excuse for vague terminology or phrases which do not convey an
exact impression of what was done or what is intended. The
military vocabulary is laden with words and expressions which
sound professional but do not have definite meaning. They vitiate
speech and the establishment would gladly rid itself of them if a
way could be found. Men fall into the habit of saying
"performed," "functioned" or "executed" and forget that "did" is
in the dictionary. A captain along the MLR (main line of
resistance) notifies his battalion commander that he has "advanced
his left flank" when all that has actually occurred is that six
riflemen from the left have crawled forward to new, and possibly,
untenable ground.
It is better at all times to _rein in_. The strength of military
writing, like the soundness of military operations, does not gain
through overstatement and artificial coloring. The bigger the
subject, the less it needs embroidery.
For lucidity and sincerity, the important thing is to say what you
have to say in whatever words most accurately express your own
thoughts. That done, it is pointless to worry about the effect on
the audience.
The list of suggestions could be extended indefinitely. But enough has
already been said to stake out a main line for those who have already
decided that this subject deserves their interest.
A majority of the world's most gifted writers would in all probability
be struck dumb if put before an audience; though dealing confidently
with ideas, they lack confidence when dealing with people. The
military officer has need of both talents, and as to where the accent
should be placed, it is probably more important that he should speak
well than that his writing prose should be polished. A unit commander
may permit a clerk or a subordinate to do the greater part of his
paper work, either because his own time is taken with other duties or
because he is awkward at it, but if he permits any other voice to
dominate the councils of the organization, he soon ceases to exercise
moral authority over it.
Of this there is no question. The judgment men take of their superior
is formed as much by what he says and how he says it as by his action.
The matter of nerve is a main element in speaking. When an officer is
ill at ease, fidgety and not to the point, the vote of his command for
the time being is "no confidence," and so long as he remains that
way, they will not change, no matter though his good will shines forth
through other acts.
On the other hand, the military crowd is an extremely sympathetic
audience. It has to be; it is drawing pay for so being. But even if
that were not true, the ranks have a generous spirit and are ever
disposed to give the newcomer an even break. If he meets them
confidently and calmly, measures his words, smiles at his own mistakes
and breaks it off when he has covered his subject, they'll pay no
attention to his little fumbles, and they'll approve him. There is no
better way to pick up prestige than through instruction or discourse
which commands attention, for despite all that is said in favor of the
"strong, silent man," troops like an officer who is outgiving, and who
has an intelligence that they can respect because they have seen it at
work.
As for _how_ an officer should talk to men, his manner and tone should
be no different than if he were addressing his fellow officers, or for
that matter, a group of his intellectual and political peers from any
walk of life. If he is stuffy, he will not succeed anywhere. If he
affects a superior manner, that is a mark of his inferiority. If he is
patronizing, and talks to grown men as a teacher might talk to a class
of adolescents, the rug, figuratively, will be pulled from under him.
His audience will put him down as a chump.
It is curiously the case that the junior officer who can't get the
right pitch when he talks to the ranks will also be out of tune when
he talks to his superiors. This failing is a sign mainly that he needs
practice in the school of human nature. By listening a little more
carefully to other men, he may himself in time attain maturity.
Concerning subject matter, it is better always to aim high than to
take the risk of shooting too low. It is too often the practice to
spell out everything in words of one syllable so that the more witless
files in the organization will be able to understand it. When that is
done, it insults the intelligence of the keenest men, and nothing is
added to their progress. The target should be the intellect of the
upper 25 or 30 percent. When they are stimulated and informed, they
will bring the others along, and even those who do not fully
understand all that was under discussion will have heard something to
which to aspire. _The habit of talking down to troops is one of the
worst vices that can afflict an officer._
There are no dull lecture topics; there are only dull lecturers. A
little eager research will enliven any subject under the sun. Good
lecturing causes men's imaginations to be stirred by vivid images.
