. Werner interview, 22 July 2003. 65. Ibid. 66. Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Recommendations, 11. 67. Werner interview, 22 July 2003. 68. Statement by CAPT Orville W. McGuire, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 2. 69. Beesley, Hassayampa Riot Investigation, Findings of Fact, 7. 70. Ibid.; Nalty, Strength for the Fight, 322. 71. McGuire interview, 23 July 2003. 72. ADM James L. Holloway, the commander of the U.S. Seventh Fleet at the time, believed that McGuire’s decision to “get underway in order to meet the ship’s operational commitments following the resolution of the racial disturbance was a sound and in keeping with Hassayampa’s demonstrated excellent service to the fleet.” See Second Endorsement, in CAPT Robert J. Trott, “Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Connected with the Collision Involv-

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294 | Notes to Chapter 6 ing USS Hassayampa (AO 145) and SS Pioneer Moon Which Occurred at Subic Bay, Republic of the Philippines on 16 October 1972,” 13 November 1972, Department of the Navy, Office of the Judge Advocate General, Washington Navy Yard, DC. 73. Unsworn statement of LCDR Robert A. Long, Port Services Officer, U.S. Naval Station, Subic Bay, Philippines, in Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Enclosure 35. 74. Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Findings of Fact, 6. 75. Statement of Long in Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Enclosure 35. 76. Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Findings of Fact, 5. 77. Adolf Neumann, e-mail to author, 19 November 2003. 78. CAPT Johnson as cited in Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Findings of Fact, 8. 79. Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Findings of Fact, 13. 80. Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Opinions, 12. 81. Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Findings of Fact, 11. 82. Ibid., 10. 83. Statement of LT Adolf Neumann in Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Enclosure 7. 84. Neumann interview, 5 August 2003. 85. Statement of Long in Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Enclosure 35. 86. Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Findings of Fact, 10. 87. Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Opinions, 12. 88. Holloway Endorsement in Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation. 89. Ibid. 90. Trott, Hassayampa Collision Investigation, Recommendations, 14. 91. Zumwalt, On Watch, 218. 92. Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, 8. 93. Ibid., 9. 94. McGuire interview, 23 July 2003. 95. Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, 9. 96. Nonpunitive letter of censure to Lieutenant Adolph Neumann, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, Enclosure 55. 97. Neumann interview, 5 August 2003 . 98. Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, 9. 99. RADM Philip P. Cole, Commander Service Group Three, First Endorsement, in Beesley, Hassayampa Racial Incident Investigation, 8.

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Notes to Chapter 7 | 295

notes to chapter 7 1. Zumwalt, On Watch, 222. 2. Unless otherwise noted, the source of this section is author interview, J. D. Ward, 14 February 2003. 3. Author interview, Calvin Schmid, 6 March 2003. 4. Author interview, John Schaub, 20 March 2003. 5. Author interview, James Yacabucci, 1 November 2002. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. CDR James Yacabucci, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 21 November 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 313. 10. AZC David L. Wilson, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 21 November 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 355–357. 11. Ibid., 357–359. 12. SR Howard R. Smith, Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Committee on Armed Forces. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 24 November 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 681–682. 13. Ibid., 731. 14. CAPT J. D. Ward, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 21 November 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 963. 15. CINCPACFLT, Memorandum to CNO, Subj: House Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the U.S. Navy, Enclosure 2: Reply to Query Concerning SN Edward Martinez, 19 December 1972, 5720/1 Files, 00 Records, AR. 16. SA Edward A. Martinez, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 7 December 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1515–1518, 1538–1539. 17. RADM John M. Tierney, Informal Investigation of Incidents of Group Protest aboard USS Constellation (CVA 64) Beginning on 3 Nov 1972, JAG Manual, 7 January 1973, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 45. 18. FA John L. Baker, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the

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296 | Notes to Chapter 7 Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 25 November 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 993. 19. EMFN Leroy K. Templeton, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 25 November 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1030–1031. 20. Ibid., 1032. 21. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 8. 22. Ibid. 23. Killiebrew jumped ship without permission for seven days to take care of a family emergency. AA R. Killiebrew, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 24 November 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 773. 24. EM3 M. L. Dawson, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 22 November 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 25. CDR John R. Schaub, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 21 November 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 251; Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 8. 26. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 8. 27. Ward Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 147. 28. Ibid. 29. Wedertz, The Bluejackets’ Manual, 12–13; Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 9; CNA, “Evidence of Bias in Testing.” 30. Wilson Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 361; Yacabucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 325. 31. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 10; Martinez Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 7 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1520–1521. 32. Martinez Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 7 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1521. 33. Smith Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 24 November 1972, Morning Session, 703. 34. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 10; Schaub Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 262. 35. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 10.

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Notes to Chapter 8 | 297 36. Ibid. 37. Henry P. Leifermann, “A Sort of Mutiny: The Constellation Incident,” New York Times Magazine, 18 February 1973, 21. 38. Martinez Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 7 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1525. 39. Ibid. 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid., 694, 741. 42. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 11. 43. A dog wrench is a short piece of pipe used to loosen fittings on a waterproof door. Ibid., 39. 44. Ibid., 48–49. 45. Ibid., 49. notes to chapter 8 1. Ward Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 193. 2. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 11. 3. Ibid., 12. 4. Yacabucci interview, 1 November 2002. 5. Yacabucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 332. 6. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 12. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid., 13. 9. Ibid. 10. Yacabucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 342. 11. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 13. 12. Wilson Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 369. 13. Smith Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 24 November 1972, Morning Session, 697. 14. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 14. 15. Smith Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 24 November 1972, Morning Session, 699–700; Ward Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 158. 16. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 13–14. 17. FA John Baker as quoted by CDR James Yacabucci in Yacabucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 344.

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298 | Notes to Chapter 8 18. CAPT J. D. Ward, “Chronology of USS Constellation (CVA 64) Racial Incident,” Enclosure 4, in Tierney, Constellation Investigation. 19. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Opinions, 49. 20. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 15. 21. Yacabucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 345. 22. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 14–15. 23. CAPT William E. Gross, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 22 November 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 394–396. 24. Ibid., 465. 25. Ward Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 170. 26. Zumwalt, On Watch, 226. 27. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 16; Zumwalt, On Watch, 227. 28. Gross Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 22 November 1972, Morning Session, 424. 29. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Profile of Protest and Grievance Groups, 30. 30. RD3 L. Brown, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 22 November 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 667. 31. Ward Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 222. 32. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 17. 33. Zumwalt, On Watch, 228. 34. Ibid., 228–229. 35. Ibid. 36. Gross Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 22 November 1972, Morning Session, 431. 37. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 18. 38. Ibid., 20–21. 39. Zumwalt, On Watch, 227. 40. CAPT J. D. Ward as quoted by CAPT William Gross, Gross Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 22 November 1972, Morning Session, 487. 41. Zumwalt, On Watch, 230; Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 21. 42. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 21. 43. Ibid., 22; John Murcko, interview with author, 3 March 2003.

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Notes to Chapter 9 | 299 44. Tom Philpott, “Smarter Than They Thought,” Washingtonian, July 2003, 130–133. 45. Zumwalt, On Watch, 233. 46. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Findings of Fact, 22 47. Zumwalt, On Watch, 233. 48. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Opinions, 53. 49. Ibid., 59. 50. Ward interview, February 2003. 51. Tierney, Constellation Investigation, Analysis of Grievances, 31. 52. Ibid. 53. Ibid., 32. notes to chapter 9 1. Zumwalt, On Watch, 222. 2. Ibid., 234. 3. Ibid., 235. 4. Ibid., 236–238. 5. Lincoln did so by enlisting blacks in the Union Army, and Truman, by issuing the 1948 desegregation order to the military. 6. “Zumwalt and the New Navy,” editorial, Los Angeles Times, 7 December 1972, 6, pt. 2. 7. Akers interview with Hazard. 8. Elmo R. Zumwalt, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 15 December 1972, Morning Session, 2345; Zumwalt, On Watch, 239. 9. ADM George Anderson later had a change of heart about Zumwalt. In a 1976 interview with Bernard Cavalcante, an archivist at the Naval Historical Center, Anderson confessed: “I disagreed with Bud on a lot of things, but I now realize that many of the reforms needed to be accomplished.” For more on Anderson’s tumultuous relationship with Zumwalt, see On Watch, 181, 239, 250, 255. 10. See “Keelhauling the United States Navy,” Time, 27 November 1972, 20–21. 11. Zumwalt, On Watch, 256. 12. Akers interview with Hazard. 13. Zumwalt, On Watch, 241. 14. Ibid., 245. 15. Recently declassified documents from the Russian archives and the National Security Agency (Venona intercepts) have placed more emphasis on Alger Hiss’s guilt. For more on the Hiss espionage story, see Allen Weinstein, Perjury:

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300 | Notes to Chapter 9 The Hiss-Chambers Case (New York: Random House, 1997), and Alexander Vassiliev and Allen Weinstein, The Haunted Wood: Soviet Espionage in America (New York: Modern Library, 2000). 16. Dorothy Pierce McSweeny interview with F. Edward Hébert, 15 July 1968, Rayburn Office Building, Washington, DC, Library of Congress Manuscript Division, Washington, DC; F. Edward Hébert with John McMillan, Last of the Titans: The Life and Times of Congressman F. Edward Hébert (Lafayette, LA: Center for Louisiana Studies, 1976). 17. Hébert, Last of the Titans, 323. 18. Ibid., 325. 19. Editorial cited in Gropman, The Air Force Integrates, 184. 20. Zumwalt, On Watch, 245. 21. Biographical Directory of the U.S. Congress, 1774–Present, Floyd Verne Hicks Biography, bioguide.congress.gov/scripts/biodisplay.pl?index=H000563, accessed 20 September 2006; Zumwalt, On Watch, 252. 22. Joseph Keeley, “Meet the New Commander,” American Legion Magazine, November 1956, 12–13, 41–44. 23. Ibid.; Zumwalt, On Watch, 252–253. 24. Biographical Directory of the U.S. Congress, 1774–Present, Alexander Pirnie Biography, bioguide.congress.gov/scripts/biodisplay.pl?index=P000366, accessed 20 September 2006; Nalty, Strength for the Fight, 325; Zumwalt, On Watch, 252. 25. Zumwalt, On Watch, 222, 243, 246, 257. 26. Ibid., 250. 27. Zumwalt Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 5. 28. Ibid., 6–9. 29. Ibid., 12. 30. Ibid. 31. Zumwalt Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 18. 32. ADM Bernard A. Clarey, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 11 December 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1909. 33. Ibid., 1912. 34. Ibid., 1920. 35. In 1970, one man got in trouble for every thousand that went ashore. By 1973, the number fell to just 0.43 per thousand liberties. Ibid., 1928. 36. For more on Sharp and his role in the Vietnam War, see U. S. Grant Sharp, Strategy for Defeat (San Rafael, CA: Presidio Press, 1978). 37. ADM U. S. Grant Sharp, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress,

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Notes to Chapter 9 | 301 Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 11 December 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 2065. 38. Ibid., 2076. 39. Zumwalt, On Watch, 257. 40. Ibid., 254. 41. Ward Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 182–183. 42. William Cook was an attorney on the HASC staff and a protégé of Representative Les Arends (R-IL). After he left the staff, he was appointed judge on the Military Court of Appeals. H. Hollister Cantus, e-mail to author, 29 June 2005. 43. Ward Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Morning Session, 195–196. 44. Ibid., 239. 45. Ibid., 229. 46. Schaub Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 21 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 280. 47. McHugh, “Critical Analysis,” 5. 48. Ibid., 9. 49. Baker Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 25 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 988. 50. Ibid., 996. 51. Ibid., 1002. 52. Ibid., 1000. 53. H. Hollister Cantus was the House Armed Services Committee’s chief investigator for the Kitty Hawk and Constellation hearings. He was also a reserve Navy lieutenant commander at the time. H. Hollister Cantus, e-mail to author, 29 June 2005. 54. Baker Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 25 November 1972, Afternoon Session, 1007. 55. McHugh, “Critical Analysis,” 9. 56. Benjamin Cloud, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 6 December 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1193. 57. Ibid., 1200. 58. Carlucci Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1320. 59. Ibid., 1321. 60. Ibid., 1320–1321. 61. Ibid., 1316.

