In the Shadow of Greatness

by Joshua Welle

  Mentors at USNA come in all forms. I met Doug Zembiec during my youngster year. Little did I know that four years later, he would be my company commander and one of my most important mentors. He was a Force Recon Marine and all-star wrestler from the Class of 1995. Capt. Richard Gannon was another one of my closest advisors, as we both participated in the extracurricular Semper Fi Society. Both Zembiec and Gannon would be killed in combat in Iraq. They were giants to me, true heroes.

  I quickly transformed from a Marine infantryman with a narrow focus into a quirky history student influenced by some of the most adroit leaders in naval service. Professors Mary Decredico and Ernie Tucker, who taught my military history courses, were mentors in their own way, showing me the gateway into the minds of the American military’s finest leaders. Even Woody in the barbershop made an impact on me; he was one of the most dedicated people I met in my four years at the Academy. A loving father and a humble veteran, he instilled wisdom in us midshipmen and made those twelve-minute haircuts count for something.

  My senior year, I was selected to be Brigade commander, the highest-ranking midshipman, and gained access to some of the military’s finest leaders. General Peter Pace and Colonel John Allen were my early mentors. They taught me about the personal side of leadership in combat and about the importance of leading with honor. As Brigade commander, I was the conduit for the administration and was charged with leading my peers and the Brigade in the aftermath of 9/11. This experience helped me understand the pressures on general officers, something that would help years later on the front lines.

  No amount of schooling could have prepared me for the emotions I experienced when Rob and Brad were killed under my command. During my second combat tour in Iraq, I was again faced with casualties. Although I was just one year removed from the Marines I had lost in Fallujah, this time I felt like a different person. I remember talking on the radio to my company commander while watching my corpsman try to resuscitate a mortally injured Marine. Although I still felt compassion for the tragedy before my eyes, I was callous to the magnitude of it all; this was war after all.

  The pain of losing men in combat weighs heavily on a leader’s heart. It’s more than a lump in the throat or a pang of hurt; it’s like a car parked on one’s chest. I thought back to the lessons I’d learned from my mentors while at the Naval Academy. I remembered General Pace, then chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, speaking to a group of midshipmen about his experiences during the Tet Offensive regarding the moral imperative of the officer. I thought back to the lessons delivered by Colonel Allen, our Commandant of Midshipmen, about the importance of character and the influence of the officer on his or her Marines and sailors. I thought about the way Captain Gannon, 13th Company officer, trained me to influence the lives and character of my Marines. Dealing with death as a military officer is the product of leadership lessons I learned from mentors, books, and personal involvement.

  Much of my experience at the Naval Academy, and in some ways my philosophy of life, had been shaped by Sen. Jim Webb’s A Sense of Honor. As a plebe, I empathized with the Midshipman Dean’s frustration over foolish Bancroft Hall traditions and the brainwashing that plebes received. As a firstie, I understood Midshipman Bill Fogerty’s desire to serve and live out his destiny as a combat leader. As a combat veteran, I empathized with Captain Ted Lenahan’s pain. Captain Lenahan, a company commander in Vietnam, had lost many good men. Each of these men reflected a stage of development that mirrored my own journey.

  In Fallujah, Ubaydi, and Hit, in Iraq, and Helmand, in Afghanistan, I suffered losses under my command. I knew what Captain Lenahan felt when he visited wounded Marines in Bethesda. I understood the depth of his pain and his commitment to “doing it right.” All of this became clear when I cried with Brad Shuders’s parents at their home. It was understandable when I visited my Marines in the hospital and saw their broken bodies, but I didn’t really understand it until I’d cried with widows and parents and hugged Marines who were missing limbs, possibly unable to ever run or walk again. There is no desire on my part to seek pity for myself or those wounded. It’s simply a fact that only those who have devoted their lives to guarding their country in a time of war can truly grasp the depth of these lessons.

