DISTRIBUTION A:
Approved for public release; distribution is unlimited.

Document created: 1 June 2007
Air & Space Power Journal - Summer 2007

Air Force supervisors commonly reward their subordinates for outstanding performance. The decorations they bestow represent tangible expressions of gratitude. Oftentimes, however, supervisors never realize the effect they have had on their subordinates.

The finest compliment I ever received came from one of my former subordinates. When I supervised him, he was an Airman first class; now he’s a senior master sergeant. He once told me that, had it not been for me, he would have left the Air Force to become a civilian. I did not save his life in a moment of glory; on the contrary, I had several interesting talks with him concerning his demeanor and his methods for communicating with other Airmen of varying ranks. As a law-enforcement desk sergeant, he frequently had opportunities to excel when conversing with other people on base. Since we were stationed together during a “short tour” in Korea, I had only a few months to interact with him before he was reassigned. Years later, he told me how I had influenced his life—that I had inspired him by my example. What a feeling! In essence, I succeeded at one of the jobs the Air Force paid me to do because part of a leader’s job involves developing subordinates to be future leaders.

At times a person’s actions influence the Air Force’s mission far beyond the demands of his or her job description. For example, late in the spring of 1957 on the first day of candidate-prescreening orientation, a young man stood on a scale at the Air Force Academy clinic. The medical technician—an Airman first class who had processed thousands of candidates—slowly slid the black, notched block across the measuring arm, stopping the block when the point of the arm had centered itself: “One hundred and fifteen pounds, Sir,” he said. The doctor, a major, annotated a checklist on the candidate’s medical record and commented, “You’re not going to make it, kid. The minimum required weight for admission to the academy is 120 pounds. You have to meet that standard when you weigh out at the end of the week.” Devastated at this news, the young man thought of his father, who had enlisted in the Army and served throughout World War II, winning a commission and finally retiring as a colonel. His father had high expectations for him and had expended a great deal of effort to win his appointment to the academy. How could he tell him of his failure to meet admission standards?

Seeing the despair in the young man’s eyes, the technician told him to wait outside the office; he came to see him when the doctor took a break: “Listen to me. Go over to the chow hall and see the mess sergeant. Tell him I sent you, and tell him about the problem you have; he’ll take care of you.”

At the academy’s dining facility, the mess sergeant—overweight, unshaven, and inarticulate—patiently listened to the candidate’s plight and said, “Okay kid, you just eat whatever I put on your plate.” Over the next week, the sergeant made a point of filling the young man’s plate with pasta, fats, bananas, and carbohydrates—food that, in today’s Air Force, would give a dietary technician a coronary. Although the candidate stuffed himself at every meal, the intense physical activities packed into the orientation program prevented him from gaining weight. By week’s end, the young man lay in bed contemplating his future and worrying about the next day’s outprocessing physical.

Just before lunch, the candidate entered the doctor’s office for his weigh-out. Earlier he had weighed himself, happily seeing that he was up to 120 pounds. Now, however, at the clinic he heard the technician announce, “One hundred and eighteen pounds, Sir.” The doctor made his final mark on the candidate’s medical record and turned his gaze upon him: “See, kid, I told you that you wouldn’t make it.” He then tossed the record into the wastebasket. In his anguish, the young man explained, “I had to do my final physical fitness exercises and the run this morning. I lost weight doing that.” The technician followed him into the hall and handed him a quarter: “Go down the hall, and buy a carton of chocolate milk.” Puzzled, the candidate asked him, “Why do you want a carton of milk now?”

“It’s not for me; it’s for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not thirsty right now.”

The technician stared at the candidate as a parent would when disciplining a wayward child: “Listen, Mister, a carton of chocolate milk is one quart and weighs just over two pounds.” After the young man returned with the milk, the technician watched him drink it all down and then approached the doctor:

“Sir, would you do me a favor and weigh that last candidate one more time?”

“I already marked him as a failure. He didn’t make the weight.”

But the technician persisted, so the doctor agreed to his request. As the candidate once more stood on the scale, the technician slid the weighted block across the measuring arm until the pointer centered itself.

“One hundred and twenty pounds, Sir.”

“You’re very lucky, young man. You just barely made it.”

