After I completed Officers Candidate School, I was commissioned as an intelligence officer in the Army. Serving as a lieutenant was the only time I've ever had a job that qualified as a management position.
In Vietnam, I worked in the top secret area of the Military Assistance Command Vietnam (MACV). It was a mini-Pentagon that had the command structure of all branches in one place. My group generated background intelligence summaries on Cambodia and Laos to support the real-time briefings.
The six sharp guys that made up my team did some really good work. Whenever a general or colonel came down to thank me for something we'd done, I always deferred to those who did the work. I would say something like, "Jim and Evan did the heavy lifting on that, they're the ones you should talk to." I gave the credit to my team when things went right and took full responsibility if there was any kind of problem.
The Army has a well-know saying, "Shit rolls down hill." This refers to the standard practice of passing the blame on to those below you when things go wrong.
I had a special name plate made for my desk at MACV. Below my name it read, "Shit rolls down hill until it gets to me."
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Recycled Coffee
I pulled my truck into a gritty industrial area of Chicago one morning to deliver a load from California. It was 5am when I got there and the warehouse didn't open until 6am.
The old gray building across the street had a small cafe in one corner with a faded sign on its dingy window that read "Coffee Shop". I went in and sat at the counter under a fluorescent light that was flickering and buzzing its death throes.
Four people were scattered around at separate tables, hunched over their coffee. Near me at the counter was a gnarly old guy wearing dirty bib overalls and a faded striped engineers cap. The whole place had an eerie colorless look that would have fit right into a Stephen King novel.
The middle-aged waitress with a jaded, almost surly demeanor, asked me what I wanted. I said, "Just coffee, please."
She poured me a cup of coffee from the pot behind the counter and put the grimy cup in front of me. While I was deciding whether or not to drink out of it, the old guy next to me got up and left.
The waitress came over, picked up his half-empty cup, and poured what was left into the same pot that my coffee had come from.
I decided I could do without coffee that morning.
The old gray building across the street had a small cafe in one corner with a faded sign on its dingy window that read "Coffee Shop". I went in and sat at the counter under a fluorescent light that was flickering and buzzing its death throes.
Four people were scattered around at separate tables, hunched over their coffee. Near me at the counter was a gnarly old guy wearing dirty bib overalls and a faded striped engineers cap. The whole place had an eerie colorless look that would have fit right into a Stephen King novel.
The middle-aged waitress with a jaded, almost surly demeanor, asked me what I wanted. I said, "Just coffee, please."
She poured me a cup of coffee from the pot behind the counter and put the grimy cup in front of me. While I was deciding whether or not to drink out of it, the old guy next to me got up and left.
The waitress came over, picked up his half-empty cup, and poured what was left into the same pot that my coffee had come from.
I decided I could do without coffee that morning.
Monday, July 4, 2016
Straight Line
When I was 5 years old, we lived in Dillon Montana. One morning I woke up to find a blanket of new snow covering our yard. As soon as I finished breakfast, I put on my Montana gear and went outside to play.
After I had been outside for about an hour, my mother came out to check on me. I guess I must have looked frustrated because she asked, "What's wrong?"
"I'm trying to make a straight line in the snow. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, but my line keeps getting crooked."
"If you want to make a straight line, then don't look down at your feet. Look at something like that tree over there and walk toward it."
She was right. Much to my amazement, I created a line in the snow that went straight to the tree. I don't remember much from when I was 5 years old, but I remember that lesson very clearly.
After I had been outside for about an hour, my mother came out to check on me. I guess I must have looked frustrated because she asked, "What's wrong?"
"I'm trying to make a straight line in the snow. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, but my line keeps getting crooked."
"If you want to make a straight line, then don't look down at your feet. Look at something like that tree over there and walk toward it."
She was right. Much to my amazement, I created a line in the snow that went straight to the tree. I don't remember much from when I was 5 years old, but I remember that lesson very clearly.
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