I answered that in the fast-moving area of computers and software, the institutional schools could not keep up, and as upcoming leaders and professionals, they must seek out information from publications, the Internet, and industry partners. Self-study, I emphasized, is the realm of the professional; it is sometimes inconvenient and harsh but is always rewarding. This answer received a mixed reaction. The junior officers who were not receptive to my advice were on a path to become managers, whereas the others were destined to become leaders.

Successful leaders understanding that failing to make a lifetime study of the profession abrogates the responsibility of command and provides the high ground to one’s adversary.


If they [army leaders] don’t like change, they will like irrelevance even less.


Shocked by the threat of disobedience, Washington acted quickly. He issued general orders the next day that strongly condemned such “disorderly proceedings.” Recognizing that the groundswell of unhappiness had to be quelled, Washington called for his own meeting of the officer corps. Before it could take place, however, the anonymous author issued another flyer. It claimed that Washington’s agreement to meet with the officers indicated his sympathy for their cause, and he had thus “sanctified” their complaints. The meeting would be tense.


In a military career that endured a variety of crises — fiscal, logistical, and military — the crisis at Newburgh during the last winter of the war exemplified the importance of Washington’s integrity to his effective leadership. In the 18th century, the word “integrity” was not used lightly. Its meaning was profound. To have integrity meant to be independent, incorruptible, selfless, dedicated, honest, and of sound moral principle. One had to be perceived as responsible and trustworthy in every setting and circumstance, whether social, financial, or political. A person of integrity was true to all personal commitments and, as a result, was capable of building and sustaining trusting relationships.


Congress had channeled huge sums of money through his hands and granted him considerable latitude in war planning and in matters of civilian and military relations. He never once abused of that trust. Indeed, he had been reluctant at times to use the full range of authority granted him. The officers and men of the army had accepted his leadership and his authority to make life-or-death decisions.


Lawrence’s marriage to Ann Fairfax connected the Washingtons to one of Virginia’s wealthiest families and swept George into a higher social world, where a reputation for integrity was paramount.


His personal fortune, which was enhanced greatly by his marriage to the wealthy widow Martha Custis, helped to secure him further prominence. Once could be a man of integrity without amassing substantial wealth, of course, but it was widely considered that only a gentleman of financial independence could serve the public interest without obligation to any individual or political faction.


Many in Congress interpreted this a modesty, but he had also confided his insecurity to his wife and friends. He confessed his fear to Martha that Congress had bestowed a “trust too great for my Capacity.” In the end, he believed his role as the American military commander was “a kind of destiny.” He wrote to Bassett that he would be sustained by three factors: “a firm belief in the justice of the cause — close attention to the prosecution of it — and the strictest Integrity.”


He demanded that his officers be equally virtuous, and that was no easy task. After all, he later noted, “the most enviable of all titles” was to have “the character of an honest man.” It was an enviable reputation not because it added to personal honor but also because it was so difficult to accomplish.


Tilden was thrilled at this mark of warmth and affability, as bowing was the formal way of acknowledging someone. The young lieutenant was in awe of Washington’s informality and accessibility, which only increased his trust in him.


The Conway cabal only added to his stature as a disinterested public servant, and no matter how he chafed against the slow pace of congressional or state assembly action, he kept his frustrations private. His correspondence with those bodies was always respectful, if firm, and he always deferred to civilian authority. Thus, as the war progressed, his own stature rose because of what he did not do — abuse his power.


In the 18th century, Whig sentiment was deeply entrenched in the colonies. Whigs saw power as expansive, always needing to be checked, and liberty as delicate, needing protection and nurturing. Patriot Samuel Adams observed that “ambition and lust of power above the law are the predominant passions in the breasts of most men.”


His actions continually testified to his belief that civilian control of the army was sacrosanct. It was his adherence to this moral principle, his absolute integrity on this matter, that was his greatest legacy to the new nation. Rarely in human history had anyone in such a strong position to usurp power shied away from doing it.


Washington might have admired Caesar but he admired the republic more.


We, in the present day, know how the story ended, but for much of the war, Washington could not foresee the outcome. Indeed, for many years, he saw only a bleak future. His commitment to the Revolutionary cause and his sense of duty, honor, and integrity sustained him through the darkest days.


In spite of the day’s setbacks, Grant’s experience confirmed his determination that the next day would bring victory. In that crisis, confronted with overwhelming obstacles, Grant demonstrated perhaps his greatest quality as a leader, what Clausewitz described as “a great force of will.”

Grant did not begin his military career armed with an unshakable resolve. His perseverance in war developed from studying the examples of mentors and from learning the hard lessons of experience.


Young Lieutenant Grant saw that determination was the parent of success, whereas equivocation invited defeat.


From Panama, Grant was transferred to the Pacific Northwest, where he lived a life of dullness and despair. The hollow solace of drink and longing for his family, left him in deep melancholy. Unwilling or perhaps unable to continue with such a disheartening existence, the young captain resigned his commission in 1854 to seek a better life with his family. Rather than finding comfort and prosperity, however, Grant experienced continuing failure. His financial investments soured, his business ventures lost money, and his farming produced mostly heartbreak.


