Times of duress can lead to self-revelation
People don’t always know what their capabilities are until they’re under extreme stress.
As I think about the upcoming Memorial Day, I recall my father telling me about his South Pacific experiences during World War II. He said combat separated those with character from those who were all talk and show.
“Some of the toughest guys broke down and cried like babies under intense enemy fire,” he told me. “But then, some of the people you thought were wimps turned out to be incredible heroes.”
It was 1969 during the height of our country’s involvement in the Vietnam War. Now it was my generation’s turn to show what we were made of.
I never saw myself as a tough guy. As a kid, I avoided conflict whenever possible. I did not like contact sports. I was not the type that enjoyed telling others what to do. If anything, I wanted to be an observer of life, or at best, be a confidant to those who were in leadership roles.
I went to Army Officer Candidate School with hopes of being assigned to a support services unit. While that came later, it was not in the beginning. The Army needed infantry leaders, as life expectancy rates for second lieutenants were rather dicey.
Knowing nothing about the stress of combat, anxiety
was high. Despite my training, I did not feel adequate leading others — especially seasoned non-commissioned officers who had far more experience.
I was first assigned to a mechanized infantry company in the Guard, and later attached to an Army SRF unit (Selected Reserve Force) that was ready to go at a moment’s notice.
My company consisted of armored personnel carriers, also known as 113s. They looked something like a tank but were designed to haul up to 11 infantry men and provide some protection from the enemy. Its only outward weapon was an M2 .50 caliber machine gun.
As far as “protection” goes, its armor would stop a .30 caliber bullet, but anything larger than that could just bounce and ricochet inside. Destruction from landmines could also be a problem, depending on the type encountered.
My heart was not into any of this. I could see all hope for a South Vietnamese victory was futile. Lyndon Johnson had been determined not to be the first president to lose a war — no matter what the cost in men and treasure. Richard Nixon wanted “Peace with Honor” (whatever that meant).
Things slowly changed, as troop strength was gradually reduced under the Nixon administration. But the war dragged on for the American military another four years, ending in a humiliating defeat for the South Vietnamese Army two years after that.
The moment of truth came for me one evening on company maneuvers. I was thrust into a situation where I would either perform my duty as a platoon leader or completely fail in the assigned mission. There was no third option. Responsibility for other APCs, along with the safety and welfare of at least 30 men, completely rested on my shoulders.
At that point of realization, something happened. It was if a hidden personality had emerged. Eyebrows furled, and my facial expression changed. My voice deepened as I called out orders over the radio. Things began to click like clockwork. The men under my command followed explicitly and successfully.
I don’t remember the goal of the mission nor the details of the action, but I do recall the following: Back at base, I overheard the executive officer speaking to the company commander. He said in part: “I had my doubts about Lt. Hansen, but I think he proved himself tonight.”
The “XO” was not the only one with doubts. I certainly had my own. But it was the stress and responsibility of the moment that made me realize what I could do under tough and trying circumstances.
And that’s what worries me about some of our young college kids today. As they seek “protection” in “safe spaces” from harmless contrarian ideas, one has to ask if these students will ever understand the full extent of their potential and capabilities?
That certainly can’t happen while cowering behind pontificating professors or classroom-inspired credenda.