Jerry Boykin & Lynn Vincent (39 page)
“I wondered if you could tell us your reaction when you encountered Muslim leaders in Indonesia,” Hamburger said. “I understand that some of them brought up specific comments made by General Boykin—”
“Yes, they did,” the President said.
Hamburger continued: “I wondered if you would address those comments and whether you think that General Boykin ought to be disciplined or resign.”
The President didn’t answer that last question. Instead, he said three Muslim leaders he met with wanted to know why Americans think Muslims are terrorists.
“My answer was, it’s not what Americans think,” President Bush said. “Americans think terrorists are evil people who have hijacked a great religion. That’s why Mr. Boykin’s comments were—General Boykin’s comments don’t reflect the administration’s comments. And by the way, there’s an IG investigation going on inside the Defense Department now about that. He doesn’t reflect my point of view, or the view of this administration.”
I was crushed. How could my commander-in-chief say that to the whole world without first finding out the truth? And how could he spin the IG investigation to make it look like the administration was taking action against me?
I
was the one who requested the investigation.
“Our war is not against the Muslim faith . . . ,” the President continued. “We welcome Muslims in our country. In America, we love the fact that we are a society in which people can pray openly—or not pray at all, for that matter.”
I had defended that right for more than three decades. I had defended Muslims against their enemies and persecutors in two different countries. And I
never
said or implied that America was against the Muslim faith. Now the President of the United States was reinforcing the idea that I had.
That moment was the lowest of my Army career.
THE MEDIA FIRESTORM CONTINUED. On October 31, Bill Press of
WorldNetDaily
joined the ranks of columnists who decided it was acceptable to judge me without getting my side of the story. “A 30-year veteran, Boykin does, indeed, have an impressive resume . . . The problem is, he comes to his job as an intolerant, religious zealot . . . Gen. Boykin is the American echo of Osama bin Laden.”
15
Press wasn’t alone. By month’s end, the American news stories that came out following Arkin’s attack were being reported this way: “Gen. Boykin . . . has been quoted as saying the war against terrorists, such as those who killed and mutilated U.S. soldiers in Somalia in the name of religion, is a battle between good and evil with terrorists representing ‘Satan.’ ”
16
The media got a lot of mileage out of the whole “Satan” thing. As soon as you start mentioning Satan, people start calling you a crackpot. It’s okay to talk about him at church or a Bible study. But let it come out in the public square that you believe there is a real devil, and people start to wonder whether you’re a little odd. And if you take the next logical step—that if there really is a devil, his influence in the world is real—people will put an index finger to their temple and twirl it.
I thought about that a lot.
Am I crazy? Am I the problem?
The crisis caused me to examine my beliefs regarding the God spoken of in Scripture, the same God whom something like ninety percent of Americans say they also believe in. The same Bible that talks about God talks about Satan. Was the Bible some kind of salad bar, where we just pick out the things that make us feel warm and spiritual, and reject the rest?
Apparently, for Arkin and company, believing in God was one thing. But to have Him be
real
in my life as a soldier, and to talk about that publicly, was some kind of war crime.
SOON, THANKS TO ARKIN and his media acolytes, more than my career was at stake. The worldwide news stories brought me to the attention of radical Islamic organizations, and information about me started to appear on their Web sites. For example, Adam Pearlman, an American citizen who joined al-Qaeda and now goes alternately by the Islamic names of Adam Yahiye Gadahn or Abu Shhayb al-Amriki, began calling for my assassination.
Another Islamic Web site posted this ominous question: “Does the position of Deputy Undersecretary of Defense warrant a personal protection detail? The discernment at the time of this report is no.”
I had faced down violent men before, but another development truly struck fear in my heart: Islamic sites began posting maps to my home, and listing the names of my wife, my son Aaron, and my friends.
In February, the IG investigators called me in for a second interview. We set up in a small conference room again, and the big guy switched on his pet tape recorder. In the three months since we’d last met, both men had received an attitude transplant. And not for the better. Where they had been grim before, now they were overtly skeptical—snide, even.
“Let’s talk about this JAG thing again,” Skinny said. “We can only find one written opinion from your JAG on your speaking engagements.”
“I told you last time that he only issued a couple of written opinions.”
“How many different JAGs did you have?”
“Well, see, that’s part of the problem,” I said. While I was at Special Warfare Center, I had three different JAGs. One left the Army and the guy who replaced him was deployed to Afghanistan. That paved the way for a third attorney—three different JAGs within just a couple of years.
“Hopefully, you talked to all three of them,” I said.
“Yeah, we did. But they don’t remember any of the details,” Skinny said. “The question is, how much information did you really give them about these speaking engagements?”
Again, they had pissed me off. As though I had been withholding some kind of dark secrets about my speaking on the Fourth of July and Memorial Day at
churches
. I wanted to laugh: The darkest secrets at these very public events were probably what kind of pig parts were in the hot dogs.
“I’m going to tell you again,” I said slowly, enunciating each word. “In most cases, I didn’t give them much information. That was my secretary’s job. She gave the JAG the details, gave him the invitation—”
“That may be part of the problem here,” Skinny interrupted. “You didn’t give them sufficient information for them to give a legal opinion on what you were doing. Do you have any proof that you told the JAG what these events were about?”
Suddenly it became clear to me that in this room, the principle of
innocent until proven guilty
had been turned on its head. In this room, it was
You’re guilty unless you prove you’re not
.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “As I have told you before, there were only a couple of times that I personally sat down and talked to the JAG.”
Now they zeroed in on a specific event, the patriotic observance in Daytona Beach, Florida—the one where my talk had motivated David Martin and his wife to go back to church. “What made you think you could wear your uniform to this event?”
“It was a public event,” I said.
