I recently joined the ranks of the noncommissioned officer corps. It feels strange. Folks keep telling me, “You earned it,” or “It’s about time,” and at the expense of sounding immodest, I suppose they’re right. I certainly wanted to see my military career progress, and with that progression I also wanted to make sure I earned it. I didn’t want it to just be handed to me.

On balance, I’d say that I’ve been fortunate enough to serve under some of the best NCOs and officers a Soldier could hope to know.

On the flip side of that, I’ve seen 10 pounds of crap stuffed into a 5-pound bag with a set stripes pinned to it.

I remember being a young Soldier looking at my superiors and trying to sort out what it was that separated them on matters of quality. One incident stands out prominently:

My unit was preparing for an inspection when we, the junior enlisted, took off for morning chow. Our platoon sergeant intercepted us and told us to skip chow and head straight to the motor pool to square away our M113s. (Yeah, it was a while ago. Shut up!) Well, we were shuffling our feet and grumbling as young Soldiers do when we were met by our battalion command sergeant major. If you’ve ever seen Clint Eastwood’s character the movie Heartbreak Ridge, you met my old CSM because I’m convinced Eastwood stole his portrayal from him.

Anyway, the CSM asked why we were so disgruntled and we explained what had happened. He immediately ordered us to the chow hall and made it known to the platoon sergeant, in his inimitable, profanity-strewn style, that depriving Soldiers of food was a violation of trust and detrimental to career development.

I suppose the arguments concerning disharmony among the leadership or the countermanding of orders could be debated ad nauseam, but one thing did ring through: Our CSM put his Soldiers first. Our platoon sergeant put himself first.

I – we – never trusted our platoon sergeant. Ever. For anything.

We never felt as if he wanted us to prosper, learn or grow. We felt as if he was just checking off a series of boxes to obtain his next promotion, and if that meant sacrificing others for his success then so be it. Our sense of trust had been violated many times before this episode – and plenty of times following – but that morning seemed to solidify our perceptions of him. Every instruction that ever came from him, no matter how legitimate or necessary, carried the taint of suspicion.

The skipping of chow wouldn’t contribute one iota to the combat readiness of our unit. It was about our platoon sergeant securing the best possible inspection rating – and even that extra half hour would have had only negligible gains. The only thing it really bought the platoon sergeant was lingering questions from his subordinates about his sense of priorities.

By contrast, the CSM stood up for us. It was his battalion getting ready to stand in the inspection, but the care and feeding of his troops mattered more than knocking off that extra fleck of dirt from the bracket on the underside of the seat in the driver’s compartment.

Soldiers first, right?

That’s not to imply the CSM was a candy ass. You crossed him at your peril. And yet somewhere between fear and admiration emerges a towering respect. And we did respect him. We would’ve followed him down the business end of a cannon because we trusted him to bring us out the other side looking like conquering heroes.

When we finished chow, we hurried to the motor pool to give the vehicles one good, final going-over because we’d resolved over breakfast that we wouldn’t take for granted what had been won for us. To hell with the platoon sergeant. This was for the CSM. We’d do anything he asked, not because it was an order but because it was him. I honestly believe he was like this because he respected us. I say that because I feel that same respect for the young Soldiers I serve with now.

A few years ago, I returned to uniform after 16 years as a civilian. I was “the old man,” and as I went to drill each month and completed my annual training, I’d see these young Soldiers enduring far much more than their peers. While their friends were lying around the house playing video games, these “kids” were out in the middle of nowhere, amid the heat and bugs and meals-ready-to-eat, with only what they could carry in a rucksack to supply their needs. How could I not respect that?

So now I’m an NCO. An NCO for these kids who I – the old man – care for and respect. Supposedly, somewhere along the line, I’ve learned the pitfalls and gleaned the lessons of life in general, and military life in particular. I’ve gotten into trouble, broken a few things (including myself) and I’ve also earned a few proud moments. I’ve seen Soldiers through family losses and hard times. We all know what that’s like, so I don’t have to say much, but we know that when anything good or bad happens to any one of us, it ripples through the entire unit, our community and our families. If the shower will never be yours alone, there's no reason the pains and joys of life should be, either.

Did I mention we’re also in the military? That means these young Soldiers can be taken away from their homes and families, carted halfway around the world and deposited someplace that has yet to invent indoor plumbing – but where everyone in the neighborhood wants to do them violent harm. They have to get home again as safely as possible with their missions accomplished – and with honor.

Now I’m part of the corps that keeps these young Soldiers out of trouble, helps them prosper, grow and become warriors who win with honor. It’s about them because it’s about the young Soldiers they’ll lead when it’s their turn to become NCOs. I want them to see, in me, that crusty old CSM, because Soldiers like him should never be forgotten. I would be cheating my Soldiers if I didn't introduce them to him by trying to be the kind of Soldiers-first NCO he was.

And not just the CSM. I think about the good squad leaders, platoon sergeants, first sergeants and the rest I’ve known and have tried to emulate. Heck, even some of the officers were OK, too! They never commanded. They always led.

So now I have a set of stripes and somehow I’m supposed to carry on the legacy of my leaders and the hopes of my Soldiers. Damn, it’s heavy – heavier than any rucksack. I guess the question of whether or not I’ve earned these stripes will be settled by whether or not I stand up and bear that weight.

 I think I’ll do OK. I had some pretty good mentors.