I’ll admit I felt a strong urge to boast, but I chose a more humble route. Crosby offered a gracious “Good match, sir, well done,” and I replied in kind. It was like fighting Billy Bean all over again. And all over again, it felt good enough just to hope Crosby would leave me alone.
* * *
Most of the time, good and bad fortunes have a lot to do with hard work, but sometimes dumb luck gets involved. How does a healthy thirty-eight-year-old man who exercises, eats right, doesn’t smoke, and hardly ever drinks end up with cancer? It’s not fair.
Then again, I should have died at eighteen.
It was the summer after graduation from high school. My dad pulled into the driveway in a pickup truck loaded to the brim with discarded two-by-fours from his construction site. His bringing home that truckload of wood was a summer ritual that resulted in a basement full of cut, split, and stacked firewood for the winter. He left the cutting to me as he departed to finish a roof repair at my grandpa’s house.
I laid out the extension cord and went to work with our circular Skilsaw, a heavy-duty, two-handed model with wide carbide tips for a sharper cut.
My dad didn’t use a sawhorse, because he said it slowed him down. Instead, he had a technique that allowed him to cut in midair. He would hold a piece of wood in his left hand off to his right side and then just lower his saw onto the wood as if he were cutting into a wall. As difficult as this may sound, it was actually much easier, faster, and more efficient than using a sawhorse, so I adopted the practice.
Reach, grab, cut, throw—reach, grab, cut, throw—reach, grab, cut, throw—reach, WHOMP! My momentum was suddenly halted by what felt like a full-throttled punch against the front of my right thigh. At that very instant, I was simultaneously aware of two other senses. First, the sound of the Skilsaw was instantly muted. Second, when I turned to see who had punched me, the Skilsaw and my right leg moved as one—as if they were connected.
It took a few seconds to register what had just happened as I looked down at my leg and saw the Skilsaw completely submerged into the flesh. There was no pain, but the blade had cut through my thigh as if it were hot butter and buried itself right down to the femur bone. The muscle tension widened the slit into a red canyon.
I grabbed my leg and pulled the pieces together with my dirty work gloves, hobbled toward the deck to our home’s back door, and yelled for my mom. I pulled one glove back and revealed all of that mangled flesh. She didn’t even bother with 911. She yelled for my brother Chris and grabbed the car keys. Within seconds, we were on the road, Starsky and Hutch–style: passing cars, jumping curbs, running red lights, my heroically calm mom making her own siren with the horn.
By now the pain was about what you’d imagine after cutting your leg open with a Skilsaw. I bit down on a comb so I wouldn’t bite off my tongue.
The only other time in my life I’ve seen an ER staff move like that was in the movies. The doctor quickly assured us that, despite all appearances, I would not lose my leg. He also said I was one of the luckiest guys he had ever seen. “Another inch to the right or left of that line, and you probably never would have made it here, son.” When my dad showed up, he nearly fainted when he saw the damage. That was quite a moment for me—the first time I’d ever seen him demonstrate weakness and fear.
The cut was so deep that it required two layers of stitches, seventy-six in all. And since I had eaten just an hour before, they couldn’t knock me out while they cut away on my leg. The plastic surgeon seemed struck silly by how I had managed to avoid cutting any major arteries or veins.
I was later told a wood splinter had prevented the blade guard from doing its job. When I had leaned over to pick up a new piece of wood, the free-spinning blade just touched my jeans and pulled itself into my leg in an instant and with little more than one rotation. Had my finger been on the trigger, that blade would have pulled itself into the bone and down through my knee.
So the same dumb luck that gave me cancer had already given me twenty more years and a beautiful family.
* * *
Victories and losses in life are often a muddled mass of earned and unearned ups and deserved and undeserved downs, with both obvious and mysterious causes.
In the final weeks leading up to my graduation, all talk turned to something called “honor graduates.” The best soldiers would compete to earn the title of platoon honor graduates, and the best soldier from all of those would be the distinguished honor graduate for the entire company. Based on my performance, I thought I would at least be a competitor, but my academic work had come up short.
A few days after my non-selection, I was called down to the company orderly room. Drill Sergeant Paradeis sat on a small table outside and stopped me short of the door. “Weber,” he said, “you’re gonna represent our platoon in the honor grad competition. You up to it?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant!”
When I returned to our troop bay, I found out the reason for the unexpected honor. Specialist Miller, one of our platoon’s competitors, had been on cleaning detail the night before and got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, literally: eating cookies out of the commander’s desk.
My late selection put me at a significant disadvantage. The other competitors had had days to prepare. I had one night. When I appeared in front of that selection board, I tried to focus on the little things, like the nitpicky formalities required for answering questions. I figured we would all likely know the answers to their questions, but we’d foul up something small and otherwise insignificant.
Unlike the nail-biters we’re used to seeing on TV, military announcements don’t come with much drama. The first sergeant read through the list in short order, from the top, “The distinguished honor graduate for Charlie Company, Fortieth MP Battalion, is Private First Class Mark Weber.”
For the first time in my life, I had not only accomplished something beyond what I’d thought was possible, but I had come from behind and done it with an exclamation point. I learned later that my victory was the result of a single point on the score sheet from one of those little things: I was the only soldier to hold my hand salute until my superior lowered his.