Real good is accomplished only when they talk to each other of what
they have heard and sharpen their impressions. Schopenauer somewhere
observes that "people in general have eyes and ears, but not much
else--little judgment and even little memory," which isn't far wrong.
Consequently, competent lecturing entails the employment of every
technique which can be used to hammer a point home. In this way, a
truth or a lesson has a better chance of adhering because it is
identified with some definite image. Simply to illuminate this point,
it is noted that the jests which best stick in the memory are those
which are associated with some incongruous situation. To relate a
pertinent anecdote, to provide an apt quotation from some well-known
authority and to draw upon our own rich battle history for
illustrative materials are but a few of the means of freshening any
discussion and sharpening its purpose. Men are always ready to listen
to the story of other men's experience provided that it is told with
vigor. And insofar as combat is concerned, such teaching is in point,
for what has happened once will happen again.
For his way as an instructor of young infantry officers of the A. E.
F. in 1918, Lt. Col. H. M. Hutchinson of the British Army was awarded
our D. S. M. Officers who sat at his feet at Gondrecourt were unlikely
ever to forget the point of such an anecdote as:
"There will be no 'Stack arms' in my army. It is a thing one sees on a
brewer's calendar--The Soldier's Dream--showing a brave private
sleeping under a stack of rifles which it will take him a good
half-hour to untangle when the call comes to stand to. No, a soldier
had better carry the rifle with him to his meals, have it beside him
always, lavish his care upon it, and in short treat it more like a
wife than a weapon.
"I am reminded of the times in South Africa when we would come to a
country inn where a chap could stop for beer. Well, a soldier would
walk into the place, and immediately he would stand his rifle in a
corner--like an umbrella, you know--'We've arrived!'--and he'd get
well into his beer and a song, say, and suddenly firing would break
out on the inn from four sides.
"It seemed that a Boer had slipped into the entry and picked up all
the rifles and passed them around to his mates in the bushes,
and--well--there you are!"
As a cadet and later as an instructor at Sandhurst, Colonel Hutchinson
well knew the usefulness of the anecdote in catching and holding the
attention of the young. Who could forget the lesson in this, related
at Gondrecourt:
"In my youth I was a dashing ignoramus with clearer ideas than I now
have on the line of demarcation between the officer and his men. They
sent me out to South Africa during the trouble and I brought a
detachment into a country village. It seemed quite unpromising but I
was told of a sort of place 3 miles in the country that you would call
a chateau in France. So I cantered out and spent the night, turning my
men over to a sergeant-major. After a refreshing breakfast along in
the middle of the morning--the late middle of the morning--I rode back
into town, but try as I might I could not locate a single one of my
men.
"Now nothing, you know, is as ineffective in a war as an officer
without his men. Well, I spent the day in agony and it was not until
along at dusk that the first of the blighters straggled in--quite
drunk, all of them, and swearing to a man that they had engaged in
five ferocious battles. It seems that about 2 miles away, in a barn,
they had come on a hogshead of ginger brandy, and had stayed with it
to the bitter end. Need I say that it was a great lesson to me, and
that from then on I was never billeted farther than 15 rods from my
men.
"As a matter of fact, I love ginger brandy."
Or this, in which the whole lesson of exactitude in the written
communication is implicit:
"Now on the subject of messages, it might be well to say immediately
that as far as I know no one ever received a written message during a
battle. They may be written, but that I think is as far as it goes.
However, they are occasionally received before and after battles, and
in this connection let me say that it is no earthly good writing
generalities to signify times and places.
"I mean to say, suppose you are writing a message and you write
'Report after breakfast.' Well, to Sergeant Ramrod it might mean
stand-to at 3 in the morning; while to Captain Brighteyes it would
mean, say, 8 o'clock. But to Colonel Blue-fish it would signify some
time after 11, depending quite a bit on how the old fellow felt.
"So it is better to say 7 o'clock in the morning, if that is what you
mean, for after all there is only one 7 o'clock in the morning. And,
by the way, I must warn you chaps against the champagne on sale in the
Cafe de l'Univers down here in the square. It is made in the
basement--of potatoes."
