Turning Point

Late on the afternoon of July 2nd, 1863, Brigadier General Gouverneur K. Warren, chief engineering officer of the Army of the Potomac, ascended the 170 foot promontory known as Little Round Top and surveyed the panoramic scene spread out below him.

After the previous day's furious battle -- during which its advance corps, the Fifth and Eleventh, had gamely fended off surprise attacks from massed Confederates bearing down upon it from the north and northwest -- the Union Army was now strung out like a large inverted fishhook -- curving north and west around Culp's Hill and Cemetery Hill just south of the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and then plunging two miles further south along Cemetery Ridge, barely reaching Little Round Top.

Directly opposite, snaking in parallel and entrenched half a mile away atop Seminary Ridge, lay the enemy -- elements of which "were marching rapidly forward . . . in long lines with confident strides, to strike a powerful blow at the exposed left of the Union forces." (Trulock, p. 128) General Daniel Sickles, the notorious one-legged New York politician, had inexplicably abandoned the original line and moved his Third Corps into a dangerous salient in the aptly-named Devil's Den.

Warren was astounded to find Little Round Top occupied by a mere detachment of the Signal Corps. "He ordered a cannon to drop a shell into the woods to the south; when it exploded, he saw the gleam of southern bayonets shimmering in the sun," (Perry, p. 219) and realized Sickles would soon be outflanked. He dispatched a courier to Fifth Corps Commander George Sykes -- who was coming up to reinforce Sickles -- urging him to send a brigade to Little Round Top.

Sykes's own message to his First Division was intercepted by Third Brigade Commander Strong Vincent, who rode ahead to reconnoiter the elevation, instantly apprehended its importance, and ordered his troops across the valley separating Devil's Den and Little Round Top. "As they began to climb the lower levels of the rocky, forbidding incline, shells came crashing around," scattering three brothers of the 20th Maine Regiment, Tom, John, and, its commander, Colonel Joshua Chamberlain; their mother had already lost one son two years ago, and, warned Joshua, "another such shot might make it hard for her." (Trulock, pp. 130, 132)

In fact, as the brigade's four regiments fell in line, the 20th Maine found itself last, "facing south and slightly west toward the steep and heavily wooded Big Round Top." (Trulock, p. 132) "Strong Vincent came up to give Chamberlain his orders. 'I place you here,' he said firmly. 'This is the left of the Union line. You are to hold this ground at all hazards.' " (Perry, p. 219)

Implicit in these words were the military consequences of failure. "The Confederates would seize the Round Top heights, gain the rear of the whole Union position . . . and 'roll up' the Federal line to the north," opening the way to Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia." (Trulock, p. 133)

For Joshua Chamberlain, "this would be the day that his country's destiny would depend on his creativity, courage, and leadership, and upon the discipline, bravery, and tenacity of his officers and men." (Trulock, p. 142) He formed his regiment "right by file into line" -- a complicated, time-consuming alignment that enabled "the men on the right, nearest the direction of the oncoming enemy, successively to be faced to the front, ready to load and fire their weapons first" (Trulock, p. 133) -- and awaited his fate.

On they came, Texans and Alabamians falling heavily upon the embattled brigade, their fire moving around to the left until the 20th Maine was engaged all along its line. Within minutes, from a large rock near the center and about fifteen feet to the rear, Chamberlain saw a column of Confederate soldiers passing rapidly further to the left in preparation for an attack on his flank and rear. It was Colonel William Oates and his 15th Alabama regiment; after an arduous twenty-five mile march which had taken them to the crest of Big Round Top -- the key, thought Oates, to a Confederate victory -- they had been ordered to abandon the vantage point and advance.

Since changing his front would relinquish too much of the higher defensive ground he needed, Chamberlain ordered his men to "refuse the line" -- to sidestep to the left and rear, doubling the length of the line and bending it back at nearly a right angle to its original placement. It was a particularly difficult movement due to the rough and sloping terrain, but was implemented with such energy and precision that even the Colonel marveled at the performance. Hours of "study, discipline, and training . . . together with indomitable resolution and character, were paying handsome dividends." (Trulock, p. 143)

Expecting minimal resistance, the charging Confederates were met with a withering, destructive blast. Yet they did not stop, coming to within ten paces of the Union line before retiring, only to be replaced by fresh forces. "The pressure was intense; the blue line of soldiers would be driven back a few yards and then would push ahead with a huge effort to regain the ground." (Trulock, p. 144)

"The edge of the fight rolled backward and forward like a wave," wrote Chamberlain years later. "The two lines met and broke and mingled in the shock. The crush of musketry gave way to cuts and thrusts, grapplings and wrestlings. The conflict swayed to and fro, with wild whirlpools and eddies . . . How men held on, each one knows -- not I. But manhood commands admiration." (Trulock, pp. 144-145)

Fatigue and terrible losses took their toll on both sides. After nearly two hours, half of the regiment's left wing was down and one-third were dead or badly wounded; the remainder were virtually out of ammunition. As he saw the Confederates fading back, as if girding for a final powerful onslaught, Chamberlain, outnumbered two-to-one, knew he could not withstand another assault.