  A lot changed after my platoon commander days in Iraq. During my shore billet, between tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, I’d spent three years as an instructor at the Basic School and the Infantry Officer Basic Course in Quantico, Virginia. My experiences at Basic School were profound. Along with twenty other combat veterans, I trained the Marine Corps’ up-and-coming generation of infantry officers. I demanded that the rising infantry officers be ready to lead in combat. In doing so, I refined my own skills and technically sharpened my understanding of wartime doctrine. Would I be ready to lead like Doug Zembiec had?

  The next time I was in harm’s way was as a company commander in Helmand province, Afghanistan, in 2010. The number of men under my charge was triple what it had been during my first fight. My company had been assigned to secure the Now Zad district in Helmand, an area where some of the fiercest Taliban took refuge. Our mission was to prevent the insurgents from moving from the central mountainous areas into the southern districts to sell weapons, opium, and other contraband.

  On October 17, 2010, my company was engaged in a firefight. We moved south by vehicle and helicopter to trap the insurgents in an area the enemy knew. As we searched buildings and talked to local farmers, I got a call that one of my blocking forces was engaged with enemy fire three kilometers away. We loaded up and moved to their position. In transit, I heard a report of a casualty. An unforgiving lump began to develop in my throat, and I expected to hear the worst.

  Former Naval Academy Brigade commander Ben Wagner (far right) stands with his junior officers in Helmand, Afghanistan. (Courtesy Ben Wagner)

  My initial reaction had always been to ask who had been wounded. I had to be especially cautious now because any emotion I showed over the radio would affect the men around me. The report came that one of our corpsmen, Doc Speed, had been shot. As we arrived on the scene, I sent two vehicles to cordon off a nearby farmhouse. I couldn’t think about Doc. I was amped for a fight and eager to kill those who put my men in danger. Despite the fear, heat, and pain felt by me and my men, everything felt right. We were in the crucible of war, but I felt strangely in control, after my days as a corporal in Pendleton, hours of midshipman training, and intense battlefield scares in Iraq. Thankfully, Doc survived, and we pressed on.

  My tour in Afghanistan was one of the true honors and highlights of my many years of service. I can honestly say that the Marines in Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, served with honor, dignity, and grace. They ruthlessly hunted a determined enemy, and when necessary they killed with skill and precision. We guarded and secured the people of Now Zad, and we made the district a safer and more successful community than it had been when we first encountered it. It was an honor to lead this group of Marines as their company commander. My greatest hope as I continue in the Marine Corps is that I am able to pass along the many leadership lessons from my mentors to men who, just like myself, are learning to live the highs and lows of combat leadership.

  PART IV

  BEYOND BATTLEFIELD BULLETS

  Leadership is intangible, and therefore no weapon ever designed can replace it.

  GEN. OMAR BRADLEY, 1967

  Exactly what type of education equips the twenty-first-century Navy or Marine officer to do well in this complex and often uncertain world? Carl von Clausewitz wrote about what he called the “fog of war”—all the things one can’t possibly plan or prepare for in battle. There will always be the X-factor, the “fog” that requires a leader to remain adaptable and flexible, or “Semper Gumby” as we naval officers sometimes call it.

  During the wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and beyond, we had to adapt to constant change. Armor Marines served as house-to-house security forces; blue-water sailors operated along the
coast (in the “littorals”) and often went ashore to defend important outposts. Both the Marine Corps and the Navy sent personnel to sit down with Shia and Pashtu district leaders to develop infrastructure strategies for improving the lives of their communities. We planned and certainly followed through on many of these efforts, but along the way we encountered Clausewitz’s fog of war, which demanded creativity and flexibility.

  In order to do both things—accomplish the mission and remain flexible—we had to keep in mind the “commander’s intent” Joint Publication 3-0, the bible for all military services, defines “commander’s intent” as “The desired end state . . . a concise expression of the purpose of the operation, not a summary of the concept of operations.” Having a clear understanding of the overarching purpose of each mission allows us as leaders to be more flexible and creative in our approaches to getting the job done.

