"When I Say Shoot . . . "

In Which I Cut My First Deal

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

My first “deal” took me by surprise.  I wasn’t used to negotiation and quid pro quo was a term not yet in my vocabulary.  But it turned out to be an excellent win-win deal and its making illustrates the essence of the deal. It also illustrates nicely what is known as the Barnard-Simon theory of organization equilibrium, which has to do with the equitable exchange of contributions for inducements – but  that’s another story for another time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I checked in at the USS Waddell’s pre-commissioning office in at Todd Shipyard in Seattle in March of 1964, I was greeted by the weapons officer, Lieutenant Harvey Lasko.  I was a first-class petty officer at the time, wearing dress blues and he could tell from my rating badge that I was a fire control techni­cian (FT).  He guessed that I was the one he was look­ing for.

"You must be Nickols," he said, extending his hand, "my new gunnery fire control technician."

"Yes, sir," I said, shaking the hand that had been offered me.

We chatted for a while and I learned that Lasko is an ex-enlisted man, an FT of all things, a guy from my own rating.  But he assured me that he had no intention of messing with matters techni­cal.  He had a different arrangement in mind.

Getting down to business, he said, "I'll make you a deal.”

"What kind of a deal?" I asked.

"When I say 'shoot,' I want the guns to go bang and I want the bullets to hit the target."

"That's easy enough," I replied.  “That’s my job.”

"Now what do you want?" he asked.

I was taken aback because it was the first time in my life anyone had ever offered anything in return for what they were asking from me.  The best I could do was to stammer, “Uh...uh...what do you mean?"

LT Lasko leaned back in his chair and said, "When I say 'shoot,' the guns go bang and the bullets hit the target, right?"

"Right," said I.

"Okay.  That's what I want from you.  Now what do you want from me?"

My mind in gear, now, I replied, "I want the plotting room off limits.  No one comes in without my permission."

Lasko laughed and said, "I can't keep the old man or the X.O. out, but other than them I’m the senior line officer aboard so I can keep everyone else out.  Is that okay?"

"Yes, sir, that's fine by me."

You've got a deal."

We shook hands for the second time in 15 minutes.

LT Harvey J. Lasko was true to his word.  For all the time we served together, the plotting room was off-limits to everyone except him, the skipper and the X.O. 

Most important, when Lasko said, “Shoot,” the guns went bang and the bullets hit the target.

Some Conflict Resolution "Magic"

Getting the Cards on the Table

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am of the opinion that true conflict in a working group is actually pretty rare.  More often than not, what seems to be conflict is actually a lack of information and imagined conflict.  This little incident will illustrate that point.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

A group of about a dozen senior naval officers (Commanders and Captains) from various departments in a very large Navy program had been assembled to prepare a joint position statement about future directions and emphases of the program.  They were meeting at the Human Resource Management Center where I was stationed.  The group had been allotted three days to prepare the paper and, by the middle of day two, had made absolutely no progress.  They acknowledged their lack of progress to one another and asked the commanding officer of my center to make available to them one of the organization development (OD) consultants on staff at the center, someone who could help them resolve what they saw as hidden conflict.  The task fell to me.

I went to the large meeting room where the group was assembled and engaged them in a discussion of purposes.  My initial aim was to take the group back to the reason for their being there.  After hearing them out, I then asserted it was my guess that they had each been charged by the head of their respective departments to make certain that their piece of the program, or its agenda, or its priority, or its budget or some such issue, survived the meeting.  They were all charged with protecting something – they were to bring it back safely – or else. 

I was guessing, of course, but it was a good guess.  Nods and laughter confirmed my hunch.  At this point, I suggested it would be a good idea if the group members wrote down what it was they had been charged with “bringing home,” as it were – just to be clear. 

When all were finished, I went to an easel sheet and indicated I would like all present to share their charges and that I was going to write them down in plain view.  A couple of the officers protested, saying they did not know they were going to be asked to expose their charges to view.  Other officers quickly squelched the dissent, saying that if they didn’t get it all the cards out on the table, they would never be able to resolve the logjam and move forward, in which case they would all be in very deep trouble. 

The items, about two dozen in all, were quickly listed.  I stepped back, reviewed the list, and announced to the group, “I don’t see a single item up there that conflicts with any other, do you?”  The group members agreed and one of them said, “Thanks, Chief, I think we can take it from here.” 

The entire intervention had taken less than an hour. The report was ready by the end of that day and the group went home a day ahead of schedule.

 Shortly after the group left the center where they were meeting, my commanding officer called me into his office and said, “Nick, what kind of magic did you work up there?”

“No magic, Skipper,” I said, “I just got ‘em to put their cards on the table.”

Getting people to put their cards on the table is an essential step in resolving what appears to be conflict, especially of the win-lose variety and, as I said at the outset, I am very much of the opinion that true conflict is rare; most of the time it owes to a lack of information. 

