I learned Anne had not shown the children nine of the ten letters I had sent her from prison. Moreover, I learned she had destroyed all my letters to her and the children dating back to my time in the Korean War. Anne knew I had always anticipated these letters would be of historical value, to me and my family, anyway. This was unbelievable. The Anne I had known was a fine, honorable person, totally incapable of acting in this fashion.
“I can’t believe your mother did this,” I told the kids.
When asked what she thought when she found out I was alive and coming home, Laurie explained, “I was riding my bike with my friend, Susan, when Father Haines drove up and nervously told me that I had to go straight back to the house—that my mother had just received word my father was coming home. I knew this must be a true God-given miracle—my father had come back from the dead. Father Haines looked shocked, but I remember Susan saying, “Hey, that’s really cool!”
I talked with Anne’s father, Rear Adm. Macpherson Williams, who was awarded two stars upon retirement—making him what is called a “tombstone” admiral—in honor of especially great service to the Navy, and my mother-in-law. To my amazement, Admiral “Mac” and Mrs. Williams, too, thought I was deceased. They weren’t aware of the POW office in Washington established to assist relatives and dependents of POWs. My own parents were very aware I hadn’t gone to the deep six.
Talk of failed communication, this was a classic example of it. The Williamses were genuinely delighted about my survival and just as genuinely sorry about what happened with Anne. It didn’t hurt them that Anne had remarried, because she had her life to live and they had accepted I was dead. But they were terribly shaken when they realized Anne divorced me when she must have known I was alive.
Three weeks after my liberation, and after profound consideration, I decided the best thing to do was to confer with Anne directly about the whole situation. My father was vehemently opposed to my going to California, but I felt I had to make the trip. I set up the visit through the children, and my son Bill arranged for us to meet in his apartment.
Anne was a casualty of the war like me. The normal and anticipated disruption in our lives, which Navy families experience every time a ship goes to sea, was exacerbated by my shoot down, extending that disruption to six eternally long years.
From various sources I put together a kind of scenario of what had happened while I was in the Hilton. While stationed at Miramar before the deployment to Yankee Station, we rented a home in Solana Beach, a lovely community along the Pacific coast north of San Diego. We attended St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in nearby Del Mar, influenced by the fact that retired Navy chaplain, Cdr. Matt Currey, who married Anne and me, was the pastor there. Matt had actually helped us find our house in Solana Beach.
The Episcopal bishop of Southern California visited the church one day, and Matt made a point of introducing Anne, me, and the children as a “model” family.
Unfortunately, St. Peters experienced some terrible internal problems while I was overseas, and they became so severe Anne decided to attend an Episcopal church in Encinitas instead. Ralph Haines was the reverend at this church. Haines had recently lost his wife to illness, leaving him with two young sons.
After I was shot down, Haines, as part of his ministerial duties, visited Anne to render solace to a POW’s wife. Over a period of time, they apparently fell in love. Laurie, our oldest, was mature enough to comprehend what was happening; that this minister was violating his position of trust. But Laurie was powerless to do anything about it. Anne was in a profoundly vulnerable state, and Haines, intentionally or not, took advantage of it. Haines and Anne had a full-fledged, formal church wedding while I was sequestered against my will on the other side of the world.
Anne entered Bill’s apartment so terribly choked up she could hardly talk. I was in casual clothes as was she. I was transfixed by the sight of her, lovely as ever after six years, but her apprehension was almost palpable. The situation was surreal. I wanted to take her in my arms, but I feared that would make matters even worse. Here we were, two grown-ups who had shared a major part of our adult lives together, created three new lives, yet now met as strangers. We sat down and were uncomfortably silent for a moment. Anne couldn’t seem to talk, so, with a level tone, I started.
“You are a victim of the war just like me,” I said. What you have done is so unlike you. . . . well I’ve always perceived you as an honorable human being and . . .”
Mine was a stumbling dialogue, but I continued. “I don’t really know what to say, except, I really would like for us to be together again, especially for the sake of the family. It’s the best thing to do.”
The wariness in her expression intensified.
“I’m sure an annulment can be arranged,” I continued. “Or, under the circumstances, I believe you could seek a divorce without a lot of complications.”
From the despairing look on her face, I knew in my heart of hearts there was little, if any, hope of reconciliation, but I pressed on. “We can put this behind us,” I said, “and start over.”
Finally, with a faltering voice and on the brink of tears, Anne said, “Look, Bill, I really tried hard. I really tried to be strong. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I just want you to know you are the finest man I have ever known.” And with that she rose and left the room.
The memory of that time Matt Currey held Anne and me and the kids up to the bishop as a model family flitted through my mind. Any hopes of a reiteration of that honor were certainly erased from the realm of possibility, but I honestly believed an accommodation could be reached.
It was obvious she was truly in love with Ralph Haines, was content with her decision to share his life, and was not even remotely inclined to consider divorcing him and returning to me.
I can’t say I was surprised by her adamant stance. I held out hope she would reconsider. I looked at her, resurrected the vision of her as my lovely bride, and allowed images of our happy past together to make their way through my mind. She was the mother of our children, and I still felt warmth and longing for her that equaled in intensity my disappointment over what she had done.
