A QUESTION OF HONOR

By Richard Zoglin

It's a small bronze V, scarcely a quarter of an inch high, and it can be bought for less than a dollar in any military uniform store. But for a Navy man, it is rare moral currency, especially at a time when, as some vets put it, they give out a medal practically every time you change jobs. The V (for valor) pin signifies actual combat experience, and Mike Boorda, U.S. chief of naval operations, wore two of them on a chestful of awards and ribbons celebrating his 40 years of Navy service. At least, he wore them until a year ago, when he quietly took off his "combat V's," worried that reporters were starting to look into whether he had really earned them.

On Thursday, just before lunchtime, Boorda learned that two Newsweek reporters were coming by that afternoon to question him about the V pins. Instead of eating the lunch that had just been delivered, he told Kendell Pease, the Navy's chief spokesman, that he was going home, promising that he'd be back in time for the 2:30 interview. When the reporters showed up at the Pentagon, however, the admiral was missing. In the intervening time, he had driven to his home at the Navy Yard in southeast Washington, taken a .38-cal. pistol, stepped outside and ended his life with a shot to the chest. Right where the medals might have been.

The suicide was a shock to everyone who knew the affable, pipe-smoking naval chief. Pease said Boorda, 56, appeared "concerned" about the coming interview but had vowed to simply "tell them the truth"--that he had worn the combat V's by mistake. There were other problems weighing on Boorda's mind--continuing sex-harassment charges in the wake of the Tailhook scandal, revelations of criminal acts by midshipmen at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, and some recent criticism of Boorda's leadership. But the soft-spoken admiral, who loved licorice and would play Nerf ball in his office to break the tension, seemed to be handling the pressure as well as possible. Only last month, in a speech at the Naval Institute in Annapolis, he had vowed not to "fall into that trap and feel sorry for yourself because your problems are getting reported." He also spoke eloquently about the responsibility of leaders to set a model, and to be aware of both the misdeeds and the personal problems of individual servicemen: "Can the sailor commit suicide and not have the leader know that he or she was in distress? No."

If Boorda was in distress, no one seemed to know. He was a career Navy man, a native of South Bend, Indiana, who enlisted at 17 (lying that he was 18 so he could get in) to escape a troubled childhood and an alcoholic father. He married at 18, and his first child, David, was born with a rare congenital condition that causes a malformation of limbs and organs. (By his fourth birthday, David had had 17 operations.) Boorda served two tours of duty in Vietnam and worked his way up the ranks, commanding surface ships and serving in various Pentagon posts before being named chief of NATO's forces in Southern Europe in 1991. He was nominated by President Clinton to the top naval post in March 1994, when his predecessor, Admiral Frank Kelso II, had to retire early in response to criticism of his handling of the 1991 Tailhook sex-harassment episode. As the first enlisted man ever to rise to the Navy's top spot, Boorda was known, and widely liked, as a "sailor's sailor," and he set about restoring ethical standards and pride to the troubled service branch.

But it may have been that very devotion to duty that turned this possible inflation of an already impressive resume into a profound issue of honor. In a suicide note written to "the sailors" (he wrote another one to his wife and family), Boorda expressed fears that the controversy over his battle decorations would damage the institution to which he had devoted his life. (The suicide notes were misdated May 15; naval officials speculated that Boorda avoided dating them May 16 because that is his only daughter's birthday.) Those who knew Boorda could understand his chagrin. "Since a military officer can ask you to lay your life on the line, you have to trust that person 100%," said Lawrence Korb, a former Assistant Defense Secretary who had worked with Boorda. "You can understand why he'd take it so seriously--it goes right to the core, particularly now, when the Navy is trying to restore a sense of honor."

Did Boorda knowingly award himself medal embellishments he did not earn? It would appear so. He received two commendations for serving in combat areas during the Vietnam War: first as weapons officer aboard the U.S.S. John R. Craig in 1965 and later as executive officer aboard the U.S.S. Brooke for 14 months from 1971 to 1973. But neither citation specifies that Boorda was qualified for the combat V--which, according to Navy rules, goes only to "individuals who are exposed to personal hazard due to direct hostile action."

In addition, the combat V's were among the 13 awards and commendations that Boorda listed in the official resume he gave to the Senate Armed Services Committee in his 1994 confirmation hearings. Boorda signed the resume, stating that the information was "to the best of my knowledge, current, accurate and complete." He can be seen wearing the V pins in photos as early as 1985. Yet when reporters began digging into his Navy records a year ago, he stopped wearing them.