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302 | Notes to Chapter 9 62. Cloud Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 6 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 1229. 63. CPL Anthony Avina, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 8 December 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1612. 64. Sgt Daniel C. Pringle, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 8 December 1972, San Diego, California, Morning Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 1661. 65. Zumwalt, On Watch, 257. 66. Zumwalt Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 15 December 1972, Morning Session, 2352. 67. Ibid., 2351. 68. Ibid., 2353. 69. Ibid. 70. Ibid., 2372. 71. Ibid., 2375. 72. Ibid., 2376. 73. SSgt Mona Ferrell, “The Kelley Chronicles,” HQ AETC Public Affairs, March 2000, www.aetc.randolph.af.mil/pa/AETCNS/Mar2000/00-092.htm, accessed 20 September 2006. 74. Roger T. Kelley, Executive Session Testimony, U.S. Congress, Armed Services Committee, Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee), 18 December 1972, San Diego, California, Afternoon Session, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 2510; Roger T. Kelley, Report of October 13– November 4, 1972 European Trip, 5720/1 Files, 1972, 00 Records, AR. 75. Kelley Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 18 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 2511; Kelley, Report of October 13–November 4, 1972 European Trip. 76. Kelley Testimony, Hicks Subcommittee, 18 December 1972, Afternoon Session, 2521. 77. Ibid., 2528. 78. Ibid., 2529B. 79. Ibid., 2564. 80. McHugh, “Critical Analysis,” 24. 81. Ibid., 25–26. 82. Donald Smith, “The Volunteer Army,” in Anderson, The Military Draft, 121–123; Flynn, The Draft, 256; McHugh, “Critical Analysis,” 23. 83. U.S. Congress, House, Committee on Armed Forces, Report by the Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the US Navy. 84. Ibid. 85. Ibid.

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Notes to Chapter 10 | 303 86. Ibid. 87. CAPT J. R. Davey, 00D, Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations, 00, Subj: Analysis of Press Coverage, 5 December 1972, 5270/1 Files, 1972, 00 Files, AR. 88. “Zumwalt and the New Navy,” 6 pt. 2. 89. Zumwalt, On Watch, 260. notes to chapter 10 1. Director, Naval Investigative Service, memorandum to CNO, Subj: Analysis of Crimes of Violence with Racial Factors Investigated by NAVINVSERV, July–November 1972, 16 January 1973, 5720/1 Files, 1973, 00 Records, AR; Douglas C. Plate, Deputy and Chief of Staff, Atlantic Fleet, Naval Speedletter to CNO, Subj: Bi-monthly Report on Incidents, 25 July 1974, 5720/1 Files, 1973, 00 Records, AR. The Marines also witnessed scores of incidents. From 10 July 1972 to 5 November 1972, the Marine Corps experienced 318 racial incidents. See RADM Earl F. Rectanus, Director of Naval Intelligence, memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations, “Recent Racial Incidents,” 18 December 1972, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 2. Trenton (LPD 14) history, navysite.de/ships/lpd14.htm, accessed 20 September 2006. 3. Rectanus, “Recent Racial Incidents”; Security Group San Vito Dei Normanni Air Station, Italy, Message to Chief of Staff, USAF, 192200Z NOV 72, Subject: Racial Tension Indicator, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 4. It was customary during this period not to include first names in JAGMANs and other official documents. For officers, first names could often be found in officers’ registers, but with enlisted sailors the task proved more difficult. In some cases, I tracked down first names in cruise books, but in others, such as with P. Whalen, first names could not be determined. 5. CAPT Elmer Hill Kiehl, USN, JAG Manual Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding an Incident Involving Private Raines, USMC, Which Occurred on Board USS Trenton (LPD 14) during the Night of 19 November 1972 and the Morning of 20 November 1972, 31 December 1972, Records of the Judge Advocate General, Washington Navy Yard, DC, 6. 6. Ibid., 7. 7. Ibid., 7–8. 8. Ibid., 8. 9. Ibid., 9. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid., 9–10. 12. Kiehl, Trenton JAG Manual Investigation, 9–10; Trenton, message to CTF-61, Subj: Near Race Riot Occurred Onboard Trenton during Evening 19

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304 | Notes to Chapter 10 November and Early Morning 20 November, 2012307 NOV 72, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 13. Kiehl, Trenton JAG Manual Investigation, 12. 14. Ibid., 13. 15. Ibid., 14. 16. Ibid., 14–15. 17. Ibid., 15. 18. ADM Elmo Zumwalt, EO Status Briefing, November 1972, 5720/1 Files 1972, 00 Records, AR. 19. Kiehl, Trenton JAG Manual Investigation, 15. 20. Three Four MAU, message to RUEOLFA/CG FMLANT NORVA, Initial Report on Command Visit and Trenton Incident, 261515Z Nov 72, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 21. Ultimately, three Marine officers, including Lt. Col. Adams and his XO, and two Marine NCOs received counseling for their poor performance that day and appropriate notes were placed in their personnel jackets. Additionally, Lt. Col. Adams was reassigned to another unit. Captain Thiele also transferred off Trenton soon after the event as part of a regular command change. See Lt. Gen. G. C. Axtell, Fleet Marine Force Atlantic, Second Endorsement, in Kiehl, Trenton JAG Manual Investigation; Three Four MAU, message to RUEOLFA/CG FMLANT NORVA, 261515Z Nov 72. 22. VADM Jerry Miller, Message to CNO, Trenton Status, 272300Z Nov 7, Zumwalt Papers, AR. 23. A battle where it sunk four Japanese aircraft carriers at the price of only one American carrier loss, Yorktown. 24. For more on Midway’s current status, wildlife, and history, see National Wildlife Refuge Midway Atoll, Midway Island History, midway.fws.gov/intro/ default.htm, accessed 20 September 2006. 25. CAPT Robert R. Yount, Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances of a Confrontation between Two Groups of Naval Personnel Which Occurred at Midway Island on 25 November, JAG Manual, 27 December 1972, Zumwalt Papers, AR, 3–4. 26. Commander Naval Air Force, U.S. Pacific Fleet, Memo to Judge Advocate General, Subj: Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances of a Confrontation between Two Groups of Naval Personnel Which Occurred on Midway Island on 25 November 1972, 22 February 1973, Second Endorsement, in Yount, Midway Island One Officer Investigation. 27. MacGregor, Integration of the Armed Forces, 73. 28. Yount, Midway Island One Officer Investigation, 4. 29. Ibid., 5. 30. Commander Naval Air Force, U.S. Pacific Fleet, Second Endorsement, in Yount, Midway Island One Officer Investigation.

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Notes to Chapter 10 | 305 31. Yount, Midway Island One Officer Investigation, 5–6. 32. Ibid., 6. 33. Ibid., 7. 34. Commander Naval Air Force, U.S. Pacific Fleet, Second Endorsement, in Yount, Midway Island One Officer Investigation. 35. Yount, Midway Island One Officer Investigation, 8. 36. For more on the Apollo 17 mission, see National Air and Space Administration, National Space Science Data Center, Apollo 17 Mission History, nssdc .gsfc.nasa.gov/planetary/lunar/apoll017info.html, accessed 20 September 2006. 37. CAPT Lewis F. Bogan, One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding the Incident Resulting in Injury to a Member of the Master-at-Arms Force Which Occurred on Board USS Ticonderoga (CVS 14) on 14 December 1972, 11 January 1973, Zumwalt Papers, AR, Findings of Fact, 2–3. 38. Investigator interview with AN E. C. Owens in Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, Enclosure 3. 39. Investigator interview with CPO William Nichols, in Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, nonnumbered enclosure. 40. Investigator interview with ENS G. W. Kaiser, in Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, 79. 41. Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, 4. 42. Ibid., 3. 43. Ibid. 44. Ibid., 4. 45. CDR Ray F. Crater statement, in Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, Enclosure 24. 46. Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, 4–5. 47. Statement by AA O. L. Clark, V-1 Division, in Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, Enclosure 2. 48. Ibid. 49. CAPT Norman K. Green statement, in Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, Enclosure 25. 50. Memorandum from the Judge Advocate General to the Chief of Naval Operations, “Investigation—Disorders aboard USS Ticonderoga (CVS 14),” 29 June 1973, in Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga. 51. Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga, 5. 52. Ibid., 8. 53. Ibid., 6. 54. The Apollo 17 splashdown proceeded without a hitch. The command module, with astronauts Eugene A. Cernan, Ronald E. Evans, and Harrison H. Schmitt aboard, touched down in the South Pacific Ocean at 1424 on 19 December 1972, 200 miles east of Pago Pago and within just a few miles of Ticon-

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306 | Notes to Chapter 10 deroga. Captain Green stood proudly on the bridge as recovery helicopter pilot E. E. Dahill from HC-1 and a team of swimmers from UDT-11 plucked the astronauts from the command module. For more on the Navy’s role in NASA recoveries, see Don Blair, Splashdown: NASA and the Navy (Nashville, TN: Turner, 2004). 55. In the end, a special court-martial tried Derrick Vaughn King and sentenced him to thirty days’ confinement and hard labor. The court also reduced him in rank to E-1. No other sailors were sent to court-martial over the affair, but five received punishment pursuant to Article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. See Memorandum from Chief of Naval Personnel to the Chief of Naval Operations, “Investigation—Disorders aboard USS Ticonderoga (CVS 14),” 6 August 1973, in Bogan, One Officer Investigation of Ticonderoga. 56. Statement of Father Francis J. Gill, LCDR, USN, Catholic Chaplain, in CDR William S. Hodgkins, Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Leading Up to, Surrounding, and Subsequent to Certain Incidents of Violence, and Unrest Which Occurred on Board USS Intrepid (CVS-11), during the Period from 16 January to 21 January 1973, JAGMAN Investigation, 21 February 1973, JAG Records, Washington Navy Yard, DC, Enclosure 13. 57. Summary statement of AA H. W. Conner, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 6. 58. Summary statement of Airman Lennon Cooks, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 3. 59. Summary statement of FA J. D. Rivers, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 4. 60. Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Opinions and Comments, 1. 61. Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, 21 February 1973, Findings of Fact, 1. 62. Judge Advocate General, Memorandum to the Chief of Naval Operations, Subject: Fourth Endorsement on Commander W. S. Hodgkins, USN, Letter of 21 February 1973, 9 July 1973, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid. 63. As early as 16 April 1963, Martin Luther King, in his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” had reminded Americans how humiliated blacks felt when confronted by derogatory terms such as “colored,” “nigger,” and “boy.” Furthermore, during the 1960s, courts in the United States had started defining witnesses, prosecutors, and even judges as partial if they muttered any racially derogatory word in court. See Martin Luther King Jr., “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” 16 April 1963, www.stanford.edu/group/King/popular_requests/frequent docs/birmingham.pdf, accessed 29 August 2006; see Randall Kennedy, Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word (New York: Pantheon, 2002), 61. 64. Findings of Fact, Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, 1–2.

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Notes to Chapter 10 | 307 65. Ibid., 2. 66. For more on Barker, see Intrepid: One Hundred and Seventy Years of Naval Tradition, 1803–1973 (Norfolk, VA: Tiffany, 1973), Navy Department Library (NDL), 8. 67. Statement of CDR L. E. Levenson, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 10. 68. For specific examples, see “Nigger in Court,” in Kennedy, Nigger, chap. 2, 56–113. 69. Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Opinions and Comments, 1. 70. Only officers and chief petty officers wear khaki uniforms in the Navy, so “khaki” is a slang term for management. Statement of CDR L. E. Levenson, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 10. 71. Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Findings of Fact, 2. 72. Statement by Commander Basil H. Struthers, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 17. 73. Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Findings of Fact, 3. 74. Statement of CDR L. E. Levenson, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 10; Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Findings of Fact, 3. 75. Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Opinions and Comments, 2. 76. Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Findings of Fact, 3. 77. Statement from Medical Administrative Officer, 21 January 1973, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, enclosures. 78. Ibid. 79. Sworn statement of SN Edward W. Legault, 13 February 1973, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, enclosures. 80. Sworn statement of FA Richard F. Kallapure, 14 February 1973, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, enclosures. 81. Statement of CDR William Powell, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 18. 82. Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Findings of Fact, 4. 83. Judge Advocate General, Memorandum to the Chief of Naval Operations, Subject: Fourth Endorsement on Commander W. S. Hodgkins, Letter of 21 February 1973, 9 July 1973, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid. 84. Statement of Father Francis J. Gill, in Hodgkins, One Officer Investigation of Intrepid, Enclosure 13. 85. The ship was a member of the Iwo Jima class of carriers. 86. Matthew McCarton, Amphibious Warfare and the Evolution of the Helicopter Carrier (Arlington, VA: Naval Sea Systems Command, 1998), 33–38.

