The Prism of Perspective: Making Mistakes Matter
This is a story about an impactful experience I had several years ago. While it seemed like a normal day and routine mission to most, my crew and I knew different — it was a near-miss that could have wrought serious, life-threatening consequences. This is a reflection on what I learned from that mission and how I carry those lessons forward. The most important insight from this experience, however, is that the risk of failure is embedded in every pursuit of success.
KC-10 Air Refueling Mission Report
Crew 2 returned to base after a routine mission to Afghanistan. The sortie duration was approximately 10 hours. The crew was composed of the basic complement – two pilots, a flight engineer, and an in-air refueling specialist (also referred to as the boom operator). Of note, an additional co-pilot accompanied the crew to achieve his monthly currency requirements to include a takeoff, a landing, and an instrument approach. All currency tasks were accomplished and the crew offloaded 115,000 pounds of fuel to several fighter and close air support aircraft. Isolated thunderstorms along the route of flight and in the planned refueling air space were projected prior to the crew’s departure. The crew utilized weather avoidance techniques and coordinated with command and control authorities to enable refueling in areas where weather prevented safe refueling. Nothing significant to report.
The Alert
We received our alert during the typical timeframe within which we had grown accustomed over the past four weeks — 0900 local time. The alert, or notification of the mission the crew will fly, sets the day into motion. It triggers the preparation cycle that results in a takeoff, barring delays or major changes to refueling requirements, about four hours later. Our operations desk estimated our mission would be approximately 8 hours, but that was a guess contingent on the sortie transpiring as planned. We would take off around 1300 local, fly for 8-12 hours, and return to base anywhere between late evening or very early morning the next day. For the crew, these calculations become both instantaneous and second-nature when we get alerted. The alert and mission “frag” (short for ‘fragmentary order,’ and describing the scheduled events for the day) underpin everyone’s energy levels and overarching mindset headed into a mission.
The Crew
As a crew of four — myself, my co-pilot, flight engineer, and boom — we had already congealed into a family-like unit. This happens on deployments, sometimes slowly and sometimes more quickly when the crew has natural compatibilities. Across this group of four, we were fortunate to enjoy the latter situation. Not only did this make the time go by faster for the deployment, but in my opinion it made us a safer crew because we could correctly read each other’s non-verbal gestures. For example, if I straightened out in my seat and put my right hand down to the radio panel to key the mic, my boom operator knew I was readying to talk to our receiver aircraft (the aircraft to which we would provide fuel). Wordlessly, he would unclip his seat harness and announce, “I’m headed to the back,” because he knew we would be refueling imminently. Furthermore, as a team, we had a sense of mutual respect and care that allowed us to be honest and direct with one another. If something seemed out of place, none of us had to consider rank, delicate egos, or sensitive feelings before communicating it to the group. So, when we received our alert that morning for a mission headed to Afghanistan, we set out about the routine we had solidified in the past month without hesitation.
The Task
As we sat together, shoulder-to-shoulder crammed on a small pleather couch, we processed the details of our mission that day: a pair of A-10s for multiple refuelings followed by F-15s. It was a fairly typical frag. Immediately, however, one thought sprang to mind: we’ll need to do slow speed air refueling (AR). Slow speed AR refers to a procedure whereby the engineer calculates a series of airspeeds that provide the aircraft with sufficient stall protection. This situation happens when the aircraft is extremely heavy but needs to slow down substantially to match the speed of the receiver aircraft. The receiver aircraft that notoriously has the slowest air refueling speed is the A-10, typically around 200 knots but pilots will very often request 190 knots or lower. A-10s must be in this speed range when they conduct air refueling; aerodynamically, this speed range renders them power-limited and it is often a struggle to even maintain 190 knots. I turned to my engineer and said with a lilt of curiosity, “Slow speed today?” I wanted to make sure we were on the same page and he saw the calculations for those airspeeds coming. I had done slow speed AR many times, but this would be our first time as a crew on this deployment that was one month underway. He nodded in confident, composed agreement. I didn’t detect any hesitation or trepidation, but I also didn’t ask.
