Leif Babin
SOUTH RAMADI, IRAQ: 2006
Bright orange tracers streaked like laser beams just a few feet over our heads, each supersonic bullet zipping past with a thunderous crack.
Holy shit, I thought as we quickly ducked down behind the roof wall. Those are friendlies shooting at us.
I looked over at Dave Berke, who crouched down nearby. Like the other SEALs on the roof with us, we tried to stay low enough to not get our heads shot off.
Dave looked back at me and shook his head with a smile that mixed humor and concern.
“That’s not cool,” Dave said—the understatement of the year.
Dave Berke was a U.S. Marine Corps major. A fighter pilot by trade, he had been the lead instructor at the legendary U.S. Navy Fighter Weapons School, better known as TOPGUN. Dave had left the cockpit behind and volunteered to serve on the ground as a forward air controller in the most dangerous place in Iraq: Ramadi. He led a Supporting Arms Liaison Team (SALT) attached to the U.S. Marine Corps 5th Air-Naval Gunfire Liaison Company. Dave and his twelve Marines from SALT 6 accompanied Charlie Platoon to coordinate with the aircraft supporting this operation in the skies overhead. They patrolled in with us on foot to spearhead the operation ahead of the U.S. Army and Iraqi Army units.
A U.S. tank two hundred yards away had fired a burst from its heavy machine gun directly over our position. It was friendly fire, a blue-on-blue in U.S. military parlance. To be killed or horribly wounded by enemy fire was one thing. To be killed by our own American forces was something much worse.
That was way too close for comfort, I thought in the seconds following as I crouched as low as possible behind the low concrete wall that was our only means of cover. We had to shut that down immediately and alert the tank that we were friendly forces. To do so, I had to contact the specific tank commander directly via radio and tell them to “cease fire.”
The tank’s heavy machine gun was the .50-caliber M2 Browning. Known as “the Ma Deuce,” it packed a hell of a punch. In U.S. military service since 1933, it had proven its deadly effectiveness in every American war since. Each massive round could take a man’s head clean off or remove the bulk of his chest cavity. It could also punch right through concrete walls, like the one we were hiding behind. We had just received a fully automatic burst of probably a dozen rounds in a matter of seconds. If I didn’t shut down that fire immediately and let the U.S. tank know we were friendlies, it could mean horrible wounds and death for a number of us.
* * *
Moments before, I stood with several Charlie Platoon SEALs on the rooftop of an Iraqi house deep in enemy territory. Dave stood next to me, communicating with a U.S. Air Force AC-130U “Spooky” gunship that circled high overhead, wielding both awesome firepower and extraordinary surveillance capability from thousands of feet in the night sky above. The first U.S. troops on the ground in this volatile neighborhood, we had patrolled in on foot several hours earlier in the night and set up a sniper overwatch position to disrupt any attacks from insurgents on the main force of the operation: some fifty U.S. tanks and armored vehicles, and nearly one thousand U.S. and Iraqi troops, led by Task Force Bandit, 1st Battalion, 37th Armored Regiment, 1st Armored Division. Our SEAL snipers were set up in shooting positions along with our machine guns and security teams. Dave and his Marine radioman were on the rooftop with us, relaying updates from the Spooky gunship overhead.
We watched as the heavy phalanx of American armor—M1A2 Abrams tanks and M2 Bradley Fighting Vehicles—rolled in our direction, crossing the railroad bridge over the canal and following the road that led to the village where we were positioned. To clear the field of view for our snipers, our explosive ordnance disposal (EOD) bomb technicians and SEAL breachers put explosive charges in place to knock down several palm trees. We’d taken great steps to alert Task Force Bandit—the battalion, companies, and platoons—to the exact location of our sniper overwatch so they wouldn’t mistake us for enemy forces. We had also marked our position with a pre-determined signal device. But I hadn’t considered how dangerous it was for us to set off the explosions to take out the trees.
