Three More Way Stations Cleared
Armed Forces Staff College, the Pentagon, and U.S. Army War College
In June 1963, we left Germany and returned to the United States. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my promotion to lieutenant colonel came through a couple of days before relinquishing command of Training Company. Jeannie, the kids, and I were on the way to the Armed Forces Staff College (AFSC), a joint service school at Norfolk, Virginia. I had never heard of the school before and then was told the personnel managers sent officers there because they did not know what else to do with them. After discovering that Sid Berry had attended, I concluded that a five-month stint at the school certainly could not hurt my prospects.
Armed Forces Staff College
The Armed Forces Staff College occupied a nebulous position in the hierarchy of service schools. In the lead-up to the formation of the unified Department of Defense, the army—based upon the experience of joint and combined operations in World War II—pushed for the formation of an all-services national security university and an armed forces college. Neither emerged because the navy and newly independent air force were not about to surrender control over the development of their future senior leadership. Despite opposition from the other services to the scheme, the army suspended the reopening of the Army War College until 1950. The two joint educational institutions that emerged from this failed effort at amalgamating were the Industrial College, located in the former War College at what became Fort Leslie McNair in Washington, and the Armed Forces Staff College in Norfolk.
We moved into far from satisfactory quarters on what used to be a navy base. Not for the last time did I conclude the army had a long way to go before it could truthfully say that it was family friendly. Fortunately, a separate house on post came available, and we moved in. Family life immediately improved. Virginia Beach was nearby as well as ample camping opportunities. The family enjoyed our time in the Virginia Tidewater.
The course began in August and lasted into January 1964. It consisted of a series of guest lectures in the mornings, with afternoons given over to small group discussions. Usually around fifteen members were selected to bounce questions off the lecturer. The information presented in lecture—and the lineup of speakers was impressive—supplemented the theme of the current subcourse. Reading assignments meshed with the presentations. Classroom time usually ended at three in the afternoon. The remainder of the afternoon and evening was for study, physical fitness, and family. The diversified views of the consortium—consisting of soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, and civilians from government agencies—provided for lively exchanges and insights to other points of view. The curriculum included staff planning exercises, usually with an army representative—all graduates of Leavenworth—holding the chair as the operations officer. The other services had no equivalent to the Command and Staff College. Rewarding both from a personal and professional point of view, the school exposed me to many other matters that impacted the United States and the world: health, education, the civil justice systems, and the lack of potable water in many countries; the world economy; population growth; and many others. The speakers, seminar sessions, parallel reading, and discussions opened my mind to aspects of the armed forces—not just the army—and the other governmental departments and the civilian world of which I possessed only a vague awareness. The school provided a stress-free learning environment where I gained an appreciation for joint and interagency attitudes and perspectives.
While at Norfolk, I joined the local Toastmasters Club to improve my speaking ability. The club consisted of perhaps fifteen officers on the AFSC staff. I benefited from these associations, and in my last evening, a formal dinner, I was selected as the emcee. It just so happened that emceeing a dinner was the next task in my training regimen. The president made a complimentary speech, thanking me for my participation during the year. Despite being under the gun, I enjoyed the evening and regretted that it would be my last with this group.
“The Building”
Completing the AFSC hurdle, the next step was a tour in “the Building,” the Pentagon. I received assignment to the Office of Personnel Operations (OPO), Infantry Branch. Since we would be staying in the Capitol District for at least two years, we decided to buy a house. While still in Norfolk I made several trips to the DC area before finding a house in Annandale, Virginia. Like so many of my contemporaries, I obtained first and second mortgages and a loan from my dad to buy the house in a brand-new development. We made a good choice. The children went to a particularly good school within walking distance.
