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John Ryland wanted “Big Z” to know that “you will always be remembered as ‘The Sailor’s Admiral.’ ” Les Garrett, a Swift Boat sailor on PCF-73, recalled that “at Christmas time in 1969, you opened your Villa to us sailors who were in Saigon at the time. I have never been able to tell you, until now, how special that gesture was to us enlisted sailors, who were far from home. You gave us cheer & joy and a little touch of home for a wonderful moment that day. You took the time to give personal encouragement to each and every one of us, something we all remember and pass on to others, just as you did that day. Thank YOU for that special day set against turbulent times. Thank you for being a Commander who never forgot his sailors.”51
Before becoming ill, Bud had been scheduled to speak at the thirtieth reunion of the Black Ponies, the navy’s only permanently based fixed-wing attack squadron in Vietnam and its last combat unit there. Dozens of get-well thoughts arrived, all echoing the words of retired captain Larry Hone, “Admiral Z, thank you for all you’ve done for the Navy and this nation. Your leadership was an inspiration for us all. Fight hard, get well and make the next VAL-4 reunion.”
Registered at Duke under the name of his deceased brother Bruce Craig, Bud was ready for the battle ahead. Minutes before being taken into surgery, S. Scott Balderson, the physician’s assistant who developed a profound respect for his patient, came into the room: “Admiral, it’s time to say goodbye.” Mouza was in her wheelchair, the result of excruciating back and neck pain. Scott thought that Bud “looked like he could still run laps around the nursing station.” As Bud bent over, Mouza grabbed her husband’s face between her hands to kiss him good-bye. “I love you,” she said. Bud took charge as he always did, replying “I love you,” and then looked at Scott. “OK, let’s go!” After Bud had been wheeled into surgery, Scott noticed that the attendant who had spent the morning preparing Bud for surgery was standing at near attention outside the OR. Scott asked Al, who was older than most of the attendants, why he had not left. “That’s my admiral in there,” replied Al, who had served under Zumwalt years earlier.52
Zumwalt developed complications during surgery.53 The final eighty-two days of Bud Zumwalt’s life were spent in the intensive care unit. His condition remained critical but relatively stable; Bud was usually alert and attentive enough to read or have letters read to him. He was unable to speak, but communicated through the use of a tablet and marker. As he was celebrating his seventy-ninth birthday in the ICU, special notes arrived. Paul Nitze encouraged his friend to be strong and stay the course so that they could resume their lunches at the Metropolitan Club. “We can reminisce about all the good and exciting things we were able to get done together.”54 Another note came from President Clinton, who had called a few days earlier. “I know things have been difficult for you lately—but I want you to know I’m still thinking about you and pulling for you. Hang in there! Hillary and I are holding you in our prayers.”55
Bud soon took a turn for the worse. He had brain-stem damage, and major organs were shutting down. He had prepared for this moment by executing a health-care proxy and designating son-in-law Dr. Michael Coppola to carry out his final wishes. Years earlier, Michael had served as Elmo’s proxy. Bud’s desire was to follow procedures similar to those Elmo had established prior to his own death. Bud left clear instructions with Michael that his life should not be prolonged by life support. He trusted Michael to advise the family when that time arrived.
Sitting at her husband’s bedside and realizing his end was imminent, Mouza asked Michael and Ann to bring a letter to the annual New Year’s Renaissance gathering. The host of Renaissance, Ambassador Philip Lader, read Mouza’s letter aloud. “As I sit here at Bud’s bedside in the intensive care room, the walls covered with pictures of our life together, my emotions are mixed. There is sadness over the thought of losing my partner of 54 years but also joy over the terrific life we enjoyed. As I stroke his hair, it is not the gray that has set in over the past many years that I see—it is the ever-young, dashing Navy lieutenant who swept me off my feet when I first met him in Shanghai, China, in October of 1945. Despite the fact I then spoke very little English and he very little Russian, we did speak the international language of love which resulted, as many of you are aware, in our getting married after only knowing each other three weeks. As I look at Bud, I do not see a bed-ridden man now dependent upon others during his last days of life—I see a man who championed the causes of so many throughout that life. I see a white knight who knew he had so much to accomplish yet so little time in which to do it. I see a man who in nearly eight decades of life was no stranger to tragedy, suffering the loss of a young mother and brother in his early years and a son in his later ones, yet using these personal tragedies as a foundation for helping others.”
