Then they get elected.

Standing next to a veteran for a photo or soundbite costs nothing. It requires no courage, no compromise and no work. It fits effortlessly into campaign messaging, where symbolism is rewarded and accountability is absent. But governing is where promises are supposed to turn into policy.

Recent Congresses rank among the least productive in modern history, paralyzed by dysfunction, partisan infighting and an apparent inability to do the basic job voters sent them to Washington to do. Veterans pay the price for that inaction. When Congress stalls, veterans wait longer for care, benefits and justice they have already earned.

Take the Major Richard Star Act, for example. This DAV-supported bipartisan legislation would fix a long-standing injustice that strips combat-injured veterans of the full benefits they earned through sacrifice. It has broad support on both sides of the aisle and has been championed for years. And yet Congress still hasn’t finished the job. Veterans are told to wait — again — while lawmakers find time for partisan theater.

Even worse, Congress routinely hides behind budget tricks like PAYGO, short for “pay as you go,” a rule that requires Congress to offset new federal spending with cuts or revenue elsewhere. This self-imposed, arcane get-out-of-jail-free-card is a convenient excuse to delay or deny veteran legislation. It’s waived for other priorities, but when it comes time to do right by veterans, suddenly the rules are ironclad. That’s not fiscal responsibility — it’s moral cowardice.

We hear endless speeches praising our service. But respect without action is meaningless. Veterans’ issues are complex, but every member of Congress asked for this job. Each of them raised their hand knowing it would be tough. Difficulty is not an excuse for failure.

Veterans are often reluctant to demand more. We’re trained to endure, adapt and push forward without complaint. Too many politicians exploit that, assuming we’ll accept delays, half-measures and excuses.

Veterans deserve better than applause lines and empty promises. And that’s why DAV remains so committed to ensuring these promises are kept. Our mission is to advocate — loudly and relentlessly, just as we are this week during the 2026 DAV Mid-Winter Conference in Washington — for veterans, their families, caregivers and survivors.

And we will continue to remind Congress of this simple truth: Honoring service isn’t a campaign moment. It’s a responsibility measured by laws passed, promises kept and lives improved, not by how many veterans appear in a campaign ad.

Barry Jesinoski is the national adjutant and CEO of Disabled American Veterans (DAV).

During my junior year at West Point in 2017, I attended a ceremony honoring the namesake of the school’s newest barracks: Gen. Benjamin O. Davis Jr. This was the first building at West Point named after an African American, and I glowed with pride knowing that the academy was finally celebrating a person who looked like me.

It was a meaningful, but ultimately insufficient, gesture: Less than 100 meters from Benjamin O. Davis barracks was one named for Robert E. Lee, one of almost two dozen Confederate monuments on West Point’s campus at the time.

Walking to class every day, I passed the plaque for the Lee Award for Mathematics in Thayer Hall, complete with the inscription, “Donated by the United Daughters of the Confederacy.” After class, I often ran down Lee Road, through Lee Housing Complex, to Lee Gate. As I sat in the library on the weekends, a grand portrait of Lee in Confederate gray loomed over me, while a haunting depiction of a Black man in tattered clothes walked barefoot alongside Lee’s horse in the painting’s background.

The years I spent in the shadow of West Point’s Confederate monuments made me who I am today. My character development, the cornerstone of a West Point education, was forged by countless hours spent reading books, writing papers and sitting in lectures about moral courage and West Point’s guiding values of duty, honor and country.

But my understanding of actually living those values, being what we called “a leader of character,” was shaped in resistance to my alma mater’s Confederate idols and totems. I was not alone in my feelings of anger and dissatisfaction.

This collective feeling drove my friends and me to organize the “Hot Topics Forum” in 2017. At this event, likely for the first time since the Civil War, more than 200 members of the West Point community, including our commanding generals, gathered to discuss West Point’s memory of the Confederacy.

Speakers included those from both sides of the issue, including a white woman who shared how her Southern heritage shaped her understanding of and appreciation for Confederate monuments.

She was followed by a white cadet named Rob, also from the South, who grew up having few friendships with people of other races. During his freshman year, he hung a Confederate battle flag, which he considered a symbol of honor and tradition, in his barracks room.

He later spoke with other cadets, many of them Black, who explained how the flag was a distressing symbol of a dark and painful history. These conversations broadened his understanding of what the symbols meant, leading him to remove his Confederate flag and encourage the school to do the same with their Confederate symbols.

Following the forum, several people shared how hearing those personal stories changed their minds about Confederate monuments. I challenged some of West Point’s senior leaders: “Now that your mind is changed, what will you do about it?”

Each time, I was told that they would not take any action because West Point “couldn’t get ahead of the Army,” which still had nine bases named for Confederate soldiers.

After graduating from West Point and commissioning as a transportation officer, I was sent to one of those bases, Fort Lee, Virginia, to begin training as an Army logistician. The move to Virginia led me to discover parts of my family’s roots.

Every time I called my great-grandma Stith, she would say, “You know, you got lots of cousins down there in Virginia!” Her husband, Carroll Stith, was born in 1916 in Sussex County, part of Virginia’s “Black Belt.” The following year, just 30 miles north of my great-grandfather’s birthplace, Camp Lee opened.

