Authors: Colin Powell
It Worked For Me (17 page)
D
uring the worst days of the Civil War, President Lincoln would often get away from the summer heat of Washington by riding up to a telegraph office on a cool hill north of the city. The telegraph was the first great technology of the revolution in telecommunications that over time developed into communications satellites and the Internet. The President would sit in the telegraph office receiving the very latest reports from the battlefields.
One night a telegraph message came in detailing yet another Union army calamity. Confederate cavalry had surprised a Union camp near Manassas, Virginia, and captured a brigadier general and a hundred horses. With the telegraph operator watching, Lincoln slumped in his chair as he read of this latest setback. Moaning slightly he said, “Sure hate to lose those one hundred horses.”
The operator felt obliged to ask, “Mr. President, what about the brigadier general?”
Lincoln replied, “I can make a brigadier general in five minutes, but it is not easy to replace one hundred horses.”
A friend gave me that quote in a frame the day I was promoted to brigadier general. I’ve made sure it was hanging right above my desk in every job since. My job as a leader was to take care of the horses, get the most out of them, and make sure they were all pulling in the direction I wanted to go. And, by the way, make sure there were folks behind me ready to be promoted to brigadier general and take over after I left.
“If I put you all in a plane and it crashed with no survivors,” Army Chief of Staff General Bernie Rogers said to us during his welcoming speech to my class of fifty-nine new brigadier generals, “the next fifty-nine names on that list will be just as good as you. No problem.”
During the run-up to Desert Storm, General Norm Schwarzkopf became ill. Norm was vital to the success of our plans, but I could not let him be indispensable. I had a replacement in mind, should that ever become necessary; and my boss, Defense Secretary Cheney, knew who I would recommend.
General Max Thurman, the commander of Southern Command from 1989 to 1991, planned, executed, and led our campaign in Panama to overthrow the dictator Manuel Noriega. Max was one of the greatest soldiers I’ve ever known and one of the dearest of friends. After the invasion was successfully completed, Max was diagnosed with cancer. During the early stages of treatment, he remained in charge of Southern Command, but after some months, it became clear that his treatment was going to be very intense and conflict with his duties. Secretary Cheney, who was close to Max, didn’t want to relieve him. I finally persuaded him it was necessary. Max understood perfectly. In battle you take casualties and you move on. The needs of the mission and the horses must come first. Max eventually died of his illness.
Back when I was a young lieutenant in Germany, I was the executive officer of an infantry company, second in command to Captain Bill Louisell. We were out on a graded exercise testing our combat readiness—one of those exercises that tries to replicate as close as possible real combat conditions. On the second night, at the height of the action, the evaluators killed Louisell and removed him from the exercise. I was in command. We made it through the night and successfully completed the exercise. The credit went to Bill. He had kept me informed, trained me, and let me inside his concept and plan. I was able to take over when he was taken out.
I have run into too many people in public life who think they turn on the sun every morning. If not for them there would be no light and heat. I have run into too many people who have long passed their sell-by date and don’t accept that it’s time to leave. I have run into too many leaders who have never given a thought to succession or building a leadership team in depth. Too many leaders are too insecure to face those realities.
And I have run into too many leaders who would not face the reality that the indispensable person is holding their organization back. Leaders have an obligation to constantly examine their organization and prune those who are not performing. The good followers know who the underperformers are; they are waiting for a leader to do something about them.
When necessary pruning is not done, good followers often slack off. But when it is done successfully, black clouds lift from over the team.
Even the best, most treasured, most successful members of a team can lose their edge and become underproductive. Leaders need to be ready to replace anyone who is no longer up to the task. Don’t reorganize around a weak follower. Retrain, move, or fire them. You are doing that person a favor in the long term. And you are doing your team a favor immediately.
O
ne of my dearest military friends, Colonel Frank Henry, was a fellow brigade commander in the 101st Airborne Division back in 1976. A great commander and as feisty as they come, Frank occasionally got in trouble crossing swords with our division commander.
We were talking one day about our career prospects. “I don’t know if I’ll go any higher in the Army,” he told me; “but I’m proud I made colonel. The next thing I expect from the Army is to be told when it’s time to get off the train.”
I once shared that story with Larry King, the famous television host; he never forgot it. In 2010, his longtime CNN show,
Larry King Live
, was losing its audience. The information revolution was changing all media. It was becoming clear that CNN might terminate his show. Larry didn’t wait. He made a sudden announcement that he would be stepping down after twenty-five years on the air. When he made the announcement he retold my old Frank Henry story. He’d had a great ride, he explained, but he’d reached his station. It was time to get off.
I tried to maintain the same attitude throughout my career. Working hard and leaving to the Army the decision about where to get off became a touchstone for me. They never made promises about how high I would go. “Just do your job well and you’ll move up. We’ll let you know when you have arrived at your station.” I asked my conductor a number of times if the next station was mine. “Not yet,” he kept telling me. And I kept riding.
My family was pleased that I’d gone into the Army. It was a patriotic duty and they loved our country. But for a long time they had trouble understanding why I stayed in. My aunt Laurice, the family doyenne, was assigned to press me on the issue when I returned from my second tour in Vietnam. Laurice was a master at getting in other people’s business, and she was all over me. I finally got her off my case when I explained that if I worked hard I could retire as a lieutenant colonel with a 50 percent pension at age forty-one. For my immigrant family, a pension for life was the equivalent of a Powerball lottery hit. They never raised the question again.
I made lieutenant colonel. Everything after that became a frequent rider benefit and a blessing.
