Today's Navy-Not a Job, an Adventure

It was a warm and clear spring day in Detroit, but for Bill Trerice, even the sunniest day seemed dark. He had just gotten off the graveyard shift at Chrysler and had made his regular pilgrimage to Henry Ford Hospital to visit his wife, Irene, who lay dying of uterine cancer. Afterward, drained and tired, Bill dropped in on his daughter Valerie, a licensed practical nurse who lived near the hospital. It was to be a pleasant visit--Valerie and her husband had been a source of comfort during Irene's illness. They were chatting in the kitchen when the phone rang.

The call was from a woman who lived next door to Bill and Irene in the small suburb of Algonac. Two uniformed Navy officers had come to her house after failing to find anyone at home at the Trerices', and the neighbor, guessing that Bill had followed his usual routine, had called him at Valerie's. Within seconds, he was on the phone with a Navy chaplain.

"We would like to meet with you, Mr. Trerice," said the officer. "Either here at your home or in Detroit if it's more convenient."

Bill's mind reeled. Even in peacetime, a visit from a Navy chaplain could mean only one thing. Bill's son Paul, a plane captain on the U.S.S. Ranger, was dead.

"Your son suffered heatstroke after exercise," said the chaplain. "He went into cardiac arrest."

Death is often greeted with disbelief, but, for Bill, this one was even more difficult to comprehend. Paul, at 6'5" and 230 pounds, was a 21-year-old man with the heart of a lion. He had been home only weeks before to visit his ailing mother and had never looked healthier. If he had been hit by an airplane or had been blown overboard, it might be easier to understand. But heatstroke? Cardiac arrest?

"My boy died of a heart attack?" asked Bill incredulously.

"Unfortunately, yes," said the chaplain, "following exercise while the ship was at Subic Bay in the Philippines. These things are difficult to explain sometimes."

Tears came to Bill's eyes and he felt a rage forming. "I want a full explanation!" he cried. "I want to know how my son died."

"Of course," replied the chaplain. "The C.O. of the Ranger will be sending you a wire. Details are available to him that I don't have."

Bill hung up and fell into his daughter's arms. Together they wept as Bill gathered his strength to deal with the obligations that accompany death. He would have to tell Irene, of course, and the rest of the family, as well as Paul's friends.

And he would have to find out exactly how his son had died. It was a quest that would change Bill Trerice's life and shake the U.S. Navy to its core.

•

The first step in unraveling the mystery of Paul's death occurred to Bill only hours after he had received the news. As a 13-year veteran of the Air Force, he was familiar with the often frustrating military protocol and bureaucracy that surround such events, so he sent a wire to Captain Dan A. Pedersen, commanding officer of the U.S.S. Ranger, asking for details. The (continued on page 86)Today's Navy(continued from page 83) reply came a few days later:

We on Ranger want answers as badly as your message implies you do. ... On 6 April 1981, Paul appeared ... before the C.O. of [his squadron] for deserting an assigned watch. ... Commander Baker awarded him 30 days' correctional custody ... deferred until 11 April while the ship was in Hong Kong. In the interim, Paul was placed in restricted-liberty status. Between the sixth and the 11th of April, Paul violated his restriction ... by leaving the ship without authority. The three days' bread and water awarded on ... 11 April was a result of your son's refusal to participate in our retraining facility [Correctional Custody Unit]. This C.C.U. effort has nothing to do with the brig but is totally separate and is a group boot-camp-type effort. ... Actually, your son was on bread and water only about 48 hours. It is mainly a period of time alone for a man to think and reconsider. ...

The day of his death was preceded by eight hours' rest. He was awakened at 0500 reveille. Cleanup, breakfast and personnel inspection lasted until about 0730, at which time he and eight other trainees were taken up to the flight deck for routine one-hour jog/calisthenics period. Your son completed the required run but refused to do the exercises. The temp. was 78 and 75 percent humidity with five knots' wind. At present, it remains undetermined why he refused. ... He was allowed to lay in a face-down reclining position for approx. 25 minutes while the others completed the exercise. After the exercise, they were all taken below to shower. The awardees, or trainees, are constantly supervised. Your son took a shower and then complained of earaches and numbness in his hands and asked to go to medical. While dressing ... he became verbally abusive, combative and physically threatening to the C.C.U. supervisor. He was subdued and restrained by hands and forced to lay down, at which time his medical problem became apparent to all. Corpsmen were summoned immediately and resuscitation and C.P.R. were started. Two physicians ... also participated in the effort to revive your son.

