THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, October 22, 1994 TAG: 9410220307
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A8 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Real Politik
SOURCE: BY KERRY DOUGHERTY, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 112 lines
Occasional dispatches on the offbeat side of Virginia's 1994 U.S. Senate race.
Oliver North's campaign is one of the slickest organizations to steamroll through Virginia politics.
To outsiders, it appears to be powered by a pack of political whiz kids destined for plum jobs on Capitol Hill if they win.
But the real ``driving'' force behind the scenes is crusty retired Marine Corps master gunnery sergeant, Don Gabbard. He owns the 32-foot Winnebago that houses North's mobile headquarters. In the past five months Gabbard has driven that gas-guzzling, gray monster covered with ``North for Senate'' stickers 18,000 miles.
He has known ``The Colonel'' longer than anyone else on the campaign staff. North credits Gabbard with bringing the campaign back from the brink of chaos last winter.
``He's the grand old man of the campaign,'' North said of Gabbard last week. ``He's the one guy who's not afraid to say, `Hey, boss, you really screwed up.' ''
At 52, Gabbard is not old, except when compared to the barely past-puberty group of guys running the show.
The mustachioed former Marine is built like a Frigidaire and, like a large appliance, he rarely smiles.
He bullies the press and obsessed fans alike.
At a campaign stop in Danville several weeks ago an overeager campaign worker made the mistake of grabbing Gabbard's arm as the driver stood sentry outside the campaign Winnebago.
Gabbard looked annoyed.
The Ollie supporter wouldn't let go.
Finally Gabbard glared at him: ``If you touch me one more time, I'll have to kill you.''
The man waited for the good-natured laughter or the slap on the back which never came. He cautiously stepped back and quickly walked away. A grin crossed Gabbard's face as he watched the man leave.
Earlier that day, at a stop in South Boston, Gabbard thundered over to Dan McLagan, one of North's press people.
``I just threw your reporter friend off the Winnebego,'' Gabbard growled, inclining his head toward Alex Chadwick, mild-mannered National Public Radio reporter who was standing shamefaced outside the RV.
``I told him nobody gets on until we do.''
Gabbard is fiercely protective of two things: ``the Colonel'' and the Winnebago. Want to make Gabbard angry? Say something ugly about North. Want to get him steamed? Slosh a Coke on the RV's powder-blue carpeting .
``These guys can be slobs,'' Gabbard complains of the campaign workers.
In these days of limited press access to North, it is Gabbard who guns the engine and drives away from reporters in midquestion. It is Gabbard who calculates the real distance between campaign stops, trying to keep the campaign schedule operating with military precision. It is also Gabbard who collects the Krispy Kreme boxes, soda cans and sandwich wrappers littering the rolling campaign headquarters.
``I'm going to have to tear the carpeting out when this campaign is over,'' sighs Gabbard, gazing at the stained floor covering.
Gabbard has leased the RV - which, technically speaking, is not a Winnebago but a Sunsport - to the campaign. The vehicle, which the staff has dubbed ``Armadillo One,'' ``Asphalt One'' and ``Rolling Thunder,'' cost Gabbard about $50,000 and is equipped with a television, VCR, computer, printer, fax machine, several cellular phones, a CB radio, a kitchen, bedroom and bath and its own generator. It gets between 5 and 8 miles per gallon.
Gabbard and North first met in 1970 at Quantico and served together on and off for a decade.
The two were reunited last winter.
``We had gone through our third scheduler,'' North recalled, sitting in the passenger seat while Gabbard sped along the roads of rural Chesapeake. ``We were having problems and I said, `What I need is an operations chief.' ''
North was told that his old operations chief was retired and living near Fredericksburg.
``I remember the day I called him. It was in February.''
``February 5th,'' Gabbard interjected, never taking his eyes off the road.
``It was snowing that day. . . ,'' North said, his voice trailing off as he studied his hands. ``When I got him on the phone, he said, `I've waited six years for this call.' ''
``He came to work that afternoon in a snowstorm,'' North added, his voice choked with emotion. ``I'm in awe of that kind of dedication.''
In the Marine Corps, North and Gabbard went on several deployments together. In the field they shared quarters and worked side by side.
``Norman Schwartzkopf, he doesn't know Ollie North,'' Gabbard said angrily over lunch at a restaurant near North's Chantilly office.
``Colin Powell doesn't know Ollie North and John Warner doesn't know Ollie North,'' Gabbard said. ``I know Ollie North. And I know he's a man of the utmost integrity.''
From their earliest days together, Gabbard said, he sensed North was going places.
``I always thought he'd wind up as commandant of the Marine Corps,'' Gabbard said matter-of-factly.
When he received the summons to work on the campaign, Gabbard kissed his wife goodbye, hired help to do the yard work and closed his small construction company. He began working 16 to 18 hours a day for North. He frequently sleeps on the RV while the rest of the staff checks into hotels.
``I wouldn't have missed this for anything,'' he said of the campaign. ``I haven't felt this kind of esprit de corps since I was in the Marines.
``We're making history, you can feel it.'' ILLUSTRATION: ASSOCIATED PRESS photo
Don Gabbard, a retired Marine Corps master gunnery sergeant, sits at
the wheel of the RV that houses North's mobile headquarters. In five
months Gabbard has driven it 18,000 miles.
KEYWORDS: SENATE RACE CANDIDATE CAMPAIGN by CNB