Giving Thanks for Sergeant Gadsden
how a wise old Platoon Sergeant helped a young officer get by
Sergeant Gadsden, my platoon sergeant, was the first African-American I was privileged to work with. Sergeant Gadsden and I both arrived at the Medical Platoon of 3rd Battalion, 7th Infantry at the same time. We were immediately faced with a huge challenge. The platoon already had an excellent reputation in the battalion - the colonel called it one of his best three (out of about thirty). Both of the men we replaced were considered top notch, so Sergeant Gadsden and I both knew we had big shoes to fill. I was a young wet-behind-the-ears Second Lieutenant while Sergeant Gadsden had close to twenty years in. But we were both under the same microscope and I can’t help but wonder if that helped us bond.
For instance, I remember going to one officers’ outing at the bowling alley on post. I bowled a perfectly respectable game against the lieutenant I was replacing, a towering fellow who oozed self-confidence. But every time my superiors looked over, I got a gutter ball, while my predecessor got strikes. It was that kind of transition. He was nice enough as a person. He had me over to his house on a Saturday morning. I remember him eating cereal and watching cartoons while he gave me pointers about running the platoon.
Unfortunately, things went a little sideways from there when I did my equipment inventory. I found a lot of missing supplies and he ended up having to pay the army about $150 for unaccounted for stuff, all small things, things I was supposed to overlook. But rules are rules, and that set a tone as I took over the platoon.
In contrast, Sergeant Gadsden was a cheerful, energetic fellow, never super organized, but also never discouraged by the fact. He’d come into a room and start giving orders to his NCO’s almost willy-nilly, but he got things done by the end of the day. And he was super patient with me as I learned the ropes. He did not take any gruff from his soldiers, but he was a kind man. He was a wise man. He set a tone for the platoon that made it a fun place to work, at least in peacetime.
I remember when I would give an order Sergeant Gasdsen did not agree with. He would turn his head sideways a little bit and ask me a probing question. Something like, “Sir, let me ask you something, why wash our vehicles now when we still have that mud in the motor pool?” Or, “well, you know we could wait on those shots until the gamma globulin gets here. No one likes to stand in line twice.” He would never contradict or disobey me - just ask questions and help me to see the bigger picture, especially from the soldiers’ point of view.
Once, a few months in, Sergeant Gadsden sat down at my desk for a meeting and he said, “I enjoy working with you, Sir, I really do.” I don’t know why, but that stuck with me. He and I could not be more different or have had more divergent backgrounds. But we figured it out together. And somehow, as our Captain said later, we “took a good platoon and made it better.” That’s the same boss who told me that I would always have a choice in my career, “to care what my superiors think of me or to care about what’s best for the solders.” Always, he said, choose what’s best for the soldiers. I was surrounded by wisdom.
A few weeks before Kirstan and I got married, Sergeant Gadsden bought us a gift - matching gold glitter T-shirts that we “could wear together as we walked around.” They said something but I don’t remember what. But I do remember his expression as I opened the gift, just so happy for us. When I left the platoon a year later, Sergeant Gadsden collected money from the medics to give me a little plaque: “Victory with the Wild Bunch.” I have no idea where he came up with that phrase. It was never a thing we said. But that was Sergeant Gadsden. Just willy-nilly and cheerful and always getting things done.
Once, two days into Iraq, as we halted briefly after driving non-stop through the biggest sandstorm anyone could remember, my driver, Sergeant Walker began to go a little crazy. Sergeant Walker was a big man. I liked him - a lot - but he had a temper. I once visited him in the Savannah hospital on the way to church because he had literally gotten into a knife fight and been stabbed in the thigh. It got better in time for him to deploy.
Sergeant Walker did not like that I was riding with him in his armored M113 ambulance or that I had brought all my maps into his track. He started to throw my maps out of the vehicle and began yelling, “We’re in the middle of Iraq! You’re going to get us all killed!” I left the track and checked to make sure my .45 was loaded. I then went and asked Sergeant Gadsden for the hand restraints we had brought along for any enemy wounded we might treat. I planned to arrest him.
Sergeant Gadsden looked at me, and said, “Sir, let me go talk to him.” Five minutes later Sergeant Gadsden came back and said, “He’s going to be fine. I told him to calm his ass down and get some sleep.” Sure enough, when I got back, Sergeant Walker apologized to me, and lay down on a stretcher in the M113 and went to sleep for a few hours while another soldier drove. It turned out his outburst was partly my fault for not ensuring adequate rotation and rest.
I was young and still figuring life out. I’m older now and still trying to figure it out. But in time, over years - as you listen to others - you gain insight about things like this. We all need wisdom. We all need patience and good cheer. We all need our Sergeant Gadsdens.