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308 | Notes to Chapter 10 87. CAPT John K. Thomas, Command History (OPNAV Report 2750–1), USS Inchon (LPH 12), 1 March 1974, SH; Captain Richard A. Paddock, Report of a Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding the Alleged Riot Aboard USS Inchon (LPH 12) on 26 January 1972, JAG Manual, 19 May 1973, Department of the Navy, Office of the Judge Advocate General, Washington Navy Yard, DC. 88. Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual, Findings of Fact, 7. 89. Ibid., 7. 90. Statement of Merle Gene Weems, in Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual, Enclosure 7. 91. Statement of SA David W. Rauth, in Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual, Enclosure 10. 92. Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual, Findings of Fact, 7–8. 93. Ibid., 9; Inchon (LPH 12), Cruise Book, 1972–1973 Cruise, Navy Department Library (NDL), NHC. 94. Statement of EM1 Clyde C. Howard, in Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual, Enclosure 8. 95. Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual, Findings of Fact, 10. 96. Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual, Opinions, 12–14. 97. Ibid. 98. Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual, Preliminary Statement, 6; CINCPACFLT, Memorandum to JAG, Sub: Report of a Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding the Alleged Riot Aboard USS Inchon (LPH 12) on 26 Jan 1973, 28 October 1973, Sixth Endorsement, in Paddock, Inchon JAG Manual. 99. William M. Powers, “Underway with Chiang’s Navy,” U.S. Naval Institute Proceedings 101 (January 1975): 62–74. 100. CAPT John E. Mitchell, USN, Investigation Report of Racial Incident at Kaohsiung Fleet Landing on 20 August 1973, JAG Manual, 4 September 1973, Records of the Judge Advocate General, Washington Navy Yard, DC, Findings of Fact, 4. 101. Statement of SA Frank Lee to NIS, in Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Enclosure. 102. Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Findings of Fact, 5. 103. Ibid., 7. 104. Statement of MMC Porter W. Norton, in Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Enclosure. 105. Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Findings of Fact, 8. 106. Statement of ETNSN Gary W. Otte to NIS, in Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Enclosure. 107. In the highest traditions of the sea service, Brooks, Cheetham, and Carter risked their own personal safety to help save the life of a fellow sailor

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Notes to Chapter 11 | 309 during an ugly racial brawl. The Navy later presented silver lifesaving medals to all three sailors. Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Findings of Fact, 9. 108. Ibid., 9–10. 109. Ibid., 10. 110. Ibid. 111. Usually a junior officer but occasionally a chief petty officer or warrant officer, an OOD must qualify for the role by passing a battery of tests and generally commands high respect from the crew: officers coming on board a naval vessel must render the first salute to the OOD even if the OOD is a lower-ranking officer. Author interview, CAPT Charles Creekman, 18 November 2004. 112. Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Findings of Fact, 14. 113. Ibid. 114. For enlisted personnel, a disciplinary letter is relatively minor punishment. Ibid., 15; Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Recommendations, 20– 21. 115. Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Opinions, 18. 116. Ibid. 117. Ibid. 118. Ibid., 18–19. 119. Mitchell, JAG Manual for Kaohsiung, Nature of the Investigation, 4. notes to chapter 11 1. Elmo R. Zumwalt, Memorandum for Flag Officers, Unit Commanders, and Commanding Officers, Subj: Race Relations and Minority Affairs Program, Enclosure 1: Navy Goals and Objectives, 22 March 1972, 5270/1 Files, 1972, 00 Records, AR; Department of the Navy, Bureau of Naval Personnel, “Phase II Equal Opportunity/Race Relations Program: Equal Opportunity Program Specialist Consultant Guide—Volume II,” NAVPERS 15260, NDL, III-I; Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black. 2. U.S. Navy Human Goals Program: Equal Opportunity Plan; Organization and Implementation, 1973, 5720/1 Files, 1973, 00 Records, AR; Herbert R. Northrup, Black and Other Minority Participation in the All-Volunteer Navy and Marine Corps (Philadelphia: Wharton School, University of Pennsylvania, 1979), 25–26. 3. Ibid., 25. 4. J03 Alan Shethar and Jim Stovall, “A Review of the Navy’s Long-Range Human Goals Plan,” All Hands, November 1973, 5. 5. Ibid., 22. 6. Rear Admiral John M. Tierney, Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding the Ordering of a Psychiatric Evaluation in the Case of LTJG Frank Alvarez Jr., Which Occurred at the Naval Regional Medical Center,

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310 | Notes to Chapter 11 Great Lakes, in September 1974, JAGMAN Investigation, 18 November 1974, 5720/1 Files, 1974, 00 Records, AR, 36. 7. Ibid., 37. 8. Ibid. 9. “Race Relations on an Aircraft Carrier,” All Hands, November 1973, 13. 10. Evaluation comment as cited in ibid., 12. 11. For more on EST and the human potential movement of the 1970s, see Steven Pressman, Outrageous Betrayal: The Real Story of Werner Erhard from EST to Exile (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993), and Carl Frederick, EST Playing the Game: The New Way (New York: Delacorte Press, 1976). 12. Tierney, Alvarez JAGMAN, 23. 13. Ibid., 24. 14. Ibid., 25. 15. Ibid., 23. 16. Ibid., 35. 17. Ibid., 38. 18. Ibid., 23. 19. Ibid., 7. 20. Ibid., 8. 21. Ibid., 39–40. 22. Ibid., 40–41. 23. Ibid., 10. 24. Ibid., 11. 25. VADM Donald L. Custis, Surgeon General of the Navy, Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations, Subj: Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding the Ordering of a Psychiatric Evaluation in the Case of LTJG Alvarez Which Occurred at the Naval Regional Medical Center, Great Lakes, Illinois, in September 1974, 6 December 1974, 5720/1 Files, 1974, 00 Records, AR. 26. Tierney, Alvarez JAGMAN, 12. 27. Ibid., 13. 28. Ibid., 15. 29. Ibid. 30. Ibid., 15–16. 31. Ibid., 17. 32. Ibid., 57. 33. Custis, Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations, 6 December 1974. 34. LTJG Frank Alvarez Jr., letter to ADM James L. Holloway III, 22 September 1974, 5720/1 Files, 1974, 00 Records, AR. 35. Tierney, Alvarez JAGMAN, 19. 36. Ibid., 21.

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Notes to Chapter 11 | 311 37. Joseph T. McMullen Jr., Assistant Secretary of the Navy (Manpower and Reserve Affairs), Memorandum for the Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense (Equal Opportunity), Subj: LTJG Frank Alvarez, Jr., 21 February 1975, 5720/1 Files, 00 Records, AR; Tierney, Alvarez JAGMAN, 21. 38. Tierney, Alvarez JAGMAN, 62. 39. ADM James L. Holloway III, First Endorsement on RADM John M. Tierney Letter of 18 November 1974, 31 December 1974, 1974, 5720/1 Files, 1974, 00 Records, AR. 40. Tierney, Alvarez JAGMAN, 54. 41. Wright, “The U.S. Navy’s Human Resource Management Programs in the Aftermath of the Kitty Hawk/Constellation Racial Incidents,” 30. 42. ADM Hyman G. Rickover as cited in Louis R. Desfosses, “Developing an Alternative Approach to Race Relations Education: Identifying Military Middle Management Resistance,” Naval War College Review 27 (July–August 1974): 59. 43. Desfosses, “Developing An Alternative Approach to Race Relations Education,” 60. 44. John D. Whittet, “From the Desk of the Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy,” All Hands, May 1974, 39. 45. Tierney, Alvarez JAGMAN, 54. 46. LT Edith E. Haynes, Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations, Subj: Comments on the Case of LTJG Frank Alvarez Jr., 6 December 1974, 5720/1 Files, 1974, 00 Records, AR. 47. Joseph T. McMullen Jr., Assistant Secretary of the Navy (Manpower and Reserve Affairs), Memorandum for Assistant Secretary of Defense (Manpower and Reserve Affairs), Subj: Measuring the Impact of Race Relations and Equal Opportunity Programs in the Military—An Executive Summary, 20 September 1974, 5720/1 Files, 1974, 00 Records, AR. 48. “An Interview with Your CNO,” All Hands, December 1974, 4; CINCLANTFLT, To: ALLANTFLT, Subj: Equal Opportunity Performance, 2 May 1974, Navy Message 021736Z May 74, 5720/1 Files, 1974, 00 Records, AR; LT Edith E. Haynes, Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations, Subj: Equal Opportunity/Race Relations Program Evaluation, 29 January 1975, 5720/1 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 49. ADM Elmo Zumwalt, Briefing on Racial Relations in the Navy, November 1972, 5720/1 Files, 00 Records, AR. 50. Ibid. 51. Captain William A. Walsh, Memorandum for VCNO, Subj: The Disparity between Majority and Minority School Eligibles and School Attendees, 5 June 1974, 5720/1 Files 1974, 00 Records, AR. 52. RADM David H. Bagley, Memorandum for the VCNO, Subj: Minority Representation/Recruitment, 12 July 1974, 5720/1 Files 1974, 00 Records, AR.

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312 | Notes to Chapter 12

notes to chapter 12 1. ADM James Holloway III as cited in Puryear, American Admiralship, 460–461. 2. OPNAV Instruction 5354.1, Navy Equal Opportunity Manual, 29 May 1974, 5720/1, 00 Records, AR; CAPT William A. Walsh, Memorandum for the CNO, Subj: Phase II Race Relations, 22 May 1974, 5720/1, 00 Records, AR; Wright, “The U.S. Navy’s Human Resource Management Programs in the Aftermath of the Kitty Hawk/Constellation Racial Incidents,” 44; Racism Inventory, enclosure in RM1 Johnny A. Currington, USS Lexington (CVT 16), to Chief of Naval Operations, Subj: Command’s Race Relations Equal Opportunity Program, 20 March 1975, 5350 Files, 00 Records, AR. 3. OPNAV Instruction 5354.1; Walsh, Phase II Race Relations, 22 May 1974. 4. Walsh, Phase II Race Relations, 22 May 1974. 5. Wright, “The U.S. Navy’s Human Resource Management Programs in the Aftermath of the Kitty Hawk/Constellation Racial Incidents,” 49. 6. Ibid., 50. 7. Walsh, Phase II Race Relations, 22 May 1974. 8. DTGC G. C. Fillmore and RM1 J. A. Currington, Memorandum to Commanding Officer, USS Lexington (CVT 16), 24 May 1974, 5350 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 9. Currington, Memorandum to CNO, 20 March 1975; Commander Naval Air Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet, Memorandum to Commander in Chief U.S. Atlantic Fleet, Subj: Assessment of the USS Lexington (CVT 16) Race Relations/ Equal Opportunity Program, 8 April 1976, 5350 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 10. Currington, Memorandum to CNO, 20 March 1975. 11. CAPT Donald E. Moore, First Endorsement on Race Relations Education Specialist, USS Lexington (CVT 16), To: CNO, Subj: Command’s Race Relations Equal Opportunity Program, 11 June 1975, 5350 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 12. ADM Harold E. Shear, Memorandum for the CNO, Subj: USS Lexington Race Relations Situation, 23 January 1976, 5350 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 13. Commander Naval Air Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet, Memorandum to Commander in Chief U.S. Atlantic Fleet, 8 April 1976. 14. ATC Ernest V. Barial, Memorandum to Secretary of the Navy, Subj: Navy Equal Opportunity/Race Relations Program, 14 June 1976, 5350 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 15. Ibid. 16. Ibid. 17. RADM Howard E. Greer, Third Endorsement on ATC Ernest V. Barial,

