The Mess Is the Method

Last week, I read By Water Beneath the Walls: The Rise of the Navy SEALs by Benjamin Milligan. The book asks: Why does the Navy have a unit so skilled in land-based direct action operations when the rest of the service is focused on the sea? It’s not a natural fit for the organization’s culture and capabilities. 

At various points, each of the military services recognized the value of creating small, distinct units capable of undertaking specialized missions. However, these units were usually repurposed from their original missions once the larger force got control of them. The US Army Rangers, for example, were created during WWII and modeled after British commando units. However, their unique edges were sanded down because they were assigned to Army leaders who used them “no differently than the regular infantry,” rather than as commandos. They were designed as a new tool, but organizational forces made them a sharper version of existing ones. 

There’s a powerful lesson in that example: innovation is often only as useful as our mindsets allow. Having a shiny new power tool may make little difference if we use it in exactly the same ways we did when only old tools were available. It’s like getting a Ferrari and thinking only, “Great—my trips to the grocery store will be faster.”

Another reason it’s hard to develop distinctive innovations in organizations is that it’s challenging for top leaders to deal with. Consider this description of one of the Navy leaders critical to the development of the SEALs: “‘As abrasive as a file’ and celebrated by his sailors for his legendary profanity, [Rear Admiral Richmond] Turner’s every trait seemed to indicate a manic personality—a gaunt frame that looked almost ‘loose-jointed’; an addiction to whatever bottle he was holding; and a faithful monogamy to every chain-smoked cigarette that touched his lips, right ‘down to [its] last soggy half-inch.’” 

Given that personality, it’s probably not surprising that Turner also had little problem disturbing traditional organizational boundaries, such as deferring to the Army on land-based operations. “Handed a plan by an [Army] general, Turner had examined it for several moments, then declared, ‘It stinks. Whose is it?’” When the Army general said, “It’s mine,” Turner replied, “It still stinks.”

It’s easy to say about characters like Turner, “they’re not a good fit” or “they don’t get along well with others,” but these are the kinds of mavericks that drive forward change, even though it’s uncomfortable for other leaders.  

Even the Green Berets almost couldn’t have their eponymous headgear—specifically chosen because unit members wanted a distinct look—because a more senior leader did not like the fact that they stood out from others. After the Green Berets raided his headquarters in an exercise and stole most of the ties from his personal jeep, “Fort Bragg commandant General Paul Adams [...] went on to forbid the wearing of the beret as an offense of court-martial proportions. When a beret with a general’s stars had been good-humoredly placed on his head during a briefing, he had ‘snatched it off,’ thrown it across the room, and stomped out.’” 

The beret was officially approved only after President Kennedy admired it during an official review. “‘Those are nice,’ the president said casually, still smiling, pointing the sunglasses in his hand to [Colonel Bill] Yarborough’s cover. ‘How do you like the green beret?’” When Yarborough told him the beret was unauthorized, the president said, “It is now.” It took a president to override the organizational instinct for conformity.

So what were the organizational factors that enabled the Navy to successfully create a land-based commando force that clearly exceeded its official charter, and then make it stick?

According to researcher Bing West, the challenging conditions of the Vietnam War created a situation in which few leaders wanted to be fully responsible for the SEALs’ activities deep in the jungle, which meant “the Navy’s leaders had allowed the SEALs more latitude than they had their other units.” With that freedom and their existing values for adaptation, they were able to figure out how to fight effectively. “[W]hen the tactics of patrol and ambush had proved unproductive, 'nobody not a SEAL,' meaning no blue-water superior officer, had ordered them to try something else—they had just done it.”

The result was that the SEAL units “produced a steady supply” of successes, creating enough organizational legitimacy to continue and expand.

Put another way, there was no one to interfere with the test-and-learn process necessary for the SEALs’ success. There was no one to cite the early failures as a reason to conclude, “This will never work.” And there was no one trying to control the innovation process or insisting that innovators dress and behave like everyone else.  

The lesson isn’t complicated, but it runs against many leaders’ instincts. You can’t control innovation—and putting people in charge of it who have a high need for control is a near-certain way to snuff it out. That’s because innovation is usually messy, and the people best positioned to drive it are usually disturbers of the peace, rather than those who submit to the control of others. For these reasons, the work of creating the conditions for innovation to occur needs to begin in leaders’ minds, with tolerance for the seeming messiness of the process and the people involved.