* * *
Four years after basic training, I was a successful airborne paratrooper, a decorated enlisted soldier, and an honor graduate from the army’s basic course for NCOs. I went on to complete army officer training amidst a dizzying array of accolades and honors. I graduated at the top of my ROTC class and was one of 250 cadets out of 6,000 to receive the army’s General George C. Marshall Leadership Award.
But nestled right in there with these mind-boggling victories was an equally numbing defeat as a student teacher that offset the glowing affirmation and vote of confidence from the training classroom. More about that later.
* * *
Despite my lackluster performance at Cretin-Derham Hall, Minnesota State University admitted me on a probationary status. With focus and hard work, I graduated four years later with honors. Nine months after that, I graduated as an honor graduate and second in my class of forty at the MP officer basic course. I also won a scarce and highly coveted training seat to the U.S. Army Ranger School. But within a week at Ranger School, I departed with my head hanging in shame after washing out. The torn meniscus in my left knee was little comfort, because I knew a truth no one else knew: I had sustained the injury prior to the start of the course. I was disappointed about failing, but devastated by the reason: I had been dishonest with myself. This was a personal and professional embarrassment I could have prevented, but I had allowed pride to blind me.
* * *
My personal failings at Ranger School were nothing compared to what I would face just a few weeks later. Assuming command of the thirty-two soldiers of Fourth Platoon, 555th MP Company, in November 1994 was like waking up on Christmas morning. Eight years of training as a soldier and officer had culminated in this day, and what I received was the equivalent of a bag of coal in my stocking.
If you�
�re looking for a story about a new platoon leader who inherits a mess and turns it all around, you should skip this section, because it isn’t here.
The 555th, also known as the “Triple Nickel,” had just returned from a grueling thirty-five-day mission in Haiti following a military coup that was falling apart. During their mission, logistical support had been virtually nonexistent, because U.S. forces required more time to get established. Showers came largely from the sky or from rain gutters, food consisted solely of prepackaged meals (MREs), and soldiers had to burn their human waste every day. None of this was backbreaking, however; soldiers train for conditions like this.
What made things uniquely difficult for the Nickel was that they had been sent home early from Haiti. Their mission seemed incomplete, and the reasons for the early departure were unclear. Questions about poor leadership only added to the rumors that inevitably followed.
So the soldiers of the Nickel experienced the most emotionally challenging parts of a deployment but none of the gratification that comes from successfully completing the assigned mission. They had a lot to be cranky about, and they wore their bad attitudes like body armor.
Two weeks after the Nickel’s return, the Fourth Platoon was met by a wide-eyed and eager second lieutenant named Mark Weber whose reputation preceded him: “a former National Guard enlisted soldier who failed out of Ranger School.”
If I was overeager—and let there be no doubt that I was—my newly acquired platoon was nearly unconscious. The platoon sergeant, the backbone of the platoon and the right arm of any platoon leader, didn’t even show during my first week on the job. Not even a phone call. The treatment was discouraging, but I was reassured by my predecessor. “He’s the best of the best,” he told me, “and he knows how to run this platoon blindfolded.”
Sergeant First Class Dennis Bryer was a lean, fit, twenty-year veteran, but his gray hair and weathered face suggested a far older man. He had the swagger of someone who knew what he was doing. So instead of dwelling on his absence, I jumped in and got to know the soldiers of the platoon.
With pen and paper in hand, I sat down with each soldier, listened intently, and found myself recoiling in ever-increasing shock. They were unmotivated, depressed, and angry—at everything.
Their behavior reflected universal signs of indiscipline. Soldiers showed up late to formation. Physical fitness sessions were poorly attended. Soldiers and leaders came and went as they pleased during the duty day. Because of Haiti, senior leaders seemed either indifferent or entitled. I understood the importance of providing liberal “soldier time” following deployments, but theirs was a free-for-all. Still, I wasn’t going to be the self-righteous new guy.
In mid-December, after about thirty days on the job, I informally addressed the entire platoon with all the enthusiasm and passion I could muster, telling them to enjoy a well-earned break with their families and to come back in January refreshed and ready to train hard. That enthusiasm was met with blank stares and silence.
Months later, I learned my remarks were received with abject scorn. These soldiers were universally miserable, and my doe-eyed enthusiasm only reinforced that feeling.
January came fast, and the energy of the platoon dwindled even more, with Bryer setting the dismal tone through his indifference and inaction. We spoke about it, but I always tiptoed, desperately afraid I would commit the cardinal sin of being the new lieutenant who pissed off his more experienced platoon sergeant.
I was failing. There were good reasons for all of it, but no excuses.
I knew we needed a good team-training exercise where we could all experience and overcome some common hardships together. The earliest opportunity would be mid-March—too far away, in my mind. But it was all I had, so that’s where I focused my efforts and motivation.
When March finally came, my anticipation was as strong as it had been back in November when I first arrived. A few days before execution, however, our company commander casually announced plans to use my platoon for company-level training instead.
