“Men of Athens! Look back over your right shoulders. See it there—Athens, our home, where our families depend on us to deliver them from the Persian threat.
“Now look over your left shoulders: see the straits there, and in them the Persian fleet waiting to ravage our city and enslave our people, as they themselves are enslaved.
“Now look at each other: fellow Greeks, brother freemen, the last obstacle between the Persians and their goal. Some of you are new to war and indeed new to manhood. Many of you have fought in other battles of this long war. And all of you—all of you—know that if we fail today, our city will fall, our families will perish, and any who live will lose their freedom. I ask you: should we fail, would not any who survived immediately face a fate worse than death? Picture your mother and your wife and your daughters, hauled away as playthings of the Persians; your male children slaughtered in their thousands; your aged parents put to the sword.
“Men of Athens! Free men of Athens! When you take up your oars today, you take in your hands the destiny of our city, of our families, of our way of life. If today we fail, with us will die the hopes of all, and the hope of freedom for any. We must not fail—we shall not fail.
“To your boats, men—and to your oars.
“For today of all the days we will row with all our hearts.
“We will row for our home, for Athens . . .
“We will row for our children and our wives and our parents . . .
“We will row this day for our city . . .
“Today, this day, we must row as we have never rowed before!
“For today, men of Athens—we will row for freedom!”
After persuading his men to “row for freedom,” Themistocles put to sea. As he had hoped, the narrows negated the Persians’ five-to-one numerical advantage in ships, and his motivated oarsmen dealt the enemy—rowed by enslaved men—a crushing blow, sinking nearly ten times as many ships as they lost themselves. At a stroke, the Persian army that had so recently burned Athens found that it was cut off from resupply and forced to retreat hastily toward Persia. With the main body of the enemy off the Peloponnese and the rearguard defeated at Plataea not long after Themistocles’s victory at Salamis, the Persian threat once again passed from Greece.
It was an extraordinary victory, and one that is still studied at the Naval Academy today. It reflects not only the tactical brilliance of Themistocles, but also his character—the ability to reach deep inside himself, at a moment when everyone around him was frightened and trembling, and rally people to his cause. His combination of vision, energy, and charisma have seldom been equaled in naval history. He won a stunning victory, and the Persians retreated, allowing the Athenians—as he had predicted—to return to their destroyed homes and begin again.
The citizens of Athens did indeed set about rebuilding their city and their democracy, but the man who had secured their preservation was not destined to enjoy the fruits of his victory. With the crisis passed, gratitude for Themistocles’s military genius was quickly eclipsed by the memory of his harsh, argumentative, take-no-prisoners political style. Without fear of foreign foes, old political enemies at home were emboldened to seek their revenge against Themistocles for his arrogant style. Much as Winston Churchill was effectively tossed out by the British public near the end of the Second World War, Themistocles was destined for a dramatic reversal of his fortunes—and it descended on him almost immediately.
Before long, Themistocles found himself increasingly constrained politically as his popularity diminished. He was ultimately brought down by a handful of political opponents who accused him of trying to parlay his victory into tyranny. Exiled from Athens to the neutral city of Argos, he was implicated there in an attempted slave uprising and coup d’état in Sparta. In one of the supreme ironies of history, Themistocles was forced to flee across the Aegean to the lands of his old enemy, Persia. There he swore fealty to the new emperor, Artaxerxes. Legend has it that he learned the Persian language in a year in order to communicate with his new master. His natural charisma—and probably the ironic novelty of a Greek admiral switching sides—assured him a place in the court, where he no doubt functioned as a kind of prize put on display by the emperor. Themistocles found secure refuge among his former foes and was soon named the satrap of a province in modern Turkey, where he lived out the rest of his days.
His final resting place is unknown; legends in Greece speak of his crossing the deep azure waters of the Aegean once again in death, as his remains were perhaps illegally smuggled back to Greece and secretly buried in the land he helped save. At least that is the way my father told the story.
Themistocles’s life invites a question that will haunt this book and the lives of most of these admirals: is vision a consequence of character? I would argue that vision is in fact one of the most distinctive elements of human character, and that it is so often what separates the ordinary life from the extraordinary. It is always easier to live life as a simple flowing series of events and merely react to them. Or, at the most, to look just a step or two ahead in life, settling often for the mundane outcome, boxed out from taking the bold step by a lack of vision. Oscar Wilde said, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Indeed, one of the most valuable skills a leader of character can possess, especially in competitive fields like business, politics, or the military, is to be able to chart a course toward a fairly distant desired outcome, and in the process effectively shape what happens next. As Themistocles demonstrates, this does not require some innate or occult vision as much as two deceptively easy habits of thought that any leader can develop with some effort.
The first of these is a general refusal to be swept up in the mood of the moment. Themistocles was neither transported by the wave of euphoria that broke over Greece after its victory in the First Persian War, nor given to despair during the darkest moments of the Second Persian War. In victory, he counseled readiness and correctly planned for another battle; outnumbered in the next battle, he devised a forward-looking strategy and produced yet another victory. Both outcomes essentially flowed from his calmness of vision. All leaders can practice this style of analysis that seeks to avoid overreaction or emotional response.
