Generally Speaking Read online

  The Army manages its people differently than do civilian employers, bringing enlisted soldiers and officers into its ranks only at the entry level (no middle or executive level accessions for those in uniform). Enlisted ranks start as privates, officers as second lieutenants. The Army also manages its officers by “year group,” the year a person is commissioned. Since I was commissioned in 1969, I was in “Year Group 1969” the rest of my career.

  There is a fairly structured path for Army officers. The specifics vary by branch, which the officers are assigned on commissioning: Infantry, Armor, Artillery (the combat arms); Engineers, Military Police, Military Intelligence, Signal (the combat support arms); and Adjutant General, Transportation, Ordnance, Chemical, and Finance (the combat service support arms); Judge Advocate General and Medical (special branches).

  Each branch has particular tactical and technical skills that it teaches its officers through a mixture of specific Army schools and assignments. The variety of experience that a young officer acquires in the first ten years in the Army builds the record upon which she or he is evaluated in the second twenty years when officers are either selected for the command track or, alternatively, are assigned to staff duty. Traditionally, earning command was viewed as most desirable and is still informally referred to as the “fast track.”

  But in recent years, as a new officer personnel management system has been put into place, officers in specialties outside the command track who performed very valuable work for the Army—such as Foreign Area Officers (the Defense Attachés serving at embassies abroad)—have been able to earn promotion. These kinds of reforms have been slow in coming, however, because the Army's promotion process and advancement is deeply rooted in the tradition in which command is revered.

  Once second lieutenants are assigned to a branch such as Infantry, Ordnance, or Transportation on commissioning, they attend a basic officer course in that branch. (When I enlisted in 1968, of course, women officers were limited to the Women's Army Corps or the Army Nurse Corps.) Army lieutenants might then lead a platoon of roughly thirty soldiers. Their first command would be a company of about 200 troops, which comes after promotion to the rank of captain. On promotion to major, officers can serve on a battalion staff or in a larger command. About one third to one half of all promising majors of each branch are chosen for a year in residence at the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. A very small percentage of lieutenant colonels are selected to command a battalion, usually composed of three to five companies. This command is of pivotal importance in an Army career. It is often followed by increasingly responsible staff positions in a division or one of the regional joint headquarters. The next critical hurdle is attending senior service college, usually the Army War College at Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Promotion to full colonel occurs at the rate of about 44 percent of lieutenant colonels eligible. A very select number of colonels are chosen to command a brigade, composed of several battalions. Less than 2 percent of colonels are promoted to brigadier general (one star) and higher command, or staff positions of greater responsibility. Of brigadier generals, fewer than half are promoted to major general (two star). Selection to lieutenant general (three star) and general (four star) depend on specific senior leadership positions that require those ranks.

  People outside the Army sometimes ask if I had the unofficial help of benevolent senior officers during my career who ran interference for me, thus assuring I received promotions and coveted assignments. The answer is no. The Army doesn't work that way; in fact it's about as close to a meritocracy as you'll find.

  The actual Army promotion process has changed little over the years. All officers' performance is rated by their supervisors on formally structured Officer Efficiency Reports (OERs) that must be submitted at least annually, more frequently if the officer or her rater is transferred. These OERs are then reviewed by the rating officer's own rater, called the senior rater, who fulfills the critical role of distinguishing the most exceptional officers from their more average peers. After review, OERs are entered into the rated officers' personnel files and copied onto microfiche.

  These are reviewed by the scores of Army promotion boards that meet each year, a human pyramid with a vast base for the junior officer ranks and a narrow apex for brigadier and major generals, the highest ranks to be chosen by board. A promotion board considers a file containing microfiches of all an officer's OERs, previous assignments, a full-length photo in uniform to show “military bearing” taken by an Army photographer—no PR department glamour shots—and other evidence of career progress, such as military or civilian education. There is also commendatory material: awards and decorations, or, in some cases, records of courts-martial, letters of reprimand, and less serious nonjudicial punishment (Article 15). All this material goes into the mix when the board considers which officers to promote. Any significant derogatory information in a file will trigger a process by which an officer must “show cause” why the Army should retain him.

  At the conclusion of the voting process, when a board's order of merit list has been completed, a statistical analysis is conducted that compares the selection results by gender and race. When minorities and women are selected at a rate less than the rate of majority men, an affirmative action review is conducted. If this review reveals, for example, that the selection rate for black women is significantly less than that for white men, then the first record of a black woman below the cut line is compared to the record of officers at the cut line. Should the board find that her record is no different than the records of those at the cut line, the board has the latitude to move the woman above the line. In almost all cases, these reviews result in no change because the records are arrayed in order of merit. The next level of review by this board is to determine whether institutional discrimination has taken place. This judgment is based on a review of all records of those minorities and women not selected.

  This procedure is an affirmative action program that avoids the politically charged issue of establishing quotas on the one hand, and yet provides institutional review of treatment of women and minorities.