For the next ten months I learned something about the personnel business. Lt. Col. J. J. Walsh, the current holder of the Regular Army (RA) Desk, taught me the ropes. He converted much of his official correspondence into standing operating procedure paragraphs that could be cut-and-pasted in response to inquiries from the field. Unlike in many previous assignments, I would not start from ground zero. The office handled assignments for all infantry officers of the ranks lieutenant colonel and below. The RA Desk reviewed applications from reserve officers applying for Regular Army commissions. I discharged additional functions. One involved reviewing records of officers who met the standards for Regular Army but had not applied. Discovering a prospect, I sent a letter to that officer’s commander stating that a routine review of the subject officer’s file indicated he possessed the desired qualities and stated, “If you agree, you may want to recommend to this officer that he submit an application for a Regular Army commission.” In all cases a request was approved because I made the final cut and needed only my boss’s concurrence. Naturally the applicant never knew what transpired. One officer could not be convinced to apply, although his commander made three attempts. I wrote letters with every sort of encouragement except saying “apply and you will be accepted.” Finally the officer came by the Pentagon and explained that, despite his commander’s endorsements, he still felt unqualified. “I’m the officer who has been reviewing your record and writing your commander,” I said. “While I can’t guarantee it, if you apply you are almost a cinch to be accepted.” He did and received a Regular Army commission.
While serving in OPO I decided to review my file and make a disinterested appraisal of my record from the viewpoint of an action officer reviewing my record as if considering some personnel action such as an assignment, schooling, or promotion. I was amazed at what I saw ostensibly for the first time. While the file contained compliments about my demonstrated leadership capability both in combat and elsewhere, many entries pointed to my lack of tact. Enlightened by the exercise—and wondering how I had made lieutenant colonel—I vowed to overcome those faults.
Like hundreds of officers in the Pentagon, I started work on a graduate degree. I selected the personnel management program at George Washington University. The Kennedy administration shook up the defense establishment by placing a priority on improving the functioning and cost-effectiveness of the Pentagon and armed services through the application of scientific management and system analysis. To reinforce the point and drive reform, the administration added the office of systems analysis in the Department of Defense at the assistant secretary level. With me in OPO, personnel administration appeared the best choice, and the tick of a master of science degree in my 201 File certainly would not hurt. Two courses each semester required that I attend two-hour classes twice a week. Two additional nights and four to eight hours each weekend were set aside for studying. It was a heavy load, but the classes and readings opened new and intriguing horizons for me.
Expecting to write my thesis on the selection, education, and assignment of officers for duty with army missions in emerging countries, I tailored my term papers in each course around these themes. The subject was of major importance to the army at that time. Army Chief of Staff Harold K. Johnson had proclaimed stability operations—counterinsurgency and nation building—as the third principal mission of the army after fighting and winning a general or limited war. The Cold War and the avowed Soviet intention to support “wars of national liberation” translated into the containment policy. The army’s job entailed stemming the spread of communism by aiding emerging countries to resist insurgencies by establishing a degree of stability and security to allow for the formation of democratic governments. The war in Vietnam certainly fit that profile and soon became the focus of much of the army’s effort. I coordinated much of my writing efforts with members of the OPO staff.
The OPO assignment proved interesting. It provided insights into the workings of the Building and in particular the thinking behind the army’s personnel management system. The office came in for more than its share of abuse. Each day the Infantry desk officers labored over their decisions, knowing the good of the branch and the service depended upon matching the right people with the appropriate job, and that the genuine strength of the army rested in the quality of its personnel.
After my short stint in OPO, I moved to the Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Military Operations (ODCSOPS) in the Special Operations Directorate. The Infantry Branch chief, Lt. Col. John Spears, wanted more OPO officers on the army staff. The director of special operations was Col. Hank Schweiter. The chief of plans, Lt. Col. Clarke Baldwin, was my immediate boss. Both eventually made flag (general officer) rank. My task focused on contingency planning for Latin America and Africa. Commanders in chief of the various commands submitted operations plans for various contingencies that might affect their area of responsibility. My job: prepare a written outline of each plan and, when appropriate, comment on the adequacy of the plan. I also evaluated other planning documents and advised Colonel Schweiter whether he should “chop” (approve) or disapprove them and what comments he should make.
