I spent 24 years in the Army. These were my most productive years so far - but I'm not done living yet. Although I never fought in battle during those years, I did serve with combat veterans who are indeed heroes in my book. While stationed at Ft. Devens, Massachusetts, I served with a Medal of Honor winner; a former Marine sniper who had served three tours in VietNam before switching over to the Army and volunteering for his fourth tour.
Our Command Sergeant Major was the youngest CSM in the Army at the time, also having served multiple tours of duty in combat. I was in the Sergeant Major's office changing some light bulbs one morning when a Major walked in and demanded something silly and trivial. CSM Sinkata looked at the Major and replied, "Sir, with all due respect, get the hell out of my office." The Major was shocked and angered and marched into the Brigade Commander's office to complain about the Sergeant Major. After listening to the Major, the Colonel looked the Major in the eye and said, "You heard my Sergeant Major, get the hell out of my office too."
I served as a Platoon Sergeant in Bravo Company, 252nd Armor in Schweinfurt, Germany - the cesspool of the 3rd Infantry Division, in the early 1980s. Of all my tours, this was the worst. We were only 30 miles from what is now the Czech Republic and were always in the field either on alert or training. Our barracks were in terrible shape. Most rooms had no doors. Our motor pool was usually a mud puddle, and our compound was surrounded by beet fields. On days when the wind was blowing across our barracks, the farmers would use manure spreaders to fertilize their fields.
The only bright spot during my year in 252 was Sergeant First Class William Tart. SFC Tart was tall, thin, and surly. He had no real friends, but he had the respect of senior NCOs and officers. Many times we would be ordered to do something stupid, for no other reason than because a general was going to be visiting or some BS reason. More often than not, Sergeant Tart's platoon would be tasked with some particularly odious detail, probably because the staff and command knew that SFC Tart would get it done. He might not like it. He might tell you what he thought of you and your stupid ideas, but when it came down to it, SFC Tart followed orders. When he stood before his men in formation to give them the bad news, it wasn't coming from the First Sergeant, the Platoon Leader, the Commander, or someone else: the orders for his platoon came from him.
Sergeant Tart's men didn't like him. Neither did the men in other platoons. They didn't know that he stood up for them and that he often was able to get his superiors to listen to his advice, thus making their lives easier. I was the only NCO that Sergeant Tart felt comfortable talking to, probably because he knew I was missing my family back in the States as much as he missed his. SFC Tart carried a picture of his family. He worried about them, especially during that time when President Carter was in office and the military pay had been frozen for three years, gas was rationed, inflation and unemployment back in the States was in the double digits. Here we were thousands of miles away from our families, unable to do more than send our paychecks home so our families could survive. The way that Sergeant Tart chose to deal with his worries was to immerse himself in his work and to be the best platoon sergeant he could be. He might not have been the most personable leader in the Army, but he was the most professional that I served with. He cared about his men as much as he cared about accomplishing his missions. SFC Tart's men were the most proficient, most professional of any platoon in Bravo Company...or the battalion for that matter.
There are other soldiers that I served with who impressed me with their courage, loyalty, and professionalism. Most I can't even recall their names. There was Sergeant Joseph Vickers, with whom I'd sit and play chess during the middle of the night while monitoring Soviet radio traffic from the basement of the U.S. Embassy in Berlin. There was Captain Wilbur A. Curran, the finest commander I ever served under. A former pilot in VietNam, CPT Curran was one of those laid-back officers the men loved. He promoted me to Sergeant. I still have the photo.
CPT Curran was succeeded by CPT Lester Crapps, the worst commander I ever served under. The man was fat, but he could run the daylights out of us. CPT Crapps had no personal life, so he spent his making our lives miserable. As is the way in the Army, CPT Crapps messed up, so much they had to move him up so they could keep an eye on him. I think that's the way it works in a lot of government positions.
Darren What's-his-name on Facebook claims that soldiers are not heroes; that they are stupid and don't know what they are fighting for. But I've been there, and I know otherwise. Soldiers fight wars to win the peace. Soldiers don't fight for politicians, not even for the President. Soldiers fight for something bigger - our nation and our liberties. You won't see tears running down a soldier's face because he's proud of who's in office; but you will see tears when the flag passes and the National Anthem is played. A soldier will risk his or her life because he knows that his team mate will risk their's. A soldier will snap a smart salute when he passes a superior, but his arm will rise slowly, linger on the brim of his cap, and lower ever so slowly to his side when he presents the flag to a widow or a mother who's lost her son in battle. A soldier will not leave a fallen comrade, and will do everything within his power to avoid harming the innocent. Unless one has served, they cannot know the sense of pride a service member has in being part of a team, of serving a righteous cause - freedom over tyranny - no matter where it rears its ugly head. Just getting up and putting on their boots every day is more than most Americans are willing to do; so yes - soldiers are heroes.
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