The main question unresolved is why a strong, physically fit, 21-year-old man in apparent good health should die after limited exercise consisting of approx. 20 minutes of jogging under reasonable temperature and conditions. ... I have asked for a toxicology report as part of the autopsy. I believe it would be inappropriate to speculate on possible drug or alcohol involvement in your son's death at this time. ...

Bill reread the wire until he had it virtually memorized. But the more he read it, the more confused he became. It would be inappropriate to speculate on possible drug or alcohol involvement in your son's death at this time. If it were inappropriate, why bring it up? Besides, how could Paul have gotten high while being "constantly supervised" in both the C.C.U. and the brig? He became verbally abusive, combative and physically threatening to the C.C.U. supervisor. Paul had a big man's self-assurance. Although he wasn't Bill's natural son--Bill had adopted all three of Irene's children from a previous marriage when Paul was still an infant--the two men shared an imposing physical quality. And since he was the only father Paul had ever known, Bill had made it a point to teach his son an awareness of his size and strength that would allow him to walk away from a fight. If it were true that Paul had become belligerent, thought Bill, he must have been pushed beyond reason.

The next day, another message arrived, this one from the C.O. of Paul's squadron:

Those of us who knew Paul were stunned by his untimely death. ... He was a warmhearted young man [who] got along well with the other men in his division. Paul came to the Navy because he wanted to do something good for himself and for his country. And he has. He was learning his job in the line division of our squadron. He had qualified himself as a designated plane captain, a level of professional achievement in his work that reflects a considerable personal effort by him. ...

Bill felt only more confusion. One message subtly portrayed Paul as a malcontent who had been in trouble several times before his death. The other said he had been a good sailor who had received a deserved promotion.

Several days later, on Easter morning, Bill met Paul's body at Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport. Larry Ramey, a 21-year-old friend of Paul's from the Ranger, had been asked to escort his body home, which he had done through numerous plane changes and bureaucratic foulups beginning with his identifying the body amid the sea of corpses in the refrigerated body room at Clark Field in the Philippines. At one point, Ramey watched as a military mortician put his friend into uniform and dabbed some make-up onto his face. After the mortician pinned the Sea Service ribbon onto Paul's uniform, Ramey asked about his other ribbons. "They aren't on my chit, so I can't put 'em on," came the reply. Later, at the Algonac mortuary where Bill had arranged services for his son, Ramey took two ribbons--Navy Expeditionary and Navy Humanitarian--off his own chest and placed them on Paul's.

But if Bill Trerice had expected Ramey to put his mind at rest about the death of his son, he was mistaken. Over drinks at the local V.F.W. hall, Ramey stunned him with stories of physical abuse in the C.C.U.--rumors of sailors mistreated and even beaten by the Navy petty officers who served as so-called retraining escorts.

"Don't let them get away with it, Mr. Trerice," Ramey said. "There's too much brutality aboard that ship."

Thus urged on, Bill took his next step. Before Paul could be buried, he hired Dr. Werner Spitz, a respected pathologist and the chief medical examiner for nearby Wayne County, to do an autopsy. There was a certain amount of irony in Bill's choice--as deputy chief medical examiner in Maryland, Dr. Spitz had regularly trained military pathologists and often lectured at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C.

On April 19, 1981, Spitz began the autopsy. As he had expected, there were the unmistakable signs of a post-mortem conducted by the Navy in Subic Bay. He also found some serious external wounds--scratches, scrapes and bruises all over the body. But what was most suspicious was the extensive bruising on both wrists, indicating that Paul's hands had been manacled, apparently during some sort of violent struggle.

Next came the internal examination. Spitz made his incisions, pulled back the skin and discovered that all of Paul's internal organs--his heart, his stomach, his lungs, his brain, everything--were missing. Normal autopsy procedure called for organs to be removed and weighed and samples taken for toxicology, but they were usually returned to the body for burial. Based on information supplied by the Navy relating to the temperature of the body and the circumstances of death--which he had every reason to believe--Spitz agreed that Paul had died of a heatstroke.

Bill was shocked and distressed to learn that his son's body had been shipped home an empty shell. No toxicology reports were (continued on page 186)Today's Navy(continued from page 86) possible, no independent verification of the cause of Paul's death available. Bill began to think the Navy didn't want him to have the answers he was looking for.

