The Galloping Ghost

by Carl P. LaVO

  Admiral Fluckey immersed himself in his role as NATO chief with customary energy. Strategic planning, conferences worldwide, and a social life in Portugal and Europe that didn’t quit occupied him. Among his friendships was a warm bond with Portugal dictator Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, a lawyer and economist who had controlled the country since 1932. Salazar often confided that the dictatorship was necessary because he didn’t trust the Portuguese to make good decisions. He alone controlled the police, the military, labor unions, banks, and schools. Citizens had no political freedom. Newspapers, books, and art were censored, and any negative comment about the government was forbidden. Salazar secured his reign with a secret police service that numbered more than twenty thousand, making dissidence very difficult. He kept his country largely isolated from the rest of Europe and rejected technological advances that might have made life easier for impoverished citizens.

  What the Fluckeys saw, however, was a nation virtually crime free, orderly, with a climate and lifestyle—if you had the money—that was intoxicating. Salazar, whom the admiral had known since the early 1950s, was an unflinching NATO supporter, Portugal being one of the founders of the alliance. The dictator had agreed not only to cede land for the new IBERLANT headquarters, but had underwritten the cost of building it.

  Of course, Admiral Fluckey’s consuming concern as commander was putting together a strategy to stymie the dreaded Soviet Union; Portugal’s internal affairs were not his concern. But they soon would have an impact.

  The nation seethed with unrest because of Salazar’s determination to hold on to Portuguese colonies in Africa. More than a hundred thousand young men had been drafted and sent to Angola, Mozambique, and Guinea-Bissau, where thousands were killed or injured in a vain attempt to stifle rebellions.

  In some ways Fluckey could empathize with Salazar’s situation. He saw the parallel at home in the United States, where drafting of college-age students to fight in Vietnam was causing turmoil. Protests against the administration of Richard Nixon appalled the admiral, who viewed the president as the “sharpest guy I ever briefed” when he was naval intelligence chief. Fluckey, like many in the American military, thought of the war in Vietnam as the latest front in an ongoing struggle by democracies against Soviet-inspired international communism. In the ultra-right-wing culture of Lisbon in the late 1960s, President Nixon was highly praised for his conduct of the war and foreign policy. Lisbon newspapers regularly pilloried Democrats for criticism of the president. In 1969, when Senator Ted Kennedy left the scene of a fatal car accident in Chappaquiddick in New England, it got front-page treatment in Lisbon. Observed columnist Alexander at the time of his visit, “The Portuguese gloat when anything goes wrong with Democratic politicians. It was under Democratic Presidents that the U.S. started its policy of heckling the Portuguese for being imperialists and racist.”

  Many in Portugal assumed the fascist political climate in Lisbon would change after Salazar suffered a major stroke. He lingered for nearly two years before succumbing in 1970. Admiral Fluckey was one of his pall bearers. Salazar’s long-time cohort, Lisbon University rector Marcelo Caetano, followed him and pledged to lead the country to more civil freedoms. However, he remained conflicted by the African question and was unable to change course. Many more young men were sent off to their deaths in Africa as families of would-be draftees emigrated from Portugal rather than risk conscription. An opposition movement existed, but because of the extensive secret police apparatus, it could not exert itself. But it would find a way.

  Though Fluckey had been looking forward to a promotion with the commissioning of IBERLANT, news arrived in the spring of 1971 from Vice Adm. Dick H. Guinn, chief of naval personnel, that Gene would be relieved before the commissioning. Having brought IBERLANT nearly to fruition, the rear admiral thought the decision was unfair. In an impassioned reply to Guinn, he argued for a delay until IBERLANT was operational. “If one wants action here, one needs connections otherwise you cry in a bureaucratic wilderness,” he wrote of hurdles yet to overcome. “Certainly a few of the staff Portuguese can help, but they never reach above their level or move off the bureaucratic track. They and others laughed when I said we’d have IBERLANT fully underway in October 1971—the Portuguese because of Bureaucratic mire—others because no NATO project was ever built on schedule. Dick, we’ll be underway if our U.S. personnel are on board. . . . I frankly believe I can cajole, wheedle, and influence the Portuguese military more, in the interests of NATO and the United States, than anyone I know.”