One plan foresaw an American invasion of Colombia in reaction to a Communist takeover. The contingency plan called for the landing of a division on the Pacific coast followed by an advance over the rugged Andes to Bogotá. Only one narrow and winding route traversed the mountains. Having traveled that road I knew a well-led and supported company could delay a division for an extended time. My critique prompted a significant change in the original plan. Nothing substitutes for firsthand knowledge. Another contingency plan I reviewed and commented on involved an intervention in the Dominican Republic that went to, and was approved by, the operations division.
The job also included making trips. One lasted twenty-six days, beginning 7 September 1965, that took me to the U.S. Army missions in Panama, Guatemala, El Salvador, Colombia, Brazil, Peru, and Bolivia. Given my background in special operations, my assignment centered on assessing our counterinsurgency assistance programs in these unstable regions of Latin America. The short stay in Guatemala allowed me to get reacquainted with the Koontz family. In Bolivia I lodged with my classmate John Chandler and his wife. John accompanied me on a long jeep trip into the high Andes to visit a Special Forces Mobile Training Team (MTT) working with the Bolivian military. The adaptability of these soldiers and their ability to build working relationships with their hosts impressed me.
The Seventh SFG was going on a training exercise to Vieques Island, off Puerto Rico, opening with a night jump. I finagled my way into going along. The briefing, preflight rigging, safety instructions, and other planning and precautionary activities went like clockwork at Fort Bragg. It was late in the afternoon as we flew over the shimmering Caribbean. We rigged again in the aircraft and went through another safety check as we neared the drop zone. Then the prejump commands: “Get ready! Get Set! Stand up! Hook up! Check your equipment! Sound off for equipment check! Stand in the door! Go!” I felt that old surge of adrenaline.
Once more a leap into the darkness fueled by faith in the equipment, the rigger, the training, and the confidence (hope) that the air force had found the right drop zone. All of these things and more tumbled through my brain as I leaped into the darkness and hurtled through the air at perhaps a little more than 100 knots (about 110 miles) per hour. Then a shock and jerk as the canopy of the parachute blossomed open and the forward and downward fall came to a quick and bone-jerking stop as the chute filled with air. I watched for other chutes and steered clear of all while keeping an eye on the fast-approaching ground. DZ Vieques looked as bad as reported, with old pickets and other debris scattered everywhere among the cacti. Keeping clear of the obstacles as best I could, I slammed safely on the ground, which I followed, as always, with a silent “Thank you!” Aside from the usual cuts, scrapes, and bruises, nobody was injured. During the remainder of the week, I participated in as many different activities as possible, including time spent with the Air Commandos, the Air Force’s Special Air Wing that worked closely with the Army’s Special Forces. The training proved opportune. The Seventh SFG would soon deploy to the strife-torn Dominican Republic.
Pentagon duty made people claustrophobic. Not only were we were housed in a crowded, noisy, and windowless office, but I also had the sense of being a very small widget in a huge bureaucratic machine. Every day I struggled to transfer the mountain of paper from my “In” to my “Out” box, all the while juggling phone calls while simultaneously everyone else in the office did likewise. I sometimes wondered how we ever accomplished anything. Some officers spent nights on cots to meet deadlines on studies that would die a lonesome death somewhere in the maze. Everybody seemed to be in a rush: junior officers to win the favor—and the preferments that came with it—of their bosses; the services competing for influence and a bigger share of the budget. Careers were made or busted in the Building. There was also a sense of unease in the Pentagon. Many officers directed their suspicions, if not hostility, toward the secretariat of the Department of Defense, McNamara and his Ivy League advisers, and the bevy of “whiz kids” who exercised influence far outweighing their experience. Also many felt disquieted over the administration’s policy in Vietnam—1965 saw the beginning of the bombing campaign against North Vietnam, the commitment of American ground combat units, and the Battle of la Drang—and the lack of input from the uniformed heads. I was glad when my name appeared on the list for the U.S. Army War College.