•

Paul Trerice, like thousands before him, had joined the Navy to see the world. And, of course, to get out of Algonac, where, in 1979, a recession was under way, dashing the hopes of young men like Paul--decent kids often lacking in ambition and education who usually followed their fathers into some sort of factory work or physical labor. Around him, Paul saw unemployment and unfulfilled dreams. Fired by his father's patriotism, however, he saw the Navy as a chance--a chance to travel to exotic ports and, not incidentally, to meet exotic women. It was an easy choice to make.

At first, it seemed like the right choice. Basic training went by quickly and easily. Strong and athletic, Paul found the rigors of boot camp no more difficult than his old high school football practice.

By early September 1979, he was in San Diego, assigned to a squadron that had just returned from a cruise in the western Pacific aboard an aircraft carrier and had settled on a goal: to be a designated plane captain. Each aircraft had one, whose job it was to be totally responsible for the plane, to have it ready for flight at all times. While the plane captain never got to fly in the aircraft, his name was stenciled on the fuselage and his efforts were crucial to the safety of the plane's four-man crew.

By September 1980, Paul's squadron was ready for duty. It joined the crew of the U.S.S. Ranger and put out to sea under the command of Captain Dan Pedersen.

Commanding a ship such as the Ranger--1000 feet long, with a full crew of 5000 officers and enlisted men--is as close as a man can come to being an absolute monarch. Because the crew is often at sea for several months, the commanding officer's word is law and his personality and style can determine the mood of the entire ship. Almost immediately, Captain Pedersen managed to impress his new charges as a good C.O. He was no distant, untouchable god--every day he personally gave a briefing over the ship's loudspeaker.

It was an exciting moment for Paul when the Ranger pulled out of San Diego on its way to Hawaii. So far, the Navy had been his biggest adventure ever, and now, with his first tour of duty under way, life seemed full of possibilities. Sometimes, however, his excitement and his hunger for adventure clouded his judgment. When the ship anchored in Hawaii, he went ashore one night when his section had duty and he was supposed to stay on board. He was caught and punished. He was hit with a $250 fine, was restricted to the ship for 30 days and was reduced one pay grade to airman apprentice. But the entire sentence was suspended for six months, and Paul figured that if he could keep out of trouble a mere six months, he'd be OK.

Armed with a new determination, he worked hard as the ship made its way from Hawaii to the Philippines and then, on October 23, to the Indian Ocean to begin patrol operations. After more than two months at sea, the Ranger docked at Mombasa, Kenya, for five days of R&R. Paul had managed to behave himself and had gotten his reward: He had made designated plane captain and proudly sent home a snapshot of himself standing alongside his very own S-3 twin-jet aircraft, with Paul Trerice, Algonac Mich Stenciled on the fuselage. Bill was pleased. His son could do a lot worse than make the Navy his career.

The Ranger was back on duty in the Indian Ocean when Paul's mother took a turn for the worse. Bill wired the American Red Cross requesting emergency leave for his son, who had not been home for a year. The Ranger high command approved the request, and in February, Paul was flown off the ship for a 30-day leave.

•

For the four months she lingered after his death, Irene blamed herself for her son's fate. When he had considered joining the Service, he had favored the Air Force, planning to follow in his father's footsteps. But she had reminded him that he loved the water so much, maybe he should consider the Navy. "If only he hadn't listened," she told her husband. When she died, Bill buried her next to their son. "With Paul gone," he said, "she just didn't want to live anymore."

Bill, on the other hand, was full of energy--and rage. He had been able to do nothing to save his wife, but he felt he at least deserved a few answers about his son. He telephoned a friend at a Detroit newspaper, figuring a little media pressure would help him get some information from the Navy. He got in touch with a staff aide to his local Congressman, who promised that a letter would be sent to the Secretary of the Navy requesting full details about what had really happened that morning on the Ranger.

The Navy, however, was not inclined to cooperate. When Pedersen did call, it was not to offer his condolences. As Bill recalls their telephone conversation, Pedersen was not sorry, he was antagonistic--angry, he said, about the news reports Bill had generated and the whole atmosphere of "hullabaloo."

"If you had just waited until my investigation was completed," he complained, "you'd have found out I run a good, clean ship."

"If you run a good, clean ship," countered Bill, "how come my boy got beat up?"

The conversation deteriorated from there, Bill remembers. While Pedersen took him to task for making a fuss and appeared to be worried about what the controversy might do to his Navy career, Bill felt his temper beginning to boil. Finally, he erupted.

"Captain, you're the most inconsiderate son of a bitch I've ever talked to in my life. You're worried about your career when I've lost my son. You caused my boy to die before his time. I'm going to get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing I do."

