Author: Bill McDonald

Early in October 1970, Naval Special Warfare Group, Pacific got a new commander. CAPT R. F. Stanton relieved CAPT T.R. Fielding.

I don’t really remember either of them. I might have given a briefing attended by one of them, but that is probably the closest interaction I had with the man in charge.

Actually, the only reason I bring up the topic is to include a picture of me in full dress blues. I believe the change of command ceremony would have been the only time I wore the uniform as a LTJG.

Sorry for the lack of focus in the photo. This was, of course, 50 years ago, prior to any digital cameras. I was experimenting with the auto timer on my Nikon. I didn’t know if the photo was good or bad until the film had been developed and I picked up the slides. So, not so good, but it captured a slice of time.

One of my principal tasks while on the staff of Commander, Naval Special Warfare Group, Pacific (CNSWGP) was presentation of the command brief. I did so in 1970-71 both as Assistant Intelligence Officer and as Intelligence Officer. I think LT Webber, the Intelligence Officer when I arrived, was happy to hand it off.

It was typical that high-ranking officers (Captains and above) about to assume duties in WESTPAC that might include oversight of or interaction with units of Naval Special Warfare to visit the command beforehand. In addition to meeting with top brass of the command, and perhaps a tour of the spaces, they would have the pleasure of listening to a LTJG . . . me.

I gave the brief in a small “auditorium” in a building on NAB Coronado. The command brief was a prepared text that gave some of the history of the Naval Special Warfare community, described its size and structure, and gave information about the various tasks assigned to and completed by Naval Special Warfare units. Visitors only had to hear it once. I had to hear it over and over and over. This was not difficult duty, but it was somewhat tedious.

Most of the brief, though, was more interesting than my recitation. A movie! Just the year before (1969), the Office of Information at the Naval Photographic Center had produced for the Chief of Naval Operations a film entitled, “Men with Green Faces.” It was filmed by US Navy Combat Cameramen of the Atlantic and Pacific Fleet Combat Camera Groups. And yes, it’s on YouTube.

Just under a half-hour long, the film focused on the SEALs. It again gave a little bit of history, showed training, etc. But it was film from in-country Vietnam that added realism and interest. There may have been film from actual missions, particularly involving PBRs (Patrol Boat, River) and helicopter gunships. But the footage that showed SEALs on the ground, on patrol, was pretty clearly staged. Besides the fact that a real mission would have been dangerous for camera operators, the “missions” in the film were in daylight and SEALs operated more commonly at night. Interesting, though, to see the technology of 50+ years ago. 

(Rewatching it after so many years, I was surprised anew that the movie never explained its title. As I remember being told, “men with green faces” was the moniker given the SEALs by the Vietnamese. Another interesting element of the film is the music behind the closing credits. Nothing like the more martial, Sousa-like music in the rest of the film. To me, the closing seemed something I would consider like “bebop.”)

Sunday morning, 50 years ago, I awoke later than normal. I remember being puzzled at the light in my room at the BOQ, Naval Amphibious Base, Coronado. Maybe it was more the lack of light, or its “look.” I pulled back the curtain to the door to my deck and saw this.

This was my first exposure to California wildfire. The fire that produced this sky had started the morning before, at a reported 6:15 am, when Santa Ana winds had downed power lines that ignited brush in the Laguna Mountains in East San Diego County.

I remember going out to my car later in the day and realizing that I had left my driver-side window down overnight. The interior of my car looked like an ashtray.

The Laguna Fire moved quickly because of the Santa Ana winds, which are warm and dry and often exceed 40 miles per hour. During its first day, the Laguna Fire had burned west for 30 miles, into the outskirts of El Cajon and Spring Valley.

Santa Ana winds are typical in Southern California in the fall. They originate  in the Great Basin, just east of California. They often bring about the lowest relative humidities of the year in Southern California. This, plus the often high wind speeds, causes high fire danger conditions.

There was concern within Naval Special Warfare Group, Pacific about the speed and range of the fire. I remember a map being posted on a wall, probably in the Operations spaces, where someone was tracking the boundaries of the fire. The concern was less about our location (we were separated from San Diego by about three miles of harbor) than with the Naval Base, San Diego, where dozens of ships and facilities were located. Someone said, as I recall, that if the fire crossed a nearby mountaintop, “It could go right down to the sea.”