As usual, I sat for my annual physical. Completing his examination, the doctor, citing my damaged feet, said, “You should never be sent overseas again.” I was stunned. Salve Matheson promised me a battalion command in Vietnam after I finished the War College. After I told the doctor about being slated for a tour in Vietnam, he said he would give me a profile that would ensure I stayed in Saigon in Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV) headquarters. Not wanting any part of that, I told him about the battalion command. “Fine,” he replied, “I’ll give you a picket fence.” Now all that stood in my way of that command was completing the War College.
U.S. Army War College
In the summer of 1966, we moved into a nice apartment at Carlisle Barracks, and I joined with 204 other officers in the War College Class of 1967. The atmosphere was relaxed. As constructed back in 1920 by Gen. Peyton March, then chief of staff, the War College occupied the apex of the army’s education triangle and would prepare the elite of the officer corps for senior command slots and high-level staff functions in the War Department. From the beginning, Leavenworth usurped the War College’s position as the premier army school. Careers were made at Leavenworth, not at the War College. From its origins in 1902 through the American entry into World War II, the War College acted as a planning adjunct to the War Department; student studies informed policymaking. The War College closed during the war and did not reopen until 1950, first at Leavenworth and then in historic Carlisle, Pennsylvania, not far from Gettysburg. The postwar school suffered from the lack of a clear mission and bore the reputation—which proved true—as the ultimate “gentleman’s course.”
Until the New Year, classes were held in Bliss Hall, a converted stable. In January, we moved into newly completed Root Hall. As at the AFSC, the Carlisle curriculum featured frequent guest speakers but mostly centered on cooperative work performed in student consortiums. The program of study consisted of eight courses; the core of the curriculum rotated around a small bloc on comparative military strategies from World War II through Flexible Response, a seminar called “Command and Management” that had no discernable command content but instead examined economic questions and system analysis approaches, and one that passed for stability operations. For the first time, the War College experimented with case studies, one looking at the recent operations in the Dominican Republic. It was interesting examining the intervention in the Dominican Republic given my prior work on contingency planning in DCSOPS. I was surprised that we would not be studying military operations as such.
Grades were not given, and the single academic demand involved a writing assignment. We had four options: a thesis, an individual research paper, a case study, or two essays. Still working to fulfill the master’s requirements and the thesis—which meant a few trips back to Washington—I naturally selected stability operations. Our consortium made a trip to a think tank the army had contracted to conduct counterinsurgency studies. At the end of a conference, the action officer announced, “You have the expert on this subject in your class. He is Lt. Col. Ralph Puckett. He has written the only paper ever prepared on this subject.” I had submitted the paper, a twenty-page essay, in one of my classes months before. If I was the leading expert on counterinsurgency at the War College, the army was in serious trouble.
The demands of the course were not taxing; we were done by three in the afternoon, which freed up time for me to work on my thesis. In the past, War College students had been allowed to opt for additional night classes. Unfortunately for my class, this option had been terminated. The college leadership decided that students should not concentrate their efforts on completing graduate credits at the cost of their War College work. My George Washington University thesis supervisor, Dr. William Torpey, a tough taskmaster, returned my submissions with a sea of red ink, but I doggedly persisted. The subject held a great amount of interest for me, and since stabilization operations and counter-insurgency were such hot-button issues, I considered my work of some potential value to the army.
The War College curriculum trained generalists for high command and staff positions and schooled us on management theory, but it was not very army-centered. Even though the cloud of Vietnam hung over the army and the nation, it made no imprint on the “business as usual” curriculum. Troubled by this shortsightedness—and still intent on going to Vietnam—I submitted a written recommendation that Carlisle develop a subcourse that examined our involvement in Southeast Asia. The paper recommended the seminar focus on decision making beginning with the French in Indochina through the steps leading to the expanding American involvement. At each major turning point, the decision would be analyzed based on what was known at the time, what conclusions emerged, and why. We would also discuss what might have been a better choice using the information available to the president, his advisors, and the joint chiefs at each juncture. There would be no Monday-morning quarter-backing. The goal was twofold: analyze and develop an understanding of the decisions with a view of critiquing the decision-making process. The college leadership never responded. Several other students made similar recommendations concerning Vietnam. The general verbal response from the faculty was that the War College did not exist to prepare officers for battalion command.
