Generally Speaking (6 page)

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.”

Colonel Morrissey thought a moment. “Lieutenant, make a list of everything you do and we'll look into it.”

I listed the thirty-odd tasks assigned to me, some of them definitely odder than others. But all of them could have been done by a corporal or junior sergeant with a modicum of training. When Colonel Morrissey read my list he tried to enhance the assignment somewhat. But basically he was satisfied that I was indeed in the right job. After all, this was the kind of work WAC officers were
good
at—always had been, always would be.

As a new lieutenant in my twenties, I didn't see any way out, but I did make the best of the situation. My assignment was like most entry-level positions. It's best just to use the experience to learn as much as possible while recognizing that the frustration will end and that you'll get more challenge in the next assignment. Recently, I had the chance to talk about this issue with my cousin Lele, a smart young woman with a degree in business who is interested in advancing into a management position in retail fashion sales. Lele currently works as an assistant manager for a nationwide retail chain, having risen from a salesclerk after graduation.

But she had a problem and called me for advice. Her current store manager is not very competent. She makes a lot of professional mistakes that ultimately reflect on her staff. In comparison to Lele's previous manager, this boss is much less efficient, and Lele does not see the situation improving. Although she would like to stay with the company, Lele does not want to remain working for her current manager.

“How can I get out of this?” she wanted to know, seeking a graceful way to be transferred. If she couldn't find any, she was prepared to resign.

I suggested she look at the problem in a different way. “Maybe it's better to ask, ‘What can I get out of the situation?’”

Obviously, Lele's position is not ideal. But she should consider her entry-level job an apprenticeship, as she knows the stages of the company's career ladder she will have to climb as she gains experience: assistant manager to associate manager to full store manager. The current job, while often frustrating, gives her the chance to work hard, show her competence, and to learn everything about retail management she can while the actual responsibility of management rests on someone else's shoulders.

Before coming to me for advice, she had raised the issue of her dissatisfaction with a higher-level manager in hopes of being transferred to a different store. But she had been far too tentative in her comments about the problem out of a sense of loyalty to her store manager. The discussion was inconclusive and left Lele even more frustrated. Her reticence and sense of professional isolation are typical, I think, of many young women who lack the cohesive social bonds of clubs and after-hours sports camaraderie that their men colleagues often enjoy. On the golf course and the racquetball court, for example, these men receive informal but invaluable feedback on their job performance. But young women often lack such support networks.

Regardless, I told her, now was the time to find out the specific professional skills she needs to acquire before promotion to associate manager. I told her not to miss this opportunity by continuing to remain reticent. Go back to that senior manager (or other knowledgeable people in the store) and ask him to help you learn the business. Don't worry about your mixed feelings toward to your current boss. Just focus on the work, the daily tasks, the myriad skills that go into your profession.

The important lesson here is that young women can act in their own self-interest while remaining loyal to their organizations and their values, if they discuss the professional situation dispassionately and without personal reference to others involved.

As a young WAC lieutenant, of course, I was yet to learn these lessons. In fact, I wasn't sure what my professional goals were. And the WAC Branch assignment officers weren't much help. The conclusion of my two-year minimum service obligation was approaching, and as much as I enjoyed the New England lobsters and winter snowfalls, I was seriously considering leaving the Army unless I got a more challenging assignment. The branch suggested a transfer that would have freed me from my administrative job a few months early, but then I asked if the new job would require training. I had requested a course in personnel management because at least that training would indicate that the subsequent assignment would be more demanding. But the new job required no special training.

“I'm not interested.”

Next came an enticing proposal to be interviewed for an assignment as the junior aide to the Commander-in-Chief-Pacific. “It's in Honolulu, Lieutenant,” the captain at Branch told me on the phone.

Now
that
did sound exciting. “What about training?” I asked.

“Not necessary.”

“Why did they pick me?”

“Well,” the captain said in a confidential tone, “they saw you in the LSD file.”

“What's that?”

She explained that the Little Sexy Doll file contained just the photo of junior WAC officers—no records of professional attributes—a system that was sometimes used to choose women for prestigious positions as aides to senior officers solely on the basis of their looks. I was not interested in the job. And I was also disappointed that the Women's Army Corps enabled such an obvious assault on professionalism. How were the men leading the Army ever going to take us seriously if we undermined ourselves in this way?