The second quality we see in Themistocles was his great predictive skill, which flowed from the ability to weigh the odds and realistically forecast the possible outcomes in any given circumstance. After the First Persian War, he knew that Persia defeated might yet return in still-greater force, but that it could be successfully challenged in the right circumstances. Again, this is a learnable skill that requires a leader to consciously think about future outcomes. Doing so in analytic ways—thinking in terms of percentage outcomes for example—is a very helpful habit to cultivate.
With time and experience, leaders can learn to overcome their emotions, see their situation clearly, and calculate the odds of various possible outcomes. No leader can see the future in a literal sense, but these habits of mind can help one see one or two moves ahead on the chessboard—a tremendous advantage against any adversary. Themistocles knew that fighting at Salamis was a risk, but he accurately calculated that the Persians would jump at a chance to surround the smaller Greek fleet and overlook the danger of the straits. Thus, even without perfect certainty, Themistocles could use his qualities of vision to nonetheless predict that his motivated crews could prevail with the help of good tactics and a strategic ruse.
Predicting an outcome through vision is one thing; motivating people to respond and execute that vision is quite another. Had Themistocles failed either to persuade Athens to build a fleet before the Second Persian War or to inspire his crews to strike the decisive blow at Salamis, his story—and Greek history—might read quite differently today. And you might be reading this book in Farsi.
Whether as a Greek archon persuading his fellow citizens to invest in a navy, as a commander inspiring his crews to victor
y, or as a refugee persuading his former enemies to take him in, Themistocles consistently demonstrated a unique ability to communicate his vision to those around him. Even his detractor Herodotus acknowledged that the speech Themistocles gave before the Battle of Salamis was crucial to the outcome. The speech quickly became a feature of contemporary Greek plays and remained a feature of later Roman histories. As usual in the ancient world, each historian has bequeathed us a somewhat different version of the speech—but all emphasized its central importance to the victory that saved Athenian democracy.
Not all leaders are born rhetoricians, but even the best speakers practice their craft. Themistocles proved to be an inspirational speaker from his earliest days as archon, but we can safely assume that he put significant effort into developing whatever gifts he had during his largely unrecorded youth. Few leaders today will face such desperate circumstances as Themistocles did, but all can benefit from developing the arts of inspirational, persuasive communication. And, while today’s leaders communicate across many platforms, the ability to speak well—in person, on television, by videoconference, or through tweets and Facebook posts—remains a crucial tool in a leader’s toolbox. Being able to do so comes in large measure from practice, study, and most important, a sincerity of belief that is instantly discernible by an audience. Inspiration flows from character.
In the end, a fundamental part of human character is a belief in oneself. This can be expressed as quiet confidence; or, sadly, it can cross the line to arrogance. The quality of arrogance is one that we all must avoid if we are to live lives of character. Themistocles was a brilliant leader, a talented strategist, and a master communicator—in so many ways, a man in full bloom, suited to the crowded hour in which he found himself, ready to act as a savior to his nation. And yet he too often found himself straying across that vital line from confidence to conceit and a certain sense of his own power. He eventually utterly lost his way through arrogance. In politics and war, whether making the somewhat disingenuous case for building a fleet or sending a secret mission to the Persians to precipitate the Battle of Salamis, Themistocles was willing to go to great lengths to get his way. He exuded self-confidence, but over time he gradually became perceived by his countrymen as too full of himself.
In today’s world especially, where there is such transparency, leaders must remember the fine line between the helpful characteristic of self-confidence (which so often becomes inspirational to others) and the toxic quality of arrogance. This is something many talented people struggle with, especially when they are young and driven by ambition to secure a meaningful role in life. Too often a justified self-confidence, which is quiet and steady, can become a boastful, loud arrogance that drives away potential followers. Often the best antidote to slipping across that line is found in truthful (and occasionally blunt) conversations with peers. In the end, it is our peers who see us most clearly and understand us best—listening unflinchingly to them can help keep all of us on the right side of the divide between confidence and arrogance. Themistocles strayed far across that line, and it led to the end of his career and a deep stain on his legacy.
This was the dark side of his visionary, inspirational character—which later in life cost him dearly. It is not too far a leap (or a bad pun) to say his is a Greek tragedy of sorts. Themistocles’s ultimate failure and humiliation should not only humanize him to us, but also illustrate for us two perennial challenges of both character and leadership. First, almost no leader can sustain momentum forever: behaviors that were convenient to overlook in peacetime became problematic for Themistocles soon after his great victory restored the peace. Second, scorched-earth leaders are often humbled in this way, when the resentments they can create in pursuit of short-term victories come to a head later (often following an inevitable shift in political circumstances).
Learning to balance being right with being a leader is often a great challenge of character—especially for the most visionary and charismatic leaders. As I like to remind young leaders, the World War II fleet admiral Ernest King once remarked, “The sign of a great ship handler is never getting into a situation that requires great ship handling.” Similarly, the sign of a mature leader is an understanding that a leader should avoid getting into a position where the only way to persuade an audience is by an almost magical feat of rhetoric. That trick will not bear repeating, which is the story of Themistocles. No one’s luck lasts forever.
