Authors: Ed Ruggero
Rob Olson is focused elsewhere.
“I’ve been reading a bunch of books from the business world to see how they define the difference between leadership and management,” he says. “I know what I can’t become, and that’s just another manager, the guy who worries about a resource problem because it’s a resource problem, instead of worrying about it because of the impact it would have on those who’ll suffer because of it.”
Olson is looking ahead to the assignment that will follow his ten months of schooling at the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College. When he joins an artillery unit in the field, Olson will be one of only two majors in the unit, the second or third most senior man in a five-hundred-man outfit. As executive officer of a battalion, he’ll be squarely in charge of the staff officers and the unit’s physical resources; he will manage resources and people so the commander is free to prepare the unit for war. The job is a necessary step, but Olson does not want to become another bean counter, sitting behind his desk looking at spreadsheets and numbers representing unit readiness.
But it isn’t just his anticipation of new responsibilities that has him worried.
“My biggest fear is being promoted above my level of competence,” he confesses. “I mean, I was a pretty high-speed artillery captain. What if I turn out to be the world’s shittiest major?”
“It’s not like when I was a lieutenant, and I was just one of a
bunch of lieutenants. I’ll be one of two majors in the whole unit. I’ll go in there and people will probably know I’m a BZ [early promotion, called “below the zone”]; they’ll expect a lot. I don’t want to be in a situation where somebody pulls the curtain back and there’s the wizard … and I’m him.”
Olson believes his fear will be enough to keep him honest. The right level of anxiety will help him pay close attention to his new responsibilities. He also knows that leaving this job will be hard on him. “I’m leaving something I really love,” he says.
The evening before, the company had a “Hail & Farewell,” a social event that is a tradition throughout the army: Arriving soldiers and families are welcomed, and the group says good-bye to those moving on.
“First, we welcomed the new Tac and said good bye to the yearlings.”
Cadets are shuffled to new companies at the end of their second year, the whole class redistributed throughout the corps.
“Then the firsties. Saying good bye to them, that was the toughest speech I’ve ever had to give. Holly even said to me, after I was finished, ‘You got a little choked-up there. Glad to see you’ve got at least one sentimental bone in your body’ ”
Olson spits into the can, then leans back in the chair and surveys the office, the walls covered with guidons, unit flags, plaques, and mementos, including his West Point diploma and his master’s degree. In the corner, the drawers of a gray, government-issue file cabinet are marked with class years: 1999 at the top, 2002 at the bottom.
“Usually by this time, this close to leaving, I’d already have most of my shit packed up and ready to move.”
Nothing is packed. There isn’t even an empty cardboard box waiting to be filled.
Olson has never been as closely attached to the development of young people as he has been as a Tac. He likens the experience to watching his daughter head to the bus on her first day of school. The connection isn’t a function of how much time he’s spent with cadets. In fact, in Regular Army units he has spent more time close to soldiers,
but there was always the gulf of rank. Most soldiers are not trying to emulate their officers, but cadets do watch their Tacs and say “I want to be like that,” or “I don’t want to be like that.”
Olson is constantly amazed at how much he has learned from his job, especially when it comes to communicating. For instance, second class cadets have the same level of intelligence as a second lieutenant, but have absolutely no reference point of experience to help them make sense of things. It was up to Olson to give them the “why” with the “what.”
“You can just say, ‘Pay attention to detail,’ but that isn’t going to sink in. For a kid on the jump team, I relate it to a well-packed parachute. For a kid on the mountaineering team, it’s tying knots. For a football player, it’s blocking assignments; for a kid who’s prior-service, you talk about other things. I’m so much better at communicating because I’ve had to do those things.”
This came as something of a revelation to Olson.
“[When] they invited me back here to get an MA, and I was petrified, given the pain associated with getting that bachelor’s degree. Four years of being told I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and then I’m going to check in for more schooling and get my ass whupped at a whole new level? But I found I could do these things.”
