Sergeant Major Quotes

The mace prodded Will in the back again. That little habit was starting to annoy him and he was tempted to take the weapon from the sergeant major and do a little prodding of his own.

Is it going to hurt?" "You bet." Sergeant Major had a lousy bedside manner.

Sergeant Major to a young soldier: “I didn’t see you at camouflage training this morning, soldier.” Soldier: “Thank you very much, sir.” All

Eva knows I'm terra incognita and explores me unhurriedly, like you did. Because she's lean as a boy. Because her scent is almonds, meadow grass. Because if I smile at her ambition to be an Egyptologist, she kicks my shin under the table. Because she makes me think about something other than myself. Because even when serious she shines. Because she prefers travelogues to Sir Walter Scott, prefers Billy Mayerl to Mozart, and couldn't tell a C major from a sergeant major. Because I, only I, see her smile a fraction before it reaches her face. Because Emperor Robert is not a good man - his best part is commandeered by his unperformed music - but she gives me that rarest smile, anyway. Because we listened to nightjars. Because her laughter spurts through a blowhole in the top of her head and sprays all over the morning. Because a man like me has no business with this substance "beauty," yet here she is, in these soundproof chambers of my heart.

He thought he suddenly understood. For the Lincon-shire sergeant-major the word Peace meant that a man could stand up on a hill. For him it meant someone to talk to.

The sergeant major

Throughout my career, I always had great respect for the British Special Air Service, the famed SAS. The SAS motto was “Who Dares Wins.” The motto was so widely admired that even moments before the bin Laden raid, my Command Sergeant Major, Chris Faris, quoted it to the SEALs preparing for the mission. To me the motto was more than about how the British special forces operated as a unit; it was about how each of us should approach our lives. Life is a struggle and the potential for failure is ever present, but those who live in fear of failure, or hardship, or embarrassment will never achieve their potential. Without pushing your limits, without occasionally sliding down the rope headfirst, without daring greatly, you will never know what is truly possible in your life.

I told Sergeant Major Plumley that he had unrestricted access to me at any time, on any subject he wished to raise.

Sergeant Major,” Arjun said quietly, “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Yur snorted. “Is that a fancy way of saying it’s above my pay grade, sir?

On his first parade the sergeant-major exclaimed that he couldn't make out the shape of Arthur's head because there was so much hair on it, and Arthur jocularly agreed to get it cut, intending to forget about it until the fifteen days was over, which he did. 'You're a soldier now, not a Teddy-boy,' the sergeant-major said, but Arthur knew he was wrong in either case. He was nothing at all when people tried to tell him what he was. Not even his own name was enough, though it might be on on his pay-book. What am I? he wondered. A six-foot pit-prop that wants a pint of ale. That's what I am. And if any knowing bastard says that's what I am, I'm a dynamite-dealer, Sten-gun seller, hundred-ton tank trader, a capstan-lathe operator waiting to blow the army to Kingdom Cum. I'm me and nobody else; and what people think I am or say I am, that's what I'm not, because they don't know a bloody thing about me.

His father was a sergeant major, his mother was a Korean woman whose people had been mine slaves in Nippon, and Hiro didn't know whether he was black or Asian or just plain Army, whether he was rich or poor, educated or ignorant, talented or lucky. He didn't even have a part of the country to call home until he moved to California, which is about as specific as saying that you live in the Northern Hemisphere. In the end, it was probably his general disorientation that did them in.

Only first-place trophies will be displayed, accepted, or presented in this battalion. Second place in our line of work is defeat of the unit on the battlefield, and death for the individual in combat. No fat troops or officers. Decision-making will be decentralized: Push the power down. It pays off in wartime. Loyalty flows down as well. I check up on everything. I am available day or night to talk with any officer of this battalion. Finally, the sergeant major works only for me and takes orders only from me. He is my right-hand man.

Over time, thinks Marie-Laure, events that seem jumbled either become more confusing or gradually settle into place. The boy saved her life three times over. Once by not exposing Etienne when he should have. Twice by taking that sergeant major out of the way. Three times by helping her out of the city.

The vast majority of those who served alongside a Special Forces unit in the Southland of Vietnam during the war returned to the world forever hyper-suspicious of everyone and closed-mouthed as to what they had been doing out there in the shit. It would take many years, decades even, before they opened even a splintered crack of insight as to what they had endured, had suffered. Many never would, just carried their secrets from the war along with them to the grave.

Sergeant Major Reinhold von Rumpel is forty-one years old, not so old that he cannot be promoted. He has moist red lips; pale, almost translucent cheeks like fillets of raw sole; and an instinct for correctness that rarely fails him. He has a wife who suffers his absences without complaint, and who arranges porcelain kittens by color, lightest to darkest, on two different shelves in their drawing room in Stuttgart. He also has two daughters whom he has not seen in nine months. The eldest, Veronika, is deeply earnest. Her letters to him include phrases like sacred resolve, proud accomplishments, and unparalleled in history.

I had always pictured the Albanian peasants as a very fine picturesque race of men wearing spotless native costume, and slung about with fascinating looking daggers and curious weapons of all kinds, but the great majority of those I saw, more especially in the small towns, were a very degenerate looking race indeed.

motioned to the sergeant-major to turn the prisoner around to show his back.

At U.S. Central Command with hundreds of thousands of troops assigned to me, I had in my command group a U.S. Army Ranger sergeant major and a U.S. Navy admiral who didn’t give a damn what I thought of them: if they thought that I had made a bad call, with door closed they would quickly make their point loud and clear. I trusted them to do this, and they never let me down.

