Performance remains the product of the professional NCO.
Sammy Knag was the best C-130 crew chief I ever met. He could do more with a roll of duct tape and a screwdriver than most could do with a four-hundred-piece aviation tool set. Sammy was with me on the around-the-world Night March mission I mentioned earlier. What I did not mention before was that early on, one of the welds on the parabolic radar dish cracked so we were without functioning radar—a real problem on multiple fronts. We needed the low-level terrain-following element for tactical reasons, and we needed the weather portion to make it back safely.
Getting repair parts while flying twenty thousand feet over the Indian Ocean on a black mission was obviously impossible; if they weren’t already on the airplane (and they weren’t), we weren’t going to get them. But Sammy rummaged through the plane and found an old bungee cord. Somehow he used it to stabilize the dish in such a way that we were able to complete the mission and make it safely back to Europe. Did I mention that there were a hundred thousand volts flowing through that dish? Sammy’s not even a radar specialist. He’s just an airplane general mechanic who had great instincts, and he didn’t blink when it came down to risking his own life to save all of ours. Sammy is exceptional, but he’s not unique. What I mean by that is there are so many exceptional NCOs who, day in, day out, use their experience, creativity, and ingenuity to bail us out of precarious situations like that one. Subsequently, we worked together on a number of different things through the years, but here was an example of a magnificently committed aircraft maintainer.
Ultimately, Sammy went off into the top tier areas of special operations that were—not surprisingly—high-risk endeavors, because he was so good and he was so dependable. The beauty of it was that he cultivated a younger generation of maintainers that were just like him.
When it comes to combat controllers, you’re not going to find any better than Wayne Norrad. Wayne had been a tactical team leader on one of the original six special mission units after Desert One, when then Major John “Coach” Carney assembled his “Det 1 MACOS” Special Tactics Unit in 1980. Norrad is well known within the CCT (Combat Control Team) community as one of the early pioneers of combat control and pararescue. He, along with just a small handful of others, was personally responsible for helping mold the joint special operations special tactics team into what it is today.
Wayne was team chief on a training mission that I piloted, one of many that we had flown together. We took off from Charleston Air Force Base in South Carolina and the late-night skies were clear for the entire route to the intended drop zone, so I can’t use bad weather as an excuse for what I was about to do. As we approached what I thought was the designated DZ, we activated the green light signal and they made the jump, somehow landing a significant distance from the intended target—so far off that they landed in an adjacent state (yes, state). They were eventually able to convince a farmer to provide them with transportation back to the base, but understandably, they were not happy about it. It was approaching dawn by the time Wayne found me, and he wasted no time in getting right up in my face. “Don’t ever do that again,” he said, both exhausted and perturbed. This was a real wake-up call for me. I learned that even though at times I may engage the aircraft’s autopilot, I can never engage my own. Wayne gave me the ammunition; what I did with it was my own choice.
Never sleep through your wake-up calls.
These are the major game-changers in life. Internalize them!
We have to remember that these are human beings. These great airmen, or soldiers, or SEALS that jump from the airplane, are precious American fighting men and women. Not very many folks can do this for a living and do it well. Wayne’s point was “Come on now, you’re better than this.” He knew we were a premier crew and there was no excuse for me failing to perform like that by dropping them in the middle of nowhere, so many miles from our target. We had failed him, failed his crew, and failed ourselves. The long-term message was that this is a hazardous enough business; don’t make it more hazardous than it needs to be. To this day I don’t know why I dropped the ball, but thanks to Wayne’s “in my face” wake-up call, you better believe it never happened again. (And for the next thirty years, Wayne never let me forget it.)
Senior Master Sergeant Mort Freedman was a hard-nosed, battle experienced combat controller. Mort had earned the Silver Star when he and his team were left behind at an airfield in a place called Kham Duc, Vietnam, on Mother’s Day in 1968. A force of six thousand enemy troops had invaded the tiny town southwest of Da Nang and were doing their best to take down all the U.S. and South Vietnamese forces still there. Eight U.S. planes were shot down that day, but eventually one made it through and was able to evacuate the final contingent still remaining on the ground. Or so they thought. Turns out that Mort and two team members were still there, trapped and hiding from the masses of enemy fighters. Lieutenant Colonel Joe Jackson answered the call by flying his C-123 through intense rocket and tracer bombardment, all intent on blasting him out of the sky. Somehow he landed, pulled Mort and the team out of there, and escaped in one piece. Seven months later, President Lyndon Johnson awarded Lt Col Jackson the Medal of Honor in the East Room of the White House. Mort earned the Silver Star.
By the time I met him, Mort was Noncommissioned Officer in Charge of the USAF Academy Sport Parachute Team and later chief of the combat control team at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. But he also was the sport parachuting safety officer when I was president of the sport parachuting club at Clark. We did a fair amount of jumping together, and we became extremely close—eventually to the point of him unofficially adopting me. When it came time for me to check out for my civilian jumpmaster certification, it was Mort’s job to evaluate my performance.
