Petraeus explained later, admitting, “We probably committed a little bit more to it than some.”
Few officers spent as much time thinking about the details of their job. When a fellow captain had to deliver a eulogy for a decidedly average soldier who had been killed in a car accident, Petraeus asked him for his notes, filing them away to consult in case he was ever called upon to give similar remarks. Most mornings he would sprint the two miles from hishouse to Fort Stewart, and then lead the company on its early-morning run, followed by calisthenics. He was always smiling and pleasant, but there wasn’t a tougher competitor on the base. After reading in the post newspaper one day about three Rangers who claimed to have set a new record running from Savannah to Fort Stewart, he handpicked a team of hardened athletes like himself and they blew the Ranger time away, with Petraeus handling the anchor leg.
While coaching his men in the post basketball league, he promised he would make sure a four-star general turned up to watch if the team made it to the championship game. He was one of the few captains who could actually deliver on such a pledge, however uninspirational it might have been to his soldiers. When the team made the finals a few months later, he hurriedly called General Knowlton, who happened to be in Washington for meetings, and he agreed to fly down to see his daughter and to sit in the stands for the evening game. Petraeus’s squad won, of course.
There was another reason for Knowlton to make a special trip to Fort Stewart. The next morning, he stood beside Colonel Shelton on the Fort Stewart parade grounds for a special ceremony. His son-in-law’s company had won an award for having 65 percent of its nearly 100 soldiers qualify for the Expert Infantry Badge, which required mastering more than a dozen soldiering skills. Most officers didn’t know or care about the award. But Petraeus had made winning the EIB unit citation his obsession, devising a grueling training regime that included twelve-mile road marches in less than three hours wearing full rucksacks, long hours on the rifle range, and tromping around the woods with maps and compasses. “We just drilled and drilled and drilled,” he remembered. On the day of the ceremony, he was standing at attention, with his men behind him in formation, as Knowlton presented him a blue unit streamer to be flown on Alpha Company’s guidon, the swallow-tailed flag carried next to the commanding officer during parades and formations.
His success in the EIB competition “put Petraeus on the map,” his battalion commander later recalled. But it also rubbed some peers the wrong way—he was too ambitious, too competitive, and too perfect. Petraeus didn’t seem to be bothered by the sniping, and it was impossible to disputethe results. “Some guys didn’t like him because they thought he was a show-off,” Shelton said. “I thought he was the most amazing young officer I had.”
After a job as the battalion operations officer came open, Shelton decided to promote his hardest-working captain, even though it was a major’s billet and Petraeus was only ten months into his company command. A week later, Shelton got a rare call from the often-absent division commander, Major General James Cochran, who had just learned about the promotion. “I thought I was running this division,” Cochran fumed. “We’ve got three or four majors who have been waiting for a job like that.” Shelton fired back: “We thought he was the best guy for the job.” Cochran backed down, and Petraeus vaulted over his fellow officers into a plum position.
The operations shop hummed under its new captain. He could write a military plan and the standard five-paragraph operations order faster than anyone Shelton had ever seen. Training exercises were bigger and more realistic than had been done for years. In one case, three companies, joined by tanks and helicopters, conducted a
Few officers spent as much time thinking about the details of their job. When a fellow captain had to deliver a eulogy for a decidedly average soldier who had been killed in a car accident, Petraeus asked him for his notes, filing them away to consult in case he was ever called upon to give similar remarks. Most mornings he would sprint the two miles from hishouse to Fort Stewart, and then lead the company on its early-morning run, followed by calisthenics. He was always smiling and pleasant, but there wasn’t a tougher competitor on the base. After reading in the post newspaper one day about three Rangers who claimed to have set a new record running from Savannah to Fort Stewart, he handpicked a team of hardened athletes like himself and they blew the Ranger time away, with Petraeus handling the anchor leg.
While coaching his men in the post basketball league, he promised he would make sure a four-star general turned up to watch if the team made it to the championship game. He was one of the few captains who could actually deliver on such a pledge, however uninspirational it might have been to his soldiers. When the team made the finals a few months later, he hurriedly called General Knowlton, who happened to be in Washington for meetings, and he agreed to fly down to see his daughter and to sit in the stands for the evening game. Petraeus’s squad won, of course.
There was another reason for Knowlton to make a special trip to Fort Stewart. The next morning, he stood beside Colonel Shelton on the Fort Stewart parade grounds for a special ceremony. His son-in-law’s company had won an award for having 65 percent of its nearly 100 soldiers qualify for the Expert Infantry Badge, which required mastering more than a dozen soldiering skills. Most officers didn’t know or care about the award. But Petraeus had made winning the EIB unit citation his obsession, devising a grueling training regime that included twelve-mile road marches in less than three hours wearing full rucksacks, long hours on the rifle range, and tromping around the woods with maps and compasses. “We just drilled and drilled and drilled,” he remembered. On the day of the ceremony, he was standing at attention, with his men behind him in formation, as Knowlton presented him a blue unit streamer to be flown on Alpha Company’s guidon, the swallow-tailed flag carried next to the commanding officer during parades and formations.
His success in the EIB competition “put Petraeus on the map,” his battalion commander later recalled. But it also rubbed some peers the wrong way—he was too ambitious, too competitive, and too perfect. Petraeus didn’t seem to be bothered by the sniping, and it was impossible to disputethe results. “Some guys didn’t like him because they thought he was a show-off,” Shelton said. “I thought he was the most amazing young officer I had.”
After a job as the battalion operations officer came open, Shelton decided to promote his hardest-working captain, even though it was a major’s billet and Petraeus was only ten months into his company command. A week later, Shelton got a rare call from the often-absent division commander, Major General James Cochran, who had just learned about the promotion. “I thought I was running this division,” Cochran fumed. “We’ve got three or four majors who have been waiting for a job like that.” Shelton fired back: “We thought he was the best guy for the job.” Cochran backed down, and Petraeus vaulted over his fellow officers into a plum position.
The operations shop hummed under its new captain. He could write a military plan and the standard five-paragraph operations order faster than anyone Shelton had ever seen. Training exercises were bigger and more realistic than had been done for years. In one case, three companies, joined by tanks and helicopters, conducted a
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