This html article is produced from an uncorrected text file through optical character recognition. Prior to 1940 articles all text has been corrected, but from 1940 to the present most still remain uncorrected. Artifacts of the scans are misspellings, out-of-context footnotes and sidebars, and other inconsistencies. Adjacent to each text file is a PDF of the article, which accurately and fully conveys the content as it appeared in the issue. The uncorrected text files have been included to enhance the searchability of our content, on our site and in search engines, for our membership, the research community and media organizations. We are working now to provide clean text files for the entire collection.
“Let me close with a story.”
I nodded. My introduction to the commanding officer had been formal until that point. But already it was clear that he had a vivid imagination and loved to make a statement.
“My father lived in a small town free of complication and congestion. He spoke of his younger days simply and eloquently. His favorite story was plain but was told with vigor and conviction. It was about sunset.”
1 leaned back and tried to relax on the skipper’s couch. He continued without interruption.
“When the day had grown old and twilight fell upon that small town, gas-burning lamps lining the streets waited for a chance to shine. A lone figure would walk methodically from comer to corner and fill the surrounding void with warmth and light. He would illuminate a street for another night. As a mere shadow he would continue into the darkness and leave behind a row of lights.”
He turned his piercing eyes on me. “A true leader is like this lamplighter of old; he brings a light into the gloom of night. The glow he carries reinforces an individual’s self-worth and inspires other people to greatness. The style of his leadership is a form of art, easy to describe yet hard to define. It is bright and clear; it affects people in boundless ways.
“We all have the elements to become the ‘Lamplighter’ of our generation, Ensign Walsh. The ingredients are common to each of us, but not all of us recognize opportunity when it knocks.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied quietly, measuring the full effect of his analogy.
“Good luck with your tour here in VA- 192, and welcome aboard,” he finished.
I shook hands with Commander Smith and left the office befuddled with a myriad of new assignments and confused about what to do next.
“Let’s see, I’m now the first lieutenant division officer, welfare and recreation officer, and legal officer,” I thought to myself as I walked down the hall.
“Hi, Pat.”
I looked up. One of the department heads had just returned from flying.
“Hi, Griz.” He was at least ten years senior to me.
“How’s your first week at work?” he asked with a tone of amusement.
“Not too bad; I’m picking up a few collateral duties,” I remarked.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” He laughed, then continued, “Where have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been talking to the Skipper. I had his welcome aboard speech today. He told stories about all the things you think about when you have command.”
“Did you want to fly today?”
“No, I have a ton of paperwork to do right now. I’ll take a night hop.”
“Okay.” Griz was enjoying this, remembering all the confusion from his own first week at work.
“Hey, are you the first lieutenant?” he asked.
“Yes, why?” I asked meekly. This can’t be good news.
“Get Petty Officer Cooke to go clean up the head, it’s a mess.” Griz continued but changed his tone. I looked over and listened intently. “You should know that Cooke has some poor marks in his record and could never be advanced to chief. He was blackballed and fired from the Maintenance Department. Good luck, Pat.’
POl Cooke had been in charge of all the ordnance on the flight deck. Now he commanded the toilet and trash detail performing odd jobs around the hangar while everyone else worked toward the squadron mission of launching aircraft. 1 was his boss, my first assignment as a division officer.
“Petty Officer Cooke?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.” He looked up from a metal desk. His office was an old converted closet hidden below the stairway.
“I’m Ensign Walsh, your new division officer,” I extended my hand.
“Glad to meet you, sir.” He looked old enough to be my father. Eighteen years on the flight deck had weathered his features. He had an air of experience about him that was immediately intimidating. I felt like I was being inspected!
My first meeting with Cooke held fe'*' surprises. He didn’t hesitate to tell me of mistakes he had made in the Maintenance Department. I glanced through his personnel file while he spoke. There was n trend throughout his record as a supervisor that was puzzling; his ordnance ere"1 could not complete a job in a timely manner. The final straw was a run-in he had had with one of the pilots on the flight deck. The aircraft was in an alert status, poised for an immediate launch, but POl Cooke’s men were not finished loading weapons. The resulting argument had landed him this job as division petty officer; he would retire soon.
“There must be three documented cases of Cooke holding up the launch of an aircraft because of ordnance,” I was thinking while he spoke. “In every instance he was late loading the bombs on aircraft.” I was satisfied that what Griz had told me was true. I couldn’t chang6 Cooke’s past record. Besides, it was my
92
Proceedings / April 19$
first week at work and time to look forward to other problems.
So tell me about the division.” I had memorized the billet requirements so that we could pass an inspection with no dis- erepancies. I reviewed the organizational manual in my mind while he spoke.
He pointed to the freshly painted wall °f this “rat trap” he had been given as an office. A framed picture of young sailors carrying brooms and buckets caught my eye. Then he pulled a notebook from a desk which recorded a daily diary and autobiography of each of the eight mem- oers. Cooke’s first week in the division had been a busy one too. “I don’t think all this is required,” I thought to myself.
‘These are all inexperienced kids fresh out of boot camp,” he began in a fatherly Way. “The squadron uses the division to indoctrinate and prepare them for a job in file Maintenance Department. After cleaning heads for a couple of weeks, they are hungry to work on the jets.
