Not All Old Soldiers Fade Away
Fort Benning Redux
Jeannie and I knew the move of the wandering Pucketts to Columbus might represent the last chapter in our lives together, but we went with the fervent hope that it would not begin with a tragedy. Jeannie finished her last chemo round. Within a week, we had a buyer for our house in Atlanta. We had already selected a home in Columbus. While it underwent renovations, we settled into the same apartment the Admiral had lived in before he died. Perhaps it was not the best choice under the circumstances, but the arrangement worked. All this transpired over the Christmas season. It was quite natural that Jeannie wanted to return to Columbus. The city was her hometown, she had a brother and longtime friends there, and Fort Benning was ten miles away. She reasoned that, in the event she did not make it, I would have a support network already in place. As usual, she was thinking about me.
After retirement, I lost any real contact with the army. People are incredulous when they ask—and they frequently do—if I regret leaving the army when I did, forfeiting a shot at flag rank, and I tell them no. Although disheartened, I left with no chip on my shoulder. After all, my case was not unique. I remained interested and informed on security issues and developments in the armed services, but my busy life had steered me in other directions. Back in Columbus, I decided to reach out to Fort Benning. It seemed like the natural thing to do. Little did I know that would open a second coming of sorts for me in the army, a longer one in some ways as challenging as—and certainly more rewarding than—my time on active duty.
The first step was extending a dinner invitation to the current commander of the Ranger Training Brigade (RTB), Col. John Maher, and his wife. Maher stepped right out of central casting; he was the perfect representation of a Ranger. We hit it off and became fast friends. Soon, my RTB circle expanded. Neal Wickham, an old buddy, told the brigade executive officer, Maj. Bernie Champoux, about me. Champoux invited me to speak at a Ranger graduation ceremony. One contact led to another, and soon I was giving talks to the officer basic and advanced courses, other graduations, and dining-ins. Maher upped the ante and asked me if I would act as an honorary instructor. Forty years after my hitch in the Ranger Department, here I was, once again, an instructor at Fort Benning.
“The Ranger” Returns to Benning
The timing of my “return” to the army proved propitious. The end of February 1991 saw the conclusion of Operation Desert Storm. The unexpectedly easy triumph of American-led coalition arms in the first Gulf War lifted, in the words of President George H. W. Bush, the veil of the “Vietnam Syndrome.” In a real sense, my reconnection with the army removed any residual disillusionment I harbored from the Vietnam era. In many respects, the army had reinvented itself in the intervening two decades. Those social experiments that brought convulsions to Fort Carson produced, from the wreckage of Vietnam, the all-volunteer army that executed those rapid and decisive operations in the Gulf.
The collapse of the Soviet Union and the Warsaw bloc left the United States as the sole remaining superpower. The end of the Cold War and the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991 raised questions about the army’s future missions in the “new world order.” The immediate peace dividend resulted in the reduction in forces of 35 percent. Desert Storm proved the army retained plenty of its teeth, but many wondered about the need for retaining heavy divisions and the LandAir doctrine developed to fight the Warsaw Pact forces in the Fulda Gap—although those force structures and that doctrine proved the perfect fit to fight a “Soviet mirror-image” Iraqi army. In the decade between the two Gulf Wars, many came to believe the solution rested in technology—air power and precision-guided ordnance that made its debut in the Gulf. Where would the ground army fit in this IT-driven revolution in military affairs and the “frictionless” war of the future? As in the 1950s, the army had to reimagine itself, and the burden fell upon the army schools to recognize and adapt to the uncertain but changing conditions of war.
My appointment as honorary instructor and frequent invitations to speak to Ranger and other classes opened up other opportunities; like a rock tossed into a mill pond, it caused a ripple effect. In many ways, Columbus was too big to be a typical post town like Junction City, Kansas, or Lawton, Oklahoma. That is not to say Columbus was not a pro-army town; many soldiers find Columbus army-friendly enough to remain in the area when their service is over. Despite that, the majority of the city’s residents had no personal contact with Benning or the army. When civic groups asked me to speak, I jumped at the chance. Some of the talks centered on leadership embodied by historical figures like my hero, George Washington, and Abraham Lincoln; others centered on current security issues; all focused on fortifying a sense of active patriotism and educating the public on the role played by the U.S. Army.
In tandem with public speaking, I began writing columns for the local paper, the Ledger-Enquirer. Reasoning that writing would reach a wider audience and make a greater impact, I received plenty of support and encouragement from the editorial page editor, William Winn. My connection with the Ledger-Enquirer continued for several years. While continuing deployments overseas—Somalia, Panama, Haiti, Yugoslavia and Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan—produced plenty of fodder for my pen, Winn and his successor, Dusty Nix, urged me to weigh in on issues confronting the community ranging from education and economic developments to race relations and the environment.
An annual news flashpoint occurred every November starting in 1990—the protest demonstrations organized by the School of the Americas Watch group led by a since defrocked Catholic priest, Father Roy Bourgeois. The first protest, held at Fort Benning’s main gate, involved ten protestors; by 2005, their numbers approached twenty thousand. Cold War anticommunism obliged the United States to partner with some unsavory Latin American and Caribbean regimes, most of them military or military-backed juntas with not a few senior officers affiliated with the School of the Americas (SOA). The SOA’s mission—the school had been relocated to Fort Benning from Panama after the United States ceded control of the Canal Zone—was dedicated to improving the military efficiencies of hemispheric sister republics, including an emphasis on counterinsurgency operations. Iran-Contragate and atrocities committed by death squads, such as the murder of six Jesuits in El Salvador in November 1989 that prompted the first protests, elevated the heat. Having experienced life in Colombia during the height of la Violencia and given my experience in the special operations directorate in the Pentagon, I possessed a pretty good understanding of the complexity of the problem. Latin American countries remained more feudal than modern; land and wealth remained in the hands of small oligarchies, military caudillos guaranteed order, which meant the status quo, and often organized extralegal death squads to repress opposition, more often than not directed against the vast majority of the population, composed of landless campesinos working the plantations. While it was never American policy to train and support officers and men who committed human rights violations, some SOA-trained officers were implicated. SOA exercised no control over trainees once they returned to their countries, but all this produced a public relations disaster for the army. Each year a small number of protestors breached the law, provoking their arrest by illegally entering the post and becoming judicial martyrs for the cause.