Epilogue

As it happens, a few years later I encountered a similar situation with a VP and his department heads at what used to be New York Telephone.  Cards were being held close to the vest, so to speak and, once again, when they were put on the table the logjam was broken.

"Friends in High Places"

In Which I Luck Out Once Again

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The old saying that “It’s not what you know but who you know that counts” has a big grain of truth in it. Having friends in high places is indeed an important asset. However, it can happen that your ability to draw on such friends involves a certain degree of dumb luck.  In this case, I lucked out once again - and I learned something about leadership.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

After returning from my first tour in WestPac I managed to wangle myself a temporary transfer to the Service School Com­mand at the Naval Training Center out on Rose­crans Avenue in San Diego.  I was working on a fire control system for which I had never been trained and, after repeated requests, I was finally allowed to attend the six-week training course for that system.

I’m about four weeks into the training and enjoying my temporary shore duty.  Too much as it turns out.  I’m downtown in the Panama Bar, a place that has long since disappeared, when the Shore Patrol comes in and starts checking ID cards.  I’m only 20, but I’ve got an ID card that says I’m 21 (and I'll explain how that happened in a bit).

The Shore Patrol checks my ID card, which says I'm of age, then decides to haul me in anyway because  they think I’ve had too much to drink.  Into the paddy wagon I go and down to Shore Patrol headquarters.  After about five hours in the tank, they load me into the paddy wagon again and haul me out to the training center.  My ID card and my liberty card, along with the Shore Patrol report are turned over to the base duty officer and I’m told I’m restricted to the base until disposition of my case.  I wasn’t worried about being restricted because I had my real ID card safely stowed in my locker, along with a spare liberty card or two. 

About three days later, I’m called down to the office at the FT school I’m attending.  I walk up to this guy in a white shirt and black tie and say, “Sir, my name’s Nickols.  I was told to report to the office.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ Nickols!   My name is Chief Thompson.”  I felt like telling him he ought to get his rank tattooed on his forehead because there’s no telling an officer from a chief when they’re wearing blues and they’ve got their blouses off.  But, instead I said, “Right, Chief.”

“Nickols,” the chief says, "do you have your ID card on you?”

Without thinking, I said, “Yep.  Right here in my wallet.”

“Lemme see it.”

I took out my wallet, extracted my ID card, and handed it to the chief.

“Well, well, looky here,” says the chief.  “What have we here?   Two ID cards!  My, my.”

The chief had the Shore Patrol report and my other ID card.

“I was all set to give you back your ID and liberty card,” grins the chief, “but now that I see you have two of ‘em, I guess we’ll just have to send you up to Captain’s Mast.  And I’ll hang on to this,” indicating my second ID card.

This chief was a man who really liked his job.  I had been promoted to third-class petty officer not too long before and I had visions of that crow flying off my arm and being replaced by a set of seaman’s stripes.  At any rate, I’m now a piece of meat caught up in the Navy's legal machinery.

The following week, I go to X.O.’s Mast.  The executive officer screens all disciplinary cases to determine if he should handle them or forward them to the C.O. for a full-fledged Captain’s Mast or, at the C.O.’s discretion, a courts-martial.

Apparently, I'm the only one in trouble at the time because I’m the only one at the X.O.’s office.  I’m sitting in the X.O.’s reception area with the base legal officer, a full lieutenant, who is busily reading me the riot act.  He’s telling me that he’s going to personally see to it that the X.O. sends me to see the Captain; that possessing two ID cards is a big crime; that, all things considered, I must be a worthless piece of dog shit; and, finally, that I can kiss my crow good-bye.  Here, too, was another fellow who enjoyed his work.  I never saw so many highly motivated people in all my life.

After a half-hour wait beyond the ap­pointed time, the lieutenant picks up my service record and the disciplinary paperwork, says, “Let's go, sailor,” gets up from his desk and opens the door to the X.O.'s office.

The X.O. looks up, his eyes get wide, and he says, “Nick!  What the hell are you doin’ here?”  My eyes are just as wide, because the X.O. of the Service School Command is – or was – the commanding officer of my ship when I was trans­ferred to the training center for the course I was attending.  I blurt out, “Skipper!  What are you doin’ here?” 

The lieutenant is freaking out.  Eyes dart­ing back and forth between me and the X.O., the lieutenant can’t stand the pressure of his own curiosity, so he asks both of us, “You two know one another?”

The executive officer of the Service School Command, the full commander I thought was out at the 32^nd Street Naval Station and in command of my ship, replies, “Yes, we do, lieuten­ant.  That’ll be all.  I'll handle this.”

