CHAPTER 1
A Young Lieutenant and a Bridge
You can improve any situation you inherit, and when you know you are right, have confidence. The measured risk you take will have a payoff.
Wartime creates an environment where you either learn quickly or too late. I learned that lesson, like most military men, under pressure.
I did not realize until years later that not all the lessons that shaped my philosophy about business were lessons in turnarounds. In truth, all of my experiences, from the time I left my boyhood home in New York state to when I was walking the barren landscape of Korea, laid the foundation that shaped my leadership style and my career.
After all, each of us develops a leadership style from the time we come to the age of realization. We do this in family situations as an older brother or sister, in the classroom when volunteering to deliver things to the office or serving as class president, and on the playground as the captain of the neighborhood baseball team. We also learn how to become de facto leaders, the unappointed and unelected leaders of our peer groups, by deciding which game to play or which ice cream shop to visit.
Most of us don't realize the myriad of leadership experiences we have growing up and how those experiences develop our personal leadership styles. As we grow into mature leaders, we do well to reach back into those foundational lessons to become the unique leaders we are meant to be.
Our job in becoming great leaders is not to imitate someone else's leadership style, but rather to continue to refine our own personal leadership style — the one that evolved from the first time your peer group attended the movie you wanted to see.
* * *
My first exposure to a turnaround occurred in 1952 during the Korean War. I had landed my first paid leadership assignment when I was a twenty-two-year-old combat engineering platoon leader in Korea. It wasn't a turnaround as we experience them in organizations today, but it taught me a valuable lesson and a set of skills I utilized in turnarounds for the rest of my career. That lesson? Any situation can be improved; therefore, the status quo is not acceptable. But I didn't realize what I had learned at the time: reject the status quo.
In Korea, I was expected to perform in the moment, assessing situations and responding, then monitoring results and adjusting on the fly. It wasn't a situation that allowed time for reflection. However, when I returned to work in industry and saw how the lessons I learned in Korea applied in every situation I encountered in the private sector, this essential truth sank in.
Any situation can be improved. Reject the status quo.
My platoon of approximately twenty soldiers was assigned to the 5th Marine Regiment. Our job was to clear minefields, build bridges, and tend a floating (Widgeon) bridge over the Imjim River close to the west coast of Korea. The Imjim River was close enough to the ocean that the tides affected the height of the river. We had to adjust the bridge over the Imjim River twice a day to accommodate the changing tides to supply the front lines and bring back the wounded, the POWs, and more. The bridge not only required an adjustment to compensate for tidal action, but the challenge was compounded by the fact that Korea is a country with steep mountains and little mature vegetation, which exacerbated flooding after the heavy rains during the rainy season. In theory, the bridge could be disassembled when the floods came.
The first day after I arrived, I went down to the bridge to understand what I had inherited. I was struck by the many pieces of the bridge — the large number of rubber pontoons and steel treads — that had washed down river from the bridge site.
When I looked down the length of the river and saw all those parts, it bothered me. "What happened down there?"
The guys told me, "We just can't get this bridge pulled in time when the floods come. We don't have enough time to get the bridge disassembled."
I thought it was an interesting problem. The design of the bridge utilized large rubber pneumatic pontoons in which the air pressure enabled the surface of the bridge to float. Steel treads were mounted on the pontoon floats, and vehicles were able to drive on the treads. The design seemed sufficient to the task, but clearly the assembly and disassembly presented a persistent problem in this unique circumstance.
In retrospect, this situation led me to make the only decision of my career that required me to use my mechanical engineering degree.
After a week or so of getting familiar with my fellow platoon members, building a bridge a few miles upriver, and getting reports on tidal action as well as learning about the bridges, I started studying the construction of this particular bridge. The steel treads, which comprised the driving surface of the bridge, were connected from one pontoon to the next by two steel rods, both two and a half inches in diameter and three feet long, driven through holes in each end of the treads.
When the flood waters came, the water would distort the bridge into an arc, thereby stressing every connection point and making it impossible to remove the pins.
After understanding the connecting mechanism and watching differently sized vehicles travel over the bridge, I realized that by modifying two of the treads in the middle of the bridge, we could prevent the loss of any more bridge parts during the flooding if we could reduce the time it took to disconnect the treads. All that was required was to convert the two holes into slots in one end of the two treads in the middle of the bridge.