The most obvious result of Olson’s confidence was that he was willing to let the cadets take charge, willing to let them learn from experience. Not all Tacs have bought into this approach, and that is understandable. It is the Tac, after all, who is answerable to his chain of command. And while cadet mistakes may cost them reprimands or room confinement, all those marks go away on graduation day, like a juvenile record that is sealed when the offender turns eighteen. An officer’s performance, in the form of annual fitness reports, stays with him or her.
“But letting the cadets see what goes on, by letting them run the system, that extra 10 percent of insight they get in how things work—they’re going to be way ahead. In fact, I’d put any of my firsties up against Rob Shaw [the first captain].”
Olson is criticized by peers who say he doesn’t have to worry about his career because he’s married to a doctor; his kids aren’t going to starve. He knows that people whisper that he can afford to be daring because he was selected for early promotion and further schooling even before he started work as a Tac. But the question for him isn’t whether or not Rob Olson would have operated differently if he were the only breadwinner in his family or whether it would have made a difference if he were still in competition for a slot at Command and General Staff College. The question that guides Olson is: How does his style affect cadets? Does it make them better leaders?
The first drill period of the day on Wednesday is at 7:15. It is cool enough so that several cadets, sitting in short sleeves in the Superintendent’s box, have goose bumps on their arms. The chain of command practices, then heads back into the barracks as the rest of the corps filters out for the full rehearsal. Firsties in class uniforms wearing tarbucket hats, sabers, and white gloves mill about as the underclassmen spill out of the barracks. In spite of the hour, in spite of the fact that many of them were out late the night before, they joke around and enjoy their last hours together in this group.
Around the parade field, the first families to arrive for the week are making their appearances. One middle-aged couple is decked out in full souvenir regalia: the man is wearing a West Point T-shirt and hat; he has a camera bag around his neck. The woman has on a sweatshirt that says “West Point Mom.” She carries a cloth bag with a full-color Academy crest. They smile happily.
The corps is finally assembled. The sky is mostly sun, although a few clouds skid by. The cadets are in class uniform: short-sleeved gray shirt, gray trousers with black stripe. They wear the uncomfortable tarbucket parade hats. The under class carry rifles, the firsties carry sabers.
Nearly four thousand cadets march out to the final line. They execute a series of commands: saluting with their rifles, coming to attention, to parade rest, to present arms and back again, practicing the
sequence. There are now second class cadets in charge, thrust into roles they aren’t used to, moving the entire corps across the parade field.
Colonel Joe Adamczyk, the Brigade Tactical Officer, strides across the parade field and takes the microphone from the cadet announcer. He tells the cadets that they don’t look sharp, that they’ll be out here until they get it right. There are some groans in the ranks, but the cadets, especially the seniors, want the parade to look good for their families.
Round and round they go. The companies wheel off, one by one, into a long line that snakes east, then two left turns, then close by the reviewing stand where the Superintendent’s party will stand, and toward Quarters 100. Instead of going back into the barracks, they return to their starting positions.
The cadets still look happy and relaxed, even the plebes. The Class of 2002 has just returned from two days at Camp Buckner, where they moved in, cleaned the barracks, set up their field gear. For them, the year is already over, and they are, mentally at least, already on summer leave. For the yearlings, most of whom are headed out to take a long look at the real army, there is the promise of adventure. For the firsties, there is the almost unbelievable realization that this is their week, that the ceremonies are finally for them. Only the second class seem to have no fun as they struggle with their new roles running the corps.
After they march forward, the graduating class stands in loose ranks just in front of the bleachers. They remove their tarbucket hats, showing hair pressed with perspiration. A few of them already look exhausted from the week’s celebrations, the last late nights in the barracks.
Kevin Bradley stands with F-2, his black hat under one arm, his saber belt hanging loosely on him. He looks a little bleary-eyed after a late night with friends. On the way back to the barracks, one of them announced, “Well, that’s one day of graduation week over.” They rode quietly the rest of the way. Although much of a cadet’s life is about
anticipation—a four-year recitation of “The Days”—the firsties still don’t seem prepared for this. The entire week is a mixture of elation and melancholy and the more pedestrian concerns of playing host. Bradley’s parents are due in around 11:00.