After he hung up, Bill's quest to uncover the cause of his son's death became a full-blown obsession. He went on as many TV and radio talk shows as he could. He lined up several members of the Michigan Congressional delegation to lean on the Navy. And he hired Peter Kelley, a respected former Federal prosecutor now in private practice, to file a claim against the Navy for the return of Paul's internal organs.

As the story spread, Bill started getting letters from across the country. Some simply offered support, but others were from parents who had lost sons in the Navy and who now questioned the explanations they had received. The Detroit News began investigating several mysterious deaths of sailors and eventually won a Pulitzer Prize for its reports.

Four weeks after Paul died, John Lehman, the Secretary of the Navy, made a long-planned appearance at the Economic Club of Detroit for an Armed Forces Day luncheon. Before his speech, he agreed to meet the press, though he stuck to a prepared statement:

It would be inappropriate for me or anyone else in the Navy ... to discuss further the death of Airman Trerice or the Ranger Correctional Custody Unit and brig until the investigation process is completed. ... The number and intensity of the various allegations ... leads me to believe there may be problems relating to Ranger's brig and Correctional Custody Unit, but we must wait for all the facts to be presented before we make judgments or take action. ... If there were deficiencies or derelictions or violations of the law or regulations, these will be ferreted out and remedial action will be taken and taken swiftly. This I promise you.

Attorney Kelley wasn't too impressed with Lehman's promise of appropriate action, since just the day before, the Navy had rejected Bill's claim for the alleged wrongful death of his son. "Our claim was rejected in two weeks, which must have been a world's record," says Kelley. "That kind of claim usually isn't acted upon for six months to a year. I read that as an attempt by the Navy to start cutting its losses. And, of course, that's the way military officers are taught to think."

Kelley did achieve some successes, however. The Navy acceded to his demand for Paul's internal organs, though officials made it perfectly clear that they considered it their right to keep any organs they deemed necessary. The Navy had been shipping home bodies sans organs for years, a spokesman said bluntly, and no one had ever complained before. "Of course," Kelley points out, "the bodies always came home dressed for burial, and there weren't many parents like Bill Trerice, who went out and hired their own pathologist."

Kelley promptly fired off a letter to the Navy. "This is not a case, as suggested by you, of the Navy's simple desire to retain tissue from the deceased sailor, to determine the cause of that sailor's death. Virtually all of Paul's organs were removed and retained by the Navy, which prevented the Trerice family from obtaining their own autopsy to determine the cause of Paul's death. Given the suspicious circumstances of Paul's death, the Navy's actions could only be interpreted at that time as a 'cover-up.'"

The organs were turned over to Spitz so he could complete his autopsy. But again Bill's pathologist had to take the Navy's word, for once organs are removed from a body, there is no way to be absolutely sure which body they came from. His examination of the organs gave Spitz no reason to suspect any cause of death other than heatstroke.

Bill began talking with Paul's friends on the Ranger and amassing disturbing information. Shipmate Kevin Daly had seen Paul just hours before he died and told Bill that he had been exercised before breakfast, in violation of regulations. Bill came across information that contradicted the Navy's claim that Paul had eaten breakfast that morning and dinner the night before. Bill also got weather statistics for Subic Bay the day Paul died. While Pedersen claimed it had been 78 degrees with 75 percent humidity, Bill's information indicated that the temperature was several degrees higher with greater humidity.

It was an incredibly complex jigsaw puzzle that Bill was slowly trying to assemble, with no guarantee that he would find more than a few meaningless discrepancies between the facts and the official version. His work could be no more than a waste of time, he worried--or, worse, he could be needlessly harming careers and endangering Paul's friends. And nothing he could find out would bring his son back.

Still, when he thought of Paul's last visit, which he did often, he found a certain strength. The trip had been brief but special. Bill had come away from their late-night talks convinced that his son, despite a setback or two, was growing up and that he truly loved the Navy. In fact, Paul had told his father that he had set a new goal--to actually fly aboard the planes he helped service as an air crewman. He was planning to qualify for the selective-training program, and to Bill that meant Paul was making a major commitment.

•

What really happened on board the U.S.S. Ranger during the last four days of Paul's life? While Bill continued to assemble the bits and pieces of information that he could get from Paul's friends and from Spitz's autopsy, he knew that the only way to get a complete picture was from the Navy itself, and his campaign in the media and with his local legislators eventually forced it to conduct an investigation.

