Thomas Michael Martin

West Point, 2005

Be Thou At Peace

Posted by SFC John D. Presley on August 19, 2012:

I served under Tom and conducted well over 100 combat missions with him before he laid it all down for all of us. I'll never forget what it felt like to not hear his voice echo down the hall at our Patrol Base or see him in the planning room worrying over just how to get everything right for the next op. Unfortunately there are very few officers like him, those who will take the lead, do what needs to be done. The Army lost a great leader, but the traits that he passed on have made us all better soldiers, leaders, and Americans. As I get ready to head back over for number 12 to Afghanistan I only hope that I can be the kind of soldier he always expected of us all. You can't put your finger on it, and you can't quite identify what it is. It is a certain presence that resides permanently around him. He stands straight, the type of posture that is rarely seen in men today. The posture silently screams self-confidence. It is the kind of confidence that comes from going out night after night day after day to hunt other men. Men that hunt back. His back is rounded, shoulders wide. The arms are like leather. The neck thick. A man doesn't get this way by accident. It comes from hours under a ruck, climbing ropes, lifting heavy things, climbing walls, carrying other full grown men. Running for miles, endless miles. Miles that make the feet bleed, soaking the white socks red. Miles over road, on gravel, on sand, on dirt, up hills, down hills, upstairs, down stairs.... Miles that crush a man's soul at the mere thought. He pulls his kit out from its cubby in the ready room. It falls over his shoulders in a familiar way. It's weird how the distinctive sound of the Velcro on the cummerbund can be so easily associated with the looming prospect of combat. The Peltors go on, plugged into the radio on his side. He turns them on and turns them up. It just got real loud. The ACH goes on; the NODs are flipped down and tested. He's paranoid and knows he put fresh batteries in last night, but changes them out again anyway. The amber lenses are dusty, so he takes a red rag and rubs them clear. The helmet is heavy and weighs on a man's neck, but he is used to it. Hours have been spent under the weight of Kevlar, night vision, strobes, Velcro, flashlights... He snaps the war belt around his waist, pulls his gloves on, and slips his Oakley's over his ears. You hear a sigh, and then see him do a few squats to make sure everything is on just right. Finally, he grabs his wrist Garmin and his quarterback forearm pad. One goes on each forearm. He turns the knob on his MBITR and asks for a radio check. He gets a response and is satisfied. Someone yells out that "FMC" will be in five minutes. The others start shuffling away from their cubbies. He grabs his rifle, pulls the charging handle back checking to make sure it is clear, and then releases the bolt. He slides a plastic magazine in and routes the adjustable sling over his shoulder and starts walking for the door. As he walks away you notice that all that heavy gear looks kind of small on his V-shaped torso. He walks with a gait that is swift but quiet. He floats into the dark, his playground. The air is thin, the moon barely visible. All you hear is the crunch of pea rock under his hiking boots as he walks away toward the vehicles. It dawns on you that you just witnessed something few will ever set eyes on. Half the world away, men of a similar age are drinking, playing beer pong, setting new high scores on games. But he is boarding a 4 wheeler or pickup truck or rotary wing aircraft in the hopes of taking a few more souls off his planet during this period of darkness. Few have seen or done what he has, and fewer still do it with the ferocity that he does.

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