Honor all the Charlies, Shame on the Milleys
Charlie Peterman and Billy
As we observe this Veteran’s day in 2021, America is faced with the realization that it is lead by an increasingly detached elite, insulated by its status from the concerns of the general population. This is apparent across society, on issues ranging from crime, public education, and economic freedom, just to name a few problems Americans face differently based upon their access to power. It is also true in the chasm between the rank and file of the armed forces and their national officer leadership, exposed as criminally incompetent in its advisory and mission execution roles in the disgraceful exit from Afghanistan. What history and historians will say about the end of the war in Afghanistan and its import to the future of American power is yet to be written in full, but it is an event that is likely to shape policy and the actions of our allies and enemies for the foreseeable future. The multitude of errors and outright falsifications which have been observed since the middle of August 2021 in completing an orderly retrograde from the country that was politically characterized as “the good war” in comparison to George W. Bush’s “fiasco” in Iraq should cause us to pause and remember those whom we have lost in our global effort to defeat “Terror.” The toll in lives lost, families suffering heartbreak and pain, and the human struggle to overcome grievous wounds and trauma, these are costs which are borne by a small percentage of our nation’s citizens, and require our contemplation, respect, and support.
I first met Charles Blaine Peterman, Jr. in the late fall of 2010 at a local cigar shop, where an informal group of men gathered on occasions to sample cigars, taste whiskeys, and commune to discuss the issues of the day. As these gatherings were informal, the mix could be quite diverse, with small business owners, union workers, physicians, engineers, sales professionals, teachers, college students, and the occasional artist thrown in- a collective of gregarious curmudgeons, for the most part. The rules of admission were simple- you were there to smoke a cigar or two, share stories, talk about sports, politics, movies, music, whatever. It included Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, and even a Bernie Sanders version of Socialist. While it was predominately white and male, the members were an inclusive group, welcoming all who wished to sit down and join in the banter. The main thing that mattered was that we enjoyed each other’s company in the group, preferred fine cigars, and allowed for different opinions on the strange mix of issues that American males find interesting. Some of our discussions were thought provoking, others were trivial, and some were just downright childish. Yet, the regularity of dropping in to find a group which never seemed to have the same mix of people was energizing. Charlie Peterman, though, had a different path to our association.
The cigar shop had set aside several spaces inside the establishment, with comfortable leather chairs arranged in quads, along with a long dining table, which allowed for 15 to 20 people to gather to solve the world’s problems over a cigar and a drink. It also had an outdoor patio area known as “The Cigarden,” which was a particularly pleasant place to gather, when the weather in northwest Ohio allowed for outdoor communing. Over a few weeks that fall of 2010, Charlie had begun to come into the shop, quietly entering the walk-in humidor, purchasing cigars, and leaving. He rarely spoke, but it was clear that he noticed the gathering. His face was covered with a large surgical mask, and his ballcap was always pulled down low over his eyes. While we had noticed him, he didn’t seem to wish to engage with anyone beyond walking through the shop and out the door. Within a few weeks, however, Charlie began to show up at the shop, often during the slow hours of the day, taking up one of the leather chairs inside, but still not engaging with many people there. For many of us “regulars,” we met Charlie in different ways. For myself, I happened to come in a few hours early on my regular Tuesday visit, and he was seated in the chair facing the counter. I asked him if the open seat next to him was taken, and he shook his head and waved at it, indicating it was mine, and I noticed that he looked down and away as he invited me to sit. I thanked him as I settled in and introduced myself, and he looked back at me, this time directly, and I heard him say “I’m Charlie.” We shook hands and I noticed the warrior sleeve of tattoos on his right forearm, and that under his 82nd Airborne cap, his right eye was covered with a patch. The surgical mask muffled his voice, but his left eye was clear and looked directly at me, and his grip was strong.
We began with the usual safe topics, which included the weather and of course, comparing our chosen cigar for the session. In between words, Charlie would turn his head away, into the corner of the space, to slide his mask up so he could take a puff from his cigar, replacing his mask carefully before facing me. Recognizing his cap from the “All American Division,” I asked him if he would tell me about his time there. He took a deep breath and said that he had joined the army before 9/11 and served as a sergeant with the Cavalry Scouts in the division. I mentioned that I had served in the Military Police, deployed to Germany and Central America, and that I had completed my extended enlistments after Desert Storm. From there, we began to learn about each other’s experiences in the military, sharing our impressions of some of the world’s armpit, but I left it to Charlie to tell me his own story on how he had been so horribly wounded.