Growing up with little knowledge of my family history, the South always felt distant. But when I learned about this historical intersection between my great-granddad’s childhood and the opening of Camp Lee, I thought back to a trip I’d made to the National Memorial for Peace and Justice.

There I gazed at dozens of steel coffins hanging overhead, each engraved with the names of a county where a lynching had occurred. I didn’t know it then, but above me hung the names of people lynched in the counties where my great-granddad was born and where I lived while serving at Fort Lee.

It is this legacy of racial violence that ties these two stories together. My great-grandfather and his brother fled north during the Great Migration, joining millions of refugees from the campaign of racial terrorism throughout the Postbellum South. As Black families were being driven from their homes, the U.S. Army decided to celebrate Robert E. Lee, the leader of a violent rebellion to maintain white supremacy and African slavery.

Like me, great-granddad Stith was an Army logistician. He was part of the extraordinary logistical effort during World War II to sustain a war on two fronts and on opposite sides of the globe, executed in large part by units of Black soldiers.

He deployed to the Pacific with a segregated unit to build airfields and roads, joining not only the Black truck drivers on the famous Red Ball Express, but also Black soldiers serving as engineers, quartermasters, construction workers and supply troops that sustained the U.S. military around the world.

I never heard the stories of Black World War II veterans until I searched for stories about my great-granddad. Looking for those stories brought me to discover the soldiers from the 320th Balloon Barrage Battalion, who were among the first to land at Omaha Beach on D-Day.

As much as I was inspired by the heroism of Black soldiers like Waverly Woodson Jr., I was angry that their stories and so many other were not included in movies like “Saving Private Ryan,” in hundreds of pages of Stephen Ambrose books and many more of the war’s most famous retellings.

By leaving out the contributions of women and people of color, storytellers sidestep the contradictions and complications their presence brings to this American story. But it was these contradictions that I found most compelling because I saw my own experiences in them.

The Black GIs fought what they called the Double Victory Campaign, seeking to defeat fascism abroad and racism at home. Many of their stories took me back to Virginia.

The bases where I served were where many segregated units trained before deploying to Europe and the Pacific. Before landing on the beaches of Normandy, some of the soldiers who later joined the 320th Balloon Barrage Battalion trained at Fort Eustis, Virginia, where I served for almost three years as a lieutenant. I can still remember feeling chills run through my body as I read the words of a soldier from New York: “I never knew what discrimination was until I went to Fort Eustis.” At the same time, Black soldiers training at then-Camp Lee recalled being slapped, threatened and called racial slurs daily.

One of the Black soldiers during that period was Arthur Gregg. When Gregg served as a second lieutenant at Fort Lee in 1950, he was banned from the segregated officers’ club.

In 2023, I watched from the audience as then-94-year-old retired Lt. Gen. Gregg walked to the podium on the day Fort Lee was redesignated to Fort Gregg-Adams, part of a congressional effort to bar military installations from honoring Confederate leaders. He stood in front of that very same officers’ club and watched as his name was hung in front of the door.

The ceremony carried the unmistakable mood of a family reunion. Dozens of Black women, descendants of the women who served in the 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion with Lt. Col. Charity Adams, were in attendance, showing off their matching white T-shirts with Gregg and Adams’ faces printed on the front, and the words “From Lee … To Gregg-Adams” written on the back.

I was so excited that the place where my soldiers would learn our craft would be named after people we could be proud of. And more than that, people who would finally represent the diversity of the men and women who served there, past and present.

As I drove through the gate that day and saw banners with Gregg and Adams’ faces prominently displayed on every light pole, I felt a weight lift. I no longer had to carry the resentment toward the fact that the same symbols that intimidated my great-grandfather and his community were still standing as a barrier to inclusion for me and other soldiers.

After twice serving at the base near Petersburg, once while it was named Fort Lee and again after it was redesignated as Fort Gregg-Adams, I took command of a company of Army logisticians. Today, people of color make up the majority of the logistics branches; Black service members represent exactly 50%. In the transportation company I command, almost half my soldiers are Black and more than a quarter are Latino.

Every single one of them starts their Army career at the Sustainment Center of Excellence, which, after the 2025 decision to restore former base names, is located at a place once again called Fort Lee.

When I first learned about the reversion to Confederate base names, my bewildered frustration quickly led towards despair. So many of my assumptions about the world and how to better it were turned upside down. There was a good faith assumption behind Hot Topics. We believed that if we could connect with people, we could change their minds, and through that, change policy.

The decision to remove Confederate names was proof that our stories were finally heard. And because of this, the reversal to Confederate names felt like open mockery.

Compounding the hurt, some of the people around me eagerly embraced the change. They laughed as it was all torn down. In a meeting with fellow commissioned and noncommissioned officers in my battalion, a chorus of smiling white men shouted almost in unison, “It’s called Fort Bragg now!” at their first chance to start using Confederate names again. I waited for someone around me to express the same outrage and betrayal I was feeling. But it never came.