The Army has very strict up-or-out policies to keep the officer corps refreshed and to bring up young officers. I was honored and pleased in 1986 when I was selected for promotion to three stars, lieutenant general, to take command of the V Corps in Germany.
A letter from General John Wickham, the Army Chief of Staff and a longtime mentor, notified me of my promotion and new assignment, congratulated me, and ended with a notice that the assignment was for two years. After two years,
to the day
, if he hadn’t selected me for another three-star position, or if I hadn’t been selected for a fourth star, he expected that day to have my request for retirement on his desk. If I didn’t he would be waiting at the station with one of those old mailbag hooks to yank me off.
I wasn’t a corps commander long. After six months I was reassigned to the White House, first as Deputy National Security Advisor and then as National Security Advisor. These were positions of great responsibility and I was honored to be selected, but they badly mangled my military career pattern.
“We serve where we are needed and career progression be damned,” General Wickham reminded me.
As President Reagan was leaving office, President-elect George H. W. Bush offered me several high-level positions in his new administration. I visited the new Army Chief of Staff, General Carl Vuono, to get his advice.
“I’ve been away from the Army in nonmilitary jobs a lot in recent years, and I have options in the civilian world,” I told him, “so I assume it’s time for me to leave. But the Army is still my first love. I’d like to stay in the Army, but I’ll accept any decision you make.”
“The Army wants you to return,” Vuono said, smiling, “and we’re holding a four-star position for you.” That was one of the happiest moments of my life.
When I told that to President Reagan the next day, he only asked, “Is it a promotion?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“That’s good,” he said, in his simple, direct way.
President-elect Bush was gracious, but, I suspect relieved, since he now had another open seat in the first-class car he could fill with one of the many waiting in line for a job.
Over the years I’ve run into people who don’t realize a station is waiting for them or who believe they have an unlimited-mileage ticket. Four-star generals with distinguished thirty-five-year careers have come into my office whining and pleading not to have to get off . . . as if they were entitled to stay on.
Presidential appointees at the State Department who had served for years at the pleasure of the President were appalled when I told them it was time to retire or move on to another job. One of them mounted a lobbying effort to suggest that I couldn’t possibly do such a thing. I did it anyway. The wailing and gnashing of teeth was heard all over the department. That is, until the retirement ceremony was over and everyone else began to look at how their own career prospects had been affected.
Congress is probably the worst organization in this respect. I understand the importance of experience and the value of a decade or two of service. But thirty years or more? Give it up and give your great-grandson a chance. How many more federal buildings and roads do you need named after you!
No matter what your job, you are there to serve. It makes no difference if it is government, military, business, or any other endeavor. Go in with a commitment to selfless service, never selfish service. And cheerfully and with gratitude take your gold watch and plaque, get off the train before somebody throws you off, go sit in the shade with a drink, and take a look at the other tracks and the other trains out there. Spend a moment watching the old train disappear, then start a new journey on a new train.
L
eaving the train is not just about when to get off, but how.
There’s an old Army officer tradition. When you leave a post, you write “ppc” on the back of your business card and pin it to the officers’ club bulletin board or similar public place. “Ppc” is an acronym for a French term
pour prendre conge
, in English, “to take leave.” It was our final departing courtesy when we were making a Permanent Change of Station, with the emphasis on “permanent.”
There’s a more direct, colloquial way to put it: “When you’re through pumping, let go of the handle.”
I have seen too many executives in the private world hang on long after they have stepped down. They keep honorary, emeritus, or similar positions, which give them offices, assistants, and the ability to sit in and kibitz at meetings, enjoy the perks of office, and even receive compensation. Yet they have no responsibility or accountability.
In the Army, when it’s time to go, you go. When you’re an outgoing commander at a change-of-command ceremony, you get a medal, pass the colors to the new commander, give a short speech, and watch the troops march in review in your honor. You then shake hands with the new commander and walk off the field. If you do all this properly, your station wagon is behind the stands, all loaded up with suitcases strapped down on top. You, the kids, and your wife pile in, drive off, and head for the main gate while the new commander is going through his receiving line. It’s important to make sure the car mirrors are oriented so you can’t see behind you. It is even more important to keep the windows rolled up and the radio turned up high so you can’t hear the trash can covers closing on all your great ideas. It’s over. You’ve had your turn at bat.
For several months, people will call to tell you how much you are missed and how much trouble they’re having with the new guy. It’s all nonsense. Be patient. The calls will end before the new guy has finished heating up his branding iron.
I always tell my successor that I will never call him, but he should feel free to call me with questions. If he is newly promoted and we had worked together, my job was to train him to replace me. Now he has done that.
I detest long turnover periods. Study hard before showing up. Know everything you need to know before taking over. But keep the transition period short. Be polite and spend a little time with your predecessor, but don’t overdo it. You really don’t want to hear all about his tour and he probably resents you a bit.
When I took over from Madeleine Albright as Secretary of State, we met three times over a two-month period, once in her home and twice in her office. She was a good friend and I benefited from her insights. But otherwise, I stayed out of her way.
Once I took over Madeleine was always available, but she never called me or took issue with me in public. Four years later I had a similar be-gone experience with my successor, Condi Rice. After your turn at bat, head for the dugout, the bullpen, or the parking lot.
Most turnovers are nonhostile. But when a leader has been relieved for incompetence or misconduct, the situation is always tense. The new leader has to sweep clean quickly as he takes over, but he shouldn’t beat up on the guy who got relieved. He has driven off post without a parade or medal. He knows what’s happened. He’s suffering for it. Don’t beat up on his professional corpse.