This was one of the first major operations of the “Seize, Clear, Hold, Build” strategy to take back Ramadi from the deadly insurgents who controlled the city, and it was a historic and massive undertaking. It had been meticulously planned for weeks, examining every realistic contingency we could imagine. Heavy fighting was expected, as were major U.S. casualties. The Soldiers manning the tanks were already on edge, expecting attack as they maneuvered into enemy territory. Though the key leaders had been briefed on the specific building where we planned to set up our overwatch position, that information didn’t always make it down to the forward troops on the front lines of the operation. And even if the word was passed to the frontline troops, understanding locations on the battle map and correlating this with the actual street and buildings seen from the ground level proved difficult at best. I had radioed to Jocko, who was co-located with the Army battalion at the U.S. staging point across the bridge, that we would be conducting a “controlled detonation”: a non-combat explosion of demolition charges that we’d set ourselves. The battalion acknowledged via radio they understood. But again, that didn’t guarantee that the word was passed to the tank crews or that they fully processed what that meant. The tankers had their own challenges and risks to confront: significant threats from massive IEDs buried in the road and enemy attacks with machine guns and RPG-7 rockets.
When our controlled detonations shattered the quiet and the blasts of fire momentarily lit up the dark, one of the Abrams tank commanders must have thought it was an enemy attack. Seeing our silhouettes on the rooftop and thinking we were insurgent fighters, he lit us up with a burst from his heavy machine gun. We had been casually peering over the roof wall, watching the armored vehicles crawl toward us on their tracks, when the burst of .50-caliber rounds cracked just over our heads. That sent us all diving to the deck to seek cover.
Every nanosecond counted as I reached into my gear for my radio.
Our typical radio procedures were for me to communicate directly to Jocko, who would then pass the word to the battalion staff he was standing next to, who would relay to their company, who would relay to the platoon in whose unit the tank belonged. But there was no time for that now. Every moment was crucial. I needed to speak directly to that tank immediately, or the next burst of .50-caliber machine gun rounds might chew us to bits—though the .50-cal was preferable to a massive main gun round from the tank’s 120mm smoothbore cannon, which could be next.
Quickly, I switched my radio channel dial to the tank’s company net and keyed up. “Cease fire, cease fire,” I said. “You are shooting at friendlies.”
Receipt of the radio transmission was acknowledged. The shooting stopped.
That was a close one, I thought. I wasn’t angry, but more concerned with the recognition of how easily friendly fire could happen, despite our extensive efforts to mitigate the risk of blue-on-blue.
The ability to switch my radio to a different net and talk directly to the tank from which we were taking fire may well have saved us. It was a mission-critical skill upon which I depended during nearly every combat operation, as did the other leaders in Charlie Platoon and Task Unit Bruiser. Yet, when we had first arrived in Ramadi, as SEALs, we didn’t understand the U.S. Army and Marine Corps radio networks and were unable to directly communicate with them via radio.
* * *
In the SEAL Teams, we had a different culture, different tactics, and different gear from our U.S. Army and Marine Corps brethren. Nowhere was that more apparent than in our radio communications equipment. They used an entirely different system. In order for us to talk to them, we needed to learn how to use their system. Typically, in a SEAL platoon, the radioman is the communications expert who programs the radios and troubleshoots any issues for everyone else in the platoon. We came to depend on our SEAL radioman for everything involving radios. On previous deployments, if you had a problem with a radio, you just popped it out of your gear and tossed it to the radioman to fix or swap out for a new one. Additionally, the leader depended upon the SEAL radioman for all communications back to the tactical operations center and all units outside of the SEAL squad or platoon. But in Ramadi, we often broke up into small units and there weren’t enough SEAL radiomen to go around. You might very well find yourself serving as the radioman of an element when the actual SEAL radiomen were in a different element or squad in a separate building or on a different operation altogether.
As task unit commander and a prior SEAL radioman in his enlisted days, Jocko understood that each member of Task Unit Bruiser had to be competent with our radios. He knew we all individually needed to learn how to program our radios so any one of us could talk directly to the Soldiers and Marines we fought alongside and depended on for help when we found ourselves in a jam. It was a skill critical to saving lives on the battlefield.
