Every high school, college, and military sexual-assault training course includes lessons about risky behavior—this is not to suggest, “It's your fault if you get drunk and are assaulted,” but rather to advise caution: “The rapist is always in the wrong. And staying out of these situations can keep you safer.”
I stand by what I told my Marines and my recruits.
Don't get so drunk that you can't make good decisions or weaken your response times should danger arise.
Choose your friends carefully, and be careful about spending time alone with someone you don't know.
Look out for your girls—if you arrive in a group, leave in a group.
“Look, don't make yourself a target,” I told all of my recruits just before they graduated. “Toughen up. Don't compete at the bar; compete on the playing field.”
In the investigation against me, three recruits complained about my comments related to sexual harassment and sexual assault.
All three were from November Company.
Those days—those months and months of days after the command-climate survey results came out—were like a bad dream. It was like I was swinging on a pendulum. I'd wake up in the morning and think, “Wait. Surely someone will see through what is happening here, and rational people will see that I am doing the right things for the right reasons and let this go.” And then, as I pulled my car into the battalion parking lot, I would face the reality and be overcome by feelings of doubt and dread that it would be my last day in command. It was awful.
My sergeant major was great. She and Joe kept in close touch, with her reporting how I was doing each day. I couldn't fool him, because if I was having a miserable day, she'd text him to say, “Hey. You'll want to reach out to Kate today.”
Most important, she helped me hold onto my sanity.
I was experiencing extreme cognitive dissonance. On one hand, I knew that all of the conversations I had with my Marines each day indicated that they believed in what we were doing and that things in the battalion were better than they had been when I arrived. And then seeds of self-doubt would sprout, and I would brood on Colonel Haas's comments about my leadership or the petty and cruel anonymous comments from the command-climate survey and think, “Man, maybe I really am a horrible person.”
And she'd say, “Nope. That's nuts. Let's just get through today.”
But every time sergeant major picked me back up and dusted me off, Colonel Haas cut me to the quick.
Just days before I submitted my request mast to Brigadier General Williams, Colonel Haas counseled me on my fitness report. Every officer gets an annual fitness report, which is basically like an annual evaluation in the business world: Your boss tells you what you do well, what you need to improve on, and how you failed (or, in business lingo, “your opportunities for improvement”). I've delivered average fitness reports to Marines who deserved averages, but I've never received an average, because I've always busted my ass. And I've always had tangible results to prove it—just as I had at Fourth Battalion.
You have to be pretty great to rate the highest, but you also have to be pretty damned mediocre to get an average ranking.
Haas ranked me last.
This was not only last out of all of the lieutenant colonels he wrote fitness reports for at Parris Island. He told me he had ranked me last of any lieutenant colonel he had ever written fitness reports for in his entire career.
Dead last.
Throughout my nearly twenty-year career, I've never had anything but great fitness reports.
Yet at Parris Island, I was ranked last.
Colonel Haas told me I was the very worst lieutenant colonel he had ever been in charge of.
And nothing in his evaluation was fact-based. Get this: For mission accomplishment—“results achieved”—he ranked me average. We had achieved significant success in improving the graduation scores for female recruits in a short period of time. But for proficiency—“combines training, education and experience”—average. Initiative—“action in the absence of specific direction”? Below average. Setting the example? Average. Intellect and wisdom? Below average.
And yet, this is what he wrote in the directed comments portion of the review:
LtCol Germano has proven herself an operationally focused, organizationally capable officer. She displays a consistently high level of initiative, and relentlessly pursues achieving performance goals she sets for her Battalion despite any perceived obstacles. Decisive and self-assured; fully commits to her decisions once made. An energetic officer who drives her Marines to maximize unit output and personal performance. She is also a polished public speaker who regularly represents the Marine Corps to the public and distinguished visitors during ceremonies and official visits. Maintains a high level of fitness and an active professional reading program. Regularly volunteers at a local animal shelter. Fully qualified for promotion and resident PME.
But my review? Communication skills: average. Initiative: below average. Overall? Average.
Even worse, after giving me a copy of my review, Colonel Haas looked at me and said, “I've been giving you enough rope to hang yourself.”
Wait. What?
While I had been working to mentor my Marines and improve my recruits, my boss had been giving me enough rope to hang myself.
Isn't that uplifting? I'd say downright inspiring, really.
He had never counseled me on what he expected and what I could do to improve in his eyes. He didn't offer suggestions. He didn't once come visit my battalion and sit in on a training session or observe my interactions and relationships with my Marines and recruits. Instead, when he realized I wasn't going to hang myself with his rope, he pulled the chair
