other version of this same story, changing only the names and the
surroundings. All too frequently it happens in the services--we look
at a man, and because at a casual inspection we do not like the cut of
his jib, or the manner of his response, or are over-persuaded by what
someone else has said about him, we reach a permanent conclusion about
his possibilities, and either mentally write him off, or impair our
own capacity for giving him help.
It suffices to say that when any officer has the inexcusable fault
that he takes snap judgment on his _own_ men, he will not be any
different in his relations with all other people, and will stand in
his own light for the duration of his career. Which leads to one other
observation. When any man, bearing a bad efficiency report, comes to a
new organization, it is a fact to be noted with mild interest, but
_without any prejudice whatever_. Every new assignment means a clean
slate, and there should be no hangover from what has happened,
including the possible mistaken judgments of others. The system was
never intended to give a dog a bad name. To be perpetually supervised,
questioned and shadowed is to be doubted, and doubt destroys
confidence and creates fear, slyness and discontent in the other
individual. Every man is entitled to a fresh hold on security with his
new superior. Any wise and experienced senior commander will tell you
this, and will cite examples of men who came to him with a spotty
record, who started nervously, began to pick up after realizing that
they were not going to get another kick, and went on to become
altogether superior. For any right-minded commander, it is far more
gratifying to be able to salvage human material than to take over an
organization that is sound from bottom to top.
However, the truth in point 9 applies universally. The studied effort
to be helpful in all of our relations with our fellow men, and to give
help not grudgingly, but cheerfully, courteously and in greater
measure than is expected, is the high road to wide influence and
personal strength of character. More than all else, it is the little
kindnesses in life which bind men together and help each wayfarer to
start the day right. These tokens are like bread cast upon the water;
they ultimately nourish the giver more than the direct beneficiary.
One of our best-known corps commanders in the Pacific War made it a
rule that if any man serving under him, or any man he knew in the
service, however unimportant, was promoted or given any other
recognition, he would write a letter to the man's wife or mother,
saying how proud he felt. He was not a great tactician or strategist
but, because of the little things he did, men loved him and would ride
to hell for him, and their collective moral strength became the
bastion of his professional success.
Of Maj. Gen. Henry T. Allen, who commanded our first Army of
Occupation in Germany, a distinguished contemporary once said: "It
surprised us that Allen did so well; in the old Army we regarded him
as a swashbuckler." Maybe that was because he was a cavalryman and
liked to strut, and he liked to see chestiness in his own people,
right down to the last file. But General Allen was infinitely
considerate of the dignity of all other men, and he disciplined
himself to further their growth and give them some mark of his
thoughtful regard so far as lay within his power. It was because of
his rich understanding humanity, and not through any genial slackness,
that he kept a tight hold on discipline. To the units he commanded he
gave his own tone. He warmed men instead of chilling them with fear.
Thousands returned to civil life better equipped for the passage
because of what they had seen him do and heard him say.
So we can link points 1, 6, 7, and 8 from the Coast Guard's list into
one binding truth not less essential to sound officership than to
action anywhere which seeks the cooperation and goodwill of men: _It
is not more blessed to be right than to be loved_, Henry Clay's remark
that he would rather be right than president notwithstanding. The
absolute perfectionist is the most tiresome of men, and a waster of
time and of nerves. The stickler, the fly-speckler, the bully and the
sadist serve only to encumber those parts of the establishment which
they touch; their subordinates spend part of their own strength
clearing away the wreckage which these misfits make.
Other than these comments, it is not necessary to say a great deal
about the _inner qualities_ which give an officer a free-wheeling
adjustment with other persons in all walks of life. Once again,
however, it might be well to speak of the importance of enthusiasm,
kindness, courtesy, and justice, which are the safeguards of honor and
the tokens of mutual respect between man and man. This last there must
be if men are to go forward together, prosper in one another's
company, find strength in the bonds of mutual service, and experience
a common felicity in the relationship between the leader and the led.
But it is sadly the case that the reputation of any man, as to what he
is inside, forms in large measure from what others see of him from the
outside. That is what makes poignant the story of Pvt. Fred Lang; like
a singed cat, he was better than he looked. In the military service,
more than elsewhere in life, manner weighs heavily in the balance, if
only for the reason that from the public point of view, the military
officer is supposed to look the part. He is expected to be the
embodiment of character, given to forthright but amiable speech,
capable of expressing his ideas and purpose clearly, careful of
customs and good usage, and carrying himself with poise and assurance.
For if he does not have the aura of vitality, confidence and
reflection which is expected in a leader of men, it will be suspected
that he is incapable of playing the part. However unfairly
discriminating that judgment may seem to be, in comparison with the
attitude toward other professions, it has a perfectly logical basis.