After a moment of silence, 1,600 attendees spontaneously stood to salute their longtime friend.56 “It was not the Admiral that we saluted,” recalled Lader. “It was the man.”57
It was at Hilton Head that Michael made the decision to take Bud off the ventilator. He knew Bud’s wishes, and as proxy his job was to determine when Bud’s specifications and criteria had been met. After sitting down with the immediate family, the decision was made to set sunrise January 2, 2000, as the time for bidding farewell. In the words of their daughter Mouzetta, “sunrise seems to represent the beginning of a new day synonymous with hope and promise—which was everything Dad represented.”
That morning, with the men dressed in jacket and tie and the ladies in their best finery, family members assembled in the hospital room for their personal good-byes. The shade of the hospital window was removed so that sunrise could be observed. At 6:30 a.m., a 36 × 24 color photo of young Elmo and his father walking down a wooded path was brought into the room. Bud had previously confided and written that he hoped to soon be reunited with Elmo and his parents. Mouzetta felt that “one had the sensation that perhaps Elmo was greeting him.”
Grandson Elmo Russell Zumwalt IV, born with learning disabilities that his father and grandfather attributed to Elmo’s exposure to Agent Orange, came earlier to say good-bye. Weeping into his grandfather’s ear, Russell could be heard saying, “You are a good sailor, Granddad.”
Each family member then took a few minutes in private, although it was all too much for James Zumwalt, the surviving son of Bud and Mouza. A combat-hardened marine who had served tours in Vietnam and Iraq, years earlier he had held his brother Elmo in his arms as the valiant warrior took his last breath. Jim chose not to bear witness to his father’s passing.
The attending physicians and family looked to Michael for the nod that life support was to be turned off. As the nurse began to administer slow-drip morphine, life-support lines were removed. Family members saw Bud’s eyes open to look at the picture of Elmo. Granddaughter Lauren held his hand, whispering words of love into his ears. “I will never forget laying my cheek on yours and stroking your soft hair. . . . I couldn’t let go of your hand those last minutes of your remarkable life. . . . As I watched and held your hand in a tight clutch I saw you take your last deep breath for air in life. I looked up at the machine above your bed, your heart rate went to zero. Laying there you looked so peaceful and I knew you were in a better place.”58
The nurses who had grown especially fond of their patient had brought a small wooden cross that they placed in Bud’s hands. The cross, as well as notes written by the family, was later sealed in the coffin. Colonel Mike Spiro, who served as the CNO’s marine aide, came to the hospital just to be close to “the greatest person I have ever known in my life.” Mike made certain that Bud’s remains were handled respectfully and escorted his boss’s body from North Carolina to the funeral home in Washington, D.C., then from the funeral home to the Navy Chapel, and then on to his final resting place at Annapolis. He returned weekly to make certain that the grave site was maintained to the standards set by the U.S. Marines. “I honor him with no limitations and no bounds” is what Mike wanted Bud to know.59
/> Bud Zumwalt lived to see only two days of the new millennium, but he had played a major role in shaping the future. As news of his death spread, the impact of this remarkable man manifested itself in several ways. William Franke, who served with Elmo on the Swift Boats, wrote Mouza that he “was an inspirational man . . . history will treat him with honor.” In a mass mailing, Rick Hind of Greenpeace informed his fellow activists that their great ally in the fight against dioxin was gone. “He came to that fight after seeing his own son die from exposure to Agent Orange used in Vietnam. This tragedy was compounded by the fact that as commander of naval forces in Vietnam he ordered the use of Agent Orange to ‘save lives.’ ” It was Zumwalt who stood up to the “company docs” as he called them, who denied Agent Orange’s dioxin toxicity. “He was one of a kind and will be sorely missed but always remembered.”60
In a personal letter to Mouza, President Bill Clinton described Bud as “a great patriot, leader, husband, father and friend. Hillary and I will always cherish the times we shared, the work we did on war-related health problems and the opportunity I had to award him the Medal of Freedom.”61
