Crew of Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle D31, 3rd Plt, D Co, 5-18IN(M). I am at right. Sadly, I've forgotten the name of our driver. At left is the gunner, SGT Holcomb.

My new Battalion goes to war.
("Sir, I will suck your dick to get a platoon")

November 1990. I was on leave between Korea and Germany assignments when President Bush announced that we were sending additional forces to Saudi Arabia to bolster the 82nd and 101st Airborne that were already in-country. I was in Corpus Christie TX visiting USMC LT Allen Broughton, an old college roommate, who was in flight school. On the TV, the units being deployed scrolled down. I grabbed my “Orders” to see the name of my new unit, and intently watched the military unit names as they appeared. My eyes widened; there it was, 5-18 Infantry. I was going to Saudi Arabia to help stop Saddam Hussein. Holy shit.

Today, almost 30yrs later, deployments to the Middle East are routine. Back then, however, being sent to the desert to face the 4th largest army in the world seemed like a really big deal. With the ignorant excitement and melodrama of youth, I called up PanAm to ask about moving up my flight to Germany, explaining to the call center agent, "Ma'am, I've got to go to war."

My new Infantry battalion.
I reported to 5-18 Infantry as a 1st lieutenant (1LT), which is quite unusual. Battalions are used to getting painfully young, enthusiastic 2nd lieutenants (2LT) fresh from their initial training environments. The new 2LT would be handed to some headquarters staff section and get introduced to "real life." This would also allow the battalion leadership some time to observe the new lieutenant and decide if they could be trusted with an Infantry platoon. If the 2LT was not a complete dipshit, the slow trickle up and out of lieutenants would result in an open Infantry Platoon Leader position for him. On the other hand, if the 2LT seemed to crave supervision, a silly job could be manufactured for him like "Officer In Charge (OIC) of the chow hall."

"What did you do in the war, daddy?"

"Son, I was the Dining Facility OIC, a very important job."

In my case, having arrived to the Infantry battalion as a 1LT, I was too senior to get a “line” platoon and too unknown to get a plumb specialty platoon like Scouts or Mortars. Eight months prior when I had started scheming on the idea of a highly unusual transfer from Korea to Germany, I'd not considered that as a 1LT, I'd be a bad fit for a real job.

Losing my platoon in Korea had been hard on me. Those guys and I had gone through a lot together and I had really loved them. The pain of losing that platoon made me positively desperate to get another platoon-another family.

I was in trouble. The desire to have a "real job" was all-consuming, yet the perfect thing to do with a new, seemingly hard charging LT, was to put him into a headquarters (HQ) staff section that was struggling. For example, if the captain in charge of Administration was weak, there could be a decision that what the Administration (S1)section needed was, a charismatic warrior-prince as "Assistant Administration Officer." Further, as the "extra" staff guy, it would be me that was saddled with all the happy horse-shit jobs forced upon the battalion by the Army "good idea machine". There would be a dozen silly responsibilities, each as fulfilling as "Sexually Transmitted Disease Awareness Officer".

The S1 (Admin) Officer, who I watched closely for tell-tale signs of being a slug, took me in to see the Battalion Commander, lieutenant colonel (LTC) Harold Neely. It was a large, relatively spartan office with the typical DOD linoleum floor and dark 70s wood paneling. The LTC had an ancient heavy wooden desk, a couple austere wooden chairs, and an Army-issue vinyl couch. 

As we walked towards the desk, the S1 said "Sir, this is LT Gress, our new lieutenant." This being a formal situation, I kept my eyes up, stepped purposefully towards the front of his desk, snapped to a rigid position of attention, rendered a perfect parade ground salute, and stated "Sir, LT Gress reporting as ordered." I executed this, of course, like a Marine. The sloppy-ass way Army types did this sort of thing was, well, embarrassing.

I felt like an idiot saluting without a cover (hat) on, but that was the Army way and the absence of a salute, however sloppily rendered, would have been noted.

From his chair, LTC Neely casually returned the fine salute with a sad bent wrist, cupped hand, approximation of his own. I remained at attention and, moving only my pupils, looked over the pictures on the wall behind his desk. They were mostly of guys shaking hands. The LTC and VIPs, I assumed. I had not been put "at ease"--so I could not yet look down and meet his eyes.

"A First Lieutenant?", LTC Neely asked.

The S1 answered. "He's from Korea, a Ranger, and he's former enlisted-with the Marines." The pause reflected their shared understanding that a young Army Officer that had grown up as a Marine was incomprehensible. That just never happens. Ironically, my old Marine Corps buddies felt the same way.