The result was a 3000-page document completed on August 19, 1981, by the Office of the Judge Advocate General. That report, plus testimony from Paul's shipmates and interviews with other Navy personnel, enables one to construct the following chronology of how--if not why--Paul Trerice died.

April 11. 0900 hours. Paul reported to the master-at-arms' office as ordered after deserting an assigned watch. He was escorted by an M.A.A. to the ship's barbershop, where he received a "high and tight" haircut, and to the medical office for a routine preconfinement physical by a ship's doctor. Then he was taken to his berthing compartment, where he was told to pack his belongings in his seabag.

1220 hours. Through an oversight of the M.A.A., Paul did not receive the noon meal. The M.A.A. took him to the hatch of the C.C.U., located on the third deck above sea level. It had two spaces: a 15' x 20' berthing area with 18 bunks and an 8' x 10' deck area. From that point on, Paul would be in the hands of the C.C.U. escorts, a unit of 20 petty officers under the command of Master-at-Arms First-Class Petty Officer Wilbur Coffman. Paul climbed down the ladder to the C.C.U., but before he reached the bottom step, the seabag was wrenched from his grip and he was pulled off the ladder and thrown against the bulkhead by several escorts. His indoctrination to the C.C.U. had begun.

"We got a big fucker here," said one of the escorts.

"He looks like a pussy to me," said another.

"Strip them clothes off, awardee. All of 'em!"

When Paul didn't move fast enough to suit them, one of the escorts grabbed his blue-dungaree shirt and ripped it open, causing buttons to fly.

"Spread-eagle against the bulkhead, awardee. We're going to frisk you. Keep your eyes straight ahead and don't look around."

"OK."

"You don't say yes or no or OK down here, awardee. From now on, it will be either 'Yes, Petty Officer' or 'No, Petty Officer.' Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Petty Officer."

1400 hours. Since there was no air conditioning in the C.C.U., the heat and the humidity were stifling. The escorts made a point of standing in front of a fan. Paul, who had been allowed to dress after they checked his body "for scars," was wet with sweat. He was still trying to master the "break" position and the "beat the hand" game.

"Break!" screamed one of the escorts.

Paul fell face forward to the deck in the attention position and only at the last second did his hands, still at his sides, break his fall. It was the first time that he had made it down without getting hit in the back of the head by an escort.

"What do you say now?" asked a petty officer.

"I--this awardee--I mean----"

"No pronouns are allowed! How many times do I have to tell you that? Roll over and assume the thinking position." The escort gave Paul a swift kick in the leg. "Your feet are to be held off the deck! Legs straight!"

1530 hours. "Lock up, awardee!" Coffman was so close to his face when he yelled the command that Paul was sprayed with spittle.

Paul came off the deck slowly and assumed the stiff attention position. One petty officer later recalled that Paul was visibly shaking during that first "indoc" and complained that he hadn't exercised like that in a long time. He was trying to remember that special thing he was supposed to do with his fingers and his knuckles when he was struck on the back of a hand by a fist.

"You are slow!" yelled Coffman. "You're pissing me off." He turned to another petty officer. "Bring the equalizer."

The petty officer returned with a long wooden baton. Paul took a deep breath and brought his arm up to his face to wipe off some dripping sweat.

Coffman's face was now back in front of his, florid and screaming. "If you raise your hands above your waist again, I'm going to drop you. You're too big for me to fuck with, so I'll bring you down with this stick."

"Break!"

Paul went back to the deck, where he remained for 20 minutes.

1600 hours. Paul stood before Commander Baker with Coffman next to him. According to Navy records, he was accused of "disobeying order ... to stay 'locked up' and 'sound off'" while being indoctrinated in the C.C.U. His squadron C.O. agreed with Coffman that his punishment should be three days in the brig on a bread-and-water diet.

Paul asked for a conference with his squadron officer. Alone with his C.O., he told him of being kicked in the C.C.U. The C.O. left the room and confronted Coffman in the hallway with the complaint.

"Sir," said Coffman, "he dropped his legs while in the thinking position, and one of my petty officers bumped his feet with his shoes just to let Trerice know his feet were on the deck. That's all that happened, sir."

1630 hours. Paul was escorted to the brig, which was operated by guards from the small Marine detachment aboard. He was shown into a cell. It was after normal meal hours, so Paul also missed what would have been his first dinner in the brig: three slices of white bread and two cups of water.

April 13. 1450 hours. Paul went back to the C.C.U. He had had a lot of time to think during the past two days. He knew he had to get beyond the indoctrination so he could begin serving his 30-day sentence. The night before he went to the C.C.U., some of the guys in the squadron who had spent time there had told him the score: "You got to go along with the program or they'll dog the shit out of you."