One afternoon, I got a call from my granddad. When I answered, he skipped the pleasantries and asked, “How can you keep putting up with this?” I could sense the anger and concern in his voice. He then moved directly to Confederate base names, saying, “They are dismantling everything that people like you and your friends fought to correct.”

That comment knocked the wind out of me. Normally, my grandparents overflow with pride when they talk about the Army. My grandma wears my West Point necklace religiously, as my granddad does with his West Point baseball cap. They jump at any chance to talk about their West Point grandson, even introducing me to their neighbors as “Capt. Jack Lowe.”

But even all the love of a proud grandparent could not stop them from being filled with shame and disappointment in the Army I now represent. Even as I continue to put on the uniform, I share many of my grandparents’ feelings.

But from the stories of Black soldiers who came before me, I learned that I’m not the first to feel this way, and unfortunately, I won’t be the last. The Double Victory Campaign continues.

Jack Lowe is a captain in the U.S. Army Logistics Branch with years of experience serving in transportation companies, including during a deployment to Poland in support of Operation Atlantic Resolve. He graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point in 2019 and earned a degree in sociology. He is the first Black cadet to be awarded the Fulbright scholarship and earned a master’s degree in cultural criminology at Lund University in Sweden. His academic work, published in the Nordic Journal of Criminology, analyzes how narratives about crime and immigration shape the boundaries of acceptable punishment and national identity.

The author is writing this essay in his personal capacity, with no association to any official military position. The views expressed are those of the individual only and not those of the U.S. Army or the Department of Defense.

This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.

This omission is not without consequence. One of the strongest predictors of birthing mothers’ mental health is partner support. That finding is not new, controversial or theoretical. A partner’s capacity to provide support is directly shaped by their own psychological health; when nonbirthing partners experience untreated distress, depression or anxiety this predictably erodes their ability to support the birthing partner.

Further, perceived partner support during pregnancy lowers maternal emotional distress postpartum, and even correlates with reduced distress in infants, demonstrating the importance of supportive relationships in both parent and child well-being.

Decades of research and federal policy discussions, including the last two National Defense Authorization Acts, acknowledge the importance of family mental health by framing access to behavioral health care and early identification of risk as readiness priorities — emphasizing prevention during periods of elevated risk. In practice, however, clinics screen birth mothers, while the nonbirthing partners’ mental health remains virtually ignored. That is until a crisis forces attention. Such crises could be prevented or significantly reduced if partners were intentionally screened and supported. Preventative care for partners remains largely absent.

Even setting aside the growing body of evidence that fathers experience significant psychological and emotional changes during the pregnancy and postpartum period, the readiness argument alone should demand change. Men account for almost 84% of the active-duty Army. That means the majority of the force is navigating the perinatal period and transition to parenthood — a time of known increased risk — without formalized support. Research indicates approximately 8% to 10% of new fathers experience significant depressive symptoms, some studies show up to 15% or higher when anxiety is included — rates likely mirrored in the active-duty population. These unmet mental health needs very likely affect new parents’ readiness and performance.

If we are serious about force readiness, we should work to identify and mitigate risk before it manifests as untreated psychological distress, substance misuse, family violence or relationship dissolution. These outcomes do not just affect individual families, they degrade unit readiness, retention and long-term force health.

Currently, pregnant service members and Tricare beneficiaries have the opportunity to be screened for depression an estimated 10 to 15 times before the child is even born. Yet clinical practice guidelines do not recommend screening nonbirthing partners.

This gap in parental support extends beyond health care. Active Army pregnant service members are also enrolled in Pregnancy Postpartum Physical Training, or P3T, which at most installations includes one day of education a week that covers topics such as emotional regulation, relationship changes and available resources to support the entire family system. Yet no comparable standardized touchpoints exist for partners, despite their central and critical role in maternal and infant outcomes.

The absence of screening and education for the partner does not reduce the burden. Instead, it shifts it by implicitly placing responsibility for the entire family system’s psychological well-being (and ability to triage it with resources) on the mother at a time when she herself is navigating immense physical, emotional and relational change.

A pilot initiative underway at Fort Carson suggests what many clinicians already know: Fathers want to be involved. They care; they simply lack a platform, language and an invitation to engage. When given structured opportunities, they participate.

This initiative meets nonbirthing partners once per trimester and twice postpartum (6 weeks and 3 months) to screen for depression, emotional lability and relational distress. It provides psychoeducation aligned with their stage in the perinatal period and shares resources to support them and their family. Supporting the entire family system is not a distraction from maternal care but an enhancement to it.

To address this gap, DHA should build on pilot initiatives like the one at Fort Carson, which systematically engages nonbirthing partners throughout the perinatal period. This means implementing routine screenings for depression, anxiety and relational stress; providing stage-specific psychoeducation; and connecting partners to resources that support both their well-being and the family system.

Additionally, this calls for DHA to invest in research to better understand the experiences of fathers and nonbirthing partners, using these insights to develop evidence-based standards of care that fully integrate the entire family into perinatal support.