Sixsmith, Eva. Because her name is a synonym for temptation: what treads nearer to the core of man? Because her soul swims in her eyes. Because I dream of creeping through the velvet folds to her room, where I let myself in, hum her a tune so-so-so softly, she stands with her naked feet on mine, her ear to my heart, and we waltz like string puppets. After that kiss, she says, “Vous embrassez comme un poisson rouge!” and in moonlight mirrors we fall in love with our youth and beauty. Because all my life, sophisticated, idiotic women have taken it upon themselves to understand me, to cure me, but Eva knows I’m terra incognita and explores me unhurriedly, like you did. Because she’s lean as a boy. Because her scent is almonds, meadow grass. Because if I smile at her ambition to be an Egyptologist, she kicks my shin under the table. Because she makes me think about something other than myself. Because even when serious she shines. Because she prefers travelogues to Sir Walter Scott, prefers Billy Mayerl to Mozart, and couldn’t tell C major from a sergeant major. Because I, only I, see her smile a fraction before it reaches her face. Because Emperor Robert is not a good man—his best part is commandeered by his unperformed music—but she gives me that rarest smile, anyway. Because we listened to nightjars. Because her laughter spurts through a blowhole in the top of her head and sprays all over the morning. Because a man like me has no business with this substance “beauty,” yet here she is, in these soundproofed chambers of my heart. Sincerely, R.F.

sat Major General Arnold Stansky from JSOC and Colonel Irving Jeffers from Delta, with Patsy and Linda sitting between them, accompanied by several other general officers and a phalanx of colonels, lieutenant colonels, and majors, all in uniform. To their immediate rear sat Master Sergeant Harold Ace Randall, several graying command sergeant majors, and Chester, Lonzo, The Batman, Koz, Bulldog, and countless other NCOs

Because her scent is almonds, meadow grass. Because if I smile at her ambition to be an Egyptologist, she kicks my shin under the table. Because she makes me think about something other than myself. Because even when serious she shines. Because she prefers travelogues to Sir Walter Scott, prefers Billy Mayerl to Mozart, and couldn’t tell C major from a sergeant major. Because I, only I, see her smile a fraction before it reaches her face. Because Emperor Robert is not a good man - his best part is commandeered by his unperformed music - but she gives me that rarest smile, anyway. Because we listened to nightjars. Because her laughter spurts through a blowhole in the top of her head and sprays all over the morning. Because a man like me has no business with this substance “beauty,” yet here she is, in these soundproofed chambers of my heart.

Far more humbling to me was a letter I received years later from Sergeant Talbert. Referring to the attack at the intersection, he wrote, “Seeing you in the middle of that road, wanting to move, was too much. You were my total inspiration. All my boys felt the same way.” “Tab” was far too generous with his compliments. His own action at Carentan personified his excellence as both a soldier and a leader. He helped clear that intersection and carried a wounded Lipton to safety. Later when the Germans finally counterattacked, Talbert was everywhere, directing his men to the right place, supervising their fire, before he himself was wounded and evacuated.

later learned that the aircraft carrying Lieutenant Thomas Meehan, 1st Sergeant William Evans, and most of the headquarters element, flew steadily onward, and then did a slow wingover to the right. The plane’s landing lights came on as it approached the ground. It appeared they were going to make it, but the aircraft hit a hedgerow and exploded, instantly killing everyone on board. If I survived the jump, I would be the company commander.

In 1996 Dorothy Mackey wrote an Op-ed piece, “Violence from comrades a fact of life for military women.” ABC News 20/ 20 did a segment on rape in the military. By November four women came forward at Aberdeen Proving Ground, in Maryland, about a pattern of rape by drill sergeants. In 1997 the military finds three black drill sergeants to scapegoat. They were sent to prison and this left the commanding generals and colonels untouched to retire quietly. The Army appointed a panel to investigate sexual harassment. One of the panelists was the sergeant Major of the Army, Eugene McKinney. On hearing his nomination, former associates and one officer came forward with charges of sexual coercion and misconduct. In 1998 he was acquitted of all charges after women spoke (of how they were being stigmatized, their careers stopped, and their characters questioned. A Congressional panel studied military investigative practices. In 1998, the Court of Appeals ruled against Dorothy Mackay. She had been outspoken on media and highly visible. There is an old Arabic saying “When the hen crows cut off her head.”“This court finds that Col. Milam and Lt. Col. Elmore were acting in the scope of their duties” in 1991-1992 when Capt. Mackey alleged they harassed, intimidated and assaulted her. A legislative remedy was asked for and she appealed to the Supreme Court. Of course the Supreme Court refused to hear the case in 1999, as it always has under the feres doctrine. Her case was cited to block the suit of one of the Aberdeen survivors as well!

We have been waiting for an hour when we see a squad of German soldiers line up on the roadbed alongside the train. Next comes a column of people in civilian clothes. Surely they are Jews. All of them are rather well dressed, with suitcases in their hands as if departing peacefully on vacation. They climb aboard the train while a sergeant major keeps them moving along, “Schnell, schnell.” There are men and women of all ages, even children. Among them I see one of my former students, Jeanine Crémieux. She got married in 1941 and had a baby last spring. She is holding the infant in her left arm and a suitcase in her right hand. The first step is very high above the rocky roadbed. She puts the suitcase on the step and holds on with one hand to the doorjamb, but she can’t quite hoist herself up. The sergeant major comes running, hollers, and kicks her in the rear. Losing her balance, she screams as her baby falls to the ground, a pathetic little white wailing heap. I will never know if it was hurt, because my friends pulled me back and grabbed my hand just as I was about to shoot. Today I know what hate is, real hate, and I swear to myself that these acts will be paid for.

Why," he was saying, "why should one not tolerate this life, since so little suffices to deprive one of it? So little brings it into being, so little brightens it, so little blights it, so little bears it away. Otherwise, who would tolerate the blows of fate and the humiliations of a successful career, the swindling of grocers, the prices of butchers, the water of milkmen, the irritation of parents, the fury of teachers, the bawling of sergeant-majors, the turpitude of the beasts, the lamentations of the dead-beats, the silence of infinite space, the smell of cauliflower or the passivity of the wooden horses on a merry-g0-round, were it not for his knowledge that the bad and proliferative behaviour of certain minute cells (gesture) or the trajectory of a bullet traced by an involuntary, irresponsible, anonymous individual might unexpectedly come and cause all these cares to evaporate into the blue heavens.

Hiro would have chalked it all up to class differences, except that her parents lived in a house in Mexicali with a dirt floor, and his father made more money than many college professors. But the class idea still held sway in his mind, because class is more than income -- it has to do with knowing where you stand in a web of social relationships. Juanita and her folks knew where they stood with a certitude that bordered on dementia. Hiro never knew. His father was a sergeant major, his mother was a Korean woman whose people had been mine slaves in Nippon, and Hiro didn't know whether he was black or Asian or just plain Army, whether he was rich or poor, educated or ignorant, talented or lucky. He didn't even have a part of the country to call home until he moved to California, which is about as specific as saying that you live in the Northern Hemisphere. In the end, it was probably his general disorientation that did them in.

