My American Journey

by Colin L. Powell

  The whole thing had been another exercise in breaking starch, the kind of hollow effort I abhorred. I felt like a fraud. Outside the theater, as I saw the men shaking their heads, I put my head down and started walking away. The first sergeant of the combat support company fell into step alongside me. “That was a hoot, sir, wasn’t it?” he said.

  “It was stupid,” I blurted out. “I hate to see the troops do stupid things. I hate to be the one responsible for it.”

  He was quiet for a time. “Colonel Powell,” he said, “don’t worry. We don’t know what that was all about. But the men know you wouldn’t have cooked up anything that dumb on your own. They trust you. They won’t hold it against you. We went along because you needed it. Relax, sir.”

  In all my years in the Army, among all the citations, medals, and promotions, I never appreciated any tribute more than I did the sergeant’s words at that low point.

  It was a cold April night, about 1:00 A.M. My battalion had been marching for four hours. The only sounds in the stillness were rifle butts slapping rhythmically against hips, leather boots thumping against the dirt road, and feet splashing through puddles. We had been on reverse cycle for a week, sleeping by day, training by night. Finally we had reached our destination. The exercise was over, and the exhausted, out-of-sync soldiers slumped to the ground, waiting to be trucked back to Camp Casey. I was particularly eager to return because the next day I was going home on leave. As I was sitting there, one of my officers approached with a message that the division lacked enough gas to transport the battalion back to camp. We would have to march the remaining thirty or so kilometers. The men wearily dragged themselves to their feet and started, too exhausted even to complain.

  We were passing through a Korean village where the only sound was a dog howling in the night. My operations officer, Captain Harry W. “Skip” Mohr, dropped back from the head of the column to talk to me. “Sir,” Mohr said with an excitement out of keeping with the weary mood, “we’ve got just a little more than twelve miles to go. If we kick the battalion into high speed, we can finish it in three hours and use this hike to qualify for the EIB.” I had put the battalion through a punishing series of tests over the past three weeks. I was trying to qualify as many men as possible for the EIB, the Expert Infantryman’s Badge, which is ordinarily earned by fewer than one infantryman out of five. We had already met the physical training requirement and the map reading, navigation, and other tests. The only remaining hurdle was completion of the twelve-mile hike in three hours. I looked back over the ragged column and said, “Skip, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  Mohr kept at it. “Sir, it’s flat terrain until the last couple of miles. I know these men. They can do it.”

  One thing I had learned in the Army: you don’t step on enthusiasm. The word went up and down the column to pick up the pace. The men fell into the rhythm like a train slowly picking up speed. Over the next couple of hours, parkas flew open, sweat trickled down faces in the frigid night, and the huffing and puffing of hundreds of men sounded like a peculiar wind. We faced one final, steep mountain leading into Camp Casey. I did not see how the men could make it. I myself had to stop every couple of hundred yards to take in gulps of air.

  And then, up ahead, I heard a few isolated voices counting cadence in a Jody chant, then a few more, until the mountains rang with the battalion’s singing. As we crossed the gate into the camp, the sergeants started whipping this herd into precision ranks. As we hit the paved road and passed division headquarters in parade-ground order, our raised voices woke up General Emerson. Gunfighter came out of his quarters in his bathrobe, beaming as the men passed in review. For me, this moment, in the middle of the Korean night, with seven hundred once bedraggled soldiers now welded into a spirited whole, was magical, one of the treasured memories of my life.

  We qualified more men for the Expert Infantryman’s Badge in our single battalion than were qualified in all three battalions of our neighboring infantry brigade. And the next day, I went home on leave, feeling as if I were leaving one family for another.