“I’m shipping them off on the tour of Constitution Island,” he says, smiling and pointing at the historic site in the river.
“My mom has been waiting to see that for four years; I thought we should get her over there. Then we have the Supe’s reception this afternoon; that’s when things are going to start getting crazy.”
But the week has already gotten off to a rough start.
Cadet Chad Jones was Bradley’s roommate first semester by nature of their jobs. Jones was the commander of the Second Regiment, one of the five highest-ranking cadets in the corps; Bradley was his executive officer, the second-in-command. Jones, who was also class president, was outgoing, friendly, and confident. Part of that was probably a function of his age; he had served as an enlisted soldier before attending the USMA Prep School and is several years older than most of his classmates.
Jones had branched infantry. During the graduation ceremony, he was to present a gift, on behalf of the class, to the guest speaker. He was to be given his diploma by the guest speaker, along with the honor graduates and the first captain. Jones was due to be married a few months after graduation; Kevin was planning on going to the wedding.
At the beginning of graduation week, the Superintendent, Lieutenant General Christman, separated Chad Jones from the Corps of Cadets for cheating on a history paper.
Jones used the entire bibliography from another cadet’s paper, as well as the same quotations. But he did not document the work or indicate that it wasn’t his own, and the professor caught the plagiarism. Jones, brought in front of an Honor Board in the late spring, denied that he had done anything wrong. His defense was that he had been sloppy in his scholarship; he should have noted his sources.
The investigations lasted for several weeks. When the hearings
finally started, Bradley attended. “I saw the people on that board,” he says. “And I knew they were trying to do the right thing. But they also felt a lot of pressure to make an example of him.”
Jones was hardly a struggling student; Bradley thinks his GPA was about a 3.2. “He almost always had his papers done ahead of time,” Bradley says. “I don’t know what could have happened.”
The class officers removed Jones as president.
Behind Bradley, the parade announcers read the names and hometowns of the second class cadets who now command the formations passing by. It’s a travel map of America. Aspen, Colorado; Idaho Falls, Idaho; San Antonio, Texas; Bridgeton, New Jersey; Malibu, California; Pleasant Garden, North Carolina; Elberton, Georgia; Pelican Rapids, Minnesota.
Later, Bradley sits in Grant Hall. Families are gathering here, with their West Point guidebooks, cameras, and walking shoes. They study the life-sized paintings of MacArthur, Marshall, Eisenhower. An elderly couple, speaking Japanese, has their photo taken in front of MacArthur. The general is not smiling in the picture.
“This was a lose-lose situation,” Bradley says of Jones’s case. “If the Supe gave him discretion, everyone would say, ‘Oh, as long as you’re a regimental commander you can do pretty much anything and still graduate.’ If the Supe throws him out, people will say, ‘But he gave discretion to all those other people. They’re still here.’ ”
In Bradley’s own company, a member of the class of 2000 was caught using a fake ID card while at Fort Benning, Georgia. “That’s not something you do accidentally,” Bradley says.
Yet Christman used his discretion. The cadet, found by an Honor Board, left the Academy during the first semester and will rejoin the class of 2001. He was suspended for less than a year, sent back to the next class.
The Superintendent’s wide use of discretion has saved some cadets who will no doubt be fine officers. In fact, it could well be that these men and women will be the best officers, having learned their lesson about honor the hard way.
But all of this has happened at a cost to the corps and to the
Honor Code. As Colonel Peter Stromberg of the English Department said, Christman has “hoisted himself on his own petard.” His wide use of discretion has led some cadets to think, not that there are cases that must be decided individually, but that some lies aren’t as bad as others.
“It’s made the Honor Code something of a joke,” Bradley says. “It breeds cynicism because people look around and say ‘worse people than him have stayed.’ ”