I came to the conclusion then that “continual mindfulness” could certainly not mean that my little conscious self should be entirely responsible for marshalling and arranging all my thoughts, for it simply did not know enough. It must mean, not a sergeant-major-like drilling of thoughts, but a continual readiness to look and readiness to accept whatever came…. Whenever I did so manage to win its services I began to suspect that thought, which I had always before looked on as a cart-horse, to be driven, whipped and plodding between shafts, might be really a Pegasus, so suddenly did it alight beside me from places I had no knowledge of.

ninety POWs from the 2nd Battalion, the Royal Warwickshire Regiment were executed by grenade and rifle-fire by the Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler Regiment in a crowded barn at Wormhout, near the Franco-Belgian border.39 On seeing two grenades tossed into the crowded barn, Sergeant Stanley Moore and Sergeant-Major Augustus Jennings leapt on top of them to shield their men from the blasts. These despicable, cold-blooded massacres give lie to the myth that it was desperation and fear of defeat towards the end of the war that led the SS to kill Allied POWs who had surrendered; in fact such inhumanity was there all along, even when Germany was on the eve of her greatest victory. Although the officer responsible for Le Paradis, Hauptsturmführer (Captain) Fritz Knochlein, was executed in 1949, Hauptsturmführer Wilhelm Mohnke, who commanded the unit that carried out the Wormhout atrocity, was never punished for this war crime and died in 2001 in a Hamburg retirement home.

The flag story is important, Berntson thought. Before the assault was over, Christmas had sent Frank Thomas, his gunnery sergeant, to find an American flag. He knew it was against the rules. This was a war on behalf of the Republic of Vietnam, and the correct flag to run up the pole at its province headquarters would have been Saigon’s yellow and red ensign. But Christmas’s men had bled and died all the way across southern Hue, not ARVN troops. They had looked up at that enemy flag the whole way. They had taken it down, and they wanted to show who had done it. The Stars and Stripes had earned its place. Berntson continued jotting down Christmas’s words: “‘Proudest moment of my life—to be given opp to do it’ . . . ‘main thought was getting the flag up—so it would fly and everyone could see that flag flying’ . . . Capt. Ron Christmas, 27, 2001 S.W. 36th Ave, Fort Lauderdale, FLA CO for 2/5 Hotel . . . ‘street fighting is dirtiest close in. Biggest problem is control—keeping all platoons in line—communication also problem . . . platoons have done extremely well . . . flag. ‘inspiration thing I have ever seen in my lifetime—because it was a hard thing. That feeling of patriotism . . . all you could hear are cheers . . . really brings out America Spirit.’” Hours later, Christmas was paid a visit by two officers, both majors, one army and the other marine. They had been sent by Colonel Hughes from the compound. They said the American flag would have to come down. The South Vietnamese flag was the appropriate one. The men around Christmas were still loading up the wounded and dead. “I don’t think my men are going to like that,” he said. “That doesn’t make any difference,” said one. “You are violating protocol.” “Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Christmas. “If you want to take the flag down, you guys go take it down. But I cannot be responsible for all of my men.” Kaczmarek, who was sitting close enough to overhear the exchange, chose that moment to reposition his rifle. The majors left. The flag remained. Christmas had a gunny sergeant haul it down at sunset, and the next morning a bright yellow South Vietnamese flag flew in its place. But watching Old Glory run up that afternoon was a sight none of the marines who witnessed it would ever regret, or forget.

Lieutenant Smith was asked by Mister Zumwald to get him a drink,” Wilkes said. “She responded with physical violence. I counseled her on conduct unbecoming of an officer and, when she reacted with foul language, on disrespect to a superior officer, sir, and I’ll stand by that position. Sir.” “I agree that her actions were unbecoming, Captain,” Steve said, mildly. “She really should have resolved it with less force. Which I told her as well as a strong lecture on respect to a superior officer. On the other hand, Captain, Mister Zumwald physically accosted her, grabbing her arm and, when she protested, called her a bitch. Were you aware of that, Captain?” “She did say something about it, sir,” Wilkes said. “However… ” “I also understand that you spent some time with Mister Zumwald afterwards,” Steve said. “Rather late. Did you at any time express to Mister Zumwald that accosting any woman, much less an officer of… what was it? ‘The United States Naval services’ was unacceptable behavior, Captain?” “Sir,” Wilkes said. “Mister Zumwald is a major Hollywood executive… ” “Was,” Steve said. “Excuse me, sir?” Wilkes said. “Was a major Hollywood executive,” Steve said. “Right now, Ernest Zumwald, Captain, is a fucking refugee off a fucking lifeboat. Period fucking dot. He’s given a few days grace, like most refugees, to get his headspace and timing back, then he can decide if he wants to help out or go in with the sick, lame and lazy. And in this case he’s a fucking refugee who thinks it’s acceptable to accost some unknown chick and tell him to get him a fucking drink. Grab her by the arm and, when she tells him to let go, become verbally abusive. “What makes the situation worse, Captain, is that the person he accosted was not just any passing young hotty but a Marine officer. He did not know that at the time; the Marine officer was dressed much like other women in the compartment. However, he does not have the right to grab any woman in my care by the fucking arm and order them to get him a fucking drink, Captain! Then, to make matters worse, following the incident, Captain, you spent the entire fucking evening getting drunk with a fucktard who had physically and verbally assaulted a female Marine officer! You dumbshit.” “Sir, I… ” Wilkes said, paling. “And not just any Marine officer, oh, no,” Steve said. “Forget that it was the daughter of the Acting LANTFLEET. Forget that it was the daughter of your fucking rating officer, you retard. I’m professional enough to overlook that. I really am. There’s personal and professional, and I do actually know the line. Except that it was, professionally, a disgraceful action on your part, Captain. But not just any Marine officer, Captain. No, this was a Marine officer that, unlike you, is fucking worshipped by your Marines, Captain. This is a Marine officer that the acting Commandant thinks only uses boats so her boots don’t get wet walking from ship to ship. This is a Marine officer who is the only fucking light in the darkness to the entire Squadron, you dumbfuck! “I’d already gotten the scuttlebutt that you were a palace prince pogue who was a cowardly disgrace to the Marine uniform, Captain. I was willing to let that slide because maybe you could run the fucking clearance from the fucking door. But you just pissed off every fucking Marine we’ve got, you idiot. You incredible dumbfuck, moron! “In case you hadn’t noticed, you are getting cold-shouldered by everyone you work with while you were brown-nosing some fucking useless POS who used to ‘be somebody.’ ‘Your’ Marines are spitting on your shadow and that includes your fucking Gunnery Sergeant! Captain, am I getting through to you? Are you even vaguely recognizing how badly you fucked up? Professionally, politically, personally?

