By COL Donald Neal, 83rd Commander, 2nd Cavalry Regiment
Just five more minutes of sleep.
In the tranquil pre-dawn hours of Saber Junction 25, I learned a commander’s lesson that no field manual could fully encapsulate. I awoke to the sounds of small arms fire, which I estimated to be within 1000 meters of the place where I had just managed to rest after a grueling 36 hours of preparing for our defensive operation. In that surreal moment, I closed my eyes again, hoping it was just a fleeting dream; however, instinct and responsibility prevailed.
Hours earlier, I left knowing that we hadn’t completed our combined obstacle plan in the center of the Regimental sector. That sector was particularly vulnerable because two troops from different squadrons had to synchronize obstacles, fires, and direct-fire planning on terrain the enemy had fiercely contested in the previous fight. I assessed the enemy would mass there to break through and we reviewed the Exercise Support Matrix (ESM) and Decision Support Matrix (DSM) to ensure we had the right triggers for committing our counterattack force. Before I laid down to rest, I told the team to wake me if we neared that decision point—knowing it could be the most consequential call of the battle period.
Yet, moments after the gunfire, I found myself standing in the main operations center only to realize that the commitment of the counterattack force had occurred 30 minutes before my arrival. It was too late. Our lines had been penetrated, and the enemy was in our rear area. In the ensuing moments, I was filled with frustration and regret for not being present to make that pivotal call.
But this moment was a harsh realization that I couldn’t be present for every decision. Clearly, our ability to identify the indicators and conditions leading to those decisions wasn’t truly supportive of the decisions that needed to be made—and even a well-staffed DSM doesn’t replace a commander’s fighting instinct.
Waking up to find the enemy within our perimeter didn’t just highlight a tactical gap, it underscored a deeper truth that I want to share with every peer preparing for a combat training center rotation. Sometimes, no matter how straightforward the task, it takes a commander rolling up their sleeves and diving into the basics with their staff. You will be the most experienced staff officer in your formation and rolling up your sleeves is not a sign of micromanaging, it is leadership. The point is to remember that you can’t stay in this space, or you won’t be able to focus on the things that only you can do for your team. This lesson is only one in a series of lessons from our CTC rotation.
My purpose in writing this article is simple: to share our experiences from Saber Junction 25 with transparency—highlighting both failures and successes. It offers focused observations on what determines success in large-scale combat, starting with the bedrock of small-unit actions—the “Big Three” and vehicle safety—and progressing to headquarters operations, intelligence, and technology integration. It is a collection of lessons on what I personally got right and wrong, and potential pitfalls to avoid as commanders prepare their own formations for Combat Training Center (CTC) rotations.
New Fighting Tools Don’t Replace the Fundamentals
One of the clearest lessons from Saber Junction 25 is that fundamentals still decide outcomes. The formations that entered the rotation disciplined in the basics—dispersion, camouflage, spacing, and rehearsed movement—were the formations that maintained combat power. Others, who overlooked the small things, paid for it.
The fight made it clear that there’s no shortcut to discipline—especially in an environment where the enemy sees first, strikes first, and watches everything. A Stryker stopping under open sky without overhead concealment didn’t stay hidden long as an enemy sUAS made quick work of that mistake. Units that failed to adjust formations for terrain, or who treated rehearsals as optional, were punished for it almost immediately.
What stood out most was how a culture defined by experimentation and adaptation correlated directly to a squadron’s performance during the rotation. One formation had been training collectively with their Purpose-Built Attritable Systems for months, and that investment showed—they maneuvered as a thinking, sensing, fighting organism. Another formation, used to operating independently on an off-cycle, focusing heavily on the basics but relatively averse to adaptation and experimentation, fought with boldness and exercised disciplined initiative. A third unit that focused on small unit leader empowerment but struggled with discipline and embracing experimentation, struggled to combine arms successfully despite strong individual performers.
Technology, in this sense, doesn’t replace the fundamentals—it amplifies the consequences of not mastering them. The tools we bring to the fight only matter if the foundation underneath them is solid. Without discipline, modernization becomes hollow; with it, new tools become force multipliers.