LTC Neely said "stand at ease." He didn't get up and come around his desk to shake the hand of his newest officer, he just looked up from behind his paperwork. I moved to "parade rest" and looked down to meet his eyes. I attempted to radiate the aura of an experienced warrior, mixed with cool, unflappable, confidence, and a dash of eager-beaver subordinate. I attempted to not radiate "arrogant young shit."

 With few exceptions, I'd been very impressed with the officers that I'd worked with over the years.  They really just seemed to have their shit together.  My first impression of my new battalion commander was somewhat at odds with this experience. There is an officer corps aphorism that "an officer is always on display" that perhaps LTC Neely didn't subscribe to. It wasn't just that he was a little guy. I'd met many highly successful military leaders that were small in stature. To a man they were brilliant, supremely dedicated, charismatic, and had boundless energy and enthusiasm. In contrast, LTC Neely's stooped posture, speech patterns and body language that lacked enthusiasm, did not radiate "Infantry battalion commander." This was bad because I had an attention-getter that I was waiting to spring upon him.

After some exchanges of no consequence that had concluded with making me aware that the battalion had no real job for me at present, I marshaled my courage. Practically bursting with dramatic resolve, I looked LTC Neely in the eyes and with deliberate affect said "Sir, I will suck your dick to get a platoon." I'd been rehearsing that line all day.

I concentrated on LTC Neely to evaluate his reaction to my gambit. I very much had the impression that this interview was significant to me only and that the LTC was just going through the motions. I had his attention now though, for good or ill. He looked up at me with raised eyebrows as he processed what I'd said. I was committed. It wasn't like I could mealy mouth backpedal now. I got a neutral sort of grunt in return. Which is better than a burst of laughter, I suppose.

I’m now a decade older than likely LTC Neely was then. He must have marveled over "the kind of idiot lieutenants that were showing up these days."

Officer Candidate School graduation, Jan89. A very serious 2LT Gress.

A week later the battalion S3 (Operations and Training) Officer, Major (MAJ) French McLean, told me that the Infantry battalion needed to send an “Advance Party”--a small group of troops and equipment, to Saudi Arabia ahead of the main body. That group would get the place figured out so that the 800ish or so that would follow on would have an easier time hitting the ground running. MAJ McLean said that LTC Neely felt that I was the man for the job--that I’d demonstrated that I was the best choice as a leader to take the Advance Party from Germany to Saudi Arabia.

This was, of course, horse-shit. I hadn’t demonstrated anything. I was simply “available”--I was the only officer in the battalion that didn't really have a job.

The other officer to be coming along was identified as a 1LT Weaver, from the S2 (Intelligence) shop. My immediate reaction was to think “Uh oh, who’s senior? They just told me that I’m taking this group but this S2 1LT is almost sure to be senior to me."

Largely the only place a 1LT is a new arrival is at “Captain’s School” in the States. An officer will have finished their first tour and is either a new CPT or about to pin it on when they arrive at “Captains School”--that being the culture of "1LT arrival" there seemed to be an assumption that I was about to pin on Captain’s bars. Certainly, as best I could, I was swaggering with the confidence of an experienced 1LT. The reality though was that I was so barely a 1LT that I secretly wondered if I’d there had been a mistake and I'd been promoted to 1LT prematurely. Two years later the Army decided that it had indeed made an error. The correction involved me going without pay for a month. 

No one really takes a 2LT seriously. In contrast, a senior 1LT is presumed to have their act together and is about ready for company command. 1LT Weaver was being assigned to the mission and since he'd been a 1LT for God-knows-how-long, instead of the Advanced Party being my show, maybe I was going to have to work for some Intelligence dweeb. The idea made me cringe. I really wanted a job, a real job. Jesus Christ, I wanted to be responsible for SOMETHING.

1LT Greg Weaver
Greg Weaver looked young and soft. He had an Opie (of Mayberry RFD) look about him that made him seem shy, earnest, and likeable--the kind of guy you’d hope your daughter meets. I introduced myself, projecting self-confidence that I would be running the early stages of our march to war.

To my very great relief, everyone seemed to buy into “1LT Gress is probably pretty senior” facade. Apparently my “Sir, I’ll suck your dick for a platoon” line did not cause anyone to infer that maybe I was really 16 years old. No one ever asked who was the senior person--the brash Infantry Officer or Opie the Intelligence Officer.

Greg Weaver was the battalion’s BIC, Battlefield Intelligence Coordinator, a job that only Greg could precisely define. Months later I would ask him, “what the hell is a BIC, anyways?” Out of his wallet he produced a clipping of a couple paragraphs of the manual that described the duties of the battalion S2 BIC. With a tone of earnest gravity, he read the generic sentences, politely pausing for my bursts of laughter.