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Notes to Chapter 12 | 313 Jr., to Secretary of the Navy, Subj: Navy Equal Opportunity/Race Relations Program, 14 September 1976, 5350 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 18. ADM James L. Holloway III, Letter to Congressman Ronald V. Dellums, 7 September 1977, 5350 Files, 1977, 00 Records, AR. 19. ADM James L. Holloway III, Biographical Resume, Biography Files, Rare Manuscripts, NDL. 20. Holloway quoted in Puryear, American Admiralship, 462. 21. Ibid., 462–463. 22. Ibid., 473. 23. Transcript of Today Show interview with ADM James L. Holloway, 5720 Files, 1975, AR. 24. ADM Harold E. Shear as quoted in Paul Stillwell, ed., The Reminiscences of Admiral Harold E. Shear U.S. Navy (Retired) (Annapolis, MD: U.S. Naval Institute, 1997), 313–314. 25. “An Interview with Your CNO,” 4. 26. In fairness to Zumwalt, he also believed strongly in affirmative action and started almost all the programs outlined in Holloway’s NAAP. Unfortunately for Zumwalt’s legacy, his controversial racial awareness training programs often overshadowed his more effective efforts in the area of affirmative action. 27. Nalty, Strength for the Fight, 340. 28. J. William Middendorf II, Letter to Senator William Proxmire, 3 May 1976, 5350 Files, 1976, 00 Records, AR. 29. LT Edith E. Haynes, Minority Recruiting Officers, 11 December 1975, 5720/1 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 30. Ibid. 31. ADM James L. Holloway III, Letter to ADM Isaac C. Kidd, Jr., 5 November 1975, 5720/1 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 32. ADM James L. Holloway III, Memorandum to RADM Paul C. Gibbons, Jr., Subj: Tasking Directive for Navy Affirmative Action Planning Task Force, 17 November 1975, 5720/1 Files, 1975, 00 Records, AR. 33. VADM James D. Watkins, Memorandum for CNO, Subj: U.S. Navy Affirmative Action Plan, 9 March 1978, 5350 Files, 1978, 00 Records, AR. 34. Schneller, Blue, Gold, and Black. 35. Gaines quoted in Del Malkie, “Blacks at the Naval Academy,” All Hands, September 1976, 29; Watkins, Navy Affirmative Action Plan, 9 March 1978. 36. Watkins, Navy Affirmative Action Plan, 9 March 1978. 37. McAfee quoted in JOSN Rick Griggs, “BOOST, San Diego,” All Hands, May 1974, 29. 38. Ibid. 39. Watkins, Navy Affirmative Action Plan, 9 March 1978; Wedertz, Blue-

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314 | Notes to the Epilogue jackets’ Manual 173–174; “College Prep Program Gives Students a BOOST,” All Hands, September 1976, 37. 40. Watkins, Navy Affirmative Action Plan, 9 March 1978. 41. Gaines quoted in Malkie, “Blacks at the Naval Academy,” 31. 42. Copy of Life ad found in 5350 Files, 1978, 00 Records, AR. 43. Wedertz, Bluejackets’ Manual, 16–35. 44. Northrup, Black and Other Minority Participation in the All-Volunteer Navy and Marine Corps, 95–105. 45. By comparison, 7.5 percent of the total recruit population had a reading level below the sixth grade. See ibid., 123. 46. Ibid., 105–125. 47. Watkins, Navy Affirmative Action Plan, 9 March 1978. 48. Quigley quoted in Susan H. Godson, Serving Proudly: A History of Women in the U.S. Navy (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2001), 224. 49. Zumwalt, On Watch, 261–263; Godson, Serving Proudly, 225. 50. Godson, Serving Proudly, 230. 51. Ibid., 234–236. 52. Watkins, Navy Affirmative Action Plan, 9 March 1978. 53. Holloway, “Where Are the Carriers?” 54. CAPT J. J. McHugh, Point Paper: Initiatives by the Navy on the Subject of Race Relations, 27 October 1972, 5720/1 File 1972, 00 Records, AR. 55. Norman interview, 1 September 2005. notes to the epilogue 1. Navy Diversity Directorate, Naval Personnel Command, “Summary of May 2004 Navy Officer Survey,” 19 Jan 2005, www.npc.navy.mil/NR/rdonlyres/ F0B41217-F750-4F4B-9306-22D19B06CD15/0/NavyOfficerSurveySummaryBrief .ppt, accessed 7 September 2006. 2. Naval Personnel Command, “Diversity Poll Executive Summary,” 6 April 2005, www.npc.navy.mil/NR/rdonlyres/95328CBC-BCCA-45CA-B2B5-C9AE72 961E39/0/DiversityQPexecsum.doc, accessed 7 September 2006. 3. Naval Personnel Command, “Navy’s Diversity Strategy for the 21st Century,” 2006, AR. 4. D. B. Maxfield, “Blacks in the U.S. Army: Then and Now,” Office of Army Demographics, April 2004, www.odcsper.army.mil/hr/demographics/BlacksThen Now83-03.ppt, accessed 20 September 2006.

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318 | Bibliography the Design and Acquisition of Oliver Hazard C/ Perry–Class Frigates. Report. SH. Franklin D. Roosevelt (CVA 42). Command History, 1973. SH. ———. Message to CINCLANTFLT. 261855ZJUL 73. 00 Records. AR. ———. Message to CINCPACFLT. 191615Z JUL 73. 00 Records. AR. Gesell, Gerhard A. The President’s Committee on Equal Opportunity in the Armed Forces Report. 1963. 00 Records. AR. Gravely, Samuel L. Navy Bio File. AR. Greer, RADM Howard E. Third Endorsement on ATC Ernest V. Barial, Jr. Memorandum to Secretary of the Navy. Subj: Navy Equal Opportunity/Race Relations Program. 14 September 1976. 5350 Files. 1975. 00 Records. AR. Gross, CAPT William E. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 22 November 1972. San Diego, California. Morning Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Haak, CAPT Frank S. Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding an Incident of Racial Violence Which Occurred on Board Kitty Hawk (CVA 63) on the Night of 12 October 1972. 18 November 1972. Zumwalt Papers, AR. Hassayampa (AO 145). Informal Report of USS Hassayampa (AO 145) Feb 1971–Aug 1971 WESTPAC Deployment. Post 46 Command Files. AR. Haynes, LT Edith E. Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations. Subj: Comments on the Case of LTJG Frank Alvarez Jr. 6 December 1974. 5720/1 Files. 1974. 00 Records. AR. ———. Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations. Subj: Equal Opportunity/Race Relations Program Evaluation. 29 January 1975. 5720/1 Files. 1975. 00 Records. AR. ———. Memorandum to CNO. Subj: Minority Recruiting Officers. 11 December 1975. 5720/1 Files. 1975. 00 Records. AR. ———. Memorandum for the CNO. Subj: USS Lexington Race Relations/Equal Opportunity Program. 19 November 1975. 5350 Files. 1975. 00 Records. AR. Hodgkins, CDR William S. Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Leading Up to, Surrounding, and Subsequent to Certain Incidents of Violence, and Unrest Which Occurred on Board USS Intrepid (CVS 11), during the Period from 16 January to 21 January 1973. JAGMAN Investigation. 21 February 1973. Records of the Judge Advocate General. Washington Navy Yard, DC. Holloway III, ADM James L. Biographical Resume. Biography Files. Rare Manuscripts. NDL. ———. First Endorsement on RADM John M. Tierney Letter of 18 November 1974. 31 December 1974. 1974. 5720/1 Files. 1974. 00 Records. AR.

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320 | Bibliography McHugh, CAPT James J. Memorandum for CNO. 00 Control Number 2096. 5 March 1973. Zumwalt Papers. AR. ———. Point Paper: Initiatives by the Navy on the Subject of Race Relations, 27 October 1972, 5720/1 File 1972, 00 Records, AR. McMullen, Joseph T., Jr. Assistant Secretary of the Navy (Manpower and Reserve Affairs). Memorandum for the Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense (Equal Opportunity). Subj: LTJG Frank Alvarez, Jr. 21 February 1975. 5720/1 Files. 00 Records. AR. ———. Assistant Secretary of the Navy (Manpower and Reserve Affairs). Memorandum for Assistant Secretary of Defense (Manpower and Reserve Affairs). Subj: Measuring the Impact of Race Relations and Equal Opportunity Programs in the Military — An Executive Summary. 20 September 1974. 5720/1 Files. 1974. 00 Records. AR. McSweeny, Dorothy Pierce. Interview with F. Edward Hébert. 15 July 1968. Rayburn Office Building. Washington, DC. Library of Congress Manuscript Division. Washington, DC. Middendorf, J. William, II. Letter to Senator William Proxmire. 3 May 1976. 5350 Files. 1976. 00 Records. AR. Miller, VADM Jerry. Message to CNO. Trenton Status. 272300Z Nov 7. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Mitchell, CAPT John E. Investigation Report of Racial Incident at Kaohsiung Fleet Landing on 20 August 1973. JAG Manual. 4 September 1973. Records of the Judge Advocate General. Washington Navy Yard, DC. Moore, Captain Donald E. First Endorsement on Race Relations Education Specialist, USS Lexington (CVT 16). To: CNO. Subj: Command’s Race Relations Equal Opportunity Program. 11 June 1975. 5350 Files. 1975. 00 Records. AR. Naval Personnel Command. “Navy’s Diversity Strategy for the 21st Century.” 2006. AR. NAVOP (Z-117). 14 November 1972. 5720/1 Files. 1972. 00 Records. AR. Norman, LCDR William S. Action Memorandum for CNO. 20 May 1971. William Norman Private Papers. ———. Action Memorandum to CNO. 3 October 1972. Personal Files of William S. Norman. ———. Résumé. 7 September 2005. Personal Files of William S. Norman. ———. Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations. Subj: Lessons Learned from Air Force Racial Incidents. OP-00M. 22 October 1971. 5720/1 Files. 00 Records. AR. ———. Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations. Subj: Naval Accessions by Race and Mental Group. 24 March 1972. 5720/1 Files. 00 Records. AR. ———. Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations. Subj: NAVOP (Z117) Background. 27 April 1973. 5720/1 Files. 1973. 00 Records. AR.

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Bibliography | 321 ———. Personal Data Sheet. 5720/1 Files, 1972, 00 Records. AR. OPNAV Instruction 5354.1. Navy Equal Opportunity Manual. 29 May 1974. 5720/1. 00 Records. AR. OPNAVNOTE 5350 in file 5720/1, 1973, 00 Records. AR. Paddock, CAPT Richard A. Report of a Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding the Alleged Riot Aboard USS Inchon (LPH 12) on 26 January 1972. JAG Manual. 19 May 1973. Department of the Navy. Office of the Judge Advocate General. Washington Navy Yard, DC. Pickard, LCDR Dallas. Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Connected with the Disturbances Which Occurred at Correctional Center Great Lakes, Illinois, on 8 and 9 February. JAG Manual Investigation. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Plate, Douglas C. Deputy and Chief of Staff, Atlantic Fleet. Naval Speedletter to CNO. Subj: Bi-monthly Report on Incidents. 25 July 1974. 5720/1 Files. 1973. 00 Records. AR. Pringle, Sgt Daniel C. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 8 December 1972. San Diego, California. Morning Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Rectanus, RADM Earl F. Director of Naval Intelligence. Memorandum for the Chief of Naval Operations. “Recent Racial Incidents.” 18 December 1972. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Schaub, CDR John R. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 21 November 1972. San Diego, California. Afternoon Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. SECNAVINST 5350.6A CH-1. 16 February 1970. 5720/1 Files. 1973. 00 Records. AR. Security Group San Vito Dei Normanni Air Station, Italy. Message to Chief of Staff, USAF. 192200Z NOV 72. Subject: Racial Tension Indicator. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Sharp, ADM U. S. Grant. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 11 December 1972. San Diego, California. Afternoon Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Shear, ADM Harold E. Memorandum for the CNO. Subj: USS Lexington Race Relations Situation. 23 January 1976. 5350 Files. 1975. 00 Records. AR. Smith, SR Howard R. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Committee on Armed Forces. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 24 November 1972. San Diego, California. Morning Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR.

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322 | Bibliography Templeton, EMFN Leroy K. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 25 November 1972. San Diego, California. Afternoon Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Thomas, CAPT John K. Command History (OPNAV Report 2750–1). Inchon (LPH 12). 1 March 1974. SH. Three Four MAU. Message to RUEOLFA/CG FMLANT NORVA. Initial Report on Command Visit and Trenton Incident. 261515Z Nov 72. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Tierney, RADM John M. Informal Investigation of Incidents of Group Protest aboard USS Constellation (CVA 64) Beginning on 3 Nov 1972. JAG Manual. 7 January 1973. Zumwalt Papers. AR. ———. Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Surrounding the Ordering of a Psychiatric Evaluation in the Case of LTJG Frank Alvarez Jr., Which Occurred at the Naval Regional Medical Center, Great Lakes, in September 1974. JAGMAN Investigation. 18 November 1974. 5720/1 Files. 1974. 00 Records. AR. Townsend, CAPT Marland. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Committee on Armed Forces. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 6 December 1972. San Diego, California. Morning Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Transcript of Today Show interview with ADM James L. Holloway. 5720 Files. 1975. AR. Trenton. Message to CTF-61. Subj: Near Race Riot Occurred Onboard Trenton during Evening 19 November and Early Morning 20 November. 2012307 NOV 72. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Trott, CAPT Robert J. “Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances Connected with the Collision Involving USS Hassayampa (AO 145) and SS Pioneer Moon Which Occurred at Subic Bay, Republic of the Philippines on 16 October 1972.” 13 November 1972. Department of the Navy. Office of the Judge Advocate General. Washington Navy Yard, DC. Tyree, VADM John A., Jr. Naval Inspector General. Memorandum for the Assistant Secretary of the Navy (Manpower and Reserve Affairs). Subj: Alleged Discrimination in USS Canopus (AS 34). 16 July 1971. 5720/1 Files. 1971. 00 Records. AR. U.S. Navy Human Goals Program: Equal Opportunity Plan; Organization and Implementation. 1973. 5720/1 Files. 1973. 00 Records. AR. VF-143. Squadron History 1 January 1966 to 31 December 1966. 10 April 1967. AH. ———. Squadron History 1 January 1967 to 31 December 1967. 5 April 1968, AH.