The Confusion
Arriving at the jet, each of us moved with habitual precision into our crew position responsibilities. As the copilot conducted the pre-flight in the cockpit, I checked the aircraft forms and verified our weight and balance along with our takeoff and landing data. Our engineer and boom readied all of their equipment and finished their inspections without issue. Our engineer was on his first deployment in the KC-10; he had been on a C-130 for many years. From my observations, he was extremely sharp. In fact, he had recently been step-promoted to E-6 for his exemplary performance, which is still the only time I have seen that happen in my ten years in the military. Operations had called and told us we needed to delay our takeoff 30 minutes because the A-10s would be arriving later than anticipated. As we waited with everything ready to go, I turned to the engineer and ran the numbers for our anticipated aircraft weight by the first ARCT (air refueling contact time) or the time we would begin refueling the A-10s. It was about 555,000 pounds, well within the weight range for slow speed to be necessary. He agreed and I gave him a paper slip to write the speeds down whenever he had time during cruise. This way, the entire crew would both know and be able to visualize the “bottom bug,” or the absolute lowest speed to which we would slow. We would notate this speed on the pilot’s and copilot’s airspeed indicators with a moveable, white plastic marker, or “bug,” as they’re frequently called in the cockpit.
About 25 min prior to our new takeoff time, we closed up the door to the jet, sealing away the sweltering September air that hung like a heavy blanket over all of us. We took off at our maximum weight for the environmental conditions of the day. We were 585,000 pounds, just under the aircraft’s maximum allowable weight of 593,000 pounds.
The Chaos
We arrived at our designated air refueling track on time, but upon arrival, our command and control agency communicated that the A-10s would be arriving in about an hour. The mood in the cockpit was calm; there was less urgency with this buffer of time. As we waited in our holding pattern, I looked back at my flight engineer to see if he had calculated the slow speeds yet. He was leaning over his iPad and thumbing through thick binders full of tables and charts. I didn’t want to break the logic chain he was building in his mind, to interrupt the search for the right pages. I returned my gaze to the front of the jet where I could see a cloud that resembled an anvil, dark and growing, in the distance.
Only a few minutes had passed when we received a radio call from command and control telling us the A-10s would be arriving momentarily. Our comfortable buffer of time had evaporated and we needed to slow down immediately. Command and control also relayed that we needed to transit to meet the A-10s, which would place us directly in the midst of the building thunderstorm. Our boom operator left his seat and headed to the back of the plane to get ready to refuel. To finish our required checklists prior to air refueling, we would have to extend our slats and flaps to get to our slow speed target. This can quickly become a dangerous situation. If I reduced our airspeed too much without adding flaps or slats by a particular speed, I would stall the aircraft. I asked my engineer, this time with urgency, “What are the speeds?” He was flipping frantically through pages and scrolling haphazardly through this iPad. It finally dawned on me that he didn’t know the speeds, and worse, he didn’t know how to calculate them. The A-10s announced they had us visual and were within a mile, but we were still way too fast to refuel with them and moving towards a thunderstorm a little faster than 4 miles per minute.
The A-10s asked if we could slow to 200 knots. My attention was divided across my own aircraft, two fast-approaching A-10s, and the threats of the airspace. Inside our aircraft, I needed to help the engineer find and run the charts to calculate the speeds. I asked my co-pilot to help him, but he didn’t know how. My co-pilot was rusty as he had worked the scheduling desk for the past month, so I elected to fly and have him run the radios. Because we had to get abnormally slow, I had to turn off the autothrottles and to manually position the throttles for our still unknown speed. Outside our aircraft, the lead A-10 pilot voice had a lilt of anxiety to it; he needed gas immediately. Surrounding all of us were slanted cloud decks and turbulence that would make it difficult to refuel. In an attempt to get to smoother air, we descended two thousand feet, decreasing our terrain obstacle clearance in a mountainous region. Around this time, due to other transiting aircraft, command and control called and restricted our maneuvering airspace to a small sector of the air refueling area, forcing us to remain in a constant figure-eight pattern to stay within the confines. Everything had gone wrong and each second that we delayed the slow-down would place the A-10s closer to a fuel emergency. If they didn’t get gas very soon, they wouldn’t be able to provide critical close air support to troops on the ground, and that’s assuming they were able to refuel quickly in the poor visibility and turbulence.
