Arnold Jorgensen is the finest human being, engineer and engineering manager I’ve ever worked with. I worked for him for over 4 years shortly after graduating from MIT, and decades later he chose to work in my company until he retired. In both relationships we were primarily fellow human beings who respected, trusted and liked each other. It was from him that I learned how to become an outstanding engineer, a true craftsman at engineering, not merely a creative smartass with a brace of patents. It was from him that I learned how to enthusiastically employ and manage critics so as to do the best possible job. He didn’t sermonize or lecture, he led by example.
Arnold grew up in Norway which was occupied by the Germans during his teenage years. He had a role in the Norwegian underground, risking his life. But his description of German soldiers was not out of propaganda manuals, it was first and foremost of individuals; some of them decent people doing their jobs and others sadistic jerks. After WWII, Arnold married Ingar, started his family and immigrated to Chicago. Their two year old daughter died tragically. They moved to California where he went to work at Burroughs ElectroData running the engineering group that designed its first solid state computers using newfangled germanium transistors. A year after starting work there, I was fortunate enough to be assigned to Arnold’s group as its most junior engineer.
There were two things immediately evident about Arnold: he genuinely liked people and he loved to ski ― he was a master of the sport. In recent years on the slopes he has been confused with Stein Erickson, one of Norway’s greatest skiers; after whom Arnold named his younger son. When he first moved to Pasadena he excitedly thought that the wide firebreaks on nearby mountains which plunged vertically downwards from summits to bases were ski-runs; a story he told on himself.
Eventually I discovered that Arnold was as good an engineer and as effective a manager as you could find anywhere. I wouldn’t call him brilliant; although he was plenty smart. But he had two other qualities that made him the best: he was systematic and he was humble! When designing something he always started with the fundamentals, discussing them and making sure he and we properly understood all the significant issues. Then he took clear, systematic, logical steps toward solutions. He would go through this process on his blackboard with those of us working on the design, and we informally contributed to it.
But, the most dramatic lesson Arnold taught me was about 6 months after I started. I was sitting in my office working on a circuit, when Arnold walked in with a request delivered with a thick Norwegian accent. “I’ve completed designing this circuit, and I’d like you to review it thoroughly, find any mistakes and suggest improvements.” I was thrilled, and tackled the job with gusto. I found several mistakes and developed numerous brilliant suggestions. At first I felt quite clever, then I wondered how Arnold could have made those mistakes, and finally I worried about how Arnold would handle my discoveries and suggestions. With mounting apprehension, I went to his office and began to tear apart his design. As I did so he smiled; this only confused me. When I finished, his smile was even broader and he said something I’ve never forgotten: “Thank you! You just saved me from making several mistakes. Remember, in engineering it’s ‘what’s right’ that counts, not ‘who’s right.’ ” He said no more, but it changed my life. From that day on I eagerly shared my designs with other engineers (including Arnold) and asked them to find errors and make suggestions. In fact, everyone in Arnold’s group did this, not because we were directed to do so, there was never a directive, but because of Arnold’s personal example.
The upshot came about a year later. Another engineering group was struggling with the design of a computer peripheral and the project was in trouble, over budget and behind schedule. We had gained the reputation of producing solid designs, so someone in upper management asked Arnold what it was that made our group so much better. He described our methods including the peer reviews. What was lost on upper management was the voluntary nature of those reviews, because the next thing we knew we were ordered to review the designs of the other engineering team.
Arnold didn’t want to do it, he explained that it wouldn’t work, etc. but management insisted. We went to work, found numerous fatal flaws, documented alternatives, etc. Then the day came for presenting our conclusions to the other team in a formal meeting. Most of the guys on that team were other engineers like ourselves, and before this review process many of us had friendly relations, went to lunch together and bowled together. But as we walked into the conference room with our data, the air was chilly. Arnold started the meeting by saying that he hadn’t asked to do this and didn’t think it was a good idea, but had been instructed to do it and so felt compelled to give them our best inputs. The group leader of the other team was beside-himself with anger and ranted on to the point where he used the terms “Nazi” and “Gestapo” to describe both Arnold and our group. Arnold winced, but maintained a professional attitude and a pleasant demeanor. We then reluctantly proceeded to our conclusions and suggestions, handed them the documents and we parted. None of our results were used by the other team, several of its members resigned and their project went down in flames.
Like Arnold, I’ll let this example speak for itself.