  Great leaders make their intent clear and then rely on the initiatives of those they lead to carry the day. Adm. Arleigh Burke, as commander of Destroyer Squadron 23 during World War II, told his ship captains, “If you encounter the Japanese, you know what to do.” Simple and succinct, Burke provided the guidance and a strategic way forward and then allowed his men the opportunity to use their ingenuity and experience to accomplish the mission.

  This has been the heritage of the Navy. Each ship pulling away from the pier is left to its own devices when confronting danger. Knowing the commander’s intent, a young Navy ensign instinctively steers the ship with enough separation from hostile forces, but keeps a wartime footing with increased lookouts. A Marine second lieutenant knows to position his troops in a staggered formation to avoid threatening local villagers, and also to maintain a strong perimeter. With the commander’s intent in mind, the military officers who operated on the ground in Iraq and Afghanistan wrote the instructions on civilian-military operations and problem solving when no how-to manual was available.

  Trust up and down the chain of command and through rigorous training has fostered a culture of flexibility and adaptability within the ranks of the Navy and Marine Corps. It is a unique characteristic that enables America’s military success at sea and forward from the sea.

  Military Diplomats

  Graham Plaster

  Dispatch: From the Journal of a Navy Foreign Area Officer

  It’s an hour until midnight on September 11, 2010, and I am on board a plane bound for Jordan. The small monitor embedded in the headrest of the seat in front of me displays a GPS map of the East Coast of the United States. Location names are written in yellow Arabic script, making the familiar geography seem like a foreign land. After a few seconds the screen switches over to a graphic of the plane with an arrow pointing toward Mecca, to aid the observant with their prayers. Mothers in hijab are trying to keep restless children happy during the red-eye, but there will be some crying through the night; it can’t be helped. As I recall my multiple Navy-mandated moves, flying and driving across the country with children in tow, my heart goes out to the parents.

  I’m a foreign area officer now, one of fewer than 250 naval officers who specialize in foreign languages, culture, and history. This subspecialty was created in the wake of 9/11 because the admirals and generals who advise political leaders couldn’t find a junior officer who spoke two languages, much less one who possessed the cultural awareness necessary to counsel decision makers. Although my ticket into the community was specialization in Iranian social media, the needs of the Navy summoned me to an Army desk in Rosslyn, Virginia, as an operations officer for United Nations Peacekeeping. There aren’t many U.S. military members involved in UN peacekeeping. In fact, there are only slightly more than thirty. I handle administration and support for the officers sent on one-year IA (individual augmentation) assignments to Israel, Iraq, and Egypt.

  Amman is an intermediate stop en route to Iraq, where I’ll be visiting two of the four U.S. military members serving as UN peacekeepers there. The previous day marked the end of Ramadan, which could have been a more dangerous time to fly. On the other hand, flying to the Middle East on a September 11 feels a bit surreal, especially since the flight had originated in Washington, D.C., and laid over in New York. On the TV in the lounge, President Barack Obama was trying to smooth over the tensions caused by a pastor in Florida threatening to burn a Quran.

  Despite news reports of unrest in New York City and Afghanistan, JFK airport was quiet, and security was relatively pain free. Dinner on the plane was good—some kind of spiced chicken. I couldn’t quite place the flavor, but washed it down with a free Corona. I spoke at length in broken Arabic with the guy in the seat next to me about Jordanian weather, the job market in America, the difficulties for him making money as a mechanic, and the sacrifices we make for our children. I have four; he has five. We both congratulate each other with “Alf mabrook!” (a thousand congratulations). As our conversation wanes and the night deepens, I can’t help but reflect on the September 11 nine years before and marvel at the course my life had since taken.

  I had been on my way to a creative writing class, one of my favorites as an English major at the Naval Academy. I’d finished breakfast early with my squad and was making a beeline down Stribling Walk, headed for Mahan Hall. The weather, as I recall, was typical Annapolis fall fare—beautiful and crisp. A youngster walked past me. I didn’t know him, but he called out to me, “Hey, a plane just flew into the World Trade Center.” I assumed he was referring to a low, slow flyer of some kind, a freak accident, but his alarmed tone also gave me the sense that this might be more than news casually passed along at the breakfast table. He obviously felt compelled to share it with me, a stranger, for a reason.

