We walked slowly along the path. Frank stopped near a plaque listing the names of Marines from North Carolina who didn’t come home.
“I come here sometimes,” he said.
“I understand.”
He took a breath.
“Elaine, I didn’t ask you here just to apologize again.”
“All right.”
“I asked you here because I wanted to do it properly.”
I waited. Frank turned toward me.
“Sunday night, I behaved like a fool.”
“That’s a strong word.”
“It’s the right word.”
He didn’t look away as he said it.
“I spent decades telling younger Marines that humility is part of leadership. Then the moment I met someone who represented the next generation of leadership, I dismissed her.”
I stayed quiet. Frank continued.
“And the worst part wasn’t the embarrassment.”
“What was it?”
“The realization that I had been clinging to an old picture of the Corps.”
He gestured toward the memorial.
“The Marine Corps I remember was full of men who looked like me.”
I nodded slowly.
“Times change.”
“They do.”
Frank sighed.
“But somewhere along the line, I started believing that if things changed too much, maybe what we did back then didn’t matter anymore.”
“That’s not how history works,” I said gently.
He looked at me.
“No?”
“No. The Corps you served built the foundation the rest of us stand on.”
Frank seemed to think about that.
“You really believe that?”
“I do.”
He nodded slowly.
“That helps.”
We continued walking. After a few moments, Frank spoke again.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How did you stay so calm Sunday night?”
I smiled slightly.
“Training.”
“That’s it?”
“Mostly.”
He shook his head.
“No. There’s more to it than that.”
“All right,” I said. “Part of it is experience. When you’ve been in command long enough, you learn that reacting emotionally rarely improves a situation.”
Frank chuckled.
“That’s not how gunnery sergeants usually operate.”
“I know.”
