The Galloping Ghost (30 page)

Mint julep in hand, Gene and the Nimitzes climbed into the couple's chauffeured Marine car. Fluckey, holding the drink steady, sat on the front seat next to the driver all the way back to his snow-draped Virginia neighborhood near Washington. When the car turned onto Gene's street, the passengers were startled at the sound of a radio blaring full blast. “What crummy neighbors,” Gene thought. To the commander's great chagrin, the door to his home was wide open with the sound of the radio pouring from inside. Flustered, he jumped from the car, still holding the mint julep, and ran up the steps while calling out his wife's name, leaving the driver to assist the admiral and his wife. Marjorie wasn't there. Further, the normally immaculate living room was a mess, with children's coats and newspapers scattered everywhere. Gene quickly shoveled off a place for the Nimitzes to sit while tossing the rest of the junk behind a sofa. As the Nimitzes entered, he suggested Marjorie was at a neighbor's house.

“While we're waiting, what libation would you like?” he asked. “Iced tea,” replied the admiral. “But isn't that water coming from under the door into the kitchen?”

At that moment Fluckey turned and heard the swish of running water. Running for the door into the kitchen, he pushed it open to find daughter Barbara and all the neighborhood kids hosing down mud on the floor.

“Out—all of you! And take your hose with you!” demanded Fluckey as the children scattered through a back door.

Hearing the commotion, Nimitz called out to eight-year-old Barbara, who squeezed past her father before he could catch her and ran to the admiral, plopping on his knee. As they chatted, Fluckey noticed mud from her snow outfit sliding down the trouser leg of the admiral's best dress uniform. Gene pointed to it but Nimitz waved him off. Fluckey went to get a towel and returned with the iced tea just as Marjorie walked in, calming her frantic husband. The Nimitzes expressed complete understanding.

After a brief visit, Fluckey escorted his guests back to their car, where the driver stood at attention next to the open rear door to the plush 1941 Packard. Unfortunately the kids who ran from the Fluckey backyard had left the gate open. The family's two cocker spaniels were loose in the yard next door, rolling around on a fresh coat of fish bone fertilizer. Gene, whenever he wanted to take the dogs for a ride, would open the door of his sedan and they would jump in. Seeing the admiral's door swing open, the dogs came running, bounding inside the car and onto the back seat before the driver could react.

“Smoky! Nibs! Come here!” yelled Gene, completely mortified. Marjorie, in the background, yelled at her husband, “Don't yell at Smoky!” Too late. Both dogs exited the car in fright, leaving a puddle of urine on the seat. Mrs. Nimitz entered the car and sat down, let out a yelp, and scrambled back out. Urine mixed with fish bone dripped from the back of her silk dress. Commander Fluckey, embarrassed and turning redder than his hair, pulled out a wad of tissues and began wiping the backside of Mrs. Nimitz's dress. “Gene,” said the admiral, taking the Kleenex from his hand. “I think I had better take care of that part of her anatomy.”

Marjorie, who appeared with a towel, apologized profusely, as did her husband, leaning into the car to sop up the puddle while noticing the pungent odor of fertilizer permeating the car. Shaking his head, he stood up and lifted his hands to the heavens in remorse. By that time the Nimitzes were doubled over in laughter, tears in their eyes. Catching her breath, Mrs. Nimitz said, “Gene, please don't worry. We've brought up four children.”

Fluckey, seeing no humor in the moment, offered to drive the couple back to the observatory in his car. But they wouldn't hear of it. Said Nimitz to the driver, “Cozard, open up all the windows—we'll ride up in the front with you.” Still laughing and waving, off they went.

The Fluckeys sat down in a daze. “We thought we might receive orders the next day to one of the three S's—Siberia, Saudi Arabia, or the South Pole,” recalled Gene.

The following morning Fluckey arrived at work ahead of Nimitz so he could call Capt. John Davidson to report the admiral might be looking for a new aide and that Gene would appreciate Davidson's effort in finding a submarine for him. A half hour later Nimitz arrived, smiling. Fluckey offered to resign. But the admiral waved him off, saying that he and his wife had never had such a “uniquely enjoyable call” in their entire career.

