Journey

by Norty Schwartz

  “Seems to me that he violated all three, sir,” I replied.

  While my own interaction with O’Malley encompassed his time on the Air Staff, there was never any doubt that he was a pilot’s pilot. Just after noon on March 21, 1968, he slid the throttles into “Max A/B” and departed Okinawa’s Kadena Air Base on the first operational mission of the most advanced strategic reconnaissance aircraft in the world at the time, the then Top Secret SR-71 Blackbird. Reaching speeds over three times the speed of sound, he penetrated North Vietnamese (and other) airspace and recorded enemy missile sites, positions, and radar signals.

  The Blackbird was one of over forty different aircraft models he had piloted. “You can’t expect to lead your people if you don’t thoroughly understand the platforms they are working with,” he once told me, shortly before leaving the office to pilot his Air Force CT-39 (VIP transport jet) out of Andrews. He retained his flying aptitude even as a general officer, having received a unique authorization as the operations officer of the Air Force from General Gabriel that allowed him to perform “temporary operational flying” of up to twenty-four missions per year.

  Those six months allowed me to witness the decision-making process as it applied to strategic issues that affected the entire Air Force, almost unheard of at the captain’s level—but General O’Malley and Colonel Navas helped me to understand how those same processes can be effectively employed at all levels.

  I remember vividly one Friday morning, about a month after I transferred over from the Airlift shop. Between studying for my master’s degree and completely immersing myself in the new Ops and Plans position, it had been a particularly demanding week. By 7:00 a.m., many in the office were well into their second cup of coffee; we’d already been at it for hours. A voice called out from across the room.

  “Hey, turn on the TV!” It was Colonel Lowell “Mac” McAdoo, General Gabriel’s XO (executive officer), who had just received a notification over the phone. “President Carter’s about to speak.” It was April 25, 1980, 175 days into the hostage crisis.

  General Gabriel stepped out of his inner office and joined us as we all gathered around the wall-mounted TV in the conference room. We fell silent as the picture faded in to a drawn and haggard-looking Jimmy Carter, seated at a barren wooden desk in front of a simple gold curtain flanked by the American and president’s flags. He looked up from the small stack of papers before him, and began his solemn description of the calamity of Desert One:

  “Late yesterday, I cancelled a carefully planned operation which was underway in Iran to position our rescue team for later withdrawal of American hostages, who have been held captive there since November 4. Equipment failure in the rescue helicopters made it necessary to end the mission. As our team was withdrawing, after my order to do so, two of our American aircraft collided on the ground following a refueling operation in a remote desert location in Iran…. to my deep regret, eight of the crewmen of the two aircraft which collided were killed, and several other Americans were hurt in the accident.”

  Five of those whose lives were lost in Operation EAGLE CLAW (the aborted rescue attempt at “Desert One”—the code name for the salt flat rendezvous zone some two hundred miles southeast of Tehran) were Air Commandos from Hurlburt Field’s 1st Special Operations Wing, 8th Special Operations Squadron—the very squadron I’d be joining upon leaving the Ops and Plans office. Within months I’d be working side by side with the EAGLE CLAW participants, pioneers of our special operations forces who first employed many of the tactics and procedures still used today, including multi-aircraft air field seizure, clandestine insertion of small helicopters, blacked-out landings, landing on unprepared runways, and many others that remain classified to this day.

  This was a fragile force and the mission was a failure. But it became known as the “most successful failed mission in history.” Much of what was developed is still in use today, and it prompted a complete organizational restructuring of the United States special operations forces. Thirty years later, these legends would find redemption in the force that succeeded in taking down Usama Bin Laden (usually referred to as “UBL” in our intelligence reports). Even though they had faced significant mechanical challenges, weather challenges, and changes in environmental conditions, they were well trained enough, they were well equipped enough, and they were sufficiently resilient enough to adapt. It’s a phenomenal tribute to the generation that said “never again.”

