if you want more info on the inb, here's a wikipedia entry, our website, and you can still get our records here. oh yeah, we never really publicized it, but we put out a final disc this year...

First, as written as a resume on the book, the author says many companies continue to create Death March Projects, repeatedly, implying numbers of rational and intelligent people. A death march project is a project whose schedules, estimations, budgets and resources are so constraint or skewed that participants can hardly survive, much less succeed.

This book is not a recipe about perfectly organized projects in companies, but it's about your project , in your company, and will learn you what to do about it.

Why i began to read this book (written in 2003) ? One of my managers, in my past enterprise, has pointed me to this book. We already lived together this kind of projects, particularly on a large-scale-project involving about 100 people and for a schedule of 2 years..worth, i continue to live this kind of project today , on small-scale projects :-( .

First Ed Yourdon thinks the size is the first element that distinguishes one death march project from another :

* Small-scale projects : The team consists of 3 to 6 people. who are working against nearly impossible odds to finish a project in 3 to 6 months

* Medium-size project : the team consists of 20-30 people, who are involved in a project expected to take 1 to 3 years.

* Large-scale projects : the team consists of 100-300 people, and the project schedule is 3 to 5 years.

* Mind-boggling projects : The project has an army of 1000-2000 or more (including consultants and subcontractors), and the project is 7 to 10 years.

The small-scale death march projects have the greatest chances of succeeding. A group of 3 to 6 people is highly motivated in general and is able to sacrifice their personal lives (as well as risk their health) for three to six months if they know the regimen of long nights, wasted weekends and postponed vacations will come.

The odds of successful completion drop with medium size projects and disappear almost completely in the large scale projects. With larger number of people involved, it's more difficult to maintain a sense of cohesive team spirit.

Most of mind boggling projects are doomed from the beginning. As a successful example perhaps can we consider the NASA project that landed the man on the moon in 1969.

Why do Death March Projects happen.

First Scott Adams, author of the popular "Dilbert"cartonns has a theory ... People are idiots.

Perhaps it's too depressing to imagine you're an idiot and you're surrounded by idiots, or perhaps you consider it as an insult, but here is alist of reasons for the occurence of death march projects:

* Politics, politics, politics

* Naive and/or devious promises made by marketing, senior executive, inexperienced project managers etc

* Naive optimism of youth "We can do it over the weekend"

* the startup mentality of fledgling enterpreneurial companies

* The Marine Corps mentality : Real programmers don't need sleep

* Intense conpetition caused by globalization of markets

* Intense competition caused by the appearance of new technologies

* Intense pressure caused by unexpected government regulations

* Unexpected and/or unplanned crisis (hard/soft vendor went bankrupt, or your three best programmers died of bubonic plague)

I will just focus on naiveté, because it's what i lived the most... Naiveté is often associated with inexperience; it's common to see unrealistic commitments made by people who have no idea how much time or effort will be required to build the system they want. Tom DeMarco calls this in the extreme case "hysterical optimism" : Everyone in the organization wants to believe that a complex project which has never been attempted before but which has been reallistically estimed to require 3 calendar years of effort, can somehow be finished in 9 months.

The naiveté and optimism extends to the technical staff too, even if we assume firstly it's your manager, or your marketing department, or the end-user who is responsible for the naively optimistic schedule or budget.

The question is : How will they react when it eventually becomes clear that the initial commitments were optimistic? Will they extend the schedule, increase the budget, and calmly agree that things are tougher than they had imagined? Will they thank you for the heroic efforts you and your colleagues have made?

In many death projects, this kind of mid-course correction isn't possible. In worst case, you've the case where the person making the commitments knows full well what's going on. It can be apparent when the principal reason, after the marketing manager confesses to the project manager: "We wouldn't have gotten this contract if we told the client how long it will really take; we knew that our competitors would be coming with more aggressive proposals". Finally what is suggested, is that the entire process of estimating schedules and budgets is a negociating game. There is still naiveté when your manager thinks you could finish the dearth march project in time to meet the ridiculous deadline that has been imposed upon you. Similarly , the commitment to a ridiculous schedule and budgets by the marketing department is kind of politics : the marketing representative doesn't care wether the schedule and budget he proposed is ridiculous or not, because his primary objective is his sales commissions, or meeting his quota, or pleasing his boss...

