The military encourages competition. War is a competition, the ultimate test of purpose, preparation, determination, courage, risk, and execution. Business is a competition. In fact, in almost every human endeavor where there are two teams, groups, or sides, there is a competition.
People need to test themselves, prove themselves, not just to show that they are better than the other guy or the other team, but to show that they have trained and raised their skills as high as they can. Winning is great, and always better than losing, but perfecting our skills and capabilities is great, too.
In 1986, when I commanded the V Corps in Germany, the corps participated in two major international military competitions. One was called the Boeselager competition; the other was the Canadian Cup. These were World Series events. Boeselager was an annual competition to pick the best NATO cavalry troop. The Canadian Cup was an intense competition to determine the very best tank platoon. You weren’t competitive in these tests without putting forward an extraordinary effort to prepare the crews. Once you designated the unit that would represent you, every effort was made to find the corps’ best leaders and experts and transfer them to those units. You then gave them priority for training ammunition, access to firing ranges, and whatever other resources they needed. Other units had to sacrifice for these Super Bowl–level competitors.
A case can be made that this kind of competition is not healthy. You don’t go to war with your Super Bowl team but with every team in the league. Nevertheless, I did whatever it took to win, within the rules. I didn’t like the idea of shorting my other units, but once you decide to go for a win, you give it all you have. You mass your resources, you explain to those being shorted why that must be done, and you go for the win.
Although I was transferred to the White House before the competitions, the teams we put together went on to win both events. No one corps had ever won both in the same year.
A more down-to-earth example occurred earlier in my career, when I was a battalion commander in Korea.
Every day, I set aside time to walk through the battalion area checking things out. One day, I saw one of my soldiers approaching from the direction of brigade headquarters. He looked a little down and was wearing his dress uniform rather than our normal fatigues. He saluted, and I asked him what was wrong, fearing he was just coming from a court-martial.
“I’ve just been in the Soldier of the Month competition,” he told me, “before a board of senior sergeants.”
“How’d you do?” I asked him.
“Not good. Sorry, sir.”
“Thanks for your good try, soldier,” I told him. “Too bad it didn’t work out.” I felt a lot of sympathy for him. “By the way,” I asked, “when did you learn you were going before the board?”
“Last night.”
I patted him on the back and went straight to my office for a come-to-Jesus session with my command sergeant major and first sergeants. “We will never do this again,” I told them. “We will never throw our soldiers into a competition or into a battle, any battle, without preparing them and taking the necessary time to get them ready to win. That’s what leaders do; we prepare our troops.”
Our battalion won the Soldier of the Month competition for the next few months, until the other battalion commanders caught on and put in their own best effort.
Soldiers given a task they haven’t been prepared for lose confidence in themselves and, fatally, in their leaders.
But sometimes you can be surprised.
In 1976, I commanded the 2nd Brigade of the 101st Airborne Division. We put together a team to compete in the division’s annual boxing competition—a pretty good team and a heck of a coach. We set out to win, but we had one missing link. We didn’t have a boxer who could compete in the featherweight class (120–125 pounds). Not until my adjutant, Jim Hallums, came in one day. He’d found a very small young soldier, Pee Wee Preston. Pee Wee had never boxed, and he was tiny. He would qualify for the featherweight competition. The real hook was that no other unit had a soldier who could make the weight. We would win the class by forfeit. We asked Pee Wee if he was willing to be on the team; he would probably never have to fight. He agreed to do it for the brigade . . . especially after we assured him that if he did, he would not have to go to Panama with his battalion for jungle training. Pee Wee was deathly afraid of snakes.
We insisted that he train just as hard as everyone else. He was taught the basics of boxing; he hit the bag, sparred, jumped rope, and did everything everyone else did.
The week of the tournament arrived, and our team was doing well. Pee Wee got in the ring twice, got the forfeits, and we got the points. But on the third night, disaster struck. One of the other units found, or imported, a Panamanian featherweight who was a miniature near double for the great Panamanian boxer Roberto Duran. This guy was going to fight Pee Wee. Yikes.
We told Pee Wee he could forget the deal; he didn’t have to fight. But he wanted to go ahead. His whole battalion was leaving for Panama late that night, and they were in the stands watching. He couldn’t let his guys down.
Pee Wee got in the ring, and the other kid raced across and proceeded to whomp up on him. Pee Wee never threw a punch back, but he took the other kid’s punches, keeping his arms up, protecting his head and body, the way he had been taught, and he made it through round 1. Our side was cheering tentatively: “Attaboy, Pee Wee! Hang in there, kid!” Round 2 was a repeat, but he kept going. He was in shape, and he wasn’t getting hurt. The other guy was looking winded and frustrated, just from the sheer effort of pounding on Pee Wee. The cheering for Pee Wee had grown a lot louder. He hadn’t thrown a punch, but he was game. He had spirit. Round 3 opened and the other kid came out slowly. He was tired and weakened from beating up on Pee Wee. He was not in shape! You know what comes next: Pee Wee landed a single punch, and the other guy dropped his arms and quit—a TKO for Pee Wee.
His buddies went nuts in the stands. Pee Wee was the 101st Airborne Division featherweight champion. He had been prepared for a fight we never thought he’d have to fight. But he had been prepared enough to win.
Later, unfortunately, when we went to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for the XVIII Airborne Corps competition, the 82nd Airborne Division entered a real boxer, and Pee Wee lost. But no matter—he represented himself and us well.
There are many kinds of competition. You can have a constructive competition that goes beyond just finding a champion. I am a believer in lots of intramural competitions within units. Best supply room, best soldier, best clerk, best armorer, you name it. Do it every month, and do it with standards that make it possible for anyone putting forth the effort to win.
Without competition, we all become dull, unfocused, and flabby—mentally and physically.