I had our welder burn the metal below the hole in the tread to make the slot. The slot made it possible to use the lift on one of our bridge trucks to pull the treads up and out of the slots and then fold them back on the treads behind them. The bridge was then in two pieces, and the winches on our bridge trucks, positioned on each side of the river, could hold the bridge halves on the shore until the flood receded. When the water had subsided, our boats pulled the two halves of the bridge back into position. We lowered the two treads to connect the two halves, and the bridge was completely ready to be traversed again. This new arrangement cut just enough time off disassembly to make it possible to pull the two halves of the bridge before the flooding came.
The bridge modification was not without its trouble. Our welder had a cracked, smoked glass window in his welding helmet and was temporarily blinded by the work done on the modification. That meant that in addition to using my mechanical engineering degree skills, I also learned some basic welding skills. The weld wasn't pretty, but in the end, it worked.
Finally, the modification was tested under pressure. We had a severe rain, and the order came down from the commanding officer for everybody to pull their bridges. I said, "No, sir. I am not going to do it."
That prompted a visit from the group operations officer. We knew each other. He had been my company commander before his promotion to his current position.
He repeated his order. "Gates, pull that bridge."
"No, sir," I said as respectfully, but as firmly, as I could muster. I hadn't told him about the fix to the bridge. I said, "No way. I know this river a hell of a lot better than you do, and I don't need to pull it."
"Do you know what you are doing?" he demanded of me.
I said I knew. "Yes, sir. I am violating the direct order of a superior officer."
"Okay," he said, satisfied that I understood the consequences of my refusal.
That night, despite the order, my bridge stayed in place, although it was nip and tuck whether we should pull it. However, I knew that at the very last minute, we could use my adaptation and pull it. So we held out, the bridge remained intact, and I took back all the wounded, prisoners of war, and all the rocket launchers that, in the Korean War, were towed by Jeeps. The bridge held.
The next morning, a helicopter flew into the Marine bivouac area right next to our position. A brigadier general emerged and asked, "Who's in charge of the bridge?" The Marines damn well knew who that was. They sent for me.
I drove up in my jeep. A soldier stood by the helicopter, and he had a star on his helmet, so I knew he was a brigadier general. I saluted.
"Lieutenant Gates reporting, sir."
He returned the salute, eyed this young upstart, and asked, "Were you in charge of this bridge last night?"
"Yes, sir."
"I just want to shake your hand. You kept your head when a lot of guys lost it last night," the brigadier general said to me.
"Thank you, sir," I said, then turned on my heel and left.
For a twenty-two-year-old, newly promoted first lieutenant, that was pretty heady stuff!
There is another facet to this story that contained some lessons of its own. Sometime later, our combat engineering group commander, a lieutenant colonel, received the Army Commendation Medal for the improvement I made for this type of bridge.
My reward came later.
I learned that when you are confident and know the facts, you need to make a measured decision and stick with it. The improvement in the bridge connection was a big factor in my decision to disobey the order to pull the bridge. I knew the bridge, I knew the river, and I knew the risk. In other words, I was knowledgeable in my area of responsibility.
Another lesson is embedded in this experience too. When you work for someone else, your boss often gets the credit. Employees are there to make their bosses successful, and bosses are charged with making their employees successful. The situation of reciprocal, mutual responsibilities between the boss and employees is the key to long-term success. This important lesson stayed with me. Leaders and employees have a mutual responsibility to make each other successful.
I learned that if employees do well, they will get their turn at the helm. I encountered plenty of examples of that later in my career as well.
While it took a few years to realize the lessons I learned by this experience, my subsequent leadership roles confirmed everything I discovered as a twenty-two-year-old lieutenant assigned to the bridge over the Imjim River: reject the status quo.
Chapter 1: Takeaways
1. Reject the status quo.
2. Look beyond the obvious.
3. Be decisive and then take action.
4. Take measured risks.
5. Know the important details of your responsibilities.
CHAPTER 2
Management Style Emerges at General Electric
You don't have to be a CEO to improve the performance of your company. You just have to think like a CEO.
General Electric is one of the corporations that defined twentieth-century post-WWII America. During the 1950s, when the US buzzed with big cars, jets, and jukeboxes, the head of the Screen Actors Guild, Ronald Reagan, was GE's spokesman. With its global reach and deep pockets, midcentury GE provided fertile ground for leadership opportunities.
But as a large corporation with multiple organizational levels, it was also a place where employees could be absorbed into the dense corporate fabric and quietly remain until retirement. This changed when Jack Welch became CEO.