As the Tuesday regulars started coming in late in the afternoon, Charlie kept his seat, and each person shook his hand and introduced themselves. The normal rules applied, and the topics of the time, the college and pro football seasons, politics, and of course, the unending volleys of pranks and jokes, good-natured name-calling, and the sharing of the week’s comical, or even bewildering experiences, all were in play. Charlie stayed to the closing of the shop, and as we all broke up and headed out, everyone made sure to tell him to look for us anytime he was in the shop, and if not before, we would see him next Tuesday.
Over the course of the next few weeks, Charlie became a regular in the Tuesday group, and he also spent more time in the shop, meeting more and more people. It was during one of the early subsequent meetings that he began to share his story. He had talked about serving in the unit, and much of his tales were about the larger issues surrounding the war in Iraq. He had served two tours in Iraq, the first was with the 82nd on their first Iraq deployment, and his second was in the Sunni Triangle, where he was wounded. He was leading his team in clearing a building, and as he entered a room, a teenage boy popped up with an AK-47 pointed at him. Charlie said that his only memory of the event was seeing a boy’s face, and then nothing. He took a round through the chin, blowing out his jaw, upper palate, severing his optic nerve of his right eye, and exiting his skull through his frontal lobe. The next thing he knew, he was in an army hospital in Germany. In the years since, he had endured at least 25 surgeries, in varied successes and failures, and he remained in regular pain and struggled with issues common for Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), including headaches, mood swings, and depression. He credited the cigars with helping to soothe him, even as he remained on multiple prescriptions. He was awaiting future surgeries to attempt to rebuild his upper palate and nose, which would require extensive grafts from his legs and abdomen, if possible.
Within a very short time, Charlie became an important part of the regular gatherings, and it was clear to anyone that spoke with him, that, although he had suffered greatly, he was proud of his time and service in the storied 82nd, America’s rapid contingency deployment division. Beyond his military experience, he had a wide-ranging mind, and could be described as a “Type A” personality and engaged on the full range of topics that flew across the table. Charlie could “give as good as he got,” when it came to the expected heckling among male friends, including one curmudgeon’s observation to Charlie that “at first we couldn’t get you to talk, now we can’t get you to shut up!” With his one good eye and a mask covering his face, Charlie’s face lit up in laughter, and he replied, “well, that shit’s on you, bro.”
Over the next year, Charlie and I spent time together at the cigar shop and also visited each other’s homes, and as I was in the process of designing a university course on American Military history I was assigned to deliver beginning in the fall of 2011 for the full year as part of my PhD program, I asked for his input. Charlie could detach himself from his experience, and it became clear that he relished the opportunity to be involved. I intended to close the course semester chronologically and would seek a few speakers to share their experience in the Global War on Terror section, and Charlie immediately volunteered, providing he was not on a surgery schedule at the time. I knew that Charlie could more than hold his own in the environment we shared with veteran-friendly men, but it was also apparent that Charlie was understandably self-conscious about his face, which remained covered. He had shown me his scars in private, and even that was difficult for him; he had shared his feelings on what his face looked like to women, and what that meant for his future of ever having a long-term relationship. He had also said that being in the company of children who stared at him made him feel even sadder, as if he was a “monster.” I was nervous for him, even though the class would be filled with adult university students, but he insisted he would be up for it. We prepared for months, I gave him a general questionnaire he could use to construct his presentation, and he could have as much time as he wanted, up to 45 minutes, including questions.
Charlie was the final veteran speaking, and I had prepped the class the session ahead with background information and advised them that Charlie had been wounded severely and asked them to welcome him and treat him like they did our prior week’s speaker, an Air Force Lt. Colonel F-16 flight leader. It turned out, Charlie was a natural, disarming the class immediately with a quick joke. He said, “I heard the last speaker was an F-16 pilot. Do you know why I became a paratrooper?” As the class sat watching him, he picked up a piece of chalk and wrote “NO MATH” in big letters on the chalkboard. It truly broke the ice, and over the course of the next 40 minutes, Charlie talked about his experience and answered every question with thoughtfulness and care. As the class left the room, it seemed nearly every student stopped at the door to shake his hand, thank him for coming today, and for sharing his story. I watched Charlie interact with them, and when the last student had filed out, he turned to me with a look of great pride, and all I could say was “well done, sergeant!” Charlie was a hit with the students, he closed both of my courses that year, and his impact was reflected in my student reviews, with many students naming him as a very important way to finish the course as an understanding of the true costs of warfare.