I took part in a variety of SOA projects, spoke at graduations, gave in-class lectures, and attended training. On five or six occasions I attended the protests for my self-education and to gather material for my articles. Always careful to identify myself as a former officer and supporter of SOA, I engaged in exchanges with some of the protesters. Many protesters, mostly students, were there for the event; those who were informed received their catechisms from SOA Watch or their professors. I had my own fixed views. I do not think my proselytizing made any converts. Except for one ugly scene—a college student called me a murderer—the encounters were always good-natured and provided grist for my Ledger-Enquirer articles. With the demise of the Cold War, the focus of SOA changed to the war on drugs with emphasis on the rule of law, human rights, and democracy. The school’s name also changed to the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation (WHINSEC). The protests continue each November, but they are muted compared to those of the mid-1990s. In 2015, the number of protesters fell to about two thousand, and SOA Watch announced that it would shift its activities to some unnamed site in the Southwest.
Another long-term educative commitment developed at this juncture. In Atlanta, I participated in a program sponsored by the Foreign Policy Association (FPA) called “Great Decisions.” The mission—to expand public knowledge of and interest in foreign relations—dovetailed with my speaking and writing projects. Soon after arriving in Columbus, at that point merely wishing to continue my participation in the program, I visited Columbus College (now Columbus State University) and inquired if the school had any affiliation with “Great Decisions.” When the answer was no, I wondered why not. That question evolved into me acting as instructor for the course, an offering of the college’s continuing education office. Each year the FPA selected eight subjects with significant foreign policy implications and furnished a workbook consisting of brief, unbiased readings, a set of “talking point” questions, and a select bibliography for each subject. The old adage, “You do not really know any subject until you teach it” certainly proved true. I put in probably twenty hours of prep time for each session that included a prepared overview lecture and a guided discussion. The adult students—mostly professional people from the community—kept me on my toes. My affiliation with “Great Decisions” and Columbus College lasted nine years. During this time I joined the local chapter of the Military Order of World Wars and served as a member of the National Security Committee. As with all my efforts, the organization was dedicated to fostering patriotism and awareness of security issues, especially among the youth.
Why did I immerse myself with all these time- and energy-demanding activities? One reason is that I have a hard time saying no—especially to any request that promises to build support for the army and its missions. Another reason stems from being raised to believe you always have to give back. Personally, I gained a great deal—the demands of going behind the podium, whether giving a public talk or conducting a class, and writing editorial thought-pieces required a good deal of hard intellectual work. For me, it was a period of growth. Another reason, at least in the beginning, probably grew out of anxiety, my dread of losing Jeannie.
At first, her prognosis remained uncertain. Having finished the chemo protocols before leaving Atlanta, Jeannie made the monthly trip to her oncologist, Dr. Perry Ballard, in Atlanta. Each checkup produced no result, the best possible news for cancer patients. Over time, Jeannie’s strength and vitality returned. She reopened her interior design business in Columbus and made frequent treks back to the decorative arts center in Atlanta searching for the “just right” fabrics and furnishings. Her business grew and occupied a good deal of her time and energies. Her full recovery—including from reconstructive surgery—was a restorative elixir for both of us. Jeannie’s full engagement with Jean Puckett Interiors freed up guiltless time for me to pursue my many and varied projects.
Although speaking, writing, and teaching remained important elements of the “new” Ralph Puckett, my responsibilities as honorary instructor at Fort Benning always took precedence. During John Maher’s tenure as Ranger Training Brigade (RTB) commander, those commissions continued to grow. Ranger training placed a high premium on approximating the emotional, psychological, and physical stresses experienced in combat. A component of the training involved the deprivation of food and sleep. Observing Ranger training, especially during the Mountain Camp phase in north Georgia, Maher grew concerned that the regimen of starving troops of food and sleep had deleterious effects on learning and health. Maher brought in Natick Laboratories from Massachusetts to evaluate trainees’ nutrition levels and how that impacted decision making. He asked me to serve as a member of the team.
Testing took place the day before the course began and at the end of each of the three training phases. After crunching the numbers, Natick reported the average Ranger burnt 50 percent more calories than he consumed. As Maher expected, cognitive skills progressively declined at each stage of the course. Without hesitation but knowing he would come under attack by “old” Rangers for going soft, Maher increased the rations. He asked me to conduct a historical assessment of Ranger nutrition. I contacted all previous directors of Ranger training, asking them to complete a questionnaire. The results proved unavailing. While food intake went from regular to increased rations to food deprivation, all the commanders and instructors responded that the food allocation was always “just about right.” As an outcome of the research, Natick would present their findings at a meeting of the National Academy of Sciences in Washington. My study would be included in the presentation.
Based upon my experience as an instructor in the Ranger Department and in command of Special Forces field training exercises in Europe and airborne battalions in Vietnam, the question of combat load was a thorny one. Back in the early 1950s, three “C” rations—a ration is food for one soldier for one day—weighed eighteen pounds. When loads approached or exceeded eighty pounds, a soldier had to think long and hard before adding anything to his pack. I never thought the solution in Ranger School lay with administratively determining food intake. The problem of sustenance in the field should be determined by realistic tactical considerations. The tactical play should involve a resupply component, forcing the patrol to locate and secure the drop zone or contact point. If the patrol does its job, its members will eat. If it fails, they go hungry. The command should not tinker with caloric deficits as a training tool. Let the tactical play determine that. The same applies for sleep deprivation. Rangers must discover and draw upon inner strengths they never knew they possessed. But snatching four hours of sleep each night over a nine-week course may produce automatons, not resourceful fighters. These questions remain unresolved to this day.
