(U.S.) Leadership & (Not) Maintaining a Low Profile Abroad

Prior to 9/11 I was the speechwriter to two Secretaries of the U.S. Navy (acronymically dubbed SECNAV).?One spring the five of us on his personal military staff traveled to Europe ostensibly on official business, which amounted to showing the flag and collecting gifts from designated representatives of heads of states of various nations.?On a three-day visit to Rome, we found that the Italians were standouts in Europe as true protocol junkies, and as a result the ride from the airport to the embassy was one for the books. ?It mattered not to the Italians that the civilian SECNAV was neither a cabinet level official, nor in Rome for anything terribly important.?The occasion provides a glimpse into how NOT to manifest U.S. leadership abroad, post 9/11:

It was a scene worthy of the adjective ridiculous by any measure, whether or not one understood the happenstance by which such a scene could come about, at the historic fountain of Trevi.?Amongst the gray-white, pigeon-stained and armless marble of Rome’s staring Gods (themselves dumbfounded by history’s charmless dismissal of their greatness some centuries previous), the traveling party of the Secretary of the United States Navy – together in august company of the Secretary and his wife themselves – raced through the streets in a collection of motorbikes, American vintage Dodge Ram Vans (white, stock, hubcaps, vinyl seats sans seatbelts) and a single Fiat limousine.

Raced.?It was not enough that the political leader of the strongest navy ‘the world has ever known’ (a descriptive end-tag that the Secretary’s speechwriter penned in agony when it was called for by his senior charge) had to move to his destination, from il aeroporto without delay.?One would expect not to keep this pensive man-being in an expectant mood at any time.?SECNAV’s personal aide would often say that “To idle is to invite stray thoughts, and worse – ideas.?Bad.?Very bad.” ?No, that would not do; it was not even enough that the SECNAV had to get there post-haste.?He had to get there well before that.?If the motorcade was ahead of the published itinerary time, then the itinerary itself must have clearly lagged, and was thereby flawed.

The Carbinieri-cade (a reference to the sub-machine gun-toting, jack-booted motorcycle death squad that led the entourage) attacked the offending streets at a pace that kept the screaming, shaft-driven motorbikes (moto-guzzis – very fast) airborne most of the time, as they skipped off cobblestones, Roman cart tracks and the odd, unfortunate pedestrian who lay down in the path to assuage the angst of the gods, who in their marble bas-relief began to take on recognizable astonishment in their frozen gaze.

It was not that the SECNAV (Caesar) was going anywhere in particular, other than to his waiting suite at the U.S. Embassy.?This was an extraneous fact which had escaped the attention of the dozens of protocol officers and lackeys who had arranged for this quasi-military mission.?For it was just that – a mission:?get the most important naval figurehead in the world of two-thirds water to his temporary place of residence now, and do it with a determination that demanded speed, ambition, crass attention-getting and death-defying motorcycle stunts, causing chaos in Carthage.

All of this produced in the traveling party an odd mix of emotions.?Never mind the ‘principal’ and ‘the Mrs.’ ensconced in the ‘hard car’ – a black, leather-stitched coach from the best of Fiat motorwerks.?An air of calm pervaded the air-conditioned interior, the stillness of which was broken only by the occasional faintly-heard screams of innocent, law-abiding citizenry, thwacked or jackbooted by the charging Carabinieri out in front, and the rustling of the New York Times Style section.?Any real emotion lay within ‘dash two’ and ‘dash three’ of the motorcade, the American van-beasts containing the various charges of the big guy – now Aide, now Public Affairs Officer, now Speechwriter, and Photographer… on Dancer and Prancer… now up on two wheels to match their procession’s leaders, rounding a curve as a chariot in danger of losing to a whip-wielding gladiator.

But the emotions within the following chariots were not as strong as one might imagine, save for the occasional burst of shock, dismay, horror and fear, as Detroit-forged fenders ripped and peeled open rows of Alfa Romeos, parked Italian style, akimbo and three ways on two way streets.?Rather, and more prevalently, the thoughts of the traveling staff were a vague glee, a “How ‘bout this?” and “Oh, much faster than the escorts in London,” and an urge to reminisce and wonder about how one’s successful career as a helicopter pilot, combat photographer or leader of Marines might end as a crumpled mass of navy-white steel, and the red, white and blue pride of American world dominance… ‘from the sea.’?And all of this with an air of back-of-the-mind amusement of “look Ma, no seatbelts!”

A sudden roundabout, in classic Italian lane-less style, presented the motorcade with the ultimate test of centripetal force, as steering wheels were slung side to side to circulate the path as well as to cut off fellow circle-travelers.?All was well momentarily, followed by the unlatched rear van doors of ‘dash three’ flinging themselves open to discharge the staff luggage amidst the circulating traffic.?Screeching tires jarred loose ancient cobblestones and halted the Dodge, mid-circle, dislodging the staff, aka former warriors, to gather not just valises, but their contents – including formerly crisp, naval dress white uniforms and – cringingly – Mrs. SECNAV’s formal dresses and unmentionables.?Said garments and their retrieval were all carefully guarded by two dismounted Carabinieri, Uzis in one hand, and miniature stop-signs-on-a-stick in the other.?Truly, stop-signs-on-a-stick.