Most revealing of Bud Zumwalt’s character was a letter written to Mouza by a complete stranger. Cindy Wofford spoke of her eight-year-old daughter, who had relapsed with leukemia. Someone had given her Bud Zumwalt’s name as a person who had information on bone marrow treatment. Wofford was desperate when she called Zumwalt, who spent time speaking with Cindy, demonstrating caring and compassion. “Even more amazing was the way he included your son in our discussion. He was so proud of your son and so thankful of the time they shared. I was humbled by the thankfulness in his voice. It was evident that your husband was so honored by his role as a father. Your son was such an important part of his life. Very openly, your husband shared the human side of the transplant procedure and stressed the fact that although your son died post-transplant that he had always viewed the transplant as successful. The procedure had given them more time to be together. He shared the closeness they shared towards the end and the bond that would never be broken. . . . Your husband amazed me with his empathy, his ability to share details of his life which are far too often guarded from others—the ramblings of the heart, the love of a child, and the grace in knowing how to let go when it is time.”
Cindy ended the letter by telling Mouza that Bud’s words provided the strength needed as she held her daughter until she took her last breath.
Bud requested to be buried in his blue uniform with service ribbons, hat by his side, leaving to Mouza the decision of an open coffin. Reflecting his high esteem for enlisted sailors, the current master chief petty officer of the navy was to present the flag to the next of kin. Two songs were to be played, “The Impossible Dream” and “Lara’s Theme,” the same music that had been played four years earlier at Bud and Mouza’s fiftieth wedding anniversary.
At ten minutes after two o’clock, the Zumwalt family entered the chapel in the company of the president of the United States, who slowly pushed Mouza’s wheelchair. Four midshipmen, four chief petty officers, and four enlisted sailors sat nearby, representing “the heart, soul and future of the greatest Navy in the world.” In accordance with the admiral’s final instructions, Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy James L. Herdt presented the flag to Mouza.
The flag-draped coffin was set in front of the altar, adjacent to a stained-glass window depicting David Farragut lashed to the rigging of his flagship, the USS Hartford, while navigating the minefields of Mobile Bay, with the Archangel Michael showing the way. The Reverend Burton Shepherd read sentences from Scripture. Rear Admiral Shepherd’s naval career spanned over thirty years; he was one of the most highly decorated aviators of the Vietnam War and executive assistant to Bud as CNO. “He called me from North Carolina just before the surgery to ask if I would do the funeral service,” recalled Shepherd. “These were his final instructions to me.”62 Shepherd especially admired what Bud had done for others throughout his life. He “was always trying to do something for the underdog; he touched the lives of so many.”
The first speaker was Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Jay Johnson. Focusing on Zumwalt’s “visionary leadership and unswerving commitment to improving the lives of our sailors,” Johnson noted that his friend had “profoundly changed and enhanced the character and culture of our Navy.” In Johnson’s words, Bud Zumwalt was “the epitome of humility, dignity and grace, a gentleman and reformer.” These words did not sit well with Admiral Thomas Moorer, sitting in one of the pews alongside another former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral William Crowe. “I sat beside Admiral Moorer at the Zumwalt funeral, and all these eulogies started talking about how Zumwalt saved the Navy. And I thought, ‘God, I can’t look at Moorer. He’s madder and madder and madder.’ ”63
The CNO read a passage from the New Testament, which captured the essence of how Bud Zumwalt lived his life and what he imbued in his sailors: “Whatever is truth, whatever is noble, whatever is right . . . whatever you have learned . . . from me . . . put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.”64 Johnson closed with the words, “The God of Peace is with Admiral Bud Zumwalt—and his son Elmo. Father and son—both men of the sea—both surface warriors—reunited again after eleven years.”
