With this feedback and information, I went back to the VP of sales and talked her through the problem and the solution.
“Too much discipline?!” she asked with a big smile on her face. “I never thought I’d hear you say that, Jocko!”
“I don’t say it too often,” I explained, knowing I deserved some ribbing since I touted the benefits of discipline with such regularity. “Because usually discipline is what is lacking. But here, the balance has shifted too far in the other direction. The frontline troops don’t have the freedom to make things happen, to maneuver on the battlefield, to adjust and adapt to the situation on the ground—or in this case to the situation on the phone. They aren’t making any connections with potential clients. They are responding like robots with no power to offer any pricing concessions to a tough prospect, and with the strictly enforced minimum calls they are required to make, they are being even more transactional on their calls—exactly what they shouldn’t be. You’re a master salesperson: how would it impact you if you had to stay on script one hundred percent of the time?” I asked.
She was quiet for a moment as the reality settled in.
“It would be very hard to close sales,” she admitted, “and I should have known that. Every salesperson is different, and so is every customer—and every call. The ability to connect over the phone is paramount. And I took that ability away from them. It’s my fault, and I need to own it.”
I smiled. “Yes, you do,” I agreed. “That’s Extreme Ownership—and it works not because you say you own it but because now you will take ownership of solving the problem.”
“Yes, I will,” she said.
Over the next few days, we worked on a new plan and training program that emphasized not reading a script but creating a connection with the potential customer—the person—on the other end of the line. On top of that, the company shifted its metrics. They began tracking not the number of outbound calls but the total time spent on the phone with potential customers to help drive good conversations that should translate into more sales. Finally, they loosened the pricing structure, giving more freedom to the salespeople to accommodate interested prospects and get deals closed.
The VP of sales rolled out the plan very quickly and saw the numbers rapidly improve. Balance between discipline and freedom had been achieved—for now—and things were back on track.
SEAL Team Seven Echo Platoon on a mounted patrol south of Baghdad in 2003. Speed and aggressive posture kept the enemy from attacking … most of the time.
(Photo courtesy of Jocko Willink)
CHAPTER 8
Hold People Accountable, but Don’t Hold Their Hands
Jocko Willink
BAGHDAD, IRAQ: 2003
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba!
The M2 .50-caliber machine gun—which we affectionately called the Ma Deuce—was unleashing fury into the city. And it wasn’t alone in its firepower. Our convoy of Humvees had taken some enemy small-arms fire from a building near the highway on which we were driving. We were in Baghdad and it was the fall of 2003, early in the Iraq War. Our Humvees were unarmored. We had completely removed the canvas vehicle doors and modified the seats to face outward so that we could scan with our weapons and engage threats. Facing outward also presented our body armor plates toward potential enemy contact to protect us from the impact of enemy bullets. The Ma Deuce .50-cal was mounted in the turret, the circular hole in the top of each Humvee, manned by a SEAL who stood with his chest and head protruding through the roof. Each Humvee carried SEAL assaulters in the back on bench seats with medium machine guns mounted on articulating swing arms so we could shoot accurately on the move.
As soon as the shooting started, a call came out over the radio.
“Contact right!”
That let everyone know that the enemy attack was to our right. Immediately, everyone who could get their weapon into position returned fire with a vengeance. Dozens of machine guns belched flames and tracer fire, along with M4 rifles. We laid down an overwhelming barrage of firepower that likely compelled whomever had engaged us to deeply regret that decision.
But just because we were shooting didn’t mean we stopped the convoy or even slowed down. As we fired, the call came quickly over the radio.
“Blow through, blow through!” Which meant we would actually increase speed to get out of the ambush area. And that was exactly what we did. Within a few hundred yards, we were clear of the ambush, and the call to stop shooting came out over the radio:
“CEASE FIRE!”
We continued on, back to our base on the outskirts of Baghdad International Airport. Upon arrival, we fueled up the Humvees in preparation for the next mission and headed back to our compound for the debrief.
The debrief wasn’t critical. Why would it be? We had made it through another attempted enemy ambush, and once again, we crushed them and they didn’t hit any of us. In the early days of the Iraq War, we weren’t yet facing the well-organized, combat-experienced, and well-funded insurgency that Task Unit Bruiser would come up against in Ramadi three years later. At this time, the enemy consisted of little more than criminals, thugs, and former Saddam Hussein regime elements running around trying to cause problems. They weren’t much of a problem for us. We were well trained. We were aggressive. And we were executing missions that gave us a solid advantage over the enemy. Most of the operations we conducted were what we called “direct action” missions, with the objective of capturing or killing the suspected bad guys for planning and executing attacks against U.S. forces, Iraqi security forces, or the new interim government of Iraq.
We would gather intelligence, bounce what we knew off various other intelligence sources, trying to confirm the most important piece of information about the suspected terrorists: their location. Once we had their location, we planned our assault.