This is not just a maternal health issue — it is a population health and readiness issue, and addressing it proactively strengthens families, service members and the Army as a whole.

Capt. Lauren Finch currently serves as an active-duty Army behavioral health officer and licensed social worker currently at Fort Carson, Colorado. She has served in both operational and clinical roles, and holds a Master of Social Work through the Army’s program through the University of Kentucky. Her work focuses on perinatal mental health, family readiness, retention and policies, and improving behavioral health access and outcomes for the family system. The views expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official policy of the department of the Army, Defense Health Agency, the Defense Department or the U.S. government.

It does not, and forcing the issue actually weakens U.S. national security.

Much of this is tied to the proposed Golden Dome missile defense system, though specific details of the program have yet to fully emerge. House and Senate appropriators noted in the fiscal defense appropriations bill that “due to insufficient budgetary information, the House and Senate Defense Appropriations Subcommittees were unable to effectively assess resources available to specific program elements and to conduct oversight of planned programs and projects for fiscal year 2026 Golden Dome efforts in consideration of the final agreement,” even given that they “support the operational objectives of Golden Dome for national security.”

Additionally, Greenland is repeatedly mentioned in the Trump administration’s recent National Defense Strategy as a place where the U.S. needs guaranteed military access.

But based on the originating executive order released by the White House in January 2025 and the few related unclassified discussions, Golden Dome is intended to be a multilayered system that would protect the United States from all types of threats: ballistic missiles, cruise missiles, hypersonic weapons and even drones. It would be a system of systems that would incorporate many of the existing missile defense architecture’s elements, including the Ground-based Midcourse Defense (GMD) system, intended to defend against ICBMs. It is reported to entail four interceptor layers — three land based, one space based — plus 11 short-range missile defense batteries scattered across the U.S. And it would use various sensors, including one that has been part of the U.S. early-warning network for decades: the ground-based radar at the Space Force’s Pituffik Space Base in Greenland.

But let’s say that the U.S. decides it must expand the U.S. military footprint in Greenland in order to meet (as yet undefined) Golden Dome architecture plans. The terms of the 1951 agreement between the U.S. and Denmark are very flexible. It says that the U.S. has the right “to improve and generally to fit the area for military use” and “to construct, install, maintain, and operate facilities and equipment,” as well as having “the right of free access to and movement between the defense areas through Greenland” and “the right to exercise exclusive jurisdiction over those defense areas in Greenland.”

Precedence exists about how the U.S. and Denmark have dealt with changing missile defense priorities. When the George W. Bush administration wanted to upgrade its radar there, a request to the Danish parliament was unanimously approved in 2004. However, none of the reporting about Golden Dome indicates that new ground-based sensors would be created as part of it, with the focus instead on building space-based sensor networks.

What about placing interceptors in Greenland? Again, under the current military agreement, the U.S. could already do this. But even so, Greenland is not needed as a new interceptor site. The U.S. has 44 GMD interceptors fielded in Alaska and California, and the Missile Defense Agency has received funding to create a third basing site for GMD interceptors at Fort Drum, New York.

This accommodates any need for a more northern position without the requirement to have a site outside the United States. Plus, the number of fielded GMD interceptors has been 44 for over 20 years; these are expensive to build, operate and maintain, and MDA has been focused more on working on upgrades (and struggling to do so) than building out the supply. So it’s not like there is a waiting warehouse full of GMD interceptors. And the GMD system is the only system intended to defend against ICBMs.

Further, forcibly annexing Greenland does nothing to bolster U.S. national security — rather the opposite.

By menacing a NATO ally, the U.S. weakens a military alliance that has served us well for over seven decades. Space Force officials have repeatedly said that one of our strongest assets are our international partners and allies. This move kneecaps strategies put in place by the Space Force to utilize them, including its International Partnership Strategy released in July 2025. Chief of Space Operations Gen. Chance Saltzman said at the time, “Spacepower is the ultimate team sport. … Therefore, if the service is to achieve its mission to secure our nation’s interests in, from, and to space, then it absolutely must cultivate partnerships with partners upon whom it can depend on.”

Golden Dome is problematic for many reasons, including its astronomical cost, technical complexity and contribution to the weaponization of space. Don’t let it be used to justify the annexation of a NATO ally’s territory as well.

Victoria Samson is chief director of space security and stability for the Secure World Foundation where Krystal Azelton is senior director of program planning.

That’s why “Groundhog Day” remains a cultural shorthand inside the military for the experience of living inside routine long enough that time itself stops feeling linear.

For service members, the reference to the 1993 film, in which Bill Murray portrays a weatherman trapped in a time loop in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, who’s forced to relive Feb. 2, works because it captures something service members immediately recognize: days repeat, routines harden and progress feels frozen.

Long before modern deployments and rotation schedules, American soldiers were trained to dig in, hold position and stay ready while nothing happened. Patience was not just expected – it was enforced, practiced and rewarded. That rhythm of repetition and delay shaped how wars were fought and how service members learned to endure them.