Why do people do participate in death march projects?

We've seen organization create and/or tolerate death march projects, but this doesn't mean we have to participate in them. The author suggests that you resign under certain circumstances, and the best time to do so is at the beginning. When told that you've been assigned to such a project, you should consider saying "No, Thanks, i'll pass on this one" or, if it is not an acceptable response within your corporate culture, simply "No thanks, i quit"

Here are the reasons why would any rational person volunteer to paricipate in a project that's likely to require 14-hour days, seven-day weeks, and a year or two of postponed vacations?

* The risks are high but there are some rewards

* The "Mt Everest" syndrome (in my case, "Mt K2")

* The buzz of working intensely with other commited people.

* The naiveté and optimism of youth.

* The alternative is unemployment

* It's required in order to be considered for future advancement

* The alternative is bankruptcy or some other calamity

* It's an alternative to escape the normal bureaucracy.

* Revenge

Other reasons [Kevin Huigens]

* Everybody wants to feel wanted

* Perceived opportunity

" Perceived money gain

* can't afford to lose job

* Don't care wether the project fails, get to work with cool technology.

* On-the-job training on new technology

* Eternal optimism

* Challenge

* Plain stupidity

* Chance to prove yourself

* To get the job done

* It's the only project

* Your friend is running the project

* Your boss said so

* You have no other life

* Nothing better to do

* Stock options

* Existing pay vs expectation of raise

*Love is blind

* Resumé-Building

* Ignorance

* Camaraderie

All this assumes that you know in advance that is a death march project, and that's not so easy when you're interviewing for a new job. Seriously , death march projects are rarely billed as such "Are you interested in working incredible hours for no additional benefit beyond your hiring salary"... and it takes a lot of work when being hired from the outside to discover your company is prone to creating death march projects.

This article has been written from the #1 chapter of the book. I invite you to continue by reading the book in detail.

One remark written in the summary of the first chapter, is the following :

The author asked in an online discussion forum in 2003, wether death march projects were likely to diminish. One answer was :

"Hopefully going down. Two reasons

The culture of the ever expanding IT budget has gone, and management wants projects to succeed (even if they still try to run them lean). Erik Petersen saw Subprojects deliverables are becoming more common and highlighting death march issues earlier, and projects are killed sooner.

Better education should reduce naiveté of newbies. Most gradies now learn about testing and quality as part of their studies. Some even learn project mgmnt. Agile methods are popular at universities as well, with test first etc. XP is becoming more popular, complete with no overtime mantra. Erik thinks Agile methods will help to empower teams, both delivering better software, and standing up to unrealistic schedules and targets"

5 years after, what could be said about death march projects? and about Agile methods in the enterprise?

Do you think SCRUM, XP first are more common in enterprises and really help for death march projects?

Source : Death March by Ed Yourdon

sketch after Michelangelo

sketch after Francis Bacon

If you want to read more about the death march across Germany, check out this link: http://www.b24.net/pow/march.htm

It's something Joe doesn't talk a lot about, although time has healed some of the wounds. Being a prisoner at Stalag VI, he told me, certainly wasn't anything like the Stalag 17 of "Hogan's Heroes" television fame.

Joe talked about everything from being packed in a ship's hull like sardines, being poked by bayonets or jabbed with rifle butts, scrounging any little bit of food because even clean water was scarce.

Finally, after more than a year as a prisoner and the long 52-day march, Joe was liberated by the English Second Army on April 16, 1945. He was so happy he cried.

After three weeks in the hospital to restore his health, Joe wound up in London on V-E Day, May 8, 1945, when the war in Europe was over.

