The aborted invasion was a diplomatic success, and the show of force—sixty-one warplanes thundering toward the island, already ringed by American warships—likely added weight to President Carter’s threats that night. It was arguably a textbook use of military power to back up diplomacy. But as we emptied onto the tarmac that night, the force went from being a coiled spring of raw energy to feeling dejected. With time, the aborted invasion was something we laughed about, but often with half-serious teeth gritting.
* * *
I departed Bragg in early November 1994 for Fort Lewis, Washington, and the 2nd Ranger Battalion. Annie, our son Sam, then eleven years old, and I packed into our minivan and headed off across the country. We had only six days to make the crossing, which began with a short detour to Fort Benning, Georgia, to meet with my new regimental commander. But we had a great time. I bored both of them with an obligatory stop at the Little Bighorn battlefield in Montana.
We pulled into Fort Lewis on a typically cloudy afternoon, and I prepared to take command the following day. My grandfather had served at Fort Lewis just prior to World War II, and my father and Dwight Eisenhower’s son, John, had been friends in the neighborhood of our assigned quarters. With Mount Rainier as a backdrop, Lewis was beautiful, and we quickly felt at home.
Like commanding a second rifle company, commanding a second battalion was still hard work, but even more fun. In my first command I had worried whether I would be up to the job. Now I arrived confident and full of ideas. I suspect Ranger NCOs got a bit tired of self-confident commanders arriving with notebooks full of new directions for the unit to take. But if they did, they hid it well.
Famous for its World War II exploits, the 2nd Ranger Battalion was one of the original two battalion-size Ranger units re-formed in 1974. It always had a slight West Coast attitude. Serving in the 3rd Battalion in the 1980s, we viewed “2nd Batt” as more free-spirited and less disciplined than we were, although they performed well in the field. We also envied their great distance from regimental headquarters, which we could see just one hundred meters away.
I took command in a simple ceremony. From the outset, I determined to set a clear direction for the battalion, identifying agreed-upon priorities and forcing ourselves to perform those to a truly impressive level. We would have trouble maintaining the reputation and confidence of a truly elite organization if we didn’t do at least a few tasks better than any other units could.
My senior soldier, Command Sergeant Major Frank Magana, and I identified several areas of emphasis. One was foot marching, walking long distances carrying combat equipment, which typically included rucksacks of fifty pounds or more. We directed weekly marches for every Ranger to build stamina and quarterly marches of thirty miles. Running and marching across Fort Lewis, I’d seen small signs posted by the 9th Infantry Regiment, “The Manchus,” guiding their units along a designated twenty-five-mile foot-march route. I knew that Rangers had to do more, so thirty seemed about right.
We also identified the need to increase the physical confidence of young Rangers in hand-to-hand combat. I didn’t envision planning operations that would depend upon bayonet charges or fisticuffs, but Ranger operations involving raids or room clearing put Rangers in direct physical contact with enemies. I wanted them to possess the confidence that would come from proficiency in the martial arts.
Training Rangers in combatives, or hand-to-hand combat, was not a straightforward task. First using existing army manuals, then moving to hiring outside experts and nationally renowned college wrestling coaches, we struggled. We could send a few Rangers to specialized training, and they would return proficient and enthusiastic, but their skills wouldn’t permeate through the battalion.
Finally, after almost a year of dead ends, we hired two of the Gracie brothers, Royce and Rorion, who were famous competitors and instructors in Brazilian jujitsu, a fighting style their family had pioneered. They would run a two-week course at Fort Lewis. Instead of sending just Rangers who had exhibited interest in or aptitude for it, I sent all of the platoon sergeants.
While we could have chosen any one of several fighting techniques, the breakthrough was sending the right people to training. Platoon sergeants controlled the culture and training schedule of each forty-two-man platoon, which they commanded as senior NCOs. Lieutenants led the platoons, but platoon sergeants shaped the organization and were its heart. As long as the platoon sergeants lacked confidence in their personal mastery of combatives and did not share a strong belief in the importance of the skill, we’d never get real traction. The course proved the point. After finishing the course, the platoon sergeants, now zealots for combatives and eager to demonstrate their skills, demanded their platoons follow their lead. Within months, combatives had infused into the culture of the battalion. In a couple of years, it had spread across the regiment, and soon it infected the Army as a whole. It was a lesson in leadership I never forgot.
I believed that more than anything else, soldiers and units must learn to win, and yet the Army’s Joint Readiness Training Center, or JRTC, unintentionally undermined that. Designed to exercise units under demanding conditions against a highly proficient opposing force (OPFOR) who mastered the Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System (MILES) training device, allowing them to routinely defeat units larger and better armed. Many units blamed their failure on MILES. In my second year in command of the 2nd Rangers, we were programmed for an early spring rotation to the JRTC, and I decided to focus the force on winning.