Grant learnt that the will to succeed stemmed from a deliberate decision to press forward, a conscious choice to confront, not avoid, adversity. Recalling lessons learned from Taylor in Mexico, Grant realized that the successful commander could not surrender to doubts and misgivings.


It occurred to me at once that Harris had been as much afraid of me as I had been of him. This was a view of the question I had never taken before; but it was one I never forgot afterwards. From that event to the close of the war, I never experienced trepidation upon confronting an enemy, though I always felt more or less anxiety. I never forgot that he had as much reason to fear my forces as I had his. The lesson was valuable.


Here Grant fully realized that a commander’s resolve was crucial, perhaps more important than logistics, firepower, or numerical superiority. As the contemplated the enemy’s empty encampment, he recognized that what separated one commander from another was something simple yet elusive: tenacity. Anticipating conflict, all soldiers suffer from fear, anxiety, and doubt, but an effective leader overcomes those mental obstacles and drives forward. The lesson that determination can overcome fear would serve Grant well throughout the Civil War.


In every great man’s career there is a crisis exactly similar to that which now overtook General Grant, and it cannot be better described than as a crucial test of his nature. His admirers and detractors are alike invited to study him at this precise juncture.


Smith believed that a leader must always be prepared for the fight: “Battle is the ultimate to which the whole life’s labor of an officer should be directed. He must always be getting ready for it exactly as if he knew the hour of the day it is to break upon him. And then, whether it come late or early, he must be willing to fight — he must fight.


By the spark of his breast, by the light of his spirit, the spark of purpose, the light of hope, must be kindled afresh in others: in so far only as he is equal to this, he stands above the masses and continues to be their master.


Promoted to irrelevance, Grant nearly succumbed to self-doubt and depression.


The men who would do the fighting had also developed a trust in their commander, not the fleeting parade-ground cheers sought by a McClellan but a quiet resolve that mirrored their general’s own subdued determination.


It is decisiveness and energy in action that always accomplishes grand results, and strikes terror to the heart of the foe, it is this and not the conception of great schemes that make military genius.


You have no conception of the change in the army when Grant came. He opened up the cracker line and got a steamer through. We began to see things move. We felt that everything came from a plan. He came into the army quietly, no splendor, no airs, no staff. He used to go about alone. Heh began the campaign the moment he reached the field.


Grant had heard enough. “I am heartily tired,” he fumed at the brigadier, “of hearing about what Lee is going to do. Some of you always seem to think he is suddenly going to turn a double somersault, and land in our rear and on both flanks at the same time. Go back to your command, and try to think what we are going to do ourselves, instead of what Lee is going to do.” With that, Grant left no doubt that the Army of the Potomac had a new boss, one who was not intimidated by Lee and was determined to succeed.


Undismayed, with a full comprehension of the importance of the work in which he was engaged, feeling as keen a sympathy for his dead and wounded as anyone, and without stopping to count his numbers, he gave his orders calmly, specifically, and absolutely — “Forward to Spotsylvania.”


Despite the attack’s disastrous consequences, Grant never contemplated an operational pause or retreat. A colonel on Grant’s staff recalled that “nothing deterred him or depressed or discouraged, so far as those nearest him could discover, this imperturbable man. His confidence never wavered. He was yet advancing, not only towards Richmond, but towards the goal he had hope proposed to himself, the destruction of Lee and the rebellion.” Equally important, the army’s fighting men continued to follow the lead of their commander, showing the same resolve to see the matter through.


The fall and winter of 1917, he recalled, were for him “the most depressing, gloomy period of the war”. Marshall saw firsthand the effects of American overconfidence, inexperience, and unpreparedness.


Over the course of his career, Marshall repeatedly demonstrated vigor, confidence, and eloquence in defending his decisions. Moreover, he was never intimidated by the mighty, as Roosevelt, Churchill, Truman, Stalin, and others would learn.


But Marshall had experienced that the AEF’s painful and slow progress toward military competence. Much of this pain was suffered, he asserted, because too many Americans assumed that infantry training was simply a matter of taking up the trusty hunting rifle and marching off to route the enemy. Marshall thought that history textbooks, awash with flag waving but lacking accuracy, encouraged and sustained this dangerous myth. Although the nation was again at peace, Marshall understood that WW1 had revealed serious shortcomings in the army that had to be addressed for the institution’s future effectiveness.


Moreover, he demanded that officers, including colonels and generals, be physically fit. Without stamina, they could weaken or collapse under strain, as many had done in France in 1918. Marshall’s rule in WW2 was that, to receive a combat command, general officers, regardless of age, had to demonstrate at minimum the physical stamina of 45-year-old in good condition.


One aspect of Pershing’s character that impressed Marshall, and that he emulated, was the ability to separate official from private time: on duty, Pershing was formal, focused, and tough; off duty, he was a pleasant companion.


At that time I had completed 23 years of commissioned service and had thought I could compose and write a pretty good staff paper. However, my drafts used to come back from General Marshall with changes which invariably made me wonder why I hadn’t thought of his clearer means of expression. I received from him a post-graduate education in staff writing.