The petty officers greeted him at the bottom of the ladder, again slamming him into the bulkhead. But this time, maybe because he knew what to expect, he did better. (Navy records state that he officially passed his second indoc in one hour. But Kelley, who conducted his own investigation, believes it lasted three or four hours and that Paul therefore missed another meal.)

1800 hours. Joining the eight other awardees, Paul began an hour of regular physical training (P.T.). Jumping jacks. Push-ups. Squat thrusts. Ten-count body builders. Cherry pickers. Windmills. At the end of the hour, the awardees were sweating profusely in the hot compartment. Paul trembled during and after P.T.

April 14. 0500 hours. Before breakfast, all awardees were required to do 20 pushups in the hot berthing area for moving too slowly in getting up. After reveille, Paul alone was taken out of the compartment by an escort who had read this note in the C.C.U. log: "Trerice displays very little interest in the program. ... Dog him."

0520 hours. On his way to the chow hall, where he would help serve breakfast, cook Kevin Daly heard Paul sound off: "Excuse this awardee, Petty Officer!" He turned a corner and there was Paul, ten feet away, performing push-ups. "Five, Petty Officer! Six, Petty Officer!" He was drenched with sweat.

"I couldn't believe it," said Daly later. "I'd never seen the C.C.U. awardees exercised before breakfast. It just wasn't done. I couldn't figure out what Paul had done wrong."

0615 hours. The other awardees had arrived 15 minutes earlier. Daly was worried when he saw that Paul wasn't among them. But then he arrived in the escort of a C.C.U. petty officer, who ordered him to lock up. A moment later, Paul reached up and wiped sweat off his brow. Two escorts were on him immediately, each pulling hard on an arm, yelling at him. Finally, he was allowed in the chow line, instructed to say nothing to the cooks but simply to put his tray out when he wanted something.

Daly was working the large egg skillet, and when Paul reached him, he saw that his buddy had a single piece of French toast and a sausage on his tray. His clothes were wet with sweat and he looked ill.

"Paul," Daly whispered, "you got to eat more than that. I'm going to make you six or seven eggs." Paul was the biggest eater Daly had ever seen. He regularly ate five eggs with ham, bacon, potatoes and toast for breakfast.

"What's going on down there?" asked Daly.

"I can't believe it," answered Paul, speaking softly out of the corner of his mouth. "You wouldn't believe how they're dogging me!"

Suddenly, a petty officer ran over and screamed, "Awardee! I said no talking! Out of the chow line!"

"Hey, what about his eggs?" protested Daly.

The escort ignored the cook. "Out of line, awardee!" Paul joined the other awardees, but it's doubtful he was able to eat any of his meager meal.

0730 hours. The awardees were taken onto the flight deck for regular morning P.T. Everyone made four laps around the 1000-foot-long flight deck. Paul was required to do two extra laps "to help get him into condition." Jumping jacks came next, followed by push-ups and arm rotations, with arms outstretched at the sides and parallel to the deck. That was always a difficult exercise for Paul, because his arms were so large. His arms began to droop and the awardee behind him placed his arms under Paul's to help. But soon the extra effort became too much.

Paul finally dropped his arms. He looked pale and was shaking visibly. "This awardee can't do any more, Petty Officer," he said weakly.

"Break!" the petty officer yelled at him. Instead of waiting for him to hit the deck on his own, the escort shoved him hard from behind, causing him to sprawl forward onto the deck, which was covered with a rough, nonskid coating. He immediately assumed the break position, placing his forehead and his nose flat on the hot surface.

Paul voluntarily rejoined the group and went back to performing exercises. But he soon stopped and was again put into the break position on the deck.

0830 hours. Paul was allowed off the deck and was told to rejoin the group. He was obviously not feeling well. His lips looked as white as his teeth. While the other awardees were allowed to drink water, Paul was not, because he hadn't completed his exercises.

0845 hours. Back in the berthing compartment, the awardees began undressing for showers. Paul staggered and looked as if he might pass out. "I feel like I'm going to die," he said. "I need to go to medical."

"After you shower."

"Please let me have some water."

"Break!" yelled the escort.

Paul stumbled but managed to get down onto the deck.

"You cannot have water, because you did nothing to earn it," said the petty officer. "You did not complete P.T."

0850 hours. Coffman entered the C.C.U. berthing area and spoke with Paul. He asked him why he had not done all the exercises.

"Because I couldn't," Paul answered.