Richard Schifter, former assistant secretary of state for human rights and former deputy ambassador of the United States to the United Nations, spoke of his friend’s engagement as a citizen in matters of public concern at the individual level. “He demonstrated his ability as a leader and trendsetter in public life, both in the Navy and as a civilian. But all of his work played out against the backdrop of his humanity, his concerns for people and for our country, not just in the aggregate, but as they related to individuals whose lives he would touch, whether it was a sailor who did not have to change his clothes before he could have a meal, or a veteran who had contracted a war-related disease.”
Over the years, Schifter and Bud worked tirelessly in getting clearances and sponsorship for dozens of Vietnamese to enter the United States, culminating with the arrival on December 9, 1992, of Admiral Tran Van Chon, who spent fifteen years imprisoned by the Vietnamese government. Bud called in every favor and used his extensive government contacts in trying to get Chon released so that he could be reunited with a man he considered a brother.
Schifter and Bud spent numerous weekends together at Renaissance, becoming the closest of confidants. Schifter admired Bud Zumwalt for being a great humanitarian, speaking up about the dangers posed by a Soviet arms buildup when the president of the United States wanted to look the other way. He felt that Zumwalt played a key role in launching an awareness effort that led to the adoption of policies that brought the Cold War to a successful conclusion for the cause of freedom. Schifter also knew the critically important role Zumwalt played during the October 1973 invasion of Israel by its Arab neighbors. The Israelis had not counted on the Soviet supply of weapons to the Arab countries and quickly ran out of supplies during the first days of the war. There was hesitation in the United States government as to whether to move quickly to resupply Israel. It was the chief of naval operations who recognized the danger to Israel’s survival and the U.S. national interest in preventing its collapse. Bud informed Senator Henry “Scoop” Jackson that Israel was in dire straits and in desperate need of a resupply of arms. The problem was that Henry Kissinger was opposed to an immediate resupply, saying “let them bleed a little.” Senator Jackson immediately got in touch with Secretary of Defense James Schlesinger, warning him that he would go public in pointing out the serious problem if Schlesinger did not act without delay. Schlesinger, who had been uncertain as to what to do, got President Nixon to authorize the resupply.65
The next speaker was the U.S. ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, Philip Lader, who, with his wife, Linda, was cofounder of the annual Renaissance Weekends. Lader spoke eloquently of a “model of the life well lived.” It was “the man, not the Admiral; the story,
not his achievements, that most touched us.” By this Lader meant “not simply of sailors or Americans, but of handicapped children in Vietnam, victims of radiation in Russia, marrow transplant recipients.” These commitments and caring for an “extended family” characterized the dominant trait of Bud’s entire life.
Bill Clinton had last been in the chapel for the funeral of Admiral Arleigh Burke. If Burke had been the spirit of the navy, Clinton said, “Bud Zumwalt was its conscience.” The president told the audience that as he was getting dressed that morning, his navy steward said of Zumwalt, “He’s the best we ever had. He was for us.” The president noted that “Americans could always count on Bud Zumwalt to do the right thing. . . . He sailed through rough waters more than once. . . . When we struggled through the racial tensions of the sixties and seventies, he worked in the face of wilting criticism and a highly resistant institutional culture to make the Navy do the right thing and make the Navy one of the most color blind institutions in our entire Nation. I know it was a special point of pride for him that the very first African-American admiral earned his star on Bud Zumwalt’s watch. At a time when morale and enthusiasm were at an all-time low, he had the vision to see a great future for the Navy.” The president noted that “thousands of naval leaders like former Secretary of the Navy John Lehman have said that they actually made the decision to stay in the Navy because Bud Zumwalt made the Navy exciting again.”
President Clinton recalled the time that Vietnamese refugees had been placed in temporary housing in his home state of Arkansas. To stay, they needed a sponsor. The only name they knew was Admiral Zumwalt. Bud made arrangements for them to fly to North Carolina, where they stayed in his son Elmo’s home because the admiral already had families living with him. “When Bud Zumwalt made a commitment, he stuck with it,” said the president.