“Everybody make sure you know how to program your radios,” Jocko commanded during an early brief in the Charlie Platoon mission planning space. Even among SEALs, Jocko was a big, mean-looking, and intimidating guy. You might think that whatever Jocko said, we were going to do it. If not because we feared his wrath, because we respected his leadership and experience.
But we didn’t learn how to program our radios. At least, most of us didn’t. It wasn’t that we didn’t think it was important or that we didn’t respect Jocko. We did. But we simply were overtasked, and in the hectic schedule, other pressing issues always took precedence. Jocko’s order to learn how to program our radios slipped to the back burner. Most of us never got around to it.
A few days after Jocko’s decree that we had to learn to program our radios, Task Unit Bruiser put together a plan and received approval to launch on a nighttime raid to capture or kill the leaders of an Iraqi insurgent terrorist cell responsible for multiple deadly attacks on U.S. and Iraqi troops in Ramadi. Charlie Platoon had the lead and came up with a plan. Just as we did prior to every operation, we gathered the troops for the mission brief, known as an “operation order,” or OPORD. The key leaders stood up and presented their respective parts of the plan. We talked through the details and answered remaining questions.
As we were wrapping up the OPORD, Jocko stood up and made some final strategic comments. Finally, he asked a question that caught us red-handed.
“Does everyone know how to program their radios?” Jocko asked. There were blank stares. But nobody had the courage to say, “No.”
I thought: We didn’t have time. We didn’t make the time.
But Jocko didn’t need to hear an answer. No doubt he could tell from the blank stares and lack of response that most of the SEAL operators in the room, about to launch on this combat operation, didn’t know how to program their radios themselves.
Jocko looked at one of the SEAL operators, a new guy in the platoon, whom we called “Biff” after the character from the movie Back to the Future.
“Biff, let me see your radio,” Jocko said bluntly. Biff quickly complied, unscrewed the connector to his headset, unclipped the fast-tech fastener, pulled the radio from his gear, and handed it to Jocko. There was a function on the radio that would clear its memory, requiring it to be reprogrammed. Jocko cleared the radio and handed it back to Biff.
“Reprogram that,” Jocko directed.
Biff stared back blankly. He didn’t know how to reprogram his radio. It was an uncomfortable place to be, called out in front of everyone in our SEAL platoon and task unit, having failed to comply with Jocko’s order. But he wasn’t alone, as most of us were in the same boat.
Jocko wasn’t angry. He understood that many of us in the room hadn’t learned to program our radios, not through willful disobedience but because we hadn’t fully understood its importance. Since we didn’t clearly understand the importance, we didn’t make the time to learn. Yet Jocko wasn’t backing down. He didn’t let it go. Jocko held the line, enforced the standard. Jocko knew that when we were out on the battlefield, in smaller elements beyond the reach of help or support, we had to be able to operate the radios ourselves. With Decentralized Command, it was crucial that leaders at every level be fully self-reliant, ready to step up and execute to accomplish the mission.
Turning to the Charlie Platoon’s senior SEAL radioman, he said: “Teach Biff how to reprogram his radio.”
To the rest of us in the platoon, Jocko added: “Everybody else make sure you know how to program your radios. It could save your life. And if you don’t know how to program them by the next mission, you’re not going outside the wire.”
By the next combat operation, everyone in the platoon—every SEAL in Task Unit Bruiser—knew how to program their radios; we had practiced it multiple times. The boss had called us all out and made it clear that he fully expected his order to be carried out, no exceptions.
For leaders, it is often a struggle to know when and where to hold the line. In the SEAL Teams, just as in any organization, leaders who constantly crack the whip on their team and verbally berate their people over trivial issues are despised, not respected. Those leaders are ineffective and few will follow them when it matters. A leader cannot be overbearing. But the dichotomy here is that a leader cannot be too lenient and let things slide when the safety, mission success, and long-term good of the team are at stake.
Had Jocko not called us out to prove we could program our own radios, we would never have done it. It is quite likely that our inability to do so would have cost lives. I certainly would never have been fully competent in talking directly to Soldiers and Marines on their company and platoon radio nets. Had Jocko not done this, would he truly have been taking care of the SEAL operators in the task unit? The answer is most certainly not. But Jocko understood that taking care of your people means looking out for their long-term good and the long-term good of the strategic mission. There are some standards that simply cannot be compromised.