Coffman warned him that he'd end up back in the brig if he didn't get with the program.

"Put me in the brig," said Paul, who was flushed and sweaty. "I don't care. My ear feels like it's filling up with water or something. I have to go to medical."

"Sick call is oh nine hundred hours," said Coffman. "You take your shower and tell the petty officer if you want to go to sick call."

He left the C.C.U., and another escort ordered Paul to do more exercises. "You do these right if you want to shower and go to sick call." Paul did more jumping jacks, squat thrusts and push-ups. Then the petty officer told him to shower.

0910 hours. Paul tried to get dressed, but he was shaking too much. He knew he had to make sick call.

"What's taking you so long, you big pussy?" said a petty officer.

"I'm going to die."

"Break!" Paul hit the deck.

"Twenty push-ups, awardee."

Paul did 20 push-ups.

"All right, give me twenty more."

"No," Paul gasped, his body shaking violently. "I have--to go to medical."

The petty officer grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him against a wall locker. He ordered him to break again, but Paul was slow to respond. The petty officer tried to push him down and got him onto his knees, then shoved him face first onto the deck. He kicked Paul under his arm, because it was outstretched and not in the required position.

Paul began cursing and stood up shakily. Darryl Summons, a second-class petty officer and a supervisor in the C.C.U., was called into the compartment. He asked what was going on.

"This awardee's ear's hurting. This awardee's fingers feel numb. There's something wrong with me, man. I feel like--I can't breathe," said Paul, grabbing his chest. "My right ear is feeling numb."

"You're a liar and an asshole," said a petty officer.

"I don't fucking lie!" screamed Paul. "I'm not a fucking asshole!"

"Break!"

"Fuck you!"

Summons came up behind Paul and spun him around. Paul was shoved into the bulkhead. When he turned around, he had a wild look in his eyes. He grabbed Summons and lifted him off the ground. Slamming the petty officer into the wall lockers, Paul didn't let go until two other petty officers jumped on top of him and began slugging him.

"OK, come on!" yelled Paul. "I'll take you all on!"

But Paul, already in severe heatstroke, was outnumbered and outmuscled. After a five-minute struggle, he lay face down on the deck with his hands manacled behind his back. His hands were a pale blue-green and a petty officer was leaning heavily on his back. Another escort called for leg irons. By the time they arrived, Paul was only groaning and grunting.

When he was raised to his knees, Paul's eyes were open and had a blank stare. His lips and his nose were turning blue. His pupils went from tiny to large almost instantly. His left eye started moving erratically. His lips were drawn back and his teeth were bared and clenched.

"He looks like he's all right," said one petty officer. "He's just unconscious or faking it."

A bucket of water was thrown in Paul's face, but it had no effect.

"Open your eyes. We know you're joking. We've seen it all before."

"I don't know," said another petty officer. "He's really burning up."

A second bucket of water was thrown in his face.

Foamy white saliva formed around Paul's teeth and lips, then began dripping down the corners of his mouth.

"He's foaming at the mouth," someone said. "He's not breathing. He's burning up. Call medical."

0920 hours. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation on Paul was begun by a corpsman who arrived on the scene five minutes after he was called but without any equipment. He immediately asked that a doctor be called. Twenty minutes later, the first doctor arrived at the C.C.U.

0945 hours. An intravenous solution was administered. Paul's pupils were dilated.

0950 hours. An E.K.G. revealed a flat line. C.P.R. continued.

1012 hours. Paul's temperature rectally was 108 degrees on a thermometer that registered no higher.

1013 hours. Pulse, 75 and irregular. Paul, showing that he, indeed, had the heart of a lion, was coming back from the heart attack.

1019 hours. Temperature, 107.4 degrees. No respiratory effort.

1024 hours. I.V. push.

1036 hours. Cardiac standstill. Paul had suffered his second heart attack. C.P.R. restarted. Temperature, 105.5 degrees.

1052 hours. Cardiac shock, 400 watts.

1058 hours. Cardiac shock, 400 watts.

1100 hours. Temperature, 105 degrees.

1108 hours. Cardiac shock, 400 watts.

1115 hours. No response. Paul's pupils were dilated and there was no cardiac activity. He was pronounced dead.

•

The Navy's investigation was only one step--though a large one--in Bill's quest. It gave him some solace, since the report prepared by the Office of the Judge Advocate General stated, "Airman Recruit Trerice's death resulted from a combination of errors in judgment, dereliction of duty, dereliction that rises to the level of negligence and culpable negligence." However, Bill still found the military bureaucracy a formidable opponent.

