A few years ago, I received an invitation I wasn’t prepared for. It came from the family of a fellow West Point graduate, forwarded through the alumni association: a funeral. Ordinary enough, except for one detail that stopped me cold. The man being buried had died in 1950.
His name was Rufus Hyman. A platoon leader with the 24th Infantry Division, he was lost during a chaotic withdrawal in the early months of the Korean War during a battle in which his unit was overrun. The Army searched for him, then listed him missing, then — years later — declared him dead. He was posthumously promoted to Captain.
His family carried that unresolved loss for nearly seven decades, until 2017, when his remains were finally identified and brought home. In October 2019, he received a full military funeral at Arlington National Cemetery, conducted by the 3rd U.S. Infantry — The Old Guard, the very unit I once served in.
Getting Off the Train
The invitation went out to every West Point graduate the family could reach. They wanted his alma mater represented. For me, that meant stepping off the fast-moving train of daily obligations to attend something slower and heavier — a ceremony most people never experience.
The chapel service. A chaplain’s message that didn’t rush past the weight of the moment. The horse-drawn caisson moving Captain Hyman’s casket past row after row of graves. The 21-gun salute. Taps, played the way it’s always played, which is to say: perfectly, and like it hurts a little.
I’ve come to believe everyone needs an experience like this at some point — something that forces a pause and asks you to actually reflect, rather than just move to the next thing on the calendar.
Standing at that graveside, my mind went back to my own first assignment: also a platoon leader in Korea, in the most forward position we had after withdrawing from Vietnam. I was responsible for 40 men. And looking back honestly, I didn’t know nearly as much as the job required.
What I Didn’t Know — and Who Filled the Gap
That’s the part of the story I want to land on.
The men who got me through that assignment weren’t senior officers. They were decorated non-commissioned officers — sergeants who’d already fought in Vietnam and brought a hard-earned, practical wisdom to every problem we faced. I leaned on them constantly. And if I’m honest, I didn’t appreciate them nearly as much as I should have at the time.
I was young. I didn’t fully grasp what I had in them. But here’s the thing — they knew it too. It didn’t change their commitment to the mission or to keeping our unit ready. They did their job regardless of whether I recognized it.
That’s a pattern worth sitting with, wherever you lead today. Think of it like a ship’s engine room versus the bridge: the people steering get the view and the credit, but the ones below deck are the reason the ship moves at all — and they usually know exactly how close to disaster you’ve come more often than you realize.
The Invitation for Leaders Today
If there’s one thing I’d ask you to carry from Captain Hyman’s story, it’s this:
don’t be afraid to lean on the people you lead.
Seek out your team’s insight — not as a formality, but because they see things you don’t. Tell them, specifically and often, that you notice and appreciate what they do. I can almost guarantee that right now, someone on your team is quietly solving problems you’ll never even hear about. That’s not a small thing. That deserves acknowledgment.
I’ll likely never face a battle like the one that took Captain Hyman’s life. But I know there are other battles ahead of me — emotional ones, relational ones, the ordinary daily tests of leading with integrity and humility. I suspect the same is true for you.
Walking out of Arlington that day, I left with a quieter, deeper resolve: to be better with the people around me. Not because leadership demands it, but because they’ve earned it.
So here’s the question I’ll leave you with: When did you last give genuine, specific appreciation to the people you lead — or to your own leaders? What happened when you did? I’d genuinely like to know.
