THREE YEARS AGO, I found myself eating lunch at a Las Vegas restaurant far from the glamour of the Strip with a man who was a legend in the American Army, George Dunaway. Dunaway served as the Sergeant Major of the Army, the highest non-commissioned rank in the Army--only one man has the job at a time--when pressure on the military was at its height, the peak of the Vietnam War.
Dunaway died earlier this month at the age of 85.
During our lunch, Dunaway, who spoke in the accent of his native Richmond, Virginia, regaled me with his stories of military life. Looking for steady work near the end of the Great Depression, he enlisted in the Virginia National Guard; he left the military, 30 years later, as the top NCO-aide to the chief of staff of the Army, General William Westmoreland.
Dunaway became part of the regular Army when his unit was federalized in 1941, and signed up for paratrooper training. He made it to Europe in time for the Battle of the Bulge and opted to stay in the military after the war when a glimpse of his brother-in-law draped in dirt after a day of working on the railroads suggested what civilian life might be like. After years of serving in airborne units, he solidified his bond with Westmoreland when he served as a sergeant major to the 101st Airborne Division, which Westmoreland commanded. Tragedy struck when several paratroopers were killed during a major parachute jump. Dunaway had Westmoreland's back when the general became the first to jump after the accident, restoring morale to the 101st.
He spoke of his deep loyalty to and admiration for Westmoreland, who became a lightning rod for negative attention in an increasingly unpopular war. Dunaway, a soldier's soldier, stood by Westmoreland's side as reporters fired questions at the general. "Whenever he had the media around, I'd be there," Dunaway, told me in 2005, never going so far as to say what Westmoreland privately thought about the war or the press. "When he talked to Congress, he said that everything was going good and that we were going to win that war."
Where Dunaway's role had the most specific impact was on improving troop morale as the civilian pressure on soldiers mounted. Dunaway, for example, changed the uniform returning soldiers came back from Vietnam wearing. Prior to his intervention, soldiers returning from combat wore an uncomfortable and bulky "Class A" uniform, which became unsightly after hours of plane travel. After he made his recommendation to Westmoreland that they be allowed to return in their fatigues, it became policy. "They wanted to come back in their greens, and they'd be really happy," he recalled telling the general. The change reflected Dunaway's concern that things be improved even a little bit for the enlisted men's trip home.
I came to know Dunaway through another of his affiliations, United States Army Special Forces. Prior to becoming sergeant major of the army, Dunaway had served as the sergeant major of the 1st Special Forces Group in Okinawa and, later, the 5th Special Forces Group in Vietnam. He even devised a Special Forces blazer to give the elite soldiers a social item of clothing to compliment the signature green beret. When Dunaway retired, he eventually moved west to Las Vegas. There the camaraderie of that small elite unit drew him to the alumni group of the Green Berets, the Special Forces Association, and later he became the head of its Chapter 51.
My father, Gerald Gitell, had served in Vietnam as a Special Forces officer and had even played a role in creating Barry Sadler's iconic number one hit, "The Ballad of the Green Berets." But as a loner who preferred reading to socializing, he eschewed military alumni organizations or groups of any kind. Dunaway discovered my father in a local Las Vegas coffee shop wearing a cap with a Special Forces insignia and asked him if he had served in the unit. When my father answered that he had, Dunaway invited him to a monthly meeting of the alumni group, and my father, for the first time in his life, agreed. By making the invitation, this spit and polish sergeant major helped provide a troubled veteran a place to feel at home. My father arranged for Dunaway and me to meet.
When I attended a Chapter 51 meeting with my father, I learned that the group begins each session with "The Ballad of the Green Berets." As the notes wafted out of an old stereo box, the men sang along--even my father, who has never been known to sing anything. Helping my father--and scores of other former veterans--was another of Dunaway's less well-known, but equally important, achievements.
Seth Gitell, a contributing editor at the New York Sun , blogs at gitell.com.