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Bibliography | 323 Walsh, CAPT William A. Memorandum for the CNO. Subj: Phase II Race Relations. 22 May 1974. 5720/1. 00 Records. AR. ———. Memorandum for VCNO. Subj: The Disparity between Majority and Minority School Eligibles and School Attendees. 5 June 1974. 5720/1 Files 1974. 00 Records. AR. Ward, CAPT J. D. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 21 November 1972. San Diego, California. Morning Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Watkins, VADM James D. Memorandum for CNO. Subj: U.S. Navy Affirmative Action Plan. 9 March 1978. 5350 Files. 1978. 00 Records. AR. Wilson, AVC David L. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 21 November 1972. San Diego, California. Afternoon Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Wright, Chester A. “The U.S. Navy’s Human Resource Management Programs in the Aftermath of the USS Kitty Hawk/Constellation Racial Incidents.” Paper presented at the Thirty-fifth Military Operations Research Symposium at the United States Naval Academy. 2 July 1975. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Yacabucci, CDR James. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 21 November 1972. San Diego, California. Afternoon Session. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Yount, Captain Robert R. Formal One Officer Investigation to Inquire into the Circumstances of a Confrontation between Two Groups of Naval Personnel Which Occurred at Midway Island on 25 November. JAG Manual. 27 December 1972. Zumwalt Papers. AR. Zumwalt, Elmo R., Jr. Briefing on Racial Relations in the Navy, November 1972, 5720/1 Files, 00, AR. ———. Executive Session Testimony. U.S. Congress. Armed Services Committee. Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the Navy (Hicks Subcommittee). 21 November 1972 and 15 December 1972. San Diego, California. Morning Sessions. Zumwalt Papers. AR. ———. EO Status Briefing, November 1972, 5720/1 Files 1972, 00 Records, AR. ———. Letter to Congressman Floyd D. Spence. 2 May 1973. Zumwalt Papers, AR. ———. Memorandum for Flag Officers, Unit Commanders, and Commanding Officers. Subj: Race Relations and Minority Affairs Program. Enclosure 1: Navy Goals and Objectives. 22 March 1972. 5270/1 Files 1972. 00 Records. AR.

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330 | Bibliography U.S. Congress. House. Committee on Armed Forces. Report by the Special Subcommittee on Disciplinary Problems in the US Navy, 92nd Cong. 2nd sess. 1973. H.A.S.C. 92-81. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1973. www.history.navy.mil/library/special/racial_incidents.htm#5a1. Accessed 20 September 2006. U.S. Department of Labor. Bureau of Labor Statistics. Annual Average Unemployment Rate, Civilian Labor Force 16 years and Over (Percent). www.bls .gov/cps/prev_yrs.htm. Accessed 20 September 2006. U.S. Naval Historical Center. Doris Miller. www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq57-4 .htm. Accessed 20 September 2006. U.S. Naval Historical Center. Elmo Zumwalt, Jr. www.history.navy.mil/faqs/ faq93-1.htm. Accessed 20 September 2006. U.S. Naval Historical Center. Port Chicago Naval Magazine Explosion, 1944. www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq80-1.htm. Accessed 20 September 2006. U.S. Naval Historical Center. USS Robinson (DD 562) History. www.history .navy.mil/danfs/r7/robinson-ii.htm. Accessed 20 September 2006. U.S. Navy Memorial Foundation. The Navy V-12 Program. www.lonesailor.org/ v12history.php. Accessed 20 September 2006. U.S. Selective Service System. History and Records. www.sss.gov/HIST.HTM. Accessed 18 August 2006. Worcester City Government. Worcester Massachusetts History. www.ci.worcester .ma.us/history.htm. Accessed 20 September 2006. Zumwalt, Elmo, Jr. Z-gram No. 66 (Equal Opportunity). 17 December 1970. www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq93-66.htm. Accessed 20 September 2006. e-mail Bennett, Wallace. E-mail to author. 29 August 2003. Cantus, H. Hollister. E-mail to author. 29 June 2005. Crawford, Danny J. E-mail to author. 17 May 2004. McGinty, Patrick. E-mail to author, 21 June 2005. Neumann, Adolf. E-mail to Author. 29 August 2003; 19 November 2003.

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2nd Marines, 199 III Marine Amphibious Force Brig riot (1968), 27 5th Marines, 66 7th Marines, 67 11th Marines, 67 12th Marines, 22 24th Infantry Regiment (U.S. Army), 13 28th and Oxford gang, 61 A Schools, 53, 57, 112, 148, 166, 176, 242, 253, 256–59, 261, 263, 269 A. O. Smith Corporation, 131 Actions to Counter Racism Workshop, 244 ACTOV (Accelerated Turnover to Vietnam), 38–39 Adak Naval Station, Alaska, 139 Adams, John, 196–98 Advisory Committee on Equal Opportunity in the Armed Forces. See Gesell Committee affirmative action, 192, 199, 243–61; command-level plans (AAP), 243–44, 245–47; Navy Affirmative Action Plan (NAAP), 253–54, 260–61 AFQT (Armed Forces Qualification Test), 12, 15, 50, 242, 254, 262, 267; bias of, 53–54; categories, 13, 53–54; and Constellation, 158, 166; recruitment of lower category sailors in 1970s, 53–54; Kitty Hawk sailors, scores of, 58. See also ASVAB; GCT afro hairstyle, 21, 42, 50. See also dress and grooming policies Agerholm (DD 826), 220–21, 224 Air Force. See U.S. Air Force

Air Wing 11, 56, 101 aircraft, A-3J, 109; A-4C, 69; A-6, 56, 110; AD-4, 135; AD4, 212; AJ Savage, 109; E-1B, 135; EC-121, 200; F3H-2N, 132; F-4, 56, 110, 133; F-4U, 132; F-6, 132; F8F, 68; F9F, 63, 68; MiG-21C, 70; N-2S Stearman, 131–32; RA-5, 109–10; RF-8, 64; RVAH-6, 110; RVAH-7, 109; SNB, 132; SNJ, 132 alcohol, 48, 228; in Hassayampa, 114– 15, 118, 120–21, 123, 126; during Kaohsiung Fleet Landing unrest, 220; in Kitty Hawk, 59; at Subic Bay, 79–80; during Ticonderoga unrest, 207, 209; during Trenton unrest, 194; in Vietnam, 23 Alderman, —, 81 Alexander, Lonnie, 21 All Hands, 240–41 Allen, Henry L., 116, 118–20 All-Volunteer Force (AVF), 30, 187–89, 263 Almy, Garry L., 234–36 Alvarez, Frank, xvi, 230–41; background, 230–31 America (CV 66), 79 American Legion, 173 American University, Washington, D.C., 44 amphetamines, 107, 115. See also drugs Amtrak, 99 Anderson, George, 169 Anderson, Robert L., 90 AN/SPS-10 radar, 123 antiwar movement, 130 Apollo Seventeen, 205, 209 Appy, Christian, 107 Arkansas A&M, 131

331

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332 | Index Armed Forces Qualification Test. See AFQT Armed Services Vocational Battery. See ASVAB Armstrong, Allen, 23 Army Air Forces (AAF), 131, 172 Army Artillery School, Fort Sill, Oklahoma, 66, 67 Army Field Manual 19–15 (“Civil Disobedience”) 87 Army. See U.S. Army Arnold J. Isbell (DD 869), 36–37 ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Battery), 259. See also AFQT; GCT Atkinson, Craig, 113–15, 119–20, 127 Atlantic Blockading Squadron, 3 Atlantic Fleet, 248–49, 253 AVF. See All-Volunteer Force Avina, Anthony, 84, 184 Avinger, Terry, 58, 76, 78, 209; background, 61–62, 98–99; in brig, 74–75; fight with J. L. Finley, 72; life after riot, 98–99; mast hearing, 74; role in riot, 83, 85, 94, 98 Bagley, David, 47, 242 Baker, John L., 141, 150–51, 159; testimony of, 180–82 Balingit, Elenito, 207 Barfield, Havis W., 150 Barial, Ernest V., 247–49 Barker, Raymond H., 211–12, 215–16 Basic Naval Officer School, Pensacola, 110 Basic Test Battery, 259, 261. See also AFQT; ASVAB Battalion Landing Team 1/9 (USMC), 217 Battalion Landing Team 3/2 (USMC), 195–96, 199 Bay, Leonard Bryant, 202–3 beach detachment (Constellation), 157– 63, 161 (illus.) Beadle, Douglas, 107, 113–17, 128 Beauford, John H., 218 Beesley, Howard L., 120, 127 Bennett, H., 196 Bennett, Wallace, 113–18 Bennion (DD 662), 249 Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland, 136, 237 Better Blacks United, 20

Betts, Steven, 218 Bias in Testing in the Navy (Center for Naval Analyses, 1972), 53–54 Binkley, Willie A., 84–85, 89–90 Bishop, Gary F., 89 black consciousness. See black power Black Muslim movement, 19–20 Black Panther Party, 19–20, 21 black power, 19–23, 263 Black Power (1967), xiv Black Voices, 28 Blue Ridge Sanitarium, Virginia, 173 blue shirts, 206, 210–11 Bogan, Lewsi F., 208 Boorda, Jeremy M., 112 BOOST (Broadened Opportunity for Officer Selection and Training), 48, 254–55, 256 (illus.), 261, 267 Boulder (LST 1190), 194 Bowman, Charles, 150 Bowman, Raymond R., 223 Bradley, William S., 116, 118 Brindisi, Italy, 194, 197 Broadened Opportunity for Officer Selection and Training. See BOOST Brown, L., 158 Brown, Wesley, 11 Bureau of Medicine (BUMED), 240 Bureau of Personnel, 13, 48, 65, 66, 150, 222 Burke, Arleigh, 169 Butler, Robert C., 237 Caldwell, Gregory, 116, 120 Calhoun, John C., 3 California State University, Los Angeles, 98 Callahan, John, 88–89 Camp, James W., 221, 224 Camp Brooks riot (1970), 27–28 Camp Lejeune riot (1969), 27 Canberra (CAG 2), 136 Cannes, France, 210–12 Canopus (AS-34) incident (1971), 50–51 Cantus, H. Hollister, 182 Capponi, Deborah, 235–36 captain’s masts: in Kitty Hawk, 72–79; general description, 72–74 Carlucci, Nicholas, 59; background, 66– 67; in Kitty Hawk, 74–75, 84, 87–90,

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Index | 333 92; life after riot, 99–100; testimony of, 183–84 Carmichael, Stokely, xiv, 18–19, 263 Carrier Air Wing 15, 133 Carrier Division: 5, xvii; I, 114; III, 44 Carter, Robert L., 222 Cassell, Robert W., 118, 122, 128 Casserleigh, Hank, 113–14 Cecil Field, Florida, 69 Center for Naval Analyses (CNA), 53–54, 135, 144 Central Missouri State College, Warrensburg, 109 Central Washington State College, Ellensburg, 172 Chafee, John, 40, 46, 162 chaplains, 134, 143, 213, 231 Charleston race riot (1919), 5 Charlotte Hall Military Academy, Maryland, 68 Chauncey, Isaac, 3 Cheetham, David W., 222 Chicago Defender, 6 Chicago race riot (1919), 6 Chicago, Illinois, 137, 139 Chiffons, 27 Childress, Jimi, 25 Chino California Prison, 98 Civil Rights Act (1965), 171 Civilian Conservation Corps, 131, 172–73 Clarey, Bernard A., 56, 158, 161; testimony of, 176–77 Clark, —, 83, 85 Clark, Henry L., 202 Clark, O. L., 208 Clayton, Matthew, 116 Cleaver, Eldridge, 19 Cloud, Benjamin W., 58, 59, 60, 64 (illus.), 76, 78, 127, 148, 154, 165, 216, 265; and Terry Avinger, 94; childhood, 62–63; early naval career, 63–65; in Kitty Hawk, 65–66, 85–88, 90–97, 100–102; life after riot, 99; and Martin Luther King, 65, 94, 101; testimony of, 101, 182–84 CNA. See Center for Naval Analyses CNO Advisory Committee on Race Relations and Minority Affairs, 47 Cole, Philip P., 127–28 Collins, —, 118, 120