Remembering his order to "hold the ground at all hazards," fearing himself almost surrounded, he discerned through the fog of battle that "only a desperate chance was left." (Trulock. p147) "It was imperative to strike before we were struck by this overwhelming force in a hand-to-hand fight, which we could not probably have withstood or survived," he wrote. (Perry, p. 224). He ordered his left to wheel forward to straighten the line, and his men to "fix their bayonets."

"The sudden sight of two hundred screaming soldiers surging down the slope brandishing their sharply pointed blades of steel struck terror in the hearts" of their opponents. "Many raised their hands in surrender at once, while some fled to the flank and others to the rear." A second line broke against the regiment's wide swinging arc. Having lost half his officers and men, Colonel Oates gave the signal for retreat; his men "ran like a herd of wild cattle," but not far or fast enough for four hundred to evade capture. (Trulock, pp. 148-149.)

Reclaiming the summit of Big Round Top, Oates collapsed in exhaustion. "There never were better fighters than the 20th Maine and their gallant Colonel," he wrote years later. "His skill and persistence and the great bravery of his men saved Little Round Top and the Army of the Potomac from defeat." (Perry, p. 225)

Oates, of course, may be overstating the case. No one can say if the Battle of Gettysburg, or the War, would have followed a different course had the 20th Maine not held its ground. Perhaps reinforcements would have stemmed the tide. Perhaps the Confederates would have been too expended to pursue their advantage. Even a total rout might not have been enough to forestall the inevitable. After all, the Army of the Potomac always managed to resurrect itself from the ashes of each humiliating Lee-inflicted whipping -- and, one thousand miles to the west, Ulysses S. Grant was inexorably moving South.

And yet, on another level, the Battle of Little Round Top was an indisputable turning point, a transforming life occurrence, a supreme leadership moment -- for at least one man: Colonel Joshua Chamberlain. Placed by chance at a most critical time and place, lacking the seasoning of regular army officers, commanding a regiment of volunteers, drawing on mysterious reserves of courage and judgment, he acted with calmness, decisiveness, and inspiration -- arranging his men in the most efficient formation, executing a difficult sidestep maneuver, and when all seemed lost, unleashing a bayonet charge.

Who was this unlikely hero?

A native of Maine, he obtained his undergraduate and graduate degrees from Bowdoin College and trained at Bangor Theological Seminary. An enlightening and warmly applauded Master's Oration on "Law and Liberty" earned him a seat on the faculty of his alma mater, first in rhetoric, later in modern languages, where he watched from afar but with grave concern the unfolding drama of sectional discord.

A long-suppressed spirit of adventure, the political heresy of secession -- an insult to the flag of the nation, he wrote (Perry, pp. 118-119) -- and a sense of duty that each man must sacrifice his "dearest personal interests . . . and be placed at his proper post," (Trulock, p. 8) spurred him to write to Governor Israel Washburn and offer himself for a commission in a newly-formed regiment. In doing so, he defied the wishes of his father -- who declared the raging conflict "not our war" -- of his wife -- who preferred the quiet comfort of college life -- and of his conservative colleagues at Bowdoin -- who feared losing control of the administration should he vacate his position and vindictively reported that he was "no fighter, only a mild-mannered common student." (Trulock, pp. 8-11)

Exercising a two-year leave of absence he had been awarded for study in Europe, on August 8th, 1862, he accepted his appointment as Lieutenant Colonel and second-in-command of the 20th Maine Infantry Regiment.

For the next ten months, these fresh-faced recruits languished in obscurity. Held in reserve at Antietam, they received their baptism of fire in a brief rear guard engagement at a Potomac River ford, during which Chamberlain had the first of several horses shot out from under him. They spent two harrowing days and a frigid night under a deadly Confederate barrage at the base of a stone wall in Fredericksburg. Much to Chamberlain's chagrin, they were sidelined during the Battle of Chancellorsville, sick and quarantined by a spoiled batch of smallpox vaccine.

Then came their legendary stand at Gettysburg.

Chamberlain's remarkable triumph earned him a promotion to brigade commander. After seeing limited action in Grant's Overland Campaign, he was severely wounded leading a futile attack against the Petersburg fortress -- he refused General Meade's initial order and requested verbal confirmation -- but returned to combat after surgery and a miraculous recovery. He was instrumental in controlling the battlefield at Quaker Road and in breaking the Confederate line at Five Forks.

