How the 75th Ranger Regiment Taught Me to Dance

U.S. Army Rangers, 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, participate in a Combined Arms Live Fire Exercise (CALFX) near Fort Stewart, Ga., on Jan. 10, 2012. The U.S. Army/Flickr/CC by 2.0 [https://bit.ly/1mhaR6e]

I was never in the Ranger Regiment, but I’m fortunate to know a lot of Rangers. I even helped write a book about them, once upon a time. But this is a different story, a story about how a unit I was never in, taught me to dance.

I was in the Army for more than 27 years. And as a military intelligence officer with seven combat deployments and service in multiple special operations forces (SOF) units, I saw a lot and done a lot, and been exposed to the best and the absolute worst that humanity has to offer. I’m very grateful for that.

On the right sleeve of my “dress blues” uniform I wear seven gold combat stripes, indicating 42 months of service in a combat zone. I say that not to brag, but for context, because it will be important later in this story. Seven stripes and seven deployments are a lot, but that was on the low end of average for individuals in the SOF community during the time at which I was part of it. For purposes of comparison, individuals like General (Retired) Stanley McChrystal, who commanded the national-level Special Operations Task Force, have at least half again that number of stripes and probably twice as many. Ranger Kris Domeij was on his 14th deployment when he was killed.

As is the case with an individual’s time “down range,” the nature of one’s deployment also varies. I was proud of what I did for the Task Force, but at the end of the day, I was a “Fobbit,” the term reserved for individuals who spent most of their time on a Forward Operating Base (FOB) instead of out engaging the enemy. We got rocketed regularly, and someone chucked an RPG round our way in the early days of Iraq, but I never really felt that my life was in danger. I got shot at just enough to earn a Combat Action Badge and four bronze stars—for merit, not valor—but I never even fired my own weapons in combat. And that is how it should be; as a mid-rank intelligence officer in a national-level SOF Task Force, my hands belonged on a keyboard, not a trigger.

Over the course of my career, I was assigned to the 5th Special Forces Group, the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, and the Joint Special Operations Command and worked with most of the other major SOF units. But the Rangers were always my favorite unit to support. They were aggressive, disciplined, and highly professional. They were also constant and detail-oriented planners, which I especially appreciated during my time as an intelligence officer in the 160^th. Over time, the Ranger Regiment became my favorite “unit I was never in.”

The Ranger Regiment was in charge of the overall Task Force effort in Afghanistan during my last deployment there in 2009. Up to this point, I had worked mainly with just the company and battalion-level Ranger leaders. But this was the first time I worked with the highest level of the Regiment’s leadership, and they did not disappoint. The Regimental Commander I worked with at that time is now a four-star general, and the Regimental S2 Intelligence Officer) that I worked directly for is a senior colonel. The nature of my duties on that last deployment required regular interaction with the commander and several members of his staff, particularly the Regimental S2 and the Regimental Judge Advocate General. Although I was not “one of them,” I felt included and valued as a small part of the overall team. It was a good feeling.

One of my clearest memories of my time with the Task Force in Afghanistan is the pictures that hung on the entrance hallway of our “Plywood Palace” Joint Operations Center (JOC) in Afghanistan. There were several, but there were two that I remember most. The first was the Falling Man photo taken as a man plummeted to his death on 9/11, choosing to jump rather than death by fire or asphyxiation. Another blowup photo in that hallway was of a young Ranger, wounded, intubated, and lying in a hospital bed, with two other young Rangers standing behind him holding an American flag stretched between them. This was a re-enlistment; the young man had been wounded in action but was still signing up for more.

I don’t have a copy of that photo, because it was inside a secure area where personal cameras were not allowed. But it’s a scene that played itself often over the course of the war. And the combination of those two images—the first a reminder of why we were in Afghanistan, and the other a reminder of the dedication of those doing the fighting and the dying there—was deeply moving and is something that I will always remember.

Flags wave in the wind outside of Gillette Stadium in Foxborough, Mass., on May 21, 2020. The Patriots foundation partnered with the Massachusetts Military Heroes fund to plant 2,552 flags to honor veterans from Foxborough who have lost their lives defending the country since the Revolutionary War. Maddie Meyer/Getty Images

One thing I remember but did not enjoy was going to the memorial ceremonies for the Rangers we lost in combat. Those events were mercifully few, and I never knew any of the fallen Rangers personally, but the experiences were heart-wrenching nonetheless. We would gather up on the road inside the Task Force compound, the commander and the chaplain would say a few words, there would be a Last Roll Call, and then we would all file by to pay our respects. It was the least that we could do for a comrade who fell trying to make sure that 9/11 would never happen to us again. It was tough enough to have to stand witness to those ceremonies. I can only imagine what it must have been like to lose someone I loved. I began to wonder if it was worth the cost.

During my deployments, I was on the periphery of a lot of major operational-level decisions, and through the nature of my job had a lot of information at my fingertips. But I also had a lot of time to just think. I eventually came to the conclusion that our country was never going to make the kind of commitment we needed to make in order to convincingly win in Iraq or Afghanistan, and indeed it appeared that several of our prominent politicians seemed eager for us to fail, because it served their political ambitions.