"We stood outside Buckingham Palace," he recalls, "to see the King of England, his daughter, Queen Elizabeth, Margaret and Winston Churchhill."

By May 29, Joe's ship arrived in New York and three or four days later he was back home in Halbur, Iowa (Carroll County), reunited with his family and wife-to-be, Lucille. They married after he got a 30-day extension of his leave before he had to return to Army duty in the United States so he could be honorably discharged.

Among the awards given to Joe, according to his daughter, Becky Picard of Cedar Rapids, were the Purple Heart, the Air Medal, the Good Conduct Medal, the POW and World War II Victory Medal . . . but they don't compare to the life he was given.

In 1951 Joe began a 17-year stint operating the Sinclair service station at 1601 Ellis Blvd. NW, in Cedar Rapids with brother-in-law Floyd Noel. He later became an insurance agent for Mutual of Omaha. And Joe, 85, and Lucille, 87, will celebrate their 63rd wedding anniversary this year.

. 

“Bayang magiliw perlas ng silanganan, alab ng puso, sa dibdib mong bughaw…”

.

My mind was traveling back and forth with lightning speed from the present to historical events almost 60 years ago as we sang the national anthem inside the darkened tunnel. As pictures of past and present events flashed in my mind, a cold chill surged through me.

.

“Aming ligaya na ‘pag may mang-aapi ang mamatay ng dahil sa iyo.”

.

There was a moment of silence after the last note, then noise suddenly erupted when the other end of the tunnel was finally opened and the kids started running out of the tunnel. I looked around for my friends Salve and Celestine. When I spotted them behind the two girls on my right, I walked to them, noticing their subdued countenance. I knew they were as affected as I was.

.

“That made me sad,” I told my friends as we slowly made our way out of the tunnel.

.

“Yes. That saddened me too,” my friends replied in unison.

.

We were at the Malinta Tunnel in Corregidor, and we had just watched a light show about the World War II. We almost did not watch it because we were already tired from the morning tour. It’s a good thing we eventually decided to see it, as it was already the last leg of our day tour.

.

The show is about the Japanese invasion to the Philippines. It focused on how bravely the Filipino-American allies tried to defend the country but failed with the fall of Bataan and of Corregidor. Highlights of the show are images of the death march, the return of Mc Arthur to fulfill his promise, and the subsequent mass suicide of the Japanese soldiers from the very tunnel where we watched the show to avoid having to surrender, or worse, being captured.

.

As the scenes were flashed from several stations inside the tunnel amidst a moving narration and sound effects, I could feel my heart thumping with mixed feelings, primarily, of pride and desperation.

.

I was proud for and thankful of the thousands of men and women who fought and died during those dark times of our history. But I also couldn’t help feeling very sad toward the end of the show, especially during the singing of the national anthem, with the Philippine flag proudly waving over us.

.

As we sang, images of the thousands of men who marched to their death six decades ago kept flashing in my mind and I couldn’t help thinking: “God, here are the men who died for the country so we could be free, so we would have all the things that were denied them. But what have we done? And what are we doing?”

.

Then images of what’s happening in our country now replaced the decades-old images, and I became even sadder.

.

Viewed from the perspective of what the country has become after all those deaths and sacrifices, that part of our history, and even the other parts when our forefathers fought the earlier colonizers, take a very bleak appearance. It’s like everything was for naught. The lessons, glaring though they were, and still are, seem to have been lost to us.

.

We are slaves still, though no longer with concrete chains. We, as a nation, are still slaves to the evils of corruption, to the crab mentality that has plagued us, to the evils of the need for power.

.

We are still at war, only this time, no longer with outside forces, but with our fellowmen — and may I add — within ourselves.

.

Just like the Japanese soldiers of the later part of World War II had been, we too are inside a very dark tunnel, preparing for suicide. Except that our reasons are not as honorable as the Japanese soldiers’ had been. They committed suicide because it would be a loss of honor for them to be captured, and honor was all that mattered to them; and surrender was not a part of their vocabulary.

.

