The Salute

What follows is a true story.

—

“I’m going to lunch.”

The lieutenant rose from his desk, saw that his proclamation had stirred no interest, and walked out the door.

The hallway of the second floor of Fort Benning‘s Infantry Hall (today: McGinnis-Wickham Hall) was generously wide with the white glare of too-bright neon lights ricocheting hard off the freshly waxed tile floor. The lieutenant strode purposefully toward the stairs, enjoying the metered “clump clump” of his jump boots announcing his approach.

He glanced through the open door of an administrative office as he passed. She wasn’t at her desk. Probably already at lunch, he thought. He remembered the image of her sitting on the bar stool at the Officers’ Club, her brown hair shimmering like the fine silk of a web glistening with the morning dew as it fell in a straight line, only to stop abruptly at the small of her back.

It had been an evening like most others since the incident at the 1st AIT Brigade [1]. He had arrived at the bar around 1700, intending, as always, to study the quality of the bar’s various liquid offerings. But this night would be different. This night the study of quality would not inexplicably morph into a study of quantity. When the Department of the Army had told him that he could no longer count on making the military a career but that he would still have to serve his entire West Point obligation, his path had diverged from that of his peers. His path, while marked with bitterness and resentment, was a path of freedom; though he still worked hard for those superiors he respected, his only real concern was staying out of jail until he could resign his commission. It was, of necessity, a path he walked alone.

The loneliness within him had been met by a lingering, sympathetic void of her own. In quiet desperation they had spent the evening in the futility of attempting to drown their needs. Ultimately, they found themselves beneath one of the horse jumps on the riding field. The long, uncut grass tickled his bare flank with its cool fingers and he remembered dimly hearing her thick whisper, “Don’t get me pregnant.” In the urgency of his moment the concern for consequences had already passed.

There was one more office before he reached the stairway; he felt the tightness in his gut as he neared the open door. He turned his head slightly and glanced in as he strode by. No one in sight. Probably also at lunch.

This one made him uneasy. She had been a first lieutenant, as was he, but she had worn the rank as attitude. She had the demeanor of someone with a statement to make, something to prove. When they passed in the hall, his cordial greetings were met with responses devoid of warmth. Unlike himself, whose promotion to a higher rank was not assured, she had recently been promoted to captain. His instincts told him that this one was trouble. He would stay away from her. He would bide his time and do his job in low profile until his separation date, which was only a few months away. He would be alright if he avoided her from now on. Should be easy, he thought, it’s a large building.

He should have known better.

The lieutenant stepped out into the sunlight. Giving his cap a quick snap of the wrist, he placed it firmly on his tightly shorn head and made for the side parking lot. It was as he approached the road separating the building from the parking lot that he saw the newly spawned captain. She had just stepped up onto the sidewalk and was striding toward him. He executed a half left face maneuver and started across the grass.

When the lieutenant had been a Cadet at West Point, the freshmen, or Plebes, there were required to salute upperclassmen. Being the put-upon class, it was the nature of Plebeian culture to avoid this ritual whenever possible. A favorite tactic was to change the angle of approach when an upperclassman had been spotted in an attempt to pass with enough distance as to make a salute inappropriate. Not to be outdone (upperclassmen recognized the meaning behind a Plebe’s seemingly nonsensical change of direction) the intended avoidee would change direction as well, placing themselves directly on the aspiring avoider’s new azimuth. The upperclassman would then initiate the salute, and so force the would-be errant Plebe to respond in kind.

Where she had learned this trick he had no idea, but the captain now stepped directly into the lieutenant’s path, her hand snapping sharply upward. The lieutenant turned to his right, crossed the sidewalk, and stepped into the street.

“Hey!”

It was a woman’s voice. He was almost to the parking lot. He took another few steps.

“Hey! Lieutenant!”

Oh, hell. The lieutenant stopped and turned. Like an exasperated mother about to administer a prizewinning spanking she stood there, glaring at him, the shiny new captain’s bars on her shoulders gleaming brightly in the midday sun, her hands balled into fists and planted firmly on her hips. He took a long breath, then slowly walked back to her.

“What’s your problem, lieutenant? Didn’t you see me or did you just ignore me and decide not to salute?”

What’s my problem? He felt the heat from the flushing of blood to his face. He could feel the moisture leave his mouth and the tremors start in his hands as the primal fight-or-flight response took hold. His knees became rubber under the onslaught of adrenaline. Long years of regret and resentment rose with the suddenness of flood waters on the desert and he knew that his response would be disproportionate. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to rip the rank from her shoulders and scream: what did you do to earn these, hang around long enough? What makes you think you’re deserving? He felt the words come; they boiled up into his throat with the unyielding force of a west Texas gusher. He knew the consequences would be severe but he was powerless to alter his destiny.