He hammered tirelessly on the theme of simplicity: no reading of long lectures on doctrine, no field exercises dependent on elaborate maps, no overly detailed orders from headquarters that stifled local initiative, no overblown intelligence estimates that harried commanders who had not time to read, and no field procedures so complex that tired citizen-soldiers could not adequately perform them.


I saw him turn over almost the entire high command without regard to sentiment, age, personal friendship, component, branch of the service, or any consideration other than actual productive efficiency, and put into each position the man that he was convinced could do the best job.


FDR’s penchant for informal organization, acting essentially as his own secretary of state and dabbling in military strategy, created a particular institutional challenge for Marshall. To the frequent dismay of the British Chiefs of Staff Committee, Churchill did the same, but the well-organized British bureaucracy tended to compensate for the PM’s behavior. The same could not be said for the American system.


The British, in fact, were appalled at the Americans’ frequent displays of international insensitivity, the number of embarrassing leaks of classified information, and continued injudicious public statements — including disparaging remarks about US allies by senior US military officers.


Truman liked to assert that Army Chief of Staff Marshall won WW2. Churchill was closer to the truth: Marshall was the organizer of the Allied victory. Not simply a management technician but a responsible institutional leader, Marshall fought his decisive battles at desks and conference tables. He was honest, confident, forthright, yet ever humble, never seeking undue credit for institutional accomplishments. He was energetic, hardworking, and assertive, always expecting his staff to demonstrate extraordinary commitment. But as a leader, he was also fair and empathetic, consciously providing opportunities for subordinates to relax and reenergize. Intensely prideful, Marshall was acutely sensitive to misperceptions of and slights toward the army, and yet he remained a model of self-discipline in full control of his emotions. Despite working under constant stress and pressure, he also understood the value of mastering the details; he once informed a congressional committee, “It is very important that we be coldly, unemotionally calculating.”


Only a year before his death, Churchill wrote, “In war he was as wise and understanding in counsel as he was resolute in action. In peace he was the architect who planned the restoration of our battered European economy. He has always fought victoriously against defeatism, discouragement, and disillusion.”


Among other things, Conner revived Eisenhower’s interest in military history. Ike set up a reading alcove in his ramshackle quarters and made good use of his free time. Upon finishing a book borrowed from Conner’s excellent library, he and the general would discuss it as they rode horses about the post. The years with Conner essentially provided a graduate education in military history and the humanities.


In the Great War, Conner had seen firsthand the arrogance of some of the British and French soldiers, so he taught Eisenhower that a commander of allies must lead by “the art of persuasion,” as opposed to relying on peremptory orders. All the more reason the commander must be a master communicator and diplomat.


Conner also taught Eisenhower the value of preparation and study. Ike left Panama a dramatically different person. He had a blueprint for how he might succeed as an army officer — by working hard, studying, and applying himself to the craft of military leadership. He also had the beginnings of a leadership philosophy. Equally important, he had a friend and mentor who would open the doors of opportunity for his young protege.


Drawing on the writings of the Prussian military theorist Clausewitz, Eisenhower counseled that the best young officer prepares himself through study and field exercises: “If, in the greatest of all crises, war, you are to be ready upon your country’s call to lead men in battle, it means years of study and self-preparation.”


He described the ideal soldier: “On the moral side he must be fair and just, honest and straightforward; he must learn to make firm decisions and to accept responsibility for them without seeking to shift it either to superior or subordinate. He must understand men so that he may lead rather than merely command them; he must achieve self-confidence and courage, and finally, he must be loyal — loyal to his Government, to his superiors, to himself and to his subordinates.”


He lectured his listeners, many of whom were from the upper class, that no job was beneath them: “Lack of money with which to hire workmen for any task is not serious, provided we are ready, and able, to do the job ourselves. There is no royal road to this goal [becoming a successful officer] — good blood and breeding may produce an excellent raw material, but only earnest and continued work can transform it into a useful lieutenant, an efficient captain, a capable general.”


Among all of Ike’s outstanding qualities, the quality I regard most highly is this: whenever I asked Ike for an opinion I got an answer. It may not have been what I wanted to hear, it may have displeased me, but it was always a straightforward and honest answer.


Alliances are inherently unstable, and allies are often prickly partners, as Churchill observed: “There is only one thing worse than fighting with allies, and that is fighting without them.”


“He has a certain independence of thought which is very refreshing, and he is not afraid of taking responsibility for decisions — even when they do not exactly comply with his instructions from home.” Macmillan continued, “We are lucky also to have such a loyal and genuine spirit as General Eisenhower.”


Nevertheless, Ike’s conception of a truly integrated allied command did not include simply polling his aides on crucial questions and going with the majority. Eisenhower was in command; this meant he accepted responsibility for making the final decisions on the crucial military questions. He understood that there could be only one leader, one commander.


Most Allied leaders found dealing with de Gaulle practically impossible — FDR, for one, despised him.