Jeannie and I flew up to Washington in typical Puckett fashion, a day early. That night a blizzard hammered the East Coast, closing airports. I ended up being the lone representative from the RTB. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would deliver a paper and field questions before a panel of the National Academy of Sciences (NAS). The NAS approved Natick’s findings—nutritional deficiencies incrementally degraded physical and cognitive performance.
Another enjoyable task Maher asked me to perform involved addressing the officers and NCOs of an airborne battalion that had just completed a special three-week training course. Several battalions from the division had cycled through the program. There was considerable buzz about one battalion commander, by all accounts a real “comer”—a leader destined for great things. One look at his 201 File proved that: a 1974 West Pointer who had served with airborne and mechanized infantry units, the holder of the prestigious George C. Marshall Award as the top Leavenworth graduate, he went on to earn a graduate degree in public administration and a Ph.D. from Princeton before acting as aide-de-camp to the chief of staff of the army. There was more to him than brains. While the other battalion commanders put in an appearance at the beginning of the training and just as quickly returned to Fort Campbell, this officer stayed in the field the entire time. He exemplified the type of officer I always aspired to be—one who leads by example. Word was he could outrun and out-push-up anybody in his battalion. In other words, he was not the usual “operator” so often encountered in the officer ranks, somebody who just worked the system without challenging its inertia and moved on to the next billet to do the same. Upon meeting him, I saw that he possessed personal shine that was no artifice. I thought back to my distant West Point days to a subcourse entitled “Great Captains” and remembered the story of Napoleon taking his first command, of the army of Italy. Napoleon had that unmistakable but not easily defined “something.” This young officer had it too. His name was David Petraeus.
My association with John Maher paid many dividends. He and his friend Col. David Grange, who commanded the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, came up with the idea of creating a Ranger Hall of Fame. Just like Cooperstown, the hall would enshrine “the greatest Rangers of all time.” The seven extant Ranger associations would tender recommendations. Rumors floated that a hall of fame was in the works, but I did not give it too much thought. I was amazed when told Ralph Puckett’s name would be included among the first twenty-one inductees along with the likes of Robert Rogers, John Mosby, Bill Darby, and Frank Merrill. The ceremony took place on 18 June 1992 on Malvesti Field, the site of the RTB obstacle course. Emotions gripped me after being presented with a medallion. I wished Daddy could have been there. Of all the honors bestowed upon me, being included in the Ranger Hall of Fame in the inaugural class certainly ranks among the top.
Before Maher left, he engineered another accolade for me. He decided to initiate special awards for Ranger School graduates and approached Jeannie about naming one for me. Naturally, Jeannie embraced the idea, and after exchanges with our children they decided to fund a plaque to be presented at each graduation ceremony. Ranger graduation is a big event for the soldiers who have endured great physical and emotional stress for sixty-one days, slogging through the piney scrubs of Fort Benning, the mountains of north Georgia, and the swamps of Florida. Those who are required to repeat one or more phases in the course have a much longer program. The Puckett Award goes to the selected officer honor graduate. The first recipient was 2nd Lt. Stephen J. Roach, who graduated on 13 November 1992. The distinguished honor graduate receives the William O. Darby Award.
Honorary Colonel
In 1996, Col. William Leszczynski, a cadet when I commanded the regiment at the Academy, assumed command of the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment. Bill asked me if I would serve as honorary colonel. Honorary colonels act as a link with the rich history, customs, and traditions of the Rangers and help build esprit de corps through speeches and informal chats with members of the unit. Frank Dawson, another inaugural inductee into the Ranger Hall of Fame, who had won fame on Omaha Beach, was stepping down owing to health problems. Bill did not have to ask me twice; I was delighted and honored to accept. Leszczynski looked for more from the honorary colonel than morale building; he wanted me to act as a mentor to the leadership and fully participate in training. Acting as honorary colonel would require some traveling. While the headquarters and the Third Battalion were at Benning, the First Battalion was stationed outside Savannah and the Second Battalion on the other side of the continent at Fort Lewis, Washington. The chief of Infantry endorsed Leszczynski’s recommendation, and the secretary of the army designated me as honorary colonel. Since tours lasted two years, I expected to leave the assignment when Bill’s replacement arrived. That speculation proved wrong; I remained honorary colonel of the Seventy-Fifth Rangers for a dozen years.
Being the honorary colonel provided a perfect vantage point to observe army training. The Gulf War provided a distorted road map for the future. The army understood it would be called upon to fight large-unit operations and at the same time develop capabilities to conduct unconventional warfare. Somalia exposed the flaws in post–Cold War doctrine where elements of the Third Ranger Battalion confronted an entirely new threat: the chaos of fighting a nonstate opponent that used asymmetrical techniques devised to exploit American vulnerabilities by taxing the political decision-making process. Ranger training needed to meet the new challenge, but the senior leadership and doctrine writers appeared slow to grasp the changing conditions of warfare. As honorary colonel, I often discussed my ideas with the regimental commander and his S3 and the battalion commanders and staff. Training exercises needed to be tougher and more realistic. In training, the Rangers always won because the mock opposition force (OPFOR) possessed inferior capabilities. Succeeding when the cards are stacked in your favor and everything goes according to the script is a poor indicator of combat-readiness status. Mogadishu proved that tactical commanders and their units must react to unforeseen eventualities. The old adage that “the plan does not survive first contact with the enemy” should always be part of training. Only units that perform when everything goes wrong can consider themselves well trained. I used historical examples—some personal—to buttress my case. They listened, and though my arguments made some headway, change in the army is always incremental.