Going forward, everyone in Task Unit Bruiser was competent in programming and utilizing their personal radios. As non-radiomen, we also practiced utilizing the larger radios that the radiomen carried, in the event we needed them—which happened frequently. As other SEALs visited Camp Ramadi and joined our platoon and task unit as “strap hangers” on combat operations, one of the very first things we taught them was how to program their own radios and communicate directly with Army and Marine Corps units. Jocko had held the line. As a result, we were prepared for the realities of the battlefield, able to mitigate risk and operate most effectively to accomplish our mission.
As I reflected upon Jocko’s demonstration of a leader’s responsibility to ensure standards are maintained, I thought about the times in my career when I failed to do so. As a young leader, I knew there were times we needed to improve our performance, do another run-through in the kill house (where we practiced close-quarters combat), or add an additional rehearsal to ensure we were fully prepared. Yet in those moments, I sometimes hadn’t held the line; I hadn’t pushed the team hard enough. Any additional work assigned to the team was going to get pushback and generate complaints. And there were times when I let things slide, confusing the idea of “taking care of your people” with allowing them not to work as hard. But in the end, that resulted in mediocre performance. And the team never got better, never held each other accountable. This was a failure of leadership—my leadership.
I also recognized the dichotomy: there were other times when I was overbearing. I insisted on doing things a certain way, because it was my way, or harped on trivial matters that were strategically unimportant, thinking I was doing right by holding the line. It caused unnecessary friction, stifled growth, and inhibited junior leaders on the team from stepping up. It prevented us from functioning properly with effective Decentralized Command.
I had seen and worked for numerous leaders throughout my Navy career who had been overbearing, and it wasn’t the way I wanted to lead. Some of them imposed harsh discipline, screamed at their people, and crushed the morale of the team. No one wanted to follow them. They might accomplish an immediate task, but in the long run, the team’s growth was smothered. Often, their negative example stood starkly in my mind: I never want to be a leader like that.
* * *
But there are times when every leader must give a little and allow the team some room to maneuver. In 2005, when we formed up Task Unit Bruiser and started training, we were determined to get to Iraq and get in the fight. We knew we would be working with large numbers of U.S. Soldiers and Marines—infantry, armor, and airborne units. They all had strict protocols for their uniforms and combat gear. Soldiers wore their official unit patch and the American flag. Marines wore the American flag and their eagle, globe, and anchor emblem, the symbol of the Marine Corps. But in the SEAL Teams, SEAL operators generally wore whatever the hell they wanted. Often, this was a mix of different uniforms and gear. Early SEALs in Vietnam had worn blue jeans and civilian “duck hunter” camouflage on combat operations. And a lot of SEALs carried on the tradition of dressing “unconventionally.” Beyond the uniform styles that made us look different from other military units, many SEALs had custom Velcro patches made for our gear. Each SEAL platoon would design a logo and have a patch made for the platoon. In Task Unit Bruiser, Delta Platoon had a “bone frog” design with a Delta triangle and frog skeleton. Charlie Platoon had utilized the Cadillac logo with a “3” and a “C” for “SEAL Team 3” and “Charlie Platoon.” Beyond unit patches, some of us wore other patches such as the traditional first U.S. Navy jack—a flag flown for the jack staff of U.S. Navy vessels—with thirteen stripes, a rattlesnake, and the words “Don’t Tread on Me,” adopted from the Gadsden flag of the American Revolution. SEALs would often design their own patches with whatever logo they thought was cool, a line or a movie quote they found funny. As we kicked off our training cycle in Task Unit Bruiser, one popular patch was a “Fun Meter,” with the meter arrow buried in the red, meaning: “The fun meter was pegged.” Several SEALs had patches that read, “More Cowbell,” inspired by the popular Saturday Night Live Will Ferrell skit of the band, Blue Oyster Cult. Other patches were even less professional and far more crude.
