Generally Speaking (15 page)

“What are you doing?” he'd ask in mock disbelief. Outside, the raw Bavarian fog would not have lifted.

“I'm thinking about going out running.”

Command Sergeant Major Gant would shake his head. “If you wait a few minutes, you'll probably get over it.”

With his large brown eyes behind thick plastic Army glasses, he did not fit the stereotypical image of the square-shouldered Sergeant Rock, but the soldiers loved him, and he lived for them. Unlike the devious NCO who apparently viewed the battalion's troops as a con man assesses his marks, Command Sergeant Major Gant took personal responsibility for the morale and well-being of each member of our command. When a soldier, especially a young enlistee, joined the battalion, Gant would question her or him in great detail about their enlistment contracts, sitting patiently at his desk and reviewing the paperwork to make sure that they had received all the bonus money they had coming. Many of these young soldiers did not fully understand the details of these bonuses and were unaware that all the money due them had not been paid. But Ira Gant always had time for them.

Watching him work with these soldiers taught me a vital lesson in military leadership. I learned that caring for soldiers must be more than a trite slogan. Caring is not so much about emotion as it is about doing the job of a commander to ensure soldiers receive their correct pay, as well as fair promotion and recognition. Although these soldiers were legally adults, they were very young, and in many ways we were their surrogate families. This extra effort paid invaluable dividends. For example, we sent our soldiers' next-of-kin in the United States the German postal address at which the soldiers could be reached by telegram in an emergency. This was because a cable sent to the normal Army post office address only traveled at the speed of mail. We also included Polaroid pictures of the soldiers in uniform in the battalion area as a tangible symbol that they had arrived safely overseas. The return letters we received from the appreciative families were heartwarming. Often the proud parents would relate accounts of their own military experiences and describe their children's accomplishments in school and scouting. Both the soldiers and the Army depended on the bedrock of support these families provided.

Command Sergeant Major Gant also taught me through example the value of diversity in a large organization such as the Army. He believed strongly in separating religion from the Army's official policy, that religion was a personal matter that should not be drawn into military life in any manner. In the mid-1980s, however, the prevailing sentiment weighed toward the politically powerful Christian evangelists who promoted prayer and invocations on Army posts.

“Better to leave all that stuff in the chaplain's shop,” he'd mutter, trying unsuccessfully to conceal the fact that he was probably one of the smartest, and certainly among the fairest, soldiers in U.S. Army, Europe.

In December 1986, Ira Gant announced that he'd found a married couple in the battalion who had volunteered to work a seventy-two-hour shift over Christmas.

“That's great!” I said. That would free up two shift workers to be home with their kids. “But why are they willing to work Christmas?”

Gant had a slight gleam in his eye. “They're Wiccas.”

“Wiccas?”

“Like witches, Colonel, only the good kind. They believe in the Earth Goddess, that type of thing.”

“Oh, my.” I didn't know we had any of those in the battalion.

Command Sergeant Major Gant smiled. “Well, that's no stranger than some of you who kneel at an altar and drink wine and think that it's the blood of God.”

The couple did in fact serve their seventy-two-hour shift. And they did not perform any bizarre rituals in the operations area. Over the coming months, Gant and I sometimes discussed this issue. From his close contact with the troops, he knew that the Army was drawing recruits from a cultural base much more diverse than I had known as a junior officer. Although the mainstream Christian majority still prevailed in the United States, there was a significant number of nontraditional denominations and sects represented in our battalion, ranging from Mormons and Jews to Muslims to that Wicca couple. Our moral distinction from the Soviet Bloc lay in the fact that we did not impose beliefs either directly or indirectly on our soldiers. It was not my job as a commander to ask my soldiers about their religion. It was my responsibility to work hard for our mission and their welfare every day. Command Sergeant Major Gant taught me that being judgmental was not the same as being moral and ethical. Gant was moral, but not judgmental. It was a lesson I've never forgotten.