Winning at JRTC would demand that the 2nd Rangers adjust our tactics away from what would work in actual combat to what would be better suited to the MILES fight. It would require us to spend precious training time mastering MILES, at the expense of more realistic live-fire marksmanship. Many experienced leaders in the battalion felt we were “training to win at training” when we should be training for war. It was a valid point.
But to me, it was training to win. Future combat would be unpredictable in nature, and winning at JRTC, with the odds stacked against us, would build the Rangers’ confidence that they could win at anything. We trained. Week after week in the field consisted of combat lanes run against MILES-equipped OPFOR that we’d designated and trained from within the battalion. I became a fanatic on MILES marksmanship. Before the start of many lanes I’d pull two or three Rangers from the squad or platoon, place several targets a couple hundred meters away, and demand they demonstrate the ability to “kill” the targets with their MILES on the first shot. In the first weeks, few could do it. I could feel some of the NCOs seething, feeling MILES proficiency a gross waste of time.
Finally, at about 2:00 A.M. one night, after a difficult platoon lane, we were conducting a critique of an operation in a tent we’d erected. We were exhausted and frustrated, and I was tired of haranguing leaders, when a squad leader, Ken Wolfe, who was later a command sergeant major in Afghanistan, stood up. Grabbing his M16 rifle with a MILES transmitter mounted, he erupted.
“This is what we have to do,” he said, pointing at the transmitter. “This is the war we’ll be fighting and the war we have to win.”
I watched him intently, hoping he was saying what he appeared to be.
“It’s the MILES fight. We might not like it. But if we’re going to win we have to be better at it than the OPFOR.” His voice rose. “And goddamn it, we’re better than any OPFOR.”
He got grudging but genuine concurrence from the Rangers. I could have hugged him. Because at that moment I knew we’d win. And we did. That commitment—to fighting, and winning, the kind of war we were in, not the one we wanted—showed up again in Iraq and Afghanistan.
* * *
In June 1996 I relinquished command of the 2nd Rangers and we moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts, for a fellowship at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government instead of attending the Army War College.
Harvard was a tremendous opportunity to explore
subjects I’d been too busy to consider while in troop units and to meet a collection of bright faculty and students. I’d expected Harvard to be full of antimilitary sentiment, but instead we received compelling questions and thoughtful looks, as if we were rare animals they’d never seen up close.
And our family life was good. Annie rented an apartment for us close to Harvard Square and got a job at the Kennedy School. There was time to explore Boston, watch the Red Sox, and take occasional trips to elsewhere in New England. Sam’s hockey season was in full swing, and we spent evenings and Saturdays watching him play.
* * *
On June 23, 1997, I returned to the Rangers. I assumed command of the Ranger regiment in a ceremony on the main parade field at Fort Benning. As it did every two years, the entire regiment had come to Benning for the occasion, with the change of command preceded by several days of athletic and team-building events. Rangers from earlier eras, from those who had landed at Anzio or climbed Pointe du Hoc to those who had fought in Mogadishu, gathered for a reunion. They were bound together by a shared history and values, best reflected in the Ranger Creed.
The Ranger Creed is a six-stanza summary of Ranger values that was adopted in 1974 with the formation of the 1st Ranger Battalion at Fort Stewart. One of the first requirements I was given when I joined the regiment in 1985 was to memorize the creed and to recite it each day at physical training. Memorably, parachute-laden Rangers also shouted it out inside aircraft in the final minutes before the regiment’s combat jump into Panama in 1989.
But it was most poignant at ceremonies where it began with a predesignated Ranger somewhere in the formation loudly stating, “The Ranger Creed, repeat after me.” The Ranger then recited the first stanza of the creed, breaking it into short phrases that were repeated by every Ranger present.
“Recognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of my Ranger regiment.”
To be heard, the Ranger yelled out each phrase, and Rangers on the field and in the audience repeated them either loudly or quietly to themselves. Some were lost in thought—they all knew the words by heart. The Ranger only kept them in cadence.
For the second stanza another Ranger, normally in another part of the formation, took over, giving a sense of spontaneity.
“Acknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea, or air, I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move further, faster and fight harder than any other soldier.”
The third stanza evoked strong emotions.
“Never shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong, and morally straight, and I will shoulder more than my share of the task, whatever it may be, one hundred percent and then some.”
Often very young Rangers were selected to lead stanzas, a daunting experience in front of two thousand fellow Rangers and a large audience. On one occasion a young Ranger began the fourth stanza: “Gallantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained soldier.”
The formation’s response was followed by an uncomfortable silence: Naturally nervous, the Ranger couldn’t remember the next phrase. Seconds passed, then a nearby sergeant seamlessly stepped in.
“My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow.”
