By CDR Jack "Farva" Curtis
By its very nature, military aviation presents significant risks and is therefore saddled with rules. There are rules for how much fuel a pilot must reserve onboard when flying around an aircraft carrier. There are rules for how and when a pilot can fire weapons, and there are rules for what kinds of aircraft can perform specific missions. On the surface these rules all make sense. We can’t have pilots jeopardizing $75 million of taxpayer money through careless gallivanting. But, what happens, and what should a pilot do, when a given situation forces a choice between doing the morally right thing and adhering to a rule?
During my first deployment (2005–2006) I found myself flying missions over Fallujah, Iraq. Improvised explosive devices (IED), snipers, ambushes, and seemingly random mortar fire were by now standard fare for the troops living and fighting below. My mission this day was to support a team of Marines as they moved through the war torn city. We were tasked with providing suppression of radio-controlled IEDs (RCIED). I was not a bomb-dropper -my jet couldn’t carry a bomb if I’d wanted it to. Instead, I carried jamming pods, a lot of gas, two very loud engines, and quite a few self-defense flares. Thankfully, there were other aircraft in the air supporting the same team of Marines — they were the bomb droppers. We were all “stacked” up over the city ready to deliver our effects, “kinetic” or otherwise.
If you’re not familiar with Murphy’s Law, the following sequence of events serves as good example of how it works: one by one each of the aircraft capable of delivering bombs to support the Marines left the stack; some for malfunctions, some because they were low on gas. No sooner had the last attack aircraft left than the Marine team leader called us on the radio in a panic. He and his team had just come under attack from a significant number of enemy fighters. He asked what we had in the way of ordnance — our answer certainly disappointed him. Then he asked for a “show of force.” A show of force is a low (in some cases very low) and fast flyover of the battlefield. It is designed to draw the enemy’s attention away from the friendly forces. We were going to make as big of a scene as possible in an effort to buy time for the Marines to regroup and maneuver. The Marine team leader was unequivocal — he wanted us low, fast, and loud, and he needed it now! There was one issue with this request. The rules governing how I was to employ my specific type of aircraft over Iraq specifically prohibited shows of force. The reasons are not important to this discussion, but they were fairly well thought out and I was fully aware of their existence.
Each time the Marine keyed the radio to communicate I could hear bullets cracking in the air past his head. He was clearly in a bad spot and I appreciated the severity of his worsening situation. I was a nugget pilot (first deployment) with a few equally junior officers in the jet with me. This was a decision we could make as a crew, but one that I, as the pilot in command, would be held accountable for. The rules were unambiguous, but the dire nature of the fight on the ground was just as clear.
In very short order, I visually located the Marines’ location, rolled the aircraft onto its back and pulled down toward the ground. As I leveled off a very low altitude and overflew the battlefield I was surprised to find you really could see muzzle flashes from the cockpit, and equally surprised by how many cell phone towers stood in the otherwise squalid city. To make sure the enemy saw us, I dispensed bright burning self-defense flares out the back of my jet as we thundered down Main Street Fallujah. The Marine radioed that the pass had the desired effect, but that he wanted another from a different direction, and I obliged.
After two very low, very loud passes over the battlefield I was climbing back up to the safety of higher altitude. I found an airborne tanker, got some gas, and headed home. After landing back aboard the carrier I walked into the squadron ready room and found several very senior officers were already waiting for me with a lengthy list of questions. I answered all of their questions, some of which were quite pointed, and after a few moments of quiet consideration they simply said, “good job,” and left.
I was presented with a situation where the book answer was clear — I was not supposed to perform shows of force. I understood why that rule was written, and in almost all situations it made a lot of sense. However, was the book written for the situation I (and the Marines) found that day? I’d argue it was not. I was forced to quickly make a decision and needed to balance the book against my own judgment.
So what factors allowed me to make the decision I did when it ran counter to the rules? I submit there are two characteristics of military aviation, and Naval Aviation in particular, that were at play that afternoon: an understanding of commander’s intent, and a culture that developed and encouraged the application of sound judgment in the absence of, or even in spite of, more specific rules.
Flying over Iraq that year we had several missions, but each was a smaller part of our larger objective of providing on-call support to the troops on the ground. In military terms, this larger objective was known as the commander’s intent. Commander’s intent is a broad statement of desired outcomes, end-states, or achievements. Commander’s intent is intentionally broad and it addresses the what, not the how. If the broader objective was to support ground forces, then it’s clear that I did that, even if not in a manner that was originally envisioned. But an understanding of commander’s intent doesn’t completely answer our question. It might explain why I did what I did, but it doesn’t explain how I did so with the confidence that I would not be punished for breaking a rule that directly prohibited my action.
The application of personal judgment is ingrained in young Naval Aviators from Day 1 of flight school. The first page of every Navy aircraft-operating manual contains the following statement: This manual is not a substitute for sound judgment. There it is — the rulebook leaves the door open for deviations based on the pilot’s judgment! But how is that judgment developed? Do all new pilots have it when they start? That would be nice, but no. Judgment is developed through countless briefs, lectures, simulators, flights (good ones, and especially poor ones), debriefs, and ready room BS sessions.
Sound judgment is developed over time, but only if instructors and senior leaders allow students and junior aviators to practice it. When I applied my judgment over Iraq to meet the commander’s intent, it was not the first time I had been pressed into a situation where the book answer didn’t fit. In the years prior I had been put into (and put myself into) situations where the right answer was unclear — though the consequences were certainly less severe. I was given the opportunity to practice applying judgment. When I did it well it was noted and praised. When I did it poorly it was noted and debriefed.
An organizational culture that encourages and embraces the application of sound judgment does so due to a bargain that is developed between leadership and employees. On one side of this bargain, executives or leadership must establish their commander’s intent, and they must communicate in a manner that is easily understood across the entire organization. Leadership must restrain itself to an expression of the what and allow the work force, the subject matter experts, to figure out the how. It’s in the pursuit of how that employees often find themselves in situations where they must apply their own judgment. To use a navigational metaphor: understanding the organization’s values, priorities, and overarching objective provides the team with their North Star in the absence of a map.
On the other side of this bargain, employees must judiciously use the application of individual judgment in place of established policies. Organizational policies and rules were likely written for a reason, and an employee who routinely “goes off script” is likely to run afoul of the boss. Our first responses should always be to try and find ways to operate within existing rules, but….in the rare occasion when it just doesn’t make sense, and the stakes are high enough, our teams must be trusted and empowered to apply their own judgment.
Farva
Views expressed are mine alone and do not represent those of the Department of Defense, the Department of the Navy, or any other government agency.
CDR Jack Curtis is the Executive Officer of VAQ-130. He has served previous
tours as an FRS Instructor Pilot and CAG LSO. He is a graduate of the
University of Florida and U.S. Naval War College.