When I commanded a recruiting battalion in San Antonio, Texas, between 1988 and 1990, my sergeant major, Glenn Tutor, was probably the most dedicated soldier I've ever served with. From him and the other recruiters I learned that soldiers, no matter how mentally exhausted or physically depleted, will keep working when their leaders work with them. It was amazing what we could accomplish when we believed in our mission and never gave up.

This was a time of great rebuilding for the Army, after Major General Max Thurman had revamped the recruiting command and the enlistment standards had been raised throughout the U.S. military. Patriotism was flourishing nationwide, the economy was slowing down, and young people were drawn to the military. But processing potential enlistees was a far more difficult matter than simply shuffling paperwork. Enlistment standards were high. Recruits had to pass a battery of mental and physical examinations, and undergo thorough criminal background checks. Because soldiers had the option of choosing their guaranteed training specialties and in some cases locations of assignment, the recruiting offices had to coordinate enlistments with the dates of Basic and Advanced Individual Training and specialized military schools. At the same time, the Army needed large numbers of soldiers in the Infantry, Artillery, and Armor, and we offered recruits to those branches generous enlistment bonuses.

So the ostensibly straightforward task of running a recruiting battalion became a series of Daily Performance Reviews in which we tracked the work of every recruiter and recruiting station. It was during these intense sessions that Sergeant Major Tutor showed me the example of leadership by participation.

As the hour for our conference calls to headquarters approached, I'd often think,
We'll never pull this off.
There'd be too many unfinished medical clearances, school record and criminal background checks, and enlistment options. But Sergeant Major Tutor would sit at his desk methodically manning his own phone while he rallied the troops around him. “What are
you
going to do to get that background check?” he'd ask, prodding a first sergeant. “Who are
you
going to call at the El Paso police to get that criminal clearance?” he'd urge another NCO. Throughout these busy days and nights, the sergeant major worked alongside his soldiers. Meals were Dunkin' Donuts and Whataburgers. Given his relentless dedication, we nearly always made our mission goal. And as battalion sergeant major, Glenn Tutor mentored the first sergeants who led recruiting stations in other cities, spreading the same ethos of unyielding dedication: No matter how hopeless the situation seemed, you keep on working and your soldiers will follow you.

As Stedman Graham says in his insightful book
Teens Can Make It Happen
(which I recommend to parents and teenagers alike), “It is
always
too early to quit.”

Since I've left the Army, people often ask what assignment gave me the most satisfaction. They're surprised when I say commanding a recruiting battalion in San Antonio during the late 1980s. But the fact is, it was the hardest job I ever had as a soldier and the one from which I derived the most professional fulfillment. We were building the new Army with well-qualified, dedicated young recruits, many of whom went on to help bring us victory in the Gulf War and serve our country so well under such difficult circumstances in the Balkans.

And once more, I learned from a veteran NCO the true meaning of a leader's duty.

The noncommissioned officers I served with were not the only valuable mentors who shaped me as a military leader. I also benefited from an unexpected form of peer mentoring when I attended the Military Intelligence Officer Advance Course (MIOAC) at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. As I processed into the course, it became obvious that I was entering unknown territory. Many of the young captains around me in the long lines easily exchanged incomprehensible Intelligence acronyms, swapping stories from their recent days in the field.

Then one of the captains, Jack Varnado, introduced himself. “I've never been in MI before,” I confided. “I think I'm going to be lost in this course.”

“You'll be okay,” Jack Varnado said confidently. “I'll make sure of that.”

And he was true to his word. Although he couldn't disrupt the normal flow of classroom activity, Jack always made sure to meet me at my desk during each break to thoroughly explain the material. This selfless act made me feel included. As the curriculum became more complex, Jack was always there to offer help when I needed it. Two months into the course, I was able to stand alone, but wouldn't have done so well had Jack Varnado not mentored me.

He was only one of a number of African-American men officers I've known in my career who stepped forward to mentor their women peers. Perhaps these men detected their women colleagues' sense of isolation and more readily understood the awkward position of a minority person entering a group. This ethos of camaraderie always evoked my loyalty to the Army.