Jack Webb had been active in radio for several years before Dragnet propelled him to national prominence. He had arrived at KGO, the ABC outlet in San Francisco, an unknown novice in 1945. Soon he was working as a staff announcer and disc jockey. His morning show, The Coffee Club, revealed his lifelong interest in jazz music, and in 1946 he was featured on a limited ABC-West network in the quarter-hour docudrama One out of Seven. His Jack Webb Show, also 1946, was a bizarre comedy series unlike anything else he ever attempted. His major break arrived with Pat Novak: for 26 weeks Webb played a waterfront detective in a series so hard-boiled it became high camp. He moved to Hollywood, abandoning Novak just as that series was hitting its peak. Mutual immediately slipped him into a Novak sound-alike, Johnny Modero: Pier 23, for the summer of 1947. He played leads and bit parts on such series as Escape, The Whistler, and This Is Your FBI. He began a film career: in He Walked by Night (1948), Webb played a crime lab cop. The film’s technical adviser was Sergeant Marty Wynn of the Los Angeles police. Webb and Wynn shared a belief that pure investigative procedure was dramatic enough without the melodrama of the private eye. The seeds of Dragnet were sown on a movie set.

No disrespect, Sergeant Major, but you can kiss my big, black, New York ass!

So after I got Jamie’s address, I wrote to her every day. Every night after I put the kids to bed, I would write. I would tell her about everything that had happened--what I did, what the kids did, something funny one of them said. I just wrote as much as I could for several pages. Every night I wrote her novels and every morning I mailed them to her. That was all well and good until I found out I’d addressed all of the envelopes incorrectly! I’d left out one digit of the zip code on every single letter I’d written. I was devastated. Even though I had put a return address on them, I was sure they were stuck in post office limbo. I had this realization the same day I got my first letter from Jamie. I ripped it open and read it through gripped fingers. She told me all about her first few days in basic training, and at the bottom she added the most heartbreaking line, “I wish you’d write me. I know you’re busy and I know you don’t like to write, but I wish you would.” I couldn’t believe it. She thought I hadn’t written at all. I called a buddy of mine who is now Command Sergeant Major Phil Blaisdell, a battalion sergeant major at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. “Phil, I’m in trouble. Man, I’ve been sending her letters and I was putting the wrong zip code on them and I got a letter from her and she thinks I’m not sending her letters and I know she needs that.” “All right, let me call you back.” A little while later my phone rang. “I’m Command Sergeant Major Duncan. I am the battalion sergeant major of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. First of all, I’d like to tell you that I know who you are and I appreciate your service and what you’ve done. I’ve seen your Men’s Health issue and you are an inspiration. I understand you know a Specialist Boyd,” she said. “Yes, Sergeant Major, I do.” “Well, I’ve got her standing in front of me right now. Would you like to talk to her?” “Yes, Sergeant Major, I would.” So she handed the phone to Jamie. Jamie was a little stressed out because she had been called to the sergeant major’s office and thought, What have I done? The conversation was rushed and she was speaking in a hushed tone. “Hey, I miss you, I love you.” “Hey, me, too, baby. Let me tell you real quick, I’ve been sending you letters--” “I got them all today. Thank you.” “I miss you, and I hope that you can tell.” “Look, I want to keep talking but they’re watching me.” “Okay, we’re good. Just wanted to make sure you got the letters. I love you and we’ll talk later.

I just wrote as much as I could for several pages. Every night I wrote her novels and every morning I mailed them to her. That was all well and good until I found out I’d addressed all of the envelopes incorrectly! I’d left out one digit of the zip code on every single letter I’d written. I was devastated. Even though I had put a return address on them, I was sure they were stuck in post office limbo. I had this realization the same day I got my first letter from Jamie. I ripped it open and read it through gripped fingers. She told me all about her first few days in basic training, and at the bottom she added the most heartbreaking line, “I wish you’d write me. I know you’re busy and I know you don’t like to write, but I wish you would.” I couldn’t believe it. She thought I hadn’t written at all. I called a buddy of mine who is now Command Sergeant Major Phil Blaisdell, a battalion sergeant major at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. “Phil, I’m in trouble. Man, I’ve been sending her letters and I was putting the wrong zip code on them and I got a letter from her and she thinks I’m not sending her letters and I know she needs that.” “All right, let me call you back.” A little while later my phone rang. “I’m Command Sergeant Major Duncan. I am the battalion sergeant major of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. First of all, I’d like to tell you that I know who you are and I appreciate your service and what you’ve done. I’ve seen your Men’s Health issue and you are an inspiration. I understand you know a Specialist Boyd,” she said. “Yes, Sergeant Major, I do.” “Well, I’ve got her standing in front of me right now. Would you like to talk to her?” “Yes, Sergeant Major, I would.” So she handed the phone to Jamie. Jamie was a little stressed out because she had been called to the sergeant major’s office and thought, What have I done? The conversation was rushed and she was speaking in a hushed tone. “Hey, I miss you, I love you.” “Hey, me too, baby. Let me tell you real quick, I’ve been sending you letters—” “I got them all today. Thank you.” “I miss you, and I hope that you can tell.” “Look, I want to keep talking but they’re watching me.” “Okay, we’re good. Just wanted to make sure you got the letters. I love you and we’ll talk later.

It was then, after my presentations to thirty-two generals, that I first began to see how similar the approach to leadership problems was throughout our civilization. After two days of presentations, a three-star general, the commander of an entire Army corps—two panzer divisions—stood up and said to me, “You know, one of our problems is that the sergeant-majors coddle the new recruits, and we keep telling them that such helpfulness will not make them very good soldiers in the field.” And then he turned to his fellow officers and said, “But from what Ed has been saying here the past two days, we’re not going to have any more luck changing the sergeant-majors than they are having trying to change the new recruits.” Now this man had three stars on his shoulder; how much more authority would you want? He commanded more weapons of destruction than exploded in all of World War II; how much more power do you need? Yet neither his authority nor his power were enough to ensure a “command presence.” And I began to think about similar frustrations reported to me by imaginative psychiatrists who were frustrated by head nurses, creative clergy who were stymied by church treasurers, aggressive CEOs who were hindered by division chiefs, mothers who wished to take more responsible stands with their children but who were blindsided by their chronically passive husbands, not to mention my experience of watching nine eager Presidents sabotaged by a chronically recalcitrant Congress. Eventually I came to see that this “resistance,” as it is usually called, is more than a reaction to novelty; it is part and parcel of the systemic process of leadership. Sabotage is not merely something to be avoided or wished away; instead, it comes with the territory of leading, whether the “territory” is a family or an organization. And a leader’s capacity to recognize sabotage for what it is—that is, a systemic phenomenon connected to the shifting balances in the emotional processes of a relationship system and not to the institution’s specific issues, makeup, or goals—is the key to the kingdom. My

Last, but not least, legendary Special Forces Sergeant Major Billy Waugh, who till this day is a role model.