During the Civil War, waiting became a survival skill. Despite portrayals of constant movement and dramatic charges, much of the conflict was defined by immobility. Armies spent extended periods digging trenches, reinforcing earthworks and watching enemy lines from a distance. Commanders learned quickly that rushing fortified positions often led to catastrophic losses, while patience preserved manpower and momentum.

Modern deployments are still built around long stretches of repetition, where readiness matters more than action and boredom becomes a stressor in its own right. Deployed troops have described days dominated by maintenance cycles, guard shifts and the mental effort of staying sharp while time feels frozen, pushing back against the sense that every day is the same.

This is not an accident or a failure of planning.

Militaries are designed to operate under uncertainty, and uncertainty rarely allows for constant movement. Waiting creates space for observation, coordination and restraint. It prevents impulsive decisions driven by pressure rather than intelligence. More importantly, it conditions service members to stay alert even when nothing appears to be happening.

From the earliest days of service, troops are conditioned to accept delay as normal. You wait to eat. You wait to move. You wait for orders that may change or never come.

These moments are often framed as discipline, but they are also preparation. Combat rarely unfolds on a clean timeline, so the ability to remain ready during prolonged inactivity is a survival skill.

Even in high-tempo operations, waiting dominates. Surveillance missions involve hours of observation for seconds of usable intelligence. Convoys pause repeatedly for coordination and clearance. Naval crews spend days at sea without contact. Aircrews train for years for missions that may never materialize.

“Groundhog Day” resonates with service members because the film’s conflict rests not in danger but in repetition. Murray’s character, Phil Connors, is trapped not by violence but by routine. His escape from reliving the same day repeatedly comes only after he learns to live meaningfully within the time loop. That mirrors how many service members endure long deployments or static assignments. You do not defeat waiting; you adapt to it.

The alarm clock keeps ringing. The waiting continues. And for the military, it always has.

This gap between tactical brilliance and strategic stalemate reveals the central flaw in the Pentagon’s new National Defense Strategy: America can project overwhelming force anywhere on Earth, but increasingly lacks the sustained presence to turn military victories into enduring outcomes.

The Jan. 24 National Defense Strategy, or NDS for short, confronts a hard reality: the United States cannot simultaneously deter China in the Taiwan Strait, defend the Panama Canal, guarantee European security, and extend nuclear deterrence over South Korea with current force levels.

The Pentagon’s answer is to prioritize homeland defense and Western Hemisphere dominance while maintaining First Island Chain denial and providing “critical but more limited” support to Europe and Korea.

The problem isn’t the diagnosis — it’s that the cure may be worse than the disease.

When priorities collide with physics

The math simply doesn’t work. Taiwan contingency planning alone would consume most available naval and air defense forces before accounting for Western Hemisphere or European commitments. Western Hemisphere defense requires separate force packages: airlift, amphibious platforms, intelligence systems, special operations units, and surface combatants. Current force levels were designed for sustained global commitments, not for simultaneous hemispheric dominance and Indo-Pacific denial while maintaining credible deterrence elsewhere.

The Venezuela operation proves this constraint. America demonstrated it can strike anywhere, but the strategic outcome remains unresolved precisely because the new strategy deprioritizes sustained commitments outside priority theaters.

But the force structure gap is only half the problem. The transition period while allies build capacity creates its own dangers.

The transition window problem

The strategy assumes NATO and South Korea can take “primary responsibility” for regional defense within acceptable timeframes. But Europe faces daunting barriers: aggregate debt at 90% of GDP limits defense spending increases, limited indigenous production of precision munitions and advanced air defense creates capability gaps, and untested casualty tolerance raises questions about political sustainability. This creates a 3-5-year vulnerability window. Europe cannot operate independently while U.S. support is reduced.

South Korea’s challenge is even more acute. The claim that Seoul can take “primary responsibility for deterring North Korea” with “critical but more limited U.S. support” assumes conventional superiority can replace a nuclear guarantee. It cannot. North Korea’s growing arsenal creates advantages in any escalation scenario that conventional forces cannot counter. “Critical but more limited” support undermines confidence in the fundamental question: Would Washington trade Los Angeles for Seoul? This ambiguity could prompt Seoul to reconsider its nuclear stance, triggering exactly the proliferation cascade nonproliferation policy seeks to prevent.

When strategy becomes personal

Perhaps most troubling, the NDS ties its framework explicitly to “President Trump’s vision,” mentioning him 47 times across 24 pages. Enduring strategies frame objectives around persistent national interests, not individual leadership. Containment — articulated in George Kennan’s “Long Telegram” and NSC-68, two pivotal documents of the early Cold War era —survived nearly 50 years across nine administrations because it addressed Soviet threats to American interests.

When strategy becomes synonymous with a single leader, it becomes vulnerable to reversal. If allies and adversaries believe this framework expires in 2029 or 2033, they adjust behavior accordingly: allies delay defense investments awaiting policy reversals; adversaries simply wait us out.

The adversary gets a vote

The strategy’s viability depends on adversaries accommodating American repositioning rather than exploiting vulnerabilities during the transition. History offers little comfort. Britain’s 1937 Imperial Defence White Paper articulated clear priorities, but this didn’t prevent Germany from exploiting the transition period before Allied rearmament.

