Fort Bragg, North Carolina, summer of 1988.<\/p>\n
I was a sergeant and one of 500 soldiers signed up for one of the Army\u2019s toughest tests: a six-month-long Special Forces Qualification Course to become a Green Beret. Most of the guys were infantrymen\u2014macho, football-player types, with the kind of build you see on the cover of a fitness magazine. They were used to hoofing for miles with heavy field packs.<\/p>\n
I was chunky and out of shape. My background was military intelligence, where I basically sat at a desk all day and analyzed information. In high school, I was first string\u2026on the chess team, if that helps you get the picture.<\/p>\n
I wasn\u2019t surprised when no one would give me the time of day. Why bother with someone who had \u201cwashout\u201d written all over him?<\/p>\n
So I was startled when Sergeant John Hall came up to me the day after the grueling land navigation test, a sort of preview of what lay ahead. Each of us had to hike alone in the dead of night in full gear, through miles of rough hills and swampland without the benefit of trails or even a flashlight, and finish just after dawn. John had been one of the first finishers. Naturally, I\u2019d been practically last. I was still exhausted from the ordeal.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy name\u2019s John,\u201d he said, sticking out his hand. John looked to be in his early twenties. He had a down-hollow accent; later I\u2019d learn he was from deep in the hills of West Virginia. A trainee like me, he was the most gung-ho soldier in our outfit. His uniform fit like a custom suit, and his black, standard-issue combat boots were buffed like a new pair of dress shoes. I could tell he felt pity for me and I wanted none of it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m Dixon Hill,\u201d I said. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to talk to me. I understand why guys are ignoring me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I figured it was pointless to try to change people\u2019s minds about me. But I knew the truth. I bled Army green. As a kid, I loved listening to my dad\u2019s stories about serving as an Army engineer in the Philippines after World War II. I joined the Arizona National Guard at 18. I had always dreamed of being a Green Beret.<\/p>\n
Of course, John didn\u2019t know all that. But I relaxed a little when he smiled and said, \u201cYou\u2019ll be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that until you graduate. You got it in you. I can tell. Just keep doin\u2019 the right thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
Training school was even tougher than advertised. And there was more to it than just physical strength. One day, I had to make camp in the woods, then kill and cook a caged animal that would feed me two days. I chose rabbit. I attempted to roast it with little success. \u201cYou should have picked a chicken,\u201d John told me. \u201cAnd you should have boiled it\u2014boiling\u2019s faster. I learned that from my daddy when we went hunting.\u201d He hiked back to his campsite and brought me some of his meal. I was chagrined but grateful.<\/p>\n
People dropped out left and right. Some failed the field tests, others collapsed from physical strain and some flat-out quit. At the halfway point, just 175 of us remained. One day, after parachuting into a drop zone, one of the football types eyed me and snorted, \u201cHill, you\u2019re still here?\u201d<\/p>\n
I was, barely. I still wasn\u2019t in very good shape. During one brutal full-gear hike through the North Carolina hills, I slumped against a tree. I wanted to sleep for a solid week. John sat down. \u201cHow you doing?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is the hardest thing I\u2019ve ever done,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m not sure I can make it.\u201d<\/p>\n
John looked at me, and then he did something funny. He bent down and patted his shiny combat boots. \u201cWe all use little tricks to keep us going,\u201d he said. \u201cMine are these boots. They ain\u2019t made for standing still. They\u2019re God\u2019s reminder to me to keep moving when times are tough. You need to just keep doing the next right thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
Pretty soon I felt myself getting stronger. I looked forward to physical tests. Guys began to eat with me and shoot the breeze. Slowly but surely, I sensed that I was being accepted, and that I belonged.<\/p>\n
Now that I could keep up, I ran with John in drills. One of our last was the rucksack run test\u2014a torturous, 15-mile sprint through hill country wearing heavy backpacks. We had three and a half hours to finish. John ran directly in front of me. All day, I passed guys who\u2019d collapsed in their tracks. But you were supposed to keep running, no matter what.<\/p>\n
I cleared the last rise. The finish line was 15 yards ahead. \u201cMade it!\u201d I started to say. Then suddenly, John went down like he\u2019d been shot. I have to stop. I have to help him up<\/em>. But then I remembered our orders. I jumped over John and completed the race.<\/p>\n It was only then that I looked back. John was still lying there. A medic raced down the path. I prayed as the medic administered CPR. Come on, big guy.<\/em><\/p>\n John didn\u2019t revive. He was dead of a massive heart attack.<\/p>\n My grief turned to guilt. The bottoms of my boots were probably the last things John had seen. I should have stopped<\/em>.<\/p>\n The Army flew John\u2019s body home to his family in West Virginia. Our unit held its own memorial service. I marched into Fort Bragg\u2019s Special Warfare Center chapel, my mind spinning. If I had stopped to help, could I have saved him? The medic told me no. Still, I couldn\u2019t forgive myself.<\/p>\n The pastor put John\u2019s boots\u2014spit-shined to a mirror finish\u2014on the chapel altar. An M16 rifle stood upside down between them. A green beret rested on top of the rifle. The army had awarded it to John posthumously. Lord,<\/em> I prayed, I can\u2019t live with the possibility that I didn\u2019t do the right thing.<\/em><\/p>\n The pastor spoke movingly, but my mind drifted. I thought about that time John shared his boiled chicken with me. The company commander rose. We stood at attention as the captain called roll. \u201cHere, sir!\u201d soldiers barked back, as we went down the line.<\/p>\n Then the captain shouted, \u201cJohn Hall!\u201d Silence. The captain paused, then continued. \u201cDixon Hill!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHere, sir!\u201d<\/p>\n On it went until the last name was called. Again the captain said, \u201cIs Sergeant John Hall of West Virginia here?\u201d<\/p>\n Once more, silence.<\/p>\n His voice wavering, the captain shouted, \u201cLast call! Sergeant John Hall!\u201d I stood ramrod straight, trying to ignore the stinging in my eyes. My friend is gone. Do I have the strength to go on?<\/em><\/p>\n Just then a flash of light came. Brilliant light. The light reflected from John\u2019s boots, on the altar. It was so bright I couldn\u2019t tear my eyes away. The effect made the boots glow, and its glow engulfed me. I heard John say again, \u201cGod had the Army issue us these boots to keep us moving, even when times are tough.\u201d<\/p>\n Fifteen years have passed since that day at the base chapel. I\u2019m out of the Army now, retired from the Green Berets. I\u2019m 40 years old and in college, studying for a new career. Sometimes, in the middle of a tough assignment, I think of John.<\/p>\n The other day, I dug my old Army boots out of the closet. I can\u2019t wear them anymore; they\u2019re faded and cracked, and the leather is splitting. But they are there to remind me: Yes, times can get tough. But the tough get through tough times. They just do the next right thing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Fort Bragg, North Carolina, summer of 1988. I was a sergeant and one of 500 soldiers signed up for one of the Army\u2019s toughest tests: a six-month-long Special Forces Qualification Course to become a Green Beret. Most of the guys were infantrymen\u2014macho, football-player types, with the kind of build you see on the cover of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":39038,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"ep_exclude_from_search":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[155],"tags":[],"ppma_author":[2206],"class_list":["post-14796","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-life-after-death"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n