The people are willing to forgive preoccupation in all others, since
how an engineer dresses has no relation to his skill as a
mathematician, and when a doctor mumbles it doesn't suggest that he
would be clumsy with a scalpel. But when they meet an uncivil or
unkempt officer, or see an untidy soldier or bluejacket on the street,
they worry that the national defense is going to pot. One reason for
the great prestige of the Marine Corps is that the public seldom, if
ever, sees a sloppy marine, though its members do sometimes look a
little gruesome on the field of battle.
The officer corps does have its share of "characters." Some are men
born in an uncommon mold, with a great deal of natural phlegm in their
systems, a gift for salty speech and a tendency to drawl their words
as if their thoughts were being raised from a deep well. Usually, they
are men of extraordinary power, and are worth any dozen of that
individual who scuttles about like a water bug, making an exhibition
of great energy but, like the whirling dervish, keeping in such
constant motion that he has no chance to observe what goes on under
his nose. Here, as in all things, it is steadiness that does it. The
blunt soldier, the old sea-dog type of naval officer, is endurable and
even lovable in the eyes of most other people, when he has done his
scrapping with fire rather than firewater, when his personal
credentials are sound, and when his outward manner is bluff in both
meanings of the word. But the fakers who affect the crusty manner, the
glaring eye and the jutting jaw, simply because they are wearing
military suits and think mistakenly that these things are in the
tradition, will be recognized as counterfeit as quickly as a lead
quarter.
There is nothing else that serves as well as the natural manner, with
some polishing of the surfaces here and there, and a general
tightening at the corners.
While a partial check list is not likely to reform the establishment
overnight, if kept simple enough, it may afford help to an occasional
individual, instead of giving him the fear that he is falling apart at
the seams.
The smartest physical culturists are swinging around to the idea that
correct posture alone is the great secret of physical fitness, that if
a man sits well, stands erect and walks correctly all the time, he is
doing more for his health and longevity than all of the setting-up
exercises and sweat baths yet devised. At the same time he is making a
favorable impression on all who see him. Clumsy one-sided postures,
fidgeting on a chair, slouching while sitting or standing, moving
along at a shambling gait and speaking with the chin down on the chest
produce quite the opposite effect. Right or wrong, they are taken as a
sign of indolence, fatigue, or inattention. There is always an hour
for complete physical relaxation, for stretching and letting the
muscles melt; Winston Churchill attributed a large part of his vigor
and recuperative powers to the habit of taking a 30-minute cat nap in
midday. That is a smart trick if one can master it. But trying most of
all for _physical ease_ when in conversation, or at conference, or in
attending to any matter wherein one comes under the surveillance of
those whose good opinion is worth cultivating is as certain a handicap
as putting excess weight on an otherwise good horse.
In the services, as in any situation in life in which deference to
higher opinion is compelled by the nature of an undertaking, the young
will do well to consider the wisdom of the precept, "Be patient with
your betters."
It is lamentably bad judgment to act by any other rules. Where
differences of opinion exist, time and forbearance not infrequently
will work the desired change, where stubbornness or rudeness would
utterly fail. More than that, a junior owes this much consideration to
any senior whose heart is in the right place. It is bad manners, but
even worse from the standpoint of tactics, to attempt publicly to
score a victory over a senior in any dispute, or to attempt by wit to
gain the upperhand of him in the presence of others. Though the point
may be gained for the moment, it is usually at the cost of one's
personal hold on the confidence of the senior.
But there is also the other side of the case, that the superior should
deal considerately with any earnest proposal from his subordinate,
rather than dashing cold water in his face, just because he has not
thought his proposition through. One of the best-loved editors of the
United States, Grove Patterson, of Toledo, Ohio, was remembered by
every young journalist who ever came under him because of the care
with which he supported every man's pride. A youngster would go in to
him, filled with enthusiasm for some idea, which he himself had not
bothered to view in the round. Patterson would listen carefully, and
would then say: "That's a corking idea. Take it and work it out
carefully, going over every aspect of it. Then bring it back to me."
On second thought, the youngster would begin having his own doubts,
and would shortly begin hoping that the chief would forget all about
the subject, which he invariably did. Many celebrated commanders in
our military services have won the lasting affection of their
subordinates by employing exactly this method.
Men like the direct glance. They feel flattered by it, particularly
when they are talking, and in conversation they like to be heard
through, not interrupted in mid-passage. That is true whatever their
station. Nobody likes to be bored, but fully half of boredom comes
from lack of the habit of careful listening. The man who will not
listen never develops wits enough to distinguish between a bore and a
sage and therefore cannot pick the best company. The vacant stare, the
drifting of eyes from the speaker to a window, or a picture or a
passing blonde, though greatly tempting in the midst of long
discourse, are taken only as signs of inattention. Many a young
officer called to the carpet for some trivial business has managed to
square himself with his commander just by looking straight and talking
straight in the few moments that decided his future.
