In 2006, I was a Ranger Squad Leader in my prime. Multiple deployments under my belt. On the fast track to promotion. Confident, aggressive—and honestly, a bit of an arrogant SOB.
The old 2/75 chow hall was small, gritty, and always smelled like bacon—kind of like a greasy diner crossed with your grandma’s kitchen. Every company had its own unofficial seating area, and right by the exit was the CSM’s table—perfectly placed to check haircuts and uniforms. Back then, we all saw him as the villain. Funny how perspectives shift with time.
One morning, I grabbed breakfast and headed toward the table where senior squad leaders, PSGs, and the 1SG usually sat. But that day, I saw 1SG Stover—the Alpha Company 1SG—sitting at our table. The Bravo Company table.
I remember the scowl forming on my face. He caught it, looked me dead in the eye, and said: “Get over yourself, Burke.”
I probably mumbled something and sat down, dismissing the comment.
A Week Later: My Lowest Point
Fast forward to our annual Platoon Certification Exercises. I had just run one of the worst urban assaults in Ranger history—or at least that’s what the Battalion CSM was screaming at me.
We had tried a new assault technique we’d picked up from another SOF unit. It was the first time I had ever run it. And it was a disaster. I tried to maintain control so tightly that I lost it entirely.
Now, I was standing under the scrutiny of the Battalion CSM and two 1SGs. Embarrassed. Angry. And staring daggers at Stover, who looked smug as hell.
A mistake like this wasn’t just humiliating—it usually meant reassignment to the S3 shop. A death sentence for a Ranger looking to lead.
Luckily, 1SG Folino—one of the best leaders I’ve ever known—calmed the storm. He convinced the CSM to give us one more shot the next day. He looked at me and said, “Make it flawless.”
Do or Die
On the drive back to the compound, I felt sick. My strongest area—tactics—was now the reason I might get benched. That night, I sat down with my trusted PL, Chad Jenkins, and we tore the technique apart piece by piece. We planned every movement, anticipated contingencies, and prepped for worst-case scenarios.
The platoon got maybe five hours of sleep. I got none. And we still had 48 hours of the exercise left.
As we drove toward Leschi Town, I stayed on the net, walking through every step with my SLs, the PSG, and PL. I coordinated with every vehicle, ensuring everyone knew their routes, responsibilities, and what to do if things went sideways.
As my anxiety started to climb, I caught myself. I said out loud: “Stop.”
And just like that, everything slowed.
I saw the objective in my mind. Saw each man’s role. The radio calls became sharp. My voice steady. Movements deliberate.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I had entered a state of flow.
The Turnaround
They threw everything at us—including a mock helicopter crash during exfil. But we rolled through it all. Clean, smooth, lethal.
The AAR was intense—they nitpicked us—but I could tell it was mostly performative. The CSM came up afterward and said,
“The noose is loose… but it’s still around your neck.”
That’s Army speak for: Don’t screw this up again.
But something had shifted.
On the drive back, I realized this wasn’t just a job anymore—it was a profession. That moment rewired how I approached leadership. From that day forward, I committed to never letting myself—or my men—get complacent again.
From Humbled to Honed
At the next objective, we hit the target with brutal efficiency. Squads starburst into their designated buildings, secured everything, and exfil’d in minutes. Two 1SGs came up to me and said:
“Burke, that’s the best raid I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe how fast your platoon moves.”
Folino grinned and told me to get the hell out of there before something went wrong.
I had turned a corner. Not because I suddenly got better—but because I got over myself.
I stopped hoping things would go right and started preparing so they couldn’t go wrong. That shift in mindset saved my career. Two months later, when the PSG was injured, I took over the platoon. And with the new perspective—and a stacked team of exceptional leaders—we became the platoon that got the toughest missions, over and over again.
The Lesson
We all need to be humbled from time to time.
At the time, I didn’t connect that breakfast moment with the fallout on the range. But years later, I can see it clearly: “Get over yourself” wasn’t an insult—it was a gift.
A warning.
A truth I wasn’t ready to hear, but desperately needed.
Because when we stop making it about us, we start becoming the leaders others deserve.