  If it had been tough to leave the family for Korea the previous September, the separation after my ten-day leave was even harder. When I had left Alma to go to Vietnam in 1962, it was with the mind of a twenty-five-year-old off on an adventure. I was now thirty-seven. Professionally, the tour in Korea was the most satisfying so far. But the trip home showed at what price. I felt a confusion of emotions on leaving the house at Dale City, loss at missing out on beautiful moments in my children’s growing-up, a touch of guilt at not bearing my share of the responsibility, and even a twinge of regret that they all seemed to be doing fine without me. If it had not been for people like Gunfighter, if it had not been for that other family waiting for me, going back to Korea would have been mere duty, unredeemed by any joy.

  I returned in time for Gunfighter’s latest enthusiasm, the Korean form of karate, tae kwon do. He brought in Korean army instructors to teach us the fine points. Everybody in the division was to perform tae kwon do every morning. Everyone was to join a team. Everyone was to earn a belt. And everyone was to wear the traditional tae kwon do white uniform. If you were going to do it right, Gunfighter said, you had to look right. Our G-4 (logistics) officer tried to explain that the U.S. government did not provide taxpayer funds for Korean martial arts attire. Gunfighter did not want to hear any nitpicking excuses. Soon every Korean tailor in sight was working day and night producing thousands of tae kwon do uniforms. I had progressed to a green belt when one day my driver landed a backward heel kick on my temple. My head exploded and I went down like a felled tree. I woke up to hear the driver moaning, “Oh my God! I killed the CO. I’m going to the stockade for sure!” I never made the next belt.

  … … …

  One morning at a commanders call, General Emerson announced, “Everybody in this division is going to be a high school graduate.” Probably half of our troops were dropouts. Many had never succeeded at anything, never stuck to or completed a task, beyond enlisting in the Army or getting drafted. We were to find teachers, start classes, and prepare these men to take the GED, the General Educational Development program. And they’d damn well better pass.

  We scoured the countryside, hired American wives whom some soldiers had brought to Korea at their own expense. We hired American civilians and assigned qualified officers and noncoms to teach. We set up classes in barracks, rec rooms, dayrooms, and supply rooms. From 3:00 P.M., when the men came in from field training, until supper, they were in class, studying English, math, science, and history. When the general asked what percent of our eligible soldiers were enrolled in the program and we reported 85 percent, he said, “Dammit, where’s the other fifteen?” As Gunfighter saw it, the U.S. Army had entered into a contract with these young people. We had told them that the Army would make something of them, give them something useful to take back to civilian life. If they left without an education, they were headed back to the bottom of the heap.

  While Gunfighter was promoting sound minds in healthy bodies, his division almost flunked the Annual General Inspection and did, in fact, fail the equipment maintenance phase. After reviewing the 2d Division’s maintenance program, the inspector general concluded that it did not really have one. Emerson did not care. He was more interested in building men than in maintaining machinery.

  His morale building could occasionally put a hole in a good night’s sleep. I don’t think Gunfighter knew rock and roll from a Gregorian chant, but he knew that the men missed rock concerts at home. So we had them, all night long, every couple of months, during which my quarters reverberated like a drum. One of the young lieutenants had an idea that tickled Gunfighter. In the States they had held Woodstock. Our all-night musical bashes were called Gunstock.

  It was a day in spring. As I approached the brigade headquarters, I spotted a soldier wearing the Bucs crest coming out of the building. He was in dress greens on a post where just about the only time anybody wore anything but fat
igues was to be court-martialed. He saluted, and, out of curiosity, I said, “What’s up, son?” He had just been interviewed, he said, for Soldier of the Month. How had he made out? I asked. He had not made it, he said, looking disappointed. “I understand,” I said. “The competition is stiff. Maybe next time.”

  “I’d have done better, sir, if I had more time to prepare,” he said. That caught my attention. When had he gotten the word? I asked. This morning, he answered. I was furious, not so much because my battalion had missed out on an honor, but because sloppy staff work had turned this young man from a potential winner into a loser. Instead of recognition, he had experienced rejection. I patted him on the back and said I was proud of him anyway.