I knew all the patches were unprofessional. I knew that some of the patches were pretty offensive and that as the platoon commander, I should probably order my guys to get rid of their patches. But I also thought they were funny, and I didn’t fully understand the problems something as simple as patches could cause for us once deployed alongside Army and Marine Corps units. I believed that removing the patches would hurt morale and make me look overly harsh. So I let it go.
Jocko recognized that someone who saw these crude and unprofessional patches and took them out of context might take offense, which would cause frictions that might escalate into something serious. Not that Jocko was some virtue-signaling angel. I knew he thought many of the patches were funny. But he also knew that if there was even a chance that the patches might cause issues for us, it wasn’t worth the risk. It could harm our task unit’s chances of being selected to deploy to Iraq. When we did deploy to Iraq, as we hoped to do, the U.S. Army and Marine units we worked alongside would initially judge us by our appearance. They took pride in squared-away uniforms as a testament to good order and discipline. With our random, unprofessional patches, the first impression the Soldiers and Marines would have of Task Unit Bruiser wouldn’t be good. Jocko knew it was important and had no problem dropping the hammer on patches.
“Get rid of the patches,” Jocko told me. I told him I would make it happen.
Then he addressed the issue to all Task Unit Bruiser personnel.
Jocko declared: “No more patches in Task Unit Bruiser. The patches many of you have been wearing are unprofessional. I get that they are funny. But funny patches won’t help us build strong relationships with the conventional forces we will be serving alongside. They will inhibit our ability to operate in Army and Marine battlespace. They will prevent us from getting after it to close with and destroy the enemy.
“No patches,” he repeated. “None. Everybody clear?” The only exception was the standard American flag patch we were authorized to wear. Jocko’s senior enlisted advisor, our task unit senior chief, ensured the boss’s order was enforced without exception.
“Roger,” we acknowledged, in the military lingo for “understood.” The task unit—particularly Charlie Platoon—wasn’t happy about it, but everyone understood and would comply. The new standard had been set, the line in the sand drawn. All patches were removed.
But as the months wore on and Task Unit Bruiser was selected to deploy to Iraq, I privately felt that Task Unit Bruiser was a historic unit destined for great things on the battlefield, and we needed to have an official unit patch. On liberty one day, when we were out surfing and on a rare occasion away from Jocko, I talked it over with my close friend, the Delta Platoon commander, Seth Stone.
“Bro, we need a unit patch for Task Unit Bruiser,” I said. “I know Jocko said no patches. But I think we should design one and have it made for everybody.”
“Agreed,” Seth replied. We both loved and admired Jocko. We respected his leadership. We rarely disagreed with him on anything, large or small. But we knew that having a task unit patch was important for unit cohesion. We knew there was a line between patches that were offensive and a unit patch with a logo that would represent the task unit.
“We will have to do it in secret,” I said. “And make sure that Jocko doesn’t see them.”
“Let’s do it,” Seth agreed.
Later, back at my house, Seth and I designed two different patches to be worn on the shoulder of each operator. Both patches were circular and desert tan with “Task Unit Bruiser” printed across the top. Seth decorated one patch with a cow skull with downturned horns, and the words “Big Balls in Cowtown” across the bottom. Being from Texas, Seth and I were big fans of the classic country-western song by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys, “Big Ball’s in Cowtown.” The pun seemed most appropriate, as we had just learned we were deploying to Ramadi. I designed another patch with Lord Humungus, the muscle-bound leader of the postapocalyptic antagonists from the Mad Max movie sequel The Road Warrior, wearing a hockey mask and wielding a large-caliber handgun. At the base of the patch, I used the phrase “The Ayatollahs of Rock N Rolla,” borrowing the title bestowed upon Lord Humungus in the movie.
With only a couple of weeks left prior to deployment, I hurriedly found a shop that could sew our designs, create the patches, and add the Velcro backing necessary for easy application and removal from our working combat uniforms. The patches arrived only days before we departed for Iraq. I threw the box, unopened, into one of my kit bags and packed them on the pallet just before it was loaded on the aircraft that would take us overseas. Once we arrived in Ramadi, I discreetly removed the box without Jocko’s knowledge and pulled Seth aside. We opened the box and pulled out enough patches for each of the members of our platoons. In secret, we distributed the patches to everyone in Task Unit Bruiser, except for Jocko and his immediate headquarters staff.