The Task Force in particular was doing absolutely amazing things and I was proud of my part in it. And I was never “against the wars” per se, but I thought the way we were going about them was—well, let’s just say I didn’t think it was a recipe for success. I planned to stay in the SOF community for the rest of my career, but after gradually becoming disappointed and disillusioned—not with SOF, but with things outside of it—I started looking to do something outside of the constant “down and back” deployment cycle. That was because even for a Fobbit, there was still an element of danger down range, whether that’s from the burn pits, roadside bombs, disease, accidents, or rocket fire.

And for my wife and two daughters, “gone” is gone, no matter where I was gone to.

After considering a lot of different options, I decided to go all-in for a teaching position at West Point. As a product of Mercer University’s ROTC program and proud non-West Point grad, I had only been to West Point on one previous occasion, but that was enough. It took me several tries, but eventually, I lucked into an assignment with West Point’s Department of Social Sciences, arguably the most prestigious department at the Academy. As part of that package, I was able to attend graduate school at Yale University, where I earned a master of arts degree in International Relations. As you might imagine there were not a lot of former Rangers at Yale, and indeed, there weren’t even a lot of veterans. But there were a lot of great people there nonetheless, and I truly loved my time in grad school. I completed my studies at the expected time and moved on to the storied but new-to-me environs of West Point.

So, what does all of this have to do with dancing? Well, I’m glad you asked.

My skills are few and my faults are many, and as a large (6’5”, 280-pound), awkward, middle-aged man, one thing I am particularly not adept at is dancing. Going all the way back to high school, I’ve had an aversion to dancing, and pretty much any public displays of exuberance or emotion, partly due to my upbringing but mainly because of a heightened sense of self-consciousness and an overly developed sense of needing to maintain “professionalism.” I also can’t sing and never had any real athletic talent. So public performances are out. The only exception to that was in music, in a band or group setting where I could hide behind my guitar and the abilities of much-more-talented individuals.

Nonetheless, no matter how many combat stripes you’ve got, and no matter how self-conscious and awkward you are, when your 6-year-old daughter asks you to take her to West Point’s “Daddy-Daughter Dance” you go. And you dance.

I didn’t really want to go to the dance, but I duly donned my best suit and took my beautiful Shannon to the West Point club in January of 2015, where one of the first things we did was get in line for a photo.

The photographers were handing out numbers in order to manage the large crowd of photo-seekers. Out of sheer coincidence, we got number 75. For anyone unfamiliar with the Rangers, that number is significant because the unit is officially the 75th Ranger Regiment.

I’m not big into “signs” or omens or portents or anything of the sort, but I thought that receiving that number was a pretty interesting coincidence. Looking down and seeing that number in my hand, I immediately recalled my experiences with the Rangers, the Last Roll Call ceremonies, and that “wounded Ranger” re-enlistment photo that I saw in that dusty plywood headquarters building, in what now felt like a lifetime ago and a world away from West Point.

And it made me think.

Flyer for the Father and Daughter Dance at West Point. Charles Faint

I didn’t wear my uniform to the dance that night, but a lot of other military dads did. After returning to our table for dinner after our photo session, I couldn’t help but notice a young-looking staff sergeant seated at an adjacent table. Unlike most SOF units, West Point does not have many personnel with extensive combat experience, so it stood out to me that he had eight or nine combat stripes; the bars are small and hard to count when there are a lot of them, but it was definitely more than me. There were several officers and NCOs at West Point with more than seven combat stripes, but I thought I knew all of them. The collar insignia of this NCO marked him as a Military Police sergeant. He had most of the usual “bells and whistles” on his uniform that one would expect from a combat-experienced NCO, but what made him really stand out were all of those gold combat stripes on his right sleeve. They were almost up to his elbow.

And unlike officers, enlisted personnel wear service stripes on their left sleeve, one stripe for every three years of service. He wore two service stripes. So this young noncommissioned officer had served between six and nine years in the Army, with more than half of that in combat. That’s a lot of time in harm’s way. That’s a LOT of time away from one’s family. In fact, given the apparent age of his young daughter, he was probably gone for most of her life up to that point. It really made me think. I first thought about all of the people who could, and probably should be at a Daddy-Daughter Dance.

But they can’t because their bodies, or their minds, or their marriages, or their relationships with their children were destroyed during the war or in what came after.

Sipping my unsweetened tea and watching my daughter and her friends rush to the floor to dance to “Let It Go,” I thought about that young staff sergeant at the dance, with all of his combat stripes and all that it represented. I thought about that number on a little scrap of paper, still in my pocket, and what it represented. I thought about all of the combat experience in that ballroom, and the sacrifices those men and women made, to get where they are now. And I thought about those Rangers who died, and the men and women we lost, like Irish and Yardbird, who I’m sure would LOVE to dance with their children at an event like this.

But they can’t because they’re dead.

And at that moment I decided to do what the song suggested, and I “let it go.” I decided I would never “not dance” again simply because I’m large and awkward and self-conscious or worry about what people will say. I would never “not sing” just because I know I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I will never “not say” what should be said, even if it makes me enemies, or makes me look weak. I will never “not go” to an event with my children because I thought it might be embarrassing for me.

Because life is too short.

The Rangers taught me that.

This article is a personal vignette and does not reflect an official position of the United States Military Academy or the U.S. Army. It first appeared in The Havok Journal.