Back then we had automatic opening devices installed on the reserve chutes to ensure that the chute would open once it passed through a predesignated altitude, even if the jumper neglected to pull the rip cord. We might set it for three thousand feet, for example, so once the device sensed that it was at three thousand feet or lower, it would deploy. The problem was that the sensor had no way of knowing if it was passing through three thousand feet (or whatever the designated altitude) on the way up or on the way down. So one of my jobs as jumpmaster—and this was just one of many things Mort was testing me on that day—was to ensure that the sensors were deactivated prior to takeoff, and not activated until we were well above the designated altitude, at which time I would safely activate each one on all of the jumpers.
We boarded the aircraft and I went through the preparatory steps as the aircraft climbed to our jump altitude, at which time I activated the sensors. So far, so good. Then something happened—I don’t recall what—but we had to abort the jump and return to base. As the plane started descending, I went around to each jumper and deactivated the devices one by one as Mort looked on, carefully checking to make sure that I did everything according to regulation. By now we were down to about four thousand feet, still descending, and while of course I’m disappointed that we had to abort the jump, I felt that I had handled the situation properly—and, most importantly from Mort’s perspective, safely. Suddenly he shot me a look. He didn’t say a word, just stared at me, clearly displeased. What did I do? I wondered. He swiveled with purpose to jumper number three and flipped off the auto-opening device. Somehow—I have no idea how—I had missed that one. Had Mort not caught it, within minutes that chute could have opened inside the aircraft, with potentially devastating consequences. I was in a daze. Making a mistake of that magnitude was so unlike me, and doing so in front of Mort was unfathomable.
We had our post-flight debrief and he busted me on the spot. I failed, and he was not happy about it. Nor was I. It was a clean kill, and it was a very big deal. But there’s a lesson in there, and it’s one that stays with me to this day: for Mort Freedman, it didn’t matter who you were or who you might become, you performed up to standard or you didn’t. I never forgot it, and that lesson
was very consequential in how I matured and who I ultimately became. Everyone who served with him knew this and respected him for it. He would die for you in a second, no question. But in training, you had to meet his standard, and “Mort’s standard” was legendary in the community.
Those standards kept people alive in tough spots all through Vietnam and propelled the combat control community to a level of competence that was exceedingly well respected. Ultimately it was Mort’s babies that were involved in Desert One. Mort was well known as one of the greats of the Vietnam generation and he had an enormous influence on me; in fact, I’d say that he was one of the most important people in my life.
For Mort Freedman, you performed to standard or you didn’t. That lesson has stayed with me to this day.
Freedman personal collection
On March 27, 2014, the world lost one of the good ones. Mort, who cheated death on so many occasions on the battlefields of Southeast Asia, succumbed to adrenal cancer. Six close friends from all over the world flew to Cagayan De Oro, Philippines, where on May 14, 2014, they put his ashes to rest in the warm blue waters of the Bohol Sea, not far from where he lived.
Chief Master Sergeant Jimmy Lebit was one of the senior maintainers at Hurlburt over many years. We first worked together when I was a captain, then again when I came back as a colonel. Jimmy was an old-school chief, technically competent and a marvelous line leader. I learned a lot from Jimmy on how to operate in the field, how to deploy, and how to work airplanes in austere environments. In the early ’90s, Jimmy was president of the Hurlburt Chief’s Group and I was the ops group commander at that time.
One evening Jimmy walked into my office and said that he and his colleagues had chosen to make me an honorary chief, with the ceremony to take place at the next month’s Chief’s meeting. A commander being honored by his NCOs in that manner was heart-stopping.
Here we are over thirty years later, and that framed certificate still hangs in my office. It’s one that means a great deal to me.
Schwartz personal collection
CONGRESS
I spent a lot of time on Capitol Hill. Sometimes it was on a specific issue related to a particular state delegation; often it was on broader matters that applied to the Air Force or the entire military. Testimonies before both House and Senate Armed Services Committees were frequent. Interacting with members was enlightening. What really made it fun was the wide range of personalities.
My experience with Michigan Senator Carl Levin was representative. Of course, Levin had been the ranking member of my problematic confirmation hearing, and that was only one of many times we locked horns in the committee room. As the debate over our efforts to downsize—including some Michigan-based assets—became more controversial, he asked Mike Donley and me to drop by his office so we could try to iron out our differences behind closed doors. I was prepared for the meeting to play out much like our prior encounters, which had for the most part been in front of the cameras in the course of our Armed Services Committee testimonies. He was frequently on offense, probing, seeking clarity. While this was a no-bullshit, serious conversation, he was respectful and left the grandstanding for the Senate floor. I was impressed by the depth of his understanding and in this case his genuine desire to comprehend the data.
The Florida delegation kept me busy as we worked the issues related to the F-22s at Tyndall Air Force Base in Panama City. There were questions about the sustainability of the base, particularly with fewer F-15s and production curtailed on the F-22. So we had to do some missionary work to persuade them that we had a viable plan they could support. Congressman Allen Boyd Jr. worked it hard on behalf of the base. He understood the military—he had been an Army infantry officer in Vietnam. Secretary Donley and I accepted his invitation to tour the 325th Fighter Wing with him in June 2009, where we were briefed by representatives from the Bay County community, who had impressive presentations about the important role Tyndall plays in our national defense. Clearly they were concerned after we had just announced the accelerated retirement of all forty-eight F-15s assigned to the base. He was a passionate advocate on behalf of his constituency.
