I've Been That Disappointing Commander

I recently posted an article about a commander of mine who called me a quitter when I told him I had decided to leave the active-duty Air Force. That article struck a chord with quite a few folks.

In this article I want to flip the script on myself, because I have a story to tell about how I’ve been that kind of disappointing commander myself.

My service in the United States Air Force continues to make me extremely proud, as do many individual moments during my 26-year career in one of our nation’s military uniforms. But several moments during my career also still embarrass me to this day, sometimes worse than the night sortie when I landed short of the runway threshold, struck a “rabbit” light sequenced flasher, damaged my jet, and earned my enduring callsign, Rabbit. If I’d come in a few inches higher and landed a few feet longer that night, you might be reading an article with more panache written by Viking, instead of by Rabbit – if Viking had turned out to be the kind of guy who wrote articles, and I’m not sure that would have been true.

Given that callsign change, the mementoes in the picture above keep me grounded in humble pride; and even though pilots don’t like to be grounded, I do my best to embrace that grounding, and to keep examining and processing what it should mean for me all these years later.

Anyway, there Rabbit was…

I was a lieutenant colonel who had been given the sublime privilege and honor of commanding an Air Force squadron, and my team was a wonderful combination of fantastic, talented American service members. (If any of you are reading this, I thank you for partnering with me in our shared service to our fellow Americans.)

We were what the Air Force called an Operations Support Squadron – the best one ever, as far as I’m concerned. Our share of the business did not come with all the glamour in the flying squadrons where most Air Force flight crews live to slip the surly bonds or to stare longingly at the flying schedule waiting for their next opportunity to do so. Instead, our share of the business was about helping to put those flying schedules together, and maintaining the life support systems those crews needed, and delivering the intelligence that helped to make their missions successful. It was essential, important work, even if it was less glamorous.

One of the slogans I regularly repeated to my squadron mates, as a challenge, but also as a celebration of their hard work, was, “Every day a little better.” I wanted us to be a team of professionals committed to being a little better every day, for one another and for everyone else who was counting on us – and we were. I have been in the habit of giving myself that same challenge ever since I can remember, but I have to confess that I didn’t always live up to that challenge even as a squadron commander who frequently repeated that mantra to others from the front of the room.

My boss was a colonel who called me one weekend to say that some of my folks had failed to help recover a jet that had returned from an overseas mission. A phone call like that from the boss is always hard to take, and I was embarrassed, a fighter pilot’s worst nightmare; and on Monday I had the folks in question report to my office. I took my boss at her word, assuming she knew the whole story; and I didn’t slow down enough to give my teammates the benefit of the doubt or much opportunity to tell their side of the story, even though what had been reported to me was inconsistent with everything I knew about my teammates and their commitment to mission accomplishment. (If you’re reading this, I am sorry for how I behaved that day.)

We were in the military flying business, and what I did and didn’t do that day could be called a small thing, relatively speaking, if we’re talking about the ultimate importance that comes with the Air Force mission “to fly, fight, and win”; but my behavior in that situation continues to haunt me nearly 15 years later. I didn’t react violently, but I did act hastily and harshly – all because I felt embarrassed.

My teammates deserved different from me – and even Rabbit should have known better.

All these years later I am still trying to learn from my failure as a commander that day, and ever since I have continued to work at being a little better every day, as a leader, as a teammate, as a friend and family member, as a human being, and as a wingman in all those categories, even if my callsign is and always will be Rabbit, instead of something a bit more august.

More to follow.