Eisenhower possessed a clear vision, which had begun to form during his days with Fox Conner, for how a second world war would be won. A cohesive allied team would be the cornerstone of victory. Everything else — national pride, personal egos, even grand strategy — had to be subordinated to the creation and maintenance of the coalition.


There is nothing particularly mysterious or magical in this formula, and Chesty certainly was not the first military leader to follow it. Many throughout history have understood and implemented at least parts of it. A commander should gain the love of his men by treating them with every possible kindness and humanity. But Puller was one of those rare individuals who was able to put it all into practice, to include the often difficult aspect of preserving a close relationship with his most junior subordinates even as he rose ever higher in rank. In the corps he came to be most closely associated with charismatic leadership, and thus he remains the best known and more revered of all marines. The example he set has endured as a paramount touchstone in an institution that prizes leadership above all other qualities.


He recalled how she maintained discipline in the family without physical punishment: “She treated me like a man and gave me to know she expected me to act like a man.” With the constant reminder that he was the elder male in the household, in addition to working part time to help make ends meet, he acquired a keen sense of responsibility at a young age.


One of his commanders observed that “he made friends with the Haitians of all classes and by doing so inspired confidence in their minds of our mission.” His own background may have played a role, since he had struggled economically and thus had no pretense of privilege.


One marine who served in the detachment recalled the high regard that Puller’s genuine interest produced in the men and noted that it gave rise to equally high performance: “We would do anything he asked — willingly. In fact, we would go overboard to please him.”


There is one characteristic of enlisted men that I especially want to point out to you, and that is their rapid and accurate appraisal of their officers. You will not for long be able to deceive your men, either with regard to your professional ability or your character. Every military organization, by power of the virtue of example, is like a mirror in which the commander sees himself reflected. Whether consciously or unconsciously, men take their cue from their officers. If the officer is diligent, his men will strive to exceed him in diligence; if he is thorough, they will be thorough; if he is thoughtful of them, they will constantly be seeking opportunities to do something for him.


Chesty’s legendary status as a marine would come to rest largely on these two traits of charismatic leadership — his willingness to lead by personal example and his ability to cultivate a deep bond of mutual respect with enlisted men.


He confided to his officers and senior NCOs one secret for motivating and connecting with their marines: simply explain the purpose of each task. “Gentlemen, if you want to get the most out of your men give them a break! Don’t make them work completely in the dark. If you do, they won’t do a bit more than they have to. But if they comprehend they’ll work like mad.”


As always, he waited like the lowest private in the long lines to eat chow or buy something from the meager selection at the post exchange.


Puller was a successful commander because “he personally followed those precepts of leadership which many preached but not everyone followed; the troops came first.”


What the American people want to do is fight a war without getting hurt. You can’t do that anymore than you can get into a barroom fight without getting hurt. Unless the American people are willing to send their sons out to fight an aggressor, there just isn’t going to be any United States.


The US Army Air Forces included more than 2M airmen and 80K aircraft.


Visionary leaders are not starry-eyed dreamers but future-oriented personalities who identify ambitious objectives and provide direction, motivation, and support to reach those goals. An examination of Arnold’s career and leadership style reveals that his success came from several key qualities: an early mastery of aeronautical knowledge, a clear articulation of a broad vision, and an unshakable determination to succeed, including persistence in overcoming naysayers and obstructionists.


Had the US not entered the Great War, Arnold might have spent the balance of his career in relative obscurity.


Arnold and Mitchell’s calls for an expanded air force were undermined by a widespread and general argument that “a country that has no enemies, that had two great oceans between it and any conceivable trouble spots in the entire world, did not need an air force.”


Michell’s sacking, however, had taught Arnold the importance of political finesse. Michell’s zealous, insubordinate approach to creating an independent air force taught Arnold how not to tackle political problems.


The comprehensiveness of Arnold’s vision stood him apart from other air visionaries. As Dik Daso asserts, he understood that “air power was a complex system of logistics, procurement, ground support bases, and operations.”


Arnold encouraged participants at a planning conference not to “visualize aviation merely as a collection of airplanes. It is broad and far reaching. It combines manufacture, schools, transportation, airdrome, building and management, air munitions and armaments, metallurgy, mills and mines, finance, and banking, and finally, public security — national defense.”


Increasingly anxious about German gains in military air technology, Arnold shifted some of his limited resources to R&D. One of his major talents was the ability to anticipate and recognize technological and mechanical advances demanded by combat and to pursue perfection of those advances.


Please bear in mind much time is required to build up an air force. It cannot be done overnight — 18 months are required to reach quantity production in planes — note I said reach — 2 years are needed to train personnel to make them competent to handle our complicated aircraft. Delay in beginning will make for undue haste to catch up and frenzied haste makes for waste and extravagance.


Many doubted his ability to meet the challenge set forth by President Roosevelt to build up 52,000 aircraft per year and to create an infrastructure to support the operations of a massive air armanda. The industrial, scientific, technological, logistical, administrative, and human requirements appeared overwhelming. Arnold, however, was a “possibility thinker,” capable of motivating followers by providing a clear vision and a unified sense of direction.