Having said that, the doctor made a new mark on the record and placed the candidate’s file in the basket marked “ACCEPTED.”

The candidate graduated 12th in his class in 1961, and throughout his illustrious 33-year career, he flew F-4 Phantom II aircraft over the triple-canopied jungles of Southeast Asia in support of infantry soldiers far below. Returning to the States, he served in a variety of posts during the following years, including choice assignments at the Pentagon. In addition to fighters, he also flew training aircraft, C-141 transports, and, later, B-52 bombers. He became a wing commander and was promoted to general. On one memorable inspection at a northern-tier base, as commanding general for Strategic Air Command’s (SAC) inspector-general teams, he got out of his aircraft and asked for a vehicle, as was his custom. The wing commander handed him an agenda for his visit, but the general had his own agenda. Without the usual entourage, he drove along the flight line and stopped by an aircraft that an Airman was servicing. Stepping out of the car into the freezing wind, the general asked the Airman how he could service the aircraft wearing heavy arctic mittens. “It’s not very easy, Sir, but it’s so cold out here that if I touch the metal with my bare hands, my skin will freeze to it.” The general then radioed his inspection team to rendezvous back at his aircraft; they would inspect some other base farther south instead. The wing commander told him he could not do that. Smiling, the general said, “Colonel, it’s not safe out here to work on aircraft. I’ll come back at another time when weather conditions are better. Meanwhile, if you disagree with my decision, call General Davis at Headquarters SAC and tell him.” With that, the inspection team departed.

During the general’s tenure at the Pentagon, some members of the East German military who were inspecting a site in the Warsaw Pact area killed an Army major. The general received a tasking to write a policy directive detailing procedures for notifying Warsaw Pact forces of all future inspection requirements. These procedures also applied to Soviet-bloc forces when they conducted inspections of installations in the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). In a formal ceremony, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and his Soviet counterpart approved and signed the general’s policy directive.

One of the greatest moments in the general’s career occurred when he became SAC’s combatant commander—its last commander, as a matter of fact. He also orchestrated the stand-up of US Strategic Command after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the inactivation of SAC, Military Airlift Command, and Tactical Air Command. During his stay at Offutt AFB, Nebraska, he worked tirelessly to improve living conditions of personnel who lived on and off base and to upgrade Offutt’s fitness center. In short, he was a leader who took care of the people who took care of the mission. I’ve mentioned only a few of his accomplishments in a very productive career that spanned more than three decades. But this account not only mentions some of the successes of Gen George L. Butler, the candidate-made-general, it also stresses the effect that one person can have on another as well as the benefits that accrue from that person’s influence.

The general would be the first to say that, had it not been for the concern and considera­tion shown him by two enlisted members back in 1957, he never would have had either the opportunity or authority to help the enlisted force. His successes not only benefited Air Force members but also favorably affected the forces of our sister services and NATO allies. The young medical technician and the mess sergeant may never know just how important a contribution they made to the defense of our nation. They will never receive a medal or plaque to commemorate what they did for the Air Force. If the candidate whom they helped later saved a life in Vietnam, those two enlisted members also had a hand in saving that life. If the policies and procedures the candidate eventually developed to deal with a nuclear-armed opponent prevented misunderstandings and, possibly, a nuclear incident, then those men also helped make the world a safer place. If the general-to-be opened base housing for junior enlisted members to soften the economic burden of raising a family, then those two men deserve some of the gratitude of those personnel.

We all know that combining hydrogen and oxygen produces water, but not everyone knows that it takes a catalyst to join those two elements. In this story, many people may know about General Butler and his accomplishments, the results of his actions, and the way some people have benefited from those actions. However, very few of them know that none of the general’s accomplishments could have occurred without the efforts of two enlisted members, acting as catalysts, who went out of their way to help someone else. The general tried unsuccessfully throughout his career to find those two caring men so he could thank them. I hope that the readers of this journal can now appreciate them as well as the countless others who silently make differences in our lives. Can you make a difference? Probably more than you will ever know.

Disclaimer

The conclusions and opinions expressed in this document are those of the author cultivated in the freedom of expression, academic environment of Air University. They do not reflect the official position of the U.S. Government, Department of Defense, the United States Air Force or the Air University

[ Home Page | Feedback? Email the Editor ]