Most of the audience never noticed, but to me the sergeant’s quick help for a fellow Ranger embodied the very creed he was leading.
By the fifth stanza the crowd’s responses were typically stronger. In seemingly practiced harmony, they stated the most important part of the creed.
“Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle, for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. ‘Surrender’ is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy, and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.”
Then the final stanza.
“Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission, though I be the lone survivor.”
The creed ended in crescendo: “Rangers lead the way.” Although it had a rhythmic quality, the Ranger Creed was neither a poem nor a mindless mantra chanted by masses. It was a promise, a solemn vow made by each Ranger to every other Ranger.
My relationships with senior NCOs had always been important to me, so I saved the final couple of hours that first day for a session with Mike Hall, the regimental command sergeant major. With almost twenty years in the regiment, Mike was an icon to Rangers, and although I knew and respected him, we still had to bond as a team. We talked that afternoon and into the evening, building a relationship that grew first into a partnership, then into a deep friendship. Annie quickly became close to Mike’s wife, Brenda, and when Brenda and Mike decided to renew their wedding vows under the Catholic faith, Annie and I attended, along with their son Jeff, as the only witnesses.
Early in our partnership, Mike and I decided to focus the regiment on just four priorities: marksmanship, physical conditioning, first aid, and small-unit battle drills. We’d obviously perform other tasks, but we prioritized and constantly reinforced high standards of mastery on what we called “the Big Four.” We’d never have the time to do everything we’d like, but we decided to do what we could do very well.
Marksmanship was an obvious priority. Lightly armed, often outnumbered, Rangers must be able to hit what they shoot at before the enemy can shoot them. Because we operated aggressively at night and new night-vision equipment enabled it, marksmanship was critical in the dark.
In war, especially of the modern era, the vast majority of deaths occur on the field, not in field hospitals, where skilled doctors and technology can offer high survival rates. While we had a dedicated cadre of combat medics, they accounted for a small percentage of the force. To ensure that everyone on the battlefield could provide immediate care, we trained each Ranger in the regiment as a first responder. A tenth of them received advanced training to be emergency medical technicians (EMTs). After the experience of Rangers in Mogadishu in 1993, it wasn’t difficult to convince the force that every Ranger must be able to save his buddy.
Mike Hall and I led the Rangers from 1997 to 1999 and never deviated from the Big Four. I’m glad we didn’t. Although at the time our nation was at peace, the Big Four would later save lives. During the first eight and a half years of the war on terror, the Rangers conducted more than eight thousand operations. Most were targeted raids, and many of them were under my command. In the course of these missions, thirty-two Rangers were killed, but none of them died in the field from wounds considered survivable; one Ranger with potentially survivable wounds died after being evacuated, because of complications from surgery. This 3 percent rate proved to be lower than some estimates for all American fatalities, wherein 24 percent of those with survivable injuries died.
Commanding the regiment was far different from commanding a battalion. Leading three geographically dispersed units, each led by very experienced second-time commanders, drove a different type of leadership from the more autocratic styles I’d seen, and sometimes practiced, earlier in my career. I learned to demand high standards of performance but to be far more flexible in the approach used to attain them. Increasingly, I also sought for objectives to be jointly developed as people worked harder to meet goals they themselves had a hand in setting.
In my last month of command I was notified I’d been selected for promotion to brigadier general. Mike Hall passed me a note written on a page from one of the small notebooks he carried: “To my friend the new Brigadier General—congratulations.” It meant more than all the others.
* * *
In the summer of 1999 I found myself in another fellowship, this time at the Council on Foreign Relations in New York City. The year was another opportunity for some unfettered thought. I attended meetings, many with fascinating news makers, and had the opportunity to work on a couple of interesting projects. But perhaps the greatest benefit was another period of time to read, think, and discuss issues that were difficult to spend time on in most army jobs.
As at Harvard, Annie interviewed for and got a job at the Council that allowed us to share experiences and friendships. Sam, exhibiting his too-often-exercised adaptability, attended the local public high school in Bay Ridge, along with more than five thousand other students, and we spent many evenings on then-seedy Coney Island, where his team practiced hockey. To give Sam a glimpse of the memorable experience I was having at the Council, I brought him to the Council’s father-son evening. United Nations secretary-general Kofi Annan’s face broke into an appreciative grin when I introduced Sam—sporting his most recent look, bright blue hair—as displaying “U.N. blue” in the secretary’s honor.
* * *
For much of the 1990s, America was the world’s sole superpower, buttressed by an ever-expanding economy. Vigorous debates on our foreign policy centered not on what America’s role could be but on what America should choose it to be. When should America intervene—as it did in Somalia and the Balkans but declined to do in Rwanda? What was our role in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict? It felt as though America’s future was America’s to decide.
My Share of the Task Page 11