Greg turned out to be wonderful. He was my constant companion and great friend during the difficult months that followed. By nature quiet and reserved, he had an ever-ready brilliant cynical dry humor. He was an introspective intellectual type, something rare in military officers. Greg routinely had the wry observation that perfectly summed up the goat-fuck of the hour. He was really fun to be around.

A week later I was charged to move the Advance Party’s vehicles to a port of embarkation. I took a convoy of guys I didn’t know across a country I didn’t know, to a river port I’d never heard of. The vehicles were to be put on river barges so they could get to the Atlantic, and then put on ships for Saudi Arabia.

I made copies of my route map and gave one to each of the couple dozen trucks and HMMWVs. This being 1990, I was grateful the battalion’s copy machine worked that day. Otherwise we’d have been copying route maps by hand, and there’d still be vehicles and soldiers missing.

Big convoys are always a mess. If you have no dedicated vehicles to control intersections and function like sheepdogs; the route is complicated; and there’s first world traffic and signals, it’s all going to go badly and vehicles will get scattered all over hell. I didn’t know any of the guys driving the vehicles. Only front and rear HMMWVs had radios, and I didn’t speak German. “Christ," I thought, “I’m going to have broken-down vehicles and lost soldiers strung out for a hundred miles.” I positively knew this was going to be a disaster. The only unknown was how bad. In the days prior to the convoy movement I'd wracked my brain for ideas on how I might make it a little harder for the convoy to have a break in contact or for a truck to get separated from the group.

Just before we left I had a briefing with the soldier in charge of each vehicle. Most of them didn't show up with anything to take notes with; a clear sign that they came from platoons with low expectations. Upon their return, each now with pen and pad in hand, I gave them all the information I could, to include a range of contingency ideas to employ in the event of trouble. Then, trying to hide the huge pride that radiated from me like the sun, in the lead HMMWV, I slowly led the convoy out of Ray Barracks, our base in Friedberg, Germany.

Note to Elvis fans. Ray Barracks is where Elvis did his Army time while stationed in Germany during the late 50s.  The barber on base had a glass case on his wall that displayed the hair cutting implements he used on Elvis. Each week or two, while you were restrained and vulnerable in his chair, the barber liked to reminisce about how he and Elvis often had long talks about the importance of haircuts. It was while stationed at Ray Barracks that Elvis started dating Priscilla, then a 14yr old daughter of an Air Force Colonel.

After Elvis left, the community put up a monument in memoriam to him. Had I attempted to date a nearby Air Force Colonel's 14-year-old daughter, there'd have been a marker somewhere in memoriam of me, also. 

Army trucks and HMMWVs did end up scattered all over Europe, but to my very great surprise, straggling vehicles kept showing up in the 24hrs after our scheduled arrival time. I’d kept someone at the gate to welcome them while, deeper into the port facility at our collection point, I worried a lot and drove everyone crazy. Eventually everyone was accounted for. Now, 30 years later, my coworkers state that I still drive everyone crazy.

Captain Brian Hilferty.
At the last minute battalion decided to send a Captain with us. Because the other advance parties in the brigade had captains in charge of them, the battalion figured that we should too, not giving sufficient weight to the fact that prematurely promoted Gress was so full of bluster that he’d probably fair ok without a more senior officer in over-watch.

CPT Hilferty was an odd duck. He was clearly an unhappy guy. He had a dark and hostile view of the world. He disliked and distrusted everything and most everyone. And he was a comedic genius.

CPT Hilferty had no tolerance for political correctness, foolishness, or someone’s delicate feelings. One of CPT Hilferty’s routine sotto voice lines, often particularly outrageous, could instantly reduce you to howls of insensible laughter. For the weeks that CPT Hilferty was with us, there were a number of times when CPT Hilferty was in front of the platoon formation with Greg Weaver and me behind the platoon, visible only to CPT Hilferty. The captain would be providing information, guidance, or criticism, and it would be so damned funny that Greg and I had to drift rearward into our hooch and muffle our laughter.

Having CPT Hilferty with us turned out to be terrific. He didn’t go with us into the desert. He stayed at Tent City in order to be near the port to wait for the battalion and their equipment. He was with us during the period when I needed protection from the evil forces of rear echelon pogues(*), but, as I so desperately wanted, I still had a real job. It would be me taking the advance party out into the desert.

(*)“Pogue” is a pejorative term for a rear-echelon soldiers because they are far from things that go “bang”-- don’t carry loaded weapons; sleep warm, dry and comfortable; routinely get hot chow and showers, and their greatest trial is running out of coffee. Visualize bureaucrats that all go to the same tailor.