When he did not have a clear technological or scientific solution to a problem, he drove others to discover the answer. Arnold demanded results from those who worked for him and drove his subordinates hard.


He understood that the cause of the air force would be better served through careful rather than overly aggressive promotion. In addition, he knew that a decisive demonstration of air power’s wartime capabilities would prove even more effective than adept political maneuvering. Despite his reputed impatience, Arnold wisely resisted pushing for air force independence during the war. He realized that a wartime change would strip the air arm of many services then supplied by the army, services that an independent air force could not yet provide.


In the postwar era, Arnold understood the importance of cultivating the sympathies of the politicians, the public, and the media to garner support for the air force and to establish it as an independent arm of the military. He devoted considerable attention to public relations, especially once it became apparent in 1944 that the air corps would not be able to win the war on its own and that ground and navel operations were getting increasing press coverage.


What it takes to do a job will not be learned from management courses. It is principally a matter of experience, the proper attitude, and common sense — none of which can be taught in a classroom. In less formal surroundings, he called leadership and management courses “crap.” Graduates, he believed, too often came away with the false notion that, by applying a few textbook principles, almost anyone could manage almost anything. To Rickover, academics underemphasized, if not ignored, the importance of determination, innovation, and accountability.


Rickover possessed an uncanny ability to anticipate second- and sometimes third-order effects that were often overlooked even by his most experienced staff.


He quickly concluded, however, that he was too far behind his peers to benefit from the course. He dropped it, forfeited the money, and designed his own self-study program. His ability to quickly assess a situation, his tendency to take self-disciplined action, and his drive to work harder than others would become hallmarks of Rickover’s future leadership.


Rickover believed that many leaders sought refuge in mindless adherence to management directives. “Rules are the lowest common denominator of human behavior… a substitute for rational thought.”


Rickover, sensing he was being exiled and snubbed, was not eager to participate. Yet, realizing he had little choice, Rickover, as always, applied himself fully to the task in keeping with the adage “Grow where planted.”


This turning point in his career illustrated several aspects of effective technical leadership: accepting responsibility for assigned tasks, establishing accountability among subordinates, demonstrating determination, and thinking innovatively in crafting a well-thought-out course toward a clear, worthwhile goal.


By day’s end, he ensured his “in” basket was empty. For hard work, Rickover often said, there is no substitute. He labored six long days per week and did not hesitate to make work-related telephone calls on the seventh.

A hallmark of Rickover’s effective technological leadership was his determination to stay abreast of the current situation and to actively support his subordinates. As he remarked, “Capable people will not work for long where they cannot get prompt decisions and actions from their superiors.” For this reason, Rickover tried to minimize his time away from his office.


The essence of a purpose in life is to work, to create, to excel, and to be concerned about the world and its affairs.


In his limited spare time, Rickover broadened his intellect by reading history, biographies, and autobiographies. He approached even this favorite recreation with sensitivity to its possible application to his work. Ever disciplined, he recorded ideas and thoughts about the readings and had them transcribed and tabulated so that he could draw on them for speeches and testimony. Audiences were often surprised to discover that his highly respected engineer who operated at the forefront of technology was so well read in other fields and able to place his work and other contemporary events into historical and philosophical contexts.


To a class of aspiring navy technical leaders, he said, “Recruiting people who are more competent, or potentially more competent, than the head of the organization… is the single most important responsibility of the administrator, and he cannot delegate it.” The absolute importance of nuclear safety convinced the navy brass to give him dibs on hiring the brightest newly commissioned officers.


He was a master in turning almost any answer against the candidate. He was convinced that this was the best, most efficient way to distinguish between those who could think on their feet and those who were accustomed to getting by with mindless platitudes.


One-time qualification was not enough in Rickover’s day, either. To maintain technical proficiency throughout the nuclear fleet, he required continued training and requalification for nuclear operators through each sea duty tour. Every year, a special team of experienced officers tested crews on their knowledge and execution of operating and maintenance procedures.


I probably spend about 99 percent of my time on what others may call “petty details.” But if the person in charge does not concern himself with details, neither will his subordinates.


Everything in this world is done by or through people.


When doing a job, any job, one must feel that he owns it and act as if he will stay in the job forever.


Free discussion requires an atmosphere unembarrassed by any suggestion of authority or even respect.


Each letter had to state clearly whether assistance was needed from Rickover or from his staff. “Share good news with your spouse. All I care about are the problems.” Rickover knew that the requirement to write weekly letters pressured people to think constantly about their jobs and to investigate and resolve problems. Without this impetus, even good subordinates, when isolated from headquarters, often settled into comfortable routines and succumbed to overly friendly relations with those they were supposed to monitor. Rickover knew from practical experience that even in well-run operations, problems abounded. Those who reported no problems, he believed, were either lazy or oblivious of reality.


Rickover, as a technology leader, emphasized the importance of personal integrity. Never was this trait more manifest than in his battles against corruption in the defense industry. To him the issue was not just money. Business and technical integrity, he was convinced, went hand in hand. He believed people who were crooked in financial matters would also be crooked in technical matters.