Over the years, I participated in a broad assortment of Ranger training activities at Benning and the continental United States, Alaska, and Korea—the indoctrination phase, the initial testing of the lower-ranking enlisted volunteers to the regiment, battalion training for team leaders, and unit training for the squads through battalion-level exercises. Ranger indoctrinations, graduations, changes of command, memorials, or return-from-combat-mission ceremonies provided a forum for sharing my views on leadership to successive cohorts of captains, lieutenants, and NCOs. I observed live-fire exercises in New Mexico, Fort Bragg, Fort Knox, and Fort Benning. Another responsibility involved sitting on the Ranger assessment and selection board evaluating prospective commissioned and noncommissioned officers for assignment to the regiment. The honorary colonel position came with a number of added extras: three trips to France and Normandy for D-Day commemorations, and participation in conferences, seminars, and symposiums on leadership at places like the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs and at headquarters, U.S. Army in Europe, in Heidelberg, Germany.
What drove me was the belief my suggestions might help a young officer be a better leader or that something that I said might save a life of a Ranger in combat. I was never happier than when out in the field with the men, imparting my experience-taught lessons. Rain or shine, heat or cold, I walked the ranges, discussing fundamentals of leadership, and striving, by example, to impart the “Be all you can be” value system the army espoused. Rangers who watched a seventy-something-year-old man with gimpy feet hump up hills and trudge through swamps, rivers, and dense forests on patrols lasting over a day would think twice about giving up. Several times a year I visited the Florida and Mountain Ranger camps to assess the training programs: cadre adeptness and leadership, tactical relevance, the realism of the scenario, and overall management proficiency. I also worked with the company grade officers of the Seventy-Fifth during the grueling three-day Mungadai officer development program, named for Mongol special force warriors. When it was solicited, I offered feedback in the form of suggested actions for consideration followed with a written memorandum. The message never varied, derived mostly from my experience with the Eighth Army Ranger Company in Korea: train the fundamentals and, drawing from the legendary coach Vince Lombardi, run the “blocking and tackling” drills and retrain each task—all centered on mastering individual and small-unit skills and techniques—until it was done right. Only then will a unit be combat ready. If each Ranger leader incorporates this philosophy, the net effect will positively impact the combat efficiency of the entire regiment.
One story came out of training that made the rounds. During a Mungadai in the mountains of north Georgia, the exercise controller, Lt. Col. Luke Green, asked me to observe an ambush while attached to the opposing force (OPFOR). Luke affixed white bands around my arm and helmet, designating me as “administrative,” and radioed the observer controller with the eight-man patrol telling him about my presence, expecting he would pass the word on to the Rangers. As OPFOR moved along a trail, suddenly bursts of machine-gun and rifle fire broke out. The drill was for OPFOR to return twenty rounds of fire and then fall dead so the Rangers could search them and retrieve anything of intelligence value. Knowing my input would be asked for later, I did not hit the ground but went to my knees. A member of the Ranger patrol yelled, “Get down.” I crouched down but kept my head up. I ignored a second command to get down, so the soldier called to his leader, “Hey, this guy won’t get down.” The reply came, “Put your knee in his back!” He did as ordered. I turned to the Ranger and speaking very quietly told him I was administrative. “Who are you?” he yelled. “Colonel Puckett,” I replied. With that, he jumped up and ran away yelling, “Oh my God! It’s Colonel Puckett.” The story made it into the press, with much embellishment, which included a wrestling match and me proclaiming, “C’mon, I can take you guys.”
The next night, the regimental commander, Col. Stanley McChrystal, addressed the Rangers. When he and I entered and the captains came to attention and then took their seats, they yelled, “Colonel Puckett, it was Captain Gray,” pointing out the culprit. Everybody had a big laugh. Thereafter, whenever I showed up at the 3rd Battalion headquarters, some Ranger would tell Jim Gray, the battalion intelligence officer, there was somebody in the front office he needed to see. Once I joked that as soon as I got back into shape, I would challenge him to a showdown in front of the entire regiment.
One of the most memorable trips took me back to the “Land of the Morning Calm” in autumn 2000. Korea was not calm during my last visit. A company from the First Ranger Battalion staged out of Hunter Army Airfield, Georgia, for the exercise, and Lt. Col. Joe Votel asked me to come along. One thing that did not change about Korea is the weather extremes. Although outfitted with snivel gear (designed to keep the wearer warm, dry, and comfortable), I was still cold. The company performed a night helicopter assault into a rugged and mountainous training area. The Rangers executed a difficult cross-country approach and seized and attacked from the high ground. Amid artillery simulators, smoke grenades, and blank automatic weapons rounds, the company took and cleared their objective—a bunker and trench complex—reorganized and exfiltrated with their designated casualties. The next day we held a thorough after-action review, including my observations related to specific training remedies for shortfalls observed.
While in Korea, we toured the site of the mid-February 1951 Battle of Chipyong-ni, the “high-water mark” of the Chinese New Year’s Offensive. Ron Miller, a historian from the UN Command staff, vividly described how the three battalions of a Twenty-Third Regimental Combat Team, the First Ranger Company, and other units denied vastly superior Chinese forces the vital transportation link. The fight at Chipyong-ni reminded us that American troops sometimes fight outnumbered and surrounded against very determined adversaries. The lesson is always the same: the ultimate weapon in war remains ground soldiers tougher, smarter, and better trained than their enemy.
Sadly, the Rangers would not have to wait very long before the regiment faced that test: the 9/11 attacks ushered in fourteen years (and counting) of near-continuous overseas deployments of elements of the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment in support of operations in Afghanistan and Iraq. In less than two months after the terrorist attacks, components of two Third Battalion companies conducted an audacious low-level parachute assault on a desert airfield in southwestern Afghanistan. Over the course of 2002–2003, all three battalions had been deployed—in whole or in part—in both Afghanistan (Operation Enduring Freedom) and Iraq (Operation Iraqi Freedom). In the War on Terror that followed, elements of the regiment conducted airborne and air assaults, special operations infiltrations behind enemy lines, direct-action raids against heavily defended enemy positions, and mounted patrols in major population centers stretching from the sands of Anbar Province in western Iraq to the Hindu Kush Mountains along the Afghan-Pakistani border.