Whereas we are pushing our motherland to commit suicide, with the thoughtless acts of our leaders and the apathy in most of us.

. 

So I sang the national anthem with a sad heart and moist eyes. And a silent prayer. I prayed that we may find our way through all these things that are plaguing our nation now. That somehow, we would be able to give our children and our children’s children something to be proud of.

.

As my friends and I walked to the waiting bus, my mind traveled fast forward to fifty years from now. And I shuddered as I wondered: “How would our grandchildren remember us when they look back to this part of history our generation is weaving?"

.

Will they remember us as the generation that toppled a corrupt president, only to  replace him with someone who is equally corrupt — if not more — and a liar? I closed my eyes and made a wish, that we will somehow eventually get things right, and be remembered as the generation that stood up against the evils of corruption, and who steered the country to a brighter future.

.

I know my wishes are almost impossible at present. Everywhere we look, there is desperation. But let us not allow these negative feelings we have and the bad things that are happening in our to country destroy us as individuals. For even if our problems as a nation have become a tangled web which now seems impossible to straighten, we can do something still, as individuals and as small groups.

.

I still think there is a ray of hope somewhere in this dark tunnel we are all in right now. Let us just keep moving, and doing our part. Small things do add up, and make up for bigger things.

.

[Photo Caption: A scene from the Malinta Tunnel Light Show]

.

//Sherma E. Benosa; 18 March 2008; 1:25am 

Eyes open. Dust flecks flap their brilliant wings in the rays of light escaping underneath the crack of the flimsy plastic window shades. It is morning and I am alive… barely.

I took a moment to register the location – low ceilings, the surround of cheap laminated wood cabinets, the brilliantly glowing eggshell of the plastic skylight, bug shadows on the forward curve: the RV’s awkward charms remained the same.. but, where, exactly, were we?

Synapses flickered and suddenly I realized that like a year ago I was parked behind the same Sendiks grocery in Whitefish Bay, WI – 100 feet from the finish line of the 17^th and final stage of the 2007 Superweek “International Cycling Classic” series of bike races.

A year ago this was an opening – the frisson of the new – the proverbial ‘stirring of the pot’ - the entering of the fray. Now it was different. Long gone was the purity of stage one of Superweek – the milling of the crowd - the anticipation of the roll call. Long lost in the “hedonic treadmill” of life was the pleasure of the lineup and the announcements, the colors, the jerseys, the lines and faces of my fellow racers.

I had re-entered the world of the symbolic – where day to day pleasures recede, where the people and faces and cracked concrete and gritty asphalt all became pawns in a bigger game.

Why must we lose the present in pursuit of the future?

Present had reigned at least briefly the night before. Like the year previous I pulled the RV right into the center of the course at Downer Avenue, opened the doors and enjoyed the visits and conversations of the cyclists, speedskaters and friends that bothered to drop by. Missing was Eddy Van Guise, Chris, Jose, & Camie and others but still we had a fine sultry evening of guests in our little rolling home, Katelina tucked in early in the bed in back and Olu, Todd, Brenda, Jon and others swinging by for a bite of pasta or glass of wine.

I was reminded of the year previous – where, after a glass or two of wine, I had spent a good deal of time riding long wheelies on my $4000 race bike up and down Downer Ave and Jeff and I had treated the Milram team to a few extra beers in hopes of slowing their assault the following day.  No wheelies and just one glass of wine last night – and a focus on what was to come in the morning…

Stars, like sparrows, circled my inner eyelids when I finally rose. I felt swollen, full, hot, so I drink water and turn on the fans. Still I continued to feel lethargic, dry, bloated – yet empty. I had hardly slept. The flashes – the sudden startles – the gunshots in my legs, had increased in their frequency and intensity and kept me up most of the night. I started the generator and ran the overhead A/C unit. Straightening up – again the vertigo – it was surprising, unexpected – but not new…

The same old deja-vu.