‘This will be my last opportunity to have a division.” He looked down at the deck while he spoke. “I would like to leave my mark on the Navy.” He looked UP with a wistful eye and continued, “I want to take care of these youngsters like they were my own.”
‘You know the admiral’s inspection is next month.” I wanted to know if we Would pass.
“We will be ready,” he said reassur- lngly. I stood up as best I could in the dimly lit crawl space, and bumped my Way through to the open passageway.
“Oh, by the way, the head upstairs is a mess,” I said in passing.
“Yes, sir, I know. The squadron next door had a pipe break during the Maintenance Department inspection. 1 sent the whole division over to lend a hand. They should be back soon.”
In the weeks that followed, results of Cooke’s diligent work began to surface. Squadron visitors mentioned the warmth and cleanliness of the spaces; strangers felt at home. The inspection had come and gone without a true test of the division’s abilities. The executive officer remarked on the absence of discipline Problems for the new recruits. The maintenance officer noticed the quality of young men who were coming into the department. These sailors were making good names for themselves. Imaginative ■deas surfaced in the way of poster hoards, squadron contests, and division Parties. Cooke was enjoying his job.
“Cooke, may I speak with you for a foment?” I asked. “You have done extremely well with this division. Why did you have a problem in Maintenance?” I Wanted to hear a personal answer.
Woceedings / April 1989
He looked up from his desk, “My job on the flight deck was as a supervisor, teacher, and father to a bunch of kids away from home for the first time. My way of transforming young recruits into future professionals was to delegate responsibility. I wanted to let them grow by learning from experience and mistakes. I accepted the risk of their failure for the hope of the division’s success. I was the final quality assurance check before the aircraft was ready for flight. If the weapons were loaded incorrectly, the entire crew would start all over again. I took a gamble on their proficiency, not on the pilot’s safety. We might have been late, but we were never incorrect. That division learned quite a bit. They took over when I was relieved on the flight deck and were never late again.”
I was listening to what he was saying and would reflect on his ideas later. I pressed him with one more thought.
“The E-7 Advancement Board will convene soon. You should try for chief.”
He looked surprised, “I don’t think so, sir. You see, I’ve talked it over with the wife. We’ve resolved to retire soon. I’ve tried several times before. All the preparation, testing, and evaluations have left me disappointed and embarrassed for the squadron. I don’t want to put everyone through that again.”
But Petty Officer Cooke changed his mind when the commanding officer submitted a special evaluation for his excellent performance. It was a significant contribution to his record. Since the squadron believed in him again, Cooke felt obligated to try for the advancement one more time.
My association with Cooke and his division was cut short by an early rotation of collateral duties. I was moving to the Maintenance Department as the avionics/ armament division officer. “Finally,” I thought, “a real challenge, a division with 120 men. Here’s a chance to work down in the trenches with the heart and soul of the squadron. Here’s an opportunity to experience leadership.”
Then came exercises, detachments, and preparation for a deployment aboard the ship. I was locked into a one-dimensional world, trying to survive one day at a time. My yardstick for success was the number of calls I received at work: the fewer, the better. Nevertheless, a call came in two months later that I was happy to take.
“Do you, Chief Petty Officer Michael Cooke, solemnly swear. ... ” The words faded as the commanding officer administered the reenlistment oath.
“Strange,” I thought during the ceremony, “Why did I think leadership was something complicated? Why did I think it was an abstract idea, a romantic dream, or an inspirational speech? I never learned about Petty Officer Cooke and the trash detail; he’s not in my books!
I had time to think of the many conversations we had had in the cramped divisional spaces. My initial concerns about Michael Cooke’s capabilities had long since been laid to rest, but I began to question myself. While I was busy learning how to survive at work, he found time to take care of our competition’s spaces. While I pursued life at work for a single purpose, fulfilling requirements and complying with procedures, he did more. He had pictures made, autobiographies written, and extracted the personal best of each of his men. While I waited for a chance to display my talent as a leader, he was in his glory with the lowest denominator of the organization.
I fulfilled the obligations of my job description; he lived his job to the fullest. My style was bland; his was gracious, forthright, and magnanimous. Essential to his concept was a style and level of energy that encouraged other people to achieve their own success. Michael Cooke was guided by a big heart. He took each new, impressionable youngster under a protective wing and made him feel valuable. New airmen filtered into each facet of the squadron after an incredible indoctrination into a professional family. Michael Cooke had reinforced the self-worth and inspired the greatness of men most people would ignore. He provided a service to the people he was leading. The results were personal and professional success for the division, vivid memories, and great morale.
So why did it take a bald, round- bellied, high school equivalency graduate to teach me that leaders serve? It’s ironic, after working for several years, to climb to a certain level of seniority and realize that the concept of service remains fundamental to understanding leadership. In the meantime, I wonder how many other opportunities have walked on by while I fixated on the stars?
“ ... so help me God.”
“Congratulations, CPO Cooke,” the CO said with a twinkle in his eye. “You deserve this promotion.”
Michael Cooke had left behind a row of lights.
Commander Walsh is participating in the year-long White House Fellowship Program. He also served in Attack Squadron 192, on board the USS America (CV-66), and in the Blue Angels.
93