  Today, the promotion percentages are roughly the same as they were when I joined the Army. In the junior officer ranks, 98 percent of first lieutenants are promoted to captain. The rate of captains making major is 87 percent. Sixty-four percent of majors become lieutenant colonels. That's the rank where most officers retire, usually after about twenty years' service. The percentage of lieutenant colonels reaching full colonel drops about 44 percent. Then the real triage occurs. Only 1.5 percent of colonels are promoted to brigadier general. About half of brigadier generals make major general in their allotted five years in that rank. And half of the major generals are promoted to lieutenant general, a rank at which they can usually serve for two years before retiring, unless they are extended, appointed to another assignment, or promoted to general. No woman in the Army has ever worn four stars because that rank has always gone to men from the combat arms, from which women remain excluded. But that situation could change in the future.

  In the years that followed the colonel's lecture that morning at Fort McClellan, I came to realize just how little discretionary time any person who is planning their future truly has in her or his professional life, be it military or civilian.

  While in the Army, I knew exactly what the expected career progression would be in terms of promotions, command assignments, and school selections. This progression not only guided us, it gave officers and NCOs a clear sense of how they were doing in comparison to their peers. There was little latitude for stagnation or drift in a successful Army career. Then, an officer either was promoted above lieutenant colonel or retired after a few years at that rank. In fact, most officers retired as lieutenant colonels. During times of shortages, there are provisions made to retain highly trained majors who wish to remain up to ten years in that rank serving in their specialties. But when I was a young officer, you were either promoted or you left the ser
vice.

  This does not at all mean, however, that a young officer could ever plan with certainty every discrete step of a successful twenty-year career. There are simply too many variables involved: unanticipated changes in organizational policy, culture, mission, size (downsizing rocked the Army in the 1970s and 1990s), and budget. To succeed, I believe a person needs to have innate talent and be willing to devote one's full energy to each job for many years. I also think that most success stems from one's basic work ethic and emotional makeup (resilience and adaptability), rather than from the sole intentional activity of planning and setting distant specific goals.

  Today, when I speak to ambitious young people, especially women striving to succeed in traditionally male-dominated professions, I remind them of the lesson I learned as a young Army officer: If a position of high leadership is your goal, you must lay the groundwork early and not waste time. In the military, that means choosing your branch of service carefully, so that you have the opportunity to attend professional schools and earn command. In this regard, the Army's “fast movers” are every bit as energetic and dedicated as their civilian counterparts in professions such as medicine and the law, which also have demanding apprenticeships, but successful military officers face an even steeper and narrowing pyramid.

  Until recently, the first important “gate” in a civilian career was the choice between graduate school and direct entry into the marketplace. Now increasing numbers of young people, including women, are forgoing a full university education and moving directly into Information Age entrepreneurial ventures, especially Internet initial public offering companies. A few succeed. Many more have to return to employment in a more traditional industry. I think it might be better for these entrepreneurs to have a university degree to fall back on. And I think it is especially unfortunate that these young people miss the opportunity to enrich their lives through a liberal arts and science education.

  For people who do take a more traditional route to professional success, persistence is probably their strongest fundamental attribute. The years of hard work of law school inevitably follow the long library weekends of prelaw; years of drudgery as an associate precede partnership. In medicine, the schooling and apprenticeships are even more rigorous and selective.

  In this increasingly competitive world, the basic attributes of diligence and persistence will only become more important as factors in success.

  As a twenty-one-year-old second lieutenant in 1969, of course, I didn't understand much of this. But after Colonel Michl's lecture, I did have a glimmer that a fully realized Army career might just possibly be an option in my life.

  With that in mind, I anxiously awaited word of my first assignment as the end of the Basic Course approached that fall. Coursemate friends like Carol Hoffman and Anne Heurer had already figured out the unseen dynamics of the assignment process.

  “If you're near the bottom of the class, they'll keep you here at McClellan,” Carol said. “They don't want to send the duds to other posts. Bad publicity.”

  “But if you're at the top of the class,” Anne warned, “they'll keep you here at McClellan to be an instructor and be a good example for the new students.”

  The prospect of staying at Fort McClellan for two more years did not appeal to me. I had joined the Army in part to travel. My class grades were good, I knew, but my military uniform was not the very best: I never could get my brass insignia and shoes as shiny as some of the women. Maybe I'd fall in the middle ranks and be assigned an interesting job. My stated preference was New England. I had never been there, but I liked the New Englanders I'd met in the Basic Course.

  Just before Thanksgiving, I got my orders: Fort Devens, Massachusetts, a medium-size post in the foothills west of Boston. I was very happy. Boston was an exciting, sophisticated city, and the shore and mountains of New England were an easy drive from the post.

  Then my platoon leader, Lieutenant Mary Spring, called me in. “Your orders have been changed,” she said, glancing down at a form on her desk. “You're staying here at McClellan.”

  “No!” I blurted out, a very unmilitary response.

