My first weeks at Commander Naval Special Warfare Group Pacific in August 1970 were marked by anxiety and stress. The first inkling of my prospective future came when I inquired about the officer I was replacing as assistant intelligence officer.
“Oh, he’s still in the hospital,” I was told, “recovering from his wounds.”
Gulp.
I don’t remember anyone ever sitting down with me and explaining what was to happen. In bits and pieces, I gleaned that the plan was for me to deploy to Vietnam with a SEAL detachment. It had been the routine assignment for the assistant intelligence officer, as I later understood it, and I was next.
(I was also ill at this time. No clear diagnosis from the command’s medical doctor. He used terms like atypical mono. I thought of it as “the crud” — elevated temperature, fatigue, etc. The following year, when I was being released from active duty, the doctor doing my physical said a spot on my lung indicated I might have had San Joaquin Valley Fever at some point. Just added to feeling down.)
At the time, I was pretty “left” — anti-Vietnam War — and had been through college. I thought the war was a mistake and wrong. When the deferment for grad school went away and the draft loomed, I considered options other than military service. I took the exam for OCS, not really knowing whether I wanted to be successful. But I was accepted and it seemed a reasonable option. (I’m trying to think back to what I thought and felt 50 years ago and it’s not real easy. I’m also surprised at the level of angst I’ve felt these past few weeks thinking again in depth of this time. When I know what happened!) After OCS, I had been assigned to a ship due to make a WESTPAC deployment because the Navy was experimenting with placing intelligence officers on such ships.
I guess I felt blindsided by what I understood the plan was to be for me at Special Warfare. I had no training and very little confidence in my ability to succeed in what I understood I was to do — be a recruiter and runner of “informers” among the Vietnamese. I was aware of SEAL participation in the CIA-coordinated Phoenix program, to which I had moral objection. Was I also scared? Yes. Was the basis for what I did more principle than fear? I hope so.
I believed then that it would be wrong for me to follow those orders, if issued, without raising objection. I’m trying to remember how I found information about any options. Obviously, I didn’t “google” the info. Communication 50 years ago was phone or letter. I expect that I got some information from alternative newspapers published in LA and San Diego. I also remember reaching out to friends and shipmates asking for “references.” I wasn’t asking them to approve what I might do, but to share some background about me, e.g., was my objection to this duty out of character?, had I expressed concerns consistently?, etc. Several sent me supportive material.
I spoke to my parents on the phone before doing anything definitive, but shared some possibilities with them. My father, a WWII veteran, was angry with me. My mother was concerned about me.
I ultimately decided that if I was to receive the orders, I would apply for conscientious objector status. I understood, I think, what that action might mean for my future. I made an appointment to speak with CDR Robinson, Chief Staff Officer, #2 in the unit hierarchy. I remember lying awake the night before, thinking it might be the last night I would spend outside the brig for a long time. I remember sitting on the couch in CDR Robinson’s office the next morning, telling him my feelings and intentions. When I finished, there was a long pause. Then he got up, told me to stay there, and went into the adjacent office of the Commanding Officer, CAPT T. R. Fielding. I have no idea what transpired between CDR Robinson and CAPT Fielding. After several minutes, CDR Robinson came out and said something like, “You’re not going. Let’s just keep all this between us.”
If I felt relief at that moment, I’m not sure the numbness I was feeling would have allowed it. CDR Robinson, I suspect, simply told people later that plans had changed. No one else in the command, including the intelligence officer to whom I reported, ever questioned me or asked about the change in plans. I’m sure that soon after I certainly felt relieved and I appreciated CDR Robinson’s actions.
(My first fitness report from the command, issued early that October, was, as you might imagine, not stellar. The evaluations of my performance and “desirability” were in the meh range. I was described as “sincere,” but also “immature” and “extremely sensitive.” My lowest grades among “personal characteristics” were in “judgment” and “moral courage.” The report recommended that I not be considered for retention in the military beyond my initial commitment.)
I was immature and, I guess, sensitive. I was 23 and, compared to other officers of my age, I sometimes felt a little out of place. I did, however, want to demonstrate to CDR Robinson and others that I could do a good job at Special Warfare. I hope I did and my later fitness reports there were quite positive. Indeed, in my final fitness report at the command, likely drafted by CDR Robinson, my moral courage was rated “is not exceeded.”
I believe what I did at the time was what I thought was right. No one was required to take my place. If my action had meant someone else would have had to go in my stead, I believe it would have been a very different calculation. The practice of sending a junior intelligence officer with a SEAL detachment to Vietnam ended, as SEAL participation in the war was already declining.
(Working with CDR Robinson often during my tour, I noticed he kept a plaque on his desk that read “Think Water.” Over time, I inferred that CDR Robinson may not have been a fan of the role SEALs played in Vietnam. They did little of the work Navy SEALs did in other settings. To a significant extent, they operated much as Army Green Berets did. [That’s been even more the case in this century with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.] In regard to SEAL activities, I think CDR Robinson was more old-school UDT [Underwater Demolition Team].)
Were I a few years older at the time, I might have considered things differently or at least responded in a different way. I have changed over time as just about everyone does. When I had the opportunity to affiliate with a Naval Reserve unit in 1978, I took it, and completed 20 years service overall, retiring as a Commander. (That October 1970 fitness report did come back years later to bite me in the butt, though, when I was being considered for promotion to Captain.)
There is a tragic coda to my interactions with CDR Robinson. When I first moved here in 2012, I looked him up, hoping he was still in the area. I wanted to thank him personally for the profound role he had played in my life and to let him know I had “turned out all right,” serving honorably in the Navy later on and making Commander. I found reference to him in a newspaper article. He had stayed in San Diego and was a real estate developer after retiring from the Navy as a Captain. In 1988, he and a colleague were examining some property, an “empty canyon,” in San Diego and the colleague left him to get something from their nearby office. When the colleague returned, he located CAPT Robinson’s body in some bushes, his throat slashed and his chest stabbed several times. It remains a cold case. CAPT Robinson was 57. He left a widow and then-10-year-old daughter. That was stunning and so sad. I deeply regret not trying to communicate with him much earlier.