Boorda's defenders insist he must have worn the pins by mistake, thinking he was entitled to them because he had been in a combat zone. "When I was CNO, I certainly would have told him to wear it," said Retired Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, a former chief of naval operations. The Washington Post reported that a 1965 awards manual appeared to support Boorda's right to wear the V pin. Others contend that even if Boorda was technically at fault, the transgression would hardly have been enough to destroy his career. "I think it would have been a one-day story," Secretary of the Navy John Dalton told TIME. "I think it was an honest mistake, and I can't imagine why he felt it would be difficult to explain."

The V pin controversy may have been just the final, close-to-the-bone insult to come Boorda's way in recent weeks. The naval chief was becoming the target of a classic Washington operation--unsigned attacks and attacks that were signed but aimed only vaguely in his direction. Former Navy Secretary James Webb last month criticized "naval leaders"--implying but not naming Boorda--for currying political favor rather than defending the Navy's "hallowed traditions." Boorda's misstep, according to this view, was overreacting to the Tailhook affair, denying a promotion in 1994 to Admiral Stanley Arthur because of his refusal to reinstate a woman who claimed she was thrown out of flight school for filing sex-harassment charges. An anonymous letter in the Navy Times last week called for Boorda's resignation, claiming he had "lost the respect of his admirals."

And while Boorda himself was becoming a target, the subject of medals in general, and their careless use and abuse, had been raised not long ago in the Navy. Webb, during his tenure as Navy Secretary, was known as a stickler for making sure officers displayed their service decorations properly. Allies of Boorda's called reporters on Friday to suggest that Webb had had a hand in exposing Boorda's V pin problems, but he emphatically denied it in an interview with TIME. "People talk about the ribbons as the road map of your career," said Webb, "and to me it was important that admirals have their ribbons on right to show respect for the military and to send a signal to their troops." But he added, "I do not recall that I ever reviewed Boorda's personnel jacket."

The first inquiries into Boorda's medals were made by Roger Charles, a reporter for the National Security News Service, a group that digs up stories about the military and feeds them to mainstream news organizations. Using the Freedom of Information Act, Charles had obtained Boorda's records last July, but waited to obtain photo documentation before showing his material on the morning of Boorda's death to Newsweek reporters.

Predictably, questions were raised as to whether the press, with its ever lowering threshold for publicizing the indiscretions of public figures, was guilty of hounding Boorda to suicide. In this case, the charge seems, at the very least, premature. Press inquiries had scarcely begun, and Newsweek editors maintained they had reached no conclusions yet. "This is a terrible tragedy, and I feel very sad about it," said Washington bureau chief Evan Thomas. "But we were doing our job. We were pursuing a legitimate story."

Still, the suicide of a public official under suspicion has become a familiar ritual in Washington of late. Among those who have chosen to end their life rather than face possible public humiliation are former deputy White House counsel Vincent Foster, who shot himself before the Whitewater investigation; John Hemperley, the chief budget officer of the Library of Congress, who came under suspicion for possible financial improprieties; and Ernie Blanchard, the Coast Guard's top press spokesman, who faced a possible court-martial because of sexually offensive jokes he told in a speech. Each victim, of course, had his own psychological makeup and motives. But collectively, they point up the increasing pressure carried by people in the public spotlight, or even in the nearby shadows.

Senator John McCain of Arizona, who was investigated over savings-and-loan abuses as a member of the Keating Five, says the pressure is even greater for a career military man like Boorda. "For some of us who served in the military, the thing we prize more than anything else is our honor and our reputation. People shouldn't be interested in destroying a reputation built up over all those years of dedicated and loyal service because of one mistake."

The reasons that lie behind Boorda's suicide will probably never be understood. Could it be that this former enlisted man still felt insecure in his accomplishments, next to the Annapolis graduates who surrounded him? "This would have been a blip on the screen for me," said Duane Bushey, who worked with Boorda from 1988 to '92 as the Navy's master chief petty officer. "I think it would be humiliating for him. But even if it came out that he really didn't deserve them, I think the average sailor would say, 'Yeah, but look at what the guy is doing for us.'" Now all they can do is look back at what he did.

--Reported by Mark Thompson and Douglas Waller/Washington

With reporting by MARK THOMPSON AND DOUGLAS WALLER/WASHINGTON