Two-toned, despondent and mind-numbing sirens now emanated from the detached portion of the motorcade, to signal that the re-joining was to occur, linking again the SECNAV with his critical staff members, ensuring that the supreme, haloed, naval commander could function once again, upon his imminent arrival.?

And presently King Neptune did indeed arrive, and suddenly stopped – at Trevi Fountain… not at his destination and temporary place of residence as the marble-chipped and word processor addenda’d schedule said He should be, but at Trevi Fountain.?Radios crackled, pigeons flocked as visigothic rats, gypsies gathered and the Big Guy emerged from his chariot onto the crowded square, noticed at first, target-like, only by the aforementioned airborne rats.

Why, pondered the entourage, had Caesar chosen this locale to suddenly delay an already too-delayed schedule??Something naval, perchance, this way comes??Nay, something banal; something had entered the cranium of SECNAV; that knowing the tradition of coinage in fountainry, and its connection with the harkening of luck and the certitude of the thrower returning to this formerly idyllic spot had in fact originated here, at Trevi (and elsewhere, but bear no mind).?Given that, a certain delay was warranted to bring good fortune to the greatest fleet the world has ever known.

Now a mere mortal tourist would produce a coin, or perhaps a metro token, from the bottom of a mini-map and trinket-laden pocket, and one of limited value, thus saving the heavy Euros for the much more valuable ritual of finding a pay toilet among the Roman ruins (and why is it that Italians never have to pee?).?But SECNAV is no mere mortal, and change does not occupy his pockets, but rather one would find the odd golf tee, or perhaps a cigar cutter, monogrammed of course.?No, SECNAV does what a titled monarchical figure does, and that is turn to his aide, who has magically appeared at his side to render any assistance, including coin dispensation.?

A coin is indeed produced from the magical man-purse that every aide carries with no shame.?But it is no simple coin.?Nor is it even currency, at least not in the monetary sense.?It is a Challenge Coin, in the grand tradition of every military unit of modern times – a custom-minted, beveled, bejeweled and ultimately bulky masterpiece of numismatics.?This bronze coin is emblazoned with the flag of the office of the American Secretary of the Navy, complete with the raised signature of the current office holder, and the four-starred and anchored banner that is the flag of the post.?This is no Euro.

To the gypsies and petty thieves present at Trevi, nothing goes unnoticed, least of all a vested God debarking from his land yacht, surrounded by uniformed serfs, and producing what appears to be a giant… gold… doubloon.?This is a veritable gold ingot that everyone is instantly aware is about to be hurled into the fountain of Nicola Salvi’s design.?Even the ghost of Salvi is salivating at its readily apparent worth, amongst the cheap bronze cents that lie below the waves, untouched in their relative mediocrity.

What ensues as the coin is hurled purposefully into the public font is a full scale riot in the heart of Rome, not seen since the Coliseum roared, or perhaps since the wrongful conviction of the American tourist-harlot Amanda Knox.?Gypsies, tourists, pick pockets, even casual passers-by are transfixed as the shining wafer glints towards its watery destination, and the mass of humanity begins to move toward it, with shouts of urgency to make way in 10 different languages.?And just before water’s entry, silence descends upon the square for a brief second, with even the pigeons gliding rather than flapping, awaiting the distinctive ‘splish’ as the coin angles into the hallowed waters.

And when it does, presently, the riot begins anew.?The roar returns, and men, women and children of all variety hurl themselves into the fountain’s depths, as if Neptune had cast them there with his own scepter; which essentially he has done through SECNAV’s casual act of trite tradition.?The waters are churned, as if they were the piranha infested waters of the muddy Amazon. The Carabineri are delighted, holstering their weapons, and lighting up their heaters, just as the violence begins to erupt. This, they signal, is Italian opera at its finest, and they are in the box seats.

And this is when the SECNAV’s aide demonstrates why it was he who was chosen among many to fulfil the role of manservant to the most powerful naval figure on the globe.?With no hesitation, and with full-throated yet controlled vigor, he turns to King Neptune and the wide-eyed American entourage, just now reaching for their cameras, and says:?“Mr. Secretary, it’s time to Go.”

The effect is as miraculous as it is instantaneous.?The SECNAV alights to his mobile throne as the Mrs. glances up from the pages of Vogue Italia (she is just now wondering why the Fiat was not airborne), the uniformed travelers take their positions in their sub-par chariots, the Carabineri grind their butts into the cobblestone and kick start their cycles – and the procession rockets from the square as quickly as it had come.?In the mirrors of the Moto-guzzis, the riders glance back at the glory of Trevi, reminded that centuries have watched such Gods come and go, disrupting its peace but for a short time.

Some hours later, the Public Affairs Officer of the Secretary of the Navy sat at the hotel bar in his dress white uniform, sipping Prosecco and awaiting the evening’s festivities.?Across his back, unknown to him (but well known and pointed out to the rest of the staff by the Speechwriter) was a testament to the day’s excitement – a perfect tire track from a Fiat motorcar, earned while the tunic was awaiting its rescue from the roundabout in the heart of Rome.?It was to be a memorable visit to Rome after all.?And forthwith, a lesson in how not to exhibit U.S. leadership abroad, post-9/11.

Chip Laingen ~ 2022