To me, one lesson of this experience is that there is a difference between mentoring and serving as a role model. A successful woman officer or civilian executive might well become a role model for younger women, but this does not mean she shouldn't also mentor men. Too often, however, people think they can only mentor someone of their own race or gender. But I believe the profession of the two people involved in the mentoring partnership transcends other aspects of identity.

Equally, some people feel their mentoring responsibility is narrowly constricted within the vertical professional ladder of those who work for them—those whom they rate in the military. But many take a broader view. As the years progressed, I always kept my eye out for promising younger officers in other units I encountered and engaged them in discussions whenever I could to assess their talents. When I had identified one of these “bright bulbs,” I'd pass her or his name on to one of my peers who might be scouting for new talent, or I'd call the sergeant major of the unit to which the promising young officer had been assigned to alert that NCO they had a real potential leader arriving. I would always preface my comments by saying, “He or she doesn't know I'm calling.” While senior officers must never get directly involved in the actual assignment process, it is appropriate to share with one's colleagues the names of exceptional leaders who are headed their way.

It's important to stress that the mentoring relationship is not one of a senior person pulling strings to place a favorite junior in a position of advantage. During recent years, it has seemed that perhaps we overpromoted the concept of senior-to-junior mentoring, so that some people saw it as an automatic entrée to career advancement. In fact, this form of patronage is no longer possible, given the Army's promotion and assignment system. So it would often be more appropriate for junior officers and NCOs to cultivate networks of low-risk, high-trust peers with whom they could share career ideas, professional reading, or school material for mutual advancement. The same pattern should prevail in the civilian workplace. Riding to high executive rank on your mentor's coattails without proving your own merit does little credit to either the senior or the junior person and generally causes irreparable damage to the organization's effectiveness and morale. Again, mentoring is not analogous with favoritism.

I also believe the essence of successful senior-to-junior mentoring is the senior person correctly assessing the junior's strengths and weaknesses and giving key practical advice at the appropriate time rather than diffuse and unfocused feel-good pep talks.

For me, one of the most critical—but unlikely—of these mentors was Colonel Charles Black, my commander at Pyongtaek, Korea, in 1976. The Prince of Darkness had developed a leadership style that involved emulating the stress of wartime, pushing us harder than we thought we could endure to accomplish our mission. By being such a demanding taskmaster, he forced us all to improve our performance and he forged us into a tightly knit team. Other leaders might well have achieved similar results through less draconian methods. But it was obvious that, despite his bluster, Colonel Black cared deeply about his officers. During the Korean War in the early 1950s, he had seen firsthand what lack of readiness meant: dead American soldiers and lost battles. He was determined that his command would be trained and ready to face war again in Korea twenty-five years later.

Colonel Black had been carefully observing my performance as his executive officer, a young captain who worked hard and rarely merited one of his truly blistering verbal reprimands. I was very pleased when he endorsed Lieutenant Colonel Runyon's recommendation that I apply for the Junior Officer Cryptologic Career Program (JOCCP) at the National Security Agency. This was exactly the type of timely practical advice a senior mentor can deliver that has a pivotal effect on the junior person's future.

My relationship with Colonel Black was formal, respectful, and distant. This was his style with all of us. Yet his interest in my future and the specific mentoring he delivered eventually proved to be one of the decisive turning points in my career. This is an important factor to consider: Although mentoring often involves friendly personal interaction, it is not a requirement. In the case of Colonel Black and myself, for example, mutual respect and the good of the service replaced emotion.

While at the National Security Agency, I also learned that senior-to-junior mentoring need not require a close professional relationship as I had had with Colonel Black. My assignment to the JOCCP put me in the Agency's A Group. I found the work both professionally intriguing and personally fulfilling, by far the most engrossing assignment I'd had so far in my Army career. As the time approached for me to leave the Agency, I approached Joe Amato, head of the A Group.