When not deployed, units underwent training. Gone were the pro forma exercises. Training took on a greater urgency colored by operational experience. By autumn 2002, the difference was clear. In an exercise in Alaska, a company practiced fighting its way off a “hot” landing zone, in part a product of my inputs stemming from experience with a 502nd company in August 1967. In New Mexico a couple of weeks later, I observed a company conduct a sequence of four “cold hits,” two live-fire exercises without any reconnaissance or much intelligence and with incomplete plans. The chemical play proved a little too realistic; the honorary colonel had to beat a quick five-hundred-yard retreat, coughing, choking, and crying. In the after-action report, one lesson learned was “sustain and improve gassing of HCOR [honorary colonel].”
The 9/11 attacks produced a palpable change in attitudes of recruits. About a year before the assaults, I helped put together an outreach program sponsored by St. Luke United Methodist church for enlistees in the noncombat arms undergoing initial-entry training. I always elicited reasons why recruits had joined the army. Before 9/11, the majority saw the army as an avenue for opening up civilian opportunities—a trade or money for school. Unsettling to me, many of them agreed they received insufficient field training; once they went to their Advanced Individual Training centers, they would train for their specific military occupational specialty (MOS). After the events in Manhattan, Washington, and Pennsylvania, I noticed a sea change: a majority expressed the keen desire to “give something back” to their country.
Focusing increasingly on my honorary colonel role, by the end of the 1990s, I sharply curtailed my army liaison activities with the Columbus community. I still had the family to think about. From 1999, many of those thoughts took on a dark hue. Jeannie had beat cancer—a true blessing—but the disease then hit another Puckett, daughter Jean. For two years, everyone expected a good outcome. Jean’s breast cancer appeared to take the same trajectory as had her mother’s: the apparently successful operation followed by the six-month regimen of chemotherapy and then reconstructive surgery. Then, in 2002, she began to experience shoulder pain, which she first dismissed as a result of overdoing her exercise. When Jean finally returned to Dr. Ballard, the diagnosis could not have been worse. One day she called when I was home alone. After apologizing for having to tell me without Jeannie being there, she stoically informed me the cancer had metastasized in her liver. The news was like a hard blow to the solar plexus; I was devastated. The doctors combated the disease with astringent drugs but without result; Jean decided to end the treatments. Now on palliative care, Jean grew progressively weaker.
Jean’s condition put a pall on what otherwise would have been a very happy occasion: my being named a West Point Distinguished Graduate. For over a year I knew my nomination was under consideration by the association of graduates. Much to my surprise, the affirmative notification arrived. The ceremony would take place during June Week 2004. Tommy met Jeannie and me at the airport and drove us to the Academy. For five years, Tommy had lived and worked in Paris before returning to the same advertising firm in New York but with a nicer package. We attended a gala reception and spent the night in the Thayer Hotel on post. The scene the next day could not be improved upon: the weather was perfect as the ceremony took place on the historic Plain. The thought that I shared the award with Dwight D. Eisenhower, George Patton, Omar Bradley, and Matt Ridgway filled me with awe and not a little humble pleasure. Afterward we attended a gathering in a corner of the mess hall. Among the other six inductees were Dr. John Feagin, who had treated me after two of my skiing accidents; Denis F. Mullan, who had been a plebe in my Beast Barracks squad; Dave Hughes, with whom I had served in the Pentagon and at Fort Carson; Gen. William F. Knowlton, superintendent when I was assigned as a regimental commander; and Robert M. Shoemaker, an Army War College classmate. I had not had the pleasure of serving with the sixth, Glenn K. Otis. Ted Swett, who engineered my appointment, presented me with a commemorative watch from our class. Jeannie, Tommy, and I cut short our participation in the festivities, explaining we had to return to Georgia to tend to Jean.
Any relief from the sadness that awaited us soon evaporated. The day after we returned home a call came from Tommy. The news cut me off at the knees. He had been diagnosed with leukemia. Many thoughts—none of them good—flooded over me. Jeannie and I faced a terrible choice: we could not both stand vigil over Jean and render any real comfort to Tommy. Jeannie decided to stay with Jean, and I flew to New York.
At the time, Tommy was at Beth Israel already undergoing treatment. I remained a week, spending each day with Tommy. As I sat there, my thoughts revolved around him. Was I going to lose him? He meant so much to me and his mother. I said very little as these questions twirled around in my head, but I listened intently to the conferences with the doctors as they made their rounds. The following week, on 30 June, Jean succumbed. Jeannie had no time to grieve; she immediately went up to be with our son. After about a month, Tommy transferred to Sloan Kettering. After rejecting bone marrow replacement as an option, the doctors continued with chemotherapy. Tommy’s partner, Ralph “Chip” Whitman, stood by his side throughout the entire ordeal. A mountain of support to Tommy and to us, Chip conducted his own research, kept an exact diary of all the treatments, and held the doctors’ feet to the fire at every turn. Chip’s mother, Daphne, acted as backup. An account executive for a stock brokerage firm, Chip is a bright, personable, and honorable young man, one of the best things that could have happened to us. Chip is family.
When first learning Tommy was gay, I had reacted with dismay—more for him than for me. I felt he might get discounted as a person and in his career because of his sexual orientation. I need not have worried. Tommy and Chip are wildly successful and happy; parents could not ask for anything more.
After six months, Tommy was cleared to return to work part-time. Over time, his “numbers” reached satisfactory level; then the emphasis turned to maintenance and improvement. After five years of tri-monthly blood work and semi-annual bone marrow checks, Tommy regained his full health. However, the gut-wrenching anguish we felt during Jean’s decline and death could not completely offset the boon of our son’s recovery.