This was in an era, of course, without many of the resources available to firefighters and to the public. Initial response to the fire was limited and slow because other fires in Southern California were using up available personnel. High wind speeds restricted use of firefighting aircraft.

As a “civilian,” at least in terms of firefighting, I remember no alarm or notification of the fire. We obtained information from local radio and television. (In comparison, when I was ordered to evacuate because of wildfire in December 2017, I received notice by email, text, and phone call. I also received frequent status updates through the same media.)

The Laguna Fire burned until October 3, 1970. By the time it was contained, it had burned 175,425 acres, killed eight civilians, and destroyed 382 homes. At its time, it was the second-largest fire, in terms of acres burned, in California history. It is now 17th, with five of the fires supplanting it taking place in 2020.

By the beginning of September 1970, I think things had settled into a somewhat normal routine. I believe I had finally left the Glorietta Bay Inn and moved into the Bachelor Officers Quarters (BOQ) on Naval Amphibious Base (NAB), Coronado.

This photo was taken recently (building is circled in red, upper right). Great shot, hunh? There are not many overhead photos of NAB and definitely not from the Seventies. The compound containing Naval Special Warfare Group, Pacific was located in an area at bottom left in the photo. My commute was comfortable. I hope I walked.

The facility, remodeled I’m sure, is now part of the Navy’s “Gateway Inns and Suites” intended for military personnel on TDY (temporary duty) and short-term stays.

“Bachelor” has been outdated in the Navy for a long time. I think much of the on-base housing now is described as being for “unaccompanied” personnel.

This shot of the BOQ is a little more contemporary to 1970. 

Those “decks” provided a view to the south, and a great one it was. The “Silver Strand” to the right was the land connection to Imperial Beach and the rest of San Diego. On clear days, of which there were many, one could see the mountaintops in Mexico.

And here’s a gallery of pictures of the interior of the room, the least interesting view. (Why I decided to take pictures of the room at night, in a mess, is unfathomable.) As you can see, the bed was a convertible couch.

The room included a small, built-in refrigerator, mainly for liquid refreshment.

The base had a small Navy Exchange, like an adjunct to the main facilities, which were located at Naval Air Station, North Island and the Naval Base on the other side of the bay. There was a McDonald’s, I think. San Diego was the home of Jack-in-the-Box, but I suspect McDonald’s had the federal contract.

I did go a few times to something like this. 🙂

My first weeks at Commander Naval Special Warfare Group Pacific in August 1970 were marked by anxiety and stress. The first inkling of my prospective future came when I inquired about the officer I was replacing as assistant intelligence officer.

“Oh, he’s still in the hospital,” I was told, “recovering from his wounds.”

Gulp.

I don’t remember anyone ever sitting down with me and explaining what was to happen. In bits and pieces, I gleaned that the plan was for me to deploy to Vietnam with a SEAL detachment. It had been the routine assignment for the assistant intelligence officer, as I later understood it, and I was next.

(I was also ill at this time. No clear diagnosis from the command’s medical doctor. He used terms like atypical mono. I thought of it as “the crud” — elevated temperature, fatigue, etc. The following year, when I was being released from active duty, the doctor doing my physical said a spot on my lung indicated I might have had San Joaquin Valley Fever at some point. Just added to feeling down.)

At the time, I was pretty “left” — anti-Vietnam War — and had been through college. I thought the war was a mistake and wrong. When the deferment for grad school went away and the draft loomed, I considered options other than military service. I took the exam for OCS, not really knowing whether I wanted to be successful. But I was accepted and it seemed a reasonable option. (I’m trying to think back to what I thought and felt 50 years ago and it’s not real easy. I’m also surprised at the level of angst I’ve felt these past few weeks thinking again in depth of this time. When I know what happened!) After OCS, I had been assigned to a ship due to make a WESTPAC deployment because the Navy was experimenting with placing intelligence officers on such ships.

I guess I felt blindsided by what I understood the plan was to be for me at Special Warfare. I had no training and very little confidence in my ability to succeed in what I understood I was to do — be a recruiter and runner of “informers” among the Vietnamese. I was aware of SEAL participation in the CIA-coordinated Phoenix program, to which I had moral objection. Was I also scared? Yes. Was the basis for what I did more principle than fear? I hope so.