Colson, Franklin J., 222 Command Training Team (CTT), 244, 259 Commander Naval Air Force, U.S. Pacific Fleet (COMNAVAIRPAC), 146–47, 155–61 Commander Naval Forces Vietnam (COMNAVFORV), 34, 37–40 Commander of Naval Education and Training (CNET), 260 Commander U.S. Naval Forces Philippines (COMUSNNAVPHIL), 117 Committee on Equality of Treatment and Opportunity in the Armed Forces. See Fahy Committee Concord, California, 122 Congressional Black Caucus, 155 Conner, H. W., 210, 212 Constellation (CVA 64), xiii–xv, xix, 42, 44, 70, 128, 141 (illus.), 163–65, 170, 176, 178, 188, 193, 201, 204, 205, 225–27, 247, 264, 266; beach detachment, 157–63; and COMNAVAIRPAC, 146–47, 155–61; and Hicks Subcommittee, 167, 172, 190, 192; history, 140; human relations council, 136–39, 144, 149–52, 159, 164–65, 178–80; and media, 162–63, 191; poor living conditions, 141–42, 180–81; reduction in force (RIF), 147–48; refresher training (RT), 142; in ship’s restricted availability (SRA), 140–42, 148; sit-down strike, 130–57; 161; as symbol of Navy racism, 157 Cook, William, 178, 181 Cooke, C. J., 212 Cooks, Leonard, 210–12 Coral Sea (CV 43), 133–34 Corcoran, William J., xiii Cornell University, 173 Corpus Christi, Texas, 69 Cota, Richard J., 233 Cowan, Ken, 22 Crater, Ray F., 207–8 Cuff, Shelton, 115, 116–18, 120 Cultural Expression Workshop, 244 Cunningham, Randy, 140 Currey, Cecil Barr, 24 Currington, Johnny A., 246–48 Curwensville, Pennsylvania, 135 Custis, Donald L., 234, 236

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334 | Index Dan River Mills, Danville, Virginia, 173 Daniel, Wilbur Clarence “Dan,” 169, 179, 185–86; background, 172–73. See also Hicks Subcommittee Hearings Danville, Virginia, 173 dap stick, 21, 115, 117–18. See also dapping dapping, 20–21, 50, in Kitty Hawk, 59– 60. See also dap stick Davidson, Marvin, 59–60, 96 Dawson, M. L., 142 de facto segregation, 14 De Mau Mau, 20 deck ape, 106, 119 Defense Department. See U.S. Defense Department Defense Race Relations Institute, 29, 186, 260 Democratic States’ Rights Party (Dixiecrats), 171 Densmore, Paul C., 203 deployments (Navy) during Vietnam War, 164, 174–77, 187–89 Dermanke, Ukraine, 111 Deseret Test Center, Utah, 135 Detroit riot (1967), 20 Devane, James J., 232, 235–37, 239 Dewey (DLG 14), 36–37 discharge rates (USN) by mental category and race, 198 (table) Dixon, Wilton, 218 Doherty, Mike, 26 domestic action programs, 49, 267 Don Son battle, Vietnam, 66–67 Doris Miller (DE 1091), 49, 267 Double V campaign, 7 draft, 15, 16–17, 28, 30, 50, 52–53 dress and grooming policies (Navy), 42, 245. See also afro hairstyle Driscoll, William, 140 drugs, 48, 228, 263; and Terry Avinger, 61–62; in Army and Marines in Vietnam 22–26, 107–8; in Hassayampa (AO 145), 106–8, 114–16, 118, 121, 126–27; heroin, 22–23, 107; in Kitty Hawk, 58–60, 82; marijuana, 22, 107– 8; at Subic Bay, 80 Dubberly, Benjamin C., 107 E. A. Bryan, 7

Eaton, Wes, 215 Ebony, 50–51 Edwards, Claude E., 202 El Cajon, California, 63 Elwell, David L., 89 Emmett, Robert R. M., 4 Empress Hotel, Taiwan, 220–21 End Sweep, Operation, 219 Enterprise (CVN 65), 250, 258 (illus.) Equal Opportunity Program Specialists (EOPS), 243–47 Equal Opportunity Quality Indicators (EOQI), 244–45, 248 equal opportunity training, 188, 192, 259. See also Navy Human Goals Program; racial awareness training; UPWARD Erhard Seminar Training (EST), 229–30, 233, 239 Executive Order 9981 (1948), 10 Fahy Committee, 11 Fahy, George, 11 Farmer, Robert C., 207 Farness, Frederick, 211 Fechteler, William, 11 Feldkirk, Austria, 111 Ferris, James, 133 Filipinos, 4, 12, 43, 82, 194 Fillmore, G. C., 246 Finley, J. L., 72 Finneran, John G., 47 Fischer, Earl J., 123 Flanagan, William R., 114, 121, 125 Flying Midshipmen Program, 68 focus groups, 47 Forrestal (CV 59), 187–88, 229 Forrestal, James V., 9–10 Fort Bragg, North Carolina, 27 Fort Dix, New Jersey, 27 Fort Hood, Texas, 27 Foster City, California, 99 fragging, 27–28 Fredericksburg, Virginia, 173 Friedman, Norman, 31 Gaines, Gregory, 254, 257 Gandhi, 94 Garrison, James, 117 Gates, Thomas, 187 Gator Navy, 194

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Index | 335 Gaudenzia treatment centers, 98–99 Gaye, Marvin, 58, 102 GCT, 144. See also AFQT; ASVAB GED (General Equivalence Degree), 67–74 General Classification Test. See GCT Georgia Tech University, 68 Gesell Committee, 14, 172 Gesell, Gerhard A., 14 GI Bill, 138 Gibbons, Paul C., 253 Gill, Francis J., 213, 216 Godfrey, Earl F., 157 Golden Thirteen, 7, 8 (illus.) Gonzales, Antonio, 211 Goodwin, Devon N., 222, 225 Gourdine, Robert E., 202 Graham, Herman III, 20 Graham, Roy E., 124 Gran, Thomas E., 230–32 Grange, Joseph E., 224 Gray, Alfred M., 198–99, 205 Graz, Austria, 111 Great Lakes Correctional Center riot (1970), xi–xiii. See also Naval Station Great Lakes Great Lakes Naval Regional Medical Center (NRMC), 230–31, 236, 238–39. See also Naval Station Great Lakes Great Lakes Naval Training Center. See Naval Station Great Lakes Green, Herbert, 27 Green, Norman K., 208 green shirts, 206 Greene, William A., 47 Greer, Howard, 249 Gropman, Alan L., 28 Gross, William E., 155–56, 160–61 Guam Naval Supply Depot riot (1944), 8 Guide to the Command of Negro Naval Personnel (1945), 9 Haak, Frank S., xvii–xviii Haiphong, Vietnam, 133 Hamilton, Charles, xiv Hamilton, Marvin M., 221 Hannaford, William, 115–16, 118, 120, 127–28 Harding, William, 115 Hardy, Porter, 178

Harkness, Lawrence, 18 Harris, Andrew, 27 Harris, Ronald T., 238 Hart, J. V., 143–44, 151 HASC. See House Armed Services Committee Haskett, Edward, 25 Hassayampa (AO-145), xiv-xiv, xix; collision with Pioneer Moon, 120–26; drug and alcohol use in, 106–8, 114–16, 118, 120–21, 123, 126–27; history and role in the fleet, 103–5; maintenance, 106; riot, 103–20, 126–29, 176, 193, 198, 204, 225–26, 264, 266; riot compared to unrest in Constellation, 130; UNREP, 105 Hassayampa River, Arizona, 105 Hatch, Bobby Lee, 81 Have Doughnut, 70 Haynes, Edith E., xviii, 240–41 Hazard, Roberta, 169–70 Health, Education, and Welfare department. See U.S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare Hébert, F. Edward, xv, 167, 170, 173, 177–78, 185, 189, 192, 266; background, 171–72 Hendricks, —, 78 heroin, 22–23, 59, 107. See also drugs Hicks, Floyd, 59, 180–81, 184, 185; background, 172 Hicks Subcommittee Hearings, xiv-xiv, 59–60, 92, 101, 167–92, 204, 209, 226, 264, 266; Anthony Avina testimony, 184; background on members, 172–74; John Baker testimony, 180–82; Nicholas Carlucci testimony, 183–84; Bernard Clarey testimony, 176–77; Benjamin Cloud testimony, 182–83; formation of, 170–71; Roger Kelley testimony, 186–89; and permissiveness, 177; report of, 189–92; John Schaub testimony, 179; U.S. Grant Sharp testimony, 177; J. D. Ward testimony, 178– 79; Elmo Zumwalt testimony, 174–76 Hill, Carl, 222–23 Hilliard, Thomas H., 197 Hispanics, 269 Hiss, Alger, 171 Hodges, Ronald B., 207–8

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336 | Index Hodges, William S., 213 Hodgkins, William S., 210, 214–15 Holloway, James III, xvi, xviii, xix, 23, 230, 243, 250 (illus.), 263, 267–69; and affirmative action, 252–61; on Alvarez case, 239–41; background, 249–51; in Hassayampa, 125–26; and Navy Human Goals Program, 251–52; and Elmo Zumwalt, 36, 47, 250–52 Holmes, —, 84 Holy Cross College, Worcester, Massachusetts, 186 Horton, Dwight W., 80, 81 House Armed Services Committee, xiv–xv, 130, 167, 170–71, 177–78, 180. See also Hicks Subcommittee Hearings House Naval Affairs Committee, 171 House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), 171 Howard, Clyde C., 218 Human Goals Program. See Navy Human Goals Program human relations councils (HRC), 169, 190, 201, 204, 238; in Constellation, 131, 136–39, 144, 149–52, 154, 159, 164–65, 178–80; in Kitty Hawk, 76– 80, 83, 85, 95 human relations staffs. See human relations councils human resource management centers, 228 Hunter, E., 195 Inchon (LPH 12) riot (1973), 216–20, 226 institutional racism (in Navy), xvii, 1, 34–35, 193, 226, 241, 263, 266; in A schools, 176; in AFQT testing, 53–54; during age of sail, 1–3; in ASVAB test, 259; in captain’s masts, 72–79; during Civil War, 3–4; Benjamin Cloud on, 182–83; during Cold War, 10–12; in Constellation, 140–49, 156–57, 162, 165–66; definition xiii–xv; at Great Lakes Correctional Center, xi–xiii; in Hassayampa, 106–7, 108; and Hicks Subcommittee, 167, 189–92; human relations councils as a antidote to, 76– 79, 136–39, 144, 149–52; in Inchon, 217; in Intrepid, 211–13, 216; Roger T. Kelley’s views on, 185, 187–89; in Kitty

Hawk, 57–60, 100, 102; in Korean War, 12–13; Jerry Miller on, 199; at Naval Station Great Lakes, 41–42; in Navy discharge rates, 198; William Norman’s experiences, 44–45; in recruitment, 53–54; in Seabees, 201; in seventies, 41–54; in stewards branch, 43; and Subic Bay, 79–82; in Ticonderoga, 209; J. D. Ward on, 179; in World War I, 4–5, 12; in World War II, 5–10; Elmo Zumwalt on, 185–86. See also segregation Intrepid (CVS 11) riot (1973), 209–16, 226 Islam. See Black Muslim movement Ivey, Louis, 14 Jackson, —, 89 Jacobs, Joseph A., 211–13 JAGMAN, xvii–xviii, 164–65 Jesse Brown (DE 1089), 49, 267 Jim Crow Navy, 4 Job Oriented Basic Skills (JOBS), 259 John C. Muir, 111 John F. Kennedy (CV 67), 110 Johnson, Curtis, 85, 89–90 Johnson, Glenn A., 203 Johnson, Horten F., 122, 124 Johnson, Lyndon, 55, 65 Johnson, Vernon, 25 Jones, John Paul, 158 Jones, Joseph, 27 Jones, Tommie, 202–3 Kaiser, Glenn W., 206 Kallapure, Richard, 215 Kaneohe Marine Air Station, Hawaii, 27 Kaohsiung Fleet Landing unrest (1973), 220–26 Kauffman, Draper L., 41–42 Keel, Robert, 96 Kelley, Roger T., 185; background, 186– 87; testimony of, 186–89 Kennedy, John F., 14 Keyes, William, 24 Kidd, Isaac C., 253 Kiehl, Elmer, 198 Killiebrew, R., 142 King, Derick V., 207–9 King, Ernest J., 9