I forced morning activities into “normal” and with discipline metered out a routine of hydration, food, registration, and a short “pre-warmup” on the bike. In hindsight, these formalities were like reading the music for “Taps” – a prelude for what was to come.

 A month later and in a middle- of-the-night moment of clarity the deja-vu’s were suddenly placed. The shooting stars in my legs, the midnight panicked awakenings, the leg sweats. All these were incredibly familiar – yet distant. These were not constants in my 30 years as an athlete – these memories were concentrated during critical focal points and subsequent failures in my athletic career: The first time was the summer of 1986 after moving into the Olympic Training Center in Colorado in prep for the World Cycling Championships. A few weeks of intensive training later and… 

The second was the fall and winter of 1990 in Calgary – the  first year of full time speedskating training. 3 workouts a day for 4 or 5 months and suddenly nights stopped being restful, I lost muscle mass, I trained better and better and raced worse and worse.  

Then again in the following year in 1991 training in Colorado Springs again – this time for skating – by the 1992 Olympic trials I was slower in the 500m than I had been since I was a teenager living in California…  

Most recently was in Lake Placid, New York, in preparations for the 1998 Olympics where I had my worst finish in an Olympic trials ever, despite working harder than I ever had.  

These were the years where I had experienced these same visceral electrical stimuli and associated exhaustion. These were the years where I believed the most, trained the hardest and had results that… 

The results in those years? So simple to see it now - all of those years had three things in common:  

1) Ever more ‘solid’ and ‘consistent’ endurance training sessions (meeting coaches expectations) paralleled by…  

2) An ever deepening physical and psychological gloom, and… 

3) Solid, consistent, and absolutely uninspired racing results - well below my expectations.  

Psychologically, these years were devastating – lost was that “magic” – that inspiring ability to race well beyond my training. To lay it all on the line and come up with “average,” this was the part that was most heart-rending of all…  

I watched my friend Matt  Dula start his first licensed race – a brutal, large, relatively experienced field of cat 5 riders, all 15 to 20 years younger than he ping-ponging pell-mell around the circuit. Tense, nervous, cautious on the corners, yet he hung on  - precariously, like a raindrop on a vertical surface, struggling to maintain position for a lap only to suddenly dodge backward and sideways and then pause again – swelling – stationary for a moment before another sudden drop to the next section of the peleton until he was isolated into a chase pack after 7 or 8 laps.

I watched and cheered as he attempted to stay safe and finish his first licensed race. I did fear for the worst – that this first foray into the weird dynamics of cycling might result in the horrendous feeling of getting completely dropped and suffering alone against the wind, or worse yet, a crash…

A lap later and suddenly he’s gone. A fall on the far side of the course has lost him his sunglasses, dented his helmet, and left him dazed. I tried to talk him into returning, but he is unsure. First race blues – a fall, no visible injuries, but fear… it grows. Walden would always, ALWAYS demand, “get back on the bike Coyle! Finish the race, or at least the lap!” I failed Matt – and he stayed on the sidelines.

Hours and hours until my final bout of Superweek suffering, so Shannon, Kat, Matt and three of his children made for the beach at the lakefront of lake Michigan. The escarpment overlooking the lake features a dramatic wood and cement staircase with a half-dozen switchbacks leading down the 200 vertical feet to the sand. Despite some evil smelling offal washing ashore it was a picturesque day and we laid our towels upwind of the odors and tried to relax, Matt was quickly horizontal in the post-race peace, and myself just walking, walking, trying to limber up, while ignoring every signal my body was sending.

It wasn’t until the return up the stairs that the dire circumstances of my physical condition truly made itself manifest. The hundreds of steps we had descended in an easy ramshackle file to the beach had to be re-scaled in order to return to the race course.

We passed beyond the amber sands and after a matter of only 5 or 6 steps up the weathered wooden stairs I stopped - a buzzing in my ears, intensifying whites bleaching through the lines of the reflected sun on the wood. The white cement expanded and coursed through all levels of contrast, overexposing everything within my view. A wave of weariness & nausea starting in my ankles washed through my limbs. I was again reminded of how dry and swollen my mouth was.