  She was startled, and then broke into a grin. This was a prank, instigated by Anne and Carol, Lieutenant Spring confessed. I was on my way to Fort Devens.

  When I arrived at Fort Devens, I was interviewed by a Major Landry and assigned as the assistant administrative officer to the Director of Personnel and Community Activities.

  Initially, I found this, my first adult job, quite exciting. But after a few months, I came to realize that the DPCA—the Army is addicted to acronyms—often entailed the boring housekeeping duties of running the post. Major Landry, a laconic, chain-smoking former enlisted man, pragmatically assured me, however, that even if the assignment were sometimes frustrating, it was a collection of tasks that were necessary for the smooth functioning of the post.

  One of my jobs involved routing the school buses. Parents whose kids overslept and were late for classes called me to bitterly complain that the bus had passed their stop too early and left little Billie or Judy standing in the cold. I was also given the task of directing the contest to choose a slogan for Fort Devens (“Fort Devens, Gateway to Route 2,” a popular but ultimately rejected entry).

  Whenever I wasn't handling calls, I was shuffling a steady flow of paperwork: endless disposition forms, guard roster forms, duty rosters (important in organizing blood drives), supply requests, a bureaucratic avalanche that heaped my in baskets every morning and kept my two enlisted clerks rattling away on their IBM Selectrics the entire duty day.

  My jobs were in fact considered normal lieutenant's work at that time. But in that period, women filled most administrative positions, both in the military and in the civilian world. The vast majority of women employed in the American private sector were either secretaries, teachers, or nurses. And, like me, so many girls that I had grown up with saw their professional horizons limited to either teaching or nursing or this kind of nine-to-five office work.

  In the Army, women were thought to be capable of handling little details—the sheet-counting, the paper-pushing, the tweaking of school bus schedules—but not of shouldering more challenging responsibilities outside the all-female ranks of the WAC. From the Corps's creation in World War II, there were firm statutory prohibitions against women commanding men. These still prevailed when I began my service at Fort Devens in 1970. I could and did have men working for me, but I did not write the NCO Efficiency Report on the master sergeant in my office, since it was viewed as demeaning to him to have to work for a WAC lieutenant.

  And although I was in no position to issue orders to men soldiers, one of the duties Major Landry eventually gave me was briefing the Field-Grade Officer of the Day (FGOD) when that major or lieutenant colonel reported for his periodic twelve-hour stint as the post's senior leader during off-duty hours. The FGOD rotated among the various commands, so that each of these senior officers might serve once every three or four months. The duty was hardly demanding, requiring the officer to be on call at post headquarters in the event of an emergency, at which time he would follow a detailed set of Standard Operating Procedures (SOPs) found in a thick, three-hole binder, which Major Landry and I had to update and use in briefing each day's FGOD.

  But the tasks of the FGOD became increasingly detailed and many officers found them irksome. For example, they had to inspect the public address system at both Reveille and Retreat to make sure the recorded music could be heard far and wide.

  Then the garrison staff sent out a rather unusual directive.

  “One of the things we're now doing, sir,” I said, keeping a straight face as I handed an officer the SOP book, “is writing down the serial numbers and locations of all the Dempsey Dumpsters.”

  “You're what?”

  “The Dumpsters, sir, at all the mess halls and the workshops. We need the serial numbers and exact locations noted every day to make sure they're all accounted for. And you need to find the ones
other than those already on the list.”

  The officer scowled as he read the neat block paragraphs of the mimeographed SOP that bore the signature of Major Landry and his boss, Lieutenant Colonel John Morrissey. There was no arguing with an SOP.

  But that diversion was short-lived. I was soon back to my endless round of less exotic work. Then one day a man lieutenant platoon leader in the Personnel Management shop came by my office and asked if I would consider swapping jobs with him. He was leaving the Army within a year and wanted as many varied assignments as possible on his résumé. He particularly thought the community affairs part of my assignment would be good preparation for work in the civilian world.

  “Are you interested, Claudia?”

  “You bet.”

  I went to see Lieutenant Colonel Morrissey. To me, the idea of the job swap made perfect sense: I was dying to lead a platoon. And the other lieutenant would have gladly taken on my multiple jobs. But Morrissey was opposed to the idea.

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Your job would kill a man's career.”

  I was amazed. What about my career? “Sir,” I argued in a reasonable tone, “he's not planning an Army career. He wants the job on his civilian résumé.”

  Colonel Morrissey shook his head. “Out of the question, Lieutenant. You're in the right assignment.”

  What he meant, of course, was that I was only a woman, a WAC. Yet I knew he appreciated me and respected my work within the cultural blinkers of his generation. I decided to take a chance and persist in my argument. You cannot be insubordinate in the Army, but with a reasonable senior officer it's always possible to present a logical rebuttal. “Sir, I just don't think my job is very meaningful. I'm no longer learning anything. That's why I'd like to take over that platoon in Personnel.”