Described in cold type, the counseling process probably appears a little sticky. Actually, it is nothing of the sort. For it has been going on ever since man became civilized. It is a force in all organized human relationships, beginning in infanthood and lasting through old age. Because of the nature of a military group, and particularly because of the deriving of united strength from well-being in each of the component parts, there is much more need to regularize it and to qualify all men in a knowledge of those things which will enable them to assist a fellow in need of help. But in the military society, far more than in civil life, confidence is a two-way street. It would be almost impossible to express the collective gratitude of tens of thousands of lieutenants and ensigns who in times past have learned to rely on the friendly counsel of a veteran sergeant or petty officer, and have usually gotten it straight from the shoulder, but with respect. The breaking-in of most young officers, and the acclimating of them to their role in a command system, is due, in large measure, to support from this source. Nor are senior commanders reluctant to receive moral comfort of this same kind in periods of crisis.
When the planes of the First Tokyo Raid under Col. James H. Doolittle, crashed among the mountains and along the sea-coast of Eastern China, after one of the most valiant strokes in our military annals, their commander was among the few who had the added misfortune of coming to earth within the Japanese lines. By fate's mercy, he just happened to escape by walking between the enemy outposts. Farther along, he saw the wreck of another of his planes. Then he came to a third; it was smashed beyond hope. But its crew had already heard from several other parties. They too had lost their B-25's to the fog, the night and the crags. Doolittle realized then that everything was gone, lives saved yes, but otherwise the expedition was a total ruin.
The Commander sat for a long time in the cockpit of the wrecked plane, terribly depressed, thinking only of how totally he had failed.
At last one of the younger men, Sgt. Paul Leonard walked up to him and said: "What's the matter, Colonel?"
Doolittle said: "It couldn't be worse. We've lost everything. We've let the country down."
The kid said: "Why, Colonel, you've got this all wrong. You have no idea how this looks to the United States. Don't you realize that right now they're getting ready to make you a general? Why I'll make you a bet they give you the Congressional Medal."
Doolittle thanked him. He thought it was a nice thing for the boy to say. That kind of loyalty was worth having in a bad hour. The boy started to walk away; he could tell that Doolittle didn't believe a word of it. Then suddenly he turned and came on back.
"Colonel," he said, "I'd like to make a deal with you. Suppose I'm right about it and you're wrong. So they give you a star and the Congressional Medal. If that happens, will you agree to take me with you wherever you go?"
Doolittle made him a solemn promise. Fresh courage came to him out of the boy's tremendous earnestness.
And of course the boy was right, and the contract was kept, and all things went well until, by a savage irony, Sgt. Leonard was killed in the last German raid against Doolittle's headquarters in Europe shortly before the war ended.