  When I finished my business at brigade, I went back to my office and summoned Sergeant Major Pettigrew. I wanted to know how we went about picking candidates for Soldier of the Month in the Bucs. It turned out to be hit-or-miss. “If we go into battle,” I said, “we go in prepared. We don’t send American soldiers into combat unprepared. I don’t look at this situation any differently. This is the last time we’re just throwing a kid into competition.” I ordered Pettigrew to gather all his first sergeants and produce a system for finding the best soldier in the battalion every month—with plenty of time to groom him to meet the competition. We won Soldier of the Month the next five times in a row.

  If you are going to achieve excellence in big things, you develop the habit in little matters. Excellence is not an exception, it is a prevailing attitude. My conviction—that you go in to win—was shaped in small encounters, such as going after Soldier of the Month. I was to carry that conviction throughout my career. If you are considering getting into Vietnam, Kuwait, Somalia, Bosnia, Panama, Haiti, or wherever, go in with a clear purpose, prepared to win—or don’t go.

  Officers of the rank of major and above got no medals under General Emerson. His explanation was characteristically blunt: “I don’t believe in medals for senior officers. A field grade officer’s job is to perform, and if you perform well, you’ll get an outstanding efficiency report. And that’s all you need. So don’t waste your time writing up silly citations for each other. Don’t waste the clerks’ time.”

  Junior officers still got medals. NCOs too. And medals were showered on the other enlisted men. In Emerson’s view, these were kids who didn’t quarterback the high school football team, didn’t date the cheerleaders, didn’t get elected to the student council, had never received enough recognition in their lives. He was finally going to make them winners at something. Newly arrived officers, on learning Gunfighter’s attitude, were thrown off stride, particularly since his no-medal policy was so at odds with what they had known, especially in Vietnam. The result, however, was extraordinary. Soon medals did not matter. The bloated citations, the artificial pressures, disappeared. We just got on with our jobs. Some grumbling continued. Promotion boards were still going to take decorations into account for people who had served elsewhere, under commanders other than Gunfighter Emerson. But having observed the abuses in Vietnam, and believing that reform has to start somewhere, I supported Gunfighter’s guts and wisdom.

  In the fall of 1974 my tour was winding down, and my career might have fallen into jeopardy had General Emerson been a lesser man. The September evening started out civilly enough, with a farewell party for me at our cubicle-size Bucs battalion officers’ club. As it turned out, Lieutenant Colonel Robert Newton, commanding a sister unit, the 2d Aviation Battalion, was also celebrating his departure. And so we joined forces and headed for the airmen’s Mile-High Club. Membership was acquired by consummating the act of love in an airplane aloft, or by making a credible claim to the achievement, since witnesses were hard to produce.

  After a few rounds, our combined group now headed for the more staid division officers’ club. Our arrival coincided with a new social initiative. Single American women lived in Seoul, mostly teachers and civilian employees of the military, and the division staff had invited some of them up to Camp Casey. The intent was to demonstrate that civilized officers were not necessarily limited to Eighth Army headquarters. The women might find equally desirable dates, even prospective husbands, at Camp Casey.

  And then our party barged into the O-club. What happened next is perhaps best conveyed in the after action report prepared by the club manager, Major Raymond H. Wagner: “Upon entry into the main bar, there were two officers sitting on top of the jukebox. I told them to get off… they refused…. The division G-1 indicated there might be trouble between the 2d Aviation Battalion and the 32d Infantry…. It was at this time that four or five officers grabbed LTC Powell and attempted to throw him over the bar. This resulted in a general free-for-all…. Fifteen to twenty officers were involved…. One unidentified officer was thrown over the bar, causing breakage to bottles…. It became a verbal match as to infantry versus aviation capabilities. The language used was hardly what could be considered in good taste as there were women at the far end of the bar…. One officer picked up the patio tables and threw them over the ledge, followed by the willful destruction of all the glasses they could find…. The swinging doors at the bar entrance had been destroyed. The Foosball game had been turned upside down. LTC Newton offered very little if any assistance in maintaining order. LTC Powell seemed to have control of his officers…. It is my judgment that the incident was provoked by members of the 2d Aviation Battalion…. My recommendation would be to change the name of the Mile-High Club to the Adolescent Club….”