Small-Unit “Big Three”: Competence, Discipline, Lethality
Saber Junction made one truth painfully clear: the “Big Three” are not abstract virtues — they are the daily habits that decide whether a small unit survives and wins. Competence, discipline, and lethality each have distinct roles, and when they align, the formation creates decisive effects; when any one is missing, the whole edifice weakens.
Competence is the practical knowledge of tactics and techniques that apply to the situation in front of you. It showed up in ways both obvious and inconspicuous. Our Stinger teams were drilled, certified, and incentivized: they understood when to expose themselves, when to conceal, and when to engage. The result was clear: four enemy helicopters were destroyed because trained crews executed confidently under pressure. Conversely, at the Combined Arms Breach we lacked competence in bypass rehearsals and the SOSRA drill costing us tempo and combat power. Competence is not check-the-block certification, competence is repeated mission-focused practice until performance becomes instinctive.
Discipline is the glue that preserves combat power. It is not moralizing – it is tactical. Discipline means camouflage and dispersion on a short halt, controlled fires at the right moment, and adherence to standards when everything inside you wants to improvise. Lack of discipline turns talented formations into liabilities. At Saber Junction we saw units lose cohesion because they neglected the small enforcement tasks: spacing on the move, maintaining emissions control, and enforcing simple driving discipline. Those omissions produced avoidable friction. Discipline must be measured, demanded, and coached at every level.
Lethality is the ability to close the deal — to place irreversible effects on the enemy when the moment arrives. It is the culmination of good planning, correct priorities, and timely action. The TAC platoon leader’s active patrolling that killed the OPFOR Battalion Commander is a case in point: small-unit initiative, guided by an understanding of the commander’s intent and backed by disciplined execution, created strategic effects. Lethality without discipline can be reckless; lethality without competence can be wasted.
To build the Big Three, you must make it the metric of every training event. After every lane, live fire, and rehearsal: assess competence (did leaders apply the right technique?), discipline (did they enforce standards under stress?), and lethality (did they create and seize the effect?). Make those AAR comments specific — name the behavior, the outcome, and the corrective action. Train to the problem sets you will face, not the ones you wish you had. Use small-unit certifications that are meaningful: not paperwork, but scenario-based evaluations that force leaders to demonstrate competence under pressure.
My philosophy is straightforward: Competence is built through repetition and mastery of tasks. Discipline is the daily enforcement of standards that keep units alive. Lethality is the culmination of both—units that are competent and disciplined will be lethal when committed. Commanders must insist on all three. In short, competence gets you to the fight, discipline keeps you in the fight, and lethality wins the fight.
Safety and Vehicle Operations: Preserving Combat Power through Discipline
One of the most important lessons from Saber Junction 25 was that safety is not a checklist — it is a culture rooted in repetition, muscle memory, and discipline. In the months leading up to the rotation, the Regiment took a hard look at how we operated our Strykers. What we saw wasn’t unlike the early days of airborne operations—paratroopers learning the hard way that routine builds confidence, and confidence builds safety. We set out to codify a similar standard for mounted operations.
Our approach was deliberate: build muscle memory, not briefings. We focused on the fundamentals of vehicle operations attempting to make them second nature, emphasizing what we call SOAL—Standardization, Ownership, Accountability, and Leadership Certification. Through this lens, vehicle operations were no longer a perfunctory step before movement, but a leader-driven, certification-based process to preserve combat power. The results spoke for themselves. Despite the inherent risks of a large-scale exercise, our accidents were minor and our leaders had the confidence to move the Regiment with precision and discipline.
Still, the root causes behind the few mishaps we did have were revealing. Most stemmed from rushing to complete tasks without truly assessing the hazards of the environment. This wasn’t a failure of courage—it was a failure of cadence. We had to slow down to speed up, teaching leaders to recognize that no tactical gain justifies a preventable loss.
More broadly, Saber Junction 25 reminded me that the Stryker community must evolve its approach to driver training and vehicle operations. We have built world-class combat vehicles, but our collective mindset around operating them remains uneven. Paratroopers train under a dedicated school system that enforces standardized procedures, certifies instructors, and enshrines a culture of safety backed by shared doctrine. We lack that same institutional rigor across the Stryker force. As a result, proficiency often ends at certification instead of being sustained through mastery.