The name of the exhibit that my body is in, here with good ol’ Sergeant Stubby, is The Price of Freedom.

No Major, just confirming things. Unless I miss my guess, First Sergeant Ezekiel is already seeing to the disposition of your companies and the landers with his usual mix of foresight, mind reading and fortune telling.

But not a day has slipped by these past hundred years that I haven’t recollected my final flight. And now, on the eve of their centenary, here in the darkened museum—Sergeant Stubby asleep beside me, climate-controlled air sighing around us—those events replay behind these glass eyes that I can never close.

Follow me!’ Stella struck into the woods like a Sergeant Major. Tom pursued, his trowel clutched at his chest, ready for combat. The cool of the woods brought welcome relief; they had both worked up a sweat and

In contrast to Albert’s meticulous work, the American executioner Master Sergeant John C. Woods of the U.S. Army, who was given the responsibility of hanging the major groups of war criminals

went back to my old platoon, sir,’ Jack replied. ‘I told him that was where you would be,’ Gregor said, before glancing at Aletta as she clung to Jack’s arm. ‘The sergeant will be glad to have you back, you can jump in the truck and...’ ‘Sorry, sir, my place is here,’ Jack said, cutting the officer short. Gregor opened his mouth to speak, before stepping back as Aletta hit Jack on the arm. ‘You stupid man,’ she said, her voice angry. ‘I’ll let you say goodbye,’ Gregor said, before hurrying towards the cab. Jack turned to Aletta, her face furious as she stamped her foot on the ground. ‘You want to get killed, is this it?’ Jack offered her a tired smile, before turning as a familiar voice carried along the lane, his eyes spotting Fred as he led the rest of the platoon along the track. ‘I have to stay here for them,’ he said. ‘And what about me?’ Aletta asked. ‘I’ll write to you, if you like,’ Jack said, feeling awkward. Aletta’s face softened slightly. ‘I will right to you everyday,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘If you do not reply to me I will come and find you and tell your friends what an awful man you are.’ Jack smiled, before turning as the tailgate of the lorry was slammed shut. ‘It’s time you went,’ Jack said. Aletta turned as Gregor climbed into the cab, before throwing herself towards Jack and hugging him tight. ‘Don’t die, you stupid man.’ Jack nodded, before pushing her towards the vehicle, the major helping her up, before the truck pulled away. Jack waved goodbye, his eyes watching as the lorry vanished into the storm, before making his way back to his section.

Command Sergeant Major James Bryant was not unknown, but he received a funeral service that expressed Duty, Honor, and Respect in keeping in line with the highest traditions of the United States military.

I’ve told you before, Alera--Andrius lives on in you. I see him in you every day.” I smiled, tipping my head in acceptance of the compliment. “And in you--” she said, once more turning to Narian, tapping a finger against her lips in thought “--I see Cannan.” She was lightly cajoling him, exactly as a parent would do. I couldn’t imagine what was going on in his mind, but he was no longer eager to leave, his eyes never once flicking toward me or the door. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Cannan is strong and decisive. He seems unemotional, untouchable, but underneath he has more heart than most men taken together. And he could so easily have buried that compassion. In some ways, he would have hurt less throughout the years had he done so, but he would be half the man he is today.” I was remembering things Baelic had told me, vague things about Cannan and their father. I had never considered that my mother would have knowledge on the subject, although I should have surmised it. She had grown up in the nobility with the men of her generation, and Cannan had been one of Crown Prince Andrius’s best friends. Seeing the curiosity on Narian’s face, she went on, “It was no secret that Baron Burvaul--Cannan’s father--was a tyrant. In their family, everyone wore smiles for fear of what Burvaul might do if they did not, and everything stayed behind closed doors--except for bruises and broken bones, the vast majority of which were bestowed on Cannan. At that time, of course, Cannan could not fight his father, and so he fought the world instead. “But when he was eighteen and was sent into the field of war, he changed. He gained perspective. And when Andrius died and Cannan was called back to become Sergeant at Arms, and later Captain of the Guard, he was more powerful than his father, in position and character. He never abused that power, but his victory lay in the fact that Burvaul could not bear the reversal of control. He lived the rest of his life in fear of his own son, who never punished him. “I see that personality in you, Narian. Just like Cannan, you will never become the man who controlled you.” “He didn’t control me,” Narian abruptly said. “He didn’t in the end, did he?” she agreed, taking a sip of her tea. “Of course, the real question is about your mother. What was she like?” “You know my mother,” Narian replied, his expression strange. I’d never seen him this way before--he seemed younger, less defensive. He was hesitant, but not guarded like he had been upon entering the room. It was almost as if he wanted to open up to her. “I mean the woman who raised you. Your Cokyrian mother.” Narian was shaking his head, despite the change I had detected in him. “I didn’t have a mother in Cokyri.” “You’re far too well-mannered not to have had a mother growing up.” Her blue eyes were twinkling, unthreatening. Again, she was teasing him, and although I expected him to simply sidestep her a third time, he did not. “To the extent I had a mother, she was the High Priestess.” I looked incredulously back and forth between the two of them, for in half an hour, my mother had enticed Narian to divulge as much to her as I had gleaned in two years. Though I was now bursting to speak, I refrained, and she pressed him further.

carries in the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. She uncaps the pen with a flick of her thumb and presses the pointy end right against the major’s throat. Then she brings her face close to Major Unwerth’s, until their noses almost touch. “Listen up, fuckhead,” she says. Her voice is so infused with anger that it comes out as a hoarse growl. “That man over there is one of mine. He dragged me through half a mile of hostile territory. If I ever hear you talking to him again like he’s some green recruit who overstayed his weekend leave, I will tear out your trachea and piss down your neck. Is that understood?” I can see Major Unwerth’s throat move under the tip of the pen as he swallows. There’s naked fear in his eyes now, and the sight of it gives me intense satisfaction. Part of me wants Sergeant Fallon to drive the barrel of that pen right through his throat. Finally, he gives an almost imperceptible nod. Sergeant Fallon releases him and drops the pen in front of him. Her face is contorted with disgust, as if she has just cleaned out a latrine with her bare hands.