The Navy charged 28 Ranger crewmen--most of them C.C.U. petty officers--with various acts of misconduct, including maltreatment, assault and manslaughter. Even the ship's top command was not exempt. Pedersen, Captain Lee B. Cargill, the second-in-command, and Lieutenant Comer Williams, the officer directly in charge of the C.C.U., faced charges of dereliction of duties.

At least for a short while, Bill could indulge himself in the thought that the men he believed had killed his son would come to justice. But when the San Diego court-martial proceedings were over, all those implicated in Paul's death were acquitted, except one. The lone conviction came against Darryl Summons, the supervisor in the C.C.U. when Paul died. Summons was convicted of maltreatment and simple assault and was sentenced to 90 days' hard labor. He served eight days before receiving an honorable discharge. Four others were court-martialed for charges unrelated to Paul's death.

"I wasn't surprised," says Bill in retrospect. "I knew the Navy wasn't going to convict a lot of its own people. The only reason it even put them on trial was because of all the heat it was taking."

Attorney Kelley explains, "Bill confronted the Navy's unwritten policy of not notifying parents and family of unpleasant facts concerning the deaths of loved ones, which philosophically may sound acceptable. But in practice, what was happening was that the Navy was intentionally with-holding information to the extent of misinforming the family."

Kelley is still pursuing aspects of the Trerice case in civilian courts. He filed a wrongful-death suit against the Navy. While a Federal judge decided that the Navy itself couldn't be sued, he did allow Pedersen, Coffman and Summons to remain as defendants, which will make the case something of a landmark if it is tried. In the event that Trerice and Kelley are successful, their victory will allow civilians to sue members of the military for a wrongful death. "I don't think this country can afford to have a military that at some point isn't accountable," maintains Kelley. "Our constitutional safeguards protect all citizens, even Navy seamen."

Another suit asks for compensation from the Navy for the unconscionable delay in returning Paul's organs. "I want mothers and fathers on that jury who would be, I'm sure, appalled by what the Navy did to the body of Bill Trerice's son," says Kelley.

"Don't think I'm out to get rich on this legal stuff," Bill says. "Do you know what I'd consider a victory? A dime, because that would mean that the Navy was to blame for Paul's death. That is what I want. Paul's death was caused by some enlisted men who abused their power and by officers who failed to see what was going on. No one man was responsible. The Navy was responsible."

That victory is a long way off, if it ever arrives at all. Still, Bill has some triumphs to savor.

His crusade and the prize-winning work of The Detroit News made possible some long-awaited answers, if not comfort, for several other families who had lost sons in the Navy under mysterious circumstances. Finally releasing information it had kept from the families for months--in some cases even years--the Navy had to take a long, hard look at the events and policies that contributed to Paul's death.

The Navy's investigation into the Ranger's correctional facilities uncovered countless allegations of maltreatment ranging from merciless humiliation to torture. One recruit told of being stripped naked, shoved and slapped around the berthing compartment until his skin was red. Another claimed he had had his hands cuffed behind his back by a correctional officer who then stepped on his head and twisted his arms into a position so painful the recruit had cried. Yet another sailor reported that he had been shoved into the lockers and to the deck by several petty officers and a Marine brig guard with such force and frequency that he needed stitches three times in four days and broke eight teeth. Other awardees confined to the brig claimed they had been denied head call, forcing them to urinate or defecate in their cells. Medical records yielded similar reports--cases of chipped teeth, broken noses and, in one instance, a sailor who was covered with bruises over 60 percent of his body. More importantly, seven previous cases of heat disorders were listed.

The results of the investigation were alarming. The Navy's Pacific Fleet commander in chief reviewed the findings and wrote, "One disturbing factor about this case ... is that this type of activity could go on in the midst of other personnel ... who should have known what was happening was not right ... particularly medical officers, who knew of many bruises, contusions and heat-injury cases originating in the [C.C.U.]."

Although Bill would never be satisfied, his work accomplished something meaningful, something Paul would have been proud of. As a result of the investigation, the Navy issued a comprehensive policy manual standardizing administration of all Navy correctional units and it closed all shipboard C.C.U.s until those new guidelines could be put into practice.

"Maybe we saved the life of someone else's boy," Bill says. "Too bad it was too late for mine."

"'Don't let them get away with it, Mr. Trerice ... there's too much brutality aboard that ship.'"

"'If you run a good, clean ship,' countered Bill, 'how come my boy got beat up?'"