Finding Your Center of Gravity When Things Could Spin Out of Control

The moon and the stars lit up the desert sky and the cool breeze washed over me as I reflected on the days that had brought me to this point in time. I had made it a habit to take time to reflect in the evening after assuming a new role in the organization I was about to lead into Iraq. The big-picture planning had taken place months earlier in a much friendlier climate in Southern California. Now the detailed planning that would result in thousands of Marines, sailors and their equipment flowing to places such as Al Asad, Fallujah, Korean Village and Taqqadum was complete. It was time to put the plan in motion.

I walked back to the headquarters tent that, by that time in the evening, had emptied of some of the most focused people with whom I had ever served. The only people who remained were the night-shift personnel tasked with monitoring anything that could affect our organization’s mission. I scanned the tent for my boss and found him sitting quietly in a picnic chair he likely purchased at a big-box store back in the United States. He was reading a book and was smiling. 

He was one of those leaders:  the kind who makes you feel safe; the kind who trusts so completely that you don’t want to let him or her down in any way. He looked up from his book and we had a brief discussion. I let him know that the unit was ready to begin its movement into Iraq. I confirmed that the Marines and sailors were prepared to accomplish the next phase of the mission and that I was ready to take the first convoy into Iraq. He was going to take the last convoy a few days later and rebutted my attempt to convince him to take plane—a much safer option than a convoy, which is the most dangerous way to travel because of roadside bombs.  

He thanked me with a smile for all of the work I had done to get us to this point. I thanked him for giving me the autonomy and support I needed within the organization and externally to get the job done. We shook hands and wished one another good luck and said our goodbyes. We both knew, as only those who are close enough to understand unspoken thoughts can know, that it was potentially our last goodbye. He shook my hand, placed his other hand on my shoulder and firmly squeezed and said, “I’ll see you in a few days.” His body language said, "I care about you. Don't be afraid; we are all going to be OK.  You have done your best; if something happens to either one of us, know that you are my brother. 

Early the next morning, I met with the young Marine officer who would be leading the mile-long convoy of vehicles almost 400 miles into the heart of Iraq, and then climbed into the lightly armored vehicle I would be riding in. 

The driver was a Navy Corpsman, who had stowed his life-saving equipment directly behind me. The assistant driver was a 19 year-old Marine who would be managing the communications suite I would rely on to maintain situational awareness as the operations officer for the organization. They joked about having had their last meal and that they were happy to be riding in such a luxury vehicle into the heart of darkness with a VIP. They made me laugh—they were the VIPs in my book. If they were afraid, I couldn’t tell.   

I looked out of the left rear open door opening and waved at the Marine standing on top of her 7-ton truck manning a .50 caliber machine gun. She smiled and waived back. We didn’t need to say anything to one another. She knew I cared about her and her friends on the convoy. Her smile also signaled that she had confidence in her leaders because they trusted her to protect them and they gave her and her teammates the full trust and autonomy needed to accomplish their jobs. 

Raphael Hernandez is a marketing and talent acquisition executive, and Marine Corps veteran.