Lessons About Human Nature from the Military
At first glance, the military is a different place to learn human nature.
But when you think about it, the military is filled with people under a unique set of conditions. That tends to bring out aspects of human nature.
Throughout my military career, I’ve learned numerous lessons that have shaped my understanding of human nature. The unique challenges and experiences of military life have a way of revealing the core of who we are.
Well, shall we?
Advanced techniques are basics mastered.
As a soldier, I’ve always been fascinated by marksmanship. The precision and focus is a bit like therapy. I wanted to be good at it.
Well, I still do.
It was a cold morning, and I was confident in my abilities. I was working out regularly and felt ready to take my shooting to the next level. On my way to the shooting range, I had some neat techniques that I had found in internet videos. Instagram is perfect for them. So, on the firing line, I adjusted my stance and experimented with different grips. Hell, I even attempted a few unconventional aiming methods.
To my surprise and disappointment my shot was misaligned and far from center of mass. I couldn’t understand what was going well. I was working hard, but my efforts were below average.
Diesel, a seasoned operator and coach with years of experience, watched me closely. From afar, he observed my collection of techniques. After a few moments, he approached me. “I see what’s going on here,” he said. “You’re trying to be fancy, aren’t you?”
I nodded, feeling embarrassed. Diesel placed a hand on my shoulder and continued, “I wouldn’t if I were you. The shots speak for themselves.”
Diesel brought me back to basics. He emphasized the need for consistency and simplicity in executing these fundamentals.
He told me to load a new magazine and try again. This time, I was to follow his strict instructions and focus on the basics.
Only the basics.
The results were remarkably positive.
Diesel nodded. “You see?” he said. “It’s actually that simple.”
As I continued to practice, I understood the meaning of Diesel’s words. It wasn’t about learning fancy tricks or shortcuts. It was about honing basic skills to the point where they became second nature. The greatest shooters, like Diesel, didn’t rely on fancy techniques. They mastered the basics to perfection.
This lesson extended far beyond the shooting range. In any pursuit, success lies in mastering the basic fundamentals. After all, they’re called fundamentals for a reason.
It’s easy to get caught up being advanced or innovative. But without a basic foundation, any progress is likely to be short-lived.
True mastery, in any field, comes from a dedication to the basics. By focusing on the fundamentals, we lay essential groundwork for the future to flourish. It’s a reminder that, no matter how far we advance, we always build our success on the foundation of the basics.
Did you think this was going to be easy? Well, this is what hard feels like.
Winter in Waiouru is dreadful.
I’ve been lucky to be a section commander in my former years. On one of my later field exercises as a corporal or E-4 equivalent, my team’s morale was slipping quickly. We partook in a field exercise that was plagued by logistical errors and lacking a genuine adversary.
When you’re walking in inch deep snow, patience tends to run thin.
Complaints surfaced, a symptom of the growing disillusionment among the men. Leaving it unchecked, negativity will erode our training’s purpose. As their leader, I felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I had to keep their spirits up and maintain the high standards expected of us.
When the complaints start, professionalism slips, morale drops, and standards waver. I couldn’t allow that to happen.
My patience with the team was wearing thin, and I knew I had to take action. So, I gathered them all together, taking a knee in the snow. I looked each of them in the eye and asked, “Did you think this was going to be easy?”
They all shook their heads, acknowledging the difficulty of the situation. I continued, “Well, this is what hard feels like. It’s not supposed to be easy, nor should it ever be.”
The lesson I learned that day was one that has stayed with me throughout my career. Effective leadership requires acknowledging and navigating challenges head-on. It’s not about avoiding the hard times, but using them as opportunities for development.
By addressing the complaints and reminding my team that hardship was a choice we volunteered for. The hardships we faced were not obstacles, but stepping stones on the path to becoming better.
After that moment, their attitudes shifted. They embraced the challenge of the bitter cold, leaning on each other for support. The complaints subsided.
As leaders, it’s our job to guide our teams through the tough times, to help them see the value in the struggle. It’s not about making things easy, but teaching them the point of the struggle.
And doing it with them.
The only person who should care how hard you train is yourself.
I hate running.
In my earlier days, I thought people would care about how fast I ran. I would spend more hours on the track because I believed in the external perception of professionalism. I thought if people saw me training, they would care.
When I eventually got my 2.4 km run to a personal best, nobody cared. And oddly, that hurt.
It felt like all that effort was ill placed. Why did I train so hard? Wasn’t it for external validation? Why did I invest such pride in this? The elation of achieving a new record, however, was short-lived. The anticipated external validation like a pat on the back or a word of congratulations never came.
This absence of external reward triggered a deep sense of disillusionment. The question loomed. Why had I subjected myself to such rigorous training if not for external recognition? My self-worth, it seemed, had become precariously tied to the fleeting praise of others.
I forgot the most important person who should care was me.
Good news takes time. Bad news happens instantly.
As soldiers, we are trained to react swiftly in the face of adversity. One of the most critical skills we learn is how to deliver a 9-liner. This is a concise report used to request medical evacuation for a wounded comrade. I can still recite if off by heart. The ability to remember this procedure by heart testifies to our quick response to bad news. When someone is injured, every second counts, and we respond with incredible speed.
Conversely, it often takes time for good news to develop and disseminate. I remember when one of our lads made the New Zealand team for Power Lifting. We were all incredibly proud of his achievement, but we didn’t even know about it until he had already made a podium finish. The news of his success trickled back to us slowly, a stark contrast to the instant response we have to a crisis.
