Middendorf had gotten his commission as an ensign in the Navy Reserves from the NROTC program at Holy Cross University during World War II and served in the Pacific on an LCS(L), a small amphibious ship. After the war he returned to Harvard for a bachelor of arts degree, and he later got a master’s in business administration and entered the field of finance. As an investment banker he met with substantial success. At the same time he entered political life, filling a number of prominent and influential positions in the Republican Party, including national treasurer.
Bill was, of course, a whiz at finance, which was of great benefit in the management of the Department of the Navy. More than that, however, Middendorf was endowed with great common sense, which he exercised to the substantial benefit of his office. As a former seagoing naval officer, he was anxious to be brought into the operational side of the Navy, which became, I think, a source of some frustration for him. But Secretary Middendorf, unlike many senior civilian political appointees in the Pentagon, understood his own limitations and quickly and wisely realized that he was not prepared by his recent background to render unconstrained judgments on the combat effectiveness of new technologies or to redesign tactical aircraft for carrier compatibility. (Reportedly, during the F-111 debate, in which OSD was attempting to adapt an Air Force fighter for carrier use and thus achieve the common all-service tactical plane, Secretary of Defense McNamara and Deputy Secretary of Defense Nitze designed a wing-folding mechanism to enhance the Air Force version of the F-111 for carrier suitability, using a rubber eraser and a pair of bent paper clips. The F-111 project was abandoned shortly thereafter.)
Middendorf was a great help in his strong and articulate support of the Navy’s programs, especially with the Office of the Secretary of Defense and Congress during budget time. During those two years, the Navy was remarkably successful in gaining congressional support for our principal Navy programs, including the Trident Submarine, the Aegis Cruisers, the F-18, and the CH53E Heavy Lift Helicopter program. During all of this time his interest in the seagoing Navy remained undiminished.
One day, in the spring of 1975, Bill Middendorf walked into the CNO’s office, pulled up a chair, and began a conversation. “Jim,” he said, “I am dedicated to this job and I love the Navy, but I don’t feel I am making a real contribution in a leadership way. I have learned that the technical decisions are made through the material commands on the basis of extensive research and planning. Personnel matters are evolutionary and the products of years of service experience. Don’t you have some area where I can put myself to work closer to the operating Navy? How can I be of more direct help to the people in the fleet?”
I didn’t have to ponder that for very long. “You can help reverse the deteriorating material condition of the fleet,” I said. Then I outlined our problems and what we were doing to try to turn the trend around. I mentioned our efforts to change the prevalent attitude in the fleet, that an engineering job was a dead end in a line officer’s career. We needed to exercise “command attention” to reverse this perception, but I simply couldn’t get out to the operating forces as much as I would like, especially with three JCS meetings per week and congressional committees in between. “Why don’t you,” I said, “as secretary of the navy, undertake a program of visiting ships in the operating forces?”
This in itself was not a new idea, but I thought we’d inject one major change. In the past, the SecNav or the CNO had been delivered on board, had received arrival honors, and then had been taken directly to the bridge or the captain’s in-port cabin, where he called on the commanding officer and had a cup of coffee. Then, after a brief walk around topside, he moved on to the next ship. I suggested that he go directly to the engineering spaces after arrival honors and meet with the “snipes” of all ranks from the chief engineer to the lowest fireman. After just a couple of visits, I told him, you will know what to look for — in the bilges and firesides, for example — and will be able to speak knowledgeably about what you see. Meanwhile, I continued, he should praise the dedication of the engineers and the importance of their jobs, and let them know that help is on the way in the form of full manning and brimming spare parts bins. Such a program, I thought, could do more to generate self-respect within the ships’ engineering community than any other measure. It might put the skippers’ noses out of joint at first, but they would welcome the results.
Bill was immediately enthusiastic about the program, and together we walked down to his office to get his executive assistant and the rest of the staff briefed on the project and started on the arrangements. The secretary charged into this program with his customary vigor, and the results were almost immediately evident. At first, when Middendorf would ask an engineering watchstander on the deck gratings when the commanding officer was last down in the fire room, the response was usually “Never.” Word got around quickly, however, and the COs began regular visits to the boiler rooms to preclude any disappointment by the SecNav when he visited the ship’s engineers.
The final upshot was that Secretary Middendorf made more than 350 ship visits in the fleet, for the express purpose of inspecting the engineering spaces and visiting the engineers, in nearly every case climbing into a boiler opened for cleaning. He established official plaques, one of which was to commemorate the visit of the secretary of the navy to the engineering spaces; the second was an inscribed award presented in the case of superior material condition or high morale in the engineering department. In his departure ceremony at the end of his tour as SecNav, I was able to say that he had visited more ships of our great Navy than any other in our history, including the legendary Vice Adm. John Bulkeley.
I was grateful to Secretary Middendorf for these efforts, and I considered that the program exemplified the partnership that we, the secretary and the CNO, shared in the Navy’s leadership. I am convinced that our relationship amounted to a measurable benefit in the management as well as the morale of the Navy.
SECRETARY OF DEFENSE RUMSFELD
The ringing of the emergency telephone on the console behind the desk in the CNO’s office startled me. Normally all phones rang in the outer office and were answered by a member of the CNO staff in order to screen and direct incoming calls. Of the three outside lines to the CNO’s office, there always seemed to be at least one ringing or busy.
The bright red phone handset in the CNO’s office was different. It was known simply as the “Red Phone” and it was a dedicated circuit that connected the CNO directly to the secretary of defense’s desk. When it rang, it was because the SecDef wanted to talk to the CNO person to person, with no one else listening in or taking notes — at least not on my end. The ringing was unexpected because it was an otherwise quiet afternoon in October 1976. But on this day, I was not only the CNO but also acting chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the absence of Gen. George Brown, the appointed chairman. I picked up the handset and heard Rumsfeld’s brusque voice saying, “Jim, get down to my office right away.” I knew better than to ask Don why. As I went out the door of the CNO’s office, I told Capt. John Poindexter, the CNO’s executive aide, to make a couple of fast phone calls and see if he could find out what the critical situation was. If there was a catastrophe someplace in the world, he was to telephone the aide in the SecDef office, who would alert me before I went through the door into Rumsfeld’s inner sanctum. That way I could avoid the appearance of being totally stupid.
There was no time, though. When I arrived at the SecDef’s suite, his personal aide was standing at the door of Rumsfeld’s private office. He said, “Admiral, please go right in.” I entered the vast private office of the secretary of defense and was taken aback by the scene. I could make out Don Rumsfeld sitting behind the famous Pershing desk, barely discernable through a cloud of blue smoke. Two tough-looking characters in their shirtsleeves were sitting next to him. All three had their feet up on the hallowed desk and were smoking huge black cigars. I was puzzled. Drawing closer, I recognized the two people on either side of Rumsfeld as Joe Henson and Joe Gattuso. Both were retired naval officers and both had been wrestlers at the Naval Academy. All three had been selected to try out for the U.S. wrestling team in the 1954 Olympics. Don Rumsfeld had been a championship wrestler at Princeton University. He had gotten to know Gattuso and Henson from that experience, and they had all remained friends. Henson had been in the Naval Academy class of 1946 and in 1954 had won an Olympic Bronze Medal for wrestling in the 138-pound class. Gattuso had not won a place on the Olympic team, but during the tryouts he had dislocated Don Rumsfeld’s shoulder and broken his clavicle, causing Don to drop out of contention for the Olympics. I had been a wrestler at the Naval Academy and had stayed in touch with top Navy wrestlers over the years, so I knew both Gattuso and Henson.