The assaults were fairly straightforward. We would stop the vehicles at a pre-designated location and patrol on foot to the target. Once at the target, we used various means to enter the outer walled compound, sometimes going over the walls, sometimes breaching the gates, sometimes both simultaneously. Within a few minutes, we had the entire target building under our control and had subdued all possible threats.
Of course, the planning for every mission was slightly different based on the specific target. We adapted our plans and the tactics, techniques, and procedures to execute operations, but at the same time, we always maintained a solid grip on the fundamental principles of combat leadership: Cover and Move, Simple, Prioritize and Execute, and Decentralized Command.
Cover and Move allowed us to maneuver safely to and from the target. We used this basic but essential tactic for every movement and it was present in every plan we developed. We kept the plans Simple. While it was sometimes tempting to utilize more complex or convoluted tactics, we always chose the most straightforward course of action so that everyone on the team knew exactly how to execute the plan. During the planning phase, we would utilize Prioritize and Execute to ensure the team concentrated our efforts on the most important facets of the target, and we would focus our resources there. Lastly, we would create our plans with Decentralized Command. The junior leaders developed supporting sections, then we would consolidate these into one comprehensive plan.
On top of the Laws of Combat, we used stealth, surprise, and violence of action to ensure we had the upper hand on the enemy whenever possible. It was never our intent to have a fair fight. It was our job to maximize our advantages over the enemy and we did everything in our power to make this happen.
Our tactics and planning usually left the enemy shaken, confused, and unable to intelligently defend themselves. Since no one in my platoon had been in combat before, the opportunity to exercise everything we had learned about planning and executing operations was gratifying—not only because we were carrying out important missions, but also because we had trained and prepared for so long.
It was awesome. It was awesome because we were getting to do real wo
rk after the long “dry years” of no combat. It was awesome because we had developed sound tactics that made us highly effective. It was awesome because we dominated the enemy; our weapons, tactics, and training were far superior. We felt like rock stars. During the few firefights we found ourselves in, they didn’t stand a chance. So far, only one man had been wounded and it was relatively minor. We felt unstoppable.
That felt good.
The more missions we handled, the more confident we became. We began to try to push even harder. To complete our missions even faster. To push the envelope.
I noticed that guys started carrying less gear so they could move faster. Fewer magazines of ammunition since we hadn’t been in any sustained contacts. Fewer hand grenades since we hadn’t had to use them, as the enemy didn’t put up much resistance. They began to carry less water since the missions were quick, and we always had the vehicles nearby with ample supplies of water in big five-gallon jugs. This was all done in the belief that if we were lighter, we could move more quickly. We could bound in and out of doors and windows and more efficiently chase down bad guys who had fled from the target buildings. We wanted to be better and more effective at our jobs, and I agreed with that.
But then arrogance started to creep in. We started to think that the enemy couldn’t even touch us.
One day, before a mission, I talked with one of my guys.
“Let’s go get ’em!” I joked with him, slapping him on the back. But instead of hitting the solid mass of the ballistic body armor plate we wore in both the front and back, I felt only soft web gear. I grabbed the web gear and squeezed it to confirm—he had no ballistic back plate inserted into his web gear.
“Where’s your back plate?” I asked him.
“I took it out,” he said.
“You took it out?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yeah. I took it out,” he said, indifferent. “It’s too heavy. I can move a lot quicker without it.”
I was shocked. Of course, at about seven pounds each, the plates were heavy—but they stopped bullets from entering your body and killing you!
“Yeah, but what if you get shot?” I asked him.
“I’m not going to be running,” he said defiantly. “The enemy isn’t going to shoot me in the back. A lot of us took them out,” he told me with a shrug of the shoulders, as if this idea made total sense.
“A lot of guys?” I asked him.
“Yeah. We want to be fast,” he said.
Some of my guys weren’t wearing body armor—a key piece of lifesaving equipment.
Idiots, I thought to myself, what a bunch of idiots!
Then, I quickly realized this was my fault. I was responsible for making sure my men had the right equipment every time they went in the field. That was why we held inspections—to make sure they were accountable. But our operational tempo was so fast that I didn’t always have time to inspect everyone’s gear. Of course, between me, my platoon chief, and our LPO (leading petty officer), gear did get inspected regularly. But we sometimes launched on missions within fifteen to twenty minutes of being tasked; there was no way we could inspect everyone’s gear every single time. There had to be a better way than imposed accountability to make sure everyone was carrying all the gear they should be—including the ballistic back plate to help prevent them from taking a bullet to the back. I knew the answer. The solution to this problem wasn’t accountability. The solution was the same answer to every problem in every team: leadership. I had to lead.
A few minutes later, we were standing around the magnet board for roll call in preparation for the next mission, before we loaded up the vehicles to launch. Once the LPO had gone through roll call, I said my final piece before launch.
“Remember we are trying to get off the target quickly,” I said. “This is a bad area and we don’t want the enemy in the neighborhood to have time to set up on us when we leave.
