In an era of 24-hour news cycles and “15 minutes of fame” it is easy to fall into the trap of thinking that greatness is achieved by performing brilliantly when the spotlight is brightest – leading the game winning drive at the Super Bowl, or exhibiting exceptional bravery during a brief firefight with the enemy. Our society rewards these actions with adulation and notoriety. We love the
individual star but often overlook the teammates that fill the vital but less glamorous roles. I submit that true greatness is not achieved by the exceptional short-term performance of an individual, but rather by working with others to do the right things, for the right reasons, every time, over the long-term.

My father embodied this true greatness. In every endeavor, he strived for excellence over the long term. He was well aware that this often made things more difficult, but he also knew the rewards outweighed the hard work
required.

He demanded good effort and absolute integrity – nothing less was tolerated. With these high expectations, however, came a deep love and commitment. He knew we were not perfect and helped us through whatever difficult times were at hand. He had a knack for knowing when you needed a kind word of encouragement or when you needed a kick in the ass – although the “kick in the ass” method did seem to be employed more frequently.

He lived his life according to his values, and he took care to associate himself with people and institutions that did the same.

Raised by Hugh Dabney, a man of absolute integrity, he carried this with him throughout his life. He loved to tell me the story of a party in Richmond in the 1970s when Jim Wheat called for my father (as many of you know, Mr. Wheat was blind). The gathering quieted down and Jim said, in front of all, that there was never a man of greater integrity than Hugh Dabney. He said this because Hugh had always stayed true to his word. He had lost a fortune by purchasing a Duisenberg dealership just before the Great Depression; his investment was soon worthless. Hugh refused to declare bankruptcy, because he felt this
was not living up to his word, and he spent the rest of his life paying back this debt. My father was supremely proud of his own father and how he lived his life, and sought to conduct his life in a similar way.

My father knew before he joined the Marine Corps that it was the place he wanted to be. After a poor academic performance during his freshman year at Yale – he summarized his experience with the statement “they didn’t kick me out, but they didn’t exactly invite me back, either” – he went to the recruiting office to sign up to fulfill his draft commitment. The Marine recruiter told him that they had already fulfilled their quota for Marines who scored in the top two-thirds on the intelligence test given to all recruits, so the only way Dad could get into to theMarines was to score in the bottom third. His year at Yale
had prepared him well for that task.

He loved the Marine Corps, and after attaining the rank of sergeant, matriculated at VMI, because he knew that VMI would provide the structure and discipline he needed to succeed. He knew that this was an institution that sought true greatness by emphasizing teamwork and consistently doing the right things. He would remain a fiercely loyal VMI man throughout his life.

During his time at VMI, he met my mother. Their courtship involved trips from Quantico to Northampton, Massachusetts, every weekend on virtually no sleep.
Remember, this was before I-95 was completed, so the entire trip was on Route 1. Their 50-year marriage would be the cornerstone of his life. Thankfully, my mother knew what she was getting into, and in return, my father was absolutely devoted to her and sought her counsel often. As the Dabney children all knew, my parents’ relationship was the primary force in our family – they
were always a united front.

At home, though, my mother clearly outranked my father. She was always in charge of the budget and he was not given much walking around money. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to every junior Marine for
whom he never bought a beer – he barely had enough money to get a haircut.

My father was a born leader, but also firmly believed that good leaders could be trained. He spent his life teaching those around him what true leadership was. He led by example and cared for Marines and family with unwavering devotion. He often told me that a good Marine has trained his subordinates so well that if he becomes a casualty, his unit will function just as well without him.

He taught his family the same way. As early as my ninth grade year, he would be gone for up to 10 days at a time, and with my brother away at boarding school, I was the man of the house, though my sister might disagree.

I was shown where his gun was, and taught what to do in the event of an emergency. Less than a month before his death, he reviewed all his finances and benefits with me, again in an effort to ensure that things would function just as well once he was gone.

My father was born to lead Marines in combat. His greatest honor was having that privilege. I recall asking him how he felt about serving in Vietnam during a time when opposition to the war was growing. He told me that it was up to the politicians to decide whom we should fight, but that his obligation was to ensure that whenever young Marines were in harm’s way, they had the best leadership possible.

My father was given the awesome responsibility of commanding a reinforced rifle company on Hill 881 South during the siege of Khe Sanh. Through sheerdetermination, discipline, resilience and teamwork, a much larger North Vietnamese Army force was defeated. While there were innumerable acts of individual heroism, my father was certain that what carried the day was good
order and discipline, and the proper execution of fundamentals. Dig deeper, keep your helmet and flak jacket on, help your fellow Marine, patrol, patrol, patrol … the list goes on. Doing the right thing was extremely difficult, and doing it day after day in truly horrific conditions made it even more challenging. But these basics, combined with truly awesome support from the Air Wing, enabled the Marines of Hill 881 South to write one of the finest chapters in the history of the Marine Corps.

My father’s reputation as a combat Marine, however, belied his gentle side. He was an attentive, loving father and husband. He proved to us again and again that we were his primary focus; he coached soccer every season and attended every event he could. He carried the diaper pail to work and went to the Laundromat at lunch. He never complained about long hours at work, and he
always came home for dinner, even if he had to work afterwards. He taught us that a man can be both a successful professional and a great father without
compromising either.

He never really retired, even after he and my mother settled into to a “slower” life at Mackey’s Tavern. My father was very proud that he and my mother could buy an old, historic house on a Marine’s salary; finally, after three decades of strict budgeting, my mother’s frugality was vindicated.

With a new mission before him, he immediately set out to completely restore his new home. He became so engrossed in this, that even if he and Mom had only one commitment in a week – say, a cocktail party – he would be late because he’d be trying to finish his latest project around The Tavern. But there were also trips to Quantico to teach young lieutenants at TBS, and dinners with VMI Cadets at the Tavern. These fed his love for VMI and the Marine Corps. He loved to take boys from both the Scouts and Boys’ Home fishing on his 28-foot Cape Dory trawler, Dulcinea, all the while teaching them about responsibility, teamwork and life’s most important lessons. Dulcinea was
the perfect reflection of his values – powered by a single diesel engine, it was reliable, sturdy, and safe. My dad often said it was so well built that it could break ice. I always thought that I would have traded some of that
sturdiness for being able to go a little faster than 12 knots.

His love and pride in his family never wavered, even after the tragic death of his eldest son. My father was very sick at that time and I felt certain that the emotional strain would kill him, but how wrong I was. “I’m a tough old bird,”
he would often say. He not only survived but also grew emotionally at a time in life when most people cannot. Our relationship became much stronger, and I will forever cherish his final years.

In retirement he developed the common Marine affliction of his ribs growing so much that he could no longer fit into his dress blues. He slowed down, as we all will, but still kept in contact with Marines and friends by email. He loved quizzing his grandchildren about American history, but was horrified when just last summer they confused Sacajawea with Pocahontas.

He loved his dogs, flannel shirts, chocolate milkshakes, his John Deere tractor, the Chesapeake Bay, Spain, soccer, bridge, the Washington Nationals, and anyone who would avidly listen to his opinions on anything.

He was a proud man and did not like his physical limitations to hold him back. He loved visitors, and a onehour visit was worth the several days it took him to recover afterwards. Above all this, he loved his wife. Theirs could not have been a more intimate relationship or a more complete partnership. Keane and I often asked my mother to get help taking care of Dad, but she and Dad
preferred their own rhythm and privacy. He had complete trust that she would take great care of him and put up with his antics. If ever anyone had an angel on earth, my father did. Their relationship and his entire life – his family, VMI, the Marines – can truly be summed up in two words:  Semper Fidelis.