I believed then that it would be wrong for me to follow those orders, if issued, without raising objection. I’m trying to remember how I found information about any options. Obviously, I didn’t “google” the info. Communication 50 years ago was phone or letter. I expect that I got some information from alternative newspapers published in LA and San Diego. I also remember reaching out to friends and shipmates asking for “references.” I wasn’t asking them to approve what I might do, but to share some background about me, e.g., was my objection to this duty out of character?, had I expressed concerns consistently?, etc. Several sent me supportive material.

I spoke to my parents on the phone before doing anything definitive, but shared some possibilities with them. My father, a WWII veteran, was angry with me. My mother was concerned about me.

I ultimately decided that if I was to receive the orders, I would apply for conscientious objector status. I understood, I think, what that action might mean for my future. I made an appointment to speak with CDR Robinson, Chief Staff Officer, #2 in the unit hierarchy. I remember lying awake the night before, thinking it might be the last night I would spend outside the brig for a long time. I remember sitting on the couch in CDR Robinson’s office the next morning, telling him my feelings and intentions. When I finished, there was a long pause. Then he got up, told me to stay there, and went into the adjacent office of the Commanding Officer, CAPT T. R. Fielding. I have no idea what transpired between CDR Robinson and CAPT Fielding. After several minutes, CDR Robinson came out and said something like, “You’re not going. Let’s just keep all this between us.”

If I felt relief at that moment, I’m not sure the numbness I was feeling would have allowed it. CDR Robinson, I suspect, simply told people later that plans had changed. No one else in the command, including the intelligence officer to whom I reported, ever questioned me or asked about the change in plans. I’m sure that soon after I certainly felt relieved and I appreciated CDR Robinson’s actions.

(My first fitness report from the command, issued early that October, was, as you might imagine, not stellar. The evaluations of my performance and “desirability” were in the meh range. I was described as “sincere,” but also “immature” and “extremely sensitive.” My lowest grades among “personal characteristics” were in “judgment” and “moral courage.” The report recommended that I not be considered for retention in the military beyond my initial commitment.)

I was immature and, I guess, sensitive. I was 23 and, compared to other officers of my age, I sometimes felt a little out of place. I did, however, want to demonstrate to CDR Robinson and others that I could do a good job at Special Warfare. I hope I did and my later fitness reports there were quite positive. Indeed, in my final fitness report at the command, likely drafted by CDR Robinson, my moral courage was rated “is not exceeded.”

I believe what I did at the time was what I thought was right. No one was required to take my place. If my action had meant someone else would have had to go in my stead, I believe it would have been a very different calculation. The practice of sending a junior intelligence officer with a SEAL detachment to Vietnam ended, as SEAL participation in the war was already declining.

(Working with CDR Robinson often during my tour, I noticed he kept a plaque on his desk that read “Think Water.” Over time, I inferred that CDR Robinson may not have been a fan of the role SEALs played in Vietnam. They did little of the work Navy SEALs did in other settings. To a significant extent, they operated much as Army Green Berets did. [That’s been even more the case in this century with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.] In regard to SEAL activities, I think CDR Robinson was more old-school UDT [Underwater Demolition Team].)

Were I a few years older at the time, I might have considered things differently or at least responded in a different way. I have changed over time as just about everyone does. When I had the opportunity to affiliate with a Naval Reserve unit in 1978, I took it, and completed 20 years service overall, retiring as a Commander. (That October 1970 fitness report did come back years later to bite me in the butt, though, when I was being considered for promotion to Captain.)

There is a tragic coda to my interactions with CDR Robinson. When I first moved here in 2012, I looked him up, hoping he was still in the area. I wanted to thank him personally for the profound role he had played in my life and to let him know I had “turned out all right,” serving honorably in the Navy later on and making Commander. I found reference to him in a newspaper article. He had stayed in San Diego and was a real estate developer after retiring from the Navy as a Captain. In 1988, he and a colleague were examining some property, an “empty canyon,” in San Diego and the colleague left him to get something from their nearby office. When the colleague returned, he located CAPT Robinson’s body in some bushes, his throat slashed and his chest stabbed several times. It remains a cold case. CAPT Robinson was 57. He left a widow and then-10-year-old daughter. That was stunning and so sad. I deeply regret not trying to communicate with him much earlier.