In agonizingly slow motion I climbed a few more steps. Shannon, Matt and the kids chattering as they swarmed past me. Their sounds seemed to grow in volume and fill my thoughts even while receding in the distance - colors began to fade again, whiteness, heat, dry mouth, sparks and fireflies – then like the blades of a slow motion helicopter, my neck seemed to rotate and the sky throbbed – voom, vooom, voooom.

Like a sailor in a gale I held the railing, head down, white knuckles, riding the roiling disequilibrium. Dozens of steps ahead the voices finally faded. I dreaded sight, I dreaded sound. I didn’t want anyone to see. Then, the inevitable question from above - one of the wooden switchbacks, a strangely familiar voice – like someone I knew… “John – are you OK?”

My friend Matt. The kids were well beyond earshot. I shook my head mildly, downplaying my predicament and made an attempt to resume the climb – stopping every 4 or 5 steps.

The kids were playing at the top of the stairs and only Matt noticed how long it took me to make the trek. “Are you OK?” he asked again with real concern. Again I shrugged my shoulders with a rueful smile, then we piled into our cars and the RV and made our way back to the racecourse.

The race itself is a footnote. I lined up. I read the lap cards: “80” while crowds milled about in the beer tents, announcements were made, and the sun moved westward. I suffered through the usual pain of the first laps despite an extremely hard warmup with Matt that was fueled by a sudden suspicion that the start time was earlier than we had thought.

But unlike Downer Avenue, where the pain was controlled, focused, having behind it the bruising power of heavy machinery running cool and powerful, the feeling at Whitefish Bay was one of heat and disorder and of fear – muscles out of order, knees sloppily rotating, feet pedaling squares, never settling into any kind of rhythm –  my legs were like egg-beaters whipping a bowl full of marbles – the pain was shocking, tinny, abrupt, and visceral.

Like the little steel ball in a Japanese Plinko machine I bounced left, up, right and inevitably back and after 35 laps I finally fell out the back, coasting to the sidelines mouth open wide gasping for air, legs quivering, knees out.

The race whirred by eventually spitting out 85% of the starters. Even Ben Renkema – last year’s Cat 2 national champion and Michigan State Champion was dropped – with only 4 laps remaining – how does that happen? Catching my breath I said goodbye to Matt and tasted the poignant bitterness of disappointment - no Superweek win this year. We said our goodbyes to Eddy, Jose and some of the racers, loaded up the RV and I climbed behind the wheel to drive home.

Enroute back to Chicago I cracked the window, feeling the evening air as it cooled, its play on my face reminding me of so many things. I grew still and sad – another summer on the wane. We arrived home late, and the next morning I got up early and returned back to work.

 Flashback: October, 1983. I was sitting on the smooth green padded vinyl bench of a schoolbus, traveling from Ohio to West Virginia – encased in the yellow metal shell, the musty smell, the  dirty black floors and the roar of the diesel straining against the wind, cars passing us. 39 other student members of my high school music band and I were out for our annual “band tour.”

Fortunately I had no conception of the dorkiness I represented: skinny, short, braces, pimples, unfashionable clothes, honor society, and on tour with the high school band playing 2nd French horn. My mind was elsewhere. 

I pinched the double latches, and with some effort pulled down the bus window above my seat, ignoring the feeble protest of another band geek behind me, his papers riffling with the wind.  The yellow raft of light piercing the open window warmed my face as the last wisps of the Indian Summer air swirled through the window.

I remember with clarity feeling a nameless ache I had already begun to associate with this time of year – the melancholy of falling leaves, the crisp fading light, the end of summer and of the cycling season.  Regardless of my personally undetermined state in the high school hierarchy, I had become a force to be reckoned with in the cycling world, and each year I yearned for more warm days, more races, more time on the bike.