On as simple and basic a thing as continuing liaison between small
units, the Colonel's listeners never forgot his elementary parable:
"One rule is about all a chap can handle in a battle, and as good a
one as any to remember is to keep in some sort of touch with the chaps
to your right and left. If you do this--and I dare say you Americans
will have as much trouble as ourselves in remembering to--then a great
deal of distress to yourselves and all hands will be obviated.
"Now here we have a triangular wood. There is to be an attack, and the
objective is this line beyond the wood. So on this side of the wood at
the hour of attack the Welsh Guards go forward--and on this side,
here, the Inniskilling Fusiliers, and a tremendous battle ensues.
Well, after an hour or two, with not much progress, it is discovered
that the Welsh Guards have been firing into the Inniskilling
Fusiliers, and the Fusiliers have been firing into the Welsh. This is
thought a bit thick, you know, even in the confusion of battle. So
eventually it is stopped."
Some of the experts warn the lecturer who is only a beginner against
the use of humor, commenting that if a joke is unlaughed at, it is
disconcerting to all concerned. The only intelligent answer to that
is: "Well, what of it?" The speaker who is going to cringe every time
one of his passages falls a little flat had best not start. This
happens at times to every lecturer; there are good days and bad days,
live audiences and sour ones. If a man takes his work seriously, it is
hardly within nature for him to harden his emotions against an
unexpectedly dull reaction. But he can keep from ever showing that he
is upset if as a speaker he consciously forms the habit of rapidly
driving on from one point to another.
Thus as to the use of humor in public address, it is not only an asset
but almost a necessity. It is better to try with it, and to fall flat
occasionally, thereby sharpening one's own wit through better
understanding of what goes and what does not, than to attempt to go
along humorlessly. Said William Pitt: "Don't tell me of a man's being
able to talk sense. Everyone can talk sense. Can he talk a little
nonsense?" Even more to the point is the remark of Thomas Hardy that
men thin away to insignificance quite as often by not making the most
of good spirits when they have them as by lacking good spirits when
they are indispensable. Fighting is much too serious a trade to have a
large place for men who are dry as dust.
One of the spellbinders of ancient Greece, we are told, orated on the
sands with his mouth filled with pebbles. In World War I, it was the
custom of many higher commanders to take their officers out for voice
exercises and have them talk through 150 feet of thicket; they were
not satisfied unless the words came through distinctly on the far
side. If, under average acoustical conditions, a military officer
cannot get across to five hundred men, he needs to improve his voice
placement. It is remarkable what miracles can be worked by consistent
exercise of the vocal cords.
The final thought is that it is all a matter of buildup. An officer
can cut his audience to his own size, and strengthen his powers and
his confidence as he goes along. That is his supreme advantage. He can
start with a short talk to a minor working detail and move from that
to a more formal address before a slightly larger group. By taking it
gradually, and increasing his store of knowledge in the interim
period, he will see the time come when he can hold any audience in the
hollow of his hand. This is precisely the routine which was followed
by most of the military leaders who have been celebrated for their
command of speech.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE ART OF INSTRUCTION
_Keep it simple._
_Have but one main object._
_Stay on the course._
_Remain cheerful._
_Be enthusiastic._
_Put it out as if the ideas were as interesting and novel to you,
as to your audience._
By abiding by these few simple rules you will keep cool, preserve
continuity and hold your audience.
Instruction is just about the begin-all and end-all of every military
officer's job. He spends the greater part of his professional life
either pitching it or catching it, and the game doesn't stop until he
is at last retired. Should he become a Supreme Commander, even, this
is one thing that does not change; it remains a give-and-take
proposition. Part of his time is taken instructing his staff as to
what he wants done and just as much of it is spent in being instructed
by his staff as to the means available for the doing of it.
Instruction is the generator of unified action. It is the transmission
belt by which the lessons of experience are passed to untrained men.