By designating certain theaters as lower priorities during allied capacity-building, the NDS creates a 3-5-year window for adversaries to test resolve.

The 2026 NDS offers overdue strategic clarity in diagnosing resource constraints. But it fails to show how America bridges the gap between current commitments and future capabilities without creating exploitable vulnerabilities.

The Venezuela operation crystallizes the dilemma: overwhelming tactical capability without strategic staying power. Until the Pentagon shows how it protects allies during the transition — or candidly acknowledges the risks they must accept — this strategy raises more questions than it answers.

Strategy documents set intentions; adversary responses determine outcomes. On current evidence, significant gaps remain.

Richard Berry is a national security strategist who served as senior advisor to six U.S. Indo-Pacific Command and U.S. Special Operations Command (2010-2025).

It’s a relatively unchanging constant that the ship can reliably steer by. The inertial navigation system, on the other hand, is calibrated internally and drives the ship’s motion.

In general, these two references — magnetic and inertial — are aligned, or at least close enough that any difference, known as deviation, can be corrected.

For 45 years, I followed my magnetic and the Navy’s inertial compasses and found them aligned with the organization I served, first as an active-duty officer, then as a government contractor and finally, as a government civilian employee, across a total of six administrations.

There were deviations, yes, but overall, my personal course and the course of the organization remained relatively coherent.

However, over the past six months, I found my magnetic compass — guided by the core values of honor, courage and commitment, and my own fourth value of respect — increasingly out of alignment with the inertial course changes I observed within the Defense Department under the current administration.

I witnessed policies that erased historical records based on a loosely defined “DEI purge” and diminished the contributions of minority service members and veterans, as well as policies seeking to dismiss portions of the DOD community, including civilian federal employees and transgender service members.

I sent a weekly five-bullet email to an anonymous Office of Personnel Management (OPM) address detailing my “accomplishments,” knowing that a false word or omission could lead to dismissal.

More importantly, I saw the stress, lack of sleep, random layoffs and an atmosphere of fear among my peers where political affiliation increasingly overshadowed technical competence and experience.

I watched colleagues — veterans, military spouses, scientists and researchers — systematically driven out of jobs they loved without remorse or empathy. I watched the prohibition of “celebration” months, ties cut to mentoring and support organizations, all as I tried to apply corrective measures to stay aligned with the organization I love — but ultimately, I realized I could no longer maintain my course toward true north while remaining in step with the department’s current direction.

Seeing good leaders and organizations censured or fired simply for standing on long-held principles was not only disheartening; it cut against everything I believe.

I did not take the Delayed Retirement Program (DRP) because, according to that policy, the billet I occupied would automatically be eliminated if I did. I could not in good conscience be complicit in cutting a safety-related billet which was specifically created after the U.S. Fleet Forces’ comprehensive review as a corrective action for the root causes of two collisions that took the lives of 17 sailors in 2017.

Ironically, the current Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) policies implemented in the name of “efficiency” will likely lead to that billet’s elimination anyway, or at a minimum ensure that it stays gapped indefinitely.

As with any decision, there will be consequences; good people will be disadvantaged, but they will stand up and speak out when they can; they will also continue to support the fleet because they care.

May 31 was my last day in government service. I am proud of my accomplishments and even prouder of the shipmates and colleagues who have served — and who have been treated with shameless disregard.

Like many, I remained silent for a time out of self-preservation. But I can no longer carry that burden, nor ask my family to carry it with me. For what it’s worth, I’m sleeping much better these days.

One thing I have learned in 45 years of naval service: The forces of nature will always overcome mankind’s meager attempts to defy them. There are thousands of superb active-duty and civilian public servants who don’t have the flexibility that I have; they will bite their tongue and persevere.

These counterproductive and unnecessary policies will come and go. Much damage has already been done, but hopefully the focus will shift, as it should, to Navy Secretary John Phelan’s priorities that he articulated to Congress: strengthening shipbuilding and the maritime industrial base; fostering a warfighter culture that is adaptive, accountable and innovative; and improving the health, welfare and training of sailors and Marines and their families.

The Navy will find true north again and persevere. I am certain of it.

Dr. John Cordle is a retired Navy captain with 30 years of active-duty service. He commanded the destroyer Oscar Austin and the cruiser San Jacinto. On active duty, he earned a Bronze Star, the Navy League’s John Paul Jones Award and the BUMED Epictetus Award for Innovative and Inspirational Leadership. He was recently recognized with a Navy Meritorious Civilian Service Award for his work in Human Factors.

These perpetually smoldering burn pits were so bad that flightline operations had to be rerouted. I kept one of the base’s five-day weather forecast. It accurately predicted “smoke/haze” for the entire week. People were already getting sick from the exposures we now know will continue to cast a long shadow in terms of the illnesses they cause — many chronic and many fatal.