Levin had been hit in the neck. PPE wouldn't have helped. But I guess the sergeant major, like most people, needed death to be sensible. A reason for each casualty. I'd seen the same feeble theodicy at funerals in the civilian world. If lung disease, the deceased should be a smoker. If heart disease, a lover of red meat. Some sort of causality, no matter how tenuous, to sanitize it. As if mortality is a game with rules where the universe is rational and the God watching over maneuvers us like chess pieces. His fingers deep into the sides of the world.

He wanted to know if the master sergeant had read Auden, the twentieth century's most influential Christian poet, "English majors in the army, not many of them, not many of us, am I right, Top." Burnette, nonplussed, wondered if he should mention Eliot or the eccentric religious impulses of JD Salinger, but instead mumbled the only line he could recall from Auden's work, "We must love one another or die." Bingo, said the colonel. Son of a bitch had the wrong conjunction.

Low-status players will avoid letting their space flow into other people. Kneeling, bowing and prostrating oneself are all ritualised low- status ways of shutting off your space. If we wish to humiliate and degrade a low-status person we attack him while refusing to let him switch his space off. A sergeant-major will stand a recruit to attention and then scream at his face from about an inch away. Crucifixion exploits this effect, which is why it’s such a powerful symbol as compared to, say, boiling someone in oil.

Our only landing aid was a human T made up of Royal Marines lying on the flight deck holding torches.  The theory being that if, as the pilot, if you got the descent angle correct, then the visual aid would look like a lighted T on the flight deck.  The correct angle would be about a 3 degree glide slope and the aircraft should arrive just short of the T in a hover.  Once in the hover the pilot would detach the under slung load, or land vertically to discharge passengers.       This didn’t work real well on the first couple of tries because our human T didn’t have quite the confidence in the pilots that was required for this, and as we drew close, and were at the very critical stages of our approach, our human T landing aid would appear to move or disintegrate completely.      We shut down for a while and after a “quiet word” from either the Commando Sergeant Major or one of the Colour Sergeants, our human landing aids quit moving and things worked out well.

Still, a part of me will never stop thinking of her as my sergeant. She’s the toughest, most competent, and most evenhanded soldier I’ve known, and she runs her squad as a strict meritocracy. If only a tenth of the military consisted of people like Sergeant Fallon, we would have kicked the SRA off of every inhabited celestial body between Earth and Zeta Reticuli fifty years ago already. As things stand, we’re weighed down by people like Major Unwerth, who coast through the system doing only the expected minimum. If a military is the reflection of the society it serves, it’s amazing that the Commonwealth is still at the top of the food chain on Terra. Even with all the dead wood in our ranks, we have been able to hold the line against the SRA and the dozens of regional powers in the Middle East and the Pacific Rim that are short on resources and long on grievances with their neighbors.

One grossly overweight young Sergeant I’d put on the PT and Personal Appearance platoon had written a letter complaining to his parents.  They wrote their congressman about how horrible I was treating their son, and we received a “CONGRINT” which stood for Congressional Interest inquiry.  This was a big deal; it got the attention of everyone from headquarters in Washington all the way down to the squadron.       When I showed it to Major Psaros he didn’t even blink.  He said, “Where is this guy?”      “Sir he’s a Sergeant down in radio repair and one hell of a technician.  He’s just a big chunky Italian looking kid and I think he came into the Marine Corps looking like a tub and they slimmed him down in boot camp.  But now he’s just reverted to his natural shape.  I bet his whole family looks just like this.  He’s not going to qualify for reenlistment because of his personal appearance and weight.  He’s one of the most productive technicians, but if he had to saddle up and go into combat I think he’d be a liability.”      “Get his ass up here and let me see what he looks like.”      I brought the Sergeant up to the CO’s office.  The Major took one look at him and said, “Marine, you look like a Technicolor Sea Bag in your uniform.  You’re fat and out of shape.  I’ll give you a month to start showing some major improvements or your career as a Marine will be coming to an end.”      After the Sergeant left Major Psaros told me to take a picture of him in his skivvies, front and side and bring him copies of all the appropriate Marine Corps orders on personal appearance and weight control.      The CO answered the CONGRINT with the pictures of the Sergeant in his skivvies and the copies of the orders.  He didn’t include anything else.  We never heard another word.

I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to keep Marines alive,” the sergeant major said, haranguing the men only a few days afterward, “and the fact of the matter is, when a Marine comes in and he wasn’t wearing his PPE when he was hit, because it’s hot, and he doesn’t want to wear it while he’s at the OP, I’m the one who’s got to say the thing nobody wants to say.” Levin had been hit in the neck. PPE wouldn’t have helped. But I guess the sergeant major, like most people, needed death to be sensible. A reason for each casualty. I’d seen the same feeble theodicy at funerals in the civilian world. If lung disease, the deceased should be a smoker. If heart disease, a lover of red meat. Some sort of causality, no matter how tenuous, to sanitize it. As if mortality is a game with rules where the universe is rational and the God watching over maneuvers us like chess pieces, His fingers deep into the sides of the world.

The door opened. A guy came in. Busy, bustling, sixty-something, medium size, a gray suit, a tight waistband, a warm and friendly face. Pink and round. Lots of energy, and the start of a smile. A guy who got things done, with a lot of charm. Like a salesman. Something complicated. Like a financial instrument, or a Rolls-Royce automobile. “I’m sorry,” the guy said. To Sinclair only. “I didn’t know you had company.” American. An old-time Yankee accent. No one spoke. Then Sinclair said, “Excuse me. Sergeant Frances Neagley and Major Jack Reacher, U.S. Army, meet Mr. Rob Bishop, CIA head of station at the Hamburg consulate.” “I just did a drive-by,” Bishop said. “On the parallel street. The kid’s bedroom. The lamp has moved in the window.