Left uninstructed, men may progress only by trial-and-error and the
hard bumps which come of not knowing the way.
Need more than that be said to suggest that the officer who builds a
competent skill in this field, so that it becomes a part of his
reputation, has at the same time built the most solid kind of a
foundation under his service career?
The services do not discard that kind of man when the economy pinch
comes and the establishment has to contract. The Reservist, who is
known as a good instructor, is always on the preferred list. In any
period of emergency, such officers move rapidly to the top; there are
always more good jobs than there are good men. Look back over the
lineup of distinguished commanders from World War II! It will be found
that the high percentage of them first attracted notice by _being good
school men_.
Within the services, in all functions related to the passing on of
information, the accent is on "knowing your stuff." The point is
substantial, but not conclusive. It is upon the way that instruction
is delivered rather than upon its contents as such that its moral
worth rests. The pay-off is not in what is said, but in what sinks in.
_A competent instructor will not only teach his men but will increase
his prestige in the act._ There are many inexpressibly dull bores who
know what they're talking about, but still haven't learned how to say
it, because they are contemptuous of the truth that it is the dynamic
flow of knowledge, rather than the static possession of it, which is
the means to power and influence. As technicians, they have their
place. As instructors, they would be better off if they knew only half
as much about their subject, and twice as much about people.
To know where truth lies is not more important than knowing how to
pitch it. Take the average American military audience: what can be
said fairly of its main characteristics? Perhaps this--that it is
moderately reflective; that it is ready to give the untried speaker a
break; that it does not like windiness, bombast or prolonged
moralizing; that it refuses to be bullied; and that it can usually be
won by the light touch and a little appeal to its sporting instinct.
It is the little leavening in the bread which makes all the difference
in its savor and digestibility.
In World War I an American major, name now long forgotten, was given
the task of making the rounds of the cantonments, talking to all
combat formations, and convincing them that the future was bright--no
Boy Scout errand. But wherever he went, morale was lifted by his
words. In substance, what he said was this:
"None of us cares about living with any individual who wants every
break his own way. But when the odds are even, the gamble is worth
any good man's time. So let's look at the proposition. You now have
one chance in two; you may go overseas, you may not. Suppose you do.
You still have one chance in two. You may go to the front, or you may
not. If you don't, you'll see a foreign country at Uncle Sam's
expense; if you do, you'll find out about war, which is the toughest
chance of them all. But up there, you still have one chance in two:
you may get hit, or you may not. If you breeze through it, you'll be a
better man for all the rest of your life. And if you get hit, you
still have one chance in two. You may get a small wound, and become a
hero to your family and friends. Or there is always the last chance
that it may take you out altogether. And while that is a little
rugged, it is at least worth remembering that very few people seem to
get out of this life alive."
There was as simple an idea as any military instructor ever unloaded,
and yet troops cheered this man wherever he went.
Lt. Col. H. M. Hutchinson, of the British Army, already described in
this book as an instructor who made a powerful impression on the
American Army in World War I because of his droll wit, was a master
hand at taking the oblique approach to teach a lesson. Old officers
still remember the manner and the moral of passages such as this one:
"On the march back from Mons--and I may say that a very good army
sometimes must retreat, though no doubt it wounds the sensibilities to
consider it--we did rather well. But I noticed often the confusion
caused by marching slowly up one side of a hill and dashing down the
other. It is a tendency of all columns on foot.
"A captain is sitting out in front on a horse, with a hell of a great
pipe in his mouth and thinking of some girl in a cafe, and of course
he moves slowly up the hill. He comes to the top and his pace
quickens. Well, then, what happens? The taller men are at the top of
the column, and they lengthen their stride--but what becomes of Nipper
and Sandy down in the twentieth squad? Half the time, you see, they
are running to catch up. So the effect is to jam the troops together
on an upgrade and to stretch them out going down--you know--like a
concertina."
Where then is the beginning of efficiency in the art of instruction?