I pleaded with the commander, telling her I had not experienced a single day of training with my platoon since arriving five months prior. How about some time to work with them, to ascertain the strengths and weaknesses of my subordinate leaders? She would not budge, and I hated her for it.
That same day, Bryer told me he wouldn’t be able to attend our now-shredded training cycle. He said he needed to attend a training conference in California as a volunteer for the Red Cross, and his delivery was just as casual as the commander’s notification. Worse, he hadn’t come to me, his boss, for the permission he required; he’d gone to the commander instead.
Every person has his limits. I had reached mine. I had already tried positive thinking and motivational speeches. Now it was time for fire and brimstone. I intended to make sure some china got kicked off the walls.
“We need to talk,” I told Bryer as I closed the doors to our office. I sat down across from him and leaned forward on my knees, and started peppering him with questions interspersed with a few curse words to bluntly convey I’d had enough. “You gotta tell me what is going on here, man. You gotta come clean. I don’t think I’ve got all the answers here, but I know I’m not a failure, and this feels like failure.”
His face turned red, and he squirmed in his chair as I bluntly laid out my observations—his constant absences; his college classes and volunteer efforts without my knowledge or approval; and worst of all, his refusal to maintain good order and discipline with the soldiers of our platoon.
Bryer opened with a defense, but it was halfhearted. Suddenly his tone changed, and he offered a candid admission: “Look, sir, here’s the deal. You’re a good lieutenant. Your skills and your enthusiasm … I’m supposed to be that guy. I know I’m supposed to be doing it, but since you’ve been so eager to do it, I figured I would take care of myself for a change.” I sat silent and stunned as he explained that after more than two years on the job, he was just plain burned out.
Bryer’s dreadful admission came as a welcome view of truth in contrast to the weekly sense of foggy failure I’d felt for five months. There’s no magical ending to my first six months as a platoon leader. Bryer didn’t get any better, but his candor about the situation fueled the confidence I needed to remain proud and unbending with my passion and leadership, despite the failures that continued to follow.
* * *
The failures I endured with Bryer and the Fourth Platoon came with no personal risks and little professional harm, and they included only soldiers. A few years later when I was a detachment commander for the 795th MP Battalion, I found myself in a mess that included a soldier’s family member. This added a whole new level of complexity, and it posed significant personal and professional risk and harm.
Staff Sergeant Ben Kramer was an excellent administrative NCO—quiet, unassuming, and competent. Unfortunately, his wife was as wild as a foul ball in high weeds.
There’s no law against being absent-minded, but the marital strife was affecting Kramer’s work. Household bills were not being paid, and when Mrs. Kramer decided to spray-paint the walls of their rented home, their landlord wanted to take legal action.
In the army, such circumstances require the attention of the commander, and that meant far more involvement in the Kramers’ lives than any of us wanted. The Kramers were eventually evicted, which required them to move into army housing and brought even more stress and need for supervision. This drama went on for ten solid months, and there was one incident or another at least every other week.
One afternoon, I received a phone call from Mrs. Kramer—a first for her. Frantic and nearly incoherent, she sounded as if she was completely out of her mind about her husband, the house, and their three-year-old son. Before I said a word, the phone went dead. I called back, and their three-year-old son answered. He played with the phone for a minute or two, then hung up. I called again, but there was no answer. I couldn’t find Staff Sergeant Kramer, and I didn�
��t want to overreact by calling the MPs, so I immediately jumped in my car and drove to their house.
No one answered when I knocked and rang the doorbell. I scurried from window to window, which offered a clear view of nearly all of the small, single-story home. I saw a lit candle in the living room and the toddler in a back room, but I did not see Mrs. Kramer. For fifteen minutes, I knocked at the door and rang the doorbell, and I began to conclude she had abandoned the house—or worse.
I found an open window and called out for Mrs. Kramer several times, but there was no answer. When a neighbor came over and confirmed the family trouble, I decided to crawl in through the waist-high window to investigate. I walked over and picked up the toddler, and suddenly there she was standing in front of me—wide eyed, enraged, and almost incoherent.
“What are you doing in my house?” she mumbled. “How … how did you get in here?”
I explained myself, told her I was concerned for the child, and then left in a flash.
In hindsight, I’m not sure I would have done anything different, given the conditions I perceived and the instincts I felt in that moment. What I knew then was that I was concerned about that kid, period. I did not think about my career. I did not think about my safety. I did what I thought was right with the information I had, and I felt confident my reasonable suspicion of a serious problem would legally cover my rear end.
My boss saw it differently and issued a written memorandum of counseling that informed me that my judgment was deeply flawed. As it turned out, I never was in danger of suffering any permanent damage to my career, but I had no such assurance at the time.
* * *
Just as failure is sometimes out of your control, sometimes success stems from the most unlikely causes.
In 1998, when I was a senior first lieutenant, I gained the attention of senior colonels and generals across Fort McClellan, Alabama. Did I overcome some incredible obstacle? No. Did I lead a team to improbable victory? No. Had I achieved some amazing standard of hard work and competence? Well, kind of, but not the sort I ever thought would garner accolades. What was the act that earned an inordinate amount of praise? Marching.
Tell My Sons: A Father's Last Letters Page 8