My life is filled with reunions these days. That’s a good thing, particularly being able to attend them. (Consider the alternative.) I had a dear colleague in the General Assembly of Virginia who, when addressed by another “Good to see you,” would respond, “Better to be seen than viewed.”
So too with reunions. Better, I suppose, to attend than to be eulogized by those in attendance. Yet I’ve been blessed to attend several reunions recently.
Virginia Military Institute (VMI) Class of 1973: Last year was the 50th reunion with my classmates— “brother rats” as we would refer to ourselves—from the Virginia Military Institute. This was special. My brother rats are among the closest friends I have in the world. Why? Because we shared a very spartan and formative experience at VMI. In 1969, when we matriculated, being in the military was not the most popular college option for our high school classmates to choose. The war in Vietnam was raging and the country was deeply divided over it. Nevertheless, those us at VMI found ourselves in one of the most disciplined and principled college settings imaginable in 1969. It was hard. Exacting. Uncompromisingly ethical. We were not those things when we arrived. We quickly became just that and—in the process of our conforming to “the VMI way”—we would also become lifelong brothers. We’re older now. Not so agile. Wiser. At lease wiser than the day we graduated and were sure that we could conquer the world. As we gathered on the parade field 50 years later to march behind the Corps of Cadets into the Old Barracks courtyard in an act of transcendent unity, I was just as proud to be in this honorable company as I was to have suffered with them in the ranks of our first year at VMI. I can say with certainty that the integrity of all of them exceeds the quality of those who would rule over us today.
The 1st Infantry Division Annual Officers Dinner: In April of this year—and every year since 1919—the officers (retired and active) of the 1st Infantry Division gather to celebrate the commitment and honor of serving with the “Big Red One” in combat. Of those attending, I served with several of them in combat during the First Gulf War. We don’t brag on that. There’s no need to. We were there. With each other. That’s enough. Ready to give the last full measure whether in Vietnam, Iraq, Kuwait, Kosovo, or the expansive battlefield of the war on terror. We weren’t heroes. Just soldiers called to action. Soldiers don’t want war. That’s a lie of those who would shy from it. But when we’re called, we’re “all in.” That’s who I reunited with last April. They hold a very special place in my heart. This happens when you stand with those who would die for you.
The Giessen Gang: When I left VMI in 1973, I would spend the rest of the year in either airborne school—learning how to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, and acquiring the skills needed of an artilleryman—how to blow up stuff. But in January 1974, I arrived at my first unit, the 2nd Battalion, 92nd Field Artillery in Giessen, Germany. There I would soldier as a Redleg, a term of endearment for all artillerymen that harkens back to the days when cannoneers wore a red strip on their pant legs to identify themselves in battle. In Giessen, I would have a circle of colleagues and friends who would help to shape my identity as an officer. They were my mentors and fellow travelers to sights and scenes in Europe that are vivid in my memory today. This past week, several of them gathered at our place on the Potomac River to inventory our memories. Our recollection is generally good. Mostly. As I like to say, in any good reunion at least 50 percent of the war stories are true, and the other 50 percent should have been true. It’s the nature of things where memories can be lovingly embellished to accentuate a remembrance. That’s not a lie per se, but rather the art of storytelling. And to be sure we told some stories. I really admire these fellows. We all came together from different backgrounds, experiences, and traditions. Yet we found a common identity in our youth and inexperience. And that identity was vital in helping us become men. Men of purpose. Men of honor. Friends. Livelong ones. They gathered with me this past week and I am glad they did. Yes, we frequently recounted the same old stories. They have mellowed, even as we have. As with a fine wine, aging is important. Yet more important are the friendships.
Reunions are a blessed thing.
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