"Have 'em put their names on it"

A Sea Story about the Nature of Recognition

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This little incident illustrates for me the true nature of recognition. It’s not so much a matter of providing praise or rewards or awards but more a matter of letting someone’s contributions to the organization be known and recognized as such. In this case, it was simply a matter of letting “pride of authorship” take its natural course.

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One of my assignments was as head of the Navy’s Programmed Instruction Writers course, a unit of the Navy Instructor School at the Service School Command (SSC). SSC was in turn part of the Naval Training Center (NTC) out on Rosecrans Avenue in San Diego, California. During my tour there I redesigned the PI Writers course. Instead of the participants being taught how to develop PI materials they were taught how to evaluate them. The premise was that if they could correctly evaluate such materials they could produce them too. The assumption proved valid; the trainees were in fact able to evaluate and thus produce high-quality PI materials. A few years later I learned that I had made the right decision on the wrong theoretical basis. My assumption at the time of the rewrite of the PI course was based on Bloom’s Taxonomy of the cognitive domain which held that the then highest level, evaluation, subsumed all other levels. What I later learned is that the theory that accounts for the success of the rewrite is in fact Perceptual Control Theory (PCT). Anyway, that’s another story and I digress. Back to this little sea story.

My next tour of duty was at the Navy’s Human Resources Management Project (HRMP). It was located right down the street from the Instructor School. My C.O. at the HRMP, a four-striper by the name of Gerry Bradford, was reassigned as the C.O. of the Service School Command. A while after he took command of SSC I got a call asking me to report to his office. When I showed up we exchanged some pleasantries and then got down to business.

He told me he remembered that I had headed up the PI Writers course and he wanted to ask my advice about a related matter. He said it had come to his attention that the PI Materials being produced at the various schools which were part of SSC were of less than sterling quality. He came straight to the point: He wanted to know what could be done about it.

As it happened, I was aware of the problem, too. And I thought I knew the reason behind it. At any rate, here’s the advice I gave my former Skipper.

“Skipper,” I said, “I know about that problem and I think I know what’s behind it. When I was running the PI Writers course, we made sure the developers put their names on the materials they developed. We also made sure they put their names front and center on the cover page. What I understand to be the case now is that they are forbidden from putting their names on the materials. As a result no one knows who developed the materials and the people who develop them probably don’t care near as much as they would if their names were on them.”

“So what would you have me do?” asked my former Skipper.

“Have ‘em put their names on the materials, right on the cover page,” I replied. “Restore their pride of authorship.”

“Thanks, Nick,” said Captain Bradford. With that we shook hands and I returned to the HRMP.


Epilogue

A few months later I heard that the developers’ names were in fact being put on the materials, in a prominent place although not on the front cover. I also heard that the quality of the materials being developed had improved considerably. I also learned that Captain Bradford considered the problem solved.

"Gaming the System"

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Organizations have been described as “playgrounds for adults.”  To me this has always meant two things:  First, the members of an organization can be regularly found playing games with the confines of the rules of the systems in which they operate and, second, those same members have a marked tendency to “game” or manipulate the systems in which they find themselves.  Thus, while it is true that an organization’s culture shapes, restrains and constrains the behavior and actions of its members, savvy members of the organization can also “play” that culture to their advantage. The following story illustrates both points.

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There are times when getting the job done calls on all the resourcefulness, ingenuity, and just plain nerve and B.S. you can muster.  The time I "cannibalized" the Henry B. Wilson's fire control radar offers a good example.

My ship, the Waddell, was getting ready to deploy to WestPac[1].  It was Sunday night, our radar was on the fritz, and we were headed out to sea the next morning. 

We had traced the problem to the high-voltage box, a notoriously unreliable component in an otherwise pretty reliable radar, but we didn't carry a spare and the supply depot at the Long Beach Naval Station where we were tied up didn't have one either.  Nor could they get one shipped to us in time.  One could be waiting for us in Pearl Harbor when we arrived but, in the mean­time, the Waddell would be without its radar and, therefore, its main battery of 5" guns would be out of commission.  That's no way for a ship of the line to put to sea.