  Two weeks later Guinn relented, postponing Fluckey’s relief until the summer of the following year.

  Just as predicted, there were significant obstacles to be overcome as the new headquarters took shape. Sufficient numbers of adequately trained personnel were an early impediment. Contractors hired by Portugal to build the headquarters were under no time constraints to meet deadlines. Fluckey had to constantly remind them of the cost of inflation and the need to get the facility up and running. But still there was foot dragging. Finally, to force the contractor to speed up, Fluckey ordered his command to occupy the building in late September and set a 29 October 1971 date for commissioning as work continued.

  It had the desired effect. The labor force in the building tripled. The rush to completion, however, had unwitting consequences. Among painters hired to detail the building were two men opposed to the Caetano regime. They had smuggled in large tins disguised as paint cans, each packed with explosives and timing mechanisms. The canisters were positioned just outside Fluckey’s office. Additional explosives were planted at a receiver station at Fonte da Telha, about fifty miles from the headquarters. The terrorists intended to make a statement by killing the rear admiral, wrecking the NATO command center, and taking out the communications receiver on the eve of the commissioning.

  The painters took an early dinner, telling guards they would be back to finish up. They never returned. Fortunately the timers did not go off until the rear admiral and his staff had left the building. Multiple blasts erupted after midnight, demolishing interior corridors, blowing out doors and windows, and destroying communication equipment below ground as well as the distant receiving tower. However, no one was injured or killed. The headquarters was largely vacant, patrolled by a few military guards.

  Admiral Fluckey got the call at home and quickly returned, stunned that such an attack could occur in a country where it was unheard of. Rumors quickly spread that it was the work of Communists, perhaps with the support of Jesuit priests opposed to the African wars. After surveying the damage, Fluckey decided the commissioning could go on as planned after a Herculean cleanup. Using every available resource, Fluckey organized an all-night debris removal. Chunks of concrete, twisted metal, glass shards, and wiring were removed bit by bit from the headquarters. Shattered windows throughout the compound were completely removed. Since the commissioning ceremony would be staged outside away from the building on a clear morning, Fluckey hoped that from the distance the windowless frames might look like they had glass.

  At daybreak the rear admiral sent an urgent dispatch to Jose de Sa Viana Rebelo, the Portuguese defense minister, to urge him not to cancel the ceremony. “As you know, the above ground administrative facility of the IBERLANT Headquarters received extensive damage from a bomb placed in the open portico,” Fluckey wrote. “Though we deeply regret such a happening, I urge you to accept our recommendation that the Commissioning Ceremony continue as planned.” Rebelo agreed.

  Right on schedule at 0900 of 29 October—less than forty-eight hours after the attack—Portuguese Admiral Americo Tomaz, president of the country, commissioned the $6.5 million headquarters and conveyed it formally to Rear Admiral Fluckey and NATO. Among the dignitaries in attendance were NATO Secretary General Dr. Joseph Luns, Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic Charles K. Duncan of the United States, and West German Air Force General J. Steinhoff, chairman of the NATO military committee. Also attending were NATO chiefs of staffs from Belgium, Cana
da, Denmark, Germany, Greece, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Turkey, the United Kingdom, the United States, and Portugal, as well as a French military liaison. Admiral Fluckey addressed the assemblage, outlining the significance of the new headquarters as a key defensive initiative to “the Russian wolf that passes ever closer to our door.”

  Guests marveled at the clean lines of the administrative headquarters and commented on how “spotless” the windows were. The international press made no mention of the bombing. But the blast set back operations for months. The receiver station had been so crippled that it would not be completed until the fall of 1972 at the earliest, according to an assessment prepared by Fluckey in March 1972. Portugal and NATO hushed up any references to the attack. The results of an investigation were never disclosed. And those within NATO who knew some details henceforth would only refer to the incident as “The Bomb.” All the Portuguese public and the world at large knew was that IBERLANT’s new headquarters opened on schedule and was fully operational—just as Admiral Fluckey had intended.