Nixon remarked, “The greatness of the American military service, and particularly the greatness of the Navy, is because of this man, who is controversial, this man, who comes up with unorthodox ideas, did not become submerged by the bureaucracy; because once genius is submerged by bureaucracy, a nation is doomed to mediocrity.”


Happiness comes from the full use of one’s power to achieve excellence. Life is potentially an empty hole. There are few more satisfying ways of filling it than by achieving and exercising excellence.


Military profession is almost unique in that he may have to exercise it only once in a lifetime, if indeed that often.

Moore studied military history as Howard recommended — in width, in depth, and in context. Moore encouraged fellow officers to “read military history” and to consider broadly how warfare had changed over time, as well as to study particular battles in detail to gain an appreciation for the complex causality of events and outcomes. He advocated “visiting battlefields with maps and texts in hand.”


What battles have in common is human: the behavior of men struggling to reconcile their instinct for self-preservation, their sense of honor and the achievement of some aim over which other men are ready to kill them. The study of battle is therefore always a study of fear and usually of courage; always of leadership, usually of obedience; always of compulsion, sometimes of insubordination; always of anxiety, sometimes of elation or catharsis; always of uncertainty and doubt, misinformation and misapprehension, usually of faith and sometimes of vision; always of violence, sometimes also of cruelty, self-sacrifice, compassion; above all, it is always a study of solidarity and usually also fo disintegration — for it is toward the disintegration of human groups that battle is directed.


The personality of a big battle is often formed by small unit actions. He also knew that, in battle, soldiers fought primarily for one another. He believed that determination, discipline, competent leadership, confidence, and cohesion served as bulwarks against fear and unit disintegration.


Through extensive training, a continuous emphasis on discipline, and dedication to excellence, Moore consciously built an agile unit capable of adapting to unforeseen and difficult conditions. He challenged his soldiers and units to meet high standards. He used physical training, guard mount, and weekly parades to instill discipline and a commitment to excellence. He fostered competition between units and did not permit the display of second-place trophies; in combat, second place is equivalent to losing. Moore even forbade soldiers to faint during parades and held leaders responsible if their soldiers did collapse.


Captain Nadal brought with him a footlocker of books on Vietnam and counterinsurgency operations. Moore read a third of those books while in transit and held discussions with his officers on a wide range of subjects relevant to their mission. Although those reading did not provide specific tactical solutions, they did inform him on the broad aspects of the mission and the nature of the enemy his battalion would face in Vietnam. Such self-education was consistent with Clausewitz’s philosophy. Reading and study do not provide a leader with a “manual for action” but rather a means to “light his way, train his judgment, and help him avoid pitfalls.” In preparation for Vietnam, and across his career, Moore consciously built an intellectual foundation for command. His experience and thinking about war drove his commitment to extensive training, informed the decisions he made in battle, and prepared him to cope with the uncertainties of combat.

After emphasizing the “great role intellectual powers play in the higher forms of military genius,” Clausewitz turned his attention to courage, which he described as the “soldier’s first requirement.” He further defined two types of courage: physical “courage in the face of personal danger” and moral “courage to accept responsibility.”


A fallacy, which may be largely traced to the telephone, is that the further a commander is in the rear of his men, the more general a view can he obtain, because he will be less influenced by local considerations. It is a fallacy because, within certain limits, the further he is away from moral actualities, and unless he can sense them he will seldom be able fully to reason things out correctly.


Besides, it’s too easy to be crisp, cool, and detached at 1,500 feet; too easy to demand the impossible of your troops; too easy to make mistakes that are fatal only to those souls far below in the mud, the blood, and the confusion. Moore accepted the personal risk. He believed that “any officer or any soldier for that matter, who worries that he will be hit, is a nuisance. The task and your duty come first.” He told his commanders and staff that he needed to be forward “to get the smell of the fight.”


An effective commander, Moore believed, needed at least “one or two people under you who are totally trustworthy — who will be honest with you when you are going off track on an issue or situation.” Indeed, Moore considered respectful dissent “the essence of loyalty.”


In battle, I periodically detached myself mentally for a few seconds from the noise, the screams of the wounded, the explosions, the yelling, the smoke and dust, the intensity of it all and asked myself what am I doing that I should not be doing and what am I not doing that I should be doing to influence the situation in my favor?”


A man who cannot think clearly in a bullet zone is more suited for a monastery than the battlefield. Courage, and the self-composure that it produces, is an essential trait of adaptive leadership.


Clausewitz’s third quality of military genius, determination, derives from, “first, an intellect that, even in the darkest hour, retains some glimmerings of the inner light which leads to truth; and second, the courage to follow this faint light wherever it might lead.” This combination of intellect and courage gives great commanders the coup d’oeil that allows “the quick recognition of a truth that the mind would ordinarily miss or would perceive only after long study and reflection.” This ability to assess rapidly and accurately a given situation is the essence of adaptability.


