DURING HIS FIRST months in command, Hill marveled at the dedication of his first sergeant, Tommy Scott. Doctrinally, officers and NCOs are taught that mission comes first and soldiers come second. Hill got that—the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. In the heat of battle, though, with bullets snapping at their heads, when rockets sear across their backs, when men throw themselves on top of live grenades, when they carry bleeding brothers through live fire, most are not doing it for the mission, for democracy, or even for their country. They are doing it for each other.
An infantryman fights for the man next to him who fights for the man next to him. Which was why Hill and Scott emphasized soldiers first. Both had found that if they took care of soldiers well enough, soldiers would take care of the mission.
Hill and Scott absolutely saw eye to eye on this, which was why both had been so concerned about the missing Ramadi awards and were pleased when soldiers began receiving them.
MAJ Smith seemed pleased, too. One day, he pulled Hill aside and told him he liked the fact that Hill had pressed for those awards in the face of almost certain static. Then the major said, “When I was a young officer, senior leaders took the time to mentor me, and I’d like to do the same for you.”
“Sir, I really appreciate that,” Hill said. “I’d be honored.”
Smith’s offer seemed to validate Hill’s decision to stay in the Army, where he had spent his life since since he was a teenager. At eighteen, Hill was accepted to West Point, and the military academy’s storied history shone for a moment on his northeast Alabama hometown. One Sunday at church, just before he was to report, a prominent citizen tapped him on the shoulder. “Roger, we love you, and we’re proud of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Listen, if it gets too hard up there, there’s no shame in coming home.” The man then slipped a couple of hundred-dollar bills into Hill’s shirt pocket.
“Yes, sir,” Hill said. “Thank you.”
And it was hard. In high school, Hill had been an athlete and honor student, but small-town academics had not prepared him for the rigors of West Point, and he struggled every semester. He wanted to quit, but his heritage wouldn’t let him.
His father, retired Army. His Korean-born mother, an honest-to-god Tiger Mom. His paternal grandfather, a Depression-era farmer who slept under a wagon each night until the crop was in. Hill’s Korean uncles had immigrated to America, each with little more than twenty dollars and the clothes they were wearing. For twenty years, they worked their way up in construction until each owned his own firm.
Twenty bucks and twenty years. Hill wasn’t going to quit. It wasn’t in his DNA.
In this, he felt instant kinship with Tommy Scott. At forty-four, Scott was there with his men doing everything he asked them to do. During company runs, his knees swelled up and he had to grit his teeth until the endorphins and synovial fluids kicked in. But Scott never failed to show up, and he never complained. The only place Hill noticed was in his jaw muscles. Just a tightening, never a grimace. In fact, when the two ran together, Scott usually had to slow down for Hill.
Army docs said he needed surgery—both knees. Hill and Scott talked it around one day over lunch.
“It’s more important that you be able to play with your grandkids than that you go on this deployment,” Hill said.
Scott’s son, Jaylen, was only nine, but Hill knew Scott hoped his retirement included spending time with a big, extended family.
“Stay here,” Hill said. “Get the work done on your knees.”
Tommy took a bite of his Chick-fil-A and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to do that.”
Hill pressed: “Okay, get the surgery first then join us in-theater.”
“No,” Scott repeated. “I’m not leaving my boys.”