While on base, or on combat operations within visual range of Jocko and his senior enlisted advisor, no one wore patches other than our standard American flag patch. But each of the SEAL operators in Charlie and Delta Platoons, along with our EOD bomb technicians, kept the patches hidden inside the cargo pocket on the shoulder of our combat uniforms. For the operations where Jocko stayed back to man the TOC, as our convoy of Humvees departed the base, we gave a call over the intersquad radio: “Patches on.” Each operator pulled his Task Unit Bruiser patch out of his cargo pocket and slapped it onto the Velcro on the outside of his uniform. We were now ready to do battle as Task Unit Bruiser and close with and destroy the enemy.
But as with any blatant violation of the rules, it was only a matter of time before we were busted. That fateful day happened on one of the first major operations that Task Unit Bruiser participated in. An embedded civilian journalist with the U.S. Army unit we were working alongside took some photos of Task Unit Bruiser SEALs in action. The photos were shared with their higher headquarters staff and eventually shared with Jocko and his senior enlisted advisor. In the photos the Task Unit Bruiser patch could clearly be seen on the shoulders of several of our SEALs.
The senior enlisted advisor blew up about it and prepared to drop the hammer on us. He was just trying to do his job and enforce Jocko’s order. I expected to feel the wrath of Jocko, and since I had orchestrated the violation, I planned to fully own the brunt of the punishment.
But a day passed. And then another day. Jocko didn’t mention it. I was surprised. Jocko knew we had violated his order—willful disobedience. But in this case, Jocko didn’t hold the line and enforce the standard he had set. He let it go.
As I thought about why he hadn’t confronted me, his reason became clear, and later, when we came home from deployment, he confirmed my thoughts. Jocko had recognized that the task unit patches strengthened our unit cohesion—they were a source of pride. He also knew that we had gotten rid of all the other patches; no one was still wearing the assortment of offensive and unprofessional patches he had seen stateside. Instead, everyone wore the same uniformed Task Unit Bruiser patch, all desert tan that matched our uniforms. He knew that if we were hiding the patches from him, we would hide the patches from other U.S. units on the base.
While Jocko never told us we were cleared to wear the patches, he allowed us to bend the rules. And since the patches were unique and matched our reputation on the battlefield, rather than alienate us from the Soldiers and Marines, it cemented in their minds that we were a cohesive unit. At the end of our deployment, we gave several Task Unit Bruiser patches to key Army and Marine leaders with whom we worked closely, including the U.S. Army colonel in charge of the entire brigade combat team.
Witnessing how Jocko held the line and enforced the standard to ensure we knew how to program our radios, yet allowed some slack when it came to us wearing patches, set a powerful example of how to balance the dichotomy. There is a time to stand firm and enforce rules and there is a time to give ground and allow the rules to bend. Finding that balance is critical for leaders to get maximum effectiveness from their team.
Principle
Leaders, on the one hand, cannot be too lenient. But on the other hand, they cannot become overbearing. They must set high standards and drive the team to achieve those standards, but they cannot be domineering or inflexible on matters of little strategic importance. To find this balance, leaders must carefully evaluate when and where to hold the line and when to allow some slack. They must determine when to listen to subordinate leaders and allow them ownership, making adjustments for their concerns and needs.
Some have used the term “leadership capital” as a means to understand the careful analysis required for a leader to balance this dichotomy. Leadership capital is the recognition that there is a finite amount of power that any leader possesses. It can be expended foolishly, by leaders who harp on matters that are trivial and strategically unimportant. Such capital is acquired slowly over time through building trust and confidence with the team by demonstrating that the leader has the long-term good of the team and the mission in mind. Prioritizing those areas where standards cannot be compromised and holding the line there while allowing for some slack in other, less critical areas is a wise use of leadership capital.