Elsewhere in the book, a great deal has been said about the importance
of the voice and of developing one's powers of conversation. Not a
great deal more needs to be added here. But there is no excuse for the
officer who talks so that others must strain to hear what he is
saying--unless he is suffering from laryngitis. It is simple enough
to keep the chin up and let the words roll out. Many persons have the
bad habit of letting the voice drop at the end of a sentence; the
effect on the other party is like watching a man run away from a
fight. For clear understanding, and to create a good impression, there
should be a cheerful lift upward at the end of a sentence.
Also, officers who look at lecturing simply as part of the routine
tend to fall into either the singsong rhythm which one frequently
hears in college professors and certain radio announcers, or go all
out for the sonorous intonations which are beloved by many of the
clergy. Many young officers get into these same cadences whenever they
talk to men, and before they know it, they are trying the same thing
in the family circle. They sound like alarm clocks running down, but
instead of arousing the house, they are an invitation to slumber.
Either on the lecture platform, or in man-to-man conversation, there
is no valid reason why it is ever necessary to take the tone which
suggests that the talk is one-sided. Words can be crisply uttered and
still be personally directed, but not if the speaker is looking at the
floor, the moon or the rafters. To discuss a question amicably is the
best way to gain clear insight into it; when a man argues violently,
his purpose usually is not to serve wisdom but to prevail despite his
lack of it, thus stultifying both himself and his adversary.
Clothes are important. They have to be. One can't go very far without
them, north of the Equator. But a fresh press counts more than a new
suit by a Fifth Avenue tailor left unpressed, and neatness beats
lavishness any day in the week.
Carefulness in the little things counts much. Men develop an aversion
to the individual who cannot remember their names, their titles or
their stations, but they will warm to the person who remembers, and
they will overlook most of his other shortcomings. Likewise, they are
won by any words of appreciation or of interest in what they are
doing. Get a man talking about his business, his golf game or his
family, and you are on the inside track toward his friendship. As for
senior commanders, when the hours comes for them to bat the ball back
and forth in friendly conversation, there is nothing they enjoy more
than reminiscing about experiences on the battlefield. Other than
inveterate surgical patients, no one can outdo them in talking about
their operations.
It isn't lengthy advice which is needed on this subject, since a man
commissioned is considered to have graduated from at least the
kindergarten of good manners. What counts is simply caring about it,
not to be ingratiating to other people, but for the sake of one's own
dignity and self-respect.
None of the oracles on winning friends and influencing people have
said it in those few words, and if they had, there would have been no
books to sell.
CHAPTER NINE
LEADERS AND LEADERSHIP
In that gallery of Great Americans whose names are conspicuously
identified with the prospering of the national arms in peace and war,
there are almost as many types as there are men.
There were a certain few qualities that they had to possess in common
or their names would never have become known beyond the county line.
But these were inner qualities, often deep buried, rather than outward
marks of greatness which men recognized immediately upon beholding
them.
Some almost missed the roll call, either because in early life their
weaknesses were more apparent than their strengths, or because of an
outward seeming of insignificance which at first fooled their
contemporaries.
In the minority are the few who seemed marked for greatness almost
from the cradle, and were acclaimed for leadership while still of
tender years.
Winfield Scott, a Brigadier in the War of 1812 when Brigadiers were
few, and Chief of Staff when the Civil War began, is a unique figure
in the national history.
George Washington, Adjutant of the State of Virginia at 21, is one
other military infant prodigy who never later belied his early fame.
The majority in the gallery are not like these. No two of them are
strikingly alike in mien and manner. Their personalities are as
different, for most part, as their names. Their characters also ran
the range of the spectrum, or nearly, if we are talking of moral
habit, rather than of conscientious performance of military duty. Some
drank their whiskey neat and frequently; others loathed it and took a
harsh line with any subordinate who used it.
One of the greatest generals in American history, celebrated for his
fighting hardly more than for his tippling, would walk from the room
if any man tried to tell an off-color story in his presence.
One of the most celebrated and successful of our Admirals endeared
himself to millions of men in all ranks and services by his trick of
gathering his chief subordinates together just prior to battle,
issuing his orders sternly and surely, and then relaxing long enough
to tell them his latest parlor story, knowing that finally it would
trickle down through the whole command.
Among the warriors in this gallery are men who would bet a month's pay
on a horse race. There are duellists and brawlers, athletes and
aesthetes, men who lived almost sainted lives and scholars who lived
more for learning than for fame.
Some tended to be so over-reclusive that they almost missed
recognition; others were hail-fellow-well-met in any company.
Their methods of work reflected these extreme variations in personal
type, as did the means they used to draw other men to them, thereby
setting a foundation for real success.
Part of their number commanded mainly through the sheer force of
ideas; others owed their fortune more to the magnetism of dynamic
personality.
