Deb Aronson

The Friends of Dick Russell club

“In this life, we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love,” Mother Teresa

First appeared in Illinois Alumni in March 2009 under Profiles

How do you tell the story of a man whose career with the CIA is classified information? A man who subsequently suffered from locked-in syndrome, a condition in which the patient retains all cognitive function but cannot move most of his muscles, not even to speak?

You tell the story of his friends.

Because this is not really a story about Dick Russell ‘60 LAS and his career as an operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. It is, rather, a story about friendship - in this case, the bond between Russell and his Kappa Sigma fraternity brothers, particularly Don Boodel ‘58, the ringleader, but also Charlie Coane ‘62 MEDIA (“the ad man”), Al Carlson ‘60 (“the tight-fisted Swede”) and others. These friendships might appear deceptively casual - the occasional phone call or a shared meal when work brought one to the other’s territory. But many years later, when Russell was brought low, these are the friends who rallied around him, the friends who are forever changed by his experience.

A ‘character’ on campus

For the most part, the men in this story were typical Midwestern, suburban, teenage boys of the late 1950s. They met on the cusp of adulthood as pledges of the Kappa Sigma social fraternity on the University of Illinois campus.

Although Boodel (pronounced “boo-DEL”) left the University before graduating, he was and still is the glue that joins them (as well as nearly 100 other friends).

“I have this motivation to keep people together,” he says.

As a student, Russell’s thick black hair, perpetually flushed face and Paul Newman-blue eyes were not enough to make him stand out in the crowd. But soon, the fraternity brothers realized Russell was a certifiable “character.”

“Sometimes we’d hear a ‘flip-flop’ in the hall; he’d be in swim fins with a face mask and snorkel, walking to the shower,” says Coane (pronounced “co-AYNE”) of Russell, “a towel around his waist at best. And we thought, ‘Why not?’

“Keep in mind, we were 20 years old.”

A little aloof, a little wacky perhaps, but in retrospect, Russell’s friends also recall his fascination with war. He analyzed battle formations of the Greeks and Romans; he studied the Civil War; he was a World War II buff.

The undercover work of war intrigued him even more.

Well, if Russell liked spies and espionage, what of it? thought his friends. What mattered to them at the time was that he was always game for a party.

“I don’t remember him ever going out with the same girl twice, but he joined right in,” says Boodel.

“We had a running joke with him. After every party we’d ask, ‘How was your date last night?’ And he’d always answer, ‘That’s it for me; I’m in love. I’m gonna get married.’” (Despite the bluster, Russell never appeared to have dated seriously or married.)

After graduation, he joined the Navy,becoming a member of the crew on an A3D Skywarrior nuclear bomber. Over beers, Russell regaled his buddies with these stories (mixed in with lots of profanity). He liked to joke about how A3D stood for “All Three Dead” and how the tail of the plane slapped the waves on the landing approach. Russell laughed in the face of death.

And over the years, after his buddies learned more about his work, they knew it was, really, no joking matter.

“He had his finger on the atomic bomb,” says Coane of Russell.

All in a day’s work

Twenty years after having lost track of one another, Boodel got the itch to find out what Russell was up to. Bear in mind, this was around 1980 - no Internet, no Google - but Boodel ran Russell down like a hound dog.

When Boodel called his friend’s home one evening and Russell realized who it was, his first response was, “[Expletive], Boodel, how did you find me?” Boodel explained he had gotten the phone number from Russell’s mother. Russell replied, “What … is she doing, trying to get me killed?”

And with that, their friendship was renewed.

“Dick never spoke about going to movies or on a date or to a tavern. We talked about books, news, politics, what was going on in the world,” says Boodel. “Once Dick said, ‘I think you realize, Don, I’m not allowed to talk about my work.’”

Only once, during the 1987 Iran-Contra hearings, in which Congress investigated the secret funneling of funds to support rebels in Nicaragua, did Russell let anything slip. “He said, ‘I hope Oliver [North] gives them what they want; otherwise, I’m on the stand next,’” remembers Boodel.

Despite their regular phone contact, the friends met rarely. Once, when Boodel was in Washington, D.C., they arranged to meet for lunch in Georgetown.

“It was summer; everyone was wearing shorts,” remembers Boodel. “And here comes a guy walking down the street wearing a trench coat, fedora, sunglasses, with his hands in his pockets.”

He nudged his wife, Nancy. “‘Look what’s coming down the street,’ I said. ‘That’s either Humphrey Bogart doing his … Sam Spade impression or it’s Russell.’”

In San Francisco in the 1990s, Coane had a similar visit with Russell, who showed up with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Coane and “four, five or six other frat brothers” who were there ribbed Russell about what was in the case. “Dick just would smile, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait,” says Coane.

That’s because Dick Russell was an operative.

A letter written to Russell in 2002 from George Tenet, then head of the CIA, confirms Russell’s long career with the intelligence agency. “For nearly two decades as an officer of the CIA,” the letter reads, “you advanced the cause of American liberty and global security. Your service, marked by skill and by honor, is a long and distinguished chapter in a career of duty to country and colleagues.”

If there were ever any doubt about Russell’s job, those were put to rest after his stroke, when Russell’s health-care advocate, Laurie Duncan, went to his home to retrieve some personal items for him. She found no photographs of friends and family. She did find a loaded 9 mm Beretta semiautomatic pistol in the couch cushions. “I loved that gun,” Dick later told her. She also found a machine gun and a pistol by his computer.

