The admiral would depart Washington on Saturday afternoon and fly to the shipyard. Embarking late Saturday, he would spend the night on board, going through the boat to ensure it was ready for sea trials. Then early Sunday morning the submarine would get underway to proceed to deep water. There the submarine crew would conduct tests and drills, including a dive to test depth and a crew demonstration of their ability to recover power after Rickover, in a surprise drill at an unannounced time, shut down the power plant. This was scary to me, but the crew knew it was part of their qualification and had practiced diligently. Sunday afternoon the sub would return to its homeport, and Rickover would get back to Washington late Sunday night. Obviously, the senior students did not like being tapped for this escort duty, especially since the Naval Reactors offices were abandoned on Saturday as soon as the KOG had gotten out of sight en route to his inspection of the construction yards.
One particular experience I had while arranging Rickover’s itinerary gives an insight into the KOG’s character and personality. Rickover had scheduled a weekend visit to the Pascagoula shipyard to ride a new attack submarine. He asked if I could arrange a Navy plane, preferably a fast jet for transportation; otherwise it would be a tedious trip by commercial air because of the limited airline service to the remote location of the shipyard. The Naval Air Facility at Andrews Air Force Base, which served Washington, did have available for VIP transportation a converted Navy bomber, an A-3D Douglas Skywarrior. This was a twin-engine carrier-based long-range nuclear bomber that had been remodeled to carry one or two passengers. With Rickover’s three stars he was eligible to use it on business. He asked me to schedule the A-3 for his weekend trip.
Then Rickover became nervous. The main reason he traveled commercial air was that he was totally unfamiliar with naval aviation — just as he was totally comfortable in the milieu of submarines, surface ships, and nuclear plants. He preferred to be the greatest living expert when in the company of other Navy professionals and this was not the case on a Navy plane. A sailor would tell him where to sit and when he could get up. Rickover didn’t know how to use the toilet. His inferiority complex really became apparent under these unfamiliar circumstances, and he hated that.
The trip was ill-fated from the start. Rickover asked me to pick him up at 0800 Saturday morning at the Naval Reactors offices. No official car, please. That would be a symbol of privilege. The Holloways then owned two cars, a four-door Chevy for my wife and two daughters and a Triumph TR-3, a British roadster with two bucket seats that was mine alone. It was the ultimate sports car with chrome wire-spoke wheels, a soft top, and a leather belt over the bonnet — or hood. I had planned, of course, to use the Chevy. But my daughters had left the windows down when the car was parked in the driveway on Friday night and the next morning the interior was sopping wet due to a passing thunderstorm. It couldn’t be dried out. The TR-3B would have to be used.
When I pulled up at Naval Reactors fifteen minutes early, Rickover was already impatiently waiting. He was nervous about flying in a converted Navy carrier jet atomic bomber. Then he absolutely could not believe I was going to drive him through Washington and onto Andrews Air Force Base riding in a bucket seat. At first he refused to get in. But Rickover still had his pride and he wanted no one to say he wouldn’t ride in such an outlandish vehicle.
The A-3 was sitting on the tarmac in front of the operations building at the Naval Air Facility with various Navy duty officers nervously hovering on the sidelines. Rickover asked, “How do I get in?” It was a reasonable question as there was no ladder, platform, or steps. Rickover had also noted, immediately, that there was no door or window for an internal compartment. The crew chief explained that he should climb into the cockpit through the nose wheel well and then squeeze into the seat in the converted bomb bay, where he would strap on a parachute. Rickover’s face fell, and then he turned to me and said, “Why don’t you come along with me?” I said I had an exam that day at the Naval Reactors office, the only excuse I knew that Rickover would accept. The crew chief had Rickover put on a one-piece suit of coveralls over his civvies, explaining that they were nomex and in case of a crash would not catch on fire. The sleeves and the pant-legs had to be rolled up in order to fit Rickover, who weighed less than 120 pounds. The crowning blow, though, was the hardhat. Rickover was required to wear a standard Navy plastic flight helmet, complete with boom mike and earphones. The crew chief foolishly explained that Rickover had to have the communications in case the plane got into trouble and he had to be told to bail out. At this point I had more than a twinge of guilt and compassion as I watched Rickover, in his ridiculous rolled-up flight suit and enormous helmet, being led away like a prisoner with a resigned compliance that I had never seen before.
Monday morning, Rickover called me into his office at 0800 to tell me how successful the submarine’s trials had been. He didn’t mention the flight down to Pascagoula, or the return, until the conversation was ending. Then Rickover said in the most matter-of-fact, almost casual manner, “That was a good flight down and back. I’d like to do it again sometime.” But he never did.
Rickover had a custom — perhaps a habit born out of his loneliness — of calling his subordinates on the telephone in the evening, just to chat. I remember that during the periods I was studying at the Washington office and residing at my home in Arlington, Rickover would call three or four nights a week, invariably getting me up from the dinner table. At first it was flattering to be called by this great man just to philosophize, but my wife Dabney grew tired of it quickly, seeing her home-cooked meal turn cold while she and the two girls were left on their own at the one time of the day the family got together. I will admit that I nevertheless continued to enjoy these conversations with Rickover. They were a rare opportunity to gain a candid insight into that unusual personality. The conversation was all one-sided — Rickover — and always philosophical. There were no taskings or admonishments. Rickover would start with a recitation of the advantages of nuclear power, then describe how much he had contributed to the Navy and the nation, and end on a note of exasperation at how much he was unappreciated. All of it was true. But in these calls that could last half an hour to forty-five minutes, Rickover inadvertently demonstrated his insecurity, and perhaps something of a persecution complex. Yet all told, I would consider my relationship with Rickover always a pleasant one. When I got chewed out, I deserved it.
Rickover had his detractors — or, really, mortal enemies — as well as supporters. Much later, in the fall of 1974, when I had been in OpNav for about five months, Capt. Powell Carter, the CNO executive assistant, informed me that he would like to put a Mr. Thomas Corcoran on my schedule at a request coming through the OSD. I observed that I did not know who Thomas Corcoran was, nor had I even heard of him or what it was that he wished to discuss with the CNO. I also considered myself quite busy and explained that I did not have the time to meet with everyone who asked for an appointment. I suggested that Powell send word back that I would not be available to Corcoran. Captain Carter replied that I had better see Corcoran, because there was political pressure to get him in to see me. Rather than make it an official request from SecDef’s office, it would be wise if I agreed to allow Corcoran to call. I trusted Powell Carter implicitly in these matters, because his judgment was superior in reading the intent of instructions that came down from Secretary Schlesinger’s very competent executive assistant, Brig. Gen. Wickham, who later became chief of staff of the Army.