  Two days later, I spoke with Suzie. It felt particularly good to hear her voice that Sunday. We discussed the rescue mission, and while she had nothing but respect for all those involved, it served as yet another example of inherent dangers in any missions having anything to do with special operations.

  “There is no way that I will ever agree to live a life of fear like that, so just put that wild idea out of your head,” she snapped. “There are plenty of other flying opportunities for you, and as much as you drive me crazy, I’d very much appreciate your coming home to me after each flight.”

  It was at that point that I attempted a new communications tactic that worked fairly well: I let her vent, then completely changed the subject.

  “How would you like to come out here and join me for the summer?”

  That got her attention.

  Suzie: I agreed to fly out to Washington and stay with Norty for the summer, but my parents were less than thrilled about this. Sure, they liked him, but they knew that I was emotionally raw from having just lost two very close friends—one in a car accident, another on a night mission when his C-130 crashed into the side of the mountain … which was another reason that sometimes I got so scared whenever Norty went out on night flights.

  I assured my parents that I’d be in good hands with Norty, and they agreed that I could join him for the summer.

  On the flight out, I was a mishmash of emotions—a little nervous, a little scared—but a lot excited. Having Norty show me all around Washington, hanging out with his friends and buddies from work … it would be fun!

  Uh, maybe not so fun. Remember when I joked about not being a good match for someone who got up at 4:30 a.m.? Well, he got up at 4:00! He would take his run, shower, and head directly for the Pentagon, where they would typically keep him well past dinnertime every night.

  He was also working on his master’s degree, so when he did finally make it home he’d head straight for the books until bedtime. I probably got more time with him back home during our weekly calls!

  Then it occurred to me: does this man not have any friends? Is he hiding me from them? Embarrassed about me? And why on earth would his bosses keep him there so late every night? Something was amiss.

  I’d been there about six weeks or so when I learned that he hadn’t even told anyone that I was in town! His bosses threw a fit because had they known, of course they would have sent him home early to spend some time with me. And why would he plan to spend the whole summer on his master’s degree knowing that I was coming to town? Wouldn’t you share that before I bought the ticket? I should have seen the pattern.

  One day after work he did something that was so shocking, I almost fainted. He walked in the door, tossed his briefcase onto the sofa, and actually asked me out on a date.

  “We’ve just been invited to next week’s Friday Night Parade,” he proclaimed, pretty proud of himself that he had actually planned such a special event.

  A parade? Hmm … Well, it wasn’t exactly dinner with the president, but beggars can’t be choosers, and pretty much of anything would beat another Friday night at home watching Fantasy Island while he studied.

  “By the way, I’ll be wearing my summer whites,” he added as he headed for the bedroom to change into his workout attire.

  “Isn’t that a little overkill?” I thought. Dress whites to a parade sounded like the equivalent of me wearing my prom gown to a ball game. But hey, any excuse to go out and buy a new dress, right?

  Norty: Suzie wasn’t the only one who took second notice
of the call for summer whites. In fact, that’s how we scored the invitation in the first place.

  General Gabriel had recently been transferred to Europe and newly promoted Lieutenant General O’Malley had taken over Gabriel’s position as AF/XO. Every year, the Marine Corps’ deputy chief of staff for plans, policy and operations hosted a semiformal pre-party to accompany the Corps’ storied “Silent Drill”—more commonly referred to as the “Friday Night Parade”—for his counterparts in all the services. Contrary to Suzie’s preconception, this was no ordinary parade; in fact, it was more of a pageant than a parade.

  I happened to be passing Mac McAdoo’s desk shortly after the invitation arrived in the Pentagon interoffice messenger pouch. General O’Malley stood beside his XO’s desk, shaking his head. He glanced up as I passed.

  “Hey Norty, know anything about these new ‘summer whites’? Who has white shoes and a white belt, anyway?”

  “Lots of them over on the Navy side, sir,” McAdoo sarcastically retorted.