Corporal?’ Jack turned as Ham grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘What is it?’ Jack asked, as he turned to face the large soldier. ‘Is the tin meant to look like that?’ Ham asked, before pointing to the self heating soup, the sides bulging as it shook violently on the ground. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re supposed to put a hole in it,’ Jack said, before reaching for the tin, the metal hot between his fingers. He lifted it up as bubbles started to spit from the seams, a thin whistling noise filling his ears before it burst in his hands, sending a shower of hot tomato soup spilling over his uniform. ‘Yow are supposed to eat it, not wear it,’ Fred said, as the men broke into laughter. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Jack cursed, as he wiped the soup off his body. ‘What am I going to eat now?’ Ham asked. Jack turned to the large soldier and wagged his finger at him, his mouth opening to speak, when he saw Shorthouse approaching. ‘What’s happened to you?’ The sergeant major asked, as he looked at Jack’s stained clothes. ‘He got in a fight with a can of soup,’ Fred replied. ‘Nasty things those,

No! It needs a man to plant daffodils. An enormous man with bulging muscles, large nostrils, few morals, and absolutely no pity. He has to be as callous as a mathematician, as orderly as a drill sergeant-major, and as cynical as a political agent.

raise. After the ceremony the company commanders and battalion staff got a look at their new boss and a word on my standards. They were fairly simple: Only first-place trophies will be displayed, accepted, or presented in this battalion. Second place in our line of work is defeat of the unit on the battlefield, and death for the individual in combat. No fat troops or officers. Decision-making will be decentralized: Push the power down. It pays off in wartime. Loyalty flows down as well. I check up on everything. I am available day or night to talk with any officer of this battalion. Finally, the sergeant major works only for me and takes orders only from me. He is my right-hand man. Personal descriptions of the key players in the 11th Air Assault Division, and in my battalion that year, will be useful to the reader. These men appear and

Then the Sergeant major pointed me out and said something that has stuck with me until this day. He said: 'You are very silent aren't you Darby? There is something about the look in your eyes. You're either very smart of very stupid.' I smiled at this statement, trying hard not to give away which category I fitted into. In the many years that have followed since being questioned in that way I have often wondered myself whether I'm very smart or very stupid. Is it possible to be both?

Our benefactor is retired Army Command Sergeant Major, a decorated Korean War veteran, who was given what we call a “plum assignment” at SHAPE just outside of Paris where he worked as an intelligence analyst and was given a Cosmic Top Secret clearance, the highest in the Command. It was there that his profound inner transformation from innocent “good soldier” to disillusioned, concerned citizen took place.

A quote to live by from a Sergeant Major from Infantry School Delta Company: `The toughest muscle in your body sits between your ears.' If you can control, that, everything else becomes relatively simple. It’s all about determination. You live of fail by what's between your ears. No matter how tough you think you are, or how big you think you are, if you don't have it right up there, you're not going to make it. Out of all the things I learnt from Infantry School this is what stayed with me.

The name of the exhibit that my body is in, here with good ol’ Sergeant Stubby, is The Price of Freedom. When they point from the other side of the glass, Freedom isn’t free, I hear the patriots say. Blah, blah, blah. They’re right, but not for the reasons they think they are. The Great War cost me a lot, and although it’s not a competition, on this, the eve of my centenary, I can honestly conclude that it cost Whit more.

If you really want to “see” Florida, you’d be hard-pressed to do better than Pennekamp. It’s an undersea wonderworld. Full of sergeant majors, jack crevalle, pompano, yellow grunts, mangrove snapper, smiling

They were feunesse all right, most of them between sixteen and twenty. I wondered if the Sergeant-Major was among them. They wore scraps of uniform and monkey-skin caps and feathers, which made them look grotesque in death. Apart from a few Mausers, they were pitifully armed with home-made weapons.

Some teachers refuse to call themselves teachers, because they feel they have nothing to teach; their teaching consists in their merely being present. And so on. Psychologist Guy Claxton, a former disciple of Bhagwan Rajneesh, has found the image of the guru as teacher somewhat misleading. He offers these comments: The most helpful metaphor is . . . that of a physician or therapist: enlightened Masters are, we might say, the Ultimate Therapists, for they focus their benign attention not on problems but on the very root from which the problems spring, the problem-sufferer and solver himself. The Master deploys his therapeutic tricks to one end: that of the exposure and dissolution of the fallacious self. His art is a subtle one because the illusions cannot be excised with a scalpel, dispersed with massage, or quelled with drugs. He has to work at one remove by knocking away familiar props and habits, and sustaining the seeker’s courage and resolve through the fall. Only thus can the organism cure itself. His techniques resemble those of the demolition expert, setting strategically placed charges to blow up the established super-structure of the ego, so that the ground may be exposed. Yet he has to work on each case individually, dismantling and challenging in the right sequence and at the right speed, using whatever the patient brings as his raw material for the work of the moment.1 Claxton mentions other guises, “metaphors,” that the guru assumes to deal with the disciple: guide, sergeant-major, cartographer, con man, fisherman, sophist, and magician. The multiple functions and roles of the authentic adept have two primary purposes. The first is to penetrate and eventually dissolve the egoic armor of the disciple, to “kill” the phenomenon that calls itself “disciple.” The second major function of the guru is to act as a transmitter of Reality by magnifying the disciple’s intuition of his or her true identity. Both objectives are the intent of all spiritual teachers. However, only fully enlightened adepts combine in themselves what the Mahāyāna Buddhist scriptures call the wisdom (prajnā) and the compassion (karunā) necessary to rouse others from the slumber of the unenlightened state. In the ancient Rig-Veda (10.32.7) of the Hindus, the guru is likened to a person familiar with a particular terrain who undertakes to guide a foreign traveler. Teachers who have yet to realize full enlightenment can guide others only part of the way. But the accomplished adept, who is known in India as a siddha, is able to illumine the entire path for the seeker. Such fully enlightened adepts are a rarity. Whether or not they feel called to teach others, their mere presence in the world is traditionally held to have an impact on everything. All enlightened masters, or realizers, are thought and felt to radiate the numinous. They are focal points of the sacred. They broadcast Reality. Because they are, in consciousness, one with the ultimate Reality, they cannot help but irradiate their environment with the light of that Reality.