Moore was able to sense the appropriate course of action because he recognized the “truth” of a situation; “he knew the nature of a fight.” Moore knew that, no matter how long he took to contemplate decisions, he would never have all the information or time to remove uncertainty and risk from command in battle. He considered the initial plan for an operation as merely a “springboard into action,” after which interaction with the enemy and unanticipated conditions would demand quick decision making and flexibility to seize and retain the initiative. Moore would later advise commanders to “trust your instincts. In a critical, fast-moving battlefield situation, instincts and intuition amount to an instant estimate of the situation. Your instincts are the product of your education, training, reading, personality, and experience.”


If my head tells me one thing and my gut tells me something else, I always go with my gut.


For Moore, an adaptive commander must:

exhibit his determination to prevail no matter what the odds or how desperate the situation… and display the will to win by his actions, his words, his tone of voice on the radio and face to face, his appearance, his demeanor, his countenance, the look in his eyes. He must remain calm and cool. No fear. He must ignore the noise, dust, smoke, explosions, screams of the wounded, the yells, the dead lying around him. That is all normal!

He must never give off any hint or evidence that he is uncertain about a positive outcome, even in the most desperate of situations.

Again, the principle which must be driven into you own head an the heads of your men is: Three strikes and you’re not out!

There is always one more thing you can do to influence any situation in your favor.


In other words, the commander must be determined to identify alternatives and adapt. Moore was confident that “training and dogged determination, tenacity, and willpower can turn the tide of battle.” He believed that “if you think you might lose, you have already lost, in whatever enterprise you are involved in.” During a lull in the battle, Moore walked the perimeter to look every soldier in the eye, to assess the morale, and to steel their resolve.


No matter how high in rank you go, never forget to keep instructing and talking with officers where rubber meets the road.


Preoccupation with leaders has come at the expense of appreciation for the crucial influence of followers, even though leadership success (failure) has always been directly connected to both leaders and the led, not to mention the powerful forces of environmental factors. Furthermore, this analysis highlights the undeniable truths that most organizational leaders concurrently play the part of follower and that effective followership contributes to successful leadership development. Rare is the leadership position that is not simultaneously a position of followership.


Neither a gifted student nor a gifted athlete, Powell entered college as a teenager lacking intrinsic motivation and direction, both attributes of an exemplary follower. His eventual pursuit of a geology degree stemmed less from a natural curiosity then from a sense of ease and convenience.


At 21, the ROTC graduate was younger than many of the 45 men under his command. An inexperienced leader, he found it challenging to promote group morale and to motivate his diverse followers, a mixture of volunteers and draftees.


Unfortunately, Hieu’s replacement, Captain Khiem, was the antithesis of good leader: egotistical, brash, and — most damning of all — disrespectful of his men.


As an instructor, he improved his communication skills, learning how to project with authority, use physical gestures, and otherwise “hold center stage.” Powell believed that the communication techniques he developed at Fort Benning were integral to his development as a professional soldier.


“I had no penetrating political sights into what was happening,” he wrote. “I thought like a soldier who knew his perimeter, and not much more.” Serving in Vietnam, he never thought twice about setting ablaze local villages and ransacking food stores.


As a self-described “fledging student of power,” Powell gained first-rate schooling on the “messy, disappointing, even shocking” processes of a functioning democracy by working as a special assistant to Fred Malek, the Deputy Director of the OMB.


Out of that experience, emerged one of my rules: you don’t know what you can get away with until you try.


Powell’s overall performance in Korea made a lasting, positive impression on his colorful boss, who concluded, “Goddamn, this son of a bitch can command soldiers. He was charismatic. He really raised the morale of his unit. He sure as shit showed me what he could do as a commander.”


The mission proved to be a complete debacle and let to the death of eight soldiers. Powell had no role in the rescue attempt, but he knew that he could learn from it. He analyzed the operation and noted several flaws in planning, communications, weather forecasting, and chain of command. Beyond the mission’s failure, Powell also studied the administration’s approach to conveying the bad news to the American people. He judged its management of the affair a “public communications fiasco,” for among other things, the administration refused to fully and quickly disclose the central facts of the tragedy and failed to admit that it had committed gross errors. Powell was learning from the mistakes of his leaders.


“I had blown it,” he thought. “Still, I had no regrets. I had done what I thought was right. I was not going to whine or appeal, get mad at Hudachek, or go into a funk. I would live with the consequences.”


Powell had attained the vaunted rank of major general, but his work under Secretary Weinberger largely demonstrated his exemplary followership skills. He described his staff position as “the Secretary’s chief horse holder, dog robber, and gofer,” but a significant part of Powell’s job was to act as Weinberger’s gatekeeper, controlling people’s access to the defense secretary and helping him to manage his time. “I was a juggler,” Powell later wrote, “trying to keep the egos of three service secretaries, four service chiefs, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and other Pentagon pashas all in the air at once.” Powell was ever the student of power and leadership, actively expanding his intelligence by observing and reflecting on the events, issues, and people around him. During those three years, he was particularly attuned to the problems associated with crisis management; he studied America’s withdrawal from Lebanon, its invasion of Granada, and the Soviet Union’s downing of a Korean civilian jetliner.