  “Great idea, Mac. Why don’t you run on down the hall and borrow Admiral Hayward’s for me,” the general fired back, referring to the chief of naval operations.

  “Sir, I’m happy to shoot over to the Navy Yard and purchase whatever you need,” I volunteered. “I actually had one uniform custom-made before I left the Philippines, so I know exactly what to pick up.”

  “That’d be a big help, Norty. Thank you. Nice to hear a constructive idea around here for a change.” He shot McAdoo a dirty look, but it was all in good fun. They had a mutual respect for one another and an excellent relationship.

  I took down his sizes and turned to leave. It was only five miles from the Pentagon to the Washington Navy Yard, but by the time I caught buses (both ways) and did the shopping, I’d be lucky to make it back before day’s end. I’m sure that Suzie would have preferred that I just headed straight home early, but to me, things like that always felt like I was cheating the government. I was honored to have been given such an opportunity, and I sure wasn’t about to try to find excuses to shirk the responsibilities that came with that honor.

  I was almost out the door when the general called back to me. “Norty, your girlfriend is still in town from Arkansas, right?”

  “Indeed she is, sir. Suzie.”

  “Well, it’d be a shame to let your custom-made new uniform go to waste. Why don’t you join us for this Friday night shindig? I’m sure Diane would love to meet Suzie. As would I.”

  I was floored. What an act of kindness, yet something so typical for General Jerry O’Malley. While I always knew the invitation was an act of benevolence on his part, I now realize that he also saw it as a valuable learning experience for this up-and-coming young officer. And indeed it was!

  Suzie: Date night finally arrived, and I remember being pretty terrified during that car ride over to the Marine Corps Barracks at 8th and I. I still didn’t really know exactly what we were going to; all I knew was that the guest list pretty much consisted of a bunch of generals from all the service branches and all kinds of notables from Washington.

  I had never met a general in person, and the only thought that kept popping into my mind was my father’s stern warning to me when I was a little girl. He was driving through the base and I was glued to the back window, soaking in all the sights and sounds that constituted the mini-city of an Air Force base. One spot really caught my attention, even though my father did his best to exit the area as quickly as possible. Unlike the cookie-cutter houses and offices we’d been driving past, this was a carefully coiffed street of stately homes on an isolated section of the base.

  “That’s called general’s row,” he declared. “If you ever go in there and you get in trouble, I am not bailing you out because you have absolutely no business going anywhere near that place!” I guess that made a pretty big impression on me since that was the dominant thought on my mind as I was about to enter a lion’s den where apparently most everyone I’d encounter would have stars on their shoulders. I’d be surrounded by them.

  Norty turned onto 8th Street and pulled up to a home adjacent to this three-story, two-hundred-year-old mansion, the Home of the Commandants. A row of marines stood at attention on the redbrick sidewalk immediately in front of a black wrought-iron and brick fence that encircled the compound.

  Norty had barely eased the car to a stop before two young marines approached the vehicle. With a precision choreography so smoothly executed as to make it look effortless, one opened my car door while the other reached in to help me out of the car. Before I knew it, we were arm in arm and I was being escorted up the red carpet that covered the steps leading to the porch of the residence of Lt Gen O’Malley’s Marine counterpart.

  Just inside the door were our hosts, the three-star Marine general and his wife, who were about to welcome Norty and me to this storied Marine Corps event. Fortunately the noise level was fairly high so the general couldn’t hear the rattle of my knees shaking against one another.

  “Lovely to meet you,” he said, warmly shaking my hand. “We’re so glad you could come.”

  What struck me was his eye contact, which projected a sincerity that really made me believe that he meant it. Did it help to ease my state of terror? Hell no. I still felt like I was about to run the gauntlet.

  I had never experienced anything like this in my life. The place was packed as we made our way past a plaque that acknowledged each of the Marine “Ops Dep” predecessors.

