A few days after Admiral Mike Boorda’s death last May, my work in the Marine Corps Reserve prompted a trip to the Washington Navy Yard. The atmosphere there was clearly somber; security vehicles guarded the approaches to the Chief of Naval Operations’ quarters; a nearby flag flew at half mast; passers-by spoke in muted voices.
I could not help but feel drawn to the site of the admiral’s demise by what I realized to be a common bond that had existed between us upon the day of his death. I wish I had written before now. I wish I had shared with the admiral what I had learned about my own suicide attempt in the face of searing public humiliation and perceived disgrace—to explain to him what I now know. Perhaps if I had done so, Admiral Boorda still would be alive today.
What would I have told him? I would have shared with him that the fear is always greatest in anticipation of the storm. Only in its aftermath do we come to realize such fear has been greatly misplaced. Time gives us the benefit of hindsight. It allows us to see that the personal humiliation we feared would take place had been greatly magnified within our own minds, in the emotion of the moment. It brings with it the promise of renewed hope, the restoration of personal honor. Perhaps I could have explained to Admiral Boorda—as well as to others who suffer under the weight of the dual burdens of immense responsibility and the bright lights of scrutiny—that I well understood what might drive a man to take his own life.
The issue surrounding the admiral’s death—whether or not he was entitled to wear the two combat “V” pins on his Vietnam War medals—would seem to pale in comparison when measured against the weight of the man’s life. To one able to exercise a totally independent viewpoint, the issue would have appeared to be one of little merit. At worst, there was some confusion over whether or not the combat “V” should be attached to these medals; at best, the admiral was entitled to wear them. End of issue. It would place no moral blot upon the character of a fine and outstanding officer.
That the Navy had been sailing through rough seas recently cannot be disputed. It was not an easy time to be a naval leader—let alone The Leader. In talk after talk. Admiral Boorda emphasized with his officers and sailors the importance of personal integrity, of leading by example, of (borrowing a recruiting line from the Army) being “all you can be.” He lived what he preached. For him to have lived any other way would have been hypocritical and done even further damage to the naval service he had lovingly served for almost 40 years. A leader had to be above reproach; The Leader had to be close to godliness.
Through the ages, setting aside the innate brutality of warfare, a warrior code has emerged. It existed in Medieval Europe as chivalry became the standard of conduct for knights. It existed in Japan, as the samurai warrior put honor above all else. The ideal samurai was a stoic warrior who followed an unwritten code; Bravery, honor, and personal loyalty were above life itself. A self-imposed sentence of death was the penalty for any transgression that dishonored one’s name or family or country. And it mattered not whether the warrior was actually guilty of the transgression. For any allegation of dishonor, even a false one. demanded the personal sacrifice of the “offending” warrior.
I once stood where Admiral Boorda stood that Thursday afternoon he decided to end his life. Several years earlier, my name and my reputation were shattered in the wake of false allegations made by a media committed more to sensationalism than to truth. In the press, but not in the criminal justice system, I stood accused of a terrible crime. In order to make my persona fit that crime, some members of the media made absolutely false statements about me—easily discernible as such had they bothered verifying them. Instead, they represented the statements to the public as factual.
To me, my innocence did not matter. To me, the most heinous crime I had committed was in bringing what I had perceived to be dishonor to my name, my family, and my service. In the tradition of the samurai warrior, there was but one course to follow. While Admiral Boorda chose a gun, my “bullet” became a handful of sleeping pills. Unlike Admiral Boorda, I failed as a samurai—for I survived. At times during the days that followed I wished I had not failed—especially after a nurse, obviously unfamiliar with the samurai code as well as her own professional code, was overheard to say: “I guess he must be guilty.” Today, I take no pride in my act. Quite frankly, it is difficult to write about it. But I feel compelled to do so for one reason: perhaps I, or someone else who had survived a similar experience, could have prevented the admiral from taking his life.
I was especially saddened by Admiral Boorda’s death, because I had stood where he had stood, yet I had been unable to share with him all that I had learned by surviving my own ordeal. I would have shared with him that it matters not what the media thinks; it matters not what those people who do not know you read in the press and may think. All that matters are family and friends. They are the ones who, should you take your life, will feel the greatest pain over your loss for long after you have gone. I would have shared with him that, in the end, the truth always comes out—although it may take awhile for it to do so.
I grieve as I think back on Admiral Boorda’s last moments on this earth. He saw all that he had worked so hard for during his career on the brink of being destroyed by a press not known for its sensitivity to one’s personal reputation. He saw his credibility as a leader with integrity—at a time when the Navy most needed just such a leader—being undermined. While the press had not yet launched its attack, Admiral Boorda saw what, inevitably, would happen. As he struggled with all this, he saw only one option before him: to follow the code.
Marine Reserve Lieutenant Colonel Zumwalt is an attorney and freelance writer living in northern Virginia. A former Navy officer and the son of Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, former Chief of Naval Operations, Colonel Zumwalt attempted suicide in 1993, when local press accounts implicated him as a suspect in the murder of his ex-wife’s boyfriend. The killer was eventually apprehended and convicted.