The Unit Is More Important

The Book of Ron · 22 of 48 · 3 minute read · Ron’s title: The Unit Is More Valuable Than the Individual

I made Guide early in boot camp, within the first couple of weeks, and I held that position through almost the entire process. I was proud of that honor. It took hard work, extra effort, and constant responsibility.

The Guide was basically the recruit in charge of the rest. If they messed up, it was your job to correct them. If they got punished, you got punished alongside them. Sometimes they would sit and watch while you paid for what they had done. Your job was to carry instructions from the drill instructors to the platoon and make sure the men understood. Along with the Guide, there were four squad leaders. Those five men worked together with their squads and the entire platoon to make sure everything was squared away.

Then, late in training, about two weeks before graduation, the drill instructors called out, “Guide, get up to the duty hut.”

I ran up there, pounded three times on the bulkhead, requested permission to enter, and stepped inside. Instantly, they ripped the armband off my arm. I was no longer the Guide.

I made an immediate about-face, snapped to attention, and walked out.

Then they called in a man about six foot three, maybe 22 years old, the very picture of what a Marine should look like. He was a mountain. A rock. Every muscle showed through his utilities. I was crushed, almost in tears, but deep down I knew what was happening.

We had reached the point where the herd was no longer just a herd. We were about to graduate. We had become a platoon. The Marine Corps was about to present its finest. As we marched on the parade deck around headquarters, the platoon would be judged, and so would the drill instructors. Out front needed to be someone who represented the unit better than I could in that moment, a better physical specimen in that uniform.

It was difficult to accept, but I knew it was best for the platoon.

About a week later, we were running up a mountain. No one ever fell out of formation, but this was different. There were four platoons in the series, all of us nearing graduation. Nothing had to be said. You could feel it. This was a test of endurance, pride, and will. Every platoon wanted to prove itself.

About halfway up, men started falling out. About two-thirds of the way up, our new Guide dropped to one knee and leaned his weight onto the guidon. He was spent. He could not go any farther. Carrying that much muscle has its limits too.

I looked over and saw him leaning on my guidon.

I grabbed it and started up that hill.

Every muscle in my body burned. My legs felt like they would explode. My lungs could not get enough oxygen. But I kept going. I would have died before I let that guidon fail to reach the top.

When it was over, out of four platoons of about 80 men each, there were only around 60 or 70 men total standing at the top.

Ours was the only guidon that made it.

To many people today, that may not mean much. But to me, it meant everything. The man who replaced me had been more important for the appearance and strength of the platoon. That was what the unit needed. But when the moment came, getting that guidon to the top was also what the unit needed.

That day taught me something I never forgot. Sometimes your personal honor is not in being seen out front. Sometimes your honor is in carrying the weight when the unit needs it most.

This story has a workbook — how to use it with the person across from you, and the point of it. Read the workbook for The Unit Is More Important · All the workbooks.