  The main rooms were as you would expect, decorated with antiques, artwork, and Marine Corps memorabilia. We were promptly offered champagne, and boy did we feel out of place!

  “Follow me,” said Norty, taking my hand and deftly guiding me through the throng. I assumed he had spotted someone he knew, but no, he just kept right on walking.

  “Here, this is much better,” he said, having navigated our way to a remote corner of the house where we could safely hover unnoticed.

  There were senators, congressmen, and who knows who else. Some of them must have been military intelligence because the instant we put our drinks down, some immaculately uniformed server would come and swoop it up, then someone else appeared with a tray of fresh ones.

  What I knew about politics could probably fit inside one of those tiny canapés the servers kept bringing. But I recognized some faces from TV. This was 1980, so there were some pretty well-known senators at that time, like Strom Thurmond, Edmund Muskie, George McGovern, Bob Dole, Barry Goldwater, John Glenn, and a gentleman whose wife I would work with some thirty years later, Joe Biden.

  Of course now I know that the thing to do would have been to fake it and mingle (which is what the rest of them were doing, I’m sure!), but at that time I was in perfect accord with Norty’s solution—hiding in the corner.

  Norty: But Diane O’Malley, God bless her, was worried about us. Throughout the event, this petite, wonderful lady would gracefully appear to check up on us and ask how we were doing. As if she weren’t busy enough intermingling with her husband’s peers and associates. I didn’t even know her that well at the time. But she understood that we helped with the uniform, and that the general was thoughtful enough to have invited us.

  Every time she came over, she would leave us with another intriguing bit of history about the house.

  Diane O’Malley’s charm, strength, and determined advocacy on behalf of military families caught Suzie’s attention—a fine example of an involved, proactive military spouse. Seen here with Lt Gen Jerry O’Malley shortly after he took over as AF/XO. O’Malley personal collection

  Suzie: I watched her after she slipped away into the horde—totally at ease, comfortably breezing from this group to that. As I look back I realize that’s what a good hostess does. But the art of “mingling” is one that’s learned over time. Back then, I didn’t have a clue—but I sure was in awe.

  We were led to the porch through double glass doors that were flanked by two large mullion windows. Marine guards snapped to attention under each as
we stepped onto a small stoop with double side steps. “Captain and Mrs. Norton A. Schwartz,” bellowed a third marine, so loud that I’m sure it rattled the White House china.

  We had no idea that thirty years later, we’d be back at this historic mansion, as husband and wife, and personal guests of our fellow Service Chief and his wife, Jim and Anette Conway. Schwartz personal collection

  Well, they messed that one up, I laughed to myself, as we were led through a small garden to the parade ground. As soon as we were seated, Norty leaned over and whispered, “Did you tell them that?”

  Where I would have just laughed it off and let it slide, he pressed—and how would I have known who to tell anyway? Knowing him as I do now, it was probably more about the information being factually incorrect than it was about feeling any embarrassment for people to think we were married. Because he’s a very black-and-white kind of guy. But once the lights dimmed and the program began, he was over it and we had a wonderful evening.

  The ceremony began with a concert by “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band, followed by impressive precision marching, then powerful performances and demonstrations by the United States Marine Drum and Bugle Corps, the Marine Corps Color Guard, and the Marine Corps Silent Drill Platoon.

  Norty: Never in a million years could I have imagined that exactly thirty years later, Suzie and I would be back at the Marine Barracks, but this time in the commandant’s mansion, as guests of our fellow service chief and his wife, General Jim and Annette Conway. That, too, was a special evening—but it didn’t compare to the overwhelming awe that this young captain and his soon-to-be fiancée experienced for the first time in the company of Washington’s elite—thanks to the boundless thoughtfulness, generosity, and kindness bestowed on us by General Jerry and Diane O’Malley. O’Malley would go on to earn his fourth star and become vice chief of staff of the Air Force and commander, Pacific Air Forces.