“Do you have any evidence of that?”
“Why don’t you call the pastors of the churches that put it on?”
“We have.”
Then why are we having this conversation?
The big guy switched horses. “While you were down there, you visited a friend of yours from Special Forces.”
“Yes, I did. He works for a company that does simulations and I was running a school that wanted to use simulations. It was a business meeting, scheduled in advance.”
Another new horse: “On another trip, you spoke at a church and to a law enforcement group and claimed that was the reason you were there. We have evidence that the law enforcement speech was an after-the-fact decision.”
“There are plenty of people who will provide you with evidence that it was planned ahead of time.”
The investigators openly traded disbelieving sneers.
Then Skinny said: “What made you think you could wear your uniform in the church down there?”
It was the third time they’d asked me that and it was the last straw. I stood up, put both hands on the conference table and leaned toward Laurel and Hardy. “I’ve worn this uniform for thirty-three years,” I said, biting off the words. “It’s who I am. It’s
what
I am. A
soldier
. For you to tell me that we can go out across this country and recruit young men and women to wear this uniform, then send them to war in this uniform,
and send some of them home in body bags wearing this uniform
, but that I can’t wear it here in the communities of this country to encourage Americans—that’s just something I just can’t come to grips with.”
The investigators glanced at each other, as if uncertain of which button to push next. Seething with frustration, I stalked to the window. I knew by now that only divine intervention was going to make any difference in this investigation.
Lord, I need Your strength right now
, I prayed.
Help me stay calm and speak the truth
.
I glanced back at the investigators.
And, by the way, Lord, a little self-control would also be nice, to help me keep from walking over there and knocking these two clowns out
.
ON MARCH 17, one of the investigators called my office. “We have your preliminary report. If you’re going to be available, we’ll bring it down to you.”
“Bring it on down,” I said. I knew this was in God’s hands and I hoped for the best. But based on the way they had interrogated me, I was leery.
Twenty minutes later, Skinny walked into my office and handed me a thick sheaf of paper tucked into an official-looking gray folder. “These are preliminary findings and you will have the opportunity to rebut them,” he said. “You have until April 2 to respond.”
“Fine,” I said.
He left.
I placed the folder on my desk and opened it. The first words I saw: “We find you in violation of . . . ”
It went downhill from there. My eyes skipped from charge to charge to charge—five in all, including two criminal violations.
Criminal
. Numbness spread through my bones.
On three occasions, they said, I had used government money to travel to personal speaking engagements. Also, they claimed I used my aide for personal business and made him travel with me at government expense. Both charges were issues of fraud. I wasn’t certain what the legal consequences would be, but I knew I could be demoted, forced to resign my commission, court-martialed, and possibly jailed. Even short of imprisonment, any one of the other options would end my career in utter disgrace.
Clutching the report, I walked out of my office into the admin area.
“Cancel everything on my schedule,” I told my secretary. “I’ve got to go home.”
Mind racing, I hurried through the E-Ring corridor and out the Pentagon’s River Entrance. I wanted to talk to Ashley. I wanted to pray. I wanted to ask God
where He was
. I burst outside onto the River Entrance landing meaning to head for the parking lot, but saw David Martin standing on the steps taping a segment for his evening broadcast.
Lord, please don’t let him see me
, I thought.
All I want to do is get out of here
.
I veered off at an angle and took the steps two at a time, hoping David wouldn’t notice.
“General Boykin!”
Crap
.
“General Boykin!”
Turning to face David, I tried not to look as desperate as I felt. As he walked quickly over to meet me, I saw that a tall, well-dressed woman was following him over.
“General, I’d like you to meet my producer, Mary, the one you’ve been praying for.”
The woman walked up and held out her hand. “Hi, General Boykin,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Mary Walsh. I wanted to thank you for your prayers and tell you that I’m cancer-free. Now, I was wondering, would you pray for my brother? He has inoperable prostate cancer.”
Guilt washed over me. I was so wrapped up in my own problems—my career, my reputation—that I forgot that there were plenty of folks with far bigger problems than mine. Life and death problems.
I snapped out of self-pity mode. I felt God speaking to me:
I’ve got
you
covered. This woman needs your prayers
.
I told Mary how happy I was that her cancer was gone and promised to pray for her brother. We chatted for a couple more minutes then I drove home. Holding the report, I headed up to my bedroom to pray. When I had first received it, all I wanted to do was get alone and wrestle with God over it—all day and all night if that’s what it took to deal with my despair. Now, though, I thought of Mary, free of cancer. I thought of her brother, facing death.
Sitting on my bed, I held the report. God had been with Mary. He would be with her brother. He would be with me. I thought about my life, my career. I had never rolled over for anyone. Not for Noriega, Escobar, or Aidid. Not for war criminals. Not for terrorists. I wasn’t going to start now. The Special Forces creed calls soldiers to rely on the “help and guidance of God.” Also, it says,
never surrender.
I looked down at the report. “Lord, I don’t understand this,” I said aloud, “but it’s in Your hands.”
Then I got up and went straight back to work.
THAT NIGHT, ASHLEY AND I WENT TO CHURCH. We sat on the back row during the Spanish language service and prayed together. Afterward, a woman stopped us in the narthex. “Sir, I don’t know who you are and I don’t know what you’re going through, but I believe I’m supposed to tell you something,” she said.
“You don’t know who I am?” I said. With jihadists eight thousand miles away issuing death threats against me, that was hard to believe.
“I’ve seen you in church, but I work for the Department of Energy and I’m on the road a lot. In any case, I believe I am supposed to tell you that you’re going to be exonerated.”
Ashley and I looked at each other, astonished.
“You really don’t know what I’m going through?” I said to the woman.
“Sir, I have no idea.”