Just as we wrote in Extreme Ownership, chapter 8, “Decentralized Command,” the most important explanation a leader can give to the team is “why?” Particularly when a leader must hold the line and enforce standards, it must always be done with the explanation of why it is important, why it will help accomplish the mission, and what the consequences are for failing to do so. It must never be done with the attitude of “because I said so.” To do so will result in far more pushback and more difficulty in getting the team to achieve the standards you are trying to enforce. As a leader, you have to balance the dichotomy, to be resolute where it matters but never overbearing; never inflexible and uncompromising on matters of little importance to the overall good of the team and the strategic mission.
Application to Business
“I’ve read a lot about Patton,” the executive vice president said with pride, referring to General George S. Patton Jr., the famous U.S. Army general whose exploits in World World II were legendary. “I love that you referenced Patton in your presentation. I want exactly the kind of disciplined organization around here that Patton expected. We need people who carry out orders, not question them.”
I could tell right away that the executive vice president (EVP) had no previous military experience. He clearly misunderstood how effective leaders in the military lead their teams. It was not through rigid authoritarianism: Do this because I said so, or you’ll be punished. Sure, there were those in the military who tried to lead like this. But it was never effective.
I sat in a conference room with the EVP to learn more about him and his role in the company. As part of our Echelon Front leadership assessment for the company’s Leadership Development and Alignment Program, such one-on-one meetings were integral to understanding the true challenges and frictions within the organization among leaders, departments, teams, and strategies. For our Echelon Front team, this was critical knowledge that allowed us to tailor our leadership program to address these challenges and implement leadership solutions to get the problems solved.
The EVP’s company had a long history of quality and service. But recently the company’s executive team had set its horizons for expansion beyond the regionally focused area that had traditionally been their market. To do this, the company, which had previously relied on the extensive experience and on-the-job training of its frontline leaders, now had to lay down standard operating procedures to try to get each of its teams and each of its divisions operating on the same page.
The EVP had sat through the opening leadership presentation I delivered. During the question-and-answer session following my brief, I had referenced General Patton. That had clearly resonated with the EVP.
“Discipline equals freedom,” the EVP said, quoting Jocko’s mantra, which we had just covered in the training session. “I’ve been trying to instill discipline in our team here. We need a lot more of it.”
“In what way?” I asked, interested to hear more.
“Cell phones,” the EVP declared. “It burns me up every time we call a meeting, somebody will inevitably be on their phone. Here I am, up in front of the room trying to put out some critical information, and I see somebody on their phone answering an e-mail. Or somebody steps out of the room to take a phone call as I’m trying to impart key information.
“They even do it to our CEO,” the EVP added, incredulous at such behavior.
“That can be frustrating,” I replied. “We see it all the time with our work at Echelon Front. But obviously there are important things that come up that need immediate attention for the good of the company.”
“Not in my meetings,” the EVP boasted. “I’ve made it clear to every one of our department leaders and supervisors: there are no cell phones in my meetings whatsoever.”
“How do you enforce that?” I asked.
“Easy,” the EVP said. “Before every meeting, I make each of them pull their cell phones out of their pockets and physically turn them off. Then, they have to hold up their phone and show me it is fully powered down. I won’t start the meeting until I see that everyone has complied.”
The EVP was smug, clearly proud that he was holding the line, uncompromising in this effort, and enforcing a strict standard on the team.
“What has the team’s reaction to this been?” I inquired.
“They gripe about it, of course,” he answered. “But I’m going to keep holding the line, just like Patton would do.”
“How important are these meetings?” I asked.
“Oh, they’re important,” the EVP insisted. “I’m putting out the new standard operating procedures that everyone should now be following. That direction came straight from the CEO, and I’m going to get this implemented no matter how much they resist. Besides, what could be so important that they can’t shut off their phones for an hour or two to focus on what I need to discuss with them?”
“Well, I can think of a few things that may take precedence,” I said. “How about an immediate pressing issue with a major customer that needs quick resolution to preserve the relationship so you don’t lose a huge contract? Or a serious quality issue that might result in angry clients and bad press coverage that impacts your market growth? Or a major safety incident that results in serious injury or death?”
The EVP nodded, agreeing that any of those would take precedence over his meeting. “Look,” he said. “I’m just trying to enforce discipline on the team. Like Patton would do—like you and Jocko talk about. If we are disciplined in the small things, won’t that translate to discipline in the bigger things?”