I would later learn that CPT Hilferty had gotten his ass in a crack back at battalion and assigning him to us, at the last minute, might have been an effort to get him beyond the reach of the Polezei (German police).

CPT Hilferty’s favorite phrase was to declare someone or group “lazy, stupid and eeeeevil”--drawing out the “eeee” theatrically. He had a sarcastic tongue that could shave you like a razor, or bludgeon like a lead pipe. He complained about being sick. He complained about being sent to Saudi. He complained about everything and everyone around us. His one-liners and comedic timing were positively brilliant. It was like sharing a hootch with an irritated Steve Martin. Sure, he complained a lot, but was so damned funny that you couldn’t help but love him.

Mostly, CPT Hilferty tried to catch up on sleep. He must have lost a lot of sleep back in Germany because he was weeks catching back up. I think he was just bored and unhappy.

CPT Hilferty went on to become some big deal Army spokesperson that routinely conducted press conferences. That surprised me very much. On the one hand, a comedic genius has an exceedingly quick mind and that’s terribly important for a spokesperson. On the other hand, the CPT Hilferty I knew was so irritated by his environment that he'd have been a terrible fit as a front-man. 

Flying to Saudi Arabia.
Four weeks after arriving in Germany, I was on the tarmac at Rhein Mein Air Force base south of Frankfurt. It was 0200 and we were about to board the plane for Saudi Arabia. It was dark and cold, and everyone huddled together sitting on their rucksacks. With Greg, CPT Hilferty and me was NCOIC (Non-commissioned Officer In Charge--the senior SGT) Sergeant First Class Maxwell, two Infantry squads led by Staff SGT (SSG) Allen and SSG Stevenson, and a mixed squad of nine other soldiers from Headquarters company led by SSG Purvis from the S4 (Logistics) shop. The HQ Squad consisted of drivers, mechanics, two medics and a cook. CPT Hilferty was sitting down with the troops, radiating irritation. I was standing around trying to be in charge. It felt like a great big adventure.

Our plane was a civilian 747 apparently leased for our flight. This was a new idea for me. All I’d ever known for military flights had been crude military cargo transports. I had thought that we were going to be sitting on uncomfortable nylon web benches had been looking forward to spending crammed into an 18” space, freezing and deafened. In contrast, the 747 was quite civilized.

After spending about an hour sitting on our gear outside of the plane, we finally received a five minute warning for boarding. I asked the squad leaders to get their folks up and ready to board. In an omen of things to come, Infantry Squad Leader SSG Allen, told me with some embarrassment, that one of his Team Leaders was missing. Apparently he’d wandered off to find a bathroom 20min prior and hadn't returned yet. "Shit. Jesus Christ what a way to start," I thought. I told CPT Hilferty about the missing NCO, but his response was so neutral that I interpreted it as meaning “Gress, you deal with it”. I worried, however, that I might very much regret sending people away from a plane that was about to take off. "What the fuck was I going to do?" I thought.

I turned to SSGs Allen and Stevenson and said, loudly enough for others to hear, “Please send your people running out in different directions looking for SGT <name forgotten>. Have them haul ass and search as far as they can get. They have to be back here in four minutes--n four minutes and thirty seconds, but back here in four minutes or they walk to Saudi Arabia. Go go go." The Squad Leaders turned to their squads and echoed “GO." The guys jumped up and raced off in all directions--SSG Stevenson's boys showing more energy than SSG Allen's. I paced around and stressed as the final minutes slowly ticked by prior to boarding. The Infantry soldiers, one by one, all came back on the run to report nothing found. 

We were directed to board the plane. I asked Greg to save me a seat and I stayed at the top of the boarding ladder. I watched with desperate hope for the missing asshole to come walking around some distant corner. I pleaded to Lady Luck to cut me a break. After a couple minutes the ground crew told me that they needed to move the ramp away. I stepped into the plane. I took one last look before the flight attendent closed the door. I was fucked.

We'd not even gotten off the ground and I'd allowed a monumental screw-up. What I needed to do now though was to put aside the horror and dread over what happened and figure out the logical next steps. I needed to figure out how I was going to get word back to battalion that we’d already lost a man. "Not going to be easy," I thought. There were no communications in the plane that we could use. Once debarked in Saudi Arabia, I’d have no means of communicating back to battalion. I’d have to go to the brigade element (our higher HQ) and give the message to them so that they could find a way to send the word back through division and corps HQs back to Germany. Half the officers in XII Corps would end up being involved. The battalion would be humiliated. I was doomed.

An hour into the flight word came around that the SGT was found. He was in the plane. The motherfucker had come back from the potty and gotten into a boarding line on the other side of the plane. While I was on the tarmac panicking and sending searchers around, he was already on the plane. Christ.

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