Down the pier was the Henry B. Wilson, a ship just like ours, with a radar just like ours.

Along about 2000 hours (8:00 p.m.), I've figured out what I'm going to do.  I told one of my FT's, a kid from Providence by the name of Frank, to meet me on the quarterdeck at 2315 (11:15 p.m.).  In preparation, we carry the high voltage box from our radar down to the quarterdeck and stash it on the off side.

At 2315 sharp, Frank and I are on the quarterdeck.

"What are we gonna do?" he asks.

"It's better that you don't know,” I said.  “Just play dumb."

Frank and I picked up the high voltage box and headed down the brow to the pier.  The high-voltage box is quite heavy and, because it's also quite compact, it's difficult for two men to carry.  We made our way slowly down to the end of the pier where the Wilson was tied up.  We carried it up their brow at 2330 on the button.

The OOD on the Wilson is a first-class petty officer, a Quartermaster.

I introduced myself.  "My name is Chief Nickols, off the Waddell down the pier.  My weapons officer and your weapons officer made a deal to swap high-voltage boxes out of our radars.  We're going to WestPac in the morning and can't wait for a new one to come in.  Would you have your messenger escort us up to the director so we can do the swap?"

Frank and I immediately started moving forward up the main deck.

"Oh yeah," I said, turning back toward the quarterdeck, "you guys are about to be relieved, so would you tell your reliefs that we're on board and that we'll be comin' back down in about half an hour?"

The Quartermaster, still not sure what to do, but perfectly willing to let his relief have the final responsibility, nodded and motioned for his messenger to escort us.

Once we were in the barbette, the equipment room underneath the fire control direc­tor, I played my next card.

"Look," I said to the messenger, I know you want to hit the rack, so why don't you go back down to the quarterdeck and send your relief up here?"

Anxious to hit the rack, and doubtless appreciating my thoughtful consideration, he did as I suggested.  A few minutes before midnight, the new messenger shows up.

At about 0015, we had the Wilson's high voltage box out of its cabinet.  Ours was sitting on the deck; no point in putting it in.  The new messenger escorted us back down to the quarter­deck.

Grinning at the new OOD, a Chief Radar­man, I said, "Chief, would you get all upset if I didn't salute your quarterdeck on the way off.  This damn thing weighs a ton and I don't wanna put it down and pick it back up unless I have to."

"No sweat, Chief," he says, and motions us off.

On the way down the brow, I turn back and said, "I know you're gonna sleep late in the morning, but when you get up would you tell your Chief Fire Controlman that I said thanks for the loan of the high voltage box?"

"Sure thing," he said, giving me a very snappy salute.

The next morning, promptly at 0800, we slip our lines and pull away from the pier, headed for Pearl Harbor and points west.  Our fire control radar is back in operation.  I'm up on deck, just in case.

As the last line is cast loose, I see two men in khaki running down the pier from the direction of the Wilson – a Chief and an officer.  It didn't take a genius to figure out who they were.

They stood on the pier where we had been moored and even from a distance I could tell they were considerably agitated.  Finally, the Chief flips the finger in our general direction and they head back down the pier toward the Wilson.

I went up to the bridge to wait for my weapons officer to be relieved from his duties as OOD for the special sea and anchor detail.  I needed to tell him why his main battery was back in operation and help him figure out how to deal with the skipper, the X.O., and the message traffic that ought to be coming in any minute now.

Back on the Wilson, in an envelope taped to the useless high-voltage box we’d left behind, was a note from me to the Chief FT on board the Wilson.  It read as follows:

Dear Shorty,

Do you remember the time you guys came over and cannibalized the time unit out of my computer and left the covers off and a bunch of other stuff scattered all over the plotting room? 

Well, I've finally decided to forgive you.

See you in WestPac – if you guys are ever able to get that hunk of tin underway.  Best of luck,

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[1] Western Pacific