Themistocles might have been a gifted persuader, but he did not rely on rhetoric alone to achieve his goals. Recalling again the examples of his antipiracy appeals and the secret mission to the Persian fleet, it is clear that Themistocles was creative in his methods—even in a society that was very traditional in its day-to-day life. While I cannot always recommend that leaders emulate in detail the kind of political intrigue that Themistocles routinely practiced, I do want to emphasize the larger point that leaders often must “make a way” out of what appears to be “no way.” This is called pragmatism on a good day and slippery double-dealing on a bad one. In both building the fleet and tricking the Persians into a fight, Themistocles outmaneuvered the opposition by superior grasp of strategy and an ability to display a certain flexibility of judgment. Judiciously applied, this type of creativity can help a leader achieve his or her goals in the face of opposition that cannot be swayed by clever words alone.
A cautionary note: as an element of character, creativity and innovation can be paralyzed by fear of failure. Too often, dynamic leaders become bound by their fears of failure, especially as they mature and have so much more of a successful track record to defend. I found this in my own career as I moved up the ladder of rank and authority, and consciously fought to keep my ideas fresh. This does not mean swinging for the fences on every pitch, but rather being selective in what we try and recognizing that with risk comes occasional failure. Finding the courage to accept failure is part of the voyage of character and is the gateway to creativity. I remember especially as a relatively young officer finding myself starting to become more conservative in my recommendations—from how we navigated the ship to the way we employed our weapons in combat—and it hurt my ability to fully contribute to the mission of my commands. It is hard to take risk, wherever you are in life, but the rewards of success far outweigh the possibility of failure over the long throw of a life. The Battle of Salamis was not forced on Themistocles: rather, he chose it over the opposition of his fellow Greeks and developed the secret mission to the Persians for insurance. Even and especially when the stakes are highest—as they certainly were at Salamis—leaders must sometimes take their own counsel and choose action.
Themistocles’s decision to seek battle at Salamis shows not that risks can be fully controlled—they never can be—but rather that great leaders learn how to balance inherent uncertainty with a firm-enough grasp of context to enable decisive action. Themistocles did not vainly court disaster by seeking battle at sea, where the larger Persian fleet could have destroyed his own; but neither did he give in to the pessimism of his fellow commanders who could not see the opportunity offered by the straits and instead counseled pulling all the way back to the last redoubts. Thankfully, most leaders never have to face stakes as high as Themistocles did, but no leader can avoid taking decisive action forever.
This quality of character—decisiveness—is a good example of the adage that so often an imperfect plan executed with determination and ferocity is better than cautiously waiting for everything to fall into place perfectly. In my own decision making, I’ve tried to take a 90 percent rule on the really big, dangerous decisions—especially in combat. Leaving 10 percent to chance but acting decisively, from Afghanistan to Libya, has generally worked out for me as a commander; and decisiveness has the ancillary benefit of creating confidence in the team as they perceive their leader to be someone who is unafraid to weigh the options, make a decision, and actually get underway. In the Navy we say, “let’s cut some steel,” meaning sooner
or later you must make the hard choices. Decisiveness without facts is madness; but you will never have all the facts. Finding that balance is at the heart not only of leadership, but of character as well, since in the end it is the inner voice to which you must answer for the choices you make. For all his flaws, Themistocles made those choices at the hardest of times, and his character is therefore worth studying with deep attention and respect.
CHAPTER II
A Sailor of the Middle Kingdom
Zheng He
BORN C. 1371, YUNNAN, CHINA
DIED 1433, AT SEA, INDIAN OCEAN
I came across the Chinese admiral Zheng He relatively late in my life and career, when I went to China for the first time in 1999 as a Navy captain and executive assistant/senior aide to the secretary of the Navy. I had previously been to Hong Kong many times, and once to Taiwan, but never to mainland China. My boss, Secretary of the Navy Richard Danzig, a brilliant global thinker, Rhodes scholar, and Oxford PhD, always emphasized the importance of learning about the history and culture of a place you were going to visit. China was no exception, and in the weeks leading up to our trip, he kept asking questions about the Chinese navy, seeking to learn about its ethos and leadership style.
I was in my mid-forties and had just finished a successful tour as a commodore in the US Navy. In that job, I had held command responsibility for seven frontline destroyers, including four Arleigh Burke–class guided missile destroyers (then brand-new). During my command tour, we had conducted a series of exercises and operations in the highly contested South China Sea. In leading those operations, I had learned about the Chinese territorial claims to the entire South China Sea, which the United States and the countries ringing the sea strenuously object to, believing them to be international waters. I was vaguely aware of an ancient Chinese admiral and explorer who had established the historical precedent upon which the Chinese partially relied in claiming those seas, but I had never taken the next step to really dig in and understand the biography, leadership style, and character of that admiral.
Sailing True North Page 3
