I decided not to, but that meant the next morning I had to report to the officer who knew I had sought to avoid his directorate. Lieutenant Colonel Kenneth Lyons was a short, intense officer who’d hoped to command an infantry battalion but had not. Wounded five times in combat in Vietnam and completely dedicated to the Army, he had reason to be disappointed, even bitter—more so than I. As I entered his office, I knew that with my first words and demeanor I would define myself to him.
He was professional but guarded. He said he’d heard I had hoped for a troop assignment, but he needed an officer, and I was it. He looked for my reaction. Part of me wanted to erupt in complaint about the unfairness of the system. But in thinking it through and talking with Annie, I had realized that responsibility for being the soldier I hoped to be lay with me.
“Sir, I very much want to command an infantry company,” I started carefully. “But I’m assigned here to you and intend to work as hard and enthusiastically for you as I’m capable.” I paused. “If, after I do, you’ll help me get command of a company, I’d be grateful.”
He broke into a smile. We were both disappointed to be assigned staff jobs, but I realized that if he could serve without whining or complaint, his was an example worth emulating. Not surprisingly, he turned out to be a great boss.
The next seven months were busy. I got to know then–Major General John Galvin, our division commander, and was befriended by his aide-de-camp, Captain Dave Petraeus. Dave’s position on the post was unique. Division commanders normally select their aides with great care, and the position bestows special credibility on a young officer. In addition, Dave had been a Battalion operations officer as a captain, normally a major’s job, and was headed off to Princeton before going to teach in West Point’s prestigious social sciences department.
Two years behind Dave at West Point, I’d known who he was. Now at Fort Stewart we periodically ran together and he helped introduce me to leaders around the post. For me, a newly arrived officer with no prior mechanized experience hoping for command of an infantry company, Dave’s endorsement was invaluable. We began a friendship that intersected intermittently for many years before aligning often after 9/11.
* * *
During the summer of 1982, units from the 24th Mech conducted the division’s first rotation to the Army’s new National Training Center (NTC) at Fort Irwin, California. Sprawled across an area the size of Rhode Island in the California desert it was where George Patton’s 2nd Armored Division had trained before deploying to North Africa, and where I’d parachuted into with the 82nd as a lieutenant in 1977. Now, two 24th Mech battalions fought a two-week “war” against an army unit called the opposing force (OPFOR) that employed Soviet tactics using U.S. vehicles modified to look like Soviet tanks and personnel carriers.
The NTC represented the inauguration of a new era in army training, and was the brainchild of General William DePuy, who had been my father’s division commander in Vietnam. As commander of the Army’s Training and Doctrine Command, DePuy stressed the idea that training must include measurements that would add both realism and accountability. The NTC, approved in 1977, was crafted to allow units to train as they would fight.
That summer, the 24th Mech’s two battalions were beaten badly by the OPFOR. For the 24th, as for several other posts that were getting similar wake-up calls, success at the NTC became the new objective.
The NTC wasn’t actual combat, but in 1982 it was the closest analog the Army had. The new Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System (MILES) allowed for relatively realistic battles in which there was a winner and a loser. Vehicles and soldiers were “killed” or “wounded” if hit with an enemy laser. An advanced system evaluated the battle, in which each vehicle’s location and actions were tracked and recorded and could be played back to provide analysis to the forces being trained.