by Sid Macken
“Why is it always me?” Private Bigelow said as he stood facing me, a tinge of anger in his voice and on his face. It was basic training at Fort Lewis, 1966, and Private Ronnie O. Bigelow had just presented me with my first lesson in leadership.
In September 1966 when I enlisted in the Army, fresh off the farm you might say, my contact with the military had been primarily war movies and TV shows with occasional stories from my father or other old guys who had served. I had zero practical understanding of military leadership. However, having had a year of college before enlisting, I was assigned as a squad leader in my platoon. My lack of leadership experience was soon corrected through training but also through three of the most memorable lessons learned during my career.
Ronnie Bigelow’s home town was located halfway between my town and my grandparents’ home, small rural communities only about fifteen miles apart. It is no wonder then that we had mutual friends although he and I never met until being placed in the same squad at basic training.
Ronnie was slim built, blonde, eighteen but with a fourteen-year-old face. We connected quickly after finding out that he knew my girlfriend’s brother and some of my relatives. He was easy to get along with, worked hard, and didn’t complain about much until that day.
As the anointed squad leader one of my responsibilities was to see that housekeeping chores were done around the barracks. A few weeks into basic training I was assigned a task, can’t remember what it was now, and in turn passed out assignments to some members of the squad.
“Why is it always me?” His question stopped me in my tracks.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Every time a detail came up, I’m always on it. Why me?” He’s looking directly into my eyes.
It took a second but I realized and responded.
“Because, I know I can count on you.”
Crap, I thought as I said it, that’s not a good answer. Because I could depend on Ronnie to do a good job was not the criteria to use for sticking him with detail after detail. It was not good leadership. It was not fair to Ronnie and not good for his morale or for the morale of the squad. This was the day I learned to use a squad-level duty roster.
Fifty-seven years later, I clearly recall that exchange between Ronnie and I, and I thank him for that lesson.
Where I grew up in rural Oregon farm country, there were no Black families. So, Private Denny Crenshaw was another first for me. Denny was from Denver, Colorado, a city kid. He wore glasses, was short, a little overweight, and not very athletic. But the thing about Denny was that he was happy. Not just happy because something good had happened, but happy all the time. I do not recall ever seeing him grumpy, sad, depressed, or down for any reason or about any thing. He was always quick with a joke and a smile.
Hanging around the barracks one evening, he and I were talking about our fathers and what they did for a living. My Dad worked as superintendent in a grain warehouse located in the small farming community which was our home. Denny’s Dad was a janitor in a large office building.
Denny was proud of his father and the work his father did. Denny looked at me with a wide smile on his face and described his father as a man who took pride and care in his work and how his work affected the people who worked in his building. From Denny’s description, I got the feeling that his father really considered it ‘His’ building. Denny’s final comment in the conversation was that he hoped that whatever he did in life he could be as good at it as his Dad was at being a janitor.
My father’s job may not have seemed important to many people, but it was important to him and it was a very satisfying career for him. When he died, the funeral procession was about a half mile long with 200 people in attendance. I knew how Denny felt about his father and I’ve tried to live up to my father’s example. Respect is earned and being respected is one facet of good leadership.
A third lesson in leadership was presented by an officer. While some of our cadre at basic training were combat veterans having recently returned from the war in Vietnam, a large number had just rotated back to the United States from a year or more in Germany. The two tours of duty could not have been more different. One took place in jungles and rugged terrain where someone was constantly trying to kill you. The other took place in a friendly land where the most severe experience might have been a week or two in the field or at a firing range but, there were warm quarters, nice people, all the conveniences of home, plus a lot of beer. The former produced lean, hardened officers and non-commissioned officers (NCOs), who could have whipped just about any of us trainees. The latter produced a softer variety of soldier who may or may not have been in fighting trim.
In March of 1967, nearing the end of my time at Ft. Lewis, I had moved on from basic training to advanced individual training (AIT). We were again on a firing range. My squad had finished our rotation and had moved back behind the line to relax. There were no bleachers to sit on nor shelter to sit under, so we were in a group sitting or lying on the ground near where the busses were parked. One of our returned-from-Germany cadre, Captain Iforgethisname, stood before us and gave a short lecture which went something like this: You shouldn’t be lying around doing nothing. Soldiers are always training. This is no way for you to spend your time. You will do pushups with me until I get tired. front leaning rest, move.
Front leaning rest is the pushup position, and we all quickly assumed it. You may be able to envision what we looked like, wet, cold (it was March in the Pacific Northwest), facing a slightly overweight officer whose uniform was a little too tight around the middle.
“On my count, exercise, down, one!” he began.
We went down on ‘down’ and up on ‘one.’
“Down, two, down, three,” he continued all the way up to “Down, ten.”
On that final count, he jumped up, brushed off his hands, called us to attention, and said, “Let that be a lesson to you.”
With that, the captain walked away.
“Ten? What?” we thought.
I still remember the lesson he taught us that day. I have lived by it. Hopefully, the other members of my squad have also. The lesson the captain taught us was not the one that he thought we learned, though. What he taught us was: Never make a fool of yourself in front of people you have power over and who have been doing pushups, hundreds of them, daily for the previous fifteen or sixteen weeks.
The lessons continued throughout my time in the military. These early lessons in basic and AIT were some of the most memorable and important; a very good lesson in leadership, a new friend from a culture that I had not previously been exposed to, humility and the secret of a contented life, the fragility of respect and how easy it is to throw away. As my time in the service continued for 25 more years, more lessons came my way. I am grateful for each and every one of them.
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Sid Macken grew up in rural farm country of Oregon’s Willamette Valley. His military career spanned over 20 years in the US Army’s Special Forces; active duty, Reserve, and National Guard. He served as a commissioned officer in 10th and 12th Special Forces but took a voluntary reduction in rank in 1978 in order to stay in Special Forces. He retired from 19th SFG as a Master Sergeant in 1998. Sid comes from a family with a long history of military service dating from the Civil War through World Wars I and II and Viet Nam. He lives in his great-grandfather’s house in the Oregon community where he grew up.
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