Understandably, the Delaware delegation needed a lot of engagement as a result of the Dover Port Mortuary issues. This was an explosive matter that dealt with one of their installations and we did not want them to be blindsided when the shit hit the fan, and they never were. We kept Senators Tom Carper and Chris Coons in the loop throughout the Port Mortuary ordeal, but that took a good deal of our time.
Earlier I mentioned my challenges with showboating by some of the members, and the disrespect shown by Forbes, McCaskill, Nelson, and others. On the flip side, one of my greatest honors was meeting with Hawaii Senator Daniel Inouye, rest his soul. Senator Inouye was a remarkable man, a recipient of both the Medal of Honor and the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
I needed his help in getting a general officer confirmed, because Senator Mark Begich of Alaska—a freshman senator who had succeeded Ted Stevens, the longest-serving Republican member of the Senate of all time—was making it difficult for this confirmation to proceed. With his status as an elder and senior statesman, and chair of the Senate Appropriations Subcommittee on Defense, I looked to Senator Inouye to sort of nudge the junior senator in the right direction. I had never done this before, but this was a difficult enough issue that I felt it necessary to see if Senator Inouye would at least discuss the matter with Begich. He was supportive, gracious, and a true gentleman in every sense of the word. Here’s a man who was the president pro tempore of the United States Senate—making him the highest ranking Asian American politician in U.S. history—who actually took the time to pick up the phone and call me with an update following his conversation with Begich. This was not something I had ever expected, and it’s just another indication of how extraordinary a man he was.
In the end, the issue worked itself out, but even after his dialogue with Senator Inouye, it would take weeks before Begich would agree to go along with this very worthy confirmation.
BUILDING THE BENCH
General Larry Welch (12th Chief of Staff of the Air Force) once told me that if a Chief doesn’t spend 25 percent of his time on general officer management, he (or she) is not doing his job. I had a lot of experience with building the bench from my time as director of the Joint Staff, where at the end of each day I would work with Chairman Dick Myers on flag officer management. It’s a long-term process, and not an easy one. Once you’ve identified the prime contenders, you have to groom them and challenge them and stretch them so that when they get to more senior positions, they have the depth and credibility to succeed.
Even early on it was pretty obvious that the flag officer ranks tended to be white and male. Mike Donley and I worked hard to make it more diverse, and eventually minority officers started having a shift in opportunities. There were more rising to senior positions of trust, not because they were minorities or female but because they were spectacularly good officers. We worked hard to create four-star capable officers, and we had some success at that.
Shortly before I retired, General Janet C. Wolfenbarger became the first woman to achieve the rank of four-star general in the Air Force. We had been grooming her for this for many years, and it was well deserved. Starting as an administrative clerk, Airman Larry Spencer put in more than forty-four years of distinguished service before he retired as four-star General Larry Spencer. He’s currently president of the Air Force Association and publisher of Air Force Magazine. In 2012, Secretary Donley and I made it clear to the president and the U.S. Senate that Larry was the ideal choice to become the next vice chief.
The Air Force now has two diverse four-stars and others at the three-star and two-star rank. Youngsters need role models to look up to, and these are all exemplary role models. It was a significant effort to get it right, but I’m proud of the substantial strides we made.
GIVING BACK
We celebrated excellence in any number of ways, to say
thank you and to encourage continued high performance. You highlight success and you reward excellence—not monetarily, but through taking care of the kids, whether recognizing them through a decoration, or Officer of the Month, or NCO of the Year, or making sure that they get a job that keeps them on the development glide path. Witnessing success and witnessing excellence was one of the high points of all my positions.
One time when I was chief, Suzie and I went to an event at McChord. There were eight people in the special tactics community that were getting awards that day. We awarded three Silver Stars and five Bronze Stars. It was a remarkable moment.
On another occasion, I vividly remember being there as Secretary Donley awarded the Air Force Cross, the second highest award, to Staff Sgt. Zachary Rhyner, a young combat controller based at Pope AFB, North Carolina. There have probably been less than a dozen Air Force Crosses earned in the last twenty-five years. I also presented him with a Purple Heart that day. What a glorious privilege to have a chance to do so. This went to a young airman who went back to Afghanistan and was wounded on the second trip. He was quite a trooper. Despite injuries he sustained as the result of persistent insurgent fire, Sergeant Rhyner coordinated more than fifty aerial attacks to continuously repel the enemy during the beleaguering battle that occurred during his first deployment. According to the decoration citation, he provided suppressive fire with his M-4 rifle against the enemy while fellow teammates were extracted from the line of fire.
We try our best to hold everything together at all times, but I became particularly emotional with this one. “The team survived this hellish scene … not by chance, not by luck, and not by the failings of a weak or timid foe,” I said before hundreds of Zach’s friends, family, and coworkers in attendance that day, a fifty-foot American flag quite appropriately mounted as our backdrop on the wall behind me. “A grateful nation could not be more proud for what you do and no doubt what you will do,” I said, looking him in the eye.
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