by Hap Rocketto
In what is laughingly known as my military career I was promoted but twice in twenty-two odd years. The first was from Naval Aviation Officer Candidate to Ensign, United States Naval Reserve. After leaving the Navy my commission allowed me to join the Connecticut Army National Guard at the exalted rank of sergeant from which I was eventually promoted to staff sergeant. As you might note rank, or my lack of it, seemed to have little effect upon me. As my only duty for many years was to shoot I was pretty much allowed to do as I wished. Stripes on my sleeve could never mean as much to me as the Distinguished Badge on my pocket flap or the President’s Hundred Tab on my shoulder. I had also grown up in a Navy town and many of my friends’ fathers were captains and admirals so I grown up particularly indifferent to high rank.
As a matter of fact the only time that my rank, or lack of it, really caused me any discomfort was in the spring of 1993. I was sitting at my desk in the training office of my Guard unit, the Connecticut Aviation Reclassification Activity Depot (1109th)-more mercifully known as the AVCRAD, helping a young recruit prepare for departure to basic training. While going over the fledgling soldier’s paperwork I noted his birthday. It was October 17, 1975. The 17 year old kid I was sending off the Fort Jackson was born one year to the day after my last promotion! It was clear to me that my opportunities for advancement had dried up and perhaps it was time for me to leave the rhythm of reveille and taps. As I sat there musing I recalled another day, some two decades earlier, when I was blind to rank.
I was a new shooter on the Connecticut Guard team and was learning the ropes. On that particular day in September it meant watching my team shoot the Rattle Battle at the General Winston P. Wilson Rifle and Pistol Championships. The team captain, Sergeant First Class Dick Scheller, had detailed me to follow the shooters down range and clean up after them as they completed each stage. The Wilson Matches are the National Guard Championships. As such Many State Adjutant Generals and other high-ranking officers often visit them from Washington.
I was hunkered on the grass of the assembly area watching my team gather themselves together and preparing to move from the 600 firing line to the 500-yard line. In turn I was intent on performing my housekeeping chores in a manner that would please Sergeant First Class Scheller when, like Archimedes, I was disturbed by the shadow of a soldier crossing my work. Looking up behind me I saw that I was surrounded by a horde of general officers, including the legendary “Wimpy” Wilson himself, and their high ranking retinues of commissioned dogrobbers and hangers on.
More concerned about Sergeant First Class Scheller’s opinion of my work than the assembly of glitter and braid formed up about me I swiveled back around to attend to my task. The least in rank of the officers present was Colonel Homer Pearson a man who liked things done by the book and who was also the commander of the National Guard Marksmanship Training Unit. This match was his big show and he liked things conducted in a most punctilious manner. The military precise, dark jowlled colonel, hands on hips, bent over toward me and looked down at me sharply. A slight scowl of impatience enveloped his face. With an arching of his eyebrows and a minute inclination of his head towards the assembled big wigs he quietly hinted, “There is a lot of brass around here today, son. Do you know what you are going to do?
He continued to hover over me while I slowly realized that he was trying to tell me something, but what? Like the sudden crack of the rifle fire downrange it dawned upon me what he wanted. Colonels or team captains… they’re all the same. With a scant glance at the star studded officers I quickly scrambled forward to harvest the gleaming cartridge cases. Simultaneously I enthusiastically replied over my shoulder to Colonel Pearson, “Yes, sir! I’m going to police it all up and toss it into that can over there!”