“To be honest with you, captain, I ignored you.”

His voice was even and, considering the stress of the situation, this surprised him. The captain stared at him, her features inscrutable. Then, he twisted the knife.

“The day I salute a woman will be the day I get the hell out of the Army.”

Words, like bullets, cannot be recalled once loosed. The lieutenant knew that this particular shot would reverberate loudly. He threw a reply to the now incensed captain’s query as to his supervisor over his shoulder as he walked away.

---

The snack bar adjacent to the golf course had a light and pleasant air which was now filled with the smells of a grill sizzling raw ground beef into something edible, and deep fryers changing the hue of potatoes from white to golden brown. The little eatery had a pleasant, unhurried ambiance that made it a favorite lunchtime attraction. The lieutenant’s cheeseburger was a man-sized, two-fisted affair piled high with meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickles, and a generous spreading of mayonnaise. Today, however, he chewed each bite listlessly. Today, the melange of tastes was lost to him as his mind replayed the events of the Infantry Hall parking lot.

What would his “Tac” have done? It was a question that he’d asked himself on several occasions. His West Point Tactical Officer was a man he much admired though he’d been the lieutenant’s nemeses during the latter’s Cadet days, having doled out demerits and punishment tours with the apparent ease and casualness of the offering of a breath mint. His Tac had had a presence and self-assurance which had inspired confidence. In the game of the Academy, it was unspoken that Cadets would bend the rules wherever possible and that their Tactical Officers would attempt to catch them and slap them with appropriate punishment. The lieutenant remembered peering down from his window at 0530 to see his Tac standing behind the barracks, intercepting Cadets as they returned from unauthorized excursions off the Academy grounds. The lieutenant breathed a long sigh; well, one thing’s sure, dumbass: your Tac would have saluted.

He sat quietly for a moment. Then he put down his cheeseburger and went to the phone. Shortly he heard the captain’s voice on the line. He identified himself.

“Captain, what I did today and the things I said to you were wrong. I know that. They were wrong technically, ethically, and morally. I have no plausible excuse for my actions. However, soldier to soldier, I apologize, both for my actions and my remarks. I was way out of line.”

Silence. Then, “Alright. Thank you.”

The lieutenant walked back to his table. Not bothering to sit down, he took one last bite of his meal and wiped the grease from his hands. He was under no illusions. Now, he thought, time to go and face the music.

---

If he’d been expecting a band, he found instead a full symphony orchestra. The others in his office watched in silence as he went to his desk. There he found a stack of phone messages. The most recent was from the aide to the commanding general. Returning the call, he was informed that the general wanted to see him at 1500.

His supervisor approached him. He was a short, round captain with smooth, magnolia skin against which the blush in his cheeks contrasted sharply. His glasses, also round, accented an appearance that was more reminiscent of a bookish college professor than the term “soldier”.

“I know what happened. I’ve been called to see the CG before you. You’ve done a good job for me and I know there must be reasons for you to have done what you did. I’ll support you however I can.”

The lieutenant felt a tightening in his throat. He had long since learned not to judge a person’s character by their appearance. He had seen swaggering, muscular “studs” reduced to tears in Ranger School while seemingly average individuals proved themselves extraordinary. It was an immutable law of nature proven countless times under the rigors and stresses of West Point: there is no correlation between character and appearance.

“Thank you, sir, but I really have no excuse.”

“Nonetheless, I’ll do what I can.”

From here, the lieutenant knew the drill. He went home and “broke starch” on a fresh uniform. He touched up the spit-shine on his best preserved pair of jump boots. Then he went to the barbershop to have his head detailed. He was in the chair with clippers buzzing his head in miniature strafing runs when a West Point classmate, having spotted him through the door, approached him and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, as though he were divulging national secrets.

“Hey man, heard what’s going on. Helluva a buzz going around.”

“Yeah. I’ve got tea with the CG at 1500. That’s why I’m here getting squared away”, the lieutenant replied conversationally.

“What happened? Did she hassle you? Give you a hard time?”

“No. My mouth just overloaded my ass and got in the way of my common sense.”

His classmate slowly shook his head.

“Wow, man. Well, listen, good luck. Gotta go, I shouldn’t be seen with you.”

At precisely 1500 the lieutenant stood before the commanding general’s door as the general’s aide swung it open. Major General David E. Grange, Jr., sat stolidly behind a massive wooden obstacle resembling a desk. As large as the desk was and though the general was seated, his presence made him seem even larger. The man’s hawk-like features reminded the lieutenant of a close-up he’d once seen of a falcon: stern, alert, and eminently resolute. The caption explained that the falcon had just sighted prey.