Recognizing in him a mirror image of his own simple dignity, General Grant selected Chamberlain to preside at the surrender and parade of the Confederate Army at Appomattox Court House. During the ceremony, "as the grey ranks marched forward to stack their arms and flags, Chamberlain ordered his soldiers, arrayed in the field behind him, to 'shift arms' -- a stark and unmistakable salute to the southern army." (Perry, p. 296)

In 1867, the famous war veteran was elected Governor of Maine for the first of four successive one-year terms. From 1870 to 1880 he served as President of Bowdoin College. He authored a history of Maine and two volumes of personal reminiscences. In 1893, he was awarded the Medal of Honor for his conduct at Gettysburg. The citation commended him for "His daring heroism and great tenacity in holding his position on Little Round Top against repeated assaults and in carrying the advanced position on Great Round Top."

The compelling metamorphosis of Joshua Chamberlain resonates with me for several reasons: its Civil War context; its archetypal rite of passage narrative; and, most significantly, its application to my own leadership moment, which, while not congealed in the crucible of war nor nearly as perilous, similarly impacted my character and career.

My father had a magnetic, effusive, dominating personality which, combined with an entrepreneurial passion and a shrewd understanding of human nature, enabled him to take hold of his family furniture business and nurture it from a six-store enterprise into a regional chain. Although I joined the company in 1970 and moved progressively through the ranks from stock clerk to salesman to store manager to area supervisor (some cynics might assert I soared straight to the top), I much preferred to concentrate in areas where my introverted and cerebral ego could wallow in comfort -- merchandising, advertising, and inventory control.

When he died in 1989 and the CEO mantle passed to me, I blithely assumed that I could continue the same detached modus operandi and delegate primary operational and personnel responsibilities to a long-term employee who already held a key management position.

For a time -- two or three years -- this arrangement seemed to work well -- or maybe I just wanted it to work -- before thickening clouds of discontent began casting dark shadows over the Schewel footprint. Unchecked by my own or my father's authority, this individual became increasingly enamored of the power he could accumulate and exert, at times jeopardizing company solidarity and morale in pursuit of his own ambition and self-aggrandizement. A culture of fear and intimidation permeated the atmosphere, demotivating employees and impairing customer service.

Even when repeatedly apprised of this abusive behavior, I was unwilling to act -- doubting my own abilities, preferring the safe and easy course to a road less-traveled.

Finally, several incidents made it clear that this oppressive situation was no longer tolerable; either this individual would have to go, or I would be faced with an outright mutiny.

In spite of the enthusiastic example of Donald Trump, firing someone is not a pleasant exercise -- although I will admit that practice toughens one's skin. Not only is the bearer of bad tidings depriving another of his livelihood, he is implying that he is a failure. In some respects, the former has also failed, by having made an unwise hire or promotion, or by having been unable to to coach or train his subordinate to an acceptable level of performance.

Ultimately, however, the company's well-being must outweigh all other considerations, especially in a case like this where the person involved had such a far-reaching, poisonous influence.

Once the decision was made, I hurried to consummate it, jumping in my car on an auspicious Friday morning and racing to Charlottesville where he had traveled that day on a visit. Just as I arrived, I saw him leaving, and, grabbing his attention -- this was before cell phones -- frantically waved him back to the store. Since he took it calmly and stoically, maybe he wasn't all that surprised when I directed him to a quiet setting away from the office, looked him squarely in the eye, and said with a hint of regret, "We've a good long run together -- about twenty years -- but it's just not working out now. It's time for a change."

Suddenly, a tremendous weight was lifted from my shoulders, with surprising, rejuvenating consequences. My dismissal of this executive who had been so disliked and distrusted, whom many regarded as my surrogate -- since through paralysis and procrastination, I had appeared to condone his arrogance -- fostered a new respect for me. Cast adrift in a sea of expediency, I grasped the tiller and began to steer with a burgeoning dexterity, discovering (or manufacturing) talents and skills I never knew I possessed, taking on duties I never thought myself suited for, maturing into a reluctant chieftain (to quote a friend), a confident decision-maker, an empathetic counselor.

Which indicates to me that more leaders are made -- forged in the conflagration of circumstance -- than born.

Nevertheless, the pre-war biography of Joshua Chamberlain suggests that certain elements of character may be essential to the process -- and offers a prescriptive formula to aspiring students, regardless of their field or profession.

First, a leader, through force of will and persistence, masters his deficiencies and overcomes personal obstacles along the journey to success. As a child, Chamberlain had a propensity to stammer badly when required to pronounce words beginning with the letters p, b, and t. This impediment made his life so miserable that he spoke as little as possible, compounding his natural shyness. He conquered his problem by scanning ahead for troublesome words when reading a text and by speaking in a rhythmic sing-song verse in conversation.

Although his stammer returned at times -- for example, during his Bowdoin graduation address, when he nearly collapsed in mortification -- he eventually became an orator of great eloquence and power.