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Index | 337 King, Martin Luther, 19, 20, 25; and Benjamin Cloud, 65, 94, 101 Kinnaird, Elden G., 202 Kissinger, Henry, 170 Kitty Hawk (CV 63), xiii–xv, xvii, xix, 42, 57, 91, 194, 201, 204, 205, 225–26, 247, 264–66; AFQT scores of sailors, 58, 176; brig, 74–75; captain’s masts prior to riot, 72–79; catalysts for riot, 56–60; dapping on, 59–60; drug and alcohol use on, 59, 82; and Hicks Subcommittee, 167, 172, 180, 183–84, 190, 192; human relations council/staff, 76–79, 95; institutional racism, 57–60; during Linebacker, 55, 92, 193, 198; Marine detachment, 84–85, 87–92, 99; riot, 83–102; riot casualties, 97–98; riot compared to Constellation, 130, 155– 56, 163–66; riot compared to Hassayampa (AO 154), 103, 126–29; Roger Kelley’s views on, 188; segregated berthing arrangements, 58–59, 82; at Subic Bay, 79–82; UCMJ charges against rioters, 98 “Kitty Litter,” 76 Klusmann, Charles F., 64–65 Knox, Frank, 9 Laird, Melvin, 30, 170, 177, 186, 192 Laird, Robert D., 224 Lake Champlain (CVA 39), 135 Lawson, Ronald J., 93 LCM 6, 223 Lee, Frank, 221 Legault, Edward, 215 Leiferman, Henry P., 146 Leonard F. Mason (DD 852), 112 Levenson, Lee E., 212–14 Lexington (CV 16), 135, 246–47 Leyte Gulf battle, 33 Liddy, G. Gordon, 191 Lincoln, Abraham, 168 Linebacker, Operation, 55–56, 92, 101, 134, 140, 186, 191, 250, 266 Lionberger, Paul H., 231 Logan, P. M., 32 Long Binh Jail riot (1968), 23–27 Long, Huey, 171 Long, Robert A., 121–22, 125 Los Angeles, California, 134

Los Angeles Times, 168–69, 191 Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, 132 LSD, 59. See also drugs Lush, Edward, 107 Malcolm X, 19–20, 94 Mann, Earl, 203, 205 Manual on Equal Opportunity and Treatment of Military Personnel (SECNAVINST 5350.6), 45 Mare Island protest (1944), 7–8 Maribor, Slovenia, 111 marijuana, 22, 59, 107–8. See also drugs Marines. See U.S. Marine Corps Marolda, Edward, 39 Marshall, George C., 33–34 Martin, James P., 84 Martinez, Edward, 131, 144–45, 148, 150–52, 154, 159; background, 139–40 Master and Commander (2003), 262 master-at-arms: and captain’s masts, 73; during Constellation protest, 145, 147, 155; during Hassayampa riot, 117, 119; during Intrepid riot, 215; during Kaohsiung Fleet Landing unrest, 223– 24; during Kitty Hawk riot, 83, 86, 84, 93; during Ticonderoga riot, 207–8; during Trenton unrest, 195 McAfee, Rudolph, 255 McCord, James W., Jr., 191 McGuire, Orville, 107, 116–17, 120–21, 123–26, background, 109–10 McHugh, J. James, 180, 182, 184, 189 McKee, Kinnaird R., 260 McKenzie, Robert P., 163 McMillon, David D., 93 McNamara, Robert S., 17 Mecklenburg County, Virginia, 172 Medford, Oregon, 131 media: and Constellation affair, 162–63, 191; and Hicks Subcommittee hearings, 191; and Elmo Zumwalt, 167–68, 169–70 Medrano, Raymond C., 222, 225 Meet the Press, 19 Mellon, Catherine, 162 messmen. See stewards Mickey Mouse regulations, 175

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338 | Index middle management, 188, 190, 199–200, 265 Midway (CV 41), 132 Midway Island. See Naval Station Midway Island Miles, Milton E., 33 Military Rights and Responsibilities Workshop, 248 Military Sealift Command (MSC), 122–23 Milledgeville, Georgia, 177 Miller, Bernard T., 231–32, 234, 236 Miller, Dennis J., 118 Miller, Doris, 6–7. See also Doris Miller (DE 1091) Miller, Gerald “Jerry,” 199 Miller, John E., 223–24 Miller, Regina, 233–34, 236 Miller, Richard E., 12 Millington. See Navy Race Relations School (NRRS), Millington Tennessee Milwaukee, Wisconsin, 186 minority affairs councils. See human relations councils minority affairs officers, 46, 50. See also Z-grams, Z-66 minority recruitment, 10–13, 48–49, 51–54, 227, 242, 252–61; 253 (illus.) Missouri, Amoret, 109 Mitchell, John E., 224–25 Mobile (LKA 115), 134 Molden, Harold, 255 Moore, Donald E., 246–47 Moore, Thomas, 161 Moorer, Thomas, 36, 76 Morris, Carl, 105, 106 Mount Ranier, Washington, D.C., 68 MSC. See Military Sealift Command Mulroney, Peter J., 22 Murcko, John, 162 Murphy, George P., 123 Muslim. See Black Muslim movement My Lai massacre, 171 NAAP (Navy Affirmative Action Plan), xvi, 260–61, 268 Nalty, Bernard, 17 Naples, Italy, 197, 214 National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), 155

National Guard. See U.S. Army, National Guard National Security Memorandum 68 (NSC 68), 35 National Urban League, 9 Naval Academy. See U.S. Naval Academy Naval Air Stations: Charleston, South Carolina, 68; Cubi Point, Philippines, 114–15; Jacksonville, 109; Meridian, Mississippi, 44; Miramar, California, 65, 70, 156; North Island, California, 62, 98, 135, 158, 160, 162–63 Naval Amphibious School, Coronado, California, 231 Naval Aviation Cadet Program, 63, 132 Naval Aviation Command, Pensacola, 260 naval aviation squadrons: VA-45, 135; VA-52, 89; VA-83, 249; VC-61, 63–64; VF-41, 65; VF-53, 68; VF-64, 132; VF-91, 68; VF-121, 70; VF-143, 69–70; VF-174, 69; VFP-63, 64–65; VS-38, 218; VS-39, 213; VT-10, 110 Naval Enlisted Scientific Education Program (NESEP), 112 Naval flight officers (NFO), 110 Naval Flight Officers School, Pensacola, 44 Naval Investigative Service (NIS), xvii, 50, 41 Naval Officer’s Guide, 74 Naval Personnel and Training Laboratory, 166 Naval Personnel Research and Development Center, 259 Naval Photographic Center Anacostia, 63 Naval Postgraduate School (NPS), 69 Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps. See NROTC Naval Reserve. See U.S. Naval Reserve Naval School of Hospital Administration, 230 Naval Station Great Lakes, xi, 112, 138, 185; Correctional Center riot (1970), xi–xiii; racial unrest with WAVES (1970), 41 Naval Station Midway Island riot (1972), 200–205, 226 Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia, 23, 248 Naval Station North Island, California, 62 Naval Station San Diego, 248

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Index | 339 Naval Supplement to the Manual for Courts Martial United States, xvii Naval Training Center, San Diego, 48 Naval War College, 35, 69, 240, 260 Navy administrative and disciplinary discharge rates, 198 (table) Navy Affirmative Action Plan (NAAP). See NAAP Navy Dental Corps, 135 Navy Enlisted Scientific Education Program, 112, 255 Navy Human Goals Program, xvi, 192; Phase I, 227–30, 239–40, 245; Phase II, 243–49, 259–60. See also affirmative action; equal opportunity training; racial awareness training; UPWARD Navy Human Resources Development Center, San Diego, 136 Navy Race Relations and Minority Affairs Programs report (1971), 47–48 Navy Race Relations School (NRRS), Millington, Tennessee, 137, 228, 230, 233 Navy Service School Command, San Diego, 255 Neely, Ives W., 22 Nelson, Dennis D., 10–11 Nelson, Ivan, 26 Neosho (AO 143), 104 Neumann, Adolf, 104, 105–6, 114–16, 122, 124–25, 127–28; background, 111–13 New Jersey (BB 62), 14 New Orleans, Louisiana, 171, 174 New York City, 230 New York Times, 146, 168, 191 Newark riot (1967), 20 Newson, Melvin J., 72, 74, 75, 78 Nichols, William, 206 Ninth Naval District, 232, 236 NIS. See Naval Investigative Service Nitze, Paul, 35–36, 38, 251 Nixon, Richard M., 30, 55, 134, 262 Norman, William “Bill,” xviii, xix, 29, 45, 51–52, 266; approach to solving the Navy’s racial problems, 51–52; background and education, 44; early naval career, 44–45; as special assistant for minority affairs, 45–47; and Elmo Zumwalt, 31, 42–43

North Montana College, 112 Notable (MSO 460), 112 NROTC, 10–11, 14, 99; and minority recruitment, 48, 254–55, 260–61, 267 Nuclear Test Ban Treaty, 36 Nuclear Training Group Pacific, San Diego, 128 Oberg, Owen, 71, 76, 100; mast policy, 74–75 Officer Candidate School: Newport, Rhode Island, 109; Quantico, Virginia, 66 officer-on-deck (OD), 67, 223–24 Okinawa, 217 Olds, Robert 106–7 Oliver, L. S., 115–18, 129 Olongapo, Philippines, 80, 82, 126. See also Subic Bay, Philippines O’Neil, David, 53 O’Neil, Warren H., 232, 236–38 OP-602, 133 Operational Training Command, Pacific, 33 OPNAVNOTE 5350, 77 Ossipee, 4 (illus.) Owens, Earl C., 206 Owens, Ricardo, 118 Pacific Fleet, 156, 176–77, 248 Paddock, Richard A., 219 Paint Your Wagon (1969), 84 Palmer, Michael, 2 Pan-African flag, 22 Patrick, Lynwood, 95 Patuxent River, Maryland, 69, 132 Pennsylvania State University, University Park, 14, 135 Pensacola Junior College, Florida, 230 permissiveness in Navy during the 1970s, 177, 189, 190–92 Peronto, Merrill F., 145 Perry, Oliver H., 3 Petersen, Frank E., 12 Pettus, —, 78 Phelps (DD 360), 32 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 61 Philippine Sea (CVA 47), 69, 212 Philippines. See Subic Bay Phillipe, Michael Allen, 207

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340 | Index Pickard, Dallas, xii–xiii pigs and chickens program, 39, 49 Pioneer Moon, 121–126 Pirnie, Alexander, 179, 180; background, 173–74. See also Hicks Subcommittee Hearings Pittsburgh Courier, 7 Planter, C., 26 Plessy v. Ferguson, 4 Pocket Money, Operation, 250 Poorman, Jim G., 202 Port Chicago mutiny (1944), 7, 125 Port Hueneme hunger strike (1944), 9 Powell, William, 215 Prairie (AD 15), 220, 222–25 Prairie View A&M University, Texas, 99 Princeton University, 69 Pringle, Daniel, 184 Project 100,000, 17–18 Project BOOST. See BOOST proportional representation: in Navy, 48– 49, 242, 252–57; in other services, 16, 28. See also racial quotas Prosser, Clifford, 23–24 Prosser, Washington, 172 Prostitution, 80, 221 Pruitt, John D., 231 Puget Sound (AD 38): 264 (illus.) Pulaski, New York, 173 “Purple K,” 203 purple shirts, 206 Puryear, Edgar F., 251 qualitative recruitment, 52–53. See also minority recruitment Quasi War, 2 Quigley, Robin Lindsay, 260 Quinalt, 7 Quonset Point, Rhode Island, 210 racial awareness facilitator (RAF), 228, 231, 238–40 racial awareness training, 51, 101, 136– 37, 192, 212, 227, 241, 243–44. See also equal opportunity training; Navy Human Goals Program; UPWARD racial quotas, 174, 185 racism. See institutional racism Raines, James F., 194–98 Randall, —, 75–76