That same year that I leaked the story to Kelly Kennedy with Military Times before writing about it for the New York Times “Home Fires” series, our current Veterans Affairs Secretary, Doug Collins, deployed as a chaplain to Balad. There, he served the spiritual needs of those who worked and were treated at the Air Force Theater Hospital. He counseled countless men and women who’d been sent into harm’s way and were wounded. He prayed over those who had made the ultimate sacrifice. And, like everyone else on that base, he was exposed to hundreds of tons of burning waste that America’s military and civilian leaders knew could have chronic and enduring consequences to their health.

Fortunately, for myself, Collins and hundreds of thousands of other veterans who’d been exposed, the PACT Act was signed into law in 2022. The hard-fought legislation helped to expedite justice by presuming veterans’ service connection for certain illnesses linked to toxic exposures.

In less than three years since its passage, more than 2.1 million claims for benefits due to toxic exposures have been adjudicated and more than 436,000 additional veterans are currently enrolled in VA health care. Although it took almost two decades for the federal government to acknowledge that veterans exposed to burn pits had been harmed — which is less than the average of 34 years it has historically taken to establish a presumptive condition for an exposure — we’re getting closer than in past generations to keeping promises to the men and women who answer the call to serve.

In spite of increases in demand for care and benefits, the Trump administration has used executive orders to cut the number of VA employees. Then a leak exposed plans for a reduction in force back to 2019 VA staffing levels, which was before the PACT Act provided millions of toxic-exposed veterans with earned benefits. Although the “how” of these cuts remains a guarded mystery about which veterans have been left in the dark, we know Secretary Collins’ goal is to cut around 72,000 staff members, which is 15% of the department’s workforce. Among those at risk of losing their jobs are around 20,000 veterans who bring key insights into our health and benefits system.

Unlike previous administrations who sought and welcomed feedback from veteran stakeholders — the same organizations who (along with Jon Stewart) ultimately carried the PACT Act and other key policy victories for veterans across the finish line — the administration has offered no opportunity for public comment and scant details on its plans for transformation.

Instead, we are being promised a more efficient VA and being told repeatedly that care and benefits will not be impacted.

The secretary, who spoke of sleeping next to a burn pit in his confirmation hearing, has asked his fellow veterans to trust him. Cutting tens of thousands of positions while maintaining or even improving services for veterans in need sounds like a godsend to veterans and taxpayers alike. But we’re talking about cuts at a time when the need is on the rise. And care is already being affected, with interruptions in research impacting veterans participating in cancer trials. Ultimately, we’re being asked to blindly trust the same government that’s poisoned us over the course of generations.

Many veterans are worried. Some have already been fired from the VA or other agencies and others are service-disabled veterans with small businesses that have been devastated by cuts to government contracts. They’re contacting organizations like DAV to vent their frustration and anxiety. But more is likely to come. And we’re not sure what to tell them.

President Reagan’s repeated mantra in nuclear negotiations was to “trust, but verify.” The veterans community is coming out of the secretary’s first 100 days with no way to verify his veracity. In the coming months, we will likely witness a sea change at the VA. But the details on how those changes will impact veterans are hazy, not unlike the downwind side of a burn pit — and, paired with the lack of transparency we’re experiencing at the VA, similarly concerning for the potential long-term impact to the veterans community.

Dan Clare is the chief communications & outreach officer for DAV (Disabled American Veterans). He is a former Marine and Air National Guardsman who served with the 332nd Air Wing at Balad Air Base during the Iraq War. Veterans and spouses can participate in DAV’s survey by visiting dav.org/protect.

Recognizing this individuality, we as elected officials try to smooth out the highs and lows that impact veterans and service members and assess the potential unintended consequences of our legislative initiatives.

It’s these “unintended consequences” that have become a recurring theme of the Veterans and Military Advisory Council, or VMAC, that I established to help inform me on the issues facing veterans, military service members and their families. The VMAC is an ad hoc and evolving group of elected officials, veterans, concerned citizens and veteran advocates from Northern Virginia (Fairfax, Loudoun, Fauquier, and Prince William Counties) that meets quarterly to discuss state and federal issues affecting veterans and determine how we can affect positive change.

At our most recent meeting, we turned our attention to an inconsistency between the Affordable Care Act, or ACA, and Tricare’s treatment of dependent children.

Nationally, the ACA prohibits insurance companies from denying coverage or charging higher rates based on preexisting conditions. In Virginia, Medicaid expansion, finally enacted in 2019, has provided health care access to approximately 500,000 Virginians who previously did not have coverage. The ACA also made a significant step forward in ensuring that young adults have access to health insurance during their transition from teenagers to adult independence.

One of the most widely recognized provisions of the ACA is the requirement that health care plans allow dependent children to remain on their parents’ health insurance until they turn 26. This provision has provided millions of young Americans with a safety net, including my two daughters, allowing them to focus on their education or early professional careers without the additional burden of securing their own, and potentially expensive, health insurance.

Surprisingly, this protection is not extended equally to all American families, particularly those who serve in our military.

Under current regulations, military service members who rely on Tricare for their health care face a different reality. Once a dependent child turns 21, they are no longer eligible for coverage under Tricare Prime unless they are enrolled in a university, in which case coverage can be extended, but only until age 23.

