The orange horizon brought with it the cool of the evening. After a long day navigating through rough terrain, covering more than twenty-five kilometres under load, facing simulated attacks and leadership exercises, I was ready for a rest.
I stumbled forward, the weight of my bergen propelling me awkwardly. I hit the ground hard. For a brief moment, I lay there, pressed into the earth, breathing heavily. Do you feel any pain? I asked myself. Get up. You cannot fail this exercise. This was my ticket to officership — my chance to step into a role I had desperately wanted. Almost fifty kilometres covered, and I wasn’t going to stop there.
A voice broke through the haze:
“Tony, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. But I didn’t move. My body seized the chance for a one-minute pause. Then the order came, sharp and clear from our sergeant:
“Let’s go!”
I forced myself upright. A sharp pain bit into my right heel — a blister, from two days of continuous trekking. I pushed the discomfort aside. “Let’s move. I’m ready.”
This is an edited extract from one of your War Diarists, Tony, written twenty-four years ago, while doing what was called the leadership development programme — an exercise that would ultimately put you forward for officer training.
For your other War Diarist, Max, he finished top of his class for officer selection, but due to structural issues at the time in Sweden, that year’s officer course was cancelled. Not that this stopped Max from becoming a highly decorated elite soldier.
When we started with this War Diary entry, we tried to draw not only on what we saw, experienced, and felt, but on how we grow into leadership roles in different settings. When Tony joined the Army, there was a set of tests: aptitude, interviews, teamwork, IQ and application tests. From basic training onwards, assessments never really stopped. And this was Tony’s formation as a conventional officer.
On the officer training path, many went on to more intellectually engaging and intensive studies — here, militaries attempt to create the structured formation of leaders at military academies. Some people go to institutions like West Point, Sandhurst, Saint-Cyr, or, in Tony’s case, the South African Military Academy, which also houses Stellenbosch University’s Faculty of Military Science. Often, formalising a military education draws on military history, strategy, physics, mathematics, and other subjects. It’s a broad foundation intended to equip leaders for the complexities they will face later on.
This academic path has value, but there are many other routes for leadership to take shape. One such pathway is for elite units, who specialise in small-team tactics. Many of them go on to pursue tertiary education, but their formation as special operators sets them apart.
Max followed a similar route — one that was highly selective; only the best are chosen, and then deployed in dangerous situations around the world. See a snippet from Max’s selection — COMBAT DIARIES vol.3 – Selective memories from a Selection – Underground Strategy. For special forces operators at the extreme end, there are those who excel, and others who are found wanting. Here, Max went on to reach towering heights, decorated for bravery multiple times, and with more years in operational settings than he cares to remember. Honestly, after seven years in Afghanistan, and tours in Iraq — not to mention African campaigns— and of course his early experiences outlined in Number 788, Max is one of the few in the world to have seen such a wide range of deployments, wars, and campaigns.
And here is a lesson: all the learning and training levels out in the field of practice — where plans, theories, and knowledge meet the hard realities of operational situations. We have come to believe that unconventional leadership development — the kind gained through experience, hardship, and informal mentorship — often carries just as much value as formal training and education. Every path has something to offer.
Most militaries have their own series of leadership challenges and selection processes. It’s hard to say definitively what works and what doesn’t. Some systems focus heavily on observed behaviour under stress. Others test intellectual problem-solving, moral judgement, or a mix of physical, emotional, and mental assessments.
Regardless of the best technical set of tests, and beyond any process, trust in the leadership and selection system itself is critical. If those systems are bypassed, watered down, or treated as mere formalities, organisations often end up promoting sub-par leaders — individuals who may wear the rank or the badge, the cap or the cape, hold command or lead — but may actually lack the resilience, judgement, or authenticity that leadership demands. Here, there is a close link with the instructors, teachers, and mentors, and their pedigree.
Another realisation, perhaps a harder truth, is that personality and natural talent matter enormously. You can put ten thousand people through the same “cookie-cutter” training process. They will wear the same uniforms, march the same routes, repeat the same mantras — yet only a fraction will emerge as truly competent leaders.
The rest may perform to a set standard, but leadership, true leadership, demands something deeper: an ability to inspire, endure, adapt, and grow under pressure. No training course can fully manufacture that. Sometimes brilliant leaders emerge in war; others excel in planning and administration. In the same way, there are some brilliant football players and coaches — and many average ones.
For the record, your War Diarists are not trying to promote themselves, but only to present their thoughts as a reflection.
Selection systems matter. But ultimately, it is the individuals within those systems — their character and willingness to lead — who determine whether an army (or any organisation) succeeds or fails when it matters most.
Your War Diarists,
Tony & Max
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