The California trip did yield one rather positive thing. After I was shot down, my clothing had been shipped to Anne. The clothes, I learned, were in a California neighbor’s garage, still secure in a metal cruise box.
In retrospect, an element of this tragic fiasco was that the POW office in Washington knew that divorce proceedings were under way but never advised my parents. It’s hard to say, but had Mom and Dad known, they might have intervened to stop the divorce. Water over the bridge.
To this day, I am convinced that this Episcopal minister, who was supposed to provide solace and support to a prisoner of war’s wife, seduced Anne. In my view, he violated his position of trust and responsibility as a minister. Anne was in an awfully vulnerable situation. She had been an honorable person, but once she compromised herself, the situation went downhill from there.
During the divorce proceedings, Anne took the position that our marriage was irrevocably broken before I left, which was utter nonsense. My children and Father Currey, who knew us very well, would attest to that.
Under California law, if a woman in a situation like Anne’s initiates divorce proceedings against her husband, she must prove desertion. Her attorney advised her to put an ad in the paper requesting that I appear in court, and that ad had to run for a certain number of weeks. She also had to show evidence she had sent a letter to my last-known address and that the letter was returned unanswered. So she sent a letter addressed to me aboard the USS Constellation, and sure enough, it was returned to her.
Before leaving California, I paid a visit to her attorney. “You knew I was a POW,” I stated. “How could you, with any sense of ethics, be complicit in such an action? You know, I could have you disbarred!”
He retorted with lawyerspeak, said something about California being a community property state, and when he f
inished, I vented some fury about his actions and threw out the word “dishonorable” somewhere in my diatribe. He reacted with a shrug, not at all bothered by my charges.
I wrote a letter to the area’s Episcopal bishop, the same one to whom Father Currey introduced us as a model family. I suggested the church conduct an investigation into the ignominious actions of Ralph Haines. I outlined the whole scenario, the letters withheld from our children, the shielding of the truth about my so-called death in combat. Haines had to know. Father Currey aggressively supported me in this action. I still held the unrealistic notion Anne might change her mind and return to me.
Meanwhile, my father took the case to some prominent Episcopal friends in Tennessee, who alerted the senior Episcopal bishop in the area.
“I’m sorry,” said the bishop, “but each area bishop is totally autonomous in his own diocese. “I have no authority over the bishop in Southern California, nor does anybody else. He acts as he feels he should. I cannot bring any pressure to bear on your behalf.” This bishop did write a letter to the cognizant bishop out West and in no uncertain terms said any minister in his region who did what Ralph Haines did would have been defrocked.
Ultimately, I received a response from Hayne’s bishop, which, in effect, stated the marriage between Anne and Haines should be preserved. He wrote, “I welcome you as you return to observe the culture which has developed in your absence. My heart goes out to those who have experienced pain and suffering.”
I considered this a mealy-mouthed response. I was still hot under the collar. The Vietnam War had soured huge numbers of Americans. I knew servicemen returning from Southeast Asia were spat upon and ridiculed, that the conflict had bred hate and confrontation. But I believed I had a case.
“Unless you take some corrective action in this case, I am going expose what you have condoned,” I wrote in return.
He came right back with, “Don’t do anything like this. It could have an adverse impact on your family.”
As if it hadn’t already had an adverse impact on my family. Incredible.
Some time went by, during which Anne and Ralph Haines talked with their bishop, and any hope I held out for reunification was dashed. Anne conveyed through our son, Bill, that she did not want to come back to me.
As furious and disheartened as I was, I delved into some deep soul-searching. I concluded I was in a fight I could never win. Anne had been a good wife. She had hung in there with me for twenty years, and she had been, up to a critical point, an endearing mother to our children. Wouldn’t I just be making things worse for her if I elevated my fuss with the Episcopal Church?
“I no longer intend to take action in this case,” I begrudgingly wrote the bishop, but I am resigning from the Episcopal Church.
To Ralph Haines I wrote, “I accept what has happened, and I am not taking any other steps to attempt to reunite with Anne.”
Meanwhile, Anne’s parents had disowned her, severing all relationships with her. To the Williamses I wrote, “Anne is your only child. Please don’t do this. Accept what has happened as an unfortunate occurrence of the war. I strongly urge you to reestablish your relationship with her and help put all this turmoil behind us.” In the summer of 1973, they reunited with their daughter.
One positive aspect of my real-life soap opera was gaining custody of Wendy through a court order, which Anne did not oppose. Bill and Laurie were technically adults and could do as they wished. Fortunately, they soon became engrossed in their studies, a prelude to their successful careers. Wendy, as I mentioned, stayed with my parents and attended a private school. I found it reassuring that all three children were now in Tennessee, with my parents nearby, and their lives on a more productive track. Meanwhile I was ordered to the National War College in Washington, D.C., where I hoped to restart a career interrupted by a well-aimed 87-millimeter shell six years earlier.
Chapter Twenty
ORDERS
“I’ve got to introduce you to Diane,” John McCain started on me one day. “But I’ve got so many other things to take care of . . .” “Trust me,” he said, “you will like this lady.”