Years later he wrote that this accomplishment affected his "habits and perhaps character, and the indirect effects of it may have reached into the whole of his life." (Trulock, p. 41)

For many years I had an aversion, even a fear, of public speaking, which I overcame by realizing that, if I wrote out every word of my speech and practiced it several times, I could deliver it with authority, emotion, and sincerity.

Second, a leader stretches himself to attain a goal that is a continually moving target. From the day he wrote to the Governor of Maine requesting a commission, Joshua Chamberlain -- empowered by the righteousness of the Union Cause, despising the idleness of the sidelines, embracing the fury of the battlefield -- sought not the glory of war but the honor of patriotic service. Nothing irritated him more than his Chancellorsville quarantine. He returned to duty at Petersburg five months after his near-mortal wound, still unable to mount a horse unassisted or walk a hundred yards.

His courage and determination were reflected in the loyalty of his men, who, wrote one, "were not afraid to follow you or go wherever you order them to go, having implicit confidence in your judgment and ability as a commander."

Third, the leader sets an example by his work ethic. He understands the complexities of the task at hand, and does not demand more of his team than he does of himself.

During their march through Fredericksburg, his men encountered a high board fence blocking their path and, with shot and shell exploding all around them, were ordered to take it down. When they hesitated, apprehensive in the midst of their first battle, Colonel Chamberlain leaped forward to dismantle the barrier, calling, "Do you want me to do it?" He was quickly joined by his embarrassed soldiers. (Trulock, p. 95)

Later, these same men reported to Chamberlain's brother: "We've got as good a colonel as is in the Army of the Potomac. He is full of military brass but considerate and don't treat men like dogs . . . He don't say 'Go boys' but 'Come.' Would you believe he had some breastworks to throw up, and what does he do but offcoat and go to it himself."

Fourth, the leader's thirst for knowledge is never satiated, nor can it be, since change is constant and the competition (or the enemy, in military terms) resilient. A teacher and scholar prior to the war, Chamberlain was imbued with the intellectual curiosity and studious disposition that would facilitate his progress.

In his letter to the Governor of Maine, he wrote: "I have always been interested in military matters, and what I do not know in that line, I know how to learn." (Trulock, p. 8) True to his word, Chamberlain labored to absorb the intricacies of command, writing his wife after six weeks under arms, "I study, I tell you, every military work I can find." (Trulock, p. 77)

In winter camp, after the Battle of Fredericksburg, he prevailed upon some fellow officers who were West Point graduates to start an evening school for volunteers like him to teach them all aspects of field command. Perhaps it was during these sessions, or from one of his texts, that he was introduced to the "right by file into line" formation, or the "refuse the line" maneuver.

Fifth, the leader prepares himself and his associates for the challenges and opportunities of an unknown future. After his regiment's initial action at the Battle of Antietam, Chamberlain and his superior officer drilled their men religiously in order to inculcate the discipline that would make them an effective fighting force -- because study, training, discipline, were the "soul of armies," as well as "the soul of power in all intelligence," and offered a man his best chance for success in all his endeavors.

Or, as Chamberlain declared at the Gettysburg battlefield dedication in 1889: "We know not of the future and cannot plan for it much. But we can hold our spirits and bodies so pure and high, we may cherish such thoughts and ideals, and dream such dreams of lofty purpose, that we can determine and know what manner of men we will be whenever the hour strikes that calls to noble action. " (Trulock, p. 143)

And finally, when the hour strikes, the leader is a man of action.

At the critical moment of the Battle of Little Round Top, depleted of men and ammunition, instructed to hold his position at all costs, believing that he would be driven from that position should he wait for another Confederate attack, staring at a fatal stasis or a desperate gamble, Joshua Chamberlain willed himself forward.

In doing so, he overcame the natural laziness or inertia of the human psyche, its innate tendency to accept the status quo, the familiar, the known quantity. He overcame the resistance to change from which issues inaction rather than action. He overcame fear -- not necessarily the fear of dying in battle, but the fear of making the wrong decision and the consequent fear of failure.

Furthermore, his action engendered a wave of success for his men to follow, giving them confidence in his leadership, and sparked a revelation, for he knew then he had the ability to inspire them to greatness.

As do so many of us, if, when a turning point arrives, we choose to rise up, act boldly, and claim our rightful leadership roles; in doing so, we will make meaningful, necessary, and lasting contributions to our families, our professions, and our communities.

REFERENCES

Perry, Mark. Conceived in Liberty: Joshua Chamberlain, William Oates, and the American Civil War. New York: Penguin Books, 1999.

Shaara, Michael. The Killer Angels. New York: The Random House Ballantine Publishing Group, 1996.

Trulock, Alice Rains. In the Hands of Providence: Joshua Chamberlain and the American Civil War. Chapel Hill, North Carolina: The University of North Carolina Press, 1992.