It was Carlucci’s opinion that over the years Powell had developed into “the world’s best staff officer”; with his “upbeat and inclusive style and sense of humor, combined with his military bearing and crisp efficiency, he radiated competence and confidence.” Above all, Carlucci needed Powell’s superior organizational skills to help “impose order and procedure” on the NSC, which was left “rudderless, drifting, and demoralized”.


Among the keys to his success as a follower were his willingness to assume responsibility, take the initiative, and work tactfully alongside other high-ranking White House officials. These ideal followership attributes were especially valuable at the time because of Reagan’s passive managerial style of delegating governing authority and responsibility to members of his cabinet. Reagan’s passivity, according to Powell, “placed a tremendous burden on us. Until we got used to it, we felt uneasy implementing recommendations without a clear decision.” At one point, Carlucci complained to Powell, “My God, we didn’t sign on to run this country!”


For Powell, as both a follower and a leader, Operation Just Cause proved a valuable learning experience. He had studied President Bush’s approach to decision making and had observed “the cool and solid” Cheney throughout the crisis. At one point, however, Cheney had sharply reminded Powell of his subordinate status. He complimented Powell’s initiative and decisiveness: “You’re off to a good start as a chairman. You’re forceful and you’re taking charge. That’s the way I want it.” But Cheney balked at Powell’s attempt to control all information sent to the secretary’s office. The defense secretary made clear that he wanted information from multiple sources. “I was being shown my place,” Powell wrote. He knew that “when the dust settled on this invasion, I would still be an advisor; but Cheney and the President would have to bear the responsibility.”


Over the course of his military career, Powell came to believe that ideal subordinates were those who learned from past experiences, anticipated future events, and initiated plans of actions to help their superiors define and achieve organizational objectives. Powell himself had routinely demonstrated such qualities of effective followership, and they remained fully evident during his years as chairman. “More than intelligence and discipline, Powell possessed an exceptionally refined sense of anticipation, so important in a bureaucracy… the ability to sense what was going to happen next, and thereby to help his superior stay ahead of the play.”


His views were controversial. Powell also believed that as the decline of Soviet threat became more apparent, Congress would move to cut the defense budget and thus force a military restructuring on the Pentagon. Anticipating the latter, Powell recognized the need for his superiors to seize the initiative: “We had to get in front… if we were to control our own destiny… rather than having military reorganization schemes shoved down our throat.”


It had not been an easy road to acceptance. “At times,” Powell recalled, “I had been discouraged by setbacks and had almost given up hope… The changes envisioned were enormous, from a total active duty strength of 2.1M down to 1.6M. The plan effectively marked the end of a 40-year-old strategy of communist containment.”


To liberate Kuwait “would be the NFL, not a scrimmage. This would mean a major confrontation.” His was a bald geopolitical judgment, and the immediately “detected a chill in the air.” Powell realized that as the president’s military advisor, he might have exceeded his role within the administration. Regardless, the general believed it was crucial that all potential policy objectives be put on the table. The cabinet meeting concluded without an answer to the Kuwait question. Shortly afterward, Secretary Cheney chastised Powell for raising the issue at all, stating, “You’re not Secretary of State. You’re not the National Security Advisor anymore. And you’re not Secretary of Defense. So stick to military matters.” While Powell agreed that he had “overstepped,” he did not regret pushing his superiors to clarify their policy objectives. From the Vietnam experience, Powell had learned that the most responsible followers and leaders asked their superiors penetrating questions about important and difficult issues.


Brent Scrowcroft, Bush’s national security advisor, was especially impressed by Powell’s intellect and tactful ability to render independent judgments that were at times contrary to the thinking of his superiors. “Colin was very good that way,” he wrote. “I never heard him contradict Cheney directly, but by the end of the meeting, you always knew where Colin stood. He was very deft at things like that. Colin kept thinking — longer than I did or Cheney did, and probably longer than the president.”


Between Bush’s impatience and Norm’s anxiety, I had my own juggling act. Norm displayed the natural apprehension of a field commander on the edge of war, magnified by his excitable personality. I had to reassure him constantly that he would not be rushed into combat. At the same time, the President was leaning on me: When are we going to be ready? When can we go? Dealing with Norm was like holding a grenade with pin pulled. Dealing with the President was like playing the role of Scheherazade [in Arabian Nights], trying to keep the king calm for a thousand and one nights.


He believed that the administration “presently held the high moral ground” but could “lose it by fighting past the point of ‘rational calculation.’”


I stand by my role in the President’s decision to end the war when and how he did. It is an accountability I carry with pride and without apology. Had we gone to Baghdad, we would have gotten ourselves into the biggest quagmire you can imagine trying to sort out 2,000 years of Mesopotamian history.


Albright asked him outright, “What’s the point of having this superb military that you’re always talking about if we can’t use it?” Powell found the question deeply disturbing.


I worked very hard. I was very loyal to people who appointed me, people who were under me, and my associates. I developed a reputation as somebody you could trust. I would give you my very, very best. I would always try to do what I thought was right and I let the chips fall where they might. It didn’t really make a difference whether I made general in terms of my self-respect and self-esteem. I just loved being in the army. I wasn’t without ambition but ambition wasn’t fueling me.