In December 2005, I took my fourth trip to Colombia to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the Escuela de Lanceros. Four years earlier, at the invitation of the chief of the military group in Colombia and the just-departed commander of the Seventy-Fifth Rangers, Col. Ken Keen, I had toured a number of installations. A long-serving Ranger and Special Forces specialist with a master’s degree in Latin American studies, Ken provided a wealth of knowledge and leadership. We visited the Escuela Militar, Colombia’s West Point; the NCO academy; a basic training center; and naturally, the Escuela de Lanceros—as well as an active unit in the field at base area Tres Esquinas, in the southern part of the country in the heart of the coca-growing region. The highlight was returning to the Lancero school. Lt. Col. Alberto José Mejía, an acquaintance from Benning, saw to it that a Lancero instructor patch was sewn onto my battle dress uniform.
The return visit during the first week of February 2003 proved far livelier. Accompanied by Ken Leuer, a retired major general and president of the National Ranger Memorial Foundation, and Ken Keen, I met with the American ambassador, Anne Patterson, toured the same three schools plus the Colombian helicopter school, and went into the field, again to the coca belt on the Ecuadorian border and to Arauca Department on the Venezuela-Colombia frontier. In Arauca, we visited Saravena, called “Little Sarajevo” because of the level of violence in the district. There we met a Special Forces captain, Ben Tucker, then on his fourth tour, this time with a fifty-man insertion team. The FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarios de Colombia) and the Colombian National Liberation Army (ELN) used safe havens in Venezuela to launch cross-border incursions. The night before I left, FARC conducted a high-profile terrorist attack, a car bombing of a Bogotá nightclub about three blocks from where we were having dinner, killing thirty-four and wounding 164. Later that month, FARC captured and held hostage three American contractors. Following these attacks, the United States stepped up its support of Colombian operations against the narco-terrorists.
Each time I returned to Colombia, I was hailed as the founder of the Escuela de Lanceros; and each time I reminded them of the Colombian names on the commemorative plaque at the gates of the school. In 2001 and 2003, the Colombians awarded me a medal; in 2003, with the Lancero Order of the Red Cross, they presented me with an impressive sculpture of an original lancer, a citizen-soldier who fought with Simón Bolívar for the nation’s independence. Later, in 2008, I purchased a stone with the names of Lieutenants Fernandez, Negret, Moros, and Patino inscribed and placed it on the Ranger Walk at Fort Benning.
The family calamities had taken a toll. In 2006, I turned eighty. Although I still looked okay in uniform and felt fine, my feet and knees were giving out on me. Between getting wounded in Korea and 2006, I had twenty foot operations. Infections were chronic. Fifty-six years of walking funny to relieve the pain damaged my knees, requiring arthroscopic surgery and finally joint replacements. I asked Col. Richard Clarke, the new regimental commander, to replace me. I said that although I greatly appreciated the honor and would have liked to continue, my immobility precluded me moving across country during night exercises. Clarke tried to talk me out of leaving and pointed out there was no need for me to go to training. “All or Nothing” Puckett thanked him but declined. On 16 January 2008, the regiment held a change-of-responsibility ceremony; Gen. William “Buck” Kernan (Ret.) replaced me. A week later I went in for the first of two knee-joint replacement surgeries.
Another suggestion I made to Colonel Clarke had a pleasing, if unintended, consequence for me. The army has instituted a competition for soldier and noncommissioned officer of the year awards. Since the regiment already held an internal selection process to determine who would go on to the army-wide competition, why not hold a parallel contest for lieutenants and captains and incentivize it by creating an award? Clarke liked the idea and named it the Colonel Ralph Puckett Leadership Award. The contest is a great motivational tool; participants are graded on physical fitness, technical military proficiencies, and writing skills. That some of the best junior leaders in the army compete for an award bearing my name remains a source of great gratification.
As the honorary colonel, the biggest thrill sprang from my association with a succession of some of the best officers produced by the U.S. Army who commanded the regiment. I served with seven regimental commanders, all eventually general officers, many going on to hold key commands in Iraq and Afghanistan. McChrystal and Joe Votel earned four stars, and Ken Keen, three. I expect others still on active duty will continue progressing. Colonels who rotated in command of the regiment became generals because they had performed exceptionally well before being selected as the regimental commander and were tabbed for greater things. I just hoped that my support proved helpful. Although not certain of my influence, I confined my efforts to nudging them beyond the limits of their experiences. After deployments to Afghanistan and Iraq began, I was included in the planning briefs and offered insights whenever I considered them cogent. I saw the troops off and welcomed them home, on occasion with tears in my eyes.
General McChrystal’s retirement from the army was a significant loss to our country. He is extremely bright, a great leader and soldier, a fine physical specimen—a role model for military and civilians alike. I saw all of those qualities in him when I worked with him for two years as honorary colonel. I remember him taking the time to discuss with me the coming activities for the regiment and training that I might enjoy seeing. I remember the field training exercises and the Mungadais. On both, McChrystal invariably threw in a surprise activity that added a significant physical and tactical challenge. His Rangers always expected a surprise but never knew what or when. He is another officer I would have loved to have served under.
Colonel Keen was another regimental commander who, like Colonel McChrystal, supported many of my initiatives. He was particularly sharp, invariably able to recognize shortcomings in briefings by staff members. He saw through smokescreens and elicited the omitted information. I observed him as he accompanied the Mungadais. His critiques were always simple and to the point. He used a questioning technique that was particularly effective. Rather than criticize or state what he thought should have been done, he used questions to keep his Rangers thinking: “When you were at Point ‘B,’ what was your plan? Did you do what you planned and rehearsed? If you had to do it again, would you do the same thing? What would you do differently?” Every question was a teaching point; the answer required thought.
In May 2001, I was sitting in the briefing room at Hunter Army Airfield, the home of the First Battalion, waiting for the start of a commander’s training conference. Much to my surprise, in walked Jeannie and Mary Ellen Keen followed by Maj. Gen. Dell Dailey, commanding general, Joint Special Operations Command. Dailey asked me to come forward, and he presented me with the United States Special Operations Command Medal “for exceptional and distinctive contributions … during … peacetime.” Keen clearly had petitioned for the award and stage-managed the event.