For this confident, young Korean-War veteran, GE provided ample opportunities to exercise the lessons of strong leadership, thoughtful risk-taking, and applied engineering acquired at the expense of the US Army.
After my army service, I returned to GE in Syracuse, New York, and was assigned as facilities supervisor of a plant in Utica, New York, part of GE's Commercial and Government Equipment Department. I commuted every day from Syracuse to Utica by car.
We were housed in an old warehouse building. The offices inside were quite nice, but the parking lot had not been maintained. The lot was pockmarked with holes, it was rough, and it caused problems for employees and suppliers who drove over cracks and potholes in the deteriorating surface. The dividing lines were nonexistent, and it was an inconvenience at best and a hazard at worst. People groused loudly about the condition of the parking lot.
Since I was charged with facilities maintenance, I had to fix it. So I hired a company to pave it. Asphalt, then and now, is expensive. My boss came down and saw the newly paved parking lot.
"What happened here?"
"I paved the lot," I said.
"You don't have the money for that."
He was right. I didn't have it budgeted. It just needed to be done.
"Where are you going to get the money?" he asked.
"Don't worry about it. We'll get it," I assured him.
And we did.
What happened after the parking lot was paved? People were happier. They knew they were important. There was a significant change in attitude on the part of the employees, and our productivity improved. We were able to pay for resurfacing, even though the parking lot improvement was not originally planned. Other cost-saving decisions helped me meet our budget.
By this time, leadership lessons were starting to take shape. Based on my early experience in Korea, I knew I could rely on my knowledge of the situation and use my judgment to take a calculated risk. I learned to assume the authority to do what I thought was right.
The Utica experience led to my next leadership lesson: when you treat your employees right, listen to their complaints, and satisfy them when it is practical, you are going to have a much happier and more productive workforce.
Take care of your people.
My next assignment was in Auburn, New York, where my group was charged with developing the process to manufacture printed circuit boards. The use of printed circuit boards in electronics was newly introduced. The original process required the company to buy large sheets of copper-clad, nonconductive laminate and print the circuit pattern on the copper. The next step required the copper to be etched away in an acid bath, leaving only the copper circuit pattern. Multiple circuit boards were printed on one piece of copper-clad laminate. After the acid bath left the circuit patterns, the sheets were rinsed, dried, and cut into individual circuit boards.
Because the process required us to etch away most of the copper, it resulted in a lot of copper loss. The design engineers were looking for a way to reduce the cost of this expensive process. If we could only pay for the copper we used and eliminate the cost of all the waste, we could save a lot of money. We spent the next two years working on a process to reduce the amount of copper waste.
We decided on a plan to buy bare laminate with no copper clad on it. We would spray an adhesive and a silver conductive surface and then print the negative circuit pattern on the silver surface using a silk-screen process. Finally, we would plate the copper onto the circuit pattern, rather than etch the copper off to expose the pattern. By using this silk-screen process, we thought we would not only save a lot of expensive copper, but we could also change the circuitry design more quickly.
We spent a lot of hours and a lot of money on the many steps leading to the silk-screen process. The idea seemed sound.
For my role, I traveled to visit suppliers of different materials and equipment. I visited companies that manufactured adhesives. We purchased conductive material to spray on the bare laminate. We had to purchase machinery to print the circuit design and to prepare the bare laminate.
Finally, for all our efforts, we could not overcome the technical challenges of plating the circuit. And even had the idea worked — which it did not — the new process would not have resulted in meaningful savings.
Technically and financially, we had to abandon the idea.
GE paid for this expensive lesson that I was able to add to my growing list of leadership lessons. I found that all my leadership lessons would not come from successes; some of the lessons would come from failures.
In this case, our bosses acknowledged our sincere efforts to improve the process and save the company money. Yes, we took a whole new approach, and we failed. Nobody got blamed, and nobody got fired. I saw a culture of innovation in action at GE and learned that all risk decisions aren't successful from a business perspective. We failed for the right reasons. It wasn't practical to plate copper onto a nonconductive material. We simply said, "Well, there is another experiment."
Progress requires people to get out of their comfort zones, challenge the status quo, and be decisive. Being decisive includes knowing when to forge ahead, and it also includes knowing when all options are exhausted — that is, when to declare an experiment unsuccessful.
At GE, failure was tolerated, if for the right purpose. In the spirit of continual progress and improvement, the message to employees was, "Keep trying." No worthy idea was dismissed. Experimentation and innovation were encouraged. Random failure was one result.