  By March 1972 the headquarters reached its optimum staffing of 41 officers, 159 enlisted personnel, and 6 civilians drawn from the United States, Great Britain, and Portugal. In addition, a French liaison officer, a German naval officer, and a Danish civilian were posted at the headquarters, as well as a variety of Portuguese civilians employed as draftsmen, translators, printers, switchboard operators, and maintenance workers.

  The long hours and challenges of bringing IBERLANT to fruition were now over for Gene Fluckey. Why he wasn’t promoted to vice admiral was left to conjecture. Those who had followed his illustrious career were aware of a schism in the Navy leadership between those who much admired the “Galloping Ghost” and those who disparaged him. “There were pro and con Fluckey factions in the Navy,” said Capt. Max Duncan, who had served with him in the Barb and in the admiral’s Pacific submarine command. “I was tempted to ask a couple of very senior officers that I knew well about it but never did. Some of it may have been his friendly approach to everyone, officer and enlisted. In earlier times I didn’t notice it; informality is usual in submarines. Submarine discipline is strong but informal. Not so in large commands. I know that from having command of a tender with 1,000 plus, a [Pearl Harbor] base with 2,500 plus, and naval Support Activity Saigon with 5,000. I know deep down he just liked people and very seldom had negative comments about anyone.”

  Former Navy Lt. (j.g.) Fred Sill, who served under Fluckey in Solant Amity II, said jealousy may have played a role. “My guess is that it started the very moment he became the youngest admiral in the Navy. He may well have leapfrogged over others, which always upsets some colleagues. And his youthful enthusiasm for everything he did could well have been considered unbecoming by his peers. The ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ concept had been ingrained into my officer’s training, and I often felt that [Gene’s] easygoing attitude with the enlisted personnel was going a bit too far. But that’s the way he was. I think that it was he who led the conga line around the Spiegel Grove one evening during a shipboard reception in South Africa.”

  Vice Admiral Guinn reminded Admiral Fluckey in the spring of 1971 that he would have approximately one year of possible service remaining after IBERLANT was in full operation. “I am sure you can appreciate the difficulty of trying to arrange a meaningful one year assignment for you,” Guinn wrote. “It would therefore be very helpful if we could have some indication as to your personal plans and/or desires at that time.”

  Fluckey and his wife discussed their options and ultimately decided to retire and stay in Portugal. They enjoyed their home, their Sintra neighbors, and the many friends they had made in Portugal and Europe. They had enough money to live comfortably and travel at will, including trips home to the United States.

  On his last day at IBERLANT in August 1972, Fluckey studied the view from the window of his second-floor office. He could see the white dot on the distant mountain, the one just below Pena Palace. It was a clear view of home. The admiral’s view of his career, his capabilities, and his goals had always been one of clarity. Life had been good. Physically he and his wife had triumphed over major impediments—Marjorie had successfully battled cancer and survived a lifelong battle with diabetes, and Gene had reversed severe nearsightedness to remain in the academy, become an ensign, and evolve into the most formidable submarine captain of the Pacific War. His leadership traits were nurtured by Admiral Nimitz when Fluckey was his aide, traits that stuck with him and enlarged their friendship. “The part of [Nimitz’s] character I have absorbed has certainly made me a more effective and tolerant leader, so long as high standards are maintained,” he would reflect years later in an interview. Fluckey was among the last to see the admiral at a hospital in San Francisco before his death on 20 February 1966 from complications following a stroke. The rear admiral visited with the Nimitzes at their home on Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay whenever he was in the area on Navy business. “The doctors would not permit me to see him in the hospital, and I said, ‘You’d better tell him I’m here, because I think he might want me to cheer him up.’ With these doctors he immediately said, ‘I don’t care whether I’m dying or not, come on in,’ and he started telling me stories again. A great man has passed on.”