Fluckey called Marjorie to report all was well and then phoned Davidson. Cancel the submarine request.

As it turned out, the Nimitzes and the Fluckeys became best of friends. Whenever the admiral wanted to refuse a dinner, he'd get his aide to invite him to his house. “The neighbors were always amazed to be invited in to play poker with Admiral and Mrs. Nimitz and have a potluck supper,” said Fluckey. “He was an excellent player. It was always amusing, because he had a lot of card tricks that he knew.”

The admiral was also a skilled horseshoe tosser. He used that ability, among other things, to soften up crusty Harry Truman. Nimitz had established a Little White House in Key West where the president could relax. “The admiral provided submarine rides for him there, even on some of the old German submarines that we had. He also went out personally with him aboard some of the carriers, to show him what carriers could do, and I think he really had Truman becoming more and more Navy-minded.”

One day Fluckey got a call from the reigning world horseshoe champion who planned a visit and wanted to know if he could get an autographed photo of Admiral Nimitz. Fluckey was sure the admiral would want to meet the champion, which he did, engaging him for an hour after canceling all appointments. During that session the admiral phoned the president. “Mr. President, I've got the champion horseshoe pitcher of the world over here. We'd like to come over to the White House and show you how he can pitch horseshoes.” Truman, who loved the game, was delighted and canceled his own appointments. Fifteen minutes later the president, the admiral, the famed sub captain, and the world champion were all at the White House doing all kinds of tricks pitching horseshoes.

During Fluckey's eighteen months with Nimitz, the admiral successfully downsized the Navy. Secretary Forrestal also worked out a military unification plan. Rather than alter either the Army or the Navy, the plan stressed coordinating military, diplomatic, and economic aspects of national security
in a more systematic approach. The plan created a presidential advisory board—later to be known as the National Security Council—which consisted of representatives from each of the armed forces, the State Department, and various civilian agencies chosen by the president. Augmenting the advisory board was a Central Intelligence Agency to ensure intelligence operations throughout the government were well coordinated. A third component was creation of a new independent branch of the military—the Air Force—to direct land-based strategic bombing campaigns against foreign enemies. The Army and the Navy retained their specialized air forces—ground troop support for the Army and aircraft carriers for the Navy to protect the Fleet.

By the end of 1947 Nimitz became special assistant to the secretary of the navy in the western sea frontier, a post he held for little more than a year before becoming a roving goodwill ambassador for the fledgling United Nations. Commander Fluckey, meanwhile, had returned to the Silent Service. He relocated with his family back to New London, where he assumed command of the submarine
Halfbeak
(SS-352). There he renewed old ties with the submarine community, stung by news from the Joint Army Navy Assessment Committee (JANAC).

JANAC had been at work since the end of the war trying to verify through copious Japanese records all sinkings credited to the Silent Service. Admiral Lockwood had long claimed his skippers had sent 10 million tons of shipping to the ocean bottom. The committee ultimately agreed that 10 million tons of shipping had been sunk—but only half was due to submarines. Japanese records could verify only 5.3 million tons—1,314 ships—sunk by submarines. The announcement proved to be an embarrassment for sub skippers. Top-ranked Richard O'Kane of the
Tang
had been credited with 31 ships at 227,800 tons during the war. The official JANAC tally, however, came to 24 ships at 93,824 tons—a considerable fall but still ranking him number one in numbers sunk. Fluckey, who was the second leading skipper at the end of the war with 25 ships at 179,700 tons, fell to fourth with a JANAC-confirmed total of 16.33 ships sunk at 94,409 tons, still making him number one in tonnage sunk. What really rankled him was JANAC crediting him with a single sinking in Nam Kwan Harbor.

