he’s gotten used to being followed around by an aide. And yes, he’s become a more impatient driver since coming home, even irritated at times, but who doesn’t get impatient in Washington traffic?
“What you see is what you get. He’s really not that complicated,” she says. She taps her forehead. “Like a slab of meat,” she says, laughing.
And maybe he is that and that’s all there is to it. But there is also the story of his first deployment to Iraq, when he was a division commander who in the course of a year lost 169 soldiers. One by one, he wrote their names and hometowns on index cards that he carried in his pocket until there were too many to fit. He attended all of the memorial services and wrote 169 condolence letters in 365 days. But the worst part may have come later, at home, when it was time to erect a memorial, and he was approached by some of his junior officers who wanted 168 names on the memorial, not 169.
“The greatest regret of my military career was as Commanding General of the 1st Cavalry Division in Iraq in 2004–05,” he later wrote of the decision he made. “I lost 169 soldiers during that year-long deployment. However, the monument we erected at Fort Hood, Texas, in memoriam lists 168 names. I approved the request of others not to include the name of the one soldier who committed suicide. I deeply regret my decision.”
By the time he wrote that, he had become the vice chief of staff. When he had gone back to Iraq a second time, he had hoped to be put in charge of the entire war—ground, air, the overall strategy—but that wasn’t how it worked out. Now, as Vice, he had his war at last. “This is it,” Beth says. “This is his contribution.” His war would be the after-war, and one of his first acts as its commander was to convene a monthly meeting of a type never before held at the Pentagon, with roots in his regret.
“Joe, I hope you’ve had coffee,” he says now, beginning one of them,talking one afternoon by video linkup with a general in Korea, where it is 4:00 a.m. “Okay. You’re on.”
“Sir, we have a really unfortunate one here,” the general, Joseph Fils, replies. “I’ll let Mike Tucker talk us through the details.”
“Sir, this is Mike Tucker. Can you hear me?”
“I can, Mike,” Chiarelli says.
“Okay,” Tucker says. “Sir, he was actually a married soldier, living off post with a professional girl who worked down in the ville. This is a case, sir, where the chain of command thought they knew that he was involved in this type of behavior and counseled him, but they had nothing definitive. So when they first heard of it, they counseled him on it, and yet he continued to pursue this. Another NCO at another unit actually engaged him and told him this was not the right thing to do, you have a wife and a child back in Texas, you shouldn’t be doing this type of activity, and on the first of March, when he actually committed the offense, he had, according to her, had sexually assaulted her, and he felt as though she had cheated on him because that was obviously her business, and he told her, quote, unquote, ‘You will watch me die.’ And so he strung himself up on a door hinge, standing on a table, kicked the table out from under his legs, and as much as she tried to put the table back under his legs, he kept kicking her until he died. A very unfortunate incident, sir, for this young soldier.”
“Okay, Mike,” Chiarelli says when Mike has finished, and after a brief discussion about what lessons can be learned from such a soldier, with twenty-eight more suicides to get through in two hours, he moves on to a general in Iraq who will tell him about suicide number two.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Vice.”
Another meeting, another month, another twenty-four suicides to review. Chiarelli walks into a conference room where those invited to the meeting rise to their feet as he looks embarrassed and tells them to sit. He takes his own seat at
“What you see is what you get. He’s really not that complicated,” she says. She taps her forehead. “Like a slab of meat,” she says, laughing.
And maybe he is that and that’s all there is to it. But there is also the story of his first deployment to Iraq, when he was a division commander who in the course of a year lost 169 soldiers. One by one, he wrote their names and hometowns on index cards that he carried in his pocket until there were too many to fit. He attended all of the memorial services and wrote 169 condolence letters in 365 days. But the worst part may have come later, at home, when it was time to erect a memorial, and he was approached by some of his junior officers who wanted 168 names on the memorial, not 169.
“The greatest regret of my military career was as Commanding General of the 1st Cavalry Division in Iraq in 2004–05,” he later wrote of the decision he made. “I lost 169 soldiers during that year-long deployment. However, the monument we erected at Fort Hood, Texas, in memoriam lists 168 names. I approved the request of others not to include the name of the one soldier who committed suicide. I deeply regret my decision.”
By the time he wrote that, he had become the vice chief of staff. When he had gone back to Iraq a second time, he had hoped to be put in charge of the entire war—ground, air, the overall strategy—but that wasn’t how it worked out. Now, as Vice, he had his war at last. “This is it,” Beth says. “This is his contribution.” His war would be the after-war, and one of his first acts as its commander was to convene a monthly meeting of a type never before held at the Pentagon, with roots in his regret.
“Joe, I hope you’ve had coffee,” he says now, beginning one of them,talking one afternoon by video linkup with a general in Korea, where it is 4:00 a.m. “Okay. You’re on.”
“Sir, we have a really unfortunate one here,” the general, Joseph Fils, replies. “I’ll let Mike Tucker talk us through the details.”
“Sir, this is Mike Tucker. Can you hear me?”
“I can, Mike,” Chiarelli says.
“Okay,” Tucker says. “Sir, he was actually a married soldier, living off post with a professional girl who worked down in the ville. This is a case, sir, where the chain of command thought they knew that he was involved in this type of behavior and counseled him, but they had nothing definitive. So when they first heard of it, they counseled him on it, and yet he continued to pursue this. Another NCO at another unit actually engaged him and told him this was not the right thing to do, you have a wife and a child back in Texas, you shouldn’t be doing this type of activity, and on the first of March, when he actually committed the offense, he had, according to her, had sexually assaulted her, and he felt as though she had cheated on him because that was obviously her business, and he told her, quote, unquote, ‘You will watch me die.’ And so he strung himself up on a door hinge, standing on a table, kicked the table out from under his legs, and as much as she tried to put the table back under his legs, he kept kicking her until he died. A very unfortunate incident, sir, for this young soldier.”
“Okay, Mike,” Chiarelli says when Mike has finished, and after a brief discussion about what lessons can be learned from such a soldier, with twenty-eight more suicides to get through in two hours, he moves on to a general in Iraq who will tell him about suicide number two.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Vice.”
Another meeting, another month, another twenty-four suicides to review. Chiarelli walks into a conference room where those invited to the meeting rise to their feet as he looks embarrassed and tells them to sit. He takes his own seat at
Similar Books