  Above all, Gene Fluckey stubbornly clung to the one mantra that had carried him through life, handed down to him as a teenager in the static of a distant radio broadcast by President Calvin Coolidge. It was a credo for a purposeful life that the Boy Scout, the midshipman, the submarine captain, the naval attaché, the sub fleet commander, the naval intelligence chief, and the commander of IBERLANT came to repeat throughout his life in tough times that sometimes became tougher: “We don’t have problems, just solutions.”

  Epilogue

  A life is like a ship afloat;

  Image and status not withstanding,

  Some will venture far, some just hug the coast.

  Some, burdened with self, merely fill a void.

  Others with goals to pursue, will flee all bonds

  Of season or state of sea, their missions to fulfill.

  At times, out of reach, but always in touch,

  Forging ahead with imagination and vision afar,

  With many a high tide, each achievement to mark;

  Each risk, each goal to be shared.

  With time, a bit threadbare, yet still enduring;

  And by word and deed,

  Creating a memory, knowing no age.

  A life replete with glory, rare companionship and grace.

  —Cdr. David Teeters’s Ode to Gene Fluckey,

  written on the occasion of his selection as

  Distinguished Graduate, United States

  Naval Academy, 2003

  In His Light

  Gene and Marjorie Fluckey devoted themselves to the care of orphans in Portugal upon retirement. The couple provided clothing, food, and other needs to the Catholic orphanage of Escola Santa Isabela, as did their daughter Barbara and her family, who sent regular shipments of clothing. Meanwhile, Gene stayed active in all things Navy.

  10 July 1972—“I can still see the Barb approaching”

  SINTRA, Portugal—Neville Thams of Australia today visited Gene and Marjorie at their quinta. Thams, among Australian and British prisoners rescued by the Barb while adrift in the South China Sea in 1944, expressed his thanks, noting, “I can still see very clearly the Barb approaching us . . . the rope to pull us on board . . . and the crew who watched over us . . . answering the frequent calls for water and with great patience attending to our needs.”

  15 October 1972—Sold for scrap

  WASHINGTON, D.C.—The U.S. Navy announced today it had sold the Barb for scrap metal, raising $100,000. The boat, loaned to Italy after the war, had outlived its usefulness and was returned to the Navy. Admiral Fluckey said that had he and his shipmates known the Barb was headed to the scrap heap, they would have raised enough money to spare it and convert it into a museum sub
marine.

  25 April 1974—Revolution of the Carnations

  LISBON, Portugal—Soldiers aligned with Major Otelo Saraiva de Carvalho today seized control of the Portuguese government. Without opposition, troops occupied key intersections, bridges, and government buildings all over Lisbon and Portugal. Jubilant citizens swarmed the streets and put red carnations into the barrels of the soldiers’ rifles. The new government decreed that all Portuguese colonies in Africa would be set free immediately.

  26 February 1978—River Kwai

  SYDNEY, Australia—American author Clay Blair Jr. arrived here today to interview former Japanese POWs for his book, Return from the River Kwai. POW Charlie Madden described for Blair the approach of Gene Fluckey and his submarine in the South China Sea: “It was the sound of an engine and we looked up at the sky. But there was nothing there and there still was the sound of the engine. It was coming from below us and we all thought we had gone mad. Then beside us popped up this submarine. It was the USS Barb. The seas were getting up and we were the last ones to be rescued. We were lucky, as we had had no food or water for five days and were just about done.”

  17 August 1979—Passing of Marjorie Fluckey

  CROFTON, Maryland—Marjorie Fluckey died today at the home of her daughter after battling cancer for more than a decade. The second recurrence of the disease was diagnosed after she arrived in Portugal, where her husband took over NATO’s Iberian command. She returned to Bethesda (Maryland) Naval Hospital in the United States for massive radiation treatments. After a long period of quarantine, the doctors discharged her to return home to Sintra. “They thought she would die. But she fooled them,” recalled her daughter Barbara. In 1972 she returned to the hospital for a checkup, where the doctors called her a “miracle.”