Benning honors Medal of Honor recipient, Army's birthday

On Dec. 4, 2006, a 19-year-old Army private named Ross McGinnis threw himself upon a fragmentation grenade that an insurgent had tossed down the gunner’s hatch of the Humvee in which he was riding during combat operations against an armed enemy in Northeast Baghdad, Iraq.

McGinnis pinned the live grenade between himself and the vehicle, absorbing all lethal fragments and damaging effects. That courageous act cost the young soldier his life, but saved four men from serious injury or death.

For his gallantry that day, McGinnis, who was promoted posthumously to specialist, was awarded in 2008 the nation’s highest medal for valor in combat, the Medal of Honor.

A plaque in memory of McGinnis was unveiled during a ceremony Friday evening at the National Infantry Museum and Soldier Center at Patriot Park. The ceremony also doubled as a celebration marking the Army’s 234th birthday, which is Sunday. Coincidentally, June 14 is also McGinnis’ birthday.

Among the hundreds of guests that gathered in the museum’s grand foyer for the emotional unveiling were McGinnis’ parents, Tom and Romayne McGinnis, as well as other family members, friends and members of his unit, including two of the soldiers whose lives he saved.

Post commander Maj. Gen. Michael Barbero and National Infantry Foundation Chairman retired Maj. Gen. Jerry White also attended the ceremony.

I’ve never met private Ross McGinnis, but I know his spirit.

I served in the Army in the early 80’s, including a short stint (jump school) at Benning. Not long before arriving there, I did my basic training at Ft. Jackson in SC. That is where I first learned of this mysterious thing called the Medal of Honor. And where quiet dignity and humble service were, for the first time in my young life, personified.

During the first weeks of orientation and training most of us young buck volunteers spent our scarce idle time bragging of bravery and posturing for pride. But one particularly reserved fellow never joined in the jockeying.

He was somewhat older than the rest of us, intimidated by our youthful vigor we assumed. Perhaps only there because he couldn’t find a job as the end of Carter The First’s administration had left as many unemployed as the start of Carter II’s leaves us today. Surely this particular trainee had not what it takes to compete for employment during the days of the misery index. And certainly not the gumption to go “all the way” as the 80’s Army would say. We left him to himself assured that any time invested in his friendship would seem wasted once he failed to make the cut.

Then came time for our first class A inspection by the company commander. Cleaned and polished, pressed and primped we all stood ten feet tall next to our perfectly taut bunks wearing, for the first time, our parade-ready uniforms. Though physically motionless in the position of attention, my ego swaggered as peripheral vision confirmed I alone already sported PFC insignia - rank achieved by valiantly conquering a year’s college credit during my prior two year civilian campaign.

Self congratulations gave way to pity as I noticed the loner a few bunks down somehow in the excitement of preparation apparently forgot to secure his necklace. He wasn’t the type to have bling. It must have been a symbol of his religious affiliation, I presumed. How ironic, I thought, that some stroke of evil caused him to forget about it as the commander steadily approached one bunk at a time. What strange and cruel god did this misfit worship that would permit a follower to commit such a faux pas during this first big test of personal organization?

I saluted the commander as sharp and steady as all those inspected before me. Then, a couple bunks later, it happened. Arriving at the seemingly unfortunate fellow’s bunk, the commander took one look at that weird necklace and then... saluted him!!! What in Sam Hill? Was the captain also a member of the same religion? Or did he just screw up and return a salute before being saluted?

Well, it wasn’t until after the inspection that someone, the platoon sergeant as I recall, explained the situation. We learned that this humble man, the one beneath our young prideful selves, invisible on the good days and the object of whispered scorn on the bad was actually a genuine Vietnam war hero. One of an extremely rare breed who personally received the Medal of Honor rather than having it presented to his war widow or to proudly grieving parents.

When I left basic training, I attended technical schooling, jump school and eventually went on to serve the rest of my hitch with the 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne). Living amongst the storied “Green Berets” I met Rangers and Recons, Seals and Deltas, everything from privates to sergeants major, butter bars to generals, newbies to war weary veterans. Almost all were good, honorable men. Some did things worthy of Hollywood movies. None had received our nation’s highest honor as did this one humble man.

We were never told what specific heroic deeds he performed during his prior service. And, being now two inches tall ourselves, we never felt worthy to press the still quiet giant for details. Apparently, he was going through Army basic because his war service was under another branch. To this day I don’t know whether it was strict policy or personal honor that had this living legend starting again from the bottom after reaching such a pinnacle. All I know is that this man, whose name I never uttered and decades later can’t even recall, is the real life star of a movie never made and a memory I’ll never forget.

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