Every year I became more keenly aware of the first signs of the changing weather patterns signaling the end of the season. And of course there was the girl back at school – taller, older, an Egyptian carving: beautiful alabaster skin with black pools for eyes and those budding hints at mysteries unknown. She knew my name – but to her I was probably what I really was – a sideshow to the older, taller, stronger, white-toothed upperclassman. I longed for her and for summer, and ached deeper for something unknown. I was nostalgic and mournful in the grandest sense without knowing why.

I was the first and only band geek to have a “jam box” or more accurately a stereo cassette player/radio with a handle and large speakers. It was silver and I had spent virtually all my winnings of bike races that summer on it and it was loud and powerful. On and off I received requests to play tapes, but mostly we tuned into various radio stations as the countryside drifted by and the season changed. 

On this particular evening the sun had set and the rows of seats in the bus had changed from green to gray. Outside the windows all that remained of the day was a glimmer on the horizon that last kiss of the day on the undersides of the clouds. I had the window open and we were thousands of miles from anything or anyone and my pining for something lost and lamented increased and the presence of so many others only amplified my loneliness.

Then suddenly, as I turned the tuner dial – it came – that first piano chord… It was just unaccompanied piano – but it was the perfect capture of this melancholy, this longing, the ghostly cool air, the barren trees.

Instinctively I hit “record” and listened transfixed, turning up the volume. The piano played on and again I turned it up and the bus – full of the usual hum of teenage conversations – grew oddly still. 40 teenagers away from home, disembodied on plastic seats, grew still and listened and the piano played on. Then Bono’s voice came out,  

“October…and the trees are stripped bare…of all they wear… what do I care?”“October… and kingdoms rise, and kingdoms fall… but you go on… and on…” 

As I write this it is yet another October, and again I feel that same teenage melancholy – another summer gone, Fall on its way, and the chill of Winter is coming. The seasons rule and I have to wait another year to prove my mettle.

But at least I have the warmth of my two girls which removes the sting of the cold.

Maturity tells me I need the rest anyway…

-John Coyle, October, 2007

In more precise language, Edward Yourden, defines a death march project as:

"…one for which an unbiased, objective risk assessment (which includes an assessment of technical risks, personnel risks, legal risks, political risks, etc.) determines that the likelihood of failure is [greater than or equal to] 50 percent."

Death March, Second Edition (Paperback) by Edward Yourdon

If you've been in this business more than a couple of years, then you've probably participated in at least one death march. Those of you who have worked for a company for less than two years and have been in more than three DMs should update your resume.

If you've worked for a company for more than two years and have never marched, then I suggest at least one of the following actions:

1. Wake up Alice!
   
2. Watch and learn everything you can about how this place plans and manages projects. You will need this when the music stops or on the inevitable day you make the foolish decision to leave.
   
3. Congratulate yourself and go play the lottery right now!
   

The point is, every organization will be faced with a death march. I work for one of the greatest companies out there, but we occasionally embark upon one—just a little trip to the beach that goes awry—maybe we didn't bring enough sun screen; maybe the jellyfish were in; maybe it was that hurricane we never heard about (no wonder all those cars were headed the other way). The reasons are many, and in my experience, often have less to do with skill of the project team as they do with our seemingly insatiable need for optimism.

But I digress, this piece is not about how to prevent a death march. It's about how to enjoy one. I want to talk about the good experiences you can draw from a grueling, masochistic, mother of all death marches. The things you can carry with you into the future and use later—not just to keep the DM from happening again, but also to bond your team into kick ass, godly, geeks.

This conversation started last week as we were just winding down one our own little DMs. I won't go into the causes…suffice to say they involved great people, good intentions, high stakes, and what were probably thousands of Factor-O invocations. In the end, our team pulled it out of the fire with a string of all-nighters. We took the code from another company—again, great people caught in a tough squeeze between what they wished for and what they needed (my apologies to Joseph Arthur).

I was having lunch with Peter, and we were remarking on how much of a rush the whole thing was. Here, over the course of a few long days and evenings, we took on a significant challenge as a team, and carried it through.