  A few minutes later, I arrived at the classroom in the basement of Mahan. I was the first one there and the room was still quiet. The new classrooms had pull-down screens with projectors hooked up to cable TV. I extended the screen and cued up the live news feed just as a few other students came in. They asked what was going on, and I explained what little I knew: A plane had flown into one of the Twin Towers. The professor arrived and then the rest of the students a moment later. We all stood and watched in silence as news commentators reported on things they could not see and things that we could see happening live behind them. We watched the impact on the second tower, the fires, the people jumping, and the cascade of smoke and ash as the towers collapsed. We saw confused and grieving news anchors. The hour passed without any discussion, and we wandered to the next class with a vague sense of purpose. A few rooms down the hall, I took my seat in another English class. By then everyone knew. The professor walked in. We opened In Memoriam, Tennyson’s classic poem wrestling with pain and death. She began to read and then stopped as tears came. She left the room. I tore the pages from the book and tucked them away to keep.

  Turning toward our final descent into Jordan, I note the bleached landscape. I would later learn that Jordan has the fourth lowest supply of fresh water among all countries. Without massive reserves of oil or gas, indeed, even without enough water, Jordan manages to get by as a safe place to do business. It is the crossroads between several points of commerce and stands to gain the most by supplying one of the world’s most valuable commodities, security.

  After a thirty-minute shuttle ride, and another “Alf mabrook” from the driver on hearing of my progeny, I arrive at Le Méridien Hotel in Amman. It is beautiful inside, with turbaned men smoking and talking in the lobby, women in expensive-looking hijabs pushing strollers and corralling large families. When I get to my room, I unpack my laptop and set up Skype. The broadband connection is excellent, and I quickly find myself connected to the world I know. An Army friend of mine, another foreign affairs officer, is in Pakistan at the war college there. We bring up the video and chat about our kids, learning foreign languages, and nuances of Middle Eastern culture. Over Skype, I can hear the call to evening prayer beginning to crescendo. We say goodbye so he can have a virtual date with his wife and five kids, who are in Monterey, California
.

  My time in Jordan, while filled with valuable experiences, seemed insignificant next to the import of my meetings in Iraq. I was able to sit in on discussions among key leaders at the United Nations’ headquarters in Iraq and the U.S. embassy and with other operational planners plotting the withdrawal of U.S. troops from the country. Our chief concern during the course of that week was to connect the dots between the United Nations, the U.S. embassy, and the military as responsibility and authority was shifting away from the military and toward the State Department. It became clear that the United Nations would be changing its security posture in ways that would make it increasingly difficult to send U.S. military members along on missions. I returned to the States with a number of items to monitor. The situation reports from the field began to carry much more meaning in the context of my visit.

  Not long after my return from Iraq, tragedy struck, but from an unexpected quarter. A U.S. Army Reservist serving in Liberia as a UN peacekeeper had tripped and fallen to his death from a rooftop deck. He had been only weeks away from coming home to his career, wife, and children. He had survived tours in Iraq and Afghanistan only to fall prey to the asymmetrical warfare of chance. His fellow peacekeepers returned to the States soon after, shaken not only by the tragedy of his death but also by the heart-wrenching conditions in Liberia. In their debriefing, one of them explained to me how much the rule of law had been degraded since the civil war. The infrastructure for education and governance had been destroyed, but even more tragic, the social fabric had begun to unravel in ways that made progress seem Sisyphean. If you could imagine a state of nature, one of them said, it would be like Liberia. “Lord of the Flies?” I asked. “Of course there are two visions of the state of nature—Hobbes and Rousseau—one is nasty and brutish while the other is noble and good,” I said. I was assured that regarding the Liberian situation, Hobbes would be closer to the reality. I couldn’t help but think back to Tennyson’s analysis of the human condition, as had Hobbes, as “red in tooth and claw” (In Memoriam, section LV).