With my left hand on the yoke and my right hand on the throttles, I couldn’t break away to calculate the slow speed numbers myself. I yelled for the other co-pilot — the one I had been flying with for the past month — and asked him to help the engineer calculate the speeds at our current aircraft weight. I knew from experience that I could safely slow us down without risking a stall, but there is no replacement for the “bottom bug,” or the absolute lower limit speed that will provide stall protection. The A-10s asked us to get slower again, this time asking for 190 knots. There was no more time, no more decision space, and no progress on calculating the speed. I called for the co-pilot to extend the slats. I brought the throttles back and we slowed substantially. Still much too fast for the A-10s; we needed more drag. My mind raced through every time I had done this maneuver and all of the factors that would affect our bottom bug: the altitude, the air temperature, the configuration, the angle of bank. 195 knots. This was the slowest we could go. I was confident, but I could be wrong, and the consequences would be potentially disastrous. I heard the A-10s discussing divert options and bingo fuel (the fuel state that drives a departure back to home base). I called for the co-pilot to extend the flaps to five degrees and pulled the throttles back. 205. 200. 199. 198. I pushed the throttles up to catch the speed. 196. 195. The cockpit was eerily quiet as we all listened for any abnormal noise, or worse, the physical shudder of the aircraft that would indicate an approaching stall.
I heard the lead aircraft make contact with the boom and the engineer confirmed good fuel flow. The lead pilot’s voice was shaky, “Thanks guys, that was close. We still might have to toboggan. I’m gonna get Two on here, he’s super low too.” We performed multiple toboggans, a slight descent that enables the A-10 to use less power to achieve refueling speed. Our engineer was silent. This wasn’t the time to lose focus and talk about what had happened. The A-10s struggled to stay connected to the boom, the weather had worsened, and the situation on the ground required their overwatch as soon as possible. After nearly half an hour of intermittent refueling, they were finally back to full tanks and back in the fight. After this period of intense focus and concerted action, a looming silence filled the cockpit.
The Return
Our crew completed the rest of the mission without incident. We provided gas to other aircraft, but slow speed was not required. As soon as the A-10s had departed, I mentioned to the crew that we would need to debrief what had happened, but to dissipate the tension I added, “That was no one’s fault. If anyone is to blame, it’s me for not recognizing that you needed help.” Our flight engineer was clearly disappointed in himself for not being able to perform an engineer-specific duty. Once we were safely established on our return route to base and we had time to discuss as a crew, I asked everyone what they thought had happened, why it was dangerous, and what we could do differently as a team in the future to avoid that situation. I showed our engineer the charts that were required for slow speed, and he remembered how to calculate them. He admitted he had done slow speed before, but only a couple times in the simulator and once in flight. It had been about five months since that flight. When we landed, I found a highly experienced engineer whom I trusted and told him what had happened. We calculated what our bottom bug would have been together. It was 193. At 195, we were a mere two knots above the aircraft’s stall range.
The Lessons: Lens of the Leader
This mission illustrates how perspective can result in vastly different accounts of an experience. To be fair, the commander of our unit was likely aware that crews make mistakes on most, if not all, missions. Management of twenty or more crews demands careful application of finite time and resources. One might conclude that when a mission is successful by all objective measures, what transpired in the cockpit is more or less inconsequential. This, of course, is not true, but it is important to identify the right person to address what happened, to clarify the lesson learned, to set the course for future processes. The “leader” is not necessarily the right person; he/she will lack context, extenuating circumstances, and the moment-to-moment change of shifting priorities. Therefore, look to the leader with the most detailed perspective of the situation. I was the only one who knew the detailed backstory of our engineer: a top performer who had recently transitioned from a different aircraft, sterling character, strong work ethic, and impeccable training reports. As the aircraft commander, I was also in a position to diffuse the blame and choose how we would metabolize this misstep as a team. Had I told the commander what happened, a variety of negative outcomes would be on the table with respect to his career and professional reputation. A human mistake with clear root cause – a lack of training repetition – should not detriment his potential. Three years later and 2,500 flight hours later, he now holds the highest qualifications in his crew position and trains and evaluates new engineers.