This period was one of those low points in which one either leaves the Army to start over or one digs in and tries to make the best of choices that are imperfect. I simply did not see how any future in the Army would work out, but I thought I had to pursue two alternatives simultaneously: one, see what the civilian world had to offer; two, press on to examine where the Army might lead. If I had known then just how deeply and how rapidly the Army was going to be transformed in the coming years, I would not have felt the anguish I did in my final months at Fort Devens. But I didn't own a crystal ball. The future was uncertain, and uncertainty often creates negative emotions. But I've since come to understand that just because uncertainty about the future—especially our professional future—makes us feel uncomfortable, these negative feelings do not mean the future itself is bleak. That too is important information for a potential leader considering major decisions that will impact one's career. Learn to be comfortable with uncertainty.

Exercising my options, I went to Boston, and bought a good civilian suit to wear at a job interview for a corporate administrative position. Alternatively, if I decided to enter law school, I knew that after two years of the Army I had the discipline to make it through.

But I wasn't ready to leave the Army. Despite my impatience to receive more responsibility, I had made friends at Fort Devens; there was camaraderie, a shared sense of duty that had become passé in the cynical civilian world. In the end, I decided to remain in the Army.

I was promoted to captain, and learned of a potentially interesting assignment. Army recruiting command had regional positions for WAC officer recruiters open in Buffalo, Syracuse, and Concord, New Hampshire. It was an independent style of working, making the rounds of college campuses. The New Hampshire office also covered eastern Vermont and Maine, beautiful country.

And, deep down, I always hoped the Army would work out for me. I accepted the recruiting assignment and moved to Concord in June 1971. My boss at the recruiting main station was Major Robert Smith, an Infantry officer who knew the service well. He was an energetic leader who wanted the transition to the All-Volunteer Army, which was rumbling toward us faster than anyone had imagined, to proceed as smoothly as possible. But WAC officer recruiting had not been going well.

“We hope that you will make mission,” the major told me. “The officer you're replacing started strong but has had a slow year.”

“Making mission” was one of those ubiquitous Army recruiting catchphrases. The phrase meant recruiting a minimum number of WAC officers from a rather large number of campuses. After looking at my district's demographics and the colleges in the area, I simply knew,
There's no way I can't make mission.

But when I made my first college visit, I discovered that the recruiting brochures meant to attract college seniors to the Army listed a pay scale of only $223 a month, a figure years out of date, and certainly not competitive with civilian salaries of that time. No college graduate would be interested in that kind of pay. Later that winter, after I had replaced the old brochures, my first campus appointments in Maine coincided with the season's worst blizzards. I found myself driving the underpowered government sedan with no power steering (and a tiny steering wheel) through whiteouts, smack dab into fender-deep snow-drifts. Farmers kindly pulled my car out of the snowbanks with their tractors. I had been at the job several months and I could count the number of recruitments on one hand.

At that stage, needless to say, I was not enjoying my work as a WAC recruiter. I'd be twenty-six before my Army obligation ended. Would there be a life for me outside the Army? Driving my lonely rounds across the bleak tundra of northern New England, stretching my limited per diem at bargain motels to save money, I felt mounting unease. But I persisted. My parents had taught me to complete an obligation once I'd accepted it. And that was what I intended to do.

Then one snowy January afternoon at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine, I met with some seniors who seemed interested. They'd read all the official material, but obviously needed a kicker to clinch the deal.

“If you join the Army,” I told them honestly, “you'll meet a lot of good-looking guys.” Then I looked out the stained glass windows of the student union at the drifting snow. “And we'll train you in a nice warm climate.”

Eventually several enlisted. After this victory, my standard approach was not just to give facts, but also offer a glimpse of the type of
life
the Army created for women.

Within a few months, persistence began to pay off. I recruited women at almost every campus I visited. Not only did I make mission, but I was recruiting so many that I was filling more training “seats” than my district was allocated and Branch gave me a ceiling. But I kept recruiting because so many women wanted to join the Army. Instead of turning them away, I called my colleagues in other districts and offered them my approved applicants for their credit and their seats. They were more than pleased to accept them on their books.

One contributor to this success was Sara Zuretti, a runner-up in the Miss New Hampshire contest, whom I had recruited in her last year at a local university. She was a January graduate and had six months to wait before beginning the Basic Course. But I convinced Branch to swear her in as a second lieutenant and let her wear her uniform while accompanying me on my campus tours. Sara also was a real hit in a local TV publicity blitz we launched promoting the All-Volunteer Army. When she met the governor of New Hampshire in her well-tailored green uniform, the people in our public affairs office joked she'd gotten so much airtime that she'd land his job in the next election. I couldn't have been happier.