  The next morning, while my head was still throbbing, my exec brought me a freshly typed letter from the deputy post commander, Lieutenant Colonel Chumley W. Waldrop, detailing damages to the club of $411.40 to be paid by my unit and the 2d Aviation Battalion, payment due by 1600 hours. I called Bob Newton—he answered sounding as if he were speaking through wool—and I reported the situation. “A fair apportionment of the damages,” I added, “would be a hundred dollars from my guys and the rest from yours.” In his fogged state, Newton did not argue.

  Ordinarily, I had breakfast with the troops in the battalion mess hall. This morning I thought it prudent to breakfast at the division mess to gauge General Emerson’s mood. Gunfighter must have noticed that several of his officers sported shiners, bruises, and puffed lips. He said nothing. But I detected on his seamed face a bemused smile. We paid our end of the damages, and that was the end of this puerile caper.

  It is a different Army today. Such improper behavior, while not in the same league as the Tailhook affair and involving no women directly, would likely have resulted in disciplinary action and ruined careers, including my own. Once word leaked out to some crusading journalist, the brawl would probably pop up in a major newspaper or on TV news and might cost Emerson his neck too. But Korea was then an almost forgotten front. Nobody paid us much attention. We had few women in the Army, and very few stationed at an outpost like Camp Casey. Our behavior, admittedly, was occasionally animal house. But a certain stretch of the rules and common sense provided a practical solution to the misbehavior of lonely, bored men. Years of dedicated service were not destroyed for moments of foolishness.

  Right to the end, Gunfighter had surprises in store. In my last days, he called me in and said he wanted my battalion to try out a new sport, combat basketball. It did not sound quite as lethal as combat football, until he started describing the game. We would put twenty men on each side. The objective, as in the conventional game, would be to get the ball through the hoop. But instead of just passing and dribbling the ball, you could advance it by kicking it, rolling it, or tucking it into your gut and plunging ahead like a fullback. Blocking and tackling were also permitted. And to give more fellows a chance to shine, we would again use two balls.

  It sounded crazy to me, but it fit General Emerson’s athletic philosophy. Conventional team sports, with their rigid regulation, favor stars. But in anything-goes, no-holds-barred sports, finely developed skills become marginal. The ninety-six-pound weakling can trip the all-county s
ix-footer as easily as anyone else. In combat football, everyone’s a quarterback. In combat basketball, everyone’s a forward, a guard, a center. Gunfighter’s goal was maximum participation. We inaugurated combat basketball in a big Quonset hut with steel beams arching down to the hardwood floor. I took no chances and posted an ambulance and medical team by the exit, which proved a wise precaution when players began bouncing off the girders. (I could imagine the possible outcome: “The Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you that your son, while slam dunking, was …”) One single episode of mayhem ended combat basketball.

  Gunfighter wanted me to extend my tour, and for a flicker of a moment, it was tempting. But the pull of my family at this point was too strong, and a coveted next assignment awaited me. I did, however, feel a deep sense of fulfillment as this tour drew to an end. My two previous field commands had been at the company level and had lasted only a few months each. They had left me with a sense of uncertain achievement. In the intervening eleven years, I had performed other worth-while assignments, but they did not satisfy my reason-for-being. What I lived for was to be an able commander of infantry. I might tell myself that I was, but after the Korean tour, I felt it in my bones. All self-doubt had vanished.

  I knew better than to expect any elaborate fanfare on turning over my command to my successor. I left Korea with less ritual than when I arrived. We were out on maneuvers on Rodriguez Range, and when the day’s work was done, I shook my successor’s hand, passed him the colors, wished him well, climbed into a helicopter for the ride back to Camp Casey, and flew home. No medals. No speeches. Gunfighter was as good as his word, however. He skipped the fireworks, but he gave me an excellent efficiency report, including a conclusion that I was general officer material.