During my time as the honorary colonel, I made three trips to the war zones—two to Afghanistan and one to Iraq—visiting many of the teams in the operational areas. Several things impressed me favorably. Many outposts were manned by a small task force composed of Rangers and members of other agencies. The commanders were junior officers discharging responsibilities—and fulfilling them—that in previous wars would have been held by more senior officers. Called upon to exercise their own judgment and initiative, these younger Rangers reacted immediately to new information. Morale, physical fitness and resilience, and high levels of military skills and leadership were everywhere evident. On one of the trips to Afghanistan I celebrated my eightieth birthday. The Rangers surprised me with a birthday cake.
Those twelve years as honorary colonel were the best tour of duty I had in the army; they were not limited to the Ranger Regiment but included many other commands at Fort Benning. The officers and men always showed me more deference than deserved, but I considered my inputs had relevance. Being honorary colonel reconnected me with the army and brought home how much I missed being with soldiers.
In 2004, I prepared a study on ways and means to better prepare graduates of the Infantry Basic Officer Leader Course (IBOLC) to succeed in Ranger School. Infantry lieutenants are expected to progress to Ranger as the capstone of their preparation for platoon combat commands. Almost all of my practical suggestions were approved by Maj. Gen. Ben Freakley, Benning’s commanding general. Unfortunately, some pertaining to assigning only Ranger-qualified officers and NCOs to training positions could not be implemented because the army was short hundreds of personnel with that qualification. General Freakley’s immediate decisions impressed me; he needed no staff study before deciding and directing action.
Another program of particular interest to me was the Basic Officer Leadership Course (BOLC II). BOLC II was part of a test program that included newly minted second lieutenants from almost all branches in a basic orientation program before proceeding to their appropriate branch schools. After observing and talking to many of these lieutenants during the course, I recommended making the training more challenging and less programmed. In my periodic observation memoranda forwarded to Maj. Gen. Walter Wojdakowski, the commanding general, I stressed that a stated objective of the program—the graduates would be warriors—was not achievable. I defined “warrior” and discussed the training required to develop that quality. Shortly thereafter, the course objective was changed. I also commented on other shortcomings. Wojdakowski raised these concerns at a conference with the commanders of the BOLC III TRADOC (Training and Doctrine Command) branch-material schools.
One thing that pleased me was that my initial assessment of David Petraeus proved on target. Over the years we saw each other occasionally when he came to Benning or at leadership forums. He always made time for a personal chat. Just as he had shown in that battalion leadership program in 1992, Petraeus never proved satisfied with his own performance or those under his command. He was the outstanding division commander in the first phase of the Iraq War, and his counterinsurgency operations in Mosul in 2003 set the standard for what followed with his reconceptualization of doctrine as commandant of Leavenworth. As commander of the Multinational Force–Iraq and Central Command (CENTCOM), he executed the “new thinking” in the “Surge.” Two things most impressed me about David Petraeus. First, as a scholar-soldier, he has the mental penetration to understand security problems at their existential level. Policymakers and generals cannot engineer outcomes, nor can overwhelming conventional force impose the national will on unconventional opponents. Petraeus understands this and is not afraid to “tell it like it is,” even when hectored by politicians who want assurances of quick and decisive results. Second, he genuinely cares for his people. A young soldier lost an eye in combat with the 101st Airborne Division. Petraeus helped him get into Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning and followed his progress. I met the soldier and invited him to speak at a Rotary Club gathering. Petraeus sent me comments to use in my introduction of the soldier. Petraeus later spoke at that young soldier’s graduation and pinned on his second lieutenant bars. I know of other examples of his looking after soldiers. To my way of thinking, General Petraeus belongs in the pantheon of great American generals because, as an officer and leader, he personifies the ideal I always held out—but never achieved—for myself.
The current army is far and away better than the one that fought in Vietnam. Unlike in Vietnam, the army demonstrated a capacity to change in response to the altered battle space—not easy to achieve in the midst of a war. The vertical command structures “flattened”; instead of the micromanaging of Vietnam, the command climate encouraged initiative and entrusted junior leaders with increased responsibilities. General McChrystal was one who was instrumental in bringing about the change. The multiple deployments not only indicated the willingness of our men to sacrifice, but they also proved—probably beyond the expectations of the brass—the high quality of the army’s junior leadership.
Still in There Pitching
Colonel Clarke was right on one score: I did not have to go into the field to continue my association with Fort Benning. People complain that when they call me on the phone, more often than not Jeannie tells them, “Ralph is not here. He is out with the Rangers.” When I stepped down as honorary colonel, I lost my slot in the starting rotation but probably got more work out of the bullpen. Senior leadership at Benning continued to include me in some of the study groups, probably in deference to my age.
In a bold move, the army amalgamated the armor and infantry schools at Fort Benning; the resultant Maneuver Center of Excellence was tasked with forging a new level of combined arms operational art. The army selected the crème de la crème of young general officers to command the Maneuver Center. The last two commanders—Maj. Gen. H. R. McMaster and Maj. Gen. Austin “Scott” Miller—met and surpassed all expectations. McMaster, a Petraeus protégé, is a true scholar-warrior out of the same mold. From my perspective, Miller emphasized a mastery of basic soldier skills and leadership. Since basic soldier skills training has long been a special interest of mine, I am always pleased when asked to participate in discussions of relevant issues. One was the incorporation of women into Ranger training. Miller calmly insisted standards would remain in place. If females met the test, they would get the Ranger tab. Miller defused what could have been a contentious issue.
