Master Strategist
Vernon A. Walters, RIP.

By Richard V. Allen, senior fellow at the Hoover Institution & served as Ronald Reagan’s chief foreign-policy adviser & first national-security adviser.
February 18, 2002 9:20 a.m.

n extraordinary man, one who left a lasting imprint on his nation and all who were fortunate to know him, was summoned by his Maker on Sunday, February 10. Lieutenant General Vernon A. Walters, 85, died of a heart attack in Good Samaritan Medical Center in West Palm Beach, Florida.

The passing of Dick Walters marks the end of a life of selfless and dedicated public service and what can only be described as a sensational and action-packed career. For National Review, the loss is particularly keenly felt, as General Walters was a close friend to its management and staff and a stellar performer on NR cruises, the latest of which took place in late September from Boston to Montreal.

The newspaper obituaries have recited his many accomplishments, noting especially his unique linguistic abilities (he spoke at least seven languages, and could maneuver in several more), his service to eight presidents, his rise from a private in World War II to general officer by the time of his retirement in 1976, his skills as deputy director of the CIA, roving ambassador and ambassador to the United Nations under President Reagan, and his service as United Nations ambassador under President George H. W. Bush. His career is all the more remarkable for a man who did not attend college, and who, by sheer talent and energy, rose to high station and earned the respect of world leaders.

He retained a deep and abiding commitment to his God and to his country; unmarried through life and a daily communicant, Walters would always be found at the nearest Mass, even when his movements were confined by the use of a wheelchair. His faith was mirrored in his devotion to the cause of freedom, and he never tired or reminding others that the United States was and is the best hope of mankind surviving in conditions of liberty.

Walters reveled in his ability to hold the attention of an audience, small or large. His skills as a raconteur allowed him to weave the lessons of the past into a prescription for the future; he had in his knapsack a fabulous insider's story to illustrate every important point. Never too large a figure to overlook even the simplest question put by a listener, the general would be patiently attentive, staying with the interlocutor until he had satisfied the question and imparted yet another illustrative tale. Lecturers on NR cruises change tables at dinner every evening, and were always greeted with the message, "Last night we had the general at our table….he is fantastic, and I hope we sit with him again." Yet another tribute to the way in which he dealt with people, a paradigm of kindness. In more than 30 years of acquaintance, not once did I meet a critic of Dick Walters, rare in a city divided into friends and enemies.

The New York Times, in its otherwise generous obituary, remarked that he "may not have made history in his career, but he saw it firsthand." Those who knew Dick Walters would disagree with this underestimation. In fact, Walters was a maker of history, albeit behind the scenes. He had way of making his influence felt, a manner of accepting an assignment broad in character, then refining and implementing it in his own skilful way. The emphasis on his language skills is accurate, and many thought of him as an interpreter. He was actually the "whole man," in the sense that he was simultaneously master of substance and equipped with an entire array of practical skills, not least the ability to communicate. Put another way, he was a master strategist.

In 1980, Vernon Walters accepted an invitation to serve on a foreign-policy campaign advisory board to candidate Ronald Reagan. It happened that campaign director William J. Casey and I were making a trip to Europe during a lull in the campaign. In Paris, we had arranged to meet with a cross-section of French journalists at dinner. Walters happened to be in Paris. Our job was to outline for skeptical French journalists Reagan's views on U.S. policy toward Europe, France, the USSR, and to respond to their questions and their obvious doubts. Scarcely into the post-dinner discussion, it was obvious that the interpreter present was out of his depth, and we desperately sought a quick fix. I leaned over and asked Walters if he would mind stepping off our team and helping us out; in an instant he was in the middle, and for more than three hours interpreted flawlessly.

He performed many sensitive and highly secret diplomatic missions over his great career, but none was more interesting to him — nor did he feel more deeply about — than his secret briefing sessions with Pope John Paul II. Knowing the Vatican was deeply involved in its own policy initiatives in Eastern Europe (and especially in Poland), and that the Reagan initiative to deploy intermediate range and cruise missiles in Western Europe was highly controversial, Walters visited the Holy Father several times, and with great delicacy showed the Pope satellite photographs and other hard evidence of Soviet SS-20 deployments. He knew not to say more, letting the evidence speak for itself. Whatever the Pope actually felt, the Vatican did not criticize the deployments, depriving the European Left of any meaningful Catholic Church support. If that is not "making history," one wonders what would qualify.

On the morning of January 21, 1981, President Reagan's first full day in office, and without any comment, he placed several items on the credenza behind his desk — pictures of Nancy and the children. In the front left corner of the desk he placed a small brass sign, facing out, a message to his visitors. It read: "There is no limit to what a man can accomplish or how far he can go as long as he doesn't mind who gets the credit." Some read that sign and got the message, many more did not. General Vernon A. Walters certainly did, for he had lived his whole life according to that simple principle.