In a few there was the spark of genius. All things seemed to come
right with them at all times. Fate was kind, the openings occurred,
and they were prepared to take advantage of them.
But the greater number moved up the hill one slow step at a time, not
always sure of their footing, buffeted by mischance, owning no exalted
opinion of their own merits, reacting to discouragement much as other
men would do, but finally accumulating power as they learned how to
organize the work of other men.
While a young lieutenant, Admiral Sims became so incensed, when the
United States would not take his word on a voucher, that he offered to
resign.
General Grant signally failed to organize his life as an individual
prior to the time when a turn of the wheel gave him his chance to
organize the military power of the United States in war.
General Sherman, who commanded the Army for almost 15 years, was
considered by many of his close friends to be a fit subject for
confinement as a mental case just prior to the Civil War.
General Meade, one of the sweetest and most serene of men in his
family relationships, lacked confidence in his own merits and was very
abusive of his associates during battle.
Admiral Farragut, whose tenderness as an individual are marked by the
16 years in which he personally nursed an invalid wife, was so
independent in his professional thought and action that both in and
out of the Navy he was disqualified as a "climber." He got into
wretched quarrels with his superiors mainly because he felt his
assignments afforded him no distinction. The Civil War gave him his
opportunity.
Admiral John Paul Jones, though an unusually modest man, was as
redoubtable in the boudoir as at sea, and it would be hard to say
which type of engagement most caught his fancy.
General Winfield Scott, as firm a commander as ever drew on a glove,
plagued the service with his petty bickering over rank, seniority, and
precedent.
They were all mortal. Being human, they had their points of personal
weakness, just as any newly appointed ensign or second lieutenant also
has weak spots in his armor, and sometimes views them in such false
proportion that he doubts his own potential for high responsibility.
There is not one perfect life in the gallery of the great. All were
moulded by the human influences which surrounded them. They reacted in
their own feelings, and toward other men, according as their personal
fortunes rose and fell. They sought help where it could be found. When
disappointed, they chilled like anyone else. But along with their
professional talents, they possessed, in common, a desire for
substantial recognition, accompanied by the will to earn it fairly, or
else the nation would never have heard their names.
All in all it is a multifarious gallery. If we were to pass it in
review, and then inspect it carefully, it would still be impossible to
say: "This is the composite of character. This is the prototype of
military success. Model upon it and you have the pinnacle within
reach."
The same thing would no doubt hold true of a majority of the better
men who commanded ships, squadrons, regiments, and companies under
these commanders, and at their own level were as superior in
leadership as the relatively few who rose to national stature because
of the achievements of the general body.
The same rule will apply tomorrow. Those who come forward to fill
these same places, and to command them with equal or greater authority
and competence, will not be plaster saints, laden with all human
virtue, spotless in character and fit to be anointed with a superman
legend by some future Parson Weems. They will be men with a human
quality, and a strong belief in the United States and the goodness of
a free society. They will have some of the average man's faults, and
maybe a few of his vices. But certainly they will possess the
qualities of courage, creative intelligence and physical fitness in
more than average measure.
What we know of our great leaders in the current age should disparage
the idea that only a superman may scale the heights. Trained observers
have noted in their personalities and careers many of the plain
characteristics which each man feels in himself and mistakenly
believes is a bar to preferment.
Drew Middleton, the British correspondent, wrote of Gen. Carl "Tooey"
Spaatz: "This man, who may be a heroic figure to our grandchildren, is
essentially an unheroic figure to his contemporaries. He is in fact
such a friendly, human person that observers tend to minimize his
stature as a war leader. He is not temperamental. He makes no rousing
speeches, writes no inspirational orders. Spaatz, in issuing orders
for a major operation involving 1,500 airplanes, is about as inspiring
as a groceryman ordering another five cases of canned peas."
In the files of the Navy Department there is a picture of Admiral Marc
A. Mitscher, the famed commander of Task Force 58, coming on board a
flagship to take command of a force of carriers. Officers and men are
lined up at spick-and-span attention. The Admiral himself appears as a
little man in a rumpled khaki uniform, tieless and wearing an
informal garrison cap. Under his arm is a book, and in the photograph
the title can be read as "Send Another Coffin." Mitscher liked
detective stories; he didn't like ceremonial pomp.
An interviewer who called on Gen. Ira C. Eaker when he was leading 8th
Air Force against Germany found "a strikingly soft-spoken, sober,
compact man who has the mild manner of a conservative minister and the
judicial outlook of a member of the Supreme Court. But he is always
about two steps ahead of everybody on the score, and there is a quiet,
inexorable logic about everything he does." Of his own choice, Eaker
would have separated from military service after World War I. He
wanted to be a lawyer and he also toyed with the idea of running a
country newspaper. In his off hours, he wrote books on aviation for
junior readers. On the side, he studied civil law and found it
"valuable mental training."