A properly calibrated Give-a-S#!t Meter
In the summer of 2003 Phoenix was not just another season; it was a crucible where temperatures soared past 115 degrees, testing the resolve of both man and machine. Amidst this sweltering backdrop, the flightline on Luke Air Force Base, bustling with activity, was on the cusp of a new era in military operations. The post-September 11 world loomed large, bringing with it an operational tempo that would soon become our new normal. It was in this setting, a high-heat, high-stakes environment, that a seemingly minor incident unfolded, revealing profound lessons about leadership, priorities, and integrity.
Scooter, my crew chief expediter, was the quintessential country boy turned Airman; whose quick wit and decisiveness had earned him the respect and affection of those he led. His approachability and maintenance acumen were unparalleled, making him a figure both senior in rank and in esteem among the men and women of the 310th AMU. In stark contrast stood our Lead Production Superintendent (Lead Pro Super), a figure emblematic of a culture obsessed with minutiae—a careerist whose analytical demeanor and detachment from the human element of our work marked a leadership style fundamentally at odds with Scooter's.
On this summer day, we were launching aircraft like every other day of the week. The flying schedule was held together with proverbial safety wire, double bubble, and the blood, sweat, and tears of the swing shift maintainers from the night before. The orchestration of an aircraft launch was a ballet of precision and urgency, with crew chiefs conducting pre-flight checks against the cacophony of running jet engines, and support personnel ready to respond to the slightest discrepancy. At the helm of this intricate dance was Scooter—in his element, directing this symphony of maintenance with a keen eye and a steady hand. It was in this high-octane atmosphere that a minor oversight, so slight that my memory can’t even summon the specifics of the transgression, exposed the ideological divide between maintainer and careerist that would plague my career.
The culture that had taken root in our unit, one that prioritized the minutiae over the mission, found its champion in the Lead Pro Super. This fixation on the trivial, at a moment when our collective efforts had successfully launched our entire front lines without so much as a redball or ground abort, was emblematic of a broader misalignment of priorities. After the last jet rolled out from chocks Scooter’s radio crackled briefly before the Lead Super came across “Three, Lead. Can you come to my office please?” Rarely such calls are for praise, and it was made awkward by the fact that the Lead Super was parked mere feet from Scooter. It was as if the Lead Super wanted everyone to know Scooter was being summoned. Dumb organizational strategery that I’m glad I never subscribed to.
Scooter did as he was told. After he parked his truck at the smoke pit he headed inside with his clipboard and his radio to see what the Lead Pro Super needed. I happened to follow along a similar path for an unrelated reason but I found myself outside the Lead Pro Super’s office during the ensuing discussion. The Lead Super was chastising Scooter because of whatever this minor infraction was that one of the crew chiefs committed. Again, my apologies for my inability to recall, just trust that it was something of little consequence and certainly not worthy of so much time and attention from one maintenance leader, let alone two. The Lead Super transitioned the lecture from the crew chiefs transgression towards Scooter to explain that Scooter had failed as a non-commissioned officer and leader because he had not seen and corrected the mistake prior to the Lead Super. When the Lead Super was done, Scooter responded in his matter-of-fact voice with a simple statement:
”That doesn’t even register on my Give-A-Shit meter.”
While crude, I can appreciate the efficiency in Scooter’s 10-word response. He simultaneously captured his disdain for micro-management, and his lack of respect for superiors who were out of touch with the mission. All with country flare. Scooter's response to the ensuing lecture, a mixture of defiance and disinterest, was not merely an act of insubordination; it was a declaration of his unwavering commitment to what truly mattered—the mission, the aircraft, and the safety of our airmen.
Reflecting on the incident and its aftermath, which saw Scooter reassigned and his career progression stymied, I've come to appreciate the courage it takes to stand by one's convictions in the face of institutional inertia. The lesson was clear: leadership is not about enforcing conformity or sweating the small stuff; it's about understanding the bigger picture, about knowing when to hold firm and when to let go.
As I've navigated life beyond the Air Force, this incident has remained a touchstone for me, a reminder of the importance of discerning the essential from the expendable. In a world often obsessed with the minutiae, the ability to focus on what truly matters, to lead with integrity and purpose, is more than just a skill—it's a virtue.
In sharing this story, my hope is that it serves not just as a reflection on a moment in time, but as a call to action—a reminder that true leadership is born not from a rigid adherence to protocol, but from a steadfast commitment to values that transcend the immediate, that speak to the very essence of what it means to serve, to lead, and to make a difference.