While these two stories represent vastly different levels of urgency, they illustrate a fundamental truth about the nature of news. Bad news, whether it’s a wounded soldier or a crisis in our lives, demands our immediate attention. We are wired to respond quickly to threats and negative events, as they are crucial for our survival.
It takes time for good news to materialize. It’s the result of hard work, dedication, and perseverance. When our teammate made the New Zealand Power Lifting team, it was the culmination of countless hours of training and sacrifice. His success didn’t happen overnight, but grew steadily over time until he stepped on the podium.
We often hear about negative events almost instantly through the media and social networks. However, positive stories, like a community coming together to support a worthy cause or an individual overcoming incredible odds, emerge more gradually.
It’s important to recognize this dichotomy and to cultivate patience and perspective. We must be prepared to act swiftly in the face of bad news, but we should also learn to appreciate the slow burn of good news. By celebrating the small victories along the way and recognizing that progress takes time, we can maintain a balanced outlook.
Moreover, we can actively work to create good news in our own lives and teams. By acknowledging how others working diligently towards goals, and supporting others in their endeavors, we can contribute to a steady stream of positive outcomes. We may not see the results immediately. But by consistently putting in the effort, we can create a ripple effect of good news that spreads far beyond our immediate circle.
A common ingredient for anger is powerlessness.
During one of my overseas trips with the Army, I found myself in Bristol, United Kingdom. New Zealand and Bristol were on opposite sides of the planet.
It was a bit of a smooching event, to be honest. The work mostly consisted of discussing policies and equipment in offices. Still, my team and I considered ourselves fortunate that we could travel to the other side of the planet on a paid trip.
A few days into the trip, one of my fellow soldiers starting getting aggressive. He was typically a happy-go-lucky warrior that often calmed the boys down, but now he was making us anxious. A few boys raised the issue of stopping him from fighting in town. Once known for his friendly demeanor, had suddenly become aggressive and short-tempered. He became angry and difficult to be around. The change in his character was a cause for concern among us.
I had to do something. More importantly, I had to understand him.
One night at the bar, I approached him and asked, “Something happened at home, didn’t it?”
He stared at me endlessly. I held the silence, knowing that he was figuring out what to say.
He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and helplessness. He hesitated, then he gave in. “Yeah boss, the Mrs is packing up.”
“Packing up?” I asked.
“Yeah, a breakup, if you will. Turns out she was waiting for me to leave.”
I took a moment to sit in his silence.
“Are you angry because you can’t do anything about this until we get home?” I asked. I realized his anger stemmed from his inability to address the situation immediately.
“Yeah, it is,” he admitted. “I’m stuck here, on the other side of the world, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”
This experience highlighted the direct link between powerlessness and anger. When individuals feel that they have no control over a situation or cannot take action to resolve a problem, they often resort to anger. Individuals use anger as a coping mechanism to express their frustration and assert a sense of control, even if it is misplaced or unproductive.
In this soldier’s case, the physical distance and his commitment to the mission left him feeling powerless to intervene in his personal life. His powerlessness intensified upon discovering his partner’s departure during his absence. And it lead to anger.
This incident serves as a reminder that anger is often a secondary emotion, masking deeper feelings of vulnerability, fear, and powerlessness. Yet, it is the most visible. By recognizing the root causes of anger, we can develop healthier coping strategies. We can work towards addressing the underlying issues, rather than allowing anger to dictate actions and relationships.
Be conscious of where the line is between teach and tell.
As a military educator, I’ve learned that the way you approach a lesson can make all the difference in how well your students absorb and retain the information. This realization hit me hard one day when I was teaching a group of officer cadets about effective communication.
In the past, I would typically begin my lessons by simply telling the cadets why the topic was important. These were usually listed in the syllabus.
“The why is so that you can communicate better with your pers,” or “The why is so that you can understand tactics before submitting your plan.” However, I noticed that this approach often fell on deaf ears.
On this particular day, I tried something different. Before I even clicked onto the first slide, I turned to the cadets and asked, “Why do you think you need to do this lesson? What makes you believe you require this lesson on effective communication?” Silence filled the room as heads turned, curious about my direction.
I maintained the silence, letting the question hang in the air.
Finally, one of the officer cadets raised his hand. “Because we need to communicate with others?” he offered tentatively. I agreed, but visually shook my head. “Terrible answer,” I said, not unkindly. “Why do you think we need to do this lesson?”
Another cadet raised his hand. “Because misinterpretation is problematic,” he said, more confidently. “Good,” I replied.
“Why should I teach you this lesson?” I pointed at a nervous cadet. He chimed in, “People need to understand you before they start the plan.”
“Go on,” I encouraged.
For the next five minutes, the cadets engaged in a discussion, each offering their own reasons why effective communication was crucial. By the end of the impromptu brainstorming session, most of the cadets had arrived at their own personal “why” for the lesson.
This experience taught me a lesson about the difference between teaching and telling. By telling the cadets why the lesson was important, I was spoon-feeding them information without engaging in critical thinking. By having them generate their own reasons, they owned their learning and found personal relevance.
As educators, mentors and trainers, it’s easy to fall into the trap of simply telling our students what they need to know. But if we want to teach them, we need to be conscious of where the line is between imparting information and facilitating understanding. By inviting our students to be active participants in their own learning, we can help them develop by actually teaching them.
The lessons I’ve learned about human nature during my time in the military have proven to be invaluable. From getting the basics right, developing motivation, managing anger, and understanding the difference between teaching and telling, these lessons are deeply reflective of our nature.
As I reflect on these lessons, I am reminded of the resilience and potential of human nature.
These six lessons are the just some of the many lessons I have learnt about human nature.
There are more, and perhaps in time, I’ll discuss them.