The lieutenant quickly strode forward and reported. The general looked up, staring hard into the lieutenant’s eyes.

“Lieutenant, what are you trying to do to the discipline in my command?”

The lieutenant’s response had been ingrained at the Academy and was appropriate to the situation. It was firm and immediate.

“No excuse, sir!”

“Regardless, let me hear your side of this.”

The lieutenant gave a short synopsis of what had transpired. He would learn later that the general had that very day received a directive from TRADOC (ed: TRaining And DOctrine Command) stating that sexual harassment in any form would not be tolerated. As usual, he thought, my timing is impeccable.

He had made and maintained eye contact with the general since entering the office; now, he was sure he saw the unmistakable signs of conflict. The general drew a breath.

“I’ve talked to your chain of command. Tell me about the 1st AIT Brigade.”

So there it was. The lieutenant had resigned himself to continued torment from this particular beast, to never being able to slay the dragon. Now it had raised its foul head again. Though he knew it had been at the root of the day’s events, he had resisted allowing himself to use it as an excuse. Now he slipped the leash from the monster’s neck. He told the general of the rampant lack of discipline in his unit, the complaints by the drill sergeants that had fallen on deaf ears. He related stories of drug usage, assaults, and lack of respect for rank that had been fueled by the absence of meaningful disciplinary action. He explained how it had affected him directly when a trainee had refused a direct order and he had taken the matter into his own hands, resolving the issue at gunpoint. He explained again how he found it perplexing that, at The Home of the United States Army Infantry, such a massive uproar had resulted from his discharging a firearm while no one had seemed to care why he had taken such drastic action. The general’s predecessor had seen fit to offer the lieutenant punishment under Article 15 of the UCMJ (ed: Uniform Code of Military Justice) in lieu of a court martial. The lieutenant had considered himself lucky and accepted what had amounted to a slap on the wrist.

“But the Department of the Army told me I had no career left because I would never make field grade rank. And they said I would have to serve my entire five year active duty obligation, regardless.”

Thoughtful, the general drummed his fingers lightly. Then he mentioned the captain.

“I called her and apologized, sir. It’s not much, but it was all I could do. I screwed up.”

The general was silent for a moment. Then he gathered the paperwork on his desk.

“You’ll hear from me through your chain of command. Dismissed!”

The lieutenant saluted, executed his sharpest about-face, and marched rapidly out of the general’s office.

The lightning from on high, when it came, consumed his entire paycheck. It took the form of another Commanding General’s Article 15 and was accompanied by a written reprimand. More upholstery for the lieutenant’s burgeoning 201 personnel file.

And yet he was grateful. Grateful to General Grange that he hadn’t bowed to the highly charged political atmosphere of the time by convening a court martial. That would have been a nightmare option in which the lieutenant knew he would have suffered the severest of consequences. Paradoxically, he was also grateful that the punishment had teeth, that it had not been trivial. The lieutenant knew that the one individual to whom he had to answer stared at him every day from his mirror. He knew his life would be miserable if his answer to a daily, unspoken question was, “I got away with it.”

They would meet again. Seeing the lieutenant in the hall one day, the general hailed him and invited him to his office. There, the general asked straight out if the lieutenant had plans to leave the Army.

“Sir, I don’t have a choice. If I don’t make rank I’ll be forced out. And two peacetime Articles 15 by different commanding generals ensures that I won’t make rank.”

The general nodded in agreement.

“Is there any way, sir, that you can pull the Articles 15?”

He shook his head.

“No, no I can’t do that. But damn, I sure hate to see a man with your qualifications leave the service. We need leaders, especially now, and if you’re willing to try the Army should be willing to do the same.”

He paused for a moment.

Then, “Have you given any thought to staying in the Reserves?”

“Yes sir. I’d like to do that.”

“Good, good. Give me a little time and let me make a few phone calls.”

The general kept his word. The lieutenant received letters of introduction from a number of reserve units that mentioned the general’s name. The lieutenant kept his word as well, serving in the Individual Ready Reserve for many years. To his delight, one of his first assignments was to the Airborne Department at Fort Benning, to the unit and work he had so enjoyed when he had served as Assistant Branch Chief of Jump Branch. He was glad to have the opportunity to hang his “knees in the breeze” again. He found the personnel as gung-ho as ever, the NCOs and Officers tightly squared away.

Eventually the lieutenant was promoted to captain. For his part, then and in the years of service that followed, he never again missed a salute.

[1] The 1st AIT Brigade was later combined with Infantry Basic and became OSUT, One Station Unit Training.

[2] The UCMJ is the body of laws which governs military personnel.

~ Dempsey 🌵