Over the next few years, Charlie remained a part of the cigar groups, even as he continued to have pain and setbacks. He went through additional surgeries, including the attempt to rebuild his nose, which required the insertion of a tracheotomy tube which remained in his throat between the numerous surgeries scheduled. Unfortunately, the procedures were unable to solve the problem, and it seemed to increase his pain, and for a period he was away from the group. He withdrew from quite a bit of the regular drop-ins, but he would occasionally show up with his new puppy, Billy. When he was in the group, he continued to engage, but it was apparent that his frustration on the lack of progress, as well as the increased pain, was affecting him. He was trying to keep his hopes up, but with each setback, he seemed to be drifting away. For some time, there would be weeks when he would not show up, and he would often not return calls from those of us who had his number, and when he did come in, he would say that it had been a few bad weeks or that he had lost the message. It was clear that he was withdrawing, but there seemed no way to do anything except keep trying to reach out.
That summer I received a call from one of the members of the cigar group while I was away on vacation in Kentucky letting me know that Charlie had died on June 25th, 2014, at the age of 34. My wife and I cut our trip short to come home for his funeral, scheduled for July 3rd. I remember walking into the funeral home, and for the first time, I saw a picture of Charlie in his proudly-earned red Airborne beret, with a big, handsome smile and two sparkling eyes. I had only known the wounded veteran, but here was a younger Charlie, before he had paid such a terrible price for our nation, staring back at me. I recalled him saying several times that he had gladly volunteered to “go all the way” as the airborne say, and even though I had never seen him smile like that, I instantly felt flashes of moments since I met him where that smile was still there in his one good eye and his laughter when he was having a good day.
Over the years since his death I have thought of Charlie many times, and particularly as the years of war had continued. One of the many big questions I present to students in any course on diplomacy and warfare as options for a nation in its interests is the question of the value of sacrifice. It is standard political theater for leaders to discuss issues of “blood and treasure” in regard to the costs of war, even as very little of their blood ever seems to get involved in the actual killing and dying. It is left to others, the Charlies of the United States, to bear the pain, losing friends and family, trusting that the nation will not only honor their sacrifice in perpetuity, but also to make the cost weigh out, somehow, by correctly defining achievable missions and supporting the troops acting in their behalf.
If the chaotic and disastrous exit from Afghanistan dishonestly described by President Biden as a “success” in policy execution is the legacy of American power in the near future, soldiers like Charlie Peterman bear no responsibility in it. While it is true that America is not built to occupy other nations as an empire and the withdrawal from the war was long overdue, the manner in which it was accomplished was unthinkable. Even as General Mark Milley, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, also bears no responsibility for the ultimate decision, a decision only the President is constitutionally authorized to make, his seemingly weak policy advice to President Biden (his actual only role under statute, not the command of forces or negotiating with foreign leaders) is apparent. Biden’s decision to abandon Bagram Air base over a month before complete withdrawal was militarily a disaster which was easily avoidable. Had General Milley walked into the President’s office and pulled off his four stars and placed them on the table, standing for the principle of a military man and not a DC political hack, demanding that Bagram remain open, operational, and threatening to the Taliban at least until the withdrawal was completed, Biden’s withdrawal might have been saved, along with countless lives. Instead, weeks after the retreat, in a U.S. senate hearing that few people will remember, Milley testified that he had advised, like every other top-level commander in the actual chain of command under the president, that Bagram should remain open with at least the equivalent of an Army Brigade Combat Team (BCT) of around 2,500 troops. With this weak defense, the four-star failure absolved himself from responsibility, placing it back onto a president who can conveniently claim not to remember it occurring. Shameful and unrepentant to the last fiber of his being.
There is a reason America has been a great force for good in the world, and it is the Charlies, not the Milleys. I would still strap on my kit and follow Charlie Peterman through that door, but I certainly wouldn’t take a command from Mark Milley to pickup trash, let alone walk down hell’s hallway.
