When I was a young Marine in the infantry, I stood out for having a bit of a technical edge over my peers. Radios, weapon systems, tactics—I had a knack for them. That edge earned me better assignments, more responsibility, and faster recognition. It also, unfortunately, inflated my ego.
There’s a night I’ll never forget. I was in the barracks with a few of the guys, feeling pretty proud of myself. I don’t remember exactly what prompted it, but I started making fun of one of the Marines in my platoon. He was an ammo man—a job I saw as less sophisticated than mine. I ridiculed him, questioned his intelligence, and reduced his role to something I thought was beneath me.
I was behind closed doors—or so I thought. Mid-sentence, I looked up and saw him standing in the doorway. He’d heard everything.
In that moment, the blood drained from my face. Not just because I’d been caught, but because I could see it in his eyes—I had genuinely hurt him. The words I’d tossed out so casually had landed like a punch to the gut. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there for a moment, then turned and walked away.
I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on that night. The regret was immediate, but the understanding came slowly. At the time, I lacked the maturity to grasp the bigger picture. But over the weeks and months that followed, something clicked.
You see, in the infantry, the mission binds everyone together. No role is ornamental. The ammo man wasn’t just “the guy who carried bullets.” He ensured that fire teams had what they needed in the most critical moments. When it mattered most—when rounds were flying and chaos broke loose—his work made my work possible. And my work, in turn, protected and enabled his. We were interdependent, linked by circumstance and a shared commitment to something larger than ourselves.
I didn’t want his job, and he probably didn’t want mine. But neither of us could be effective without the other. That’s the nature of a team. You don’t all do the same thing, but you all contribute to the same outcome. It took a moment of shame and a hard look in the mirror for me to realize how wrong I’d been—not just in how I treated him, but in how I viewed the people around me.
That experience stuck with me. It planted something deep that grew over time.
Years later, I found myself in a very different setting—no longer in uniform, but sitting at the head of a conference table as the CEO of my own company. The titles were different. The stakes were different. But the dynamics were remarkably familiar.
Every organization, no matter how large or small, runs on interdependence. The frontline employee, the janitor, the executive assistant, the software engineer, the CFO—they all play a role. Some contributions are more visible. Others are more behind the scenes. But all of them matter.
I’ve come to believe that the quality of a leader is revealed in how they treat those whose roles are different—or seemingly “lesser”—than their own. Real leadership isn’t about projecting authority. It’s about fostering respect. It’s about creating an environment where people feel seen, valued, and essential—because they are.
The lesson of the ammo man taught me that. It’s why I’ve always resisted hierarchical arrogance. I don’t believe in “higher” or “lower” jobs. I believe in functions—each of them critical, each of them reliant on the others to succeed.
When I think back to that night in the barracks, I’m still embarrassed. I still wish I could take back what I said. But I’m also grateful for the lesson. Because that moment shaped how I would lead for the rest of my life.
The ammo man didn’t say anything that night. He didn’t have to. His silence taught me more than words ever could.
And I’ve never forgotten him.
The story of the ammo man has stayed with me—not because it was dramatic, but because it was quiet and human. A small moment that carried a big lesson.
Whether you’re leading a platoon, a company, or a household, never forget: every person, every role, every contribution matters. Respect isn’t earned by title. It’s earned by how we show up—for others, and especially for those whose work often goes unseen.
If this story made you pause, I hope you’ll share it. And I hope you’ll look around your own team or community and take the time to honor the people who make your work possible.
I’ll be back soon with more. Until then—stay principled, stay engaged, and lead with respect.
Until next time.
Share this post