“Discipline even in the small things is important,” I said. “But as a leader, you need to carefully balance the dichotomy between these two opposing forces: understanding where to stand firm and where to bend. You need to carefully prioritize where you hold the line and enforce standards.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the term ‘leadership capital’ before,” I continued. “As a leader, you only have so much authority that you can spend, and you need to choose wisely where you apply it. It seems to me you are expending a great deal of your leadership capital on cell phones when it might be much better utilized elsewhere.
“You mentioned there is resistance to the new standard operating procedures,” I observed. “Can you tell me more about that?”
“I’m meeting a lot of resistance,” he admitted. “A lot of our leaders have their own particular way of doing things. And they don’t want to change.”
“Well, that’s a pretty standard human response,” I said. “People want to keep doing what they have always done. It’s up to you to help them understand why they need to change—why they need to implement standardized procedures. If they understand how it will benefit them personally, how it will benefit their team, and benefit the overall mission, they are far more likely to embrace the change.”
“Why is it up to me?” the EVP inquired. “It’s their problem. They need to get on board. I’ve told them over and over again why we need to do this. Frankly, I’m sick and tired of trying to explain it to them. We just need to start holding the line and enforcing standards: implement the new procedures, or else.”
To me, it was perfectly clear. The EVP’s attitude was the major reason most of the company’s leaders were pushing back and refusing to implement the new standardized procedures. He had unwisely expended his leadership capital enforcing things such as the “no cell phone” policy in his meetings, with no strategic impact. Meanwhile, he had little leadership capital left to implement the new standardized procedures, which would have major strategic impact on the company’s success or failure.
“It’s great that you’ve read some military history,” I said. “But I think you might have a misunderstanding of how leadership in the military actually works. That stuff you have seen in movies and television shows about military personnel who blindly carry out orders—that isn’t true. Military personnel are not terminator robots that just mindlessly follow instruction, regardless of the outcome. They are thinking individuals who need to understand why they are doing what they are doing.”
“But in the military, don’t you have to follow orders?” the EVP asked.
“Even in the military, if you give someone an order that they disagree with, or don’t believe in, where the risk of death or horrible injury to the team is high, you don’t think you’ll get any pushback on that?” I asked. “Of course the team will push back. They may even defy orders or refuse to execute, even if it means a court-martial.
“The best military leaders,” I continued, “like the best business leaders, take the time to explain ‘why’ so that the team understands it. They don’t force things down the throats of their subordinates. And they also don’t sweat the small stuff. That way, when they explain the importance of something that really matters, it doesn’t get lost on the troops. Then, the troops are far more likely to execute what the leader puts forth.”
The EVP nodded, beginning to understand that in order to get the team on board with the new standardized process, he needed to adjust his tactics.
“In terms of strategic importance to the company,” I asked the EVP, “what is more important? That your leaders not access their cell phones during meetings? Or that your leaders get on board with the new standardized process and implement it within their teams?”
“The standardized procedures, of course,” the EVP admitted. “It’s far more important strategically that our leaders implement the new process.”
“Roger that,” I said. “Then you need to be more discerning in expending your leadership capital. Don’t waste it on the ‘no cell phone’ policy. That’s hurting your ability to implement the important stuff.
“This too is a dichotomy,” I explained. “You can’t have everyone on their cell phones throughout an important meeting. So make it clear that cell phones are allowed, but only for the most crucially important matters.”
“But won’t that make me look weak?” the EVP asked. I could tell he was probably thinking of Patton again.
“Actually,” I said, “it will make you look stronger. It shows that you understand what is strategically important—where to hold the line, and where to be flexible and give some leeway to your leaders. That will increase your leadership capital with the department leaders you are relying on to implement the new procedures.”
Now, the EVP began to see how carefully he needed to evaluate when and where to hold firm on standards and where to give. He began to understand that it was his job as a leader not to say “Do it my way or suffer the consequences” but to explain. Most importantly, he now saw the value of balancing the dichotomy, to be resolute but not overbearing.