I entertained plenty of misgivings about our involvement in Vietnam. It seemed to me the wrong strategy against the wrong enemy in the wrong type of war. I had a gut feeling we already had made major mistakes and should not be there unless the president clearly stated our political objective and allowed the military leadership to fashion the appropriate strategy. By the end of 1966, we had more than 380,000 troops in Vietnam. The strategy of graduated pressure—bombing and covert operation against the North; the insertion of ground troops; the shift from “enclave pacification” to division-strength search-and-destroy operations. The problem with an attrition strategy is that it cuts both ways; and the United States had an enemy willing to pay the price. Gen. William Westmoreland talked about the “crossing point,” yet troop ceilings continued to rise. So, too, did casualties and the spread of antiwar opposition. The aim of nation building became nation defending. South Vietnam appeared to be an army—and not a very good one—without a government. In 1966, a civil war broke out between rival factions. Nobody clearly understood our overarching objectives because the goalpost constantly shifted or could define the victory we sought. Plenty of platitudes were offered but nothing concrete.
Despite my unease with the war, I wanted to go to Vietnam and serve in the field for several reasons. First, as a professional soldier it was my duty. Second, all the conflicting accounts of how we were fighting the war made me want to experience it firsthand. Third, I wondered how I would perform. After my experiences in Korea, could I lead from the front and set the example for my soldiers? I did not want to miss out on this war and could not let others do all the fighting. My country and the army had invested time and money in my development. Now was payback time.
In a discussion with one of the chaplains in my class, Tom McMinn Jr., I expressed these concerns. Tom had been a first classman (senior) when I was a plebe at West Point in the same company during Beast Barracks. I knew him well and respected his views. When Tom heard me express my reservations about what we were doing, he asked incredulously, “Ralph, how are you going to Vietnam as a battalion commander feeling the way you do about the war?” “Easy,” I said. “I am a professional soldier. I will do my best to be the best soldier that I can be.”
Vietnam aside, the year at Carlisle broadened my perspectives. The academic work proved challenging and nicely dovetailed with the preparation of my thesis for George Washington University. The biggest rewards came from association with topnotch people. The prevailing assumption stood that one out of every three students would become a general officer. The attendees were dedicated, ambitious, and competent. Their comments either in class discussions or informal chats always proved insightful, well-informed, and thought-provoking.
Except for Bad Tölz, no post proved more enjoyable than those months in Carlisle. Marty and Jean wanted to ride, so we bought a half interest in two horses and joined the horsey set in the Hunt Club. Inevitably the question arose, Which half of the horse did we own? I joined the local Toastmasters in weekly meetings, improving my public speaking and making friends among the townsfolk. Although southeastern Pennsylvania is a far cry from Bavaria, we managed to continue our family skiing. Good quarters and schools for the kids, horseback riding, skiing, and sightseeing in the Pennsylvania Dutch Country, coupled with the wonderful people with whom we associated, combined to forge fond memories of our stay.
I wanted to complete as many of the requirements for my degree as I could before my deployment to Vietnam. With the thesis approved, all that remained was the two-day comprehensive examination and three electives. The three electives could wait, but I wanted to take the exam. The trouble was scheduling. Even though my requirements remained incomplete, I asked the dean for special permission to sit for the exam. When he discovered I was headed for Vietnam, he readily agreed. The university always treated us as mature professionals and made special allowances for officers who have to serve at the pleasure of their superiors and not themselves. The exams duly taken and passed, I would complete the electives when I returned home.
The motives for embarking on a graduate degree might have been professional, but the gains were mostly personal. The coursework, research, and writing all opened new vistas and different ways of looking at leadership, organization, and management and their underlying principles and philosophies. Research sharpened my analytical skills and provided insights that proved of lasting value. Previously disinterested in scholarly pursuits, the more I researched and thought, the greater my interest became. I never regretted the effort required for the degree.
We arranged for the packers to take our household goods to Columbus, where Jeannie and the children would stay during my tour in Vietnam. Collier Ross, a classmate at West Point and the War College, and I reported to the Infantry School for a three-week precommand course for soon-to-be battalion commanders. There were approximately thirty officers in the course; several had just completed the War College.