It resides in becoming diligent and disciplined about self-instruction.
No man can develop great power as an instructor, or learn to talk
interestingly and convincingly, until he has begun to think deeply.
And depth of thought does not come of vigorous research on an
assignment immediately at hand, but from intensive collateral study
throughout the course of a career. We are all somewhat familiar with
the type of commander who, when asked: "What are your officers doing
about special studies, so that they may better their reading habits
and further their powers of self-expression?" will puff himself up by
replying, "They are kept so busily employed that they have no time for
any such exercise." This is one way of saying that his subordinates
are kept too busy to get essential work done.
Research, on the spot and at the time, is vital and necessary so that
the presentation of any subject will be factually freshened and
documented. But its nature and object should not be overrated. The
real values can be compared to what happens to a pitcher when he warms
up before a game. This is merely an act of suppling the muscles; the
real conditioning process has already taken place, and it has been
long and arduous.
Even so is it with immediate research, in its relation to continuing
military study, in the perfecting of instructorship. That which gives
an officer power, and conviction, on the platform, or before a group,
is not the thing which he learned only yesterday, having been
compelled to read it in a manual or other source, but the whole body
of this thought and philosophy, as it may be directed toward the
invigorating of any presentation of any subject. If he forms the habit
of careful reflection, then almost everything that he reads and hears
other people say that arouses his own interest becomes grist for his
mill.
Like 10 years in the penitentiary, it's easy to say but hard to do. So
much time, seemingly, has to be wasted in profitless study to find a
few kernels amid much chaff. Napoleon said at one point that the
trouble with books is that one must read so many bad ones to find
something really good. True enough but, even so, there are perfectly
practical ways to advance rapidly without undue waste motion. Consider
this: Among one's superiors there are always discriminating men who
have "adopted" a few good books after reading many bad ones. When they
say that a text is worthwhile, it deserves reading and careful study.
The junior who starts building a working library for his professional
use cannot do better than to consult those older men who are scholars
as well as leaders, and ask them to name five or six texts which have
most stimulated their thought. It comes as a surprising discovery that
some of the titles which are recommended with the greatest enthusiasm
are not among the so-called classics on war. The well-read man need
not have more than a dozen books in his home, provided that they all
count with him, and he continues to pore over them and to ponder the
weight of what is said. On the other hand, the ignorant man is
frequently marked by his bookshelf stocked with titles, not one of
which suggests that he has any professional discernment.
The notebook habit is invaluable, nay, indispensable, to any young
officer who is ambitious to perfect himself as an instructor. Most men
who are distinguished for their thinking ability are inveterate
keepers of scrapbooks and of reference files where they have put
clippings and notes which jogged their own thoughts. This is not a
cheap device leading to the parroting of other men; the truth is that
the departure line toward original thinking by any man is established
by the mental energy which he acquires by imaginative observation of
other men's ideas.
To get back to the notebook, it should be loose-leaf and well-bound,
else it is not likely to be given permanent use. Whether it is kept at
home or the office is immaterial. What matters is that it be made a
receptacle for everything that one hears, reads or sees which may be
of possible future value in the preparation of classroom work. Books
can't be clipped; but short, decisive passages can be copied, and
longer ones can be made the subject of a reference item. Copying is
one way of fixing an idea in the memory. While on the subject of
books, it is all right to quote the classics and to be able to refer
to the great authorities on the science of war. But it is more
effective by far to read deeply into such writers as Clausewitz, Mahan
and Fuller, and to find some of their strongest but least-known
passages for one's self, than to rely on the more popular but
shop-worn quotations which are in general circulation. Such old
chestnuts as, "The moral is to the material as three to one," do not
refresh discourse.
Even so, the classics are only one small field worth cultivating.
Nearly every major speech by current military leadership contains a
passage or two well worth salting away. The writings of the
philosophers, the publications of the industrial world, the daily
press and the scientific journals are goldmines containing rich
nuggets of information and of choice expression worth study and
preservation.