Dismissed, the lieutenant drops my papers on the X.O.’s desk and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Now I’ve got a pretty good relationship with this commander, the man who was my Captain and was now the X.O. of the Service School Command.  I’m a curious sort and I spent many of my off-duty hours on board ship hanging around other work areas to see what I could learn.  I talked a Radioman into teaching me Morse code and I spent a lot of time hanging around the Sig­nalmen up on the bridge, badgering them to let me apply my knowledge of Morse code via the flashing lights on the bridge.  I got pretty good at sending but I never mastered receiving.

Being on the bridge a lot brought me into contact with the Captain.  This particular Captain had once told me – in front of all the signalmen back by the flag bags – that I was so skinny that a double-barrelled shotgun would make me a good pair of Levis.

With the lieutenant out of the room, I ask again, “What are you doin’ here, skipper?”

“Humanitarian shore duty,” came the reply.  “My wife is extremely ill, so the Commo­dore (the four-striper who commanded our squad­ron of destroyers) arranged for me to be trans­ferred here temporarily.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, skipper.  Is she gonna be all right?”

“I think so.”

“Will you be going back?”

“Yes, probably in about a month.  In the meantime, Lieutenant Commander Lake will be the acting C.O.  Now, what about you?  How the hell did you get two ID cards?”

“Well, just before I came over here to school, I lost my ID card.  I put in a special request chit for a new one and when I filled it out I was wishin’ that I had been born in 1936 instead of 1937 so I’d be 21.  I guess I put down 1936 for my date of birth ‘cause when I got my new ID card, that’s what it said.  So, there I was, with a nice, new official ID card that said I was 21 instead of 20.  Then I found my old ID card down in the plotting room.”

What I didn’t tell him was that I knew the ship’s office was swamped and I didn’t think they’d take the time to verify the date on my request against the date of birth in my service record.  And apparently they hadn’t.

“When are you scheduled to go back to the ship?” asked the skipper.

“Next week.”

“Well, I can’t very well send you back to the ship as a seaman, now, can I?  It wouldn’t look very good to the crew if I came over here for a month and while I was here I had you busted, would it?”

“No, sir,” said I, anxious to confirm the decision in his question.

“I’m gonna give you a warning, Nick.”  Looking at the two ID cards clipped to my service record, he asked, “Which of these ID cards do you want?”

“The right one, sir.”

He smiled, said, “Good answer,” then handed me one of the ID cards which I promptly tucked in my jumper pocket.  He then cut up the other one and threw it in his wastebasket.

Buzzing the lieutenant on his intercom, the X.O. looked up when the lieutenant entered and said, “X.O.’s warning.

“But, sir,” began the lieutenant.

“X.O.s warning,” repeated my skipper.

“Yes, sir.”

On the way out, the lieutenant muttered, “You’re a lucky little bastard, aren’t you?”  I said nothing.

Once outside, I pulled the ID card from my jumper pocket, looked at it and began laugh­ing.  The skipper had given me the ID card saying I was 21 years old.  “Damn,” I thought to myself, “I’d follow that man anywhere.”  And for another year, that’s exactly what I did.

Out of Uniform

In Which I Meet Up with Steve Canyon

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Some of the things that happen in the Navy – and other large organizations – are downright laughable. Unfortunately, some of them tie to a couple of the sad facts of life in hierarchical systems of authority. First, some people seem incapable of leading by example. These people also seem oblivious to the example they set. Second, some people take advantage of their rank or position in the hierarchy to step outside the rules and regulations that supposedly govern all members of the system. They abuse their authority and thereby promote resentment against authority in general. This little story illustrates just how ludicrous things can get.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

After a little more than four years on board the USS Waddell, arguably the best tour of duty I ever had, I was transferred to the USS Truxtun.

The Truxtun was a nuclear‑powered, guided‑missile frigate – a real showboat. I caught up with her in the naval shipyard at Bremerton, Washington. It was wintertime and the slush in the shipyard was ankle‑deep. So I went over to the Navy exchange and bought myself a pair of ankle-high, waterproof, brown work boots.

One morning, I had just left the Chief’s mess on my way to the shipyard and was headed up the starboard side toward the brow when I met up with the X.O. It was our first encounter.

He stopped me, looked down at my feet, and said, "Those are non‑regulation shoes, Chief. We don't allow that sort of thing on the Truxtun."

Now let me tell you about this guy and how he was dressed and let's start at the top – with what was on his head.

He had on an olive‑green fatigue hat, the stiff, starched-and-blocked kind that Fidel Castro used to wear. Smack in the middle of it, centered over the visor, was a great big silver oak leaf, the kind worn by Army and Air Force officers, which is much bigger than the silver oak leaves worn by Navy officers. Right below the visor was a pair of those damned mirrored sunglasses. Right away I knew I was dealing with a guy who doesn't want anyone looking him in the eye.