It was obvious from the first day of classes that the program of instruction was totally unsuitable. It focused entirely on a major land war in Europe against an invading Soviet Union army. We discussed maneuvering armored and mechanized divisions across vast expanses of the European continent. Here we were on our way to Vietnam, anticipating a combat battalion command, yet we were learning nothing about what to expect in Southeast Asia. Since I knew Maj. Gen. Sidney Berry, the commanding general—we had overlapped at West Point, and he was my student company commander at the advanced course—I volunteered to approach him and raise our objections.
Berry was very receptive and called in Lt. Col. Bill Lober, an old friend, who headed tactics instruction. The general asked, “What would you like for us to do?” “Sir,’ I responded, “we want instruction focused on Vietnam. We want to hear from Infantry battalion and company commanders, NCOs, chopper pilots, artillerymen, signals people who have experience in doing what we will soon be doing in Vietnam.” A no-nonsense commander, Berry turned to Lober and said, “Bill, make it happen.” How great it is to be around people who can make a decision and give an order without staff studying it to death. The program that Lober prepared was perfect. We had hands-on experience with equipment we had never seen before. Captains and sergeants told us how they had conducted air assaults and extractions. The artillery guys talked about fire support. The training was battle focused, the way it should be. Our total lack of experience in what we would soon be doing under fire may be surprising to some. For most of us, our first battalion command would be with a unit in combat. Lessons learned in training come cheap; those learned in combat are expensive.
As the time for my departure drew near, the specter of going off to Vietnam hung over the family. Every day the press provided more coverage of the conflict. I reminded Jeannie that the choice was mine and recalled that talk we had before we were engaged. Trained to lead men in combat, it was my duty to go where needed. She could have resisted and pointed to the family obligation of remaining with her and the children as they entered those difficult preteen years, but Jeannie, always the perfect army wife, was supportive.
It rained the entire day I was slated to leave. Whenever Jeannie looked at me she wanted to cry, but, for the kids, we acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary. As a family we played board games until it was time for me to go. Of course, our experience was no different from that of generations of families who have sent their husbands and sons off to the summons of the trumpet, but that knowledge did little to soften the hurt. Whatever fate held for me on the other side of the globe, I derived strength from the knowledge that Jeannie would be in charge. I knew that I could depend on her. I was reminded of the words of the poet John Milton: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Army wives do not stand and wait when their husbands go off to war. They continue doing all the things they always have done: see that the kids are properly dressed and fed; help with their lessons; nurse them when they are sick; and comfort them when they are sad. Then they shoulder the tasks that the daddies performed before they left. Army wives are combat force multipliers. Time management experts need to talk to army wives to learn about real efficiency. Jeannie was wonderful. I knew she and the kids would be okay. I wondered if she knew how much I loved her.
There is no doubt that Jeannie has had a tremendous impact on me. Her influence has been as strong as Daddy’s. She held our family together. She has been the one whose wise counsel guided us through the normal travails of family life and those times when we experienced severe stress. I have often wondered what we would have done without her. We could have existed, but our life would have been empty. How fortunate I am to have found her and made her mine. She and I both know that we are blessed.
The day I left was the saddest day of my life to that time. I had never felt so alone as on the day of my departure. I had no premonition of any dire outcome. I just saw how lonely the coming year would be. I wondered if my family knew how much they meant to me. We said good-bye at the Martins’ house. Frank, Jeannie’s dad, drove me to the airport. I did not want the family sitting in the airport waiting for the loading call. As Frank drove, he said, “Ralph, if there were any way I could take your place, I would.” I knew he meant it. I will always remember and appreciate that.
I met Maj. Don Bowman at the airport. He had married Cynthia Young, who grew up in the house across the street from Jeannie. Don and I would be leaving on the same plane. After a few moments we boarded the aircraft. We flew to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, where we met Ross. Thankfully, connections were tight, and after a short wait, we were on our way to Vietnam.