The SAS motto was “Who Dares Wins.” The motto was so widely admired that even moments before the bin Laden raid, my Command Sergeant Major, Chris Faris, quoted it to the SEALs preparing for the mission. To me the motto was more than about how the British special forces operated as a unit; it was about how each of us should approach our lives.

yourselves properly.” The tall guy smiled. “What can I do for you?” “You can call someone for me. Sergeant Leach at the 110th. Tell her where I am. She might have a message for me. If she does, you can come and tell me what it is.” “You want me to feed your dog and pick up your dry cleaning, too?” “I don’t have dry cleaning. Or a dog. But you can call Major Sullivan, at JAG, if you like. She’s my lawyer. Tell her I want to see her, here, by the close of business today. Tell her I need a client conference. Tell her it’s extremely important.” “That it?” “No. Next you can call Captain Edmonds, at HRC. She’s my other lawyer. Tell her I want to see her right after Major Sullivan. Tell her I have urgent things to discuss.” “Anything else?” “How many customers do you have today?” “Just you and one other.” “Which would be Major Turner, right?” “Correct.” “Is she nearby?” “This is the only cell block we got.” “She needs to know her lawyer is out of action. She needs to get another one. You need to go see her and make sure she does.” “That’s a weird thing for you to say.” “What happened to Moorcroft was nothing to do with me. You’ll know that soon enough. And the best way of getting the egg off your face is not to get it on in the first place.” “Still a weird thing for you to say. Who died and made you president of the ACLU?” “I swore an oath to uphold the Constitution. So did you. Major Turner is entitled to competent representation at all times. That’s the theory. And a gap will look bad, when the appeals kick in. So tell her she needs to meet with someone new. As soon as possible. This afternoon would be good. Make sure she grasps that.” “Anything else?” “We’re all good now,” Reacher said. “Thank you, captain.” “You’re welcome,” the tall

The Beginning Sergeant Smelly was a normal man. He lived in a normal village, full of normal people and had a normal address. He lived at 1 Normall Street in the village of Normall Normall. The village was so normal they named it twice. His first name was eighty-three percent normal—Norman. Most people knew him as Normal Norman from Normall Normall; a rotund and jolly man who lived an exceedingly normal life. Well, normal, if appearing in court on exploding fart charges was normal. Normal, if producing fire from your butt was normal. All of his body parts were normal. Apart from one: his butt. His butt was abnormal. It used to be a normal butt, but everything changed in the blink of a fart. Sergeant Smelly's face glistened with sweat and his heartbeats quickened as the judge read out the charge. "Sergeant Smelly, you are here today because you could not control your soldiers, not to mention your bottom. You are hereby charged with the crime of producing exploding fire-farts. How do you plead?" asked Army Judge Mental. The stout sergeant considered the question and his thoughts transported him back to the day it all went smelly. One fateful morning, Sergeant Smelly lay in bed suffering from a horrible cold. Empty boxes lay scattered across the floor, and the bin overflowed with used tissues. He groaned as he pulled the last tissue from the box. A passer-by in the street below jumped as he heard the foghorn sound. He inspected the contents of the tissue (Sergeant Smelly, not the passer-by) and wished he had not. It was time for action. The suffering soldier dragged himself out of bed and got dressed. He wore a waterproof jacket on top of his uniform, as his army blazer was not snot-proof. Not that any of his other clothes were snot-proof. He trudged downstairs and made himself a hot lemon with honey, then switched on his laptop. After an extensive internet search, he found the best remedy to fix the cold was to feed it, so he plodded into town and searched for a place to eat. The first eatery he found had a ridiculous name, but the café was almost full. He watched the customers from the window as they tucked into their food. The plain wooden tables and basic white tablecloths oozed simplicity, but the gorgeous grub eclipsed the plain interior. Silence filled the air as customers tucked into delectable dishes and drifted off to food heaven.  But an odorous pong emanated from the café, and it was not the food. Sergeant Smelly did not smell the malodorous stench due to his blocked nose and cold. The cold was so bad it came alive. Colin the Cold smelled the awful pong and begged his owner to reconsider. He tried in vain to turn his attention to the sandwich shop, but Sergeant Smelly did not hear him. Colin the Cold saw disaster around the corner. Major Disaster walked around the corner and greeted him in a bright and cheery fashion. "Morning, Smelly," said Major Disaster in a bright and cheery fashion. Colin the Cold was correct and sensed nothing good would come of Sergeant Smelly eating at Café McPoo. It had Disaster Area written all over it, but the police apprehended the graffiti artist, and he was hard at work wiping the words ‘Disaster Area’ from the front of the café. Colin the Cold frowned and prepared himself for the worst. And so it began.

The sergeant major roared like a bear who’d broken a tooth while gnoshing on somebody’s skull. I made out no distinct words but in all the history of the universe sergeants major never have been required to be coherent to be understood.

Since they were made by hand, no two long rifles were exactly alike. Granted, the majority might appear very similar to anyone except their rightful owner. But look closer, and each weapon's uniqueness became obvious. Small variations in the wood furniture or the fittings were of course to be expected. Much larger innovations were also common—Sergeant Murphy, for instance, was believed to have had a double-barreled rifle. It was an over-under design, with one barrel above the other. The arrangement would have made it quicker for him to get off a second shot, a key asset in battle as well as hunting.

The lecture given by the sergeant major was short and to-the-point: you follow any order given to you, you don’t ask questions and you don’t think, because you are too stupid for that. This concluded our first day as defenders of the Vaterland.

At least we have the element of surprise." "FQ$k surprise, sir. I'd rather have artillery!" - Sergeant Major John Brown (Power Games, Operation Enduring Unity 1)

There is nothing wrong with feeling cold in Alaska at -70 degrees. It's when you feel nothing at all that it times to panic

Barely across the Ourcq, Donovan’s battalion began taking fire from three sides. One bullet grazed Wild Bill’s thigh; another tore off the heel of his boot. A shell fragment would surely have killed him had it not struck the respirator of his gas mask. Donovan’s adjutant, Lieutenant Oliver Ames, ran forward and flung himself down alongside the major, joined by a mess cook, John Kayes. A sniper’s bullet whizzed past Donovan and struck Ames in the head, killing him instantly. Kayes was fatally riddled by machine-gun fire. Donovan reached out toward the men and was shot through the hand. Two days later, still deployed along the Ourcq, Donovan, with Kilmer at his side, crept to the northern edge of a wood for a better view of the enemy’s position. Suddenly he realized that Kilmer was not with him. He retraced his steps and found the sergeant sprawled on the ground, a bullet through his brain.