His jacket was one of those dark blue satin numbers with a dark blue fur collar; the kind you see on police officers in the wintertime. On its shoulder straps were two more of those great big silver oak leaves. He was a full commander and apparently he wanted to ensure that no one would overlook that fact.

His shirt and trousers were navy-blue wool and, as near as I could tell, they were regulation. The collar devices on his shirt, small silver oak leaves, also ap­peared to be regulation, but his shirt collar was open and in place of a tie he was wearing a white silk scarf tied to give the appearance of a cravat.

His trousers were tucked into a pair of spit‑shined paratrooper's boots. From the way his trousers bloused down and over the tops of those boots, I would have wagered he was using chains to weigh them down, just like the real paratrooper he would never be.

I concluded the X.O. was slightly batty and that he probably thought he was Steve Canyon.

I looked him up and down three or four times so he'd get my message, then I chuckled and said with a grin, "You gotta be kiddin’ me, Commander."

I stepped around him, still chuckling and shaking my head, and went on up to the brow where I crossed over into the shipyard. I never heard another word about my non‑regulation shoes.

I contacted my detailer in Washington, D.C. and took steps to get off the Truxtun, pronto.

Willy's Story

A Sea Story about ‘Running Room’

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Many people in large, rule-bound organizations resent being forced to toe the line and they resent even more what they see as unfair tolerance for the misbehavior of others. They never seem to understand that the tolerance by the authorities for one's behavioral missteps — what some call “slack,” “leeway” or “latitude,” what others call “operating room” and what was known in the Navy of my day as "running room" — is closely linked to the quantity and quality of one's contributions to the organization. Willy's story illustrates this point.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

While I was stationed at the Instructor Training (IT) School, part of the Service School Command at the San Diego Naval Training Center, I had an opportunity to teach a young fellow about “running room.”

"Willy" Wilson was a petty offi­cer first-class, an electrician's mate. Like me, he was a staff instructor at the IT school. Unlike me, he wasn't happy with the way he was being treated.

Willy approached me one day and asked, "Chief, can we talk?"

"Sure, Willy. What's on your mind?"

"Well, you know the Lieuten­ant is down on me," referring to the officer‑in‑charge of the IT school.

"Yep."

"And so is 'Bull,'" he added, referring to the E‑9 who was the chief instructor.

"Uh huh."

"I do get in my fair share of trouble," he admitted, "but so do you."

"Uh huh."

"What I want to know," he said, "is how come when I get the tiniest bit out of line, I get hammered, and you seem to get away with mur­der?"

Before I could respond, he went on.

"I've thought about it and I know it ain't 'cause you're a chief and I'm just a first‑class. And it ain't because I ain't doin' a good job. I'm just as good an instructor as you are. It's somethin' else and I don't know what it is."

"Willy," I said, "I'll tell you as straight up as I can. The difference between you and me is the difference between a man who is just doin' his job and one who is puttin' something extra into it."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"Willy," I asked him, "How many master lesson plans have you written?"

"None."

"How many test items have you written and submitted for inclusion in the test bank?"

"None."

Looking up at the qualifications board on the wall in the instructors' office, I pointed toward it and asked him, "In how many of those 23 lessons are you qualified?"

"About half."

"Willy, I'm qualified in all 23. I wrote three of the master lesson plans in our curriculum from scratch and I've rewritten about a half dozen others. I must have at least a hundred items in the test bank. The difference between you and me, Willy, is that I'm a contributor and you're just doing your job. Now if you're just doing your job, they’re not going to cut you one inch of slack. But, if you're contributing, they'll give you as much running room as your contributions are worth. Get my point?"

"Yeah," Willy nodded, "I see what you mean."

Sitting silent for a few moments, I let him think. Then, as he got up to leave, I said, "Willy?"

"Yeah."

"Just for the record, Willy, you are nowhere near as good an instructor as I am."

He didn't respond; he just walked away.

About two days later, Willy collared me again.

"Chief," he said, "I've been thinkin' 'bout what you said to me the other day."

"Yeah, Willy."

"I've thought about it quite a bit and I've decided that I'll just toe the line. It ain't in me to give somethin' extra, so I'll just have to adjust to stayin' in line."

"Okay, Willy."

As he walked away, I looked after him, feeling kind of sad that he had decided to toe the line. Then, something my grandmother used to tell me whenever I got into trouble popped into my mind: "You made your bed," she'd say, "now you have to lie in it." The real difference between Willy and me was that he was content to lie in a bed someone else had made for him. I preferred to make my own, even if it was a bit thorny from time to time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

An Afterthought

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

In today’s workplace, Willy’s story illustrates two very different degrees of employee engagement. Willy wasn’t inclined to expend any of what some call “discretionary effort” whereas I was in fact very much inclined to do so.