If we want to protect combat power without compromising tempo, we need to treat vehicle operations with the same seriousness that airborne leaders treat a jump. That means more effectively standardizing how we train drivers and crews, certifying instructors who enforce discipline, and institutionalizing a culture where SOAL is the standard—not the exception. Safety is not about slowing the fight; it’s about ensuring the fight can continue. Ultimately, the discipline that keeps a Stryker from rolling over on a dark trail is the same discipline that determines whether a squad, platoon, or troop wins in contact—the fundamentals of competence, discipline, and lethality start small, but they scale to every echelon.
The Operations Process: Command, Control, and Friction
Discipline doesn’t just pertain to the Soldiers on the battlefield – it also pertains to staffs at echelon. If you look at the diagram below (Figure 1) of how the commander, XO, and S3 are supposed to function across Current Operations (CUOPs), Future Operations (FUOPs), and Supervision, you see a clear balance of responsibility. The XO owns CUOPs, the S3 owns planning and FUOPs, and the Commander manages transitions and decisions — moving the formation between the two. That’s how it’s supposed to work.
In reality, it doesn’t always look that clean. Like many staffs under stress, we blurred the lines between lanes. My S3 took on too much of the CUOPs fight and never fully managed the planning process. My XO, in turn, tried to fill the gaps rather than establish clear control of the floor. It was well-intentioned chaos — but it proved that intent alone doesn’t produce synchronization. What you see in the diagram isn’t just a concept; it’s a discipline. And when everyone executes within it, the headquarters works.
As the commander, I felt that breakdown every day. I found myself chasing guidance instead of shaping it, reacting to the fight instead of anticipating the next one. The consequence was missed opportunities — particularly in shaping targeting and future operations. It was a lesson in the importance of timing and deliberate transitions.
The truth is you can’t assume the staff will self-organize into an effective command rhythm. You have to build it deliberately during train-up — through repeated feedback, clear terms of reference, and honest after-action reviews. Those boundaries don’t stifle initiative; they enable it. The more disciplined the headquarters is about its roles, the more dynamic and effective the staff become at enabling subordinate units to fight.
In retrospect, if I could go back to our CPX progression, I would have rolled up my sleeves and “planted the flag” at those events. I delegated too much of the oversight of those critical events to my XO, which ended up being a mistake with all but one field grade transitioning later that summer. There was no continuity of systems. I wasn’t a great coach because in many respects I was still learning my preferences.
I learned hard lessons as the Commander with regards to transitions – we got it right once but also wrong once. On the offense, the Regiment got it right. We reverse-breached our own obstacle belts and aggressively pursued the Warrior team into the enemy’s security zone. We finally seized the initiative as logistics pushed forward, fires extended deep (as deep as we could anyway), and for the first time we dictated the terms of the fight. It felt good in the moment and even better when the COG gave hint that Warrior 6 didn’t get all of his obstacle belt in before the defense (turns out it was still pretty damn good).
But in the defense, we failed. We did not use our engineers effectively, we did not mass sufficient combat power in our security zone, and our collection and fires plan did not lean far enough forward to disrupt the enemy before contact. The result was an incomplete obstacle belt, penetrated easily at a seam. This happened because we planned late and surged execution instead of deliberate preparation. We became consumed with current operations and failed to transition with discipline.
Commanders must guard against this trap. The operations process demands time and discipline to plan, rehearse, and resource—not just react. In large part, managing the transition could be defined by a few distinct things that no other echelon will manage for you: moving your maintenance assets, medical capabilities, and critical supplies (Class III, Class V, and Class VIII) to be most responsive in the next phase, as well as adjusting the Intelligence Collection and fires assets to affect the enemy you will fight in the next phase of operations versus the one in the moment.
So, How Did We Do?
Saber Junction 25 was a crucible. We made mistakes. We saw successes. We learned hard lessons about discipline, planning, targeting, integration, safety, and small-unit fundamentals. My intent in sharing these reflections is not to tell a polished success story—it’s to give my peers a candid look at pitfalls to avoid and habits worth reinforcing as they prepare their own formations for CTC rotations.
At the end of the day, our Regiment emerged sharper for having been tested. And that is the true purpose of a CTC rotation.