“And—last thing,” I emphasized. “If you don’t have your back plate in, go put it in. Now. Everyone. Alright? Loading up in five. Let’s go.”
Only about five or six guys scurried off to their tents to grab their back plate—but that was five or six too many. A few minutes later we loaded up the Humvees and headed out on the operation. It all went smoothly. We hit the target, grabbed the bad guys, gathered the intelligence we needed, and then headed back to base. During the debrief, I addressed the issue of the back plates, not by yelling or screaming or even threatening accountability by constant inspections of everyone’s gear. I knew accountability wasn’t the answer—we just didn’t have time to hold everyone accountable before each and every operation. Instead, I explained why it was important for them to wear their plates.
“I know some of you haven’t been wearing your back plate. Right?” I looked around the room. A few guys nodded.
“Bad idea,” I continued. “Bad idea. Why wouldn’t you wear your back plate?” I questioned one of the guys.
“Trying to be lighter,” he said. “The lighter we are, the faster we can move.”
“I get that,” I answered. “But can you move faster than a bullet?” That got a little chuckle from the group.
“Yeah, but I’m not trying to outrun a bullet,” one young, confident SEAL said. “In fact, I’m not running away. So the enemy isn’t going to see my back.” This also got a reaction from the group with some head nods and grins. I even heard “Hell, yeah” from a couple of guys at the back of the room. It was a bold statement. A confident statement. A courageous statement. But it crossed the line from bold, confident, and courageous into cockiness and arrogance.
I understood how the confident young SEAL had arrived at that conclusion and how anyone in the platoon might have arrived at the same thing. We had been winning against the enemy—and winning easily. We had been shot at only a couple of times and nothing very significant. We were dominating and felt untouchable.
“Okay. I’m glad you aren’t going to run away from the enemy. I don’t think anyone in this room will,” I told the group, and I truly believed this. Our platoon was solid.
“But let me ask you this,” I continued. “Do you always know where the enemy will be? Do you always think he is going to be in front of you? Don’t you think we could get ambushed or flanked from behind and you might get shot from that direction when you hadn’t anticipated it?”
The room got quiet. Of course that could happen—at any time.
“Listen. I’m glad we are kicking the enemy’s ass,” I said, “and we are going to keep kicking his ass. But we cannot get arrogant or complacent. The enemy might never get the drop on us. But at the same time, he might get the drop on you on the next mission. And while being light is good and allows us to be quick, being quick isn’t going to stop a bullet from entering your back and killing you. And it isn’t just about you; it isn’t just you, individually, at risk. If one of you gets shot, that means others have to carry you. Think about how much that will slow us down in a serious gunfight, when we want to be light and fast.
“But it is about much more than that,” I said. “If one of us gets killed, it is a win for the enemy. And on top of that—and more important—it is a loss for America, for the Navy, for the Teams, and for your family. And we need to do everything we can to prevent that loss. That includes wearing all the ballistic protection we can. Understood?”
The room was quiet. I had made my point.
As the deployment continued, we still didn’t have time to inspect everyone’s gear. But we made it a point to make sure everyone understood the bare minimum they needed to carry. They also understood what items were not optional and, more important, why they were not optional. Once my troops understood why a piece of lifesaving equipment was needed and how it impacted not only them but the mission as well, they made sure not only to have the proper gear with them but also that the gear was ready for use.
This didn’t happen because I “held them accountable.” It happened because they now understood why the particular piece of
gear was important for them, for the mission, and for the team. Now they were holding themselves accountable. Furthermore, when the troops understand why, they are empowered—and with that empowerment, they begin to police themselves and each other, which provides redundancy and unification of effort.
This is not to say that I never inspected gear. That is the dichotomy: while a leader wants team members to police themselves because they understand why, the leader still has to hold people accountable through some level of inspection to ensure that the why is not only understood but being acted upon. So my platoon chief, LPO, or I would still regularly inspect gear when able—but that was not our primary tool for accountability. We didn’t need to hold the troops’ hands to make sure they were accountable. They held themselves accountable, which proved far more effective.
Once the platoon realized the importance of executing in accordance with the standard and how violating the required gear list impacted the overall mission, we didn’t have to rely solely on gear inspections. Each team member applied peer pressure to keep others in check. And that peer pressure from within the team was far more powerful than any pressure I could apply from above them in the chain of command.
The balance between the troops understanding the why mixed with intrusive accountability provides the best possible outcome for a team. As a testament, through the rest of the deployment, I never caught another man without body armor again.
Principle
Accountability is an important tool that leaders must utilize. However, it should not be the primary tool. It must be balanced with other leadership tools, such as making sure people understand the why, empowering subordinates, and trusting they will do the right thing without direct oversight because they fully understand the importance of doing so.
The Dichotomy of Leadership: Balancing the Challenges of Extreme Ownership to Lead and Win Page 19