Perspective: An Antidote to Bias and Blind Spots
A bias, defined broadly as a prejudice in favor of or against a particular thing, person, group, or even process, can develop subconsciously. As operators, processes and checklists are designed with safety and efficiency in mind. As we repeat these processes countless times, we develop habit patterns, reliance on our own intuition, and biases in how we perceive and handle information. A bias, therefore, isn’t necessarily bad, but it can cultivate blind spots, or behaviors and attitudes that are difficult to intrinsically identify but more obvious to others. New and challenging circumstances often confer a perspective that can help bring these biases and blind spots into focus. Moreover, remaining aware of how your perspective is shifting as you move up through an organizational hierarchy helps you build a more fulsome, realistic picture of what your subordinates are managing. Perspective is a kaleidoscope of knowledge, experience, personality, and circumstance. Awareness of the settings of that perspective – your biases and blind spots – contributes to more informed and intentional decision-making.
Perspective is a kaleidoscope of knowledge, experience, personality, and circumstance. Awareness of the settings of that perspective – your biases and blind spots – contributes to more informed and intentional decision-making.
Mistakes Matter
As long as they are recognized and understood, mistakes carry immense value. In the case of our mistake as a crew – being unprepared to calculate certain speeds – there were many ways to approach the aftermath ranging from denial to seeking corrective action from our commander. Both of those options would have resulted in less learning, reflection, and growth than the route we took. As we discussed what had happened as a crew, each crew member’s perspective contextualized the rationale for their actions. In the case of the engineer, he was reluctant to admit that he didn’t remember where to find the correct charts, but he reasoned he would have time to locate them during our holding time.
Because he felt the stress of the situation and saw how the uncertainty over the speed created chaos, he took the time to re-learn, study, and practice those calculations. As author Peter Bregman asserts, “while the act of learning is primarily intellectual, behavioral, or methodological, the experience of learning is primarily emotional.” The next day, our engineer admitted to me privately he was embarrassed over the ordeal and wished had spoken up sooner. Ultimately, the emotional experience of learning what it feels like to not perform, to not deliver when your team relies on you for a function, had left him with something more valuable than technical knowledge: empathy. Not only had he found his own blind spot, but he is uniquely equipped to detect and care about the blind spots of others. As Harvard Business School professors Francesca Gino and Gary Pisano note, success breeds failure by impeding learning at both the individual and organizational levels. Rectifying thought and action does not happen automatically. There is a catalyst, and that catalyst is often a mistake and the desire to avoid it in the future.
Rectifying thought and action does not happen automatically. There is a catalyst, and that catalyst is often a mistake and the desire to avoid it in the future.
Without the Risk of Failure, There is No Success
In the military, the mantra of the “no-fail mission” can create the expectation that mistakes, or actions that fall on the spectrum of “failure,” are unacceptable. When failure is to be avoided at all costs, paradoxical outcomes emerge: appetite for risk decreases, team and personal accountability degrade, creativity and innovation plummet, and the prevailing goal is simply to remain unscathed by the rules. Some of the most extraordinary military successes have rested on the razor’s edge of failure.
Take for instance, Operation Overlord, the Allied Forces’ herculean and risky invasion of Nazi-occupied Germany. In a letter to the Allied Expeditionary Force, General Eisenhower confidently proclaimed, “I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!” Around the same time, Eisenhower penned a lesser known letter, the “in case of failure” letter: “Our landings in the Cherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based upon the best information available. The troops, the air and the Navy did all that Bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone.”
And as mistakes transpire, they add new planes to a leader’s prism of perspective, refracting more nuanced perception and a broader set of potential solutions to any problem.
In just four sentences, Eisenhower captures the epitome of the intertwined nature of success and failure, that one cannot exist without the possibility of the other. Combined with luck, quickly evolving circumstances and imperfect information, often the only piece we can control is the decision-making. But even when success eludes us, there is still a reward for accepting risk: mistakes and the insight we glean from them. As a leader, be willing to underwrite that risk, to assume responsibility for your team’s mistakes, and to discreetly recognize failure as a possibility. And as mistakes transpire, they add new planes to a leader’s prism of perspective, refracting more nuanced perception and a broader set of potential solutions to any problem.
Major Jennifer Walters graduated from the United States Air Force Academy in 2011 and completed her PhD in public policy at the Pardee RAND Graduate School in Santa Monica, CA. After serving as a KC-10A instructor pilot, she is now a speechwriter serving on the Joint Staff, Pentagon, VA.