Liberal Portions

The last time I saw Vice Adm. James B. Stockdale was in the Class Six liquor store across the street from our hacienda-style house in Coronado . It must have been nine years ago, in 1996, or maybe early 1997, just before we left the village. The house we lived in was a rental, courtesy of a crusty old ship driver who owned several houses on the island. The refrigerator was of ancient vintage and small.

It was difficult to keep a liberal supply of anything in the box, much less ice trays. Plus, the water on the island had a distinctive tang that distracted the palate.

Accordingly, I used the Class Six as a sort of auxiliary kitchen, letting the Navy keep my bags of pure ice in their locker with the hundreds of others. I would walk across the street and take one out when I needed it, which was usually at five o’clock when the sun was starting to settle in behind Point Loma.

Uncle Sam gave us the privilege of living in the prettiest little town in America for two years. It was a magical place, grass the color of emeralds and palm trees that gently swayed in the sea breeze. I should have done something to stay, or at least have made provisions to go back.

I didn’t, and now I am stuck in Washington up to my neck . When I worked in the Pentagon and had to walk up to the fourth floor to conduct business with the Navy staff I would pass a glass case. Inside was the Admiral’s green Nomex flight jacket, festooned with dozens of patches from units and places far away.

There was something significant about seeing him, and I think I knew I would not have the opportunity again. My son was with me, holding a bag of ice in each hand. The Admiral looked a little confused at the time, buying a couple bottles of something or other. He seemed disoriented at the register, but Maggie, the lady who ran the place, knew who he was and helped him through the process.

I touched my son on the shoulder and tried to make sure he knew that he was seeing someone important. The Admiral seemed to be a little agitated, and so I did not try to introduce my son, though I realize now that I should have.

I don’t know if my son remembers, but I tried to impress upon him the significance of the moment. Admiral Stockdale was a hero, and a holder of the Congressional medal. If his eyes were a little wild that day, he was more than entitled to it.

He had been leading a raid over North Vietnam as commander of Airwing SIXTEEN in September of 1965. They flew off the USS Oriskany, a proud ship of war. He was shot down and spent 7½-years in the bag. Four years of that was in solitary confinement. I tried to explain that to my son, who was less than twice as old as the number of years the Admiral had been held.

I tried to explain about the leg-irons that acted like vises imprisonment, or the ropes and pullies that pulled the Admirals arms back until they dislocated and left him hanging from the roof of the Hanoi Hilton.

I showed my son the brick that I had brought back from Vietnam the year before. It was stamped with the French maker’s name. There were a lot of them available, since the North was tearing the prison down to tidy up its image. I had more than one brick, which made for heavy carry-on bags, but I gave them away to people who deserved them more than I did.

In exchange, someone gave me a copy of the Camp Rules that the Vietnamese posted, and which the Admiral fiercely resisted. He created his own Code of Conduct, and beat himself senseless to prevent his face from being used in exploitation films by his captors.

When the prisoners were released in 1973, the Admiral’s story was cataloged by naval intelligence officers assigned to conduct detailed debriefings on what had happened. There were those who were courageous in captivity, and some who were less so. What the Admiral did was so extraordinary that he was awarded the Congressional Medal in 1976.

The citation mentioned his willingness to give up his life rather than capitulate, and credited his indomitable resistance as convincing the Vietnamese that torture wasn’t going to work to break the Americans.

You could ask Senator McCain what that meant. He was in the bag, too, and younger. He still can’t raise his hands above his shoulders because of the damage from the ropes and pullies.

Stockdale had a distinguished career after he regained his health. The distinctive stride that resulted from the damage of the leg-irons was something he joked was a stylish swagger. He retired from the Navy and later was tapped by mad Texas magnate H. Ross Perot to run against George Herman Walker Bush. They got 19% of the popular vote, which was enough to give the election to Mr. William Jefferson Clinton, a young man from Arkansas , if I recall correctly.

The Navy made the official announcement, but did not disclose the cause of the Admiral’s death, but mentioned that he had Alzheimer’s disease, the cruelest disease.

I don’t know if my son will remember. He came of age here in Washington , where heroes are a rare commodity. The system seems to have ground most of them down, though signatures of heroes on historic documents could be viewed in frames on the wall of a local restaurant where I used to dine. Admiral Stockdale did not have a sample on the wall, maybe because of his association with Mr. Perot.

Richard Nixon did, though. A copy of his pardon was up there, and it later sold for almost $5,000. In my experience, that is cheap for a Presidential pardon.

I didn’t dine there on my nickel, of course. I couldn’t afford that. So I was interested to see in the Times that Signatures restaurant is up for sale at the right price. “Liberal portions in a conservative setting,” was the motto, emblazoned on the menu.

It belongs at the moment to famous lobbyist Jack Abramoff, who specialized in representing Indian tribes and Republican movers-and-shakers. He is a lot more famous than he would like at the moment, being the subject of a Congressional investigation.

Actually, no one cares about Jack. He is just a way to get at the leadership of the House, and particularly Mr. Tom Delay of Texas , the Republican majority leader. He used to be a regular at Signatures, and enjoyed a round of golf with Mr. Abramoff on occasion.

One of them was at the Olde course at St. Andrews, in Scotland . I don’t begrudge anyone a round of golf, wherever they have time. But it appears that Mr. Abramoff paid for the junket. We could have hosted the party at Army-Navy Country Club and saved everyone a lot of trouble.

Jack is a sort of anti-Stockdale for our new century, and we used his restaurant because it was fashionable and convenient for all concerned.

My company belongs to an industry consortium that held regular lunches in one of the two private rooms in the back, the ones with the discrete separate entrances.

Our group would invite Administration officials to come and have lunch with us, and then would pepper them with questions so that they couldn’t eat it. We normally had a fixed menu with just a choice of two entrees.

We did not order off the menu, which featured a $74 steak and a $140 grill medley.

The service was solicitous, and I remember the salads, which sometimes came all tied together in a vertical stack, with just a dollop of the house vinaigrette. It was a two-handed challenge to disassemble it and still take detailed notes.

I often looked out the double-doors to see if I could identify Dennis Hastert, Speaker of the House, or strategist Karl Rove, or representatives of the Mississippi Band of Choctaws. Jack is said to have bilked the Indians for a couple million dollars, laughing the whole time.

Signatures was a real business, but it had a higher calling. The Times says it gave away $180,000 in food and drink in the heyday, which in Washington time was seventeen months spanning 2002 and 2003.

Spokespeople for the prominent people who ate or drank there say they were in full compliance with ethics rules.

I don’t know about that. The rules say you can only take a $100 from any source in any given year, and at Signatures prices, that is one light lunch. Hardly a liberal portion of anything. A man I respect a great deal was chief of one of the big agencies here. He summed up the rules with much more clarity.

He said: “If you want it, you can’t have it. If it tastes good, you have to spit it out.”

Those are the sort of rules that Jim Stockdale or John McCain would understand. 

Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra

www.vicsocotra.com

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