We both agreed that, although the victory itself was sweet, the bigger gain was the positive effect it had on our team: we gelled in ways that would not have been possible during a typical project. Our Client Service Managers showed we geeks the meaning of professionalism by working in the middle of a huge political landmine—and thus shielding us from the fray. And we showed them that, with the support of our amazingly talented creative and quality assurance team, we could do the job, do it well, and function coherently long after our caffeine intake exceeded our body weight. (This points to another positive of the DM—especially for middle aged guys—for a few short days, you get to blow your diet all to hell!)

Just as important, I believe I saw individual growth from each member of the team. Peter became a better leader. Our two junior developers gained a wealth of confidence. They realized they could dive into something totally strange; resist that almost siren call to re-factor the whole damn thing; start working from the fringes and build their knowledge until a tipping point was reached. Once this happened, the bugs melted away like butter and the regression errors began to vaporize.

It was, all-in-all, a harrowing experience that almost killed me and one I would never try and re-create on purpose.

But I can't wait to do it again.

© 2007 by Rodney Gleghorn. All rights reserved.

Want to spend the night with a man who was responsible for slaughtering millions of innocent people? All you need to do is head over to the Mr. President Hotel in Belgrade and pay $200 for a night with Hitler. OK, in a Hitler-themed room (full story).

Dusan Zabunovic, the owner of the hotel, claims the "Hitler Junior Suite" is the most popular room in his hotel. The Mr. President's rooms are all named after a current or past world leader. You can also spend the night with Margaret Thatcher, the Bushes, Fidel Castro, and Joseph Stalin among others.

I don't know about you, but when I'm traveling I don't want to spend the night with any strangers, especially world leaders...especially Hitler. I mean, how can you get a good night's rest with that big portrait of Hitler looming over you? Despite the fact that Hitler and some of these other guys are famous, that doesn't mean they should be "glorified" by having a room named after them. The only thing Hitler and those like him should be remembered for is their cruelty. We must never forget.

Instead, maybe this man should have opened a hotel and named rooms after those who perished in the ovens at Auschwitz, died in the death marches across the country, or starved to death in the Jewish ghettos. They are the ones who deserve to be honored. I'd spent the night on a cold, hard bench in Auschwitz before I would ever enter the steps of the Mr. President Hotel.

Spot-spraying is one of those farming jobs that I used to hate. As a young child, dad would wake me up on the coldest day of the year and I would have to bundle up in my coat and rubber boots (please note they have no insulation). He would hand me gun shaped sprayer attached by a long cord to the back of a vehicle and I would trot around huge fields all day trying to survive. Being much smaller than the rest, I would often have to run to keep up while my uncle drove the machine at a fast pace. My feet would get colder and colder as the day progressed until it felt like I was just stumbling around on two stumps (Looking back I would suggest spot-spraying was not totally unlike like a Nazi death march. Please read the book Night and you will better understand what I’m talking about). As I grew increasingly delirious with frost bite my dad and uncle would start yelling about the weeds I failed to see and we would have to back up so we could get them. On the whole, it was a totally depraved job. This is where things have changed for the better. After a 10 year hiatus, when I helped out this year I noted spot-straying technology has progressed remarkably. Dad and my uncle procured a machine with booms that you can stand on and RIDE instead of running around looking for weeds. I felt like some sort of king riding around spotting weeds easily. Now running is a luxury I do for fun when I need to warm up a little.

Oh, hail sweet progress.

The Capas Shrine marks the Death March final stop. There is a 70-meter obelisk towering above the grounds of the former concentration camp, a circular wall of marble with the engraved names of the martyrs, 31,000 trees planted on the site in memory of the 31,000 Filipino and American soldiers who died here...

And here's a box car that was used to transport prisoners of war...

See? I told you... :-)

There is also a war museum nearby but it was closed so I didn't get to check it out.

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Sidetrack:

Thanks to Matt and the rest of the guys at WordPress for the FREE 3-Gig upload space (Weeee!) which just made it possible for me to post as many photos as I can on this blog...