One of my dearest military friends, Colonel Frank Henry, was a fellow brigade commander in the 101st Airborne Division back in 1976. A great commander and as feisty as they come, Frank occasionally got in trouble crossing swords with our division commander.
We were talking one day about our career prospects. “I don’t know if I’ll go any higher in the Army,” he told me; “but I’m proud I made colonel. The next thing I expect from the Army is to be told when it’s time to get off the train.”
I once shared that story with Larry King, the famous television host; he never forgot it. In 2010, his longtime CNN show, Larry King Live, was losing its audience. The information revolution was changing all media. It was becoming clear that CNN might terminate his show. Larry didn’t wait. He made a sudden announcement that he would be stepping down after twenty-five years on the air. When he made the announcement he retold my old Frank Henry story. He’d had a great ride, he explained, but he’d reached his station. It was time to get off.
I tried to maintain the same attitude throughout my career. Working hard and leaving to the Army the decision about where to get off became a touchstone for me. They never made promises about how high I would go. “Just do your job well and you’ll move up. We’ll let you know when you have arrived at your station.” I asked my conductor a number of times if the next station was mine. “Not yet,” he kept telling me. And I kept riding.
My family was pleased that I’d gone into the Army. It was a patriotic duty and they loved our country. But for a long time they had trouble understanding why I stayed in. My aunt Laurice, the family doyenne, was assigned to press me on the issue when I returned from my second tour in Vietnam. Laurice was a master at getting in other people’s business, and she was all over me. I finally got her off my case when I explained that if I worked hard I could retire as a lieutenant colonel with a 50 percent pension at age forty-one. For my immigrant family, a pension for life was the equivalent of a Powerball lottery hit. They never raised the question again.
I made lieutenant colonel. Everything after that became a frequent rider benefit and a blessing.
The Army has very strict up-or-out policies to keep the officer corps refreshed and to bring up young officers. I was honored and pleased in 1986 when I was selected for promotion to three stars, lieutenant general, to take command of the V Corps in Germany.
A letter from General John Wickham, the Army Chief of Staff and a longtime mentor, notified me of my promotion and new assignment, congratulated me, and ended with a notice that the assignment was for two years. After two years, to the day, if he hadn’t selected me for another three-star position, or if I hadn’t been selected for a fourth star, he expected that day to have my request for retirement on his desk. If I didn’t he would be waiting at the station with one of those old mailbag hooks to yank me off.
I wasn’t a corps commander long. After six months I was reassigned to the White House, first as Deputy National Security Advisor and then as National Security Advisor. These were positions of great responsibility and I was honored to be selected, but they badly mangled my military career pattern.
“We serve where we are needed and career progression be damned,” General Wickham reminded me.
As President Reagan was leaving office, President-elect George H. W. Bush offered me several high-level positions in his new administration. I visited the new Army Chief of Staff, General Carl Vuono, to get his advice.
“I’ve been away from the Army in nonmilitary jobs a lot in recent years, and I have options in the civilian world,” I told him, “so I assume it’s time for me to leave. But the Army is still my first love. I’d like to stay in the Army, but I’ll accept any decision you make.”
“The Army wants you to return,” Vuono said, smiling, “and we’re holding a four-star position for you.” That was one of the happiest moments of my life.
When I told that to President Reagan the next day, he only asked, “Is it a promotion?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“That’s good,” he said, in his simple, direct way.
President-elect Bush was gracious, but, I suspect relieved, since he now had another open seat in the first-class car he could fill with one of the many waiting in line for a job.
Over the years I’ve run into people who don’t realize a station is waiting for them or who believe they have an unlimited-mileage ticket. Four-star generals with distinguished thirty-five-year careers have come into my office whining and pleading not to have to get off . . . as if they were entitled to stay on.
Presidential appointees at the State Department who had served for years at the pleasure of the President were appalled when I told them it was time to retire or move on to another job. One of them mounted a lobbying effort to suggest that I couldn’t possibly do such a thing. I did it anyway. The wailing and gnashing of teeth was heard all over the department. That is, until the retirement ceremony was over and everyone else began to look at how their own career prospects had been affected.
Congress is probably the worst organization in this respect. I understand the importance of experience and the value of a decade or two of service. But thirty years or more? Give it up and give your great-grandson a chance. How many more federal buildings and roads do you need named after you!
No matter what your job, you are there to serve. It makes no difference if it is government, military, business, or any other endeavor. Go in with a commitment to selfless service, never selfish service. And cheerfully and with gratitude take your gold watch and plaque, get off the train before somebody throws you off, go sit in the shade with a drink, and take a look at the other tracks and the other trains out there. Spend a moment watching the old train disappear, then start a new journey on a new train.