‘Emotionally draining’ experiences

None of those weapons could protect Russell when, in 2000 at the age of 62, he suffered a stroke in his brain stem, leaving him trapped in his own body, unable to move anything but his eyes. He went from being a lone wolf, independent and private, to being more helpless than a baby; he couldn’t even cry out for help. Duncan, who ran a business helping older people with money management, had been hired by Russell to be his financial power of attorney. Never did she dream that she would become so close to him.

“The first six months Dick could barely connect or speak,” says Duncan, though it was clear he was cognitively intact. “[The syndrome] is everyone’s worst nightmare.” While small improvements are possible to achieve, no treatment or cure exists for the condition.

When Duncan heard that Boodel was trying to reach Russell, she called with news of the stroke. When can I see him, was Boodel’s response. To him, the idea that someone might not want to face a friend in that state does not fit the definition of friend.

Still, those first encounters were hard. What do you say, what do you talk about when you visit a former intelligence operative relegated to living silent and incapacitated in a nursing home?

At first it didn’t matter what Boodel, Coane and Carlson said; there was no visible response from Russell whatsoever.

“It was absolutely emotionally draining and awful to see a person in that position,” says Boodel.

“It wasn’t real pleasant,” agrees Coane. “I know I thought afterward, ‘I don’t know if I could go through that, if I’d want to go through that.’”

“Dick was both embarrassed and thrilled to see them,” says Duncan of those visits. “When they promised to return, Dick indicated that he had ‘something to live for.’”

Sometimes, when the brothers visited Russell, they’d reminisce over Kappa Sig shenanigans, like the times Russell - just to annoy people - would play German marching music so loud it made the walls shake. Russell remembered with them.

“He [Dick] could do very little,” says Coane. “He could turn his head; he could smile. But he had all his mental faculties. We’d bring up stuff. We could tell he could remember all those things. He’d have a little smile, a little expression.”

Living with locked-in syndrome

Russell sought ways to make his life bearable and, with Duncan’s help, marshaled a battalion of daily readers. Everyone read a different book, selected from the hundreds in his room, with Russell favoring historical works like “The Art of War in the Middle Ages” by Sir Charles Oman, first published in 1885. Other times, Russell listened to the radio (Rush Limbaugh) or watched television (Fox News). He hated being fed intravenously and made it his goal to be able to eat and enjoy food.

And Russell did make gradual, small improvements. Sometimes he could move his lips and even occasionally make a sound.

The friends learned to celebrate these gains. Duncan would call Boodel with regular updates, who would broadcast them to the Kappa Sig brothers. Big news included the time he was able to say, “Please close the door,” as a nurse left his room.

And, as much as his life had changed, post-stroke, much of what made Russell Russell was still there. He still had his trademark dry sense of humor; he was still intellectually curious. He still loved to raise people’s hackles, as evidenced by the group’s favorite story involving a discussion of a possible visit to the American Indian museum in D.C.

“No,” Russell said, clear as day.

“Why not?” they all asked, taken aback.

“They killed Custer,” he said.

“He said that just to get my liberal juices flowing,” says Duncan. “He could be irascible and a pain in the butt.”

Windows to a soul

What is it about an extremely private, cantankerous guy that made so many people stand by him? Was it his courage? Was it his humor? Was it, in fact, the very fact of his private nature that drew people to him?

When she considers how little they had in common, Duncan is still amazed at how close they became.

“If we’d met in the real world, we probably would not have liked each other,” says Duncan. “We couldn’t be more different. To say he was a conservative doesn’t even come close. I, on the other hand, came out of the ’60s movement. But he had an intelligence and determination that were uncanny.”

Ellen Schott, one of Russell’s readers, wrote this about him: “If eyes are windows to a soul, then Dick’s eyes are picture windows. His enormous blue eyes can smile at you with brilliance, turn dark and squinty with anger or frustration, or bring tears to your eyes when they get that Basset Hound look. In a situation most of us would find intolerable, Dick continues to plow through. His intelligence has not disappeared, nor has his sense of humor. This tells you much about his spirit.”

Duncan came to understand the irony of Russell’s situation: Without his stroke, he may have retained his successful but solitary professional life; with it, he formed fast and deep connections with many people.

Those connections were a two-way street. “I gained a heck of a lot more than I gave Dick,” says Carlson. “Dick gave me inspiration.” And Boodel, upon suffering a crushing depression in 2007, thought of Russell and “couldn’t think of one good reason for my not fighting back.”

As Russell’s condition stabilized, his Kappa Sig brothers took him on outings to local museums and monuments. In 2005 came the most glorious venture of all - to a Chicago Bears-Washington Redskins football game in the D.C. area.

“It was September 11,” remembers Boodel, who attended along with his wife, Russell, Duncan, Carlson and a health-care worker. “We came up through the porthole that overlooked the stadium just as they were playing the last eight bars of the National Anthem, and there was a three-jet flyover.

“The timing could not have been better. It’s one of the high points of my life.”

That was the brothers’ last group outing. Dick Russell died two years later on July 31, 2007.

“Thank God you [didn’t cut off your life support early on] and showed all of us what tenacity, patience, toughness and courage are all about,” Boodel said aloud to Russell at an emotion-filled farewell at his gravesite. “Laurie … knows that you taught her to be a stronger, more understanding and better person. … Those around you - your caretakers, nurses, doctors and all your readers - were attracted to you and learned to accept one’s fate. Your constant drive to improve your mind was a magnet of admiration.

“You humbled me.”