For years, I labored collating leadership lessons garnered from eclectic reading, writing, and speaking as well as from my army experiences. I worked on putting together a book intended to serve as a guide, particularly for young soldiers. Writing a book is a daunting and lonely enterprise. As Mark Twain observed, writing is 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. Often I lagged, the project languished, only to get kick-started by Jeannie saying, “Get on with it.” A recipient of plenty of help from external readers, I am indebted in particular to John Lock, a retired lieutenant colonel and Ranger, who mentored me throughout the process. A collection of mini-essays and vignettes, the book chiefly centered on training, mentoring, military mores and ethics, and personal growth. Finally, in 2007, Words for Warriors: A Professional Soldier’s Notebook came off the presses. I was both relieved to finish the book and pleased with its reception. I attended a variety of ceremonies but rarely missed those involving awards bearing my name. In addition to the medals and plaques, the winner always received a signed copy of my book. Other awardees also receive copies. The total donated so far stands at more than one thousand.
Gen. Edward Meyer, former chief of staff of the army, opined in his letter recommending me as a West Point distinguished graduate that my activities after retirement, more than my uniformed service, qualified me for induction. Be that as it may, I have been showered with honors over the years and include them here not as self-promotion but to acknowledge those responsible.
In 1998, the Korean War veterans’ association of Ranger Infantry Companies Airborne named me Airborne Ranger of the Year. The following year, I was selected for membership in the Gathering of Eagles society, centered at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery. Rather taken aback when nominated—my career had hardly been “closely associated with aviation”—I received assurance my ten Air Medals more than certified me for membership. I was the ninth army man inducted.
Over the years on visits to Tifton, I always sought out my two old high school buddies, Charles Kent and Charles Massey, for a chat over coffee. They worked for my inclusion on the Wall of Fame for distinguished Tiftonites. That became a reality in April 2004. While pleased to receive the acknowledgment of my hometown, I received an honor in 2007 that floored me. Every year since 1980, the National Infantry Association presents the Doughboy Award—a chrome replica of a helmet worn during World War I—for outstanding contributions to the Infantry. The highest award the chief of Infantry can bestow, it usually goes to a general officer, and occasionally to a politician (such as Senator Robert Dole) or civilian (like Bob Hope). Beginning in 1996, a similar award was initiated for enlisted soldiers. At the ceremony held in Freedom Hall, at Lawson Airfield, Fort Benning, not only did I receive the chrome helmet, but the Infantry Association presented Jeannie with the Shield of Sparta, Infantry’s way of commemorating the selfless sacrifices and courage of army wives. For me, Jeannie’s pleased and surprised reaction was the best part of the event. She said it was the first medal she had ever received.
Honors still flowed in after I stepped down as honorary colonel. I received the Mary Reed Award for “service above self” from the Rotary Club of Columbus, Georgia, and the distinguished citizen award from the Boy Scouts of the Chattahoochee Valley. Then, at the end of 2015, came another deluge of tributes. In October, at a black-tie affair in Columbus, the Pastoral Institute presented Jeannie and me with the Sue Marie and Bill Turner Servant Leadership Award. Then, a month later, the National Infantry Museum and Soldiers’ Center honored me for lifetime service with the opening of an exhibit in the Ranger Hall of Fame. Made possible by a generous donation from the Pezold family and the hard work of many, chief among them Phyllis Aaron, the “wall” displays my service memorabilia and a photo collage. The event and exhibit also features a video with tributes from Generals Petraeus and McChrystal and three Ranger command sergeants major, Chris Hardy, Dennis Smith, and Matt Walker. All of this is humbling, and to say the least, Jeannie and I were overwhelmed. In December, I made my sixth, and probably last, trip to Colombia. Joined by my old friend Ken Keen and the new commander of U.S. Army South, Maj. Gen. K. K. Chinn, we helped celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the Escuela de Lanceros. Once again fending off claims that I had founded the school, I reflected back on how we started with nothing. Since then the Colombians have created one of the finest special operations training programs in Latin America. Given all the fanfare, some friends joked that they grew tired seeing my face in the local media.
As the years rolled by, the days when I was 165 pounds of “romping, stomping, airborne hell” seemed a long way off. Now when I am in the field, I labor to “take a knee” and wear nothing more than a protective vest during live-fire exercises. General MacArthur knew a thing or two about old soldiers. He believed people grew old only when they deserted the ideals of their youth. The years may wrinkle the skin “but to give up … wrinkles the soul.” Those youthful ideals planted by my father became the bedrock of my being, and I always strove to live up to them in my day-to-day life.
As we grow older we marvel at how time sped by. Napoleon once observed that he could always regain lost ground but never time. Although we learn from history, the past cannot be changed. Life is not a crapshoot; it consists of chance but also skill. We determine what we become by what we do each day. The present impacts—either positively or negatively—the future. Every decision and action has a knock-on effect. Countless times I have met soldiers of all ranks who reported that something I had said or done in training had profoundly impacted them. I seldom remember the occasion, but for them it was significant. Because we never know our influence over others, we must always live each day according to the highest standards. I believe that I left my commands more combat ready than I found them. I have always thought if I helped save a soldier’s life, then I more than earned my pay; that knowledge—and I am told it is so—is greater than all the honors and awards accumulated over the years.
Other than my father, George Washington influenced me most. Washington remains a timeless national icon because of his republican rectitude and for always keeping his word. As a battlefield commander, he had a losing record. His greatness as a general rested in his personal intangibles; and he was at his best when the chips were down. His bold riposte across the Delaware kept alive the flickering embers of American hopes in the war. After the drubbings at Brandywine and Germantown, with his beaten and demoralized army wintering in Valley Forge, he did not return to Mount Vernon and the comforts of home. He stayed with his men, endured the privations, and with the help of General von Steuben, trained his troops and restored their morale and combat efficiency as proven the next time the Continental Army faced the British at Monmouth. It was a different army. He established his reputation based entirely on the way he conducted his life. Earlier, in a conference with Native Americans, he said, “Brothers, I am a warrior. My words are few and plain; but I will make good what I say.”
I would like to be remembered that way.