Randolph, Jimmy A., 60 Ranger (CVA 61) sabotage incident (1972), 79 rap sessions. See focus groups ratings, 257–58 Rauth, David Wayne, 218 Ream, Donald, 118 Recruiting Assistance Program (RAP), 256–57 Red Devils. See amphetamines red shirts, 206 Reddix, Mason C. “Chuck,” 255 reenlistment rates (Navy) during 1970s, 175–76 Richardson, Timothy K., 207 Rickover, Hyman G., 239–40 Rights and Responsibilities Workshop, 244 Rison, Arkansas, 131 Rivers, Jerry D., 210, 212 Rivers, Mendel, 178 Robinson (DD 562), 33–34 Roemer, Robert F., 202, 204 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 7, 9 Roundtree, Franklin, 89 Rowe, John L., 83, 85 Sabal, Manuel, 117–18 salt-and-pepper team, 228 Sampaguita Club, Philippines, 80–82 San Diego, California, 140, 147, 157, 163 San Diego Naval Training Center, 136 San Diego State College, 63 San Vito Air Station, Italy, 194 Saratoga (CVA-60) racial unrest (1972), 92 Savannah (AOR 4), 80 Schaub, John, 131, 143–45, 148; background, 134–35; testimony of, 179–80 Schlesinger, Gary, 237 Schmid, Calvin, 134 Schneider, Otto, 143 Schneller, Robert J., Jr., 11 Scholastic Aptitude Test (SAT), 254 Schultz, J. A., 11 Seabees, 9, 201–5 SEALORDS campaign, 39–40 Sealy, James, 145 Seattle (AOE 3), 71 SECNAVINST 5350.6. See Manual on

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Index | 341 Equal Opportunity and Treatment of Military Personnel segregation in U.S. Navy, 4–5, 7, 9–10, 14, 23, 201; Benjamin Cloud experience with, 182–83; and Hassayampa riot, 126; and Kitty Hawk riot, 63, 80, 100 Selective Service System. See draft Sellers, Robert L., 84 Senior Minority Assistance to Recruiting Program (SEMINAR), 256–57 Senters, Dennis, 217 Seventh Fleet, 38, 69, 121, 250 Shanghai, China, 33 Sharp, U. S. Grant, 177 Shear, Harold E., 247, 252 Shepherd, Burton H., 238 ship’s restricted availability (SRA), 140–41, 148 shore patrol, 80–81, 220, 221, 222, 224 Simpson, Charles T., 88 Sixth Fleet, 187, 199 Small, Carl K., 221–22, 225 Smith, Howard, 130, 144–46, 148, 151–54, 159; background, 138–39 Soul Alley, 22 Sound Surveillance System (SOSUS), 200 South Vietnamese Navy, 39 Southeast Asia Lake, Ocean, River, and Delta Strategy. See SEALORDS campaign Soviet Navy, 37 Spector, Ronald H., 18, 22 Spence, Richard, 118 Spradley, Van E., 203, 205 SRA. See ship’s restricted availability St. Francis College, Brooklyn, 66 St. Louis, Illinois, 138 St. Mary’s College, California, 132 Stanburry, Mose, 150 Stanford University, 112 Stein (DE 1065), 220, 222 Stephan, Robert, 53 Stephens, Robert M., 256 (illus.) stewards, 3–4, 6, 10–12, 14, 43, 182. See also Miller, Doris Stoddert, Benjamin, 2 Stoval, Frank, 77 Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT), 36

Struthers, Basil H., 213 Stuart, James L., 223 Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, 19 Subic Bay, Philippines, 83, 98, 114, 121, 128; drugs, 107; and Hassayampa riot, 103, 114, 115, 120–21, 128; and Kitty Hawk riot, 79–82, 100; naval base, 79– 80, 119; prostitution, 80; racial tension in 1971, 50; R&R situation, 79–80; segregated environment, 80 Sullivan, John L., 10 Surigao Strait battle, 33 Swift, Operation, 66 Systems Development Corporation, 240 Szary, —, 196 Talps, Ernest B., 26 Tanner, Eugene C., 202 Tawasa (ATF 92), 202 Taylor, Kirk, 117 Templeton, Leroy K., 141–42 Thanh Hoa Bridge, Vietnam, 133 Thiele, Karl R., 195–97 Third Marine Amphibious Brigade, 23 Thirteenth Naval District, 238 Thomas, Hooker, 257 (illus.) Thomas, John K., 218–19 Thomas, Leon, 18 Thurmond, Strom, 171 Ticonderoga (CVS 14) riot (1972), 205–9, 226 Tidd, Emmett, 53 Tierney, John M., 147, 154, 164–65, 237, 238, 240 Time, 169–70, 191 Times-Picayune, 171–72 Tingle, G. R., xii Today Show, 251 Tomkins, Charles L., 159 Townsend, Marland “Doc,” 56, 59, 71 (illus.), 127, 152, 182–83, 265; on Terry Avinger, 75; background, 67–72; berthing policy, 58–59; captain’s masts, 72–79; and Benjamin Cloud, 63, 66; during Kitty Hawk riot, 84–93, 95–98, 100–102; in Korea, 68–69; life after riot, 99; new sailor policy, 57; and Subic Bay, 79; with VF-143, 69–70 Travis Air Force Base riot (1971), 28–29

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342 | Index Trenton (LPD 14) unrest (1972), 193– 200, 226 Trott, Robert J., 125–26 Truman, Harry S., 8, 10–11, 168 Tuesday Magazine, 49 Tulare, California, 31 Turman, Michael, 150 Typhoon Joan (1973), 220 U.S. Air Force, 16, 17, 55, 185; during Trenton unrest, 194–95; Travis riot, 28–29 U.S. Army, 12, 13, 18, 44, 185; and black power, 20–22; and draft, 16–17, 52; drug use in during Vietnam War, 22–23, 39; Long Binh Jail riot (1968), 23–27; National Guard, 16, 17, 20; percentage of blacks during Vietnam, 16; and Project 100,000, 17–18 U.S. Army Reserve, 16, 17 U.S. Defense Department, 13, 17, 30, 52, 168, 186–187 U.S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, 259 U.S. Marine Corps, 98, 162, 172; compared to Navy, 183–84; during Constellation affair, 145, 147, 153–54; and draft, 18; drug use in during Vietnam War, 22–23; in Hassayampa riot, 119– 20, 128; during Inchon (LPH 12) riot, 216–20; during Intrepid riot, 214–15; in Kitty Hawk riot, 84–85, 87–92, 99; Marine Basic School (TBS), 66; Marine Force Logistic Command, 27; percentage of blacks in Vietnam, 16; and Project 100,000, 17; in Sampaguita night club brawl, 80–82; during Trenton unrest, 195–99; Vietnam riots, 27 U.S. Naval Academy, 11, 31–32, 45, 239, 249, 251, 260; and minority recruitment, 48, 254–55, 267 U.S. Naval Forces, Europe (CINCUSNAVEUR), 164 U.S. Naval Reserve, 68, 132, 134, 135, 164, 230, 255 U.S. Navy Bureau of Personnel. See Bureau of Personnel UCMJ. See Uniform Code of Military Justice

Understanding Personal Worth and Racial Dignity. See UPWARD underway replenishment (UNREP): history, 104; in Hassayampa (AO 145), 105, 122; in Kitty Hawk, 57 Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), 62, 170; and captain’s masts, 73; Kitty Hawk charges, 98 United States Lines, 122 University of Maryland, College Park, 63–64 University of Pittsburgh, 135 UNREP. See underway replenishment Unsatisfied Black Soldiers, 20 Upshur, Abel P., 3 UPWARD, xvi, 227–42, 243, 248, 252, 267 V-5 Program, 131 V-12 program, 7, 131 Valden, Robert, 215 Valley Forge (CV 45), 68 Van Dien, Vietnam, 70 Vanguard Associates, Minneapolis, 49 Vietnam War, xiv–xv, 14–19, 36–40, 49, 50, 52, 55–56, 69–70, 80, 97, 99, 130; ACTOV, 38–39; Benjamin Cloud in, 64–65; Nicholas Carlucci in, 66–67; Constellation in, 140, 156; drug and alcohol use, 22–23, 107–8; Linebacker Operation, 55–56, 92, 101, 134, 140, 186, 191, 250, 266; Long Binh Jail riot, 23–27; Navy deployments during, 175– 77, 187; Adolph Neumann in, 140; Orville McGuire in, 110; SEALORDS, 39–40; Marland Townsend in, 69–70; J. D. Ward in, 133; James Yacabucci in, 136; Yankee Station, 56, 79, 83. See also Hassayampa (AO 145); Inchon (LPH 12); Kitty Hawk (CV 63) Vinh, Vietnam, 69 Vinson, Carl, 171, 177–78 Virginia Chamber of Commerce, 173 Virginia State Navy, 2 Virginia Wesleyan College, West Virginia, 44 Vital (MSO 474), 112 Vollerstein, Russell, 224 Wagner, William, J., 237–38

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Index | 343 Walker, Michael, 219 Walker, Thomas, 158, 160 Ward, J. D., 131, 265, background, 131– 34; and beach detachment, 157–63; during Constellation unrest, 135, 136, 142–43, 145–49, 152–66; decision to discharge 6 sailors, 143–44, 147, 150; life after sit-down strike, 164; and Edward Martinez, 139; testimony of, 178– 79, 182, 190 Ward, Thomas E., 268 (illus.) Warner, John, 160, 162–63, 177 Washington, D.C.: race riot (1919), 5–6, race riot (1968), 20 Washington Navy Yard, 5 Watergate, 191–92 Watkins, James, 261 Watts riot (1965), 20 WAVES, 41, 260 Webb, Gregory G., 256 (illus.) Weems, Merlo Gene, 217 Weir, Peter, 262 Welles, Gideon, 3 Werner, Virgil, 106–8, 119–21 WESTPAC, 101, 103 Whaley, Thomas, 195 White House, 65 White Plains (AFS 4), 212 White, Thomas L., 218 Whittet, John D., 240 Williams, B. M., 207 Wilson, Almon C., 234–38 Wilson, Dale, 93 Wilson, David, 131, 144, 152, 178; background, 137–38 Winstead, —, 195 Wisconsin (BB 64), 35 Women Accepted for Voluntary Emergency Service. See WAVES Wood, Mark, 27–28 Wright, Chester, 239, 245 Wright, Thomas, 123 Yacabucci, James, 131, 144, 149–52, 155–56, 165, 182; background, 135–37

Yangtze River, China, 33 Yankee Station, 56, 79, 83 Yankee Team Flights, 64–65 Yeaman, Ronald L., 93 Yellow shirt, 209, 211 Yokosuka, Japan, 104 Yount, Robert, 204 Zen Buddhism, 230 Z-grams, 42, 46–47; Z-57, 175; Z-66, 46–47, 77, 263; Z-116, 260 Zumwalt, Elmo R., Jr., xiv–ix, 29, 46 (illus.), 77, 152, 198, 209, 212, 214, 217, 227, 241–42, 260–61, 263, 264 (illus.), 266–67, 269; background and early career, 31–35; as COMNAVFORV, 34, 36–40; and Constellation, 130, 156–60, 162–63; and Dan Daniel, 173; domestic action programs, 49; dress and grooming policies, 42; equal opportunity policies as CNO, 45–46; and focus groups, 47; and F. Edward Hébert, 171–72, 174, 177–78, 191–92; and Floyd Hicks, 172; and Hassayampa, 108, 126–27; and Hicks Subcommittee Hearings, 167, 174–78, 185–86; and James Holloway III, 36, 47, 250–52; and institutional racism in the Navy, 1, 187, 226; and Henry Kissinger, 170; and minority quotas, 174; minority recruitment, 48–49, 52–54; and Naval Station Great Lakes racial unrest (1970), 41– 42; Navy Human Goals Program, 227– 30, 243–49; Navy Race Relations and Minority Affairs Programs report, 47– 48; and Paul Nitze, 35–36, 38; and William Norman, 42–44; and permissiveness, 177; and Alexander Pirnie, 174; and racial incidents (1971), 50–51; selected as youngest CNO, 30–31, 40; speech to admirals (10 November 1972), 167–70; and Z-grams, 42, 46–47; and Bruce Zumwalt, 31; and Elmo Zumwalt III, 35, 40; and Mouza Zumwalt, 33, 44

About the Author

John Darrell Sherwood, Ph.D., is an official historian with the U.S. Naval Historical Center. He is the author of Afterburner: Naval Aviators and the Vietnam Experience; Fast Movers: Jet Pilots and the Vietnam War; and Officers in Flight Suits: The Story of American Air Force Fighter Pilots in the Korean War. He lives in Washington, D.C.

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