What Good Centurions Do

As December 2010 arrived, I found myself verging on a solemn professional privilege as I prepared to take command of a US Air Force squadron. This is the "magic level," where direct responsibility to deliver the mission sits alongside new access to the bigger picture, providing an inspirational insight into how the unit's performance suppots the broader mission.

But what makes it the best role in the Air Force is that it's the last point in officer progression where your team size is limited enough that you can know everyone, and can therefore connect effectively with each individual. Few things are more rewarding than inspiring and elevating a team, taking them to a new level of performance which instills in them a greater sense of belief and fulfillment. Nailing this is about knowing, motivating, and taking care of every individual. To say I was excited to get started would understate it by a mile.

One of the big milestones on the road to taking command was spending time with the outgoing commander. The point of this was to understand the unit's performance and position, headquarters expectations of the commander, and any open issues that would need attention in the short term.

As I prepared to meet with Randy Huiss I really didn't know what to expect. My mind was full of questions, and the answers I imagined led to more questions. What did a normal day look like? What meetings did I attend? What was expected of me? What were my deliverables? How should I be spending my time? It felt overwhelming, which is normal for first-time command.

But I wasn't too concerned. I had known Randy for years. I knew he was a superb leader, and he would steer me to what was important. And I was right.

As we sat down to discuss the change of command for the first time, I was intimidated by the weight of the task ahead. I wondered if my reach had exceeded my grasp. As he shook my hand and welcomed me in, the office felt too big for me. There was so much history here. So many towering giants of our community had passed through this space. People who had built big things. Leaders who had defined their generation. What was I doing here? Who thought I was equal to this? I was riddled with self-doubt.

But then Randy broke the ice. "I was really glad when I heard it was you," he said, paying a compliment with meaning he couldn't possibly have measured. "This job is about leading people, and that's what you're all about."

My fears dissolved instantly, replaced by planet-melting pride and self-confidence. If this absolute star of our community thought, and heard from others, that I could do this job, then I was in exactly the right place.

Now my ears and eyes and heart were fully open as Randy continued. "What questions do you have?" he asked. So I gave him a summary of what was on my mind, emboldened that my intellectual instincts must be close to the target if Randy believed I was the right guy for the job.

"I wouldn't worry much about any of that," he said with a wry smile. "Your front office and fellow commanders will keep you out of trouble on the mechanics of the job. The real focus is your team."

This wasn't a debate about what was important. This was a lump of clay being molded by capable hands. I put my thoughts aside. I sat quiet and listened.

Over the course of the next several hours, Randy took me through the entire squadron roster, line by line, name by name.

For each of the 150 members of the 14th Airlift Squadron, he had a story. Background, hometown, favourite sport and team, hobbies, education. Family, to include names and ages of spouses and kids. Current qualification, level of experience. Short-term development plan. Long-term potential. Popularity in the squadron. Most recent performance report. A growth opportunity or two, and a suggested next step.

He knew what mood each person was in at the moment, advising me who was downtrodden, who was exuberant, who was bored. In this entire time, he did not answer a single phone call, read a single email, or scan a single text. He was completely disciplined and precisely focused. I cannot imagine a more powerful example for an outgoing leader to set for their successor. I am in awe of it 13 years later.

Some gestures of command are notorious and meant to be noticed. These gestures are about showing love. Others are subtle and hidden. They happen quietly. They're never boasted about nor showcased. These are about the love you actually feel. These are the most powerful gestures. None of what they are is spent on exhibition. They flow completely to pure ends.

The handover I received from Randy was one of these pure acts. With my curiosities, I had proposed one sort of handover. One rooted in making sure those above me gained swift confidence in me and my footing as a commander and that, feeling their validation, I could quickly get comfortable.

Randy made sure we did the other kind of handover. Not one worried about how superiors would process or judge our transition, or how seamlessly we'd perform in official meetings and engagements. But one fixated on how our people would fare. One concerned with nothing being dropped as the baton changed hands. One about the only thing that really mattered, which was my ability to inspire and lead the squadron effectively, partially by having the continuity to make solid decisions concerning our people.

Many years later during my time with Amazon in Manchester, I watched with smiling satisfaction as a handover from one area manager to the next unfolded. Richard Dickinson had kept painstaking notes on his 60 teammates. He knew them. He knew their stories. He had relationships with each of them. And he made certain his successor was armed with the knowledge to continue what he had been building ... an inspired and unified team having a positive experience while delivering exceptional results. He did this unprompted.

"That guy has a future," I remember uttering, aligning myself with the judgments of others in our talent review. Richard continues to prove us all correct.

In Roman times, a commander, known as a Centurion, was assigned to each Century of 100 legionnaires. A leader for every 100 men. Not every several hundred because it's more "efficient" or every thousand because of "centralized control." Every 100. A number constrained enough that one individual, invested with both the responsibility and the authority, could exercise effective leadership without getting spread too thin. And so it was for hundreds of years.

The part of me which romanticizes such things wants to believe that our classical ancestors understood something elemental about the prospect of humans leading other humans in a challenging endeavour. That part of me yearns for a time when these winning ideas are applied to work environments more generally.

But I needn't depend on the yearning alone. Because to my good fortune, I have seen live examples, these chronicled and others, of what good Centurions do.