In their defense, submarine commanders could only estimate total tonnage of target ships and often had to rely on “breaking up noises” after an attack to confirm a sinking. Visual sighting of a ship going down was the only reliable barometer of a successful attack. Poor surface conditions, swift counterattacks, and darkness often prevented that. Admiral Lockwood and the skippers also pointed out that JANAC didn't credit them with any ships
under five hundred tons—and they were numerous. Nor did the committee tally ships that were beached and effectively put out of the war—there were many. JANAC also nullified credit when an enemy ship had been attacked and sunk by more than one submarine. Still, by any measure, the submarine force had done a remarkable job, given the unreliability of its torpedoes. The subs sank a Japanese battleship, six large aircraft carriers, six escort carriers, seven heavy cruisers, thirteen light cruisers, and numerous destroyers. Many in the Navy believed the blockade was so effective that it literally could have starved Japan into submission without dropping the atomic bomb. But the United States was in no mood to wait after four years of combat. Nor was there time to dawdle on what-ifs at the close of the war. The A-bombs were a message to a new and potentially more deadly foe—the Soviet Union. And Gene Fluckey soon would serve on the front lines of what was to become the Cold War.

It was a dreary, cold November afternoon in 1947 when the Boy Scouts made a surprise visit to Gene Fluckey at his home in Connecticut. He and his family had moved into new quarters seemingly for the umpteenth time, this time to the tiny hamlet of Groton at the big sub base. It was typical for naval visitors to meet often with the captain on business in his den. But this was unusual. Tom Keane, national public relations director of the Boy Scouts of America (BSA), and two BSA executives had arrived from New York City. They had learned from a speech by Admiral Nimitz at Scouting's national convention in October that Fluckey was a former Scout who had dropped out as a teenager. Keane explained how Scouting was in trouble. A growth spurt anticipated after the war never materialized. Quite the opposite was happening: thousands of youths were abandoning the organization. An internal investigation determined teenagers had begun ridiculing Scouting. The FBI, asked to investigate, concluded that communist sympathizers were trying to undermine the organization and were pushing the line in the nation's schools, “Don't act like a Boy Scout, don't be a sissy!”

Keane, in laying this out for Fluckey, wanted to know why he had dropped out just two Merit Patches short of becoming an Eagle Scout, Scouting's loftiest ranking. “I remember that our Boy and Girl Scout troops met in the Congregational Church on Friday evenings,” explained Fluckey, perplexed at the question. “When I turned fifteen, the Girl Scouts became very attractive. So I started dating. Also I had graduated from high school
and was off to prep school at Mercersberg Academy. But probably it was girls that caused me to drop out. Why?”

“Well,” replied Keane, “how would you like to become an Eagle Scout?”

Fluckey was taken aback. “At my age, thirty-four, don't you think I'm too old a submariner to be baking potatoes in the woods?”

The remark drew laughter. But the Scouts were serious. The organization had enlisted Admiral Nimitz and General Eisenhower as honorary Scouts—Silver Buffaloes—to serve as roving ambassadors. Fluckey, the youthful wartime submarine hero, becoming an Eagle Scout would do even more to boost the image of Scouting. With little further coaxing, the commander agreed to do what he could.

The first step was to qualify for those last two Merit Badges. The
Halfbeak
's skipper took to the task with typical Fluckey zeal. He went down to the local headquarters of the Boy Scouts and bought study pamphlets covering Merit Badges he had missed. He chose a favorite subject—civics. And since his hobbies were “dogs, birds, and boats,” as he often put it, he also decided on a bird study. The latter became a labor of love.

“For Christmas, my wife gave me a jig saw and lumber for bird houses and feeding stations,” he explained. “Soon we had all the birds in the neighborhood. I thought I was a great success. But I hadn't counted on my daughter's friends. They objected, for all the wild birds had left their houses and were at ours. So we bought more lumber, established a production line, and outfitted the whole neighborhood with bird houses and feeding stations. Everyone was happy.”

By the end of February Fluckey had completed all the requirements and appeared at a local auditorium filled with young Scouts, ready to be examined by a Court of Honor in curtained booths in the center of the room. “I awaited my turn along the wall sitting on a folding chair, a bird feeding station perched on one knee and a bird house on the other,” said the commander. “I wasn't embarrassed in spite of the more than a few quizzical glances my way, for I was contemplating my responses to the expected questions of the examiner.”