THE NAVY TOOK REMARKABLY GOOD CARE of its POWs and pretty much gave us orders of our choosing, particularly with respect to locations. Left unsaid were the questionable prospects of those of us who had been “out of the Navy for years,” missing out on assignments considered necessary for advancing our careers. Most of us were convinced there was no way to catch up. Yet Adm. Elmo Zumwalt Jr., CNO, and Adm. Tom Moorer, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and former CNO, made it clear POWs were to receive every opportunity to reestablish their careers.
The National War College, located at the Army’s Fort McNair in Washington, D.C., was a good step for me. I had “screened” (qualified in accordance with a board of officers who review candidates for command billets and gives them a thumbs up or down) for a carrier command. This meant at the completion of war college, I would return to sea duty. With studies, reconciling a multitude of personal affairs, answering the demands for speaking engagements, and weekend commuting to Nashville, my plate was full.
Fellow POW, war college student, and Naval Academy graduate Jim Bell and I shared an apartment in Alexandria, Virginia. Despite the heavy schedule, my energy level was way up, and I felt as productive as ever. The disaster of the divorce lay heavy on my mind, but I was resolute in putting it behind me and getting on with duty. I even pursued and achieved a master’s degree in political affairs at George Washington University and wrote a thesis titled “The Deep Sea Bed, the Current Status and Future Prospect.”
While this was going on, John McCain, who was also attending the war college, kept bugging me about a lady he wanted me to meet. John needed extensive therapy because of the severe injuries he sustained during his shoot down and captivity. He could have received therapy at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, but an outfit in Alexandria called Rehab Incorporated offered to treat him at no charge, and its location was convenient for commuting to Fort McNair. His therapist was a lovely and lively woman named Diane Rauch. She had been married to a nuclear submariner, but that union ended in divorce.
“I’ve got to introduce you to Diane,” John started on me one day.
“But I’ve got so many other things to take care of . . . .”
“Trust me,” he said, “you will like this lady.”
Like his father and grandfather before him, both renowned Navy admirals, John is a persistent man. John’s knee was essentially frozen, and Diane was determined to work aggressively with him until he could achieve a full ninety-degree flexion (enabling him to successfully complete the required physical exam to return to flying). This endeavor took four hours a week for nine months. During those strenuous sessions, he was working Diane the same way he worked me, playing the matchmaker role with his special kind of eloquence and persuasion.
On her part, Diane told John, “I really don’t want to become involved again with another naval officer; I was a Navy wife for twenty-three years.”
Finally, after four months of badgering, Diane and I met at a dinner party staged by John. We were seated next to each other, and from the outset we hit it off. Not only was it easy to engage in conversation, but I also was impressed with her beauty and classy demeanor. Still, my main focus was on Nashville and matters military, and not much happened between us immediately after that first encounter.
A month later I finished my thesis at GW and was near completing the war college course in international relations. Thankfully, the kids were doing well, although the dramatic swing from the “loose” California culture to the more staid environment of a Bible Belt state created difficult pressures for them. Thank heaven for my parents and the magnificent job they did as surrogate parents when I wasn’t around.
The upheaval of my reentry into the free world had dissipated, like soup reduced from bubbling to a quiet simmering. I asked Diane for a date, she assented, and the courtship began.
&
nbsp; As the song says, “Love is better the second time around.” That applied to both of us. When Laurie and Wendy visited me in Washington and met Diane, they immediately took to her, and another domino felled en route to our ultimate marriage. To my welcome surprise, I was also selected for flag rank while at the college.
I did not get a carrier command, a disappointment tempered by my promotion to admiral. Commanding a warship with eighty-plus aircraft and five thousand people on board is one of the greatest leadership challenges one could face. But it was not to be for me. Instead, I was assigned as commander Light Attack Wing Pacific Fleet at Naval Air Station Lemoore in the San Joaquin Valley of California. In retrospect, I believe my elevation rather quickly to flag rank was an early promotion, which was enhanced by fitness reports written in my behalf by Col. John Flynn, the senior Air Force POW, and from Jim Stockdale, Jerry Denton, and Robbie Risner. I was humbled by the manner in which they sang my praises. John Flynn wrote in my fitness report, “Among the group of heroes Captain Lawrence was the most heroic of all.”
I also felt indebted to Admiral Zumwalt, who clearly wanted to demonstrate that he was willing to bet on the POWs. His rationale was that, even though we missed valuable assignments, the value of the POW experience and the leadership we demonstrated compensated for deficiencies.
Chapter Twenty-One
VALLEY OF THE JETS
I was in the Pentagon for three years, felt confident I knew how things got done, or undone there, and learned much about dealing with Congress.
THE LEMOORE ASSIGNMENT WAS LIKE A BOLD, refreshing tonic to me. I was back among the operational aviators. Just the sound of the Skyhawks and the Corsair II’s launching and recovering and streaking overhead was invigorating. I had twenty-three squadrons under my command plus cognizance over Naval Air Station Fallon, Nevada, where air wing weapons training took place, and Naval Air Station Alameda across the bay from San Francisco, a major carrier base and home to active and reserve squadrons.
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