After this, the only option available to them is Tricare Young Adult, which requires premiums and has a deductible. This option is not only more expensive, but it is also more administratively burdensome. The result is a situation where the children of those who have dedicated their lives to serving and protecting our country are left with higher costs compared to their civilian counterparts.

For many military families, the additional premiums and deductibles required under Tricare Young Adult are not just a financial inconvenience — they are a significant burden. This is especially true when compared to the no-cost or low-cost coverage their dependents enjoyed under Tricare Prime.

The disparity is glaring: While civilian children can stay on their parents’ health insurance until age 26 without additional costs, military families — who often endure frequent relocations, deployments and other unique stressors — must face a higher financial burden for their children’s health care during this critical, transitional time in their lives.

The solution to this problem is both simple and just: We must encourage our congressional delegations across the nation to extend the same protections to military families that we afford to civilian families under the ACA. Specifically, dependent children of military service members should be allowed to remain on their parents’ Tricare plan until they turn 26, without the need to transition to a more costly health care plan like Tricare Young Adult.

This simple reform would not only alleviate the financial burden on military families but also ensure that the children of service members have the same opportunities for stability and success as other young Americans. It is a matter of fairness, of ensuring that those who serve our nation are not disadvantaged simply because of their service. From a legislative perspective, this should be considered “low hanging fruit” to correct an unintended consequence.

Del. David Reid has represented the 28th District in the Virginia House of Delegates since 2017. He has served for five years as co-chair of the General Assembly’s Military and Veterans Caucus (GAMVC) and is the vice chair of the House Transportation Committee. He served 23 years in the U.S. Navy Reserve as an intelligence officer, where he was awarded the prestigious Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal on three occasions, and retired as a commander.

Among the branches of the United States military, the National Guard is unique. It serves as a reserve force ready to be deployed to combat overseas and it is also available to help respond to natural disasters and other emergencies here at home.

If used wisely, the National Guard is an invaluable asset to our national security and well-being. However, we have become concerned that the Guard is being used for an increasing number of missions outside of its core functions. That is why we, along with a group of other retired civilian and military leaders, recently published a statement attempting to help recalibrate the use of the National Guard.

In recent years, Guard members have been asked to execute an increasing variety of nontraditional missions. They have patrolled the border, taught in high schools, guarded prisons, filled in for civilian police officers, and served in a range of situations that stretch the definition of “emergency.” More and more often, governors and presidents — from both political parties — call upon the Guard to address problems that are typically handled by civilian authorities.

These missions come at a considerable cost to state and federal taxpayers, and they run the risk of diverting resources that could be dedicated to training and preparedness for core National Guard responsibilities as the primary combat reserve of the United States Army and the United States Air Force.

Even in the absence of new obligations, much is asked of National Guard members. They must be trained, equipped, and ready, when called upon, to perform a variety of different functions: to serve in combat overseas, to help respond to violent civil unrest at home and to provide assistance during domestic natural and manmade disasters. Maintaining readiness for these traditional functions is no small task, particularly given that most National Guard members balance their service obligations with full-time civilian jobs and with commitments to their families and communities.

The individual men and women of the National Guard want to be of service to their communities, and we are confident that they will execute their assigned missions to the best of their ability, no matter the task. At a certain point, however, overuse of the National Guard threatens the Guard’s ability to effectively execute core missions — missions that protect lives and property. It threatens the Guard’s readiness and availability to respond to genuine disasters or to be deployed to combat overseas.

And it threatens the public trust in the National Guard and the broader United States military. Often, nontraditional deployments coincide with a particular political agenda, and that appearance, warranted or not, can erode the trust that the Guard depends on to effectively execute its missions.

These are the considerations that we and our colleagues emphasize in our statement: mission preparedness, overall readiness and public trust. We think that these values should guide determinations about when to deploy the National Guard and should counsel in favor of restraint when there are other tools available.

Having helped inform decisions to deploy the National Guard, we fully recognize that they can be challenging. Often, it is state governors who must take on the considerable responsibility of deploying their National Guard units, and they must do so based on their own understanding of the need and the risks. Civilian political leaders are the ones who ultimately make these decisions. Voters are the ones who ultimately hold them accountable.

It is for this reason that we offer principles, not prescriptions. We hope that these principles will help spark a thoughtful public conversation about the appropriate use of the National Guard. And we welcome engagement and feedback both from those of you in uniform and from interested members of the American public.

Alongside our fellow retired civilian and military leaders at Count Every Hero, we are committed to doing our part to ensure that the National Guard remains a strong and ready military force worthy of the faith of the American people. We hope our elected leaders will do their part by endeavoring to deploy the National Guard only in the best interests of their states and our nation.

Daryl Bohac, a retired general, formerly served as Adjutant General for the Nebraska National Guard. Joseph Lengyel, a retired general, served as the 28th chief of the National Guard Bureau. Craig McKinley, a retired general, served as the 26th chief of the National Guard Bureau. Allyson Solomon, a retired general, formerly served as Assistant Adjutant General for the Maryland Air National Guard. Paul Stockton formerly served as Assistant Secretary of Defense for Homeland Defense and Americas’ Security Affairs.