OPINION: "Men wanted for hazardous journey, small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful, honor and recognition in case of success."
British polar explorer Ernest Shackleton's recruitment ad for his 1914 Antarctic expedition is almost certainly fictional (and penned by an American – note the spelling of honour). But it has become part of recruitment folklore because in my then-toddler's words, it's "true enough to believe”.
It makes a solid point, though. If you're motivated enough by what a company, or perilous Antarctic expedition, is all about, then little niggles like low pay, long hours and a high chance of death don't count for quite as much.
It's just as well, or we wouldn't have nurses to look after us when we're crook, police to catch the crooks or teachers to keep our kids off the streets so they don't become crooks.
A purpose-driven employment brand is pretty magical stuff.
When I was 17, I was lucky enough (after competing with a few hundred other less lucky applicants to get a place) to walk from school straight into the RNZAF. On the face of it, the work ahead of me and my coursemates wasn't all that exciting: make our beds, polish our boots and march up and down for a few months before attending university (in uniform!) for three years, after which we would start pilot training. Thanks to Prime Minister Muldoon's idea of freezing both prices and wages the pay was awful too - $9700 a year before tax.
Honestly though, we would have done it for nothing. Other than (very cheap) beer in the cadet mess bar, we had few living expenses. Clothing, food, medical, dental and transport to work (boots!) were all laid on.
Maybe we were a little blinkered (unkind people might say brainwashed) but for a 17-year-old kid at the tail end of the Cold War, being a small part of an exciting machine with a both literally and figuratively higher purpose was just short of heaven.
As a trainee pilot – even one at the boot-polishing stage of my training – it's arguable that it was my profession, rather than the RNZAF's purpose, that got me out of bed at 0530 hours.
I don't think that's true. For every pilot, the RNZAF had workshops full of engineers, warehouses full of suppliers, kitchens full of cooks, and trucks, vans and refuelling tankers full of drivers.
I guarantee that when asked at the Hornby Tavern on a Friday night what he or she did for a living, the person who drove the Toyota Hiace van to deliver the sandwiches to the crew that drove the tankers that refuelled the training aircraft that I clumsily bounced across Wigram's forgiving grass runways didn't say they were a van driver.
They said that they were in the airforce.
And that's purpose.
When you've got that, pay, hours of work, the shabbiness of the carpet in your office or the age of the vans or aeroplanes you drive or fly doesn't matter.
When you haven't, getting people to come on your Antarctic expedition becomes harder and more expensive.
An accountant I knew, nice guy, but as will become clear by the end of this sentence a not particularly principled one, once worked for a big tobacco company.
He'd clearly spent a lot of time convincing himself it was a good idea, because he'd take every opportunity to tell me what a great place it was to work. His salary: astronomical. Annual leave: ridiculous amounts. Perks: travel, "conferences," car, expenses... you name it. All of that must have cost the tobacco company a bomb, while more purpose-driven outfits were paying nowhere near as much for equally talented (and way more principled) folks to count their beans and dodge their taxes.
With unemployment at record lows, but revenue under threat for many companies, spending your way out of the talent shortage isn't much of an option. A strong employment brand is no longer a nice to have.
I'll finish with another ad, only this one's real. It's from the 1950s and it's for the American publisher McGraw Hill. It features a testy-looking rooster (picture WKRP's Les Nessman) perched on a chair and reads:
“I don’t know you.
I don’t know your company.
I don’t know your company’s product.
I don’t know what your company stands for.
I don’t know your company’s customers.
I don’t know your company’s record.
I don’t know your company’s reputation.
Now, what was it you wanted to sell me?”
Change the last line to "why should I work for you?" and you begin to understand why that in a tight labour market it's employment brand, not market brand, that's keeping CEOs awake nights.